TiCosas

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.

There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.

Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.

You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.

You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”

That had been the end of it.

No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.

The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.

So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”

So here you were.

A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.

There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“Liar.”

You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.

“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”

From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”

“It won’t.”

“It already kind of is.”

“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”

You barked out a real laugh at that.

“There she is,” Lena said softly.

You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”

“Of course you’re still upset.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“And?”

“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”

Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”

That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.

Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.

Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”

Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”

“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”

From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”

“And I’m starving,” Tori added.

“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”

Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”

You stared at it for a second, then took it.

The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.

Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.

Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.

By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.

By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.

“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”

“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.

Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”

You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”

“Renewed annually,” Mia said.

“With references,” Jess added.

“And an essay portion,” Tori said.

You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”

The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.

Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.

It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.

You set your glass down too carefully.

Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”

Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”

You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.

The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.

This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.

You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.

“Not your night either, huh?”

The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.

You turned.

He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.

Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.

Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.

But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.

Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.

His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”

“Escaping?”

A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”

He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”

“And what look is that?”

“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”

You stared at him.

Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.

“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”

“Kind of?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”

There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.

You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.

He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”

You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”

His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.

It should not have affected you as much as it did.

“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”

You should have lied.

You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.

Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”

His expression changed instantly.

Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.

“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.

“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”

For one beat, he said nothing.

Then: “He’s an idiot.”

The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.”

That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.

You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”

“Smart women.”

“They are.”

He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”

You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”

There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.

That, more than anything, disarmed you.

“You always this honest?” you asked.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“That your plan?”

“Wasn’t, originally.”

“And now?”

His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”

Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.

You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”

“Not a very polished one.”

“No.”

“I can do worse, if it helps.”

You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.

Lord. It changed him completely.

The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.

Dangerous thought.

You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”

“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”

He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.

Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.

The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.

And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”

“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”

“Fair point.”

The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.

You should probably go back inside.

That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.

Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”

“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”

His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”

“Very observant.”

“Could ask you to dance.”

You blinked.

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.

Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.

“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”

There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.

It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.

You looked at him for a long second.

Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.

“Would you let me have this dance?”

Oh.

That was unfair too.

You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.

But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.

He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.

Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You looked up.

He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.

The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.

The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.

You hadn’t expected that either.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Dancing?”

“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”

Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.

“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”

Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.

“Bucky.”

“Too much?”

You should’ve said yes.

Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.

His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.

At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.

You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.

“What?”

“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”

He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”

“They mean well.”

“I know.”

“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”

“That so?”

“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”

“Got good answers for most of that.”

“Most?”

He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.

The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.

You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.

Your breath slowed.

His did too.

He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.

Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”

Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

That landed.

He went very still, his eyes on yours.

From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.

But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.

It made your chest ache in a whole new way.

“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”

“Were you?”

“Tryin’ to be.”

“And now?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.

Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.

Hope, maybe.

Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.

You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”

The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.

Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.

It didn’t.

“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.

“I probably should.”

He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.

The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.

You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”

You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”

One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”

The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.

You smiled. “Yes.”

By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.

Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”

Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”

Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”

“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”

You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.

Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you demanded, already defensive.

“You like him.”

“Shut up.”

“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.

“It was one dance.”

“One very charged dance,” Tori said.

Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”

The question quieted everything.

You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.

And then you looked back up at your friends.

For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.

“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The first thing you became aware of was the light.

Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.

Aggressive light.

Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.

You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.

Something crinkled beneath your cheek.

You opened one eye.

A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.

Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.

This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.

You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.

Then the memories began filtering in.

Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.

Bucky.

Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.

Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.

Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

You squinted at the screen.

9:47 a.m.

Three notifications from your group chat.

One missed photo drop from Mia.

One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.

No text from Bucky.

Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.

It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.

Still.

Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.

Nothing.

You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.

From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her.

Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.

“You look incredible,” you croaked.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”

Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.

“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.

“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.

Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”

The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.

“Alive?” she asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.

You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”

“There are no updates.”

That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.

Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.

Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”

You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”

Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”

“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”

You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”

“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”

“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.

“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.

“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.

You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”

“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”

You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”

“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.

You hated that you cared.

That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.

It was caring at all.

After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.

And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.

Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.

“Hey,” she said, quieter now.

You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”

Jess was quiet for once.

Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.

Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”

That hit too close.

You looked away.

Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”

The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.

“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.

It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.

Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”

You gave her a look.

“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”

“I missed so much.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”

Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”

“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.

“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”

“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.

“Exactly.”

You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”

“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”

“Balance,” Jess said.

“Healthy,” Tori agreed.

A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.

“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.

“No,” Jess yelled.

The door opened anyway.

Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.

She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.

“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.

Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.

Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”

Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”

You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”

“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”

Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”

“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”

Your phone lit up.

All five heads turned toward it.

You froze.

The screen showed only a weather alert.

Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”

You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”

Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.

The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.

You tried not to check your phone.

You failed six times.

No text.

By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.

Almost.

The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.

You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.

Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”

“I need eggs,” Tori said.

“I need silence,” Jess muttered.

“You need toast,” Lena told her.

“I need justice.”

You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

A real buzz this time.

Not a weather alert.

Not the group chat.

A single notification slid across the screen.

Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.

Your entire body went still.

Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.

Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.

“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”

You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.

Lena leaned in. “Read it.”

“No.”

Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”

“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”

“Try me.”

You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.

There was a collective pause.

Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”

Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”

“I’m analyzing the enemy.”

You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.

Bucky had texted.

Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.

Possibly both.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.

You stared at it.

“Too much?” you asked.

Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”

Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”

“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”

“Anytime.”

You hit send before you could lose your nerve.

The reply came faster than expected.

Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.

Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.

You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.

You: That’s a bold confession before noon.

Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.

You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.

Lena’s face softened when you showed them.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?” Tori demanded.

“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.

“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”

You huffed a laugh and typed back.

You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.

Bucky: Little of both, probably.

You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.

Bucky: Worked last night.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.

“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.

“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.

Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”

Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”

The waiter smiled politely and fled.

You looked back at your phone.

You: Did it?

A few seconds passed. Then:

Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?

Your cheeks went warm.

Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”

Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”

Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”

“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.

You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.

You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.

Bucky: I was getting there.

You: Were you?

Bucky: Eventually.

You: Very smooth.

Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.

Oh. There went your pulse again.

You stared at the words for too long. Interested.

Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.

Lena studied your face. “Good text?”

You handed her the phone without speaking.

She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.

Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”

Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Jess.”

She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Tori beamed. “Progress!”

You were about to reply when another message came through.

Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.

The table went quiet.

For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.

Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.

Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap.

Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.

“You okay?” she murmured.

You nodded.

Then you typed carefully.

You: I liked talking to you too.

You hesitated, then added:

You: And dancing with you.

His reply came a moment later.

Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.

Then another:

Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.

You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.

Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.

Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.

You slowly lowered the phone.

Four faces stared back at you.

“What?” Mia asked.

“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”

There was an immediate eruption.

“Us?” Tori squealed.

“All of us?” Lena asked.

Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”

You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.

Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”

Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”

“Strategic,” Jess said.

“Respectful,” Lena countered.

“Could be both.”

Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”

You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”

All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.

“Excuse me?” Tori said.

“I mean, we just met them.”

“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”

You typed.

You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?

Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.

You showed them.

Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”

Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”

“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.

“Statistically.”

“Less reassuring.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”

Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”

The question quieted the table again.

You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.

Did you want to go?

Yes.

That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.

You wanted to hear his laugh again.

You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.

You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.

And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.

“I don’t know,” you said softly.

Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, staring at the table.

Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”

Tori’s whole face melted.

Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”

Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”

Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”

Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”

Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”

You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.

“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.

They all drank to that.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.

His reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.

Your chest squeezed again.

A second message followed.

Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.

You smiled down at your phone.

You: Should I be worried?

Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.

You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.

Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.

You: Mostly?

Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.

You read the last two words three times.

Pretty women.

Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”

“No.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”

You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”

“Not on this trip,” Tori said.

You typed:

You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?

There was a longer pause this time.

Then:

Bucky: Woman. Singular.

Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.

The girls exploded.

“What?” Lena demanded.

“What did he say?”

“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”

“That’s illegal.”

You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said. 

Tori actually squeaked.

Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”

Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”

“No, you don’t,” Tori said.

“I hate that one might be doing well.”

Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.

There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.

“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”

“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.

“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”

“I am sitting right here,” you said.

“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.

Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”

Everyone looked at her.

“What?”

“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”

You grimaced. “Agreed.”

“Black?” Mia suggested.

“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”

“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”

“Too soon?” Tori asked.

You considered it.

Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”

Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.

It felt good.

That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.

After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.

Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.

Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.

You laughed out loud in the dressing area.

Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”

You nodded, reading the text aloud.

Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”

You typed:

You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.

Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.

You: She is. Fear her.

Bucky: Noted.

Then, after a beat:

Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.

You snorted.

You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.

Bucky: Bullied?

You: Affectionately.

Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.

Your smile went soft before you could stop it.

You: You think you could?

Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.

You: Against my friends?

Bucky: Absolutely not.

That one you showed the group.

Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”

“He knows his limits,” Lena said.

“Green flag?” Tori asked.

“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.

In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.

You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.

But the deep blue one made you pause.

It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.

It just felt like you.

When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.

Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”

Lena’s expression softened. “No.”

Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”

Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”

Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”

You looked back at the mirror.

For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.

Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.

Pretty.

Interested.

Maybe even beginning again.

You bought the dress.

The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.

You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.

He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.

At 2:13 p.m.:

Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.

You: Please tell me you said no.

Bucky: I said hell no.

You: Strong leadership.

Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.

You: Did you?

Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.

At 3:02 p.m.:

You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?

Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.

You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.

Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Then, a moment later:

Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.

You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.

You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.

The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.

A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.

But Bucky had said it like he remembered.

Like he had thought about you after you left.

You typed back slowly.

You: Thank you.

That felt too small, so you added:

You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.

His response took thirty seconds.

Bucky: That was smooth.

You: I’m capable of growth.

Bucky: Proud of you.

The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.

Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s disgusting.”

“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”

Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”

Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.

Careful, but happy for you.

By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.

Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.

Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”

Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”

“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.

“Exactly. Respect your elders.”

The room became chaos again.

Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters. 

Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.

“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t feel calm.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You looked down at your hands.

That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.

Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.

Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.

Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.

Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll look spontaneous.”

You laughed, then your phone buzzed.

Lena’s eyebrows rose.

You picked it up.

Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?

Your smile came before you could stop it.

You: You can tell me.

Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.

A second message came right after.

Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.

Your pulse warmed.

You: That was almost smooth again.

Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.

You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.

Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.

You laughed.

You: Please don’t.

Bucky: I won’t.

The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.

You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

You did.

In. Out.

The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.

She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.

Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.

But not empty.

Not defeated.

By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.

“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.

“Phone charger.”

“Mini sunscreen.”

“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.

“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”

“That is not science.”

“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.

Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”

Lena paused.

Everyone stared at her.

She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.

“Leadership,” Tori whispered.

You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.

It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.

You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.

Not because she was proving a point.

Not because she was running from pain.

Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.

That was all.

That could be enough for tonight.

Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

You thought about it.

“Both.”

“That’s allowed.”

Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”

“Noted.”

Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”

Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.

But it was yours.

The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.

All of it.

Yours.

Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.

Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.

You bit your lip against a smile.

You: We’re leaving now.

His reply came almost instantly.

Bucky: Good.

Then, after a few seconds:

Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.

You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.

“Well?” Jess asked.

You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”

Tori made an ungodly noise.

Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”

The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.

The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.

Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.

But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.

You crested the wooden path toward the beach.

A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.

John Price

Darting around the edge of the sofa, you slip on the hardwood, landing hard.

Large, strong hands grasp your upper arms, twisting back, pinning them together. Kicking out, you squirm like a worm on the floor, fighting with all your strength.

“You fucking bastard,” you growl. “Let me go.”

There is no true fear in you. It’s a game. A scene. John is only playing the role of escaped fugitive, and you, his helpless victim of a home invasion.

“Your pussy is mine,” he laughs into your ear.

A click of a switchblade. A tug. A tear.

“Claw my face. Bite. Mark me all you like, doll.” John’s cock slides over your ass, back and forth, sticky precum dripping onto your skin. “Want your hands free to fight back.”

Throwing your shoulders forward and back achieves nothing. What strength you possess is greatly outweighed by John’s. The man is solid rock, an unmovable mountain.

Pinned in a prone bone position, the head of his cock finds your pussy, dips into your warmth. It’s a tight fit with your legs closed. John’s dick feels bigger, overly large and too much to take.

“Be a good girl, now. Do as you’re told.”

John thrusts, bottoming out. At the same time, he releases his grip on you. You attempt to twist, to throw your fists, but John brushes off the blows, pounding into you without even a flinch. Nails come next, scraping over skin, leaving red marks across John’s arms and chest. He takes it all in stride, keeping you pinned where you are on the floor.

You’re all animal, grunting and growling, squirming without victory. Fighting, though faked. The prey and predator. Hunter and hunted. Your body slickens, giving John easier access to fuck into you.

Grasping your hair, John abruptly pulls out of you, twisting you onto your back. This position is easier to use nails and teeth, not that John seems to care that you’re leaving tiny marks behind. They’re scattered across his skin, some enflamed, others blooming with the faintest trace of blood.

John brings his arm down on your throat, keeping you in place, dangerously close to cutting off your air, yet withholding enough strength to prevent you from gasping. Settling between your legs, he spreads his knees, forcing your legs to remain wide. You cannot bring them in nor straighten. The broadness of his chest and shoulders prevent bending your knees back enough to form a fetal position. You’re utterly trapped and John is fucking you hard, no slowness in his movements.

With a growl, you form a fist, bringing it down on the side of John’s head. He groans with pleasure as much as pain. Rearing back, his cock slips from your pussy, ropes of cum shooting from the tip to land on your stomach and thighs.

“Fuck, that hurt.”

But no safeword.

Scrambling to your feet, you make a break for it. You only make it a few steps before John is on your again, pinning your arms behind your back, shoving you against the wall, forcing your knees wide, guiding his cock back in.

As his thrusts begin anew, you smile into your shoulder.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’ll chase.”

“You’ll chase?”

Kyle shrugged, nonchalant. “Don’t tell me when. Or where. Just…go. I’ll find you.”

“You won’t.”

“I will. Love a good chase. Turns me on.”

You play that conversation repeatedly as you shower. You laughed about it then, even giggled as you packed your things and left a week later. Kyle has always been confident, always sure of himself, but you doubt he can track you like some bounty hunter.

Now, you’re a bit on edge, glancing at every face you pass and staring into dark corners, expecting Kyle to be there. You’re unable to pinpoint the exact moment you felt uneasy. Exchanging rental cars, using only cash, talking to as few people as possible, even leaving your cellphone at home.

A professional might brush those off as easy obstacles, but Kyle? No. You couldn’t imagine it when you were singing at the top of your lungs in the first rental car. Maybe the first isolated gas station did you in, only worsening when you stopped for the night. The hotel isn’t much except basic necessities, reasonable comfort, and endless hot water.

Twisting the shower knob, the blessed heat evaporates. Steam lingers in the air around you, the television softly filters in through the open bathroom door, the towel wrapped around your body is clean but scratchy, worse than what you have at home, but acceptable for how much you paid for the night.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you hum softly to yourself, using a second towel to dry your hair. The television is still on, but it’s darker than before. You come to a stop at the foot of the bed, frowning. All the lamps are turned off except the one on the table next to the bed. Even the glow from the television is muted, as if purposefully dimmed via the settings.

A sensation in the back of your head buzzes. Something old. Something primal. Ancient. A piece of genetic code that stayed with humans from the beginning. Someone is here. Someone is in this room with you.

Maybe it is Kyle. Maybe he was telling the truth. But it doesn’t make sense. Kyle is no professional. Military, yes, but able to track someone down with little to no information? Doubtful. This is all supposed to be a good laugh. You left, expecting to be gone no more than two days, returning with an accomplished grin and a “I told you so” attitude.

It only worsens the dread.

If someone is in this room, and it’s not Kyle, then who?

You take a step back, eyeing the corners of the room and the closed curtains, expecting a twisted figure to emerge from the shadows. Another step, the fear heightening, all the muscles in your body tight with tension, ready to flee.

A hand comes down on your mouth from behind. It’s a strong grip, silencing, forcing you backward until you hit something solid and warm. Instinct kicks in, arms extending to strike, only to be met with muscle and brute strength.

Large, muscular arms enclose around your body, holding your arms still, leaving no room to wrestle and wiggle.

“Stop moving.” The voice is slightly husky and labored, with a twinge of excitement. “Be still, bird.”

Masculine. British. Achingly familiar.

Kyle?

You say his name into the hand covering your mouth. The sound is flattened and the man’s grip quickens.

“No talking, either.”

It is Kyle. It has to be.

That thought comforts you yet the anxiety and fear linger. Still tense, you quiet your voice and body, waiting for him to give guidance.

His arms shift, followed by his hands. As you’re spun around to face him, the towel unfurls, dropping to the floor. You catch a glimpse of your assailant. Brown eyes. Strikingly familiar. The balaclava doesn’t need to be removed for you to know who wears it.

Kyle forces you to your knees. “Hands where I can see them. Right here.” He taps his thigh and you place your hands there, one on either side. “Be silent. And suck my cock.”

Your pussy clenches, excitement palpable. You do as your told, undoing the belt and opening up the front of his pants. When his cock emerges, you know for sure that it’s Kyle. It’s the shape, sure, but the smell, that heady, musky scent that you’d know anywhere.

Obediently, you open your mouth, and then your shoved onto his cock, taking every inch until you gag around him.

“Hands here,” he instructs again, and you grasp his thighs, holding on as he takes hold of your hair and begins fucking your throat.

Tears quickly come, eyes watering from the intensity of his thrusts and the way the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. Kyle doesn’t wipe your tears away. You’re wet between your thighs, slickening by the second. To be used like this, hunted down and ambushed, be utterly powerless, is fucking exhilarating.

Relaxing your throat, you take deep inhalations through your nose, trying to focus on not choking. Your gaze drifts to the left. A black duffle bag rests on the ground. It’s open, revealing some of its contents.

Rope. Duct tape. Zipties.

Is he going to keep you hostage here? Fuck your brains out? Or will he take you to a second location, using all your holes until you’re coated in cum and overstimulated?

Either sounds amazing.

Kyle grunts above you, his fist tightening, muscles flexing under your hands. He brings you fulling down onto his cock, your lips pressing against his pelvis, forcing himself down down down as his cum shoots out of the tip, slides to your esophagus to gestate in your stomach.

He keeps himself in your mouth, unmoving. “Show me how wet you are.”

Dropping a hand from his thigh, you slide it between your legs, presenting the glossy digits.

“Face down,” he growls. “Ass up.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I’m not finished making you my wife.

Your God saved you for me. My gods saved you for me.

The old woman. The strangely bitter tea. The festival. It’s all returning in little pieces, distance whisps that slip between your fingers.

We must welcome the pagans. We cannot make them Christians through brute force and violence.

There is fur beneath you, and damp earth. You’ve given in, submitted to the pagan with hardly a protest. Johnny is above you, over you, creating a cocoon. His arms are braced on either side of your head, elbows digging into the ground.

You’re protected. Warm. Legs spread to accommodate the way Johnny thrusts between your legs. You remember the tree. A rock. Even now, distantly, you hear the other festival goers in this forested maze. Mating. Coupling. Uncaring.

Johnny took you as a husband should, consummating that which hasn’t been ordained by God. Through the thick haze of pleasure, a small voice pecks at your attention like an irritated crow.

You can’t go back.

You’ll have to marry him.

Johnny hooks an arm under your thigh, opening you wider. His thrusts increase, hitting deeper. You’re incredibly slick between your thighs. Some of it is you, the rest is Johnny’s seed. The man has a determined look in his eye, as if he knows you’ll come to your senses eventually, that you may refuse him.

No. No. It’s too late. Far too late.

You will not be sent to a convent, or hastily married off to some unknown lord to cover up the pregnancy. Something tells you Johnny wouldn’t allow it anyway.

Your God saved you for me. My gods saved you for me.

This man intends to keep you.

Johnny’s mouth comes down on your neck, sucking. Your cunt clenches. A groan escapes you, all hesitation evaporated.

You reach for the long braid hanging over his shoulder. Grasping the end, you twist it around your fist, and pull hard. Johnny’s head is forced backward, followed by a whimper, and then you’re wet and warm all over again, his seed flooding your cunt.

“Little Christian,” chides Johnny. “What are you up to?”

Tugging on his braid again, you lift your head. Knowing what you’re asking for, Johnny closes the distance, your mouths meeting, exchanging breaths. You keep hold of his braid, unwavering. With a renewed intensity, Johnny pushes your legs up, never leaving your body. Relentless. It’s the only way to describe it.

Teeth and tongue. Sweat and spit. Moans and the buzzing of nearby insects.

Words are forgotten. It’s you and him, your bodies rocking together. There is no passiveness in you, only a craving, of wanting to burrow inside and stay there. This is all you can do, to unlock that part of yourself that’s always been knocked down.

Piety. Purity. Submissive.

Johnny doesn’t want any of it.

Above you, Johnny grunts, animalistic and wild. His thrusts are harder, faster, skin slapping against skin in sharp strikes. You pull harder on his braid. Your other hand claws at his back, sliding down to apply pressure.

To drive him deeper.

To not allow him to leave.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Warmth radiates from where Simon’s fingers connect with your skin. A slow caress, a ghost of a touch, an observance before the meal.

“Is it not done outside?”

Simon pauses, fingers resting at your collarbone. “The mate bond?” You nod, swallowing, nervous for what comes next. “You don’t have wolf blood.”

“That matters?”

Simon’s fingers dip to the hollow of your throat. “You’re human. Forming the mate bond in the light of the moon would kill you.”

You draw back, Simon’s fingers hovering in the air where you stood. “Does that make me less in your eyes?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s the natural order of things. As alpha, it’s my job to protect the pack. You’re part of it now.”

“You hardly know me.”

“And I hardly know you,” he counters. “But it’s what’s best. Bring peace to the region. Protect shifters and humans alike.”

With a shred of added confidence, you step into Simon’s space. His fingers return, becoming a hand that rests at the base of your throat. “I heard from women in the village that the mate bond is special. A melding of the souls.”

His thumb lightly presses. “Yes, but it’s not the fantasy they make it out to be.”

“How do you mean?”

His grip tightens, drawing you closer. Your hands rise of their own volition, adding counter-pressure to his chest. The man is a stone wall. “Mate bonds aren’t predetermined. No fated connection. They’re chosen. Rare.”

All a lie, then. Upon arriving, you believed that there might be hope yet, that this marriage, this contract, would yield a sliver of potential.

Your voice drops to a cracked whisper. “And us?”

“You’re mine, until death.” Simon’s grip softens, shifting to cradle your head. He tips it up, forcing you to look at him. “As alpha, the mate bond will secure my place. You’ll birth my pups, be my closest ally. A mate bond is required.”

Nothing about this is romantic, but what did you expect? Your father sold you off for the sake of peace, met with this man, and offered you as a compromise. He accepted, and now, you’re married, alone in his den, a roaring fire at your back, a bed of furs to your left where you’ll officially become his wife and belong to Simon forever.

As if reading your thoughts, Simon says, “I won’t hurt you. To raise a hand to a mate is a crime.”

“But you’re the alpha. The law is your word.”

Simon’s head dips, creating a cocoon of intimacy. “I’d slit my throat before I’d harm you.”

“Those are nice words.”

Simon’s lips hover just shy of yours, eyelids heavy. “Then I’ll show you.”

As Simon closes the distance, the heat of him engulfs your senses. He is everywhere, blocking out the room, leaving you with him and him alone. The first kiss is touching but deep, revealing intent. The purpose of this evening is to form the bond, for Simon to consummate the marriage, and fill you with his seed in the hopes it’ll take.

His hands remain where they are, his lips indulging in kisses, breathing quicken with each one. You’re not unmoved. Simon’s touch is liquid fire, the heat unfurling and spreading into your limbs. Boney. Melting. Between your thighs is a growing wetness you’ve only known when you’ve been alone.

Simon’s nostrils flare, eyes widening. He pulls back, leaving you gasping. “Submit to me,” he growls, the sound more animal than human. “I’ll do the rest.”

Before you’re able to answer, Simon grabs the neckline of your dress, ripping it clear down the middle. His nails are longer than before, his eyes glow with a swirling yellow mist, fusing with Simon’s brown irises.

You’re hoisted into the air, plopped down onto the furs, pinned as Simon spreads your legs wide, locking them in place. His mouth is on your cunt, licking wildly, animalistic groans and grunts crawling up his throat to vibrate against your sex.

The sensation is brand new, and you cry out, choking on a sob as surprise becomes intense pleasure. Fisting his hair, you pull, body bent and tense as the orgasm builds. The tug sends Simon into a frenzy. His nails graze over your skin, stinging as he tongues your clit. As the orgasm crests, becoming unbearable, Simon flips you over onto your stomach, draping himself over you, keeping you pinned and submissive.

All you’re able to do is fist the furs beneath you, to moan as he shoves his cock into you, thrusting roughly. It’s not painful, just intense, consuming. Mouth open, tongue lolling, you give in, cunt squelching with each intrusion.

Above you, Simon’s breathing takes on a panting nature. Sharp teeth graze your skin. Open wide. Enclose around your throat but don’t pierce. You refuse to look, knowing Simon will be more wolf than man.

As his thrusts quicken, you sense a pressure in your skull, expanding to the point of suffocation.

Submit. Submit. Submit.

You open yourself to the weight, accepting. It flattens, pushing outward, twisting around in your body until you hear another voice speaking inside your head that is not your own.

Breed. Mate. Mark.

With that voice comes emotions and sensations, a shifting perspective. There is you, and there is Simon. His arousal is your own, and yours his. You finish instantly, squeezing his cock. Simon’s wolf teeth tighten, breaking skin.

You show up back at home a few months after your mom dies, knocking on the door in the middle of the night during a rainstorm after finally leaving your shit boyfriend. It’s just Brendon in that big old house now. When he answers the door, eyes heavy with exhaustion, wearing only gray sweatpants, you half expect him to turn you away. It’s not like you’re his real kid; he doesn’t have any real obligation to you without your mom in his life.

But he just sighs.

Shakes his head.

Opens the door.

He takes you by the hand and pulls you into the house, not saying anything about how you drip water on the floor or how you can’t stop crying. “Come on, princess, let’s get you into some dry clothes.”

He stands dutifully outside of the bathroom while you shower and emerge wrapped in a fluffy white towel that you know his housekeeper washes and folds. He’s never been good at the homemaking side of things; that was all your mom’s job.

Holding out a pair of his boxers, sweats, and a tee, Brendon tells you, “Sorry I don’t have any of your mom’s old clothes to give you.”

“That’s alright,” you reply, voice bashful and innocent as you take the clothes from him. “I wasn’t sure you’d even let me in, so this is better than I expected.”

His face falls at that. “Why wouldn’t I let you in?”

“Well, I dunno, mom’s not around anymore,” you reason, sounding so pathetic it takes you by surprise, “so I figured you’d just want to move on with your life or something.”

Brendon’s heart breaks and he immediately pulls you into a tight hug. He kisses your temple and tells you seriously, “Sweetheart, be serious now. I’ve been in your life since you were little, even if I’m not your sperm donor. You’re my kid, plain and simple. I’m never gonna let you stay out in the cold.”

Your lip wobbles as you search his devastatingly blue eyes. “But I’ve been so bad.”

“What, because you disappeared before your frontal lobe developed? Because you shacked up with some shithead who didn’t deserve you?” Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “None of that matters. You’ll always be my baby girl. Get changed and get some sleep; we can talk tomorrow.”

–

“If you’re going to stay here with me, there have to be some rules,” Brendon starts as he cooks you breakfast. He took the day off work to reconnect with you, which you know is a big deal for someone with an important job like him.

You nod seriously, hoping he understands just how much this means to you. “I know I’ll need to pay rent and buy my own groceries and-”

“What? Rent?” Like the idea’s ridiculous, Brendon scoffs, “No, you don’t have to pay rent, angel. You don’t have to pay for anything. The asshole made you quit your job anyway, didn’t he?”

You can’t bear to look at him as you admit it with a nod. He pushes a plate of eggs, sausage, biscuits, and fruit in front of you before pouring a tall glass of orange juice as well. Beginning to pick around the plate, you ask, “So what are the rules, then?”

“You have to fix your lifestyle,” he replies, vague but firm. Then he clarifies some, “You can’t go partying like you have been. You’re getting eye bags from drinking and caffeine and sleep deprivation and you’re way too young for that.”

Your fingers fly up to your cheeks. “Am I really?”

“Yeah, you are,” he sighs, reaching out to cup your face, brushing his thumb over your skin. “You’re a beautiful girl; you shouldn’t be wasting your youth and your mind and your beauty on the bullshit you have been. If you’re in my house, you take care of yourself. And you listen to me. Got it?”

Biting your lip, you nod gently. “I can try.”

He touches your chin affectionately and says, “Good girl.”

Something deep inside of you stirs when he says that. And he notices. Your pupils dilate slightly, your lips part a bit, and you draw in a tiny sharp breath. He withdraws his hand, painfully aware of whatever’s just passed between you.

“We’ll eat breakfast and dinner together every day. I’m not a great cook, but I can make do or we can order in.”

“I can cook,” you tell him, perking up a bit at the idea that there’s something you can do to be helpful. “You have such a nice kitchen here – way better than the one I had with Tyler – it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Let me make us meals; you’re way too busy to worry about that. It’ll give me something to do.”

“Great. You can take the Audi for grocery runs; I’ll leave my card here for you. Or you can use one of those delivery services, whatever.” He starts in on his own breakfast and smiles. “See? We’ll figure this thing out in no time.”

–

Brendon’s heart nearly stops when he gets home from work his first day back. You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, fresh-faced from the shower, wearing nothing but panties and one of his shirts; he’s promised to go to your ex’s place to collect your things this weekend, but the sight of you like that makes him reluctant. For a second, he’s so happy that his heart could burst. He knows how gross it sounds, but he’s missed having a woman in the kitchen, some pretty thing swaying along to music while stirring a pot on the stove.

There’s a sudden flash in his mind of you standing there with a heavy baby bump, humming, happy and held and perfectly safe under his protection. He can’t shake it from his head as he kicks off his shoes, quickly showers, and changes.

Then, as he heads to the kitchen but before you notice his presence, you take out a slim vape pen and take a long breath, blowing out the cloud with an ease that makes it clear this is a long-term habit for you. Before you can take another hit, Brendon storms forward and snatches it from your hand. You stare at him, wide-eyed like a caught toddler, as he hisses, “Do you have any idea how bad for you these things are?”

You throw your hands up and reply defensively, “I’m using it to quit smoking!”

“Swapping one addiction for another,” he sighs as he slips the pen into his back pocket. “Just because it’s not as bad for you doesn’t mean it’s good. You don’t need nicotine – you need a healthy diet, sleep, exercise, and routine. I’m a doctor, sweetheart, you can talk to me about things like quitting smoking.”

You nod and sigh, “I know, daddy. You’re right.”

It slips from your lips so effortlessly that it’s like syrup running down his spine. God, he loves how it sounds in your honey-smooth voice, tumbling from your sweet lips, 

When you see how his eyes widen, you immediately turn back to the stove and stammer, “Sorry, I- I’m too old to call you that. It won’t happen again.”

“No, no, c’mon,” he coos. He stands behind you and wraps you in a hug. You swear you can feel the outline of his cock pressing against your ass, but you write it off as nothing. “I don’t mind at all. You don’t care if I call you princess or sweetheart or angel, right?”

“Of course not,” you giggle, all sweet and feminine. “It’s nice.”

“That’s how I feel, too,” he assures you. The way his rough, masculine voice breathes down your neck makes you a little dizzy. “Just because you’re grown up doesn’t mean you can’t be my little girl; why shouldn’t you call me what you want?”

You turn around and plant a warm kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, daddy. I’m gonna work on the vaping, okay? I really want you to be proud of me. To show you how good I can be.”

He kisses your forehead. “You’re so special, baby. I just want to make sure you’re treating yourself as well as you should be.”

–

After you’ve cleaned up dinner side by side, you put on a movie and convince Brendon to watch it with you even though he insists he has paperwork to do for the hospital. You have your feet in his lap and he rubs them absently, no thought behind his touch, more like he’s using you as a stressball.

When the credits roll and you go to search for something else to watch, Brendon clicks his tongue, takes the remote from you, and turns the TV off.  “You should get to bed, sweetheart.”

“What?” You almost laugh as your eyes flick over to the clock on the wall. “It’s not even ten.”

He gives you a stern, knowing look. One of those looks where you always fold to whatever he wants you to do. He explains, “I don’t want you going back to bed after breakfast and sleeping until noon just because you aren’t working or in school. You need to get out of the cycle of being reliant on coffee to wake up; that means you need to get enough sleep to start with.”

You pout and reply, “But I’m not tired.”

He stands up and helps you to your feet, slinging an arm around your waist and guiding you toward the stairs. “You will be if you relax in bed for a while – no TV, no distractions. Just quiet and dark. You have to retrain your body with a good schedule.”

You walk up the steps ahead of him, fully aware that your ass is bouncing in his face in your tiny panties. Teasing him is just a part of your fun these days. You love to catch him staring and making him blush when you make fun of him.

In your childhood bedroom, which he’s promised to let you remodel however you want once you have your things again, Brendon watches as you wash your face and brush your face in the en suite bathroom. He likes to watch you. Likes having your pretty form filling his house with your light and life.

After you slip beneath the covers, he plugs your phone in across the room so you won’t reach for it while you’re trying to sleep, kisses you tenderly on the forehead, and shuts your light off. “Goodnight, princess. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You lean up again and go to kiss him on the cheek, half-missing and catching the corner of his lips. “Night, daddy. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

–

The more comfortable you get living at home with Brendon, the more reliant you are on him. It feels so natural to you both. He’s big and strong and successful; you’re sweet and needy and helpful. You want to make him happy however you can and he wants to keep you safe and healthy the same way.

For a while, you can both write it off as finding a father/daughter relationship again in adulthood. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious that there’s more. When you go shopping on his credit card, you send him pictures of the cute little outfits you buy and he jerks off to them late at night, his hand made of white-hot shame and pleasure mixing in equal parts. When he rearranges furniture for you while shirtless, taking orders to make sure you’re happy with your space, you can’t help staring at his biceps, his back, and his chest, pathetically whimpering and trying to get yourself off but not quite able to after.

You just can’t take it anymore one night after spending a full hour trying to hit that spot in your pussy by yourself, your much shorter fingers not able to reach it. So you stand up in a huff, don’t bother tugging your underwear back on, and stomp down the hall to the room Brendon once slept in with your mother.”

Taking a deep breath, you knock tentatively and crack the door open. You’re a mix of giddy and nervous when you see he’s still awake, leaning back on the headboard with a thick hook in his lap.

When he hears the door squeak open, he looks up, slips the ribbon bookmark back in place, and asks with such a tender concern in his voice that you feel loved right away, “You alright, sweetheart?”

“I can’t sleep, daddy,” you reply, a bit of a bratty, desperate whine in your tone that makes his cock chub up. Padding into the room, he realizes you aren’t wearing bottoms and sits up straighter as you go on needle, “You’ve been so smart with everything since I’ve been here; I think I need your help.”

He pats the spot on the bed next to him. Setting his book down and shifting to the side as you crawl into his bed, Brendon prods, “Tell me what’s going on.”

When he lifts his arm, you snuggle underneath it and bury your face in his softly worn tee. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“C’mon, do you have any reason to be embarrassed with me ever?” Brendon lifts your chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. All lilting and teasing, he nudges, “I’m a doctor. I’m your dad.”

“That’s the problem,” you groan, eyes flicking away from his once more. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you about stuff like this.”

He chuckles now, clearly amused by your bashfulness, “What stuff would that be? Baby, you know as well as I do that you can talk to me about anything in the whole world that you need.”

You nod and quickly whine out, “I haven’t been able to make myself cum since the breakup and it’s driving me crazy.”

Brendon swallows thickly, his mouth going dry at just how pathetically needy you look right now, eyes watery, thighs pinched together, teeth pushing into your soft lower lip. He knows this is a crossroads for both of you. A moment where boundaries will blur or harden, where trust will be built or broken, based on how he responds.

So he’s careful at first. With blue eyes that brim with love, he cups your cheek and confirms, “Most importantly, that’s definitely nothing to be embarrassed about, honey, and you can always talk to me about your sexual health – whether that’s birth control or relationships or whatever. You’re safe with me.”

You melt under his touch. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Here, let’s get you comfy,” Brendon murmurs, maneuvering you onto your back, head on his pillow, legs spread just a bit. With his heart hammering in his throat, he does his best to keep his voice level as he offers, “Why don’t you show me what you do when you’re alone? Maybe that’ll help me figure out what you can be doing better. Does that sound okay?”

“Mhmm,” you reply, a little too eager, spreading your legs apart and squirming in a way that drives him clinically insane.

You go to put your hand between your legs the way you usually do, but Brendon catches your wrist and asks, “First of all, why are you still wearing your shirt? You usually stay partly clothed when you touch yourself?”

“Yeah, usually.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.” You shrug as your cheeks burn from a mix of nerves and arousal. “Just easier, I guess.”

“Well, you don’t want to rush things, even with yourself. Going slow and not skipping any steps just to get there faster will help,” he says. His fingers go to the hem of your small tee and he starts to lift it, ordering quietly, “Sit up a little for a second, princess.”

You help him shimmy your top off, leaving you completely naked save your frilled socks. He can see your breaths coming faster now as you feel exposed in front of him for the first time. With your breasts out on full display, Brendon can feel himself starting to lose control. You’re just so fucking perfect, every inch of you, and he has to let out a slow, controlled breath to avoid moaning and taking you the way he wants.

With a mix of eagerness and innocence, you check, “You’re sure it’s okay for you to help with this?”

“It’s my job to help you with this,” he clarifies, serious, like a teacher giving an important lesson. “Clearly, you’ve wasted time with stupid boys who didn’t do a good job and now you can’t even help yourself. All I want is to make sure you’re happy and healthy. This is another part of that. I’ve helped you make your tummy feel better with your diet and your skin get better with your sleep and your water. Why shouldn’t I make your little pussy feel better, too?”

“That makes sense, daddy,” you coo, on the verge of giggling from the way your brain is buzzing. “Okay, so I usually start by just kinda rubbing circles on my clit.”

He orders firmly, “Show me.”

You lick your two middle fingers and snake them between your legs, parting your lips a bit and finding your clit. Brendon sits back on the bed and watches you collect wetness from lower down before spreading it over your clit. He tsks sympathetically and asks, “You were trying for a while, huh? All wet and swollen.”

With a sad nod, you reply, “I just can’t read that special place inside me.”

“You try to just use your fingers? How?”

Easily obeying as your brain starts to go fuzzy, you reach your other hand down and curl the fingertips of your middle two fingers inside your needy hole.

Eyes trained on your perfect cunt he asks roughly, “You don’t use a toy or anything? A dildo?”

You protest right away, “Ew, no, of course not!”

Brendon smacks your thigh – the gesture shocks you to your core, even the lightest slightest pain making your nerves sing – and reprimands, “Who made you think it’s not okay to use toys?”

“Well, I dunno, my ex, I guess,” you explain. Your voice is getting breathier now as your fingers speed up. Brendon’s attention is a lot hotter than any of the thoughts you can conjure up behind your eyelids. “I thought- thought that made me slutty. If I needed something like that.”

“God, that boy,” Brendon nearly growls. “Honey, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with using the things that were designed to make your pussy feel good. Boys say that when they don’t want their girl to know what ‘good’ is because if you can get yourself off with a vibrator, why would you keep a shitty boyfriend around?”

A conspiratorial giggle escapes your lips. “Will you get me some toys daddy?”

“Of course I will, angel,” he assures. “You should have whatever you need to feel good. I’ll show you how to use them and everything, make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Suddenly, your eyes sting with tears, lip wobbling as you look up at this man who’s made your life so much better for no reason except how he loves you. “You’re so good to me.”

“That’s because you’re mine,” he soothes, rubbing his hand over your calf. Then his hand moves – slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you – up your inner thigh. He carefully removes the hand that’s desperately trying to get deeper into your pussy and squeezes it a couple times. “For now, though, you definitely need something nice and thick in there to hit that special spot. You really want me to help?”

Your eyes snap up to his and you nod. “Please, daddy, I’m so achy. I need it really bad.”

“Good girl. I’m so proud of you for telling me that,” he praises as two of his fingertips brush your pussy’s entrance. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling and then stop breathing altogether when he begins to push them inside. The stretch is so good, stingy and bright, and you already know he’s gonna be able to help exactly how you need. Once you’ve taken him to the second knuckle, feeling like you couldn’t possibly be stretched any more, Brendon reminds you with a hand on your lower tummy, “Breathe, honey. You’ve gotta breathe.”

Your mouth falls open and a breath rattles in. Your back arches and you let out an angelic moan.

At your intense reaction, Brendon pushes his fingers the rest of the way in and asks you quietly, “Has anyone ever touched you like this?”

Shaking your head as he begins to move his fingers inside of your cunt, you admit, “My ex only ever- Fuck, daddy, that’s the spot right there.”

“I know, sweet girl, I can feel it,” he says. He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against that perfect textured spot that makes your toes tense. “What were you saying?”

Trying hard to focus, you tell him, “He only ever put his dick down there.”

Brendon groans, almost like a growl, as if that response causes him physical pain. “Did he ever eat you out?”

Your face wrinkles up and you look down at him, giving up rubbing your clit because you’re so distracted. “Like use his mouth on me? Why would he do that?”

“Alright, this is officially fucking unacceptable,” Brendon announces. He pulls his fingers from your pussy despite your pathetic, begging whines and stands up. You watch with a curious expression as he strips his own clothes off. You’ve never seen his cock before and your eyes widen; it’s gotta be twice the size of the only other one you’ve ever seen in person. Brendon climbs on top of you, caging you between his strong arms, and says, “I’m gonna show you how a man is supposed to treat his woman. You can’t go out in the world thinking it’s okay for a guy to just get his dick wet and move on. If you’re gonna be someone’s girl, they need to treat you right in life and in bed.”

Tentatively, you reach up and touch his harsh jawline. Your voice is an anxious whisper as you ask him, “What if I don’t wanna go back out in the world?”

Hopeful but not quite ready to let himself think it, Brendon pushes, “What do you mean, princess?”

“Maybe I just wanna be your girl now,” you say softly. Eyes averted, you murmur quickly, “I like being home with you. Like when you come home and tell me about your day while I make you dinner. Like when we go shopping together and when you make sure I brushed my teeth good enough. I wanna be yours. I don’t wanna go back out there and try to be with anyone else.”

He can tell it’s taking all your bravery to say it and you’re terrified of being rejected by him, so he doesn’t bother with collecting his thoughts. He crushes you into a kiss that’s claiming and rough and so much more intense than any you’ve felt before. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound down, cupping the back of your head and grabbing your waist and grinding down against your thigh.

When he pulls back, your pupils are blown wide and your breaths are fast. He drags his lips up your neck and purrs against your ear, “Then I’m gonna show you how I treat my woman so you never want anyone else again.”

You’re totally unable to speak as he trails kisses down your body, between your breasts, over your stomach, along your hips, up your thighs. Worshipping every inch he can reach without getting out of the position he needs to be in. As he bends to hover his lips above your clit, he looks up at you and orders, “Now I’m gonna eat you out and I want you to play with your nipples, baby. Just figure out how you like it. I want you to have fun with them because sex is supposed to be fun, not some chore. I’ll take care of this pretty pussy. That sound good?”

You squirm, skeptical, and ask, “You’re really gonna put your mouth on me? What if it tastes bad? What if-”

“Good girls don’t argue with their daddies,” he cuts you off, shoving his two fingers back into your cunt without preamble, stealing your breath away as he does. It reminds you how much pleasure you think Brendon could give you that nobody else could. “Are you going to be good or are you going to be a brat?”

“Good,” you squeak out, suddenly desperate to know what he wants to show you. “I trust you, daddy, I promise.”

“That’s my girl. You just keep on trusting me and you’re gonna have the best life in the world. Gonna make you feel so good. Treat you like the princess you are every fucking day.”

Then he descends on your clit. He’s slow and purposeful at first, letting you get used to the new sensation, which is soft and wet and nice, even if it’s a little strange at first. Combined with his fingers inside of you, it definitely feels good. When his tongue gets firmer and more urgent, almost mimicking the way you play with your clit, a moan like you’ve never heard from yourself busts out of your throat. He groans in response and the vibration makes your head spin.

Because you promised to be good and listen to him, your hands travel up to cup your breasts. You try out massaging them, rubbing your nipples, rolling them, whatever you can think of that might feel good. Having that to focus on lets you completely relax, not in your head with Brendon between your legs. He’s so smart; he must’ve known you’d be nervous to have him down there, smelling you and tasting you and seeing everything from that angle. He gave you something else to toy with so you wouldn’t get insecure.

With gratitude bubbling up, you start to moan more and more. You’ve never liked your own sounds during sex, but that’s because they’ve always been forced to some degree. These ones just tumble out constantly, breathless and sing-song and honest. He seems to like them, too, because he’s rutting down against the mattress like a teen humping the pillow. The sight makes you burn down to the wick with lust because you realize he wants you bad.

Suddenly you start to feel a tingly, bright sparkly something in your lower stomach, connected to your pussy by a thread that’s being wound tighter and tighter by Brendon’s fingers inside of you. He doesn’t rush you through the feeling, lets it grow and build, setting a steady course that you know you can trust completely.

When you cum, it’s with a loud cry and shaking legs. You’ve never felt something so strong; your own fingers could never make you feel this good. You feel a flood of your wetness pulsing from your cunt and you feel so fucking embarrassed at the idea that you’re going pee on Brendon’s face that you try to wriggle away.

But he won’t let you. He growls and shoves you into overstimulation, lapping up your juices, not relenting until you’re crying and thrashing. His hands keep you tight against his face even as he lightens up, kissing your clit, sweetly nibbling your thighs, letting you come back down to earth.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” you whimper as you start to catch your breath. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve never peed like that before and I couldn’t control it and-”

“What?” Brendon laughs hard as he pulls back to look at you incredulously. “Baby girl, you did so good. Sometimes when a girl cums extra hard, she does that. There can be a whole rush of liquid; it’s not the same thing as peeing.”

“It’s not?” You tilt your head to the side, relief filling your shaky body as Brendon grabs a towel from his en suite bathroom and starts to clean you and the sheet up. “What is it then?”

“Well, the research isn’t great right now because we’ve always under-studied women’s bodies,” he explains as he tenderly rubs the towel over your pussy and your thighs, “but most people think it’s a mix of liquids. Some of it comes from the bladder, yes, but it’s diluted by fluids from this special gland you have called the Skene’s gland, which is sort of like a man’s prostate.” Then he chuckles and shakes his head, cheeks a bit pink, as he adds, “Trust me: I’ve tasted both, and they’re not the same thing.”

You smack him on the arm and fall into a fit of laughter. “Ew, daddy, gross!”

Brendon shakes his head and gets into the bed next to you, holding you close. “It’s easy to think that, but I promise that all sorts of stuff you think is weird or gross can actually feel really, really good when you’re with the right person.”

how exactly did they discover you? one day samira was scrolling on tiktok and came across a get ready with me video you posted. she thought you were one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen, and followed you for more content like the video she saw. then she looked through your comment section and saw people saying to look up your twitter account. curiosity got the best of her, so she quickly switched over to twitter and typed in your handle, to find your account filled with pictures and videos of you in sexy lingerie sets, some of you without anything on, a few sneak peek clips of you fucking yourself with your fingers or a dildo, or videos of you massaging your bare tits.

samira was instantly captured by you and your content. in her eyes, you were a goddess. your body looked as though it were sculpted by the gods themselves, your face was so beautiful, and you had the prettiest pussy she'd ever seen. initially she would watch your videos by herself at night while jack was at work, so she could get herself off after a long workday. until one day jack came home from work to grab something he forgot.

samira was too focused on the video of you playing on her phone and her fingers plunging in and out of her soaking wet hole, she didn't even notice jack walking into the room. her moans mixed with your pornographic ones made jack's ears perk up. it's not like he didn't expect her to masturbate, he worked later hours than her, but he didn't expect his wife to be watching some pornstar to give herself an orgasm.

his mind changed once he saw you on the screen. you looked so pretty as you were destroying your poor hole with a dildo that looked like it shouldn't fit inside of you. similarly to his wife, he became captured by you.

it wasn't an awkward conversation when they made the decision to invite your content into their sex life. they were grown adults who loved each other, and you are your content is what they needed in their life. the couple had more sex than they ever did before.

they created a joint account to watch your content together. the couple instantly became one of your top viewers. the stronger their obsession grew the more money they spent on you. they paid extra for personalized videos, and made it known that they were a couple who enjoyed watching your content in the bedroom.

whenever you got their requests, you loved it. they were your favorite customers. they paid good money and they were far more kind than the strange, perverted men who would normally buy from you. jack and samira would send you the cutest lingerie sets, along with other gifts, which were mostly new pairs of heels or expensive jewelry.

samira still followed your normal social media accounts and stayed tuned in for every single post you made. watching your "get ready with me"s, shopping hauls, storytimes, and makeup videos made her feel like she knew you. as parasocial as it sounds, you were so much more than a pornstar to her.

the couple's obsession took a step further when you started offering video calls with customers. before their first call they were nervous, but as soon as they saw your gorgeous smile and beautiful body laced in a set sent by them, their nerves eased instantly.

"hi!" you beamed, and the couple waved back.

you couldn't see their faces, all you saw was jack's t-shirt covered chest and samira's in a tank top, but you knew they were definitely hot.

"this is my first time chatting with a couple," you informed them, "so i'm sorry if i seem a little nervous."

"no worries, sweetheart." jack's voice said softly. "we're a little nervous ourselves."

"i'm excited," you said as you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth. "but you're the bosses here, so i'll make your every wish come true."

"first, how was your day?" samira asked and it threw you off guard. most of your clients didn't care about you, just your body. "sorry if that's weird. i just wanna get comfortable with you."

"it's not weird, it's sweet actually." you giggled. "and my day was great, thanks for asking. how about yours?"

"it was long," she replied. "because of work, but it's better now because of you, and my husband."

after the three of you finished asking about each other's days and a little bit of small talk, the camera was turned towards you on the bed, your body was bare, legs wide open with your pussy on display for the couple. they watched as your middle and index fingers spread open your wet folds then dipped into your sopping hole. your conversation with them made your pussy so wet because their kindness turned you on. yes, it was bare minimum, but in your industry kindness from customers was hard to come by. you continued plunging your fingers into your pussy as it made those squelching sounds the couple loved so much.

their mouths watered at the sight of you. they wondered how you'd taste, how you'd feel wrapped around jack's cock or samira's fingers, and how many orgasms they'd be able to draw from your pretty pussy.

in jack's head, he imagined being there in your bedroom. his cock splitting you open as samira fucked herself against your pretty mouth. in samira's, you were sprawled out on the bed as she gripped onto your thighs, she was licking and sucking on your swollen clit while jack fucked her from behind.

"fuck, it feels so good." you moaned as you looked into the camera of your phone. you saw jack and samira's arms moving as they touched themselves, chasing their own orgasms.

"is that right, sweetheart?" jack chuckled softly.

"so good." you nodded. "so fucking good."

you heard samira's whimpers and jack's groans over the phone and it made you wetter. as your orgasm got closer, you fucked yourself harder, your moans grew louder, and your face twisted into those pretty expressions the couple loved. the three of you finished around the same time, and once they were done you smiled because you enjoyed being able to help them cum. it was so beautiful to you.

"i really enjoyed that." you walked closer to the camera to pick it up then sat on your bed. "i hope we get to do it again."

after their first call, they made it routine to set up a video call with you weekly. sometimes they'd fuck as you watched and touched yourself, or they'd masturbate separately, or touch each other, as you did the same. they could tell you enjoyed your calls with them, and it was true. the couple gave you some of the best orgasms you've had over the phone. and they were the sweetest people ever, always asking about your day and how your life was. the conversations between them flowed so easily, you even slipped up and told them they were the first and only couple you had as customers. you didn't think it was necessarily a bad thing, but you usually refrained from making customers feel too special because you didn't want them to get the wrong ideas of the arrangement. but jack and samira were different, they were good people and you liked them, maybe a little too much.

one day you made a tweet that said, "i'm so selfish, i want a boyfriend and a girlfriend." then another, "i need to be fucked by a hot married couple." when jack and samira saw your tweets they felt like they were directed towards them because you said it yourself that they were your only customers that were a couple. truthfully, you did want the couple to fuck you. from your sessions over the phone you knew they'd be able to fuck you right. but unfortunately, your contact with them was limited to over the phone. they didn't really know you and you didn't really know them. you were just a pornstar that helped them get theirselves off.

💌a/n: i wrote this mohabbot one shot as a gift to you all for my birthday. i hope you all love it!!!🤗

"Tell me about her." You said, offering some help. Andrew paused for a moment, thinking, before he told you about Cath. The way she looked and her personality, and with a few curious questions from you, he told you what kind of a mother she was and how she decorated her home.

"That one." You stated confidently as you pointed to the flowers in Andrews left hand. "They're as bright and strong as she is." You gave him a smile before moving over to where the flower stand owner was with his money box. Andrew stared at you for moment as you talked to the owner before looking back down at the bouquets in his hands. He decided you were right and placed the other bouquet back where he'd grabbed it.

"She's a lucky woman," You called out to Andrew as you moved away from the stand, walking backwards. "Have a nice day!" You walked off with a happy skip in your step and Andrew watched you go as he stepped up to the owner, his hand reaching for his wallet in his coat pocket.

"It's already been covered buddy." The owner said, making Andrew look at him.

"What?"

"That lady paid for your bouquet for you." He replied nonchalantly.

"Why?" Andrew asked, genuinely confused. Why would you do that? You didn't even know him.

"She said you looked down and upset," The owner said, gesturing at Andrews face. "She thought paying for your flowers would make you smile." The owner shrugged, not interested in the act of kindness in the slightest. Andrew turned around looking for you but you'd disappeared into the crowd. He stood there for a moment, scanning the street for your blue dress, hoping to see you. But you were gone.

Andrew didn't know what to think of your kind gesture. He'd never experienced something like this before. Every nice deed done for him was always followed with the expectation of a favour in the future. Nice deeds were conditional and transactional in his life, they were never given to Andrew without strings attached. Nice deeds were never actually nice.

But what you'd just done for him was.

You had no ulterior motive, you left the stand without even waiting for a thank you from him or an acknowledgment of a good deed done. You didn't even know Andrew. You did something nice, not knowing you'd affected Andrew deeply. You'd just been another costumer, someone picking up a bouquet of beautiful flowers on your way home, who decided to show Andrew some kindness just because you felt like it. Who paid for his flowers because you thought it would make him smile. Who thought he was deserving of a nice gesture.

Andrew thought about you for the rest of day, even when he gave Cath the flowers, even when he and Baz went over the details for the robbery. Andrew thought about you after he was arrested, arraigned and sentenced. He thought about you all 1,123 days of his prison sentence, about your smile and your eyes and your voice. He imagined you as he fell asleep and you were his first thought in the morning. He created a fantasy to help him through the tedious days, the madness of solitary confinement, the torture from the guards. He told the other prisoners about his kind girlfriend who loved flowers and making people smile who was waiting for him on the outside. Andrew thought about you so much until he genuinely believed that you were his, that he was meant to meet you right before he was arrested, like a guardian angel who would help him survive the last 3 years. Even if you didn't know it.

And Andrew vowed that when he was released, he'd find you again and make you his.

And that's exactly what Andrew did. Find you that is.

After reuniting with his family and getting set up in a motel for the foreseeable future, Andrew returns to the street he first saw you. He even finds the flower stand and the owner, but the man is less than helpful and doesn't want to do Andrew any favours.

So Andrew wanders up and down the street, day after day, for a whole week, looking for you. He stays in the area and sits for hours on a bench in view of the flower stand, his eyes scanning the street for your beautiful face. As the days dragged on Andrew tried to not get discouraged by all the different possibilities in front of him. You could have moved away, you could be in the hospital, you could have dyed your hair and made yourself unrecognizable to him. Your trip to the flower stand might have been a fluke instead of something you did in your weekly routine, meaning Andrew probably wasn't going to find you again.

On Friday he decided to branch out, combing the adjacent streets for your sparkling eyes and bright smile. Around three in the afternoon he decided to stop inside a diner on the corner to grab a quick bite to eat before returning to his search. A bright red haired woman in her fifties behind the counter told Andrew to sit wherever he wanted as she busied herself with refilling the napkin dispensers during the mid afternoon lull. Andrew sat at a booth in the corner, his back to the wall and the whole room visible to him. He glanced down for a second at the menu already on the table and was disturbed a moment later by a beautifully familiar voice.

"Do you need a minute, or can I get something started for you?" Andrews head snapped up to look at the waitress standing next to his table and saw that it was you. The girl of his dreams, the topic of all his thoughts and fantasies for the past three years, the person who'd kept him going through all the pain and agony in prison was standing in front of him, real and alive.

Andrew was staring, he knew that he was, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. You were wearing a yellow waitress uniform, which you were of course pulling off well. Your hair was away from your face like last time, probably for hygiene purposes at work, and you stood ready to take his order with the tip of your pen resting on an open notepad. Your fingernails were manicured and well maintained and there was a freckle on the back of your hand that he'd never noticed before.

"Sir?" You prompted, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Andrew blinked, probably for the first time in a full minute, and swallowed hard, doing nothing to sooth his incredibly dry throat. His eyes flickered to the neckline of your uniform and he could see a heart shaped locket around your neck. Were you a romantic? Was it a family heirloom, something sentimental? Or was it a gift from an old boyfriend? Or worse, a current one?

"Coffee, black," He managed to say, his heart beating rapidly against his ribs. "Please." He added on, remembering his manners. You gave him a tentative smile and nodded.

"I'll go grab that for you and give you some time with the menu." You spun around on your heel - you were wearing sensible, rubber soled shoes - and headed to the coffee machine. Andrew watched you go and noted the spring in your step that was identical to the one you had when he saw you three years ago. Was that how you walked all the time or did you only do that when you were happy? Were you happy right now?

You moved around the diner with ease, clearly comfortable here, and Andrew realized that you must have worked here for a while. You snagged a white coffee mug from behind the counter and poured Andrew a mug of hot coffee. He knew he only had about sixty seconds before you returned to the table but he couldn't bring himself to pull his eyes away from you.

This felt like fate. Andrew had loitered near the flower stand for almost a full week and the first day he explores the adjoining streets, he walks into your diner when you're on shift and sits in your section. There were so many things that could have happened differently and he would have missed you completely. But that hadn't happened. Instead he found you, and it felt the universe or God was telling him this was meant to be. That he was meant to find you again.

You set the coffee down in front of Andrew and raised your notepad again, smile on your face.

"Know what you want?"

"Um," Andrew clearly his throat as quietly as he could. He looked lamely down at the menu, unsure what to get. He decided to take a risk. "What do you recommend?"

"Oh I'd recommend any of the breakfast items, but that's because I love breakfast food. If you're looking for more lunch options I'd say the classic burger or the club sandwich is a good bet." Andrew glanced down at the menu and picked the first breakfast item he saw.

"I'll have the classic breakfast." His choice seemed to delight you, your smile transforming from a tentative one reserved for customers to a real one, big and bright. Your smile warmed Andrew like the California sun and he felt it all the way into his toes.

"Excellent choice, I'll get that started for you. Just flag me down if you need anything else." You spun around again and headed off the the kitchen, the skirt of your uniform swishing as you walked. Andrew blinked once you were out of sight, coming back to himself. He turned his attention to the steaming mug of coffee in front of him and played the interaction with you over and over in his head.

The way your eyes crinkled as you smiled. How you tapped the tip of your pen on your notepad when you answered his question. How you liked breakfast food.

Andrew filed all of this information away in his brain. There was still a lot that Andrew needed to learn. Your name was one thing. None of the waitresses were wearing nametags so Andrew would have to ask you for your name or figure it out some other way. Andrew also needed to learn what your work schedule was so he could return to the diner on a day you were working.

You brought out Andrews plate of food after a few minutes and ended up making his life easier by offering your name up voluntarily to him. You told him your name and told him to raise his hand or call out to you if he needed anything. And just like that you were gone again, off to refill coffees for the handful of other people in the diner. Andrew said your name softly to himself, rolling the letters around his tongue and lips, getting used to the feeling. He liked how your name sounded, he felt like it fit you well.

Andrew ate slowly over the next hour, doing what he could to prolong the meal and keep observing you. After getting over the initial shock of seeing you he started to regain his composure and watched you the same way he would case a joint before he robbed it. He was careful to not look too long or draw attention from you, the staff, or other costumers. He made note of how the other staff interacted with you and how you behaved with the other costumers. When he needed coffee refills, he called you over by catching your eye and raising his hand, and he kept the small talk light and short. All the information was filed away and stored for whenever Andrew might need it.

By the time Andrew finished his meal the dinner rush was just starting to trickle in and he knew he'd have to observe you from outside the diner for the rest of the evening. He stood, pulling out his wallet and dropping a wad of bills on the table while you were seating an elderly couple and hanging up their jackets for them.

Kind as always. Andrew thought to himself.

Andrew passed you as he walked towards the exit and your head snapped up towards him, probably concerned he was dining and dashing. You looked over at the table he'd vacated and saw the stack of bills, your concern evaporating. You wished him a good day and headed to the table to grab the money.

Andrew moved to a spot across the street where he could see you through the diner window but you couldn't see him. He watched as you counted the bills three times, your brows furrowing more and more with each count. You looked up and out the window, your eyes scanning the street for Andrew but you didn't see him.

He'd left a fifty dollar tip on a fifteen dollar meal.

Andrew wanted you to have it. Pretty soon he'd be paying for everything for you and you wouldn't have to worry about making ends meet, he'd take care of you. But for now he could help you out with some cash.

Andrew spent the rest of the day watching you from a spot that couldn't be seen by security cameras in the area or by people passing by. He didn't want anyone to notice him or question what he was doing. At the end of the night when the diner closed at ten, you walked to your car alone in the dark. Andrews mouth twitched in annoyance, his feet begging to move forward and escort you to your car but he stayed put in the shadows.

You shouldn't be walking alone in the dark anywhere, much less in the parking lot after work. Anyone could be waiting for you in the dark, hiding just out of sight. Andrew would fix this habit soon enough. He'll walk you to your car after every shift, hell, he'll pick you up after every shift and drive you home himself. You shouldn't have to drive yourself home after a long day spent on your feet. If you'd let him, Andrew would carry you around after your shifts so you could rest your aching feet.

Andrew noted the make and model of your car and committed the license plate to memory. The next day he was back, but he didn't go in the diner, he didn't want to draw attention to himself just yet. Andrew watched you from his truck the whole day, making note of the time you arrived at work and when you left. He did this for two weeks to get a good sense of your schedule and on the second night he followed you home, at a discreet distance.

You lived in an apartment complex that required a key fob to get in, which Andrew appreciated. Any obstacle he ran into was one that a predator would also run into if they were trying to follow and hurt you. But a determined man could get around any obstacle if they were smart enough and Andrew proved this when he was able to enter your building by following closely behind another resident who was going inside.

You'd entered the lobby moments before Andrew had and he watched from a distance as you walked onto the elevator. He watched the electronic numbers above the elevator go to the sixth floor so he slipped into the stairwell and ran up to the sixth floor to follow you, taking the stairs two at a time. He watched from the tiny window on the stairwell door as you turned right out of the elevator, passing by Andrew, who ducked down to avoid being seen, and opening the apartment door that was two down from the stairwell.

Andrew stepped out into the hallway and took note of what door you'd gone into - 628. He stopped dead in the hallway, the numbers sending a spike of shock through him. If Andrew wasn't already sure that the two of you were meant to be, this confirmed it for him.

Your apartment number was his birthday. June 28th. 628.

At the soonest opportunity, Andrew broke into your apartment.

He knew you were at work and he simply picked the lock on your apartment door to gain entry. He was quick about it, making sure to not be seen by any other residents. The cameras in the hallway didn't bother him, he knew from his canvas of the building that they were fake and just there as a deterrent.

Andrew slipped inside your home and took a deep steadying breath at being in your personal space. Being here in your home, in your private space, felt very sacred. Andrew knew from watching you the past two weeks how important this place was to you. You spent most of your time here, rarely going out except to work or to grab a meal with friends. As far as Andrew had observed, you didn't have a boyfriend, so most of your evenings and weekends were spent in your apartment. Being here in your apartment was new for Andrew, he was going to take his time and be respectful of your space.

Your apartment was like looking into your brain and Andrew was overwhelmed by the information he was learning. It was a small, one bedroom apartment, with a little living room area, kitchen, bathroom, and one bedroom. The place was neat and orderly, not quite up to Andrews standards but you were far from a messy person and you'd done your best to brighten up the place as much as you could.

Posters and framed pictures covered the walls above a small, two seater couch. The books stacked on your coffee table were worn and well loved, with bookmarks sticking out of them and a peppermint scented candle sitting next to them. There was a homemade, crocheted blanket on the couch next to some decorative pillows. Andrew wondered if you'd made the blanket yourself or if it'd been a gift.

Moving to the kitchen, Andrew spotted another peppermint scented candle - must be a scent you liked - and a vase of fake flowers on the counter that separated the living room and the kitchen. Andrew would make sure you had enough money for fresh flowers, he knew they made you smile. He noted the food in your cupboards and fridge, cataloging the snacks you enjoyed most. There were post cards stuck to the fridge door and when Andrew lifted them carefully to read the other side he saw that they were from you. You'd written and sent yourself a post card from each trip you'd taken in the past few years. That told Andrew you were sentimental and you liked to receive things in the mail, considering you could have bought the post cards and just brought them home instead of mailing them.

In the bathroom he found dark coloured towels that matched the bath mat and shower curtain. That told Andrew that you planned ahead and were thoughtful about your decorative choices. He found mild scented shampoos and conditioners in the shower, with various body washes, soaps, and lotions lining the tub. Andrew was suddenly struck with the thought of you standing naked in the shower, lathering your soft skin with the body wash and he felt lightheaded thinking about the bubbles sliding down your body.

Backtracking out of the bathroom and making sure not to leave a trace behind, Andrew had one room left to explore.

Your bedroom.

Andrew pushed the door open carefully with his black gloved hand, a precaution he took to not leave fingerprints. Your room was a little messier than the main area of your apartment, with sweaters hanging off the back of your desk chair and makeup scattered across the desk pushed in the corner. But your bed was made and your other clothes were hung up in the closet. Andrew brushed his hand across the shirts in the closet, the hangers clinking together. There were two pairs of shoes haphazardly thrown into the closet and it took everything in Andrew to not straighten the pairs. He had to leave everything where he found it.

He turned away from the closet and moved to the dresser. Your university degree was framed and displayed neatly above the dresser, surrounded by photos of family and friends. Andrew felt pride bloom in his chest, of course you were a university graduate, you were smart and beautiful. With a smile tugging at his lips Andrew looked over the jewelry covering the top of your dresser, making a note of which type of metal you preferred and what kind of jewelry you had most of. He pulled the drawers open, just planning on glancing through them for anything noteworthy when he came face to face with a drawer full of your panties.

Andrews breath caught in his chest, his mouth going dry as he stared at the wide array of pairs. Like with the bathroom, his imagination assaulted him with images of you putting these panties on - the flesh tone pair, the black lacy pair, the light blue pair with bows - sliding them up your bare legs and pulling them over the curve of your ass to settle the elastic at your hips. Andrews cock throbbed in his pants as all the blood in his body rushed south. Andrew pinched his eyes shut and tried to push the images away so he could stay on task.

Andrew shut the drawer a little harder than necessary, making the dresser shake. He turned around and crossed the room to go to the desk, putting distance between himself and the drawer of temptation on the other side of the room. He looked over the desk, a little frantically since the images of you in just a pair of panties still spun around in his head. He noted that you had an older laptop, something he could replace for you easily. You had a whiteboard calendar with some scheduled tasks and outings above the desk that Andrew took a picture of with his phone, something to analyze later.

Andrews eyes fell to the sweaters on the back of the desk chair and before he knew what he was doing, he picked the top sweater up and pressed it to his nose. Andrew took a long, deep breath in, filling his nostrils with the intoxicating scent of you. He'd seen you in this sweater yesterday, you'd worn it to and from work in lieu of a jacket and you clearly had deemed it still clean enough to stay out of the laundry hamper. But Andrew could pick up a very light tang smell of sweat, just under the floral scent of your deodorant. The strongest smell was one that was entirely you and Andrew could feel himself getting addicted to it. It was fresh and bright, like grass and mint, but heavy, coating every strand of the fabric, making his mouth water and his cock twitch.

Before Andrew could think better of it, he turned around to look at your bed, so perfect and inviting. He knew better than to lie down on it or do anything else that mess up the covers but he couldn't help sinking to his knees and pushing his face into the edge of the mattress, breathing deeply. The sheet smelled like your laundry detergent and that fresh smell that was all you. Andrew groaned into the bed, his voice muffled against the sheets.

His cock was painfully hard in his jeans and Andrew, surrounded by your scent and your things, couldn't stand it any longer. Against his better judgement, Andrew undid his belt and pulled his aching cock from the confines of his pants. He sighed in relief as his hand ran over the shaft, the pad of his thumb grazing the top of his cockhead and smearing his leaking pre-cum back down the shaft.

Armed with his imagination, Andrew began pumping his hand up and down his cock furiously as he thought about you and your perfect smile. He did his best to make no noise but it was hard, you filled his head and all his senses and his moans threatened to come out of his throat as he jerked off at the foot of your bed to the thought of you. He pressed his forehead against the edge of the mattress and panted as he quickly stroked his cock.

It didn't take Andrew long to build to his orgasm, it was always quick when he thought about you. He fisted his cock desperately and lifted the sweater still clutched in his other hand to his face so he could breath in the scent of you as he came over his hand.

And for the first time since he met you three years ago, Andrew finally knew what name to say when he came.

dividers by @ strangergraphics

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No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.

Pope can see right into your apartment.

Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.

He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.

It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.

He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.

You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.

Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.

You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).

You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.

He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.

Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.

A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?

But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.

You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.

You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.

That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.

But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.

No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.

It makes him jealous.

He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.

But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.

Both for you and for him.

So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.

Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.

You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).

And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.

You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.

Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.

From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.

He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.

But he resists.

The first three times, anyway.

By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?

And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.

So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.

He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.

He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.

Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.

The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.

Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.

Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.

He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.

He knows he should stop.

The problem, however, lies in the wanting.

Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.

Things change late one Friday night.

Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.

There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).

You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.

It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.

Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.

He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.

Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.

And you're staring right back at him.

His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.

But he doesn't do any of that.

He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.

Pope just…stares.

It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.

He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.

But you don't do any of that.

You just stare right back.

Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.

In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.

It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.

And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.

He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.

And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.

You don't.

The following morning, your routine changes.

On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.

But not this time.

No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.

Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.

He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.

You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.

And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.

Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.

Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.

Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.

You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.

Andrew knows it's not.

You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.

He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.

It's…it's weird, right?

Everything about it is wrong.

He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.

He tries, though. For what little it's worth.

Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.

He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.

The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.

One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.

Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.

What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.

You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.

It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.

He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.

But it's not like he can go over and just ask.

So, he chooses a different path instead.

Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.

Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.

But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.

And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"

J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"

Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"

"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."

J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."

In the meantime, Andrew spirals.

The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.

But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.

Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?

Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.

You deserve someone who knows you.

Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.

It was your phone company.

Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.

All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.

And money is something Andrew can provide.

He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.

He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.

Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.

He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.

Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.

But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.

And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?

None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.

Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.

He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.

The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.

His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?

Pope is aching.

Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.

It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.

Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.

Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.

He does it anyway.

Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.

As close as he can get.

As close as he'll probably ever get.

He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.

This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.

Andrew does not leave.

He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.

His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.

And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.

But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.

This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.

His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.

The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.

His heart is beating fast.

It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.

Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.

There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.

He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.

He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.

The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.

Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.

His release is…embarrassingly fast.

A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.

Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).

He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.

There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.

He leaves.

Locks the door behind him with the spare key.

Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.

It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.

Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.

Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.

So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.

He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).

Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.

You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.

You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.

He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.

But Andrew isn't sorry.

And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.

You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.

Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.

You smile at him from fifteen feet away.

And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.

Pope watches you go, like always.

But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.

He needs to get closer.

During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.

When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.

A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.

Your phone number, Pope knows.

He knows he shouldn't text you.

It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.

His message just says,

Hello.

Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.

hey

are u the guy from apt 212 ???

Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.

Yes.

The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.

im gonna be home in like an hr

will u be watching ???

Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.

Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.

Do you want me to be?

No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.

uhmmm tbh yeah <3

He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?

But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.

And the text message is real.

And this…this is real.

Then yes. I will be.

You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.

True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…

Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.

You're teasing him, Pope realizes.

He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.

And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.

You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.

His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…

His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.

Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.

Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.

It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.

The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.

You dressed up for him.

You dressed up for him.

Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.

You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.

Andrew thinks he could die.

He could fucking die, just looking at you.

Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.

Your knees fall apart.

Pope swallows hard.

He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.

For him. It's for him.

His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.

That's what you wanted.

But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?

All you'd have to do is let him in.

Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.

He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.

Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.

Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.

If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.

Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.

Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?

Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.

You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.

He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.

I want to hear you.

You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.

Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.

You're calling him.

He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.

You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.

"Oh, god—"

His inhale is shaky.

"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"

He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."

Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."

His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.

He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.

Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.

Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.

He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"

For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).

But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.

"I…might have been. Once, yes."

"Did you steal my chapstick?"

"You have ten of them."

He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."

"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."

So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.

Smart, pretty girl.

He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.

You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."

He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."

Pope rides the high of it for days.

Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.

And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.

But is that what this is? Love?

You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.

Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?

All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.

Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.

Define love.

Define obsession.

How to know if you're in love?

How to ask a girl out?

How to get over a girl.

Define voyeur.

Define fetish.

How big of an age gap is too big?

Apartments for sale on the east coast.

Pink champagne candle.

Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.

You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.

do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot

He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.

Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"

And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."

He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.

It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.

We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.

Your response is a single, painful letter.

k

He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.

But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.

Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.

He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.

You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.

Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.

He tells himself he won't interfere.

You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.

And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.

He did it to himself, really.

He should look away.

But he watches instead.

Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.

Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.

Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.

And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?

He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.

But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.

Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.

But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.

His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"

When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.

The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.

Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."

"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"

Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."

"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"

Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"

"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."

Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.

He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.

And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.

He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.

He knows he should.

What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"

Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."

Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.

He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.

"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."

The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.

Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."

You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.

"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."

Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.

You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.

The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.

Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.

He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.

Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."

He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."

That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.

Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.

You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.

Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.

You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.

Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.

Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."

You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.

Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.

His sweet, filthy girl.

Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.

Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"

"Did more than that," he admits.

You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.

"Use it," Pope orders.

"What?"

He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."

There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.

You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.

When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.

He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"

Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.

He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.

But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.

Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."

You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.

And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.

It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.

Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"

A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.

He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.

Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"

It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?

He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.

It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."

Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.

"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"

You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"

"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"

He stops.

Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.

"You're what, Andrew?"

Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.

But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"

He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.

You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."

Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.

Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.

How silly of him to ever doubt you.

There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.

And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.

And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.

He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.

But you are, too.

Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.

Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.

A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.

But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.

You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.

The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.

It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.

You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.

He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.

Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."

You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.

Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.

"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."

You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.

There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—

"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."

The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.

Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.

He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."

He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.

You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.

He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.

But when you say that?

When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."

He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.

So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.

Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).

Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.

He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."

You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.

Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.

After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"

Yes, he wants to say.

But he feels it, too.

So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."

He feels that smile of yours against his chest.

Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.

He knows that.

But at least, now, he's not alone in it.