how does one write well

“Then it is all the more reason—”

“No.” He shakes his head once, pushing back just enough to sit upright, though his focus does not waver. “It’s not working like this. What you’re doing now.”

You hesitate, searching for something structured in that, something you can follow, something you can fix.

“I am behaving as a lady should,” you say.

“And it’s stripping everything out of you that isn’t that,” he replies.

You do not answer. There is nowhere in your understanding where that carries weight against correctness.

Lyonel studies you for a long moment, jaw tightening before he exhales and drags a hand over his beard.

“You think leaving solves this,” he says. “That if you go back, if you put yourself where you were, everything settles again.”

“It will be as it should,” you answer.

“And what is that?” he presses. “Explain it to me.”

You blink, caught by the demand.

“Structured,” you say after a moment. “Ordered. Understood.”

“And controlled,” he adds.

“Yes.”

“And silent.”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yes.” His mouth tightens.

“And you think that’s better than what you have here?”

You do not hesitate, but you do not meet his eyes. “Yes.” The certainty lands heavy. Lyonel leans back, looking away briefly as if he needs distance to think. His fingers tap once against the armrest, then still.

“I saw you,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Not what you think you should be. You.” Your stomach pulls tight, but you say nothing. “And you’re telling me that was worse than this?” he continues, gesturing faintly toward you. “Sitting here like you’re carved from stone? Like you were never a person at all?”

“It was not sustainable,” you reply.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It is the answer,” you insist, quieter now. His attention snaps back to you.

“No, it’s the excuse,” he nearly snarls. The word lands differently. The quiet between you is not empty. It is crowded with everything unsaid, everything he cannot quite reach.

He exhales slowly.

“I’m not asking you to abandon what you’ve been shaped into,” he says. Your eyes lift slightly, uncertain. “But I am asking you not to bury yourself alive just to keep things easy.” Your fingers press together harder.

“I am not—”

“You are,” he says, firm but not unkind. “You think staying within those lines keeps you safe. But it’s already hurting you, and it will keep doing it.”

You swallow, your throat tightening.

“It is contained,” you say.

“It is suffocating,” he counters, his voice raising at last. The word hangs between you. You do not know how to hold both truths at once. “For both of us.” He stills at that, something settling into place across his features.

“Stop trying to solve yourself before you’ve even felt it through,” he says. “Let it exist. Let it sit. You learn it, and if it becomes too much—if you don’t know how to carry it—then we carry it together. You don’t cut it out of yourself like rot just because you don’t understand it.”

“That is not how things are done,” Lyonel goes very still as the words leave you. It is not a patient stillness, not the careful restraint he has held since the beginning. It is wound tighter than a coil and ready to snap.

When he moves, it is abrupt. The chair scrapes sharply against the stone as he pushes back, the sound cutting through the room and drawing a flinch from you before you can stop it.

“Gods,” he exhales, no softness in it now. He drags a hand down his face, pacing once before turning back towards you. “This isn’t working. Not like this.”

Your spine straightens automatically, your hands tightening in your lap as though bracing for something familiar. He sees it and it fuels the frustration sitting just beneath his control.

“I’ve been careful with you,” he says, his voice lower now, stripped of gentleness. “I’ve given you space. I’ve let you come to me when you could, step by step, piece by piece, since I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Since I thought that was what you needed.”

You remain still. Silent. Waiting.

“I’ve been pulling at this thread for weeks, nearly months,” he continues, gesturing between you, “trying to understand you without tearing you open, and it’s doing more harm than good to the both of us.” The truth lands harder than anything before.

He steps around the table, not aggressive, but deliberate. His presence filled the space in a way that leaves no room to hide nor disappear.

“I am not sending you back,” he repeats, sharp now. Absolute. “Not to them. Not to those—” he stops himself, barely, voice rough with restrained anger, “—fucking animals that made you think this was something you deserved. That this treatment was befitting of anyone, much less a lady of the fucking realm.” Lyonel does not soften, if anything, the anger he's held within himself continues to fuel the flames that seem to sprout forth from him.

“You are my wife,” he continues, steadier but no less firm. “And I told you I would be there when you fell. This—” his hand gestures toward you, toward the rigid way you hold yourself together, “—this is you falling. Catastrophically.” The words strike deep. “And I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t see it,” he adds. “Not to make it easier on you. Not to make it easier on me.”

Your fingers tighten against themselves.

“I’m done guessing,” he says. There is no anger in it now. Just firm resolve. “You’re going to tell me what happened,” he continues. “Not what you think should have happened. Not what you think is proper. What happened, plainly.” He steps closer, stopping short of touching you.

“As your husband, I will demand very little from you,” he says. “But I do demand this.” He exhales, words coming faster now, less controlled than you have ever heard from him. “I need to understand something, because right now I don’t understand anything.”

Your eyes drop.

“That night in the hall,” he continues, more measured now, “you came to me freely. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t resist. And I thought—” he exhales sharply, “—I thought it was something you were choosing. Even if you didn’t have a name for it yet.”

Your breath falters.

“And then I wake up to this,” he gestures again, frustration threading back in, “like I did something so wrong it had to be scrubbed out of you.”

“That is not—” you start, but your voice catches.

“Then tell me what it is,” he presses. “I will not keep stepping into something that hurts you without knowing where that line has been drawn.”

"I—" You stammer, trying to find the words, but he does not give you the opportunity.

“I am not asking you to want it,” he adds, more deliberate now. “I am not demanding anything from you but this—I need to know what made you pull back so viciously. What made you think it needed correcting.” His hand ran over his scalp, tugging at the curls. “I didn’t think pulling you to me was wrong,” he says, quieter now as he looked directly at you. “I hadn’t done it before. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I was doing it.” His attention sharpens. “But it clearly was,” he finishes. “So tell me why.”

Lyonel's breathing is heavier now, something raw breaking through the restraint in his eyes, and it turns your stomach in a way you cannot steady.

Your hands tremble faintly in your lap.

“I did not… reject it,” you say finally, your voice quiet, uneven. “That’s what’s wrong.” Your fingers curl tighter, nails pressing into your palms. “I did not push you away,” you continue, your voice trembling despite your effort. “I did not feel…fear.” The word comes out fragile. “I should have,” you add. Lyonel's expression tightens, something sharper beneath the surface breaching the surface.

“Why?” he asks, quieter now, but with a focus that feels more dangerous than raised voices.

“Because I did not want to leave,” you say, the words coming faster now. “Because I did not try to move. Because I—” Your voice falters. You cannot say it, but it hangs there anyway. He exhales slowly, something in him going very still as the pieces fall into place.

“You liked it,” he says.

Not accusing.

Not mocking.

Your breath catches sharply. You shake your head, but there is no strength in it.

“That’s what you’re trying to punish out of yourself,” he continues, quieter now. “Not that it happened, but that you didn’t hate it.” Your vision blurs faintly.

“It is not something I was meant to want. Not without—” You stop, unable to finish, your voice barely holding He watches you, then nods once, slowly.

“You weren’t rejecting me,” he says. “You were rejecting yourself.”

You do not deny it.

He exhales, some of the sharpness easing, though the firmness remains.

“I’m not going to force you,” he says again, measured. “Not now. Not ever.” You nod faintly. “I meant that before,” he continues. “And I mean it now.” He pauses, thinking. “But I’m not going to stand idly by while you tear yourself apart over something that isn’t wrong.”mYour fingers tighten again.

“It is—”

“No,” he cuts in, unyielding. “It isn’t.”

He does not move after that. He watches you with a steadiness that holds more than understanding now. There is recognition there, and something heavier that sits in him, visible in the tension that comes and goes along his jaw.

Your hands remain clenched, though not as tightly. You keep your eyes lowered.

“Can you see it now?” Lyonel asks, his voice quieter, but carrying a weight that does not waver. “What it did to you. What it took from you before you ever had the chance to claim it for yourself.”

He draws a slow breath, his jaw tightening as he searches for words that will reach you without breaking you.

“And you would carry that forward?” he continues, more deliberate now. “Into a child of your own. Our child.” His eyes hold yours, steady, unrelenting in a way that refuses to let you look away. “You would have them grow up never knowing if something as simple as being held will remain gentle… or turn into something else the moment they let their guard down.”

His expression hardens, not with anger at you, but with the gravity of what he is asking you to face.

“I can see it,” he says. “Clear as anything. A child who learns early that warmth does not stay, that it comes with a cost, that it can be taken or twisted without warning.” His voice lowers further, roughened by something deeper. “So they begin to expect it, the loss. The turning of it.”

A pause, brief but heavy.

“And they destroy it themselves,” he finishes quietly. “Before anyone else gets the chance. It is what you do,” he adds, his voice quieter now, but no less certain. “Whether you see it or not.” His eyes do not leave yours, holding you there with a steadiness that refuses to soften the truth of it.

“You take something before it can be taken from you,” he continues, more deliberate, each word placed with care. “You strip it of meaning before it has the chance to become anything real. You convince yourself it was never worth keeping, so it does not have the power to hurt you when it’s gone.” A breath passes through him, controlled, though it carries strain.

“That did not come from nowhere,” he says. “It was taught to you. Repeated. Reinforced until it became instinct.” His jaw tightens faintly, though his tone remains measured. “But it does not have to be what you pass on.”

He does not look away from you.

“And now look at this,” Lyonel continues, his voice still low, still steady, though something deeper runs beneath it now. “Something as simple as me holding you—nothing planned, nothing taken, nothing meant to do anything but keep you close while I slept.” His hand lifts slightly, not reaching, only indicating the space between you, the memory that lingers there.

“It should have been nothing more than that,” he says. “A husband’s arm around his wife. Warmth. Rest.” Your breath is shallow and uneven as you try to keep yourself together. “But it wasn’t,” he adds, quieter. “Not for you.”

You cannot argue with that. Your silence is answer enough.

“Nothing like that was ever given to you cleanly,” he goes on. “Not without something else tied to it. Not without it being turned, or taken, or used to keep you in line.” Your eyes lower, though they do not close this time.

“It did damage,” he says, more plainly now. “More than you were ever allowed to name.” There is no edge to it. No blame. Only truth, spoken without softening. His hand shifts again, lifting as if he might close the distance—but he stops himself before it happens. The restraint is deliberate. Chosen.

“I didn’t think twice about it,” he admits. “Pulling you close. It wasn’t meant to be anything complicated.” His jaw tightens briefly. “But for you, it was never going to be simple,” he continues. “Not when you’ve never been given something like that without it carrying weight behind it. It was unfamiliar,” he says. “And unfamiliar things feel dangerous when all you’ve known is having to guard against them.”

You swallow, your voice quieter now. “It felt like something I should not have.” A slow breath leaves him, heavier this time, carrying something that borders on grief.

“Aye,” he murmurs. “That makes sense.” He studies you for a moment, not pushing, not pressing—only seeing.

“You tried to get ahead of it,” he says. “Take control of it before it could turn on you. Before it could become something else.” Your hands fall to your sides, fingers flexing against the fabric of your skirts.

“I did not understand it,” you admit.

“I know.”

“And I still don’t.”

“That’s alright,” he replies without hesitation. You blink faintly, the answer sitting strangely with you. “You will learn,” he adds. “Not all at once. Not perfectly. Just…little pieces at a time. Letting it stay a moment longer than you did before.”

“And if it becomes something I cannot manage?” you ask.

“It will,” he says simply. “As it has now, and before. It just means it’s new to you, something you haven’t had space to feel before.” Your thoughts, uncertain, circle what he's said without finding a place to set it down. It does not fit neatly. It does not resolve itself.

But it does not collapse either.

Lyonel does not push you further. He does not step closer, does not force the moment into something more than it is. He remains where he stands, steady and present, letting you exist within something unfamiliar without demanding you make sense of it.

The feeling inside you remains delicate, uncertain, still forming—but it no longer feels like something that must be crushed before it has the chance to take hold.

You sit with his words, letting them settle where they may, feeling their weight press into something already stirring beneath the surface. For a stretch of time, you say nothing. Your hands rest in your lap, no longer locked tight, though not entirely steady either. Your breathing has slowed, but it still lacks rhythm, catching in places you cannot smooth out.

Lyonel does not interrupt. He does not press. He remains where he is, giving you space without turning away from you.

That makes it harder to hold everything in place.

“I…” The word falters before it can fully take shape. You swallow, your throat drawing tight as something unfamiliar rises again, something that refuses to be dismissed. “I did not hate it.”

He does not respond at once, but you feel the way his focus sharpens, the way he stills as if even the smallest movement might drive the words back down before they can fully form.

You take in a breath, slow and deliberate, though it trembles as you release it.

“I liked it,” you say, more quietly now, the admission delicate in a way that feels almost dangerous. “I liked it…so much. Your touch was the first I've felt that—” Your voice staggers, embarrassment flooding you. "—that was kind. That was gentle against me." Your fingers curl faintly into the fabric of your skirts, not in punishment this time, but as if bracing against what you are allowing yourself to say.

“The weight of your arm was around me,” you continue, your voice unsteady but no longer stopping, “the heat of you…your chest against my back…your breath—” You pause briefly, your eyes lowering further as the memory sharpens. “—on my neck. Being held like that…I’ve never imagined anything like it before and to feel it—” Your breath catches again, but you do not retreat from it.

“—I let it happen,” you say with certainty. “You did not keep me there. I could have moved. I knew I could have.” Your breath deepens, sharper now. “But I didn’t.” The words land heavier. “I leaned into it,” you add, softer, almost longingly. “I stayed there. I…wanted to stay there.”

The tension in Lyonel’s jaw loosens slightly, but he does not interrupt. He does not move closer. He simply listens. You shake your head faintly, as though trying to understand it even now.

“It was…” You falter, searching for something that will not betray you the moment it leaves your mouth. Nothing feels safe enough to hold the shape of it. Your voice lowers instead. “It was good.”

The words remain there, bare and unprotected.

You feel them as much as you hear them.

“Too good,” you add, quieter, the admission pressing at you from the inside. “It felt—” You stop again, your mouth closing as though you might take it back, contain it before it can become something larger. You force yourself past it anyway. “It felt like something I was not meant to have. Not like that. Not without…” You trail off, unable to finish it cleanly. “Not when I have never felt anything like it before.”

Your fingers draw in slightly against your palms, not punishing, not correcting—just holding yourself together.

“It stayed,” you continue, slower now, each word deliberate. “It did not fade when it should have. It lingered. It… grew.” Your brow tightens faintly as you try to follow the thought to its end. “And if I let it remain—if I allow myself to want it—”

You hesitate, but there is no turning away from it now.

“I do not think I would survive losing it,” you say, your voice softer, though no less certain. “If it were taken after I had let it matter.”

The quiet that follows is not empty.

It carries the weight of what you have admitted, and everything that still sits just beneath it, waiting to be understood.

Lyonel exhales slowly. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, steadier, grounded in a way that does not waver.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he continues. “Not by staying. Not by wanting it. Not by liking it. Truth be told, I’m glad you did.” Your throat draws tight again, though this time it is different. It does not close in on itself the same way. It lingers, unfamiliar but not suffocating.

“I don’t know how to hold that without it turning into something else,” you admit.

“I know,” he says, understanding taking hold. “You felt something new,” he says at last. “And it frightened you more than anything else could.”

That lands closer to the truth than anything before, and though the feeling still lingers beneath your skin—uncertain, unfamiliar—it no longer feels like something that must be crushed the moment it appears.

The morning unfolds as it always does—structured, orderly, predictable in a way you have long relied upon. You move through the keep with quiet precision, issuing instructions before they are needed, correcting small oversights before they can grow into something larger. The kitchens run smoothly under your direction, the servants fall into rhythm around you, and the ledgers balance exactly as they should.

Everything is as it should be.

Still, something is wrong.

You notice it not in the work itself, but in the spaces between it. In the moments where you would usually be drawn toward the next task, the next correction, the next necessity. There is a pause where there should not be one. A subtle absence that resists naming.

It lingers at the edge of your awareness, quiet but persistent, until it settles into something you cannot ignore.

No one has come for you. By now, they should have. Every day since you took up your duties, a servant has arrived at midday with the same message, the same quiet expectation: your presence is requested. The routine has been reinforced often enough that it became something you no longer questioned.

Today—nothing.

You go still as the realization forms gradually, then all at once.

He did not send for you.

Your fingers pause over the ledger, the numbers blurring as your attention drifts elsewhere. At first, you wait, telling yourself the timing may have changed, that the servant is delayed. There are always explanations. Always ways to make something fit.

The minutes pass.

Still—nothing.

A faint pressure gathers low in your chest, difficult to name. This is what you wanted, is it not? Distance. Space. The removal of expectation. The freedom to move through your duties without interruption, without the quiet strain of sitting across from him, of navigating something you do not yet understand.

You could let it pass.

You could remain here, within what is known, what is structured, what asks nothing more of you than what you already know how to give.

You should remain here.

The thought comes easily. Naturally. It settles the way your decisions always have—practical, reasonable, correct—but you do not move.

Your hand lowers slowly from the ledger, your fingers resting against the page as something unfamiliar stirs beneath your ribs.

This is not relief. It should be, but it isn’t.

Instead, something else takes shape—quieter, uncertain, but persistent. A question that does not fit neatly into the framework you have built.

Why did he not send for you? The answer comes quickly. It is because of you. Because of what happened. Because of the way you pulled away, the way you corrected, the way you took something fragile and made it rigid.

He is giving you what you made clear you wanted.

Space.

The feeling deepens.

You could accept it, maintain it, and continue as though nothing has changed. Still, something in you resists—not loudly, nor forcefully. Your thoughts begin to circle something unfamiliar. If he did not send for you…does that mean you are not meant to go?

Or does it mean that he is waiting to see if you will?

The idea settles uneasily within you. It means the choice is yours and you do not know what to do with that.

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the ledger, your breathing deepening as you try to steady yourself. You could remain. You could continue your work. You could pretend nothing presses against the edges of what you know.

It would be easier, safer, but your thoughts drift elsewhere—to the solar, to the way he looks at you when you sit across from him, to the effort he has made, patient and unyielding, meeting you where you are even when you pull away, to the fact that he did not send for you—not as rejection, but as space.

The feeling inside you changes, subtle but distinct. Less like something closing in and more like something opening.

You draw in a slow breath, then you close the ledger. The sound is soft, but final.

There is hesitation in your steps at first, a lingering instinct to turn back, to return to what is familiar before you go too far. Each step toward the solar feels uncertain, unanswered.

Are you welcome?

Should you be there?

Is this allowed?

The questions do not disappear, but they quiet as you continue forward. You are not going out of obligation. You are not going out of expectation. You are going because something in you wants to. The realization settles as you reach the door, your hand lifting toward it with the faintest tremor.

You hesitate for a singular moment, then you push it open without further ceremony, the soft creak of wood against stone the only sign of your arrival.

Lyonel is already there and he looks surprised that you are standing before him.

It catches you off guard, not for the reaction itself, but for how open it is. There is no immediate mask, no quick correction into composure. It lingers, as though he had truly not expected you and had already accepted your absence.

Your attention moves past him—only one place is set at the table. The second chair remains untouched, but nothing has been prepared for it. No plate. No cup. No quiet indication that your presence had been considered. The food before him has already been disturbed, suggesting he had begun without waiting.

The feeling in your chest is difficult to name. Not sharp enough to be pain, not fleeting enough to dismiss. It settles low, turning faintly in your stomach in a way that resists easy definition.

You do not push it aside. You hold it, just as he told you to. It remains uncomfortable, but you do not reshape it. You let it remain as it is.

“You did not call for me,” you say as you step further into the room, your voice softer than usual, carrying something you do not quite recognize.

“I did not,” Lyonel replies. His tone is steady, though there is strain beneath it. You notice it in the set of his shoulders, in the weight of his posture, in the dimming of eyes that are usually so sharp. He looks worn.

The feeling deepens, pressing further inward, no longer vague. You allow it to remain. You do not correct it. You do not turn away.

You stand there, balanced between retreat and something quieter that urges you forward. Your fingers brush your skirts as you move closer, each step measured, no longer guided by rigid expectation.

“I thought…” You hesitate, searching for words that are not rehearsed. “I thought perhaps I was not meant to come.” Something in him sharpens at that, cutting through the fatigue.

“And what made you decide otherwise?” he asks. There is no challenge in it. No accusation. Only interest. You are not prepared for it. You draw in a slow breath, your hands tightening slightly at your sides as you reach for something honest.

“I did not like the thought of not coming,” you admit. The words are quiet, uncertain, but real. They settle between you, exposed. Your breath catches, but you do not take them back.

Lyonel studies you with deliberate attention, fully present.

Your eyes drift again to the table, to the single setting, and that feeling stirs, clearer now. Not quite rejection, but something close to being left out of something you had not realized mattered.

“I see you have already begun,” you say, steadier now, though still soft.

“I didn’t expect you,” he says plainly. There is no edge to it. Only fact. Why would he expect you to come after you—your thoughts cut off before they can finish, the feeling churning deeper within you.

You incline your head slightly, letting it remain without reshaping it. The hounds in your mind are unusually quiet.

“I nearly did not come,” you admit.

“But you did.”

“Yes.” The word carries weight. Each step here required something you are only beginning to understand. The quiet between you lingers, but it is not rigid. Not suffocating. It waits. You look at him again.

“I did not come because I was told to,” you say, careful, deliberate. “I came because I…” Your breath catches as the truth presses forward without form. You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly. “…because I chose to,” you finish.

A change comes over him, subtle but unmistakable. The weariness remains, but something steadier takes hold beneath it as he looks at you—not as you were, but as you stand now, holding something you are no longer trying to hide. He leans back slightly, still watching you.

“Then sit,” he says. The words are simple.

Not an order. Not expectation. An offering.

You do not hesitate as you move forward, slow and deliberate, and take your place across from him.

You hold his eyes for a moment longer than you have before.

There is no instinct to drop your eyes immediately, no rush to retreat into something safer. The silence between you stretches, but it does not press in the same way it once did. It waits.

Your hands rest lightly against the table, fingers drawn together, not tightly, not bracing—just there.

“I owe you an apology,” you say. "A true apology." Your voice is quiet, but it does not waver. Something in Lyonel stills. Not rigid. Not guarded. He simply listens.

“I was not…fair to you,” you continue, choosing each word with care, though they are no longer rehearsed. “What happened yesterday—what followed—I turned it into something it was not.” Your breath catches slightly, but you do not stop. “I made it something rigid. Something cold. I treated it as though it needed correcting, as though it was a failure instead of…” You hesitate, searching, then finish more softly, “…instead of something I did not understand.”

His expression does not harden. If anything, it grows more intent, his attention narrowing fully on you.

“I hurt you,” you say, more plainly now. “I can see that now.” The admission settles between you, heavier than the others, though it does not crush the space the way it once might have.

“I did not think…” You pause, your brow tightening faintly as you try to shape something that has no easy structure. “I did not think the regard you held for me was…what it is.” The words come slower now, more careful, not out of fear, but out of honesty. “I thought it was obligation. Courtesy. Something expected of you that you've extended because you are a kind man.” Your fingers shift slightly against one another.

“I did not realize it was…more deliberate than that.” Lyonel exhales quietly through his nose, the sound controlled, though not empty of feeling. His jaw tightens briefly before easing again.

“You assumed I was tolerating you,” It is not a question.

You incline your head slightly. “Yes.”

“And that anything beyond that needed to be earned,” he continues.

“I see that now,” you add, softer. “That I misjudged it. That I misjudged you.” Your eyes lift back to his. “And I am…truly sorry for that, Lyonel.” The words are not formal. Not polished into something perfect, but they are yours.

Lyonel leans back a fraction more in his chair, studying you in silence. His hand comes up briefly, brushing along his beard as he considers you, not interrupting, not rushing to answer.

“You didn’t just misjudge me,” he says at last. “You acted on it.” There is no cruelty in the words, but they land firmly. You nod again, accepting it.

“I did.” His eyes holds yours, searching, weighing.

“And now?” he asks. The question is quieter than the others, though it carries more weight. You do not answer immediately.

Your fingers ease slightly where they rest against the table, your shoulders settling as you take in a slow breath—not to prepare, not to construct, but simply to steady yourself within the moment.

“I am trying to be mindful of what I am feeling,” you say. It is not a grand declaration. It is not absolute. It is honest.

“I am trying to see what is in front of me,” you continue, your voice softer now, though still steady. “Not what I expect it to be. Not what I was taught to assume and it is very difficult.” Your eyes do not leave his. “I am trying to understand you…as you are and the things you do.”

Lyonel watches you for a long moment. Something in him shifts—not abruptly, not dramatically—but in a way that settles deeper than before. The tension that had been sitting just beneath his skin does not vanish, though it loosens, giving way to something more grounded.

“Good,” he says finally. The word is simple, but it is not dismissive.His hand drops back to the table, fingers resting against the wood as he leans forward slightly, not closing the distance entirely, but no longer holding himself as far back.

“Because I don’t need you to be perfect,” he adds. “I don’t need you to get it right every time.” His eyes remain on yours, steady, unyielding in a different way now. “I just need you to stay in it. Not run the moment it stops making sense.”

You nod, taking a deep breath.

“I will try,” you say.

He studies you again, as if measuring the difference between what you would have said before and what you are saying now.

Then, after a moment—

“That’s enough,” he replies.

Not everything resolved.

Not everything settled.

But something has shifted into place between you, quieter, steadier, no longer brittle.

The rest of the day settles into something unfamiliar, not due to any dramatic event, but due to what never comes to pass. Nothing fractures. Nothing spirals. You return to your duties after the midday meal, and while your work remains precise and orderly, the sharp urgency that once drove you has dulled. Tasks are completed with the same care, the same attention, though it no longer feels like you are using them to stay ahead of yourself.

In the quieter stretches between responsibilities, your thoughts drift back to the solar. Not to the tension that once lived there, but to something else entirely. To the choice you made to go. To the way he accepted it without question. To the absence of correction where you had expected it most.

The feeling sits in you, unfamiliar. It does not overwhelm you. It does not pull you apart. That alone feels worth noticing, even if you do not yet know what to do with it.

Night comes and passes without disruption. The space between you in the bed remains, though it no longer feels imposed. It simply exists, acknowledged without weight. You sleep, not deeply, though without the same restless edge that had followed you before.

Morning returns with routine. The keep moves as it always does, and you move within it with the same quiet efficiency that has become expected of you. Orders are given, adjustments made, small oversights corrected before they can grow into something larger. The structure holds.

Still, something beneath it is different.

You notice it when you pass a corridor that leads toward your chambers and your steps slow, just briefly, before continuing. You notice it when your thoughts drift and do not immediately snap back into place. You notice it most in the absence of urgency, in the way you are no longer bracing for something to go wrong at every turn.

Days follow after your mutual understanding, the sun high yet muted behind the thick, ever-present clouds of the Stormlands. A gray light filters through the narrow windows of the corridor you passed through, something you once thought dreary, but now felt endearingly like home. You move quietly, your shoes barely making a sound against the stone floor as you traveled towards your chambers for a short reprieve in your day. 

Lyonel should be in the council room, as he is every afternoon past the midday meal. It is his duty. This was new to you—taking time out of your day to breathe, to exist without the weight of duty. Effort, you told yourself. After seeing what your actions had done to Lyonel, you pushed yourself to loosen the tether on your mind as much as you could and you found that you enjoyed it.

Usually you find something to occupy your time, but today you decided to just be in the moment within that time. It is a small thing, but it is new to you and you are trying. 

You open the chamber door slowly, expecting stillness. What greets you is anything but.

Lyonel is there.

He's laid on the bed, the great feather mattress disordered, the sheets tangled beneath him. He is certainly not holding council. He is here, in your shared bedchamber, in the middle of the day.

His chest is bare, lean muscle stretching with dark, curling hair exposed—a sight you are familiar with. His tunic and outer layers have been discarded onto your side of the bed in a careless heap. His breeches remain, though unlaced, the fabric loosened and hanging dangerously low along his hips, revealing the stark lines of his abdomen.

His head is tilted back into the pillows. His eyes are shut tight, his expression drawn with intense concentration. His lips part as heavy breath escapes him in sharp, uneven pulls. One hand is spread across his chest and stomach, fingers digging into the muscle, tugging at the hair there in a caress that was rough, possessive.

Your shocked eyes, frozen for a moment too long on the expression of his face, drop. His other hand is at his hips and it is moving.

Fisting his manhood with vigor.

You see it fully, in the muted light. His length is thick, flushed a deep, ruddy color, standing rigidly from his body above a thatch of black curls. The shaft is veined, a network of ridges under his skin. The tip is broad, swollen, glistening with a clear bead of moisture—a sight visible even from where you're standing. Lyonel's hand, large and calloused with golden rings adjorning three of his fingers, wraps around it, the fingers gripping tight. He is yanking, a frantic, urgent rhythm. Up and down. A frenzy of motion that makes the muscles in his forearm flex hypnotically.

A shriek escapes you before you can stop it. It’s not loud, but it’s a sharp, startled gasp of sound that slices through the room’s thick, private atmosphere.

Lyonel’s eyes fly open. Dark, wide, shocked. He sees you and his rhythm stutters to a stop, his hand freezing around his cock. His whole body tenses before he tries to sit up.

You don’t wait. You don’t speak. You turn and flee, slamming the door behind you, not intentionally, but in your panicked rush you did not stop it. 

Then you run. 

Not a dignified walk, but a near-run with your hand clamped over your mouth as if to stifle any further sound. Your eyes are wide, unblinking, your jaw dropped behind your palm. 

The stone corridors of Storm’s End blur around you. You don’t know where you’re going—all you know is you just need to be away.

The vision of him does not leave you. It burns in the backs of your eyes, brighter than the gray hallways, brighter than the flames of a candle, brighter than the sun itself.

His face. The sheer, unguarded need on it. 

The pleasure. 

The agony of it.

His chest. The way his hand moved over it, a man touching himself with a kind of rough reverence. You felt it at your back once more—the solid heat of it and you nearly collapsed toward the wall. 

His cock, your eyes somehow grow wider. The size. The color. The furious motion of his hand. The glistening tip. It all hits you like a tidal wave capsizing a ship.

More oppressive heat floods you. A rush that starts in your stomach and spreads outward in all directions, to your limbs, to your face, making your skin feel too tight, too warm. It’s not the heat of embarrassment, though that is there, a cold counterpoint. This is a different heat. A physical echo of what you saw. Your body, ignorant of such things, responds to the image with a primal, confused arousal. Your thighs clench together unconsciously at the vision as you try to continue forward. 

You find a small, unused alcove near the library and press yourself into its shadow. You lean your flushed forehead against the cold stone wall, your breathing ragged. Your hand remains over your mouth.

What was he doing?

You know what it was, of course. Your septa, in her dry, clinical lessons mentioned that men had…urges. That they might relieve themselves when necessary. 

It was spoken of as a base, animalistic thing, something to be ignored, not acknowledged. Something shameful for a man of stature to indulge in, especially a married man. A wife’s duty was to satisfy those urges so that such solitary acts were unnecessary.

They never described that—what you just witnessed—nor did they describe what it did to a lady for seeing it. Not at all.

But Lyonel…he was married. To you. And you had not satisfied him—not since the wedding night. That painful, quick rutting he performed in a drunken haze when you did not look directly at him, kept your hands to your sides, and you definitely did not peer at any part of him—especially not his manhood—was nothing like this.

His cock, your mind spoke freely. Another gasp left you at the lewdness of it. 

You had not touched him and he had not touched you since, beyond those brief touches that sent you into a mental spiral. This feeling—this visceral, carnal feeling—was very different than what you felt before. It pulled and it tugged, and something new came to the forefront of your mind—temptation. 

He was doing it himself. Your mind pictured your own hands running where his hands did, tugging at the short hairs in his chest. Would he like it? Would his face hold the same passion as your own hand wrapped around—

The thought sends another wave of that confusing heat through you. He was so…immersed in it. He wasn’t just performing a chore. He was lost in it. His face…gods, his face.

And you had seen it. How lost he was in the act. Your legs cross when a sharp, throbbing jolt shoots through the space between your legs. A short, gasping sound escapes you as you nearly collapse completely against the stone wall. 

You had invaded a moment that was meant to be utterly private. A moment of a lord’s secret vulnerability. A lady seeing such a thing? Unthinkable.

You stand in the dark alcove for a long time, trying to calm your breathing, trying to sort the riot in your chest. Trying to quell the throbbing between your legs that seemed to be getting worse the longer you thought about it. Gods, you begged silently, please make it stop.

The heat eventually subsides to a low, persistent thrum in your belly after some time. The embarrassment of the whole thing rises, cold and sharp.

You have to go back, your mind tells you. You cannot hide forever. He is your lord, your husband. You have offended him, surely with your invasion of his privacy. You must apologize and face whatever consequence comes of it.

You straighten your dress, smooth your hair. You walk back to your chambers with measured steps, but your heart is pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Pausing outside the door, you listen for movement before you enter. When silence greets you, you push the door open, slowly this time so as to peer inside before entering.

The room is as you left it, but Lyonel is no longer in the unmade bed. He is standing by the window with his back to you. He has pulled his tunic on, but it’s unlaced, hanging open. His breeches are now properly tied. He is looking out at the stormy sea of Breakwater Bay through the narrow window, his hands clasped behind his back. His posture is uncharacteristically rigid.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. He doesn’t turn.

“My lord,” you say, your voice thin. “I…I apologize.”

He remains facing the window. “For what?”

“For…intruding. For seeing…something I should not have seen.” The words are clumsy.

“You didn’t intrude,” he says, his tone flat. “This is your chamber as well. I was the one who was…indiscreet.”

“You were not,” you say quickly, the script of appeasement taking over. “It is my fault. I should have announced myself. I should have—”

“Stop.” He turns now. His face is serious, but not angry. His dark eyes hold yours. There’s a fatigue in them, a frustration you recognize from your early days.  “Just…stop with the rehearsed apologies. What you saw…it was me. A part of me. A need of mine.” He takes a step toward you. “Do you understand what I was doing?”

You lower your gaze. “I…have been told. By my septa.”

“What did your septa tell you?”

“That men…have urges. That they relieve themselves. That it is…a base need that needs to be fulfilled. That a wife’s duty is to…to provide so that such acts are not necessary.” You recite it perfectly, each word a stone in a wall.

Lyonel’s mouth tightens. “Base,” he repeats. “A wife’s duty.” He exhales, a heavy sound. “And what do you think?”

Your eyes flick up to him. “I…I do not have anything other than my teachings to reference to.” 

“You saw it,” he presses. “You saw my face. My body. My need. What did you feel, seeing it? Not what you were taught to feel. What did you actually feel?”

The question is dangerous. It demands a truth you are not equipped to give, but his gaze holds you—demands an answer. That same jolt hits your apex and it takes everything in you to not clench outwardly. The heat you felt in the corridor returns and it rushes through your body.

“I felt…” you begin, then stop. Your voice is a whisper because you cannot tell him what you felt. You don’t have the words for it. “Heat. I feel…heat. And…confusion.”

“Heat,” he says, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What kind of heat?” You cannot say it. It feels like admitting a sin, but he waits. The silence stretches.

“A physical heat,” you admit, your face flaming. “In my stomach, my chest, my limbs, my-” you cut yourself off before you can say it. “It is…jarring.” He studies you for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, a faint, weary smile touches his lips. 

“Jarring,” he says. “Not disgust. Not horror. Heat.” He nods, as if confirming something. “Good.”

“Good?” You are bewildered.

“Yes.” He walks closer, until he is only a few paces from you. He doesn’t touch you. He just stands there, his tunic open, his chest still visible. “Because what you saw…it is a need, but it’s not base. It’s human.” His voice lowers, his eyes holding yours as he continues. “I have a wife—a beautiful wife—who I am trying, with every shred of patience and grace I did not know I possessed, to not frighten. To not overwhelm. Who I am trying to learn, and to teach.” He gestures vaguely toward the bed. “That need doesn’t vanish because I’m patient. It builds. It becomes…a pressure. Today, the pressure was too much. I thought you were occupied. I thought I had time. I came here to…relieve it. To quiet it, so I could continue being patient with you.” He looks directly at you. “Do you understand that?”

You do, in a way that cracks something inside you. He wasn’t indulging in something shameful. He was managing his desire for you. So he could continue being gentle. So he could continue being the man who didn’t shout, who didn’t demand.

The realization melts the cold embarrassment, leaving only that warm, confused thrum.

“I understand,” you say, and this time, it’s not a script. It’s a genuine, dawning comprehension. Lyonel sees the realization in your eyes. You did not reject it outright, did not look like a rabbit ready to flee as you did the day before. Progress, he thought to himself. 

“What you saw,” he continues, his voice becoming even softer, “was my desire for you. My hand on my cock—” your knees nearly buckle when he says the word so plainly. Never, ever, have you heard it. But the way he said it, not even provocatively, had your teeth clenching. “—it was a substitute—a poor substitute—for the touch of your hand. For the feel of your body.” He says it honestly, without adornment. “I was imagining you.”

The words strike you with a force that makes your breath stop. He was imagining you. While his hand moved. While his face contorted with pleasure. The heat in your belly intensifies, focusing, becoming a sharp, pointed ache between your thighs. A new sensation, one you have no name for. A wanting.

You look at him, at his open tunic, at the chest you saw him caress, the dusting of hair that peaked through. At his hands, now clasped again. At his face, earnest and tired.

“You…” you falter. “You want my touch?”

“More than that,” he says, simple, direct. “I desire your touch. I desire your hands on me. I desire you to look at me, as you did in that moment, and not flee. I desire you to see my need, and perhaps, feel a need of your own.” He takes a final step, now close enough that you can smell him—the scent of his skin, a faint, musk that was distinctly him. “But I won’t demand it. I won’t take it. I will wait. Even if waiting means more afternoons like this one.”

You stand there, caught between his honesty and something far more dangerous—your own curiosity, sharp and restless beneath your skin. The image of him refuses to fade. It lingers with a clarity that presses at your thoughts: the tension in his body, the roughness of his touch, the way his breath had broken as though the feeling consumed him entirely. You had never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like what it stirred in you.

And you do not fight it.

You let it remain, just as he had asked of you before. You let it exist without forcing it into something smaller, something safer, something you could control.

And you find—

you like it.

The realization does not come gently. It strikes through you, bright and startling, sending a deeper current through your body that you do not know how to name. It is not only the memory of what you saw. It is something else layered beneath it.

To be desired. 

To be wanted. 

To be imagined doing such sinful things to him from a figment made in his own mind. 

It moves through you in a way that feels alive, like something unrestrained breaking loose across open ground, too fast to follow, too powerful to stop. It leaves your pulse uneven, your breath unsteady, your body responding in ways that feel both foreign and instinctive all at once.

The awareness that he had imagined you. That his body had responded to the thought of you, without instruction, without duty, without structure. Oh, Lyonel, your mind is wanton as the claws of the hounds breach the kennels, trying to grasp anything that passes by them.

The sensation lingers low in your body, insistent, unfamiliar—an ache you do not understand and cannot quiet—not that you truly try to.

Something passes over your face then. Subtle. Unpracticed. Unhidden. Lyonel sees it immediately.

He had been watching you closely already, measuring every flicker of uncertainty, every trace of hesitation, prepared for withdrawal, for fear, for the moment you would pull yourself back behind something rigid and untouchable.

It does not come.

Instead, he sees something else take hold—something warmer, less guarded, something that draws your attention inward rather than pushing it away.

It throws him and it does not leave him unaffected.

There is a faint tightening in his jaw, a controlled stillness that was not there a moment before. His hands remain at his sides, though there is a tension to them now, a restraint that is deliberate. His breath deepens, just slightly, as he reins himself in with visible effort.

You do not notice the full extent of it, too aware of what is happening in your own body to fully see what you do to the man before you.

“My heart is pounding,” you say, voice trembling with need. There is something steadier beneath it now, something that holds even as your breath falters slightly. Your hand lifts faintly, pressing against your chest as if to feel it, to ground yourself in the rhythm of the accelerated beats. “I do not feel the need to run from it.”

The admission hangs between you, unguarded.

“It is…different than yesterday,” you continue, searching for words that do not come easily. “I do not understand it. I have never felt it before.” Your brow draws faintly, not in rejection, but in concentration, in an effort to remain with it rather than push it away. “But it does not feel like I am about to fall.”

Your eyes lift to his again.

“It feels like something pulling me forward.” The words are quiet, but they are certain. Lyonel holds your eyes, something deeper settling behind his expression now—longing. 

“You’re staying with it,” he says, his voice low, controlled in a way that suggests effort behind it. “You’re not forcing it into something it isn’t.”

You shake your head faintly. “It feels natural not to.” A small breath leaves him, almost a quiet huff of something that could have been amusement if it were not threaded so tightly with restraint.

“Good,” he says. “Then don’t.” Lyonel does not step closer. He does not reach for you. His presence feels nearer all the same, more deliberate, more aware.

“Let it be what it is,” he continues. “You don’t need to name it yet. You don’t need to decide anything about it.” His eyes remain fixed on yours, sharp, attentive, holding you there without pressure. “Just don’t run from it.”

Your fingers curl faintly against your palm, not from tension, but from the intensity of simply remaining where you are.

There is something in the way he says it that settles differently than before. Not instruction. Not correction.

Recognition.

Your breath steadies, just slightly.

The feeling remains.

Unfamiliar.

Uncontained.

It is no longer something you are trying to escape, and between you, the space holds—charged, quiet, waiting—no longer something to cross in fear, but something you are beginning to understand how to stand within and possibly walk towards.

i have to apologize for not reblogging and commenting on the previous chapters but when i say i read these in a horny delirious haze I AM NOT LYING

I LOVE THEM!!!!!! OH I LOVE THEM!!!!!!!! OH OH OH I CANNOT CONTAIN THE LOVE I HAVE FOR THEM!!!!!!!!!

obviously lyonel is beloved but READER?!?!?!??!???? oh reader is now beloved, reader is ultimate beloved WE LOVE READER!!!!!!

the way you've been building this relationship and story has me absolutely floored. the last two chapters i literally had to throw my phone grab a wall and squeal like i cannot be observed when i'm reading this because the LEVEL of emotions is truly something else!!!!

this last chapter specifically?????? when she walks in on him??????? when she goes running???????? when she is feeling HORNY all caps and doesn't know how to explain??????? when lyonel is patient and kind and HORNY AND YEARNING BUT STILL RESPECTFUL???!!!?!?!?!?!?

RAHHHHHHHHHHHH I NEED TO BE RELEASED FROM THE EMOTIONAL CHOKEHOLD THEY HAVE UPON ME I DON'T THINK I CAN SURVIVE THIS!!!!!!!!!

the build to this chapter feels SOOOOOOOOOO earned, lyonels patience and need battling against each other because of how much he cares for reader and doesn't want to overwhelm her but is also aching desperately for her is something my brain is still glitching out over my god it's just all so good! SO GOOD! your descriptions of her struggle with releasing control but more importantly not allowing herself to have hope because all she's known is it being yanked away from her is guttural and devastating, and in turn watching the constant battle back and forth of whether she can actually trust lyonel and his kindness and patience, whether it is real and not just a figment of her imagination oh man it's beautiful

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with the nights most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke,” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a moment ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream of grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

"Incredibly, huh?"

You him as if you're rethinking it. "Maybe I'm just after his money."

Abbott barks out a laugh. "I'm sure you're making a pretty penny."

It'd be a shinier penny if your med school loans weren't incredible, but its enough to pay your bills and fund your Whole Foods addiction. Definitely not enough to impress him, though.

"It's uncouth to ask a lady what she makes, sir."

"I'm sorry," he says in the most unapologetic way, the bit of a smile shining through his words. God. That alone makes your pussy throb. You've been longing for him for so long and now he's on the phone with you-- your phone, not a hospital one. You aren't in your scrubs, there's no medical reason for your call. It's just the two of you.

"It's..." You suck in a breath and take a risk. "Also uncouth to ask a lady what she's wearing."

A pause. It's long enough that you almost take it back and pretend you were just kidding. Sometimes, men lose interest when the hunt is over. It's about the chase to them, the dance. Maybe he just wanted a flirtation tango and nothing more. Maybe you just ruined everything-

"Then, I won't ask." His tone has shifted, it's deeper, more serious, and it sends the most delightful chill through you. "Tell me what you're wearing."

Oh. Fuck. You lean back so far your head hits the window with a loud conk. The coffee you just made is still steaming and full, but your heart is racing without it.

"Mmmm," you breathe and you wonder if he can hear the quiver. "Well, there's an oversized white shirt. It's see through."

"I bet I can guess what's underneath."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I bet you like cute bras," his voice has rolled into a purr. "Lacy. Pretty things for my pretty girl."

My pretty girl. Oh, your chest goes funny at that. Desire bundles inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, pulling a heat through your body and down to your core.

"I'd never wear a bra at home." Your hand cups your tit like he could see it. In the morning air, your nipples have already pebbled in the cold. Even through your shirt, it feels good to run a nail over them, playing with them like he might. If your hands were bigger, stronger, more calloused, you might've been able to pretend they are his. "But my panties are lacy."

It's easier to pretend your hand is his when you slide it between your legs.

"Red. With a little bow on the front." Slow touches aren't usually enough to make you feel good, but it's like your nerves are electric. You're already wet enough that your body is making sticky sounds when you move your fingers too much.

"Cute." He hums a low tone of pleasure and approval. "Bet what's underneath is even cuter."

His words hit you so hard that you think something might have torn inside you because you make the most embarrassing sound, a squeak of some sort that must have ruined the mood-

"Having fun over there?"

You laugh that off. His voice is so unaffected compared to yours.

"I think she's pretty," you say instead of answering his question. It's his turn to laugh and the chuckle makes your spine ache. It's low, rolling, and you'd do anything to hear it again.

But when Abbott speaks again, his voice is light. "Can't wait to meet her."

Oh, you're definitely having an episode of some sort. Something pangs strangely in your chest. Maybe it's excitement, or fear, or you might be having an aortic dissection.

"Maybe you'll let me date her out on a proper date." He tiptoes over each word, easing you into the idea. Abbott must hear it in your voice, that breathy whine that betrays what you're doing, because he laughs.

"At least let me kiss her goodnight."

You can picture it so vividly that you can feel it: his scruff against you inner thigh, his hands gripping at your ass, the delicate press of tongue inside you.

"Jack." His name feels right in your mouth. It feels right in that tone, in that pitch. It feels right to be saying it as you spread your legs further and move your hand faster.

Is he doing the same thing as you? Is he stretched on his couch, TV still on, focusing on your voice? Is he in that too tight black shirt he always wears, the one that shows off that delightful capped shoulder muscle and that thick bicep he shouldn't have the time to maintain. Or is he shirtless? Is he only dressed in those myriads of freckles that trail down the back of his neck?

Those freckles. You wonder how far they go down his back, if they scatter over his spine, if they cover the very lowest part of his back, right where the muscles would flex when he would fuck you.

Are they on his stomach? Do they go lower than that? Would you be able to kiss them on his thighs or see them through the wisps of greyed hair between his bellybutton and cock?

Jack says your name and you realize you've both been quiet for too long.

"I'll come over."

You pause.

"I'll come to you," he whispers. "Right now. I'll get in my car right now and give you what you deserve."

Oh, you might actually be having an aortic dissection.

"I live on the other side of the city."

"You're worth the drive to Fairywood."

Jack. Jack Abbott. Dr. Jack Abbott, the man you can barely make eye contact with, wants to come here. And he's probably going to do more than look you in the eyes. It should be easy to say yes. Yes, come fuck my brains out. Yes, get over here right now and take you, right now.

But fear stops you.

You aren't even really sure what you're afraid of. Things going badly? Getting hurt? Making work awkward? Things going well?

"I probably wouldn't last the drive anyway," Jack says suddenly. "Do you even know how hard you've made me?"

"Me?"

"Don't be cute now." There it is: that give you've been looking for. The grit behind his teeth. "You think I can hear about your tits and your panties and hear you fucking whimpering and not get turned on?"

The excitement you feel is a gut punch. It physically hurts to be this turned on, your stomach twisted and your pussy aching for more attention.

"I've masturbated to a lot less," he continues. "Like you in that little white coat."

"Haa-" Your stupid coat, the one you wear out of ego, so patients stop calling you a damn nurse- "I've earned it."

"Fuck, yeah you did. It's brains and fucking beauty with you."

Your hand isnt enough. If you legs weren't jelly, you'd dash off to the bedroom and plug in your vibrator in hopes it charges in 30 seconds flat.

"You close?" he asks, suddenly hurried. "You gonna finish for me?"

The words you want to say don't come out. Instead, you offer him a garbled: "I'mtryingohgod-"

You expect him to laugh, but he coos with a sympathetic click of his tongue.

"Relax. I'm going to talk you through it. All you gotta do is listen."

Your head thumps against the window again. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. You're so close and so far away; your muscles are too tense to let go and your head aches from your teeth grinding. It feels good, but you can't figure out how to push yourself over the edge.

"I'm going to count down," Jack tells you. "Ten."

"I don't know-"

"Nine."

"Jack-"

"Eight."

"I'mnotgonnaI-"

"Try." Jack is firm. "Seven."

You screw your eyes tight and focus on how his voice bends with each number. You want him, want those lips on you-

"Four. There you go." You hadn't realized you'd been moaning. "Three, god you love being bossed around, don't you? Two-"

It feels like your body has been dropped off a fucking building. Everything is bright and weightless before it crashes down into an almost unbearable pleasure. That coil inside you snaps and unravels, that potential energy unleashed into every limb, down to your toes.

"There she is." Jack's words barely register. "Didn't even reach one. God, you're something else, aren't you? Your neighbors are going to be mad at you."

You try and say a retort, but find yourself unable to think at all.

"My brain isn't working right now,"

"I bet it isn't," he purrs. "Good thing you aren't working tonight."

Fuck, that's right. He has to be back in that hellhole in less than 9 hours.

"Did you-?" you try.

"Don't you worry about me. I had more than enough fun." The tone of his voice has shofted; he has to have cum. "I really should go, but, uh-"

It's unusual for Jack Abbott to be unsure, but he stumbles over his words.

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

“Did you just-” You lower your gaze instantly. 

“-Forgive me.” The words come without thought. They always do. Silence stretches for a beat too long and you can feel it coming. You braced internally for an impact you deserved for the insolence of not staying quiet.

“For what?” Lyonel asks, genuinely confused. Your grip tightens around the cup. 

“I…I did not mean to offend.”

“I didn’t say you offended me.” He blinked down at you, furrowing his brow while fixing you with a look. 

“You did not need to, my—Lyonel.” You self-correct with a subtle twitch, voice is steady, practiced, devoid. “I understand.”

Another pause.

When you dare glance up, he is staring at you—not with anger, but something sharper. Something searching, trying to understand. 

“You understand,” he repeats slowly, “what, exactly?”

“That I should not presume.” Three hours was all it took for you to make a fool of yourself, you sneered within your own mind. A muscle in his jaw ticks and your stomach twists, still bracing.

“That you should not—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face with an exasperated sigh. “Seven weeping hells.” Around you, the feast continues, but it feels distant now, like a storm heard from behind stone walls. “Come,” he says abruptly, standing from the head table and placing his great antler crown upon the table carelessly. “Walk with me.”

You rise at once.

Of course you do.

The corridors of Storm’s End are colder than the hall, the roar of celebration fading behind thick stone. Your shoes upon your feet make no sound against the floor. His boots do.

Heavy. Certain. Unafraid.

You keep two steps behind him, head down, hands clasped in front of you.

“Will you stop that?” he snaps suddenly. You freeze in place. Your stomach drops. 

“I—”

“That.” He turns, gesturing sharply. “Hovering like a-a frightened doe. It’s unnerving.”

“I am sorry I’ve displeased you, my lord.” There it is again. You hate it. You hate how easily it comes, how your hands clasp each other so tightly to not show how they are trembling because you know what happens when you fall short, when you are lacking. It was the unknown of your new husband’s temperament, how he would ultimately discipline you and why that had you further on edge, but you would learn. You always learned. You always endured. 

And Lyonel…he loathes it in a way you could not comprehend. He exhales hard, like a man trying—and failing—to keep his temper. “Do you ever say anything else?”

You don’t answer because the answer is no. Because any answer feels like a trap. And because silence is safer—not always, but it did not allow yourself to continue the error.

Lyonel studies you, eyes narrowing slightly, dark brows furrowed as he tries to solve you. “Look at me.” Your gaze lifts at once, not because you want to—but because you must. He notices that too and something in his expression shifts.

“Gods,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re not shy.” You blink. He steps closer, slower now, like approaching a skittish animal. “You’re afraid.” Your heart stutters.

“I am not—”

“You flinched when I laughed.”

You swallow. “It was loud.”

“I am loud,” he says plainly, pulling a face. “That’s not likely to change.”

You nod quickly. “Of course, I would not expect you to change within your own household, my lord.”

“Stop that.” You still. “Stop agreeing with everything I say.”

“I—” Your breath catches. “I will try.”

“That’s not—” He groans, turning away, pacing once before facing you again. “What kind of house did you come from?” The question strikes like a blow. You feel it in your chest, in your ribs, in the old, buried places you have learned not to touch.

“A respectable one,” you answer carefully.

“I didn’t ask if it was respectable. I asked what it was.”

Your hands clasp tighter. “Orderly.”

“And?”

“Disciplined.”

“And?” You hesitate. His gaze sharpens. “And?”

Your voice is quieter now. “Strict.”

“How strict?” 

The word slips out before you can stop it. “Very, as every household should be.” Your words were scripted, he knew. Silence follows. Heavy. Expectant. You should stop speaking. You know you should. But something about the way he is looking at you—not cruel, not mocking, just… waiting—pulls the truth loose from your throat.

“My father, as every good lord does, believed… obedience was a virtue above all else,” you say, each word measured. “There were… consequences for lacking.”

Lyonel goes still. “What kind of consequences?”

You stare at the floor. “The earned consequences, my lord. As is customary of any house.” Was he testing you? 

“That tells me nothing.” You close your eyes briefly. You should not say this, you should not, but the words come anyway, thin and fragile because he requested an answer, demanded it. And you followed demands to the letter, as is your purpose. 

“He did not like to be questioned, nor should he be as lord of the keep. Or contradicted. Or… startled.”

A beat.

“Startled,” Lyonel repeats.

“Yes.” You don’t realize what you’ve said until it’s too late. Until his laughter—earlier, booming and sudden—replays in your mind. Until your body remembers the instinct before you can stop it. Your shoulders draw in. Your head dips. You make yourself smaller.

The way you always have.

The way you were taught.

And when you open your eyes, Lyonel is staring at you like he has been struck.

“Oh,” he says.

Just that.

Oh.

You brace yourself again—for anger, for ridicule. For something. Instead, he drags a hand through his hair and turns away again, pacing harder now.

“Seven hells,” he mutters. “Seven bloody fucking hells.”

“My lord—Lyonel,” you correct quickly as to not anger him further, “I did not mean to—”

“Stop apologizing!” His arm shoots out in a stopping motion and you flinch as if you’ve been struck. He sees it and that—more than anything—seems to undo him. Lyonel’s anger collapses in on itself, leaving something rawer behind.

“My anger is not directed towards you,” he says, quieter now. You were the only person around, you tried to make sense of it in your head, so who could his ire be directed at if not you? “Gods.”

You nod quickly. “Yes.”

He closes his eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“I—”

“You’re not listening to me,” he says, not unkindly, but it still causes your spine to stiffen in a way that was familiar, expected. Measured. “You’re listening to… him.” His hand gestures at nothing, but you knew what he meant. The word hangs between you, unspoken, but understood.

Your father.

Your throat constricts.

“I am trying to be a good wife,” you whisper, fear of failure so soon overtaking you. “I will improve.”

Lyonel’s eyes open, and for the first time since you met him, he does not look larger than life. He looks… human in a way you did not trust. Lyonel peers down at you with softness and men weren’t soft, neither were they gentle—not towards their wives and not towards you. It was not real, nor was it proper, and so your mind labeled this as a fallacy. You would not fall victim to this test. Perhaps you would impress him when he saw you would not bend. 

“And you think that means being afraid of me?” he asks.

“No,” you say quickly, too quickly. A lie passed from through your lips as a means to soothe. Lyonel’s mouth tightens.

“I’m loud,” he says simply. “I drink too much. I celebrate often. I’ll likely drag you into half my nonsense whether you wish to be in it or not.” A faint, humorless huff of breath. “But I am not him and that is not how my household operates beneath this roof.”

You don’t answer because you don’t know how to believe that. It is how all households are ran underneath their roofs. He studies you for a long moment, then sighs. “This is going to be a problem.”

Your stomach drops. “I can do better-” He cuts your pleas off before they can finish. 

“-That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer again, slower this time. Deliberate. “I don’t want a wife who’s afraid to breathe too loudly in my presence.” he says. “I don’t want someone who looks at me like I’m about to strike her for speaking.” His voice lowers. “And I certainly don’t want to become that man through my own frustrations without realizing it.”

You stare at him. Confused. Frightened. Something else you cannot name.

“I do not know how to be anything else,” you admit, feeling smaller than you did in the great hall. The honesty feels dangerous, but you cannot take it back.

Lyonel exhales slowly. “Then we’ll have to learn you something new, won’t we?”

You blink. “We?”

“We,” he repeats. “Because if I leave you to it, you’ll keep shrinking every time I laugh, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life whispering in my own hall.”

Despite everything, a small, startled breath escapes you. It’s not quite a laugh—never a laugh—but it is close and you discreetly pinch your own hand to self-correct. Lyonel’s eyes catch it even if you do not intend for him to, and this time when he smiles, that softness returns and it turns your stomach. 

“Good,” he says. “That’s better already.” You don’t realize it yet, but for the first time since your wedding began, you are not bracing for the next blow.

And for tonight, that is enough.

The next morning, you wake before the sun.

You always do.

The habit is carved into you—rise early, dress neatly, speak little, make no mistakes. Even here, in Storm’s End, where the sea roars instead of your father’s voice, your body remembers its lessons.

You sit at the edge of the bed, hands folded, waiting. For what, you are not sure. For instruction. For correction. For something to go wrong. A dull ache twinges between your thighs, a remnant of the coupling you endured within the first night of your marriage bed. 

Duty

It makes you wince. It was as your mother and septa explained–painful, violating, expected, endurable. The memory of you laying stiff against the mattress, Lyonel’s drunken breath upon your neck as he rutted for a few moments before rolling off of you and falling asleep has you clenching your eyes shut. 

Duty 

Behind you, Lyonel stirs and you go still, like a rabbit startled by the break of a stick on the ground. Danger impending, your mind told you. He groans, rolling onto his back with one arm thrown over his eyes to shield the daylight that breaks through the clouds outside the windows. “Gods… whose idea was that last cask?”

You do not answer. It is not your place to comment. Heavy silence stretched uncomfortably, and slowly, his arm lowered. He squints at you through the dim morning light, trying to get a read on you.

“…Have you been sitting there long?”

You hesitate. “No.” A lie.

His brow furrows. “You’re dressed.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“I did not wish to wake you.” His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger—but in that same searching way that makes your chest feel tight.

“You’re my wife,” he says. “Not a servant waiting for permission to breathe.”

“I understand.”

“You keep saying that,” he mutters with a sigh. You lower your gaze. There is a pause, then, abruptly—“Come back to bed.”

Your head lifts. “My lord?”

“Lyonel,” he corrects automatically, voice rough with sleep. He pats the space beside him. “Come here.”

Your pulse stumbles. You do not move a muscle.

“I…” You swallow. “It is morning.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed. Too bloody early, if you ask me”

“There will be duties—”

“They can wait.”

“They should not,” you say quickly. “A lady must not be idle.” His expression shifts.

“There it is again,” he says.

You stiffen. “Again?”

“That tone,” he says, pushing himself upright now. “Like you’re reciting something.”

“I am only speaking properly.”

“You’re speaking like someone else put the words in your mouth.” Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

“They are appropriate words,” you say, carefully.

“And are they yours?” The question lands heavier than it should. You hesitate and that is answer enough. Lyonel exhales sharply, swinging his legs off the bed. He is nude, just as he was when he fell asleep. You quickly turn your head back to the window, eyes wide. “Seven hells.” He mutters as he throws on a sleep shirt and pours himself a cup of wine that’s been sitting on the mantle. Seven Hells–something he’s taken to saying around you, to you, since you got here. You flinch at his sudden movement.

He sees it, of course he does, and his jaw tightens as he walks around the bed to stand before you. “I wasn’t even near you that time.”

“I know.” Your eyes don’t meet his.

“Then why do you look like I just drew a blade?”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Silence. Tense. Fragile. “I am trying,” you say quietly.

“So am I,” he snaps, pacing back and forth before you like a caged animal. The words hit harder than shouting and you go still. Lyonel runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room before turning back to you. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like everything you do is wrong?”

Horribly so, you wanted to answer. Your throat tightens and all you can get out is a pathetic, “Yes.”

He gestures sharply with a hand. “Then you should understand how bloody frustrating this is.”

“I am not trying to frustrate you.” You stand, hands still clasped in front of you, pinching. Gods, the pinching. Lyonel’s eyes go to it, but he does not comment on it.

“I know that!” he says, louder now. “Gods, I know that. That’s what makes it worse.” Your heart begins to pound. Too loud, too fast. This is how it starts–voices rising and tempers flaring. You take a small step back without meaning to. His voice cuts off and he stares at you, at the distance you’ve put between you and something in his expression hardens.

“Right,” he says flatly. “Of course.”

Your stomach drops. “I did not mean—”

“You never mean anything, do you?” he interrupts. “You just…are.”

“That is not—”

“You don’t speak unless you think it’s safe. You don’t move unless you think you’re allowed. You don’t even sit beside your own husband without looking like you’re awaiting judgment.” His words come faster now, sharper. “And I’m supposed to—what? Gently coax you out of it forever? Tiptoe around my own wife so she hopes I don’t strike her?”

“I never said you would!” Your voice was more shrill, more panicked than you meant it to be. A lady does not lose her composure.

“You don’t have to,” he shoots back. “You wear it on your face every time I raise my voice.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“I am trying to adjust-”

“Then try bloody harder!” The words crack through the room like thunder. You freeze. Completely. Resolutely. Your breath stops. Your shoulders draw in. Your gaze drops to the floor. Small. Still. Silent. Exactly as you were taught. The moment stretches before he speaks again.

“…Gods.” The anger drains from his face all at once and he steps back like he’s been burned. “No,” he mutters. “No, that’s not—”

You cannot look at him. You cannot move.

You are waiting.

For the next thing.

For the punishment that always follows.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there is only the sound of his breathing—uneven, frustrated, something dangerously close to regret.

“I just did it,” he says quietly.

You don’t understand.

Your heart twists.

“You did not—”

“I shouted. You froze. And now you look like you’re waiting for me to—” He cuts himself off, dragging both hands down his face. “Seven hells.” Repeated once more. You begin to associate it with something negative. Something bad. Something that needed correction. 

Silence fills the space between you. Heavy. Suffocating. Familiar. 

“I cannot do this,” he says finally. The words slice clean through you.

Your head lifts, panic flaring. “I will do better, I swear it—”

“That’s not what I mean!” he snaps—then immediately winces at his own tone. You flinch again. Of course you do. His shoulders sag.

“See?” he says hoarsely. “I can’t even speak above a docile tone without—”

“You should not have to change yourself for me,” you interrupt, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. Your fingers pinch the back of your hand in another self-correction and he watched it like a hawk tracking a mouse running through the underbrush. “I am the one who must adjust, my lord. I am the one who must be better. That is how this works. I beg for nothing more than a small adjustment period and I will be all that you can expect.”

He stares at you.

“No,” he says. The word is firm. Unyielding. “That is how your father worked. Not me.”

Your hands tremble slightly. “A wife must be obedient above all else and I am. Obedient.”

“A wife must be a person before that,” he counters and the words said aloud capsize you. The force of them makes you falter.

“I do not know how,” you whisper. There it is again. The truth. Raw. Unvarnished. Terrifying. Lyonel’s expression shifts—not to anger this time, but to something that exhausts his mind. He looks at you like he is trying to solve a battle he cannot win with strength alone.

“…I don’t know how to teach you,” he admits. The words hang between you.

Not cruel, but honest, and somehow that stings more.

You lower your gaze again, voice small. “Then I will learn on my own. I am capable, I promise you.”

“How?” he asks, looking at you expectantly. He knows you don’t have an answer because you have never been allowed to find one, not before and not now.

The silence stretches–long and uncertain–then, after a moment, he exhales slowly.

“…We’re going to make a mess of this, aren’t we?” You glance up.

There is no anger in his face now, only quiet frustration and something else you cannot identify. Determination, perhaps.

“Yes,” you say quietly in agreement. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile and not quite joyous.

"i'm a lucky fuckin' man, dr. abbot," your fiancé will sigh out of nowhere, shoulder to shoulder with the older man who's trying to update a chart. "eights months, 'n i'll be married to the prettiest girl in the entire hospital. oh, and did she tell you? gonna take her on a two-week tour of italy for our honeymoon. seriously. fourteen days of feeding her pasta and wine... and fourteen nights of letting her do whatever the fuck she wants to my–"

a choking noise sounds from behind the two men, who both spin at the sound. there you are, blinking at them with an odd expression and loud gulp.

your fiancé just grins at the sight of you, squeezing his hand at your waist to plant a too-wet kiss on the corner of your mouth. it lingers long enough for you to want to pull away. which you do, with an embarrassed flick of the eyes toward jack.

his face doesn't give away much of anything, and that only makes you feel worse.

"what?" your fiancé shrugs, throwing a stupid wink jack's way. "lemme brag about my girl. wife, huh?"

you fiancé leaves you with one last kiss and pat on the butt. whistling a song jack doesn't recognize, only to spin around to walk backwards and start talking again.

"i just remembered what i came down here for: dinner tonight. you and me. my treat, yeah? i was thinking pizza or italian, but i'm cool with whatever you want, baby. just text me, lemme know."

and just like that, he's gone. and you're trying to unclench your jaw, but it's not working.

yeah. just as jack said. weird.

"isn't pizza italian?" jack finally hears you mumble to yourself, unable to hold back his straight-faced snort.