Ungravity - 26

Pulling himself from a drunken stupor, his head pounding, brain pressing painfully against the inner-workings of his skull, Prince Daeron sits up in bed, sheets of soft linen and silk pooling over his lap. Bright, golden sun streams between the geometric tracery of the large windows. He winces at the light, puffing out a breath to blow a strand of hair out of his face. Waking up in an unfamiliar room in the Old Palace of Sunspear made his eyes sting even more, let alone waking from another vivid dream.

Although this dream was different.

There was less blood and fire. Fewer haunting screams.

He had awoken—albeit with a nauseating headache he had since become accustomed to—with a soft glow in his chest, an insistent warmth that made him reach to the table beside the bed and grab one of the four bottles of Dornish red. He examined it carefully: was there something different in this that made him dream of sunshine and smiles?

His dream was so different. Stranded somewhere amongst the rolling sand hills of the central Dornish desert, he had wandered aimlessly, but desperately, dragging his body through visible waves of heat. At least, it felt like it was him, but he was unsure. Wings weighed him down: large, black and scaly, but he couldn’t fly. He remembers the pain and the weight as he began sinking further and further into the scorching sand, gold and glitter racing for miles in either direction, swirling around his head like a flurry of birds. And that’s when he saw it, burning red eyes alighting on a blur of blue and green. An oasis, lush amongst the desert, bursting from the sand in a shower of gold.

His dreamstate crawled on all fours, pale skin red-raw by the time he reached the banks of the oasis. The water was the brightest blue he had ever seen, but he could not see his reflection in it. Instead, he saw a different face, a kind face, a beautiful face staring back at him. A woman smiling up at him through the rippling of the cool water.

She spoke to him, but no words came out.

Instead, the sound of bubbles and waves lapping gently against sand.

A clawed hand reached into the oasis pool, searching for the woman beneath the surface. The chill of the water soothed his burns, red disappearing from his skin. His claws vanished too, and he could see the clear crescents of his fingernails, the lines of his knuckles, the veins on the back of his hands. So human beneath the surface.

The woman watched him curiously, eyes shiny like pearls. Then, his hurt lurched and filled with warmth as she shifted upwards, towards the tension of the water’s surface. Up, up, up, and Daeron bent down to meet her. Her lips brushed the surface of the water—

And that’s when he woke up.

Daeron tosses the empty bottle of Dornish red aside. Stupid dreams. There wasn’t even anything useful in that one.

He wanders the warm, breezy halls of the glamorous old palace slightly more sober than he wishes to be. Maids and servants peer awkwardly at him, and he notices. He notices the looks of pity on their faces at the sand-blond hair falling messily on either side of his face, and the dark rings beneath his eyes. His mouth is painfully dry, so he heads into the main hall where his father sits with his Dornish relatives.

Maekar looks up. “You look like shit.”

Daeron slumps onto the nearest chaise and grabs a handful of pomegranate arils, tossing them into his mouth. He speaks with his mouth full, “I feel it.”

A few Dornish noblemen snicker around the vast wooden table, and Maekar just looks at his eldest son with a heavy dent in his brow. Daeron shrugs at him and accepts a goblet full of lemon water from a serving boy. Pity it wasn’t alcoholic.

“We have been here for one night already,” Maekar says blandly. “I expect you to spend some time doing something other than drinking.”

Daeron opens his mouth to speak.

“Or whoring, for that matter.”

Daeron closes his mouth and rolls his eyes.

Nearby, a Dornish noblewoman—a second cousin or something, Daeron cannot remember—offers the two Targaryens a polite smile, attempting to dissipate the slowly building tension across the table. “Our gardens are lovely this time of year. You were but a child when you explored them last.”

Daeron looks to her with mild disinterest, the burn in his eyes seeming to worsen at the way the sun caught the gold of her jewellery. Going outside in his state was not something he wanted to do. At all. But he spares a glance towards his father at the opposite end of the table and feels, for the first time in a long time, a pang of guilt. Small, but there. Maekar ran his fingers through his white-blond beard thoughtfully, but his eyes were sad.

Daeron sighs. He quickly shoves a couple of stuffed grape leaves into his mouth, downs the rest of his lemon water, and then pushes himself to his feet. He bows his head politely at the small number of people gathered around the table.

“If you’ll excuse me, then, I shall go and… explore the gardens.”

He takes his leave.

Bitterly, he realises the noblewoman was right. The gardens are brilliant, growing neatly amongst tiny streams of trickling water, plants blossoming in oranges, yellows and pinks. There’s a honey-sweet smell lingering in the air too, and bees flitter from one plant to another. There is green everywhere, trees swaying gently beneath a small breeze, the colours stark against the sandy beige of the castle’s high walls.

The sun isn’t too bad on his eyes, but he finds himself squinting still. The sun causes sweat to bead on his hairline too. Heated, he bats more strands of hair away from his face. Then, to add to the tickling frustration of his hair in his eyes, a fucking bug flies directly into his face. Daeron splutters, batting at the insect as it hovers around him. That’s when he hears a quiet giggle behind him, and he turns to see—

“Oh, I’m sorry, my prince,” you say quickly, realising you have been seen. Sitting beneath a fruiting tree, you clamber to your feet and bow. “I was… I did not mean—”

Daeron cannot speak. It is you, clear as day, free from the rippling surface of an oasis pool. His mouth opens dumbly as he watches you fumble over your words. He manages to smack the flying insect away from his face as he stares.

“I meant no disrespect,” you finally manage, still deep in a bow.

He still does not speak. His heart roars in his chest, thumping painfully against his sternum as he watches you smooth the soft, slightly crinkled fabric of your dress. He feels breathless and, suddenly, the most drunk he’s ever been despite the Dornish red long gone from his system.

You look up when the prince says nothing. You peer at him politely but curiously, not quite grasping the silence that has fallen between you.

You approach carefully, aware of several armed guards milling around the wall’s edges. “My prince?”

“I—” Daeron begins, then clears his throat. “Who are you?”

You introduce yourself by name, voice velvet in Daeron’s undoubtedly red ears. A noblewoman from a house he vaguely recognises the name of from his father and uncle’s many travels across the kingdoms. And, gods, you are the prettiest thing he has ever seen. Shimmering eyes, fluttering lashes, a charming smile that stretches across your beautiful face. And you’re wearing a blue dress, as blue as fresh oasis water, that makes you look dream-like in his sun-glared vision.

“Well, my lady,” Daeron manages to greet despite the squeezing in his chest. “I am glad you find my struggles humorous.”

You smile when you hear the hilarity in his voice. “It must be your hair, my prince.”

He steps closer to you and cocks his head to the side, the pair of you now standing beneath the shade of the tall lemon tree. “My hair?”

You nod. “It is the colour of honey, is it not? The bees clearly love it.”

Then, you reach forward and take a free strand of his hair between your fingers and tuck it tenderly behind his ear. He nearly closes his eyes at the heat that emits from you and the full body shudder that threatens to rack through him at your touch (he also chooses to ignore the twitch of his cock in his breeches, blaming it on the heat and post-drunkenness). Just as suddenly as the action had occurred, it ceased—you snap your hand back to your side, a vivid expression of shock passing over your lovely features.

“Oh, gods, my prince, please forgive me,” you mutter and take a step back. “I don’t—”

Daeron chuckles. “Do not fret. I suppose my hair is rather unruly today. Perhaps I should tie it back?”

He has no ribbon to tie it with.

But you do.

He watches, unashamed, as you smile and pull a small, thin blue ribbon from inside the bodice of your dress. His eyes catch the curve of your breasts, the supple dip into the stretched neckline as you pull the ribbon out with your fingers. His cock twitches again. The prince manages to snap his eyes back to you when you extend your arm and offer him the ribbon. You seem to lack the shyness of the other visiting noblewomen who walk the long corridors in Sunspear, but there is still a visible nervousness beneath your smile.

“I have a spare,” you tell him.

He peers at the silken material thoughtfully. He almost feels sober now.

“Would you tie it for me?” He decides to test the waters of his oasis. “I find this heat makes me… less than precise.”

Not technically a lie, he tells himself. He is more than capable of bringing his hair out of his face, but seeing the way your face flickers with uncertainty, overwhelmed with curiosity, is too good to resist. He inclines his head in your direction, silently begging for a response.

Your eyes drop. “My prince—”

“It is but a simple request to help your prince.” Gods, he sounds too much like his younger brother. It makes his stomach churn. The feeling is soon quelled, however, when you raise your pretty eyes and take a step closer to him.

He turns and bends his knees to accommodate you.

Gently, as if handling a vessel of glass, or perhaps a wild animal, you gather the tousled locks of his honey-blond hair and slip the ribbon around it. Your fingers brush the nape of his neck as he screws his eyes shut, a pained breath passing out of his nose. He burns up at your touch and his cock is definitely half-hard now. He wonders if you can feel the heat of his skin, hot like a branding iron. You expertly tie the ribbon and secure his hair away from his face, and he almost whimpers when your hands withdraw.

“Perfect,” you say cheerfully. “Although, blue is not really your colour, is it, my prince?”

Daeron turns. “Huh?”

“The Targaryens,” you begin. “Red and black. Blood and ash, I suppose. The blue is slightly out of place, I’m afraid.”

He doesn’t care.

“Is it your colour?” He asks instead.

“Well, I always match my ribbons to my dresses.”

Of course you do.

You run your hands down the blue fabric of your airy dress, and Daeron admires the way the light breeze picks at the hemline and makes it flutter. Then, you sigh wistfully, and look back up at the prince before you, who continues to watch you carefully, eyes thinking, as if he knows you from somewhere. There’s recognition in his light irises.

A voice from somewhere beyond the gardens calls for you. Daeron frowns.

You sigh again, but this time it is heavy. “Apologies, my prince, but I must depart.” Then, you bow, and turn and leave before Daeron can so much as open his mouth in reply. You leave behind a scent of citrus and honey and something fresh. Clean water, lush gardens. His heart aches in his chest, blood pumping hot inside him.

And his cock is still half hard.

“Fucking ridiculous…” he mutters to himself, pressing his palm to the front of his trousers with a low hiss.

He needs a drink.

—✿—

He doesn’t see you again that day, and it makes him…

Sad?

He does not know how he feels, but he knows something is wrong when he politely declines the advances of a stunning Dornish girl later that night. Instead, he leans against the wall of his chambers, burning forehead pressed against cool stone, two now-empty bottles of Dornish red rolling on the floor nearby.

He has your ribbon in his hand, wrapped around his fist as he strokes his cock, tip angry and red and drooling as your face swims around his brain. Your eyes, your mouth, your fingers, your smell. Daeron groans desperately around a drunken hiccup, hips thrusting to meet the movements of his hand. He utters your name into the emptiness of his chambers and spills himself over his knuckles and the intricately woven rug beneath his feet. He soils your ribbon too, and his heart pangs. Unsteady on his feet, he stumbles over to his wash basin and quickly rinses his seed from the shining blue.

He falls asleep with it drying in his hand.

And he dreams of you again.

He’s in the desert, but this time, he knows where to go. He’s never had a dream like this, where he can control so much of what he—is it him?—does. It feels less prophetic this way, and that scares him. The half-man, half-dragon crawls to the oasis but he cannot fling himself into the water. He roars desperately, scrambling against the sand, an invisible wall preventing him from moving any further than sticking one clawed hand beneath the tiny waves. But you still smile at him, and when you approach the surface, your face appears clearer and your eyes sparkle brighter and—

Daeron wakes with a start.

“Fuck!” He can’t help but shout into the stillness of his chambers. He regrets it when it shoots a fierce pain into the back of his eyes.

He tucks your ribbon into the waistband of his trousers, letting his hair fall messily to his shoulders as he hurries through the halls of the palace again. He bypasses the great hall and enters the gardens, but you are not there. Entering the great hall, he ignores the curious glances of his cousins and siblings as his gaze spins around the room. Maekar is not there, but neither are you.

“You have risen early,” Valarr comments.

Daeron calms himself. He cannot just ask for you. “Where is my father?”

Valarr gestures to the way Daeron just came. “Somewhere.”

“How helpful,” he mumbles sarcastically, then leaves the great hall, ignoring the warm aching in his chest that he will, once again, blame on the Dornish wine.

—✿—

Nothing of you the next day, either. He searches the entire palace, it feels like.

Aerion asks him if he’s mentally unwell when he disregards another offer of sex from a pretty girl. Daeron ignores him, and returns to his chambers. There are three bottles of Dornish red already waiting for him, but he doesn’t touch them. Instead, he all but throws himself into his bed and wills himself to sleep, the sun still setting and bathing him in gold and crimson.

He dreams of you differently.

He’s under the water and you kneel on the sandy banks, blue dress blurring at the edges as if you were made from the desert that surrounded you. You reach for him, your hand finding his face, cool and comforting against the blazing heat of his cheek. But the dragon fights to bite her, and when his teeth sink into the flesh of her hand, a sharp pain rips through him. Yet she is not the one screaming, he is.

And then he wakes and uncorks the nearest bottle of wine.

Later, he feels lucky that his drunken prayers have been answered when he finally spots you. You chat happily to a few lesser noblewomen, lounging in a gathering of plush pillows. Daeron feels something prideful swell in his chest. He watches you bring a segment of blood orange to your mouth, the juices glistening over your lips as you talk and eat.

But glued to his father’s side, he cannot speak with you.

And this becomes a recurring nightmare of his.

Over the course of several days, he watches you from afar. While discussing realm politics with Valarr and several royal Dornishmen, he becomes unfocussed as you laugh and gossip with his younger sisters, speaking of brilliant puppet shows with fire and smoke. While being insulted in conversation by his younger brother, his eyes find you as you stand outside a window, the light catching in your hair, your ribbons matching the light green of your dress. While he attempts pathetically to keep up with his father’s instructions, he watches you dismount a large mare, your skirts floating around you, a smile etched deep onto your face, eyes sparkling as you say something quietly to the stable boy.

Prince Daeron is following you, a mere lady, around Sunspear like a puppy. He finds himself lingering in doorways, listening to your conversations, or leaning against the thick trunk of a tree, hiding as you and your ladies hurry past him to head into the gardens. He enjoys the way he can smell your sweet scent hanging in the airy hallways a few seconds after you pass by, and he especially likes the way the ribbon he has still smells like you too, even despite the several washes it has endured.

And which he is not proud of.

—✿—

He dreams of you again the night before he is set to depart back to King’s Landing with his family. He fell asleep only half-drunk on red, and now you are back beneath the surface of his dream oasis. His hand finds your face, and he wills himself to pull you from the depths. Bring you up, rescue you, kiss the water from your lungs. And so you rise, and your lips break the surface of the water for the very first time and he kisses you.

Dragon tongue searching, splitting, invading. It burns the inside of your mouth and he hisses, serpent-like. You emerge from the water, nose and eyes following until your entire face is presented to him. He kisses you and you kiss him back.

And so he wakes with an achingly hard cock, sticky against his bare thighs. His fingers trace the length and he hisses, blood pumping like raw fire beneath the velvet skin. His entire body is slick with sweat too, and so he throws off the covers, slides tunic on, and stumbles out of his room in search of fresh air. He’s stifling.

Instead, he stumbles directly into you.

You yelp in shock as his warm body collides with yours, large hands reaching out to grab your hips, preventing you from falling backwards. He groans when your hands, cool from prolonged exposure to the night air, find his chest and the thin linen of his night tunic. His eyes find your face, and he wishes he could kiss you.

“My prince!” You exclaim, head whipping side-to-side to check the shadowed expanse of the hallway. You continue to touch his chest. “Are you alright? Are you ill?”

Instinctively, you press the back of your hand to his forehead. Daeron groans again, eyes screwing shut and mouth dropping open. You peel your hand away as if his skin had scolded you.

“You’re burning,” you remark.

“I dreamt of you,” he says in return, voice whinier than he intended.

You pause. The silence is deafening save for Daeron’s ragged breathing and the distant voices of the kingsguard nightshift.

“What?” You finally whisper.

“Every night, I have dreamt of you. I dreamt of you before I met you,” he whispers, opening his eyes now. “You are… you’re an oasis. My oasis.”

You frown, but not in displeasure. Moreso confusion. “I… don’t understand, my prince.”

“You plague my mind like something fierce. I cannot… gods, I cannot rid myself of you,” he utters and his hands tighten on your hips, thumbs smoothing over the mound of the bone beneath skin and flesh and fabric. “My mind is consumed only by you. You—you are mine, my lady. You are supposed to be mine.”

You gape at him, hyper-aware of his closeness. You can smell the rich spices of wine on his breath, but there is a clarity in his eyes that frightens you. It sends a thrill down your spine, and the slight buzz of your own nightly endeavours—sipping spiced wine with your ladies in the darkness of the gardens—adds to the feeling blooming in your lower belly. A heat pooling there, sparking like a blade on steel.

“My prince—” you say quietly.

“Daeron.”

“Daeron,” you whisper, and he groans.

“Let me have you,” he leans forward to whisper against your cheek, nuzzling his nose across your face until he can brush his lips against the lobe of your ear. “Let me show you how much I need you.” 

Because I need you like water, he almost says.

You feel yourself heating up. “You are surely drunk…”

“There is no drink left in my blood,” he tells you quickly. “I need you.”

He says your name, then kisses your cheek. He kisses where your pulse hammers in your neck. He kisses the sensitive spot on the edge of your throat.

You take one hand and slowly, gently, reach to grasp the back of his head, threading your fingers in his hair. He whines out as you angle his head back to you and slot your mouth against his, whispering just before your lips touch: “You have me.”

Daeron groans as your tongues meet, and he pulls you back through the doorway of his chambers. You taste the wine on his tongue, and you’re sure he can taste it on yours too. You close the door carefully behind you, fumbling slightly as his hands caress your sides, fondling the dips of your hips, the curve of your arse, the bend in your spine. He’s an incessant press to your front, too, with his hardening cock rucking against your clothed pelvis. He whines something quiet against your lips as he strains against his breeches, a small wet patch growing in the white, nearly transparently thin fabric.

You release his hair to tug at the material of his tunic. He breaks the kiss with a growl, tossing the shirt over his head before glueing his mouth back to yours. Your hands find the warm flesh of his pecs, giving them a squeeze, your thumbs running over his nipples.

“Ah—” he breathes out against your lips.

His strong hands pin you to the closed door, one reaching to ruck your skirts out of the way so he can seize your thigh, pulling it up for you to wrap around his waist. With this new angle, he grinds himself against you, clothed cock rubbing over the delicate fabric of your own undergarments, sliding over the heat of your covered core. There, you are hot and slick, and Daeron groans into your mouth, pulling away to look down at you.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on,” he tells you, other hand reaching beneath your skirts to press a palm flat to your covered core. You draw in a breath and he kisses the tip of your nose. “And you’re mine.”

The prince’s hand slips beneath the fabric.

“Daeron,” you whisper, mouthing at his jaw as the coarse pads of his fingers find your wet cunt. A whimper follows as he parts you with two fingers, running them up and down your folds as you bite down on the junction of his neck.

“I’ve got you.” He flinches at the bite, but his fingers do not cease, and one soon finds the swollen pearl of your clit. He draws a tight circle, clumsy the first few ministrations, but he rapidly finds and settles into a rhythm as you nibble along his neck and shoulder.

After a few circles, he draws his fingers back down your slit, gathering moisture before his pointer and middle find your hole. You draw in a tight breath at the small pressure he exerts, and you flop your head back to find him already looking down at you. Silently, you nod and, eyes locked, he pushes two slick fingers into the tight clutch of your cunt. With a flutter of your eyelashes, your eyes close, and Daeron leans in to kiss the moan from your lips. He licks over your teeth and tongue as he gently pushes himself into the first joints, then the second, your pussy opening for him like he always knew it would. Soon, his knuckles press to the soft flesh of your inner thighs and you’re moaning his name into his mouth like an incantation.

“Shh, there we go, we’re all done,” Daeron shushes you softly, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

Your hands find his back and you grip at the strong muscle there. His skin is burning beneath your touch, and you wonder if he is actually becoming ill. The thought is wiped from your mind, however, when the prince pulls his fingers out of your cunt and then forces them back inside, curling them just the right amount to have you crying out. 

He responds to your cat-like yowl with another intimate coo, “S’alright, s’alright. Be good for me, my lady. Taking it so well, aren’t you?”

He fucks his fingers into you repeatedly. Your nails scratch lurid red lines down his back as he splits you apart over his knuckles. Slick runs down the back of his hand, and his cock twitches as he feels a rivulet run along the inside of his wrist.

You’ve never felt like this before. A sticky warmth spreads through your chest like honey, and something bludgeoning rears itself in the pit of your belly. A fuzzy tingle appears at the base of your spine too, and it makes you whine, your hips jerking forward to meet his movements. 

Daeron groans, pinning you to the door with his front and managing to use his free hand to yank down the neckline of your dress. You hear a resounding tear as he pulls your breasts free of your dress and chemise. The cool air of his dark chambers pebbles your nipples, but he’s quick to suck one of them into his mouth without warning. You yelp as he sucks harshly, your fingers finding his blond locks again and pulling.

He withdraws with a whimper and a wet pop, a glistening string of saliva connecting from his bottom lip to the bud of your nipple. It snaps when you push his head to the other breast, and he obeys, drawing the other into his mouth as he continues to scissor his fingers into the wet heat of your cunt. The sounds are obscene and wet, ringing in your ears like bells.

The heavy feeling in your belly grows tenfold at the dual sensation.

“Daeron,” you mewl, and the piteous sound has Daeron—rather reluctantly—tearing himself away from your breasts. He gives your nipple one last chaste kiss for good measure though. You huff. “Feel… I feel something.”

The prince straightens and kisses you softly. “Yeah? Feeling something in here?”

His hand drops and presses to your lower belly, your womb, and you nod at the pleasant warmth the pressure spreads through your core. Just as you nod, he withdraws his fingers, and the emptiness is like a slap to the face, the cool air bracing and sending goosebumps in trails over your legs. Before you can complain, he drops to his knees, kissing your breasts on the way down, dropping your leg gently. 

You feel him guide your legs apart at the knee as he gathers your skirts.

“If you would be so kind…” He offers them to you, and you clutch the luxurious fabric between trembling fingers. You watch him curiously as he smiles, lopsided and lax. He then ducks his head between your legs, kissing and licking up the ticklish skin of your thighs.

“What—? Oh—” You choke on your gasp as his hot mouth presses to your drooling cunt, his tongue flat and solid through the softness of your folds.

Daeron whines into you, a real trill that is embarrassingly unbecoming in his mind, but makes you clench around nothing. 

You taste of the heavens. You taste of you. Of a citrusy tang, a subtle honey sweetness, of the cleanest spring water. His oasis.

And you grip his golden hair, that heavy pleasure in your belly fills you once more as his tongue circles the rim of your hole and then—“Oh, fucking gods, Daeron”—presses inside you. The feeling is foreign, but welcome, and you gasp and moan as ecstasy seizes you in a white-knuckled grip. Your legs shake, tremble, the haze of the night’s spiced wine dissipating as the feeling of his mouth on you overtakes every functioning part of your brain. You no doubt sound like a wounded animal: whimpering and whining in high-pitched chirrups, grinding yourself onto his mouth.

Daeron has a hand on his painfully hard cock. He blindly pulls his breeches down, cock slapping up against his slightly hunched abdomen. He groans into your warmth as he fists himself, several beads of pre-cum dribbling out and smearing beneath his enclosed palm. You sound breathtaking above him, the heat beneath your skirts burning his cheeks a blazing red. In his pleasured stupor, he manages to bring his free hand up to your pussy and spread his fingers lightly over your clit as he continues to curl his tongue inside of you.

You jerk against him. There’s a knot in your tummy. “My prince.”

Daeron hums into you, unrelenting. His fingers press harder to your clit.

You sob out a moan, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your legs quiver and your stomach contracts. Then, something snaps inside you, and the sun seems to bloom from your chest like a yellow rose.

You release into Daeron’s mouth, and he closes his eyes in pure bliss as he laps it up with unwavering curls of his tongue, beckoning more from you with small presses of his fingers to your clit. He mutters your name against your folds before he pulls back, the lower portion of his face shining with your release.

The back of your head leans against the door as the prince gathers himself, kicking his breeches away. Your dress is gathered unflatteringly at your waist, and you continue to hold your skirts in a steadily loosening grip as pleasure lazes through your muscles. But Daeron is back on you in an instant, slotting his mouth to yours as he takes your leg again and hikes it back onto his hip. You are ripped from the rapture of your release by the warm length of his cock pressing against your slick, aching core. Fingers release his golden hair to grab at his shoulders for stability, your tongues intertwining.

You taste yourself on him.

“My lady,” he utters, kissing your cheek, wetness smearing over the warm skin. “My love, will you have me? Will you—” he gently ruts his hips back and forth, sliding his cock through the wet split of your cunt. “—let me have you?”

“Yes,” you gasp quickly, but fear bleeds into your subconscious.

He mellows you with the softest kiss of the night. His lips are an affectionate comfort before he whispers your name and says, “You were made for me, made for this. You are mine.”

The prince, your prince, slides his tongue back into your mouth to muffle your light whimpers as his hand guides his cock to your pussy, running up and down, gathering the heady mix of your release and his saliva: the mix you could still taste on his tongue.

He notches the reddened head of his cock at your hole. A hiss escapes him. Dragon-like in sound, but he withholds a full groan as he presses in with a shift of his hips. He lets go of his cock to help in holding up your skirts as he eases into you, splitting you apart against the door of his chambers. You are damp with sweat beneath your dress and chemise, the back of your neck hot as you fail to keep up with his kiss. Moans roll from your tongue and get caught between his teeth, and he drags himself away to lick over your jaw as he enters you.

Slow, gentle.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Daeron whispers into your neck. His balls tense as he bottoms out inside you, and the base of his abdomen clenches with the effort of holding himself still. This was perhaps the first time he was thankful he was not completely drunk, or he would have spilled the moment your sweet pussy clutched around his thick cock.

You whimper at the pain lingering behind the euphoria, hands scrambling for purchase down his back. “Daeron.”

Daeron sucks and licks the sweat from your exposed shoulder before he starts to move, listening to your heavy breathing. He holds you as he pulls back, then pushes in. Slowly, patiently.

Clearly, his chivalry was not appreciated.

“Daeron,” you say louder. “Please, I need you to go faster.”

Your prince pulls out and then pushes back in as his teeth sink into your shoulder. You cry out, the sound echoing around his chambers, as he drives into you, over and over. The thickness of his cock spreads you like nothing you’ve ever experienced, and you feel as though you can feel him nudging up towards your womb. It’s intoxicating, and his tongue circling now at your pulsepoint has you keening into his warm touch, nails once again digging into his bare back.

You call for him, and he’s on you in an instant, sliding his tongue back into your mouth to tangle with yours. You nip at his bottom lip. He smiles.

“You have haunted my dreams for days,” he tells you honestly, fucking you all the while. “They say my dreams will drive me mad, but how am I to be driven to madness when I dream so often of you?”

You kiss the corner of his mouth and whimper.

He continues. “My oasis in the desert. I need you, sweet girl. You must let me have you.”

His cock slams into that perfect spot inside you that has your back arching off of the solid wood of the door. You hold him tightly and moan like a whore, loud and unabashed, as he aids your movements, tugging you down to meet the thrusts of his hips. He loves the way you sound, but he needs you to speak to him. He loves your voice more.

“Say it,” he begs. “Say you’re mine. Say you will not let me drown.”

You don’t understand that last part, but you find yourself nodding deliriously anyway. Once again, your fingers find his hair and you tug tightly at the loose strands. He whimpers, eyes closing for a moment, tongue pressing to his bottom lip as his thrusts falter.

“I’m yours, my prince,” you say breathlessly. “Gods, I’m yours.”

His eyes snap open.

“Yes,” he whines out. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you moan as his thrusts increase in pace, and his ruts become desperate as he fills you. Your legs start to shake again, and the pressure in your belly returns, and now you know exactly what that means.

“You’re mine, all mine,” Daeron mutters, more to himself than to you. He follows with an even quieter, “And this pretty cunt, all fuckin’ mine.”

You pull him from whatever trance-like state your pussy has entrapped him in, his eyes glassy. Over a moan, you plead, “Daeron, please, I’m so close…”

He redoubles his efforts like a man possessed. “Yeah?” 

Then his hand snakes downward and finds your clit once more. He pinches it, the bastard, and you yowl as he rubs tender circles in the wake of the pain, your exclamation tapering off into a simpering whine. He chuckles, and you realise you had forgotten he was a Targaryen.

“I want to feel you,” he says. “I want to feel you come undone on my cock.”

“Daeron.”

“Come on, my love, give it to me. Give me what I dreamed of.”

With one last desperate whine, the knot inside you snaps and you come around his cock. Your pussy clenches around him and it feels even better than releasing around his fingers. Your nails drag down his back, probably drawing blood, as you moan out his name. Your pussy spasms around the thick of his cock, clit racing with your heartbeat, pleasure bursting from every pore as your high rockets through you. Daeron fucks you through it, panting while watching the way your face flickers and changes as you crest your high and begin to fall. He holds you still as you whimper, your slick dripping down your inner thighs as he maintains his pace.

“Good girl, good girl,” he praises, drunk on pleasure. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine for your prince. You whisper when his pace begins to stutter, “Spill inside me, please—I need you to fill me.”

You don’t know where that came from, but it does something. A moan so raw rips from Daeron’s throat that you think he’s in pain. But instead, he comes inside you, the tip of his cock shoved right up towards the plug of your womb. His head falls forward and he continues his moans against your shoulder, now muffled, as his hips continue to rut.

He says something you don’t hear. “It’ll take. I need it to take.”

Instead, you press a kiss to his cheek when his movements finally stop. Slowly, gingerly, the two of you part: the prince pulls his cock from you and you gasp as seed and slick drool out of you like honey from a dipper. Daeron, almost panicked in his light-eyed gaze, dips down to collect it with two fingers, pushing it back inside you. One handed, he also helps pull the rest of your dress up and over your head. You help him wordlessly with tired arms.

He clears his throat as he places a tender kiss on your stomach. “Will you spend the night here, my lady?”

You stroke his hair as he continues to bend, fingers crooked into your cunt. “Do you wish for me to?”

He replies before your lips stop moving. “Yes. Please. If you, uh, if you wish.”

You urge him up with another tug to his hair. He whines, and obeys, fingers leaving the warmth of your pussy as you place a caring kiss to his slightly bruised lips.

“I would like nothing more,” you tell him, then suck your shared release off of his fingers.

That night, you curl in comfortably at his side, head resting against his chest. Daeron falls asleep with a smile on his face and three untouched bottles of Dornish red at his bedside. 

And he dreams of you. Well, he thinks he does.

A black dragon drinks from a desert oasis as plants begin to bloom around him. Dense, brilliantly green shrubs and trees sprout from the arid sand as the sky-blue water of the pool sparkles beneath the sun. The dragon laps at the cool water as rivers begin to form, and more and more jungle surges out from beneath the golden dunes until the sand becomes grass and trees brush the cloudless sky.

You wake before him, the sun rising in pinks and blues outside. You press a kiss to his chest, where it rises and falls slowly, and nuzzle into him.

Under the sheets, your hand finds something, and you pull your blue ribbon out from beneath you. You smile softly, gripping it in your hand as sleep finds you once more.

———

You’re meeting in the office. Chris explained it to Adrian the night before.

“Emilia and I talked it over. It’s a good place for you guys to see each other for the first time. Well, second time,” he said, and Adrian pointedly ignored him. He does not regret the night you came to see him. 

“It’s a neutral space,” Chris continued. “Only familiar scents from the rest of the pack, so it shouldn’t be too overwhelming for either of you.”

“Is—” Adrian blushed. “Is everyone else going to be there?”

“Not everyone,” Chris said. “It’s Sunday. Just the original crew. Me, Emilia, John, and Ads will be around if you need us.” He paused. “Try not to need us. I would like some alone time with my mate, if you catch my drift.”

“You want to fuck Harcourt,” Adrian summarized.

Chris sighed at his blunt statement. “Yeah.”

Now, Chris stares Adrian down in the dark of the early morning, weighs his options, and sighs. “There’s no chance of you going back to sleep, is there?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine,” Chris grumbles. “Let me take a fucking shower, at least.”

Forty minutes later, in the office, Adrian sits at his computer and plays a dumb computer game to kill time while he waits for you. He keeps failing the level over and over again because his hands are shaking so much and he can’t concentrate. Chris is slumped over at his own desk, snoring.

It feels like time moves by at a glacial pace. He did not think this through. He’s got nothing to do but wait, and every second that passes, his anxiety about seeing you grows exponentially. He feels like he’s been missing you for a thousand years, and he’s been building this moment up in his head for so long, worrying over all the thousand ways things could go wrong, planning what he wants to say to you, imagining what you might say back.

He picks up one of the fidget toys on his desk and fiddles with it anxiously as he speedruns another one of those imaginary conversations in his head. Hi, I’ve been jacking off thinking about you for the last week, and also I’m in love with you, will you please let me be your boyfriend now and maybe more than your boyfriend later and—

God, that’s definitely not what he’s going to say.

Around 8:30 a.m., the door finally swings open, and his heart leaps in his chest, but when he spins around in his swivel chair, he sees that it’s just John and Adebayo. Still, he smiles, because he hasn’t seen Ads in a week, and he’s missed her too. Not as much as you, obviously. He wasn’t thinking about her while he was jacking off.

“Adrian!” she says. “Shit, dude, we were worried about you!”

“Sorry,” he says genuinely.

“Don’t be sorry,” Ads says. “You’re feeling okay?”

Adrian is a bad liar, and Ads always calls him on his bullshit, so he doesn’t even bother trying. “No. I am so fucking nervous I feel like I’m going to vibrate into a different dimension. What if I say something stupid? I say stupid things all the time.”

“Exactly,” Ads says. “You have said stupid shit to me in every conversation we have ever had since the day I met you. And guess what? She loves you anyway.”

“Everything has changed, now, though.”

“Not really,” Ads says. “Not the important things. Just—don’t try too hard. You don’t need to put on some Alpha act for her.”

“It’s like we talked about yesterday,” John reminds him. “You don’t have to dress a certain way, or act a certain way, now that you’re an Alpha. You’re still Adrian. And Adrian is who she’s been missing all week, the stupid shit you say included.”

“I won’t hug you, to welcome you back, because I know you don’t like it,” Ads says. “But know that I would. If you did.”

Adrian smiles. “Thanks.”

Then his two friends just…go to their desks. Like it’s any regular day at the office. Like it’s not a day that’s going to change Adrian’s entire life. And weirdly, it makes him feel better. The strange pep talk where they reaffirm that he’s allowed to be stupid and weird and you’ll still like him. The way they treat today like any other, like there’s nothing special about it at all. There’s no pressure from them, from his pack. It’s all self-inflicted.

“Why the fuck is Chris snoring at his desk?” John mutters, and Ads laughs and goes to poke him awake.

Adrian starts to laugh, too, as he watches Chris startle awake. But then you and Emilia arrive. 

He scents you before he hears you. The front door opens, and a breeze rushes in, and with it comes you, and he thinks, oh, fuck. He swallows and breathes through his mouth instead, otherwise he might get a terribly inconvenient boner, because all his body can remember is the last time he got a whiff of you, sitting on the ground outside Chris’s trailer, his tongue trailing along your neck, deep in his rut, swimming in hormones.

He wonders if you regret it, that night. He doesn’t. He never could. But you haven’t talked about it—stop thinking about your tongue on her neck this is not helping. He shakes his head to clear the thought. The last thing he wants is to make this awkward. More awkward than it is already.

Adrian shoots to his feet in an instant and turns to face you. Neither of you says anything, at first. He just stares at you, cheeks flushed pink, his mouth hanging open like he wants to say something, but he’s forgotten how to speak. You stare right back at him, a little speechless yourself, but there’s a tiny, relieved smile on your face as you drink in the sight of him.

Then the tension creeps over him. An awkward silence settles over everyone as they watch you both, wide eyes bouncing back and forth between you. Adrian can scent them all, too, and it’s familiar, but it’s also so much stronger than he’s used to, more nuanced, like he can smell their anxiety in addition to his own, and he starts to feel overwhelmed. He feels the weight of it, of their scents, of all of their gazes heavy on his face, his shoulders, his back. All his friends watching, all his friends who he knows want the best for him, but god, it’s—suffocating. It’s hard to breathe. And he—he starts to panic.

No one else sees the way his breath starts to come quicker, the way his hands are trembling, the way his eyes dart around the room, like he wants to run. Not from you, never from you. But from the anxiety of it all. He wants to take you and go. The others don’t notice it, but you do.

“All of you, fuck off,” you say, loud and firm. “Now. I love you guys, but you are not helping right now. Give us a minute. Go train in the weapons room or something, I don’t give a fuck. But get lost.”

If they’re surprised to hear you give an order, they don’t let it show. In fact, Emilia, Chris, John, and Ads look properly chastised as they disperse without another word, the two Alphas heading for the training room while John and Ads make their way toward a conference room.

Then you and Adrian are left in the main office by yourselves, and his shoulders fall away from his ears as he settles, just a tiny bit. He’s still taut with tension; his heart pounds, beating in a furious rhythm. He wants to speak, but everything he’s wanted to say is gone, like his mind wiped clean the moment you stepped into the room.

Slowly, you walk up to him, like you might approach a spooked animal. He stays in place, frozen, just watching. Waiting.

Then your hand touches his face, and it’s like a dam breaks. All the breath leaves his body at once, and he folds you into his arms. You hug him, just like you promised on the phone yesterday, tucking your face in his neck where his scent is the strongest, and all the tension leeches from his body in an instant, even as his stomach swoops with butterflies. He squeezes his eyes shut and buries his nose against the side of your head, inhaling deep.

He still can’t find the words to say, but he doesn’t need them, not yet. He just needs this. Just needs to hold you.

“I was so worried about you,” you say, and his arms tighten around you. You shift up on to your tiptoes, and he lifts you up, smiling when you giggle.

“You really did get taller,” you say.

“Yeah,” he finally says, when his voice decides to start working, snapped out of shock by your soft touch. “It’s so fucking weird.”

“We have a lot to talk about, huh?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” Adrian says. He sets you down, but he doesn’t let you go. “Yeah, we do.”

There’s a little outdoor courtyard area behind the building. On beautiful days, the team uses it for training, but mostly, when the weather is nice, everyone likes to sit out there during lunch. You’ve got a picnic blanket folded in one of your desk drawers for that exact purpose, and you pull it out now, hugging it to your chest as you lead Adrian outside by the hand. It’s a little chilly today, overcast, but it’ll be bearable, and you’ll have some privacy out there.

You spread the blanket out under a tree while Adrian watches, hovering. Your touch has calmed him significantly, but he’s still buzzing with anxious energy. Maybe that’s just a symptom of being around you, now.

Then you sit down on the blanket, legs crossed, and pat the space beside you, and he sits obediently. When you lay down flat on your back, he mirrors you, until you’re both staring up at the branches of the tree, pressed closely together.

Adrian is hyper-aware of every place his body is touching yours. The lengths of your arms and legs, the back of his knuckles brushing against your hand. Your foot is right next to his, so tempting, and he can’t resist. He hooks your ankles together. When he turns his head to the side, there’s a small smile on your face, and it emboldens him. He lets himself hold your hand, entwine your fingers with his, and watches your smile grow.

It’s strange. You have always been open with your physical affection, but him? He has never, ever craved it like this. He wants to press up to you as close as he can. He wants to never let go.

But that’s too much, he thinks. Too much, too fast. So he turns onto his back, closes his eyes, and he breathes in your scent, breathes in the fresh air and the dewy grass, and lets that be enough.

After a few minutes of silence, you finally speak.

“I’m sorry,” you say into the sky. You don’t look at him when you talk. He’s grateful. He thinks you’re doing it on purpose, to make things easier for him—you know eye contact can be difficult for him when he’s having hard conversations.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks softly.

“For…all of this.” You gesture vaguely into the air with your free hand, and his grip tightens on your other one. “For getting hurt in the first place. For turning your life upside down.”

“No,” Adrian insists. “I told you already. You have nothing to be sorry for. I should be sorry. I—I promised I would look out for you, on that mission, and you got hurt, and it’s all my fault—if you died—”

He starts to choke up as his mind spirals. As he imagines it—the world, his life, without you. A black hole feels like it’s opening in the pit of his stomach. If he had found his mate and lost you all at once, it might have killed him. 

No. Not might have. It would have. The imagined grief already feels like a sucker punch to the gut. The real grief would have been fatal.

You turn on your side. He feels your hand on his face, feels you looking at him. Your fingers run through his hair, just like they did the other night outside the trailer, nails scratching at his scalp, soothing. He pushes into your touch.

“Stop it,” you chide him gently. “We can both feel guilty about things until the end of time, but that’s not going to change anything. We’re both here. We’re both alive. We’re both okay.”

“Are you?” he asks, and he meets your eyes, his own filled with worry. “Are you really okay?”

“Do you want to see?” you ask. You reach down for the hem of your shirt and pull it up. Adrian sits up, eyes locked on your torso as you reveal your healing wounds. His hand brushes over your skin. You are healing well, he thinks, biting his lip. Emilia has been taking care of you. You’ll probably be able to take the stitches out soon. You’re a fucking medic yourself, if anyone knows that you’re going to be fine, it’s you. But still—

“I’m—”

“If you say you’re sorry one more time, I’m going to yell at you,” you say, but your tone is soft and teasing.

Adrian, who had been about to say exactly that, shuts up. Instead, he pulls your shirt back down. Then he picks up your joint hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles. He is sorry. But he reminds himself, like you said, that you’re here with him, and you’re safe, and you’re going to be okay.

“I’ll never stop being sorry that you got hurt,” he says roughly. “But that’s—that’s the only thing I regret about any of this. The fact that you had to get hurt for it to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Adrian pauses, cheeks flushing, with frustration, with embarrassment, he’s not sure. “I don’t understand why that is the thing that triggered this for me. Why I wasn’t Alpha enough to just…present on my own. Or if meeting me triggered your heat a couple years ago—why didn’t it trigger me? Why did you have to get hurt for my body to get its shit together? It’s not fair.”

“Stop that,” you chide him. “There’s no such thing as ‘Alpha enough.’ It just happens to some people. I read over the research John and Ads did. They think it’s likely that some people just never present at all. It’s not you.”

Adrian hesitates. “I think maybe part of me has always known, that I’m an Alpha. Maybe that’s why I took up the mantle of Vigilante. I always felt this urge to be more than I was. To protect people. Especially my friends, the people I love. Me being an Alpha is a good thing, I know it is. I just don’t understand why it took so long to manifest. If there’s—” He tries to think about how to explain it. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” you say fiercely.

“I just wish I had known sooner,” he says quietly. “I would have…” He trails off.

“You would have what?” you ask, and he looks down at where he squeezes your hand between both of his, swallowing nervously.

“I would have been with you,” Adrian says. “We could have had all this time. You’re not stupid. So I think you know this already, after this week. But I’m in love with you.” Your breath catches. “I was in love with you before all of this, and I thought I never had a shot, because I could never give you what you needed.”

“Do you really think you’re mine?” you whisper. “My Alpha?” Just hearing those words come out of your mouth is enough to nearly kill him. My Alpha.

“I want that,” he says. “I want that so badly. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything else in my life. And I feel it. I feel like you’re mine. I look at you, and I think about you, and I feel this thing inside me screaming at me that this is right. I know for some people having a mate is just biology or hormones or whatever, but—it’s not. For me.”

“What is it?” you ask quietly. “For you?”

“Having a mate is—” 

He can’t even explain it. It’s something that never would have been accessible to him as a Beta. There’s this new, ultimate level of connection right within his grasp. Betas can’t have mates, not really. They get married. Like his parents, like Leota and Keeya. They promised to love each other forever, and then…they stopped. And that kind of relationship wasn’t anything that Adrian had ever wanted. He wasn’t interested in broken promises.

Adrian had resigned himself to the fact that the closest connection he would have was a friendship. But now, there’s this, there’s you, a step up from friend, a step up from best friend, the most important person. A promise that can’t be broken. And he has to get this right. 

“Having a mate is like having an ultra-best friend,” Adrian eventually says. “It’s like my fucking dream.”

You laugh, and so does he, but he sobers quickly.

“But,” he says, “I don’t want it if you don’t want it.”

“I want it,” you say. “I want this. I want you, Adrian.”

Hearing you say that—words he’s imagined, never dared to hope for, wanted to hear you say the entire time he’s known you—it’s almost too much. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. You want him.

And he can’t stop himself. He cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

He’s imagined it so many times over the last week. Hot, heavy, open-mouthed kisses, spit-slick and wet, bruising lips and biting teeth.

The real thing, the simple, soft press of your mouth against his, is so much fucking better. 

The impulse is still there, just beneath the surface—to delve his tongue into your mouth, to take more, to push you onto your back and trail his tongue down your body until you’re trembling in his arms. When he feels your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, gentle but wanting, and he pulls back with a gasp.

“Sorry,” he says, a little breathlessly. “Sorry, I can’t—I need—slower. Please. I just. I really, really, fucking want you, and I am still learning to control all of these new impulses and—you’re hurt, I don’t want to do anything before you’re ready—”

“It’s okay, Ade,” you say softly, and you kiss him again, two tiny pecks, one at each corner of his mouth. “I understand. Really, I do. Everything you feel, I feel it too. I’ve never—never wanted anyone like this.”

“I just want to make sure this isn’t—our bodies freaking out, that it’s not just—biology, because you were the one that was there, the first one I saw. I don’t think it is. I have wanted you for a long, long time. I just—now that I have a real chance with you, I don’t want to fuck it up. I want to do this right. All this week, being apart from you, it felt like a part of me was missing. I never want to feel like that again.”

“Okay,” you say. “We take things slow. This is all new to you.” You hesitate. “I don’t think it’s biology either. But if you—if you need some time, or you want to go be around other Omegas—”

Adrian makes a face. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t want anyone else but you.” He kisses you firmly to drive the point home, smiling against your mouth. “That’s not why I want to wait. I just don’t want to hurt you. You’re still healing, we should wait until you’re cleared—”

“I’ll follow your lead,” you say softly. “You set the pace. As fast or as slow as you want. But even if we wait to—make things physical. I don’t think we have to wait until then for me to call you mine.”

Mine, Adrian thinks, holding your face in his hands, and he smiles, wider than he has in a long, long time.

The rest of the day, you spend taking Adrian’s new measurements so that the following week, you’ll be able to get right to work on a new Vigilante suit for him. The rest of the group helps, and it’s—nice, bantering with his friends. The friendly teasing helps him feel normal again.

“So, listen,” Chris says as the late afternoon approaches. “The trailer is all yours, Adrian.”

Adrian furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Given that your mother has a history of trampling over your boundaries,” Emilia points out, “and you are an Alpha now, you’re going to be…even more territorial. It’s probably not a good idea to go back to live there with her. For either of you.”

“It would probably drive you up the wall even more than usual,” Chris says. “Having her always nagging at you. I know she’s only a Beta, so it wouldn’t be as bad as, say, living with your brother, but still, it would get toxic fast. Well, even more toxic. You gotta move out.”

“Oh.” Adrian hadn’t considered that.

“So, like I said,” Chris continues. “You can have the trailer. You’ve got some stuff there anyway, and we can swing by the house tonight to pack up anything else you might need. But given that you had to replace most of your clothes, anyway, I’m assuming it’s mostly weapons and shit.”

“Well—yeah,” Adrian says, and you note the hesitation in his voice and put a hand on his shoulder. He lets himself lean into the touch, still starving for it like he has all week without you. He hasn’t stepped more than a foot away from you all day.

“What is it?” you ask gently. “Do you not want to move out? It’s okay if you don’t. A lot of stuff is changing really fast, if it’s too much—”

“It’s not that,” he says. “I mean, maybe I feel a little bad about leaving her there alone, after my asshole brother ditched us and my dad left her. But I agree that I don’t think I should go back to live with my mom again. I don’t want to.”

“Something is bugging you, though,” you observe, and Adrian thinks it over for a minute as he considers what it is.

“I don’t want to live with my mom, but I also don’t want the trailer,” Adrian says. “I appreciate the offer, and all, but I kinda just spent the most miserable week of my life there? And respectfully, I never want to go back there again. Like, ever.”

“Understandable,” John says.

“Fleury and I have been working on setting up some safe houses for the Checkmate team,” Adebayo says. “There’s one about twenty minutes from the office. You could stay there until…you find an apartment.”

The pause in her statement speaks volumes. Really, everyone knows the unspoken truth, which is that Adrian doesn’t need an apartment, not really. He’ll be moving in with you eventually, or you two will find a new place together. But right now would be way too soon for that, so this temporary solution will have to do.

“Okay,” Adrian agrees. He grimaces, thinking about the conversation he’s going to need to have with his mother. “Can we just—go now? And get it over with?”

Chris nods. “I’ll come with, it’ll go faster, if we’re both carrying shit.”

“I’m coming too,” you say. “To help you get set up at the safe house.”

“But my mom—” Adrian winces. He doesn’t want to leave you. The thought of letting go of you, for even an hour, feels painful. But the thought of you talking to his mother is even worse. “If she finds out that we’re—she will talk your fucking ear off. I do not want to subject you to that.”

“I’ll stay in the car,” you promise. You look around. Everyone else has started packing their things up. You lower your voice so only he can hear you. “If you can’t come home with me, then you’re damn sure I will be going to set up that place for you and make it a home.”

Adrian gives in the minute he sees the look on your face. It’s your Omega instinct, wanting to take care of him, wanting to make sure he’ll be okay, and safe, and comfortable. You want to set up a nest for him. And fuck, he wants to let you.

“Okay,” he smiles, and you kiss him on the cheek, quick and sweet, and grab his hand to pull him along. He goes willingly. He always will, with you.

“Come on, let’s go.”

As promised, you wait in the car while Adrian and Chris head into the house to collect his things. He hesitates about leaving you, but you kiss him on the cheek and send him off toward the front door with some gentle reassurance and sit back in the passenger seat to wait.

Thank god you did, because the second they enter the house, his mother is descending upon him in all her overbearing chaos. Adrian is on edge instantly, his skin prickling with irritation, any calm imparted by you instantly evaporating as Mrs. Chase comes down the stairs with a basket of laundry.

Harcourt was right. Continuing to live here would be fucking torture.

“Gut? Is that you?”

Adrian bristles at being mistaken for his brother. “No, Mom. It’s me. Jesus, fuck.”

The laundry basket nearly tumbles out of her hands as she looks around the pile of clothes with clear surprise.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I thought I smelled an Alpha—are you dating a nice Alpha girl? You should bring her home, I want to meet her, Adrian!” Mrs. Chase exclaims as she brushes past her son. Adrian grits his teeth.

“Mom—”

“Oh, hello Chris,” Mrs. Chase says when she notices Adrian’s best friend standing just behind him. “That would explain it.”

“Hi, Mrs. Chase,” Chris says politely. “Listen, I’m gonna—”

“You know, Adrian, I’ve told you a dozen times, I don’t like it when you just disappear for a week like that. You really should tell me when you’re not going to be home—”

“I’m moving out, Mom,” Adrian interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. “I just came to get my stuff.”

Mrs. Chase stops in her tracks. “What?” she asks, bewildered. “Where? Why?”

Adrian really, really wishes he did not have to have this conversation.

“I presented,” he says, his teeth gritted. “I smell like Alpha because I am an Alpha.”

She pauses and looks him up and down, then sniffs the air. Her eyes go wide. “Oh. Oh dear, that is unusual.”

“No shit,” Chris mutters.

Adrian ignores her. “I’m just here to grab some stuff from my secret room, then I have to go. I probably won’t be back for a while. There’s a lot going on at work.” 

It’s a blatant lie. He hasn’t even been to work in a week. He has no idea what the fuck is going on at work. He probably won’t be coming back ever, actually, but he really does not have the social or emotional capacity for that conversation right now. It’s been a long and exhausting week. His well of patience is all dried up.

“But you always were a late bloomer, weren’t you?” his mother chatters. “My goodness, presenting in your thirties! Your brother presented when he was just thirteen! How are you going to be an Alpha when you weren’t trained or prepared for it, like your brother?”

“Gut is a shitty Alpha,” Adrian says bluntly. “I do not want to be anything like him. There’s a reason he’s still not bonded. It’s because nobody fucking wants him.”

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” Mrs. Chase scolds. “It’s not his fault he hasn’t found his mate yet.”

“Uh, yes, it is. He hasn’t found his mate yet because he’s a possessive asshole,” Adrian says, annoyed. “He treats Omegas like they’re fucking property to be claimed, instead of people, and he’s going to die alone because of it. He treated me like shit when we were kids because I was a Beta. He is a bad person, and no Omega with a brain would ever want a dickbag like him as their Alpha.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple,” Adrian insists. “Now I’m going to get my shit. And I’m gonna go.”

Chris, who has been watching the exchange quietly, follows Adrian as he starts to head upstairs, and says something low and quiet to Mrs. Chase when she tries to follow, too. Adrian is grateful. He’s not sure how much more of his mother he can take.

There’s only a few things he really needs from his actual bedroom—he packs a spare Amazon box from the garage with his video game collection and another duffel bag with some toiletries and sentimental things—nerdy knick knacks from his desk, a stuffed Infernape you’d bought him for his birthday a few years ago. He leaves all of his clothes. They won’t fit him anymore anyway.

While Chris brings the boxes out to the car to you, so you can start packing them in the trunk, Adrian heads down to the Vigilante lair and starts bagging his most important weapons. There’s honestly not that much left here. Slowly but surely, since the Checkmate office opened, his weapons have been migrating over there. There’s probably only three or four duffle bags’ worth of knives, guns, and ammo. Chris joins him to finish bagging the last of it.

He feels a pang in his chest when he looks at his workbench. It reminds him of the early days, when he first started patrolling—but he’s been doing most of his suit and weapons repair work at the Checkmate office these days, anyway, with you. The corner of his mouth quirks up. He would rather have that, have you, than have this massive, lonely basement.

Adrian takes one last deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of old drug money and weapons polish, getting ready to close the door, when he catches something else on the air—he can scent you, even from all the way down here. And he starts to smile, but—no.

“Something is wrong,” he says, his heart dropping into his stomach, because you’re afraid. You’re so afraid he can smell it, from a dozen yards away, through the walls, through the floorboards. Chris looks at him with confusion, sees the way Adrian has gone pale. “She’s—she’s in trouble—”

The bag of weapons in his hands clanks to the floor, and he bolts for you, his blood rushing in his ears. He hears Chris’s footsteps pounding up the stairs behind him, hears his mother calling his name, asking what’s wrong, but he ignores it all, follows his instinct right out the front door and onto the lawn.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—” Adrian hears you say, and as he runs out of the house, the front door slamming open, you turn to look at him, eyes wide and pleading. He stares at your shoulder. 

Right where his brother’s hand is sitting, fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arm. 

Chris, behind him, registers the sight just a few seconds after he does.

“Oh, fuck,” Chris says, as Adrian snarls, but he doesn’t stop him from stalking toward you.

“Get your filthy fucking hands off of her, Gut,” Adrian growls. You reach for him, and he can scent your anxiety on the air. It puts him on edge, makes him so fucking angry. As soon as he’s close enough, he yanks you out of Gut’s hold, shoves his brother back, and checks you over quickly. He tries to keep his voice soft and steady when he speaks to you. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head, swallowing nervously. He can see your pulse hammering high in your neck. He can smell his fucking brother on you. His fists clench with fury as he shoves you behind him protectively. You cling to his arm as he rounds on Gut, whose eyes go wide.

“She told you not to fucking touch her,” Adrian says with barely restrained rage. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Gut laughs in his face, and hot anger courses through his veins. He wants to punch his brother in the fucking face. He tries to remember what Chris said just yesterday. That sometimes people will say shit, that he needs to control himself, that he can’t just attack people for no reason.

“I thought Ma was losing it, but no. You really are an Alpha. Presenting at thirty-four? You’re just a freak in every sense of the word, aren’t you, Adrian?”

“She called you?” Adrian says, anger rising. “What the fuck?”

Chris curses under his breath, glancing back into the house and shaking his head. “Fucking hell.”

“She’s worried about her baby boy,” Gut says. “Thought you might need some guidance, from a more experienced Alpha.”

“You are the last fucking person I would take any advice from,” Adrian says. “You are fully aware of how much I hate you. So why the fuck did you even come?”

“Because she mentioned the pretty Omega waiting in the car,” Gut smirks. His eyes drift past Adrian and land on you again. “She yours?” Your grip on Adrian tightens, fingers digging deep into the muscle of his forearm. “C’mere, pretty Omega.”

Your feet start moving of their own accord, driven by the power of Gut’s Alpha command, even as it’s evident on your face how much you don’t want to obey.

Adrian holds you back. “NO,” he shouts. He looks at you apologetically, his eyes wide when his own voice comes out like an order, but then his face hardens with determination and he says your name desperately. “Stop. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I don’t—please—stay here.”

You let out a panicked breath of relief. “Adrian—”

“Stay with Chris,” Adrian continues, and you look confused, but then Chris is right at your back.

“I’ve got her,” he says calmly. He looks over Adrian’s shoulder at Gut. “Do what you have to do. Come on—inside—” He tries to usher you toward the door, but you resist. 

“No—” Adrian is here, you want to stay with Adrian, he will protect you, you know he will—

“Go inside,” Chris tells you one last time. “He doesn’t want you to see this. Maybe just—grab the first aid kit from the Vigilante lair. That’s the one thing we didn’t grab. We’ll probably need it. For Gut.”

“What—” Gut laughs.

Then Adrian turns around and punches his brother square in the face. You startle at the sudden outburst, then relax. Adrian’s got this handled. “Okay. Be right back.”

“What the fuck?” Gut cries, wiping at the blood that immediately starts dripping from his nose. Then he gets angry. “Oh, you little fucking shit. You think you’re tough now? You make it through one rut and you think—”

Adrian loses it. He tackles Gut to the ground. 

Gut who has no idea that his little brother does black ops work for a living. Gut who has no idea that his little brother is the masked Vigilante that goes around killing people who touch women without permission all the time. And this—this anger, this resentment, has been building up for years, and Adrian is done letting it slide. He just punches, and punches, and punches, every blow driven by absolute fury.

Because he’s always treated Adrian, treated everyone, like shit. Because he fucking touched you, after you told him not to. Because he fucking deserves to feel just as small as he makes everyone else feel.

Chris doesn’t even try to stop him, just lets him go at it for several minutes before pulling him off. His glasses have gone crooked. Gut got in maybe one good punch of his own, right to his face. The lenses are cracked, the skin at his eyebrow is ripped open and bleeding into his eye. Adrian doesn’t seem to care at all. About his broken glasses, about his split, bloody knuckles, about his brother, groaning on the ground.

“What the fuck, Chris?” Gut spits. “You’re just gonna let him—”

“Your brother is in my pack,” Chris says. “And so is his Omega. And you just disrespected both of them. So yeah, I’m gonna let Adrian do whatever the fuck he wants.” He turns to Adrian. “Are you done?”

Adrian scowls. He’s not done. He wants to kill his fucking brother, but they’re standing in broad daylight on his mother’s front lawn. So he just stands up and lands one last spiteful kick to Gut’s ribs. “I guess.”

“Fuck you,” Gut says. “Fuck both of you. I thought we were fucking friends, Chris.”

“Adrian is my friend, Gut. You are not. I’m not sure you ever really were.”

Adrian’s eyes go bright as he looks up at Chris. “You mean it?”

“I mean it,” Chris says.

Adrian looks at his brother on the ground one last time with wild, fierce eyes. “You ever touch her again, I will fucking kill you,” he says. “She’s mine.”

Right on cue, you come back out of the house with the first aid kit in hand. Mrs. Chase is right behind you, and she gasps, running toward Gut on the ground.

You make a beeline for Adrian, running right into his arms, your hands coming up to cup his face, cataloging his injuries.

“You’re hurt,” you say quietly, worried. But Adrian shakes his head. He doesn’t feel a fucking thing, other than the familar strong wave of adrenaline that comes after a fight and relief that you are unhurt, safe in his arms.

“Let’s get out of here,” Chris says. “Get you cleaned up.”

Back at the safe house, you lead Adrian right into the bathroom and sit him on the closed toilet lid while Chris calls Emilia to update her about the incident. Adrian watches you carefully as you break out the first aid kit and set it on the ledge of the sink.

He’s not sure what to say, so he just sits there, tense and quiet and spiralling internally. He feels terrible and guilty. It’s his fault that any of it happened at all. His family put him in that situation, put you at risk, but also—did he go too far? 

He saw his brother’s hand on your body and some kind of tether inside him snapped. He couldn’t control it. Maybe there’s still too much territorial aggression lingering in his system from his rut, maybe you’re still not really safe around him, maybe he scared you—

But when you touch his chin, guide his face up to meet your eyes, you’re not looking at him with fear. You’re looking at him with a familiar concern. It’s the same face you wear when he comes back from a mission with one too many bumps and bruises or a stab wound that you have to stitch up.

“God, baby, your glasses,” you say, reaching for them. You frown as you brush a fingertip over the cracked lens. “They’re totally fucked.”

“I’ve got spares,” he says. “In my work bag.”

You find the bag he’s talking about and dig around until you find a glasses case. Your eyebrows raise when you crack it open. Adrian takes them and slides them on.

“Gold frames,” you note.

“My alternate self had gold frames,” Adrian says. “I thought I’d give them a go.”

“They’re nice,” you say. The way he smiles at you, blood dripping from the split skin at the corner of his forehead, stirs a strange kind of arousal in your belly, because—he did this for you.

Then he reaches up to adjust the glasses again, and you catch his hand on the way down, taking in the split, bloodied skin of his knuckles.

“You really went after your brother, huh?”

“He was going to hurt you,” Adrian says, his voice thick. He reaches for your arm, pulls away the fabric of your sleeve looking for a bruise that hasn’t developed yet, and his jaw ticks. “He did hurt you. It’s—it’s my job. Not just as an Alpha. As your friend. To protect you. I would have beat the shit out of him even if I was still a Beta, because he fucking deserved it. Because he touched you, and you didn’t want to be touched, and he had no right you’remine—”

His voice shakes with intensity, and you shush him gently and kiss him, letting your proximity, your scent, relax him. When you break away, he’s still breathing a little heavily, but some clarity has returned to his eyes.

“I am yours,” you say softly, because you think he needs to hear it. “And you did. Protect me.”

Adrian relaxes, just a little bit. You’re not afraid of him. It’s the opposite, in fact. You feel safe, with him. He could smell it, before, your fear, out on the lawn in front of his mom’s house, and that’s gone now. 

Now it’s just you, and the alcohol pads you take from the first aid kit to start disinfecting his hands. They’ll heal overnight, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, and he can’t just go walking around the rest of the day with open wounds until he goes to sleep.

“I want to kill him,” Adrian says. “I should kill him. I’ve killed people for less.” His eyes go a little manic again, and you shift forward, closer, and let your weight sink onto his lap to calm him. But it seems less like an Alpha-instinct-induced craze and more just Adrian being Adrian. “He can be my first kill in the new suit, when we’re done!”

“He hasn’t actually done anything illegal,” you point out.

“He touched you without permission. That’s assault. And even if he didn’t, I don’t care about the law. I care about you,” Adrian says plainly.

“You don’t have to kill your brother to prove your love to me,” you laugh. “I already know you do.”

Adrian goes quiet for a minute. “I’m sorry I had to order you around like that,” he says, looking away from you. “I’ve never—used my Alpha voice before, like that. It just came out. I just wanted to keep you safe, I—”

“It’s okay, baby,” you say. “I know.”

“I’ll never do it again,” he promises. “I hated it. Controlling you like that. I feel gross.”

“You don’t have to feel bad. I understand.”

“I don’t want to be like him,” Adrian says hoarsely, looking down at his hands as you start wrapping them with gauze. “Like Gut.”

“You are nothing like your brother,” you say. “Look at me, Ade.” He does, eyes flicking up to yours. “You have one of the kindest, biggest hearts of anyone I know. I know that you would never do anything to hurt me.”

“I just want to be a good Alpha,” he says tightly. “I want…I want to be worthy of you.”

“You don’t have to prove yourself worthy of me,” you say softly, as you finish wrapping his bandages. “This isn’t a fairy tale where you have to pass some magic trials to win my hand. You already have it.” He slides his arms around your waist to drag you closer to him, cradling you in a gentle hug, like you’re breakable.

“I didn’t even know I was an Alpha until a week ago,” he says. “How am I supposed to be good enough to be your Alpha?”

“Stop worrying about what you’re supposed to be, Adrian, and just be who you are,” you tell him, your forehead touching his. “You are still the same person that you were seven days ago. And I already love you.”

His eyes go a bit glassy, wrinkling at the corners with a disbelieving smile. “Really?” he whispers.

“Really,” you repeat with a smile, one thumb coming up to his forehead to scrub away a bit of dirt from his earlier tussle with his brother. “I loved you then, and I love you now. Like I said, you don’t have to prove yourself to me. But I appreciate the way you fought for my honor today like a knight from the olden times.”

Adrian laughs, then, and he kisses you, because—he can now. Because he wants to. 

Because you love him, and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

Adrian tag list: @justalotoffanfiction @danversxwasabi @clowninavan @adoresami @a-young-g0d @bastardstevie @am-3-thyst @xoxocamis @morguegrl89 @somethin-sparklyy @secretjesterr @seeingdubs @lovenerdywhitemen2 @jeshomie @aerionshipthrust @deamlucem @tlfg-adrianchase @brianna-merlim @amart-e @countvonklit @pieolsen @gingerjane15 @dosyrosyposy @mylcvemineallmine @rentaldarling @vigilcourt @hot-bean-juice @meg-winchester @sepaaaaa

And you cock your eyebrow back in his direction in a very clear ‘I just fuckin’ might’ fashion. You down the last of your drink and slide out of the booth.

Your eyes fix on the two of them, stomach dropping as you watch her rise onto her tiptoes, chin lifted to his lips; his eyes dazed somewhere else—until they snap down to her, going wide.

“Yo!” He jerks back so hard he nearly sends Topper to the floor behind him. “What—What the fuck?” His voice breaks with confusion, eyes darting wildly.

She steps back and tosses her hair, feigning nonchalance, but you can tell his reaction stung. She turns away—and the second her eyes lock on yours, she freezes; blood draining from her face.

She bails, pushing through the crowd just as Rafe’s wide eyes find yours.

“What the fuck was that?” He asks, laughing uneasily. He looks genuinely rattled—confused, like he missed the entire scene despite being the center of it.

“What the fuck was that, Rafe?”

“I—what?” He blinks, like the question short-circuited his brain. “I didn’t—She just—I don’t fuckin’ know what happened—”

“You don’t know?” You snap.

“No. I swear. I wasn’t even talkin’ to her. She just came up. And then she leaned in, baby. I think she tried to kiss me?”

“You think?”

“I mean, yeah? Don’t you?”

“Obviously!” You raise your voice, staring at him as he stares back at you. “She was talking to you… Touching you. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”

“It was nothing, baby. I swear I wasn’t even paying attention—”

“If some guy tried to kiss me, you’d lose your fucking shit—”

“I’d be in jail.”

“That’s the point, Rafe…”

He steps closer, lowering his head a little, voice warm and pleading. “Baby, I wasn’t flirting. I wasn’t interested—I wasn’t even thinking. I swear.”

“That’s the problem,” you murmur. “You weren’t thinking.”

“C’mon, baby,” he huffs.

“Maybe she wouldn’t have been so confident if you weren’t smiling at her like that.”

“Like that? Like what? I wasn’t—” His head lifts above yours and you turn around, locking eyes on the big screen TV behind you, and sure enough the sports segment is replaying Rafe’s shootout goal in slow motion before he’s mobbed by his team. “I got distracted by myself.”

“Seriously,” you grumble.

You glance back at the screen—his post-game interview from earlier. Rafe’s drenched in sweat and smiling, black compression shirt clinging to his chest, biceps looking like it was painted on. He scratches the back of his neck during one of his answers, arm flexing unintentionally. You turn back to Rafe and sure as shit he’s smiling that same smile, rocking back on his heels with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Your boy looks good,” he hums as he tilts his head down to you, with a dopey grin like that might be enough to get himself out of the doghouse.

You glare back up at him and his shoulders sag, that naturally pouty bottom lip of his working overtime.

“C’mon, pretty—”

“Act like you give a shit, Rafe,” you breathe as you walk away from him and step up to the bar, mouthing to the bartender for your check.

Rafe’s on you fast, chest pressed against your back, hands resting on top of yours, burying himself in your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, honest, like he realizes that yeah, he fucked up. “Don’t be mad at me. You mad at me?”

“I am.”

“No, baby—for real?” His voice breaks against your neck. You laugh, but there’s nothing funny about this, your annoyance building by the second. “I do give a shit, alright? I care so much…”

“I’m gonna go,” you say as the bartender rests the tab on the bar top.

“Is that your tab? Did you—did you pay for your drinks? You serious?” His brows pinch together like the whole situation’s throwing him for a loop.

“Mhmm… And yours too, sweetheart—have a good night,” you smile, mock sweetness, as you snake out of his arms, but he grabs for you.

“Let me come?” He asks softly, desperation bleeding out of his voice and every fiber of his being, not even giving a shit about how pathetic he looks.

“Do you want to come?” You ask, voice sharp enough to sting. “Or do you just feel bad now that you’ve realized you fucked up, Rafe?”

He drags his other hand through his hair—frustrated and slow—lashes fluttering as he tries to think of the right thing to say, anything to get back in your good graces.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, holding you tight because even if he can’t think of anything, at least he’s got you—trapped to his chest, heart beating against yours. He dips down, kissing your cheek, letting his lips brush against your ear.

“I didn’t realize what it looked like,” he mutters. “I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I should have been paying attention… She caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting that—I didn’t even see it comin’. I didn’t think anyone would try somethin’ like that… not with you right there.” His voice lifts a little, flustered and real. “I mean, you’re mine. That’s obvious, right?”

“It didn’t look obvious, Rafe…”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he mumbles, pressing kisses along your neck. “I love you so fucking much… Seriously, you don’t want me to come? I can’t let you leave here without me. It’s not safe—it’s not right. You think I wanna go sit back down with those assholes?” He scoffs as the both of you look back at the table, a group of his teammates quickly looking somewhere else, all thoroughly invested in the drama.

Embarrassment claws hot up your neck. “I’m just done, okay?”

“Me too.” He draws back just enough to look you in your eyes. “Please, let me follow you at least. You roll your eyes and blow out a breath, letting him sweat it out a little more. “Baby—”

“No talking.” You lay out the ground rules, wanting to stay mad for a little longer, and his lips quirk in a little smile he tries to fight back, dipping in to hide it, nose nuzzling your neck.

Five seconds of silence—absolutely nothing left for him to say—and you can tell he’s holding back something.

“Don’t do it,” you chuckle tiredly. “I don’t want to talk to you—”

He scoffs, pulling back, meeting your eyes again, bar lights flickering across his face.

“Not even to tell you how pretty you look?” He breathes, and you roll your eyes as he hooks his finger under your chin, guiding you in line with his lips. He kisses you tenderly, lingering close. You can feel a bit of his tension bleed out as his lips skim against yours. “When you’re mad at me,” he whispers.

“Are you fucking serious?” You whisper, lips trembling as you hold back a weak laugh.

“Nah, you’re pretty all the fuckin’ time,” he mumbles as he kisses you so roughly he bends you back slightly, peppering kisses anywhere he can land his lips. “Prettiest girl here—”

“Shut. Up.”

He lifts his fingers to his lips, miming the zipper rolling across them, “silencing” himself. You let out a snort of a breath as he fake-tosses the key with one hand, kissing you before he grabs the “key” with the other, stuffing it in his pocket.

“Fucking asshole,” you murmur, catching it out of the corner of your eye.

Rafe grabs your hand, squeezing tight enough for you to know there was no protesting this. He leads you through the crowd, his big body pushing through the masses, both hands clutching yours behind his back as you trail along.

The two of you step out into the night, wind whipping around you, billowing up your jersey. You pull your arm away, wrapping it around your body for warmth, heading back toward the hotel.

He falls back, one step behind you, moving closer by the second. You can feel the weight of your silence, the tension building between the two of you again as your boots tap against the concrete, the busy college town buzzing around you.

His eyes are on you, never wavering. You can feel his gaze—pleading for you to let him back in. He blows out a breath, dramatic and anguished, praying you’ll ask him ‘what’s wrong’ so he can answer.

You roll your eyes to him as he takes a little breath, blowing it out slowly, trying to be good—but that ship has almost sailed. “Rafe—”

“I was kiddin’ about the smile thing,” he blurts the words out so fast he nearly chokes on them. His shoulders sag and his head falls back, like a weight was lifted off his chest with seven little words. “I thought it would make you laugh… The announcers—they were talkin’ about my game. I’ve been off lately, you know that. It was just nice to hear them not shittin’ on me for once this fuckin’ season.”

He stuffs his hand in his pocket, looking away for a second, speaking to you things you couldn’t waterboard out of him to anyone else.

“And her? I was just being nice. She’s Topper’s sister—”

“Oh, I know who she is.”

“I thought she was just shootin’ the shit, and I didn’t give one. I wasn’t listening—I didn’t realize until she was already leaning in.” He exhales hard, jaw clenched, adjusting the cap on his head nervously. “I’m sorry. I embarrassed you. I made you look bad, and I swear to God I didn’t mean to.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing the top, pulling back before you can form a reply. “—You’re freezin’.”

“I’m fine,” you breathe, but he’s already stripping off his hat and his team sweatshirt. His T-shirt rides up underneath, exposing his full stomach, abs flexed, v-lines kissing the waist of his blue jeans—just as a few girls walk by, letting out a low whistle.

“Fuck off,” you snap, and Rafe bites back a laugh, tugging his hat back on as he walks closer.

“Baby,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“Literally fuck everyone else who isn’t you. I don’t like anyone—nobody’s in your fuckin’ league, alright? Not even me. Now put this on—”

“I said ‘I’m fine.’”

“Stop being like this—” He whispers, slinging his sweatshirt over your head, catching you inside like a butterfly in a net—trapping you with his warmth and his smell, tugging it down until you’re swallowed in the thick fabric.

He tugs you closer as you pop your arms through, pressing a kiss on your nose, then your mouth.

“You look stunning like this,” he mumbles against your lips. “All pissed off in my clothes—”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you mutter.

“I’ll win you back. Don’t worry,” he smiles, voice wavering like he’s trying to convince you both—and before you can argue, he bends down and scoops you into his arms without warning.

Your arms sling around his neck—his lips crashing into yours as he holds you bridal-style—rocking ever so slightly as his touch softens, forehead tipping against yours as he starts to walk again.

“There’s no one else for me. I swear. No one else even comes close. You can’t stay mad at me…” He breathes, pressing his cold nose to your neck, making you gasp.

He smiles down at you, gaze falling from your eyes to your lips. Rafe smiles, watching you purse your lips, trying not to do the same.

“Please,” he mumbles.

“Ugh,” you groan, going limp in his arms in frustration.

“What, baby?” He laughs lightly.

“You’re such a brat,” you sigh.

“What—why?” He puffs, the vapor of his breath making a little cloud in the cool night air.

“Because I’m trying to stay mad at you… Then, you told me why you’re smiling—”

“Oh shit,” he cuts in. “I swear I was just trying to be honest.”

“Maybe lead with that next time if you know I’m fucking pissed.”

“Noted.”

“Thanks for telling me,” you mumble under your breath.

He holds you a little closer, squeezing you a little tighter. “‘Course,” he answers like it’s easy. “You’re the only person I talk to about this shit.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, resting your head heavy on his chest, letting out a frustrated sound. Rafe pushes a kiss on your forehead, chuckling against your skin.

“M’sorry,” he laughs. “I know you’re pissed—I’m not trying to make you feel bad for me, promise.”

“So full of shit,” you whisper.

“Is it working though?” He teases, just as the door of the hotel opens with a whoosh of heat. Rafe sets you down on your feet, his fingers quickly lacing into yours.

You don’t let go of his hand—and he doesn’t let go of yours.

You walk through the lobby toward the elevator, stepping inside. The silence hums between you as you look at the panel of numbers… an away game, Rafe sharing a room with Top, a private suite all to yourself. You can already see him out of the corner of your eye—yearning, waiting, hoping that he earned a ride to your floor and a place in your bed—as his thumb traces a soft line across your knuckles while he holds your hand.

You lean forward, pressing the twelfth floor, moving back—and he takes the opportunity to pull you into him before you can change your mind.

“Thank you,” he breathes into a kiss, lifting you off your feet, pressing your back into the cool elevator wall. You gasp as his fingers curl under your thighs, his weight driving into yours. “You hear me?” He breathes again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Thank you, baby.” His voice vibrates against your lips as he pins you tight against the wall, gripping you a little tighter.

He smiles against your lips as you whimper into your kiss, the elevator climbing higher. He groans softly, resting his forehead against yours.

“I needed this,” he hums.

“Still mad at you,” you whisper.

“I know, baby,” he mumbles, taking your bottom lip between his, sucking slow. “I deserve that… Wanna celebrate this win with my girl,” he mumbles, soft and breathless.

“Didn’t you leave her back at the bar?” You whisper.

“The fuck are you on about?” He chuckles tiredly.

“Topper’s sister…”

“Blaire?” He asks, like it’s ridiculous—and you correct him.

“Claire.”

“Same shit. Couldn’t pay me enough to care,” he murmurs as the elevator dings at the 12th floor. He fixes his hold, holding on to you tight, carrying you out into the hall, walking toward your room.

“I can walk, Rafe,” you breathe.

“There’s plenty of shit you can do. You’re also kinda fast and I’m gassed from playin’—winning,” he winks. “I don’t need to be chasing you now, do I? And good luck getting outta my arms, sweetheart,” he says, smug as hell. “You saw that post-game interview. Fuck—your boy’s hot, huh?”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Hot and on my last fucking nerve.”

He huffs out a laugh, switching his grip, holding you with a single arm, stuffing his hand in his back pocket, taking out the key you gave him at the start of the night.

“So there’s one nerve left?”

“Shut up,” you laugh.

“Make me.”

“Shouldn’t have given you that key,” you whisper.

“C’mon, pretty.” He swipes the keycard, the hotel door clicks open, and he pushes it in with his shoulder. “We’ll talk about that when I’m done taking care of you, yeah?”

The door swings shut behind him, and before you can think, your back hits the mattress.

He pulls his shirt off in one rough motion—the fabric peeling up over his abs, those deep v-lines you can never look at without wanting to trace with your mouth.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, working his pants down his thighs, eyes raking over you, never leaving you once. And then he crawls up the bed, his big hands catching the waistband of your leggings, rough knuckles grazing your skin as he peels them down slowly.

You’re left in his giant black sweatshirt and nothing else.

He kneels between your thighs, gaze dark and soft at the same time, hands planted firm beside your hips.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I’m sorry. I was stupid. I didn’t see her. I wasn’t paying attention… I hate when you’re mad at me.” His fingers graze your thigh. “I know this doesn’t fix it, but…” He leans down, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your inner thigh—just barely. “Can I?” He whispers.

Your eyes narrow on his, and his head falls, resting heavy on the inside of your thigh. His big palm massages you there, so sinfully high that one brush to the left and he’d be right where he’s pleading to be.

“M’begging you,” he mumbles, blue eyes lifting to yours, begging for a touch—for a taste. His breath teases over your pussy, making your thighs draw in, but he holds you open.

“Okay—”

“Yeah? Fuck me,” he sighs, burying himself between your thighs, licking a long, slow stripe through your folds that makes your hips lift and your hands fly to his hair, and moans into you.

He sucks your clit, holding you on his tongue until your thighs start to shake. Two thick fingers tease your entrance—swirling and dipping in, scissoring and curling—leaving you bucking your hips, but he pins you down with his weight.

He licks you slow and deep, tongue fucking into you, then flattening wide in slow drags against your clit until you’re clawing at his hair. Every movement’s messy and wet—each filthy lap of his tongue pushes you closer and closer to the edge. He hums like he’s tasting something sweet, mumbling and groaning between breaths.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you whimper, and he wrestles your hand out of his hair, fingers interlacing with yours.

“C’mon, baby. Gimme it,” he whispers—words buzzing straight through you, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.

“Oh—holy shit,” you squeal, cumming hard, and he moans when you do. His fingers brush your clit fast, tongue plunging deep to feel every flutter as you squeeze his hand tight.

“Rafe—Rafe!”

His name goes from dreamy to rushed as he flips you on your hands and knees before you even realize what’s happening—and slams his cock into you from behind, hard and deep.

You cry out, head tipping back, fingers scrambling for two fistfuls of sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. Doesn’t give you space to breathe.

His big hands find your hips, pounding you from the back, skin clapping skin. That knot in your belly tangles up again, and fast. You’re wet, so wet—Rafe’s mouth on your pussy earlier left nothing but a sopping mess for him to work through again and again.

You bury your face in the mattress, ass high in the air, and his palm comes down on your head, pressing your cheek into the bed. The tips of his middle and ring finger curl into your open mouth and you wrap your lips around them, sucking hard.

Your moans mumble around his fingers; Rafe’s low sounds of pleasure course through the room. Sweat beads down your chest, your body still swallowed in his sweatshirt—dressed in his name just like he wanted.

Your vision goes hazy as your climax burns through you—his name leaving your lips in a breathy sob. Your whole body clenches, back bowing, sharp and dizzying.

“That’s it, baby,” he grits through his teeth.

His hand moves from your face to the bottom of his sweatshirt, bunching it up in his big fist, gripping it tight like leverage, pounding you through it.

“Takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” he slurs, fucking you rough until you soften around him completely.

He slows down, letting you catch your breath, rocking into you nice and slow.

“What do you think, baby? Think I earned it?” He mumbles, scooping his arms around your body, pulling you back to his chest. “Give it to me… You on top—”

Your gasp slices through his words as he pulls out, shifting to sit, resting his back against the headboard, reaching for you.

Your body trembles as you climb on top, straddling him, taking his thick, slick dick in your fist. A cock-drunk smile spreads across your lips, eyes lidded and low; just enough space between the two of you for him to watch as you sink down on him, taking every inch.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he mumbles as his lips claim yours, your hands resting on his shoulders, knees digging into the mattress on either side.

His eyes roll back, head falling against the headboard as you grind down slowly, dragging your hips. Your lips find his neck, sucking hard enough to leave your mark.

Rafe’s hands slide up the backs of your thighs, disappearing beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, palming your ass under the fabric.

He lifts the hem with one hand, spanking you with the other, hissing when your pussy clenches tight at the sting. “My perfect girl,” he groans under his breath.

You press your forehead to his, lips barely brushing his mouth as you whisper his name, your body rolling again and again.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum, baby—” he mutters like he’s not ready yet. His calloused hands roam up your waist, thumbs brushing beneath the soft cotton, just under your breasts.

His grip tightens, fingers digging into your ribcage as he thrusts up into you from below, sweatshirt bunched around your waist, your name rasping off his lips as you come undone—and he follows.

His cock pulses deep inside you, your body milking him for every last drop, leaving you both panting into each other’s mouths.

You shiver as he slowly peels the sweatshirt off, stripping you bare in his lap—skin to skin, chest to chest, hearts pounding against one another.

You’re still smiling when he cups your cheeks and pulls you in for a kiss. His forehead rests against yours, lashes low, tongue wetting his bottom lip.

“Do you forgive me?”

“Thank you, baby,” you breathe, and he visibly feeds off the words, settling back against the bed as he stares at you for another moment, just taking it all in.

There’s so much of him—long arms, a wide chest, sharp jaw, golden skin—all of it filling the screen as the corner of his lips curls into a soft smile that makes your heart skip.

“I didn’t picture you like this,” he admits quietly.

“Good?”

“Unbelievable,” he breathes.

“Thank you,” you giggle, giddy as warmth creeps into your cheeks and spreads through the rest of you too, making it hard to hold his gaze for long.

“How are you real?”

“Stop.”

You turn away for a moment, more overwhelmed than embarrassed, your chest feeling tight in that giddy way, but his deep, teasing chuckle buzzes through your phone speakers, somehow making it worse instead of better.

It still feels unreal that this is the same voice you’ve been falling asleep to for nearly two weeks.

“I’m serious,” he says softly, and you let out a small breath before turning back to him, your head tilting just slightly when his eyes find yours again. “I kept replaying it,” he admits, the words slipping out like he didn’t plan to say them. “Your voice. That first night. I didn’t think it’d get under my skin like that.” His gaze lifts back to yours. “And here you are, doin’ it again.”

“Please,” you giggle. “My cheeks hurt.” You pinch them lightly between your fingers, trying and failing to stifle your smile.

“Alls I’m hearin’ is I’m making you happy.”

“Yeah,” you add breathily.

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head at himself. “Tryin’ to find the problem with you smilin’ like this for me. Don’t worry—I’ll wait… All fuckin’ night.”

“You,” you murmur, letting your gaze trace over him. “You’re so handsome. You really are. You’re making me nervous.”

He looks away this time, his mouth twitching like he doesn’t know whether to grin or hide. “You’re gonna fuck me up,” he says under his breath with a quiet laugh. “This is so bad for my mental health.”

“Why?” You ask playfully, and he sighs like the whole thing is fucking exhausting—but he loves it.

“I told you I was already losing my mind over you—got the damn receipts to show it. Didn’t need to know how pretty you are,” he admits, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t need to know that voice matched this face, this body. I’m—” He tilts his head back against the headboard, dragging in a slow breath before laughing at himself. “I’m just… I’m in trouble, that’s all,” he sighs. “Missed you already.”

“You hung up on me,” you tease.

“Yeah, ’cause your number was burning a fucking hole in my pocket and I wanted to tell you—” He cuts himself off mid-rant, forcing a breath before slowing down. “I wanted to tell you how fucking stunning you are. How much it meant to me that you sent those pictures—gave me your number.”

His words buzz through you, making your heart patter a little faster.

“I wanted to tell you how pretty you sound saying my name when you cum.”

Your lip tucks between your teeth as a shiver runs down your spine.

“Anything else?” You ask, smiling just enough to steal his breath for a moment.

“Wanted to tell you that you look like you’re mine,” he says quietly, the words landing heavier than the tone. “Like you were made for me.”

“I am,” you whisper, your body humming like a live wire.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

He goes quiet for a beat—just long enough for your pulse to settle.

“You didn’t need to do all this…” he says after a second, his voice quieter now. “That’s a big fuckin’ risk on your end. You’re so good to me, baby. So goddamn good.”

“I wanted to—”

“I can feel that,” he mumbles. “If anything goes sideways, just say the word and I’ll handle it. Your bills and shit. I don’t care what it costs.”

“I’ll be fine,” you promise, your eyes soft. “I can take care of myself.”

“I just want you to know you don’t have to worry about anything because…” He trails off, waiting.

“Because I’m yours.”

His grin breaks wide, his body softening a little more. “You get it. And I’m still callin’, alright. Every night you’re working. I’m gonna make sure I’m the last person you talk to,” Rafe murmurs, his eyes flicking across the screen like he’s trying to memorize everything.

You laugh, quiet and flustered, tucking your legs beneath you. “Deal—” Buzz.

Your phone vibrates on the tripod with a new notification. Your eyes lift just slightly, stealing your attention away from him, and you can feel how much he hates it.

“Everything okay, baby?” He asks, his voice going a little flat—not for you, but for whoever stole the moment.

“Just work,” you say lightly.

“You need to take that?”

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head. “I only logged on for some hot, needy frat boy,” you tease, and he laughs it off. “Know the guy?”

“So mean to me,” he mumbles, scratching at his stubble to hide his smile. “Yeah, I know him. He’s pretty pathetic for you too, yeah?”

“Right?” You gossip as you slip off the bed, and you swear you can see the weight of his jealousy lift.

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, warm and sweet again.

You walk to the head of your bed, popping the laptop open and logging out of the Angel Hotline. Rafe’s eyes follow every move—hungry and shameless.

“I’m just gonna log out,” you say softly. “Didn’t mean to still be signed in. I slammed it shut, by the way.”

“Slammed it shut?”

Your eyes slice over to him playfully. “Yeah. That hot, pathetic, needy frat boy also broke my heart a little tonight, to be honest—”

“Oh, c’mon now,” he says, his voice breaking as his eyes soften. “I just—I’m sorry. I told you, it wasn’t like that.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” you wave him off, rolling your eyes as you shut the laptop and rest it on your nightstand.

“I’m so sorry, angel. You gotta forgive me,” he mumbles as you move back onto the bed, crawling toward the end.

Your knees sink into the mattress one by one, satin dipping low in the front, teasing the soft swell of your breasts as you move closer—like you’re coming for him, like you could step right through the screen and onto his lap the way he’s dreamed about a hundred times.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters.

“You have my attention, Rafe Cameron,” you breathe, and he feels it. His hand drags through his hair, his eyes dazed and starry.

“I—thank you…” he mumbles, swallowing thick as he watches you.

“So…” you say slowly. “Earlier, when you said you weren’t done with me—”

“Oh, I’m not,” he stops you immediately.

“Tell me more. I think I deserve it… after you broke my heart and all—”

“You’re killin’ me with that shit,” he blurts, tipping his head back into the headboard as his hands press over his eyes.

His biceps tighten, his abs flexing as he laughs—flushed, unguarded, and devastatingly gorgeous.

For a second, you imagine it… your mouth on his, your hands tracing every sharp line of him, those big hands sliding down your body, smacking and squeezing your ass like punishment for giving him a hard time.

“I meant,” he adds as his eyes find yours again, slipping back into that familiar, lust-drunk haze. “I’m not even close to bein’ done with you, pretty.”

“Mhmm,” you murmur. “I like the sound of that.”

“You got somethin’ close.”

“Close?” You ask, curiosity threading through your voice as you shift on the mattress, angling yourself a little closer to the camera.

“Something you could use for me—something I could watch you play with.”

“Like a toy?”

“I want to guide you through it, if you’ll let me.” Your tongue pokes through your smile, and you see the way his focus sharpens instantly. “You told me to stop holding back. This is my fantasy—you’re my fantasy. Think you could play with your pussy while I watch?”

“Watch? That’s it?”

“Nah. I’m not that strong,” he says, his voice dipping as his hand shifts to his lap, pulling back the blanket he’d been covering himself with. His cock slaps against his stomach—not fully in frame, just enough for you to catch the glimpse—precum sticky against his tanned skin.

“I think I have something close,” you breathe, your eyes trailing back up his body, aching to reach through the screen and touch him—aching to drag your tongue along his tight skin and taste that little mess yourself.

“Yeah?” He hums, lips tugging into a smirk as he catches you staring.

You pluck your phone off the tripod and move toward the headboard, stopping at your nightstand this time as his gaze follows every step.

You grab the handle and tug it open, the two of you watching as the contents inside clatter—a glittery, girly, glorious mess of comfort items and sin. Chapstick and satin scrunchies, a sleep mask, and a little bottle of linen spray lie scattered among a half-used bottle of lube and a few silky drawstring bags. The silhouettes leave little to the imagination, making Rafe groan on the other end.

“Holy shit,” he sighs, his voice cracking and hoarse. “The fuck we workin’ with, huh?”

“I have a few things—”

“Surprise me,” he cuts in quickly, impatience threading through the word. “Whatever feels best.”

You reach inside and grab the smallest bag, undoing the bow to pull out a plug—small and delicate, a baby-pink gemstone set at the base. You hold it up for the camera, your face out of frame, just your hand and the toy. The sight of it—and the idea of what you’ll do with just that alone—has his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Still with me?” You giggle.

“Wish I was fucking with you,” he forces out, the words sounding like they hurt to say.

“I wish you were here too, baby,” you sigh, tossing the toy onto the bed as you reach back into the drawer for another. “Then I wouldn’t need this.”

“Oh my fuckin’ god,” he moans as your fingers wrap around the base of the thick silicone cock, still in the bag but unmistakable. “Get back on the bed. Use that tripod for me, aight? I wanna see everything.”

You flip the camera back to selfie mode as you walk to the foot of the bed, clicking it into place. Your body sinks onto the mattress as you sit at the edge, eyes lifting to the screen like you’re waiting to be told what to do next.

“Top first,” he murmurs. His forearm flexes, his gold watch catching the low light as his greedy fingers curl into a fist, holding himself back. “Nice and slow, baby.”

You hook your fingers under the hem of your satin cami and peel it up over your head, letting it drop to the floor at your feet. Your chest bounces free to the open air, nipples already tight from the attention.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, but your hands are already back on your body, leaving him no time to recover as you tease the waistband of your pajama shorts next—satin slipping low over your hips, inch by inch. There’s nothing underneath, just soft skin revealed slowly as you ease them down your thighs.

You sink down onto the mattress, your breasts bouncing with the movement as you sit, arms bracing slightly behind you, arching your body, legs crossed for the moment.

“M’losing my fucking mind,” he says quietly, his voice low and frayed. The distance between the two of you squeezes tight, like a hand around his throat—absolutely suffocating, not being able to strip you himself.

You only tilt your head, lashes fluttering. “I can’t be the only one doing something.”

He lets out a quiet, desperate laugh, shaking his head. “This pretty little thing hasn’t told me I could touch myself yet,” he says, echoing his earlier tease from your paid phone call. “And that’s kind of all I want right now.”

You think about it for a moment, watching him watch you, your body throbbing in anticipation. “Touch yourself,” you whisper.

“So nice to me,” he mumbles, giving you a wink as he finally fists his dick again.

He’s breathing heavier now, his chest rising and falling as his hand moves in slow, deliberate strokes, taking it all in. You can tell he’s trying to pace himself, trying not to lose it too fast, but the way his jaw tightens gives him away. There’s a tension in him that feels coiled tight, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will, and you love knowing you’re the reason.

You reach before you’re asked, taking the plug in your hand and holding it by the base. You pop open the little bottle of lube, lifting it just enough to squeeze a glossy ribbon over the sleek metal, watching it catch the light before it slides down.

“Ugh, that’s my girl,” he praises immediately, his voice warm and approving. “Turn around for me.”

You shift onto your knees and turn, positioning yourself just right, angling the camera the way you know he wants. You look back over your shoulder as you line it up, the angle alone enough to make his strokes speed up unintentionally.

“Jesus,” he hisses. “That look right there… I’m getting that one day. Gonna—fuck—gonna push it in, swallow that little sound you’re gonna make for me—” You gasp as your body adjusts, the sensation making your shoulders tense while your fingers curl into the sheets beneath you.

Praise pours through the phone, so breathless and broken from Rafe that you can’t even make out every word. His voice stays low and rough, like he’s talking just to keep himself steady.

Your hands rake up the curves of your ass, the plug nestled inside you now, and you make a show of it because you know he’s watching every movement.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You’re so—fuck, look at you. Feels good?”

“So good, baby,” you smile, easing yourself back onto the bed again. Your eyes track every movement he makes like he’s afraid he’ll miss something if he blinks, the empty room still thick with tension, stretched tight between you even through the screen.

“Right there,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady as you angle the tripod a little closer—just a little higher—before sliding back into the perfect spot. “That’s it.” The screen frames you exactly the way he wants—the way he needs.

He exhales slowly through his nose, hand tightening around his cock as he realizes how fast his pleasure is climbing, how far gone he already is, and you haven’t even pulled out the other toy yet.

You reach for the dildo, slipping it free from the bag and holding it up for the camera—pink silicone, long and thick, small in comparison to Rafe, making his mouth curve into that smug, dark smirk because of it. His tongue sweeps slowly along his bottom lip as he watches.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s gonna look good inside you, angel.”

“Mhmm,” you hum softly, bringing it to your lips and pressing a slow kiss to the tip.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he sighs, breath catching as your eyes lift to his and your mouth closes around it. Your lips circle and suck as you take it deeper for him, wetting it for yourself, until Rafe looks like he’s barely holding on.

The camera trembles slightly in his hand as the other wraps back around his dick, the restraint he claimed he didn’t have still nowhere in sight as he strokes himself in slow, deliberate pulls, matching your pace. He pulls his hand away just long enough to spit into his palm before gripping himself again.

“Fuck, honey,” he mutters. “Lay down for me.”

You shift lower on the bed, thighs trembling as you guide the toy between them, your wetness already slick and messy against your skin. You trace your slit slowly, dragging the tip where you’re most sensitive, drawing it out.

Rafe’s voice drops, tight and low. “Now push it in, baby.”

You guide the toy in inch by inch, lips parting as your head falls back against the mattress with a breathy gasp. “Fuck, Rafe—”

You’re already stretched, the plug still snug inside you, the added fullness making your stomach tighten and your breath hitch. The pressure builds fast, overwhelming in the best way.

“That’s mine,” he grunts as he watches you pull it back out, your spine arching off the bed. “All fuckin’ mine. Eyes on me.”

You adjust your grip, rolling your hips slowly to match the steady rhythm of his fist. His forearm flexes with every stroke, abs tightening as he drags in deep, controlled breaths.

The sound of his spit-slick cock and your warm, wet pussy fills the room, stroke for stroke, until it feels less like distance and more like you’re fucking each other for real.

“Shit,” you whimper, barely audible, but he catches it anyway. Rafe groans at the sound, his head tipping back against the headboard as his eyes drink in every glimpse of bare skin, every subtle change your face makes, the way your cunt takes each inch of the dick he wishes was his.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Perfect fuckin’ pussy. Just like that. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

“Rafe, I’m close,” you breathe, the warning slipping out thin and shaky as the pressure builds fast.

His lips curl into a crooked smile, and he doesn’t answer right away, watching you instead, letting your desperation bloom before he gives you anything.

“Rafe,” you squeal, your voice cracking as your lashes flutter.

“I can see it, angel,” he says quietly. “You’re shakin’. You want somethin’.”

Your body reacts immediately, a sharp surge of pleasure ripping through you hard enough to make you gasp and clutch the sheets with your free hand. Your heart is racing now, every beat loud and urgent, your skin burning everywhere.

You swallow hard and force yourself to look at him again, breath coming faster. “Please,” you whisper. “Let me cum.”

He groans deep in his chest, his own breath hitching as his pace quickens, his fist tightening around himself. “Fuckin’ cum for me—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as the toy drives into you harder and faster, your body giving in all at once, pussy clenching and gushing around the pink silicone as you come undone with his name spilling from your lips.

When you open your eyes again, he’s already there with you, shifting onto his knees on the mattress, the bed dipping beneath his weight. His phone slips from his hand with a dull thump, but his gaze never leaves you as he looks down at the screen.

Rafe’s chain catches the light as his biceps strain, his hand fisting his dick hard, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Shiiiiit,” he groans, the sound tearing out of his chest as he spills over the screen, thick ropes streaking your view before more follow as he finishes, panting and spent.

For a moment, he’s half-clouded with his own release, a dazed, breathless smile tugging at his lips before his head drops forward, shoulders rising and falling as he breathes through it.

“Holy shit, baby,” you giggle softly.

“Fuck, angel,” he breathes. “Just—ugh…”

“Mhmm,” you hum, watching him slowly steady himself, his breathing evening out enough to speak again.

“Pull it out for me,” he murmurs. “Nice and slow.”

Your lips tremble as you do just that, rolling slightly as you pull the other toy out as well, a soft gasp slipping free at the sudden emptiness before you settle back onto your back again.

“That was… holy shit,” he mumbles, grabbing a stray t-shirt from the bed and scrubbing at his phone screen.

“Amazing,” you finish for him with a smile.

“Amazing,” he echoes, quieter this time.

You take the phone off the tripod and reach for a cozy blanket, wrapping it around yourself as he watches you move. He does the same, sliding back beneath the covers and pulling them a little higher over his chest.

His expression softens completely—warm and sweet—as he looks back at you like you’re exactly what he’s been saying all along. His.

The phone rests on the pillow beside you, Rafe right there in the frame, right where you’ve been wishing he was. You draw in a slow breath, your heart swelling in your chest, cheeks warm, your body still glowing with the aftermath of it all.

He stays quiet for a moment, just looking at you, like he’s memorizing the way you look in the calm that follows.

“I really like you,” he says finally, his voice gentle and unguarded.

“I really like you too.”

“I really, really like talking to you,” he admits, almost sheepish now, like this part makes him more nervous than everything that came before.

“I love talking to you, Rafe.”

“Love, huh? I’m—Damn, yeah I’m right there with you. I, uh… I go back to school on Monday,” he adds softly. “And I just—” He exhales, steadying himself. “How can I see you?”

The question settles between you, heavy and sincere.

“What’s it gonna take?” He continues before you can answer. “Tell me. I’ll do it. I’ll fly you wherever you want to meet. I’ll come to you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

His eyes never leave yours.

“Just… just say yes, baby,” he says, quieter now. “Yeah?”

A small, hopeful smile curves at his mouth, open in a way that makes your chest ache.

“What do you say?”

Two weeks ago, he’d been wandering home—drunk, buzzed, stumbling back toward the frat house with a few of his brothers before he came home for winter break. He didn’t know if it was the liquor or the weed talking. Maybe it was the fact he scraped by that econ final with a B by some act of God.

But damn... Something in him had switched on.

A billboard. Glossed lips. Bold. Barely lit from a busted streetlamp below, glowing along University Avenue. In thick red lipstick letters were the words Lonely? We Can Fix That, followed by a string of numbers Rafe could only assume led somewhere sinful—somewhere he wanted to be.

He couldn’t stop staring at it, blinking up in a drunken horned‑up daze, buzzed and unsteady, like a man possessed.

“Why don’t you take a fucking picture, buddy?” Kelce had teased, slapping a hand against his back, the hit jolting Rafe just enough to snap him back to reality.

So he did just that. And the rest was history.

Twelve beautiful, costly nights. That history revolving around you.

He wasn’t even planning to call the second night. But, here he was, two weeks later, still obsessed.

And still, he fights it. Just lies there in the dark, skin flushed, cock heavy against his thigh, thinking about it like he’ll somehow be able to resist. Romanticizing you nonetheless. Romanticizing your voice. The idea of you waiting for him on the other side of the line.

He knows it’s a fantasy. Dream Girl 81444.

And to him, you are exactly that—untouchable, a goddess, the kind of voice that curls low in his stomach and makes it harder to breathe. But he loves it. All of it. Loves the way it makes him feel, like something’s happening even when nothing is.

Maybe it’s dumb—blowing cash and his load over a voice he doesn’t know, a girl he’s never seen. A sex hotline in the big year 2026; but he wants to.

That’s what fucks him up.

His forearm drapes over his eyes, breathing deeply, letting the memory wash over him the way it has every night since.

The calls were warm, intimate even through the phone, he swears he could picture your smile.

Those beautiful, filthy words you gave him—tender when he needed soft, biting when he craved it, syrupy and cruel in a way that made him ache like you could read him without asking. Like you knew what he wanted before he even realized it himself.

He never had to guide the call. Didn’t need to lead you anywhere. It just flowed.

You had this way about you. It wasn’t just some phone sex line he dialed late at night—this was different. And with that realization, he knew he’d lost the plot. Lost the purpose of it all. Whatever the hell the Angel Hotline was selling, he was buying without hesitation—because he was hooked. On you. On Dream Girl 81444.

Rafe swallows, his throat tightening as his hand finally slides lower, fingers curling into the edge of the towel at his waist. He pictures you the way he always does—nothing concrete, no defined image, just flickers and impressions. The shape of your smile, the way your mouth might hover near his ear before you spoke; how close you’d lean—close enough he’d feel your breath before he heard your voice.

He imagines your hands. Not how they look, just what they do. How they’d rest against his chest like they belonged there. How your nails would drag slow over his skin, raising goosebumps, leaving red trails he’d still see the next morning. How your mouth would press against his jaw, whispering what you wanted from him. What you planned to do to him. What you’d let him do to you.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the empty room, barely more than a breath.

Your name follows, rough and low, rasped into the dark—and shit, it sounds good on his lips. Better than it should. He’d assumed it was fake. Some name you made up for the job. Something disposable. But what if it wasn’t?

He exhales slow through his nose, eyes still shut, chest rising and falling in time with the thoughts spiraling through him.

Where are you right now? Another state? Another time zone? Or maybe you’re closer than he thinks—maybe you’re back at school already, passing the same shops, drinking at the same bars, brushing shoulders with people he knows.

Would you ever meet him? A hotel room? A city he’s never been? Somewhere anonymous and quiet, just the two of you in a room with a bed and a lock?

“Jesus,” he huffs, dragging a hand down his face, frustration burning hot behind his ribs. His cock is hard now, straining against the towel, the fabric damp with precum where it sticks to his inner thigh.

Rafe Cameron doesn’t just want to call. He wants you.

His thumb swipes across the keypad before he can stop it. Barely three rings before someone picks up.

“Good evening,” a voice purrs. “This is the Angel Hotline. Dream Girl 1800. Are you lonely?”

It’s not you. The second he hears it, Rafe’s stomach sinks. Heat flashes down his spine, the back of his neck hot as his breath catches high in his throat.

“Handsome?” She tries again, her voice syrupy and smooth, soft like velvet.

“Oh—uh—I’m sorry. Yeah, I—” He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “Is… Is she not in tonight?”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then a low giggle. “She?”

He swallows hard and tries again, a little quieter this time. “Dream Girl 81444.” The number wavers off his tongue like a secret, embarrassment burning across his cheeks before the girl even answers.

She laughs again—this time slower, like she knows something he doesn’t. Like she knows exactly who he is.

“You’re him, aren’t you?”

The words hit him like a gut punch. “I’m—what?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says lightly, all tease. “You just sound hot and needy. Very needy.”

“I don’t know about that—” He starts, chuckling nervously, but she cuts him off.

“Been wondering who my girl’s been thinkin’ about all week.”

Rafe falls silent. Just like that, he forgets how to talk. His hand lifts instinctively to cover the grin tugging at his mouth as he sinks deeper into the pillows, phone pressed tight to his ear. “She… She talked about me?”

“Maybe,” the girl replies, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “You’ve got her actin’ like she’s the one dialing in—”

“Oh, fuck off,” he blurts out a laugh, flushing a deeper shade of red. His voice is breathless with disbelief, giddy in a way he can’t hide. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling harder, like a boy who just found out his crush doodled their initials in a spiral notebook. “Is she in tonight?”

“She’s not,” the girl says gently. “But for you, lover boy? Maybe. Gimme three minutes.”

“Really?” His voice lifts, soft and hopeful.

“Three minutes,” she repeats, voice warm and teasing knowing he’ll wait.

“Hey, stranger.”

His breath catches like it’s the first time. “Fuck,” he exhales, the word pulled straight from his chest. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that voice.”

You smile softly, curling deeper into your pillow. “A day…”

“Feels longer than that,” he mumbles, voice low and warm against your ear.

“I was wondering if you’d call back.”

“No, you weren’t,” he says, the laugh that follows thin and a little self-conscious, like he already knows how pathetic he sounds. “You knew I would… Bet you and your friend sit there and make fun of me.”

“We don’t,” you coo, gentle and teasing. “We’d never—”

“Mhmm…” he hums, not believing you for a second, not really caring either. He’s soaking it all up.

“It’s sweet,” you whisper. “A little pathetic. But sweet.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that,” he groans under his breath, and you hear the sheets shift on the other end.

“Why not?” You giggle, dragging the syllables just to bully him.

He breathes out slowly this time, a different kind of exhale, heavier and needier. His voice tips, just slightly, as it spills into the quiet between you. “Because I like it too much.”

“You know it’s New Year’s Eve, right?” You whisper, barely audible.

“I know,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You should be,” you murmur, already smiling.

“I was tryin’,” he groans. “I stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes hearing your voice in my head instead.”

You hum again, soft and knowing. “So you missed me—”

“And I’ve never even had you,” he finishes your sentence, quiet and rough. “You know how crazy that is? You got me whipped.”

Your chest tightens at that. It’s not just a line. He means it.

“Can’t believe it took me this long to call,” he murmurs, sincerity laced in his tone. “It was killin’ me. Truly.”

“Good thing I answered… I missed you,” you whisper, giving him what you know he’s waiting for. “If that’s what you wanted to hear.”

“Needed—that’s exactly what I needed to hear,” he sighs. “You sound so fuckin’ good.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, biting your lip.

“You got no idea what you do to me.”

“We’ve only been talking for a few days—”

“Twelve,” he corrects you, like he’s been counting the minutes. “Thirteen today—doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Got me fucked up regardless.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be out at some bar tonight?” You ask lightly, trying to keep your tone neutral. “I assume you’re home from college still.”

He grunts, like he doesn’t want to talk about it but knows he will anyway. “Yeah. I’m still home.”

“I’m sure there’s a girl somewhere tonight who’s stressed out over you not answering her.”

He exhales sharply. “It’s nothing,” he says, and suddenly his voice shifts—drops a little lower. “I’m stressed about you.”

Your stomach flips. You know it shouldn’t affect you. You breathe slowly, pretending you’re not jealous over the thought of that, reminding yourself it’s just work.

“There’s a girl,” he starts up again. “She texts me whenever we’re home. But I—I didn’t want that.”

You weren’t supposed to care. This was just a job. A nameless man on the other side of the phone with a seemingly limitless credit card and some time to burn. A little fantasy that never started for you and disappeared for him the second the call ended.

And yet—there it is. That sharp little pinch in your chest that doesn’t belong there. Jealousy.

“Oh?” You say softly, and you hate how small it sounds.

He picks up on it instantly though. “You okay, pretty?” He asks gently.

“Of course,” you breathe, slipping into that breathless, practiced voice that you’ve perfected as a hotline angel. The one that keeps men on the line for another hour. The one that usually works.

“Was it something I said?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s nothing,” you mumble, not sure why it feels so hard to say.

“No it ain’t… Tell me. Please,” he says, like he’s reading straight through you—like he cares.

“I don’t know. I didn’t expect to feel anything.”

“Feel?” He echoes, his words cracking slightly. “Feel what?”

You hesitate. That line between fantasy and something else has never felt thinner. “It’s stupid, Rafe—”

“It’s not stupid,” he stops you. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you laugh nervously, adjusting anxiously on your mattress. “Jealous, I guess,” the words mumble through your lips, quiet and hesitant.

“Now I know you’re fuckin’ with me,” he scoffs, nervousness merrying with his words as well.

“Am I?”

“Are you?” He counters, and you can hear he’s smiling. His happiness soothes something inside you—the two of you’re still dancing around the elephant in the room. Is this for real? Or is this pretend? Is your jealousy some fantasy you’re spinning for him for the night? Or do you mean every word.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you whisper.

“Guess so… Dream Girl 81444.”

He draws out each number, slow and syrupy, and you swear the sound of it vibrates straight through you. “I like it better when you use my name,” you breathe.

“You do?” His voice drops even lower. “Well, is that your name? Or are you just fuckin’ with me again?”

“I guess you’ll never know—”

“C’mon,” he sighs, already sounding like he’s begging.

“I’m a professional, Rafe Cameron,” you whisper.

“Love how you say my name…” He breathes like he just got his fix. Like he’s picturing you whimpering his name as you ride him slowly, falling apart around him as he swallows the sound of his name on your tongue.

“Well, I wish we could’ve done that together.” You interrupt his fantasy with another.

“Done what?” He asks dreamily, clearly already lost in it—half-drunk on lust and the images you’ve already conjured up.

“Showered,” you say, letting the word linger between you. “Me and you. Hot water. My hands on your body, slick and soapy. Pressed up against your chest.”

He groans immediately, swallowing thickly, his breath catching like his body is already ahead of his brain. A visceral reaction that has him moaning “Fuuuck,” into the microphone, “don’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?” You ask, all faux innocence. “What would you do if I were there, Rafe Cameron?”

Somewhere on the other end, his big hand flexes against the sheets. He’s staring at the ceiling now, jaw tight, like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for his cock.

“You’re killin’ me. You know that, right?”

Your body pulses in response to his voice, a slow, aching throb that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with want. “Good,” you murmur. “You think I’m not obsessing too?”

He turns his head into the pillow for a moment, the tension in his body is too much to take. “I think you’re real fuckin’ good at your job,” he admits, voice thick. “And I’m a sap with deep pockets and a soft spot for you—”

“Yeah?” You laugh.

“All fuckin’ day,” he confirms, his voice low and steady. “After that call last night? Shit. I couldn’t focus. I was just layin’ there, picturing your voice in my ear. Not through the phone. With you in my bed, on my lap, whisperin’ whatever you wanted, and me just givin’ it to you.”

“It?” You echo softly, coaxing him for more.

“Can’t tell you that yet, angel.”

“Why not?” You ask playfully.

“‘Cause if I do, I’ll cum,” he says, blunt and breathless. “I’m already a fuckin’ mess, I’m so hard it hurts, and this pretty thing on the other side of the phone hasn’t told me to yet—and that’s kind of all I want.”

“So pathetic for me,” you whisper.

He moans low and deep, already frustrated with how easy he is for you. “Baby, you gotta stop—”

“Stop holding back,” you interrupt, your voice smooth but firm, leaving no room for resistance. “I mean it. Stop telling me what you can’t do. You called me. You wanted this. This is your fantasy, Rafe. Do you want me to stop? Say stop, baby. Go on. Tell me you’ve had enough.”

He groans under his breath, the sound guttural and desperate. Some jumbled praise slips out, too quiet to fully catch. “Sorry. I just—you’re too good at this shit.”

“I’ve heard it all from other men,” you continue, “and it meant nothing to me. I want to hear it from you. I need it. What would you do to me?”

He exhales shakily, the sound dragging out of him.

“And what would I do to you?” You add, a little softer. “Don’t you want to talk about that with me?”

“Holy shit,” he groans, like your words wrapped around his cock and stroked. “Yeah? That’s what I want?”

“Then do it,” you say without a trace of hesitation.

“I don’t wanna hang up,” he murmurs. “I don’t want this conversation to end when I cum. That's the only reason I’m holding back.”

You shift your hips, moving your body closer to the laptop, pushing your fingers in your pussy, working yourself so the mic catches the rhythm of your fingers and the breathy sounds slipping past your lips. You don’t even know how much of it he hears— “That’s you?” He asks, voice breathless and desperate. “You promise?”

“I bet I’m wetter than that girl texting you for dick,” you purr, smooth and filthy. “I bet I’d feel so good around yours.”

“Fuck me,” he mutters, the word shaky and low. “You wanna know what I’d do if you were here?”

“Yes,” you breathe, already aching for an answer.

“I’d ruin you,” he says like a promise. “I’d lay you out right here on my bed, start slow—kiss your chest, your stomach, the insides of your thighs. Every spot except where you need me most. Just to hear you beg.”

A soft whimper escapes you, your back arching off the mattress as his voice fills the space around you, your fingers continuing to toy with your slit.

“I’d get on my knees,” he continues. “Pull you to the edge of the bed and spread you open. Hold you there, hands tight on your hips, and eat you until you were crying, tongue-fuck you until the only thing left in your head was my name—until you were beggin’ for my cock, if you could even still talk.”

“Holy shit,” you whisper, breath catching as your fingers circle your clit.

“That what you needed, pretty girl?” He murmurs.

“Why’d you stop?” You ask, your voice pitched with a teasing edge and he laughs, deep and lusty.

The laptop in front of you stays propped open, clocking your session as the time ticks steadily upward. The call center interface glows quietly on the screen. Somewhere in the blankets, your phone glows screen-down, buzzing quietly like it’s holding a secret—until it’s not.

He chuckles low, the sound dark with promise. You can hear him shifting, like he’s about to keep going when—Buzz.

His phone vibrates once in his hand. The screen flashes with two new messages from an unknown; a text and an image.

💬 Unknown Number: Keep this a secret 🪽

His heart thunders in his chest as he taps the message open, breath leaving his chest in a rush.

There you are, lying on your bed, your hair damp just like his, lips parted like you’re about to whisper his name. One arm is looped across your chest, barely covering your breasts, the soft curves pressed together with enough tension to tease.

Your lower body is twisted in such a way that it gives him a glimpse of the curve of your thigh; the suggestion of your ass. The lighting is low and warm, soft and intimate.

It’s not his usual holiday hook-up. No… This is special.

This has to be you.

You’ve broken the rules. For him—for this moment.

He didn’t need to know everything about your job to know you were supposed to do this with a client. These calls weren’t supposed to go this far or get this personal. None of it was supposed to feel real.

And yet—there you are. In his cellphone with your personal number, your body on display for him and only him.

“Still with me?” You ask softly through the speaker, your voice feather-light with amusement.

He drags his eyes away from the phone screen like it hurts to look away, repeating your words in his head. Keep this a secret, Rafe.

“Baby,” he murmurs, dazed. “I—fuck. I’m sorry. I just got a text.”

“Was it important?” You ask, your voice lilting with mischief.

His hand drops to his cock without hesitation, gripping hard as his head tips back. “Holy fuck,” he breathes. “Yeah. So fucking important. You’ve got no idea.”

You smile to yourself, hearing his excitement and lust in each word, knowing how much it’s killing him not to speak all of the praise he’s holding back.

“I wish I could see you,” he groans, pressing the phone to his cheek. “Wish I could watch what you’re doing to yourself right now—” Buzz. Another vibration hums against his palm. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, broken and breathless. “You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.

“Another text?” You ask sweetly.

He opens the new message. This time it’s not just a photo—it’s a live image. You’re moving. His eyes track every detail, every second of it.

Your body arches on the bed, caught in motion. Your lips part on a gasp, your hair resting on the silk pillow case. His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip involuntarily as his hand palms his cock, stroking up and down, eyes locked to the screen like he’s under a spell.

💬 Unknown Number: Keep this a secret too 💕

“Fuckin’ how, baby? Jesus—” He answers your text with breathless words.

“What?” You ask playfully.

“Damn, you’re really doin’ this?” His voice dips, full of awe. “For me? Goddamn… You’re so perfect.” He spits in his palm, slicking the length of his cock. “Fucking hell,” he mutters.

“You hear that?” You whisper.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I heard it, baby.”

“That’s my fingers,” you say softly. “You’ve got me so wet I can barely keep quiet.”

“Don’t keep quiet,” he says, almost pleading. “Be as loud as you want with me.”

“You like that I’m touching myself because of you, Rafe?” You ask, listening as your words unravel him.

“Fuckin’ love it,” he growls, his voice washed with pleasure. “Wish I could say what I wanna say. Wish I could praise you the way you deserve.”

His eyes drop to the screen as his knuckles whiten from how tightly he grips the phone. His other hand is jerking himself with desperate, steady strokes, head thrown deep in the pillows like he’s trying not to lose it without you.

“This shit goes both ways, right?” He asks, and before you can answer, your own phone vibrates in your hand.

💬 Rafe Cameron: Look at what you do to me.

Your breath catches as you tap open the photo he’s sent. The camera is pointed down toward his body, his gold chain resting against his tan chest gleaming faintly under the lamp, trailing to those sharp v-lines leading toward the base of his cock. His big hand wraps around it, thick fingers curled tight, the tip of his dick out of frame. The ultimate tease.

He’s beautiful—flushed skin, taut abs, full lips bitten red. His jaw clenches, and you can see the faint indents from his teeth on his bottom lip from where he’d been biting it.

“Still with me?” He murmurs, echoing your own words from earlier with that same sinful edge.

“Lower,” you whisper, already breathless.

“Lower, huh?” He chuckles, and there’s the sound of movement through the speaker, then he’s back.

A second image appears on your screen, and your mouth falls open.

His cock is flushed and heavy in his grip, precum and spit glistening as it drips down the shaft, catching on his knuckles and coating his gold ring. The veins in his forearm are raised, abs tightening with every breath, the tension radiating off him.

“Jesus, Rafe,” you whimper. “I want you in my mouth.”

“You do—”

“Need you in my pussy,” you whisper, and he groans out loud.

“Shit… I’m not gonna last,” he grits, and you can hear the sounds of his hand moving faster now, wet and frantic. “You’re insane.”

“No,” you say quietly, lowering the phone just enough for the mic to catch the lewd, slick sounds of your fingers again. You let it go for a few more seconds, then lift it back to your lips. “I’m yours—”

“Say that again,” he pleads, already losing control.

“You heard me,” you sigh as you swear you can hear the phone tremble in his grip.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Just say it—”

“You’re such a good boy for me,” you whisper, and the words shatter him.

He curses under his breath, voice shattering. “Say. It,” he grunts.

“I’m yours—” You start, but his groan cuts you off.

“Shhhit,” he moans as his rhythm falters, breath catching, cumming hard on the other side of the line.

You’re trembling on your end, fingers moving frantically. You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you shift the phone closer to your mouth, voice soft, breath shaky. “Rafe…”

“Mhmm?” He asks, still coming down, lazy and smug, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice.

“You… took something, didn’t you?”

He hums low, taunting you. “Took what?”

“Just… what you looked like.”

He chuckles cruelly, slow and mean. “Oh, shit, baby. You mean the mess I made?”

“Please,” you whimper, tiptoeing at the edge of your release.

“What do you want, baby? Fuck. You know how good you sound beggin’ like this?”

“For me—”

“You’re askin’ for proof?” He mumbles, voice dropping an octave.

“I’m not asking for anything.”

“Liar—” Buzz. The image flashes across your phone—obscene and live—catching the moment he climaxed, his cock throbbing and releasing, glistening with his big fist wrapped tight around the base, thick cum striping his knuckles, dripping down his wrist.

“Fuck, Rafe… I’m gonna cum,” you whimper softly, lips parting, chest rising with a ragged inhale.

“Cum for me,” he breathes and your body complies, cumming so hard it makes your vision go white—his name is the only thing on your lips.

Your heart pounds, your thoughts scattered; a flutter blooming in your chest. A part of you wonders if you played it cool enough not to get flagged by the system. But the rest of you—the part still soaking in the warmth of his voice and your pleasure—couldn’t care less.

He might just be worth it— “I should probably go to bed,” he says suddenly, his voice soft but oddly flat—like the words surprise even him as they leave his mouth.

“Oh,” you breathe. The high you were riding drains instantly, slipping out from under you. “Okay.”

“I mean—fuck,” he exhales, fumbling for an excuse. Like maybe that earlier text—the one from some hometown girl—suddenly matters. “I just—yeah. I should.”

“Right,” you say, quieter now, the ache blooming beneath your ribs. “Of course.”

He tries to recover. “Tomorrow?” he asks, like it’s a promise. Like he didn’t just take a step back without warning. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay—”

But he’s already gone. The call ends mid-breath. No goodbye. No teasing send-off. Just a dull, digital silence where his voice used to be as you stare at the screen.

Your heart’s still racing—but now for all the wrong reasons. That flutter in your stomach? It knots. That swell in your chest? It aches. Not because he left. They all leave. That’s the job. You just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

You didn’t expect it to feel personal.

Your gaze shifts to the laptop. The billing total glows back at you like a slap—proof it worked. Proof you worked.

So why does it feel like a loss?

You slam the screen shut a little too hard, throwing your phone down on the comforter beside you. This is supposed to be the part you’re good at. Make them fall. Cash out. Walk away before it costs you anything.

But the silence tonight feels different. It stretches. It lingers. It hurts in a new way—Buzz.

You draw in a breath, eyes falling shut as you await your fate. The Angel Hotline calling you out for your conversation with Rafe or your friend calling you up to see how it all went down only to admit your unfortunate reality.

Whatever.

You snag your phone off the mattress, checking the notification.

💬 Rafe: think they bought it?

You giggle soft and breathless as you look down at the text message from Rafe. Another message flashes across the screen.

💬 Rafe: I hope this is ok

💬 Rafe: not sure if this is just a part of your little call center game or if it’s really your number

💬 Rafe: your private number that is

Your stomach flips and your pulse skitters.

💬 Unknown Number: this isn’t some game. This is my number 💕

💬 Unknown Number: and don’t apologize. I crossed the line. I hope that it’s okay.

💬 Rafe: you kidding me?

💬 Rafe: this is a fantasy baby

💬 Rafe: and those sounds you made?

💬 Rafe: i swear you came

💬 Unknown Number: I did 💕

Three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear again.

💬 Rafe: baby…

💬 Rafe: holy shit

💬 Rafe: I’m not done

📞 Incoming Call: Rafe Cameron

You catch yourself smiling at your phone and immediately roll over, pressing your face into your pillow like that is going to erase it. Your cheeks are warm, and you hate it.

You did not want to do this. You wanted a minute to be by yourself and reset, not get pulled into something else the second things ended.

The worst part is that it’s working. He’s charming you without even trying, and you can feel it happening in real time, which only makes you more annoyed with yourself.

You pause for a second, reading his message again, because he is not even trying to hide it. He’s being direct about what he wants, and somehow that feels more comforting than anything else.

You’ve always had a thing for Rafe Cameron, even when you tried to ignore it. JJ never treated this like it was something real, and now you know why. He was hooking up with one of your sorority sisters the entire time and still acting like you were supposed to be okay with it.

It is nice to finally feel wanted, especially by Rafe.

The knock barely lands before you’re flinging the door open, breathless and excited. Your pulse jumps the second you see him—the man flushed and grinning, his hand still lifted mid-knock.

You don’t even say hello. Grabbing the front of his shirt instead, you drag him to your lips. Rafe’s big arms wrap around you in one smooth motion as he lifts you clean off your feet. Your legs hook around his waist as his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath as you kiss him for the very first time—riding high off the feeling that you’ve been waiting for this exact moment longer than you ever let yourself admit.

The kiss is messy and deep, all tongue and heat, breathless laughter whispering in the spaces between as he carries you inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel.

“Fuck,” he murmurs as he breaks the kiss, reaching for breath, his voice low and thick.

He turns and presses your back against the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it. His mouth drags along your jaw before finding your lips again, teasing you with a kiss before drawing back ever so slightly, leaving you chasing his lips.

“You sure?” He whispers.

“I need it,” you breathe back, the words coming out soft and breathless against his mouth. “I need you.”

He takes his turn smiling into the kiss, sending chills down your spine, cocky and stunned all at once. He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away.

“Need it, huh?” He mumbles. “Need what?”

“You,” you breathe. He lets out a low laugh against your skin before he sets you to your feet, your body still pinned against the wall, his rough hand cupping your cheek as the other holds you close, kissing you again.

“Still need that shower?” He murmurs into the kiss.

“Mhmm,” you answer softly. “Do you?”

“You kiddin’ me?” He says as his hand wraps around your waist, the other gripping your ass, pulling you off the floor, into his arms again.

Your head swims as you kiss your way to the bathroom; your body melting into him, legs wrapping around his waist. Light spills in from the bedroom, leaving the bathroom half-lit.

He sets you down on the edge of the countertop, the cool top sending shivers up your spine as your upper thighs press on top of it. Rafe presses in closer, widening your thighs, looking down at the slight space between you—the soft fabric of your shorts shifting just enough to give him a teasing glimpse underneath.

He shakes off his jacket, his clothes falling with a thud to the floor. Your hands skate around his waist while your tongue sweeps along his, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt as you pull him closer.

He tugs the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, already leaning back toward you, chain swinging between you. You hum a satisfied sound against your kiss; your fingers tracing down every dip and line of his cut abs, sliding lower, teasing the skin just under his waistband, leaving him yanking at his belt for more.

His pants drop to the floor, the belt clattering as your hands reach for him. Your fingers rake up into his hair, pulling him back into another kiss, deeper this time, and the two of you move toward the shower.

Rafe pushes open the glass shower door, twisting the knob, sending water hissing out of the head, pattering onto the floor. His cock presses heavy against his briefs, long and thick, his tip weeping against the thin fabric.

His hands move over your body, dragging up your thighs, bunching the material in his fists, before drifting up your back. He smiles as he brushes the satin straps off your shoulders.

He exhales as your set falls off your body, leaving you in next to nothing—lace hugging the swells of your breasts, his thumbs quickly hooking and snapping your panties teasingly against your hips.

“Look at you, huh?” He murmurs, smiling when your arms wrap around his neck. He tilts down, kissing you as the steam starts to rise around you, the heavy heat and moisture clinging to your skin and his.

He tugs at your panties—caught on the discarded clothes on the floor, his greedy hands pinching the clasp of your bra, undoing that as well.

There’s a split second where he just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re actually standing there letting him this close. “You fuckin’ kidding me?” He mutters hungrily under his breath, helping you hastily as you reach for the band of his boxers, pulling them down his strong thighs.

You look down, the two of you watching as your fingers curl around his long, thick dick. The ridges of his abs cut more as you stroke, letting his messy tip brush against your warm skin, dangerously close to your clit—close enough that he could scoop you up and take what he wants, but you can tell he’s holding back.

“Stop teasin’ me,” he mumbles, through the thick air between you, the corners of his lips curving into a smile, contrasting his dark words.

His hand wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you toward the shower and into his lips as you stumble past the glass. You gasp when the water hits your skin, whimper into his mouth when he backs you into the tile.

“You gotta stop me,” he mutters, his voice rough and deep.

His breath catches the moment your hand moves between you again; fingers closing around him as you smile.

“Goddamn,” he moans, the sound echoing around you before his forehead drops, resting against yours.

“Let me make you feel good, Rafe,” you whisper, unable to see his lips for how close you are but you can hear how his breathing quickens, the hold on your body tightening.

“Anything—Do anything you want to me,” he breathes as your lips kiss down his neck, brushing over his collarbone, his chain cool against your lips as your hands follow the water down his body.

It hits you all at once, somewhere between your hands on him and the heat of the water—how easy this feels, how right, like you skipped all the parts that were supposed to be complicated and landed exactly where you wanted to be.

You follow the line of his stomach, your tongue tracing lightly over his skin as you sink to your knees in front of him. Water wicks off your lashes when you look up at him.

“Fuck…” He murmurs; head tipping back against the tile as the water runs through his hair and down over his broad shoulders.

You look up at him through the rising steam, watching as his jaw tightens the moment your hands settle on his thighs, nails tracing over his skin, his body going tense when your mouth hovers close enough for him to feel your breath.

You press a slow kiss to one hip and then the other, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides while he watches you. And you just know if you were his, he’d be putting you right where he needs you—just a fantasy for another night.

“You’re really gonna do this?” He asks needily, words trailing off when you press a kiss on his tip, swirling your tongue around the fat head of his cock. His hips twitch forward before he can stop them, one of his hands coming to rest at the back of your head, holding you there, urging you forward as his eyes roll back.

You hum softly around him as your hand moves over him, the sounds of his pleasure running straight through you, and you haven't even taken more than the tip. His head lolls back against the bathroom wall while his hips push forward at a steady pace, getting deeper and deeper as your tongue toys with him.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to pull himself together. “Fuck, baby, I…”

You let out a quiet laugh against him as the words die on his tongue the moment you start to suck, the warmth of your mouth making him shudder as your hand keeps stroking.

“You feel unreal,” he says quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “So good—so fucking good.”

The muscles in his thick thighs tremble as you gag on him, water sliding down your back, the tears that had started to pool on your waterline and roll down your cheeks, catching the off warm water as it bounces off his tan skin.

“Shit,” he rasps as his mouth falls open in pleasure, water dripping off his bottom lip, one hand holding your head, the other gripping the shower bar for support. “What are you doing to me, baby…”

“Tell me to stop,” you tease softly. “I will.”

“Stop?” He breathes as your lips wrap around him again, sucking and sliding along his thick dick. “Fuck, don’t—don’t fucking stop.” His jaw tightens; eyes hooded as he looks down at you, a slow, dangerous smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He starts to move his hips, slow and shallow at first, his rhythm growing steadier with each stroke, watching your mouth take him in. You moan around him, and the sound all but tipping him over the edge.

“Ohhh fuck, there it is,” he groans, letting his hips shift again, this time with a little more force as your hands drift back. Your fingers claw into his thighs, urging him to use you. “You like that?” He asks, his voice dropping low. “You like when I use you like this, huh?”

His movements stay fluid as the steam thickens around you, his chain swaying with each measured rock of his hips.

“Look at me,” he mutters.

Your nails dig into the back of his legs as they tremble, his cock swelling on your tongue.

“Jesus, baby…” He moans as his head thumps back against the tile and his jaw tightens. “I—I’m gonna cum.” His voice breaks, bouncing off the shower walls. “Wh-What… Fuck. What do you want me to do with it?”

Your eyes never leave him as you take him deep, your tongue tracing the underside of his cock, and that is all it takes. A strangled moan tears out of him as his hands fly to your head, holding you in place.

His muscles pull tight as he spills into your mouth, his abs contracting; thighs shaking, head dropping forward.

He looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, watching you take everything he gives you, lip tucking between his teeth when you suck just a little longer, overstimulation leaving his fingers curling in your wet hair.

The breathless laugh that leaves his throat is everything; satisfied, smug, and thankful all in the same breath, like he’s just waiting to wake up.

His hold loosens, cock sliding out of your spit-slicked lips. You shiver as his hands slide over your ribs, drawing you closer. Hot water pours down your body and his—his breathing still heavy as his eyes search yours.

“Thank you,” he mumbles against your mouth as his muscles tremble around you, that same hung-smile painted on his lips.

“Of course,” you whisper, kissing him tenderly. You can feel his lips twitch against yours, like he wants to ask you something, he just doesn't know how far he can take this. “Rafe…”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips as his hand comes up to cradle your cheek.

“How far?”

“How far what, sweetheart?” He asks, and you laugh like he wasn’t hoping to guide you right where you ended as your fingers trace down his spine.

“How far did you want to take this?” You ask.

“As far as you let me,” he answers easily. “Told you, you were gonna have to stop me—”

“I don't wanna stop,” you breathe into your kiss.

“That’s not really an answer, pretty,” he mumbles, grabbing a fistful of hair, using his hold to guide you to his lips. “You won’t hurt my feelings. Hell, I got good hands.” His rough fingers slide between your thighs, pressing against your pussy, making you gasp against his lips. “M’really good at eating pussy,” he mumbles, swallowing the little sounds that slip your lips as he starts to circle his fingers on top, the words low and shameless. “Swear to God.”

“Rafe…” You breathe as you pull away, just enough. “Fuck me.”

“Holy shit,” he mutters against your mouth, the words thick with satisfaction and a smugness he does not bother hiding. “That’s what you want, huh?”

“You gonna make me wait?” You whisper against his lips.

“Fuck me… No. No—hell no.” He stumbles over his words as you question him, ragged and eager. “You’re not waiting for shit from me—you sure?” The rush of water stops in an instant, Rafe quickly taking you back in his arms before he can get another word out.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and your legs around his waist as he steps out with you; your fingers scratching up into his damp hair as he licks his lips, his eyes locked on yours through the sliver of space in between.

“Condom?” He asks.

“By the sink,” you whisper.

You kiss all the way to the sink, messy and impatient, his feet slapping wet against the floor as he walks. One hand braces under your thighs while the other taps blindly across the counter for a condom, fingers finally finding the foil packet; letting out a quiet groan of relief against your mouth.

You giggle against his lips and he smiles against yours, slowing his pace just enough to walk into the bedroom, the two of you still soaking wet. Too desperate to think about drying off, just desperate for what comes next. “Fuck,” he groans softly. “I cannot wait to fuck you—” Knock. Knock.

Your head snaps toward the door, stomach sinking as everything suddenly goes quiet.

“Probably just one of the girls,” you whisper, even though your better judgment tells you it’s not true.

Knock. Knock. Knock. A fist pounds against the wood on the other side of the door as Rafe’s lips meet your neck, licking and sucking down on your pulse point like your word was good as gold.

“Rafe—”

“S’fine,” he stops you, kissing up to your ear. “Just one of the girls—”

“Open… the goddamn door,” you hear JJ’s voice on the other side making chills fall down your spine, the water on your hot skin suddenly feeling cold.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Rafe mutters as your heart starts to race again for a completely different reason entirely.

“Shh,” you plead, searching for his eyes, making a silent plea for his temper not to get the better of him—for him to tell Maybank to ‘fuck off’ and stir the pot like you know he loves to do. The utterance leaves your lips as you slide down from his arms, moving toward the door on unsteady legs, water dripping off your naked body onto the floor.

Rafe follows close behind you without thinking about it, his palm resting on your hip possessively. You hold your breath nervously as you near the door, a wave of nerves crashing over you the second you hear him mumbling.

“Rafe…” You whisper, looking back over your shoulder, finding him with not one care in the world—his entire focus lost in you. He knows it’s JJ. He knew it the second the first knock landed but he also knows there's nothing his frat brother can do about it.

The backs of your legs brush his as he steps in close behind you, his stiff cock brushing snug between your thighs; the condom bit between his teeth, as his eyes trace from your ass, following the sway of your back, up to your lips.

He lets out this quiet, almost disbelieving breath, like this has been playing out in his head for so long he’s still catching up to the fact that it’s actually happening.

His fingers tighten as he guides you back, arching your spine, pressing your ass into him more. Knock. Knock. JJ’s fist lands against the threshold again, making you gasp. “—Hey, baby?” JJ calls from the other side and your eyes widen on Rafe’s.

“Baby? Who the fuck’s callin’ you baby, huh?” Rafe asks through the corner of his mouth, warm and casual, reaching up to pinch the edge of the condom wrapper before he tears it nice and slow.

“Open the fucking door,” JJ mutters as Rafe spits the wrapper to the floor, shaking his head.

“You want me to stop?” Rafe asks as he draws back his hips and lowers the condom. “Tell me to stop and I will—”

“I’m not gonna ask again, alright? Open the fucking door,” JJ snarls but you're already turning around, your back pressed against it, taking the condom off Rafe’s hands.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, making Rafe suck in a sharp breath as you press it against the tip of his cock, rolling it on with your eyes locked on his. He grabs your hips, turning you fast, your hands landing against the door with a thud.

“Sweetheart?” JJ voice breaks at the sound.

“Go—” That’s all you manage before Rafe pushes into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing his wrist where it locks tight around your hip while your other hand clamps over your mouth.

“Go?” He snaps from the hallway. “One fucking word. That’s all I get?”

“—Yeah, that's all he fuckin’ gets,” Rafe murmurs softly against your skin as he steps in, his lips finding your ear, cock buried inside you, his voice low and satisfied. “Pussy’s so damn good. Fuck me.”

Your head falls back against him at the way he stretches you wide, his big hand locks around your neck, drifting higher, making your hands fall away, turning your face so your lips find his.

“Just—Just leave,” your words breathe out against Rafe’s lips. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.

“I know he’s in there,” JJ seethes. “Cleo saw him walkin’ inside. He thinks he’s slick.” His fist bangs against the door again, making it rattle on the frame. “Open the fucking door, Cameron.”

“Want me to say somethin’ or do you want to keep going?” Rafe asks again, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, “keep going,” hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room.

“I’m not leaving until he comes out.”

You gasp when Rafe pulls away without warning, your whole body tightening at the sudden loss, until he turns you around in one easy motion and lifts you. He steps twice, pressing your back against the wood door. His tongue runs along his bottom lip with his eyes locked on yours.

“You know how good it would feel to pound you into this door right now?” He whispers as he adjusts, lifting you just enough to find your entrance, your eyes softening on him when he lets gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with you held in his arms taking all of it. “So pretty taking my dick,” he whispers, burying himself in your neck, being careful as he thrusts up into you but you know it has to be making some sound on the other side.

“You’re being irrational—” Bang.

You cut off JJ’s words, letting your fist slam against the door this time, making both men stop for a moment. “You can leave or listen, JJ. Honestly I don’t give a shit—”

“Listen? Listen are you fucking kidding me?” JJ spits as Rafe chuckles just under his breath at your words and JJ’s reaction, unable to keep it in any longer. “You do anything with Cameron and we’re done!”

“Well shit… Who’s gonna tell him?” Rafe mutters, just loud enough for you to hear—just loud enough that it might carry through the wood like he hopes it does. And it does.

“Fuck you, Rafe. I’ll fucking kill you,” JJ snaps.

“Leave, Maybank,” Rafe hums, like it’s an afterthought—like he’s knee deep in better things to do. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Talkin’ shit behind a locked door like a fucking pussy… very Rafe of you, Rafe.”

“Maybe it would be good for him to hear, hmm?” Rafe asks, throwing his hips up hard and final, leaving your fingers clawing into his skin and his name whimpering past your lips. “Shh…” Rafe teases you as he dives in for a kiss, harder this time, drawing you off the wall and toward the bed.

He lays you back on the mattress, his broad hands spreading your thighs as his mouth drags over your chest. Rafe only laughs, low and rough, not the least bit concerned as JJ continues his tantrum and threats outside.

Rafe leans over you, fists curling around the backs of your thighs as he presses them up toward your chest. “Be good and hold ‘em,” he breathes before his cock slides through your folds, slick and warm, teasing you as his eyes drink you in.

“Rafe,” you whine, pleading sweetly for more.

He shakes his head and smiles, lost somewhere on cloud nine. “Sure this is okay?” He asks like you weren't just begging for him, smacking his tip against your clit making your hips lift off the mattress.

“Yes, fuck.” Your breath catches, lips parting as he traces your slit, falling open completely as a soft sound slips past your lips as he pushes in, stretching you wide and full, your shaky hands resting gently on his hips when you take him all.

He lowers your legs gently and tilts in to kiss you, deep and unhurried, his rough hands sliding around your hips to draw you closer before he draws back, thrusting into you again.

Your hands lift to cradle his face mewling into his mouth when he thrust deeper, finding that place inside you that makes your mind shut off.

He groans into your kiss as your pussy tightens around him, his forehead comes to rest against yours—his breath warm and uneven against your lips.

And then, it's just you. The heat between your bodies, the pressure between your thighs, the pleasure climbing with your heartbeat, higher by the second.

Rafe’s hand slides down your thighs as he shifts his weight, and before you can quite catch your breath he rolls, turning the two of you in one smooth motion, guiding you over until you are straddling him.

You let out a soft laugh of surprise as you settle on top, your hands landing instinctively against the solid plane of his chest. His hair’s damp and pushed back from his forehead, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady pulls of air as his chain glitters around his throat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, his voice rough with awe. “Look so good on top of me, you know that?”

You shift your weight and he groans low in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as you circle them.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his hands guiding you gently. “Easy, baby. Just like that.”

Your nails dig into his chest as you begin to move, slow and steady at first, your body finding its rhythm while his muscles tense beneath your palms, his mouth falling open.

“Fuck,” he exhales. “You move like you were made for me.”

Your hands drift a little higher, thumb resting the hollow of his throat with your hands wrapping and squeezing just enough to make his eyes roll back in his skull.

“Holy—Holy shit. Tight… Tighter,” he moans as you ride him, your hips finding a deeper rhythm, and his eyes fluttering open just enough to find yours, fighting to stay open like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

“Rafe, I—” You start but he can already feel the way your body squeezes around him and your thighs tremble, grabbing for you, switching positions before sinking into you again.

Your fingers twist into the sheets as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.

Your body softens slightly as his dick throbs inside you, filling the condom with his head thrown back and his muscles cut tight to keep himself as deep as he can go.

“Holy shit,” he says softly, a quiet kind of disbelief in his voice breaking with pleasure. “You got no idea how—” His words drift away as he draws in a deep, needed breath, blowing it out with a satisfied smile. “You got no idea how long I wanted that.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, feeling your entire body warm when he looks at you like he means every word—like he’d say more if he could get it out.

He leans down and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “How was that?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.

“Amazing.” Your voice is small but honest when your lips brush against his. “I’ve never cum like that before.”

He pulls away just enough to make sure he heard what he thought he heard, exhaling a short, breathy laugh and drops his head to your neck.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Why the fuck would you tell me that?” His head turns, lips finding your neck, pressing his mouth to your skin as your fingers drift into his hair. “It’s gonna kill me not to bring that shit up.”

“Don’t.”

He groans again, pained and dramatic as ever. “How the fuck am I supposed to keep that to myself?”

“Please tell me you didn’t actually plan to bring that up.”

“I mean…” He mumbles, already picturing it. You pull him out of the fantasy, tugging playfully at his hair. “Please tell me you faked it with him.”

You hesitate for half a second before glancing away, lips twitching. “Rafe, c’mon,” you sigh, unable to answer—too bitter to lie.

“You’re shittin’ me?”

He pulls back to look at you and your features sharpen, threatening him with a look. “That stays between us.”

“Us?” He asks as he closes the space between your lips, kissing you softly.

“Us,” you whisper. “I’m not rushing into anything, Rafe.”

“Nah. No,” he breathes into your kiss as it gets a little deeper, his hand coming up to cradle your head. “I’m not—I mean… I wouldn’t want to pressure you into being mine or anything—”

“You’re so convincing,” you giggle against his lips and he sighs. “Haven’t even taken me on our date yet—”

“Shit’s planned though. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night, you and me?”

“I swore off frat guys though,” you mumble.

“Mmm,” he hums. “How’s that workin’ out for you, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you,” you giggle, smacking him playfully before he squeezes you tight.

“Fuck me, huh?” He teases, the warmth of his words ghosting against your jaw. “At least let me pull out first, yeah?”

“You’re so annoying,” you laugh.

“Yeah?” He grins. “You told me to come over… good luck getting rid of me now.”

“I did,” you whisper. “But, yeah… tomorrow.”

The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he hears exactly what he wanted to hear. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”

Everything in the room starts to settle, the party at the frat house next door still raging, the steady bass of the music thumping. But, Rafe’s still here, he hasn’t left, completely content with you in his arms.

He pulls out slowly, stepping out of the room, coming back in with a warm, wet towel and no plans to leave, and you can’t help but smile. He looks down at you, waiting for an invitation to step back in, breathing out a sigh of relief when you draw back the covers.

The towel moves between your legs, running up the inside of your thighs. His lips twitch at the corner again, like it’s killing him not to say everything he’s ever wanted to say to you.

“Rafe?” You giggle under your breath, watching a rosy blush bloom on his cheeks.

“Yeah, pretty,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Just say it,” you sigh.

“I, uh—I probably shouldn’t walk out there right now.”

You roll your eyes and snort out a laugh, snuggling into your bed a little more as he lays his head down on the pillow next to you, his big hand resting on your thigh. “Why not?”

“Well,” he says, like he is thinking it through moving a little closer, “JJ’s out there somewhere, isn’t he?”

Your eyebrow arches as another laugh bubbles past your lips, Rafe no stranger to a fight or two, or five. “Rafe—“

“Guy sounded pretty pissed.”

“Thought you didn’t give a shit,” you remind him.

He looks back at you, eyes warm and amused before his big arm tightens around you just a little, drawing you closer against his chest.

“But staying,” he adds quietly, his mouth brushing your forehead, “seems like the safer option.”

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

“Don’t make me leave,” he pleads softly, joking but not entirely. His finger draws under your chin, tilting your lips toward his, waiting for an answer he can feel before it even leaves your lips.

“Stay.”

“Here.” Spencer’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You tear your eyes from their absentminded stare as he slaps a tall glass onto the table, a rivulet of clear liquid dribbling over the lip. Your brow furrows as you assess the cup with an unimpressed glare.

“What the hell is this?” you ask as Spencer slides into the booth. He opts to sit on the same side as you, trapping you between him and the wall, sliding the glass closer to you. You lean forward, cautiously sniffing its contents.

“Sprite,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, relax.”

“Excuse me,” you retort sharply, lifting the glass to your lips and taking a dainty sip. The soda fizzes pleasantly as you swallow, warmth sliding down your throat. You shoot a sidelong glance at Spencer and murmur, “I wouldn’t put it past you to get me drunk so you can take all the credit when we catch this guy.”

The rest of the team is stationed outside, ready to intervene once the unsub arrives. He’s a sexual sadist who’s been targeting women in the area. More specifically, women he deems guilty of infidelity. It’s an easy enough setup; fawn all over Spencer before approaching the unsub, and you’re sure to piss him off. The most fallible aspect of the plan isn’t even luring the unsub outside; it’s playing a convincing couple. While you find Spencer ridiculously attractive, it’s become second nature at this point to tease him until he’s red in the face—from either embarrassment or blatant irritation. 

Spencer snorts. “I don’t need to get you drunk to do that.”

According to Garcia, the unsub is en route to the bar, but won’t arrive for another several minutes. Essentially, this information translates to: you still have a few minutes to go tête à tête without having to monitor your facial expressions. You say pointedly, “So you admit that you’d step on everyone on your way to the top?” You offer Spencer a smug smirk over the lip of your glass. 

“Not everyone, just you,” he replies flatly. You huff with amusement, gaping at him with faux indignance. 

“Aw, is that any way to talk to the only girlfriend you’ll ever have?” you coo, a disappointed pout downturning your lips. 

“Fake girlfriend,” Spencer tersely responds, as if the thought of verifiably dating you horrifies him. A glint of mischief flits in his eyes as he mocks, “Or are you so obsessed with me that you forgot?”

“You’re not my type,” you lie easily. The two of you have fallen into this sort of flirtatious teasing so many times, you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re telling the truth. Almost.

Spencer sighs dramatically, his lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Well, that’s a relief.”

“Yes, your virginity lives to see another day,” you deadpan. Blinking harshly at him, you add, “Phew.”

Narrowing his eyes, his smile looks downright feline. “At least look like you’re enjoying yourself while you spit unoriginal insults at me.”

“I am enjoying myself,” you boast gleefully. “It’s actually pretty cathartic to—”

“Shut up and get your ass over here,” Spencer whispers, words laced with a frantic yet insistent energy. 

“I beg your—” you scoff, but before you can finish vocalizing your thought, he’s grabbing you by the hips and planting you firmly in his lap. Not only are you in his lap—you’re straddling it. Your dress is riding up your thighs, and you’re very thankful that you had the foresight to wear some spandex shorts beneath the skirt. You gape at him, simultaneously shocked and turned on by how easily he’s thrown you over his thighs. 

The movement jostled a curl from behind your ear, and Spencer reaches up to tenderly tuck the hair back into place. With one hand cupping the back of your neck and the other gripping your hip, he leans toward you. Your breath hitches, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to indulge in the delusion that this is real. Spencer angles his lips toward your ear and murmurs, “He’s here. Just do your job.”

His words course through your veins like icy water, effectively cooling the heat in your core. Refusing to let any disappointment show, you plaster on a joyous smile, which isn’t all that much of a challenge when the hottest man you know is smirking at you like you’re the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen. 

“Bossy,” you tease through your teeth. Your hands lift to his shoulders, fingers fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt. Just playing the part, you tell yourself. Another plus of those spandex? He can’t tell how wet you’re getting. Weakly, you taunt, “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to put me in your lap.”

“You are so—”

“Lovely?” you interrupt, injecting as much sweetness into your smile as possible. Spencer squints at you, and you sigh, “Come on. If you’re gonna manhandle me like a caveman, the least you can do is call me pretty or something. I get enough denigration from you on a daily basis.”

Your hands fall to his chest. You try to make the motions appear absentminded, like you’ve touched him a thousand times, but you’re relishing the feeling. On one hand, you’re tempted to look over your shoulder, curious if the unsub is buying your little show, but on the other, you’d like to pretend that it’s just the two of you here. 

“You poor thing,” Spencer croons, his hand trailing from the back of your neck to cup your jawline. “Fragile ego?”

You laugh like he’s just referenced some kind of inside joke as opposed to insulting you, exaggerating your amusement for anyone who’s watching. You sigh, meeting his eyes as you answer, “Aw, it’s so cute how you think your words have any power over me.”

“If they don’t, what do you need the praise for?” Spencer quickly retorts. 

“Because your job tonight is to be a convincing boyfriend, and right now, you’re not making me wanna date you,” you chide quietly. In a combination of self-indulgence and an attempt to get under Spencer’s skin, you lean closer. With the way Spencer’s thumb has been stroking your cheek, it probably appears to anyone watching that he’s preparing to kiss you. Your eyes flit between his as you tut in mock disappointment, “We might have to break up.”

You don’t miss the strain in his eyes, the way he appears to be refraining from looking at your lips. Then again, he can probably still see them in his periphery. Your own gaze falls to his mouth as the corners of his lips twitch into a small smile. “Are you saying you normally wanna date me?”

“Only in your most unrealistic, most horny dreams, Reid,” you purr, lying straight through your teeth. You sit back in his lap, finding the position quite comfortable. His hand falls away from your face, settling back on your hip. 

Spencer rolls his eyes, though there’s a fondness in the motion that only comes from months of familiar bickering. “So charming.” His voice is flat—unimpressed—but there’s a gravely quality to his low tone that has your stomach pitching as if he had sounded even the slightest bit flirtatious. 

“I know,” you hum. “Must be why I’m the star of all your fantasies.”

Spencer barks out a laugh at that. The sound is sharp, edged with surprise; almost like you’ve struck a chord, appealed to some truth he’s not yet willing to admit. He huffs, “You seem awfully interested in my fantasies for someone who says I’m not their type.”

“I’m just worried about your health,” you assure him, voice dripping with feigned concern. “All that pent-up sexual frustration cannot be good for you.” 

“Neither is being stuck on a case with you,” Spencer quips, though he doesn’t really sound that broken up about it. 

“So you admit that you’re sexually—”

“Just go talk to him,” he interrupts, unwilling to concede your point. 

“Yes, sir,” you oblige, softly patting his chest before you slide off his lap, heels practically sticking to the dirty bar floor. Before Spencer can offer a witty retort, you amend, “Oh, sorry. I’ll try to keep things vanilla for your sensitive soul.” Blowing him a kiss, you mouth, “Later, loser.”

Spencer looks like he might try to fit in a final word, but he clamps his mouth shut and you look away, focusing on the objective ahead of you.

You’ve just emerged from your hotel suite’s bathroom when a firm knock sounds on your door. Instinctively, your gaze shoots to the clock on the nightstand; its bright red digits confirm your suspicions. It’s late, late enough that there’s no reasonable explanation for someone to be bothering you. 

You’re exhausted after this evening’s events. Between the emotional turmoil of being around Spencer—of sitting in his lap, for Christ’s sake—and the stress of closing a case, you’re determined to sleep for at least the next ten hours. It’s no surprise when your voice comes out as a disappointed groan. “Who is it?”

“Open the door and find out, smartass,” Spencer retorts, the amusement in his tone evident even from the other side of the door. 

“Tempting, but I think I’ll just keep pricking your voodoo doll,” you quip. You’re debating just flopping into bed and ignoring him; you’re so exhausted, even incessant knocking probably wouldn’t keep you from a heavy slumber, at this point. Yet, that stupid little sliver of your mind—the horny part, that is—wants to see him. 

“Funny,” he says flatly. 

“Maybe, but the chest pain you’re about to feel isn’t.” You’ve never given much thought to voodoo, but there’s something tantalizing about the thought of stabbing a little needle right through Spencer’s plush heart after his aggravating behavior earlier. You huff to yourself.

“Open the door,” he commands, sounding wholly unimpressed by your witticism. 

Relenting with a dramatic sigh, you pad across the drab carpet and unlock your door. As soon as Spencer catches sight of you, his eyes are trailing down your body, seemingly admiring the oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts currently serving as your pajamas. You wouldn’t think that there would be much of interest to admire, but Spencer’s gaze lingers on your bare legs just the same. 

“It’s late,” you mutter, pretending for all the world like you’re not also drinking in his appearance. Since you last saw him, he’s changed into loungewear of his own—a worn tee and flannel pants. Clearing your suddenly dry throat, you arch a brow and ask, “Shouldn’t you be jerking off?”

Spencer’s gaze snaps back to your face, and he shoots you a withering glare. “You’re exhausting. Don’t you ever get tired of yourself?”

Not dignifying his snippiness with a response, you taunt, “If you came here to steal some panties, I’d rather you just be honest.” You look over your shoulder, gesturing vaguely to your neatly-packed suitcase, propped in the corner of the room. “See, ‘cause I have this lace pair I really don’t—”

“Shut up. For once, stop talking.” Spencer steps into your room, crowding you against the door as it clicks shut behind you. You tilt your head to look up at him as he murmurs, “You think you’re so smart, huh? You think you have me all figured out?” He pauses, and you’re tempted to cut in with a sharp retort, but then he’s diving back into his rant. “Well, you’re a shittier profiler than you think. All this talk about me being a virgin, all this teasing me about being sexually frustrated—” he jabs a finger into his chest, and then redirects his pointing to you, “—when you’re the one who was about to get yourself off thinking about me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide, scrunching your nose in distaste as if the thought has never crossed your mind. You fold your arms across your chest, elbow almost poking him in the process with how close he’s hovering. “Why are you here, Reid?”

“I thought I’d offer you some help,” he says simply, not bothering to be remotely subtle as he ogles your chest, crossed arms pushing your breasts together, even under your loose shirt. 

“With what?” you ask, though you’re sure you know what he’s implying. With a mock gasp, you joke, “Oh. Cute. No. I don’t do that kind of charity work.”

Spencer’s eyes drag up the column of your throat, landing back on your face after a tense moment. He shrugs and takes a step back, moving like he’s waiting for you to step away from the door so he can leave. “Suit yourself.”

“You idiot,” you scowl. “You think you can just show up at my door and I’ll drop my pants? You think I’m some kind of slut?”

“No, but I do think you’re desperate,” he replies instantly. 

“Wow,” you scoff. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong,” Spencer challenges. You roll your eyes at his self-assured tone, leveling him with an annoyed look. 

“You’re wrong,” you state, heat creeping up your neck at the realization that it’s more difficult to lie to him than usual.

Perhaps you’re just tired of lying to yourself.

The corners of Spencer’s lips twitch into an irritatingly charming smirk. He croons, “That was a good try, but I said my eyes, not my lips.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies smoothly. 

“You’re goddamn annoying,” you complain, uncrossing your arms and grabbing the door handle. Admittedly, your heart’s not completely into the notion of kicking him out, but you’ll do it to avoid him having the upper hand. “How about instead of assuming I’m so obsessed with you, you ask yourself this: why would anyone want to be with someone who’s so abrasive, and haughty, and authoritarian—”

“Because you like when I’m authoritarian,” Spencer confidently interrupts. For a moment, he waits for a response, likely expecting you to counter his statement with a petty argument. When you remain silent, glowering at him—though it’s unclear whether you’re more pissed at him or yourself—he sighs and says, “Fine, you don’t wanna admit it? I can go first. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. The only reason I put up with your ginormous goddamn attitude is because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you to make you shut up.” Your stomach drops at his confession, a flicker of heat sparking in your abdomen. It’s been obvious that the two of you have been dancing around these feelings for some time now, but to hear him say so has your insides twisting with desire. “You think I’m abrasive? Well, I’m not the one constantly degrading you because I’m too much of a coward to admit that I actually like you.”

Damn. It doesn’t necessarily feel good to be called out so explicitly, but he’s not wrong, per se. You have been a bit of a coward, using humor as a defense mechanism when you’ve been sure that Spencer would reject you if you made your interest overt. 

“That’s some grand speech for a hookup,” you mumble, still unwilling to drop your bravado. 

“I don’t just want a hookup, but I’ll settle if that’s what you’re into,” Spencer admits. His face is, shockingly, a mask of cool indifference; while it’s usually so easy to fluster him, to get under his skin, he seems perfectly comfortable right now, like he hasn’t just been utterly vulnerable with you. Oh, how the tables have turned. 

“Isn’t it kind of backwards to fuck and then go out to dinner?” you question pointedly, quirking a brow. 

“I did take you out for drinks earlier,” Spencer responds easily. At this point, you’re still cornered against the door, and you lean against the wood for support. After all, his confession has you slightly winded, and you don’t trust your wobbly legs to keep you upright all on their own. 

“For a job,” you argue.

“Semantics,” he says dismissively.

“I knew you liked me,” you answer, speaking more to yourself than to him. 

“And I knew you were massively overcompensating with all your teasing,” he replies, his unimpressed expression morphing into that familiar, smug countenance. 

“Teasing?” you repeat, brow furrowing as you innocently pout. “I’m not a tease.”

Spencer takes a step closer once more, towering over you. He huffs with amusement, and his breath puffs across your face. Cracking an amused smile, he goads, “Prove it.”

You cock your head. “Aren’t you gonna make me, Spence?”

The bright grin drops off his face as he solemnly responds, “Only if you call me ‘sir’ again.”

Your heart stutters. You have half a mind to laugh, to write off what he’s just said as sarcasm, but something in his dark eyes gives you pause. “Oh,” you gasp, “are you serious?”

He breaks character, devolving into a low chuckle. “Fuck no.”

Without further ado, his hands are cupping your jaw, and he’s tilting your face toward his. Your arms have been hanging limply at your sides since you uncrossed them, but they instinctively loop over his shoulders as he pulls you into a deep kiss. His movements are fiery and tender all at once, like he’s been fantasizing about this moment for far too long, but doesn’t want to rush things. His lips insistently press against yours, mouth moving in an expert rhythm. 

His fingers trail your throat, falling to the nape of your neck as he pulls you impossibly closer. His thumbs are pressed against your pulse point, and you’re vaguely aware that he knows how rapidly your heart is racing—how affected you are by his touch. The thought should embarrass you, but you’re too delighted by the feel of his body molding to the contours of your own to think twice about it. 

While he had initially inched you closer to him, he’s now backing you against the door, seeking leverage as he continues to ravish you. Before you hit the wood, one of his hands tangles in your hair, simultaneously protecting your head from a blow while he holds you in place. The duality of his intentions—the combined need to protect you and consume you—doesn’t go unnoticed as you continue to reciprocate his kiss. 

Eventually, Spencer’s lips part from yours, and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before you can contain it. As he works to catch his own breath, he mutters, “You know, there’s something you said earlier that I can’t stop thinking about.”

“I know, I’m hilarious,” you smirk, somehow able to feign confidence while your head is spinning, dizzy with the thought of surrendering control to him. “What in particular amused you?”

“How wrong you are about me,” he answers, busying himself with peppering kisses across your jaw and down your neck. Between pecks, he clarifies, “How you think I’m… vanilla?”

“You didn’t come here to ask me to join some sort of BDSM cult, did you?” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out breathy and very blatantly aroused.

“No, nothing like that,” he replies, huffing against your throat. Lifting his head to shoot you an amused glance, he teases, “Why? Would that interest you?”

“That’s a good question,” you shamelessly admit, unable to deny your fascination with the idea. 

“Huh,” Spencer hums, ducking his head again to continue laving at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He starts to lightly suck at the sensitive skin, and the pleasurable sting is enough to make you gasp, your grip tightening on his shoulders. 

“Is Twenty Questions your idea of foreplay or something?” you joke half-heartedly, cheeks burning as your arousal builds. With a mildly embarrassing whine in your tone, you complain, “I thought you said you wanted to help.”

“Oh, I do,” Spencer promises, lifting his head to assess you through half-lidded eyes. “I was just curious.” His gaze falls to your shirt, the material practically swallowing you. He drags a finger across the embroidery right above your sternum, smiling delightedly to himself. “This is cute.”

“I feel like you’re stalling. Trying to prepare a good line, are we?” you taunt, though your chest is rapidly rising and falling beneath his touch. You’re not fooling anyone, and you know it, but you’re stubborn as all hell. 

“Not at all,” Spencer denies with a minute shake of his head. His curls flop around, and you’re struck with an overwhelming temptation to run a hand through them. At the rate things are going, though, you’re guessing you have a good chance of doing so by the time the night’s over. “It looks good on you. Of course, it would look better on the floor, though.”

“There it is,” you say flatly, pretending like his words don’t have you wanting to strip naked right then and there. Spencer hums knowingly, stepping away from you. Immediately, you crave his proximity, missing the warmth of his body against yours. 

He nods over his shoulder, gesturing to your bed. “Go sit down.”

Your mind fumbles to produce a witty response. You should tell him not to boss you around, that you won’t listen to any man, that he can go to hell, but… 

Your feet carry you across the room, and you’re plopping down on the edge of the bed. You watch him expectantly; he hovers by the door for a mere second before following you, stopping right in front of you. Your knees are tightly pressed together, and your hands are clasped in your lap as you look up at him. The air feels dense with tension. Despite having already kissed him, you want so much more, that the desire threatens to suffocate you. 

“I don’t want to fuck you,” Spencer murmurs, and you practically hear a record scratch echo through the room. Your immense disappointment must show on your face, because he quickly amends, “I don’t want to fuck you tonight. But I do want to make you feel good.”

One of his hands falls to your knee, gently coaxing your legs apart. He steps closer, slotting himself between your legs. You swallow thickly as you silently watch him, as his slender fingers drag up your barely-covered thighs and begin fiddling with the hem of your shirt. 

“I’m gonna take this off now,” he declares in a low voice. Despite his commanding tone, his brows lift in a concerned expression, seeking your agreement. “Okay?”

Your heart lurches at the realization that you’re about to be half-naked in front of him, yet the thought is exceedingly exhilarating. You feel kind of pathetic for bowing to his whims so easily, but his promise has you slowly nodding your consent.

He lifts your shirt, slowly revealing your bare skin. You’re so absurdly turned on by this entire ordeal that even the tiniest shift of fabric against your chest has your nipples hardening. Naturally, Spencer’s gaze flits to your breasts, his pupils blowing wide at the sight. 

Then, he kneels between your legs, his hands settling on your waist. More specifically, the waistband of your shorts. You sit back on the heels of your palms, lifting your hips for him before he even has to ask—or tell. While he had removed your shirt with a languid fluidity, he wastes no time tugging both your shorts and your underwear down your legs.

Your cheeks flush with heat once you’re bare before him. He takes a generous moment to stare at your glistening folds before dragging his attention back to your face. Seeing your evident embarrassment, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh. The sensitive skin prickles under his touch. 

His strong hands grip your hips, digging into the flesh as he guides you closer to the edge of the mattress. Once he’s satisfied with your position, he returns his focus back to the junction of your thighs. 

He inches closer, nipping at the skin just beside your core. You jump at the sensation, but quickly relax as he soothes the spot with his tongue. He seems like he’s debating teasing you further, but he takes one look at your glistening folds, and he’s lapping at your arousal, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one smooth motion. You jolt, a hand instinctively clutching his hair for leverage as he starts to devour you. 

His tongue swirls your clit, a light stimulation that sends electricity coursing through your abdomen. As a pleasured sigh escapes you, Spencer encircles your clit with his mouth, sucking on the sensitive bud. 

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, keeping your legs spread for him, start to wander. One hand travels up your waist, cupping your tit and squeezing gently. You think you may come just from his ministrations thus far, but then his other hand snakes between your legs, and your heart skips a beat. 

Collecting your arousal on his fingers, he prods at your entrance. It doesn’t take much effort to slip one digit into your sopping pussy; it quickly sinks inside of you, and you moan at the drag of his finger inside of you. He hums his approval against your clit, and the vibration only furthers your pleasure.

He crooks his finger against a spongy spot deep within you at the same time as his other hand toys with your nipple, the pinch going straight to your core. You feel yourself growing wetter around Spencer’s finger, and he must notice, too, because he carefully inches another one inside of you. While his fingers are slim, they’re still thicker than yours, and there’s a dull ache as he stretches you open. You try not to think about how many times he must have done this with other women in order to know just how long to give you to adjust to the feeling. After a short time, he crooks his fingers and begins pumping them in and out of your pussy, hand moving in time with his mouth.

You mewl, a pathetic little whimper that has him huffing against your core. You would be indignant at his response if you weren’t so fucking lost in arousal right now. Your thighs begin to tremble as he continues to lick and suck and fuck you open; his hand that had been fondling your breast moves to grip your thigh, holding you in place.

You moan, your breaths devolving into shaky little pants. You’re helplessly gasping and whining as Spencer expertly works you toward your climax. 

“Spence, fuck—” you cry, stomach tightening as you race toward release. He’s unrelenting, mouth practically attached to your pussy.

Like a taut rubber band, the pressure in your core threatens to snap. You’re so close that tears are starting to burn in your eyes as you approach that intense pleasure. Your body tingles with the anticipation of it, but right when you feel yourself creeping over the edge, Spencer pulls back. 

Cool air hits your core like a bucket of water dousing an inferno. Your hazy eyes snap to his as he retracts his fingers from inside of you. 

“N-no,” you whine, voice no more than a breath.

He sits back on his heels before rising from the floor, looking down at you with a devious glint in his eyes. Your mind runs through a list of the most insulting expletives you can conjure, and you’re about to unleash a snappy complaint when you stop yourself.

As promised, he had made you feel good—better than good. Fucking incredible. You’ll be damned if you ruin this for yourself by telling him off. You can handle a little bit of edging. It’s not ideal, but you can play this game how he clearly wants you to. 

“P-please,” you beg. 

“Aw, you sound so sweet,” Spencer coos, settling onto the mattress. You glower at his mocking tone, but your face is bright red with a combination of arousal and… something at his demeaning statement. He cracks a cheeky grin, tapping the tip of your nose as he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. Please what?”

You grit your teeth, admitting, “I want… more.”

“Yeah?” he asks. Surely, he’s just feeling cocky and wants to hear once more how badly you want him. Asshole.

“Mhm,” you nod weakly. 

Spencer leans toward you, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your ear as he murmurs, “Then stand up for me.”

Your brow furrows in confusion at his command. You’re not sure what to expect next, but you’re far too invested in the situation to refuse. You oblige, shakily rising from your seat and angling your body toward him, awaiting further instruction.

Spencer pats his clothed thigh and purrs, “Sit right here.”

You blink harshly, wondering what sort of gratification he would possibly get from you doing so. You’re positively soaked, and you would only ruin his pants. You try to vocalize this thought, yet all that comes out is a soft, “But…”

“What? You don’t wanna make a mess?” he croons, clearly reveling in your suddenly shy demeanor. You jerkily shake your head, but your gaze darts to his lap, to his spread legs. He waits until your focus returns to his face before asking, “Even if I want you to?”

You consider this for a moment. It would be super hot. “Well…”

“Oh, come on,” he coaxes. “Be good.”

You had told him earlier tonight that you didn’t like constantly being teased by him, but there’s something so attractive about his mock praise in this context that has you wanting to do whatever he asks. So, after a minuscule internal debate, you step toward him, sinking onto his thigh. His hands immediately fall to your hips, holding you in place as you straddle his leg.

He’s gotten you so damn worked up that the mere feeling of his flannel pants pressing against your clit has you holding back a shiver. You’re desperate for friction, but you’re well aware that doing this means that things will change between you—more than they already have, that is—and that you can never go back. 

“Atta girl,” Spencer praises, thumbs brushing against your bare hips. His fingers are dangerously close to kneading your ass, and you would almost prefer if he would start guiding your movements. Yet, he’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to make a move. “What?”

“‘S embarrassing,” you complain in a small whisper, unable to stop a dismayed pout from crossing your face. He grins in response, clearly enjoying finally having reduced you from a confident brat to a submissive little lamb.

“Aw, don’t be embarrassed,” he tuts. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

“Mhm,” you hum reluctantly.

“Pretty girl, all you have to do is roll your hips,” he says, patting them in encouragement. As desperate as you are to feel some release, there’s something vaguely humiliating about getting yourself off in front of him. Your embarrassment is only heightened when he teasingly instructs, “C’mon, put on a little show for me.”

You scowl at him, narrowing your eyes at the humorous lilt in his voice. To spite him—or perhaps to tease yourself—you shift forward slightly, dragging your core along his thigh. You had meant the motion to be a stubborn display, to appear like you’re not as helplessly interested in him as you are, but the friction is delicious, and the tension in your body starts to melt away.

“That’s it. Just like that,” Spencer murmurs, gripping your hips tighter as you resign yourself to grinding against his leg. “That feel good?”

“Mhm,” you confirm, quickly losing yourself in the sensation of rocking against him. Once more, your clit catches on the fabric of his pants, and you bite your lip to suppress a satisfied groan.

“You’re so cute, getting all worked up like this,” he praises, and his words resonate deep in your stomach, adding to the building tension there. 

He had brought you so close to orgasm moments ago that it’s not long at all before you’re rutting in his lap with fervor, abdomen tightly coiled with your impending climax. Once more, little whimpers and moans tumble from your lips, and their increased volume indicates that you’re close to coming.

“Stop,” Spencer commands, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. He’s not gripping you tight enough to truly prevent you from continuing to grind on him, but that submissive part of your brain obediently freezes.

“No, Spence, please—” you whine.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he promises, lifting one hand to card his fingers through your damp hair. He meets your gaze with dark, lust-filled eyes. “Just for a second, alright?”

“Mm, wanna…” you whimper. 

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, smoothing your tousled hair. 

“Please, can I…?” you plead. 

“You gonna make yourself come all over my thigh?” he asks, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. You hang your head, panting at the sight of his clothed erection just inches away from the mess you’ve made on his thigh.

“Mhm,” you hum.

“Go ahead,” he permits, loosening his hold on your hips just enough so that you can move freely again. 

“Thank you…” you breathe, instantly returning to your desperate pace. As you continue to rut against him, dragging your pussy along his thigh, he grips your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you can taste your arousal on his lips.

You’re so worked up, you think you may sob as your orgasm begins to wash over you in an all-consuming wave. You unseal your lips from his, huffing against his mouth, “God, ‘m gonna… ah….”

“I got you,” he assures you. “Go ahead, baby.”

“Mm… ah…” you moan, riding his thigh for all you’re worth. Mercifully, you finally come, and the sensation causes your vision to dance with dark spots and your body to erupt in a pleasant tingle. You yelp, biting your lip to hold back a scream. All of Spencer’s teasing has only ensured that when you finally reach the precipice, you have the most intense orgasm of your life. 

Your hips still to a halt as you tremble on top of him. You’re left feeling absolutely boneless, a satisfying warmth blooming in your abdomen. As you puff and gasp for air, Spencer peppers your face with tender kisses.

“So good,” he murmurs. “You’re so good.”

For a moment, you allow yourself to be the recipient of his unadulterated affection. Once the initial wave of bliss passes, however, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on you, and you bury your face in your hands. 

“Oh God,” you groan. “Oh my God, that was so embarrassing.”

“If by ‘embarrassing’, you mean ridiculously fucking hot,” Spencer quips. When a moment passes and you still haven’t met his eyes, he starts pressing a kiss to each knuckle on your fingers. His gentle touch is enough to have you lowering your hands and glancing at him with a worried look.

“There was one thing you were right about earlier, by the way,” he notes.

“Yeah?” you ask nervously. “What’s that?”

“This is like my horny dreams,” he replies lightheartedly, though his expression suggests that he is anything but joking. 

You huff, smiling sheepishly as you mutter, “Fuck off.”

“What?” he squawks, slapping a hand to his chest in an offended gesture. “I mean, sure, I can go handle this myself, but I’d much rather stay.” His gaze falls to the tent in his pants, and then he looks up at you through his lashes, a hopeful sparkle in his eyes. 

“You’re not invited,” you decree, clambering off his lap and standing up.

“Aw. Shame,” he tuts, clearly unconvinced. Then, seeking clarification, he meekly asks, “Really?”

Echoing his words from earlier, you declare, “Fuck no,” before mimicking his actions and moving to kneel before him.

The two of you have quite the night ahead of you, but you’re going to make the most of it. After all, it’s been a long time coming.

“I am not.”

“You are,” he insisted, turning his head toward you. “You’ve been smiling since the encore.”

You rolled onto your side to face him, the thin motel blanket shifting between you. “That was a good encore.”

Eddie huffed a soft laugh. “It was an amazing encore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The muffled sound of a car passing on the highway filled the silence, headlights briefly sweeping across the ceiling through the gap in the curtains.

You became very aware of how close he was.

Close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows when he squinted at you. Close enough that if either of you moved even a little, your knees would bump under the blanket.

“You know,” Eddie said after a second, voice quieter now, “most people after a concert like that would be out cold.”

“And miss the post-show analysis?” you said. “Never.”

“This is why you’re my favorute,” he murmured.

But he didn’t look away.

The quiet stretched between you, the small motel room seemed to shrink around the bed, until it felt like the rest of the world had slipped somewhere down the highway and left the two of you stranded in the middle of it.

"Well," you finally broke the silence. "As much as I hate that Gareth fractured his ankle, there would have been no way we'd all be able to sleep in this motel room together. So I guess it worked out money wise."

It was supposed to be the three of you on this little weekend road trip, but Gareth had gotten drunk and hopped on a picnic table one too many times before the show and had spent the evening in an emergency room getting a cast. You and Eddie had still gone.

"Yeah well, I came close to getting my own bones broken when he fell on top of me the second time." Eddie rolled his eyes with a huff of laughter. 

"Almost had to go all by myself and deal with my metal-induced euphoria alone."

"Perish the thought," Eddie said, a smile touching his lips. "I'm a vital part of your euphoria management system."

You watched the slow way he blinked, the way his lashes swept down against his cheek. 

"Eddie," you said, and you didn't know what you were going to say after that, only that you were going to say something.

But he was already moving, shifting onto his side too, facing you fully. The motion sent the mattress dipping again, bringing you even closer. The worn denim of your jeans brushed against the worn denim of his.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

You opened your mouth to speak but pushed the thought aside and instead blurted out:

"I don't have pajamas." 

He gave you a confused look at the weird way you said it but then nodded slowly.

"Me neither."

You shifted your legs a bit, pulling your knees up closer to your body.

"I don't want to sleep in my jeans." 

"Yeah, I wasn't planning on that either." 

You raise an eyebrow and he goes on. "So...we could sleep in our underwear. I could look away for a second so you can get under the covers first. 

You think about the black thong you have on.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not really wearing underwear underwear."

"Uh... what?" He looked lost.

You took a breath.

"I'm wearing a thong."

He didn't say anything at all. Just kind of stared at you like you'd just announced you could fly. Then a slow flush started creeping up his neck.

"Oh," he managed after a solid ten seconds of silence.

"I could use my shirt to cover the top half. But still..." you trailed off. "My ass would be out." 

"Yeah... I uh, know how a thong works," he managed.

You just blinked at him. You hadn't meant for the conversation to go in this direction but now it was here and you didn't know how to get it back.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement of his throat in the dim light.

"Okay," he said, after a beat that felt longer than the entire opening act. "I mean, I'm not going to make you sleep in your jeans. That's a special kind of torture. So we can... you know. Do the underwear thing. I'll face the wall. And I swear on all my Judas Priest records I won't turn around."

You searched his face, the earnestness you found there making your chest feel tight.

"Right. Okay." 

You each get up from your respective sides and undress. Eddie kept true to his word, but you still felt the heat of knowing he was just a few feet away.

You slip under the thin covers and wait.

"Okay, done. You're good."

He turned around and got in. His briefs were black too, and hung low on his hips. He had also taken his makeshift tank top off and was only in his boxers.

"You're shirtless." You say as he pauses, halfway into the bed. 

"Uh... yeah? I don't usually wear a shirt to bed..." He trails off like he's just realized what you'd said. "Is that... is that okay?"

You just nodded.

He slid the rest of the way in and pulled the covers up.

There was a lot less space between you now. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could see the way the dim light caught the tattoos scattered across his chest.

"You've seen me shirtless before, sweetheart. It's not some revolutionary event," he said, a note of humor in his voice.

"I've never been in a bed with you while you were shirtless. Different experience entirely."

"Right," he said, and then softer, "Well I've never been in bed with a girl and her ass cheeks were out, so I think we're even." 

"I told you not to look!" You shrieked, hitting him with a pillow.

"Hey! I said I didn't!" he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm a virgin not a monk, I can visualize what a thong entails." 

He says it so casually that you almost don't catch it. 

"...What?" 

"Okay..." he tries to backtrack. "I don't mean I'm visualizing your ass in the thong. Just an ass. Like a generic woman ass in--" 

"You're a virgin?" You cut him off.

The pillow fell from your grasp as you stared at him.

His whole body went tense.

The laugh had vanished from his face. He looked away from you, staring at the water-stained patch on the ceiling. He swallowed hard enough that you could see the muscles in his throat work.

"Uh... yeah." It comes out as a resigned whisper almost. Like, for once, he has nothing in his wordsmith arsenal to deflect.

You were too quiet.

And then your face did a weird thing that you couldn't quite control. Your eyebrows shot up and your lips parted and it wasn't bad. It wasn't mocking or judgmental.

It was just... shocked.

"Really?"

And for some reason, the simple, unadorned disbelief in your voice seemed to be exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Jesus, what, is that so hard to believe?" The words came out sharp, stung. He pushed himself up on one elbow, creating a sudden, unwelcome distance between you. "The freak, the dungeon master, the guy who sells drugs to kids isn't exactly a girl's fantasy. Don't tell me you're surprised."

"No! Eddie that's not what I meant at all!" You quickly try to sit up, while still keeping covered as well, but the blanket bunches weirdly around your waist and you feel even more exposed than before. "It's just... you're so..."

"So what?" He was genuinely agitated now, the vulnerable admission curdling into something defensive and angry.

"So... confident," you finished quietly. "You're always so... loud. And you command a room. And you're funny. And... I don't know. I just assumed..."

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. The anger seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a deep-seated exhaustion.

"Being able to work a room doesn't mean you know what the hell to do when you're alone in a dark one with someone," he said, the words barely audible.

Silence crashed back into the room. This was heavier, weighted with things unsaid. You reached out, your fingers hovering just above the space between you, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse.

"And, let's be honest, if a girl is alone with me in a dark room, she's more likely to piss herself with the worry I'm going to sacrifice her to Satan, than be wet in any other way."

You scrunch your nose up at his verbiage. 

"Okay, one: ew. Two? Not true. Three?" You took a breath, deciding to throw caution to the wind. "I'm alone with you in a dark room. Piss free."

He blinked. "Thats different. You're not like, a girl." 

It was, in fact, now his turn to say the exact wrong thing. The tension that had just begun to dissolve returned twofold.

Your jaw set. "Right. I'm not. My mistake."

He scrambled, his words tripping over each other. "No, that's not what I-- Fuck. I mean, you're you. You're my friend. It's not... it's not like that. It's safe."

"Wow. Safe. That's every girl's dream. To be the safe, unfuckable friend."

You flopped back onto the pillow, turning your back to him with a huff. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, a thin, flimsy shield. You could feel the heat of anger and embarrassment prickling at your skin.

"Woah, woah, that's not what I meant either! I'm just... bad at this," he pleaded, his voice a strained whisper. The mattress shifted as he moved closer, a careful, hesitant movement. You could feel the warmth of his hand hovering over your shoulder, not quite touching. "I've never talked about this before. I mean, you know damn well none of the Hellfire guys are getting any. And I'm pretty sure they think I'm some kind of dark lord of getting laid. It's just... a lie. A story I tell. It's easier than the truth."

You stayed silent, staring at the ugly floral pattern on the wall. You could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven.

"And you're not... you're not unfuckable," he said, the words so quiet you almost had to strain to hear them. "You're... very fucka- I mean, you're... you know. You're great."

The clumsy, earnest correction almost made you smile. Almost.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please?"

Slowly, you rolled back over.

His face was a mess of conflicting emotions in the dim light. The defensive sneer was gone, replaced by something more vulnerable.

"'Great' is what a teacher puts on your paper when you get a B+." You say, your voice small.

He let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-despair. "Okay. You're right. You're not 'great' like a B+." He searched for the right words, his gaze flicking between your eyes. "You're... you're the solo in 'Master of Puppets'. You're the part of a song that's so good it makes you pull the car over. You're... the kind of thing that makes a guy want to learn guitar in the first place."

Your breath caught. That was not what you were expecting.

"Eddie..."

"No, I mean it," he pushed on, a desperate urgency in his tone now. "And being around you is... it's easy. Too easy. And then I get in my head about it. About saying the wrong thing. About being a disappointment. So I deflect. I make stupid jokes. I turn myself into the D&D nerd or the Satanist freak or--" 

"I'm a virgin too." The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, a quiet confession that hung in the air between you.

The torrent of words from Eddie stopped. His jaw went slack. He stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you'd just confessed to being a secret agent.

"What?" he finally managed to breathe out. "I thought you lost it to that guy from the photography club."

"Tyler?" You couldn't help the small, humorless laugh that escaped. "No. We went on, like, three dates. He tried to stick his tongue down my throat in the back of the movie theater and then practically begged for a handjob in the parking lot. It was... underwhelming."

Eddie was still just staring, processing.

"Shit. Well, now I can tell you that I really hated that guy. For more reasons than just his terrible haircut."

A real smile finally touched your lips at that. "His haircut was pretty bad."

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't heavy or awkward. It was... quiet. A shared space.

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed," you admitted, your gaze fixed on a loose thread on the pillowcase. "I figured you like... I don't know, banged girls in your van after shows or something. I felt... left behind. Like everyone was growing up and doing all this stuff and I was just... still me."

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice soft. "I'm far from the van-banging king. I'm the guy who is currently panicking because he's shirtless in a bed with a girl in a thong and doesn't know the social protocol for what to do with his hands."

"So you admit I'm a girl now?" you teased, a glimmer of your usual self returning.

His eyes softened, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I've unfortunately been way too aware of that distinction for a while now."

"Unfortunately?" You raise a playful eyebrow.

"Because it was a lot easier to think of you as just... you. My friend. My partner in crime. The person I could talk to about whether Kirk Hammett was a better guitarist than Slash without getting a blank stare. Thinking of you as a girl? A girl I'm in bed with? That's... terrifying."

You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the flimsy blanket. "Why terrifying?"

"Because I'm bad at this!" he exclaimed, gesturing vaguely between you. "This entire conversation is a testament to that! I say 'safe' and you hear 'unfuckable.' I say 'girl' and I sound like a caveman. The margin for error here is huge. And the thought of messing this up... with you..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Messing what up?" you whispered.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, and back again. The room suddenly felt a thousand degrees hotter. He swallowed, and the motion was so deliberate, so loaded with unspoken meaning, it made your breath hitch.

"You know what. Don't make me say it," he murmured, his voice raspy.

He was so close now. The dip in the mattress had eliminated all but the slimmest of gaps between you. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

"I think I want you to say it," you breathed back. 

"Not going to." His smile was back, but it was different now. Shyer. More hesitant. But no less real. "I've said enough stupid things for one night."

Instead of explaining more, he started to lean in.

Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away, to turn back to the wall, to put a stop to it.

But you didn't stop it. 

Not when his hand came up to cradle your face. 

Not when he used his thumb to gently trace your jawline, the rough callus on his finger a pleasant rasp against your skin.

Not when he finally, finally closed the last remaining distance between you and his lips met yours.

It wasn't a perfect kiss. It was a little clumsy at first, a misalignment of angles that ended in a soft, wet press against the corner of your mouth.

You giggled a little, ready to say something cheeky, but he didn't give you the chance. He tilted his head and tried again.

And the second one was perfect.

It was soft and tentative, the taste of a gas station slushie. The sigh he let out against your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, settled right in your core. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss deepened, a slow, gentle exploration that sent shivers down your spine.

You found your own courage then, your hand coming up to rest on the warm skin of his chest. He let out a soft hum of encouragement, and you let your fingers trail over the lines of his tattoos, the dark ink a stark contrast to his skin.

"Touch all you want." He murmurs against your lips before pressing another quick kiss to your lips and pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched your own.

"Okay." You say quietly, letting your hand wander.

"Okay," he repeated, a dazed sort of smile on his face. "Okay."

He was still looking at you, a deep searching look that seemed to be trying to memorize every detail of your face.

"You're staring."

"Can't help it," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. Your hands are all over him now, touching anything they can reach. His shoulders, his biceps, the small of his back. And he was doing the same. His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft skin of your thighs above the line of the thong.

He froze for a second when his fingers brushed against the string of your underwear.

You hold back a small laugh as your hand travels to grab his ass a little, the soft cotton of his briefs giving way to the firm muscle beneath.

"Hey!" He yelped, jumping a little.

"You said I could touch all I wanted." You say with a sly grin. "Don't be shy."

He stared at you for a second before a slow grin spread across his face. "Yeah, okay. Fair's fair."

His hands grew bolder then, sliding down to cup the fat of your ass, pulling you flush against him. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was the only thing separating you.

He kisses you harder this time, a hungry, desperate kiss that stole the air from your lungs. His hips rocked against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that had you gasping into his mouth.

He was hard. You could feel him. 

"Eddie," you breathed out, his name a plea on your lips.

"That okay?" His voice soft as his lips travel over your jaw and down your neck. "How I'm touching you?"

You could only nod, words failing you. He seemed to take that as an invitation to continue. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you whimper. His hands were still on your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you closer as he rolls his hips against yours.

You were the one to reach for the hem of your shirt.

He pulls away, breathless.

"Wait. You sure?" He's searching your face again, looking for any sign of hesitation. "You don't have to."

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks. "Do you... not want to see me?" The words were small, laced with an insecurity you hated.

He looked like you'd just slapped him.

"No! God, no." He shook his head, a look of pure panic on his face. "That's not... I mean, I do. I really, really do. I just... I don't want you to think you have to. Because of... all this."

He gestures to his erection and then to the two of you in the bed. "He's kind of an idiot, and he has terrible ideas about timing."

"I kinda like his timing." You said, your hands back on his chest. "And I want to." You slowly lift the shirt over your head and toss it onto the floor with your jeans.

Eddie went completely still, his eyes wide, fixed on your chest.

"I knew you didn't wear a bra. I could tell," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "When you were jumping during the concert."

"Really?" You couldn't help but feel a little pleased.

"Oh yeah." He reached out a hesitant hand, like he was afraid you might disappear. "I was trying very hard to be a gentleman and not stare. But I failed. Miserably."

You let out a soft laugh as his fingers finally made contact, tracing the curve of your breast. His thumb was quick to find your nipple, brushing over it in a way that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your core.

"Look at these pretty things." He murmured as he leaned down to take one in his mouth.

The feel of his tongue, hot and wet, against your sensitive skin was enough to make you arch your back, a gasp torn from your lips. He used his free hand to grip you ass hard, pulling you on top of him while his lips still wrapped around your nipple.

You were straddling him now, your knees on either side of his hips. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was soaked, the friction of him against you, even through the layers of clothes, was intoxicating.

You couldn't help the way your hips started to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that had you both gasping for breath.

"Can't believe you're wet for me," he said, his voice laced with a kind of awestruck disbelief. He lifted you up and adjusted you to where he could feel you better, a small moan leaving his lips at the contact.

"Can't believe you're this big," you shot back, more of a sigh than a statement. 

"Yeah? You like that?" The words were a low growl against your skin as he lavished your other nipple with attention.

"Mhm..." You could only manage a small hum, your mind going hazy with pleasure.

He's so hard. So hard that it's almost painful. You needed to feel him. All of him. You started to reach for the waistband of his briefs, but he stopped you, his hand covering yours.

"Hey, no." His breath hitched. "Not yet. Let me... let me do something for you first."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting you, maneuvering you until you were on your back and he was settled between your thighs. He pushed your legs apart with a gentle pressure of his hands. And then he was leaning down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. He moved higher, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you desperately wanted him.

"You really want to?" Your own surprise at the question was evident.

"I've been dreaming about this," he admitted, his voice a raw, honest confession. "For a long, long time."

And then he was there, his tongue sliding against the fabric of your thong. The wet heat of him through the thin lace was almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh god... no wonder girls like this in pornos." Your legs start to shake a little as your hands find their way into his hair.

"You watch pornos?" He looks up at you from between your legs, a slow grin spreading across his face. "My dirty girl."

He didn't wait for an answer, just hooked his fingers into the sides of your thong and pulled it down your legs. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed somewhere in the vicinity of your discarded shirt.

"I feel like I'm supposed to pray to this," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Like a holy relic."

You let out a shaky laugh. "D&D references aren't exactly what I'm looking for right now, Eddie."

"No? So you don't like my DM voice? 'You enter a beautiful, damp cavern... the walls are slick with moisture...'" He was  on you then, his tongue finally, finally making contact with your pussy. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, you couldn't help but cry out.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he explored you with a desperate, hungry curiosity.

"Guide me," he mumbled against your folds. "I don't know what you like. Tell me."

"Your... your tongue," you gasped out. "On my clit. When I... touch myself I just focus there... "

He hummed in acknowledgement, and then he was following your directions, his tongue finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure. He was a quick study, and it wasn't long before you were writhing beneath him, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips bucking against his face.

"Mmm, feels so much better than my fingers." You whined, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. He was good. So, so good. Better than you had ever imagined. And you had imagined this. A lot.

He pulled back for a second, his chin shining with your arousal. "Show me how you do it," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you like."

You hesitated for a beat, the vulnerability of the request hitting you. But then you looked at him, at the open, eager expression on his face, and you couldn't deny him anything.

You reached down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit easily. You started to rub slow circles, the motion practiced, familiar.

"God..." He groans. "You ever think about me? When you do this?"

Your fingers stutter. You look down at him, at the hope and the lust warring in his eyes.

"Only since last year," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "When you wore that ripped t-shirt to the fair. I could see your... happy trail..." 

He just stared, completely floored.

"Fucking Christ..." He pinched his eyes shut as he palmed himself through his boxers before he dived back in with a new enthusiasm.

He watched you for a moment, and then he joined in, his tongue prodding your entrance and licking at your fingers as you pleasured yourself. It was a messy, clumsy, and incredibly erotic sight.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm so close," you moaned, your hips moving in a frantic rhythm against his tongue and your own hand.

He redoubled his efforts, nudging your hands away with his nose and sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. It was the final push you needed, and you came with a cry, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

He didn't stop, not right away. He kept licking you, his tongue gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. It was as if he just loved your taste, greedy for more. Finally, he pulled back, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face.

He crawled up your body and kissed you then, a messy kiss that tasted of your release.

"Damn, I'm gonna get addicted to that," he murmured against your lips.

You just hummed in response, your body still buzzing with pleasure. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, a demanding presence.

"Let me..." you started, your hands trailing down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. "Let me return the favor."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows raise.

You answered by tugging the briefs down, freeing him. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and then he was completely naked, the dim light of the motel room casting him in a warm glow. He was beautiful.

He knelt between your legs, giving you a perfect view. He was long and thick, the head flushed a dark pink, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

"I've never seen a real one in person," you confessed, your voice filled with awe.

He flushed a little, a rosy blush spreading across his chest. "Well, it's not going to win any awards. It's pretty standard issue."

"It's bigger than my dildo," you blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

Eddie's head tilted, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "You have a dildo?" He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm learning a lot about your sexy habits tonight."

"I'm a virgin, not a nun." You said defensively, a call back to his confession earlier.

"I know. I'm not judging. I'm celebrating." He kissed you again, a quick, hard press of his lips. "Now, were you about to do something?"

You reached out and wrapped your hand around him. He was hot and hard, the smooth skin a stark contrast to how rigid he was. He let out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips jerking forward.

You started to stroke him, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, the way you'd read about in a magazine.

"Jesus, that's... yeah," he groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that."

You watched him, mesmerized by the way his face contorted with pleasure. The way he was so open and unashamed of it.

"You know, when you said the thing about your... toy," he said, his breath hitching as you ran your thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. "Am I really bigger?"

You smiled, a genuine, sly smile. "Considerably."

"Fuck." He seemed genuinely pleased by this information. "That's... good to know. For my ego."

He watched you for a few more moments, your hand working him with a steady rhythm. Then he reached down, stilling your movements.

"Okay, stop," he breathed, his voice strained. "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that."

You looked up at him, a question in your eyes.

"I want..." He swallowed hard. "I wanna be inside you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

"We won't be virgins anymore." You say, soft and immediately feeling stupid for it. Of course he knew that.

His expression softened. He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I know." He was so close, you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.

"I want that," you said, your voice firm. "With you."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it for an eternity.

"Is it weird I'm nervous? I feel like that's weird for a guy." He admitted.

"It's not weird." You promised. "I don't think nerves are gendered."

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that was full of all the things he couldn't seem to say. All the want and the hope and the fear. He only broke the kiss, to reach over the other side of the bed and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"I swear I keep this in my wallet all the time. Not because I was expecting... well this." He said as he pulled out a little foil square.

The crinkle of the wrapper was the only sound in the room. He tore it open with shaky fingers and rolled the condom on with an efficiency that belied his earlier fumbling.

He settled back over you, his elbows on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I can't believe I'm going to have sex with you." You whisper, looking into those consuming brown eyes, your fingers tracing the dimples that start to form when he smiles down at you. 

"Me either," he said, and there was such a raw, honest wonder in his voice that it made your chest ache. "If I'm being totally honest? I'm pretty sure this is a lucid dream I'm having after eating all that bad gas station pizza."

You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the small room.

"It's real." You promised.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your wet folds. He paused, looking at you one last time, giving you a final chance to change your mind.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pushed a little inside you with a slow, steady pressure.

It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation. A stretching, aching fullness that bordered on pain. You couldn't help the small whimper that escaped your lips.

He stopped immediately, his whole body tensing. "You okay? Am I hurting you?"

"Are you all the way in?" You asked, your breath hitching.

He shook his head. "Not even close. You okay?"

You nod. "It's a lot. Keep going."

He pushed a little deeper, a slow, inch-by-inch invasion that made you feel like your body was being remade to fit him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and he kissed up your neck and over your face. Each new press of his lips a welcome distraction from the dull ache between your legs.

He finally was all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust.

"Okay." You breathe out.

"You okay?" He repeated against your lips, breathless from his own pleasure. 

"Yeah just... don't move too much yet."

"You feel so... incredible. It's..." He trails off as he shifts a bit, pulling just out a little and pushing back in.

You both groan. The pain started to fade then, replaced by a different kind of ache. A deep, throbbing need.

"Okay," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Okay, you can move."

He started to move then, a slow, gentle rocking motion that was worlds away from the frantic rutting from earlier. Each thrust was a hesitant exploration.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body learning the rhythm of his.

"Sweetheart..." It came out as a mix of a groan and a whine, you've never heard him sound sexier.

He started to move faster, a little harder, his control starting to fray. He was panting against your neck, his breath hot and damp. His hands were everywhere, on your breasts, your hips, your ass. 

"Eddie... talk to me..." You whine as he hits a spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

"What do you want me to say?" he gasped, his hips snapping against yours.

"Anything... dirty talk... something... my ears..."

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-arousal, half-nervousness before leaning down into your ear. "You feel so good. So tight. All I've thought about for the last year is what it would feel like to be inside you."

You moaned. You felt your pussy clench around him, your body responding to the dirty words. He pulled back to watch your face, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face.

"Yeah? Want me to keep going? Tell you how I've jacked off to the thought of your tits?"

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure.

"Or maybe it was your ass. In those tight jeans you wear. God, the things I wanted to do to you." He punctuated the words with a particularly hard thrust that made you cry out. "Wanna kiss you until you're dripping for me. And I did tonight. Dripping all over my tongue."

His words were filthier than you ever would have imagined, and it was pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so wet for me. You're taking my cock so well." He groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You're all I want. Just... you."

The last words were a raw, honest confession that went straight to your heart. You were the one to kiss him then, a desperate, messy kiss that was all teeth and tongue and need.

"Touch yourself again," he practically begged against your lips. "Please, I love seeing it." He didn't want to finish before you did. And he also liked watching.

You didn't hesitate, your hand snaking down between your bodies to find your clit. You started to rub in tight, fast circles, the dual stimulation of him inside you and your fingers on your clit almost too much to bear.

"Its too good, Eddie." You whine, a high pitched desperate sound he's never heard you make.

"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough and hoarse. "Let me feel your pussy wreck me."

His words were the final push you needed. You came with a strangled cry, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on him. The force of your orgasm was enough to send him over the edge too, and with a hoarse shout of your name, he came, his hips pistoning into you as he emptied himself into the condom.

He collapsed next to you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. The room was silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths and the ancient motel air conditioner.

After a long moment, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked at you, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face.

"If you don't want to be my girlfriend after this, I think I might actually die."

You laugh, reaching up to push a damp curl away from his forehead. "Well, we can't have that."

He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was a world away from the frantic, hungry kisses from before.

"So... is that a yes?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Are you going to go easier on me during Hellfire?" You counter.

"Never." He grins. "You have to earn your honor just like everyone else."

"Then yes," you said, and the word felt like a promise. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."

He looked so happy you thought your heart might burst. He kissed you again, and again, and again, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"Gonna 'kiss me till I'm dripping'?" You tease, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbones.

"Very funny. Give me ten minutes and another slice of that gas station pizza," he mumbled against your skin, making you laugh.

He eventually got up to dispose of the condom, and you took the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him. The long, lean lines of his body, the scattering of tattoos, the way his hair curled in all directions. He was yours.

He came back to the bed and pulled you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," he said, his voice a soft rumble in his chest. "Of you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Me neither."

You lay like that for a while, a comfortable, easy silence settling over you. The events of the night replayed in your mind, not just the concert or the sex, but everything beautiful that had happened in this small, ugly motel room.

“I am not.”

“You are,” he insisted, turning his head toward you. “You’ve been smiling since the encore.”

You rolled onto your side to face him, the thin motel blanket shifting between you. “That was a good encore.”

Eddie huffed a soft laugh. “It was an amazing encore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The muffled sound of a car passing on the highway filled the silence, headlights briefly sweeping across the ceiling through the gap in the curtains.

You became very aware of how close he was.

Close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows when he squinted at you. Close enough that if either of you moved even a little, your knees would bump under the blanket.

“You know,” Eddie said after a second, voice quieter now, “most people after a concert like that would be out cold.”

“And miss the post-show analysis?” you said. “Never.”

“This is why you’re my favorute,” he murmured.

But he didn’t look away.

The quiet stretched between you, the small motel room seemed to shrink around the bed, until it felt like the rest of the world had slipped somewhere down the highway and left the two of you stranded in the middle of it.

"Well," you finally broke the silence. "As much as I hate that Gareth fractured his ankle, there would have been no way we'd all be able to sleep in this motel room together. So I guess it worked out money wise."

It was supposed to be the three of you on this little weekend road trip, but Gareth had gotten drunk and hopped on a picnic table one too many times before the show and had spent the evening in an emergency room getting a cast. You and Eddie had still gone.

"Yeah well, I came close to getting my own bones broken when he fell on top of me the second time." Eddie rolled his eyes with a huff of laughter. 

"Almost had to go all by myself and deal with my metal-induced euphoria alone."

"Perish the thought," Eddie said, a smile touching his lips. "I'm a vital part of your euphoria management system."

You watched the slow way he blinked, the way his lashes swept down against his cheek. 

"Eddie," you said, and you didn't know what you were going to say after that, only that you were going to say something.

But he was already moving, shifting onto his side too, facing you fully. The motion sent the mattress dipping again, bringing you even closer. The worn denim of your jeans brushed against the worn denim of his.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

You opened your mouth to speak but pushed the thought aside and instead blurted out:

"I don't have pajamas." 

He gave you a confused look at the weird way you said it but then nodded slowly.

"Me neither."

You shifted your legs a bit, pulling your knees up closer to your body.

"I don't want to sleep in my jeans." 

"Yeah, I wasn't planning on that either." 

You raise an eyebrow and he goes on. "So...we could sleep in our underwear. I could look away for a second so you can get under the covers first. 

You think about the black thong you have on.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not really wearing underwear underwear."

"Uh... what?" He looked lost.

You took a breath.

"I'm wearing a thong."

He didn't say anything at all. Just kind of stared at you like you'd just announced you could fly. Then a slow flush started creeping up his neck.

"Oh," he managed after a solid ten seconds of silence.

"I could use my shirt to cover the top half. But still..." you trailed off. "My ass would be out." 

"Yeah... I uh, know how a thong works," he managed.

You just blinked at him. You hadn't meant for the conversation to go in this direction but now it was here and you didn't know how to get it back.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement of his throat in the dim light.

"Okay," he said, after a beat that felt longer than the entire opening act. "I mean, I'm not going to make you sleep in your jeans. That's a special kind of torture. So we can... you know. Do the underwear thing. I'll face the wall. And I swear on all my Judas Priest records I won't turn around."

You searched his face, the earnestness you found there making your chest feel tight.

"Right. Okay." 

You each get up from your respective sides and undress. Eddie kept true to his word, but you still felt the heat of knowing he was just a few feet away.

You slip under the thin covers and wait.

"Okay, done. You're good."

He turned around and got in. His briefs were black too, and hung low on his hips. He had also taken his makeshift tank top off and was only in his boxers.

"You're shirtless." You say as he pauses, halfway into the bed. 

"Uh... yeah? I don't usually wear a shirt to bed..." He trails off like he's just realized what you'd said. "Is that... is that okay?"

You just nodded.

He slid the rest of the way in and pulled the covers up.

There was a lot less space between you now. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could see the way the dim light caught the tattoos scattered across his chest.

"You've seen me shirtless before, sweetheart. It's not some revolutionary event," he said, a note of humor in his voice.

"I've never been in a bed with you while you were shirtless. Different experience entirely."

"Right," he said, and then softer, "Well I've never been in bed with a girl and her ass cheeks were out, so I think we're even." 

"I told you not to look!" You shrieked, hitting him with a pillow.

"Hey! I said I didn't!" he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm a virgin not a monk, I can visualize what a thong entails." 

He says it so casually that you almost don't catch it. 

"...What?" 

"Okay..." he tries to backtrack. "I don't mean I'm visualizing your ass in the thong. Just an ass. Like a generic woman ass in--" 

"You're a virgin?" You cut him off.

The pillow fell from your grasp as you stared at him.

His whole body went tense.

The laugh had vanished from his face. He looked away from you, staring at the water-stained patch on the ceiling. He swallowed hard enough that you could see the muscles in his throat work.

"Uh... yeah." It comes out as a resigned whisper almost. Like, for once, he has nothing in his wordsmith arsenal to deflect.

You were too quiet.

And then your face did a weird thing that you couldn't quite control. Your eyebrows shot up and your lips parted and it wasn't bad. It wasn't mocking or judgmental.

It was just... shocked.

"Really?"

And for some reason, the simple, unadorned disbelief in your voice seemed to be exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Jesus, what, is that so hard to believe?" The words came out sharp, stung. He pushed himself up on one elbow, creating a sudden, unwelcome distance between you. "The freak, the dungeon master, the guy who sells drugs to kids isn't exactly a girl's fantasy. Don't tell me you're surprised."

"No! Eddie that's not what I meant at all!" You quickly try to sit up, while still keeping covered as well, but the blanket bunches weirdly around your waist and you feel even more exposed than before. "It's just... you're so..."

"So what?" He was genuinely agitated now, the vulnerable admission curdling into something defensive and angry.

"So... confident," you finished quietly. "You're always so... loud. And you command a room. And you're funny. And... I don't know. I just assumed..."

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. The anger seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a deep-seated exhaustion.

"Being able to work a room doesn't mean you know what the hell to do when you're alone in a dark one with someone," he said, the words barely audible.

Silence crashed back into the room. This was heavier, weighted with things unsaid. You reached out, your fingers hovering just above the space between you, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse.

"And, let's be honest, if a girl is alone with me in a dark room, she's more likely to piss herself with the worry I'm going to sacrifice her to Satan, than be wet in any other way."

You scrunch your nose up at his verbiage. 

"Okay, one: ew. Two? Not true. Three?" You took a breath, deciding to throw caution to the wind. "I'm alone with you in a dark room. Piss free."

He blinked. "Thats different. You're not like, a girl." 

It was, in fact, now his turn to say the exact wrong thing. The tension that had just begun to dissolve returned twofold.

Your jaw set. "Right. I'm not. My mistake."

He scrambled, his words tripping over each other. "No, that's not what I-- Fuck. I mean, you're you. You're my friend. It's not... it's not like that. It's safe."

"Wow. Safe. That's every girl's dream. To be the safe, unfuckable friend."

You flopped back onto the pillow, turning your back to him with a huff. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, a thin, flimsy shield. You could feel the heat of anger and embarrassment prickling at your skin.

"Woah, woah, that's not what I meant either! I'm just... bad at this," he pleaded, his voice a strained whisper. The mattress shifted as he moved closer, a careful, hesitant movement. You could feel the warmth of his hand hovering over your shoulder, not quite touching. "I've never talked about this before. I mean, you know damn well none of the Hellfire guys are getting any. And I'm pretty sure they think I'm some kind of dark lord of getting laid. It's just... a lie. A story I tell. It's easier than the truth."

You stayed silent, staring at the ugly floral pattern on the wall. You could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven.

"And you're not... you're not unfuckable," he said, the words so quiet you almost had to strain to hear them. "You're... very fucka- I mean, you're... you know. You're great."

The clumsy, earnest correction almost made you smile. Almost.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please?"

Slowly, you rolled back over.

His face was a mess of conflicting emotions in the dim light. The defensive sneer was gone, replaced by something more vulnerable.

"'Great' is what a teacher puts on your paper when you get a B+." You say, your voice small.

He let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-despair. "Okay. You're right. You're not 'great' like a B+." He searched for the right words, his gaze flicking between your eyes. "You're... you're the solo in 'Master of Puppets'. You're the part of a song that's so good it makes you pull the car over. You're... the kind of thing that makes a guy want to learn guitar in the first place."

Your breath caught. That was not what you were expecting.

"Eddie..."

"No, I mean it," he pushed on, a desperate urgency in his tone now. "And being around you is... it's easy. Too easy. And then I get in my head about it. About saying the wrong thing. About being a disappointment. So I deflect. I make stupid jokes. I turn myself into the D&D nerd or the Satanist freak or--" 

"I'm a virgin too." The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, a quiet confession that hung in the air between you.

The torrent of words from Eddie stopped. His jaw went slack. He stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you'd just confessed to being a secret agent.

"What?" he finally managed to breathe out. "I thought you lost it to that guy from the photography club."

"Tyler?" You couldn't help the small, humorless laugh that escaped. "No. We went on, like, three dates. He tried to stick his tongue down my throat in the back of the movie theater and then practically begged for a handjob in the parking lot. It was... underwhelming."

Eddie was still just staring, processing.

"Shit. Well, now I can tell you that I really hated that guy. For more reasons than just his terrible haircut."

A real smile finally touched your lips at that. "His haircut was pretty bad."

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't heavy or awkward. It was... quiet. A shared space.

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed," you admitted, your gaze fixed on a loose thread on the pillowcase. "I figured you like... I don't know, banged girls in your van after shows or something. I felt... left behind. Like everyone was growing up and doing all this stuff and I was just... still me."

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice soft. "I'm far from the van-banging king. I'm the guy who is currently panicking because he's shirtless in a bed with a girl in a thong and doesn't know the social protocol for what to do with his hands."

"So you admit I'm a girl now?" you teased, a glimmer of your usual self returning.

His eyes softened, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I've unfortunately been way too aware of that distinction for a while now."

"Unfortunately?" You raise a playful eyebrow.

"Because it was a lot easier to think of you as just... you. My friend. My partner in crime. The person I could talk to about whether Kirk Hammett was a better guitarist than Slash without getting a blank stare. Thinking of you as a girl? A girl I'm in bed with? That's... terrifying."

You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the flimsy blanket. "Why terrifying?"

"Because I'm bad at this!" he exclaimed, gesturing vaguely between you. "This entire conversation is a testament to that! I say 'safe' and you hear 'unfuckable.' I say 'girl' and I sound like a caveman. The margin for error here is huge. And the thought of messing this up... with you..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Messing what up?" you whispered.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, and back again. The room suddenly felt a thousand degrees hotter. He swallowed, and the motion was so deliberate, so loaded with unspoken meaning, it made your breath hitch.

"You know what. Don't make me say it," he murmured, his voice raspy.

He was so close now. The dip in the mattress had eliminated all but the slimmest of gaps between you. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

"I think I want you to say it," you breathed back. 

"Not going to." His smile was back, but it was different now. Shyer. More hesitant. But no less real. "I've said enough stupid things for one night."

Instead of explaining more, he started to lean in.

Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away, to turn back to the wall, to put a stop to it.

But you didn't stop it. 

Not when his hand came up to cradle your face. 

Not when he used his thumb to gently trace your jawline, the rough callus on his finger a pleasant rasp against your skin.

Not when he finally, finally closed the last remaining distance between you and his lips met yours.

It wasn't a perfect kiss. It was a little clumsy at first, a misalignment of angles that ended in a soft, wet press against the corner of your mouth.

You giggled a little, ready to say something cheeky, but he didn't give you the chance. He tilted his head and tried again.

And the second one was perfect.

It was soft and tentative, the taste of a gas station slushie. The sigh he let out against your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, settled right in your core. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss deepened, a slow, gentle exploration that sent shivers down your spine.

You found your own courage then, your hand coming up to rest on the warm skin of his chest. He let out a soft hum of encouragement, and you let your fingers trail over the lines of his tattoos, the dark ink a stark contrast to his skin.

"Touch all you want." He murmurs against your lips before pressing another quick kiss to your lips and pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched your own.

"Okay." You say quietly, letting your hand wander.

"Okay," he repeated, a dazed sort of smile on his face. "Okay."

He was still looking at you, a deep searching look that seemed to be trying to memorize every detail of your face.

"You're staring."

"Can't help it," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. Your hands are all over him now, touching anything they can reach. His shoulders, his biceps, the small of his back. And he was doing the same. His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft skin of your thighs above the line of the thong.

He froze for a second when his fingers brushed against the string of your underwear.

You hold back a small laugh as your hand travels to grab his ass a little, the soft cotton of his briefs giving way to the firm muscle beneath.

"Hey!" He yelped, jumping a little.

"You said I could touch all I wanted." You say with a sly grin. "Don't be shy."

He stared at you for a second before a slow grin spread across his face. "Yeah, okay. Fair's fair."

His hands grew bolder then, sliding down to cup the fat of your ass, pulling you flush against him. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was the only thing separating you.

He kisses you harder this time, a hungry, desperate kiss that stole the air from your lungs. His hips rocked against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that had you gasping into his mouth.

He was hard. You could feel him. 

"Eddie," you breathed out, his name a plea on your lips.

"That okay?" His voice soft as his lips travel over your jaw and down your neck. "How I'm touching you?"

You could only nod, words failing you. He seemed to take that as an invitation to continue. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you whimper. His hands were still on your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you closer as he rolls his hips against yours.

You were the one to reach for the hem of your shirt.

He pulls away, breathless.

"Wait. You sure?" He's searching your face again, looking for any sign of hesitation. "You don't have to."

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks. "Do you... not want to see me?" The words were small, laced with an insecurity you hated.

He looked like you'd just slapped him.

"No! God, no." He shook his head, a look of pure panic on his face. "That's not... I mean, I do. I really, really do. I just... I don't want you to think you have to. Because of... all this."

He gestures to his erection and then to the two of you in the bed. "He's kind of an idiot, and he has terrible ideas about timing."

"I kinda like his timing." You said, your hands back on his chest. "And I want to." You slowly lift the shirt over your head and toss it onto the floor with your jeans.

Eddie went completely still, his eyes wide, fixed on your chest.

"I knew you didn't wear a bra. I could tell," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "When you were jumping during the concert."

"Really?" You couldn't help but feel a little pleased.

"Oh yeah." He reached out a hesitant hand, like he was afraid you might disappear. "I was trying very hard to be a gentleman and not stare. But I failed. Miserably."

You let out a soft laugh as his fingers finally made contact, tracing the curve of your breast. His thumb was quick to find your nipple, brushing over it in a way that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your core.

"Look at these pretty things." He murmured as he leaned down to take one in his mouth.

The feel of his tongue, hot and wet, against your sensitive skin was enough to make you arch your back, a gasp torn from your lips. He used his free hand to grip you ass hard, pulling you on top of him while his lips still wrapped around your nipple.

You were straddling him now, your knees on either side of his hips. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was soaked, the friction of him against you, even through the layers of clothes, was intoxicating.

You couldn't help the way your hips started to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that had you both gasping for breath.

"Can't believe you're wet for me," he said, his voice laced with a kind of awestruck disbelief. He lifted you up and adjusted you to where he could feel you better, a small moan leaving his lips at the contact.

"Can't believe you're this big," you shot back, more of a sigh than a statement. 

"Yeah? You like that?" The words were a low growl against your skin as he lavished your other nipple with attention.

"Mhm..." You could only manage a small hum, your mind going hazy with pleasure.

He's so hard. So hard that it's almost painful. You needed to feel him. All of him. You started to reach for the waistband of his briefs, but he stopped you, his hand covering yours.

"Hey, no." His breath hitched. "Not yet. Let me... let me do something for you first."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting you, maneuvering you until you were on your back and he was settled between your thighs. He pushed your legs apart with a gentle pressure of his hands. And then he was leaning down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. He moved higher, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you desperately wanted him.

"You really want to?" Your own surprise at the question was evident.

"I've been dreaming about this," he admitted, his voice a raw, honest confession. "For a long, long time."

And then he was there, his tongue sliding against the fabric of your thong. The wet heat of him through the thin lace was almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh god... no wonder girls like this in pornos." Your legs start to shake a little as your hands find their way into his hair.

"You watch pornos?" He looks up at you from between your legs, a slow grin spreading across his face. "My dirty girl."

He didn't wait for an answer, just hooked his fingers into the sides of your thong and pulled it down your legs. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed somewhere in the vicinity of your discarded shirt.

"I feel like I'm supposed to pray to this," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Like a holy relic."

You let out a shaky laugh. "D&D references aren't exactly what I'm looking for right now, Eddie."

"No? So you don't like my DM voice? 'You enter a beautiful, damp cavern... the walls are slick with moisture...'" He was  on you then, his tongue finally, finally making contact with your pussy. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, you couldn't help but cry out.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he explored you with a desperate, hungry curiosity.

"Guide me," he mumbled against your folds. "I don't know what you like. Tell me."

"Your... your tongue," you gasped out. "On my clit. When I... touch myself I just focus there... "

He hummed in acknowledgement, and then he was following your directions, his tongue finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure. He was a quick study, and it wasn't long before you were writhing beneath him, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips bucking against his face.

"Mmm, feels so much better than my fingers." You whined, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. He was good. So, so good. Better than you had ever imagined. And you had imagined this. A lot.

He pulled back for a second, his chin shining with your arousal. "Show me how you do it," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you like."

You hesitated for a beat, the vulnerability of the request hitting you. But then you looked at him, at the open, eager expression on his face, and you couldn't deny him anything.

You reached down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit easily. You started to rub slow circles, the motion practiced, familiar.

"God..." He groans. "You ever think about me? When you do this?"

Your fingers stutter. You look down at him, at the hope and the lust warring in his eyes.

"Only since last year," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "When you wore that ripped t-shirt to the fair. I could see your... happy trail..." 

He just stared, completely floored.

"Fucking Christ..." He pinched his eyes shut as he palmed himself through his boxers before he dived back in with a new enthusiasm.

He watched you for a moment, and then he joined in, his tongue prodding your entrance and licking at your fingers as you pleasured yourself. It was a messy, clumsy, and incredibly erotic sight.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm so close," you moaned, your hips moving in a frantic rhythm against his tongue and your own hand.

He redoubled his efforts, nudging your hands away with his nose and sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. It was the final push you needed, and you came with a cry, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

He didn't stop, not right away. He kept licking you, his tongue gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. It was as if he just loved your taste, greedy for more. Finally, he pulled back, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face.

He crawled up your body and kissed you then, a messy kiss that tasted of your release.

"Damn, I'm gonna get addicted to that," he murmured against your lips.

You just hummed in response, your body still buzzing with pleasure. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, a demanding presence.

"Let me..." you started, your hands trailing down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. "Let me return the favor."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows raise.

You answered by tugging the briefs down, freeing him. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and then he was completely naked, the dim light of the motel room casting him in a warm glow. He was beautiful.

He knelt between your legs, giving you a perfect view. He was long and thick, the head flushed a dark pink, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

"I've never seen a real one in person," you confessed, your voice filled with awe.

He flushed a little, a rosy blush spreading across his chest. "Well, it's not going to win any awards. It's pretty standard issue."

"It's bigger than my dildo," you blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

Eddie's head tilted, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "You have a dildo?" He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm learning a lot about your sexy habits tonight."

"I'm a virgin, not a nun." You said defensively, a call back to his confession earlier.

"I know. I'm not judging. I'm celebrating." He kissed you again, a quick, hard press of his lips. "Now, were you about to do something?"

You reached out and wrapped your hand around him. He was hot and hard, the smooth skin a stark contrast to how rigid he was. He let out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips jerking forward.

You started to stroke him, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, the way you'd read about in a magazine.

"Jesus, that's... yeah," he groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that."

You watched him, mesmerized by the way his face contorted with pleasure. The way he was so open and unashamed of it.

"You know, when you said the thing about your... toy," he said, his breath hitching as you ran your thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. "Am I really bigger?"

You smiled, a genuine, sly smile. "Considerably."

"Fuck." He seemed genuinely pleased by this information. "That's... good to know. For my ego."

He watched you for a few more moments, your hand working him with a steady rhythm. Then he reached down, stilling your movements.

"Okay, stop," he breathed, his voice strained. "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that."

You looked up at him, a question in your eyes.

"I want..." He swallowed hard. "I wanna be inside you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

"We won't be virgins anymore." You say, soft and immediately feeling stupid for it. Of course he knew that.

His expression softened. He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I know." He was so close, you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.

"I want that," you said, your voice firm. "With you."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it for an eternity.

"Is it weird I'm nervous? I feel like that's weird for a guy." He admitted.

"It's not weird." You promised. "I don't think nerves are gendered."

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that was full of all the things he couldn't seem to say. All the want and the hope and the fear. He only broke the kiss, to reach over the other side of the bed and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"I swear I keep this in my wallet all the time. Not because I was expecting... well this." He said as he pulled out a little foil square.

The crinkle of the wrapper was the only sound in the room. He tore it open with shaky fingers and rolled the condom on with an efficiency that belied his earlier fumbling.

He settled back over you, his elbows on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I can't believe I'm going to have sex with you." You whisper, looking into those consuming brown eyes, your fingers tracing the dimples that start to form when he smiles down at you. 

"Me either," he said, and there was such a raw, honest wonder in his voice that it made your chest ache. "If I'm being totally honest? I'm pretty sure this is a lucid dream I'm having after eating all that bad gas station pizza."

You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the small room.

"It's real." You promised.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your wet folds. He paused, looking at you one last time, giving you a final chance to change your mind.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pushed a little inside you with a slow, steady pressure.

It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation. A stretching, aching fullness that bordered on pain. You couldn't help the small whimper that escaped your lips.

He stopped immediately, his whole body tensing. "You okay? Am I hurting you?"

"Are you all the way in?" You asked, your breath hitching.

He shook his head. "Not even close. You okay?"

You nod. "It's a lot. Keep going."

He pushed a little deeper, a slow, inch-by-inch invasion that made you feel like your body was being remade to fit him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and he kissed up your neck and over your face. Each new press of his lips a welcome distraction from the dull ache between your legs.

He finally was all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust.

"Okay." You breathe out.

"You okay?" He repeated against your lips, breathless from his own pleasure. 

"Yeah just... don't move too much yet."

"You feel so... incredible. It's..." He trails off as he shifts a bit, pulling just out a little and pushing back in.

You both groan. The pain started to fade then, replaced by a different kind of ache. A deep, throbbing need.

"Okay," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Okay, you can move."

He started to move then, a slow, gentle rocking motion that was worlds away from the frantic rutting from earlier. Each thrust was a hesitant exploration.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body learning the rhythm of his.

"Sweetheart..." It came out as a mix of a groan and a whine, you've never heard him sound sexier.

He started to move faster, a little harder, his control starting to fray. He was panting against your neck, his breath hot and damp. His hands were everywhere, on your breasts, your hips, your ass. 

"Eddie... talk to me..." You whine as he hits a spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

"What do you want me to say?" he gasped, his hips snapping against yours.

"Anything... dirty talk... something... my ears..."

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-arousal, half-nervousness before leaning down into your ear. "You feel so good. So tight. All I've thought about for the last year is what it would feel like to be inside you."

You moaned. You felt your pussy clench around him, your body responding to the dirty words. He pulled back to watch your face, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face.

"Yeah? Want me to keep going? Tell you how I've jacked off to the thought of your tits?"

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure.

"Or maybe it was your ass. In those tight jeans you wear. God, the things I wanted to do to you." He punctuated the words with a particularly hard thrust that made you cry out. "Wanna kiss you until you're dripping for me. And I did tonight. Dripping all over my tongue."

His words were filthier than you ever would have imagined, and it was pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so wet for me. You're taking my cock so well." He groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You're all I want. Just... you."

The last words were a raw, honest confession that went straight to your heart. You were the one to kiss him then, a desperate, messy kiss that was all teeth and tongue and need.

"Touch yourself again," he practically begged against your lips. "Please, I love seeing it." He didn't want to finish before you did. And he also liked watching.

You didn't hesitate, your hand snaking down between your bodies to find your clit. You started to rub in tight, fast circles, the dual stimulation of him inside you and your fingers on your clit almost too much to bear.

"Its too good, Eddie." You whine, a high pitched desperate sound he's never heard you make.

"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough and hoarse. "Let me feel your pussy wreck me."

His words were the final push you needed. You came with a strangled cry, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on him. The force of your orgasm was enough to send him over the edge too, and with a hoarse shout of your name, he came, his hips pistoning into you as he emptied himself into the condom.

He collapsed next to you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. The room was silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths and the ancient motel air conditioner.

After a long moment, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked at you, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face.

"If you don't want to be my girlfriend after this, I think I might actually die."

You laugh, reaching up to push a damp curl away from his forehead. "Well, we can't have that."

He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was a world away from the frantic, hungry kisses from before.

"So... is that a yes?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Are you going to go easier on me during Hellfire?" You counter.

"Never." He grins. "You have to earn your honor just like everyone else."

"Then yes," you said, and the word felt like a promise. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."

He looked so happy you thought your heart might burst. He kissed you again, and again, and again, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"Gonna 'kiss me till I'm dripping'?" You tease, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbones.

"Very funny. Give me ten minutes and another slice of that gas station pizza," he mumbled against your skin, making you laugh.

He eventually got up to dispose of the condom, and you took the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him. The long, lean lines of his body, the scattering of tattoos, the way his hair curled in all directions. He was yours.

He came back to the bed and pulled you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," he said, his voice a soft rumble in his chest. "Of you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Me neither."

You lay like that for a while, a comfortable, easy silence settling over you. The events of the night replayed in your mind, not just the concert or the sex, but everything beautiful that had happened in this small, ugly motel room.

You stood in the doorway, the early September morning chill biting at your cheeks. The horses shifted beside him, chewing their hay with quiet confusion. From here, you could only see his back—slouched against a beam, cowboy hat pulled low over his face as he snored softly. 

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath. 

Your father had ridden into town at dawn, leaving you to tend the place alone. He was almost certainly half way there, gone till early November, there was no way of reachin' him without making a ruckus and waking...

Whoever the hell this is? Some drifter? A vagabond, maybe? 

Just to be safe, you set down the pail of feed and grabbed an old plank leaning against the stall. Your heart thudded as you crept closer. He didn’t stir, not even when you stood right in front of him. 

His coat was dusted in dirt and straw, tarp half-draped over his legs against the cold. He wasn’t here when you locked up last night, and it’d frozen hard since then. 

You poked his boot with the plank. 

Nothing. Seriously? 

You jabbed a little harder this time, and he startled awake with a sharp inhale, his hat toppling into the hay. You jumped back, plank raised, pulse hammering. He scrambled to his feet, blinking blearily at you, hair a mess and face streaked with dirt and bruises. 

For a moment, he just stared, confusion flickering across his tired features. Then his gaze landed on the plank, your makeshift weapon of choice. Neither of you said anything.

You took him in. Cute, you noted absently, despite the grime and shadows under his eyes. Tallish, dark hair all mussed from sleep. He couldn’t be much older than you.

Slowly, he lifted his hands in surrender, like he couldn’t quite tell if he’d woken into danger or safety. The barn was quiet around you, only the soft crunch of hay under shifting hooves filling the silence.

“What are you doing in my barn?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

He cleared his throat, rubbing his fingers together like he was trying to warm them. “Just… lookin’ for a bit of rest, ma’am. I’ll be on my way. I don’t mean any trouble.”

You nodded slowly, still holding the plank high. Your father always said better safe than sorry. But when he bent down to grab his hat, you noticed it—a stiffness in his right shoulder, the way his whole torso moved as one, and then the darker patch blooming across his coat. He winced when he reached out, his breath catching.

“Hold on there,” you blurted out before you could think better of it, eyes narrowing. “What happened there?”

He froze, hat halfway to his head. “Ain’t nothin’ that concerns you.”

“It’s bleeding through your coat,” you pointed out. Your voice came out gentler than you meant it to. You weren’t good at keeping your nose out of things, no matter what your father said. 

He pulled his hat on, dusting off the brim with shaking fingers. “Fell off a horse. Just a scratch. Won’t slow me down, none.”

You tried to believe that. “Move your arm up and down then.” You instructed.

He hesitated. You weren’t gonna let him leave until he listened. He glanced at the open barn doors, then back at you and your menacing plank.

With a resigned sigh, he raised his left arm easily enough. You nodded to the injured one.

He clenched his jaw, lifted it a few inches, and groaned, face twisting in pain.

“That’s not just a scratch. Think it’s dislocated from that fall,” you said bluntly. “Happens more often than you’d think. But if it’s bleeding too, there’s worse damage under there.”

He blinked, caught off guard by your plain tone. 

“My father’s the doctor in town,” you continued briskly. “I know what that looks like. If it gets infected, you’ll be crawling back here begging for help anyway. I’ve got salve and clean gauze inside... Better we do it now before it turns green and rots your damn arm off.”

He paused, blinking like he didn’t quite understand the words. His eyes flickered away, dark and tired. “I… I don’t aim to bring trouble to your door, ma’am.”

You sighed, lowering the plank fully and propping it back against the stall. “Well, now, you’ve already done that, haven’t you? May as well get somethin’ out of it. You got a name?”

He huffed a short, surprised laugh, rough but genuine. He looked so tired. Real tired, you noted. You wondered if last night was the first sleep he’d had in days. “Billy. You can call me Billy.” He told.

You nodded, and introduced yourself too. He repeated it, name flowing off his tongue nicely. A beat goes by.

His gaze drifted back to the plank. “Were… were you fixin’ to hit me with that?”

You raised a brow. “Depends if you tried anything.”

His lips twitched into a faint smile, the first glimpse of softness on his wary face. 

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders to ease the tension. “You mind waitin’ a minute? These boys haven’t eaten yet.”

You nodded towards the horses, who watched the whole exchange with flicking ears and patient eyes.

He nodded, politely waiting as he leaned against the wooden beam.

After you fed the horses, Billy followed you into the field and up to your house. A modest place. He noted the guitar on the porch.

“You play?” You ask as you open the door, seeing the way he eyed it

He hesitates, shaking his head with a shrug. “A little… Do you?”

You nod, entering the house. “A little.” You mimic.

He smiles a bit at you copying his own vagueness. 

Inside, you guided him to the small kitchen table. The room was dim with dawn light, quiet except for the ticking of the mantle clock and the whisper of wind outside. He stood awkwardly by the door for a moment, hat held in his good hand like a boy at church.

“Sit down, Billy,” you said softly, gesturing to the chair.

He obeyed with a quiet groan, lowering himself down stiffly. Up close, you could see how pale he was beneath the dirt and bruises, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.

You moved to the washbasin, pouring clean well water into a chipped ceramic bowl. Your hands trembled slightly as you grabbed a rag and your father’s tin of salve from the shelf. You’d watched your father set plenty of joints and patch up farmhands over the years, but this felt different. More fragile, somehow. More real.

“Take off your coat,” you murmured, setting the supplies on the table.

He shifted, fumbling with the buttons one-handed. You watched his trembling fingers for a moment, then stepped forward and brushed them aside, unfastening them yourself. He flinched slightly at your touch, then stilled, his breath catching as you carefully peeled the coat down his injured arm.

His shirt sleeve was soaked dark with blood, the fabric sticking to torn skin near the shoulder seam. The whole joint looked wrong—swollen and twisted out of place. You sucked in a sharp breath.

“Don’t fuss,” he muttered, voice low and rasping. “Ain’t nothin’ worth frettin’ over.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, brows knitting. “Ain’t fussin’. Just thinkin’ about how you’re gonna scream when I fix it.”

His lips twitched faintly, like he wanted to smile. “That right?”

“Mm.” You poured a little whiskey onto a clean rag and handed it to him. “Here. For cleanin’ and for drinkin’.”

He huffed out a small laugh despite his pain, taking the bottle with his good hand. “You always threaten folks before patchin’ ‘em up?”

“Only the ones who trespass in my barn,” you shot back lightly, busying yourself with dampening the rag. You paused, looking at him with curiosity. “Where are you comin’ from anyway? Can’t be from around here.”

He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, wincing as it burned down his throat. “South. Driftin’ up toward Montana, I reckon. Depends who’s lookin’ for me.”

Your brows rose at that, though you tried to hide it. “Outlaw, then?”

He chuckled, though it came out more like a pained exhale. “Not today.”

You nodded slowly, satisfied enough with that. “Well… if anyone asks, you’re just a ranch hand passin’ through for work.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, something soft and almost amused in them. “That what I am?”

“You can be whatever you damn well please, long as you don’t cause trouble,” you teased. Then your voice dropped, gentle but firm. “I’m gonna have to set it now.”

He gripped the bottle tighter, knuckles white around the glass as he brought it to his lips again, taking a longer swallow this time. Anything to delay what you’d been describing as immensely painful.

“You done this before?” he rasped, voice rough with nerves.

“Seen it done enough,” you said, your tone steady despite the thrum of your own pulse. “My pa’s the doctor here. I’ve helped him since I was little.”

He nodded faintly at that, eyes flickering around the room as if memorising it, grounding himself in something real. Then his gaze slid back to you, lingering a beat longer.

“You close with him?” he asked softly.

The question caught you off guard. Your brows furrowed. “‘Suppose so,” you answered, trying to keep your focus on preparing the sling beside you. “Why?”

His lips twitched faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… you talk about him like he’s a good man.”

“He is, he's a very good man.” You paused, then added more firmly, “You got any siblings?”

He let out a quiet huff, a single humourless chuckle as his thumb rubbed anxiously along the bottle’s worn label. “No, ma’am. Just me.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re stallin’.”

His jaw tensed, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Maybe I am.”

“Delaying it won’t help.”

He blew out a shaky breath, chest rising and falling faster now. Finally, he gave a small nod, eyes dark with apprehension.

You moved behind him, placing one hand firmly on his shoulder blade, your fingers splayed over sweat-damp linen, while your other hand wrapped around his wrist, anchoring him in place. His whole body went rigid under your touch, muscles coiled tight with fear.

“This’ll hurt bad,” you whispered close to his ear, your breath ghosting warm against his temple. You felt his sharp inhale, his pulse thudding under your thumb where it pressed into the curve of his shoulder. “But after, it’ll start mendin’. Ready?”

His head dipped slightly in reluctant assent. “Yeah,” he whispered back, his voice breaking just a little on the word.

He said nothing, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“Alright. On three. One… two—”

You pulled down and forward, bracing your knee against the leg of the chair for leverage. For a brief, agonising moment, his shoulder resisted—his muscles clenching hard against the movement, the joint refusing to give. His whole body went rigid, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat as he tried not to scream.

Then, with a sickening pop, it slid back into place.

His cry was raw and guttural, ripped from deep in his chest. His head dropped forward, chin hitting his sternum as his breath came in ragged, shallow pants. Sweat dripped from his brow onto the scarred wood of the table, his free hand fisted so tight his knuckles went white.

For a second, he didn’t move at all. Just sat there trembling, chest heaving, jaw slack with pain. Tears clung to his lashes, and his lips moved soundlessly, like he was trying to form words but his brain hadn’t caught up yet. When he remains quiet, you’re worried you might’ve done it wrong.

“Easy,” you whispered, your own hands shaking as you eased your grip on him. “It’s done. It’s back in.”

He made a quiet, broken sound in the back of his throat—half sob, half relieved laugh—as his forehead pressed against the table’s edge. You reached out, brushing damp strands of hair away from his temple, feeling the heat radiate off his flushed skin.

“Goddamn,” he rasped finally, voice hoarse and trembling. “Thought… thought I was gonna pass out there for a minute.”

“You almost did,” you murmured, pouring a little more whiskey into a cup, taking a sip yourself before pressing it into his good hand. “Here. Drink.”

He obeyed with shaking fingers, gulping down the burning liquor as he kept his eyes squeezed shut, breath whistling softly through his teeth.

“There,” you breathed out shakily. Your own arms trembled from the force. “All done.”

You eased his arm into his lap and stepped around to face him. His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw slack now as he panted through the pain.

“You alright there?” you asked softly, reaching out to brush damp hair away from his forehead. His skin was hot under your fingers, 

“Yeah… yeah, I’m alright,” he rasped, blinking up at you. His eyes were glassy but clearer now, a faint smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, you pulled your fingers away from his skin, afraid you were overstepping. “You’re a tough little thing, ain’t you?” He continued.

You smiled faintly, dipping the rag in the warm water to clean the blood from his scraped shoulder. “Only way to survive out here.”

Billy watched you quietly as you worked, his gaze trailing over your face. He takes a swig of whiskey. “Your pa teach you all this?”

You nodded, focusing on dabbing the scrape clean. “Since I could walk. Said a woman oughta know how to fix what men break.”

He let out a low hum at that, something like admiration flickering across his tired features. It was quiet for a bit now as you prepared the salve.

“Now hold still. Salve’s gonna sting.”

He hissed softly as the salve touched raw skin, but he didn’t pull away. You worked quickly, spreading it in a thin layer before wrapping clean gauze snug around his shoulder and upper arm. He watched you the whole time, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but fixed on your face like it was the only steady thing in the room.

When you tied off the bandage, you let your hands linger on his good shoulder for a moment. “You’re gonna need to keep it still for a while. Sling it during the day. Sleep’ll help too. When was the last time you had a good day’s rest?”

He shifted, trying to sit up straighter, but winced as pain flared down his side. “It’s been a while. But I’ll be gone by noon,” he rasped. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You snorted softly at that, shaking your head. “Billy, you can barely stand. You’re sleepin’ here. You can take my bed for a few hours, my Pa's room's a mess right now.”

His eyes widened slightly, surprised by your offer. “I… I can’t do that, ma’am.”

“It’s not a request,” you said firmly, though your voice gentled at the end. “‘Sides, it’s not anything special, don’t get too excited.”

He huffed a tired laugh, something warmer flickering behind his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly, sincerity softening every rough edge of him. “I’ll… I’ll just rest a bit. I assure you I’ll be quick.”

When you reached for his coat draped over the back of the chair, intending to rinse out the blood soaking through the sleeve, his reaction was instant.

He snapped his good hand out and snatched it away, clutching it tight to his chest.

You blinked, taken aback. “Oh—sorry,” you stammered, hands hovering awkwardly in the air. “I was just… gonna wash it for you. It’s covered in blood is all.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a moment before flicking back to yours. “I'm sorry,” he muttered, voice rough. “I… it’s personal.”

He held the coat close to him, almost protective, fingers curling tight around the frayed collar. The lamp glow caught the flicker of something hard and metallic beneath the folds for half a second before he shifted it out of view.

You didn’t notice, too focused on his sudden tension, but if you’d looked closer, you might’ve wondered why a man would guard an old, ragged coat like it was the last precious thing he owned.

He cleared his throat and ducked his head, his grip tightening as he tucked it against his side. “Don’t mean to be rude,” he added softly, the edge in his voice bleeding away into quiet guilt. “Just… need to keep it close.”

You nodded quickly, stepping back with an apologetic smile. “No harm done. I wasn’t trying to snoop. Just figured you wouldn’t want blood stains settlin’ in the lining.”

His lips twitched faintly, though his eyes stayed guarded. “Appreciate that,” he murmured.

He held onto the coat, folded over his good arm as he followed you to your room.

He hesitated at the door, eyes flicking over your small room like he was memorising it. The thin curtains glowed pale with morning sun, casting a warm haze over the quilt and wooden floorboards.

His gaze lingered on the small glass jar of wildflowers by your bedside, the faded cross nailed above your headboard, another worn guitar propped against the corner.

'Suppose you played more than a little, he thought.

You felt a brief flush creep up your neck. You didn’t usually let men into your room – especially not ones as pretty as him, all roughed up with those tired eyes and soft lips. It felt… intimate, somehow, letting him see this private space.

He shifted on his feet, looking down at you, his good hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “You sure ‘bout this?” he asked, voice hushed. “Ain’t right, me takin’ your bed like this.”

You rolled your eyes lightly, though your chest ached with the sight of him swaying there, half-dead on his feet. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Billy. Bed’s warmer than the barn floor.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, his lips twitching up. “You got a way of makin’ orders sound gentle, you know that?”

You fidget with your hands and swallow, a beat of quiet. “I’ll um… I’ll leave you be.”

Before he could respond, you’ve scampered off.

He hummed, quiet. He took a few steps around your room, inspecting it a bit now without your presence, paisley wallpaper, slowly tearing off, ornate candle holders. Your dresser had a photo of you and your father. He looked at the photo of you for a little too long. 

He stood there a while longer, eyes tracing the life folded into this room. It smelled like you – clean soap, hay dust, and something soft he couldn’t name. He didn’t belong here.

But he liked how it felt, just for a moment.

He went over to the bed, finding himself drawn to it like a magnet. It must’ve been weeks since he last slept on a mattress. He groaned as he fell into it, the immediate wave of months of little to no sleep hitting him as he fell asleep.

Outside, the morning sun rose higher over the fields. You busied yourself with chores – tending the horses, hauling water, splitting kindling – though your mind wandered back to the quiet room each time the breeze shifted through the open window.

Billy slept all through the day, as the sunset.

He slept through the day and well into the next morning, dead to the world.

When he finally stirred, blinking blearily against the dawn light, he tried to stand and leave without a word – mumbling apologies under his breath, reaching shakily for his boots. But his knees buckled before he even made it to the door, and you caught him under the good arm before he hit the floor. 

“Easy,” you whispered, steadying him against your side.

He was too weak to protest much. 

You didn’t know how bad his injuries really were, or how long it had been since anyone showed him even a scrap of kindness. You didn’t know the last time he’d slept in a real bed, under warm blankets, listening to the soft quiet of a safe home instead of the restless dark of the open plains.

But what you did know – what kept echoing through your mind in your father’s voice – was simple: help those in need.

And maybe this man was a stranger, maybe he was an outlaw – you could read the signs well enough to guess – but right now, none of that mattered.

All you saw was someone hurt.

Which is why you let him stay, and you gained a new ranch-hand whilst at it, so it was a win-win. You'd be surprised by how much you can still get done with a sore shoulder and a need to show your gratitude.

Your house wasn’t big – just two small bedrooms, a study that also acted as a check up room, and a narrow front room with a battered old couch pressed against the window. Once you cleaned up your father's room, you moved him to his bed. It still smelled faintly of tobacco and cedar oil, the quilt sun-bleached and softened from years of use. 

You took your own bed, though most nights you lay awake longer than you’d admit, listening for his breathing across the thin hall, making sure it stayed slow and even through the dark.

Each dawn brought its own rhythm.

He’d sit at your small kitchen table, hunched over a chipped mug, cradling it in his rough hands like it was the only warmth left in the world. He always drank his coffee black, despite the bitter grimace that twisted his bruised face with the first sip. 

You tried not to hover as you cleaned and re-wrapped his shoulder, but your fingers worked carefully, gently, even when he hissed through his teeth and told you he could handle it himself.

“Let me fuss,” you’d say simply, and his gaze would flick away, jaw tightening with something unsaid.

He tried to help around the farm, despite the sling binding his arm tight to his chest. You’d catch him outside, awkwardly lugging feed sacks one-handed, sweat beading along his hairline as he grit his teeth against the pain. 

Once, you found him splitting kindling, the axe awkward in his grip, the wood shattering unevenly beneath his trembling blows. When you told him to rest, he just shook his head. 

Whilst you handled the ranch fine alone, you liked having help for the little chores – someone taller to reach the cabinets, someone less hesitant to scrub out the trough or stack hay. Someone who could stand beside you in silence without making it feel heavy.

“Can’t be sittin’ around takin’ up your air and not do my part,” he muttered, breathless.

When you first sat down for dinner together, you’d made a classic stew – thick with potatoes, carrots, and tender chunks of beef.

He ate it like he hadn’t tasted food in weeks, which, you suspected, might’ve been true.

The two of you sat out on the porch, the old boards creaking beneath your chairs as the sky burned gold and mauve with the setting sun. The breeze smelled of dust, sage, and simmering thyme from your pot.

Billy struggled a little, spoon clumsy in his left hand. You tried not to smile as you watched him, but he caught you looking anyway. He paused, brow furrowing, then gave a quiet huff of a laugh, shaking his head.

“It ain’t polite to laugh at an injured man, you know,” he said softly, voice still scratchy with fatigue but threaded with teasing warmth.

“I’m not laughing,” you lied, lips curving despite yourself. “Just… observin’.”

“Oh, so that’s what you call it.” He dipped his head, hair falling over his eyes as he scooped up another mouthful with painstaking care. He chewed slowly, gaze fixed on the sunset, before turning it to you, eyes curious. You didn't comment on it, keeping your eyes locked on the fields.

Silence settled again, but it was a comfortable quiet, filled only by the rustle of wind through prairie grass and the distant lowing of cattle in the darkening paddock.

After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “This… this is real good,” he murmured, nodding at the bowl. “Best meal I’ve had in… hell, I don’t even know how long.”

You felt warmth bloom in your chest at that, deeper than pride, something soft and tender. “Thank you,” you said simply. “Figured you’d need something good in your stomach to heal.”

He smiled faintly, looking down into his bowl like it was the only thing holding him together. Then he spoke again, voice low and tentative. “Why are you letting me stay?”

Despite expecting the question eventually, you're still caught off guard.

"I'm-I'm incredibly grateful. I'll do my part 'round here 'n all, I'm... trust me when I say this place is heaven compared to how I've spent a lotta life, but... why not just shoo me away?" He continued.

It was a fair question. You didn't take your eyes off the fields, pausing. “You were hurt, simple as that,” you said honestly. “Didn’t seem right to leave you out there like a dying dog or a stray cat or somethin'.”

He let out a quiet huff of amusement, shaking his head. “Most folks woulda done just that.”

“True... 'suppose I’m not most folks,” you shrugged, picking at a piece of bread.

Billy fell silent for a moment, eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. “No,” he said finally, almost to himself. “You sure ain’t.”

The two of you sat there a while longer, eating as the sky faded to violet and the first stars blinked awake overhead. At one point, you leaned over to help him scoop the last few bites from his bowl. His fingers brushed yours, warm and calloused, and he froze at the contact, gaze flicking up to yours with startled softness.

“Thank you,” he murmured again, but this time it felt heavier, like he meant more than just dinner.

You nodded, unable to speak around the sudden tightness in your chest. For a moment, neither of you moved, the hush between you gentle and heavy all at once. Finally, you cleared your throat, forcing a small smile to your lips.

“I’ll, um… I’m gonna clean up,” you murmured, reaching for his empty bowl and stacking it with yours.

Billy shifted, wincing slightly as he pushed himself upright. “Where do you want me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said quickly. “You need to rest. It’s just dishes.”

He shook his head, lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “I’ve handled my fair share of dishes. Even with a bad arm. You wash, I dry.”

You hesitated, glancing at his sling, but before you could protest he’d already taken the bowls from your hands with his good arm, giving you a quiet, stubborn nod as he turned back towards the house.

You watched him for a moment, the fading light catching on the tousle of his hair, illuminating the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. Something warm and dangerous curled low in your belly.

With a sigh, you followed him inside.

You told yourself – told each other – that this was temporary. Both of you knew this.

That as soon as he could ride, he’d be gone.

But the truth was, you were lonely. An hour’s ride from town left plenty of empty space to fill, and your few friends there couldn’t keep you company through the long dawns and quiet dusk hours.

You suspected he was lonely too, though he never said it outright. But each day, he spoke a little more.

He didn’t tell you much that mattered – never his last name, never where exactly he came from. But you pieced together fragments as he let them slip: a mother buried by the river, a brother gone, long rides across Kansas plains under blood-red sunsets.

His words were never casual. Each felt weighed, considered, like he was tasting them before deciding if they deserved to be spoken aloud.

He always kept his coat nearby, draped over the back of a chair or folded within reach, like he couldn’t stand to let it out of his sight for long.

At night, you’d hear him in the barn, murmuring low to the horses. His voice was soft and gravelled, tinged with something like sorrow. Like confession. Like the animals were safer than people – they’d never turn his secrets into weapons.

You learned little things too. 

One early morning, you tiptoed into the sitting room with a tray of biscuits balanced on your hip, only to find him already awake. Billy sat hunched in the armchair by the cold hearth, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might speak to him if he waited long enough.

“What are you doing up?” you asked softly.

He looked up at you with bleary eyes, and for a fleeting second, he almost smiled. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You paused in the doorway. “Fair point,” you conceded with a shrug. “I was just gonna leave these for you… figured you’d want ‘em warm when you woke up. How long you been sitting there?”

Billy inhaled sharply through his nose and shrugged one shoulder, his sling shifting a little. “A while.”

You lingered, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. His gaze returned to the floor, unfocused.

“Bad dreams, is all,” he muttered finally. “Nothin’ you can fix.”

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in his voice. “You’d be surprised what I can fix, Billy. One time Pa tried to make breakfast, lit his hair clean on fire. I had to come in with three blankets.”

That startled a soft chuckle out of him, his eyes flicking up to yours, a flicker of warmth breaking through the tired shadows. “Three blankets?” he echoed.

“Yeah,” you grinned. “Not for the fire, mind you. Just to console his pride after I put it out with the dishwater.”

Billy huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, and for a moment the dark circles under his eyes looked softer somehow.

You shifted the tray a little closer to him. “I get ‘em too, you know. Bad dreams. If you ever wanna talk about it… I got a good right ear for listening.” Your voice dropped, gentle. “Biscuit?”

He hesitated, then nodded, reaching out to take one with careful fingers. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice low and rough with something you couldn’t name.

Sometimes, later in the nights, you’d hear him down the hall – the sharp gasp of breath as he startled awake, the faint rustle of sheets as he pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, sweat glistening on his brow like he’d been running miles in his sleep.

He always checked the locks twice before he lay down, eyes scanning the windows like danger might slip through the cracks while he rested.

Little things changed with him there.

Your firewood stack grew taller. The porch rail got mended where it had splintered in the last storm. The leaky trough out back stopped dripping after he’d spent an hour out there in the heat, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. 

You’d wake some mornings to find he’d already started chores before dawn, moving quiet as fog through the yard. 

He always left a pot of coffee on the stove for you, strong enough to peel paint, with your favourite chipped mug set out beside it. He didn’t belong there – not really. But each day, you found yourself wanting him to stay a little longer, if only to see what else he’d fix before he left.

By the end of the month, as September came to a close, something quiet and dangerous settled between you. The hush of your shared dawn coffee, the way his eyes lingered on your hands as you worked, the faint twitch of his lips when you teased him for fumbling with the sugar jar.

It felt almost natural, this rhythm. Almost like a life you could have if the world was different. 

Each sunrise carved that truth deeper into your chest:

His time here was borrowed. 

And you were the fool who kept lending it to him, knowing he’d never be yours to keep.

You were preparing for dinner, rinsing vegetables at the kitchen basin when you heard it – the distant clop of hooves on packed dirt in the early evening.

Your heart lurched so hard it almost choked you. Your father wasn’t due back yet. He was supposed to finish up in the next few weeks, giving you time to send off Billy with a nice bow, his shoulder slowly mending.

“Damn it,” you whispered, glancing down the hall.

Billy’s boots were still by the door, dust from the barn caking their worn soles. The table still held his mess of whittling shavings, curls of pale wood scattered like straw. The mug he’d used that morning, ringed with black coffee residue, sat abandoned beside the cold stove.

You moved quickly, snatching up his boots and stuffing them behind the woodbox near the stove. You wiped up the wood shavings with your palm, sweeping them into the pocket of your apron. 

You flung the window open to let the whiskey tang out, both from tending his scratches and drinking, the afternoon breeze biting at your cheeks and tugging wisps of hair loose from your braid. Your pulse thudded in your throat as you scrubbed a smudge of dirt from the table, eyes darting to the doorway.

Billy was out back, working on some chore he’d set himself to. Fixing the henhouse latch, you thought, or maybe splitting the last stack of logs before dusk. He’d been restless all morning, moving like a man with a hundred debts to pay.

You quickly walked out onto the porch, pressing yourself against the newly mended rail Billy had fixed two days ago, trying to still your trembling hands.

Your father was just dismounting, his old brown horse snorting softly as dust rose around their feet. He looked up and smiled wide when he saw you.

“There she is!” he greeted, arms opening for you.

You forced your lips into a smile and stepped forward into his hug, the smell of leather, sage, and tobacco rolling off him like comfort.

“What are you doin’ here, Pa?” you asked, voice light as you took his saddlebag from his shoulder, dragging it with you as you both walked back towards the house.

“Ah, well,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “I gave my room up to another family. Lost their roof in that storm last week. I've left Smith to handle it. Good practice for the boy. 'Sides, missed my own bed."

He brushed the trail dust from his sleeves as he stepped into the kitchen, boots scuffing on the threshold. You hurried ahead to set his bag down in his room, trying to slow your racing pulse. 

Your father was a good man, honest and gentle. One of those rare men who avoided violence at all costs. He’d stitched up more bullet wounds in his life than he’d ever fired shots. 

He was a healer, through and through.

Which was exactly why you hadn’t told him about your little unexpected house guest.

You rattle off in your head that you should’ve made the trip into town, you should’ve done something, let him know, but you don’t have enough time to wallow, as he speaks.

“How’d the chores go?” he asked, his gravelled voice warm with fatigue as he peered around the room, eyes soft and tired beneath his lined brow.

“Fine,” you blurted too quickly, then forced your tone casual as you walked back in, wiping your palms on your apron. “Fed the horses, mucked the stalls. Just about to fix dinner. How’s town been?”

He hung up his hat on its peg, his gaze sweeping the room with habitual care. “Busy,” he grunted, unlacing his gloves. “Travellin’ band in. Fiddles, drums, the whole lot.”

He paused then, nostrils flaring faintly as he sniffed the air. His eyes narrowed, flicking to the rag drying by the basin, the faint iron tang of blood hidden beneath the sharper scent of whiskey that still lingered despite the breeze.

“Smells like you’ve been into my whiskey,” he said, voice easy but eyes sharp as they fixed on yours.

“Had a cough earlier,” you lied easily, forcing a small shrug. “Settled it.”

He eyed you for a moment longer but said nothing, moving to wash his hands at the basin. You watched him in the small cracked mirror, your reflection pale and tight behind his broad shoulders. Please don’t come in yet, Billy, you prayed silently.

You just needed a minute to explain the whole thing, he’d understand. Surely.

“A cough, you say?” He repeats. “You catch anythin’? You haven’t been near those Mrs Johns kids in town, now have you? Those kids always got somethin’.”

“No, Pa, it’s nothin’ to worry about,” You insist. “You sit down, I was just fixing some soup now for dinner.”

Your father nodded, appreciative as he dried his hands. You cleared your throat and began chopping vegetables, blade thudding against the board in a jittery rhythm. Where to begin.

Hey, so, I found some vagabond boy sleeping in the barn, I thought he was cute, and like a stray dog he’s just been stickin’ around. Yeah.

Maybe skip the cute part.

He sat down with a tired grunt to pull off his boots while you hacked away at the potatoes, trying to piece together a version that didn’t make you sound insane.

But before you could open your mouth or sneak out back to warn Billy, you heard the telltale creak of the back door swinging open.

Your father frowned, half-risen from his chair. “Who’s that?”

“Shit,” you breathed, dropping the knife with a loud clatter. Panic burst in your chest. “Uh, Pa, I should tell you somethin’ real quick,” you blurted, words tripping over themselves like startled cattle. “The mornin’ you left, I went out to the barn, and I swear I locked the doors and all, and you were already halfway gone, so I couldn't get you, and Spots was actin' up, but-but anyway, somehow, I found—”

Your stomach dropped clean to your toes as Billy ambled into view, rubbing the back of his neck with a rag. His hair stuck up in damp little tufts, cheeks flushed from work, dirt smudged across his forearm as he wiped sweat away.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, sling cradling his shoulder still, collar open just enough to reveal the slope of his throat. He looked half-exhausted, half-beautiful, damn him.

He froze when he saw your father, eyes darting to you with that same sheepish guilt of a kid caught sneaking sweets before dinner.

Your father furrowed his brows, back straightened. His gaze travelled from Billy’s bare feet to his tousled hair, to the sling binding his arm against his chest. Confusion settled over his face like a gathering storm cloud.

This strange boy… in my house… acting like he lives here. He must be thinking.

“...Him. I found him,” you finished weakly, gesturing at Billy with a helpless little flick of your wrist.

Silence spread through the kitchen, thick enough to choke on. Billy shifted under it, looking both apologetic and like he’d happily launch himself out the nearest window if it meant escaping this moment. 

Finally, he straightened as much as he could, squaring his shoulders despite the wince it drew from him. His voice was low and hoarse with exhaustion, but still polite as ever. “Name’s Billy, sir. Real sorry for intrudin’. I’ll… I’ll be on my way shortly. You got my word on that, I was just passin’ through.”

“Like hell you will,” your father muttered, shooting you a strict glance. He strode forward, eyes narrowing as he took in the bruising beneath Billy’s collar, the pallor in his face.

For a terrible moment you thought he might throw him out anyway.

But then your father sighed, rubbing his knuckles against his chin. Ever the healer.

“That shoulder’s dislocated,” he said, voice calm and assessing. His brow furrowed. “Who set it?”

“I did,” you piped up, almost too quickly. Your father’s brows rose, flicking to you with faint surprise before he nodded, just once.

“Good work,” your father grunted gruffly, eyes still on Billy’s sling. Then, as if Billy wasn’t standing right there, he asked, “How’d you pick this stray up?”

“He was hurt. Just lookin’ for a place to sleep.” You wiped your hands on your apron, pulse still fluttering. “You left before I found him. He’s… he’s no trouble, Pa. He’s been helpin’ me all around the ranch for the past month.”

Billy kept his head lowered, shoulders slightly hunched, every inch the respectful guest – a guest your father hadn’t exactly been made aware of.

“A month," He muttered to himself, shaking his head. A pause. "You trust ‘im?” your father asked, his voice flat as he gave Billy a slow, assessing once-over. It wasn’t exactly admiring.

You glanced at Billy. He was watching you with that same quiet acceptance, like he’d already resigned himself to whatever fate your father decided.

“I think so,” you said softly. It wasn’t the strongest answer, but it was honest, and it seemed good enough for your father.

He sighed through his nose. “You shoulda told me. A month, really?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, weariness pulling at his features. “We’re talkin’ ‘bout this later... You’re lucky I’m hungry.”

Then he turned to Billy, who straightened under his gaze. “Wash up before you join us for dinner, will you?”

Billy hesitated, glancing to you for permission, eyes flickering with that silent question – Is this okay? Am I okay here?

You gave a tiny nod. “Thank you, sir,” Billy said quietly, before slipping out of the kitchen towards the washroom, boots scuffing softly on the worn floorboards.

Your father exhaled, shaking his head as he sat back down. “I leave for a month and you’re already collectin’ strays for servant work, huh?”

You sighed, slicing into a potato with more force than necessary. “It’s not like that.”

“Mm.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his tired eyes. “‘Least he’s polite.”

Dinner that night was… awkward, to say the least.

You sat across from Billy, your father positioned firmly between you like some human border wall. The little wooden table felt even smaller with the three of you crammed around it, steam rising from your bowls of soup in gentle curls. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic and the quiet tick of the mantle clock.

Billy looked like he’d rather be anywhere else – back out in the barn with the mice, even – shoulders tight, head bowed, his sling cradling his arm protectively. Every now and then his eyes flicked up to you, then darted away just as quickly.

Your father finally broke the silence, spoon pausing mid-air. “You got anyone chasin’ you, boy? Law or otherwise?”

Billy swallowed hard, throat working visibly, his voice rasping as he answered. “It’s… complicated, sir. But I swear I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. Just had a bad fall off my horse is all.”

Your father’s gaze pinned him in place for a long, uncomfortable beat. Then, with a small grunt, he nodded. “Then you’ll stay here ‘til you can ride proper. Ain’t sendin’ a half-dead man back out into the dust. Understood? ‘N since you’ve been here doin’ chores, stalls need muckin’, you’ll help my daughter.”

Billy blinked, clearly stunned by the unexpected mercy. His eyes lifted to your father with something like relief, his mouth parting in quiet gratitude. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Silence settled again, thicker this time, stretching long and heavy. You fiddled with your spoon, tapping it against the edge of your bowl, searching for something – anything – to say.

Normally, dinners with Billy were outside by the porch rail, quiet at first until one of you teased the other into a laugh, conversation snowballing into warm, easy chatter. But now, under your father’s scrutiny, neither of you seemed capable of words.

Billy cleared his throat softly, eyes flicking to you with an almost shy uncertainty. “I, uh… I fixed that gate you mentioned, out back. Hinge was just rusted through. If it breaks again, though… you’ll probably need to replace it.”

Your father raised a brow at you, then at him, then back to you again, like he was witnessing something unspoken and deeply suspicious. You felt your cheeks heat under both their gazes.

“Oh?” you managed, a little too quickly. You cleared your throat and tried to sound casual. “Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”

Billy gave a tiny shrug with his good shoulder, eyes dropping to his bowl, a faint pink dusting his cheekbones. “Wasn’t nothin’.”

“Were you also the one who fixed the porch rail?” Your father asked, folding his arms.

Guess you hadn’t hidden that secret as well as you thought.

Billy nodded, a small, reluctant yes.

“I never was much of a handyman. Hands made for people, 'suppose,” your father admitted, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What else you fix then?”

“He fixed the stove,” you said quickly, trying to keep the mood light. “And your bed frame isn’t crooked anymore. And the buckets stop breaking.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed on that second one, realising. “...Has he been sleeping in my bed?”

“...A little,” you admitted, cheeks warming again.

The room fell quiet for a beat.

“This is beautiful,” Billy remarked, nodding toward the steaming bowl of soup before him.

You smiled, pride blooming despite the awkward tension. “Thank you.”

“Thyme, isn't it?” your father guessed, sniffing the aroma.

You nodded. This small talk was painful.

Another pause, then your father finished his meal and cleared his throat. He gave you both a lingering glance before standing.

“I’ll be in my study. You two… finish up. You alright to take the couch, kid? Got a bad back.”

“‘Course, sir,” Billy nodded.

Your father left, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving the kitchen cloaked in silence again.

You risked a glance at Billy. His eyes met yours—soft, warm, and a little mischievous. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting off a smile.

You rolled your eyes but felt your lips tug upward despite yourself. “Don’t you dare say it,” you warned in a low voice.

“Say what?” he teased, feigning innocence, lashes dipping to hide the quiet affection in his gaze as he lifted another spoonful.

You hid your face in your hands, both of you dissolving into soft giggles—an easy moment carved out from all the tension.  Both of you just caught off guard by the past hour or so of interaction.

Later, after supper and chores were done, you found Billy sitting on the porch steps. The sun had just begun its slow surrender behind the hills, painting the sky in bruised rose and gold.

Billy’s hat rested beside him on the worn boards. He leaned against the porch fence, staring out across the grazing pasture like he could watch the whole world end and still not flinch.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking him in – the quiet line of his profile, lashes catching the last shards of dying light, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. His hair was still damp from washing up after dinner, curling faintly at his nape. He looked clean, patched up, and tired in a way that felt honest.

“Mind some company?” you asked softly.

His head turned, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion lining his face. “Not at all.”

You walked over and sank down onto the step beside him. Your knees brushed, and neither of you moved to correct it. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The dusk air settled warm and heavy around your shoulders, filled with the drone of cicadas and the gentle sigh of wind through the pasture grass.

“Your father’s a good man. Real good,” he murmured eventually, voice low and rough with lingering pain and something else – something soft and fragile. “One of the first kind men I’ve met in… a long time.”

“He is,” you agreed, your gaze fixed on the last sliver of sun dipping below the ridge. “Wary, though. Won’t trust you ‘til he knows you’re no danger.”

“Smart of him.” Billy paused, gaze dropping to the bandage peeking from beneath his shirt. He flexed his hand against his thigh, knuckles pale. “Smart of you, too. Lettin' a stranger sleep in your home… brave. Or foolish.”

You felt his eyes on you, heavy and warm, and forced a small shrug. “Didn’t think you’d stab me in my sleep.”

His lips twitched faintly. “What if I had?”

You tilted your head towards him, letting your smile turn slow and sly. “Well, then I’d haunt you forever. I’m a very petty woman, Billy.”

That drew a real smile from him, wide and boyish, though his eyes stayed dark and unreadable. For a moment they flicked to your mouth, lingering there before darting back to the horizon.

“Noted,” he murmured, voice cracking just a little on the word. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly towards you. “Still… I don’t know how many times I can say thank you. For patchin’ me up. For… treatin’ me like… like I’m worth somethin’. I don’t remember the last time someone treated me like I wasn’t about to bite ‘em.”

Your chest tightened painfully at that. You studied his profile – the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the faint scar slicing through his brow, the vulnerability etched into the quiet lines of his mouth.

He looked like a man who didn’t know what to do with kindness once he got it. Like he half-expected it to burn him if he held it too long.

“Get some sleep tonight,” you said softly, reaching out before you could stop yourself to brush a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered against his temple, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint pulse thrumming beneath it. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, lashes trembling, like he was memorising the feeling.

When he opened them again, they were locked on yours, dark and wide, something raw and wanting swimming in their depths. The hush between you thickened, the world shrinking down to the space where your knees pressed together and your hand hovered against his face.

He smelled faintly of soap and woodsmoke and something warm and male that made your pulse thrum embarrassingly loud in your ears.

Part of you wanted to lean in. Just to see. Just to feel his lips against yours for one quick second before you came to your senses. But instead, you forced a shaky laugh and dropped your hand.

“Tomorrow we muck stalls, remember?” you said lightly, voice too thin.

That pulled a low, genuine laugh from him, husky and intimate in the darkening air. “Can’t wait.”

You smirked, leaning back on your palms, letting the dusk breeze lift your hair off your neck. “Try not to faint in the trough. Would be a damn shame to waste all my good bandages.”

He turned towards you fully then, lips curling into something crooked and dangerous, eyes glinting with a heat that sent gooseflesh prickling down your arms. “And here I was thinkin’ I’d fake a faint just to feel your hands on me again.”

The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. You saw the flicker of regret in his eyes, the faint flush climbing his neck. But you couldn’t answer anyway. Your breath had caught in your throat, chest tightening with a fluttering heat that felt too big for your ribs.

His smile softened at your stunned silence. Slowly, he reached out, brushing a knuckle along your cheekbone. The touch was fleeting, so light it almost didn’t register, but it sent your pulse stumbling all the same.

“You’re real easy to look at when you’re flustered,” he murmured, voice husky with fatigue and something far more dangerous.

You rolled your eyes, though it took every ounce of strength you had, biting down on the smile threatening your lips. “Go to bed, Billy.”

He lingered a moment longer, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth with something unbearably soft, before nodding. “Sleep well, darlin’,” he whispered, picking up his hat and pushing himself to his feet with a quiet groan.

You watched him walk inside, the door creaking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the cricket song, the fading warmth of his touch against your cheek, and the thunder of your traitorous heart echoing loud in your chest.

The morning light spilled pale gold across the kitchen floor as you stepped in, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Billy sat at the dining table, shirt collar loose around his throat, while your father worked with quiet precision, fingers probing along his shoulder joint.

Billy winced but said nothing, eyes fixed on a knot in the floorboards. Sweat pearled along his hairline despite the cool dawn air.

“Been set it clean,” your father murmured, nodding faintly. “Could’ve been worse if she hadn’t found you.”

Billy swallowed, his voice rough with exhaustion, giving you a glance as you observe from the couch. “She did good.”

You smile a bit at that, trying to hide how he made you flustered so easily now. 

Your father hummed softly in agreement, but his brows pinched as his hands drifted lower. He pressed along Billy’s ribs, slow and deliberate. Billy sucked in a sharp breath.

“Breathe through it,” your father ordered gently. His fingers pressed again, testing the give of bone against muscle. “Fractured rib here. Not a bad break, but… been like this a while, hasn’t it? Weeks?”

Billy hesitated, then gave the tiniest nod, eyes cast down. “Few months ago, maybe.”

Your father’s frown deepened as he moved on, fingers skimming over bruises blooming dark along Billy’s side, faint cuts healing rough along his forearm. He paused at a deeper purple bruise hidden under Billy’s bicep, thumb brushing across it with featherlight care.

“That’s not from your fall,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Billy said nothing. Didn’t even flinch. Just sat there, silent and obedient, like a man long used to pain he couldn’t afford to name.

You felt something twist sharply in your chest.

Your father pressed his lips into a thin line and shifted away. “You’re a mess of half-healed wounds, son,” he said, a touch gruff to cover the pity in his voice. “You keep runnin’ yourself into the ground like this, there won’t be enough left for anyone to fix.”

Billy ducked his head, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. “Yes, sir.”

Trying to lighten the quiet tension, you stepped forward with a smile. “Was the couch alright last night?”

Billy looked up, eyes clearing just a fraction as he met yours. A small, sheepish smile curved his mouth. “Felt like heaven, ma’am. Softer than most bedrolls I’ve known.”

Your father let out a dry chuckle. “Better manners than half the ranchers in town,” he muttered, reaching for a fresh bandage. “Maybe I oughta hire him to teach ‘em somethin’.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. “Don’t encourage him, Pa. He’s smug enough already.”

Billy ducked his head again, cheeks dusting pink. “Ain’t smug. Just grateful.”

Your father moved to wash his hands at the basin. 

As he did, he caught your eye and tilted his head subtly towards the hall. “Help me fetch somethin’ will you?” he said, voice calm but edged with something unspoken.

You followed him out, wiping your hands on your apron. He didn’t say anything until you reached the storage room, out of earshot in the hallway. Then he turned, his lined face shadowed in the dim morning light.

“That boy’s been through hell,” he said quietly. “Those injuries – they’re not ranch work wounds. They’re… well. Fights. Violence. Running from someone, or something, been there for a long time, maybe years.” He sighed, rubbing his knuckles across his brow. “I ain’t gonna pry if he doesn’t want to talk. But… just be careful, alright? He’s polite, and I can see he’s kind. But desperate men do desperate things.”

Your chest tightened painfully. You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat..

He studied you for a moment longer, then gave a quiet sigh, squeezing your shoulder before he turned away.

You grabbed your boots and plopped down by the front door, flashing Billy a teasing grin. “Well, I’ll see you out by the stalls. I’m expecting only the finest muckin’ crew this morning. No slackers allowed.”

Billy let out a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You tied your laces with a dramatic little flourish and stood, heading out into the cool dawn.

Behind you, your father hummed under his breath, shaking his head with faint amusement as he watched you go. He turned back to Billy, who was gingerly rebuttoning his shirt.

“You two seem to’ve gotten to know each other well,” your father remarked, his tone light but edged with something probing.

Billy paused, his hands falling still against the buttons. He nodded slowly, the words coming out quiet and sincere. “She’s… she’s a real special girl. Easy to talk to. You should be proud of her.”

Your father was silent for a moment, just watching him with those steady healer’s eyes. Then he sighed, his voice lowering into something calm but edged with steel.

“Billy… I’m not a man who likes pain. Spent my whole life endin’ it, not causin’ it.” He paused, letting the quiet stretch, heavy and unblinking. “But if you ever do anything to hurt her, ‘cause her any trouble…” He tilted his head faintly, gaze darkening. “Just remember – I can break things just as easily as I can fix them. Over and over again.”

A beat of silence. Then Billy swallowed hard, nodding earnestly. “There’s not… I’m… ”

“Just say you understand, boy.”

He nods. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

Your father clapped him lightly on the uninjured shoulder, almost friendly – almost. “Good! Now hurry up and finish dressin’ before she realises half that muckin’ crew’s gonna be her alone.”

You made your way to the stalls, the morning breeze cool against your flushed cheeks. Inside, the scent of hay and horse hair wrapped around you, grounding you in its familiar comfort.

Billy had already started setting up – feed buckets lined by the door, pitchfork propped against the wall.

You spotted his coat draped over a low rail by the tack boxes, half-hidden beneath a folded feed sack. With a small huff, you reached out to move it out of the walkway.

Something heavy shifted in the pocket.

The coat sagged awkwardly in your grip, and before you could adjust your hold, a gleam of dark metal slipped out and clattered onto the straw-strewn ground.

Your breath caught sharp in your chest.

A revolver lay there, cold and black against the golden hay.

Your fingers hovered above it, frozen mid-reach, your heart thudding so loud you could barely hear the quiet creak of boots behind you.

“Don’t touch that.”

His voice was soft. Careful. Almost pleading.

You turned slowly. Billy stood in the stall doorway, shadows framing his tall, battered shape. His eyes were fixed on the gun, then flicked up to yours with an expression you couldn’t read – fear, regret, resignation, all tangled together.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Only the distant nickering of the horses broke the hush, as dust motes drifted lazily between you.

Finally, you lowered your hand, your chest tight with something that felt like dread and sorrow all at once. It’s quiet.

You watch as Billy almost seems embarrassed by it, avoiding eye contact with you, rather staring at the gun, gaze seemingly filled with fear and anger. You can’t deduce why.

“What’s it for?” you asked softly, though you already knew. The silence between you made the question feel heavier than lead.

Billy didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed locked on the revolver like it was something shameful. Morning light cut through the barn slats, striping his face, catching the faint tremble in his jaw.

Finally, he swallowed. “For stayin’ alive,” he said hoarsely. “Ain’t for robbin’ or hurting good folk. Just… stayin’ alive.”

You let out a quiet breath, the weight of the gun cold and foreign in your palm. You turned it over once before holding it out to him. 

“You hid this from me,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, steady. “Hiding it in your very personal coat is certainly a choice.”

He didn’t take it right away. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and unreadable, lined with exhaustion and something like regret. “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I was trouble,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want your father thinkin’ that neither.”

Your chest tightened, your heart thudding slow and heavy. “Well… are you?” you asked, your voice catching despite yourself. “Because… this tells me you might be. This has just been in the house, around me, around… my father. And you didn’t even say anything. Who are you really, Billy?”

He exhaled hard through his nose, his good hand raking through his hair. “Ain’t nobody worth knowin’,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Just… pissed off the wrong people, is all.”

You watched him carefully. He looked so tired, shoulders slumping under the weight of whatever truth he wasn’t saying. His hand hovered near the gun, but he didn’t reach for it. Just waited.

Finally, you shook your head, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to. “You know my father keeps a rifle in the sheet cupboard. He’s used it before – coyotes, drunk bankers. I’ve seen it in action. Ain’t like I’m scared of a gun. Just… don’t like bein’ lied to.”

He flinched, just a little. “I ain’t lyin’,” he said, meeting your gaze finally, eyes dark and earnest. “Just… ain’t tellin’ the whole truth. There’s a difference.”

“Not much of one,” you murmured. You paused, looking at the gun. 

“‘M sorry, I shouldn’t have hidden it. ‘Specially not from you,” He said.

You nod, appreciative, your finger traces the metal. He watches as you feel it, index running over the ridges. You return your gaze to him.

You pressed the revolver back into his hand, feeling the rough calluses of his fingers brush yours. He held your gaze for a long moment, something desperate and grateful flickering there.

“Thank you,” he said roughly, his voice catching on the words.

You swallowed, a light shrug.You reached for the pitchfork leaning nearby. “You’re good company. No sense bein' painful about it.”

A faint, humourless laugh escaped him as he tucked the gun into the back of his pants, his thumb brushing along the worn grip. “You ever shot one before?”

You nod. “Just to get coyotes away. Shooting blind, really,” You hand him a pitchfork. Come on, now,” you said lightly, jabbing the tines into the hay. “We still got two stalls to muck out before breakfast.”

The morning passed in quiet work. He didn’t say much as you mucked stalls side by side, the smell of hay and horses grounding you both in an easy, tired rhythm. When he winced while moving a heavy pail, you scolded him gently, telling him to use his good arm. When you dropped the grain scoop, he snorted a laugh under his breath, soft and boyish.

It felt almost normal. Almost easy.

Later that afternoon, while your father was chopping kindling out by the woodpile, you found Billy leaning against the corral fence, fidgeting with his pistol, running a rag down the barrel with careful, practised movements. His gaze drifted out over the grazing cattle, distant and dark, brow furrowed like he was seeing something long gone.

You approached slowly, brushing your skirts free of dust. “You alright?”

His eyes flicked to yours, hooded and unreadable, lingering there for a beat. Then his mouth curved into the faintest smile. “Fine, darlin’. Just… thinkin’.”

“Dangerous pastime,” you teased lightly, resting your arms on the rail beside him.

He chuckled low at that, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Yeah… so they say.”

For a while, you stood there in quiet companionship, the warm hush of late afternoon settling around you both. Your eyes drifted to his hands – long, calloused fingers moving deftly over the metal, knuckles nicked and scarred. You wondered what those hands would feel like on your waist. In your hair. Against your bare—

You cleared your throat sharply, heat prickling at your cheeks. “Uh… I was thinkin’… maybe later, after chores, you could show me how to hold that pistol proper? Never was taught right.”

He blinked, startled from his thoughts. For a moment, something like surprise crossed his face. Then his gaze softened, warm and molten under dark lashes. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course I can.”

“Good,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the fluttering in your chest. “Wouldn’t want to be savin’ you from coyotes only to blow my own foot off.”

That drew a quiet laugh from him, though his eyes stayed locked on yours, gaze heavy and searching, like he was cataloguing every flicker of your expression. He didn’t say anything more – just gently handed you the pistol by the handle.

You took it gingerly, feeling the cold, oiled weight settle in your palm. You hummed under your breath, tilting the barrel up curiously. He reached out without thinking, broad palm wrapping around your wrist, gently lowering it away from him.

“First lesson – don’t aim if you don’t intend to shoot,” he murmured, his voice low and close. “And hold it with your palm and wrist strong. It ain’t gonna bite you, promise.”

Your breath caught at the warmth of his hand around yours, callouses rasping lightly against your skin. You nodded, throat suddenly dry. “Yes, sir,” you said, the teasing lilt making his mouth twitch faintly at the corner.

He smirked a little, noticing how your gaze flickered briefly to his lips before darting away. Pushing off the fence, he nodded towards the shed. “You got any bottles lyin’ ‘round?”

THUMP.

The bullet slammed into the log, missing the bottle entirely. You let out a sharp sigh, lowering the gun.

“You need to fix your stance,” Billy remarked from your side, leaning back against the fence with his arms folded, watching you with faint amusement.

“No, no, it’s in her wrist. She’s always had a weak wrist. It’s why she complains so much about the chicken feed,” your father called out from the porch where he sat whittling at a block of pine, a faint smirk on his face.

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Thanks for the support, Pa.”

Billy chuckled under his breath, stepping forward to help you reload. His fingers brushed yours as he handed you the fresh cartridge, the touch sparking hot and electric across your skin.

You’d spent the better part of the evening trying to hit any bottle on the fence post, your father and Billy each offering their unasked opinions like roosters crowing over a hen. You sighed, wiping sweat from your brow.

“I told you,” your father said, shaking his head, “we ain’t shooters. ‘Sides, no one out here bothers us. All this is just wastin’ bullets.”

“Pa,” you shot back, “this is important. Could be useful someday.”

“I just don’t like ‘em,” he muttered. “You know how many young men I’ve seen come through town with bullets in ‘em? Never seen a gun do nothin’ but hurt.”

Billy glanced at him, then at you, his brow creasing faintly. “He makes a good point. Maybe this ain’t the best idea.”

“Okay, both of you relax. I’m not gonna shoot anybody anytime soon – unless one of you keeps distractin’ me,” you snapped, rolling your eyes as you turned back to the bottles.

Billy smiled at that, wide and genuine, his teeth flashing white against sun-browned skin. Your father snorted softly, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

You turned to Billy, glaring half-heartedly. “And you can stop kissin’ his ass and help me hit a damn bottle... Pretty please.”

His smile widened into something almost wicked, teeth flashing in the last orange light of dusk. “Since you asked so polite.”

“Doesn’t happen often,” your father remarked dryly from the porch, whittling knife paused in his palm.

“Alright, you—”

Billy cut you off softly, reaching out to tilt your chin back towards the targets with two fingers, his touch light but possessive. “You wanna hit ‘em or not?”

You sighed, grip tightening on the pistol. “It was his fault,” you muttered under your breath, shooting your father a glare.

Your father chuckled at your reaction and stood, brushing wood shavings from his lap. “Dinner’s ready soon. You two wrap up when you can. Make sure she doesn’t shoot her damn foot off,” he said as he re-entered the house, door squeaking closed behind him.

You shook your head, exhaling slowly to focus on the bottles now.

“You gonna focus now?” Billy asked, stepping in close behind you.

“Without his commentary? Maybe,” you hummed, clearing your throat as you straightened your stance.

He moved closer still, until his chest brushed your back, solid and warm through his thin work shirt. His arms came around you, enveloping you in the scent of gun oil, dust, and faint woodsmoke. His good hand settled firm over yours, fingers curling snug around your grip.

“Here,” he murmured, his voice low and rough against your ear. “Spread your feet… brace your hips.” His other hand slid down, fingers pressing lightly into your waist, thumb brushing the soft cotton of your blouse. Your breath caught, heat prickling under your skin. “Good girl. Now… squeeze slow. Don’t jerk it like you been doin’.”

Your pulse thundered in your throat. You could feel his breath ghost across your cheek, the faint rasp of his stubble brushing your temple. You tried to focus on the bottle ahead, but all you could think about was him – the warmth of his palm, the casual possessiveness in his hold, how his chest rose and fell against your back.

You squeezed the trigger.

CRACK.

Glass shattered into a spray of glittering shards across the fence rail.

A small, triumphant noise escaped you. You turned your head towards him, beaming. “Did you see that?!”

Billy was already looking at you, eyes dark and burning with something fierce and proud and hungry all at once. His lips parted, breath coming shallow, chest brushing yours with each inhale.

“Think you’re my good luck charm, Billy,” you teased, voice soft and breathless.

“You think so?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Yeah. Those hands are magic, I reckon,” you hummed, flicking your gaze down to where his fingers still rested firm on your waist.

He shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on yours. “Nah… reckon that’s all you.”

You ducked your head at that, feeling your cheeks flush hot, trying to play it off casually. You turned back around, raising the gun to aim again, squinting one eye shut in concentration.

“Still flustered, huh?” he murmured, his lips ghosting near your ear.

You shook your head, swallowing thickly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, his voice dripping with amusement. “I think you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, darlin’.”

“Nope. Clueless,” you insisted, your voice cracking halfway through the word.

A beat.

“Shoot,” he ordered softly.

You pressed the trigger.

CRACK.

The shot rang out clean, your breathing heavy, chest heaving with the quiet triumph – or maybe just the feel of him pressed so close, every nerve ending attuned to where his body touched yours.

“Again.”

You adjusted your aim to the next bottle, feeling his hands leave your hips briefly as he shifted behind you. You pressed the trigger.

THUMP.

The bullet thunked into the fence post just below the bottle. You let out a frustrated curse, lowering the gun.

“I told you,” you muttered under your breath.

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your spine. “I think you just like my hands on you.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the embarrassed smile that threatened to rise. Tongue caught between your teeth, you reloaded the gun the way he’d taught you earlier. “Smug. You’re smug, is what you are, Billy.”

“You’re not denyin’ it,” he pointed out, his mouth curling into that slow, devastating smirk.

Your gaze flicked to his lips before you could stop it, lingering there a moment too long. His smirk widened slightly, dark eyes hooded with something unreadable and hot.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he drawled, stepping in close again, his breath warm against your neck. “We ain’t done yet.”

And as you raised the gun once more, trying desperately to keep your hands steady, all you could think about was his voice low in your ear, his chest flush to your back, and the unbearable anticipation coiling tight and molten deep in your belly.

As the weeks passed, with your father busying himself with clients who came and went from his little study – riding the hour out from town for check-ups and treatments – you and Billy found yourselves with more time alone together.

Time to fall into an easy rhythm: chores, teasing banter, quiet conversations by the porch steps at dusk. Time for stolen glances that burned a little longer each passing day.

That afternoon, you slipped into your father’s study without knocking, boots scuffing softly against the warped floorboards.

He glanced up sharply from where he crouched before a young boy perched on the exam cot, knee scraped raw and bleeding sluggishly down his shin. The boy’s mother hovered nearby, wringing her bonnet in anxious hands.

“What do you want?” your father barked, voice tight with focus as he dipped a clean rag into a basin of stinging alcohol.

“Runnin’ low on food,” you replied, eyes scanning the cluttered shelves lined with dusty jars and folded linens. “Seems like you’re low on gauze too.”

Your father let out a sigh, pressing the rag firmly against the boy’s knee. The child yelped, flinching hard as tears welled up in his big brown eyes.

“Breathe through it, son,” your father murmured gently, then glanced back at you, exhaustion etched deep into the lines around his mouth. “I can go into town later. God knows Henderson needs me at the clinic tonight after that shootin’ near the rail line.”

“Billy and I can go now,” you suggested, shrugging. “Pick up the supplies, spend the night, and meet you there in the morning.”

“Who’s Billy?” the boy’s mother piped up sharply, eyes darting between you and your father.

He shot her a clipped glance before returning to his patient. “Just… new ranch hand, is all.”

“‘Sides,” you added quickly, ignoring her curious stare, “it’ll be good for him to get off the ranch a bit. Maybe that travellin’ band is still playin’ at the saloon.”

“Oh, they’re there,” the mother scoffed, shaking her head. “I hear ‘em all the way from our porch some nights, ain’t that right, James?”

The boy sniffled miserably but nodded, gaze fixed on his bandaged knee. “It’s loud.”

Your father finished tying off the wrapping, checking it with gentle pressure before patting the boy’s shoulder. “All done, champ. Go on now.”

As they bustled out, murmuring grateful thanks, your father dipped his hands into the washbasin, scrubbing the blood from his knuckles in quiet, rhythmic circles.

Finally, he sighed, flicking water from his fingers. “Fine. You two spend the night at Rose’s Inn. That’s where I stay when I’m in town. Separate rooms.”

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at your mouth. “‘Course, Pa. Wouldn’t think of it.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, drying his hands on his apron.

You frowned, sensing the edge beneath his silence. “What?”

“I ain’t say nothin’,” he muttered, busying himself with reorganising vials on the shelf.

“Say it.”

“Not in front of clients,” he grumbled, nodding towards the door theay’d left through.

“They’re gone.”

He paused, shoulders sagging as he turned to face you fully. His eyes were tired, wise, and threaded through with a sadness you didn’t quite understand.

“I just…” he started, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You two… seem to be gettin’ close.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced a scoff. “So?”

He held your gaze, quiet and unwavering. “So… I don’t want you thinkin’ this arrangement is permanent, is all. I’m sure the kid’s got a life out there, waitin’ for him. Can’t be tied here forever. He's runnin' from something, not exactly a life for you there.”

You swallowed, the truth of it stinging in your chest like a wasp. “I ain’t thinkin’ nothin’,” you lied softly.

“Mhm,” he murmured again, but his eyes said he didn’t believe you. “You two can head out. And I’m serious, kid, I don’t… want you to get hurt.”

You nod. “Thanks, Pa.”

You give him a quick side hug before running off.

Billy was cautious about going into town.

You noticed it in the way his eyes flicked restlessly to each passing rider along the road, the way his shoulders tensed under his shirt whenever a wagon approached. Though he hadn’t been around your area before, he seemed tense at the idea of seeing a familiar face.

“They won’t bother you,” you assured softly as you rode alongside him, the morning sun rising warm against your back. “Everybody here keeps to themselves.”

He gave a distracted hum in response, but his grip on the reins never eased.

He’d stopped wearing his sling a few days prior, claiming it itched worse than the healing wound itself. You’d scolded him for it, but it was already off before you’d finished the sentence, his stubbornness near insufferable at times.

You took a horse each for the journey. His mount was a sleek, dark ginger mare with a light brown coat that gleamed golden in the sun.

“See, she’s nice, isn’t she?” you teased as he patted her neck with his good hand.

“Sweet girl,” he murmured, eyes soft as he stroked her mane. “She got a name?”

“Penelope. And this old guy here is Spots,” you said, nodding to your speckled gelding, white patches scattered over a dusty brown coat. “Named him when I was five. Real creative from a young age.”

Billy chuckled, low and genuine. “Clever girl.”

By the time you rode into town, the sun was high overhead, bright and hazy against the clay-dusted streets. Your saddlebags jingled lightly with coins, your list tucked neatly into your apron pocket.

Billy dismounted first, landing with an easy grace despite his injuries. He tied Penelope to the post and turned towards you just as you swung one leg over your saddle. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, hands rising to your waist.

“Awfully sweet of you,” you said with a small grin as he steadied you, your skirts brushing against his hips as your boots met the packed earth.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, ‘s all,” he replied softly, his hands lingering a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back. His fingers trailed lightly against your skirt as he turned to tie your horse beside his.

“In my experience,” you said airily, brushing dust from your apron, “gentlemen only act sweet for a purpose. What’re you lookin’ for, Billy?”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable, the faintest smirk curling his mouth. “Nothing at all, darlin’,” he drawled before taking both reins and securing them to the post.

Inside, the general store smelled of burlap, molasses, and lye soap. The cool interior was shaded from the sun by faded cotton curtains fluttering against the windows. 

You moved through the shelves with focused efficiency, ticking off your list – flour, coffee, lamp oil, lye soap, rock salt. Billy trailed behind you, silent at first, before he started picking up items just to tease.

“Think you’d look real pretty in this,” he said, holding up a gaudy tin of rose pomade, eyebrow arched.

“Put that down before I rub it all in your hair while you’re sleepin’,” you shot back, snatching it from his hands and placing it firmly back on the shelf.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough in his chest. When you glanced at him, his gaze was already on your mouth, dark and molten with an intensity that made your knees feel weak beneath your skirts.

At the dry goods counter, he reached for the sack in your arms with a deft flick of his wrist.

“Let me carry it,” he said firmly, his breath brushing warm against your cheek as he leaned close.

“I’ve hauled worse,” you muttered, though you didn’t fight him. “But… thanks.”

He ignored your grumble, hefting the sack effortlessly onto the counter.

The clerk – Carmine, an older man with a bushy grey beard and sharp brown eyes – turned with a grin. “Well, haven’t seen you in town for a while now,” he remarked warmly. “You’re lookin’ great, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Carmie,” you replied, smiling as you placed a bundle of gauze onto the counter alongside your dry goods. “This is my, um…” You paused for a split second, and Billy’s gaze snapped to you curiously. “Friend... Pal- He’s a new ranch hand.”

You kick yourself internally for your words failing you.

“Your friend, pal, ranch hand got a name?” Carmine asked with a raised brow.

“It’s Billy, sir,” he answered smoothly, nodding politely.

“Sir? I like him already,” Carmine chuckled. “Carmine. You from around here, kid?”

Billy shook his head. “No, sir. Originally… New York.”

Carmine whistled softly. “All the way east, huh? What brings you out this far?”

Billy’s gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to the old man. “Been travelin’ ‘round a long time. Lookin’ for work. New places.”

“Hmm.” Carmine studied him a moment longer before shrugging. “Well, welcome to our dusty little corner of nowhere. That’ll be five dollars twenty.”

Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, silently counting them onto the counter. You caught the faint tremor in his hand as he slid the money across, his jaw tight. You wondered if he’d ever shopped like this before – in daylight, alongside someone who teased him and smiled at him like you did now.

You thanked Carmine and gathered your parcels into a burlap bag. As you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in warm bronze hues. Billy took the bag from your arms without a word, tying it securely to his saddle.

You mounted Spots with practiced ease, glancing over at Billy as he swung up onto Penelope, the movement easy and fluid. He looked good up there – strong, upright, the fading light gilding the rough edge of his jaw and the dark curls falling against his forehead.

“You ever been to a travelling band show before?” you asked lightly as you adjusted your reins.

He shook his head, squinting against the sun. “Ain’t never been to anythin’ like that.”

“Good.” You smirked, nudging Spots forward. “Then you’ll owe me for broadening your horizons.”

His laugh rumbled warm and low behind you as the two of you rode down the main street, past wagons and storefronts shuttering for dusk. Ahead, music drifted faint and sweet through the air – lilting fiddle, banjo chords, the hum of conversation rising beneath it.

Billy drew his horse alongside yours, eyes fixed on your profile with that same dark, searching intensity that made your chest flutter.

“What?” you asked, cheeks flushing under his gaze.

“Nothin’,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

The saloon smelled of old ale, oak polish, and dust. Lantern light flickered across warped floorboards, catching on brass coat buttons and the swirling skirts of women gathered near the bar. The travelling band occupied a raised dais near the hearth, the fiddle’s bow already scraping out bright, eager notes as the banjo kept sharp rhythm.

Billy guided you to a table near the back, where shadows gathered thick around the lantern’s warm glow. His hand hovered low behind you – not quite touching the small of your back, but close enough that the heat of it burned straight through your dress. Goosebumps rose along your arms despite the crowded warmth of the saloon.

You ordered two lemonades – yours plain, his with a quiet request for whiskey. The server, a freckled girl with a knowing smile, set them down with a clink of glass and a teasing wink in your direction. Heat prickled up your throat to your cheeks under her gaze.

Billy watched you as you sipped, swirling his own drink absent-mindedly. The band struck up a lively tune, fiddle and banjo weaving into something bright and achingly sweet. Around you, couples laughed and danced, boots thudding on the worn planks, skirts flaring in quick, joyous arcs.

Sitting across from each other at a rickety table, you didn’t want to be anywhere else. 

“They’re real good, don’t you think?” you said, grinning as the fiddler’s bow danced across the strings with fierce precision.

Billy nodded, his eyes distant, dark lashes casting shadows down his cheekbones. “Would you ever perform yourself?” he asked after a moment, voice low beneath the music.

You frowned slightly. “Why d’you ask that?”

He shrugged, the amber liquid swirling softly in his glass. “Couple guitars in your room. Sheet music by your nightstand. Heard you playin’ the other night.” He paused, the corner of his mouth flicking up faintly. “You’re good.”

Your chest tightened at the memory – him on the living room couch, you perched on your bed, picking out a quiet tune in the dark. You hadn’t realised he’d been listening. The thought made your stomach flutter.

“That’s sweet,” you said lightly, eyes dropping to your lemonade, “but… too afraid, I think. All these strangers judgin’ me? Couldn’t take that.”

“I wouldn’t judge you,” he said quietly.

“You’re not exactly a stranger, Billy,” you reminded him, though your voice caught slightly on his name.

He hummed low in his throat, gaze pinned to yours as his knee shifted under the table, brushing against yours. It was light and unassuming at first, but it didn’t move away. The warmth of it bled through the layers of your skirts, setting your pulse hammering painfully in your chest.

He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on the table, drink forgotten in his hands. The lantern’s flickering glow lit the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint pink scar along his cheekbone, the dark, hungry look in his eyes.

“…What am I then?” he asked softly, his voice low and rough, scraping deliciously down your spine. “Friend, pal, ranch hand?” He echoed your earlier words with a faint, humourless smile.

You shrugged faintly, though your heart was hammering so hard you wondered if he could hear it rattling in your chest. “What do you wanna be?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fiddle’s note curved up into something sweet and mournful, fading into the hush of clinking glasses and murmured laughter. His knee pressed firmer against yours under the table, the solid heat of him seeping through your skirts until your entire body felt strung tight, buzzing with something you didn’t have words for.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“What are you gonna do after all this?” you found yourself blurting out, the question slipping free before you could catch it. “After your arm heals up, I mean. You can ride just fine now.”

Billy blinked, his brow furrowing slightly, as though you’d startled him. He gave a small shrug, rolling his glass between his fingers. “Don’t know. Keep movin’, I reckon. Been thinkin’ about headin’ down south. Mexico, maybe. Or west. California.”

You nodded absently. “Heard good things about California.”

“Yeah.” He paused, his gaze flicking down to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “You ever gonna leave this place?”

You exhaled, a tight, quiet laugh escaping you. “Thought about it. But Pa needs me. And… I dunno. Feels like leavin’ would mean givin’ up on somethin’. Or someone.”

His jaw ticked faintly at that. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “You’d like Santa Fe,” he murmured after a beat. “Weather’s warm. Sky’s big and open. Artists everywhere – folks paintin’ in the streets, singin’ on corners. Whole place smells like mesquite and coffee and dust. Reckon you’d write a damn good song there.”

The words sank into you, soft and heavy. You looked at him, really looked at him, the lamplight flickering over the shadows under his eyes, the stubborn lock of hair falling across his brow.

The fiddle struck up again then, fast and sharp, and a group of dancers nearly knocked into your table, jolting you both from the quiet tension coiled between you.

You watched them spin past, skirts flying, boots stomping in time to the quick, wild music. When you glanced back at Billy, he was watching you, not the dancers.

“You wanna dance?” he asked, his voice low and rough with something that wasn’t quite laughter.

You raised your brows, glancing pointedly at his arm. “What about your shoulder?”

He gave a quiet huff of amusement, the corner of his mouth tilting up into a small, crooked smile. “If I snap it clean off, I think it’d be worth it.”

Then he stood, pushing his chair back with a scrape of wood across the floor, and held his hand out to you. His gaze never left yours – dark, unblinking, burning with something that made your chest ache and your pulse stutter painfully beneath your skin.

“C’mon,” he said softly.

Your pulse thudded so hard you felt lightheaded as you slipped your hand into his. He squeezed it lightly, his thumb brushing along your knuckles before he tugged you out from the shadows and into the flickering lamplight, into the quick, sweet rise of the fiddle and the thrum of dancing boots.

The crowd pressed close around you, skirts sweeping against worn floorboards, men’s laughter rumbling deep under the music. Billy guided you into the rhythm with surprising ease, his bad arm tucked carefully close, his good hand warm and strong against your waist. His thumb stroked absent circles through the thin cotton of your dress, each pass making your skin prickle hot beneath.

“Don’t look so worried,” he murmured, leaning close, his breath brushing your cheek as he spun you lightly beneath his arm. “Ain’t gonna let you fall.”

“I’m not worried,” you lied, though your voice came out breathless as his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. 

The fiddle rose sharp and high, and you moved together in quick steps, skirts flaring and boots scuffing, your heart pounding in time with the beat.

He smelled of leather, sweat, and soap, the faint smoky tang of whiskey lingering on his breath. Each time you turned under his arm, his eyes stayed pinned to yours – dark, molten, burning with something unspoken that set your chest aching and your stomach coiling tight.

The song shifted into something slower, sweeter, the fiddle lilting low while the banjo kept a lazy rhythm. Around you, dancers drifted closer together, hands sliding along waists, chests pressed to chests. Billy didn’t let you go. 

Instead, his hand slid higher up your back, the heel of his palm resting between your shoulder blades as he pulled you against him, slow-stepping in time with the hush of the music.

You could barely breathe. His thigh pressed firm between yours, his nose brushing the crown of your head as he dipped down, his voice rumbling low against your hairline.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured, his breath hot against your temple, “I’m gonna forget where I am.”

You swallowed hard, tilting your head back to look at him. “How am I lookin’ at you?”

His lips twitched into the barest ghost of a smile. “Like you want somethin’.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “Maybe I do,” you whispered.

The music faded out then, replaced by rowdy applause and drunken cheers. Someone jostled into your shoulder, and the moment snapped like a taut rope. Billy pulled back slightly, his gaze flicking to the growing crowd around you, the heat in his eyes flickering with something conflicted. He took a slow breath, jaw ticking faintly.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “Let’s get some air.”

He didn’t wait for your answer, just slipped his fingers through yours, his grip hot and firm as he guided you through the press of bodies, out past the swinging saloon doors into the cooler hush of evening.

The sun had long set, leaving only the silver wash of moonlight and the dim flicker of lamplight pooling on the dusty street. Laughter drifted from the bar behind you, mingling with the distant whinny of horses down by the hitching posts.

Billy didn’t stop walking until he’d led you down a narrow side alley between the saloon and the bakery, half-hidden in shadow. The scent of warm yeast and woodsmoke curled through the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of stale pastries. The quiet there was sudden, heavy, broken only by the ragged hitch of your breaths.

“Billy…” you started, voice trembling, though you weren’t sure if it was from the chill or from him. From the way his thumb traced slow, burning circles against the back of your hand.

He turned to you then, his silhouette dark against the lamplight spilling from the street. For a long moment, he just looked at you, his eyes shadowed and unreadable, his good hand flexing at his side like he was fighting himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, jaw clenching. “Shit…”

You let out a quiet, nervous giggle, unable to stop it bubbling up despite your pounding heart. “Yeah,” you whispered shakily, “that about sums it up.”

His gaze snapped up to yours at the sound, and something in him seemed to break. He stepped forward, close enough that his chest brushed yours with every shallow breath. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb brushing along your cheekbone before drifting down to trace the seam of your lips. You shivered at the rough drag of it, your knees going weak beneath your skirts.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he rasped, voice low and ragged with restraint. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me, darlin’.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse thundering so loud it roared in your ears. “Then show me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words, eyes fluttering shut.

And he did.

His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and desperate and tasting faintly of whiskey and lemonade. You gasped into him, clutching at the front of his shirt as he pressed you back against the warm brick wall, hips slotting between yours. His kiss was wild, all-consuming, like he couldn’t get close enough – his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a groan that sent heat pooling low in your belly.

Your fingers fumbled blindly at his chest before sliding up to fist in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly until he growled into your mouth, biting down on your bottom lip just enough to make you whimper. The sound was swallowed greedily, his hand sliding from your jaw down your neck, over the swell of your breast, before settling firm and possessive on your thigh.

You broke the kiss with a sharp gasp when his hand slipped under the hem of your skirts, rough fingers dragging up the soft flesh of your leg until they grazed dangerously high. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and trembling.

“Fuck…” he groaned, his voice so deep it vibrated through your bones. “I wanna… Christ, I wanna take you right here.”

A startled giggle escaped you at his words, half shocked, half giddy with how utterly undone he sounded. Your own hand drifted to his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath your palm.

“Billy…” you whispered, unable to think, to breathe.

Then a loud burst of laughter rang out from the saloon doors as two men stumbled into the street, clapping each other hard on the back. One called out a greeting into the alleyway, half-drunk eyes squinting through the dim.

“Hey, there y’are!” he slurred, grinning wide. “Best get back inside ‘fore yer drinks get warm!”

Billy stiffened against you, his hand leaving your thigh to grip your waist instead, grounding himself. You could feel his chest rising and falling hard, the sharp edges of his restraint visible in every tremor of his body.

Slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and glazed with want, lips red and kiss-swollen. You swallowed thickly, pressing your thighs together under your skirts as heat burned through every nerve.

“C’mon,” he said hoarsely, his thumb brushing once more along your bottom lip, as if he couldn’t quite let go of the feeling of kissing you. “Let’s… let’s get back inside. ‘Fore I do somethin’ we can’t take back tonight.”

Your stomach swooped at his words. You nodded faintly, your knees wobbling as he took your hand again, guiding you out of the alley and back into the noise and lamplight of the saloon – though you could still feel his touch burning hot along your skin, every step humming with the desperate fear that this was temporary.

That night, you swear you could hear him breathe through the walls. Your bed pressed up against the thin wood panelling, knowing his was mirroring yours on the other side. Every creak of the inn settling, every murmur of voices downstairs, was broken only by your own restless shifting under the blankets.

When you arrived at Rose’s Inn earlier, Rose herself had greeted you with her gentle, lined smile, letting you know your father had already taken his supper and retired. She handed you two brass keys with quiet efficiency, her knowing eyes flicking between you and Billy before she bustled away to tend to other guests.

You and Billy walked down the narrow hall together, feet soft against the worn carpet runner. The lanterns along the walls cast warm, flickering halos of light, dancing across his cheekbones, catching in his dark hair. Your hands brushed once, twice, and though neither of you spoke about it, neither of you moved away.

Finally, you stopped outside your doors – right beside each other, only a thin strip of wood between them.

“If you need anything,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat, “just let me know. Your arm… if it aches or… or anything.”

Billy paused as he turned his key, looking back at you. The corners of his mouth lifted faintly, eyes soft in a way that made your chest ache.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

And now you lay staring at the ceiling, your room lit only by the dim moonlight slipping through the thin curtains. You could hear the muffled thump of boots and chairs being dragged around in the tavern below, the distant whinny of horses out back. But all you could think about was him.

The heat of his hands on your waist. The calloused brush of his thumb along your jaw. The way he’d kissed you in the alley – desperate, hungry, like he needed you more than breath itself.

You turned onto your side, burying your face into the pillow with a soft groan. What was wrong with you? You’d known him… what, seven or somethin' weeks now? Seven? But it didn’t matter.

He’d slid under your skin from the moment you found him in your barn, asleep and peaceful. His quiet kindness. The way he called you darlin’ with that rough lilt, made you feel seen. His smarts. His humour. His touch.

But this was temporary. You knew that. Just like he did. He’d leave eventually – south to Mexico, or west to California, or wherever else men like him went when the seasons turned. And you’d stay.

Stay with your father. Stay with the cattle and chickens and dry creek beds.

Your chest ached with it. With knowing.

So fuck it.

You threw the blankets back, shivering at the sudden rush of cool air against your thin nightdress. You hesitated only for a moment before you swung your legs to the creaking floorboards and crossed the room in a few quick steps, reaching for the door handle.

But as you twisted the knob and eased it open, you froze.

Billy was already there.

Standing in the dim, lantern-lit hallway, barefoot and rumpled in loose trousers and his thin undershirt, hair mussed like he’d been raking his fingers through it all night. His eyes widened slightly when he saw you, standing there in your cotton slip, hair falling down your shoulders in messy waves.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. You just stared at each other, breathing quiet and ragged in the hush of the inn’s sleeping halls.

His gaze dropped down your body slowly, drinking you in, before flicking back up to your eyes with something dark and molten burning in them.

“I was… I was just about to knock,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart. “Couldn’t… I couldn’t sleep.”

. You slipped from the narrow bed, feet cold against the worn wood floor as you padded to the door. Just as you reached out to open it, there was a soft knock from the other side.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling around the doorframe. “Neither could I.”

For a moment, you just looked at each other. Then he stepped forward, cupped your face in his calloused palm, and kissed you. Slow, deep, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a quiet groan that vibrated down your spine. You tugged him inside by his shirtfront, pushing the door shut behind him.

When he pulled back, you reached up to trace the faint pink scar along his cheekbone. He flinched at first, then leaned into your touch with a shaky sigh.

“Where’d this one come from?” you whispered.

He chuckled humourlessly. “Guy in Dodge tried to rob me at knifepoint. Didn’t end well for him.”

You let your thumb drift down to the faint line along his neck, half-hidden beneath his collar. “And this?”

“Sheriff’s deputy, Kansas,” he muttered. His gaze flicked up to yours, guarded. “Didn’t like me talkin’ to his wife.”

You laughed softly despite the ache blooming in your chest. Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the mostly healed bruising around his right shoulder. “This one I know,” you said quietly, thinking back to the day you found him in the barn.

He caught your wrist gently in his good hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Saved my life that day,” he whispered.

You shook your head. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. If I didn’t rest in that barn, meet you, get all fixed up… I’d be dead in a ditch, probably,” he insisted, leaning down to kiss you again. His mouth was softer this time, lingering, tasting. His hands slid down your sides to gather your nightdress, pushing it up over your hips. “Lay down for me, darlin’.”

Your pulse hammered as you backed towards the bed, sinking onto the edge. He knelt between your knees, his good hand gripping your thigh firmly as his eyes roved over you with a dark, molten heat that left you trembling.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he rasped, leaning in to kiss the inside of your knee, lips warm and soft against your skin. Then higher, teeth scraping lightly along your inner thigh, leaving prickles of heat in their wake.

“Billy…” you gasped, your breath hitching as his mouth hovered just above where you ached for him most. He paused there, breathing you in, his nose nudging lightly against your inner thigh as his eyes flicked up to yours through dark lashes.

His lips curled into a faint, wicked smirk. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “All wet for me already.”

Heat flooded your cheeks as your hips twitched forward, seeking his touch. His smirk widened, and he bent his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to your centre, slow and deliberate, making you gasp out a broken little cry. His tongue licked a long, languid stripe through your folds, tasting you, before circling your clit with aching precision.

Your hand flew to his hair, fingers burying themselves in the soft strands as your head fell back, mouth falling open on a shaky moan. He hummed low at the taste of you, the vibration sending sparks shooting straight up your spine.

“Fuck – Billy – please –” you whimpered, hips bucking up against his mouth desperately. He growled softly at your reaction, his good hand sliding up to press flat against your belly, holding you down firmly against the mattress as his tongue worked you with slow, devastating focus.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped against you, his breath hot and wet. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet… been thinkin’ about this for so long.”

He sucked gently at first, teasing flicks of his tongue that had your thighs trembling around his head. Then, when he felt your muscles begin to tighten, he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, swirling his tongue rapidly as a strangled scream tore from your throat.

You writhed under him, the sheets bunching in your fists as your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them expertly as his tongue kept its relentless pace, and the pressure built and built until it snapped, your entire body arching off the bed as you came apart with a sobbing cry.

“Fuck – Billy – oh god –” you gasped, voice breaking on every syllable as he fucked you through it with his fingers, his mouth unrelenting. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, your body trembling violently as your orgasm washed over you in crashing, endless waves.

Only when your thighs began to twitch from oversensitivity did he finally slow down, his licks growing gentle and soothing, almost reverent. He kissed you there softly, once, twice, before pulling back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His lips and chin glistened in the dim lamplight, his eyes glazed with desire as he looked up at you. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling in quick little pants, his pupils blown wide and dark.

“Fuck…” he rasped, almost to himself, as he dragged his hand down his face, dazed with it. “You’re… you’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

He pressed a final kiss to your inner thigh, then rested his forehead there, breathing you in, his good hand tracing idle shapes along your trembling leg as he tried to steady his own ragged breathing – almost as if he had been undone by it, too.

Your thighs were still trembling as he pulled back, his lips pink and slick with you, his chest heaving raggedly. You reached down for him, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed the inside of your knee one last time before looking up at you with that dark, hungry gaze.

“C’mere,” you whispered, voice hoarse and trembling with want.

You tugged him up gently, guiding him onto the bed. He followed without question, letting you push him back against the pillows until he sat propped against the headboard, his legs spread, shirt hanging half open from where he’d unbuttoned it earlier. You straddled his thighs, and for a moment you just… looked at him.

The flickering lamplight cast shadows along the ridges of his ribs, catching on the mottled bruises still fading along his side. Your eyes traced the faint, pale scar slashing down from his ribs towards his hip – an old bullet wound by the look of it, the skin puckered and uneven – before your gaze drifted up to the deeper bruising wrapping around his ribs to his back where you knew his injury still ached.

His breath hitched under your scrutiny. “Don’t go lookin’ at me like that,” he rasped, his good hand flexing against your hip. “Ain’t… nothin’ pretty to see there.”

“It’s all pretty to me,” you murmured softly, fingers ghosting over the purpling bruise with a feather-light touch. He flinched at the contact, then relaxed into it with a shaky exhale, his eyes fluttering closed.

You shifted down between his legs, settling on your knees on the mattress as your hands worked open the rest of his shirt, revealing lean muscle and scarred skin dusted with fine dark hair. His past was a slowly unravelled mystery to you.

You knew he had a troubled life. Whether it was stories of being on the wrong side of the law, us versus them situations, being beaten, doing the beating. He had a whole past, a whole life before you and would go on to have a future, likely without you.

“So pretty,” You mutter again, looking up at him, thoughts drifting away as you kiss down his stomach.

He watched you through heavy-lidded eyes as you undid his belt, fingers deft but trembling slightly with anticipation.

When you finally freed him from his trousers, he let out a low, broken groan as your hand wrapped around him. His head fell back against the headboard with a soft thud, throat working as he swallowed hard.

“Fuck… sweetheart…” he hissed, his voice strained and cracking at the edges as your thumb swept along his tip, gathering the bead of slick there and working it down his length. His thighs tensed under your touch, the muscles in his stomach jumping as you stroked him slowly, firmly, just how you knew he’d like.

You leaned in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his hipbone, your hair falling like a curtain around your face as you lowered yourself further. His good hand slid into your hair, not pushing, just curling there tight as your lips brushed his tip.

You looked up at him through your lashes, and the sight nearly undid him – your swollen lips, your eyes dark and hazy with lust, your warm breath ghosting over him as your tongue flicked out to taste him. He let out a strangled noise, his hips jerking up involuntarily as you took him into your mouth, inch by slow inch.

“Christ –” he gasped, his hand tightening in your hair as you hollowed your cheeks, drawing back with a slow suction before sinking down again. You set a steady rhythm, your fist twisting around the base in tandem with your mouth, swallowing around him as you felt his thighs start to tremble.

“Goddamn it, darlin’ –” he groaned, his voice ragged with restraint. “You’re… fuck… you’re gonna kill me.”

You pulled back just enough to swirl your tongue around his head, tasting salt and skin, before taking him deeper again, feeling him hit the back of your throat as he let out a deep, shuddering moan that made your cunt clench desperately around nothing.

His breathing turned ragged, chest heaving under you, sweat beading along his brow. His fingers slipped from your hair to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly along your jawline as he looked down at you with blown pupils and a desperation so raw it made your heart ache.

“Shit- Alright,” he gasped suddenly, tugging you back gently but firmly, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You looked up at him, breathless and confused, but his gaze was fierce and dark as he cupped your face in his calloused palm.

“I need… please… I need to be in you,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

His thumb brushed your lip as he kissed you again, slower this time, tasting you with aching tenderness. You shifted forward on his lap, feeling the thick, heavy length of him rut against your soaked folds, the blunt head catching on your entrance with every tiny movement. A desperate little whimper slipped out, muffled by his mouth.

“Take this off,” he rasped, tugging gently at the front of your thin chemise, his good hand sliding under the hem to graze your ribs. You pulled back just enough to strip it over your head, baring yourself to him entirely. 

The lantern light flickered across your flushed skin, catching on the soft curves of your breasts, the slope of your collarbones, the faint scars from work and life that told your story. His gaze roved down, dark with reverence and fierce hunger, lingering at every new revealed inch like it was scripture.

“Prettiest damn thing I ever saw.” he whispered, his voice breaking faintly as he exhaled. 

His thumb brushed softly over your nipple, making it pebble tight under his touch. The calloused pad sent sparks straight down to your core, clenching around nothing. He cupped your breast, rough palm contrasting your softness, and squeezed just enough to make your breath catch. His eyes flicked up, watching your every reaction with dark, heated awe.

You reached between your bodies, gripping him and lining him up with your entrance. He was hot and thick in your hand, a bead of precum already smearing against your fingers as you guided him to your aching cunt. You hovered there, just barely letting him nudge into you, your walls fluttering at the tease. His good hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest tighten painfully.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice low and earnest, threaded with something raw and vulnerable. “Wanna see you when I’m inside you.”

Your breath stuttered as you sank down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch almost too much, burning and full in a way that had tears pricking at your lashes. Your nails dug into his shoulders for balance, feeling the ridges of old scars beneath your fingertips. His wounded arm braced shakily around your waist, keeping you steady, as his head fell back with a strangled groan.

“Christ… you’re so fuckin’ tight… so warm… takin’ me so good, sweetheart…”

You paused when he was fully buried inside you, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness. His good hand slid up to cup your breast again, thumb flicking softly over your nipple, and he groaned at the way your walls clenched around him in response, his hips jerking up involuntarily to bury himself impossibly deeper.

He gave you a gentle squeeze, kissing around your chest, eyes locked to yours, pupils blown wide with lust and something softer, deeper, like devotion. 

You rolled your hips in slow, languid circles, dragging your slick walls along every inch of him. His breath stuttered out in broken moans with each grind down. His hand drifted from your breast to your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin as he guided your rhythm.

“That’s it… just like that…” he murmured, voice thick with awe and desire. “Goddamn, look at you… never seen nothin’ so beautiful in my life.”

Your thighs began to tremble as you moved faster, the wet sounds of you filling the quiet room, mixing with his ragged moans and your own desperate whimpers. You leaned down to kiss him, the new angle letting him brush deeper inside you, hitting that tender, aching spot again and again. The kiss turned messy, teeth clashing, breaths shared and stolen.

He let out a broken moan against your mouth as you clenched tight around him with each grind. “Shit… you’re squeezin’ me so good… can’t hold on if you keep doin’ that, darlin’.”

“Oh, god…” you gasped against his lips, your movements faltering as your legs burned with effort. Your thighs were shaking, your body starting to give out under the strain of pleasure and exhaustion.

His hand slid down to press slow, firm circles into your clit. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart… not yet though, alright?”

You mumbled, desperate. “O-Okay.”

You nod, his hands came around your hips, now lifting you himself, pressed against him as you moved on top, hips stuttering as you muttered swears, staving off the wave of pleasure, steady now. You clenched down around him, and he murmured swears.

“God- Shit, alright. Alright,” He mumbled, grip on your waist tightening as he tried to hold still, feeling you pulse around him. He guided you gently. “Atta girl… that’s it…”

Before you could respond, his good arm wrapped firm around your waist, shifting you gently until your back met the mattress. His wounded arm braced beside your head, careful not to jostle it, as he settled between your trembling thighs, still buried deep inside you.

You have a moment, suddenly just still with each other, as if on pause for a brief second. 

You couldn’t help but admire him at the sight above you – hair messy and damp with sweat, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and pink, freckles scattered like tiny constellations across his flushed cheeks and nose. 

Your fears of this temporal moment ring in your head, but all you can think of is how you’ll savour this, memorising every exact feature of his. 

Your hand cradled his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leaned into your touch for a moment, eyes fluttering shut, lashes brushing your thumb like butterfly wings. 

“You alright?” you whispered with a small smile, checking in, chest tight with affection.

He grinned at that, breathless and beautiful, teeth flashing in the lantern glow. “I’m perfect, sweetheart. How about you?”

You nodded quickly, still trying to catch your breath, almost giddy, despite coming undone twice now.

His grin turned soft and fond, a quiet chuckle rumbling from his chest as he pressed a tender kiss to your lips, slowly beginning to move. “Yeah? You feel good?”

You nod again, distracted by the slow, rolling thrusts that had your back arching off the bed, your nails dragging down his back to rest at the darkening bruises along his ribs.

“Words, darlin’,” he mumbled against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes open and watching you desperately. “Give me your words.”

“Feels… so good,” you gasped out, tears pricking at your eyes again from the overwhelming pleasure and the way he was looking at you, like you were something sacred. “You’re… so good to me, Billy.”

His pace stayed steady and deep, hips grinding into yours with each thrust, hitting that sweet, tender spot inside you over and over. He watched your face intently, drinking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every trembling sigh.

“You feel so fuckin’ good… so perfect… sweetest girl I ever met…” he murmured against your throat, words slipping fast, without thought, kissing and sucking lightly at the sensitive skin there, leaving faint bruises that would linger come morning.

“Billy… oh, God…” you whimpered, the pleasure building again with each slow, aching grind. Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, locking him in close, needing every inch of him.

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in firm, precise circles that made your eyes roll back into your skull. “That’s it… come for me, sweetheart… wanna feel you…”

It only took a few more thrusts before you shattered around him, crying out his name as your entire body convulsed with bliss, tears slipping down your temples into your hair as you clung to him like a lifeline.

He watched you like you were a god, utterly entranced, eyes wide and reverent as your walls clenched around him again and again.

You cradle his jaw again, palm soft and fingers wandering as he moans against you now, leaning into your touch, hips jerking in ragged thrusts as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a broken, trembling moan.

His body shuddered, arms trembling as he held himself above you, forehead pressing into your shoulder as his breath came in harsh, uneven pants. “Thank you,” He found himself saying.

You couldn’t help but breathlessly chuckle at that, air hot beneath you. “Yeah, no problem.”

He chuckled too, the moment quiet. You felt his heart hammering wildly against yours, the tremble in his arms as he clung to you like he’d never let go. 

He winced softly, his bad shoulder flaring with pain as he moved to lay beside you. You noticed immediately, even half-delirious with aftershocks, sitting up slightly to touch his face.

“What is it, did you pull—?” you began, panic edging your voice.

He smiled a bit through the pain, shaking his head, trying to soothe you back down. “It’s alright… just… little overworked. Probably shouldn’t’ve taken off the sling.”

You let out a shaky breath, laying back beside him as he collapsed down next to you, curling up against his side. Your hand traced over his chest, the rough hair there, the old scar that curved along his ribs, disappearing towards his back where gunfire or knife had once found him.

A reminder of what he was – an outlaw, a wanderer, a man whose days were never guaranteed. And yet he held you like he had all the time in the world.

“I told you,” you murmured sleepily. “And making you carry my haul around… and drinking… and riding the horse… shit… thank god my Pa’s the doctor and not me.”

His hand caressed your hip gently, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. His voice was quiet, nearly broken. “You didn’t make me do anything.”

The mention of your father lingered between you like a warning neither of you wanted to acknowledge. But for now, in the hush of the lamplight, the scent of sweat and sex and whiskey hanging warm between you, you let yourself close your eyes against his chest, feeling his heart slow beneath your palm.

He pressed a final kiss to the crown of your head, his voice no louder than a prayer.

“Sleep, sweetheart… m’not goin’ anywhere tonight.”

You focused on the last word. Tonight. Because eventually he would be gone. But for now, with him.

And still, you let yourself believe it anyway.

The next day passed both achingly slow and far too fast. You’d gotten what you came for – flour, gauze, coffee – and something you hadn’t planned for at all.

Your father returned from the clinic just before dawn, exhaustion etched deep into the creases around his eyes. He trudged up the steps as you and Billy saddled the horses out front, ready to leave before the sun rose too high.

He paused, looking at the two of you, then at the packed saddlebags. “You get everythin’ you needed?”

“Yes, sir,” you nodded. “And then some.”

His eyes flicked between you and Billy for a moment, as though he could see the words hanging unsaid in the air. But he just sighed. “Good. Roads are quiet at this hour. Ride careful.”

The ride back was quiet at first, dawn light spilling like honey across the dirt trail. You tried not to look at Billy, but every time his horse stepped ahead of yours, you caught yourself smiling. Every time he shifted in his saddle with a faint wince, your chest squeezed tight.

When he cracked a dry joke about Penelope flicking her ears at him – “She don’t like me. Knows I’m trouble, just like you do.” – you laughed so hard your grip on the reins faltered, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

By the time the ranch house came into view, your cheeks ached from smiling.

Your father insisted on checking Billy’s arm as soon as you arrived. He pulled him into the small office, unwrapping the gauze with deft, clinical fingers while you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest.

“Still some bruising there,” he murmured, pressing lightly along the tendon. Billy sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw flexing tight. “Otherwise, you’ve healed well. Just wear the sling to sleep, and you should be just fine. Anythin’ else hurtin’ I should know about?”

Billy hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet your father’s. For a moment, it almost looked like he wanted to say something more – something deeper than aches or wounds – but he just shook his head.

“No, sir. Thank you.”

Your father studied him a second longer, then nodded. “Alright. You’re strong, I’ll give you that. Just… keep your head down for a while, son. This land’s quiet. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Billy swallowed, a flicker of guilt and something softer passing through his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

He stood up, rolling his shoulder slightly as he buttoned his shirt again. As he walked past you, his hand brushed against yours for the briefest second, sending a jolt of warmth straight to your chest.

You smiled and stepped back to let him through. He followed you down the hall, boots thudding softly against the worn wood floors.

You felt his gaze on you the entire way, and when you reached your bedroom door, you turned around, walking backwards until your spine bumped lightly against the wall.

Billy was already there, his grin spreading across his face as he crowded into your space. Before you could say a word, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours, gentle and languid, tasting faintly of dust and coffee. You sighed into him, your hands sliding up to his half-buttoned shirt, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms.

His good arm came up to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in without pressure. He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his thumb brushing softly along your cheekbone before trailing down to lift your chin.

His gaze caught on the faint purple bloom peeking out from under your collar, and he chuckled low in his chest.

“Damn leeches,” you muttered with a small smile, your voice shaky with nerves and delight. “Oughta teach ‘em a lesson.”

Billy let out a quiet huff of laughter, his forehead resting lightly against yours as his breath ghosted warm over your lips. “I think you like ‘em.”

“Where’d you get that idea from?” you teased, your voice trembling as his hand slid down to your waist, fingers curling around your hip possessively.

“Just a hunch,” he drawled, dipping his head to press slow, deliberate kisses along your neck, his scruffy jaw scraping softly against your sensitive skin. Your knees threatened to give out beneath you at the feeling – the tender sweetness mixed with the simmering heat only he could draw from you.

“Billy…” you whispered, half in warning, half in plea.

He pulled back, his eyes dark and searching as they flicked across your face. “Yeah, darlin’?”

But before you could answer, a sharp knock rang out from down the hall. Your father’s voice called through the quiet house.

“Billy. I need you out front a minute.”

You shared a glance with him, seeing the disappointment flicker across his features before he hid it with a sigh. He pressed one last, searing kiss to your lips, hand cupping your jaw with aching tenderness.

“Later,” he whispered, his smile small but warm. “I promise.”

A few days passed in a haze of dust, sun, and stolen sweetness. Shared dinners, quiet chores, Billy sneaking into your room from his makeshift bed on the couch. Sometimes you’d wake with his arm draped heavy across your waist, his face tucked into your hair, both of you blinking blearily at dawn before he slipped out to start the day.

At night, you found yourselves whispering in each other’s arms. Talking about silly dreams: seeing the ocean, eating oysters just to spit them out dramatically, watching a real opera in New Orleans. Talking about real dreams too: telling your father about you two, though you both knew he probably already knew, and it was easier to leave it unspoken. Talking about your pasts. His stories came in pieces, jagged and half-lit, like broken glass in moonlight. The things he’d seen. The things he’d done. You never asked for details. He never offered more than you could bear to hear.

The morning started like any other.

You were sweeping the front porch, hair braided back to keep out of your eyes, the broom scraping against worn wood. Your father was in his study, probably scribbling notes or grumbling at his ledger.

Billy was out in the barn tending to Penelope and Spots, humming tunelessly under his breath as he brushed their coats. The air smelled faintly of hay, horses, and sun-warmed wood.

Then you heard hoofbeats.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Riders came by all the time, looking for medicine or feed. But as they approached, three men in long dusters and flat-brimmed hats, rifles slung across their saddles, a cold knot twisted tight in your gut.

Your father stepped out behind you, wiping his hands on a rag, brow furrowing as they dismounted. The tallest rider was older, clean-shaven, with sharp pale eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. A Texas Ranger’s badge gleamed on his belt when his coat flared.

“Mornin’,” your father greeted evenly.

“Mornin’, doc.” The Ranger’s voice was smooth as creekstone. He flicked his coat back, revealing the badge fully. “We’re lookin’ for someone.”

Your father didn’t blink. “Aren’t we all.”

A humourless twitch of lips. The Ranger pulled a folded poster from his pocket, flicking it open with two fingers before handing it over. You stepped closer to your father’s shoulder, breath catching when you saw it.

WANTED. WILLIAM BONNEY. DEAD OR ALIVE.

Your blood roared in your ears. The sketch wasn’t perfect, but close enough. The boyish hair. The stubborn chin. The fierce, wary set to his eyes.

“Word is he’s been seen ‘round these parts,” the Ranger drawled, scanning the porch, the barn, the quiet windows behind you. “Barmaid in town swears she saw a man fittin’ this description last night. He was with a young lady.”

Your father didn’t even flinch. “Lots of young men pass through. Ranch hands, cattle drivers, drifters. My daughter here was at the general store and saloon yesterday. Must’ve been mistaken.”

The Ranger’s gaze cut to you. Sharp, probing. “You see anyone like this, miss?”

You forced your face to remain calm, tilting your head just so with polite curiosity. “No, sir. Haven’t seen anyone like that.”

He hummed low, studying you a second longer before flicking his fingers at his men. “Search the barn.”

Your heart seized. “Why? Ain’t nothin’ in there but horses and hay –”

Your father laid a firm hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. “Let ‘em do their job, darlin’.”

They walked past, rifles loose in their grips, boots thudding over the dirt.

Inside the barn, Billy crouched behind stacked hay bales, revolver clutched tight in his good hand. His heart pounded so loud he was certain the horses could hear it. His finger twitched on the trigger as the Rangers moved around, their boots scuffing the packed dirt. Penelope shifted nervously in her stall, huffing and stamping once, but they barely spared her a glance.

After a tense minute that felt like eternity, they stepped back out into the glare of morning sun.

“Nothin’,” one muttered.

The Ranger remounted, tugging his reins. “If you see him, doc, you let us know. He’s a wanted killer. Dangerous.”

Your father nodded coolly. “I’ll do that.”

They rode off, dust rising in their wake. You exhaled shakily, knees threatening to buckle. Your father turned to you, jaw tight.

“Get him inside.”

You ran to the barn, your skirt catching on stray straw. Billy was still kneeling behind the hay, revolver shaking slightly in his grip. Relief flooded you so hard it made you dizzy.

You dropped down beside him, hugging him tight around the neck. He let out a shuddering breath, arms wrapping around you, revolver clattering to the dirt.

“You okay?” he rasped into your hair.

A watery laugh slipped out, tears pooling hot at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah. Perfect. How ‘bout you?”

“Same here.” His voice was hoarse, and he hugged you tighter, pressing his forehead to your temple.

You pulled back to look at him properly. “They were lookin’ for you. We told ‘em nothin’. Someone… in town snitched. I’m sorry. I’m – shit, Billy, I’m so sorry –”

He gently cupped your cheek with his rough palm, shaking his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, sweetheart. I knew my luck would run out eventually.”

Your tears spilled over, streaking down your cheeks as his thumb swiped them away. His eyes flickered across your face like he was memorising every detail.

“They’re gonna come back,” you whispered, voice breaking. “They knew we were lyin’. Someone’s gonna recognise you, and… I don’t want… I don’t wanna say goodbye, Billy.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “Don’t think ‘bout it. I hate goodbyes. We ain’t gonna do that, alright?” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, smiling despite the tears welling in his eyes. “I ain’t gonna let ‘em drag me off here in front of you.”

A quiet cough sounded behind you. Your father stood in the barn doorway, shadow long in the morning light. His gaze was heavy with resignation and sorrow.

“You can’t stay here no more, son.”

Billy nodded once, jaw clenching. “Didn’t think I could.”

“I’ll go with him,” you blurted, voice shattering. “Pa, please –”

“No.” Your father’s tone was final, sharp as a branding iron. “You will not. This is his life, sweetheart. Not yours.”

Billy reached out, brushing your cheek with trembling fingers, a sad little smile ghosting his lips. “He’s right.”

“No,” you choked out, fresh tears spilling. “Don’t you dare agree with him. Don’t you dare –”

“Hey, hey…” he soothed softly, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Look at me.”

His eyes were shining now too, grief and acceptance mingling in their depths. “You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me. You know that?”

You shook your head, sobs breaking free. “Stop. Please, stop.”

But he just smiled, eyes crinkling with that same boyish charm that had undone you from the start. “Can’t help it. I gotta tell you the truth at least once today.”

You spent your last night eating dinner together on the porch. It was simple. Quiet. You didn't talk much - just savouring whatever you could now.

You woke before dawn the next morning to the smell of coffee drifting down the hall. Your father moved quietly about the kitchen, clinking mugs, setting the percolator on the stove, as if it were any other day.

Billy was already out front when you stepped onto the porch, silhouetted against the paling sky. He was saddling Penelope, movements quick and efficient despite the stiffness in his healing arm.

Your father stepped out behind you, mug in hand, steam curling into the crisp morning air. For a moment, he just watched Billy tighten the final strap, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Gonna wake the whole ranch with all that clatter,” you teased softly, voice rough from sleep – and from crying half the night.

Billy glanced over his shoulder, lips curling faintly. “Maybe I wanted to say goodbye to everyone.”

“Mm. Thought you hated goodbyes.”

“I do.” His voice was quiet, raw.

Your father cleared his throat softly, stepping off the porch towards him. Billy straightened a little, turning to face him fully.

“Doc,” he greeted, nodding respectfully.

“Billy,” your father replied, his voice tired but warm. He held out his hand.

Billy looked at it for a heartbeat before reaching out and shaking it firmly with his good hand. Your father’s grip lingered, his thumb pressing into Billy’s knuckles like he was trying to speak through the gesture.

“You take care of yourself out there, son,” he said gruffly. “And keep that arm wrapped at night. Don’t be pullin’ the stitches, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said quietly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking away for a moment before returning to your father’s lined face. “Thank you. For everything. For… trustin’ me with her.”

Your father huffed softly at that, a sad little smile curling his lips. “Wasn’t about trustin’ you, Billy. Was about trustin’ her. She don’t give her heart easy. But when she does… well. That’s hers to give. Just make sure you remember it ain’t yours to keep.”

Billy blinked hard, nodding. “I know. I… I won’t forget.”

Your father reached out and patted his shoulder lightly, careful of his wound. “You’re a good boy. Foolish as all hell. But good. Despite what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

A faint, choked laugh escaped Billy, tears shining in his eyes. “Don’t tell no one that. Ruin my reputation.”

“Don’t worry,” your father snorted, stepping back towards the porch. “Ain’t nobody gonna believe me anyway.”

He passed you on the steps, squeezing your arm gently before going inside, leaving you standing alone with Billy beneath the paling sky.

The horizon behind him glowed faint orange, catching on the planes of his face – the bruising still fading along his ribs, the pale silver scars near his collarbone, the weary, unbreakable resolve in his gaze.

You stepped forward, heart breaking open in your chest. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, wiping away a tear that fell despite yourself. His palm cupped your face, rough and warm.

“You were nice,” you whispered, lips trembling with your smile. “Real nice.”

“My reputation takin’ a hell of a hit,” He joked.

You giggled a bit at that. “We were nice.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, breathing you in deep. “Yeah. We were real nice.”

You kissed his palm where it cradled your cheek, tasting salt and dust and the faint tang of saddle soap.

“I’ll come back,” he said, voice cracking at the edges.

You nodded, but neither of you believed it. The world was too big, too wild, to promise such things. “Okay,” you whispered back.

He gave a choked little laugh, blinking hard. “Don’t go replacin’ me too quick, alright?”

You huffed through a tearful smile. “Don’t worry. Nobody else ‘round here’s half as annoyin’ or as useful as you.”

That drew a real laugh from him – soft and broken and beautiful. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

You kissed him slow and deep, pouring every unspoken word into it, every goodbye you couldn’t bear to say. His good hand curled around your waist, clutching you close one last time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, noses brushing softly. “Gotta go, darlin’.”

“I know.”

He wiped your tears again with his thumb, sniffling with a self-deprecating grin. “If I stay any longer, you’ll have me bawlin’ like a baby in front of Penelope here. She already thinks I’m pathetic enough.”

A wet giggle slipped out despite the ache in your chest. “She’s a very judgemental horse.”

“Mm. Fits right in, don’t she?”

He pressed one final kiss to your lips – fleeting, desperate, trembling – then turned, swung up into the saddle with a quiet grunt.

“If you ever need anythin’, we’ll be right here.” You insist. “If you… ever wanna go to New Orleans or… wanna show me ‘round Sante Fe. Or you need food. Shelter. We’ll be here.”

He nods, smiling somberly at that. He tipped his hat at you.

“Be good, sweetheart.”

You swallowed down your sob, lifting a trembling hand. “You too, Billy.”

He rode off into the waking dawn, the sun cresting low over the hills as his silhouette grew smaller and smaller. You stood on the porch barefoot, shivering in the morning chill, listening to the fading echo of hoofbeats.

You stayed there long after he vanished beyond the ridge. The sky above you brightened from pink to gold to blinding blue. The world felt impossibly quiet.

You find him at the window.

Sitting, with his thighs open and chest bare, staring out into the abyss. The night glints at the beads of sweat sliding down his chest, and his fingers drum endlessly against his thighs.

He heard you wake up, so he’s expecting your company, and has leaned back against the chair – thin black gown falling open – ready for you to climb all over him.

It happens often.

It’s not uncommon to wake up without him.

Most nights, you startle out of your slumber – as if even asleep, you’d sensed a shift – and blink at the space on the mattress beside you.

Finding him was easy.

You pad through the living room and wordlessly reach him in his post-nightmare state. His hair is tousled, sculpted chest is slick with sweat -- there’s an energy vibrating off of him, and you can taste it in the air.

Stepping behind him, you gently run the tips of your fingers over his shoulders, and the whirlpool in Anakin’s belly settles for a second. When you move into frame, it’s gone completely, replaced by a warm heat that has roots. He breathes a smile.

“Like clockwork.”

You give him a sheepish grin in return and fiddle with the fabric of your small nightgown. There’s a moment where Anakin gets to look at you – all sleepy and cuddly – and he’s ready to escape with you off of this forsaken planet.

His will holds strong.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asks, raising a scarred brow, and despite your groggy state, you still manage to roll your eyes. Stepping closer, you use his broad shoulders as anchors to slip onto his lap.

“Don’t make that face,” Anakin hushes, and while you settle back onto his thighs, his metal hand comes up. He traces the line of your jaw, “You know I let you do what you want.”

His spare hand steadies your hips, and it’s still warm from his lightsaber. Calloused fingers run over your skin, reminding you of the fight that’s leaving scars – the war that’s brewing, both inside and outside of his mind.

In moments like this, though, there’s a subtle calm.

An impenetrable force that hums over the pair of you.

You lean into his palm and whisper, “Not everything.”

There’s a haunted edge to your gaze, and your words are loaded. Anakin knows what you mean, knows all the intricacies of your subtle dig, and yet, he still manages to smile.

Well, smirk.

“What do you want? Just say the word.”

You wouldn’t, and Anakin knows that. He’s caught your bluff, and you manage a bashful smile before gently leaning forward, dragging your hips against his lap.  

Anakin’s cloth-covered thigh nestles against the thin fabric of your underwear. Your smile falters, lips parting. You push your forehead against his, and whisper, “If I say the words, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“I know,” he breathes, “I know.”

I want more.

A life together, not stolen moments when the sun is down.

An attachment. A bond.

But it’s forbidden.

It’s why it can’t go any further than this.

“What’d you dream about?” you wonder. Anakin pulls his eyes away from you, instead looking to where his thigh sits. The silence is your answer.

“I’ll still ask, even if you never tell.”

He takes hold of your bare thighs, rubbing his hands up and down, and you hum his name, reaching out to push his hair behind his ears.

“Pretty boy.”

“Stop it,” he huffs, cheeks reddening.

But how can you? When he’s all sharp lines and long hair. You run your hands up the bare panes of his muscular chest, feeling the deft of his muscles, and the dampness on his skin.

The air changes – hums electric – and it buzzes as you push his gown off his shoulders.

Carefully, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss against his collarbone.

“That’s better.”

Anakin hums a laugh. His hands snake around to your lower back, dig into the fat of your ass, and using the grip there, he gently rocks you forward once, forcing your clothed cunt to drag against his muscular thigh.

You whimper. It’s quiet, but Anakin can hear it, even if it’s muffled by his shoulder.

“’ S’what you came out here for, huh?” he whispers. The electric flooding through the walls hums, but the room is still eerily silent. Anakin’s voice is a roar.

You lick your lips and drag your face up to see him. “No,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss against his top lip, “I like being with you, even if we don’t do this.”

Anakin has to close his eyes. Words like those are fuel to the fire brimming in his chest, and it doesn’t help that you wrap your arms around his neck and fiddle with the tail end of his hair.

Arching your back, you slowly roll backwards, then forward, teasing the bulge between his legs.

Releasing a shaky breath, you repeat the motion, again, and again, near humping his leg.  

A familiar ache begins to swell, coiling between your thighs and up into your belly. It makes you clench around nothing, and you mewl quietly, wishing for more – always wishing for more.

Still, you continue, slick pooling into your underwear and against his thigh.

Anakin can’t look at you. If he sees your face, his resolve will falter.

His nerves are shot. If he couldn’t feel how wet you are, he could smell it, and it makes a groan bristle behind his teeth.

He buries his head into the crook of your neck and busies himself with kissing at the soft shell of your throat, careful not to leave marks.

Once, you left a mouth-shaped mark against his stomach, and he looked at it every day for a week.

Caught himself with his top up in the mirror looking at the reflection, eyeing the way the mark sat on the firm lines of muscle, fading away with time.

A dark part of him wanted the mark on the slope of his neck.

“Wanna be inside of you.”

His admission rests heavily against your throat, and you’re thankful that he can’t see the way you clench your eyes closed.

Though, he does feel you tighten your grip on the back of his head. Feels you shift up against his thigh, and the warmth pooling in your underwear burns against him.  

He can sense you’re hesitant.

“’ can be like last time. Just – Just --” he stutters, licking his lips and struggling to release the words from the back of his throat. Finally, he manages. “--Sit on it.”

“Anakin.”

He pulls away from your neck and looks up at you.

“We can use it as an exercise.”

A laugh bursts from your throat, “To test your will?”

He smiles, and because you have to, you push your cunt against his crotch, uttering, “Want me to make It difficult for you?” and white flashes through Anakin’s eyes.

He grabs your hips to steady you, tensely pushing his fingers into your skin.

“Hardest challenge I’ll ever encounter.”

“You eager to impress?”

He kisses your jaw, “Don’t I always?”

“Mm,” you hum, cradling his chin. You shift back so he can pull his trousers down, and when you take his cock in your hand, he melts. His commanding aura switches for a moment, and you watch Anakin still his breathing.

You push your underwear to the side, and as you lift yourself to sink onto him, Anakin breathes, “Just the tip – just a little bit, j-just—” and he chokes on his words, gasping as you brush the leaking head of his cock through your folds.

You halt. Whimper. Have to grip his shoulder to steady yourself, or you’ll push him inside of you all at once and hurt yourself.

You inhale steadily.

“Have to – have to go slow,” you spurt, trying to calm your tremors.  

“It’s been a while since…”

You don’t have to finish your sentence. Anakin knows, and he feels a mix of pride and guilt. Only me, he thinks, and then, like a flash, only me, he swallows. And I can’t give her everything.

This. This is as far as it’ll go. He knows he’s pushing it. Knows that he’s come up with some convoluted rule to both have his cake and eat it too.

If he fucks you the way he wants to, he’ll fall in love with you. As if it hasn’t happened already.

Anakin has made lying to himself a speciality.

You push against him once more, and the tip of his cock nudges between your folds, forcing an ache to shoot through your clit and make you dizzy. You stop. Pause and curse yourself.

A slow burn builds in your thighs, and you clench down to try and mediate the burn. Anakin grunts.

“Maker,” he utters. “Sorry—” you splutter, sucking in a tight breath.

Anakin wraps his metal arm around the back of your hips, hoping to steady you. “Lemme,” he mumbles, and gently, he flexes his hips up, slowly feeding his cock into your soaked pussy.  

Your lower abdomen immediately burns.  

He’s being calm about it – using all his training – but there’s nothing calm about the words trickling out of his mouth.

“Oh stars,” he groans, voice wrecked, “You gonna take all of me, sweet girl? Gonna let me fill you up?”

When you finally sink to the hilt, your resolve snaps. The pair of you moan out in unison, loud and high-pitched.

Anakin buries his face in your chest, and the heat of his mouth against your breasts adds to the tension coiling in your belly.

“Don’t – don’t move,” he grunts, and you shake your head, “I won’t – I’ll come on your cock if I do,” and you don’t mean to say it like that, don’t mean for the words to come out like that, but you feel Anakin pulse from inside of you, warm and hard and wet.

He manages to laugh.

“Tryna kill me,” he shakily breathes, shaking his head. His wet lips brush against your breasts, and you want more – want all that he can give you – so you clutch the back of his head, pulling him closer, hoping he gets the message.

His wet kisses make your skin prickle.

You’re full up. Can feel him stretching you out, this feeling something that’s only happened a few times before.

“If you move,” Anakin begins, out of breath, “I’ll leave the Jedi order and spend my days inside of you.”

“Don’t t-tempt me.”

He laughs, and you accidentally clench around him, causing him to groan deep and long against your tits.

“If you do that again, I’ll come inside of you.”

You imagine it. Imagine him spilling out, the wet white of it dripping out of your cunt and back onto his cock, and the mere image of it has your clit throbbing.

Keep still. Don’t move.

But he wraps his tongue around your nipple and begins to suck.

You cry out, and all of your muscles tighten, forcing you to clench tight around his cock. Anakin jolts and whines your name against your tits.

“S’your fault,” you mewl, moaning. You hang your head back, “Stars, Anakin.”

“Try and stay still,” he mumbles, and you stutter a laugh, “Impossible.”

Earlier today, Wayne greeted him when he got home from the garage. Not unusual, but what was unusual was the box on the table in front of him. As Eddie got closer, he noticed a large, brick-like item in his uncle’s hand. 

“Holy shit, is that—”

“Yeah,” Wayne croaked, cutting him off gruffly. “‘Least it would be if I could figure out how t’work the damn thing.”

Eddie’s eyes were wide, his mind racing with a million thoughts as he watched the man glance from the cellphone to the manual nearby. 

“How the fuck did—”

“Ed!”

Heeding the sharp warning, he rephrased. 

“Sorry. How the shit did you get that? Aren’t they like four thousand bucks?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from the older man. 

Wayne rolled his eyes at his nephew’s correction, but passed the phone into his waiting hand nonetheless. “Won it in a raffle at work. City-Suits won’t give the line a raise, but apparently, they’ll blow thousands of dollars on useless shit,” he muttered angrily. 

An evil grin curled at Eddie’s lips as he eyed the expensive prize. “Oh, I don’t think it’s totally useless…”

As Eddie pulls himself up onto the roof, just outside your bedroom window, he giddily thinks of all the prank calls you and he are going to make. No one in the town is safe tonight.

But his fist freezes in mid-air, just a few inches short of the glass. His whole body goes rigid, and his heartrate spikes so high, he’s surprised he’s not keeling over from cardiac arrest. Then, he remembers himself.

“Shit!” he hisses, ducking beneath the sill. When he doesn’t hear a scream or a string of shocked expletives, he rises slowly to take a peek. 

There, in the dimly lit room, you lay on your bed in what has got to be the most compromising position he’s ever seen you in. And he was there at the pool a few summers ago, when you did a massive cannonball into the water, sending your top flying off on impact. That was the last time you ever wore a bikini—he’s been cursing the day ever since. Due to one stupid knot, the rest of his summers were frighteningly dull. 

But this moment might top that—

Because only five feet and one glass window away, you’re half-naked from the waist down and writhing with your hand shoved into your thin, purple underwear.

Eddie’s breathing turns shallow, and his jaw feels incapable of shutting as he ogles you stupidly. Practically frozen in place, he observes the way you squirm on untucked sheets, the way sweat beads at your hairline—small droplets glinting in the low lamplight. 

And just like that, his cock twitches to life, hardening faster than he’s ever felt it; leaking and throbbing furiously beneath the restrictive denim. But despite the discomfort, his trance remains unshaken. 

Your bare legs tremble with every bulging movement of your hand beneath your panties, and he licks his lips, imagining the cause. The way your fingers are probably catching your clit at the exact right angle, sending shockwaves through your limbs. 

The closer he gets, the more the window fogs from the warmth of his breath. Any urgency to hide is zapped from him the moment your mouth opens. He strains to hear the sighs you let out—the moans. But the glass is too thick. Or you’re too quiet. Either way, he feels like he’s going insane, not being able to listen to the noises you make. 

Blunt nails dig into his jean-clad thighs as he refrains from losing himself. This all feels so wrong, but he doesn't know what to do. He can’t knock on the window now, he can’t embarrass you like that. Because he knows you. He knows you’d be humiliated. He knows you probably wouldn’t talk to him for a month out of sheer mortification. And he can’t go a month without you.

But he also doesn’t think he has enough willpower to drag himself away from this damn window. To work his way down that damn trellis. And act like he didn’t see a damn thing when you come into the garage tomorrow, excited to greet him like you always are. You, perfectly innocent and none the wiser. Him, wrecked and changed forever. 

He’s pulled from his thoughts when he sees your back arch into the mattress, hips lifting in a messy, gyrating rhythm, like you’re meeting imaginary thrusts. Like you’re desperate for more. When your lips curve around a familiar shape, a singular word he recognizes but can’t, for the life of him, make out, he loses the fight. 

About to yank the window up, he freezes, then decides to set the heavy cellphone down on the roof. 

After all, Wayne will have his ass if he breaks the device. He can just imagine it slipping from his grip as he struggles to climb through your window. It’d go tumbling down the shingles, bouncing off the gutters, and plummeting to the ground below. He’s heard that these things are supposed to be sturdy, but he doesn’t know how sturdy. 

As he looks around for a safe spot to hide the phone, a thought occurs to him. And surprisingly, it’s not motivated by the throbbing ache in his pants. Well, not fully. 

Instead of charging in, guns blazing and risking a years-long friendship, he figures he should call first. It’s only polite.

Pulse thrumming in his throat, he dials your number—the one he knows by heart. Shrill ringing pierces the air—even permeating the thick glass—spooking you. He watches as you wrench your hand from beneath your panties and glance at the bedside table, to the source of the interruption. He ducks low again, making sure he’s not in your peripheral view. 

With the cellphone waiting in his hands, he studies you, sees the cogs turning in your brain as you hastily consider your options—the same ones he ran through seconds earlier:

You need to pick up the phone, because, despite your vulnerable, frazzled state, it’s late, and you can’t have your parents waking up to the ringing of every landline in the house. 

It’s the perfect catch-22. 

And people say he’s stupid. 

You fail senior year three times and it’s a thing. You pass it once and everyone forgets. Whatever—

When you pick up the handset, Eddie grins. Gotcha.

He watches you inhale deeply, attempting to calm yourself. Then you press the phone to your ear and he does the same, mirroring your movements. 

A soft sigh floats through the receiver, and the sound burrows deep into his mind, sending fractured signals down his body that leave his cock flexing. And he almost cheers at the frailness of the breath—the way he gets to watch its birth from your lust-bitten lips, the way he reaps the benefits so intimately. 

Your voice is strained and scratchy from all the open-mouthed gasps, but sweet all the same. “H-Hello?” 

Eddie grinds his teeth, biting back the eagerness creeping up his throat. “Hey, sweetheart,” he mutters, tone low and husky. 

He nearly cracks a tooth when your thighs clench. Waves of filthy thoughts race through his mind, but he has to play it cool. He has to act normal. He has to act like he’s not right outside your window, painfully hard from watching you finger-fuck yourself. 

“Eddie?” you half-whisper, brows pinching tight in confusion. “What’re you calling this late for?”

A shiver wracks through his body at the sound of his name on your lips so soon after your wandering hands went exploring. Shifting his focus from your face, he slides his gaze down your figure, zeroing in on your glistening fingers. 

Suddenly, he feels parched. 

With a gulp, he ignores your question, opting instead to spend his energy fighting the wolfish grin from seeping into his voice, and instead, replacing it with remorseful innocence. “Sorry, did I wake you? Didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep…” 

It takes everything in him not to laugh when a look of panic sparks at your features. 

“N-No! No, um, I was just—” You lift your head up, looking around the room until your gaze fixes on something just out of his view. “Painting my nails,” you hurry, but it comes out more like a question than a statement. “So, what did you—”

“What color?” Eddie rasps curiously, biting his lip.

Your face drops, and your stuttering breaths get louder as they crackle through the receiver. “Sorry?” 

As if it has a mind of its own, his free hand hovers over the bulge in his pants, giving an experimental squeeze. He inhales sharply, quietly. His eyes close in ecstasy, but only for a split-second, before opening once more. Because he needs to see you. 

“What color are you painting your nails?” he purrs, tone dripping in a smoky desire. Though to you, it probably just sounds like dreary sleep, stuck in his throat. 

Sliding along the length of his shaft, he palms himself with precise pressure as he watches you shudder.

Your fingers toy with the waistband of your pretty panties, all frilly lace and deep violet. 

“Purple,” you sigh with a slow blink, letting your hand slip beneath the thin fabric. 

“Hm. Cute.” His hips twitch, jerking from the pleasure coiling tight in his gut. He watches as your knuckles stretch the material of your underwear once more, moving up and down a few times before starting a repetitive, concentric motion. 

The sight of you actively touching yourself to his voice has a steady stream of precum pumping out of his tip, thoroughly soaking a splotch into his boxers. Soon, he’s sure his jeans will bleed a darker shade of black. All for you. He’ll become a sticky mess, all for you.

It doesn’t help that he finds himself ruminating on how wet you must’ve gotten your fingers just now, dipping them low into your entrance and spreading the arousal up to your clit. 

Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him. 

A tiny voice in his mind bellows, belligerent and questioning how he’s going to come back from this. How he’s going to look you in the eye tomorrow, now knowing what you sound like when you fall victim to your basest desires. 

But then a pitchy hum dances through the line, and he can no longer hear the voice. He watches your legs spasm as you squirm helplessly, like your hands are not enough. 

God, Eddie wishes he could help you. He nearly draws blood, biting his lip, wishing on every star in the sky that he could open this damn window. That he could enter your room and you’d only cry out for him, begging him to touch you. That you wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t scream for him to leave.

He wishes you’d moan his name right to his face. Wishes you’d peel your panties off and open your legs like a wordless invitation. You’d send that famous pout of yours his way, the one you do so well, the one that drives him crazy. The one he can’t resist. 

He’d give you exactly what you need. He’d fill you up and devour every last mewling whimper right from your parted lips. And once you let him in, he wouldn’t abandon your warm cunt for all the money in the world. At least not until he got to leave your velvety walls dripping in his cum. Leave you with a piece of him. A promise of more. A pledge of devotion. 

Eddie’s shoulders hunch, matching your convulsing movements as you struggle to remain quiet. 

“‘S it light purple or dark purple?” he questions gruffly, eager to hear your voice—to hear the strain. 

You throw your head back against the soft pillow behind you, your face crumbling in pleasure, like the right amount of lightning has struck the sensitive little bundle of nerves between your quivering thighs. “D-Dark.”

He bites back a groan, surprised his laser-focused stare hasn’t burned a hole through the glass yet. 

“Like violet?” he huffs out, his gaze refusing to leave your delicate panties, or the actions happening underneath. 

“Mhm,” you mewl, trapping your lower lip between your teeth. 

His jaw drops in awe as the spasms seem harder to control, and the silence more difficult to hold onto, with lewd moans fighting their way up your throat, crawling agonizingly slowly from deep inside you.

“Y’alright, sweets? Y’sound a little breathless,” he utters, steady and calculating—a stark contrast to the harsh, hurried grip he has on his cock. 

You nod your head fervently before remembering the phone pressed to your blazing cheek. Humming a few seconds too long, you’re unable to stop the vibrato from guiding your voice into the pits of desperation.

“Y-Yeah, ‘m fine. Just— I’m, mm-painting my toes.” Your tone jumps an octave on the last word, matching the full-body jerk that leaves you quaking. “Can’t fuckin’ breathe with my knee in my chest,” you pant, forced anger saturating every last syllable as your back arches. 

He chuckles, amused by all your fabrications. For someone who’s squirming in bed like they’re running from their own fingers, you lie surprisingly well. 

It takes everything in him not to let the moan breach his lips when he watches your hand rip from your panties, reach for the decorative throw pillow beside you, and shove it between your thighs, aiding your grinding hips. 

Quickly losing rhythm, he clings to the last shred of sanity he can find, hoping to stave off the fiery heat just a bit longer. He’s not done with you yet. 

But apparently you’re done with him, because your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body convulses rapidly before stopping suddenly, every part of you stiffening like a marble statue depicting the bowing ascent into pleasure-filled ecstasy. 

Though you’re still, it looks like calamity is bubbling just beneath the surface. One, two, three more weak ruts of your hips against the pillow seems to officially send you hurling over the edge, dragging Eddie along with you. 

Warmth blooms low in his gut and spreads across the front of his pants as his cock throbs angrily, shooting ropes of cum that are immediately stifled by the limitations of the tight fabric. His body jerks, matching your movements. Like you, his pleasure boils over, freeing him of any inhibitions. A groan tears from his chest, but you don’t hear it. Your cries drown out his noises.

“S-Shit, unh, Eddie!” 

He shudders at the way his name rides on the back of your moans, but you quickly cover for yourself.

“Sorry—fuck, I,” your hurried, huffing breaths interrupt your words, “I spilled the polish. I’m— I gotta go, Eds.”

Inhaling sharply, Eddie allows himself just a bit more teasing. “Can’t wait to see your pretty nails tomorrow, sweetheart.” 

Your responding whimper is cut short when you quickly hang up the phone and flop back onto your bed, pillow still hugged tightly between your trembling thighs. For a while, you just lay there with your arm draped over your face.

Outside the window, Eddie watches your rapidly moving chest eventually even out into soft, controlled breaths. He’s about to leave—the cooling mess in his pants starting to give him the bad shivers—but right as he begins inching backward, you sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. 

His eyes go wide when he sees the dark patch on your panties. As you stand and make your way to the middle of the room, his eyes then practically pop out of his head when you shimmy the underwear down your legs, carelessly tossing it in the direction of your laundry basket. 

He gulps at the sight of your bare ass, vibrations rippling through flesh as you walk toward your bedroom door. But before you exit the room, you swipe a pair of panties from the top drawer of your dresser. 

Once you disappear into the dark hallway, leaving your door closed—presumably to stop any light from filtering through—Eddie snaps into action, yanking the window upward and throwing himself through. 

Tumbling to the floor with a quiet thud, his head pops up, looking over the edge of the bed, across the way at the still-shut door. With the cellphone safe in hand, he scrambles up to his feet, trying desperately to ignore the scent of you in the air. It’s partly your perfume lingering on every item in the room, partly the sweet smell of your arousal permeating the stillness of the night. 

Glancing down at the wet spot on the throw pillow, he bounces slightly, frowning in agony—it’s taking incredible restraint not to steal the stupid thing. Because fuck, he could do so much with that. He could rest his head on it, sleep peacefully to the scent of you. He could bury his face in the stain while he ruts his hips into his lumpy mattress. Hell, he could even grind his bare cock on the pillow itself.

But it’s too big of an item to steal. You’d notice. Especially because you were just using it, and for all he knows, this is a regular occurrence. This might be your special humping pillow. He doesn’t judge—he’s got his special jack-off hoodie. Actually, it’s your hoodie that you ‘lost’ a few months ago. It just barely smells like you anymore, but it still does the trick.  

Sighing, Eddie shakes his head, deciding to stick to his original plan. He hurries over toward the basket in your closet but stops short just before he arrives. There, on the ground, is the pair of panties you were wearing only moments ago. He plucks the still-warm material off the ground, holding it up to the light. 

Your juices have thoroughly soaked the fabric, and he looks inside at the gusset, nearly moaning at the glimmer of slick shining up at him.