She'd spent the past few days organising her classroom, planning her first few weeks worth of lessons and looking through the notes Professor Flitwick had left about his choir and brass band students. She was not the sort to procrastinate; she functioned best when well-prepared.

   This left her with around a week of free time before the students arrived. Which was just as well; her chambers were still in shambles - she'd neglected this in favour of prepping for lessons. And she wanted to spend some time shopping in Hogsmeade. It's had been ages since she'd had the chance to shop for wizarding clothes.

   She decided to take the long way back to her chambers, and stop by the staff room en route. There were always fresh biscuits and tea there, and she could drop off copies of her lesson plans in Minerva's inbox.

   She made her way through the castle corridors, revelling in the quiet majesty of the place. More than magical; the castle seemed almost to be alive. The talking portraits, the moving staircases, the enchanted statues; it all added to the impression that Hogwarts was a living, breathing entity. She'd spent hours just wandering around aimlessly, trying to commit the layout to memory, peering into all sorts of rooms and taking in all the wondrous sights.

   She hadn't seen a single soul for the past few days, not since her walk through the castle with Professor Snape. Minerva had sent a note by owl saying that she would be staying in London until tomorrow, and she'd not encountered anyone else at all. It didn't bother her. She didn't get lonely easily, and she'd had plenty to do.

   She couldn't deny the flutter in her stomach when she entered the staff room; there he was - Professor Snape, looking like the epitome of her dream man in his billowing black robes, sat by the teapot looking warily at a very long piece of parchment.

********

   Severus heard someone approach the table and glanced up. Stella, looking lovely in a dark blue dress. Just an observation, nothing more. "Hi," he greeted her. Oh gods, not again, you imbecile.

   "Hi," she replied, concern in her voice. "Are you okay? You look a little stressed."

   He gave a brief sigh. "I don't suppose you're any good at brewing potions, are you?"

   "I'm not half bad, I guess. Why?"

   "It seems there has been a pixie infestation in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey arrived yesterday to find the medicinal potions stock had been completely destroyed. There's nothing left. Everything must be replenished before the students arrive. The list is a mile long. I'll be brewing day and night to get it sorted." He rested his head on one hand, his inky black hair falling over his face, and gazed at the parchment with a heavy sigh.

   Stella felt terrible for him. A week before start of term, and all this to deal with. "I can help, if you want."

   Severus looked up. "I couldn't ask you to do that. I'm sure you have plenty of your own preparation to do before the students arrive."

   Stella patted the stack of parchment she was holding. "No, I actually just finished my lesson plans, and my classroom is all sorted. I've got nothing but free time."

   Severus was impressed. Most of the staff hadn't even returned to the castle yet, and here she was already prepared for the start of term. Well-prepared, attentive to duty, good initiative, willingness to help, he added to his mental dossier. If she had been a Hogwarts student, she'd surely have been in Ravenclaw. Had anyone else offered, he'd likely have refused, but... he wasn't sure why, but the thought of being around her wasn't entirely off-putting.  Odd, that.  He was not a man who sought out the presence of others; in fact, he preferred solitude, particularly when brewing.  Well, it is a daunting task, and a second pair of hands would be useful.  She offered; it would be rude to refuse, he thought, pushing any thoughts of how pleasant it actually was to be around her to the deepest corners of his mind.  It's school business, nothing more.

   "I see. In that case, if you truly don't mind, I was going to start tomorrow morning. I'll need to visit the greenhouses and the Hogsmeade apothecary today to get the necessary ingredients. Shall we meet tomorrow at nine? The Potions classroom will be most suitable. We will need to have multiple cauldrons brewing."

   Stella smiled. "Sure. I'll be there."

   "Thank you. You really don't have to do this."

   "Don't worry, I'm glad I can help. Well, I have some shopping to do myself today, but I'll see you tomorrow."

   She left, leaving her lesson plans for the Headmistress on the way out. She'd forgotten all about the tea and biscuits she'd come for. The prospect of spending more time with Professor Snape made her feel giddy. Oh grow up, for gods sake. Yeah, maybe he's attractive but he is your colleague. You'd better focus on not screwing up potions in front of THE Potions Master.

   Right, she thought. Shopping. She made her way to the castle's main entrance, looking forward to some retail therapy in Hogsmeade.

   As she approached the castle's main entrance door, she heard voices. Two women were standing amid a collection of travel trunks. One of them was speaking rather brusquely to some house-elves. "Go on then, take these to our chambers. Surely you don't need directions?"

   "No, Professor Schmidt, Beanie knows exactly where to go! We will move these right away for Professor Schmidt and Professor Sterling!" The elves scurried off in two directions, ferrying the trunks to their owners' respective chambers.

   Professor Schmidt was a short, stocky woman, dressed in drab brown robes which fit her rather like a potato sack. Her short black hair was peppered with grey, her tiny brown eyes regarding the elves with contempt. She turned to the other woman, a rather nondescript, slender entity with long brown hair and large tortoiseshell glasses, and sucked her teeth.

   "I hope they're quick about it. I'm starving for lunch." She spotted Stella approaching. "And who might you be?"

   Stella was caught off guard by her curt tone. "Oh, hello. I'm Stella, Stella Rosenbaum. I've come to teach Music here. It's nice to meet you." Stella put her hand out; Professor Schmidt shook it briefly, releasing it with a slight recoil as if it were slimy.

   "Ruth Schmidt. Arithmancy. This is Beth Sterling, Muggle Studies." Stella didn't fail to notice that she hadn't returned the hello or the nice to meet you.

   Stella shook Beth's hand, and they exchanged pleasantries. Beth was soft-spoken, meek. But she seemed to possess basic manners, at least.

   Ruth looked Stella up and down, her face tinged with disdain. "Oh yes, the Music programme. The Ministry's latest fluff piece. Well, our last American professor didn't last very long, so best of luck to you, dearie."

   Though she was offended by Ruth's overt rudeness, Stella faked a warm smile, remembering what her Granny had always said: you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. "Thank you. I love it here already. Really looking forward to meeting the students. Well, I'm just on my way out, but it was lovely to meet you both. I'm sure I'll see you again soon."

   Beth gave a polite hum in response, but Ruth didn't return any niceties. After a silent beat awkwardly passed, Stella exited the castle, bemused at what had just occurred. She knew exactly what her Granny would have said about such a rude woman: "Bless her heart, she ain't got no home trainin'."

********

   Severus was taking stock of the potions stores, Madame Pomfrey's list in hand, when there was a sharp rap at his office door. Before he could bid the caller to come in, Ruth opened the door abruptly.

   "Snape, I need an indigestion potion," she demanded.

   Severus groaned inwardly. That ill-mannered, irritating tone could only belong to one person: Ruth Schmidt, the tactless Arithmancy Professor.

   "Lovely to see you too, Professor." he said cattily before turning around. Ruth Schmidt. A complete troll of a woman. "It was nice, thank you. How was yours?"

   "Huh? Oh right, yeah, fine." She stood there like a lump, hand on her hip. Does someone shaped like a potato even have hips?

   "Let me see what I have." He walked over to his potions cupboard and started scanning the shelves. Ruth followed, standing near the cupboard door, chattering in her grating voice as he searched.

   "I've just met the new Music teacher. Another bloody Yank, can you believe it? Dunno who she thinks she is traipsing about in those fancy clothes. Music programme, how utterly useless."

   Severus took a small vial from a shelf and turned to face her. "Ah, yes. Miss Rosenbaum. She arrived last week. Personally, I have found her to be quite pleasant. I believe the students will be thrilled with the new programme, and with their new professor." He handed her the vial. "Now if you don't mind, I'm quite busy at the moment."

   "Busy rummaging in your likkle cupboard? Well you have fun with that." She turned and waddled out of the office, closing the door behind her with a slam.

   Severus bit back his disgust and returned to the task at hand. Some things never change.

********

   Stella spent the afternoon perusing the shops of Hogsmeade, trying on clothes and buying far more than she had planned on, as usual. Wizards really do make beautiful clothes, she thought. She was heading towards the Three Broomsticks for a much needed drink, and was passing by the apothecary when who should be exiting the shop but Professor Snape, carrying a number of large bags.

   "Fancy meeting you here." Severus looked up; there she was, looking as lovely as she had that morning, laden with an impressive amount of shopping bags. He found himself surprisingly pleased to see her. Normally running into a colleague outside of school would have annoyed him, but he felt almost... glad to see her?

   "Hi." Oh for the love of... "Doing your part for the wizarding economy, I see."

   Stella chuckled. "Mmm-hmm. Wouldn't want the whole thing to collapse."

   Severus felt his mouth forming the tiniest smile. "I was just collecting the things we'll need for tomorrow. I'll let you get back to your shopping."

   "Oh, I think I've done more than enough damage for today. I was just off for a quick drink before I head back."  She paused. Do I dare? Oh go on, it's just a drink. "Can I buy you one? As a thank you for showing me around? If you have time, of course."

   Severus gave a genuine, albeit small smile. It was a bit of a shock; he couldn't recall ever having been offered a drink by an attractive woman. "No, thank you. But please, allow me to buy you one, as a thank you in advance for your help."

   She wondered if she was blushing. Christ, could he be any more perfect? "Oh, well... if you insist."

   "I do. Let me take some of these for you." He reached out and took several of her bags. "Shall we?"

   They found a quiet table in the pub, and Stella surprised him by ordering an Ogdens Old firewhisky, neat. "I like the burn," she told him, shrugging her shoulders.

   Severus regarded her over his drink. He couldn't deny that some small part of him took satisfaction in being seen having a drink with a pretty lady. It wasn't exactly something that happened often... or ever.

   "I feel I owe you an apology. It occurs to me that I haven't been a very good host. I've left you completely on your own for the past few days."

   "No, it's fine, really. I've had tonnes to do. There seem to be a few others trickling in, though. I met Beth and... Ruth, earlier today."

   Severus groaned. "Yes, Ruth stopped by - or rather, barged into - my office. I should have warned you beforehand."

   Stella leaned in over the table, whispering conspiratorially. "Is she always such a raging bitch?"

   His dark eyes looked into hers with a mirthful gleam rarely seen from the serious Potions Master. "No. Usually she's much worse."

********

Friday, 24th August 2000

   Stella arrived at the potions classroom promptly at nine the next morning. The room had been prepared with a cauldron at each desk, ingredients neatly laid out by each. Severus stood at the teacher's desk, thumbing through a textbook. Looking luscious, she thought.

   "Morning." she said cheerily, holding up a large thermos. "Coffee?"

   Severus looked up and took in the sight. She was wearing Muggle clothes today: jeans (form-fitting; just an observation) with a series of rips down the front, a black Iron Maiden concert t-shirt, and black trainers. Converse; he recognised the brand from his youth in the Muggle world. Her hair was in two French plaits either side, her face rather bare; minimal makeup today. Gods. He thought. Why is she so cute in Muggle clothes?

   "Good morning." Thank Merlin, not the insipid hi this time. "Thank you again for agreeing to help." His eyes travelled down to her ripped jeans. "Did you... encounter a graphorn on the way?"

   There it was; that dry wit he brandished like a weapon. Stella found it captivating. Nothing was more attractive than a person who possessed true wit, and she'd always been a sucker for a dry sense of humour.

   She looked down at her jeans and laughed. "It's called artfully distressed denim, daaahhling."

   He cocked an eyebrow. "Jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt? How very Muggle of you."

   "You know Iron Maiden?"

   "I'm familiar."

   "Hmm. How very Muggle of you."

   Severus paused; had he offended her?

   She stared at him for a beat, eyebrows raised, then her face relaxed into a smile. Not offended then. Good. "Anyway, I can't risk ruining my vintage couture with an errant potion, now can I?"

   "Perish the thought. I thought we could start with some basic wound-cleanser, then work on Pepperup later in the day."

   "Sure."

   With a flick of his wand, the instructions for the wound-cleaning potion appeared on the blackboard in his neat cursive penmanship.

   "Thanks," Stella said. "I'm sure you can brew these in your sleep."

   "Hmpfh. I'll need to, if the hospital stores are to be restocked in time."

   Stella got to work, going down a line of ten cauldons one-by-one, methodically following the steps. It was a simple potion, easy enough to brew in multiples if one was focused. After some time she reached a lull; the potions now needed to simmer for twenty minutes undisturbed.

Severus had reached the same place with his own cauldrons, and drew nearer to inspect Stella's work.

   "Not bad," he intoned, scrutinising the softly bubbling liquid in one of her cauldrons.

   "High praise, coming from you. It's pretty nerve-wracking doing this in front of you. It's been ages since I've brewed anything."

   "Not a high demand for magical potions in the Muggle world, is there?"

   "Yeah, you could say that."

   He paced slowly back toward his own cauldrons, turning back toward her. "How did you end up here at Hogwarts? From New York, I mean. From the Muggle world."

   Stella drew a deep breath. "Well, the short answer is, I saw the job advertisement and I applied. The slightly longer answer is, I just thought it was time for a fresh start. New millennium, I'm turning thirty soon, and the war is finally over... it seemed safe to come back. So, here I am."

He considered her response. Thirty? He'd assumed she was younger. But that had been based purely on looks. It made sense. She had a bit more confidence and seemed more mature than someone in their early twenties.

   "And the long, long answer?"

   Stella looked down into the cauldon. "Not to be dramatic, but that's..." she drew a breath, then let it out slowly. "...a story for some other time." She looked back at him, and smiled softly.

   He was intrigued, but didn't push. "You were Muggle-born, I presume? Are you the only witch in your family?"

   "Yes, only one I know of, anyway. My mom always said my great-grandma could do things, but Meemaw died when I was little. I only have a few memories of her."

   Something about her accent changed on the word Meemaw. Severus raised an eyebrow. "Meemaw?"

   Stella's soft smile came back. "Yeah, most Americans in the south have a Meemaw or a Mamaw in the family."

   "I thought you were from New York?"

   "Well, I've live there most of my adult life, but no. I'm from North Carolina."

   "Ahh, that makes sense then."

   "What does?"

   "Why your accent isn't completely atrocious."

   She couldn't stop a small grin from appearing on her face. "Whoa, careful. That was almost a compliment." Stella was... flattered, actually. She knew British people sometimes found American accents grating. Hell, she found certain American accents grating.

    From the corridor came a shuffle of feet, and a head popped through the doorway: Ruth. Ugh.

"Well isn't this sweet. Giving a lesson to the new little teacher, Snape?"

   Severus didn't look up. "Can I help you with something, Professor?"

   "Oh I was just passing by. Look at you, Miss... Rosewater? Rosemeyer? Rose-whatever. Don't you look like a proper little Muggle today."

   Stella gave another of her fake smiles. "Lovely to see you again, Ruth."

   Ruth slid into the room like a slug. "Our new Charms and Sports professors have arrived. Two young, handsome lads. They're going to be all over this one like spots on a ladybird," she said, pointing at Stella. "I reckon you'll soon stop spending time in the dungeons with this grumpy old bat."

   Severus put down the ladle he was holding with a distinct clink and looked Ruth dead in the eye. His voice was cold, each word enunciated with razor sharpness. "If you don't mind, Professor, we are in the middle of brewing stock for the hospital wing. I'm sure you have important matters to attend to yourself."

   Ruth rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, you're very busy and important, aren't you," she said flippantly. "Enjoy yourselves. Perhaps our new Music teacher will sing you something pretty."

   Stella watched her leave the room, then turned back to Severus, stunned at the audacity of it all.  He shook his head, exasperated. "She really is in rare form today."

   "I'm... speechless. Just as well; it's time to add the arrowroot."

   They each worked their way down their line of cauldrons. As Stella was adding the finely ground powder to her last one, Severus spoke, his voice ever so slightly tinged with concern. "I hope I have not offended you, calling you a Muggle or commenting on your clothing?"

   Finding his concern very sweet, Stella answered, "No, no. Don't worry. There's a difference between dry wit and outright rudeness. You haven't been rude to me. Not at all."

   Severus was relieved.  Not one who typically cared what other people thought of him, he found himself in the strange position of not wanting to offend Stella. He'd found the time they'd spent together rather... enjoyable.  More than that; he found himself looking forward to seeing her. For professonal reasons only, nothing more, he told himself.  

   "Now that wench..." Stella laughed. "I guess I'd be more offended if it weren't so damn funny. Good lord, my Granny would slap me from beyond the grave if I was ever that rude to someone I'd just met. She must have been raised by trolls."

********

   Over the next week, Stella and Severus spent every day brewing for the hopsital.  He handled the more complicated potions, but her assistance with the others was indispensable.  There was no way in hell he'd have been able to brew the sheer volume required in just one week.  

   Stella arrived at the potions classroom promptly each morning with a flask full of what she called "fancy coffee."  I had a short-lived stint at a place called Starbucks, she'd explained. Awful job, but I did learn to make fancy coffee. She was focused and methodical when working, attentive to every detail.  He'd not had to offer much guidance at all, save for the times he shared his own edits to a set of instructions which he knew from experience would improve the outcome.  If only the students were so competent. They fell into a peaceful, easy way of working, spending much of the time in comfortable silence, each engrossed in their own pursuit. 

Severus observed her often, when he had a free moment to look away from his cauldrons, his mental dossier growing longer by the day.  She tries to hide her Southern accent, but it comes out on certain words. Her hands are always busy; if she's not doing something productive with them, she's twirling her hair or figdeting with something absentmindedly.  She's able to focus for long periods. She picks up new information quickly.  Handles difficult situations - like Ruth - with grace and humour.  She often hums or even sings quietly to herself; I don't think she even realises she's doing it. She always smells divine - like strawberries and honeysuckle. And she doesn't seem to mind my dry remarks.

   It was a bit disarming at first, the way his dry remarks seemed not to bother her, and even seemed to amuse her.  And she wasn't shy about returning a few barbs of her own.  He found it rather enchanting.  Rarely did anyone banter back and forth with him with such ease.  It was itimate, in a friendly kind of way. He'd not had that sort of rapport with anyone since... well, since Lily, really. And even she was never quite so quick-witted.

   And of course, as much as he tried to ignore it, there was the fact that she was undeniably attractive.  She'd been gorgeous when they'd first met, all dolled up in her pretty clothes.  She'd shown up in his classroom every day the past week dressed in casual Muggle clothes, (so as not to ruin any of her nice things, she'd said) with minimal hairstyling or makeup, but truthfully, it made her no less attractive.  In fact, he actually found it quite cute. 

   He tried pushing such thoughts to the back of his mind.  Though not as young as he'd first assumed, she was ten years younger than him, and way out of his league.  Much as he hated to give her any credit, he reckoned Ruth was right: she'd meet these new handsome professors, they'd flirt shamelessly with her, she'd pick her favourite, and that would be that.  It was inevitable.

   He gazed at her, engrossed in crushing Sopophorous Beans.  When was the last time anyone had offered to help him with the hosptial stock?  Whilst there typically wasn't an entire ward's worth of stock to replenish, Madame Pomfrey did give him a monthly list of neccessities, and he always brewed them entirely on his own.  It was a regular task he had to deal with, on top of his responsibilities teaching and being Head of House.  All the staff were capable of brewing basic potions, but never had anyone offered to assist.  Let alone assist full-time for days on end.  Surely she wouldn't have offered to help if she found his company unbearable? 

   Perhaps he could just...?  No, it wasn't right.  It would be a complete invasion of her privacy.  Whatever her thoughts about him may be, he liked her, respected her.  

   On the other hand, maybe if he confirmed that she regarded him with only professionalism, he could banish these pesky fancies which kept creeping into his mind.  He could move on, regarding her as nothing more than a pleasant colleague.

   Many Legilimens can't perform without direct eye contact, but Severus had been perfecting his innate skill since reading about it that day in the library as a first-year student.  He could cast the magic wordlessly and weave his way into someone's mind from across the room, even if their back was turned. He looked at her; she was now adding the crushed beans to a simmering cauldron with one hand, stirring slowly with the other.  He knew she'd be too focused for the next few minutes to catch him looking.  With a final thought of just get on with it he entered her mind.

   He expected to be able to flick quickly through her thoughts and memories, like scanning over books on a shelf, as was typical.  He'd find what he was looking for, then leave.  But her mind was empty.  Not empty, really.  Just not accessible to me. There were no tangible thoughts or memories available to him, only a sense of focus and quiet contentment.  What she's feeling right now, he mused.

   He came back to himself, puzzled.  It was not the first time someone's mind had been inaccessible to him.  There were other accomplished Occlumens of course, though it was rare.  But this seemed different.  He didn't get the sense that she was intentionally hiding anything; rather, that it just was.  Her mind wasn't accessible to him.

   He gave a short sigh, louder than he meant to; Stella looked up.  "Alright?"

   "Yes.  Just... a bit hungry.  Shall we have the elves bring some lunch?"

********

   Her numerous trunks were open, in various states of disarray, her belongings scattered in piles around the room. A record player and crate of records. Stacks of books. Muggle photography equipment. A sewing machine. A guitar. And clothes. Clothes everywhere. In neatly folded stacks. In messy piles. Draped over furniture. On clothes hangers hung from every conceivable nook. Five whole trunks filled only with shoes.

   She really wasn't kidding about being addicted, he thought. He knew nothing about style or fashion, but was canny enough to recognise that the clothing was of superior quality. He spotted the tags on a few pieces: Vera Wang, Christian Dior. The names meant nothing to him; he assumed they must be Muggle designers.

   She moved about the room, picking up things and putting them down, searching for her bag. She was wearing a full length dress which looked to be made of velvet, with long bell-sleeves. It was a shade of deep green. Slytherin green, he thought. Her hair hung in loose waves to the middle of her back. A black jewelled pendant adorned her neck, accompanied by a few rather ornate rings on her hands. Her black heeled boots clicked on the floor as she moved. Shorter heels today. Sensible enough for a long walking tour? Severus thought she looked... well, lovely, actually. More casual than yesterday but no less pretty. Simply an observation, he mused. Nothing more.

   "Oh thank god, thought I'd never find it!" She held the bag up with relief. "Sorry about that. Shall we?"

   "Of course," he answered. "I thought I'd show you your classroom and office first, then take you around the castle and grounds?"

   "Perfect." She smiled.

   They stepped into the corridor and headed towards the apparition alcove nearby. "On second thought," he said, "perhaps we should take the long way. If you don't mind, of course. To help you better navigate. The castle is vast and the better acquainted with it you are, the easier it will be to get around."

   "Sure, I don't mind."

   Severus began leading her down the long corridor. "I hope you are finding your chambers satisfactory?"

   "More than. The view from the balcony is incredible. I think I'm going to turn the spare room into the wardrobe of my dreams. And the little reading nook in the living room! I've always wanted one of those, ever since I was a little girl."

   Severus was genuinely pleased that she liked her new home... and a bit nonplussed with himself for feeling so pleased. "We have two other new professors starting this year. However, of the other available chambers, one is near the Great Hall, so students are always about. The other overlooks the courtyard, and both are quite a bit smaller than yours. No spare room, and tiny kitchens. I thought you would appreciate the extra space and the superior view."

   Stella beamed, truly appreciative of his thoughtfulness. "That's so sweet of you. You must have known I'd show up with a million trunks full."

   He smirked, ever so slightly. Never in his life had he been accused of being sweet. "Not quite. A stoke of luck for you, I suppose. Ah, here we are. Your classroom, Professor."

   He pushed open one of the tall double doors, revealing the most magnificent room Stella had ever seen.  A vaulted ceiling arched overhead, at least three stories tall, held up by a series of stone pillars. Enormous stained glass windows lined the walls, filling the room with natural light.  Stella's eyes widened at the sight. "My god. This isn't a classroom, it's a cathedral." 

   The tap of her heels echoed off the polished stone floor as she made her way slowly to the other end of the long room, where there were risers for a choir, made of the same polished stone, surrounding a stunning grand piano, it's black laquer gleaming like a shiny jewel amid the dull grey stone.

"This piano - it's exquisite." She touched the keys gently, a few soft notes glowing then fading like fireflies. She gasped, softly.

Something about her reaction made Severus's usual steely reserve begin to warm, ever so slightly.  She was so genuinely delighted; it was lovely to see.

   "It's brand new," he said, his voice softer than usual. "The Ministry has provided a rather generous budget for the new programme, and the Headmistress thought it best that you have a suitable piano. The old one went out of tune every few days, apparently."

   "I'm dying to try it out. Do you mind? Just quickly."

   "Not at all."

   Stella sat down on the piano bench and placed her hands lightly on the keys. A soft, sweet melody arose. She played with a bit more fervour and the notes climbed dreamily, wafting into every inch of the cavernous room, to the very top of the lofty vaulted ceiling, fading out beautifully like a whispered prayer.

   "My god. The acoustics in here... I might cry."

   Severus noticed her eyes were welling up. She was serious. "Um-" he thrust his hands into the pockets of his black robes, searching. "Are you... alright? I don't have a-"

   Stella grabbed her handbag and opened the clasp. "It's alright, I do." She pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed her eyes. "I'm so sorry. It's just, it's just so beautiful. This room. This piano. These acoustics." She breathed in deeply, then let it out slowly. Her voice steadied. "God, I'm a mess. Crying like an idiot in front of someone I barely know. You must think I'm crazy."

   Severus found it... strangely charming, if he were honest. She was obviously appreciative of her new classroom. And whilst he'd never been comfortable around crying women, there was something rather sweet about it. So many new teachers blundered in as if they owned the place, as if Hogwarts were lucky to have them. She, however, seemed truly grateful to be there.

   "Believe me, these castle walls have seen far crazier sights. Your office is just over there; shall we?"

   Stella smiled, relieved to have an excuse to move on. She followed him, mentally berating herself for acting like a silly child in front of her new colleague. (My new colleague who is fine as hell, she reminded herself, which rubbed salt in the wound.) Oh well. It was just how she was; she got emotional over music and art and beautiful things all the time. In fact, tearing up was such a common occurrence, she only ever wore waterproof mascara. If the gorgeous professor with the velvety voice thought she was crazy, there wasn't much she could do about it.

   After seeing her office, Severus walked with her all over the castle and grounds. The rest of the journey was tear-free, blessedly. She asked him lots of questions about the castle's history and what working there was like. She was interested, but mostly she just wanted to hear him talk in that delicious voice of his.

   Severus found, to his great surprise, that he didn't mind. He was glad she actually seemed interested. Nothing was more boring than a person with no curiosity. The conversation was easy, pleasant - not something the acerbic potions master was used to, especially with someone new. Oddly, he thought, she seemed to actually be enjoying his company. She laughed softly at his dry remarks, returning a few of her own. When he accompanied her back to her chambers a few hours later, it seemed no time had passed.

   He lingered as she opened the door. "I would invite you in for a drink, but you've seen the state of the place. Can I offer a raincheck for when I'm not living in chaos? I swear I'm not normally such a slob."

   "Of course."

   She gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you so much for today. I know you must be busy. I really do appreciate it."

   "Not at all. The pleasure is all mine. I should go. You do have approximately eight tonnes of clothing to sort out."

   Stella gave a low laugh. "That I do. Well, see you... sometime?"

   His mouth formed the slightest smile. "Yes. Sometime."

   Stella shut the door behind her and sighed contentedly. God, hes soooo hot. I wanna run my fingers through that hair soooo bad.

   She found her mobile and lay on the bed. She couldn't wait to give Mikey the latest update.

********

   Heading back to the dungeons, Severus tried making sense of the past few hours. How had it passed so quickly? Gods, he'd not conversed with anyone new for so long, and with such ease, in... well, ever. And when it was over, he'd found himself wishing it weren't. Stella was bright, curious, and actually rather funny. She'd said some things he'd found quite witty. And most unexpected of all, she seemed to enjoy speaking with him. Although, perhaps she's just being polite.

   He shook his head in disbelief as he opened his office door. What are you on about, you had a nice talk with a pleasant lady. That's it. Stop overthinking it.

********

   He approached the large stone gargoyle which concealed the spiral staircase leading to the Headmistress's office, and gave the password in his deep baritone: "Sherbet lemon."  Though in her second year as Headmisstress, Minerva had opted to keep the old password set by Albus as a small tribute to her beloved friend and mentor.  Severus found the gesture touching, even if it did reconstitute the ache in his soul each time he had to say it.

   The gargoyle slowly rotated, revealing the twisting stone steps, and he made his way up to Minerva's office, knocking softly on the door.  

   "Oh, Severus.  Do come in.  I'm afraid I have a favour to ask of you."

   He took a seat across from her at the desk.  Whatever her favour might be, he could say with profound certainty that the previous Headmaster had asked much, much more of him.

   "Yes?"

   "I've been called into London just now on very short notice.  The Ministry needs me to report on some school business.  Nothing to worry about, but it is urgent.  I won't be here to greet our new Music professor. She arrives tomorrow afternoon from New York.  Hagrid will be collecting her from Hogsmeade around two o'clock. Knowing him, he will insist on taking her for a drink at the pub, so I would expect her no earlier than three. Would you please make her feel welcome?  Show her around, take her to her chambers."

   Severus tried not to let his annoynance show on his face.  He didn't fancy playing tour-guide. "Of course."

   Having known Severus since he was a child, Minerva knew he wasn't exactly the gregarious sort; his serious disposition and dry remarks could often leave others a bit on edge. She gave him a knowing look.  "Please, Severus.  Do make her feel at home.  She's a lovely woman and will be travelling quite far.  The castle will be empty and I don't want her to feel lonely."

   Severus raised an eyebrow.  "You seem to have little faith in my... congeniality." 

   Minerva smiled, her eyes warm.

   "I have all the faith in the world in you, dear." 

 ********

Friday, 18th August 2000

   The portkey trip was quick, but dreadful, as usual. Stella found herself at the Hogsmeade Portkey Depot feeling as though she'd just tumbled over Niagara falls in a barrel.  Everyone always said portkey travel became easier the more you did it, but she'd never found that to be true.  Her head swimming, she found a wall to lean against and breathed deeply, willing the nausea to disappear.

   "Yeh must be Miss Rosenbaum!" a cheery voice rang out.  A very tall, broad, bushy-bearded man with a friendly smile and sparkling dark brown eyes walked over and stuck out his giant hand.  "Rubeus Hagrid, pleased t' meet yeh. I teach Care o' Magical Creatures at Hogwarts." 

   She smiled back at him and placed her hand in his massive paw; his handshake was suprisingly gentle for such a large bloke.  "Stella, nice to meet you. Thank you for picking me up."

   "Oh it were no trouble, no trouble a'tall! How was yer trip?  Yeh look a might bit peaky if I'm bein' honest."

   "Oh, I'll be alright.  Portkey travel always makes me a little nauseous."

   "Well, tain't nothin' better fer that than a nice cold gingerbeer!  C'mon, let's get yeh sat down in the pub and yeh'll be feelin' mint in nowt time a'tall!"  

   Five minutes later Stella found herself at a table with Hagrid in The Three Broomsticks, watching a sheer layer of ice crystals lace their way around the glass of cold gingerbeer in front of her.  She looked around as the dizziness gradually subsided, taking in the warm ambiance.  The pub was shabby in a cosy kind of way; the furniture weathered, the lighting dim. At the bar, the witch bartender was scourgifying the counter as a bottle of ale poured itself into a pint glass nearby. Two old men in a corner were deeply engrossed in a game of Wizard's chess; she watched as one of the game pieces smashed another into bits.  Everyone around her was dressed in robes, long dresses, and cloaks.  She took a deep breath and let it out with a small, happy sigh.  It was so good to be back in the wizarding world after so many years.  

 ********

   Severus observed as a gaggle of house-elves nimbly moved the mountain of trunks into the vacant teachers' chambers on the fifth floor of the castle.  How many trunks could one person possibly need?  It must have cost her a fortune to have them all delivered.

   The new Music professor was due later that afternoon.  He recalled Minerva's panic when, with impeccable timing, Filius had announced his retirement just two days after the Ministry decreed that Hogwarts was to expand its arts program, leaving her to source both a new Charms professor and someone to teach Music in a hurry.

   In the wake of the War, there had begun a sort of Wizard Rennaissance, the zeitgeist shifting from an overarching sense of dread to a renewed enjoyment of life. After so many years of uncertainty and fear, so much loss and misery, people at last felt relieved, joyous, and eager to celebrate the beautiful things in life. New shops and restaurants were opening in Hogsmeade, along with art studios, music venues, galleries, and the like.  The Ministry proposed a three-year plan to expand the arts lessons at Hogwarts, starting this year with a new Music and Dance programme.  

   Minerva had interviewed several applicants, deciding on Stella Rosenbaum, a Muggle-born witch who had experience teaching music and dance in Muggle New York.  Severus had questioned her decision to hire someone with no experience working in the wizarding world, but Minerva held firm.  Stella was a witch after all, educated at the American magical school Ilvermorny, and teaching is teaching no matter who the students are.  She had personally interviewed her and found her to be the best candidate for the job.  

   Severus respected Minerva's decision, but balked inwardly at the thought of another American teacher at Hogwarts.  They'd had an American Muggle Studies teacher last year, whom he had found entirely disagreeable. She was also Muggle-born, and was loud and brash, with a shrill Boston accent, and she refused to let students use magic in her lessons.  She insisted on wearing only Muggle clothes; baggy jeans and sweatshirts, trainers in garish colours.  Severus found it slovenly, unprofessional, almost rude; to come work at a school in the wizarding world, yet refuse to adjust to the culture even the tiniest bit.  She was overly-confident in that stereotypically American way, always the loudest in the room, always pushing her opinions as if they were the only correct ones.  He could still hear the way her nasally, grating voice echoed off the castle walls.  Luckily she had only lasted half a year, to be replaced with Beth Sterling, a Welsh woman of the quiet, bookish sort.  Beth seemed to find Severus initmidating and kept her distance.

   Bloody Yanks. She probably has one of those hideous New York accents, he thought to himself as the elves scrambled into the soon-to-be inhabited chambers with the last of the trunks.

   He thanked the elves - he was always polite to house-elves - and retreated back to the cool, quiet solitude of the dungeons, into his office, where he spent the morning busying himself in his personal potions cupboard.  The summer break had seemed to drag on endlessly.  Long, hot days spent alone at his home in Cokeworth, just trying to fill the time - and silence his thoughts. 

   He was glad to be back at Hogwarts, where at least he'd be kept busy.  The previous year, his first year back at the school after the end of the War, had not been the easiest.  Not because of the work, or anything happening at the school.  No, the wizarding world had been truly at peace for the first time in years.  But few speak about how difficult peace can for the survivors - especially those who were never meant to survive at all.

   He wasn't a stupid man by any means.  Ever the crafty potions master, he'd been carrying various remedies everywhere he went for years:  dittany of course, bottled phoenix tears, antivenom.  Nagini accompanied the Dark Lord everywhere; one could never be too careful.  But that night when the world went to hell, when the snake sunk her fangs into him so violently, Severus had made his peace with death.  Years of fighting, lying, playing both sides, and for what?  It wouldn't bring back Lily, nor Albus, nor any of the other lives so needlessly taken in a madman's pursuit for power.  He'd fulfilled his misson, had done everything in his power to atone for the bad decisions made in his troubled youth, and he did not wish to fight any more.  So, after Harry left that night, he closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.

   Days later, he found himself waking up in St Mungo's, his mind groggy and his body screaming in agony. As he slowly came back to life, he pieced together the story from snippets of overheard conversations.  A Hogwarts house-elf, wandering in fear after the battle, had found him barely clinging to life. Remembering that Professor Snape had always been kind to the elves, Lolly had apparated him to the magical hospital.  The staff treated him, grudgingly.  ("We only have to get the bastard well enough to stand trial," he'd overheard one nurse say.) As soon as he was strong enough, he apparated himself back to his home in Cokeworth, preferring to struggle through his recovery alone.

   His trial was over quickly. When Harry Potter himself vouches for you, there isn't much left to discuss. He had to give evidence against a number of other Death Eaters, but was himself cleared of all charges.

   A few months later, Harry gave a long interview with a respected journalist (much to the chagrin of that infamous tabloid wench, Rita Skeeter, who had been desperate to get the first scoop.) Published in papers all over the wizarding world, this would be the only time Harry spoke publicly of the events.  Severus's name was cleared, and public opinion of him warmed overnight.  Minerva contacted her old friend and asked him to return to Hogwarts, offering him the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.

   Severus agreed to return; what the hell else was he going to do?  He turned down the DADA job, not wishing to dwell on the Dark Arts any longer.  What would be the point now, anyway?  He agreed to return to his previous post as Potions Master, and was reinstated as Head of Slytherin House.  His colleagues and students all knew his story by now, and whilst he maintained the same dour demenour as before, they regarded him with a fair bit more warmth and appreciation.

   His first year back at Hogwarts passsed, for the first time in ages, without serious incident.  Severus, however, was plagued by nightmares and flashbacks more garish than ever before. They came out of nowhere, any time of the day or night, wreaking havoc on his mind as if the Dark Lord himself were inhabiting his thoughts.  Once whilst looking through his personal potions cupboard, the door had slammed shut, and the sudden loud noise jarred something in his ragged soul; his mind took him back to that night in the Shrieking Shack when Nagini had nearly killed him.  When he finally came back to reality, he was huddled on the cupboard floor, surrounded by broken glass and spilled liquids, battered and bruised from battling his own inner demons.  He was relieved that it happened in his own office, deep in the dungeons, where no one would have heard his screams.

   More difficult than the nightmares or flashbacks was the existential why of it all. He wasn't supposed to live; why was he still here?  He'd done his part; what more reason was there for him to be alive? To muddle along for the next fifty years, teaching dunderheads and playing with potions?  It all seemed so empty, so pointless.  As twisted as it seemed, playing double agent had at least given him a mission, and some sense of purpose. Now it was over. The Dark Lord was dead, but so were so many others, and so was any sense of meaning or direction in his life. He'd thought about ending it, more times than he cared to admit.  He could brew something that would do the job quickly.  He'd even gathered the ingredients on two occasions.  But ultimately, he berated himself for being too much of a coward to go through with it.  Severus Snape, the man who had helped defeat the Dark Lord, didn't have the guts to put himself out of his own misery.  Pathetic.

   It wasn't that he felt suicidal every day.  It had been early days after the War when he'd had those thoughts.  These days, there was mostly just a cold, lingering sense of... nothingness.  He went through the motions every day, teaching, grading, brewing; and that would have to be enough.  It was all he had.

 ********

   Hagrid was right; the gingerbeer did make her feel much better, and they soon made their way back to the castle.  They had a pleasant conversation as they walked, Hagrid telling her about the phoenix eggs he was incubating and inviting her to come meet his hound, Fang. Stella thought he was lovely, and hoped her other colleagues would be just as delightful.

   As they approached, the castle came into view in all its splendour.  Stella couldn't help but gasp.  It was maginficent, straight out of the fairy tales she loved as a child.  There was certainly nothing like this in America, even in the wizarding world.  No, this was the kind of maginficent place found only in Europe, heavy with history in its opulence.  And she was going to live and work here?  It seemed utterly unreal.  

   Hagrid led her through the wrought-iron entrance gates and up to the main entrance hall.  Through the doorframe she could see a cloaked figure stood, waiting.  

   "Well Professor, wonderful to meet yeh. I'll leave yeh with Professor Snape now to show yeh 'round.  Professor Snape, this here's Miss Rosenbaum.  Careful, she's a might bit queasy from the trip." 

   The man stepped out of the shadow and drew nearer.  Dressed all in black, he was tall, with long black hair that framed a distinctive face with piercing dark eyes. His voice was deep, rich; his words precisely articulated in a languid drawl. "Thank you Hagrid.  Lovely to meet you, Miss Rosenbaum.  Your trunks arrived earlier and I had the house-elves deliver them to your chambers."

   Stella's brain went into overdrive, trying to process a hundred thoughts at once.  Snape?  As in Severus Snape?  No way!  I knew he would be here but I didn't expect- My god, he's gorgeous. And good lord, that voice.  That's the sexiest thing I've ever-"

   She tried desperately to remain composed, hoping her racing thoughts didn't show on her face.  "Please, call me Stella.  Thank you, it's lovely to meet you, too."  

   Severus took the hand she offered and shook it lightly.  Her voice was gentle, with a clear, smooth timbre and lower tone.  Her accent, whilst undeniably American, had none of the nasal monotone he expected from a New Yorker.  It was softer; he couldn't quite place it.

   He took in her appearance, his mind quickly filing away the minute details. Over the years his skill of keen observation had been key to his survival, and though the war had ended, the habit pesisisted. 

   Young, he thought. Pretty.  Not a judgment, just an observation.  Fair clear skin, golden blonde hair styled in neat waves about her shoulders. Dark blue eyes.  Nice figure. Merely an observation. Dressed in a calf-length, wine-coloured pencil skirt which flared slightly out at the knee, with matching blouse.  Form-fitting but impeccably tailored. Black pumps.  Nails manicured in a matching shade. Black handbag in her left hand.  Tasteful makeup. The style was a bit reminiscent of women in the classic Hollywood Muggle films his mother used to watch.  Not exactly the traditional-style wizarding robes many of the Hogwarts staff wore, but not entirely out of place.  Certainly more professional than his previous American colleague had ever presented.  

   "I hope your journey was not too taxing?"

   The slow, deep drawl of his voice was like warm honey, Stella thought, and she smiled, giving a slight chuckle.  "Portkey travel is always taxing for me, unfortunately."

   "I see.  Let me show you to your chambers then.  The castle is quite empty at the moment, so you'll have a quiet place to recover."

   Stella thanked him, and he turned to head down one of the long corridors.  She followed alongside him, taking in the glory of the castle with wonderment, feeling rather like a Muggle child on their first trip to Disneyworld. 

   "As you are the first new member of staff to arrive, I've taken the liberty of giving you the best of the available chambers.  They are located on the fifth floor.  There are a lot of stairs, but mercifully, the Headmistress has allowed us use of a staff transport system.  There are various points around the castle we may apparate to and from.  The previous Headmaster had not allowed apparition at Hogwarts, even by staff, but Minerva has wisely decided to relax that rule.  It has been a godsend, to be honest.  No more climbing hundreds of stairs every day."

   Stella noted how his voice (my god, that voice!) went a bit softer at his mention of the previous Headmaster.  He mentioned it casually, as if she didn't know about Albus Dumbledore, or his connection with Severus Snape.  She knew all about it of course - there wasn't a single witch or wizard who didn't - but still, she had a million questions she didn't dare ask.  

   "This place is incredible.  I really can't believe I'm here."

   "It is, truly, a beautiful place.  Here we are, we can apparate closer to your chambers from here."  He indicated a small alcove set into the wall, and they stepped inside.  He offered his arm, "As you aren't yet familiar with the location."  She linked her arm in his, and in a flash they were standing in a different alcove, in another part of the castle.  

   "Your chambers are just down the corridor." Stella followed him down the hall to an ornate wooden door; a beautiful carved design on it resembled a trellis of climbing roses.  Stella pushed open the door and stepped inside.

   "Welcome home, Miss Rosenbaum.  I hope it is to your liking."

   Stella gazed around the room, eagerly taking in the details of her beautiful new home.

"These chambers have an extra bedroom, a full kitchen, a balcony, and a view of the lake.  They were the most spacious of the available ones... which is lucky for you, considering the number of trunks that were delivered earlier." He cocked one eyebrow slightly as he delivered the final line.

   Stella laughed softly. "Sorry about that. I... have a lot of clothes. Kind of an addiction, really. But there are worse addictions to have, I guess."

   "I see. Well I'm sure you would appreciate some time to get settled. If you feel hungry, the house elves will be happy to oblige. The one assigned to you is called Pinky. Just speak her name into your wand and she will appear."

   "Wow, I really am back in the magical world."

   "Indeed. Perhaps tomorrow I can show you around properly. Shall I meet you here at noon?"

   "Sure, that would be great, thank you."

   "My pleasure. Do get some rest." He left, closing the door softly behind him. Stella listened to his footsteps growing fainter as he walked down the corridor.

   When she could be sure he was no longer near, Stella leaned back against the door and took a deep breath, finally able to drop the facade of composure she'd been so desperately trying to maintain. Oh. My. GOD.  Was it lingering queasiness from the trip, or did she actually have butterflies...?  Butterflies, for sure. Something her Granny used to say sprang to mind: You want a spoon full of that sugar, don'tcha? Ahh, Granny, never at a loss for words.  She took a deep breath in and out and shook off the dreaminess, willing herself to go back to reality.  

   She decided she should explore her new chambers. She eyed her trunks stacked up in the middle of the living room floor. She was going to see him again tomorrow; she'd better find something nice to wear.

 ********

   Severus returned to his office, planning to continue organising his personal stores. His new colleague wasn't quite what he had thought she might be, but had been a pleasant enough surprise. She seemed tolerable enough, not overly exuberant or irritating as expected. And, if he were frank, she was... quite easy on the eyes. Not that it mattered; he would remain professional of course, no matter what.

   He wondered what had brought her here to Scotland. Why she had been in the Muggle world for so long. Perhaps he would ask her tomorrow. But perhaps not. He did not wish to bother her with endless questions.

   Had he been personable enough? Minerva did ask him to make her feel at home. Perhaps he shouldn't have left her alone in her chambers so soon? Social niceties had never been his strong suit. He barely tolerated most people and found socialising tiresome. His dry wit was often mistaken for rudeness by those who did not know him well - which, in truth, was most people.

   He'd made the remark about her trunks; had she been offended? Tomorrow he should endeavour to keep his dry remarks in check.

   He resumed taking stock of his potions cupboard, wondering vaguely why he even cared what she might of him.

********

   Stella dug through her handbag, locating the enchanted cellphone that she'd sorted before her big move across the pond; a way for her to keep in contact with those she had left in the Muggle world. (Though she'd have to start calling it a mobile now, she supposed.) She flopped dramatically down on the massive four-poster bed which was now hers, calling the first person in her speed-dial list.

   Three rings, then an answer: "Moshi moshi!"

   "Moshi moshi, Mikey-chan!" She greeted her friend.

   "Stella Belle! How's the wizarding world, babydoll?"

   "Magical, babe!" She'd only left New York earlier that morning; still, it was good to hear Mikey's voice. Since meeting as first year Ilvermorny students, it was rare that she went more than a few days without speaking to her best friend. "I just got in a few hours ago. This place is unreal! And you'll never guess who met me at the castle door."

   "The man of your dreams?" Mikey teased.

   "You might actually be right... it was a certain Professor Snape."

   Mikey gasped. "Nooooo way!"

   "Yes, babe. And oh my god Mikey, he's gorgeous."

   "Really?"

   "Really. You know how you always say I only like older men, men with big noses, or goth guys? Mikeyyyy... He's the whole damn holy trinity."

   Mikey giggled excitedly. It was true. Stella really had a type. They'd spent many a night in New York nightclubs, and she'd inevitably end up dancing with the most goth-looking guy in the place. He always teased her about her love of pale goth boys and said she'd end up marrying Trent Reznor.

   "Giiiirl!"

   "But that's not even the best part. Mikey... when he spoke to me, I thought my soul had left my body. His voiiiiice. It's sooooo hot."

   Mikey laughed. "You're lying in bed kicking your feet right now aren't you?"

   "Maaaaaybe..."

   Mikey laughed again. "Well, is he single?"

   "Surely not. A man like that?"

   "You forget not everyone shares your unique taste, Stella Belle."

   "True. Well, I'm seeing him again tomorrow. He's going to show me around. I need your help; what the hell should I wear???"

 ********

Chapter 1: New Life

Chapter 2: Beautiful Day

Chapter 3: Inbetween Days

Chapter 4: Cut Flowers

Chapter 5: Isn't She Lovely

Chapter 6: Dreams

Chapter 7: Stay Up Late

Chapter 8: To Wish Impossible Things

Chapter 9: Dress You Up

Chapter 10: As the World Falls Down

Chapter 11: Behind the Wall of Sleep

Chapter 12: Story of a Girl

Chapter 13: Possibly Maybe

Chapter 14: Little Earthquakes

Chapter 15: Our Lips are Sealed

Chapter 16: Cuts You Up

Chapter 17: You Oughta Know

Chapter 18: Just Like Heaven *

Chapter 19: Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Chapter 20: We've Only Just Begun *

Chapter 21: Everlong

Chapter 22) Fever

Chapter 23) Coming Clean

Chapter 24) Rumours

Chapter 25) Ballroom Blitz

Chapter 26) New York, New York *

Chapter 27) Holiday

Chapter 28) This Will Be Our Year

Chapter 29) Love of My Life

Chapter 30) Love to Love You Baby *

Chapter 31) Pictures of You

Chapter 32) Hey Jealousy

Chapter 33) Don't You Want Me *

Chapter 34) Is She Really Going Out With Him

Chapter 35) Wish You Were Here

Chapter 36) Trust Me *

Chapter 37) Rearview Mirror

Chapter 38) She Loves You

Chapter 39) Sunshine of Your Love *

Chapter 40) Landslide

Chapter 41) Bella Donna *

Chapter 42) A Forest

Chapter 43) Wicked Game *

Chapter 44) Lips Like Sugar

Chapter 45) Deeper and Deeper *

Chapter 46) Like a Prayer

Chapter 47) Burning Up *

Chapter 48) Cherish *

Chapter 49) R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Chapter 50) Candy Girl *

Chapter 51) What a Fool Believes

Chapter 52) Suspicious Minds

Chapter 53) One Way or Another *

Chapter 54) Don't Do Me Like That

Chapter 55) Listen to Her Heart

Chapter 56) The Waiting *

Chapter 57) Back for Good

Chapter 58) Hot for Teacher *

Chapter 59) Creep

Chapter 60) Somebody's Watching Me

Chapter 61) Parallel Universe

Chapter 62) Wildflowers

Chapter 63) Secondhand News

================================================

After the under-the-desk incident with Sinclair, things didn’t rush forward the way you might have expected.

They softened instead.

Sinclair’s restraint didn’t disappear; it shifted. His affection found quieter ways to surface, gentler but more constant. Mornings began with longer kisses, the kind where he lingered just a second more than necessary, his forehead pressed to yours as if memorising you before the day stole him away.

When you walked together, his arm would settle around your waist without thought, his thumb tracing absent circles at your side. Sometimes his hand rested at your shoulder, grounding, protective. Sometimes he pulled you close in the kitchen, pressing a kiss to your hair as you worked.

He touched you more.

But he never pushed.

You felt it, the hesitation beneath the warmth that you thought was resolved. The carefulness. As though some part of him was afraid that if he took one step too far, one touch, everything might shatter.

And that was how you knew.

You were going to have to take the reins again.

Friday came quietly.

You woke to soft morning light filtering through the curtains, Sinclair already dressed for work, propped slightly against the headboard beside you. One hand idly caressed your hair while the other held a book, some car magazine he’d half-read, half-forgotten. When he noticed you stirring, his gaze softened immediately. He leaned down, kissing you slowly and familiarly, his palm cupping your cheek.

“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still husky with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”

You smiled, fingers curling into his sleeve. “Someone has to keep the house from missing you too much.”

He laughed softly and slipped out of bed, and you followed him downstairs, already moving in sync. Making his morning coffee had become a ritual, the exact grind he liked, the precise splash of milk, and the little spoon of sugar you pretended not to notice he needed. When you handed him the mug, he kissed your knuckles before taking a sip.

“I’ll be late,” he said gently. “Dinner with partners. Dreadful thing.”

You tilted your head, feigning seriousness. “Try to survive.”

“I’ll do my best.” Another kiss, longer this time. “Don’t wait up.”

You watched him leave with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, because you already had a plan.

The house felt different when Sinclair wasn’t in it.

Quieter. Bigger.

But still warm, still alive, thanks to Mrs Lora. The radio hummed softly through the halls as she baked, the scent of sugar and spice clinging to the air. You spent the morning together, sharing breakfast, laughter, and small, easy conversation. You helped her tidy the house, despite her protests; that was just who you were. You ate lunch together too, and when the afternoon settled, you began preparing dinner.

The library was your destination.

Sinclair’s favourite room — dark wood, leather-bound books, the fireplace waiting patiently beneath tall windows. You set up the candles carefully, one by one, placing them where the glow will soften the room rather than overwhelm it. Cushions were arranged by the hearth. A blanket folded neatly nearby.

Mrs Lora watched you from the kitchen doorway, drying her hands.

"So", she said gently, “you are planning something.”

You laughed under your breath. “Is it that obvious?”

She reached out and squeezed your hand. “He has carried his heart very carefully for a long time. He has suffered enough. I’m glad you’re here for him, honey.”

You thanked her softly, and when everything was ready, you sent her home with food packed neatly for her husband, one last small act of care.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, smiling. “Enjoy your evening.”

Once the door closed behind her, you finally let yourself breathe.

You showered, changed, and slipped into Sinclair’s long white shirt, the fabric hanging loose and familiar against your skin. By the time dusk fell, the house was ready.

And dark.

He had woken before you, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.

The light had not yet fully broken through the curtains, leaving the room in that soft grey-blue quiet where everything felt suspended, and you were curled toward him, breathing slow and even, one hand resting lightly against his ribs as though even in sleep you refused to let him drift too far.

He didn’t move.

He rarely did, not when you were like this, warm, unaware, close in a way the world never saw, because there was something quietly sacred about these moments, something he had come to value more than he ever expected.

Careful not to disturb you, his fingers moved gently through your hair, his thumb tracing the curve of your temple as though committing it to memory rather than simply touching it.

Something had shifted in him recently.

Not desire, that had always been there, but awareness. Of how deeply it ran. Of how easily you had become something essential rather than incidental since the under-the-desk incident.

It unsettled him.

Not enough to pull away, but enough to make him quieter about it.

When you stirred, he softened immediately, the instinctive guard slipping without resistance as he leaned down to kiss you slowly, letting it linger just long enough to say what he would not put into words.

Stay.

“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”

You smiled at him, and something in his chest tightened—not painfully, but with a kind of quiet certainty he was still learning how to carry.

He took longer than necessary getting ready, adjusting his cufflinks with unnecessary precision, lingering near the bed under the pretense of reading when in truth he hadn’t taken in a single word.

He only stayed because you were there.

Because leaving felt… less appealing than it should have.

Downstairs, he watched you move around the kitchen in that effortless rhythm you had built together, the way you measured the coffee without looking, the way your fingers brushed his when you handed him the mug, as though these small, ordinary moments held more weight than they had any right to.

He kissed your knuckles without thinking.

Grounding himself.

“I’ll be late,” he said gently, already knowing he disliked the sentence.

Obligations waited for him. Expectations. A version of himself that existed long before you softened its edges.

“Don’t wait up,” he added, though he didn’t mean it.

He never did.

Part of him always hoped you would.

When he stepped out the door, he glanced back once.

You were standing in the hallway light, watching him.

And for a brief moment, one he didn’t allow himself to dwell on—he nearly turned around.

Nearly stayed.

But instead, he carried the image of you with him.

All day.

The dinner had been tedious from the start.

Sinclair sat at the head of the polished table, a glass of amber liquor resting between his fingers as conversation moved steadily around him—contracts, numbers, projections, expansion. He contributed where necessary, nodding at the appropriate moments, offering precise and controlled input when required.

But his mind was elsewhere.

It kept drifting back to you.

To the way you had looked at him that morning—sleepy, warm, wrapped in his shirt. To the way your fingers had curled around his sleeve when he kissed you goodbye.

He checked his watch once.

Then again.

A partner laughed loudly at something trivial, and Sinclair offered a polite smile, lifting his glass to his lips, though he barely registered the taste.

Distracted.

Unsettled.

Wanting to leave.

He wondered if you were asleep already, or if you had waited up like you sometimes did, curled into the armchair with a book you weren’t really reading. He wondered if the house felt quieter without him.

The thought settled low in his chest.

When the evening finally began to wind down, he didn’t linger.

He excused himself with practised ease, shook hands, offered composed farewells, and the moment he stepped outside into the cool night air, he exhaled more fully than he had all evening.

He wanted to go home.

Not to the house.

To you.

The road home stretched dark and quiet before him, headlights cutting clean paths through the night as the steady hum of the engine filled the silence, and somewhere between one turn and the next, his thoughts arrived home long before he did.

He found himself imagining it without effort.

Slipping inside quietly so he wouldn’t wake you.

Setting his things aside with practiced care.

Pushing open the bedroom door just enough to see you there, asleep and undisturbed, your breathing slow and even beneath the covers.

He would brush the hair from your face.

He always did.

He would slide into bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you gently against him just to feel your warmth, your presence, something real after a day that had felt increasingly hollow without it.

Even if you didn’t stir.

Especially if you didn’t.

There was something deeply grounding about holding you when the world wasn’t watching, when there were no expectations placed on him, no roles to perform, no versions of himself to maintain—just quiet, steady certainty.

He hadn’t realized, until recently, how much he had come to rely on that.

On you.

The gravel crunched softly beneath his tires as he turned into the estate, the familiar path unfolding before him—but almost immediately, something felt… off.

The house was dark.

Completely dark.

Not dim, not partially lit, but absent of even the smallest glow—no lamp left on in the hallway, no soft kitchen light, no quiet flicker behind drawn curtains.

He slowed instinctively, his gaze lingering on the windows as though expecting something to change.

Mrs Lora would have gone home by now, yes, but you?

You never left the house like this.

There was always something.

A light. A sign. A presence.

His fingers tightened slightly against the steering wheel before he consciously forced them to relax, pushing the unease aside even as it settled low in his chest.

Don’t be absurd.

And yet—

The stillness of the night pressed in around him as he stepped out of the car, the air quieter than usual, the estate holding that strange, suspended silence that made even the smallest sound feel out of place.

He approached the front door, keys cool in his hand, and unlocked it with measured ease before stepping inside.

“Y/N? Hello?”

His voice carried faintly through the hallway, brushing against polished wood and empty space, echoing just enough to remind him how quiet it truly was.

For a brief moment, there was nothing.

Then—

“Library, Sinclair.”

Your voice reached him from deeper within the house, calm and composed, not softened by sleep, not distant or distracted, but deliberate in a way that made him pause where he stood.

Something in the tone.

Something in the timing.

It wasn’t wrong.

But it wasn’t ordinary either.

And that alone was enough to sharpen his attention.

His gaze shifted toward the faint line of light spilling from beneath the library door, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he moved toward it, each step steady but more aware now, more attuned to the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

He reached the door and paused only briefly.

Then pushed it open—

And stepped inside.

You were sitting on the windowsill, book open in your lap, pretending to read while you waited for Sinclair.

When headlights suddenly swept across the room, your heart leapt.

You closed the book at once.

A quick glance around, everything in place.

Candles arranged, table set and fire ready.

As you were doing so, you heard the front door open.

“Y/N? Hello?”

His voice echoed faintly down the hallway.

From the shadows, you called back, calm and composed, “Library, Sinclair.”

You heard his footsteps approaching down the hallway, steady, unhurried, the familiar rhythm of leather soles against polished wood, and your pulse quickened despite all your careful planning.

Moving swiftly but silently, you slipped behind the library door, pressing yourself against the cool wall just as the handle turned.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, the sound stretching in the quiet like a held breath, and the moment he stepped fully inside, you reached out without hesitation and turned the key behind him.

The lock clicked.

Soft.

Final.

He hadn’t noticed yet.

You didn’t speak.

Instead, slowly, deliberately, you stepped away from the door and crossed the room with unhurried grace, the hem of his shirt brushing against your thighs as you moved.

You paused beside the largest candle, the thick ivory pillar set at the centre of the table, taller than the rest, waiting.

You struck the match.

The flame flared briefly, bright and sharp in the dimness, before settling into a steady glow.

You held it to the wick.

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then—

It caught.

And the flame rose, tall, confident, golden, brighter than the others.

One by one, you moved to the remaining candles, lighting them in a slow procession, allowing their glow to build gradually until the entire room softened into warm amber.

Firelight bloomed outward in waves.

Across the towering bookshelves.

Across the polished wood floor.

Across the small table set neatly by the hearth, sandwiches arranged, tea waiting, glasses catching reflections like molten gold.

And finally,

Across you.

Standing calm. Certain. Unmistakably intentional.

His shirt hung loosely on your frame, the sleeves pushed back just enough, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. Your bare legs caught the candlelight, skin warmed by the glow and shadowed by flickering fire.

The windows had been left slightly ajar, just enough to let the cool night air drift inside, carrying with it the distant hush of the river and the quiet murmur of evening beyond the estate.

Only then did you see him.

Not directly.

But in the dark reflection of the window glass.

He had stopped moving, completely.

Frozen where he stood.

You could see his silhouette first — tall, still and then the way his head tilted slightly, trying to understand what he was looking at.

Trying to understand you.

Then you turned to face him.

Not abruptly but not shyly as well.

Slowly, as though you wanted him to see every second of it.

The firelight caught the curve of your cheek first, then your mouth, then the steady calm in your eyes. You let him look. Let him take in the sight of you standing there, composed and deliberate, wrapped in nothing but his shirt and candlelight.

His coat slipped from his fingers as though gravity had suddenly doubled. It slid from his shoulders, half-caught in his hand before falling carelessly against his arm, entirely forgotten.

For a moment, he simply stared.

You stepped toward him.

Not hurried but measured.

Each step soft against the wooden floor, the hem of the shirt brushing your thighs as you moved through the golden glow.

“Come here, Sinclair,” you said gently, your voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to the two of you. “Relax. Take off your coat. Let’s have some time together.”

He blinked, actually blinked like a man who had walked into something too carefully crafted to be accidental, too intimate to be coincidence.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he finished shrugging off his coat and placed it over the back of a nearby chair. His movements were controlled, but his eyes betrayed him.

They never left you.

Not once.

“I… wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted at last, his voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual polish.

“I know,” you replied with a small, knowing smile. “That’s rather the point.”

You gestured toward the table beside the fire, where the candlelight shimmered against glass and porcelain.

“Mrs Lora helped me,” you continued lightly. “Grilled chicken sandwiches. Chamomile tea. I even packed some up for her and sent her home early. Thought you might be hungry after your night out with your partner bros.”

A faint, reluctant huff of laughter left him, warm and disbelieving.

“They are not my ‘bros,’ darling,” he corrected, straightening slightly out of habit. “They are associates.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, stepping a little closer. “Very serious. Very corporate. I’m sure you discussed spreadsheets and world domination.”

Sinclair's gaze swept the room, then slowed, assessing.

The candles, fire, carefully set table, the locked door.

And then it returned to you where something in his expression shifted with less confusion  and more awareness.

You closed the remaining distance between you until only inches separated your bodies. You could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

Your hand lifted slowly between you, not rushed, not hesitant, but deliberate, until your fingers found the front of his shirt.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

You simply let your fingertips rest there, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid reality of him standing so close.

Then, you smoothed your hand downward, intentional in every inch.

Your palm flattened lightly against his chest, gliding over the fine cotton as though confirming he was real, as though grounding both of you in the weight of this moment.

He didn’t stop you and didn’t even flinch.

But you felt the subtle change in him, the way his breath deepened, the way his shoulders tightened just slightly beneath your touch.

“Think whatever you want,” you murmured, your voice no longer playful but steady,  layered with something quieter, something far more certain.

Your fingers traced absent patterns against his shirt, slow enough to be distracting, gentle enough to be dangerous.

Then you let the silence stretch.

Just long enough for him to feel it.

“But tonight…” you continued, softer now, your tone dipping lower as though the words themselves carried weight.

You lifted your eyes to his fully, not glancing, not shy, holding him there with your gaze.

“…you’re mine.”

The words did not leave you in a rush or with sharp insistence; they settled between you instead, warm and absolute, carrying a quiet certainty that did not need to be raised to be understood.

His breath faltered, not from surprise, not from protest, but from something far deeper and more intimate, a subtle yielding that seemed to unfold within him before you could even see it in his expression.

The air between you shifted almost tangibly, thickening as though the room itself had grown attentive to the moment that it wrapped itself around the two of you.

The way he looked at you, god.

Like you’d just stolen the ground from beneath his feet.

You both settled near the fireplace, close enough to feel its warmth but not quite touching at first. The food you had carefully prepared remained mostly untouched on the table beside you, the steam long since fading from the tea as it cooled unnoticed. Neither of you seemed to care. The world beyond that room had dissolved into something distant and unimportant.

Firelight flickered across Sinclair’s face, softening the lines that usually held authority and restraint. Without his coat, without his tie, without the weight of expectation pressing against his shoulders, he looked younger somehow. Gentler. Less like the man who commanded rooms, and more like the man who let you see him when no one else could.

Yours.

After a quiet moment, you rose and crossed the small space between you. He watched you carefully, almost reverently, as though you were something fragile—or something sacred.

You lowered yourself in front of him, kneeling slowly, your hands sliding over his thighs with deliberate intention, feeling the warmth of him even through the fabric. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though he wanted to touch you but wasn’t certain he had permission.

You reached for his hands and guided them upward, placing them firmly on your hips and holding them there.

“Sinclair,” you whispered softly.

He swallowed, his throat working under your gaze.

“You keep stopping yourself,” you murmured.

“I—” he began, but the words stalled.

“You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

The fire cracked behind you, and his thumbs tightened unconsciously against your waist. You leaned closer, brushing your nose lightly against his.

“Let me choose you,” you breathed. “The way you’ve been choosing me every single day.”

His eyes closed briefly, as though the simple honesty of that hurt him more than anything else could. When he opened them again, they were glassy, unguarded.

“I’m afraid,” he admitted quietly.

Your heart tightened.

“Of what?”

His voice came out rough, stripped of polish. “I’m afraid of wanting you this much.”

Oh.

Oh, Sinclair.

You cupped his face immediately, your thumbs resting gently along his cheekbones.

“How can you even think that?” you whispered. “Do you know I thank my lucky stars every day for that lunch we shared? For you? For getting a man like you?”

Your thumb brushed softly along his cheek.

“It’s me who worries I don’t deserve you. Not the other way around.”

His breath trembled faintly, and you softened further.

“I know someone hurt you,” you continued gently, “and I hate that she made you believe loving someone is something dangerous.”

You pressed your forehead to his.

“But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?”

You guided his hands tighter against your hips, grounding him.

“Feel me. I’m yours. No one else. Just you.”

Then you kissed him.

Slowly. Warmly. Without demand.

There was no hunger in it, no urgency, just certainty. And that certainty was what undid him.

His hands finally moved of their own accord, sliding up your waist and pulling you closer as though he could not bear even an inch of space between you. His kiss deepened—not rough, not wild, but desperate in its tenderness, like a man who had starved himself of something essential and finally allowed himself to taste it.

When you shifted into his lap, he did not protest. He did not hesitate. He simply wrapped his arms around you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder and breathing you in like you were home.

For the first time since you had known him…

Sinclair stopped holding back.

Somewhere between breaths and soft, lingering kisses, his hands tightened slightly at your waist, not possessive but certain, as though something inside him had finally settled. Then he shifted, gently, carefully, as though you were something precious, and lowered you onto the thick rug before the fireplace, the wool warm from the heat and soft beneath your back.

“Sinclair—” you began with a soft, half-laugh, but the sound faded when you saw his expression.

The hesitation was gone.

What remained was want—raw, honest, and no longer hidden.

His knuckles brushed your cheek as though he needed to be sure you were still there.

“You make it very difficult to behave,” he murmured.

Your heart fluttered wildly. “Then don’t.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as though memorizing the shape of you. His mouth traced from your lips to your jaw, then down along the curve of your neck, never rushing, every kiss lingering like a confession.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms grazing your skin in a touch that was grounding rather than greedy.

“Still okay?” he whispered against your collarbone.

You nodded immediately. “More than okay.”

A quiet breath of relief left him, as though he needed to hear that more than he needed anything else.

The shirt slipped away somewhere between kisses, forgotten beside you, and the cool air against your skin made you inhale sharply—but his hands followed at once, warm and steady, reverent in their touch.

Not consuming.

Reverent.

Like he could hardly believe he was allowed to hold you this way.

“God…” he murmured softly, his voice almost breaking. “You’re…”

The words failed him.

Instead, he let his lips trace slow paths across your shoulder and down your stomach, every place he touched turning warm beneath his mouth. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close.

That was when you realized something important.

He wasn’t trying to take.

He was trying to give.

Always giving. Always careful. Always putting you first.

And so you smiled quietly to yourself.

With a playful shift of movement, you rolled, reversing your positions so that he lay beneath you, blinking up in mild surprise. You straddled his hips, leaning down just enough for your hair to fall around his face like a curtain.

“I think,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, “it’s my turn.”

His throat bobbed. “Your turn for what?”

You kissed him once, soft and deliberate.

“To take care of you.”

Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, unhurried and teasing as you eased the fabric from his shoulders along with his trousers. The reaction was immediate, he shivered beneath you, this man who commanded boardrooms and unsettled executives reduced to quiet vulnerability under your touch.

“I’d like to give back that massage you gave me,” you murmured.

His hands found your hips automatically. “Darling,” he said hoarsely, “you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That silenced him instantly.

You pressed a kiss to his chest, then another, your hands smoothing over his shoulders as your thumbs worked gently into the tension you knew he carried daily. He melted beneath you, a soft, helpless sound slipping from his throat as your lips followed the slow path your hands created.

You deliberately skipped the places he expected, brushing past instead of settling, teasing without cruelty.

“Cruel girl…” he murmured faintly.

“You’re tense,” you whispered against his skin. “I’m helping.”

“You’re doing the opposite,” he breathed, though he made no attempt to stop you.

By the time you lifted yourself to look at him again, he appeared utterly undone, hair disheveled, breathless, eyes dark and soft and entirely yours.

And then, slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast, he shifted once more.

His hands slid to your waist, drawing you closer until his forehead rested against yours. Instead of rushing forward, he began with something far more dangerous.

He kissed you once.

Soft.

Then your cheek.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

And with each kiss, he murmured quiet confessions against your skin.

“Thank you… for the coffee every morning…”

Another kiss.

“For waiting up for me…”

Another.

“For choosing me…”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Sinclair—”

“For loving me when I don’t quite know how to deserve it.”

And that—

That was what undid you.

He didn’t stop kissing you.

His lips moved slowly over yours, down the curve of your jaw, lingering at your throat as his hands trailed lower — fingertips tracing warm paths over your stomach, dipping lower with deliberate slowness that made your breath shudder.

“Sinclair…” you whispered, over and over, like a prayer.

He smiled faintly against your skin, pleased by the sound of his name falling from your lips.

His touch grew more purposeful, coaxing, patient, making sure you were ready, making sure you felt nothing but him.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, “you’re ready for me.”

You arched toward him at the sound of that tone alone, your fingers sliding through his hair before drifting lower, finding him and stroking slowly, wanting to feel him the way he was making you feel.

A low sound escaped his throat.

“Sinclair… I want you. Please… I want you now.”

He stilled at that.

Not teasing, but steady.

He lifted himself slightly, adjusting so he hovered between your thighs, one hand cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours — dark, intense, but soft in a way only you ever saw.

“I love you, my darling.”

Your chest tightened. “I love you too.”

When he finally pressed forward and joined with you, you both gasped softly, the sensation overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

He moved slowly at first.

Gentle.

Measured.

Like he was afraid to rush something sacred.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.

The firelight flickered against the walls, shadows shifting as your bodies moved together in a steady, unhurried rhythm.

His lips brushed your neck, your collarbone, whispering your name against your skin.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You did.

And the intensity in his eyes stole the air from your lungs.

The pace shifted, not frantic, but firmer, more demanding. The slow control gave way to raw need as your breathing grew uneven.

“Sinclair…” you whimpered.

His grip tightened around you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

The pressure built between you, tightening, coiling.

“Darling… I’m close,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“Me too,” he breathed,voice strained..

His pace quickened just slightly, not frantic, just deeper, more certain, and you clung to him, pulling him closer still.

“Together,” he murmured.

He moved deeper, closer, pulling you firmly against him as the tension finally snapped.

The release hit like a wave crashing against stone, powerful, overwhelming, stealing the world away for a few suspended seconds.

You clung to him through it.

He buried his face against your neck, holding you tightly as both of you trembled, breathing ragged and uneven.

When it passed, he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around you tightly and rolled onto his side, dragging you with him so you were tucked safely against his chest.

Your fingers traced slow circles over his skin as your breathing gradually steadied.

The fire burned low and the world felt quiet again.

He pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

And neither of you let go.

For a long while, neither of you moved.

You lay tangled together on the rug, the fire now burning low, the air warm and heavy with contentment. Sinclair’s arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your back as though he was still convincing himself you were real.

You pressed a soft kiss against his collarbone.

He hummed in response.

And then—

Your stomach growled.

Loudly.

You froze.

There was a beat of silence before Sinclair’s chest began to shake with quiet laughter.

“Darling,” he murmured against your hair, “are you hungry?”

You groaned softly, hiding your face against him. “Maybe a little.”

“My sandwich,” he said solemnly, glancing toward the untouched table, “has been calling to me for quite some time. I’ve been attempting to ignore it out of devotion.”

You laughed, swatting lightly at his chest. “Devotion?”

“Yes,” he replied seriously. “Very heroic of me.”

Reluctantly, the two of you rose, gathering discarded cushions and straightening the rug with soft smiles that wouldn’t leave your faces. Instead of abandoning the room for morning chaos, you found yourselves cleaning together — blowing out candles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs from the table.

At some point, Sinclair handed you his shirt with a quiet, knowing look.

You slipped it on, the fabric still warm from him, sleeves swallowing your hands as the hem brushed mid-thigh. He paused just to look at you, not teasing, not smug.

Just… soft.

“You look rather pleased with yourself,” you murmured.

“I am,” he replied simply.

It wasn’t glamorous.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it felt… intimate.

Domestic.

Like something permanent.

Afterwards, you showered, separately this time, though he lingered by the doorway with a fond expression that made you blush, and eventually fell into bed wrapped around one another, sleep claiming you almost instantly.

He had expected many things when he walked through the front door that evening.

A quiet house.

An empty bed.

Perhaps finding you asleep upstairs with a forgotten book beside you, curled beneath the blankets while a lamp burned softly nearby.

But not this.

Not your voice calling for him from the darkened library.

Not the sight of candlelight warming the room in soft amber waves.

And certainly not you standing there in his shirt beside a carefully prepared table as though the entire evening had been created solely for him.

At first, he had assumed the power must have gone out somewhere on the estate, that perhaps you had chosen the library simply for the warmth of the fire and the comfort of candlelight.

But then he saw the table.

The tea.

The food untouched and waiting.

You waiting.

And he realized none of it had been accidental.

You had planned this for him.

No one had ever done that before.

Not without expectation.

Not without wanting something in return.

But you had looked at him that night as though loving him had been reason enough.

And somehow, that stayed with him far more than the intimacy itself.

Because long after the fire dimmed and your breathing softened against his chest, what lingered most in his mind was not desire, but the quiet realization that someone had finally created softness for him instead of demanding strength from him.

Overnight, something inside him had quieted.

The fears. The hesitation. The constant instinct to hold part of himself back in preparation for loss.

You had touched every guarded part of him with steady hands and asked for nothing except honesty in return.

And if he could have done anything in that moment, he thought he might have stayed there forever, wrapped around you on the rug beside the dying fire, listening to your sleepy laughter and feeling your heartbeat against his chest.

Or perhaps he would have lived through that evening again and again, exactly as it was, just to watch you look at him that way one more time.

Because for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, home no longer felt like a place.

It felt like a person.

You woke to the faint sound of Mrs Lora’s radio drifting up from downstairs, something cheerful and familiar humming through the house.

You reached beside you.

Empty.

The balcony doors were slightly open, curtains moving lazily in the morning breeze.

Curious, you stepped outside onto the upper balcony, and that’s when you saw him.

Below, in the garden just beyond the terrace, Sinclair stood in the early sunlight, sleeves rolled to his forearms, carefully arranging breakfast on a small table he had carried out himself — fruit, fresh bread, tea already poured, everything placed with meticulous care.

For a moment, you didn’t call out.

You just watched him.

The way the light caught in his hair. The way he adjusted the plates like it truly mattered.

And then you leaned over the railing slightly.

“Is that for me,” you called softly, “or Mrs Lora?”

He looked up immediately.

He turned at once, eyes softening when he saw you.

“For Mrs Lora, obviously,” he replied gravely. “She is an angel, and even if I attempted to charm her, she would refuse me out of loyalty to Mr Alfonso.”

You laughed.

“Will you come down, my darling?” he added, holding out a hand.

You quickly freshened up, pulling on soft sweatpants and a jumper before hurrying downstairs. Mrs Lora glanced at you knowingly from the kitchen.

“Sinclair is not going anywhere, darling,” she said warmly.

You only grinned and continued outside.

For a moment, he was nowhere in sight.

And then—

Strong arms wrapped around you from behind, lifting you clean off your feet as he spun you once in the morning air.

“Good morning, my dear,” he murmured against your ear.

You turned in his arms, mirroring his tone perfectly. “Good morning, my dear.”

You both laughed.

He kissed your temple before guiding you to the table.

The dock shimmered in the distance, children’s laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the shoreline. Birds called from the trees, and the sunlight painted everything gold.

You ate slowly, knees brushing beneath the table.

At one point, Sinclair reached across and took your hand.

His thumb traced over your knuckles thoughtfully.

“I think,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over the water, “I would very much like to wake up like this for the rest of my life.”

Not dramatic.

Not on one knee.

Just steady.

Certain.

He turned to you then, expression soft but serious.

“If you’ll have me.”

There wasn’t even a pause.

You were already moving.

You lunged forward, knocking your chair back in the process, tackling him around the shoulders so suddenly that his own chair tipped backward onto the grass with a startled thud.

“YES,” you laughed breathlessly, half on top of him now. “Yes, yes, obviously yes!”

He burst into laughter beneath you, arms wrapping around your waist as he steadied you both on the ground.

“I shall take that as agreement,” he managed.

You kissed him — quick, bright, full of sunlight and joy.

That’s when the back door flew open.

“What on earth are you two doing?” Mrs Lora called, hands on her hips, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

You turned, still half draped over Sinclair.

“We’re getting married!” you announced.

Sinclair blinked up at you. “We are?”

You looked down at him. “We are.”

He smiled slowly.

“Well then,” he said, brushing hair from your face, “I suppose we are.”

Mrs Lora clucked affectionately. “I leave you alone for one evening…”

And as the morning sun carried your laughter across the garden, neither of you was afraid of forever.

Sinclair had been awake for some time before the rest of the house began to stir.

The morning light spilled slowly across the room, pale gold slipping through the curtains as he lay on his back, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist while the quiet weight of the previous night settled warmly in his chest.

For once, his mind was not crowded with unfinished thoughts or restless hesitation.

It was simply… calm.

Beside him, you shifted slightly in your sleep, pressing closer without waking, and he felt something dangerously close to wonder at how naturally the two of you had begun fitting into each other’s lives.

He glanced toward the balcony doors where the early morning breeze moved the curtains softly, and for a moment he considered staying exactly where he was.

Staying in bed.

Staying wrapped around you.

Staying inside this small, quiet version of the world the two of you had somehow created together.

Then his gaze drifted toward the terrace below, still washed in pale morning light, and a thought surfaced so suddenly that it almost made him smile.

Breakfast outside.

Something simple.

Something for you.

The idea settled immediately, warm and certain in his chest.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he slipped from bed and pressed a soft kiss into your hair before stepping onto the balcony, the cool morning air brushing against his skin as the first traces of sunlight stretched slowly across the estate.

And for once, the thoughts filling his mind were not about work or obligation.

They were simple.

Make her smile.

Downstairs, he found Mrs Lora already there, her cheerful radio humming through the kitchen.

She glanced at him over her glasses.

“You are up early, Señor Sinclair,” she observed knowingly.

“I have plans,” he replied with unusual lightness.

She followed him to the terrace doorway as he began carrying plates outside himself instead of asking for help.

“For her?” she asked.

He did not pretend otherwise.

“Yes.”

Mrs Lora watched him arrange the table with meticulous care — adjusting the placement of fruit, straightening the napkin twice, and pouring tea as though it were a ceremonial act.

“You look different,” she said quietly.

He paused.

“Different?”

“Softer,” she replied simply. “This one… she is not passing through. She is staying.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to.

His gaze drifted upward toward the balcony.

“She is the one for you,” Mrs Lora added, voice gentle but certain. “I have seen many seasons in this house. This one feels permanent.”

Something settled in his chest at that.

Not fear.

Not hesitation.

Recognition.

When your voice drifted down from above, teasing and warm, he looked up instantly, and the moment he saw you leaning over the railing, sunlight catching in your hair, he felt something steady and unshakeable take root inside him.

This was it.

Not fireworks.

Not chaos.

This.

The laughter. The domestic ease. The way you hurried downstairs as though he might disappear.

When he lifted you in his arms moments later, spinning you once just to hear that unguarded laugh spill from you, he realized something quietly astonishing:

He wasn’t afraid of the future when it looked like this.

And when he said he would like to wake up this way for the rest of his life, it wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t impulsive.

It was the calmest truth he had ever spoken.

Your immediate, chaotic yes – knocking him backward into the grass, only made him laugh harder, arms wrapping around you instinctively as though he had been waiting for that answer all along.

When Mrs Lora appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips and smiling despite herself, he glanced at her over your shoulder.

“I believe you were correct,” he called lightly.

She waved them off, muttering about young people and recklessness, but her eyes shone.

As you declared to the entire garden that you were getting married, and he confirmed it with a smile that felt entirely unguarded, he realized something profound.

For the first time in his life, forever did not feel like a risk.

It felt like a gift.

And as your laughter carried through the morning air, bright and fearless, he held you a little tighter with all of his love.

Two weeks later, the air smelled like charcoal, beer, and something faintly overcooked, the kind of suburban optimism that always clung to family barbecues whether anyone asked for it or not. Frank’s son had bought a house—detached, modest, with a garden just large enough to justify a grill and a folding table covered in mismatched salads—and, in a burst of enthusiasm, had invited everyone.

Everyone.

You hadn’t wanted to come. Not really. But Frank had asked—softly, that careful tone he used when he knew he was asking for something that mattered—and you’d agreed, because despite everything, you still couldn’t quite deny him when he looked at you like that.

And now here you were.

Holding a plastic cup. Smiling politely. Watching.

She was exactly how you remembered. Patricia. Impeccably put together, like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle magazine for women who owned too many lemons and not enough self-awareness. Her hair was neat, her posture perfect, her laugh just a little too bright—like she knew she was being listened to and enjoyed it.

And Frank—

Frank was laughing. With she.

Actually laughing. Head tilted slightly back, hazel eyes creased at the corners, that deep baritone rolling out of him in a way you hadn’t heard in days. He stood there with a beer in his hand, white hair catching the late afternoon sun, looking infuriatingly handsome and entirely too at ease.

She said something. You didn’t catch it.

But he did.

And he snorted, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath that made her laugh harder, one hand briefly touching his arm like it was still hers to reach for.

Your jaw tightened.

You looked away.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you knew the truth now. That he had said no. That he had chosen you without hesitation.

And yet—

There was something about seeing it. About hearing the ease between them, the familiarity, the shared history you couldn’t erase no matter how much you tried to rewrite the present. It sat under your skin, sharp and quiet and ugly.

You took a sip of your drink.

It tasted like nothing.

After a few more minutes of pretending to listen to a conversation about garden fencing that you absolutely did not care about, you set your cup down and stood.

“I’m just going to grab another drink,” you said to no one in particular, already stepping away.

No one stopped you.

Not even him.

That stung more than it should have.

Inside, the house was cooler, quieter. The noise from the garden dulled to a distant hum, like it belonged to another world entirely. You moved into the kitchen, gripping the counter for a second, exhaling through your nose like you could push the feeling out of your chest if you tried hard enough.

It didn’t work.

Of course it didn’t.

You grabbed a glass, filled it halfway, then didn’t drink it.

You just stood there.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Familiar. Unmistakable.

You didn’t turn around.

Frank didn’t speak immediately. He never did when he knew something was wrong. He gave it a second. Let the silence stretch just enough.

Then, quietly, “You alright?”

You picked up the glass, took a sip you didn’t need, and shrugged. “Fine.”

A beat.

He didn’t believe you.

Of course he didn’t.

You heard the soft exhale behind you, the shift of his weight, and then—warmth. His arms slid around your waist from behind, steady and firm, his chest pressing lightly to your back. Not trapping. Just there.

Grounding.

“You left pretty quickly,” he murmured, his voice low, that familiar baritone softened at the edges.

“I said I wanted a drink.”

“You’ve been holding that same glass for two minutes.”

You rolled your eyes. “Observant.”

“Occupational hazard.”

You tried to pull away just slightly, enough to prove a point, but his arms tightened—not forcefully, just enough to keep you where you were.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his mouth near your temple now. “Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing.”

He huffed, almost amused. “It’s never nothing with you.”

You turned your head slightly, enough to shoot him a look. “Why are you here, Frank? Go back outside. Your fan club’s waiting.”

He stilled.

Just for a second.

Then, softer, “Ah.”

You hated that sound. That quiet little understanding noise, like he’d just solved a puzzle you didn’t want him to see.

“I see what this is,” he murmured.

“Oh, do you?” you snapped lightly. “Please, enlighten me.”

His chin dipped slightly, his nose brushing just behind your ear as his grip shifted—one hand sliding up your stomach, the other settling more firmly at your hip.

“Jealous,” he said simply.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh, pulling against him again. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mm.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Course not.”

You turned fully this time, forcing him to loosen his hold just enough for you to face him. “Why on earth would I be jealous?”

He looked at you.

Really looked.

And then—God help him—he smiled.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… knowing.

That soft, crooked smile that always meant he’d already figured you out three steps ago and was just waiting for you to catch up.

“Right,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wipe that expression off your face.”

“Which one?”

“The insufferable one.”

“That’s most of them.”

You shoved lightly at his chest. He barely moved.

“Frank, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

His hands came back to you—slower this time, more deliberate—resting at your waist, thumbs brushing absent patterns against your sides.

“You walked in here like you were about to declare war on a potato salad,” he said mildly. “And now you’re pretending you’re perfectly fine while glaring holes through my shirt.”

“I am not glaring.”

“You are absolutely glaring.”

“I’m not jealous,” you insisted again, sharper this time.

He tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly interesting briefing document.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice calm, conceding nothing. “If you say so.”

You crossed your arms. “I do.”

A beat.

Then he leaned in.

Close enough that his breath ghosted over your ear, warm and slow, his voice dropping into something quieter. Rougher.

Dangerously amused.

“Is that so?” he murmured.

Your breath caught—just slightly.

Damn him.

“Because from where I’m standing,” he continued, his hand sliding just a fraction lower along your side, grounding but firm, “it looks an awful lot like my wife’s upset I was laughing at someone who isn’t her.”

“I’m not upset,” you snapped, but your voice had lost some of its bite.

He hummed softly, unconvinced.

Then, even quieter—barely above a whisper, meant only for you—

“Tell me something,” he said, his lips brushing just behind your ear, his tone dipping into that low, intimate register that always unraveled you faster than you liked. “Am I going to have to fix this?”

You swallowed.

“…Fix what?”

“This,” he murmured, his hand tightening slightly at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer. “This ridiculous mood you’re in.”

You tried to scoff. It came out thinner than intended. “I’m not in a mood.”

“Mm. No. Of course not.”

His nose brushed your temple. His voice dropped further, intimate and dangerous and entirely too calm.

“Because if you were,” he added, almost thoughtfully, “I’d have to do something about it, wouldn’t I?”

Your fingers curled slightly against your arms.

“Frank—”

He cut you off gently, not with force, but with proximity, his mouth just close enough to your ear that his words felt like they settled under your skin.

“Would I have to take you somewhere quiet,” he murmured, “and remind you exactly who you belong to?”

Your breath hitched.

He felt it.

Of course he did.

That faint shift in your body, that tiny pause—he caught it like a man trained to notice the smallest change in pressure.

And he smiled again.

Softer this time.

More private.

“Or,” he continued, voice low and almost lazy now, like he was considering options on a menu, “would I have to do it right here?”

Your head turned toward him slightly, eyes widening just a fraction.

“Don’t be absurd,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction.

His hand slid up your arm, slow, grounding, his fingers brushing your shoulder before settling again at your waist.

“Absurd,” he echoed quietly.

A beat.

Then, softer still—

“Would I have to fuck you right here,” he murmured into your ear, the words low and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, “just to get rid of this silly jealousy of yours?”

Your stomach flipped.

Heat—sharp and immediate—cut straight through the irritation, through the jealousy, through everything, leaving something far more dangerous in its place.

You turned your head just enough to look at him.

“Franklin Benson,” you said, breath thinner now, “we are in your son’s kitchen.”

Frank didn’t even blink.

Not at your tone, not at the setting, not at the very real possibility that his son—or worse, Patricia and her lemon-scented legacy—could walk in at any second. If anything, your protest seemed to amuse him.

“Kitchen,” he repeated softly, like he was testing the word for flaws. “Mm. We’ve done worse.”

You flushed immediately, your gaze darting toward the doorway as if the walls themselves might start gossiping. “That is not the same and you know it.”

He tilted his head, studying you, that slow, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t it?” he murmured, his baritone dropping lower, quieter, like it was meant to slip under your skin rather than be heard. “Seems exactly the same to me. You, me… and that look you get when you’re pretending you don’t want something.”

Your breath caught—just for a second—and you hated him for noticing.

“Franklin,” you warned, but it lacked the sharpness it had a moment ago.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

His hand slid around your waist again, but this time it didn’t stop there. It moved—slow, deliberate—down the curve of your hip, fingers pressing into you just enough to make your breath hitch before slipping beneath the hem of your dress.

“Still jealous,” he murmured, almost to himself, like he was confirming a theory.

“Frank—” your voice dropped, more urgent now, your hand catching weakly at his wrist, “we can’t—”

His palm found your ass.

And squeezed.

Not tentative. Not questioning. Firm. Possessive.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your body betraying you instantly.

“There it is,” he muttered, satisfied, his nose brushing your temple. “That’s the reaction I was waiting for.”

You shot him a look, flustered now, heat creeping up your neck. “Are you drunk?”

He huffed softly, amused, his grip tightening just slightly. “Only slightly intoxicated,” he replied, deadpan. “Still perfectly capable of making excellent decisions.”

“This is not an excellent decision.”

“Debatable.”

Before you could argue further, his hands moved—quick, decisive—and suddenly you were lifted, the world tilting for half a second before you found yourself sitting on the kitchen counter, your breath catching as the cool surface met the backs of your thighs.

“Frank—” you hissed, grabbing at his shoulders for balance, your eyes flicking toward the doorway again, heart thudding now for an entirely different reason.

He stepped in between your legs like he belonged there.

Like he always had.

His hazel eyes were darker now, focused entirely on you, the rest of the world dismissed as irrelevant. One of his hands braced against the counter beside your hip, the other sliding back under your dress, settling firmly where it had been before.

“You’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, but your voice had gone soft, breathless, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“Then I suppose you’d better be quiet,” he murmured, not unkindly, his thumb pressing into your skin just enough to make you shift against him.

You swallowed.

Tried to hold onto the last thread of resistance.

Failed.

Your hand slid up to his collar, gripping it, pulling him closer until his face was inches from yours, your breath mingling with his.

“Take them off,” you muttered quickly, your voice low and urgent now, eyes flicking once more toward the door. “Frank—just—take them off.”

His brow lifted slightly.

That pleased him more than it should have.

“Thought this was a terrible idea,” he murmured.

“Franklin.”

There it was again—that tone.

He obeyed.

Of course he did.

His hand slipped between your thighs, deft despite the drink, finding the edge of your underwear and tugging them down with practiced ease, slow enough to make your breath stutter, quick enough to keep it from becoming a production.

“God,” he muttered under his breath, almost reverent, as he worked them down your legs. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Hurry up,” you whispered sharply, though your grip on him tightened, your body already leaning into his without permission.

He huffed softly, amused, but finished the task, sliding the fabric free and—without breaking eye contact—tucking it into his pocket like it was something valuable he intended to keep.

“There,” he murmured. “Efficient.”

Your heart was racing now, every sound from outside suddenly too loud, every footstep imagined, every second stretched thin with tension and heat.

“Frank,” you breathed, pulling him closer again, your forehead almost brushing his. “If anyone walks in—”

“They won’t,” he said simply, his voice steady, certain in that way that always made you believe him even when you shouldn’t.

His hand came back to you, slower this time, deliberate, his touch grounding and possessive all at once.

“And if they do,” he added quietly, his mouth ghosting near yours, “I suppose they’ll learn something about boundaries.”

You let out a soft, incredulous huff that turned into something else entirely when his hand tightened, when his body pressed closer, when the world outside that kitchen seemed to fall away piece by piece.

“This is insane,” you whispered.

He murmured a low, vibrating “mm” as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clasp sounding deafeningly loud in the quiet kitchen. The leather slid through the loops with a heavy friction that made your breath hitch, a Pavlovian response to a sound you knew far too well. When you opened your mouth to feign further protest—a weak, last-ditch effort to cling to your dignity—he silenced you with a kiss.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, a decisive tactical maneuver meant to scramble your thoughts. His lips were firm and demanding, tasting of beer and that distinct, smoky warmth that was purely Frank. His large hand slid up your thigh, gripping your flesh with a possessiveness that made your toes curl against the cabinet drawers, and he parted your thighs with a nudge of his hips, stepping into the space he’d created as if he were laying claim to conquered territory.

You broke away from the kiss, gasping, your head falling back against the cupboard as you looked down between your bodies. The sight of him—hair silver and wild, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, face flushed with a mix of drink and desire—sent a jolt of heat straight through your belly. He pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough, and his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already curving upward toward his stomach.

God, it had been days. Too many days. The nights he’d worked late, the nights you’d been too tired, the awkward distance that had stretched between you since the fight. It felt like an eternity since you’d felt the weight of him, the stretch of him.

Frank didn’t tease. He didn’t have the patience for it, not here, not now. He spat into his palm, wrapping a hand around his shaft to slick himself, giving himself a rough, cursory stroke that made his jaw tighten. He leaned forward, the wide head of his dick notching against your entrance, hot and insistent.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a ragged baritone whisper.

Your eyes snapped to his, your hips shifting restlessly on the counter.

“I want you to see who’s fucking you,” he murmured, and then he pushed inside.

The sensation was overwhelming—a thick, burning stretch as he split you open, forcing your body to accommodate him after days of abstinence. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he slid deeper, inch by devastating inch. He groaned low in his throat, a guttural sound of relief and pure male satisfaction, his head dropping forward to rest against your forehead.

“So fucking tight,” he gritted out, his breath hitching as your walls clenched around him, greedy and unrelenting. “Jesus, I missed this. I missed you.”

He didn’t stop until he was seated to the hilt, his pelvic bone pressed flush against yours, filling you so completely you felt it in your lungs. For a moment, he just held you there, panting, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“Frank,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “Move.”

He didn't need to be told twice.

He withdrew almost entirely, the drag of his cock against your inner walls sending sparks of pleasure-pain racing up your spine, before slamming back home. The counter rocked beneath you, a dangerous, squeaking protest, but Frank didn’t care. He set a rhythm that was hard and deep and unforgiving, fueled by the jealousy still humming in your blood and the desperate need to remind you exactly where he belonged.

“Is this what you needed?” he growled against your mouth, his hips snapping forward with a wet, lewd sound that echoed in the empty kitchen. “Hm? To be reminded?”

“Yes,” you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “Fuck, yes.”

His cock dragged against that spot inside you that made your vision blur, every thrust hitting it with military precision. He was relentless, using his weight to pin you against the cabinets, taking you apart piece by piece. The friction was maddening, the sheer girth of him stretching you wide, the heat of him searing you from the inside out.

The rhythm he set was punishing, a deliberate, grinding cadence that felt less like lovemaking and more like a siege. Every thrust drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, broken hitches, your back sliding against the polished countertop with each forceful snap of his hips. Frank was usually composed, controlled in all things, but here, with his trousers bunched around his thighs and his hands bruising your hips, he was untethered.

He leaned in closer, the heat of him radiating through his shirt, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. The smell of him—Guinness, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline—overloaded your senses.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated against your chest. He didn’t let up, the angle of his hips devastatingly precise, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your vision white out. “Tell me you know the difference.”

Your head fell back, thumping lightly against the cupboard door, your mind too fractured to form words. You could only gasp, your fingernails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders through the fabric of his dress shirt.

Frank pulled back just enough to capture your gaze, his hazel eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide with lust and a possessive edge that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure. sweat beaded on his forehead, matting the silver hair at his temples. He looked like a man fighting a war on two fronts—one against your body, and one against the ghost of a history you couldn't seem to shake.

“Do you think she makes me feel like this?” he growled, the words punctuated by a particularly deep thrust that made you cry out. “Hmm? Do you think Patricia ever made me feel this fucking insane?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t want one; he wanted to break the thought out of your head. His hand moved from your hip to cradle the back of your neck, forcing you to hold eye contact as he rutted into you, hard and unrelenting.

“Could she ever take me like this?” he hissed, his voice cracking on a syllable. “Could she ever make me this hard, this desperate, this utterly fucking gone for her?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

The jealousy was still there, a green, sickly thing, but it was being drowned out by the sheer overwhelming reality of him. The way his heavy body pinned yours, the soft pudge of his stomach pressing against yours, the way he filled you so completely it bordered on pain. It was visceral. It was ugly and beautiful and real.

Instead of speaking, you surged forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You opened your mouth against the crisp cotton of his collar, sinking your teeth into the meat of his shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric and into the skin beneath.

Frank groaned softly—a broken, jagged sound that started in his chest and escaped his throat like a prayer. His rhythm stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily at the sharp sting of pain, his hand tightening in your hair almost to the point of pulling.

“Christ,” he choked out, his head falling back, exposing more of his throat to you, surrendering to the mark you were leaving. “That’s it. Mark me. Make sure I know who I belong to.”

He liked it. The bastard liked the pain, liked the ownership, liked that you were wild enough to leave a permanent reminder of this moment on his skin. He surged back into you, harder now, the counter rattling dangerously against the wall, the lewd slap of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet house.

“Take it,” he gritted out, his control fraying at the edges. “Take all of it.”

He was close. You could feel it in the way his thrusts became erratic, the way his breathing turned into shallow, desperate pants. He was going to finish inside you, right here on his son's kitchen counter, consequences be damned.

He turned his head, eyes half-closed, mouth open as he panted against your temple. For a second, he looked out the window above the sink—a portal of clear glass looking out over the backyard.

And froze.

His entire body went rigid. The rhythm stopped dead, leaving you gasping and bewildered, half-filled and teetering on the edge of an abyss.

“Frank?” you breathed, dazed, clutching at his lapels. “Frank, don’t stop—”

“Shit,” he hissed.

It wasn’t a happy expletive. It was the cold, sharp curse of a Lieutenant General who had just spotted a tactical error on the horizon.

You turned your head, following his gaze.

Through the window, the party was in full swing, but you saw it too—the back screen door swinging open. A figure was stepping into the house, a beer in hand, wiping their hands on a napkin. It was Frank’s son.

And he wasn’t alone.

Patricia was right behind him, laughing at something he said, heading straight for the kitchen to refill the dip bowl.

They were ten seconds away. Maybe fifteen.

“Fuck,” Frank snarled, the reality of the situation hitting him with the adrenaline of a landmine.

He didn’t hesitate. There was no fumbling with buttons, no awkward apologies. He acted with the decisive speed of a man accustomed to crisis management.

He pulled out of you so abruptly it left you feeling hollow and aching, a wet, embarrassing gasp tearing from your throat. Before you could even process the loss, he reached down, hauling you off the counter by your arm.

“Come here,” he barked, not unkindly, but with urgent authority.

He didn’t let you find your footing. He didn’t let you smooth down your dress. Instead, he grabbed you by the shoulder—his large hand clamping down like a vice—and yanked you forward. He threw you over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, one arm locking your legs against his chest, bouncing you once to secure his grip.

“Frank!” you squeaked, your stomach hitting his hard shoulder, blood rushing to your head.

“Quiet,” he ordered, his voice steel.

He moved with shocking agility for a man of his age and intoxication level. He took two long strides across the kitchen tiles, bypassing the table, and lunged for the pantry door just as the back door creaked open in the next room.

He kicked the pantry door open, shoved you both inside, and kicked it shut with his heel.

Darkness swallowed you.

The pantry was small, narrow, and lined with shelves full of canned goods and cereal boxes. It was cramped, filled with the scent of detergent and dried herbs, and suddenly very, very small with two adults jammed inside.

Frank set you down, but there was nowhere to go. Your back was pressed against the shelves, cans digging into your spine, and Frank was pressed flush against your front, pinning you in place. He was heavy, solid, and radiating a terrifying amount of heat.

You heard the familiar clink of a ceramic bowl being set on the counter. The exact spot where, ten seconds ago, Frank had been balls-deep inside you.

“I still think it needs more salt,” Patricia’s voice drifted through the door, clear as a bell, that polished, lemon-scented tone making your skin crawl.

“It’s fine, Mum,” Frank’s son replied, sounding weary.

Patricia let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-dismissal, the kind of noise that suggested she found the entire seasoning process beneath her intellect. “It’s bland, darling. Bland like this conversation. And speaking of missing things...”

There was a pause, the sharp click of heels against the tile as she paced the small kitchen.

“Where is Frank? And that little friend of his? I haven’t seen them in twenty minutes.”

You stiffened against Frank, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. His hand, still splayed against your lower back to keep you steady, felt like a brand of burning iron.

“That’s his wife, mother,” the son said, his voice tight with the kind of long-suffering patience only a child of a divorce could muster. “I’ve told you a thousand times. She’s his wife. And you’re married to Nigel. When are you going to accept that Dad’s moved on?”

“Oh, spare me the therapy talk,” Patricia snapped. “Wife, girlfriend, temporary distraction. It’s all semantics. He’s bored, clearly. Or he’s lost his mind.”

In the suffocating darkness of the pantry, you shifted slightly, the wire shelf digging uncomfortably into your shoulder blades. You were acutely aware of the drafty feeling between your legs, the cool air of the pantry hitting skin that should have been covered. You tugged gently on Frank’s sleeve, trying to get his attention, and made a frantic grabbing motion toward his trousers pocket.

Panties, you mouthed in the dark, your eyes wide and pleading. Give them back.

Frank blinked slowly, the faint light from under the door catching the wet glint of his eyes. He looked down at you, his silhouette imposing and broad, blocking out the cans of peaches behind him. Instead of reaching into his pocket, however, his hand slid further down your back, fingers curling possessively over your hipbone, pulling you even harder into the cradle of his pelvis.

You glared at him, jabbing him in the chest with two fingers. Now.

He leaned in, his breath hot and smelling of beer and adrenaline against your ear. “Not yet,” he whispered, the baritone barely a thread of sound, vibrating through your chest. 

You stared at him in horrified disbelief. The man was insane. He was currently hiding in a broom cupboard with his erection pressing into your stomach, listening to his ex-wife insult you, and he wanted to sex?

“Well, they’re not in the loo,” Patricia’s voice came again, closer now, right on the other side of the thin pantry door. “I checked. I suppose they could be... elsewhere. Doing that.”

There was a choking sound from the son, followed by the thud of a heavy bag being set on the counter. “Oh my god, Mother! Stop! They would not do that in my house. That’s—absolutely not. Dad’s a lot of things, but he’s decent. He wouldn’t.”

“Franklin? Decent?” Patricia let out a sharp, bitter laugh that made you flinch. “He’s a man, isn’t he? And look at her. Did you see that dress she’s wearing?”

You froze.

The blood drained from your face so fast it left you cold.

“It’s red,” Patricia continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, venomous whisper. “Short. Tight. Completely indecent. She looks like a prostitute. Honestly, how Frank can allow her to walk out of the house looking like that is beyond my composure. It’s desperate. It’s common. It’s no wonder he’s confused; she’s practically advertising for business right in front of the salad.”

You felt the words like physical blows. Prostitute. Common. Advertising.

Your shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of you instantly.

You looked down at yourself, even though you couldn’t see a thing in the dark. The dress. You had hesitated this morning, standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem. It was a bit shorter than your usual style. A bit brighter. But Frank had stood in the bedroom doorway, his eyes sweeping over you with a heat that had made your knees weak, and had told you that you looked devastating. That you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

You had trusted him. You never let him dress you—his fashion sense usually stopped at “military surplus” and “tweed that survived the Blitz”—but this was his family. You wanted to please him. You wanted to fit in. So you had worn the red dress.

And now, huddled in a pantry with no underwear on, listening to his ex-wife tear your dignity to shreds, you felt foolish. Cheap. Exposed.

You stopped fighting for the panties. Your hands dropped to your sides, your head bowing forward until your forehead rested against the starched fabric of Frank’s shirt.

Frank felt it.

The change in you was immediate. The way your body went soft, then rigid, then trembling. He heard the sharp, intake of breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob being strangled in the crib.

The humor in him evaporated. The tension in his shoulders shifted instantly—from the adrenaline of near-discovery to a cold, lethal fury.

He stopped listening to his son. He stopped hearing the clink of the dip bowl. His entire world narrowed down to the woman shaking in his arms.

“Hey,” he murmured, the command soft but urgent. “Look at me.”

You shook your head against his chest, a small, miserable movement.

“Sweetheart.” He moved away then, just enough to create a sliver of space between them, though the pantry was too small for any real distance. He brought his hands up to your face, cradling your jaw, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. It was too dark to see your expression, but he could feel the wetness tracking through your makeup, the way your breath hitched and caught.

“Don’t listen to her,” he said, his voice low and rough, stripping away the amusement and leaving only the steel. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s blind.”

“She’s right,” you whispered, your voice cracking, sounding small and broken to your own ears. “I look... I look like—”

“You look like a queen,” Frank cut you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You look like fire and blood and every fucking thing I’ve ever wanted. I chose that dress because when you wear it, I can’t take my eyes off you. Because I wanted every man in that garden to see exactly what I have, and know that they can’t touch it.”

You let out a shuddering breath, your fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “Frank, please... just give me the panties. I want to go. I want to leave.”

He hesitated. He could feel the panic rising in you, the desperate need to cover yourself, to hide. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to fix it—to reach into his pocket and hand over the silk, to button his coat and shield you, to march out there and tear Patricia apart with his bare hands.

But then he paused. His hand hovered over his pocket.

If he gave them back, you would put them on. You would cover up. You would wipe your eyes, straighten your spine, and walk out there ready to face the world. You would arm yourself with dignity and sarcasm and brave the rest of the afternoon.

And you would believe Patricia.

If you covered up now, Frank knew, you would always feel that the dress was a mistake. You would hide in it. You would let Patricia’s poison curdle the joy you felt when he looked at you.

No.

He wasn’t going to let her win. He wasn’t going to let her dictate how his wife felt in his arms. He wasn’t going to let you hide.

He moved his hand away from his pocket.

“Frank?” you asked, confused by his stillness.

“Shh,” he murmured.

And then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a man kneeling at an altar, Frank Benson lowered himself to his knees.

The floor was hard, the pantry cramped, but he didn't care. He knelt before you, his head level with your stomach, his hands coming up to grip your waist.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, trying to pull him back up, terrified his son would open the door and find his sixty-something father on his knees in a dark pantry.

“I’m worshipping,” Frank whispered back, unrepentant.

His hands slid down the outside of your thighs, tracing the lines of the dress Patricia hated. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the fabric just above your knee, kissing the skin there with a reverence that made your breath catch.

“Frank, stop—”

“Hush,” he ordered gently, his voice vibrating against your leg.

He shifted, his hands gripping the back of your thigh, urging you to lift. “Up.”

You hesitated, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “They’re right there.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Let them talk. Let them say what they want. They’re in the kitchen. We’re in here.”

He tugged your leg gently, insistently. “Lift it for me.”

Trembling, overwhelmed by a mix of humiliation and a dark, rising heat, you obeyed. You lifted your leg, hooking your knee over his shoulder.

Frank groaned softly, a sound of pure, masculine appreciation, as the red dress fell back, exposing you to the darkness. He didn’t hesitate. He pressed his face against the soft skin of your inner thigh, his nose brushing the crease where your leg met your hip, breathing you in.

“This,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin, “is not indecent.”

He kissed you there, open-mouthed and wet, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive flesh.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth. “And it’s mine. Not hers. Never hers. Mine.”

Outside, Patricia was still droning on about “standards” and “appropriateness,” but inside the pantry, the only sound that mattered was the ragged breathing of the Lieutenant General at your feet, and the way his lips began to map a territory that no ex-wife, no judgment, and no red dress could ever claim.

Your knees buckled instantly.

The moment Frank’s tongue—a hot, velvet rasp against your oversensitive, swollen flesh—made contact, your vision whited out. You didn’t mean to, you didn’t want to, but your body betrayed you with violent enthusiasm. You were already slick and open from the fucking on the counter, aching and empty, and the sudden, overwhelming intimacy of his mouth was a shock to the system.

You flailed out blindly in the dark, your hand smacking against a shelf.

Crash.

A tin of instant coffee rattled violently, threatening to leap off the edge.

You froze, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, sweat breaking out along your hairline. Outside, Patricia’s voice hadn’t paused. She was still going, a relentless drone of judgment like a helicopter circling a crash site.

“—common, really. I tried to tell him, years ago, that he has a type. Lost causes. Strays. It’s that savior complex of his—”

You bit your lip, a whimper dying in your throat as Frank’s hands tightened on your thighs, hauling you closer, rooting you to the spot. He didn’t care about the coffee tin. He didn’t care about the risk. He only cared about the taste of you.

Your fingers scrambled for purchase, finding the cold metal edge of the shelf above you and gripping it until your knuckles turned white. It was the only thing keeping you upright.

“Frank,” you hissed, a broken, breathless plea. “Frank, the noise—”

He growled against you. The sound vibrated through your pelvis, up your spine, a low, baritone rumble of admonishment and hunger. Be quiet, the growl said. Let me work.

Then his tongue flattened, dragging heavily up your slit, circling your clit with agonizing, deliberate slowness.

Your head tipped back, thumping softly against the shelves, and you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the gasp that tried to tear out of your lungs.

Fuck.

The man was sixty-something years old. He had a bad knee, a reliance on antacids, and a blood pressure monitor on his nightstand. He should be tired. He should be fading. But Frank Benson ate pussy like he was conducting a siege operation—tactical, relentless, and with absolute, terrifying focus.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

He knew that you liked the flat, broad strokes of his tongue to warm you up, followed by the sharp, pinpoint flicks that made your toes curl. He knew how to suction his lips around your clit just hard enough to make your thighs shake, how to hum low in his throat to send vibrations straight through your nerve endings.

He had memorized you. Charted you. Conquered you.

And god, the arrogance of it. The sheer, unadulterated gall.

Here you were, locked in a dark pantry, eavesdropping on his ex-wife—who was currently calling you a “desperate little thing” and analyzing your dress like it was a crime scene—while her ex-husband, the man she let slip through her fingers, was on his knees devouring you like you were his last meal.

A dark, heady rush of power swept through you, cutting through the shame Patricia had tried to heap on your shoulders.

You looked down—even though you could barely see him, you could feel him. You could feel the shape of his hooked nose pressing against your mound as he buried his face deeper, the silver hair tickling your inner thighs, the rough stubble scraping your sensitive skin in a way that made you burn.

He was yours.

He was kneeling on a hard floor, ignoring his bad back, ignoring his dignity, risking total social annihilation, just to taste you.

Patricia was out there, thinking she had the upper hand, thinking she knew the man she’d divorced decades ago. She thought she could wound you with her words, reduce you to a cheap trick in a red dress. She had no idea.

She had no idea that the man she dismissed as “bored” and “decent” was currently groaning into your pussy like a starving man presented with a feast.

You shifted your hips, grinding against his mouth, unable to help yourself. The movement drew a sharp, wet sound from him—a slurp, a heavy breath—that made your face flame even as your arousal spiked.

“God,” you whispered into your palm, your eyes squeezing shut. “Frank... your mouth...”

He responded by redoubling his efforts. His tongue dipped inside you, fucking you with the rhythm he’d used earlier, mimicking the thrust of his cock, curling upward to find that spot that made your sanity fracture.

Your legs trembled violently, the knee hooked over his shoulder slipping slightly. Frank caught it instantly, his large hand gripping the underside of your thigh, holding you in place with a strength that belied his age. He adjusted your weight like you were weightless, pulling you harder onto his face, suffocating himself in your cunt because he couldn't get close enough.

You remembered the beginning.

Before the dinners, before the ring, before the quiet mornings in the kitchen. You remembered the messages.

The lieutenant general, the man who coordinated drone strikes and handled international crises with a cool head, had been a mess behind a screen.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he had typed at 2:00 AM, the messages coming in rapid, desperate bursts. ‘I haven’t felt this way in thirty years. Probably forty. I feel like a schoolboy. It’s disgusting.’

He had sent you gifts. Not just flowers—though there were always flowers—but things he thought you needed. A first edition book you mentioned once in passing. A scarf because “the draft in your flat is unacceptable, love.” Expensive chocolates he claimed he didn't want, but you knew he bought because he wanted to see you smile.

He had been terrified.

You could feel it now, in the desperate way he ate you, in the way his fingers dug into your ass. He was still that man, terrified you’d realize you could do better. Terrified you’d walk away and find a man who didn’t have gray hair, or a hooked nose, or a past full of casualties.

He had tried to buy your affection then, showering you with things, thinking that if he gave you enough, showed you enough, you might stay.

But he didn’t need to buy you now.

He just had to do this.

“—completely inappropriate,” Patricia’s voice drifted through the door, sharper now, irritated by the lack of response from her son. “If she had any respect for this family, for you, she would have covered up. But no. It’s blatant. It’s vulgar. It’s practically an invitation—”

Frank pulled away just long enough to breathe, his chest heaving against your legs.

“She’s wrong,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, hoarse, his breath ghosting hot over your wet, swollen flesh. “You’re not vulgar. You’re divine.”

Then he dived back in, sucking your clit into his mouth with a force that made your hips jerk off the shelf.

You slapped your other hand over your mouth, twin barriers against the moan that clawed at your throat. Your head fell back, hitting a box of cereal, sending it tumbling to the floor.

Thump.

Outside, the conversation stopped.

Silence.

Your heart stopped. Frank didn’t. If anything, the danger seemed to spur him on. He sealed his lips over your clit and fluttered his tongue rapidly, pushing you toward the edge with ruthless efficiency.

“Did you hear that?” Patricia asked, her voice suspicious.

“Just a mouse, Mum,” Frank’s son said, sounding exhausted. “Please. Can we just finish the dip?”

“It sounded heavy,” Patricia insisted. “Frank? Is that you in there?”

Frank growled into your pussy, the sound vibrating through your bones, and you felt your orgasm cresting like a tidal wave, unstoppable and violent. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them upward, and found that spot with unerring accuracy while his tongue worked your clit.

The combination was lethal.

Your fingers dug into the metal shelf until it hurt. Your thighs locked around his head, trapping him there, suffocating him, and he didn't fight it. He welcomed it. He fucked you with his fingers and ate you with his mouth, taking everything you gave him, consuming your arousal and your jealousy and your rage until there was nothing left but pure, white-hot sensation.

You were close. So close.

“Frank,” you gasped against your hand, your eyes rolling back. “I’m... I’m gonna...”

He hummed in encouragement. Come for me, the hum said. Come all over my face while she stands there.

The arrogance of it sent you over.

Your body bowed, a sharp, silent cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you. You shuddered violently, your hips bucking against his mouth, wave after wave of pleasure crashing down on you, drowning out Patricia, drowning out the world, leaving nothing but the wet heat of Frank’s tongue and the grip of his hands on your skin.

He rode it out with you, his movements slowing, gentling, lapping at you softly as you came down, drawing out every last aftershock until you were a boneless, trembling mess slumped against the shelves.

You panted, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your skin.

Slowly, carefully, Frank pulled away. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your inner thigh—a benediction, a seal of ownership—and then gripped your hips, helping you lower your leg.

You slid down the shelves, legs like jelly, and collapsed against him.

He stood up slowly, his knees popping softly in the quiet dark, and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. You could feel the hard thud of his heart, the dampness on his chin—your arousal—smearing onto his shirt collar.

“I hate her,” you whispered into his chest, feeling tears prick your eyes again, overwhelmed by the intensity of what just happened. “I hate that she made me feel cheap.”

Frank’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.

“She’s nothing,” he rasped, his baritone thick with emotion and sex. “She’s a ghost, love. She’s history. You’re the one who’s real. You’re the one who matters.”

He pulled back slightly, his hands framing your face in the dark. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the intensity of them, burning into you.

“And for the record,” he added, his voice dropping to that dangerous, seductive whisper that he used when he was about to say something that would ruin you completely. “That dress... it’s the best thing I’ve seen on a woman in forty years. And if you take it off, I’ll burn it.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh against his mouth.

“Frank,” you whispered. “Give me my panties.”

He chuckled, a low, dark sound. He reached into his pocket, but instead of handing them to you, he leaned down and, with agonizing slowness, slid them back up your legs himself, pulling them into place with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

He stood up, adjusted your dress, patted your hip.

“There,” he murmured. “Armored.”

He kissed you then, tasting of you and of salt and of home.

“Now,” he whispered, his hand finding yours in the dark, lacing your fingers together. “Let’s go get some fucking dip.”