meh

Your old Mercedes-Benz 380SL rumbled into the gravel parking lot of the Hard Deck, the first bar your GPS had thrown your way. It had been years since you’d been back to Lemoore. Even then, memories of the place had long since dissolved beneath a haze of flight hours, classified missions, carrier deployments, and the relentless cycle of detachments that had followed your graduation from Top Gun. What little you did remember felt distant now, like recalling someone else’s life, but tonight that hardly mattered. All you wanted was a stiff drink, good food, and a reminder that you were finally home.

The place buzzed with the easy kind of noise only a military town dive bar could produce. Pool balls cracked against one another somewhere in the back, laughter spilled over the music pouring from the jukebox, and every other patron seemed to be wearing their khakis. Naval aviators were packed shoulder to shoulder around high-top tables, gold wings glinting beneath neon beer signs. 

The open barstool was your oasis in the desert as you slid into it, sighing happily to see the tiny menu laminated and stuck to the bar. 

The bartender, an older woman with the most beautiful skin you’ve ever seen, walked over. “What can I get you?”

“A cheeseburger,” you answered without hesitation. “The greasiest one you’ve got. Fries, too.”

She arched an eyebrow, amusement written all over her face. 

“And a double of your best whiskey on the rocks.” You smiled widely as she nodded. 

She placed the order and slid over a frosted glass for you before attending to someone across the bar. You took the time to check your phone, avoiding the real reason you were back here. You just wanted one night where it felt like you were you again, and not just property of the United States Navy. 

“A greasy cheeseburger,” Penny, you learned, had slid the basket of food over to you. 

If it were any other circumstance, you would have been embarrassed by the moan that left your mouth after your first bite. 

“Good?” She asked, her hands pausing from shining a glass as she watched you. 

You nodded, eyes nearly closed. “It’s perfect.” 

A sharp laugh escaped her. “You just get back?” 

Your eyes open, finally placing the burger down to take another drink. “How’d you know?” 

You’re in civvies, and even have makeup on for the first time in months. But you reckon she’s worked here long enough to see it in every person that steps through the doors. 

“Come on,” Her eyes are playful, “No one acts like that about those cheap burgers unless they haven’t had one in a while. How long?” 

“Two years,” You sighed, “Haven’t been home for longer than a few months in about 5.” 

She made a noise of understanding; her life had been so intertwined with the Navy for years, she knew just how much it takes from someone. 

“Well, we’re glad to have you back. Hopefully it’s for a little longer this time.” She smiled, “Burgers on me.” 

Your head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

You were already reaching for your wallet when she held up a hand.

“My bar,” she said matter-of-factly. “My rules.”

“I can’t let you-”

“Tell you what.” She pointed toward the half-empty whiskey glass in front of you. “I won’t take your money unless you order another one of those. Then we’ll call it even.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Welcome home.” 

She gave the bar a light tap with her knuckles before disappearing toward the kitchen, leaving you alone with the comfortable hum of conversation surrounding you. 

By the time you finished, the basket in front of you held nothing but a few lonely fries and a crumpled sheet of wax paper slick with grease. You slid a crisp fifty-dollar bill beneath one of the coasters anyway, hoping she’d find it after you were gone, then tipped back the last swallow of whiskey. It burned all the way down, drawing a wince that settled into a satisfied smile as you set the empty glass back onto the bar with a quiet clink.

You slid off the barstool with a contented sigh, fishing your keys from your pocket as you prepared to call it a night. The burger had done its job. The whiskey had done its job even better. Maybe you’d save the third item on your list for another evening.

The front door swung open before you could take a single step.

A man ducked beneath the frame with the easy confidence of someone who’d been walking into the Hard Deck for years. Aviator sunglasses hung from the collar of a faded Hawaiian shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. Sun-kissed skin, broad shoulders, and a mustache that made you stop in your tracks. He was navy, that much was obvious. He might as well have been a walking poster child for an aviator. 

He slid onto the stool beside the one you’d just vacated, where you stood still half in and half out. 

“You’re back,” Penny was already reaching for a bottle. “You’re here a few days before the crowd.” 

“You know me too well.” He says. “I just couldn’t stay away, Penny. You know me.” 

“Yeah, right.” She grinned. 

He grinned, all practiced charm, and accepted the beer she slid across the counter.

It wasn’t usually your style to go after other Navy pilots. Too many complications. Too many chances of crossing paths again in some hangar halfway around the world, or discovering six months later that you’d unknowingly hooked up with someone from your own air wing.

As a rule, you avoided it.

But rules had exceptions. And tonight that exception had a mustache that you yearned to feel against your skin, and muscles flexing with each rise and fall of his arms. 

Besides, out of the hundreds of aviators running through this town, what are the chances that he was one of the dozen who had been picked for this special assignment? 

You eased back onto your stool as though you’d never intended to leave, setting your keys back onto the polished wood.

“Penny, my dear,” you called, a devilish smile tugging at your lips. “Think I could trouble you for another whiskey?”

She didn’t even look at the register, or you as you tried to slide your card across the bar. Instead, she plucked the folded fifty-dollar bill from beneath the coaster and held it up between two fingers.

“I told you,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “My bar. My rules.” 

You sighed, snatching the card back. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that until I left.” 

“Oh, honey.” Penny laughed. “I notice everything.”

She slid the bill back across the bar toward you before reaching for the whiskey bottle anyway.

“First refill’s still on the house.” Before you could protest again, the man beside you leaned an elbow onto the bar, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“You can’t get one past Penny.”

You turned toward him. “That so?”

He nodded solemnly, though the grin threatening his mouth ruined any attempt at seriousness. “Trust me. You don’t want to end up on her bad side.”

”He’s learned the hard way.” Penny smirks, dropping off your drinks before she decides that she knows exactly what’s happening between the two strangers. 

Bradley turns to you, his gaze wandering from your boots to your jeans, lingering for the briefest second on the low cut of your top before finally settling on your eyes. There was nothing crude about it. If anything, it was almost appreciative, accompanied by the smallest lift of one corner of his mouth when he realized you’d caught him.

”So,” He starts, “What brings you here?” 

It’s such a cliché line; it almost makes you laugh. You hold up your glass, swirling around the amber liquid and the ice together. “This.” 

He clinks your glasses together, “Touche.” 

There’s a brief lull, the two of your eyes shamelessly on each other. 

“I’m Bradley.” He offers. 

You give him your name with a smile, and he immediately repeats it back after you. As if he’s testing the shape of it in his mouth, but not for the first time tonight he’s decided. 

The conversation moves easily after that, effortless in a way that surprises you. You don’t talk about work. Neither of you ask the obvious questions. You don’t mention where you’ve been, and he doesn’t ask why you look like someone who hasn’t slept properly in months. He doesn’t elaborate when he mentions not being home in almost a year, and you don’t express your same sentiments about it. 

You’re just two strangers sitting at a bar pretending, for a few hours, that the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Music comes up first, some argument over whether old records are better than anything made now. He has strong opinions, the kind that make you laugh because he says them with complete confidence. 

“You’re very opinionated for someone I just met,” you say, resting your chin lightly against your hand.

He looks at you over the rim of his beer, which Penny silently dropped off.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re usually right.”

A slow grin pulls across his face. “I usually am.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That might be the most annoying answer you could’ve given. God.” 

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

The way he says it is cocky, but honest. There’s no malice in it, just the darkening of his eyes. It’s just an observation, and maybe that’s what makes it worse. He’s right. You could have left an hour ago. You had already gotten almost everything you came here for. The burger, the whiskey, the small piece of normal life you’d been craving since you stepped off that plane. But you were exactly where you wanted to be, with his eyes desperately trying not to look down your shirt with each flirty glance you threw his way. 

When last call came, you were shocked to look at the clock and realize it had been hours since Bradley slid into the seat next to you. The Hard Deck had slowly emptied around you without either of you really noticing. The loud groups of aviators had filtered out one by one, the music had been turned down, and the warm buzz of conversation had faded into the quiet sounds of closing. 

Somehow, through all of it, the two of you had stayed exactly where you were, caught somewhere between wanting the night to end and not wanting to be the one who ended it.

Bradley glances around at the emptying bar before looking back at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“I think we’re getting kicked out.”

You look around, pretending to be surprised by the chairs being lifted onto tables and Penny wiping down the counter.

Eventually, you slide off the stool, grabbing your phone and your keys.

“Goodnight, Penny.” You wave goodbye. 

Penny looks up from behind the bar, already knowing exactly what she’s looking at.

“Stay out of trouble, you two.” 

There’s something about the way she says it that makes you feel like she means more than the words themselves.

You smile. “Always.”

He bids her goodbye as well, before turning back to you. 

“Let me walk you to your car?” He asks, and it makes you chuckle. The two of you are circling it, both of you just itching and waiting for the other person to make the first move. 

The two of you step outside together, the cool California night air immediately replacing the warmth of the bar. The parking lot is quieter now, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes as you both slowly make your way out.

Your shoulders brush on the short walk, before you’re leaning against the side of your car. 

A low whistle escapes him. “No way.”

You glance back. “What?”

He looks between you and the Mercedes, impressed despite himself. “That’s yours?”

You smile, suddenly a little more proud than you mean to be.

“Yeah, I helped rebuild her a few years back.”

“God, you’re a dream. You, not the car.” He walks around the front of it slowly, appreciating the lines of the car. “But the car's great too. Gorgeous car for a gorgeous girl.” 

Your cheeks warm; before you can respond, your eyes drift past him toward the other side of the parking lot.

“And I’m guessing that’s yours?”

He turns, following your gaze.

A bright blue Bronco sits under one of the parking lot lights, standing out against the rows of ordinary cars.

“That obvious?”

You blow out a playful puff of air. “Yeah, kinda.” 

 His body is still only a few inches away from yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him despite the cool night air. Close enough that you’re both very aware of the fact that neither of you has actually said goodnight, and that neither of you really want to. 

“Well, I guess I’m gonna-“ You go to turn, before he says your name in his deep tone. 

You turn back to face him, and he steps closer, your back pressing harshly against your car door. His body cages yours in, close enough that the space you’ve been carefully dancing around all night finally disappears.

“Can I?” The question is quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of the distant waves and the empty parking lot around you.

You answer by closing the distance.

The first touch of his lips against yours is everything you expected and somehow nothing like you imagined. Warm, certain, and long overdue after hours of pretending you weren’t both waiting for this exact moment. His mustache brushes against your skin, and the small laugh that escapes you is swallowed by the kiss because somehow that detail you’d been thinking about all night is even better than you had pictured.

Up close, he smells like sandalwood and something unmistakably him, a trace of the night air and jet fuel clinging to his clothes. He tastes like whiskey and heaven. 

You rise onto your toes, your hands finding their way around his neck and pulling him closer, though there’s barely any space left between you. His hand settles at your waist, steadying you, and for a few minutes there is no bar, no tomorrow, no reason to think beyond this moment.

The kiss is hot and messy. Two people who had clearly been aching for this moment for longer than they’d be willing to admit. His hands are roaming shamelessly, gripping your ass harshly through the fabric of your jeans. The touch has you mewling into his mouth, your hands reaching up to harshly grip at his sun-kissed locks. 

When the two of you finally pull apart enough to remember that you’re in public and the night eventually has to move forward, you give him your address. He repeats it back with that same little smile he had when he first said your name, like he’s committing it to memory.

He leaves you with one more kiss, alongside a wink that has your body shivering in anticipation. 

“See you soon.” He says, and you watch him jog to his car with a pep in his step. 

When you get into your Mercedes and see his blue Bronco following behind you through the quiet California streets, you realize you aren’t thinking about anything else at all.

Bradley is by your side the moment he steps out of the car, even as your hand is in his, dragging him up the stairwell. He’s making it difficult by pushing you against the wall every few seconds, his lips harsh against yours. His mouth moves down your neck to your collarbone, sucking and biting at your sensitive flesh. You’re so dazed by the sensation you nearly drop your keys. 

“You,” Your breath is not as steady as you willed it to be, “Bradley, are trouble.” 

“Yeah?” He pants, his hands heavy on your hips as he stands behind you. The press of his bulge in his pants presses against your back. He presses a little further, teasing as your hands fumble with the locks. 

“Yes.” You bite back a moan, finally getting the key inside of the lock. 

“If you were wearing a little dress,” He whispered with a soft kiss to your earlobe, “I’d take you right here against the door. Let everyone know just how good m’making you feel.” 

The whiskey has warmed your veins, but not enough to do something as reckless as that. Even if he makes it sound good. Even if the thought has you clenching your thighs together and dragging him into your now open apartment door. 

He slams the door behind him, stalking you through the hall as you both shed your belongings in various places. Keys are thrown on counters, shoes are kicked off god knows where, and you’re pulling his egregiously bright shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor. 

He bends down and picks you up in one swift motion, making you squeal. Your hands are clinging to those biceps you were drooling about earlier, your thighs wrapped around his waist. 

There’s no time before his tongue is in your mouth again, carrying you blindly across your apartment’s layout. It’s when he realises he has no idea where he’s going that he pulls away. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” He pants. 

You laugh; it’s ugly and loud, but it makes Bradley’s eyes sparkle at the sound of it.  

“Down the hall, last door on the left.” You giggle, and he takes you right there. Slamming the door with his foot, you’re amazed by his athleticism when you’re gently pressed against your mattress. 

You both take a moment, lost in the moment and each other's eyes before there’s a reminder of why you're there in the first place. Clothes are being tugged at, jeans discarded on the floor as you fumble around with your top. 

He helps lift the fabric off your shirkers, his eyes darkening at the sight of your lacy bra. 

“You know,” He whispers, mouth dry, “Been trying not to stare at your tits all night.” 

“I know.” You sigh contentedly, your hands running up and down his rock-hard abs. The small trail of hair leading into his boxers tickled your fingertips. “Why do you think I wore this shirt?”

“I’m really-” He unclasps your bra with one hand, lips trailing down your neck, “A respectful gentleman. But god. These are perfect.” 

Your giggle is cut off with a moan when his mouth attaches itself to your hardened buds, his other hand palming your tits harshly. The soft tickle of the hair above his lips makes you moan his name gently. 

“You know,” You start, copying him, “I've been imagining what that mustache feels like against me since the moment I saw you.” 

He pauses for a brief moment, his honey brown eyes flickering up to you, where your nipple was still in his mouth. 

“Really?” He hums, pulling away with a soft strand of spit attached to his glossy lips. 

You nod, propping yourself up on your elbows. Your thumb reaches out to wipe away the spit, softly petting his upper lip. 

“You’re so fucking hot.” You admit, as he takes your thumb into his mouth with a pop. 

“Says you.” 

Within seconds, you're pushed onto your back again, your head falling back into the pillows. His hands are traveling down your body, his thumbs hooked into the side of your soaked panties. 

“How do you feel about feeling this mustache against this sweet little cunt?”

He has barely touched you, and your eyes are already rolling into the back of your head at his words alone. “Fuck, yes. Please.” 

The barely there fabric is dragged down your legs and tossed somewhere far away as Bradley’s fingertips dig harshly into your thighs. His breath is hot and teasing as he kisses up and down your inner thighs before settling exactly where you need him. 

His tongue drags experimentally up your wet heat before his lips wrap harshly around your throbbing clit. 

“Oh god.” You whimper, your legs tensing in his hold as he took his time slowly lapping against you. It was slow, sloppy, and the hottest thing a man had ever done to you. His own moans were muffled into your cunt, as he devoured you like a man starved. 

As long as it had been for you, it felt like it had been even longer for him. He ate you out like he was relishing the fact you were even letting him. His mustache brushing against your sensitive skin, just enough to add more fuel to your already burning pleasure. You were a babbling mess, your hands alternating between tugging at his hair and gripping the sheets like a lifeline. 

With a frantic cry of his name and a harsh tug on his hair, you came against his mouth. It was glorious, as he coaxed you through your high, his frantic moans of encouragement spurring you on while his own hips ground gently against the sheets for the slightest bit of relief.

“You taste incredible.” Was the first thing he said when he came back up for air, his face wet and glistening from your release. 

Your chest was heaving, your stomach rolling at his words. “Come here.” 

Who was he to deny your beckoning finger? He pulled his boxers down swiftly, his hard cock slapping the skin harshly once it was free from its confines. Your mouth watered at the sight of him, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. It was long and veiny, a thick patch of curly hair at the base. 

You almost said a thank-you prayer to god, who was clearly not in the room. 

“Like what you see?” He asked, his voice thick with anticipation as he crawled back onto the bed in between your legs. 

“You know,” You sighed once his lips pressed gently to your neck, “Most cocky men aren’t always packing; can’t be too sure.” 

A giggle escaped you as he laughed against you, the damp hair tickling your neck. “Cocky?” 

“The cockiest.” You tease, wrapping your legs around his toned thighs, pulling him closer to you. “Now come on, give me your cock.” 

He shakes his head gently; he almost thinks he could fall in love with you right here.

“Yes, mam.” He presses his lips to yours again, your mouth opening instinctively for him. You could taste yourself against his tongue as he pressed against your weeping cunt. He pushed into you slowly, each of you letting out sighs of relief into each other's mouths. 

He was dragging himself inside of you once inch at a time, the hot drag making your body feel aflame. 

“God,” Your nails dug into his forearms, “You’re so b-big.” 

“Taking me s’well.” He spoke through his teeth, his eyes furrowed shut to avoid already finishing from how tight, warm, and wet you were wrapped around him. 

When his hips met yours, his thighs trembling. His lips kissing and sucking at whatever bare skin of yours he could reach as you molded around him. The first thrust took both of your breaths away, as he pulled halfway out of you before sinking back in. 

“Fuck.” You cried out, pulling him close as he began to fuck into you expertly. 

It had been a long time, too long, so any sex would have sufficed, but this man was sex on legs and knew exactly how to angle his hips to make your eyes roll in the back of your head. 

Your heels press harshly in the back of his thighs, urging him to keep going as he found a rhythm that had both of you melting into each other. It’s otherworldly, the feeling of him stretching you out on each lewd slap of his hips against yours. 

You can feel his hand slide down your slick skin to widen your legs for him, his eyes looking down to where he was sliding in and out of you. 

“God,” He groans, his palm pressing against your lower stomach, “Taking me like a fucking dream. S’good baby? Tell me how fucking good it is.” 

“L-like I said, cocky.” You tried to tease, but instead it came out breathy and shaky. 

“You like it,” He grinned, slamming himself even harder into you. “She fucking loves it; she’s screaming for me.” 

You wanted to roll your eyes at him referring to your cunt as a ‘she’, but you couldn’t think of anything as he pounded into you. Especially not when the pads of his fingers find your clit. The bed was creaking loudly, and you couldn’t get the taste of his name out of your mouth as he talked you through it. 

Your release comes quicker than you thought it would, and Bradley’s thankful because with each jolt of your tits as he thrusts, he was worried he was going to cum inside of you.

“M’gonna cum.” 

He leans down, pressing you harder into the bed. His lips against your neck. 

“Cum around my cock, there you go.” He cooed, as you threw your head back in pleasure, “Fuck you’re so beautiful cumming around me.”

If he thought you cumming on his tongue was perfect, this was otherworldly.

He’s nearly growling as you clench around him, your release pulling him even deeper inside of you. His hips lose their rhythm, stuttering as his jaw drops. 

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He’s gritting his teeth together when your still trembling legs pull him even closer. When he can’t take it anymore, he pulls out of you harshly, his hand wrapping around his cock and tugging harshly until thick ropes of his cum splatter on your lower stomach. His eyes are shut, his abs glistening and tensing, and pleasure is written all over his face as he whimpers out. 

You bask in the haze for a moment, both of your panting breaths syncing as you tried to catch your breath. You were still seeing stars behind your eyelids when the bed shifted. 

“Let me get you a washcloth.” He whispered, kissing your forehead gently. You remember the soft drag of the cloth, cleaning you up, and how he wrapped you softly in the sheets. Exhaustion and orgasmic bliss had seeped deep inside of your bones, your eyes fluttering shut. 

There’s not much to remember after that. 

You wake up to the feeling of your bed shifting, which makes you freeze. Your eyes open lazily to see the naked man rolling out of your bed, only covered by the thin top sheet wrapped around his waist. You watch him with amusement, as the memories of last night come flooding back to you. When he not-so-subtly sneaks out of the bed, he jumps when he looks back to see your now awake frame. 

“H-hey,” He whispers, his voice slowly getting more high-pitched, “Good morning. How are you?” 

You have to bite your lip to stifle your laugh, “Good morning.” 

“I uh,” He starts, still clutching the sheet like a lifeline, which gives you a wonderful view of his v-line as he awkwardly stands there, “I uh have this work thing? I swear I wasn’t just gonna sneak out on you.”

”Yeah, you were.” You whispered in amusement. 

“N-no!” His voice sounds even higher than before, “No, no I swear-“

“I’m not-” You start, but your voice is so hoarse, and you don’t know if it’s from the whiskey or screaming his name all night long. “I’m not looking for anything serious. I’m not home very much.” 

He visibly relaxes, all the panic draining from his face. “Fuck, thank god. Neither am I. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here.” 

You laughed outright this time, sinking farther into the tangled sheets. “By all means,” you teased through a yawn. “Sneak out.”

The blanket slipped carelessly down your shoulder as you reached overhead, exposing a sliver of bare skin before you noticed. His eyes betrayed him almost instantly, flickering toward you before he caught himself and jerked them back up to your face with all the subtlety of a teenage boy. A faint flush crept up his neck.

“Last night was really fun.” He added softly, “Like really fun.”

”Yeah, it was.” You smiled lazily at the man as he awkwardly scooped his clothes up from the floor. 

It’s a comfortable yet awkward silence as he shuffles around. You wrapped the blanket tightly around yourself before climbing out of bed, the hardwood cold beneath your feet. Every step reminded you of the night before, your muscles aching pleasantly enough to make you smile despite yourself.

“I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded, falling into step behind you.

Just before you reached the front door, he tipped an imaginary hat with exaggerated politeness.

”Well,” You breathed out, “Thanks for last night.”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Thank you.”

For a second neither of you moved. He stood in your doorway with his boots finally laced, hair still hopelessly messy from your fingers, while you remained wrapped in nothing but your blanket, hoping the neighbors weren't there to side-eye you. 

“Well...” You smiled, rocking back on your heels. “Have a good life-”

“Oh, hey.”

His hand slipped between the door and the frame before you could close it, earning an amused look from you.

“If you ever end up back at the Hard Deck…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “And you want to grab a whiskey or something…” His grin returned, hopeful but entirely unassuming. “I’d be down.”

You couldn’t help smiling again. I’ll probably never see you again, Bradley.”

His smile lingered for another heartbeat before he took a step backward into the hallway.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Bradley.”

You closed the door before you could watch him disappear toward the elevators.

The door was slammed before you had a chance to watch him walk to the elevators. It was better this way, easier. 

By Monday morning, it already felt like another life.

Your apartment looked like a staging area more than a home. Flight gear was spread across the kitchen table beside intelligence reports, satellite imagery, weather data, and a stack of folders stamped with enough black ink to make it a waste of paper. A half-packed duffel sat open on the couch while your phone buzzed relentlessly somewhere beneath a pile of paperwork.

You answered it with a grunt, shrugging your bag over your shoulder. “Mav, I’m on my way in-“ 

“Change of plans, meet me in the hangar, get your flight suit on.” His voice crackled through the receiver, making you pause in the middle of your kitchen.

“You sure about this, old man?” 

When Maverick met with the graduates regarding the mission, it went better than he expected, all things considered. A few cocky pilots and pissed-off admirals were the least of his worries with the weight they were putting on his shoulders. He went to dismiss them into flight checks before practice, before he paused.

”Before we get started,” Maverick said, waiting until the room settled, “there’s one more thing.”

A few heads lifted from the mission packets scattered across their desks.

“An additional aviator has been assigned to this detachment; you haven’t met them yet.” 

That immediately drew a few curious glances around the room.

“For the past several years, Lieutenant Y/l/n has been conducting surveillance for this mission.” Maverick gestured toward the topographical map projected across the screen. “Every route you’ve studied, every radar profile you’ve reviewed, every piece of reconnaissance you’ve been briefed on has her fingerprints all over it.”

The easy chatter that had filled the room moments before disappeared.

“She’ll be flying this mission alongside you,” Maverick continued. “Whoever is selected as strike lead, Lieutenant Y/l/n will be their wingman.”

Hangman leaned back in his chair, looking around the room as though she’d been hiding in plain sight the entire time.

“Where is this elusive stealth pilot?” he asked, pointing theatrically around the room. “I’d kinda like to know who’s gonna be flying next to me.”

A few quiet laughs rippled through the room. Another eye roll from Phoenix, a scoff from Rooster. 

Maverick only smiled.

“Oh,” he said, gathering the folders from the podium. “You’ll meet her.”

Within minutes, the briefing shifted into flight assignments and simulation parameters, and the conversation drifted back to fuel loads, attack profiles, and timing windows. The mysterious pilot was almost forgotten about as practice teams started. 

For the next several hours, the team ran through formation exercises and simulated combat scenarios, pushing each other harder with every pass. Maverick was currently putting them through the wringer in dogfighting. You hid in the shadows, just outside of reach, watching them the entire time. It was three rounds of pilots before you decided to make your entrance. 

”Uh..” Bob’s hesitant voice crackled over the frequency, uncertainty bleeding through even beneath his practiced calm.

 “Where is he, Bob?” Phoenix demanded, craning her neck beneath the canopy, her eyes darting across the empty sky where Maverick had disappeared only moments before. A beat of silence stretched just long enough for panic to settle in. 

“I d-don’t know,” He yelled back, the radar empty below him, “Is he? He’s underneath us!”

“Nope.” Maverick’s voice arrived with infuriating confidence. “I’m right here.”

His jet erupted into view directly ahead of them, slicing through the clouds with effortless precision.

“Wrong, Bob,” Phoenix muttered, instinctively checking behind her as she tried to speed up to meet Maverick.

The coms crackled loudly, “Below, below, Phoenix,” Bradley warned, his voice sharper now as something flickered beneath her aircraft.

She jerked the jet up, “What?” 

“It’s not hitting the radar; who is it?” Bob asked, his palms against the glass. 

Then a voice, bright with amusement, cut across every frequency.

“Hi, everyone.” You chuckled. 

Every head snapped downward.

“This is Lieutenant Y/l/n speaking. I’ll be assisting you all on this mission. I’m sure Maverick mentioned me.” 

Your F-18 was so impossibly close beneath Phoenix’s that, for several seconds, you’d been swallowed entirely by her shadow, matching every movement so perfectly you looked like an extension of her own jet. It was an old trick, one that required absurd precision, nerves of steel, and absolute trust in your own instincts. Against the glare of the morning sun, there had been nothing to see until you wanted to be seen. Especially not as everyone was focused on Maverick. 

“Joining the fight?” Rooster asked, trying to pretend he wasn’t both equally amused and terrified of the stunt you just pulled. 

You peeled away with a smooth roll, dropping toward the hard deck so low it made Bob suck in a breath over the radio before leveling out. Across the valley, Rooster’s aircraft broke from the pack, immediately catching your attention. Your helmet turned first. Your jet followed a heartbeat later.

“There she goes,” Maverick murmured, almost sounding pleased.

You immediately lit the burners.

The distance between you and Bradley evaporated with frightening speed. He caught the movement in his mirror just as your nose slipped inside his turn, matching him through every evasive maneuver. He climbed. You climbed. He rolled. You rolled tighter. The missile tone shrieked through his headset before he’d even finished trying to shake you.

“Tone, tone, tone.”

You laughed over the comms as the simulated kill registered. “Fox Two.”

Bradley groaned loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Maverick couldn’t hide the grin in his own voice.

“That, everyone… is Shadow.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Phoenix let out a low whistle. “…Badass.”

“Lesson one,” You said. “The most dangerous pilot in the sky isn’t the one you can see, it’s the one you can’t.” 

The engines had barely finished whining down before you were climbing out of the cockpit, helmet tucked beneath your arm, adrenaline still buzzing pleasantly beneath your skin. Heat shimmered off the tarmac as the canopy lifted, and you couldn’t stop the grin stretching across your face, the kind that only came after a flight where everything had gone exactly right. Maverick was already waiting beside the line of parked fighters. Sunglasses hiding whatever smug expression you knew was underneath them.

“Hell of an entrance, Y/n.”

You laughed, accepting the quick side hug before bumping his shoulder with your own. “An entrance you orchestrated.” 

“I think it showed, em.” He offered, leading your way into the hangar where the rest of them stood surrounding the radios. 

You scanned across the crowd as you approached, taking in the faces of the pilots you would be flying beside. Most of them looked exactly as you expected, curious, skeptical, still trying to figure out who exactly had been hiding underneath the radar for the past few hours. You offered them a small smile.

“Lieutenant Y/l/n,” you began, your voice carrying through the hangar. “I know most of you have already met me in the air, but I figured an actual introduction was probably overdue. We know Maverick has a flair for the dramatics.” 

A few quiet laughs moved through the group.

“I’ve been assigned to this mission as your reconnaissance specialist and wingman. I’ve spent the last few years collecting intel on the target area, studying the terrain, the defenses, and every possible route in and out. My job was to make sure you have as much information as possible before we ever leave the ground.”

You continued speaking, settling into the familiar rhythm of a briefing, until your eyes moved across the group one more time. Until you paused; a familiar face standing among the pilots was a face you had not expected to see. A mustache, messy brown hair, and an expression that shifted from curiosity to complete disbelief the second he recognized you.

”And uh-“ Your words caught somewhere between your thoughts and your mouth. For one brief second, the confident lieutenant who had slipped beneath their radar disappeared, replaced by the woman standing in her apartment doorway a few days ago watching one Bradley Bradshaw walk away.

His face mirrored yours, confusion and shock before a small smirk of satisfaction pulled at his lips. He was shaking his head, a small laugh of amusement nearly slipping out at the absurdity of it all. 

You cleared your throat nervously, looking anywhere but in his direction as you continued. “As I was saying, my role is to make sure everyone here has what they need to get home.”

“I’m here because Maverick asked me to pass along a skill set that’s kept me alive more than once, and if it helps even one of you make it home when this stops being practice and starts becoming real, then I’ve done my job. Nobody in this room needs another lecture about being the best pilot. You’re already here because you’re among the best. What keeps people alive isn’t talent. It’s trusting the person flying next to you enough to know they’ll be exactly where you need them when everything goes sideways.”

A few deserved glances towards Hangman’s way make your brows quirk up. 

“And you, Hangman.” You set your helmet down on one of the desks, a little harder than necessary as you rounded to the man sitting casually, “You pulling that shit out there? Do you think that makes you more of a man? To leave someone hanging like that?” 

“They can’t keep up-“ 

“Or maybe you can’t follow rules to save your life. You wanna be wing leader? Not in my world, Lieutenant. I may not have final say, but I’ll be damned if I’m up in the sky with only you looking out for me.”  

Hangman held your stare, his ridiculous smirk not budging in the slightest.

“Well, aren’t you something, Shadow.” He said, playing completely unfazed as per usual. 

You held the eye roll back for the sake of professionalism and spun on your heels.  “I have a feeling,” you replied as you turned on your heel, “this is going to be a very long few weeks.”

A laugh echoed somewhere behind you. “It sure is,” Rooster chimed in.

The sound of his voice sent an involuntary chill down your spine.

You refused to look back, to acknowledge him in any way. 

Instead, you busied yourself gathering your notes while Maverick wrapped up the remainder of the briefing, assigning study material and dismissing everyone for the evening. Conversations immediately broke out around the hangar as pilots compared notes from the day’s exercises, arguing over dogfights, laughing about blown maneuvers, and already trying to size one another up before tomorrow’s training.

The second Maverick dismissed the room, you slipped out a side door before anyone could stop you, weaving through the maintenance bays toward the locker rooms with your helmet tucked beneath your arm. If Bradley had recognized you, and judging by the look on his face, he absolutely had, you weren’t quite ready for that conversation yet.

Most of the squad was still lingering in the hangar, giving you just enough time to shower away the sweat and lingering smell of the cockpit. Hot water beat against your shoulders until the tension slowly began to loosen, though it did very little to quiet your racing thoughts. 

He was good (really, he was good at a lot of things, but you really tried your best not to go there). There was a high chance he’d be selected to fly wing leader, so you couldn’t avoid him forever. 

You pulled on a fresh shirt and jeans before stuffing your flight suit into your duffel bag. Your locker slammed shut with a metallic clang as you zipped the bag over your shoulder.

“Well, well.” The voice came from directly behind you. “I thought you said we’d probably never see each other again.”

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment before letting out an amused sigh. “Funny,” you muttered as you turned around. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Bradley leaned casually against the row of lockers. His hair was still damp with sweat from the flight, stubborn curls refusing to stay where they’d been pushed. A dark streak of grease was smudged across his forehead, and his flight suit hung open around his waist, revealing a sweat-soaked olive undershirt that made him look like every tag chaser's wet dream. 

He caught you looking, and there was that cocky smirk again.

“I swear,” you said before he had the chance to speak, lifting a hand in surrender, “I wasn’t given a roster. I had no idea who was getting called back for this mission. I have the same clearance as you, and Mav didn’t tell me anything.” 

He held his hands up, “I believe you. You looked like you were gonna shit yourself up there.” 

“I just didn’t know,” you began, shaking your head as you searched for the right words, already aware you were dangerously close to overexplaining yourself. “I figured you were a pilot. I mean, obviously. I just had no idea you’d be called back for this mission specifically.”

“I’m just that good, sweetheart.” 

You hated this; you hated how you somehow managed to hook up with the hottest man alive who just so happened to be the man you were more than likely going to have to put your life in his hands in just a matter of a short few weeks. 

“So am I.” You barked back automatically, perhaps a reflex from years of being looked down upon as a woman in this field. 

“No one’s managed to get a lock on me in years,” he continued, holding your gaze without the slightest hint of teasing now. “Then you show up out of nowhere, tuck yourself underneath Phoenix’s shadow, and stick yourself on my six before I even knew you were there.”

The way he said it, the admiration in his voice and the glazed look in his eyes. It made your body ache, a subtle warmth growing in your lower belly.

“You gave me a fight, a little one anyway.” You whispered, teasingly. 

“I was caught off guard,” he defended, shifting on his feet, “I’d love to go head to head with you up there. No rules. Would be a real sight to see.”

You forced yourself to clear your throat, breaking eye contact before your thoughts wandered elsewhere. The conversation had drifted dangerously close to sounding like foreplay, only this time the setting wasn’t your apartment.

“We’re professionals.” You nodded once, convincing yourself as much as him. “We can fly this mission together without there being any issues. Right?” 

Bradley considered you for a moment, humming thoughtfully before his gaze drifted from your eyes. It wandered, entirely unapologetically, over your face, your shoulders, down just enough to make your pulse quicken before lazily returning to meet your eyes again.

“Yeah,” he replied, taking his time with the answer. “I think we can.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” You groaned, leaning your head on the locker. 

He blinked with exaggerated innocence. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what.”

A fake gasp escaped him as he pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.

“Excuse me?” he said, sounding thoroughly offended. “You’re the one looking me up and down.”

A flush crept up your neck as you ripped yourself upright. “I was not.” 

He just stood there, crooked smile still on his face. “Whatever makes you feel better.” 

You could feel his gaze on you, even as you attempted to gather your belongings. 

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” he asked, laughing again.

“Looking at me like you’ve seen me naked.” You seethe out, throwing the bag over your shoulder. 

“Oh,” he replied with entirely too much satisfaction. “But I have.”

A groan escaped you as you dragged a hand down your face. “We can’t do this. Seriously, no one on the squad can find out. It was just one night. Besides, we agreed it was nothing serious. We’re adults. Adults have one-night stands all the time.”

“Agreed.” He says, and you can’t find it in yourself to believe him with that smirk still beaming. 

“I just don’t want it to complicate the mission.” You settled on, “We need to be able to work together.”

Bradley studied you for a moment before nodding, the teasing still lingering in his eyes even if he chose not to push any further.

”I agreed, Shadow.”

He let your callsign roll easily off his tongue, smiling as though he’d been waiting all day for an excuse to use it. Something about hearing it from his lips made your stomach do an annoyingly noticeable little flip. The same lips that- yeah, you needed to leave. 

“Goodbye, Rooster.” 

You didn’t need to turn to know that he watched you leave, each sway of your hips intentional as you slammed the door behind you. 

The weeks that followed were on such a tight schedule you hardly had time to think about that fateful night. Training began before sunrise and rarely ended before dusk, each day blending seamlessly into the next as Maverick pushed the squad harder than any of them thought possible. Your chest ached at the end of each night, G’s making your lungs ache on the walk back to your car. Tensions were high as Rooster and Hangman competed against each other for the wing leader spot. 

You knew it would be Bradley; there wasn’t a doubt in your mind. The mission suggestion was all but written up the moment Hangman left you in the air over a dozen times in the first round of simulations. He was a good pilot, a fearless one, but he would get everyone killed, and you knew Maverick knew it too. 

Even with this, the squad slowly started to become your family. Bob and Phoenix were impossible not to like, and before long the four of you had fallen into an easy rhythm of grabbing late-night dinners after training or ending particularly brutal days at the Hard Deck, trading stories over greasy burgers and pitchers of beer while Payback and Fanboy argued over pool in the background. Even Hangman and Coyote occasionally wandered over to stir the pot before inevitably insulting Bradley enough to start another dick measuring contest, as you and Phoenix called it.

“They’re measuring again.” She’d whistle with a shiver of disgust from where she sat beside you.

You’d roll your eyes, “Should we bring out the rulers, boys?”

“Yeah, you’d like that, huh, Shadow?” Hangman would smirk, sending a filthy wink your way.

Bradley’s jaw would clench at that, before his Rooster persona was back on. “I think we all know I’d win, right Shadow?”

You’d roll your eyes and gulp down the rest of your beer, pretending like your heart wasn’t racing.

You got to know Bradley, the real Bradley Bradshaw that was behind the cloak of Rooster. He talked about growing, about his mother, about Goose, though those conversations came much later and only after the bar had emptied. He told you about how he puked the first time he took Gs, and you exchanged deployment horror stories. You learned about his friendship with Phoenix and his ongoing feud with Hangman, and how it all started years back

The first time someone convinced him to climb onto the piano for you at the Hard Deck, you laughed so hard you nearly slid right out of the booth. Phoenix caught your arm before gravity could finish the job, shaking her head as Bradley belted out Great Balls of Fire with absolutely no shame. He was in his element, and it looked good on him. Almost too good.

You’d catch yourself staring at him a little too much, letting your mind wander to places they shouldn’t go. During lessons, you’d find yourself watching his back, your eyes lingering on the scar on his chin, or the curl that always escaped out of his helmet when he showed up to practice with damp hair. 

Flying with him was a different ballpark, so different from being with him in between the sheets. It was almost more intimate, getting to know someone so quickly and so deeply. You knew when he was about to push a maneuver harder than planned because his breathing changed just enough over the comms for you to hear it. He learned you always checked high before low, that you favored patience over impulse, and that whenever you said, “I’ve got you, Rooster,” he never had to look twice to know you meant it. 

You matched his speed within fractions of a knot, mirrored every bank and climbed until it felt less like two aircraft carving through the sky and more like a single thought split between two cockpits. Thousands of pounds of steel and miles of open air separated you, yet somehow you became more aware of him there than you ever had been standing inches apart.

But amidst the camaraderie amongst some of the dagger squad, tensions were growing higher on the flight deck, after yet another failed simulation. Even on Bradley’s six, practically touching his jet while targets were acquired, you were still too slow. It was too risky; there was still too much room for error.  The tactical debrief felt suffocating. Maverick’s face was pressed into a hard frown as he looked at each of you, disappointment etched into his features. 

“Why are you dead?” He started, shooting daggers into Bradley, “You’re team leader up there, why are you dead? Why is your team dead?” 

Phoenix breathed out, frustration rolling off of her shoulders, “Sir, they’re the only ones who made it to target.” 

“A minute late. He gave the Enemy aircraft time to shoot him and his wingman down,” Maverick said, making Bradley tense from where he was sitting next to you. “They’re still dead.” 

“You don’t know that-“ 

“You’re not flying fast enough,” Hangman interjected. “You don’t have a second to waste.”

”We made it to the target.” 

“And superior enemy planes intercepted you on your way out.”  The room went still again. 

Bradley shrugged, ”Then it’s a dogfight-“

”Against fifth-generation fighters.” The vein in Maverick’s neck is protruding, his eyes locked on Bradley's. 

You couldn’t just sit there and let him take the brunt of this, so you clear your throat, “We’d still have a chance.” 

There’s a brief silence; you can feel Bradley’s appreciation as he shifts in his seat. “If we got intercepted, they’d think there’s only one. We have the element of surprise, and with Rooster up there and me-“

”In F-18s?”

Bradley shakes his head, ”It’s not the plane, it’s the pilot-“

”Exactly.”

Maverick's words make the tension in the room climb until it feels impossible to breathe normally. You slowly leaned back into your chair, watching the exchange unfold with a tightness in your chest. You knew there was history there, short clipped words from Bradley and the way Maverick watched him like a hawk. It wasn’t your place to pry, so you didn’t. 

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission, sir.”

All eyes turn to Hangman as he scoffs,  “You really don’t get it. On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here or a man doesn’t come back.” He takes his time to gaze over at Phoenix, then to you with an arrogant look on his face. “No offense intended.”

You’re ready to bite back before Bob leans forward in his seat, “Yet somehow you always manage.”

”I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative is all.”

Not even Maverick’s interjections get Hangman to stop the tirade he’s dead set on continuing. 

“We’re going into combat, son. On a level no living pilot has ever seen. Not even him. It’s no time to be letting the past hold you back-“

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bradley cuts him off, his body shifting to lock eyes with the man. 

Hangman looks around the room, waiting. This is what he was waiting for, his grand finale and final show off to drop the bombshell he’d be clinging onto for just the right moment. 

“I can’t be the only one who knows that Maverick flew with his old man?” And there it is. You heard Bradley’s stories; his dad died flying. He never said anything special, and you didn’t pry. 

“Or that Maverick was flying when your old man-“ 

Maverick’s attempts at settling the peace fall on deaf ears; it all happens so fast. Before Hangman can even get all of the words out, Rooster is leaping from his seat, heading straight towards the blonde. He grabs his collar, and it’s chaos from there. You follow, slipping in between the two men as hands pull them back from each other. The entire class now stood, separating them as best they could. 

“You son of a bitch-“ 

Everyone was yelling, spit flying as you pressed your palms into Bradley’s chest. His arms were being held back by Bob and Phoenix, as you tried to push him away.

“Bradley,” You tried to redirect his attention, “Bradley, he’s not worth it. I promise he’s not worth it.” 

His eyes, full of fury, met yours and couldn’t help but soften just the slightest bit. Unfortunately for you, this moment was not in isolation. It wasn’t a gentle moment in the hanger, or the corner of Hard Deck, or in the locker room. This subtle display of knowing was out in the open for everyone with eyes to see. And Hangman? He was one of the most observant people you’ve ever met, and you hated it about him. 

Once things were settled, they let Hangman loose, but with a glance towards Bob and Phoenix, you made sure they didn’t do the same for Bradley. You could feel his heart beating wildly underneath your palms; he wasn’t thinking clearly. The moment he was free, he’d do something to jeopardize this mission and his career.

“You’re dismissed.” Maverick’s voice booms through the crowd, but everyone’s adrenaline is still pumping. 

“He doesn’t have what it takes,” Hangman looks to Maverick, “You know I’m right.”

Then his gaze is on you, your body still pressed against Bradley’s as he writhes, wanting nothing more than to land a punch to the side of the cocky man’s face. He goes to leave, but waits until he’s all but nose to nose with Bradley before saying his final remarks.

“Wow, Bradshaw.”

The room immediately shifted, everyone preparing for yet another fight to break out. 

“You know, I knew you wanted it bad,” Hangman continued, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “I just didn’t realize you wanted it that bad.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone, not as eyes filtered amongst the crowd. Another revelation made. It sounded like everything was underwater when you turned, your body jerking harshly. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” You snap, before you feel an arm wrapped around your waist. Somehow Bradley has freed himself from their grips, and used it to pull you back. This action itself seemed to all but confirm his suspicions. When Hangman clicked his tongue. 

“Watch it,” Bradley warned, tensions rising all over again. 

“I said you’re dismissed,” Maverick yelled once again. 

Bradley’s grip loosened, but he didn’t let go immediately. His eyes flickered toward Hangman, who was already walking away, then back to you. He gave you the smallest shake of his head; it wasn’t worth it. You swallowed the anger building in your throat, watching Hangman disappear through the doorway.

You stepped out of Bradley’s grip as if it burned you, walking back to your seat as the crowd slowly dispersed. He wanted to follow you, to talk, but he let his friends guide him gently out of the room while you lingered back. When the final pilot walked through the door, Maverick cleared his throat. 

“I didn’t know you knew Bradshaw.” He said, his arms leaning against the table. 

You scoffed, “Yeah? I didn’t know you did either.” 

“Fraternization code of conduct states-“ 

“Don’t quote the book at me,” you snapped, the words leaving your mouth before you had the chance to temper them. The silence that followed made you immediately regret the tone. You straightened in your chair, rubbing a tired hand over your forehead. “Sir.”

He was quiet, waiting for an explanation. 

“We met the day I got back; I didn’t know anything besides his name.” It felt ridiculous admitting this to your superior. “We’re not in a relationship. We’re the same rank, and he’s not my superior nor am I his. And when I advocated for him to be strike lead…” You shook your head. “That had nothing to do with the fact that I know him. I’d have said the same thing if we’d never met outside of work.” Your voice softened, conviction replacing frustration. “He’s a damn good pilot, Maverick. You know this.” 

The room was quiet again. You looked at him expectantly.

“Your turn.”

That’s how you ended up here, seated outside on the beach in front of Hard Deck. Your feet in the warm sand, with a jacket thrown over your shoulders. Maverick told you everything, from pulling Goose out of the water to pulling Bradley’s papers. It weighed heavily on you to know Bradley had so much riding on this mission. 

You were being lulled by the sound of the waves crashing against the shore before a voice spoke up from behind you. 

“Figured I’d find you out here,” Bradley spoke up, slowly creeping up until he was sitting next to you. 

 You smiled softly at him, “Penny rat me out?” 

“Not to brag,” He whispered with a chuckle, “But I think I’m her favorite.” 

You were glad he was feeling better, especially after the events earlier. You wanted to hear his laugh, and that scared you. All of it scared you, whether you’d be willing to admit it out loud or not. The mission stakes, the way your chest felt when you looked at Bradley, the unknowing of the future. 

“How are you feeling?” You turn to look at him, as he rests his arms on his knees. 

“More level-headed,” he admitted, rubbing absentmindedly at the scrape across his knuckles. You don’t ask how he got it. “Still pissed.”

“I figured.”

“I hate that he got to you.”

You turn in confusion, “Hm?” 

He sighed, still watching the water.

“I don’t care what he says about me.” He paused, swallowing hard enough for you to notice. “My d-dad…” His voice caught just enough to betray him before he found it again. “That’s different.”

There wasn’t any bravado behind it, no attempt to shrug it off with a joke the way he usually did. It was simply the truth. You thought back to everything Maverick had told you only an hour earlier, about Goose, about Carole, about promises and guilt and thirty years of trying to protect someone while going against their own wishes. Bradley wasn’t just carrying his own expectations into this mission. He was carrying his father’s memory, his mother’s hopes, Maverick’s regret, and now the impossible responsibility of leading a team through something they weren’t expected to survive. 

He let out another slow breath before continuing. “But he went after you because he knew it’d get a reaction.” He finally looked over at you, the moonlight catching the exhaustion written across his face. “Out of both of us.”

Your chest tightened, but you shook your head almost immediately. “He didn’t get to me,” you promised. “You’re not a woman in the Navy if you let one comment about fucking your way to the top get into your head. If I threw punches every time someone assumed I was sleeping with somebody important, I would’ve been arrested years ago.” A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Besides…”

You let the pause linger just long enough. “Phoenix and I are gonna kill him.”

There it was, that laugh you’ve been aching to hear. 

“What?” He got out, his chest aching from how hard he was cackling. 

“You heard me.”

You kept your expression perfectly serious. “We’re gonna dump him somewhere off the eastern seaboard. Phoenix’s idea. Bob volunteered to be lookout.”

He laughed- oh, he laughed loud enough to echo over the surf, shoulders shaking as he doubled over slightly. The sound settled somewhere deep in your chest, warming places you hadn’t realized had gone cold, and you caught yourself smiling long before you meant to. It’s infectious, and you’re both laughing off the horrors of today until your sides hurt. 

You brush your shoulder with his playfully, but he keeps your shoulders touching before you could pull away. 

After you both catch your breath, he leans in a little closer, a more serious look washing over him. “I want you to know, Hangman is wrong.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s an asshole.” 

“No, I mean…” He looked away again, watching the tide for a second before gathering the courage to continue. “I know we didn’t know each other before that night, but I never once did anything with the intention of you helping me get strike leader.”

You nod quietly, but let him continue. 

“I mean…” He laughed awkwardly at himself. “Obviously, having the best recon pilot in the Navy watching my six doesn’t exactly hurt my odds, but…” His voice trailed off as he searched for words that didn’t seem to come naturally. “I’d have been sitting out here talking to you anyway, despite it all.” 

“You know, Bradley, much to my dismay, or my attempts to not,” You trailed off, letting your knees knock into each other, “I happen to like you.” 

“You sure know how to sweet-talk a man.” He chided, making you fully press your shoulder into his a little more. 

“Just,” You sighed, fingernails picking at a thread on your shorts, “Wish we met in different circumstances.”

He nodded, “You gonna give me some spiel about how the Navy comes first? 

You let out a quiet laugh. “Why? Is that the same speech you’ve been giving women for years?”

He snorted, shaking his head, before looking back out toward the horizon. “I’d be lying if I said the Navy doesn’t come first. It has to. It always will, at least while I’m wearing the uniform.” He paused, drawing a slow line through the sand with the heel of his boot. “But I think that’s what makes this so frustrating.”

”When I told you I wasn’t looking for anything serious, I wasn’t lying.” You started, “I mean, you know how it is. It’s impossible to date, to do anything in our lives. But, I don’t know. This feels different, and it’s scary.” 

“You were the first person I’d slept with in over a year.” He admits, a small, almost embarrassed smile on his lips, “I don’t know if you know this, but there aren’t a lot of women on naval bases.” 

A toothy grin pulls at your lips, “You were mine, too.” 

There’s a silent lull between the two of you, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the ocean and quietly mourning a life you didn’t have. One where meeting someone didn’t come with a countdown clock attached. One where you could go on dates without wondering if either of you would be shipped away. One where liking someone didn’t immediately come with the terrifying realization that the thing you wanted most was also the thing that could hurt the most. 

That wasn’t the life you had. Right now you couldn’t focus on anything else but the mission. A mission that had a timeline, one that was closing in faster than either of you wanted to admit.

“Maybe in another life I would have met you and asked you out on an actual date first,” He whispers. “Maybe in another life we could give it a try, instead of worrying if we’re gonna go down in a fiery blaze.” 

“Hey,” You poke his chest, “That’s not funny.” 

“Just so you know…” His voice softened. “I like you too.”

You smiled sadly, leaning into him on purpose this time. His arms came around you, pulling you into him as you watched the sun set over the California skyline. 

 The route that had just become muscle memory, the terrain etched into everyone’s minds through countless simulations and live runs, had been changed. Dogfighting was expected; squads were exhausted.  Somewhere between all the infighting, the squad slowly stopped feeling like a group of strangers thrown together by circumstance and started resembling an actual team. Maybe this had something to do with Maverick’s football day, which was a day you spent grateful for sunglasses as you got to ogle a very sweaty, very fit Bradley running underneath the hot sun.

He knew it too, as you had dropped the ball (literally) quite a few times in distraction. This is why when he slung his sweaty bare arm over your shoulder, you couldn’t even deny the accusation.

”Am I distracting you, Shadow?” He asks, sweating all over you while the boys yelled for him to stop flirting and rejoin the game. 

“Shut up.”

”You’re not being very subtle, Bradshaw.” 

“Never said I was trying to be,” he grinned, and you could envision his sparkly eyes behind those aviators. “At least now you can ogle me in my flight suit without shame.” 

“That would imply I had shame in the first place.” You smirk, slinking your fingers together with his. He took your hand in his, making your heart soar until he turned it against you, pulling you against him. 

“Bradley, Bradley, put me down!-“ 

Bradley carried you halfway across the sand before tossing you into the water, and the second you surfaced, laughing and wiping salt from your face, you knew you would remember that moment forever.

It was a good day. A really good day, followed by a very bad one. You sat there with Bradley’s hand wrapped tightly in yours while you waited to hear if Phoenix and Bob were okay. The uncertainty was unbearable, the silence between updates stretching longer than it should have. For someone who had spent years flying into dangerous situations, waiting on the ground had always been the hardest part.

When the news finally came that they were alive, that they were okay, it felt like a fifty-pound weight had been lifted from your chest. You left him and Maverick with a swift kiss to Bradley’s forehead, pretending you didn’t hear the screaming down the hallway.

The days were coming faster, deadlines were pushed, and before all of you knew it was the day of. You boarded the carrier with the rest of the team, the ocean stretching endlessly around you as the ship carried all of you closer to the mission. Your bag was dropped into the barracks beside Phoenix’s room. You were as ready as you were going to be. 

Pre-flight checks, mission debriefs, medical evaluations, and more were all a blur as you walked through it on autopilot. No one ever talks about the mental strength it takes to know you have to pull off not one, but two miracles to bring all of your friends home and complete the mission. You looked around at the group of people you had grown to love, even Hangman, and felt a painful stab in your chest as you all said your good nights after dinner. Hangman didn’t even make a single joke about it being the last supper; the tension surrounding everyone was different; this was real. 

You couldn’t sleep. You were almost positive nobody else could either.

The carrier had gone quiet hours ago. The steady hum of the ship beneath you should have been comforting, something familiar after years of deployments and long nights spent away from home, but tonight every vibration felt like a reminder.

You had flown dangerous missions before. You had stared down impossible odds and climbed into aircraft knowing there was a chance you wouldn’t climb back out. You had trained for this. Prepared for this. Studied every inch of the terrain until you could probably fly the route with your eyes closed.

But you’ve never flown a dangerous mission with people you considered family.  Especially not with someone you may have been in love with. 

Eventually, exhaustion started to win. Your thoughts blurred at the edges, your body finally beginning to surrender to the need for sleep when a knock echoed against your door.

You were awake instantly. For a second you didn’t move, hoping maybe you had imagined it. Then it came again, even more frantic than before. You pushed yourself out of bed with a quiet groan, dragging a hand over your face as you crossed the small space of your bunk.

“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your eyes as you reached for the door.

You swung it open harshly, “W-what?”

Then you saw him. Bradley stood there looking anything but tired. His hair was messy, his breathing uneven, and there was a nervous energy radiating off him that you had rarely seen. This was the same man who could fly straight into enemy territory without hesitation, who could stare down Maverick during a debrief and argue his point until everyone else backed down.

But standing outside your room in the middle of the night? He looked terrified.

“Bradley?”

“I can’t.”

The words came out immediately, almost like he had been holding them in the entire walk over.

He took a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can’t sleep.”

You stared at him, your exhaustion slowly fading as you realized just how serious he was.

“I can’t go to sleep,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I can’t go into tomorrow without doing this.”

Before you could even respond, his lips were on yours. You kissed him back before you could think about it, your fingers finding the fabric of his shirt as if grounding yourself through him was the only thing keeping you steady.

Everything else faded away as you pulled him into your room, the door slamming shut. Nothing else mattered, not when you pulled him into your twin-sized bed. His body on top of yours, kissing you as he’d never get the chance to again. He took his time, kissing every inch of your skin he could and prying the sweetest noises out of your mouth. 

He made love to you, pushing into you with a cry of your name. Then, he fucked you like it was his last night on earth, because it might have been. You fell apart underneath him over and over until you could barely keep your eyes open anymore.

The morning came almost violently, the alarm blaring in your ears as you snuggled into Bradley’s chest. You would do anything to turn it off, to get just a few more minutes in his arms.

“Hey...” He whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. 

You sighed, burrowing yourself into him. 

“Come on, sweetheart.” He coaxed you out of bed. “I gotta be on the other side of the boat in like 20 mins, and I don’t think Nyx would appreciate me in the girls' shower.” 

“But I would.” You grumble, helping throw him his clothes as the two of you readied yourselves for the day as much as you could. 

He could see the faraway look in your eyes as you watched him leave. “Hey, it’s all gonna be fine.” He said with a kiss, “I’ll see you out there.” 

All you could do was nod to keep your emotions in check. You wanted to believe him; you really did. You and Phoenix helped each other get ready, fixing loose strands of hair, adjusting collars, checking straps, making sure every piece of gear was exactly where it needed to be.

There was comfort in the routine, familiarity in the way you two moved around each other. In knowing that even when everything else felt uncertain, there were still things you could control.

Phoenix zipped up your flight suit while you helped fix the collar sitting crooked around her neck. Neither of you said much; there wasn’t much to say. 

When you went to meet the squad on the runway, it smelled like sea salt and jet fuel, the early morning fog rising off the side of the boat. Everything was a blur of adrenaline and verbal checks with command until the clock ticked. 

Bradley’s met yours on the way to your jets, soft and almost heart-wrenching as you clutch your helmet to your side. 

“Don’t do that,” You yell out. Even with the sounds of jet engines and water rushing against the side of the carrier, you know he can hear you. 

He raises a brow. “Do what?” 

A sense of déjà vu hits your chest, making you smile despite yourself. “You know exactly what.” 

He walks a little closer, and up close you can see it on his face. “Y/n-“

”Stop.” You cut him off, making him pause. ”Stop looking at me like you’re never gonna see me again.”  

“I’m not-“ Before he has a chance to continue, you keep talking, “Because you will, Bradley. Up there.” 

You point to the sky, a small smile on his face despite the nerves wracking his body. 

“I got your back, Y/n.” He promises, as the boat horns signal you all to head to your jets. 

“I got yours.” 

Settling into your cockpit always feels like coming home after a long day; you know the ins and outs of this jet like the back of your hand. The mission objective has been drilled into your head. All the information you’ve sent to higher-ups, all the sleepless nights this is what it has all led to. Now that you were here, you could feel your stomach twisting with anxiety and something else as you watched Bradley’s plane race ahead of yours on the jetway. 

When you’ve served as long as you have, or flown as many hours, sometimes it all blurs together. Your body was on autopilot; the only thing running through your mind is the checklist of everything needed for you all to make it out of this alive. 

In moments of extreme stress, the body has a way of protecting itself. It narrows your focus until there is nothing else left. No fear. No doubt. No room to think about the fact that the person flying in front of you is someone you had kissed goodbye only hours ago, someone whose hand you had held in the dark while both of you pretended tomorrow wasn’t coming. From the moment your thumb hit the countdown clock, everything became a blur of commands and instinct.

You became one with your jet, every adjustment made without hesitation, every maneuver calculated by muscle memory alone. Bradley’s aircraft stayed directly next to you, close enough that you could track every movement, close enough that you could trust him to be exactly where he needed to be.

For a moment, it almost felt easy. The first miracle happened. The second happened by the scrap of your fucking teeth. And ironically, you think that was the easy part.

Ten Gs slammed into your chest, the pressure crushing down on you until your lungs felt like they were filled with tar. Your body fought against the weight, every muscle straining as you forced yourself to keep breathing, forced yourself to stay conscious, forced yourself to keep flying.

You pulled up hard, coming alongside Bradley just as the belly of his jet skimmed dangerously close to the snow-covered rocks below. The wings of your aircraft passed close enough to each other that for a split second you could feel the danger of it, the razor-thin margin between control and disaster.

“Now get out of there.” Cyclone’s voice crackled through your headset, and suddenly the entire weight of the world was back on your chest. 

The moment you came back to, alarms were blaring, smoke was flying, and SAMS were practically everywhere. You were all fighting for your lives. It was your turn to dodge and weave, firing countermeasures, trying your best to outmaneuver the agile missiles. 

“Rooster,” You called, hearing nothing but silence as you watched his jet drop slightly, “Don’t go into G-LOC on me.”

Bradley gasps for breath as his vision returns, brought back by the sound of your voice, then the symphony of alarms blaring in his ears. This is the dogfight you all knew would happen; here it was. 

“Shit. They’re everywhere.” You’d never been so thankful to hear his voice. 

Payback cut in fast, “Get low, get low.” 

Another alarm screamed.

Your eyes snapped toward the warning display just as another missile locked on. You reacted before thinking, firing your own countermeasure and watching the missile veer away from its path. The maneuver forced you to break away, your aircraft pulling in the opposite direction as you avoided the impact.

For a few terrifying seconds, you and Bradley weren’t flying side by side anymore.

“Fuck,” You seethe, “Can barely fucking see. Rooster, 3 o’clock.”

Then chills fill your bloodstream when he speaks, “I’m out of flares.” 

You turn back, and you can see the missile coming straight towards him. A scream leaves your throat as you drop your throttle, an attempt to help even if it’s fruitless. You can’t watch him die; you won’t, and then suddenly Maverick’s in the direct line of the missile. Maverick releases flares, but he’s too late. And he knows it. You all know it.

The missile hits Maverick’s engine. A fireball shreds his engine; all you can do is fly from above, watching him fall. Your stomach is in knots, and if you had eaten anything this morning, it would have been thrown up all over your cockpit; you’re sure of it. 

You can barely hear Phoenix call it, “I repeat, Dagger 1 is hit. He’s going down.”

You feel the tears filling your eyes as you dive below the SAM radar once again; the absence of the alarms had never felt so loud in your life. 

“Dagger 1. Status. Has anyone seen him? I didn’t see a chute.” Bradley asks, and the denial in his voice makes you stifle back a sob.

Payback speaks, “He’s gone, Rooster.”

“W-we have to circle back,” Bradley says, and you watch his hesitation as you all get back into formation.

”Dagger, you are not to engage. Repeat, do not engage.” Comms says, but you can see it. In the way he’s flying, you press your jet feet away from his, just enough to see him through his canopy. 

“Dagger Two. Return to carrier.” Another order came through your headset, louder this time. “Acknowledge.”

“Rooster, those bandits are closing,” Phoenix’s voice cut through the static, steadier than anyone felt. “We cannot go back.”

“Dagger, Comanche, bandits thirty east.”

“Rooster,” you breathed, your voice cracking despite every effort to keep it level. “He’s gone. We have to go.” You eased your jet closer, slipping into position just long enough to look through the glass. You needed one last chance to pull him back. His helmet turned ever so slightly, and through layers of plexiglass, oxygen masks, and the roar of two engines pushing to their limits, your eyes met, yours pleading. 

Please don’t leave me too. Please. 

His shoulders barely moved as he took one slow breath.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he says before he circles and falls back hard. 

“Bradley, Bradley,” You kept calling his name, your voice growing louder with every desperate attempt to reach him, but the distance only widened.

 His aircraft became smaller and smaller, swallowed by mountains, smoke, and cloud until there was nothing left to look at except the empty patch of sky where he’d been flying only seconds before. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself when the explosion bloomed against the horizon. You didn’t flinch. 

Enemy aircraft were already closing the gap, warning tones screaming relentlessly through your headset as instinct forced your hands to keep flying while your heart shattered somewhere miles behind you.

“Dagger Two is hit,” someone called over the radio, their voice tight with disbelief. “I repeat, Dagger Two is hit.”

Your hands trembled violently around the throttle, every muscle in your arms threatening to give out as the fireball reflected faintly across the glass of your canopy. You wanted to turn around. Every part of your body fought the training that had been drilled into you for years. You wanted to dive after him, to ignore Cyclone, ignore the mission, ignore the four other pilots depending on you and find whatever was left. Instead, you shoved the throttle forward and forced yourself to stay in formation, tears blurring your vision.

You couldn’t look back.

You knew if you looked back, you wouldn’t stop. And it wouldn’t help the rest of your friends get home.

So you stared ahead while your mind betrayed you, replaying the night before in cruel, perfect clarity. The feel of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. His fingers lazily tracing circles across your back as the carrier rocked gently beneath you. The warmth of his voice in the darkness, his sweat-lined skin pressed against your own. 

“When all this is over,” He hummed, your sweaty bodies still panting as you draped yourself across his chest, “I’m gonna take you to get a real burger.”

You jokingly moaned, “God, you sure know how to sweet-talk a lady.” 

“M’serious.” He shifted, cupping his face in yours. “You deserve an actual date. Something casual because I know you hate that fancy shit, but something worthy of you. Something that makes you happy.” 

“You make me happy. Happier than I thought I could be.” You whispered, your cheeks grinning against his hold as he pulled you back in for another kiss. 

Your jet hit the deck harder than it ever had before, the violent impact ripping you out of the memory so abruptly your entire body lurched forward against the restraints. You can’t speak, you can’t think, you can barely breathe. The canopy was barely clear before you were forcing it open, stumbling out onto the deck so quickly you nearly missed the ladder altogether. 

Someone was shouting your callsign. Someone else barked an order for you to stay put. You heard none of it. All you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat and the echo of Bradley’s voice repeating I’m sorry over and over until it drowned out everything else. Your boots slammed against the concrete as you ran, weaving through deck crew and mechanics. Every step hurt, your lungs burned from the G-forces, your legs threatened to give out beneath you, but you kept running until Dagger Spare came into view.

You hauled yourself onto the boarding steps of Jake’s jet. It wasn’t until you grabbed onto the side of his cockpit that you realized your helmet was gone. You didn’t remember taking it off. You didn’t remember throwing it aside. Somewhere between the landing and the sprint across the flight deck, it had simply ceased to exist. None of it mattered. 

Jake nearly jumped at the sight of you. His eyes widened beneath the visor as he took in your face, your shaking hands, the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.

“Shadow-”

“If they call…” Your voice cracked so badly you barely recognized it as your own. You tried again, forcing the words out through a throat that felt like it was closing. “If there’s anything… if anybody hears anything…” You swallowed hard, your chest heaving. “You have to go. You have to save him.”

Someone behind you shouted your name again, louder this time, and you flinched so violently it startled even you.

“They’re not gonna let me fly,” you whispered, panic spilling out faster than you could stop it. “They’re gonna ground me.” You grabbed the edge of his cockpit so tightly your knuckles turned white. “I’m trusting you. If there’s any chance he’s alive… any chance at all…”

He looks at you, a soft mist over his pale blue eyes. “I promise, Y/n.” 

You turn with a curt nod, seeing Phoenix following alongside Hondo. The second you reached her, whatever strength had been holding you upright disappeared. You collapsed into her arms without a word, burying your face against her shoulder as sobs finally tore free from your chest. She held onto you just as tightly, her own tears soaking through your flight suit while your hands clung desperately to the fabric at her back.

”I never even got the chance to love him, Nyx.” You sobbed. 

“You did, you do.” She whimpered, “He knew, he knew, Y/n.” 

The minutes that followed blurred together in a haze of adrenaline wearing off and grief settling in. Someone draped a blanket over your shoulders. Medics came in to poke and prod, protocol, but Bob told them to give you a minute. He slid juice boxes over to where you and Phoenix were curled into each other on the couch; you thanked him for very politely telling them to fuck off. 

Then it was just what remained of the Dagger squad wallowing in what should have been a successful mission on paper. 

After what felt like an eternity, Mickey finally broke the silence.

“Why did he do that?”

No one answered immediately.

Phoenix sniffled beside you, still absentmindedly combing her fingers through the hair that had fallen loose from your bun sometime during the mission.

“Because it’s Bradley.” She whispered, “He would’ve done the same for any of us.” 

You squeezed her hand harder, willing the tears away. 

The silence settled over the room again, heavier this time. Bob sat with his head buried in his hands, absently pressing buttons on an old phone that lay on a table for decoration. Reuben had somehow acquired a handheld radio that you were fairly certain belonged to someone much higher ranking; the speaker pressed tightly against his ear while he listened to every transmission coming through.

No one paid him much attention until he suddenly sat forward.

“Overwatch is reporting signs of a jet on course for our position.”

“Fighters?” You sniffle, Phoenix's hands stilling from where they were combing through the hair that had freed itself from your bun. 

“In a F-14 Military piece?” He asked, a spark lit underneath all of you at the realization. 

You sit up, almost immediately 

“What?” 

“How the fuck did they get an F-14 in the air?” 

“You’re joking.”

Reuben cuts off everyone’s questions, waving his hands to silence you all. 

“Rooster’s ESAT is back online. It’s them.” He whispered, before his voice got louder, “It’s fucking them!”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until Phoenix grabbed both sides of your face.

“They’re alive,” she repeated, her own voice cracking around a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Did you hear him? They’re alive.”

The breath you pulled into your lungs was the first real one you’d taken since watching Bradley disappear beneath the smoke. Your knees buckled so suddenly that Bob was beside you before you could hit the floor, steadying you by the elbows while Phoenix held onto your shoulders. Relief crashed through your body so violently it almost hurt. Your chest ached. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every muscle that had been locked tight since the mission finally gave out all at once, the adrenaline crashing in waves. 

“Oh my God,” you whispered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh, my God.”

The room erupted around you.

Mickey let out a disbelieving laugh, throwing both hands over his face before turning in a slow circle as if he had too much adrenaline to contain. He tackled Rueben into a hug that nearly sent the radio skidding across the floor. Bob was jumping up and down, his arms still on both of his girls. 

All of you migrated toward the observation windows overlooking the flight deck, the radio turned up as loud as it would go. Every transmission made your stomach knot tighter, your heart in your throat as they sent Dagger Spare up in defense. 

You watched nothing but the open ocean through the windows, while your nails dug crescent moons into your palms as your heart threatened to beat itself out of your chest. Phoenix reached for your hand without saying a word, your fingers intertwining so tightly they almost hurt. 

“Foul deck, foul deck, raise the barricades. Maverick and Rooster landing.”

You were already running before the call had finished, shoving through the doorway with the rest of the squad close behind. Boots thundered against the metal stairs as all of you raced toward the flight deck, your lungs burning from the sprint, your heartbeat somehow louder than the alarms and engines surrounding you.

The jet was beat up and smoking, crew swarming around to put out the fire as the canopy slowly lifted open. He looked exhausted beyond anything you’d ever seen, his flight suit streaked with soot and grease, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his movements slower than usual as he climbed onto the wing. He was filthy. 

Someone shouted something behind you, but it dissolved into meaningless noise as your feet carried you forward before your brain had the chance to think. You shoved through deck crew, through sailors, through officers, your eyes never leaving him for even a second.

There was no chance to think before you were in front of him. The corner of his mouth tugged upward into that impossibly familiar grin, tired and crooked and overflowing with relief the second your eyes met his. It was the same smile that had greeted you that night at Hard Deck, the same one that had become so easy to find across briefing rooms and cockpits and late nights.

”You asshole!” you yelled, shoving both hands against Bradley’s chest hard enough to make him stumble half a step. “You almost got yourself killed!”

The words had barely left your mouth before his hands were on either side of your face, calloused palms warm against your flushed skin as he pulled you into him.

The kiss was anything but gentle.

It was frantic and relieved, weeks of burning tension and memories of last night poured into it. Around you, the crowd erupted into cheers, but it all dissolved into background noise the second his lips found yours. You melted into him despite every intention of staying angry, catching the unmistakable pull of a smile against his mouth as though he already knew exactly how this was going to end.

When you finally drew back, your forehead rested against his for a moment, both of you laughing quietly as you caught your breath.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, trying and failing to sound convincing. “Don’t think that gets you out of it.”

“I know.” His thumbs brushed lightly over your cheeks, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made your heart ache. “So let me make it up to you.”

”You finally gonna let me fuck you in the flight suit?” 

Bradley’s eyes went comically wide, instinctively pulling you a little closer, the roar of the crowd around you swallowing your words before anyone else had a chance to hear them.

“No,” he blurted, before immediately catching himself. “I mean-yes. Eventually. Absolutely, but that’s not what I meant.” He laughed, sweat dripping from his brow. “Let me take you out. On a proper date, give me a chance to ask you to be mine.” 

“But you said-“ 

“Oh, fuck it. Fuck all the reservations we both had.” He smiles, and it’s so wide it looks just like heaven. “I almost died, and all I could think about was how I regret never getting a chance to call you mine.” 

His eyes sparkled as you nodded, so quickly you were afraid you’d get whiplash. 

“Bradley. I’d love to be yours.” 

Still, in your defense, with a beauty that drew more than a hundred suitors and a wit that kept them at a distance, for years, you were destined, fated even, by the gods in Olympia, to fall for the brilliance that is Penelope of Ithaca.

You arrived on the island from another island the day after the fleet departed. A scrawny girl, no more than thirteen summers, while she was already a young mother, in her twentieth summer.

Her nurse Eurycleia trained you to serve as her son Telemachus’ maid, still an infant then. Meaning you were in such near acquaintance to her intelligence from your very first day.

You were escorted to the beauty, who sat outside within the walls of her great house, alone, gazing at the sea. Your hands trembled as you neared her presence. Never had you witnessed such majesty.

In your land you had important families, but never mortals who came from the gods and lesser gods.

This was the most noble woman you had met.

Upon beholding her, you could not prevent your own heart from ceasing in rhythm, nor could you resume its beating until she addressed you.

You stood unable to reply, your gaze falling to the floor, where her enchanting eyes could not seize and imprison you, holding you forever captive.

As you now stand watching her depart with Odysseus, you remember your story from its beginning, as if you are there once again.

“Does she not speak?”, are Penelope’s first words, her voice as bewitching as her eyes.

You become acquainted with Ithaca’s floors, which are much more mesmerising than the entire home you were purchased from.

“She does, mistress”, with a voice as sharp and unamused as her eyes, the nurse is the one to nudge you towards the Spartan born woman.

“Go on girl, answer your queen”, old hands swat your back when you stall once more. It hurts.

You take a breath, your voice high pitched and with eyes now trailing Penelope’s feet.

“Forgive me, mistress, might you be so kind as to repeat the question you asked?”, fingers twirling the loose thread on your sleeves.

Both older women stare at each other, then you.

“Look up”, the stern woman aims for your back the second time, making you wince, however, you do direct your gaze upward, meeting Penelope.

Behind her, the sea glimmers blue as if a dream.

You find yourself in a strange yet beautiful part of the land, unlike your native shores. Even its very air carries an unfamiliar, calming scent.

Should you fail to make a favourable impression, they may send you back home, to nothing and perhaps to harsher punishments for failing.

“I asked for your name”, the queen stands, now regarding you under curious eyes. She is tall.

“Straighten your shoulders”, the nurse hisses, swatting you for the third time. You want to cry.

“Eurycleia”, she smiles without it reaching her eyes. “I will take it from here. If you can see to Telemachus, he will be rousing from his sleep”, the way she positions herself, circling around you, shields you from the nurse’s access to your back.

“Yes, mistress”, the old hag at last departs.

The prospect of the sea from this height is most astounding, leaving you yet again at a standstill before Penelope, while she quietly regards you, returning to position in front of you.

Your eyes shift from the view, to her, cheeks ablaze with timidness, for she is exceedingly fair, perhaps the most you have seen in your short life.

Still deeming her gaze too unsettling, you fix yours upon her small golden earring when you finally speak, with a voice lacking in confidence.

“My name is Neso, my queen…a gift unto you. My talents lie in the rearing of infants and young children, for I had seven younger brothers. It is a profound honour and privilege to serve you and your noble household, here in Ithaca”.

You cannot discern whether she is impressed or calculating within her mind, as she falls silent, landing her gaze to meet your eyes. Perhaps you neglect to mention some other important details.

Your shoulders suddenly straighten, as if an invisible Eurycleia swatted your back again.

“You had brothers? What became of them?”.

Her face wears a slight concern, as if assessing if you are indeed fit for the position. There must a dozen other girls lined up by her servants.

She misunderstands.

“My brothers are all in good health, mistress; I mean to say, I now belong to you, and your house, so I had rather than have my brothers”, you clarify, cheeks hotter the longer you speak.

“Mhm”. Her reply and eyes turn towards the sea, beyond the pillars of her fine house. You follow the line of sight, as if expecting to see something.

“Find Eurycleia. I shall see how you do with my son, Telemachus”. She doesn’t regard you.

Instead, she walks to the edge of the wall, turning her back to you. Her scent filling your nostrils.

For the first time since meeting the queen of Ithaca, you permit your gaze to linger on her.

She is adorned with the finest attire; jewels grace her hair, neck, and hands. The gods favour her.

If her beauty thus inflames you, you begin to understand why fleets are dispatched for her cousin Helen. The fairest woman who lives.

You have never seen her, of course, but heard songs of her loveliness from a young age.

If Penelope is this fine of a woman, Helen must be a goddess in comparison.

“Did my words reach your ears?”, she turns to find you still standing foolishly, gazing.

“Yes mistress…I will leave at once, thank you”.

You bow your head, uncertain if this is also a custom the people of Ithaca practice with their sovereign. At home it is your sign of respect.

Your face flushes, and more so when she smiles, as though entertained by your peculiar ways.

Your heart of course trembles at this, resolving to repay her gentle warmth, thinking perhaps she will look upon you with favour, rendering this path of becoming her son’s maid less arduous, especially with Eurycleia at your back.

Even if you did not received her esteem in those early years, you soon learn that Telemachus is a child easy to care for, compared to your seven brothers. He takes a liking to your gentleness.

Penelope is ever attended by her maids, so you are never alone in her presence in the day, unless she expressly summons you, which is a rare occurrence. In fact, she takes no note of you.

Yet as night falls, you share quarters with her and Telemachus, resting at his feet should he stir in the dead of night.

Her bedchamber is partitioned, affording her some privacy. Still, you are blessed to perceive a fleeting view of her nightgown, revealing a little more of her tender skin, than her daylight attire.

At times she visits his chamber to observe you with the babe, assessing your natural skills.

In the first year, he is indeed restless and rouses more frequently, yet as he grows more at ease with you, he slumbers longer without stirring.

It is as though he exchanges places with his mother, who is of a calmer disposition in the evenings, until you begin to hear her gentle cries.

Seeking the king in her dreams to see to her.

At first you disregard it, supposing one of her maids will surely hear and attend to her. Yet the longer it persists, the more intolerable it grows.

She remains your queen, you cannot turn a deaf ear to her discomfort. So, with great uncertainty, you venture into her bedchamber, trembling at the thought of being caught by someone else.

Her portion of the quarters is another world unto itself. Silks and fabrics entirely foreign drape her body. Her eyes are shut, brows knit with anxiety.

She still calls for Odysseus, her one true love.

You approach their bed with caution, lowering yourself, until your gaze meets with her head.

Your hand extends with deliberate slowness, with tenderness, to stroke her arm.

“My queen”, you whisper.

Yet nothing occurs.

Your fingers move the stands of hair covering her face, waiting to make another attempt of it.

This time deciding to nudge her shoulder, when she calls her husband’s name.

“Mistress…do you hear me?”.

“It is I, Neso”.

Still, she does not rouse.

You consider what your own mother did for you whenever nightmares plagued your slumber.

She summoned you back to the land of the living not by your title to her, but by your given name, for a name possesses greater power.

However, this is your queen, her title is the most protected and reverenced among all other titles. Yet, her unease more important to resolve.

So, you part your lips and pray the gods do not strike you down for forgetting your place.

Your hand gently caressing her arm, you call

“Penelope…”.

You gasp quietly, when eyes that were previously shut suddenly open. Not at all alarmed as she was a moment before, but with a calmness now resting on her face, as if she was never sleeping.

“Neso?”, she is neither angered nor pleased.

Your name on her lips sounds divine.

“My queen, I ask for your pardon; I heard your cries and could no longer turn a deaf ear”.

Penelope beholds with an expression of gratitude.

“Are you quite well, mistress?”, you retreat your comforting hand from her tender arm and she takes notice, her gaze following the withdrawal.

It is only then it dawns on you how close in proximity you are to her physical presence.

“Forgive me”, your heart pounding in your chest.

You falter in your retreat, stumbling backwards unto your posterior. Soon finding yourself seated.

Her eyes widen, fearing at first you have taken harm, yet when you meet gazes, she breaks into perfect laughter, ringing as music to your ears.

She has never done so in your sole company.

Must the gods bless her with all things good?

Your face grows hot with embarrassment, that thanks to those same gods, she cannot see.

“I am quite well, are you?”, it sounds as if she jests with you. Her countenance sprightly.

“Quite well, mistress”, you press your lips together to stop your laugh from escaping, feeling a timidness take over.

“Then you are forgiven, for trespassing into the bedchamber of your queen. You can at once return to your slumber”, she offers another smile.

Does she continue to jest with you?

Is it fitting to jest in the presence of a queen?

Eurycleia would not think so otherwise.

Not wanting to delay Penelope’s rest, you return, yet find yourself at her bedside the following evening when she cries out for Odysseus.

She stirs not at the sound of her titles, only her name. This time withdrawing yourself by a few steps before she opens her eyes.

“Did I cry out again?”, her voice is surprised.

“Yes, my queen”, you sit gazing at her from the dim light of her chamber.

This night she sits upright in bed, wiping her face, as though wearied by her own thoughts.

Her bare shoulders are revealed unto you, causing you to avert your gaze elsewhere. The silk upon her bed is acquainted with your shy eyes.

“What do I cry for?”, she fingers run through her hair, leaning back against the wall behind.

“It is who rather than what, mistress”.

She turns her head down towards you, listening.

“The king of Ithaca, his name over and over. At times asking him to come see to you…pleading with the gods for his safe return home”.

Penelope sinks into her fabrics, as though recalling the conflict now raging at Troy.

“Of course”, is all she replies with.

For nearly every night since, you find yourself within the queen's chamber, rousing her from her cries and nightmares and prayers for Odysseus.

Although rare, there are times young Telemachus awakens with her, sensing the discomfort.

You soothe and tend to both mother and child, first seeing to the babe, then Penelope.

Yet when her torment begins to happen twice, thrice in a singular evening, you device a plan to help rid her of the cycle once and for all.

It is bold of you to ask, you take the risk.

“I can recount to you a tale, that perchance your thoughts may dwell upon a different matter”.

An expression unreadable to you passes on her face, making you believe you have crossed a line.

“Are you yourself not longing for slumber?”, she replies with a question.

You shake your head.

“I take pleasure in the night, than the day”, you begin, your gaze landing on her listening face.

“It was in these hours I felt were truly my own in my old home and the times I feel most liberated here in Ithaca”, your voice speaks with certainty.

“I see…well, Neso, the stage is yours”, she bestows an intrigued smile, leaning backwards.

If Eurycleia catches you, she will punish you severely. She still cannot abide in your company, treating you distrustfully than the other maids.

All of what you do in here with Penelope defies the many rules she gave to you at the beginning.

‘Servants should not entertain or gaze too long at their better. If the queen needs a jester, she can request for one’, you can hear her cold voice.

As if she notices your hesitation, the queen repeats, encouraging you to perform for her.

“Indulge me with one small tale, then I shall determine whether you can continue this or if I should summon one of my maids to attend me”.

How cannot you not defy the counsels of Eurycleia when Penelope sits and gazes upon you with her divine favour. It is far too tempting.

In the same manner as you can ask, how can a thousand ships not be sent to Troy for Helen?

Beautiful women will have you defy even the gods and even those gods will defy each other, for a night with an Aphrodite, or Athena or Hera.

So, you defy Eurycleia and you defy the rules of this house, no matter the consequences.

You clear your throat confidently and the queen nods as a sign for you to begin.

In your family you sharpened your storytelling skills by being a natural jester for your brothers.

“This evening, I offer you the tale of how the goddess Pasithea came to be with Hypnos. Although, the version I have heard from my home, may differ to the one from Ithaca”.

Penelope lowers herself back into a sleeping position, listening with intent. Her countenance is that of someone younger, a girl, as you are a girl.

This becomes your self-appointed duty each evening, at times without her lament, helping her rid the cycle of nightly cries for Odysseus.

Although, there are still nights she is visited by dreams that distress her greatly, you are determined to rid her of those as well.

Eurycleia appears ignorant of your defiance, yet some months into this arrangement, a maid alerts her of your frequent visits to the queen.

You are certain Melantho told. Her face is smug when the old woman summons you to the back of the house, which is not a good place to meet her.

She drags you by your ear to the outside, furthest from the back entrance, where none can hear your cries as she whips the tips of your fingers.

Her newest method of correction trialed on you.

For the remainder of the day, you find yourself hard-pressed to accomplish even the most smallest of duties, including tending to the boy.

Your eyes are red and swollen from the tears.

It is Penelope who observes your grimace as you lift him, for you almost drop him, yet manage to find grip at the very last moment.

Her eyes are wide.

“Neso, are you in good health?”.

“Yes, my queen”, you answer right away, offering a smile to further convince her.

“Your eyes-”

“I am quite well, my queen…do not be anxious”, deciding to busy yourself with Telemachus.

“Mhm”, she lingers before leaving your side.

Hours later she returns, as if urgently seeking help, but when she reaches you, there are no words. Her hands lift yours to observe closely, only to see the ugly welts from the lashings.

“Why do you withhold this from me?”, there is anger in her tone, she has never once used it.

You wonder who told her.

“I answer to Eurycleia”, your shoulders straighten as if to compose yourself from suddenly crying.

“You answer to me!”, she shouts, attracting attention from others around you.

“Is she your queen?!”.

In your throat sits a thick lump.

“No mistress, however, I disobeyed her strict instructions...I ought not to have entered your bedchamber...it is not my place nor my role to be intimate with you”, your eyes avoid her gaze, your heart and hands tremble, your tears are thick.

Penelope’s short laugh is one of disbelief. Her voice is filled with frustration, though quieter.

“That woman”.

“I instructed you-”

“Come along”, she changes her mind and beckons you to follow her.

You can barely keep up with her long strides and gazes from people in the house, before you find yourself standing in front of the nurse.

The queen, with her face flushed, instructs you to present your hands towards her servant.

“What say you to this?”, her anger is concealed, keeping an even voice. You wonder why.

She is meet with unhurried, unafraid eyes.

“The girl defies the rules of your household mistress, she must suffer correction, until she learns”, the old woman replies, truly composed.

“Oh? Is that so? When I have bid her to enter my quarters, for my son’s sake and my bedchamber for my own, whenever she pleases”.

“I instructed her to attend me”.

The nurse for the first time seems shaken, moved by her own error of judgement and punishment.

“Mistress-”

“What now Eurycleia?!”, her voice rises in anger.

“Will you marr the rest of my servants?”.

“Forgive me, my queen, the girl did not express your permission to her”, she lowers herself.

“Her name is Neso! How long has she been with us for you to keep oppressing her this way?”.

“Even if she had not expressed my permission, you chose to hear rumours, than ask me!”.

“Eurycleia, do not make me forget you are favoured by my husband. You are my servant”.

“Yes my queen, I beg your forgiveness”, her posture remains bent forward, eyes to the floor.

“From this day forth, entrust her correction to me; inform me if she so defies this household”.

Penelope turns her heels with a swiftness to depart. You assume she leaves you to confront the old woman alone, yet, you hear her summon you by name when you do not follow behind.

This is the first instance of her guardianship and open favour over you, for many years to come.

In the following three summers when you are in your sixteenth year, the boy is now of an age where he can speak and run, meaning you find yourself all over the house chasing after him.

He still enjoys your gentleness, now also your playfulness. You learn to love him deeply, able to understand why Eurycleia is so loyal to Odysseus.

You have not grown fond of her, but there is a certain sense of understanding between the two of you, especially as she witnesses your devotion to the queen of Ithaca and her young heir.

Your love for them is undeniable to others.

However, not a living soul knows of your secret affection for your mistress, not even she herself.

It has only flourished with each passing night you spend in her company, regaling her with every tale you know and recounting them for both her and Telemachus when he can comprehend them.

Penelope and her son are the finest portion of your days. She especially is the spur to all that you accomplish, with a deep desire to please her.

Your very own Helen or Aphrodite.

Her beauty and wit still overwhelm you, yet now you hold her gaze for longer than mere seconds.

It brings you great joy to behold her.

There are moments in this third summer when you consider Penelope may hold some affection for you too, from small observations.

In the times you sit together watching the sea, you can sense her gaze upon you, lingering, from the corner of your eye.

It stirs a strange fluttering in your belly and an alarming feeling of pleasure. Still, rather than suppress it, you permit it to dwell within you, becoming an unceasing, covetous thing.

Desire is its truest name.

You regard her as well, when she takes no notice. Applying attention of the delicate taper of her neck, the graceful prominence of her collarbone, the softness of her hands as she touches objects.

You at times wish you were an object, to feel Penelope’s fleeting fingers graze your skin.

She has completely consumed you.

And though her nightmares have ceased, accomplishing your task, you pass each eve by her bedside, still recounting a tale or two.

On occasion you fall into a deep slumber where you sit, when she too is at rest after the stories.

In your seventeenth year, you begin to notice the nights you awaken to find her gaze upon you.

She never did this before. The queen would usually bid you return to Telemachus's chamber.

Yet, one evening, she summons you to sleep beside your storytelling seat, requesting you bring your blankets and belongings here too.

By then the boy is old enough to not need a maid at this feet. You assume this is one reason she settles you closer to her, with the second reason being her desire to shield you from the maids, who envy you for her publicly displayed partiality.

The idea pleases you greatly, however, your mistress is not prepared for the fact that you yourself are pursued by nightmares in your slumber, though less often as you age.

Her acquaintance to this fosters a new intimacy, for you feel her hand reach down to rouse you, when such dreams occur.

Penelope’s fingers upon your bare shoulder, fleeting though they be, transform you greatly.

You yearn for her to leave it them on you, every time happens, coming close to placing your own hand on top of hers in a thought of passion.

It is not until your eighteenth year that she begins to bestow you with small gifts, far too dear for your customary taste.

The queen gives you her fabrics from distant lands for your attire and her old jewels from her younger years, as if to embellish or claim you.

This is not an unusual tradition in itself, but that she should do so for you is what raises eyebrows.

A lowly servant, sold to her for work is parading herself adorned with some of the most costly and exquisite jewels in the Ithaca.

The other maids whisper amongst themselves, and those who were once friendly begin to shun you, ignoring your presence when the queen is otherwise occupied with her duties.

You carry yourself as though it troubles you not. Nurturing your own assurance, offering thanks to the goddess who bloomed your form. For you are no longer scrawny, but a maiden in full flower.

Surprisingly, it is the old nurse, Eurycleia, who warms up to you, approaching you with kindness, as if the world has been turned upside down.

She sees the gifts as the queen’s gratitude towards for your commitment to this house, going as far as scolding the envious servants.

Her slow friendship is the most unexpected of gifts, at a time you so desperately need a friend.

You begin to see her with new eyes, not minding her sternness now that it is directed elsewhere.

The only other sort of friend you have besides your dear boy, Telemachus, is his father’s cowherd Philoetius. He is a kind and generous man, reminding you of your people from home.

On one particular evening that alters your fate, you are awakened from your nightmare by the queen. This time her hand lingers upon your bare shoulder for much longer than the other times.

“Come lie beside me”, she withdraws, moving herself further on the other side of the bed.

Her fingers grab her silks and pulls them for you.

Your heart has never pounded so much.

All you can do is gaze down at her hand holding open the sheets and back up to her calm face.

“Have you heard my words?”, she asks.

“Yes, mistress”.

Yet you do not hurry to move.

“Then why do you make your queen wait”, there is an impatience in her voice, as if exasperated.

“Forgive me”, finally standing to join her in bed.

The first night she turns away from you, as if you are not there at all, it is strange, but delightful. Penelope is a mystery. One that will take fifteen years of your life from this day to unravel.

After the first week passes of sleeping with her, she is not quick to turn her back from your face

You resume telling her the stories she so loves to hear before her rest, now in her soft bed than sitting on the floor of her chamber. Not that you minded, as long as you were in her presence.

Although she’s an entire arm’s length away from you, further than before, she feels the closest yet.

Her gaze is intent as she listens and laughs, asking you questions about the characters.

She becomes a girl again in these moments, making this side of her dearest to you, for not many experience her this way, except Odysseus.

In the dead of night, when either of you are visited by a nightmare, you only have to close the arm’s length, rousing the other with a hand and a name.

During these moments, your heart does indeed cease, when you take in her scent and warmth. Her soft skin lightly grazes yours, making your inner thighs grow hot with what you assume is affection, but you soon learn the difference.

Lust is the truer name for it.

The longer you stay awake with her, the queen begins to ask you questions, not just about the characters in your tales.

“Neso”, she grabs your attention instantly whenever she uses for first name this way.

“Yes, mistress?”, you bestow a smile to yourself, gazing at the back of her head.

“Are you yet asleep?”

“Not quite…”, your heart picks up in speed when she turns back around to face you, studying you, without offering her usual warm countenance.

“Then tell me, what do you and my husband's cowherd discourse? You always laugh in his presence…and furthermore, I have observed his eyes seeking you when he attends this house”.

Oh, how strange of her to notice this.

Her voice is composed, yet something in her gaze unsettles you, it feels urgent, as if she has been waiting for weeks to ask you.

You are careful in the way you answer her.

“Mistress, I speak to him about the shores I came from, and he tells me stories from Troy…nothing of importance to the war”.

“He is kind and honest with me. I can see why the king entrusted him with your stock”.

“Mhm”.

Another question lies on the tip of her tongue, you watch her sifts through her thoughts.

“Has he…”, she sighs.

It is not an accusation, rather a curiosity.

“Does he touch you, Neso?”.

You shake your head profusely.

“No, my queen, I would never allow such a thing. I belong to the house”, your heart is racing.

‘And I belong to you’, you wish to add, but do not. Instead, you continue your explanation.

“Philoetius is a loyal man to you and the king”.

“I give you my word, mistress. He would not attempt it either, I trust his character”.

“Why do you think such things of him and I?”

She sighs heavily, what troubles her so?

“I see the manner in which the men of this house regard you and search for you”, her voice quiet.

“Now that you are a…ah, shapely young woman”.

Your face flushes, although hidden by the night.

“Are you so oblivious to their ardent designs upon you? You cannot openly trust them”, she sounds irritated by your reply.

You nod slowly, confirming to her your naivity.

“I have never noticed, nor cared for any of them”, your plain simple truth, spoken with certainty.

Her brows furrow, as if surprised.

“But you are…no longer a girl, is there really no one who you have an affection towards?”.

‘You, my queen, always’, your mind laments.

“Even I am aware my maids share affections for men of this house and those who visit Ithaca”.

Penelope’s gaze is unreadable, a mix of things.

“I do not care for any man”, you reveal without sharing the deeper truth about her.

She falls quiet for some time, watching you.

“That will change one day, when you meet a man worthy of your affection…it transforms you”.

A knowing smile spreads on her perfect full lips, as if recalling her own experience with love.

‘I certainly hope not’, thinking in your mind.

“Yes, mistress”, your eventual response to her.

You do suddenly imagine what it might be to receive her love, how she might touch you, were she to hold you in affection.

It makes your belly knot up, your body inflames with both desire and lust, so your cross legs to cease the maddening feeling in her company.

Somehow, this new position causes your inner thighs to feel a tingling sensation, the in between throbs, followed by a string of moisture leaking.

This is the first time your affection for her has produced a physical substance you can touch.

“What is it?”, the queen is watching you.

“Nothing, mistress…sleep well”.

You are the one to turn your back on her, another first this eve since joining her bed. Out of the feeling of embarrassment, perhaps also shame.

In the months to follow from this incident, you experience those symptoms more frequently, whenever you are in close proximity to Penelope.

The nights are the worst for it, feeling as if you are burning in your own body. The air around you growing thicker. The wild dreams, exposing your affection, no, your lust for the queen of Ithaca.

You avert your eyes more often whenever you see a glimpse of her skin. A slip of her gown when she moves, revealing her thigh causes the knot in your belly to tighten, as if it might burst any moment.

If there is any reason to get you away from her presence in the day you take it. Spending time outside the walls of the house with Telemachus and Mentor. In the guise of tending to his needs.

One eve, after sharing another one of your tales in her bed, she continues to gaze upon you, as if about to ask something of great importance.

It sets your heart to race when you recognise this.

You almost encourage her to question you, in anticipation, however she beats you to it.

“Why do you hide yourself from me?”. Her voice has grown more tender towards you recently.

“During the day whenever I bid the maids to call you to my side…you are ever abiding beyond the house, as if running from me”.

You open your mouth as if to speak, but no words come out, rather a tight feeling sits in your throat.

‘Do not ever lie to your queen’, Eurycleia’s earliest lesson visits you in this very moment.

Besides, she will know you if you attempt it.

“Mistress…I long to see the remaining parts of Ithaca…beyond your fair home. That is my motive for joining Telemachus and Mentor each day, truly…I enjoy the outdoors…I would take my brothers, back home”, you feel nonsensical.

“Forgive me, for my recent absence”.

It is not a lie, you yearn to see more than Ithaca.

Her expression is thoughtful, assessing you, and then, as if by a trick, she softens in her eyes, no longer wearing such a solemn countenance.

“You will not behold much tailing after my son and his teacher”, she breaks into laughter.

You bestow a smile, enjoying her expression.

“I fear you are not wrong, my queen, but it is more than I have ever seen in all my life”.

Her laugh seizes and her chamber falls quiet.

You hope she believes your words, they are true, just not the entire truth. She cannot know.

While journeying through your thoughts, Penelope moves closer to you, as if ready to rouse you from another one of your nightmares.

Her hand reaches to touch your shoulder, but instead hovers above your face, cupping it, the inside soft as a sweet dream.

“If the gods grant it, you will see so much more dear Neso. Your life extends beyond this house”, she smiles, her thumb rubbing your cheek a few times, before retreating her entire hand.

You will not understand these words of hers for fifteen years, perhaps even more than this.

“I never want to be an arm’s length away from you, my queen”, a truth slips out of your lips.

Her eyes are still, as if already knowing. She is unmoved by your small confession.

“Then do not leave me again…without my consent. You belong by your queen’s side”.

Her body turns away from you.

“Yes…my mistress”, you beam with a new joy.

Penelope grants you a few days each week to accompany her son beyond the great house.

Telemachus, now six summers, has grown to be spirited, though he remains shy outside the company of his teacher, yourself and his mother.

You derive great pleasure from engaging him in longer discourse, learning to understand the workings of his mind, and spurring him to greater self-assurance.

The boy is the nearest you come to having a child of your own. Your love for him is steadfast.

You imagine at times what kind of a king he will become, hoping he remains kind and generous.

Mentor is brilliant with him, giving you time to enjoy yourself whenever they are in training.

On the days you venture outside, you return to the house wearied, yet in a pleasant state. The queen notices the differences in your disposition.

During these particular nights, you find her nearer than an arm’s length, as if to convey her longing for your presence by sleeping closer to your side.

Your lustful thoughts of Penelope still plague you with each slumber, until you can no longer bear it. Especially when her hair curtains your face and you take in her haunting, sea salt scent.

At times, you catch your fingers mindlessly stroking her soft locks, as you attempt to separate yourself from her.

This action exceedingly transforms your intimacy.

You hear her hum quietly and not wanting to disappoint by withdrawing, you dip your hand further into her hair, your tips meeting her scalp.

You begin to scratch lightly, uncertain in your movements, but when her hums increase in volume, it encourages you greatly.

Suddenly, as if possessed, your body moves closer to hers, using both your hands to massage her entire head.

Penelope sings with pleasure, having not been touched by anyone in the last five summers.

You never want to part your fingers from her scalp, her scent now injected in you.

Those feelings of desire you go to battle with every evening are alive within you and tonight you make peace with that war, surrendering at last.

With your permission, desire and lust direct all of your next moves. Starting with her back.

Your right hand continues to scratch her head, while the left slithers down past her neck and onto her shoulders.

In the same manner, you massage her there, squeezing your affection through the works of your hands, as a vessel to make known your love.

The queen’s hums turn into a noise that causes the in between of your thighs to throb, with a desperate want. That familiar moisture choosing this time to run down your leg.

You decide to join your right and left hands on her shoulders for a greater response, which indeed you are rewarded with shortly after.

Penelope falls into a trance, turning herself flat on the bed to give you better access to her back.

Her head faces the other way, but you can see when you climb over her body how her lips part.

Possessed is what you are, both hands dutifully kneading her through the nightgown she wears.

From the top of her head to the bottom of her feet, nothing is left untouched, well, except her posterior. You avoid it as if it is a plague.

Your mind cannot comprehend your actual position, each thigh on either side of her body.

Desire and lust instruct you further, when you decide to lower yourself, so your front is on top of her back. It is a feeling that inflames you both.

Before she has a chance to speak, your mouth attaches to the side of her neck, just below her ear, planting one brief but tender kiss.

“Neso…”, she starts, you do not let her finish.

“My affections are for you, Penelope, you alone and no other living soul. No one compares”.

“Each night I hope for you, praying to Aphrodite that you may behold me with lover’s eyes”.

“There cannot be another man, or woman who exceeds what you have done to my heart”.

“It is yours, my queen, take it…take all of me”.

The brief silence that follows after your truest confession is unbearable. You lower your lips again, this time attaching to her jawline, then her cheek, then her temple and brow.

Her noise returns with each kiss, feeling an urge to grind your body on hers.

When at last you approach the corner of her lips, she turns herself on her back to meet your eyes, pushing you up from your position.

“Forgive me, mistress”, your hands tremble at the sight of her witnessing your lustful thoughts.

“Sleep well”, you remove yourself entirely.

By the time you are turned to your side, you assume she has returned to her slumber.

“Neso…”, she calls after a few moments.

“Yes my queen?”, without turning back around.

“Do not hide from me”, those simple words spoken by her invoke the greatest of desire in you.

With a deliberate slowness, you decide to lie on your back, finding her propped up on one elbow, gazing down at you.

She bestows her warm smile, fingers reaching to trace your cheek, until her index and thumb grab hold of your chin.

Penelope lowers herself, until her face and your are mere inches away.

“The day you first came to me, you told me that you belong to me…and ever since, you have only proved yourself worthy of belonging to a queen”.

She presses her merciful, tender lips unto yours, with a kiss so fleeting, you miss it the moment she pulls away.

“I belong to you…”, you repeat in a trance.

Her mouth returns on you once more, this time with a deeper kiss. She hums when you find your tongue slipping inside her, wet and cautious.

Still possessed by desire and lust, you grab hold of her hand under her silk sheets and direct it to that throbbing feeling between your legs.

You place it there not knowing what to do, but when she starts to make small circles, your mouth parts wide open, your voice letting out a sigh, then a moan, each time she moves.

A smile stretches on her lips, watching you.

“So, this is what plagues you each night you lie down with me?”, her circles firmer.

You nod, meeting her gaze.

“Answer me”, she halts briefly.

“Yes, mistress”.

The knot in your gut tightens more than ever when she resumes her movement on you.

“Then tell me, why did you not confide in me?”.

“I could have long aided you in combating this small problem…and we could have triumphed”.

Heavens, she is perfection.

“I was ashamed, my queen”.

“Ashamed of desire? It is the most natural of things…do not ever be ashamed again, do you hear me?”, she quickens her pace.

“Yesss, mistressss”.

Then something bursts in you, causing you to cry out, but Penelope clamps her hand over your mouth, to avoid attracting attention, rubbing you vigorously, feeling moisture on your nightgown.

Even her hand is wet after she removes it from you, and a particular smell fills the chamber.

“Oh, you beauty…you shall indeed slumber soundly this evening, will you not?”, she plants a kiss on your forehead, before turning herself.

You feel as though you have to catch your breath, the tingling sensation still in between your legs, just now satiated by the queen of Ithaca.

Her aiding of you continues for months before she ever allows you to aid her in return.

After this, that is all you do with each other many nights over the following fifteen summers. So intertwined are you, that you slumber in each other’s arms, with no longer a gap in between.

Even after the war ends and the uncertainty of her future begins when the unruly suitors make camp in her home, you are her only constant.

Your unwavering devotion and dedication to her pleasure, keeps the nightmares at bay.

There are only a number of times you fight, even then, you soon find your way back to the other. Quick to forgive harsh words or her temper.

Many times you consider what may become of the both of you if Odysseus really is forever gone. The thought of any other man touching her the way you do each night makes you possessive.

She returns similar feelings of jealousy when some of the suitors begin to chase after you.

Their efforts are wasted on you.

Before she takes you to bed, you aid her in the unraveling of her the threads she wove in the day.

When your beloved Telemachus suddenly departs in search for this father, you hold her each night she cries herself to sleep.

You pour all you have into Penelope, lifting her out of the dark misery looming over her life, until the day the king returns, making it known it really is him, the great hero Odysseus, not just a beggar.

The final night you spend in her bed before these revelations is the hardest to recount. You fight.

“Should it truly be Odysseus, will you relinquish the throne and set sail with him?”.

She sighs, exasperated with you.

“Indeed, of course I shall. You have known this from the very beginning, and I shall do so with all my heart. He is my husband, Neso”.

Your hands reach to her own, holding tightly.

“And what of me? I am yours, do you not recall? You said I ought to remain at your side!”.

“As queen! I shall no longer be the queen. Another shall take my place when my son marries, that is what I meant by it!”.

She continues, with less volume in her voice.

“Please, let us not quarrel upon this, on our final night…come, make love to me, sweet girl”, she caresses your arm.

You refuse her.

“Penelope, I am in love with you, I must be yours. Can you not see me? What we share is rare…”.

She sighs deeply, her words melancholic.

“I have seen you, Neso, my dear one, more than most and have bestowed upon you fifteen of my finest summers, longer even than those I shared with Odysseus”.

“Yet, he remains the true affection of my heart”.

“None can compare to this feeling…not even you my love. I am bound to him. I have yielded all to you, save my own heart, for it belongs with him”.

Your tears quietly fall from your eyes, your voice softer, more desperate.

“But I cannot exist without you. Fifteen years are but a fleeting moment for the affection I bear for you, Penelope. I beg you, permit me still to be yours when you lay down your title as queen?”.

Her own tears sit at the very edge of her gaze.

“No. I liberate you from myself”.

“There is nothing more I can give to you, but your freedom…you told me many summers ago your desire to behold more than just Ithaca, well take the chance and be free from this life”.

You are moved greatly by her words, so much so you clutch onto her, remembering her form.

“I do not want my freedom, I want your love”.

This exchange goes on for most of the night, you begging, her refusing you gently, with a tenderness that breaks your heart further.

Now watching her ship sailing away, you wish you had spent your last time with differently.

Though your heart rejoices for the young king, your beloved Telemachus, it is crushed from losing Penelope.

It is Eurycleia who finds you sitting in the former queen’s favourite seat, overlooking the sea.

When you see her pitying countenance, you weep loudly, wrapping your arms around her shoulders.

“Dear child, I know this wounds you greatly, but the queen held you in higher esteem than any other present in this home”.

“Only Odysseus surpasses you”.

“That is not a terrible place to be”.

You tighten your embrace on her, as if it is Penelope herself telling you these words.

“Our mistress has left a few things for you in order, starting with a new title. Her parting gift to you is your liberty, for you to witness the world and travel far”.

“Yet if you choose also to remain with myself and our young king, she has elevated you in ranks”.

“You shall never want for anything, Neso”.

You never imagined that the woman who once brought you a lot of physical pain, would be the to bring you your freedom, from the same role.

“Thank you Eurycleia”.

She departs shortly after kissing your temple.

As you sit in Penelope’s position, grateful for her parting gifts, but your heart is breaking before you, in a manner which denies you the enjoyment all of the good things around you.

King Telemachus later finds you in the same position, once an hour has passed.

You feel your tears close upon beholding his face.

He finds a seat and remains quiet for a moment.

“Do not remain here out of loyalty for me or my mother. She wished for you to be free in the world”.

“Take the chance, trust me, it will change the course of your life to experience something else other than Ithaca”.

“You always and forever have a home with us, so if you find it difficult or unbearable, just return. But I urge you to first travel and see for yourself”.

He stands before you respond, giving you a pat.

“Thank you, my king”, but he has already left.

Something begins to stir in your mind, until it forms an idea. If all that consumes you is Penelope, then you will begin your travels with her place of birth and upbringing.

Sparta.

Perhaps you will reunite one day in the many summers to come, able to once again embrace and stand an arm’s length away from the beauty.

Fin.

i wrote it listening to this particular track, it was done so beautifully. thank you for reading and engaging with this 💞

Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table. 

Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on. 

Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites

The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.

“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”

“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile. 

“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.

The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you. 

“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom. 

Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”

He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment. 

He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile. 

‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger. 

“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.

“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone. 

His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen. 

“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”

The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen. 

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.

Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”

“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.

You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”

“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student. 

“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek. 

“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you. 

“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”

Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”

“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom. 

Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her. 

“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table. 

It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”

He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”

You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”

“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled. 

You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”

Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”

“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish. 

Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”

His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”

“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!” 

The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”

You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently.  You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance. 

Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you. 

All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds. 

And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”

You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”

“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”

It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding. 

“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”

There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement. 

The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.

You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.

Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”

Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”

As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”

He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.

“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.

The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”

Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays. 

It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there. 

By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all. 

Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off. 

“I’ll go with you.”

He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both. 

“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming

Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day. 

But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut. 

“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest. 

His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too. 

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour. 

He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach. 

“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up. 

“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there. 

“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out. 

He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that. 

So navy it was. 

You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though. 

Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.

“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”

“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window. 

“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame. 

Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays. 

He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one. 

It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too. 

Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet. 

“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term. 

You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you. 

It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”

“It’s fake satin. I think.”

“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.

The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”

“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.  

“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps. 

“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.

“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”

You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed. 

“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”

“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”

“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level. 

You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead. 

Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool. 

Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.

On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.

It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box. 

Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.

But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber. 

There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves. 

“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”

“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly. 

It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction. 

He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall. 

“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”

“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.

“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath. 

Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two. 

With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words. 

“Enjoyed it, probably.”

“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks. 

You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.

He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in. 

He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it. 

“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”

“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper. 

Actually, Ryland looks expensive. 

“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that. 

“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly. 

Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally. 

Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error. 

There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment. 

Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you. 

“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”

“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval. 

“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well. 

With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”

“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up. 

Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”

You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”

“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already. 

“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected. 

“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit. 

“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even. 

All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him. 

Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be. 

He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”

“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option. 

He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into. 

It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.

“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance. 

You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”

He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”

It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer. 

“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.

Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”

You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is. 

Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now. 

Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family. 

“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen. 

“What?”

“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”

“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”

“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”

You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”

Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”

It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe. 

Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”

“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric. 

You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”

“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”

A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”

“If it’s with you.” He amends. 

“And slow kissing? You like that too?”

“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them. 

You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”

Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head. 

“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew. 

“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight. 

“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction. 

There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it. 

“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”

“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years. 

“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”

“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”

Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”

“Science, opposites attract I guess.”

“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons. 

Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”

“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.

“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”

He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little. 

“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.” 

You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”

“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.

“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now. 

Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?” 

Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”

You scoff. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”

“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking. 

She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”

Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself. 

Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”

You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”

He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts. 

It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of. 

You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each. 

The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful. 

It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.

You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”

Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor. 

It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom. 

All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”

Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”

He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”

He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”

You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”

“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder. 

Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”

He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”

You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”

The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you. 

For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent. 

“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips. 

Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”

“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.

He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares. 

When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”

His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it. 

The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay. 

Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off. 

He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side. 

He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”

You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together. 

He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back. 

You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left. 

Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again. 

You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her. 

The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night. 

You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit. 

Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination. 

“Presumptious.” You smile.

He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”

“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt. 

“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”

“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”

He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”

“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”

“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber. 

But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”

“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.

Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”

He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”

“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”

“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.

“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”

He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.

Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him. 

The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late. 

Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again. 

“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous. 

“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon. 

“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you. 

Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.

“It has.” You lick your lips. 

Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours. 

Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door. 

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours. 

It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true. 

For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress. 

Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”

He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress. 

“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”

“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for. 

“Just me?”

He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”

Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you. 

His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.

There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”

“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”

“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping. 

The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination. 

You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining. 

“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”

You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties. 

It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp. 

“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”

It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight. 

He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts. 

Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly. 

“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”

When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight. 

“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed. 

You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity. 

Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent. 

His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails. 

The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders. 

Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee. 

His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.

Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to. 

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”

Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”

He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”

Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear. 

Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you. 

It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips. 

You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of. 

It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.

When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”

With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him. 

Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”

“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss. 

He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other. 

You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear. 

“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs. 

Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed. 

He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him. 

Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness. 

Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them. 

“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.” 

His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”

He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off. 

“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment. 

“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.” 

The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach. 

He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered. 

It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”

A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again. 

This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix. 

You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust. 

You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”

“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit. 

The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do. 

When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation. 

“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”

Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants. 

Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him. 

He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”

You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”

He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”

“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper. 

Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.  

He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs. 

Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”

You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”

He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets. 

You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you. 

“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him. 

“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.” 

The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know. 

You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”

No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”

The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”

“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”

“Deal.”

[ Masterlist ]

Ryland was very grateful that he was visiting her classroom and that she wasn’t visiting his. Her room was a stark contrast to his. He had planets hanging from the ceiling, his desk was cluttered and trashed, and things fell down regularly. Here, there were paper lanterns hanging down, but that was all. They were evenly spaced and gave the room a cozy feel, not a trapped in low budget space feel. Everything had a place. Her desk was cleared, at least the top was. He had no clue if the drawers were in the same condition. The classroom was organized from the row of backpacks hanging on the wall to the cabinet filled with toys. It was structured, warm. 

However, nice as the classroom was, that was not the best part of this arrangement the two schools set up. Working with Y/n was the highlight of his school year. There was just something about her. Maybe it was the fact that she always had a tupperware filled with baked goods for him when he brought his class to visit. Maybe it was the fact that she always smelled like vanilla and jasmine. And maybe, just maybe, it was the way she taught her students. The way that she could help one student understand a concept using props and hand motions and then turn around and help another by turning it into a game. She had a passion for helping them get from where they were, to where they were going. It was written all over her face. 

This was what Ryland thought about as he walked his eighth grade homeroom over to the elementary school. The morning fog was still thick and a slight breeze sent a chill down his spine. The buzzing chatter of his students was making the grey sky seem a little lighter. He loved that they were just as excited as the kindergarteners were. 

They made it inside the elementary building and the warmth immediately seeped into his bones, welcoming him like the embrace of an old friend. He navigated his class through the now familiar hallways and stopped outside a door that had been decorated with small laminated ducks, each one bearing the name of a kindergartener in the classroom. He turned to his gaggle of students. 

“Remember, go in quietly and sit on the floor near your kid.” He said, making eye contact with the students who loved to go in squealing and hug their kindergarten partner. 

“Yes, Mr. Grace,” the class echoed. 

Ryland knocked on the door. He suddenly felt nervous. This had become the new normal since the first time Y/n opened the door. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat to no avail. He wiped one sweaty palm on his jeans and ran the other one, shakily, through his tousled hair. His stomach knotted, he felt like an idiot. 

The door opened, and there was Y/n. She was wearing dress pants and an oversized sweater. Her hair was falling naturally. The smell of her perfume was wrapping him up like he just stepped inside after being out in the cold too long, which technically he did. His breath hitched quietly and he hoped she didn’t hear it. He felt the small smile creeping onto his face and there was no point in trying to fight it. 

He didn’t get to bask in the feeling as long as he wished to, the overly excited five year olds started babbling behind her. She smiled at him. What kindergarteners? 

“Hey,” she said, her voice low, like she was whispering a secret for his ears only. 

The small smile broke into a full blown grin. “Hey,” he whispered back. Y/n opened the door fully so Ryland and his class could enter. The two teachers stepped aside while the students entered the space and situated themselves. As he entered the room, his eyes settled on her desk, finding a tupperware sitting on it, a pink sticky note on top with his name on it. He could feel the tips of his ears match the color of the sticky note. 

“My kids have been excited all week. We had to make a countdown paper chain on Monday,” She said, beaming up at him. 

Ryland let out a small chuckle. “Mine too. They try to play it off and act cool, but they’ve asked me once a week when we’re coming back.” Y/n laughed and both teachers got back to what they were actually supposed to be doing. 

The schedule was simple enough. First was penmanship. The eighth graders had to help the kinders write a three sentence story. Y/n stood in front of the whiteboard, pink marker in hand. 

“So if Mr. Grace is my partner,” She said, looking at the group of fifty or so kids crammed into the room. “Then he and I are going to come up with the story together! It can be about anything!” She looked over at him. “For example, I might write, ‘Mr. Grace is a good teacher.’” She wrote the sentence on the board. Her lettering was smooth and elegant, only in the way that teachers can have. She glanced over at Ryland expectantly. 

“And I might want her to write, ‘Miss Y/n is a great teacher.’” He hoped that it wasn’t obvious that he was trying to elevate her. The smile and roll of her eyes told him he was unsuccessful. She wrote it anyway. He moved to stand next to her. 

“After that, we might say, ‘They make a great team.’” She said, and the smile she gave him went right to his stomach. He had to snap his eyes anywhere else or he feared he would forget himself and make a really dumb move in front of the students. He felt his neck heat up and he was sure he was beet red. Y/n noticed. Her gaze drifted back to the students. “Are there any questions?” She asked. 

A hand shot up instantly. Y/n nodded for the student to ask his question. “But, Miss Y/n! Our papers have a big square on top of our writing lines!” Y/n smiled at the urgency of the question. 

“They do! Good job, Jeffrey, I almost forgot! At the top of your paper you have a blank space. You and your buddy are going to color a picture that goes with your story.” 

Another hand went up. “Miss Y/n, you didn’t draw a picture.” 

The middle schoolers chuckled, noticing the way their teacher was avoiding looking at Miss Y/n. One of them raised their hand. “Yeah, Mr. Grace, you have to help Miss Y/n color a picture of the two of you!” 

He wanted to die. He hated how bad he was at being subtle. He was rescued when Y/n let out a laugh. “You guys are right. Tell you what, while you guys write, Mr. Grace and I will draw a picture on the board.” 

The students got to work as Ryland uncapped a black marker. He started drawing a stick figure. It was lopsided, and the eyes weren’t evenly spaced out, but Y/n assumed it was his best efforts based on the way his brows knit together and his tongue poked out slightly from between his lips. 

He looked over to where Y/n was finishing her drawing. It was very obviously him. From the glasses to the cardigan he was wearing, the dry erase drawing was very evidently Ryland. He was even giving a thumbs up. He glanced back at his drawing. Not terrible. Not great. He picked up the pink marker she had been using earlier. He drew a flower in the stick woman’s hand. He took a step back and admired his work. Y/n did the same. 

“We really do make a great team,” she said, turning to look up at him. 

His brain short circuited. She didn’t even compliment him. Why was his brain offline? Think of something! Say something! Say anything! She’s looking right at you! Say something! Say something now!

“Like ribosomes and protein synthesis.” Not that! Idiot. 

But the panic subsided as Y/n let out a huff of laughter and her body involuntarily leaned into his. It was brief, a slight graze of her shoulder against his. Yet it was all he could focus on. He stilled as it happened, trying to memorize the feeling instantly. He spent the next ten minutes trying to figure out if his arm tingled from the force of impact or if his brain was experiencing a minor chemical imbalance. His internal debate subsided as Y/n instructed the students to turn in their work. 

The rest of the morning passed by in a flurry of raised hands and tiny confused sighs as math worksheets were handed out and completed. There was a breath of relief when Y/n announced it was time for recess. He shrugged his cardigan off and onto the chair as he pulled his blazer back on. Y/n led the group down the hall and outside as Ryland manned the end of the line, ensuring no wandering or straggling. 

This time, the fresh air felt less inviting, like it was stripping the atmosphere of all the warmth and depth that Y/n’s classroom supplied. It smelled Earthy and sharp. Normally it would be one of his favorite things in the world. In this moment, he wanted nothing more than to be inhaling her scent. Her classroom scent, that is, or so he told himself. His inner lament was silenced when a soccer ball went flying into his left foot. 

“Mr. Grace!” A chorus of students yelled his name and ran over to him. A tiny boy with a mop of dark curly hair peered up at him through thick eyelashes. His hands were clasped near his chest as he started to speak. “Mr. Grace, will you play with us?” 

Ryland felt something profound tug at his heart strings as the boy looked up at him expectantly. 

“Sure, but only if we beat these middle schoolers, deal?” He stuck out his hand, the soccer ball now pinned under his foot. 

The boy, Miles, shook his hand and giggled out, ‘deal’. 

“Kinder versus middle school!” was all Ryland shouted before kicking the ball towards a five year old and running towards the goal, guarded by one of his own students. 

Y/n watched from the sidelines as Ryland weaved, not so elegantly, between the students. He was constantly stumbling over his own feet, and his glasses kept sliding down his face. However, Y/n also saw the way he passed the ball to her students every time. The way he  would steal the ball from an eighth grader, pass it to a little kid, only to have the ball stolen by a middle schooler again. She noticed the way he fell backwards and landed on his back in order to avoid lightly bumping one of her students. She watched him pause the game to help a girl tie her shoe. He had never looked so attractive. He was squatting down, her yellow shoe resting atop his knee. His glasses hung around his chin and his hair was tousled and sweaty from running. The way he smiled, watching as the girl ran back to the game once her shoe was properly tied again. She noticed the way that the water ran down his hair to his cheek to his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Wait, water?

Y/n’s train of thought was cut off by a splash of rain hitting her forehead. Oh great. Before she knew it, five year olds all around her were losing their minds. She pulled her sweater tighter around herself as the rain picked up. Ryland was by her side in an instant, shrugging his blazer off and, awkwardly, draping it over Y/n’s head, an attempt to shield her from the rain. Y/n smiled despite herself as she watched him concentrate. A whistle blew and all the kids quickly got in line as Y/n led them towards the classroom. Ryland, soaked to the bone, stood at the end of the line, waiting for one kindergartener to catch up after he ran back into the playground for his water bottle. 

The group was buzzing as they re-entered the classroom. Y/n gave instructions for the kids to hang up their coats and find a seat on the rug. Ryland stood next to Y/n, who was finally pulling the blazer from her head. “You didn’t have to do that,” She whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. 

“Yes I did,” he breathed out. Y/n tried to hand him the blazer, but it was quickly draped around her again, this time, over her shoulders. She smiled as he rubbed the fabric up and down her arms. There was a faint smell of clean linen and stale coffee. It was uniquely Ryland, like the scent only existed for him. She had been mostly protected from the rain, and she didn’t really need dried off, but she let him do it.

His glasses had little drops of water on them, sliding down the lens and onto the floor. His hair was completely soaked, dripping down his face steadily onto his clothes, which had been thoroughly drenched. Yet here he was, drying her off. The whole world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them as Ryland pulled the blazer off of her and wrapped his knit sweater around her. The sleeves were too long for her, but she pushed them back slightly, freeing her hands. The soft fabric brushed his arm as he tucked a stray hair behind her ear. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, Y/n waited with baited breath. 

“Miss Y/n?” A tiny hand pulled on the sweater and Y/n reluctantly pulled her eyes away from Ryland’s. 

Ryland felt his mouth shut quickly, suddenly very aware of where he was. He looked over at his students, who were smirking and looking away. Because that's what he needed, a class of middle schoolers noticing his awkward crush on the nicest woman in the world. 

He tried looking anywhere else. The pattern of the floors was suddenly riveting. His gaze snapped back to Y/n as she turned on a movie and told the class to watch quietly and eat their lunches. He turned the lights off and made his way to the back of the classroom, sitting on a tiny table. Y/n sat next to him, tupperware in hand, pink sticky note still on top. She handed it to him wordlessly, the air around them full and comforting. He opened the container as Y/n started eating her lunch next to him. 

“Banana bread?” He whispered excitedly. “You didn’t!” 

Y/n smiled, and she was overjoyed that the lights were off and he wouldn’t be able to see the way that her cheeks flushed. “Of course I did. You said it was your favorite.” Ryland leaned back in the chair slightly and started eating quietly, eyes trained on the students in front of him. 

He let his hand settle on the table beneath him, slowly letting it drift closer to Y/n’s until his hand was ghosting hers. Y/n didn’t look away from the kids as she carefully shifted so her hand was pressed against his, trying to get him to just take a hint already. 

He let his fingers delicately trace over her knuckles before hooking his pinky under her hand and flipping it gently so it rested in his. It was slow, and a little clumsy, but it was also warm. Solid. 

Ryland could feel the quickening thump of his heart against his chest. His throat was dry and he was suddenly very nervous that his hand was going to start sweating. 

The thoughts were subdued when Y/n brushed her thumb over his knuckles, trying to memorize every ridge, every valley. He looked down where they were joined together. A small smile graced his features and he went back to watching the kids. 

Lunch was over too soon in his humble opinion. In reality, they had actually gone fifteen minutes over because Y/n didn’t want to let go of Ryland’s hand. Only two more hours before he had to leave, and he tried to push the thought away, like not thinking about it delayed the inevitable. He took his place at the front of the room as Y/n settled her students into their seats. 

“Alright you guys! Who’s excited to learn about space?” Every little hand shot into the air. 

He uncapped an expo marker and started asking questions. “Who knows what is in the middle of the solar system?” A middle schooler started whispering into her kindergartener’s ear. The five year old jumped up frantically, waving her hand in the air. 

“I know! I know!” 

“Tell me, Amaya!” 

“The sun!” 

“Good job! Yes! The Sun is in the middle of our solar system! Everything goes in circles around it.” He drew a sun on the whiteboard. “Alright, Amaya, I need your help now.” 

Amaya looked over at Y/n for reassurance. After receiving a nod of approval, Amaya walked to the tall teacher. 

“Okay. Amaya, you are the sun. You’re gonna stand right here.” He gave her a high five as she stood where she was told to. 

“Who knows what planet is closest to the Sun?” 

There was more whispering. Then more voices shouting out ‘I know’ and ‘Me! Me!’. 

“What is it, Jack?” 

“Mercury!” 

“Good job! Come on up!” Ryland added another circle to the board. “Okay, Jack. You're gonna go in a circle around Amaya, and you’re the fastest planet in the solar system! So go! Faster! Faster!” The class erupted into giggles. 

“What comes after Mercury?” He didn’t have to wait this time. “Which planet is it, Claire?” 

“Uh, Venus?” 

“Venus is right!” Claire didn’t wait for permission before walking to the front. “Okay Claire, you have to walk in a circle too, but you’re very slow,” He said, dragging out the last part of the sentence. Claire started marching in slow motion around Jack. Laughter again. 

He continued on until he had an entire solar system of kindergarteners running around the space. Y/n watched as he laughed with the kids and inevitably started to ramble about how technically Max, the Earth stand-in, was moving slightly too fast for this example to be realistic. She didn’t realize she was smiling until Ryland glanced over and shot her a grin. 

He finally settles them down and returns everyone to their seats. Y/n watched him for a moment longer before remembering the coloring sheets in her hand. 

They sat together at her desk once the kids started coloring together. “I don’t think they’ve ever had that much fun during science,” Y/n said, her voice sincere, with a hint of something more. God, Ryland hoped he wasn’t imagining it. 

“I don’t know about that,” He said, his gaze flicking quickly to her lips and back up to her eyes. Y/n noticed. Her cheeks heated up and her eyes shifted to the ground, remembering quickly that they were still working. 

Ryland wanted to die. He looked up at the ceiling and wished that it would fall on him. He was saved from the awkwardness when a voice called his name. 

“Mr. Grace,” A teary eyed Amaya approached him with her coloring page in her grasp. He was moving before he realized it, crouching down so he was eye level with her. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He held his palm out and let her grab it with her small hand. She sniffled and Y/n felt her breath get caught in her throat at the interaction. The way his eyes scanned Amaya for something wrong. The way he subconsciously made her feel seen. The way he knew to hold out his calloused hand. It all caused something to bubble under the surface. 

“I messed up my drawing,” she mumbled, showing him the paper. Ryland looked at the page and then back at the small girl. 

“Messed up? I don’t see anything wrong!” He said, embellishing his confusion slightly. 

“Saturn isn’t supposed to be pink,” She sniffled again and let out a small, sad sigh that made Ryland want to tear up a little. 

“Well you know what?” He asked, looking at the girl holding his hand. 

“What?” 

“I think pink is the best color anyway. I think that Saturn looks better in pink than any other color.” 

Amaya cracked a small smile. “Pink is your favorite color?” 

Ryland beamed back. “Well, I don’t know, orange is pretty cool, but pink is too.” 

Amaya giggled and let go of Ryland’s hand, bouncing back to her seat. He stayed crouched on the ground, watching her go back to her seat for a while longer. 

It was at this moment that Y/n subconsciously noticed how strong his shoulders looked through his still damp shirt, which clung to his muscles in all the right places. She shook her head as he stood up, like it would remove the thought from her brain. 

“You’re really good with them, you know.” Her voice was quieter. It sent a warm tingle down Ryland’s spine. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly. 

Y/n giggled and looked back at the students. He opened his mouth to try again. 

“Well, statistically speaking, it’s easier to induce dopamine at that developmental stage.” He noticed the way her lips curved into a smirk and her eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. “Their baseline for excitement is much lower than in adults, so small achievements tend to produce disproportionally strong reactions. So like,” He took a breath, realizing he was still staring at her lips, and moved his eyes to meet hers. “High return on minimal input situation.”

Y/n rolled her eyes and laughed, lightly shoving his shoulder. “That was a lot of words to say that I was right.” He smiled and pressed his shoulder into hers. 

They sat together until Y/n went up to give the next instructions. Her eyes kept wandering over to his frame, sitting in a tiny, blue chair meant for a five year old. The older kids helped their kindergarten partners put their things away and start their reading work. 

Y/n started picking up markers that had fallen on the floor. Ryland followed suit. He stopped at Amaya’s seat, noticing how Saturn was bright pink with orange rings around it. He smiled softly and went to pick up the orange marker at the same time that Y/n did. Their fingers brushed, and at first Ryland pulled back, startled by her presence, letting out a quiet gasp. 

Y/n let out a small giggle, and quickly clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. He rolled his eyes at her laughter, but smiled despite himself. They cleaned up quietly, enjoying the last moments together. 

“Alright, kinders! Let’s say bye to our middle schoolers!” Y/n said as the eighth graders lined up with their bags. 

“Bye!” The class shouted. The middle schoolers waved and filed out of the room, Ryland hesitated outside the door. Y/n stood in the doorway, wanting to see him as long as she could before closing the door. 

He turned from Y/n to his class. “Start walking to the bus, I’ll meet you there. Gotta ask Miss Y/n what grade you guys should get.” The class groaned but started walking anyway. 

He turned back to Y/n. “I uh,” what was he doing? This was a terrible idea. “I, well, you,”

Y/n smiled and he completely forgot whatever it was he was trying to spit out. In a moment of foolish bravery, his mouth moved faster than his brain. 

“Would you want to go out with me?” He breathed out. 

Y/n smiled, looking at the ground, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked back up at him, cheeks flushed. “I’d love to.” 

He let out a sigh of relief. There was something about the way she looked at him. The way her eyes flitted down to his lips and then back to his eyes. He forgot himself for a moment. His lips went crashing into hers. It was a little clumsy, and a little rushed, but his lips were soft, and molded nicely with hers. 

He pulled away, breathless, eyes a little wild. Y/n leaned against the door, not registering the students behind her talking and coloring. 

“I‘ll see you later,” he mumbled as he walked backwards, eyes still trained on Y/n. He stumbled only twice before he turned around and walked towards the school bus waiting for him in the rain. 

He was startled as he climbed on board and was greeted with applause. 

“Yeah! Get it Mr. Grace!” 

“Finally did it!”

“You wanted her so bad!” 

“It was like an awkward nerdy soap opera!”

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

⤷ masterlist

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

Which means, as the Checkmate HR manager, you have lifetime job security.

Despite his inability to read a room and function with any kind of social skills, you find him…endearing. He really does make an effort for everyone, especially when it comes to birthdays. He’d done something special for your birthday, too, just a few weeks after you first started at the company. A little party in the break room with all your favorite snacks, a multitude of colorful gel pens in the brand you like.

When you asked him, bewildered, how he knew any of that stuff about you, when you had just met him. He readily admitted to peeking through the window of your apartment from the fire escape in the middle of the night while he was on patrol.

(Thus ensued your first bizarre HR meeting where you had to explain that stalking his coworkers is not an okay after-hours activity.) 

But when it comes to his own birthday, Adrian’s lips are sealed. Not even Chris knows when it is.

“He’s cagey about it,” Chris says when you ask him in the break room one day. “I think it’s part of his whole secret identity thing, I don’t know. He’s weird about it.”

“He’s weird about everything,” John says.

“Stop insulting your coworker directly to the HR manager,” Emilia says.

“It wasn’t an insult! He’s an endearing kind of weird.”

“He’s also the reason we hired an HR manager,” Ads says. “I’m sure they are fully aware of exactly how weird Adrian is.”

You are, in fact, perfectly well-aware of Adrian’s quirks. He makes your work life more difficult in practically every way.

Since then, you have a standing weekly meeting on Friday afternoons to talk about every faux pas Adrian has made that week. You quickly realized it was easier to tackle his social missteps in bulk than to address them one at a time. Otherwise, you really would just be following him around all day correcting his behavior. Not that it would be any trouble. He’s really fucking nice to look at, even when he says stupid shit.

Though you were expecting those conversations to be awkward at first, you’ve weirdly started looking forward to them. He seems to actually like talking to you. 

“You tell me what I’m doing wrong, so I can fix it,” Adrian says all the time. “And not in a mean way. In a nice way. No one else ever did that for me. They just tell me I’m an idiot, or laugh at me.”

In fact, since you started the weekly meetings with him, and spent more time with him…you’ve fallen a little more in love with all of his quirks every time he talks. You are by no means trying to change him. You like Adrian, just the way he is. You’ve just helped him learn some boundaries, that’s all. Set some ground rules.

And Adrian is nothing if not a rule follower.

“That’s sexual harassment," Adrian says one day, when he overhears Chris telling Emilia that her tits look great in that shirt. “Which is illegal. Vigilante kills people for that, you know!”

All this to say—despite his social deficiencies, Adrian makes up for all of his shortcomings with sheer effort and enthusiasm. Especially when it comes to birthdays. If Adrian is around, you feel special on your birthday, because he makes it special. Even if he crosses a few socio-emotional boundaries along the way and you need to help him course correct.

“I can’t believe none of you know his birthday,” you sigh.

“Don’t you have access to our personnel files?” John asks. He looks at Ads. “We do have personnel files, don’t we? If you don’t have the password, I can hack them—”

“I’m not sure why all of you talk about Adrian like he’s the only person in the office who has no boundaries,” you comment. “Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, madam HR manager.”

You look at him, unimpressed.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to do a little snooping. All in the name of celebrating a good friend’s birthday, right?

“We never had this conversation,” you say, and you head back to your office with a determined skip in your step.

Adrian’s best friends doesn’t know his birthday. But you—you can find out. Because John was right. As the sole member of the human resources department at Checkmate, you have access to everyone’s personnel files, including Adrian’s. No one needs to know if you take a little sneak peek—

“June 30,” you murmur triumphantly, staring at your computer screen. Next week. A Tuesday.

It might be an abuse of power, and it might not be a great look for the HR manager to be snooping through employee data, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re determined to make Adrian’s birthday as special for him as he makes everyone else’s.

That Friday, when you ask Adrian to go out and pick up the lunch you’d ordered for the whole team, he trips over himself to say yes to you, like he always does. It makes your tummy flutter a bit, the way he’s wrapped around your finger, but you try not to take it to heart. He’s wrapped around Chris’s finger too. You’re not special.

You wander casually over to Chris’s desk and tap on his shoulder.

“Hey. Can I talk to you in my office real quick?” you whisper. Ads, nearby, makes an ooooohhhh you’re in trouble sound.

“Is this about the dick joke I made at our team meeting this morning?” Chris asks. “Because it was funny. Everyone laughed at it. Including you.”

“It’s not about the dick joke you made. And I did not laugh, I snorted, which is not the same thing—”

“It was an amused snort!”

“Okay, yes, your dick joke was funny, even if it was absolutely not office appropriate,” you sigh. “Now will you come with me? I want your help with something.”

“Sure,” Chris says, smiling proudly, because he got you to drop your professional persona, even for just a moment.

As the door to your office closes behind him, he asks, “What’s going on?”

“Adrian’s birthday is next Tuesday,” you say.

“You dirty dog,” Chris teases. “You did snoop in the personnel files.”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Next Tuesday,” Chris muses, ignoring you. “Not much time to plan anything.”

“It’s not. Which is why I’m asking for you to help,” you say. “You’re his best friend. It would mean a lot if you helped plan his surprise birthday celebration.”

“We can’t do a regular surprise party,” Chris says, thinking aloud. “Especially not at his house, since he still lives with his mom. She would be a downer. I would say do it at my place and we can surprise him, but—if anyone pops out from around a corner, Adrian would probably shoot them before he could every say happy birthday.”

You bite your lip and wince. “True.”

“What about the retro video arcade?” Chris suggests. “He fucking loves that place. He’s got the high score on the Frogger machine.”

Your eyes go wide and bright. “That’s perfect. I’ll call the owner today and see if I can set something up on short notice. It’s a Tuesday night, so it can’t be that busy.” You start to reach for your phone to look up the address and phone number. “Then I just need you to get him there.”

“That won’t be a problem at all,” Chris says. “He is constantly asking me to go there with him.”

“You won’t give away the surprise?”

“Adrian will be too excited that I want to spend time with him to question my motives.”

“True. I’ll—” You cut yourself off when you hear the slam of the front door and realize Adrian is back with lunch. “We’ll reconvene later. I’ll spread the word to the rest of the team.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Chris nods.

The two of you leave your office together, and when he sees you together, Adrian’s brow furrows for a moment, then he smiles and laughs.

“Dude, I warned you not to make that dick joke earlier—it was fucking hilarious, but I told you it was an HR violation—”

Everything comes together exactly the way you want. The owner gives you a discount on the party room despite the short notice because Tuesdays is always a slow night, anyway, and Adrian is a regular who the man likes, despite his odd quirks. You run to the party store for teal, black, and silver balloons. Ads orders a cake. Even Emilia helps out, running to grab drinks, plates, and plastic utensils.

And Adrian is none the wiser.

“Me and Chris are going to the video arcade tonight!” Adrian tells you excitedly, late that afternoon as everyone wraps up their work.

“What if he beats your Frogger high score?” you tease.

Adrian frowns. “He better not. Especially not on my—” He cuts himself off, eyes cutting away from yours quickly, and his face flushes red. 

Your brow furrows. Why doesn’t he want you to know it’s his birthday? Is he upset that no one remembered?

“Maybe just don’t let him play that machine,” you quip, moving the conversation along and ignoring his blunder. He looks at you gratefully.

“Hey, dude, you ready?” Chris calls from across the room. It’s a signal for everyone else to get their asses moving and head over to the arcade before he and Adrian can get there.

“Coming!” Adrian calls. He grins at you, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” you say.

Adrian heads out to the Vigilante-mobile with Chris. He chews on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.

He’d almost admitted it to you, just now. That it’s his birthday today. Not a good idea, he thinks. After years and years of disastrous failures when he was younger, hoping and praying that anyone would show up to his birthday party—no. He can’t do it all again. It’s better for no one to know. To not expect anything from anyone.

He glances at Chris in the passenger seat as he pulls out of the parking lot and smiles. Some time with his BFF is more than enough for him.

“They’re coming, they’re coming!” Ads reports from her spot by the window. “Everyone hide!”

“No,” Emilia says. “We are not doing the hide and pop out to surprise him thing. Remember?”

“He would shoot somebody,” John reminds her.

“Just—stand over by the front door. The whole group. In plain sight,” you suggest. “No jumpscares necessary.”

“Okay, okay—”

You wait with the rest of the group with your eyes locked on the entrance to the arcade. Adrian is laughing when Chris opens the door, a sound that quickly dies when his best friend steps aside and he sees you and the rest of the 11th Street Kids standing there holding Happy Birthday balloons.

“What the fuck?” Adrian asks, a little wary.

“Happy birthday!” you say. You elbow Ads.

“Happy birthday!” Ads says reflexively. She nurses her wounded side. “Jesus, you have a strong elbow—”

“What the fuck?” Adrian repeats, and you start to get nervous before his entire demeanor transforms, a giant smile taking over his face. “You—how did you even know—”

“Someone snooped through the personnel files,” John says.

Adrian’s head swivels from Chris right beside him to the rest of his friends standing in formation in front of him.

“I—what—” he cuts himself off. His hands are shaking a little. He looks to the nearby table, at the Super Mario themed cake you’d ordered, at the Vigilante-colored balloons. “You guys did all this for me?” His voice cracks a little. He clears his throat and flushes.

“We can’t take the credit. It was her idea,” Chris says, gesturing toward you. Adrian turns to you with wide eyes.

“You stalked me?” he asks in awe.

“Adrian. I did not stalk you. I just…checked your personnel file for information I didn’t know,” you try.

“You stalked me,” he says, delighted.

Your cheeks feel hot. “You always make everyone else’s birthdays so special. I just wanted to do that for you, too. You deserve to have the best birthday ever.”

Adrian’s face morphs into an unfamiliar expression. He blinks quickly, like he’s suddenly trying to hold back tears.

“No one has ever done anything like this for me,” he chokes out. “Thank you.”

Chris takes pity on him when Adrian starts actively sniffling, clapping Adrian on the back.

“Why don’t we play some games? I am told you have the record on the Frogger machine. So I obviously have to beat it.”

“No,” Adrian says, immediately snapping out of his impending emotional spiral. “You can’t. The machine, uh…is broken.” 

It’s an obvious lie. The Frogger machine is blinking and beeping less than a yard away. You smile.

“How about some skee-ball, then?” you suggest. “There’s enough lanes for each of us.”

Adrian smiles. “Yeah. Hell yeah.” He rushes in the direction of the machines. 

“Lowest score has to babysit Eagly next time Chris is on an away mission!” Emilia calls, rushing after him. You laugh, glad that even stone-faced Emilia Harcourt is willing to get in on the fun.

“Fuck all of you,” John says. “You all know that I suck at things that require hand-eye coordination—”

“You carry a gun, maybe you should fix that,” Ads says.

“I guess it’s a good thing Eagly likes you the best anyway,” Chris laughs.

John smiles, just a little.

As the night goes on, the group breaks up to try out different machines, but the entire arcade is ringing with laughter, friendly jabs traded back and forth over pinball scores and failed levels of Space Invaders. After a few hours, as it grows later, things quiet down a bit. About twenty minutes ago, you parked yourself in the section with maze-games, working your way through all the different versions, listening with a smile as John and Ads try to beat each other’s Centipede high scores.

You feel someone walk up behind you, but you don’t look up, your brow furrowed with concentration as you stare at the screen, jerking the joystick back and forth as you try and epiclaly fail to beat a level on the Pac-Man machine.

“Can I ask you something?” Adrian asks, his voice directly next to your ear and the console makes a womp-womp noise as you startle and get eaten by a ghost.

“Damn,” you mutter. “I was so close!”

“You were not,” Adrian says. “Respectfully.” 

You laugh and turn to face him. Your face flushes a bit when you realize how close he’s standing to you. He’d been looking right over your shoulder at the screen, but now his attention is fixed on your face. You feel your whole body flush with heat.

“What’s up, Adrian?” you ask. “You had a question?”

“I thought you didn’t like me,” Adrian says.

“What?” you say, bewildered. “Why on earth would you think that, Adrian?”

“I mean—I’m like. So fucking annoying. You constantly have to hold my hand through behaving appropriately at work, and I’m just a dumbass and a bad person and an inconvenience—”

“Stop that,” you chide gently. “You are not an inconvenience, Adrian. I like our weekly meetings. I like spending time with you. You are a good person and I like you, you idiot.”

“You called me an idiot,” Adrian gasps, delighted.

“That’s what you got out of that? Really?”

“You tell me all the time not to call people idiots at work. I’m rubbing off on you,” he grins, a little wicked glint in his eye.

“We are not at work,” you point out. “Those rules don’t apply.”

“None of the office rules apply right now?” Adrian asks. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Well,” you consider. “This is not a work event. It’s a birthday party. With your friends. Who just happen to be your coworkers. So I think we can bend the rules a bit.”

“Even like, the sexual harassment rules?”

“Adrian,” you say, exasperated.

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I just—I mean—” He swallows, looking suddenly nervous, but still excited. “You’re always telling Chris and Emilia not to make out at work because the rest of us did not consent to seeing all that. Right?”

“Yes,” you say. “So if they wanted to make out right now, no one is stopping them. But we are still in public, so—”

“And if I kissed you?” Adrian blurts. “Since, you know, we’re not at work? That wouldn’t be an HR violation?”

Your heart stops. You pause and look at him, waiting for the punchline. But he just looks at you, eyes wide and earnest behind his glasses, with a smile on his face.

“Uh, no,” you say, a little flustered. “That wouldn’t be an HR violation.”

“Great,” Adrian exclaims. “Can I kiss you then?”

“You want to kiss me?” Your voice goes up an octave higher than usual.

“I always want to kiss you. Even though you are so, so shitty at Pac-Man. But I only ever see you at work, and that would be an HR violation.”

“Please stop saying HR violation,” you say, your voice high and thin.

“Okay,” he says, his voice softer as he steps closer to you. “But…I can? Kiss you?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “You can.”

His lips touch yours, eager and searching, and you respond in kind, letting your arms wind around his neck. His arms snake around your back, pull you into him by the hips, and you can already feel how you’re affecting him. It makes you giggle, and when he pulls away from you, he laughs too.

“This was really, really nice,” Adrian says.

“The kiss, or the party?”

“Both,” he says.

“I’m glad you liked it,” you giggle.

“The kiss, or the party?”

“Both,” you say softly. Your fingers twist the curls at the nape of his neck, and he hums, leaning forward to kiss you again.

“I think I liked the kiss more,” he says against your mouth.

You don’t bother answering with words, just open your mouth for him, let his tongue touch yours, let him press you against the game console. The joystick and buttons press uncomfortably into your back. You can’t bring yourself to care.

“The arcade closes soon,” Adrian says when you break away for air. His chest is heaving too, but he’s smiling, wider than you’ve ever seen. “I was thinking, maybe I could bring you home, and we could HR violate each other.”

“Adrian,” you deadpan.

“I mean we should have sex,” he clarifies.

“I know what you meant, you idiot.” But even as you roll your eyes with exasperation, you smile. “We can do whatever you want, birthday boy.”

You groan, music echoes from your earbuds where they’ve fallen off somewhere a bit away and overlaps with the sound of the wheels of your board clattering as it continues rolling. You scramble, flicking your wrist to shoot webs and catch it, but then remember your current predicament and let it be. It’s not heading into any walking area, anyway. 

A shadow clouds the sun, and then a black converse shoe is stepping on the end of your board to stop it from getting too far. You squint your eyes, glancing up and catching the way Remus tucks it under his arm. His smirk is a dangerous mix of amusement and fondness as he turns back to you—maybe it’s just your giddy predisposition, but you swear there’s a halo around him. Or maybe it’s just because he’s standing against the sun. 

“Going somewhere?” 

“Yes, actually.” You lean over your elbows. “This specific stretch of glass.”

Remus looks around, raising an eyebrow. “Uh, really?” he asks, tapping a finger on your board. “Could’ve sworn you were rushing to the humanities building.”

“Wrong assumption, but I’ll allow it,” you shrug. “I was actually hoping someone from the humanities center noticed me faceplanting, and, I don’t know…” you fiddle with the grass. “run to my rescue?”

His lips twitch again, it seems to be a conscious effort to keep his smirk at bay. “Were you, now?”

“Hm.”

“Did it work?”

You shrug again. “I don’t know, you tell me.”

Remus shifts his weight, crossing his ankles as he leans on the tree. Your perpetrator. “Well, now that you mention it—I was on my way to the arts center, too,” he looks around, feigning casualness. “but then I saw this very pretty girl faceplanting and, I don’t know, I had to check.”

“Naturally.” 

“For obvious reasons.” 

“As one might expect,” you say agreeably. And a tiny bit giddy. “knowing you’re such a gentleman and immediately helped her up.”

It’s enough to make Remus drop the facade, he holds an hand out and you readily take it to stand up. He doesn’t let go, and neither do you. It coasts up the length of your arm until it cups the side of your neck, thumb sweeping your skin and lips twitching into a knowing smirk when he feels your goosebumps. You only roll your eyes, cheeks warm as you take the board from him. It’s in this distraction that he finally kisses you, soft and gentle and long enough to make your knees week again. Honestly, this whole Spidergirl business has only proven to you how easily reactive you are to Remus.

His lips curl into a smile as he breaks apart, though he doesn’t drop his hand. “You okay?”

You hum. “That depends, are you asking me about the fall or the kiss?”

Remus shakes his head, but his cheeks warm up. Taking a pinkish hue that you have to kiss him now or you could, like, die if you don’t. And you do, leaning closer and smiling into the kiss when he meets you halfway. 

“Hi, sorry. I forgot to say,” you mumble as you break apart. Despite yourself, honestly. 

“S’okay. You were… occupied.”

You huff a quiet laugh, a tiny bit embarrassed but too in love to truly care. Remus strokes your jaw once before dropping his hand, but doesn’t go very far. He offers you his arm, instead. You set the board down and readily loop your arm around his, a well practiced routine. He waits for you as you stop to collect your phone and earbuds, and accepts the one you offer him before setting out to continue your walk down the courtyard. Or, well, he walks and waits as you push your board to roll down by his side. Sharing earbuds and little shy smiles. 

“Hm, no wonder you were zooming around,” he says at the sound playing. He gives your arms a small tug. Playful, almost. 

You look away, biting back a smile. “Shut up.”

Remus only chuckles, bending just enough to drop a little kiss to the side of your head. “Were you actually heading to the humanities building?”

“Yes, and then out campus,” you give your board a little push, harder in your giddy excitement. But Remus is well acquainted with your bursts of energy, holding you back before rolling too far away. “Sorry, uh—James and Lily are near, asked if I wanted lunch. We, I mean.”

”We?” he asks, grinning.

“I mean, oh—” You push a little too hard, but Remus’ catches you before you can faceplant again. On the cobblestone path this time, though. “Fuck, uh, sorry. I mean… if you want to… come?”

”Of course,” he answers easily. It makes your heart melt and slam and do multiple somersaults. Even more when he looks at you sideways, lips twitching. “Is it a double date?”

Your feet wobble a bit, but you don’t fall this time. “What?”

Remus has the gall to laugh. “I’m messing with you, dove,” he nudges your side lovingly. “I’ll come, yeah.”

You look down at your board, rattling as you skate through the uneven path. You hate to say it, you really do. But... “Just remember—”

“Yeah, I know,” he nods, sounding awfully normal. His mood doesn’t dim when you remind him of the quiet aspect of your… well, your relationship. And the most painful one: the secrecy. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he stops, and you force yourself to stop as well. On top of the board you are a tad taller, just enough to be at eye to eye and notice the constellation of freckles on his nose and his scars. “I’ll take you any way you’ll have me.”

“Still…” you look around, knowing you're outside of campus and into the city. Where anyone can see you, Spidergirl or not. “I promise it won’t be long. Just until… uh, until I handle Junior and all that.”

“y/n, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Especially when I don’t mind, truly.”

“I just,” you sigh, setting one foot off your board, rocking it back and forth. “I don’t want you to think I’m hiding you or anything like that. I promise.”

“I mean,” Remus looks around, too. Then, he takes a step closer. “you sort of are. But I know why, and I know it’s a security measure.”

“It’s not very fair to you, though.”

“No, and it’s not fair to you, either,” he bends a little, searching for your gaze. “Can I confess something to you?”

“Sure.”

“If the roles were reversed… I’d want you to be safe, too.”

You pause, looking back at him. “You would?”

“Of course,” he nods with resolve. Like any other option could ever be possible. It makes you feel a bit better, just a smidge. The guilt is too big, there isn’t much room for anything else. Maybe if—Remus taps gently at your temple. “Stop thinking. It’s okay, I promise.”

“Okay,” you nod once, hesitant at first before your eyes land on your bandaged hands. Then, again with more conviction. “At least we’ve got a couple of more days before… uh.”

Remus’ lips twitch to the side. “Then, we better make the most of it, hm?” he unhooks his arm, looking around first before cupping your cheek. He drops the quickest but sweetest kiss to your lips, and you must rein yourself from chasing him when he pulls apart. “Besides, you think James would shut up about it if we told him?”

You blink, then again before remembering yourself. Remus waits, lips stretched sideways in a little smirk. “Oh, right,” you laugh quietly, bashful. “He’d be shooting out from the rooftops.” 

“Would he?”

“Hm,” you hop back on your board. Grateful for the change of topic and growing confident because of it. “He was so insufferable at first, saying he knew Spidergirl’s weakness and all. Annoying prick.”

Remus hums. “I’m your weakness?”

“Ah, fuck,” your knees wobble, narrowly missing the small hill on the pavement. Remus laughs, delighted and endeared at once. You only shake your head, caught. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“A little,” he murmurs, like a shared secret. “So it’s true, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, pushing off your board again. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes, too in love for it to have any real effect as you continue the walk to the café James and Lily are waiting for you. The streets are a tiny bit packed, with the nice weather it’s only obvious, so you hop down the board and bite back a shy smile when Remus’ arm lowers to hold your hand instead. Careful of your bandages and with enough pressure to make your insides melt—even more when he looks down over his shoulder with a knowing little smile. Both of you pretend it’s for the sake of wandering through the crowded street. 

At the café, James and Lily are too busy being openly obsessed with each other to notice your joined hands when you walk past the window. Remus only spreads an arm out to you as he opens the door, sharing a little smile before walking inside. Pretending nothing has changed. 

James glances up when the bell chimes. “Ah, there you are!” he stands, beckoning you closer. “The one person guaranteed to give me grey hairs.”

You roll your eyes, but turn to point at Remus behind him. “You mean him, right?”

Remus makes an amused sound, sliding into the booth without even deigning to hide his endeared smile. “Yeah, right. Since I’m the one skating everywhere.”

“What? This?” you set it against your side of the booth. “I knew it looked familiar.”

He only waves you off and you smile before turning to James and Lily, who eye you curiously with different degrees of confusion. James being the most obvious when your gazes meet. His eyes flicker between you and Remus, then down at your bandaged hands before looking at you. Lily, for her part, only hums knowingly and sips at her coffee. 

James shakes his head. “Uh, y/n, would you, um… coffee?”

You dip your chin, sending him a questioning look when he stands. He only makes a funny gesture with his eyes, and Remus’ lips twitch as he pretends not to notice when Lily asks him about his meeting with Albus and how his dissertation is going. You stand, and Remus readily adjusts, setting your backpack on your spot while you follow after James and he continues his conversation with Lily. Like nothing has changed. 

Of course, as soon as you’re out of earshot, James drags you to an even more secluded area. 

“Wait, the coffee—”

“I don’t care about your coffee. Where the hell have you been?” he whispers, eyes wide as he scans you over. Your bandaged hands and the treated little scar on your lip. “You disappeared on me for days and next time I see you, you’re… wait—oh God, Remus?”

“Huh?”

“y/n, focus? Please?”

“I am focused!” you whisper in the same urgency. “I just don’t know what you mean.”

He levels you with a look. “Don’t act daft with me.”

You look around your little alcove, a quick sweep of the room to make sure no one can hear before bending closer to whisper in his ear. “I told Remus.” Like a reflex, you stamp a hand over his mouth before James can fully react. He pauses, and you only send him a warning look. “It was… uh, sort of an accident.”

“An accident?!” he whispers back, eyes wide as he looks back at the booth. Lily and Remus continue chatting normally, not at all minding you and James taking forever to return. “How can that be an accident, y/n. Wait—did he catch you with the suit? Oh my god, does this mean—”

“James, I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice,” you say, but keep your palm up in case he reacts again. You clear your throat, lowering your tone. “Well, uh… funny story, so… I’ve been, sort of, walking him home for a while now? As Spidergirl?”

James only blinks. “…what?”

“It was an accident at first but, uh…” you glance back at the booth. “That’s not important—”

“Not important?” he repeats in disbelief. “y/n, do you know who we’re talking about?! For all we know he could’ve connected everything ages ago!”

You tilt your head from side to side. “Funny you mention it…”

He groans. “You’re impossible.”

“In my defense,” you start to say. “I didn’t know he found out, either. Until, uh…”

“Until what?”

“I, um, climbed into his flat through the window?” your whispers get impossibly lower, the slower his blinks turn at your admission. You clear your throat. “I mean, it wasn’t like I actively went there to tell him. I had my suspicions but…”

“But?”

“It was sort of, like… a,” you gesture with your hands. mimicking your web shooting. “a shot in the dark? Get it?”

James sends you an unimpressed look. 

You scramble to explain. “What else do you want me to say? It was an accident.”

He sighs. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just…” he looks around, calculating. “y/n, you said you didn’t want him to know.”

“I know, I know, okay?” you nod, brushing your hair away. You fiddle with your bandages. “I didn’t want him to know but—I just…”

James nods, too. In understanding. “I get it,” he sighs, pushing his glasses up to rub at his eyes. “It’s okay, just… I want you to be careful, and him, too.”

“We are,” you say immediately, though quieter. You cut a quick glance back at the booth, meeting Remus’ eyes across the café. He sends you a little smile. You turn back to James. “We’re keeping it a secret for now. Just until things settle with… well—”

He curses. “Regulus.”

You nod, looking up, and frowning when you see the way his face falls looking over your shoulder. “How do you know—”

“No. Fuck, just…” he points. “He’s here.”

“What?” your head whips around, following his gaze and catching the way Regulus beelines to the booth with Sirius in tow. You’re momentarily relieved to see Barty is nowhere in sight. Small mercies. “Oh, fuck, fuck—”

“What now?”

“I don’t—” you let your face drop to your hands, exasperated and disappointed that this little stretch of joy lasted so little. “I don’t know.”

“Well, uh…” James stands straight, tilting his head to look over the café. “Let’s just go back and see what happens, yeah? Maybe they’re just passing through.”

“Okay,” you exhale. “Okay, yeah. Just… I know this goes without saying but—”

“Yeah, I’ll keep quiet about you and Remus,” he finishes off. Then, he halts and you almost slam into his back. You blink when he turns around to point at you. “Wait, does this mean?!”

You sigh. “James, for fuck’s sake. Now you are the one acting daft.”

“You’re joking.” 

“Why would I joke about this, Potter?”

“I mean,” he shrugs. “I’ve seen you daydream about this day for years so…”

You swat his shoulder, biting back a wince and James gawping at how hard you accidentally hit him. “Be lucky I can’t web your sodding mouth shut.”

“You’ll have to fill me in immediately after today.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, voice trailing off as you look over his shoulder. Remus sends you a look between conversations with Sirius. You look back at James, panicked almost. “James!?”

“Right, yeah. Regulus. One villain at a time.”

You roll your eyes, sidestepping him when he doesn’t immediately move to return to the booth. Remus is nodding along in what you know is his polite smile to Regulus. There’s a small moment where guilt gnaws at you—it dissipates into warmth and affection when your gazes meet and his smile spreads. 

“Hi,” you nod, smiling in greeting at Regulus and Sirius. “Sorry, we were, uh…”

Lily bites back a laugh. “Getting coffee, I believe?”

Your head whips towards James, who, in return, looks back at you in panic. Lily laughs louder this time, and so does Remus. Knowing and fond at once. 

“Right, coffee.” James says, looking around. “Uh… be right back.”

“And make sure to actually bring the coffees back, honey.” Lily calls out, watching him venture into the café. 

James sends her a thumbs up, nearly collapsing into a couple on his way to the bar and apologizing profusely when he notices. You drop your face to your hand in fond exasperation, but of course, your luck is rotten when the sound of the smack is loud enough to catch Sirius’ attention. His eyes flit down to your bandages, and his gaze hardens.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Huh?” You blink. Sirius waves you off, reaching across the table to hold your hands. Remus tuts, but he gets ignored as well. You only shrug, letting him inspect the bandages and casually scrambling inside your head through your list of excuses. “Oh, this? I burned my hand on the catwalk.”

“And the other one?” he asks, not pausing at all as he takes the other hand. Equally bandaged. 

“Hands, I mean.” 

Sirius shakes his head. “I miss one rehearsal and you burn the skin off your hands.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” you amend, biting back a wince when his thumb presses a little too hard on the exact spot the stitches are. “I’ll survive.”

“One day you won’t, and you’ll end up handless,” he sighs, dramatic as always as he finally lets go of you. “Oh, your poor, beautiful hands—did you know she has the prettiest hands in the theater department? Right after mine, of course.” He tells Regulus. 

Regulus only rolls his eyes at his brother, but flashes you a polite smile. “No, I didn’t know,” he tells him, then turns to you. You don’t miss the way his eyes, to their own accord, flicker to Remus next to you. “But I’m glad it wasn’t too bad.”

Your bloody cronies did this, you think bitterly. But only flash him an equally polite smile before sliding down to your spot on the booth. Remus readily takes your backpack to leave you an extra space, and the baby hairs at your nape stand when his ankle hooks around yours under the table. It’s a conscious effort to keep your lips in a straight line.

“Right, so,” Sirius says, leaning back on his seat, taking up space and not caring about it. Jesus, Junior is beginning to rub off on him. “What were you talking about before we graced you with our presence?”

“About how much of a knobhead you are.” Lily counters immediately. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” she crosses her arms. “Do you know how worried Jamie and I were? Waiting for you last night?”

You frown. “Last night?”

Sirius waves you off, like he can already tell his next words are going to worry you even more and make your frown deeper. “Had a date with Junior, then things escalated and—”

Regulus makes a disapproving sound. “Spare us the details.”

“Well, you can get an idea, anyway,” Sirius goes on, shrugging a shoulder. Though his lips twitch in a smirk. “Terribly sorry. I know you’re going through withdrawals.”

With your free leg, you kick him under the table. “Don’t be crass.”

“I’m not!” he raises his hand in surrender. “I did spare the details, didn’t I?”

“I’d rather you shut up, actually.” Regulus deadpans, looking around the café with disinterest. “No one wants to hear about your—you know what? Forget it, you’re too much of a nuisance to turn my words into childish innuendos.”

“Oh, so little faith!” Sirius gasps, feigning upset. The facade drops as he shifts on his seat, grey eyes zeroing on Remus. You feel the way he nudges his foot closer to yours. “What happened to living vicariously through your friends?”

Regulus scoffs. “You fail to remember that I’m not your friend. I’m bloody your brother.”

“Why would we want to live through you, anyway?” Remus counters. “Being locked up in a theater every single day isn’t the upper hand you think it is, Sirius.”

You frown. “Hey.”

“Not you,” he amends quickly, knowing your upset is an act but indulging you, anyway.

Sirius draws out a long sigh. “Right, well, I suppose my life is boring when you go around flirting with massively attractive vigilantes and things of the sort.”

You feel the floor giving out under you. “What?” you scrape out. 

Regulus does react to this, too. Head whipping with such speed you hear the way his neck clicks. He frowns at Remus. “You what?”

Remus parts his lips to offer a rebuttal, but Sirius beats him to it. “Oh, didn’t you hear? This twat got saved by Spidergirl and won’t stop raving about it.”

“Raving?” you repeat, feeling a strange mix of nerves and amusement as your eyes flicker to Remus. 

“I wasn’t raving. I just mentioned once,” he says quickly, though the tips of his ears turn the faintest shades of pink. “And of course you’re now using it against me, you dickhead.”

“Oi, you called me boring first. I’m just evening the playing field.”

“What do you mean Spidergirl saved you?” Regulus asks, his voice taking a slight edge that you definitely do not enjoy. “When?”

“At that hijacked building,” Remus says, toying with a napkin in a way you know it’s all pretense of casualness. “You know, the one we agreed to meet up at?”

Your eyes flicker between them, and so do the rest of the table as they stare each other down. It makes your insides twist in a way you also don’t enjoy. Why the fuck is James taking so long?

Sirius clears his throat, nudging Lily rather playfully. You know him well enough to know it’s his attempt to ease the tension. “Now you know why he’s massively in love with Spidergirl.”

You can’t help it, you snort. Remus nudges your ankle under the table. “Sorry, it’s just,” you huff a laugh. “Spidergirl, really?”

“Yeah, really?” Regulus leans back, crossing his arms. Everything about his stance is calm, but you’re beginning to notice a simmering tension around him. It makes your senses tingle again. 

Remus shakes his head. “I can’t have a serious conversation with you lot.”

Lily hums. “Don’t lump me in with them. I barely said anything.”

Sirius shrugs. “My apologies, I forgot who I was talking to—Spidergirl’s number one fanboy and her loyal coworker.”

Regulus’ arms loosen and your heart clenches in panic again. “What?”

You clear your throat. “I take pictures of her. Sometimes… for the paper,” you explain, trying not to make your tone as dry as you want to. “It’s mostly a freelance gig.”

“Wait,” Regulus frowns. “So you’re… like her photographer?”

“No.”

He raises his eyebrows. “The paper acquires her photographs through anonymous sources. Is that you?”

“How do you know that?” you ask back. “Anonymous sources?”

“You can say that, yes.”

“The coffees have arrived!” James says, somehow managing to set the four cups of coffee on the table. He frowns, immediately picking up the tension clouding the table and the way you and Regulus stare each other down. “Uh… what did I miss?”

Sirius, of course, takes his coffee first. “About Remus’ crush on Spidergirl—is this decaf, Jamie?” 

James, to his credit, remains awfully casual despite the way his muscles tense. You look away from Regulus to send him a fleeting panicked glance. He catches it immediately, taking a step to the side and clearing his throat. You nudge Remus’ side under the table.

“Uh, y/n, I actually just hung up with McGonagall—she asked if you can stop by her office?”

You nod. “Of course,” you stand, barely giving the table a chance to react. “Thanks, Jamie. And for the coffee, too.”

“No problem.”

When Remus stands as well, Sirius frowns. “Where are you going?”

Remus makes an amused sound. “It’s midday. I have places to be, Sirius.”

“Now, though?”

“Well, since y/n is going back to campus, I might as well come with her. Right, dove?”

“Hm,” you say, sipping your coffee and taking your board in a hurry. “Sorry, uh, raincheck?”

Sirius blinks, but, for some reason, it’s Regulus who answers. “Of course. Good luck.”

You nod, feeling your insides fill with concrete when he holds your gaze. Remus nudges your side, distracting and grounding at once as you force your eyes away. The rest of the table share farewells, and you make sure to send James a thankful little smile on your way out. He only nods in reassurance. I’ll call you later, he mouths. 

It’s a testament to how long you’ve held your breath when you step out of the café, exhaling sharply and feeling your muscles unclenching. Remus looks over his shoulder before setting a hand on your lower back, guiding you a bit away from sight. Just in case. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, did you notice that?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, tapping a finger on the side of his own coffee. Pensively, almost. “The fucking audacity to show up here and ask questions.”

“You don’t think he’s… suspecting anything?”

He looks back at you. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with Regulus,” he sighs. “Hopefully not.”

You cling to that thought, too. Remus frowns, eyes scanning your face and the way you keep trying to glance back to the café. He does the same, but with different intentions as he cups the side of your face. He shifts, standing in front of you and knowing he can cover you when he bends down to search for your wandering gaze. 

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t go there. You’ll drive yourself mad thinking about it.”

“No, I know. It’s just…” you swallow nervously. “for a moment, I thought…”

“Yeah, me too,” his thumb strokes your cheek. “We have to be even more careful from now on.”

You nod, knowing it’s the least you want but something you must do to ensure Regulus doesn’t suspect again. Remus mimics it, hoping to reassure you. 

“Want to head home?” he asks instead. 

“Home?”

“If you’re free, of course,” he adds, trying to pull your attention back to him. His thumb sweeps your skin again for good measure. And because he can do that now. “Or we can go somewhere else.”

Your lips twitch, and Remus smiles when you relax into his palm. Melting, almost. “You’re asking me out?”

He makes a show of feigning surprise. “Am I that obvious?” 

“I don’t know, sort of,” you shrug one shoulder, squeezing his hand between your cheek and shoulder. Remus makes a sound like it’s physically costing him an ounce of strength to not kiss you. You mimic it, but mostly as a preamble to your jab. “Just like your crush on Spidergirl.”

“Oh, God,” he closes his eyes, embarrassed and fond at once. You laugh, and his own laughter follows a beat later. “Please don’t let it get to your head.”

You smile. “Too late.”

Remus shakes his head, and for a moment you think it’s in exasperating fondness before he’s pulling you even more to the side and farther from the café. Then, he dips down to kiss you. Perfectly hidden away when he takes a step back and cornering you against a brick wall. Perfectly concealed, of course. Smart move, as always.

“So… it is a date, then?” you ask when he breaks apart. 

He rolls his eyes, kissing the corner of your lips before stepping back. He offers you his arm. “Of course it is, dovey. Where to?”

You smile, hooking an arm through his and setting your board down. Remus walks by your side and deep into the crowded street. 

From the window, Regulus manages to catch a small glimpse between conversations. He pauses to take out his phone, stealing quick glances up as he types.