𝖛 𝖊 𝖓 𝖚 𝖘

A complete load of bullshit if you asked him.

He was halfway through tuning out another conversation when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He almost ignored it.

Then he saw your name.

Everything else disappeared instantly.

You free? My car broke down…

The brunette was still talking when Logan grabbed his jacket.

“Wait, where are you going?” she asked.

“Out.”

“Are you coming back?”

Logan barely looked at her. “No.”

Then he was gone.

Twenty minutes later he found you sitting on the hood of your car in an empty grocery store parking lot, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold.

The second your headlights caught his truck pulling in, your shoulders dropped in relief.

And Christ, that nearly killed him.

Logan climbed out quickly. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Like an hour.”

His jaw tightened immediately. “You should’ve called sooner.”

You shrugged lightly, trying for casual. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

That made him look at you sharply.

Because once upon a time you never would’ve said that.

Once upon a time you would’ve called him immediately.

He stepped toward the car instead. “What happened?”

“Started making a weird noise. Then the engine died.”

“Pop the hood.”

You obeyed automatically while Logan got to work, broad hands moving confidently under the dim parking lot lights.

And there it was.

The thing that always undid you.

John Logan with grease on his hands.

Focused expression. Sleeves pushed up. Muttering to himself while fixing things like it was second nature.

You used to tease him that he loved broken engines more than people.

But that wasn’t true.

Because Logan loved hard. Too hard.

That had been part of the problem.

“You’ve got a busted hose,” he said finally. “I can patch it enough to get it home, but I wanna look at it properly tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He didn’t even glance up. “Yeah, I do.”

Your chest hurt a little at that.

Twenty minutes later you sat in the passenger seat of his truck while Logan drove your car slowly behind it toward your apartment, towing it carefully.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

Even after months apart, being with Logan still felt easy.

Familiar. Like muscle memory.

You watched his hands on the steering wheel for a second before speaking quietly.

“You were at a party?”

“Yeah.”

“You left?”

Logan snorted softly like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Your car broke down.”

Something warm and painful twisted in your chest.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windshield.

You stared out the window. “You always come save me, John.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Logan went quiet.

His grip tightened slightly on the wheel.

Then finally, “I’ll always find you.”

Your breath caught.

He said it so simply.

Like no matter how many fights or breakups or months apart happened between you, Logan would still come the second you called.

You turned toward him slowly.

“John…”

His jaw flexed.

“I mean it.”

And there it was.

Everything the two of you had been avoiding since the breakup sitting right there between you.

Because Logan still looked at you the same way.

Still loved you the same way.

Maybe he always would.

At the next red light, he finally looked over.

His expression softened immediately when he saw yours.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

That almost broke you.

Because that was his voice.

His voice when he knew you were overwhelmed.

When he was trying to handle you gently.

You looked down quickly. “We broke up for a reason.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just keep showing up every time I need you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes it impossible to get over you.”

Logan went still.

Then, after a long moment, “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

Silence filled the truck.

You looked at him again and immediately wished you hadn’t because Logan was already staring at you.

“I tried,” he admitted roughly. “I tried giving you space. Tried moving on. Tried acting normal.” He laughed once without humor. “I can’t do it.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

The light turned green.

Neither of you moved for a second.

A horn blared behind you.

Logan blinked and started driving again.

“I know we screwed things up,” he said. “But if you call me at two in the morning five years from now because your car breaks down somewhere?”

He glanced over briefly.

You two were never the kind of twins people expected. No matching outfits, no finishing each other's sentences, no eerie identical habits. From the very beginning you were sorted into different boxes. Garrett's box had ice skates and early morning practices. Your box had dolls and tea sets and the vague, uncomfortable feeling of being dressed up for something you hadn't agreed to.

It was a common complaint "why does Garrett get to do something while I just sit here?" Your mother would smooth your hair and change the subject. Your father never even registered the question. It took years before you understood that Phil Graham simply operated in a world where the answer was obvious. Garrett got to play hockey because Garrett was his son. You got the dolls because you were his daughter. Feminist icon was not a title Phil Graham was ever in the running for.

Growing up, you and Garrett were close in the way that kids who share a wall and a last name and a particular kind of household tend to get close,out of necessity as much as love. It was a good closeness, mostly. Until high school, when it curdled into something more complicated.

The prom thing was the first real incident. Aaron Michaels showed up at your door junior year with his hair combed and his hands in his pockets, and before he even finished the sentence you said yes. Not because you were swept away by him, you barely knew him, honestly. But you had caught Garrett watching from the top of the stairs with that particular expression on his face, the one that meant he was calculating something, and the thought of letting him anywhere near your prom night was enough to make you say yes to virtually anyone.

You think about that sometimes. How early it started.

In college, things loosened. Distance helped. You found your place in a sorority a house full of girls who were loud and warm and didn't ask you to be anything specific. Garrett found his place off campus, in a house with three teammates that quickly became something closer to family.

You were glad for him. You meant that sincerely. He had always been the kind of person who needed people around him, and for a long time the only person around had been you.

What you were less glad for was the way his protectiveness followed you across town like a second shadow. He knew your schedule. He knew your friends. He had a habit of appearing places whenever a boy seemed too interested. You had once watched him dismantle an entire almost-relationship simply by being in the same room, asking questions that were technically friendly and somehow completely lethal.

The thing was, and this was the part that made it complicated, you understood where it came from.

Growing up, Garrett's protectiveness hadn't been suffocating. It had been necessary. Your father's anger was the kind that lived in the walls of the house, that changed the air pressure in a room when he walked in. For a long time you were almost oblivious to it, the way children learn to not see things that are too large and too frightening to look at directly. But then you got old enough that it became impossible to pretend.

What you remember most is not the sounds. It's Garrett, how he would find you, and sit with you, and press your head gently against his chest without saying anything, his hands patient and steady, turning himself into a wall between you and whatever was happening on the other side of it.

He never talked about it. Neither did you. You're not sure you ever will.

Your mother died when you were young. After that, there was just you and Garrett and your father and a house that felt too big and too quiet. Garrett stayed close to you that whole year in a way that asked for nothing and gave everything, and you never once had to ask him to.

So no you didn't resent the protectiveness, not really, not at its root. You understood it.

You just wished it wasn't currently ruining your love life.

It's college, you thought, more than once, lying on your sorority house bed staring at the ceiling. Why can't I get some?

When Garrett moved into the house off campus at the end of freshman year, the relief was quiet and immediate and guilty enough that you didn't mention it to anyone. You visited often it was an easy excuse to get out of the sorority house, and Dean and Tucker were genuinely funny, the kind of company that required nothing from you.

But there was something about Logan that was different from the start. Something you noticed before you had the language for it.

The first time you really registered him was after the team's first game of the season. You had gone to the arena with Rowan, more out of obligation than enthusiasm, expecting to do your dutiful twin sister routine and leave. You found Garrett near the locker room, already mid-conversation with Logan, still in half his gear, laughing at something.

Logan turned when Garrett said your name. That's what you remember: the turn, the way his attention moved to you. He reached out to shake your hand and said something, something normal, something you have completely forgotten because you stopped processing words the moment his hand closed around yours.

His hands were warm. That's what you thought. Just warm. And large. And you were aware of them in a way that made the rest of the sentence disappear entirely.

You let go. You said something back. You moved through the rest of the conversation on autopilot, smiling at the right moments, and the whole time you were thinking about his hands.

On the drive back, Rowan looked at you sideways and said, you have about five seconds to tell me what that was.

You told her.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: make a move before they get any closer. Because once Logan becomes one of Garrett's people, you're done.

You had laughed at the time. But Rowan was right.

That was two years ago. Logan and Garrett were now the kind of friends that finished each other's sentences and covered for each other without being asked. Which meant that every time you let yourself think about Logan, really think about him, about his hands and his voice and the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren't paying attention ,Garrett materialized in your mind immediately, like a warning, like a wall.

Two years. And you were no closer to doing anything about it.

This morning Logan had texted, and the moment his name appeared on your screen that feeling arrived with it the one that lived somewhere between your ribs and your stomach and had no polite name. You had stopped calling it a crush a long time ago. Crushes were light things, easy things. This was two years old and had roots.

He needed help with an assignment. A professor, a deadline, the usual disaster.

You had started tutoring at the beginning of sophomore year, a natural extension of the waitressing you'd picked up at Malone's when you first realized college was expensive and pride was not a payment method. Tutoring paid better and smelled less like fried food. Logan was the one client you had never once considered charging. You weren't sure what that said about you. Probably something embarrassing.

You got a ride to the house and let yourself in without knocking, everyone did, that was just how it worked here, and followed the stairs up to Logan's room, where you found him on his bed with his laptop open and his reading glasses on.

You took a moment.

"Hey, you," you said, walking in and knocking on the door after the fact, in the way you had trained yourself to do ever since a series of unfortunate incidents involving Dean that you were never going to think about again.

Logan looked up and smiled.

"Hey." He moved to make room. "I was waiting for you."

The assignment was for his sports management elective and it was, structurally speaking, a crime scene.

"Walk me through what you're trying to argue," you said, pulling the laptop toward you.

"That collegiate athletic programs need better mental health infrastructure."

"Say that in the paper."

"I did."

You turned the screen to face him. He read it. He had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

"...that's not what that says."

"No. It really isn't."

You started from the top. Logan sat beside you and explained himself in sentences that were clear and direct and completely unlike anything on the page, which was its own kind of frustrating because it meant the ideas were good. They were just trapped under writing that was trying too hard to sound like writing.

"Stop trying to sound smart," you told him. "You already are. Just say the thing."

He looked at you. "You're kind of mean when you tutor."

"You're paying forty dollars an hour for this."

"You're not charging me."

"Then you're getting exactly what you paid for. Keep going."

He kept going. You kept pushing. Somewhere in the middle of restructuring his third paragraph he had migrated from the desk chair to the bed beside you, and at some point after that the laptop had ended up in your lap, and the space between you had gradually, unremarkably, ceased to exist. His arm was against yours. His knee was against yours. He smelled like cedar and something warmer underneath it, which you were actively choosing not to think about.

Once, leaning over to point at something on the screen, he turned his head and found you already looking at him. Neither of you said anything. You looked back at the screen.

By the time you finished it was late afternoon, the light in the room had gone gold and low, and Logan was leaning against the headboard with his legs stretched out and you were beside him, close enough that moving away would have required a decision neither of you had made.

"Thank you," Logan said, and the way he said it was quieter than his regular voice. "Genuinely. You didn't have to do this."

"I know," you said.

"You're kind of incredible, you know that?"

You laughed, which was the only safe response available to you.

"You are very welcome, Johnny," you said, shaking your head, which brought you even closer than you already were.

The room was very quiet.

You had thought about this moment approximately four hundred times over the past two years. You had imagined it in detail. Talked yourself out of it and back into it and out of it again, and every single time Garrett had materialized in your head like a stop sign and that had been enough.

But Garrett was not here. And Logan was looking at you like that, his eyes dropping, just briefly, to your mouth, and coming back up. And two years was a very long time to wait for a moment that kept almost arriving.

You closed the distance.

The seconds that followed were the slowest of your life. You were aware of everything the warmth of him, the sound of your own pulse, the fact that his eyes had closed, which meant something, that had to mean something..

His eyes opened.

He pulled back, just slightly, and looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before and couldn't name.

"Oh," he said. "Are we finished?"

The words landed like a door closing.

You heard yourself say yes. You heard yourself say something about studying, about being busy, about having to go. You were already reaching for your bag. You were already standing.

Every embarrassing moment you had ever lived through, every misdirected wave, every bon appétit thrown at a waiter who had not asked for it, every autocorrected text sent to the wrong person, shrank to nothing. Microscopic. Irrelevant. Amateur hour.

This was the real thing.

There should be a world record for how fast you left that house. You would have broken it.

Arriving home, there was only one thing on your mind.

The almost-kiss.

You prayed on the entire walk back. Prayed that something would take you lightning, a sinkhole, the apocalypse, anything. Because there could not be a world in which you had just tried to kiss John Logan and he had literally swerved. This could not be happening. You felt like you couldn't breathe, and yes, it was dramatic, but how, how could something like this happen to you?

I have to hide forever, you thought.

So hide was what you did. Three days of pretending to be too busy to check your phone, sending texts that said busy, call later to everyone who tried to reach you and yes, that included Logan. He had texted to thank you for the tutoring session and ask how your day was going, which was its own specific kind of torture. It was genuinely difficult to decide which was worse: him not mentioning the almost-kiss, or him not mentioning the almost-kiss.

Your sorority friends decided not to let you sulk indefinitely. You hadn't told them the truth, it was too embarrassing,but they had collectively decided that you needed to go out. Luckily, Dean and Beau's birthday bash was happening that weekend. Rowan had appointed herself costume director. You and her were going as Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen in New York Minute — which was a generous description of what amounted to tiny red shorts and an I ♥ NYC shirt.

Walking into the party, you spotted your brother almost immediately. He was standing with a girl: Hannah, you realized after a second. You had heard the rumors that Garrett was seeing someone but hadn't paid much attention. Garrett with a girl was like rain in the Amazon. Unremarkable. Constant. A feature of the landscape.

You already knew Hannah from Malone's. She was sweet, genuinely, almost confusingly sweet, and you had always had a hard time understanding why a girl like her would give the time of day to someone like your brother. You grabbed a drink and kept glancing at them, and spotted the exact moment Garrett stepped away and Jules moved in with that particular look on their face that meant she was about to conduct a full background check.

Time to intervene.

"Hi, Hannah," you said, inserting yourself smoothly. You turned to Jules with a look of mock severity. "Jules. This is a party. Stop the questionnaire."

They both laughed, because that was exactly what Jules had been doing. Jules threw her hands up and wandered off.

"Hey, (y/n)!" Hannah said cheerfully. "I haven't seen you at Malone's in a while — how have you been?"

"Busy. Tutoring." You shrugged. "How about you? I heard you were dating my brother."

Hannah looked startled. "Oh, not dating. Just a fling."

"Nice. A fling is nice." You tilted your head. "But since when do you do flings?"

"It's new. Experimenting." She seemed to run out of words.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," you said, softening your voice. "I'm not going to say anything. I thought you had a thing for that guy Justin,the one with the band?"

"I did," Hannah said, and then lowered her voice. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone."

You made the motion of zipping your mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away the key.

"Garrett is helping me," she said. "He said guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. So he's helping me seem less available so Justin will come around."

You stared at her. "He's fake-dating you to make another guy jealous."

Hannah nodded.

"That's—" you started, then stopped. Actually not the worst plan. "Okay. Solid strategy."

As if summoned, Garrett appeared carrying a can of beer for Hannah, which was objectively cute even if you would never tell him that.

"Hey, (y/n)." He pulled you into a side hug. "Why have you gone MIA? I was getting worried."

Because I tried to kiss your best friend and he dodged me like I was a pothole in the middle of the road.

"Just busy," you said pleasantly. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone." You winked at Hannah, who turned pink, and made a beeline for the kitchen.

The thing was, you couldn't stop turning it over. What Garrett had said to Hannah guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. Was that it? Was that why Logan had pulled back? Had you made it too obvious, been too present, too easy to read?

It was the kind of question that only one person at this party could answer.

Dean was in the kitchen taking shots with Tucker, Beau, and,of course, Logan. He was dressed as Maverick from Top Gun, which was doing entirely too much for everyone in the vicinity. The navy jumpsuit was one deep breath away from falling off his shoulders entirely, to the visible appreciation of roughly half the party.

Your heels announced you before you got there. All four of them looked up.

"Dean." You used your most businesslike voice. "I need to talk to you."

Logan, who until that moment had been carefully avoiding looking at you, looked at you.

"In private," you added.

Beau and Tucker made a coordinated oooooh sound. You took Dean by the hand and led him to a quieter corner, and from the edge of your vision you could feel Logan watching the whole way there.

"Do you think guys go for girls who aren't available?" you asked, skipping any kind of introduction.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Just answer it. Do guys prefer women who are harder to reach?"

He studied you for a moment with the particular expression of someone who was not fooled even slightly.

"(y/n)."

"Dean."

"It's Logan."

"It's not…"

"It is literally Logan." He glanced over his shoulder and back at you. "He's been staring at this corner since you dragged me away from the shots he was pouring, by the way. So I hope this is worth it."

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"He swerved me," you said finally, quietly, in the tone of someone confessing a crime.

Dean's eyes went wide. "He what—"

"Don't make it a thing."

"I'm not making it a thing, I'm just" He stopped, visibly recalibrating. Then something shifted in his face. The confused expression dissolved into something far more dangerous. A Dean I have an idea smile. "Okay. I know exactly what to do."

"That face terrifies me."

"Let me make him jealous."

You stared at him. "What."

"Think about it." He leaned against the wall, warming to the plan in real time. "You and me, rest of the night, very cozy, very close. Logan spends the whole party watching. By midnight he either says something or he implodes. Either way you get your answer."

"That is insane."

"That is genius and you know it." He held out his hand. "What do you say, Graham?"

You looked at his hand. You looked across the room at Logan, who was very deliberately not looking in your direction, which meant he was absolutely looking in your direction.

You took Dean's hand.

"If this blows up," you said, "I'm telling everyone it was your idea."

"It is my idea." Dean grinned and pulled you back toward the party. "Come on. Let's go be very convincing."

Dean was, it turned out, an excellent co-conspirator.

He had led you back into the main room with his hand on the small of your back, a small gesture, casual enough to be deniable, obvious enough to be noticed, and steered you toward the couch where Tucker and Beau had set up camp. You settled in close to him, closer than you normally would, and let the conversation wash over you while you tracked Logan from the corner of your eye.

It took approximately four minutes.

Logan had migrated from the kitchen to the edge of the living room, arms crossed, drink in hand, wearing an expression you had never seen on him before. Not angry exactly. Something tighter than that. Something controlled, but only barely.

Dean said something in your ear something about Tucker's costume, and you laughed and leaned into him, and across the room Logan's jaw tightened.

Good, you thought, and then immediately felt terrible about it, and then thought good again.

The night continued like that. Dean was committed to the bit in the way that only someone who was genuinely enjoying himself could be his arm around your shoulders, finding excuses to tuck your hair back, laughing at everything you said like you were the most interesting person in the room. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. Dean was funny and warm and completely unthreatening, which made it easy.

What was not easy was Logan.

He didn't leave. That was the first thing you noticed he had every opportunity to drift to another room, another conversation, and he didn't take a single one. He stayed in the periphery of wherever you were, a fixed point, his drink barely touched. He had stopped pretending to talk to people. At some point Tucker said something to him and he responded without looking away from you, which Tucker clearly clocked because he glanced between the two of you with an expression of dawning comprehension and wisely said nothing.

Once, you made direct eye contact with Logan across the room. Neither of you looked away for a long moment. Then Dean said your name and you turned, and when you looked back Logan had moved closer.

He was close enough now that you could hear him when he spoke, which he had started doing small insertions into the group conversation, technically friendly, with an edge underneath them that you recognized because you had never heard it from him before.

When Dean refilled your drink, Logan was suddenly beside him. "I'll get it."

"I've got it," Dean said pleasantly.

"I said I'll get it."

Dean looked at him. Logan looked back. The silence lasted exactly long enough to be uncomfortable.

"She likes more ice than you think," Logan said finally, which was such a specific and unguarded thing to say that Dean had to look away to keep from smiling.

He brought you the drink himself. Set it down in front of you without a word and went back to his position across the room, jaw tight, arms crossed, watching.

You picked up the drink. You took a sip. You did not look at him, which cost you more than you were prepared to admit.

Okay, you thought. So it's working.

The makeout was a decision.

You made it around midnight, when the party had gotten louder and the lights had gotten lower and Dean had pulled you onto the makeshift dancefloor with the easy confidence of someone who had committed fully to a plan and intended to see it through. You were dancing close, and it was working you could feel Logan's attention like a hand on the back of your neck and then you looked up at Dean and he raised an eyebrow, a question, and you thought about Logan swerving you on a quiet October afternoon and something in you made a decision.

You kissed Dean.

He kissed you back, because he was Dean and he was committed to the bit, and for a moment it was just that a kiss, warm and uncomplicated, Dean's hands steady on your waist.

You didn't hear Garrett coming. Nobody ever did.

"What the fuck?" His voice came from directly behind you, loud enough to cut through the music. You pulled back from Dean and turned around.

Garrett was standing there looking like he had just witnessed something that had personally offended him on a cellular level. Behind him, a few feet back, standing very still, was Logan.

"(y/n)." Garrett's voice had dropped into that register the one that meant he was trying very hard to be calm. "What is happening right now."

"I'm at a party, Garrett."

"You're…" He gestured at Dean, who had the presence of mind to take a small step back. "That's Dean."

"I'm aware of who it is."

"He lives in my house."

"Also aware."

"(y/n)"

"Garrett." You crossed your arms. "I am an adult at a college party. I don't need your commentary right now."

"I'm not — I'm just—" He stopped. Dragged a hand through his hair. Then, with the particular tone of someone who had not thought through what they were about to say before saying it: "Thank God. Logan went to get me — I thought something was actually wrong—"

The sentence landed in the middle of the room like something dropped from a height.

You went very still.

Logan went to get him.

Logan, who had been standing across the room all night with his arms crossed and his drink untouched and his jaw tight, had watched you kiss Dean and gone to get your brother instead of coming over himself.

You turned, slowly, and looked at Logan. He was looking back at you with an expression that was carefully, completely neutral, which was somehow the most infuriating thing you had ever seen on a human face.

"Garrett." Your voice came out quieter than you intended. "You want to talk about boundaries? Let's talk about boundaries. Let's talk about the fact that you have spent the last three years treating me like I'm something that needs to be managed. Like I'm a problem to be solved. I am your sister, not your assignment."

"I know that—"

"Do you?" You were properly angry now, the kind of angry that had been looking for a door for a long time and had finally found one. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like you don't trust me to make a single decision about my own life without you swooping in to fix it. I kissed someone, Garrett. At a party. Like a normal person."

"I just—"

"You sent Logan to get you." Your voice cracked slightly on his name, which you hated, and pushed past. "Like I was a child who had wandered too close to the street. I'm twenty years old."

Garrett opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked, for the first time in the conversation, genuinely uncertain.

"I need some air," you said, and turned and walked toward the door.

You made it to the front porch before you heard footsteps behind you.

"(y/n)."

Logan's voice. Of course.

You kept walking down the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold, and didn't turn around.

"Hey." He was closer now. "Can we—"

"Logan." You stopped walking but didn't turn. "Please don't."

"I just want to—"

"I said please." Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "I can't do this right now. I need you to leave me alone."

A long pause. The sounds of the party filtered out through the walls of the house, muffled and distant.

"Okay," Logan said quietly.

You heard him stop. Heard him not follow you. Stood there in the cold for a moment with your eyes closed, and then kept walking.

The week after the party, you became a ghost.

Not dramatically, you didn't make an announcement, didn't post anything, didn't give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they had gotten to you. You just quietly became unavailable. Texts went unanswered for hours, then days. You skipped the house visits. You stopped showing up to things you normally showed up to.

Garrett called twice. You let it ring both times and sent a voice memo that said I'm fine, just busy in a tone that made it very clear you were not interested in discussing it further. He texted after that, a long one, full of run-on sentences and no punctuation, and you read it three times and didn't respond.

Logan texted once. Just your name. A single word, no punctuation, no follow-up. You stared at it for a long time, lying on your bed in the dark, and said none of it. You set your phone face-down on the desk and went to sleep.

Or tried to.

The only people you talked to with any regularity were Hannah and Dean. Hannah because she never pushed, never pried, just showed up with iced coffee and terrible reality television and the quiet uncomplicated warmth of someone who liked you without needing anything from you. Dean because he was the only person who knew the full story and had the decency not to turn it into a conversation every time he saw you.

He did try, once.

"You can't hide forever," he said, sitting on the edge of your bed one afternoon while you stared at the ceiling.

"Watch me," you said.

He watched you for approximately eleven more days before he stopped saying anything about it at all.

The car situation came to a head on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate. Tuesdays had always had a particular talent for making things worse.

You had always known, in a vague and carefully unexamined way, that the car thing was unfair. Garrett had gotten one junior year of high school a practical, slightly dented Honda Civic that Phil Graham had handed over with a clap on the shoulder and a speech about responsibility that lasted four minutes. You had gotten a lecture about how young women didn't need to be driving alone at night, delivered in the measured, reasonable tone your father used when what he actually meant was something he knew better than to say out loud.

In college it hadn't mattered much. Campus was walkable, rideshares existed, and you had quietly become very skilled at organizing your life around other people's cars without ever quite admitting that was what you were doing.

And then the interview came up and the system collapsed.

The position was tutoring coordinator at a learning center in Boston — real money, flexible hours, the kind of thing that could genuinely change the shape of your year. Friday at nine. Boston. Forty minutes away on a good day.

You needed a car.

Which meant you needed to call your father.

Phil Graham suggested lunch, because Phil Graham always suggested lunch. It was his preferred format for any interaction he wanted to feel like generosity rather than transaction, a restaurant, a table, the performance of a normal family.

You took Dean with you without asking permission, which your father noticed immediately and acknowledged with a slight tightening around the eyes that lasted less than a second before his public face reassembled itself. He shook Dean's hand with the particular warmth he reserved for audiences and said it was nice to see one of Garrett's friends, and Dean smiled and you watched them take the measure of each other across the table.

Dean was good at this. You had not known, before today, exactly how good. He had a way of being present without inserting himself filling silences before they became uncomfortable, asking your father questions that were just interested enough to be flattering without being so specific that they required anything real. He ordered the second cheapest thing on the menu, sat up straight, and spent the meal being quietly, almost imperceptibly perfect, and you watched your father recalibrate in real time.

"I need a car," you said, when the food arrived. Straight to it.

Your father looked up from his plate. "A car."

"I have an interview in Boston on Friday morning. I need reliable transportation."

"You could take the train."

"The timing doesn't work for the train."

A pause. Your father cut into his steak with the precise unhurried movements of a man deciding how much something was going to cost him versus how it would look to say no in front of company.

"I'll look into it," he said.

"I'd prefer to sort it out today."

Dean took a sip of his water and looked pleasantly at the middle distance, which was exactly right.

Your father bought you a car three days later. A white Subaru, two years old, clean interior. He texted you the details with no preamble and no sentiment, and you picked it up from the dealership with Dean in the passenger seat reading the car manual out loud in a documentary narrator voice until you were laughing so hard you had to pull over.

It was, all things considered, one of the better days you'd had recently.

The tire went two weeks after the party, on a Friday morning, on a stretch of road so unremarkable it felt like an insult.

You heard it first a dull, percussive thud that traveled up through the wheel and into your hands, followed immediately by the lurch of the car pulling hard to the right. You steered onto the shoulder and sat there for a moment with both hands still on the wheel and the hazards blinking orange into the grey morning air.

Boston was forty minutes away. The interview was in just under two hours. You were wearing your good blazer.

You got out and looked at the tire. Flat. Completely, aggressively, unapologetically flat.

You got back in the car and called Dean.

"Tell me you know how to change a tire," you said, when he picked up.

"Good morning to you too."

"Dean. I have a flat tire and an interview in Boston in less than two hours."

A pause. The sound of someone sitting up. "Where are you?"

You told him. There was a longer pause the kind that meant he was deciding something you weren't privy to yet.

"I can't come," he said finally. "I'm on the other side of town and I don't have the truck. But I'm going to fix this. Give me ten minutes."

"If you send Garrett—"

"I'm not sending Garrett." His voice had gone careful. Deliberate. "Ten minutes. Stay put."

He hung up before you could argue.

You sat on the hood of your car in your good blazer and watched the morning traffic pass and tried very hard not to think about who else Dean might send. You had a short list. The list had one name on it.

Fourteen minutes later, a familiar dark truck pulled onto the shoulder behind you.

You closed your eyes briefly.

Dean, you thought. I am going to kill you.

Logan got out without hurrying, because he never hurried. He was in a worn grey shirt with the sleeves pushed up and dark jeans, carrying a jack and a spare tire with the easy competence of someone who had done this many times before, and the morning light was doing something completely unreasonable to the line of his jaw.

You crossed your arms.

"I didn't ask for you," you said, before he reached you.

"Dean called me." He crouched beside your tire and assessed the damage.

"I know Dean called you. I'm saying I didn't ask for you."

"I know." He ran his hand along the tire. "You've got a nail in the sidewall. It's not patchable."

"Logan—"

"You can be angry at me the whole time." He looked up at you briefly, and there was something in his expression that wasn't quite an apology and wasn't quite a plea but sat somewhere in between. "But you have an interview in an hour and forty minutes, so let me do this."

You looked at the road instead.

He worked quickly and without commentary loosening the bolts, positioning the jack, the methodical progression of someone who understood machines in a way that was almost meditative to watch. You tried not to watch. You watched anyway.

Once he glanced up and found you looking. You looked away first.

"This is a temporary spare," he said, after a while. "It'll get you around town but not highway speeds. Not safely." He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he reached into his pocket. "Take my truck."

"Absolutely not."

"Your interview—"

"I'm not taking your truck, Logan."

"Why not?"

Because taking his truck meant owing him something, and owing him something meant having a reason to come back, and coming back meant another conversation where you said something you couldn't take back and he looked at you with that expression and didn't say anything.

"Because it's your truck," you said.

"And your interview is in less than two hours." He held out the keys. "Take it. I'll stay here. Come by the house when you're done and we'll swap back."

"I can call a rideshare—"

"(y/n)." Just your name. Just that, quiet on the side of the road, and something about the way he said it made all the arguments feel very small. "Please."

You looked at him. He looked back, steady and patient, keys extended, and you were so tired of fighting things that weren't worth fighting anymore.

You took the keys.

"I'm paying for the tire," you said.

"You're not."

"Logan—"

"Go." The corner of his mouth moved, almost. "You're going to be late."

The interview went well. You thought about Logan the entire time.

You drove back in his truck, which smelled like cedar and old coffee and something else you couldn't name, and you sat in the driveway of the house for a moment before going in.

Logan was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water, and he looked up when you came in.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Good. Really good, actually." You set his keys on the counter. "Thank you. For the truck."

"Of course."

A silence settled. The television murmured from somewhere in the house. Tucker's laugh, distant and easy.

You should leave. You had told yourself on the drive over that you were going to return the keys and go clean and simple, no openings.

But you were so tired.

Tired of the almost-conversations and the loaded silences and the two years of carrying something that got heavier every time he looked at you like that and said nothing.

"I like you," you said.

The words came out quieter than you intended. Steadier than you expected. You watched them land.

Logan went very still.

"I know that's complicated," you continued. "I know about Garrett. I know that's why. I'm not asking you to do anything about it." You paused. "I just needed to say it out loud. I've been carrying it for two years and I needed to put it down somewhere."

Logan looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before — open and unguarded and almost pained. His mouth opened.

"(y/n)—" he started, and his voice was different, lower

The back door opened.

Garrett came through it pulling off his jacket, mid-sentence about something to Tucker, and nearly walked into you before he registered you were there.

He stopped. For a moment he just looked at you. Then something cracked open in his expression relief and guilt and two weeks of missed calls all arriving at once.

"(y/n)." His voice was careful. "Hey. I didn't know you were here."

"Just returning the truck," you said. Perfectly normal. You were getting very good at it.

"Okay." He nodded slowly. Then, quieter: "Can we talk? It's been weeks and I—"

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," you said.

Behind you, almost inaudible, Logan said: "It's okay. Go."

You turned.

He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and his expression carefully arranged into something neutral, and he met your eyes for exactly one second before he looked at the floor.

"Logan—"

"Go talk to your brother." His voice was even. Controlled. "It's fine."

You stared at him. The word sat in the kitchen between you like something neither of you wanted to pick up.

Fine.

"Okay," you said. And turned away.

The conversation with Garrett lasted longer than ten minutes. They always did.

He sat across from you on the couch with his elbows on his knees and said: "I'm sorry about the party."

"Okay," you said.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you. I was worried."

"I know."

"I know you're an adult. I know you don't need me to—"

"Garrett." You looked at him. "I know you know. That's never been the question."

He was quiet. In the kitchen, the low sound of Tucker and Logan talking, the refrigerator opening and closing.

"Then what's the question?" he asked.

You thought about it. About his hands pressing your head against his chest in the dark. About the house that felt too big after your mother left. About the whole year he had stayed close without ever being asked.

"I think you learned to protect me at a time when I really needed it," you said carefully. "And I think you don't know how to stop. And I think—" your voice went slightly unsteady "—I'm always going to love you for the first part. I just need you to work on the second part."

Garrett looked at the floor. His jaw worked.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, okay."

It wasn't a resolution. It wasn't a fix. But it was the most honest thing you'd said to each other in years, and when you stood up to leave he pulled you into a hug that lasted long enough to mean something.

Logan was in the hallway when you came out.

Not waiting, exactly leaning against the wall with his phone in his hand, doing the convincing impression of someone who just happened to be there. He looked up when he heard you.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." You picked up your bag. "I should go."

"(y/n)—"

"I meant what I said." Your voice came out gentler than you intended. "I'm not asking you for anything. You don't have to—"

"I know." He said it quickly. "I know you're not. I just—" He stopped. Something moved across his face. He pressed his mouth closed and looked at the ceiling briefly. "I heard you. What you said in the kitchen. I need you to know that I heard you."

You stood there with your hand on the door and the cold night air coming in.

"Okay," you said quietly.

And you left.

The guy's name was Eric.

He was in your economics lecture tall, easy smile, the kind of person who made friends without trying. He had asked to borrow a pen three weeks ago and somehow that had turned into sitting together, and sitting together had turned into coffee after class, and coffee after class had turned into texts that had nothing to do with economics.

You liked him well enough. He was uncomplicated in a way that felt, after everything, like something you might need.

You mentioned him to Hannah on a Thursday. Hannah mentioned him to Garrett on a Friday. Garrett mentioned him to the house on a Saturday, in the way Garrett mentioned things casually, as information, with the studied neutrality of someone who had learned to deliver news without editorializing.

Dean watched Logan's face when Garrett said the name.

Later, he would describe it as watching someone step on a piece of glass they hadn't seen coming.

Logan lasted four days.

Four days of being completely normal. Of practice and class and the house and dinner and conversations that had nothing to do with you. Four days of his phone on the table, not checking it, of going to bed at a reasonable hour and lying there for a long time.

On the fifth day, Dean knocked on his door.

"You have about forty eight hours," Dean said.

Logan looked up from the bed. "What?"

"Before she decides Eric is actually a good idea." Dean leaned against the doorframe. "She's not in love with him. She's barely interested. But she's trying, and she's good at trying, and if you wait much longer she's going to try herself right into actually meaning it."

"She deserves to be happy—"

"She deserves to be with someone who's been in love with her for two years, actually." He said it simply, without drama, the way you said things that were just true. "But that's just my opinion."

The word landed in the room and sat there.

In love.

Logan didn't correct him.

"Garrett—" he started.

"Talk to Garrett first if you need to," Dean said. "But do it tonight. Because forty eight hours is generous and I'm not known for being generous."

He left the door open when he walked out.

Logan found Garrett in the kitchen an hour later.

It was the conversation he had been avoiding for two years the one that lived in the back of his head every time you walked into a room, every time he had talked himself back from the edge of doing something about it.

"I need to talk to you about (y/n)," he said.

Garrett turned from the refrigerator. His expression moved through several things quickly before settling into something careful and still.

"Okay," he said.

"I like her." Logan held his gaze. "I've liked her for a long time. I should have said something to you before now and I'm sorry I didn't. But I'm saying it now because I can't not anymore."

The kitchen was very quiet.

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. Long enough that Logan had time to fully contemplate what losing his best friend would feel like, to turn it over, to decide that he was going to say it anyway.

"I know," Garrett said finally.

Logan blinked. "What?"

"I've known for a while." Garrett set his drink down. "I was waiting to see if you'd do something about it or if it would just go away."

"It didn't go away."

"No," Garrett said. "I can see that." He was quiet for a moment. "She's not easy to know. You know that."

"I know."

"And if you do this and it goes badly—"

"It won't."

"Logan—"

"It won't." He held Garrett's gaze. "I promise you it won't."

Garrett looked at him for one more long moment. Then he picked his drink back up and said, in the tone of someone changing the subject entirely: "She's probably at the sorority house."

You were on the porch when he pulled up.

You had come outside for air, just that, and you were sitting on the steps with a mug of tea going cold in your hands when you heard the truck. You knew the sound of that engine. Your stomach did the thing it always did.

He got out. Crossed the front path. Stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at you with an expression that had nothing careful about it — no composure, no distance. Just Logan, standing there looking like he had driven over without thinking it all the way through and wasn't sorry about it.

"There's a guy," he said. "Eric."

"I know who Eric is," you said slowly. "He's in my economics class."

"I know." His jaw worked. "I know, and I have no right to say anything about it. But I've been sitting in that house for four days and I can't—" He stopped. Tried again. "I can't watch you choose someone else because I was too much of a coward to say something."

You were very still.

"I talked to Garrett," he said.

"You—" You stared at him. "When?"

"Tonight." He took a step up, closing some of the distance. "I should have done it a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things a long time ago." He looked at you with an openness that was almost difficult to look at directly no walls, no distance, just the thing underneath all of it, which was apparently enormous. "I like you. I have liked you since the first time Garrett introduced us and you shook my hand and looked at me like you were trying to figure out what I was. And I have been handling it badly ever since and I'm sorry."

The street was quiet. The mug in your hands had gone completely cold.

"Eric is fine," you said. Your voice was slightly unsteady. "He's a perfectly nice person."

"I know."

"I'm not in love with him."

"I know that too." Logan's voice dropped slightly. "Is it too late? Because Dean said—"

"What did Dean say?"

"That I had forty eight hours."

You looked at him.

"Dean gave you forty eight hours," you said.

"He said it was generous."

"He's right, it was." You stood, which put you on the same level as him, close enough that you didn't have to look up anymore. "I was going to give you until the end of the month."

Something broke open in his expression. "Yeah?"

"Don't make it a thing," you said, and kissed him.

He kissed you back immediately, no hesitation, one hand coming up to the back of your neck and the other finding your waist, and it was nothing like October — none of the uncertainty, none of the held breath. This was certain. This was two years of accumulated patience finally running out, from both directions at once.

When you pulled back he was smiling — a real one, unguarded, the one you had always liked best on him.

"For the record," he said, "the first time you shook my hand I thought about it for three days."

"I know," you said. "I could tell."

you never really thought this day would come. you feared it. you saw it in your nightmares where you shot awake and woke him up right alongside you. he’d damn near kill someone if they knew how he cooed and soothed you back down into his arms.

he first noticed you in the danforth’s resort during your family vacation. he was making his rounds when he stopped once he spotted the pretty girl across the room with the beautiful black flowy cover-up surrounded by the bright outfits of your family members. it’s insane to say but that’s the moment he knew he loved you. his black sheep.

a little coercion, he got you alone the first night he saw you and you were as hooked as he was. it was like some weird twisted fairytale. and when you told your family you weren’t leaving with them as you hugged the resort owner’s arm, your cheek smushed into his bicep, you took the screamings of your mother and father. 

he should have married you from the beginning as his father and sister told him to. truthfully? he was terrified. if you married him, you would have to draw a card. if he saw you pull that god forsaken game… he would be ruined. forever.

you think you might be after the phone call you just received.

he found you in your shared bedroom. you were sitting at the edge of the bed with your hands in your lap, your back turned to the door. he shut it behind him, guarding you from any eavesdroppers. you didn’t acknowledge him. just stared into space.

with a sigh, he walked closer, rounding the mattress and standing before you. the silence around you two lingered like a thick scotch. it was bitter. like he cursed you by entering your life. in truth, he did. you would never say it to him. or yourself.

he lifted his hand in attempt to brush the hair that hung before your eyes away. you slapped it away as soon as it touched you. titus inhaled deeply, regaining his composure so he doesn’t lose it on you. you don’t deserve it. he doesn’t blame you.

“don’t be like that,” he says in a low voice.

you shake your head, brushing him off again. you don’t want to be acting like a brat. every nightmare you had about this, he’d hold you tight around your waist, mumbling into your scalp about how it would never happen. it was too "inconceivable". the only possibility of that happening was if the newlywed very unluckily picked the hide & seek. then there was the extremely rare concept of said newlywed surviving the night. the le domas’ were a strong family.

some lump of shit that was, huh?

titus was forced to do this. not only for himself and his sister, but for you. if he claimed the high seat of the council, you would be safe forever. he would never have to worry. you’d be his beautiful queen. he’d feed you grapes n shit. make the entire organization kneel at your feet. force them to watch you ride him with a smile on his smug fuckin’ face.

you wanted to punch that look you imagined in your head. he’s so arrogant to think that he’d actually survive the hunt. he’s a strong guy. though, we’re talking about a girl who killed all her in-laws in just one night. you weren’t crazy to be paranoid.

his knees cracked a bit as he bent down, kneeling on the ground before you. a sight for the ages.

“this could be good for us,” he pleads, placing his palms on where your knees were under the pretty black lacey fabric of your dress. you didn’t hit him this time which was nice. “if i wear that ring, baby, everything would be under danforth control.. i could finally make you my wife-”

a sniffle makes him stop. a droplet falls from your cheek and onto his hand. god, he’d never say he hates this family, though he knows he truly hates this.

titus swallows, finding his words again. “i know you’re afraid.”

“afraid doesn’t even begin to describe it,” you finally whisper in a broken voice. 

the look he gives you is almost as heartbreaking as how you sound. eyebrows upturned. mouth parted. you can see it through the hair hanging over your eyes.

“i will survive,” he says. “i’ll be the one to get the bitch and we will be okay.”

“and ursula?” you ask, your eyebrows raising to try and keep the tears from coming any more than they already were. “i don’t trust her…”

you never had. always little hints from her that she was using him to bring herself to the top. she called him crazy. she had no business. when you came into the picture, she looked at you like you didn’t belong there. little comments about how ridiculous she thought it was that you hadn’t married into the danforth family yet.

it was even worse when you had to watch her slap titus across the face when he acted a little too far away from perfect in her eyes. you could see the heartbreak in his eyes each time it happened. you never said anything. you don’t know why you didn’t.

“look at me,” he whispers, shaking your thighs gently. “you don’t think i can do it? you don’t think i’m strong enough?”

“titus…”

“no, c’mon, give me a reason why you think i can’t win this.”

finally, finally you look up at him. your eyes are bloodshot. you’re barely crying anymore. you got it all out before he got to you. you see him for what he’s always been to you in that moment: the nice man with the weird family who got you to fall for him in just a week. where he took you on a tour through his namesake’s resort. showed you the behind the scenes. he even got the venue room empty, got control of the speakers and let you choose whatever music you wanted. he held you close and swayed gently.

he was not that crazed lunatic the entire organization saw him as. he was your titus.

you couldn’t imagine him so violent even after everything you have heard about him.

“i know that you can do it, it’s not about that,” you mumble. “but those other families are nightmares. i mean, that francesca is out of her fucking mind. unpredictable. angry.”

“she doesn’t play unless her father is taken out.”

“don’t even get me started on him,” you huff out a laugh. that gives him a smile. “i’m just… i want to go back to yesterday when none of this was happening.”

“i know, babydoll, i know,” he nods reaching up to kiss you on your forehead. you start to giggle once his kisses move down to your cheeks, getting the tears away. “you’re all snotty.”

you barely paw at his chest, a miniscule attempt of getting him away from you.

“yeah, whatever,” you sniffle, letting him kiss down your neck. “i don’t even care that much…”

“no,” he acts all shocked, pushing on your shoulder so your back hits the mattress.

crawling over you, he catches your puffy cried out lips in a deep kiss, practically inhaling you like he needs you to breath. the cigar smoke seemed embedded in his saliva, drowning your tastebuds. your right leg drags up to rest around his hip with the skirt of your dress flowing off of his body. you can already feel him pressing into you haaard. you took a shuddering breath and laced your fingers through his pretty silver curls.

“how long ‘til we have to go?” you gasp out, his clothed cock dragging right up against your clit. the friction of the fabric was flipping your tummy in circles.

“we’ve got time,” he says, breathing heavily as he bunches your dress up around your waist. “mm, yeah… yeah, we got time.”

he scootched you up a bit so your head was resting on the pillows. keeping himself low, he kneeled at the edge of the bed so he was face to face with your leaky clothed cunt. glancing up, he blew gently over the wet fabric, smirking when you started squirming at the chilled air. he liked making you squirm. it wasn’t him hurting you. just playing.

hooking his finger around the hem of your panties, he yanked them down a bit too fast before he dived in without warning. hes a wacked out eater with you but this was at a new level. we was nipping and sucking and biting all up on your folds, tongue dragging in and out your hole. he relished in hearing you choked up as he sloppily swallowed up everything that leaked out of you.

it was like you didn’t feed him at all. starved so badly that he might just eat you whole.

though, he was just trying to solidify the taste of you on his tongue. he was arguing with you, saying how ridiculous it was that you thought he wouldn’t win, but… what if he didn’t? if he died, you’d be all alone. your family was gone. you had no place to go. that’s what scared him. leaving you.

the filthy stroke of his tongue had you cumming on his face, his hands rubbing up and down your thighs. he didn’t notice you were crying again until he climbed over you.

“shhh,” he shushed you, pushing his pants down so he can line up his cock against your pussy. the sniffles were making his heart clench in his chest.

“titus-” you sobbed once he started pushing in.

“i’m right here,” he nods, linking his fingers with yours and placing your hands above your head. “not going anywhere…”

titus gently rocks his hips into you. it’s not like you two to be fully clothed during sex. feeling your warm skin against him, your pulse bouncing in the crook beneath your jaw. it made him feel closer to any other person. he learned everything about you in those moments.

“don’t leave,” you cried, finding it hard to catch your breath. “please… please don’t-”

he leaned in, coaxing your mouth open with his chin. swirling his tongue in his mouth, he conjured up some spit, letting it drool into your mouth. you took it. he leaned in, sloppily kissing you so he can feel you swallow it down.

“good baby,” he hums, tucking his face into your neck so you don’t see the mirroring tears well up in his eyes. “just feel me… my fuckin’ girl… my girl.”

his muttered words were turning into growls and his grip on your hands felt like they were bruising. the snap of his hips hurt with his pelvis clanking into yours. it hurt so good. the nice stretch buuuuurned and forced your legs wider to suck him in easier.

“where you want it?” titus grumbles, releasing one of your hands to wrap his fingers snug around your throat. he squeezed just enough so you could barely breathe.

“inside…” you wheeze.

“what was that?” he squeezes a little tighter before releasing.

“inside, titus!”

a rough laugh escaping him, he nods, licking up the tears that streamed down your cheeks. you feel the warm gush coating his cock as you came in unison. each long stroke had a nasty squelch that echoed off of the walls. through your blurry gaze you saw stars. you saw every important memory you’ve had with him.

the first kiss you had in the resort pool after hours. he kept the lights low that night. warmed the pool and snuck you in. somehow, he convinced you to get naked with him. not sexual. just open. he found himself smiling as you tilted your head back, your hair flowing in the clear blue water behind you. you apparently thought it was the funniest thing ever. maybe you just had the giggles. all he knew was that he thought you were the most beautiful and haunting thing he had ever laid eyes on. you two floated in the deep end, the sound of your feet gently swaying beneath the water to stay afloat.

when he didn’t propose to you. he was sitting at the end of the dining room table in danforth manor, cigar between his teeth and you sat on his knee. he twirled your hair like you were a doll he was admiring.

“hypothetically…” you hummed, plucking the cigar from his mouth and inhaling the smoke. “if we were to get married… would it just be us? or would it have to be your whole family there?”

he huffs out a laugh, scrunching up his face and turning it away when you blew the smoke in his face. “all of them, baby.”

“shame,” you say, nuzzling your nose into his cheek. “was hoping for a nude wedding or something…”

“hm, who says we can’t?”

“eww,” you laugh, pushing his face away gently. 

“one day,” he whispers. he tilts his head up, brushing your lips against his. “one day, ‘m gonna give you a biiiig fuckin’ ring. okay? one of those ridiculous ones that’ll blind everyone in a half-mile radius. just not yet…”

you nod.

“baby, will you not marry me?” titus asks you in that gravely voice.

“no, titus,” you answer, your arms wrapping around his neck, “i will not marry you.”

your vision seems to clear and you finally come to reality. he flipped you around, laying your head on his clothed chest without you noticing. you don’t know how long you’ve been in a daze for.

there was a sticky feeling dripping down your inner thighs that you flinched at when your legs rubbed together. he noticed and hiked your knee up around his waist, letting you rub up on his black pants from the side to get some of it off. every twitch you made at the feeling he cooed in your ear to calm you down. he didn’t care much if it was visible. why would he be ashamed of his girl’s cum mixed with his? 

his eyes drifted over to the big mahogany grandfather clock. he curses father time for ruining this moment.

“we’ve gotta go,” you hear titus mumble, the vibrations in his chest making your ear buzz. theres a crinkle around where your eyes shut tight.

“i was sort of hoping you’d forget after that,” you say.

he sighs. “yeah… me too.”

(google doc link)

when you’re around more, it didn’t change too much. Small no’s, little nods, shrugs. if anything, you could gauge his mood/answer through his pretty eyes. it felt telepathic. he’d let you ramble on and on, only giving you small answers an nods of acknowledgment to show he was really listening.

when you guys started dating and blooming into your relationship, Pope could talk about anything with you. Pope could talk about the tiny clouds in the sky, the way the bacon pops with you if you wanted to.

you couldn’t get enough of it, finally getting bigger conversations out of him, hearing his thoughts about whatever. you’d stop time if it meant you’d have enough to listen to him talk about the difference inhospitable sharks are treated in comp. to dolphins, or something.

this didn’t mean you could get everything out of him though, no. like for instance, he didn’t talk about whatever happened when he came home bruised and bloody, eyes barely focusing on you and stumbling. and when you patch him up, pout in your face with a thousand questions, he’d just stare, quiet as ever.

you weren’t stupid, you knew that part of his life, their lives. and you never tried to ask unnecessary questions like some people, but whenever it got really bad or scary, how could you not get curious? his quietness about it all was to protect you, he expressed that and you knew that.

but sometimes you’d get in crying screaming fits at him about it, telling him things you’d be apologizing for later, crying about how you just want to be careful. he’d just hold you quietly, lips perched together in a shaky frown.

he didn’t like opening up about his past either, which you didn’t mind. you’ve got some demons of you own, traumas you’re still coming to terms with. but he would tell you little things, just so it was out where he could see it.

and he was always so quiet with it, like someone was gomma wack him over the head if he spoke too loud. he’d whisper things about his family growing up to you, sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes while making dinner.

“Smurf used to lock me in the car for hours.” he’d whisper against your skin. you were half asleep, his head resting on your chest an your hand intertwined with his little curls, but you’re snapped awake by his voice. “..oh?” you say, careful not to prod.

(you’d learned that the trick to get him to say more wasn’t to prod, or ask questions whenever it happened. it was to let it flow from him freely. think of trying to get a cat to come close to you.)

“she’d..we were too little to go in some places, me and..julia. so she’d just leave us there, and it would be hours, sometimes we’d be asleep when she came back didn’t matter if it were hot, cold. she’d still do it.” he nuzzled against your head, and that was your sign the conversation ended. you hold him closer. acknowledgement.

“she used to beat me with a studded belt.” you’re at the other end of the couch with a book in your hand, your feet against his chest as you read up on a book, him watching something on Nat Geo. “smurf..?” you ask, eyes on his face as he keeps his on the television.

“yeah. one of them were studs with holes in em, they had metal rings around it. she’d do it when i’d break apart my toys, but i just liked seeing what they were made of so i could put em back together. i always did.” he says, kissing one of your little toys, smiling small when you giggle against him. the conversation was over.

one day, after his little spills he’s left himself crying. no kissing you, or holding you closer, nothing. he’d left you, actually. got up from the bed in the dead of night and pattered to the lawn of your home.

he’d told you something he’d only told one other person. he’d hurt his past lover, a childhood crush. it stung coming from him, it stung hearing it in your ears. him go in detail about how he loved her, how he made love to her before suffocating her to death.

he told you smurf made him do it, that he had no choice because smurf told him the woman might’ve been talking to the cops. and immediately upon the last words flew out his mouth, he flew out the room.

you wrap a robe around yourself and follow him after collecting yourself, you were a little shaken up, rightfully so, but andrew was your man. and his past wasn’t gonna deteriorate the love you held for him. “Honey..” you slide the door open, seeing him shake as he holds his arms, glowing under the moonlight.

“you’re scared of me.” he says, a statement, not a question. it makes your brows furrow. “what?” “you’re scared of me. i..i feel it, and you’re gonna tell me to go. but i didn’t wanna do it..i promise.” with each step closer to him, he’s backing away, chest heaving as he stares at the ground with huge eyes.

“i’m not scared of you baby, i could never ever be scared of you,” you grab him by his shirt to keep him close. “i didn’t wanna kill her.” “i know, i know baby.” you pull him down into his arms, you don’t push for him to hold you or anything, you just hold him, feeling him lay his head against your shoulder.

“i won’t tell you more if it scares you. what’s happened to me.” he mutters, and your eyes shoot open. you’re pulling him closer, searching around for his gaze until they land on you finally.

“you can tell me anything, anything at all honey. i’m not goin’ anywhere. anywhere. and neither are you, ok? look at me,” you hold his cheeks, his tears flowing over your hands as he nods. “you’re not leaving me. i’m not goin’ anywhere, i’m right here. and i’ll always listen to whatever you have to say baby, i’ll always be here.” you pull him into another hug, and this time he wraps his arms around you, snuffling into your shoulder.

he feels your bare skin a under your hands. “you’re naked.” he says after a beat of silence. “i have on a robe.” “you’re naked under it, though.” … “i am.”

he smiles against your skin. “when i couldn’t sleep, i’d stand in the grass naked and stare at the moon.” “..oh yeah?” “yeah. it was cold most of the time, but it felt good.” he says, and he lifts you into his arms and into the house. the conversation was over.

bonus!

sometimes, andrew let it spill in the oddest of times. you grew to believe it was because he was so comfortable with you now, free to let whatever was playing in his head free.

you’ve got your arms wrapped around his shoulders, knees squeezing his broad frame as you moan into his ear, squealing like a pig as he fucks the daylights out of you.

“you feel really good baby.” he lifts up, pushing your thighs up further from under your knees, getting a guttural moan out of you at the newfound deepness his cock was pushing. “sometimes,” he swallows. “sometimes when i watch you sleep i think about plugging your mouth and fucking you.” he pants, and your eyes come open, though still fluttering.

you were a little out of it, head feeling dizzy as he fucks you harder and harder. “oh yeah..?” you breath, and he’s got his head reeled back as he nods, mouth agape.

“uh huh. you just look so cute. but i wouldn’t stretch you, i’d just put it in. so it would hurt. so i’d have to put my had over you. and you’d scream as you wake up, but you’d be wet. you’re always wet in your sleep for some reason.” his words slur, and the information makes your brows furrow, your hands coming up to push at his chest, begging for some sympathy to your cunt.

“i-i am?” “oh yeah.” he nods, head bowing to finally meet your face. “it’s weird. it’s..hard not to think about it when you sleep naked, n’ your pussy is against me,” his eyes rolls back, lip swollen from how much he’d been biting down on it. “n’ i..i wanna fuck you but i can’t because you’re asleep so i hump you.”

his thrusts gets more forceful as he works himself up, groans coming out between words. “and you just get..so wet that you leave a spot on my boxers. and it just makes me wanna…” he throws his head back again, jackrabbiting his cock into you until he spills inside of you with a loud groan, slowing his thrust, fucking his cum in you until he stops, coming down to kiss you sweetly.

Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding. 

And your patio?

A grill that could maybe handle…four sausages. Five if they’re prepared to be very close. 

You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise you’ve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of… grilled meat tetris.

You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for food…People expect to wait for food.” 

Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.

And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know it’s Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night. 

Now it’s feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show. 

You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, he’ll go away.

He doesn’t. He just knocks again.

You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. It’ll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together. 

You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in it—like tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. You’d take two of those right now. 

“Hey,” you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation. 

“Hi.” There’s a slight raise in his brow, like he’s already caught on that something here is…off. 

“Come in.” You move to the side, gesturing him in.

He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time he’s ever been inside. 

Momentarily, you feel like you’re under an imaginary microscope, like you’ve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except there’s no microscope, no audience. 

Just Abbot. 

And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than you’d like. 

You’re not sure what he’s going to think of your home. It’s smaller than his, you know that much without asking. It’s cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. You’d love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the time…or if you were sure he wanted to hear them. 

 He probably doesn’t. 

And you definitely don’t have time.

“Cute place.”

“Cute?” you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. “Is that your way of dressing up the word small?”

“No.” His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like he’s actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. “It’s cute. Very you.”

That annoyingly lands somewhere you weren’t prepared for. 

You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. “Right. Well I’m glad my personality translates into…square footage.” 

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what I heard.” 

He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.

You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because you’ve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you won’t be needing his help at all. 

Unless he’s particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway. 

“Anyways,” you say briskly, turning to the back door. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You’re absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brain’s decided now’s a good time to develop new problems. 

You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he does—close enough to be mildly distracting—you gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. “There she is.” 

He looks. 

There’s a faint pause. 

“She’s, um—”

“Cute?” you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow. 

“I was going to say compact.”

“It’s second hand,” you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldn’t you? You’d much rather spend your money on something you’ll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.

It is now very clearly the opposite of that.

“It looked bigger before I picked it up,” you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. “Please say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.”

“I’m thinking.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, right? I’ll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. It’s hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?”

He finally meets your gaze.

“...No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. “Wow. Okay. That was…very immediate.”

“You’ll have people waiting too long between rounds,” he says calmly. “Half of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.”

“Great.” You throw your hands up. “Just kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I will never hear the end of this,” you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. “They don’t take me seriously enough as it is—” you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what you’re about to admit, “—and they’re constantly expecting me to mess things up before I’ve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypes”

You glance at the grill, then back at him. “And this will absolutely prove them right.”

“Have it at my house,” he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.

“Sorry?”

“It’ll be easier,” he explains, like he’s just suggesting you move a chair. “More space. Proper grill.”

“That would mean my entire family going to your house.”

“Yes.”

“And you being there.”

“I live there.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think you realise what you’re suggesting. It’s not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and I’m fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.”

“And you couldn’t say no?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.”

He doesn’t even look slightly concerned. “I’m not saying no.”

“Why not?”

“Because it solves your problem.”

“We’re not at work.” You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. “You don’t have to solve my problems.”

He tilts his head like he’s considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like there’s still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.

It does not. 

“Well,” he says, almost absently, “if it makes you feel any better, you’re rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.”

You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. “But don’t you think it’d be weird? What am I meant to say to them?”

“That we work together. That I’ve got the space and offered to host. That’s it.”

“You’re making this sound so simple,” you scoff, shaking your head. 

“Because it is simple. I’m offering a solution. Take it. We’ll load up my truck with what you need and go.”

“And you don’t think they’ll assume things?” You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you should’ve outgrown years ago. 

“Assume what?” he presses, and you don’t know if he’s genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasn’t seen nor reciprocated. 

“Nothing!” you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. “I’m being stupid and I’m out of options so I guess we can have it at your house—if you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Great. Amazing. Perfect.” You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, you’re not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQ—or your next shift with Abbot—without saying something you absolutely cannot take back. 

You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative. 

Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, it’s your family. 

Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.

Your boss.

Who you might be slightly crushing on. 

And your earlier exchange?

Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming that’s very much a one sided situation. 

“You’re sure you don’t need me to drop by the store first?” he asks.

You’re not sure if he’s looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.

It hasn’t been working. 

If anything, it’s considerably worse, because you’re now hyperaware of everything you’re trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way he’s driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off. 

“No.” You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. “I pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.”

He hums like that checks out. “Alright.”

“You still haven’t changed your mind?”

He glances at you again. “About?”

You stare at him. 

You’re not sure if he’s doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like he’s deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences. 

It’s incredibly annoying. 

Because it has your mind drifting to…other situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way he’d look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him. 

Like he’d make you tell him exactly what you want. 

Exactly how you want it. 

And look at him while you do it. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.

“Everything okay?”

“No. No—” you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. “I think we need to stop by the store.”

“You just said you had everything.”

“Why are you asking so many questions today?” You turn to face him, and you’re pretty sure you’re glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve. 

“That wasn’t a question.”

You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesn’t deserve you snapping at him, but he’s also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. “My mistake.” You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. “I’m not sure I’ve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the store, that’d be great.” 

He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. “I love the customer service voice.”

“I’m not doing a customer service voice.”

“You are. It’s very polite.”

You blink at him, lips parting like you’re about to argue it, then stopping when you realise there’s probably no winning this.

“Can you stop by the store or not?” you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest. 

“Of course,” he answers easily. “You’re the boss today.”

You don’t dignify that with a response, mostly because you’re too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have it—it does—but he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity. 

You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Going to the store? What’s with all the questions?”

“No you’re not,” you reply, pointing at him. “You’re staying here.”

“Am I?

“Yes.”

“And why’s that?” he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.

“Because I’m the boss today.” You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual. 

You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air. 

This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you don’t usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse. 

Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to be…that. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbot’s house. 

And now, just to round things up nicely, you can’t even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings. 

You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesn’t even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again. 

With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients you’re missing. 

By the time you’re paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that there’s a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown. 

You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbot’s car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier. 

“Got everything?” 

“Mhm.” You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal. 

When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening today—you’ve never been to his house before either. 

You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking it’ll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of  room to spare. 

The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. It’s dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used. 

You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like he’s got nowhere else to be.

You’re already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that you’re almost certain the back will look even better. 

That’s your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. You’d have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself you’d replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if it’s just herbs you’d forget to use anyway. 

You think about hosting without overthinking it. People just…spreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isn’t enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave. 

Or just to soak up the sun on days like this. 

“Ready to go?”

Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like you’ve ended up somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. “Beautiful house.”

He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like he’s seeing it through your eyes. “It does the job.”

“Does it very well.”

You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.  

You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What it’d feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill. 

You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe you’d end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesn’t really matter because you’d be doing it with him. 

These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because that’s all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that you’ve inconveniently grown attached to. There’s nothing real or solid behind them. 

“Where do you want everything?” you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat. 

Abbot doesn’t answer straight away. 

You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision that’s led him here. 

Your stomach continues to drop. 

“Kitchen?” you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.

He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. “Yeah. Through there.”

You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the door’s not even unlocked. 

You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest. 

“Shit—” The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling. 

“Got you,” he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. It’s a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something they’re not. 

“Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Should’ve given you the keys.”

You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasn’t quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly. 

“It’s fine.” Which is both true and very much not.

His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again. 

“Kitchen’s just straight ahead,” he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open. 

Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. It’s less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. You’re not sure when you’ll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around. 

When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.

Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. There’s even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, there’s a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably. 

So this is where he disappears to when he’s not at work.

“Is it okay?”

You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbot’s voice, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. Your brows pull together, because you’re not entirely sure what he’s asking is okay.

“The house,” he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like he’s suddenly aware of how that sounded. “For tonight.”

“Oh.” You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. “Yeah. No, it’s—” you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, “—more than okay.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before he’s going out again.

You’re almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. It’s so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like that’s the only medical training you’ve managed to retain. 

There’s already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than you’d like, making you wince. 

“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly it’s not being put to any practical use. 

And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in. 

Great. 

You immediately turn your back to him because he doesn’t need any more reasons to think you’re incompetent. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, because you still haven’t spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like that’s a reasonable long-term solution. 

“Grill’s coming along,” he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. “Got it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.” 

“Mm, that’s good. Thank you.” You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadn’t realised how close he was. “Could I have one of those?”

You reach for the roll but he doesn’t hand it over.

“You’ve cut yourself.”

“Yes. I’ve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. It’s fine. Very minor.”

“Give me your hand.”

You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something you’ve just described as very minor.

“It’s really no big—”

“Give me your hand,” he repeats, reaching for your wrist. 

You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light. 

He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. “Here, hold that. I’ll get you a plaster,” he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor. 

You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again. 

You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and you’re instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure it’s properly stuck down. 

“Thank you.” 

He meets your eyes. “You have—” he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin “—a little blood there.” 

Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, but isn’t stopping himself from finding out. 

It’s nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chin—he’s just being kind. 

But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it. 

“There.” He retracts his hand, and once again you’re mourning the loss of contact. 

You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. “So, is the grill behaving?” you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldn’t care less about the grill right now.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Heat’s holding. I’ll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they don’t dry out.” 

“Love a man with a plan,” you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought. 

Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe he’s just giving you a second to realise what you’ve said. 

“Good to know.”

Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and you’ve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.

Dad: We’re running late, honey. Hotel’s messed up our rooms…long story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when we’re on our way…

“They’re running late,” you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out. 

“I’ll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.” You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir. 

“You’re putting them up in a hotel?”

“Well, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?”

He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time. 

“I’m all done with the prep on my side, and since they’ll probably be a little while…would it be absurd if I used your shower?”

“Yes. It would be absolutely absurd.”

He’s mocking you. Funny.

“Right. I’ll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?”

“No complaints on my side.”

Now he’s…flirting?

“Sure. Let me just get out of these clothes—” You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.

“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he cuts in quickly. 

You grin at him. “Thank you.”

“Spare towels are in the cabinet.” His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.

“Thanks,” you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway. 

“Mm.”

The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again you’re stuck dissecting every interaction you’ve had with him today. It’s enough to give you whiplash. One minute he’s distant, the next he’s standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like it’s nothing. You don’t know where you stand with him, and moments like this don’t exactly help. 

You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.

What was that?

Does he even realise he’s doing it?

You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because that’s easier than thinking but that doesn’t seem to last long. 

Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. It’s walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. There’s an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which you’re immediately grateful for because you definitely don’t have time to deal with washing your hair. 

After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once you’re under the water, you realise you’re stuck using his shower products because you’d only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset. 

Now you get to smell like him even when you’re not near him.

You’re hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You don’t entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless. 

On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyone’s on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work. 

Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How he’s gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice. 

You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside. 

The humidity hasn’t let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane task—just by existing. 

You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing. 

You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your body’s decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that there’s something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like they’re running laps all at the same time. 

There’s probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain that’s confused admiration with something far less convenient. 

He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep. 

“Thought you could do with something cold,” you say, holding out the beer to him. 

“Perfect timing,” he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. “How was the shower?”

“Necessary,” you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. It’s probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.

He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like it’s something he has to consciously pull away from. 

“You look nice,” is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill. 

“Thank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. You’ve gone through so much trouble and I don’t even know where to begin in repaying you.”

He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. “You don’t need to repay me.”

“Mm,” you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. “I’d like to.”

“Yeah?”

You tilt your head, watching him the way he’s been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. “Yeah.”

“You always like having the last word?”

You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”

“Thought you had a problem with those today.”

You grin at him. “Think I’m over it now.”

“Is that so?”

You nod, taking another sip. 

“Okay,” he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. “You want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?”

“I can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but you’d have to tell me something first.” You’re not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.

He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where you’re perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. “Go on. I did say you’re the boss today.”

“Why go through all this trouble?” 

He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where he’s standing.

“I don’t want the same answer as earlier,” you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. “Because it’s bullshit.”

For a moment he doesn’t respond, but you’re not panicking. It's probably because you can tell you’ve nudged something, pressed a spot he’d probably rather you didn’t find.

He takes a step closer. 

You feel the plate before you register what he’s doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but that’s not what holds your attention.

It’s his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.

“Bullshit?”  

You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadn’t planned on that being noticeable. You gather what’s left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. “Yeah.”

“Then ask properly.” 

Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but it’s harder than it should be with him this close.  

“Ask properly,” he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer. 

You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.

“Why,” you start, your voice wavering, “are you doing all of this…for me?”

He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.

“You think I do things I don’t want to do?”

You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “No.”

“Then that’s your answer.”

“That’s not an answer,” you push, a little breathless now. “You can’t answer my question with a question.”

“You want me to answer it properly?”

You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point. 

“I did it because I wanted you here.”

You don’t quite know where to file that information. 

There’s no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word. 

It’s not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, and that’s the problem. You’ve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt. 

Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way you’ve been imagining everything else. 

He’s still there, looking at you like there’s absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back. 

“Not the answer you were hoping for?” 

“No.” You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. “It’s exactly the answer I was hoping for.”

Abbot’s grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, not arguing it. “But I haven’t even told you what I was thinking of in the car.”

“Jesus,” he hisses under his breath. “You should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.”

“You want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?” you press smugly.

“I need you to go inside,” he replies, more firmly now. His hands don’t leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees. 

Then he lets go, taking a step back like that’s going to fix anything. 

Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter. 

You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.”

“We’re outside, honey.”

“Okay,” you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbot—more specifically at his very evident hard on—before you’re tuning away. “Now coming.”

“That went well, don’t you think?” Abbot’s voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses. 

He’s right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And you’re not entirely sure whether you’re glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, it’s a good thing. In practice, it’s…inconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.

You’re tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You could’ve gone out there, hovered and earwigged—you’d even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine. 

Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going boss…that you’ve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.

You nod, switching the tap off. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Didn’t notice one.” 

“That’s because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.” 

You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, you’re back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like there’s some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not. 

You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.

Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug casually, “it’s the least I can do. You’ll finally be able to have your place to yourself.” You turn to reach for your phone. “I’ll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.”

There’s a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app. 

“Out of my hair?”

His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder. 

He seems…tense.

“Well, yes Abbot. I’m not planning to crash at your place, you’ve done enough for me today.”

“Right.” He nods, but there’s an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow. 

“You told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?” You tilt your head. “You know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.”

He stays silent.

“What do you want?” 

Nothing.

“Huh?”

Still nothing.

You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because you’ve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something you’re adding to the list. 

You’re halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.

“What the hell?” You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.

“I can’t tell you what I want, because then I won’t be able to take it back.”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone. 

He takes a step back.

“Give it back.”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely insane.”

“And you’re not listening to me.”

“Oh, I’m listening. Loud and clear. You don’t know what you want, you won’t say what you want, and apparently now I’m being held hostage because of it.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Okay,” you scoff. “Well, enjoy whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I’ll just walk home.”

His expression shifts, like he doesn’t believe you, like you’ve just told him something mildly ridiculous…which you have…because there’s no chance in hell you’re actually walking back.

“You’re not walking.”

“Watch me.” 

You turn away from him, but you don’t even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before he’s pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.

“Quit being such a brat,” he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.

You buck into him out of instinct. “I am not—”

One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. 

You don’t. Obviously. 

“You are,” he repeats, voice threading through you. “Threatening to walk out just to see if I’ll stop you.”

You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. “I don’t need you to stop me.”

His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like he’s testing the truth of that. “No?”

“No.”

His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if that’s even possible. “Then go.” His words don’t match what he’s doing.

You don’t move. 

Not even an inch. 

His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs. 

“Funny. Could’ve sworn you were in a rush.”

You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like they’re waiting for instructions you’re not giving. “I was.”

“Yeah?” His nose brushes along your jaw. “What happened?”

“Y-you’re in the way.”

“Am I?” His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.

Your head tips back before you can stop it.

“That doesn’t look like I’m in your way,” he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.

You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. “You’re very confident for someone who didn’t even know what he wanted five minutes ago.”

“I know what I want,” he assures you. “I just don’t think we’d be able to go back from it.”

“So let’s not,” you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. “This is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.”

“Is that something you can do? Because I don’t think I can.” 

“Yes, you can,” you breathe, pressing your ass into him. “I can,” you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You don’t think you can ever come back from this, not really—but you’d try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.

“Yeah?” he murmurs into your neck. 

“Yes—please. I’ll even move to the day shift,” you say, half-delirious, as though that’s a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. “We’ll never speak of this again.”

“Don’t do that,” he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. “I need you on the night shift.” His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric. 

“Okay—okay, sorry—I’m sorry—” The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent. 

He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response. 

“One off?” he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin. 

“One off.”

His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you are—actually hear it—and feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm. 

“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, the words half a laugh. “Have you been this worked up the whole day?” 

You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.

“Whole day,” he repeats, like he’s piecing it all together. “Walking around like that…talking to me like nothing’s wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?”

You nod—once, then again, and again—your body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out. 

It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.

You’re that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you don’t manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesn’t quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like you’ve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.

Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it then—how saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.

It's humiliating. 

“Did you touch yourself in the shower?”

“N—” you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.

“Liars don’t get to come,” he warns. “Did you touch yourself in there?”

“Yes.”

He tuts. “Dirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.”

You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers you’re trying to swallow down. 

“Did it feel as good as this?”

“No—fuck,” you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesn’t let that happen for long. 

His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. “Don’t go shy on me now, baby. You still haven’t told me what you were thinking about in the car.” 

Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of it—or the shower—but he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.

“Jack, please—” you beg, for what, you’re not sure.

“Say that again,” he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.

“Jack,” you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, “I’m so c-close.”

“Yeah,” he pants, fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah, I can feel that.” 

Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.

“M’gonna—fuck—Jack—”

“There you go. Just like that.”

He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesn’t know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbot’s heavy breathing in your ear.

“Shit–” he exhales, his hand slowing against you, “—fuck.”

For a second, neither of you move. 

Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you don’t trust your legs to do their job just yet. 

“Shit.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that,” you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.

There’s a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.

Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because there’s a knock at the door. 

You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.

“Who is that?” you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.

“I don’t know—can you—” He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. “Can you get that?”

You turn to look at him, brows lifting. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not answering the door like this.”

“Like what?” 

He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like you’re trying very hard not to smile. 

“…Right,” you concede, softer this time.

“Thank you,” he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.

You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.

“Hey man—” the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises who’s opened it. “Abbot around? My car won’t start and I’m late for my night shift—” he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.

“Uh yeah, he’s…”

You don’t even need to turn to know he’s there now.

“Yeah,” Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “What’s up?”

“Oh man—I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.

And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.

He’s now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“Think the battery’s dead,” the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. “It just won’t turn over.”

“Alright,” Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like he’s just remembered. “Give me a second.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. I’ll wait outside.”

You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears. 

“...I’ll book that Uber now… if I can have my phone?” You hold your hand out expectantly. 

There’s a pause.

“...Right.”

You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.

“You could stay,” he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.

Your fingers close around the device. “That’s not what we agreed on, remember?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s a one off.”

Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like something’s been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared. 

“Yeah…One off.”

You nod like that’s the end of it, pretending you’re not feeling a little hollow.  “Take your time,” you add, stepping back. “I’ll let myself out.”

He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.

And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesn’t feel like a ‘one off.’ Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when you’re still standing here in his space—thinking about how easily he asked you to stay.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

Touching yourself had been a half-hearted attempt, fingers circling your clit slow and lazy under the covers, but it only made it worse. The empty feeling inside you, the greedy clench of your walls around nothing, it all screamed for something real. Something warm and thick and pulsing. Something attached to the sweet, shy boy sleeping just across the hall.

You and Choso had an understanding. Loose, unspoken in the daylight but ironclad once the lights went out. If either of you was in the mood, you could wake the other. No questions, no awkward mornings after unless you both wanted them. 

Sometimes he’d crawl into your bed with that flushed face and those dark eyes wide with nervous want, mumbling something about how he couldn’t stop thinking about you. 

Other times you’d let him sleep through it, sliding down onto his cock while he dreamed and watching the moment his lashes fluttered open in hazy, blissful confusion. He always came harder that way, hips jerking up like he was chasing the feeling even before his brain caught up.

Tonight, you were too desperate to wait for morning.

You slipped out of bed on quiet feet, wearing nothing but an oversized tee that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs. It was his t-shirt actually, the one he’d left draped over the couch yesterday after doing laundry. It still smelled faintly of his detergent and that warm, clean scent that was just him. 

The hallway floor was cool under your bare soles as you padded toward his room, heart already picking up pace, pussy slick enough that you could feel it starting to drip down your inner thigh with every step.

His door was cracked open like always. Choso hated feeling closed in.

Moonlight cut through the blinds in thin silver stripes across his bed. He was sprawled out on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other resting loose on his stomach. His black hair, those signature stringy strands usually tied up in two high ponytails, had come loose in sleep, fanning across the pillow and sticking slightly to his forehead. 

The blood mark across the bridge of his nose looked almost soft in the dark, like a secret painted there just for you to see when no one else was watching. He wore an old black t-shirt, rucked up high enough to expose the lean muscle of his abdomen and the faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his boxers. 

One leg was kicked out, the other bent, and the thin fabric of his boxers was already tenting slightly, like his body knew you were coming even if his mind was still lost in dreams.

You eased the door shut behind you with a soft click, then crossed the room on silent steps until you stood beside his bed. For a long moment you just looked at him. 

Your overly doting roommate, the one who made you breakfast with that shy little smile every weekend, who folded your laundry with careful hands even when you told him he didn’t have to. 

The same one who’d blush crimson if you caught him staring too long, but who you’d deliberately leave your lace panties scattered around the apartment for anyway. Hot pink ones, black ones with delicate bows, soft cotton thongs. Whatever you knew would make his cock twitch hardest when he thought you weren’t looking. 

You’d come home more than once to find him in his room, door not quite latched, hand wrapped around that thick, leaking length while he pressed your stolen panties to his face or rubbed them along his shaft, hips stuttering and quiet, broken little whimpers slipping out between bitten lips.

God, he was so shy about it. So sweet. And so fucking horny for you it made your stomach flip.

You reached out first, palm sliding slow and gentle over the front of his boxers. Even through the fabric he was warm, already half-hard. His cock twitching under your touch like it was reaching for you. 

A soft, sleepy sound escaped him, brows pinching faintly. You rubbed a little firmer, feeling him swell and thicken under your hand, the head of his cock nudging insistently against the waistband as precum started to dampen the material in a small, dark spot.

His hips shifted. Lashes fluttered but didn’t open. You could see the way his stomach tensed, muscles jumping under smooth skin.

Carefully, you hooked your fingers into the elastic and tugged his boxers down just enough to free him. His cock sprang up heavy against his abdomen. Long, thick, flushed a deep rose at the tip where a fat bead of pre was already welling. The veins along the shaft stood out faintly, pulsing with his heartbeat. 

You wrapped your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, slow and slick from the pre that smeared over your palm. Another bead welled up immediately, trickling down the side of the head. 

Choso let out a low, unconscious groan, hips rolling up into your fist like even in sleep he couldn’t help chasing the pleasure.

You were soaked. Your thighs were slick with it, clit throbbing in time with every lazy pump of your hand around him. You couldn’t wait anymore.

Swinging one leg over his hips, you settled yourself above him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his waist. The hem of his t-shirt rode up your thighs as you reached down, guiding the blunt head of his cock through your folds. You were dripping, already wet enough that the first slow drag of him against your entrance made an embarrassingly loud, slick sound. You bit your lip, circling your hips to coat him thoroughly, letting the head nudge and catch against your clit until sparks shot up your spine.

Then you sank down.

The stretch was perfect, you took him slowly, it burned delicious. Inch by inch sank further in, tight walls fluttering and clenching greedily around the thick invasion. A shaky breath left you when you finally bottomed out, ass flush against his hips, his cock buried to the hilt inside your greedy cunt. He felt so good. So full. You sat there for a moment, just breathing, letting yourself adjust while your pussy fluttered around him in little pulses.

Choso’s lashes twitched again. A soft, confused sound bubbled up. A half whimper, half sigh slipped from his parted lips. His hands shifted on the sheets like he was searching for something in his dreams. You rocked your hips experimentally, a tiny, shallow roll that dragged his cock along your walls and made you both moan quietly.

You started slow. Gentle. Rising just enough to feel the drag, then sinking back down with a wet, filthy sound that filled the quiet room. Your hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your palms. Every downward glide made your clit grind against his pelvis, sending little shocks of pleasure through you. His cock throbbed inside you, leaking steadily, making everything even slicker.

Choso’s head tipped back against the pillow, lips parting on a deeper groan. His hips jerked up once, instinctive, driving him just a little deeper and pulling a soft cry from your throat. 

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, breathing in the sleepy-warm scent of him as you rode him with careful, rolling motions. Drawing it out, savoring every girthy slide, every twitch of his cock against your sensitive walls.

His eyes were still closed, but his breathing had changed in shallower, faster inhales. One hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing clumsily against your thigh like he was only half-aware of what his body was doing. You caught it gently, guiding his palm up under your shirt to cup your breast. His thumb brushed your nipple on instinct and you whimpered, clenching hard around him.

“That’s it, baby,” you whispered against his mouth, voice husky and low. “Feel how wet I am for you? Couldn’t sleep without this cock…”

Another slow grind. Another wet slide. His cock jerked hard inside you, precum flooding your insides as his body responded even if his mind was still floating somewhere between dream and waking.

You kept the pace torturously slow, savoring the way he filled you so perfectly, the way his shy, sweet body reacted to you even in sleep. Hips twitching up to meet yours, cock swelling thicker, balls drawing up tight. You could feel your own orgasm building in lazy, coiling waves, every drag of his length against that spot inside you making your thighs tremble.

You weren’t going to wake him yet.

Not until you’d taken exactly what you needed.

You kept riding him slow at first, savoring every thick inch as your tight, slick cunt swallowed his big cock over and over. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room, the soft, filthy squelches that escaped, every time you sank down until your ass met his hips, your dripping pussy creaming around the base of him. So much precum was leaking from his tip that it mixed with your own arousal, making everything slippery and warm, coating his shaft in a shiny mess that dripped down to soak his balls and the sheets beneath him.

Your hands pressed flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under your palms as you rolled your hips in lazy circles. Each grind dragged your swollen clit perfectly over the faint, dark happy trail just above his cock, sending sparks of pleasure shooting straight up your spine. It felt so fucking good. His thick length stretching you open, rubbing against every sensitive spot inside while your clit got that perfect friction. A broken moan slipped from your lips, louder than you meant it to be, echoing softly off the walls.

That was what finally pulled him awake.

Choso’s lashes fluttered, dark eyes cracking open in a hazy, sleepy daze. For a second he just stared up at the ceiling, brow furrowed like he was trying to piece together the dream that felt way too real. Then his gaze dropped down and landed on you, straddling him, his t-shirt hiked up around your waist, your soaked pussy stuffed full of his cock.

A low, guttural groan tore from his throat the moment awareness hit. “Nnghh—fuck…” His voice was rough with sleep, cracked and deep, sending a fresh gush of wetness around his length. He could feel it now. Every tight, fluttering clench of your cunt constricting around him like a vice, milking every drop of precum that kept spilling from his tip. His hips twitched up on instinct, pushing himself just a little deeper into your greedy heat.

Your name left his lips in a shaky groan, soft and reverent. “...baby…”

His arms came up immediately, one big hand sliding up the back of your thigh while the other cupped the soft curve of your ass, fingers digging in just enough to feel possessive without being rough. He shifted beneath you, planting his feet flat on the mattress so he could get more comfortable, letting his body sink deeper into the bed while still cradling you on top of him. It was like he was offering himself up completely, letting you use his cock however you wanted, no questions, no hesitation, just that sweet, shy devotion that made your chest ache even as your pussy throbbed around him.

You didn’t stop moving. If anything, the moment his hands were on you, you started riding him harder, rising up until just the tip of his cock kissed your entrance, then slamming back down with a wet slap, taking him to the hilt in one smooth motion. Your moans came louder now, unrestrained, mixing with the slick sounds of your dripping cunt fucking itself on his thick length. Each bounce made your tits jiggle under his borrowed shirt, nipples hard and brushing against the fabric.

Choso’s eyes were half-lidded, dark and glassy with lust, but still so soft as they stayed locked on your face. His thumbs stroked slow circles on your skin, one hand squeezing your ass encouragingly while the other slid higher, slipping under the hem of the shirt to rest warm against your lower back.

“Shit… you’re so wet,” he mumbled, voice thick and sleepy, cheeks already flushing that pretty pink you loved. His cock twitched hard inside you, another heavy spurt of precum flooding your walls as you ground down especially deep, clit rubbing messy circles against his happy trail. “Feels… nghh… feels too good… didn’t even wake me up first…”

He groaned your name again, quieter this time, almost like a prayer, his grip tightening on your ass as he helped guide your movements, just enough to meet your bounces with small, eager thrusts from below. Not taking over. Never taking over. Just letting you fuck his cock like you owned it, because in his shy, horny little heart, you basically did.

Your hands stayed braced on his chest, nails digging in lightly as you picked up the pace, riding him harder now. Fast, desperate rolls of your hips that made your slick drip down his shaft in messy rivulets. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, your moans, his broken whimpers, and the constant wet squelch of your tight pussy taking every inch he had to give.

Choso’s head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted, that blood mark across his nose standing out as his face flushed darker. But his eyes never left you, watching with that adoring, overwhelmed look, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Like he was the luckiest guy in the world to wake up buried inside his greedy roommate’s cunt.

And he let you keep going. Let you use him. Let you chase that building pleasure while his hands roamed softly over your thighs and ass, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.

Your movements were growing sloppy, hips losing their steady rhythm as exhaustion and overwhelming pleasure started to blur together. You were still chasing it, chasing that tight coiling heat that built deep in your belly, because Choso’s cock was perfect. Thick and long and curved just right to drag against every sensitive spot inside your dripping cunt with every bounce. Your slick was everywhere now, coating his shaft, his balls, the faint happy trail you kept grinding your swollen clit against in messy little circles. The wet sounds were louder, filthier, your greedy pussy squelching obscenely around him as you rode him harder, faster, desperate for that edge.

He noticed the second you started leaning more into him, your body growing heavier, thighs trembling from the effort. His dark eyes softened even as they stayed glued to where you two were joined, watching your tight, slick folds stretch around his thick cock every time you sank down.

“Mhm… tired already, sweet girl?” His voice was still husky with sleep, low and gentle, but there was that familiar shy fondness threaded through it. One hand stroked soothingly up the back of your thigh while the other stayed planted on your ass, helping guide you just a little.

You whimpered, a soft, needy sound that made his cock twitch hard inside you. “Mngh… feels s’good, Cho…” you mewled, the words slurred and breathy as you ground down especially deep, clit rubbing perfect friction against his skin.

“Yeah…” he breathed, almost reverent, watching the way your pussy took every inch of him so greedily, your arousal dripping down his shaft in shiny rivulets. “You look so pretty like this… riding my cock like you can’t get enough.”

His hands slid slowly up your back under the oversized t-shirt, warm palms pressing you down against his chest until your bodies were flush together. The new angle made him feel even deeper, pressing right against that spot that made your toes curl. You let out a shaky moan, forehead dropping to rest against his collarbone for a second before he tilted your chin up gently.

“Come here, baby… gimme a kiss.”

You obliged without hesitation, leaning in until your lips crashed into his in a messy, desperate kiss. Choso sighed into your mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest as one hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to pull you even closer. The other arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you securely against him like he never wanted to let go.

Then he moved.

His hips rolled up in a smooth, powerful thrust, driving his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back into your dripping cunt with a wet slap. You moaned loud into the kiss, the sound swallowed by his lips as he kissed you deeper, his slender tongue licking into your mouth, sucking gently on your tongue in that slow, filthy way that always made your brain short-circuit. His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just anchoring you to him while he fucked up into you with steady, deep strokes that had your slick gushing around his thickness.

Your arms wrapped around his chest, hands clutching at the fabric of his rucked-up t-shirt as you melted further into him, your body going pliant and soft against his, letting him take some of the work while you still rocked your hips to meet every thrust. The kiss turned wetter, sloppier, tongues sliding together as little whimpers and moans spilled between you. Choso’s breathing was ragged against your lips, his cock throbbing and leaking inside your tight heat, every upward snap of his hips making your clit grind against his pelvis in the most perfect rhythm.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and dark with lust, cheeks flushed that pretty shade of pink. “That’s it… just like that,” he murmured, voice shaky and sweet. “Use me, baby. Feels so good when you’re this wet for me…”

You could feel yourself getting closer, walls fluttering and clenching around his big cock as he kept thrusting up into you, slow, deep and devastating. All while his big hands roamed your back and waist, holding you close like you were the most precious thing in his world. Your moans mixed with his quiet groans, bodies moving together in the dark, slick and messy and so fucking intimate it made your heart ache right alongside the pleasure.

Choso kissed you again, softer this time, like he was pouring every bit of his shy, doting love into it, because even when he was buried balls-deep inside his greedy roommate’s cunt at one in the morning, he was still your sweet boy.

He held you so close, arms wrapped tight around your body like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go even a little. Cradled against his chest, your face tucked into the warm curve of his neck and shoulder, you felt completely surrounded by him, by his scent, his heat, the steady thud of his heart under your cheek. Choso’s hips started moving with more purpose now, thrusting up into your dripping cunt in deep, measured strokes that had his thick cock dragging along every inch of your walls.

You were moaning openly against his skin, soft little sounds spilling out with every thrust. The lewd, wet sounds of your pussy and his cock filled the room with obscene squelching and slapping as your slick mixed with all the precum he kept leaking, making everything slippery and messy. Each time he bottomed out, the head of his cock nudged right against your cervix, a sharp, delicious pressure that made your toes curl and your walls flutter hard around him.

Drool was slipping from the corner of your mouth onto his chest, soaking into the fabric of his rucked-up t-shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, it made him groan low in his throat, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head while the other stayed splayed across your lower back, petting slow, soothing circles over your skin under the shirt.

“That’s my sweet girl,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough but so impossibly gentle. “Just let go… I’ve got you.”

His thrusts never faltered, kept it deep and steady, hips rolling up to grind against your clit with every plunge, the faint happy trail providing that perfect friction while his cock kept bullying that sensitive spot deep inside. Your moans grew higher, needier, body trembling in his arms as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

Choso kept petting you the whole time, with gentle strokes along your spine, fingers threading through your hair, thumb brushing softly over your cheek when you turned your face into his chest. He was so careful, so doting even while he was fucking into you like he was made for this, his big cock stretching your tight cunt open and hitting your cervix with every thrust.

You came hard.

Your pussy clenched down around him like a vice, walls spasming and fluttering as waves of pleasure crashed through you. A broken cry tore from your throat, muffled against his chest as your slick gushed around his thickness, soaking his cock and his pelvis, dripping down to the sheets. Your thighs shook, nails digging into his sides as you rode out the orgasm on his cock, grinding sloppily against him while he kept thrusting through it. Slow, deep strokes that drew the pleasure out until you were whimpering and oversensitive.

Choso groaned your name softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hands never stopping their gentle petting. “Good girl… so good for me,” he whispered, voice shaky with how tight you were squeezing him. “Cum all over my cock, baby… that’s it…”

He held you through every aftershock, cradling you to his chest like you were something precious, his cock still buried deep inside your pulsing cunt while his fingers continued their soothing strokes along your back. Even now, shy and sweet as ever, he was completely devoted and letting you fall apart on him and catching every piece with those warm, careful hands.

Your cunt was still fluttering and spasming around him from your orgasm, milking his thick cock for everything it had like it never wanted to let go. Every tight, rhythmic squeeze pulled more precum from his tip, making the slide even wetter, even messier as he kept thrusting up into you from below. Choso’s breathing was ragged now, hot against your hair, his arms locked around your body like iron bands. Holding you tighter, closer, cradling you flush to his chest as if the only thing that mattered was keeping you right there.

He started thrusting deeper, hips snapping up with more force, the head of his cock kissing your cervix over and over in heavy, deliberate strokes. The lewd sounds between you grew louder and wetter, filthy squelches of your soaked pussy taking every inch, his balls slapping softly against your ass with each upward drive. You could feel him swelling inside you, veins pulsing, the whole thick length twitching hard as he fought to hold back just a little longer.

“M’gonna cum, baby…” he groaned, voice cracking with need, eyes squeezing shut tight as his head tipped back against the pillow. “Gonna cum—fuck, you’re squeezing me so hard…”

You hugged him tighter in response, arms wrapping around his neck, face buried in the crook of his shoulder as you whispered soft, breathless little sounds against his skin. Your pussy clenched deliberately around him, greedy and possessive, pulling him even deeper as you wiggled your hips just enough to grind your clit against his pelvis one last time.

Choso let out a broken, shaky moan. Your name spilling from his lips like a prayer and then he came hard.

His cock pulsed violently inside your tight heat, thick ropes of cum flooding you in heavy, endless spurts. You could feel every throb, every jet of warm, sticky release painting your walls and filling you up until it was too much, it leaked out around his shaft in creamy white dribbles that mixed with your own slick and dripped down to soak the sheets. He kept thrusting through it, shallow little pumps that pushed his cum deeper, making sure you took every drop while his arms trembled around you from the intensity.

You wiggled a little more, settling even deeper onto his cock with a soft, satisfied sigh, letting yourself stay stuffed full of his cum. The fullness was perfectly warm and heavy inside you, his cock still twitching with aftershocks as your cunt continued to flutter around him, gently milking the last few spurts from his spent length.

After a long moment, Choso’s breathing started to even out. He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes hazy and soft with that shy, adoring look he always got after he came. One hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You snuggled closer immediately, nuzzling into his chest with a content little hum, your bodies still joined, his cum slowly leaking out around where you were connected. His other arm stayed wrapped securely around your waist, fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns along your back under the shirt while he held you like you were the only thing in his world.

“Love waking up like this with you…” he murmured sleepily against your hair, voice low and sweet, cheeks still flushed pink. “Stay right here, okay? Don’t move yet…”

And you didn’t. You just let yourself melt into him, full and warm and perfectly satisfied, while your shy, doting, horny roommate kept you cradled close in the quiet hours of the night.

© torusbabe 2026.