Forest Nymph ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Writing:

Where do we go from here?

Chp 1

Chp 2

Chp 3

Chp 4

Chp 5

Still I tend to you

helloooo…. finally done with this project that lwk sent me into a spiral after eight months of running out of yarns and getting distracted by other projects !!

-Fit to be tied-

words: 5.9k

—One last time, again and again.

You never really think about how loud love is until it’s gone.

Sevika used to think silence was her peace, until it wasn’t peace but the absence of you.

The apartment feels wrong, like it’s empty without her permission. She catches herself listening for sounds that don’t exist anymore; the dull hum of your show playing while she works, your off-key humming in the bathroom, the soft drag of your slippers.

Now there’s just the refrigerator and the TV.

You took your clothes, your toothbrush, your makeup, but not everything. There’s still pieces of you here, forbidding her to forget.

An half-empty bottle of your shampoo sits in the shower, untouched since you left. One of your hair tie on the nightstand, stretched out and tired. The blanket you always stole when you slept is folded at the edge of the couch, and sometimes, when she’s cruel enough to let herself, desperate enough to hurt, Sevika reaches for it.

Just to remember the shape of warmth.

She always slept with lots of blankets. Now it feels different.

She’s angry at herself for it. All of it.

Angry that she still checks her phone at night, still turns her head at the sound of footsteps in the hall, still forgets that you don’t sleep here anymore, that she doesn’t sleep at yours anymore either.

Time has nothing to do with it.

It’s not about the years, or the months, or the late-night takeout orders in front of the TV that started to feel like a tradition. It’s about learning how to live without you, how to come home and not expect your laughter in the other room.

And that’s the part she can’t figure out.

Because your ghost is everywhere she looks.

Because she can clean every surface, wash every dish, and it still won’t be enough to erase the shape of what she lost.

And how ridiculous is it.

Because it’s been a week. It’s only been a week.

And somehow it already feels like years, like the world stretched itself to punish her for surviving the days without you.

But what hurts the most are the photos.

They’re everywhere.

On her phone, on her laptop, hiding inside her wallet. The stupid little photobooth strips you dragged her into, Polaroids with your messy handwriting on the back, screenshots of memes you said reminded you of her.

And then there’s the folder she made without meaning to. The one that’s just you and her.

Sevika never used to take pictures, didn’t see the point. Life moved, people left, memories faded.

But you’d insisted.

You’d laugh and pull her close, say “come here, just one.” And she’d roll her eyes, pretending she didn’t like the way you’d grin when she finally gave in, taking more than one picture.

Now, it’s all she has left.

She’s on the bed, prosthetic arm resting on her stomach, the other holding her phone too tight. The room’s dim, curtains drawn.

Your voice filters out of the speaker, faint and bright, a recording she didn’t even realize she kept.

You’re laughing. She can hear herself in the background, half-grumbling, half-laughing too. You must’ve been watching some dumb show you only watched together, wrapped up together the way you always did when the night was quiet enough to feel infinite, warm and intimate after making magic happen.

It’s stupid, the way it hurts.

Because it wasn’t always good. You fought. You both did. Too much. Sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, sharp words and long silences that stretched too far.

But in between those moments, there was so much happy.

And she can see it now, clearer than before.

In the way you smiled at her through the camera, in how your eyes always found hers before hitting record, in how easy it was for her to laugh so hard with you her abs would hurt.

She sighs and let the phone slip from her fingers, landing beside her with a soft thud. Her chest aches in that slow, sinking way that doesn’t stop. it just deepens.

It’s ridiculous, she thinks, to miss something she can still replay.

To have hundreds of frozen smiles that can’t touch her back.

To see what happy looked like and know it’s gone.

It’s so easy to miss when it’s gone.

She can’t help it, she grabs her phone again, stares at the frozen frame on her phone.

Her face tucked against your shoulder, eyes half-closed, with you smiling like you never imagined things could end. It used to make her heart swell.

Now it makes her chest ache, heavy and breathless.

And just like that, her mind drags her somewhere else. Back to the supposed ‘last’ night in your flat.

Your voice echoes first, sharp and trembling.

“You can’t talk to me like that just because you’re angry, Sevika!”

She remembers standing in the middle of your living room, jaw clenched, fists tight enough to ache. The space between you felt like a bleeding wound.

“I’m not angry for nothing,” she snapped, “You think it’s normal to still talk to your ex like that? Every week, really?”

“She’s having a hard time lately! And I told you a hundred times, it’s not like that! We shared a life, Sevika. I’m not just gonna erase someone from existence because we broke up.”

“Yeah?” she shot back, fuming. “Would you be okay if it were me? If I still talked to someone who used to touch me?”

Your lips trembled before you spoke again.

“If you told me they mattered once, I’d try to understand. Because that’s what you do when you love someone!”

“They don’t matter,” Sevika barked, her voice sharp, loud enough to sting. “They never fucking mattered! When it’s done, it’s done. That’s how it works.”

You blinked at her, breath catching, tears threatening but not falling, answering in a second. “You can’t just decide that for everyone,” you shouted back, stepping forward. “Not everyone can cut people out like they’re nothing!”

“Oh, come on! You can’t tell me you wouldn’t lose your shit if I was still talking to someone I used to fucking sleep with!”

The air snapped. She was repeating herself, she didn’t mean to spit it out like that, but it was too late, the sentence was already sitting heavy between you.

Your jaw clenched, and you let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “You’re right!” you screamed,. “I would have a hard time with it, Sevika! Of course I would! But I wouldn’t treat you the way you treat me every damn time you’re angry!”

“I’m not treating you like—”

“Yes, you are!” Your voice cracked raw, helpless. “You ignore me until you explode! You think slamming doors and shutting me out is communication?”

You dragged both hands down your face and through your hair, the motion rough and trembling, a long, loud, guttural growl of frustration ripping out of you before you could stop it like agony. The kind of sound that comes when you’ve hit the edge.

And you did with her.

“God!,” you rasped, voice shaking, louder now, “I’m so tired, Sevika. I’m so tired of trying to calm you down when you won’t even listen!”

The room felt smaller with every word, the air tighter.

You were crying, but not weakly; angry tears that burned instead of broke. “You don’t listen, you just shut down, you hurt me, you make me feel like shit for just trying to talk! I’m so fucking tired!”

Sevika stood there, breathing hard, her own voice rising despite herself. “And what, you think it’s easy for me? You think I want to get angry? I don’t know how to—”

“Then learn!” you shouted over her, words splintering into raw despair. “Learn how to talk! Learn how to not make me feel like your enemy every time something hurts! I try my best and you give me nothing!”

Your voice cracked at the end, loud and raw and final. You were shaking from anger, tears spilling freely. The silence that followed wasn’t relief.

She blinks herself back to the present; her ceiling coming into focus again, the hum of her own breathing too loud in the stillness.

The argument lingers like smoke even though the fire’s long gone.

She’s tempted to text you.

God, she’s so tempted.

After a while, her phone’s on the nightstand now, face-down, the weight of it practically calling her name. She can already picture what she’d type; “How are you?” or “Did you take your treatment?” or maybe just “I miss you.”

The same things she used to say when everything between you was still soft and familiar.

But you both already did this.

A few, ridiculous days ago, you both gave in.

You found yourselves in the same bed, breathing each other in like nothing had changed.

Like the fight, the silence, the ache were all just bad dreams. You loved each other again.

Desperate, slow, tender.

It felt like a restart.

Like maybe, if you tried hard enough, you could pretend you hadn’t already broken.

And then you’d both woken up the next morning, cuddling and, despite everything, loving.

But knowing what it meant.

It was supposed to be done now. Really done.

So she doesn’t text. She doesn’t call.

She just lost herself into the noise. A show playing too loud, the blue light burning her eyes, the cursor blinking on her thesis page. Anything to fill the silence that feels like you.

By the time the evening settles in, it’s past eight.

She’s got her headphones on, a playlist going, something slow, something to drown in, and she’s sketching without really thinking, just lines and shapes that don’t mean anything.

Then her phone vibrates.

She glances at it out of habit, not expecting anything, but the name on the screen makes her chest tighten.

‘you forgot your sweatshirt last time’

She stares for a few seconds, the pencil pausing mid-line. Her heart trips once, hard.

Before she can even think of what to say, it vibrates again.

‘I’m not giving it back’

Sevika snorts. It slips out before she can stop it; this quiet, breathy laugh that aches on its way up.

For a moment, it’s like she can hear your voice saying it, teasing, soft around the edges.

She sits there a few minutes, phone still in her hand, the corner of her mouth twitching as she stares at the messages.

You maybe didn’t mean anything by it. Or maybe you did.

You probably did.

Finally, she types:

‘should i come get it back?

It takes barely a minute. Her phone buzzes again, lighting up her face in the low glow of her desk lamp.

‘it might be useful’

She huffs out a laugh through her nose, shaking her head. There it is. That teasing, that softness she can feel even through a screen.

It’s like muscle memory now, the way her lips twitch when it’s you.

‘i have other sweaters’

The typing bubble appears almost instantly. She can see it blinking, then disappearing, then blinking again, like you’re thinking too hard about something small.

You both know it’s not so small.

‘but you might need this one’

Her heart drop just a little. Not in pain, not really. in recognition. In that quiet, dangerous place where missing someone starts to sound too much like hope.

She stares at the words for a long moment, the hum of her playlist fading somewhere behind her.

Her chest feels too full, her hands restless. She could ignore it, should ignore it, but before the thought even finishes forming, she’s already standing.

Bagpack. Keys. Phone. That’s all she grabs.

The door clicks behind her, and the sound of it feels like déjà vu.

She doesn’t text you that she’s coming. She doesn’t need to. You always know. You always do.

She tells herself it’s just for the sweater.

That she’ll walk in, grab it, maybe exchange a few words, soft, short, harmless, and then she’ll leave.

No lingering, no looking too long, no remembering what your laugh feels like against her neck.

She repeats it in her head as she walks down the hallway and to her car, as the night air hits her face, as her fingers tighten around her keys.

Just the sweater.

That’s all.

But even she doesn’t believe it.

Because it’s always like this, the gravity between you pulling too hard, too familiar.

Because no matter how much she tells herself it’s done, her body keeps finding its way back to you.

And deep down, she knows you’re waiting.

She doesn’t need directions, her body remembers the way.

Her thumb hesitates for half a second before pressing the doorbell when she reached for the door, that same soft chime she has heard a hundred times before.

The buzzer sounds. You let her in.

She knows everything by heart.

The elevator that opens smoothly to life like it always does, slow, too familiar. The white light that hums above her head.

For a second she thinks she should turn back, but the doors slide open before she can move.

The hallway’s quiet. The carpet muffles her steps.

She could walk this stretch with her eyes closed and still stop right in front of your door. She knocks gently.

Because she has to knock now.

And then there you are.

Hair loose, pajamas soft and wrinkled, like last week. You blink up at her, surprise flickering into something warmer, something careful.

The two of you just look at each other for a few long seconds, the kind of silence that feels like a whole conversation all on its own.

“Hey,” you both say at the same time.

It breaks the tension just enough to make you both snort, a soft, helpless sound that feels like relief and pain tangled together.

“Hi,” you say again, quieter this time.

“Hey.”

Your smile wavers, small, tired, but real.

You step aside, opening the door wider. She hesitates only for a moment before stepping in, the warm, familiar air inside your apartment wrapping around her like something she shouldn’t touch but can’t resist.

The door clicks shut behind you.

The apartment smells faintly of your scented candle you always light before bed. It’s dim, the kind of soft golden light that comes from fairy lights strung across the walls.

You always said bright light made everything feel too sharp. You always need softness.

The sofa bed is half-made, the blanket crumpled like you’d been lying there trying to chase sleep and lost the fight.

Her sweater sits at the corner of it.

Harmless, ordinary, dangerous.

She sets her bag down by the door, takes off her shoes without thinking. The sound of them hitting the floor feels too intimate, familiar, like muscle memory she shouldn’t still have.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You shift a little, your hands twisting in the hem of your shirt. When you finally speak, your voice is soft, cracked at the edges.

“Can I at least hug you?”

The question lands between you like a fragile thing.

Sevika turns, meeting your eyes.

For a heartbeat she thinks about saying no, about protecting whatever thin boundary you’ve both been pretending to respect.

But then you look at her, and the space between you collapses.

You both move at once, like magnets, arms open before any thought can catch up.

The hug is quiet. Heavy.

Your face presses against her chest; her arms fold around you, strong, trembling just a little.

You smell so good, like home, like the ghost of everything she’s been trying to forget.

God, the warmth.

She squeezes you tighter, the motion instinctive, almost desperate.

Her throat burns.

She swallows hard against it, but the ache won’t go.

You breathe out softly, a small sound that almost breaks into a sob but doesn’t.

Neither of you lets go.

It’s too long to be polite.

And too careful to be anything but love.

She could take the sweater and leave. She knows she should. It’s right there, something to grab and go.

But she doesn’t.

Your arms are still around her, soft and sure, and she can’t bring herself to break the hold. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Her face dips lower until her nose finds that familiar spot in your hair, and before she can stop herself, she murmurs, voice rough, quiet against you,

“You eaten yet?”

Your answer is small, muffled against her chest.

“No… not yet.”

You tilt your head a little, cheek still pressed to her shirt, eyes flicking up just enough to see her chin resting stubbornly on the crown of your head.

She’s refusing to look down, refusing to risk it, because she knows if she does, she’s done for.

Too close. Too dangerous.

“…You wanna eat with me?”

Your thumbs are moving, tracing lazy little circles against her back through the thin cotton of her t-shirt, and the warmth of it seeps straight through her ribs.

Sevika doesn’t answer right away. She should think. She really should.

Because she knows how this goes; the soft domestic slide from dinner to laughter to hands to lips. She knows what happens when you both forget the reasons and remember how easy it feels to love each other.

But the thought of walking out again, drive alone, going home to the empty hum of her own apartment, feels unbearable.

So instead of saying yes, she asks, her voice low and careful against your hair.

“Pasta again?”

You nod, your voice warm and muffled against her chest.

“Yeah. Too lazy to cook anything else.”

It makes her huff out a quiet laugh. That small, fond sound that she doesn’t even try to hold back. Not with you. The kind that belongs to a thousand evenings before this one.

“ ‘course you are,” she mutters, half-smiling into your hair.

And for a second, just a second,it feels like it could still be normal. Like she could stay.

Like this could still be home.

The kitchen is small, the kind of space where every movement brushes skin or breath.

You move first, slipping out of her arms with a soft laugh and crossing toward the counter.

She follows, slower, unsure if her legs are moving because she wants food or if because she doesn’t know how to stop being near you.

You fill a pot with water; she leans against the counter beside you, close enough that the warmth of her arm grazes yours. The air hums with the smell of whatever candle you’d lit earlier, sweet, warm and too familiar.

She does.

Her hands move automatically, pulling out the pan, setting it on the stove, finding the wooden spoon in the drawer without thinking.

You’d teased her about that once, how quickly she made herself at home here. How easy it was for her to belong.

Now it just hurts a little.

Small talk drifts between you; soft, harmless words about work, about college, your shift, her exams. Anything that fills the silence but doesn’t demand too much because it’s natural.

You reach past her to grab the salt, your hip bumping hers, light but electric.

She steps sideways, like distance could save her, but you move with her again a few minutes later, laughing under your breath as your elbows touch.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you don’t sound sorry at all.

“Sure you are,” she mutters, the corner of her mouth twitching.

It’s nothing, just teasing; warm, easy, but dangerous. Everytime she laughs, everytime she touches, it feels like she’s leaning a little closer to a cliff she already fell from.

The pasta boils, you stir the sauce. She stands behind you, watching the small movements of your hands, the line of your shoulder with tired eyes.

The memory of every other night like this presses in from all corners, how she’d usually slip her arms around your waist after a fight, rest her chin on your shoulder until you turned and kissed her cheek.

She swallows hard, fingers flexing at her sides.

It’s not an argument this time. It’s supposed to be something done this time, not forgivable with a few cuddles.

You can both feel it. The pull, the ache, the quiet hum of something that refuses to die even when it should.

You bump her hip again, pretending to reach for the plates, and she exhales, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

“You’re playing,” she murmurs.

“Not my fault the flat’s too small,” you reply, smiling, voice soft, eyes full of everything neither of you can say.

The pasta turns out a little overdone, like they usually do, but neither of you cares.

You eat sitting comfortably side by side, bodies turned to each other, one knee bent like it’s still home on the pull-out sofa, the same way you always did when the table felt too formal.

The candle on the coffee table throws out a soft, flickering light and the smell of melting wax. It’s the only sound in the room apart from forks against plates and small talks.

It isn’t awkward. It never is. Somehow, even this, after everything, still fits.

The quiet settles around you like a blanket; it hurts, but it’s a kind of hurt that feels alive, so it’s enough. Because you would take anything to get her back.

You talk about small things again.

Classes, the new professor who talks too much. A coworker of yours who still doesn’t understand why people think he’s rude because he doesn’t say hi in the morning. She tells you she finally got her draft approved for her thesis, and you roll your eyes with that same teasing grin that used to drive her crazy. Of course her draft has been approved.

You knew it would be.

Every now and then, one of you look up mid-sentence, catches the other’s eyes over a fork or the rim of a glass. The smiles come easily, instantly, even when they make your chests ache.

It should be strange, sitting here again. It should feel like too much history packed into too little space. But it doesn’t, and it makes it worse.

It feels like those evenings you used to steal after long days; coming home from work or class, kicking off shoes, eating whatever you could throw together just to be near each other and forget everything.

You can almost forget that this is supposed to be different now.

Almost forget that she’ll have to get up, put her shoes back on, walk out again into the cold hallway and back to a place that doesn’t smell like you both.

She catches herself watching the way the candlelight moves across your face and the soft curve of your smile. You see it too. You don’t say anything about it.

You carry the plates to the sink when you’re both finished, the soft clink of ceramic the only sound. The candle’s still burning on the coffee table by the sofa bed, the little flame making the shadows sway along the wall.

Sevika watches you move around the small kitchen; she has memorized the sound of the drawer sliding shut, the way you rinse your hands after, the rhythm of you living here.

When you turn back, she’s sitting exactly where you left her, elbow resting on one knee, her hand resting absently on the sweater that brought her here.

The dark fabric pools against her fingers but she doesn’t grab it. Doesn’t take it and go yet.

You don’t say anything. You just walk over and sit beside her again, closer than before. One knee bent, brushing hers.

The air between you thickens, humming.

You don’t do small talk anymore. You don’t hide behind it.

There’s no show playing in the background, no excuse to glance away.

Just the two of you, quiet and breathing and breaking all over again.

You look at each other. The beauty, the hurt, the love that still sits heavy and unhealed in both your eyes.

Her throat works as she tries to swallow the ache.

The longer she looks at you, the more her vision blurs.

Yours too.

Then you move.

Both of you, at once.

The space disappears; her arms are around you, yours around her, the two of you folding into each other on the crumpled sheets you shared together.

The breath leaves her chest in a shudder as you press close, your body warm and real against hers.

She closes her eyes and feels your fingers slide up the side of her neck, the gentle press of your palm against her skin, just to feel her, to make sure she’s still there.

Your voice trembles when it comes.

“I miss you.”

The words slice clean through her. Her hands tighten around you, one sliding up to the back of your head, thumb brushing through your hair.

She exhales, rough and soft all at once, and whispers back,

“I miss you too.”

There’s more sitting behind it, the kind of words she has always swallowed because saying them felt too hard, too exposing.

But right now, in this dim room, with the sound of your heartbeat against her chest, she finds them.

“I should’ve said it before,” she murmurs, voice raw, almost shaking. “I should’ve told you more.”

You nod against her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, as if that might hold the moment together.

“I should’ve listened more.” you say.

Sevika’s fingers still where they were tracing lazy shapes at the small of your back.

She doesn’t speak right away, just breathes against your temple.

“I should’ve tried to understand you better,” you whisper.

Her chest tightens.

“You did,” she says, voice low. “You tried.” She sighs, jaw tight before she finds the words again. “I’m hard to deal with. I get angry, it’s easier than talking.”

Her voice cracks a little on talking.

She doesn’t look at you, her eyes are fixed on some point on the wall, somewhere safer than the shape of your body against hers.

You exhale, the sound shuddering out of you. “It’s okay,” you tell her softly, and even though you mean it, you both hear the strain in your voice, the ache of wanting to make it okay when it isn’t.

She shakes her head, a small, rough motion. “It’s not.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You both know she’s right.

But you don’t move away either. You keep your hand at the side of her neck, thumb brushing against her skin.

She huffs out a breath that sounds too close to a laugh, too sad to be one.

“I keep thinking I’ll be better next time,” she mutters. “Then I realize there’s no next time.”

“Maybe there doesn’t have to be,” you whisper, barely audible. “Not like before. Maybe just now.”

Her eyes flick down to yours then, slow, deliberate. Searching. The candlelight catches the shine of her lashes, the raw wetness that neither of you bothers to hide anymore.

“You always say shit like that,” she murmurs, a small, sad smile ghosting at the corner of her mouth.

You smile back, but it’s broken, tired, loving. “You always come back anyway.”

That earns a low sound from her; half a breath, half surrender.

She presses her forehead against yours, her nose brushing the bridge of yours in that familiar, trembling almost-touch.

And she breaks.

The first kiss is soft, trembling, both of you holding back out of fear that it’ll shatter everything.

It tastes like dinner and memory, like the ache that’s been sitting in your chests since the day you walked away.

Her hand finds your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your mouth as if she’s trying to memorize it again, and for a heartbeat, it feels like maybe you could stop here, like maybe this is enough.

But it never is.

She pulls back a breath’s length, lips still brushing yours when she exhales, rough and low,

“We shouldn’t.”

Her voice sounds like she’s begging herself to believe it.

You nod, but your hand doesn’t leave her neck. It slides higher instead, fingers tangling in her hair. Your voice is just as unsteady when you whisper,

“I know.”

And then you both stop pretending.

The next kiss hits harder; hungry, aching, all the restraint from the last week bleeding out of you both.

Her hands are on your waist, your back, your hair, anywhere she can reach, pulling you closer like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she loosens her grip.

You kiss her back with the same desperation, the same love that’s been twisting inside you since the day you left. There’s no sense, no plan, just the sound of your breaths mingling and the heat of her skin under your palms.

She mutters something against your mouth, your name maybe, or fuck, or both, and you swallow it between another kiss.

You don’t think about what comes next, you don’t think about tomorrow.

It’s just this: the pull, the ache, the desire. the way it hurts to want someone so much when you know you shouldn’t.

And still, neither of you stop.

Sevika lands first, her back hitting the crumpled sheets with a dull sound, and you follow, your hips finding her between her legs and both of you still kissing like the world outside this tiny apartment doesn’t exist.

The only reason why you stop is to breath, to drag your shirt over your head, to feel her palms slide up your ribs to find your breast, and it doesn’t take long before her shirt finds yours on the wooden floor.

Now it’s skin to skin, the press of her chest against yours, the warmth of your weight pinning her down like you’re forbidding her to leave.

She’s not leaving.

She shifts against your hips and presses closer, grinding into the cradle of your body.

The friction sparks, missing and needy, sharp and wanting, both of you sighing into each other’s mouths as the desire grows tighter.

Then your lips find her jaw, her neck, her breast, trailing kisses down her skin until your mouth find her core.

When she lets her head fall back on the mattress in a gasp, eyes closed and lips parted at the feeling of your mouth exactly where she needs you, she gives up.

Gives up on any boundaries you both keep breaking.

Because there’s that part of you that never stopped belonging to each other; the intense, trembling need that feels too much like love to end.

When you both collapse in each other’s arms, catching your breath back slowly, you lie there side by side, skin still flushed, the quiet wrapping around you like something fragile and alive.

Sevika’s chest rises and falls, her heart still running a little too fast but slowly slowing down, your own trying to match its rhythm.

You shift slightly, fingers tracing her shoulder without thought, just the need to touch. The motion is small, steady, like you’re grounding yourself back into her.

She looks at you through half-lidded eyes, hair a mess against the pillow, the edge of a tired smile tugging at her mouth like she can’t fight it. She really can’t.

“You know,” you murmur, voice low, “you still have everything you need to sleep here.”

For a few seconds, she doesn’t answer. Just blinks slowly, like she’s turning the words over in her mind. Then, rough-voiced by the sighs and sounds of pleasure, she asks,

“you want me to stay?”

You tilt your head up, meeting her gaze. “you want to stay?”

You both know the answer already. It’s written in the way your bare bodies keep finding each other in those sheets.

Neither of you says it right away. You just breathe the same air for a moment, and when you exhale, it’s shaky but sure.

You move closer, sliding your arm around her bare side, pressing your forehead to her collarbone.

“I want to try again,” you whisper.

Her breath catches. You feel it.

And you both know, you’re not talking about sex.

You’re talking about you.

About the nights and mornings, the laughter, the fights, the soft domestic things that made your love so bright and so hard to hold.

“I don’t want it to end,” you say, your voice breaking right at the edge. “I love you so much.”

The words hit her like a pulse, deep and sudden. She almost laughs, almost cries even,but her throat closes around the sound.

She swallows hard, eyes stinging, and pulls you closer until her arms are locked tight around you, her face buried in your hair.

“I love you too,” she breathes against your skin.

The words are small, uneven, but they’re real. They sit between you like something sacred, trembling but alive.

She just holds you, and you hold her, and the night stretches out soft and full of everything you thought you’d lost.

When sleep finally comes, it’s slow and gentle, and the last thing either of you feels is warmth, the kind that feels like home.

Again.

The morning comes, light seeps in through the thin curtains, golden and slow, painting the room in a pale warmth that smells faintly of last night; candle wax, skin, the faintest trace of pastas.

Sevika stirs before she opens her eyes. The first thing she feels is warmth, yours, and the faint rise and fall of your breath against her arm.

Then, the soft sound of movement: sheets shifting, warmth disappearing, a quiet stretch.

When her eyes flutter open, you’re sitting up on the sofa bed, hair messy, completely bare and beautiful, the early light catching on the skin of your chest. It glows against you, turning you into something golden and angelic in the way it catches your hair and the tip of your breast.

You lift your arms above your head, stretching, a soft noise leaving your throat before you turn slightly, catching her staring at your nudity.

A quiet, sleepy laugh escapes you. “Hey,” you murmur, voice still thick with morning.

Sevika blinks once, like she’s reorienting herself, like she forgot where she was for a second.

Then she breathes out, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Hey.”

It almost feels normal, the way her voice sounds in the morning, the way you look at her after a night of love-making like this is just another start to another shared day.

For a heartbeat, she forgets.

The breakup. The ache. The mess. The tears.

You shift toward her, leaning on one hand as you study her face. There’s a pause, a tender one, before you lean in and kiss her.

It’s gentle at first, but when she kisses back, it deepens, the line between what was and what is is blurring until there’s nothing left but warmth.

It’s a kiss that says good morning and don’t leave me all at once.

She cups your cheek, thumb tracing the soft curve of your jaw, and pulls you closer until your chest presses to hers again.

For a few perfect seconds, the world feels right again.

No past, no future.

Come what may.

Just morning light and the taste of your lips.

She takes that sweater back.

But she forgets her shirt from last night.

dealing with therapy as much as I can, going back to work in a week for my internship, trying to enjoy this week bc it’s school break… but I have so many things to do— anyway, hope you like this one. I loved it, even if it took forever to finish, going to bed now 🫶🏻 I resonate way too hard to this fic, feels so much like my personal experience it hurts a little.

-Animal print-

words: 2.9k

—It was just an accident.

Her weight pins you down, familiar and hot, her rhythm unforgiving.

You like it that way. Fast, unrelenting, the kind of touch that leaves you aching the next morning. You’re used to it, you crave it.

Bites marks where her mouth was, faint redness across your ribs from her hard grip, sometimes a sting that lingers in your muscles when you move too quickly.

You like that she doesn’t hold back. That she gives herself to you the only way she knows how; without apology, without hesitation.

Sometimes it’s different, slower.

Sometimes you both draw it out, gentle, until you’re melting into her and she’s melting into you. You take a bath, holding each other close while the steam curls around both of you.

It’s all your language, your rhythm.

Neither of you has ever had to say stop.

Until tonight.

You’re both a mess of noises and movements. You moan for her, your body jerking under her movements, sweat sticking to your hot skin.

Her thrusts are unforgiving, deep, brutal. Barely giving you time to breathe as you feel the pleasure build and burn inside you.

Then her hand is on your throat, the pressure tighter than usual, her movements sharp and consuming as she hits it deeper than before. Too deep.

You gasp sharply, not from pleasure this time.

It’s too much, sudden, suffocating, painful.

It takes you a moment to realize, even if the sensations are raw and too real.

The pain is intense, your skin burns on your throat and between your legs. You feel like something just— tore up.

Then you move.

Your fingers grab her wrist. The word slips out before you even know it’s there, cracked, instinctive:

“Stop.”

Everything stills.

The haze shatters instantly, leaving only ragged breathing and the harsh thrum of blood in your ears.

Her grip falls slack, her hips frozen against yours, still inside.

Wide eyes meet yours in the dim light, both of you breathing hard, sweat clinging to your skin.

Your hand is still wrapped around her wrist, not pulling her away anymore, just holding her there.

The realization hits her.

Stop.

The one thing you’ve never said before, the one word that’s never crossed this threshold.

Her jaw clenches, massive guilt already flooding her features.

You don’t know if you should speak yet or let the silence settle.

Because as scary as it is, it feels like the air between you has shifted forever.

Neither of you look away. You can’t.

You see her eyes, usually so steady, wide with something that rattles you more than the bruising grip on your throat ever could.

Shock. Realization.

The heavy weight of knowing it’s her, that she’s the one who just crossed a line neither of you thought existed.

And she sees you too; the relief in your gaze, the way your chest rises sharp with air you hadn’t been getting. Your fingers on her damn wrist, not pulling away, not pushing, just holding.

She can still hear that word in her head, broken and breathy. Stop. She sees that you surprised yourself saying it.

Her throat works, but no sound comes out. She doesn’t know how to think, what to do.

Slowly, too slowly, as if any sudden movement might hurt you again, Sevika pulls her hand away from your throat.

She shifts back, pulling out of you with the same clumsy hesitation, her body all trembling edges where it was once sharp and steady.

You can’t help the whine at the ache, and the sound makes her flinch like you’d struck her.

It kills her. You can see it in the way her jaw trembles, in how her eyes don’t know where to rest; on your throat, on the bruises already blooming, on the part of you she’s just hurt between your legs.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Sevika looks afraid.

The silence is unbearable.

Sevika’s hand twitches at her side now, like she doesn’t trust it anymore. Her chest rises and falls too fast, her face set in stone but her eyes betraying everything; panic, guilt, something raw and breaking open.

She sits back on the heels of her feet, the space between you widening, and she reaches down with fumbling fingers. The strap, still buckled around her hips, feels heavier than it ever has.

She doesn’t even dare look at it.

shame.

With a clumsy motion, she yanks it off, lets it drop to the floor with a thud. Her prosthetic arm follows like it’s a weapon.

When it finally comes in the tensed silence, her voice is hesitant in a way you’ve never heard before.

“…You okay?”

Your throat burns when you swallow. You can feel the mark of her fingers, the ache of your body, but the storm has already quieted.

You nod, voice low and hoarse,

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. You blink at her, breathing easier now, and the question leaves you before you can stop it.

“…Are you okay?”

Her head snaps up. She can’t believe it.

She can’t believe that you’d even ask her that, when you’re the one whose voice is raw, whose throat she almost crushed.

Her mouth opens, closes, at loss for words for a few long seconds.

“…Yeah,” she says finally, but it’s shaky, unsure. “…But, you— you sure you’re okay?”

You nod and stay there, breath easing, body still pinned beneath her, legs still bent and open like you never moved. The room feels too quiet, the thud of your heart being the only sound.

Sevika swallows, her throat tight. Her voice is low, broken at the edges.

“Can I…?” The words don’t even finish.

You’re already nodding again, a little too frantically, reaching for her like you can’t stand the distance anymore.

Your arms pull her down, and she goes willingly, almost collapsing into you, her weight pressing you into the mattress but softer this time, desperate in a different way.

Guilty.

Her face buried against your neck, you feel the tremor in her shoulders as you wrap your arms around them. Your fingers slide into her hair, slow, calming, as if smoothing down every jagged edge she’s carrying.

“I didn’t—” she starts, voice rough, uneven, “that’s not what I—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, stroking through her dark, sticky strands, your voice quiet but steady despite the obvious rawness in it. “I know. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

After a long moment in your arms, she pulls back, not so far, just enough to look at you. Her jaw is set like stone, tensed, her eyes restless and haunted.

“Sit up,” she says, and your heart does something you don’t like at how shaken she sounds.

Still, you obey, legs shifting until you’re sitting against the headboard of the bed.

Her hand hovers at your throat before she dares to touch. Her fingers ghost over the marks already rising there, calloused tips grazing tender skin. You can feel the tremor in her touch, how her fingers tremble.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

She doesn’t answer, just exhales sharply, pushes to her feet, and stalks across the room. The sight of her strap on the floor next to her prosthetic arm is almost violent, like she can’t stand it in her space, can’t look at it.

Then she digs through the drawer, pulls out two familiar tubes.

One anyone can use whenever you hit your elbow on a wall, one you never use.

Your robe is on your body and slipping off your shoulders by the time she returns, not trying to hide your naked body, just… cold.

She sits back on the mattress in front of you, cream in her one hand, cap twisting off with fingers that aren’t steady.

You reach for her wrist, trying to still her. “Sev—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in, voice low, sick. “Just—… let me.”

Her thumb tilts your head by steadying your jaw before working the cream gently onto your throat. The cool balm soothes the sting, though the silence stretches and feels heavier than the touch itself.

She doesn’t look at you, not at your eyes.

Only the places on your skin she hurt.

Then she sets that aside and grabs the second tube. Her jaw tightens visibly, like it’s worse.

And to her, it is. But she presses a small amount onto her fingers.

“You don’t have to,” you murmur.

Her eyes flick up to yours finally, dark and sharp but raw and weak underneath.

“I do.”

The cream is cool where she spreads it carefully between your legs, too carefully, like you’re glass that might shatter if she presses too hard.

Her fingers tremble again, slightly more, and you rest your hand lightly on her wrist, grounding her.

Grounder her where you told her to stop just before.

It’s strange to the both of you. That it had to come to this, that a safeword you’d both trusted and agreed on suddenly feels different now that it’s been said.

The rest of the night is quiet. Not peaceful but calm in its own way.

You’re both in bed, a show playing on the screen across the room. The kind of show you usually laugh at together, throwing commentary back and forth.

Tonight, though, it fills the silence neither of you knows how to break.

Her arm is wrapped around you, automatic, but there’s no ease in it. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t joke, doesn’t even smile when something ridiculous flashes on the screen.

She’s not watching, not really. Her eyes are on the TV, yes, but her mind is somewhere else. Or nowhere at all, actually. Empty.

And you, pressed into her warmth, let your eyes drift half on the screen, half on her. Your fingers curl lightly in her shirt, maybe grounding yourself more than her.

You can’t stop your thoughts circling back to what happened, not the pain but the look in her eyes afterward.

The guilt so heavy it felt like it might swallow her whole.

Eventually, the quiet swallows you both, sleep pulling you down against her chest.

Then the morning comes, and the first thing you feel is a certain tenderness.

A faint ache in your throat, the dull reminder between your legs. But better, much better.

It was an accident. You told yourself that. You told her that last night. It’s fine.

Except it doesn’t feel so simple for her.

You shuffle into the kitchen, hair messy, a tired smile pulling at your lips. The smell of coffee lingers faintly in the air as you make yours and hers.

Sevika walks in from the hall, heavy steps like she hasn’t slept at all, her expression pale and distant.

She looks like a ghost of herself.

“Hey,” you greet softly, voice still hoarse, but warm. You step toward her, rising on your toes to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It’s soft, chaste, the kind of morning thing you always do.

But she doesn’t linger.

She doesn’t pull you in like she usually does, doesn’t cup the back of your neck, doesn’t press in deeper to annoy you with her morning breath. She lets you kiss her, then almost steps back, as if afraid of the closeness.

Steam curls between you on the kitchen counter as Sevika sits opposite, hunched a little over her coffee, dark circles carved under her eyes.

She drinks slow, like it’s the only thing tethering her to the room.

You sip, watching her carefully, then break the quiet with a soft question.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Her gaze flicks up, just for a heartbeat, then away. Her voice is low, gruff.

“…No.”

The word lands hard and she regrets it instantly. You see it in the way her shoulders stiffen, in the tightness around her jaw.

Because she’s not the one who got hurt. She doesn’t get to say no.

Her mouth opens, fumbles for something to fix it, but you’re already shaking your head gently.

“It was an accident,” you say, voice still hoarse from sleep but steady and soft. “Accidents happen.”

The truth of it should ease her.

It doesn’t.

Because when she finally forces herself to look at you again, the proof is there.

Dark bruises showing like a brand against your throat and looking straight at her.

It’s worse than anything.

Her grip tightens on the mug, knuckles white, and she can’t hold your gaze anymore.

“Sev. We had a safe word for a reason. So many people do. It was just a… badly judged movement. It’s fine.”

Your voice is steady, patient, but she doesn’t lift her eyes.

She wants to laugh. Bitter and ugly.

Fine. That’s what you call it?

With your throat marked up because she doesn’t know how to hold back?

Because rough is the only way she knows how to touch you, the only way she knows how to give herself to you?

What the fuck is wrong with her.

She doesn’t recognize herself. She couldn’t just be like normal people, couldn’t just be gentle, and now here you are, soothing her when she’s the one who hurt you.

When she finally breathes out, it sounds almost like a laugh, except it cracks halfway and dies in her chest.

Her eyes flick to you, pained, guilty, like she doesn’t know if she even deserves to be sitting in front of you right now.

She doesn’t say sorry. She can’t choke the word out.

But in the quiet between you, everything about her posture, her expression, the way she won’t look away from the bruises on your throat, it’s begging for forgiveness all the same, where her thrusts during sex were unforgiving.

You don’t argue her silence, you don’t push, you’re just there.

You set your mug down, circle the counter, and press yourself into her side.

Sevika freezes, her breath caught. But when your arms slide around her waist she finally moves.

Her only arm comes up, wrapping around you, pulling you in so tight you can feel the tremor running through her body.

Her fist knots in your shirt like you’re the only thing keeping her from falling.

Her throat tightens, a sound caught there, but no tears come. They never do.

She shakes against you, silent, and you press your cheek against her chest, letting her cling.

Forgiveness given in the way you hold her, in the way you don’t let go.

The rest of the day passes in a strange quiet. It doesn’t happen often, even when you’re both exhausted, not that quiet.

She doesn’t touch you. Not intimately, not even casually.

Her hand never brushes yours, never comes to rest on your back like it usually does.

It’s like she’s afraid her touche might break you all over again.

When night comes, the bed feels too big, too cold without her. You roll over, blink toward the doorway, and see the faint glow of the living room light.

“Sev?” you call softly.

There’s no answer, but you know she’s there and awake.

“I miss you. …Come on. Come back.”

The silence stretches, heavy. Then you hear her steps, slow and hesitant, padding closer.

She slips into the room without a word, her frame filling the doorway, shoulders slumped.

And when she climbs into bed, it’s not because she wanted to.

It’s because you asked.

Because now, more than ever, she needs to obey you instead of acting on her own impulses. She needs to be guided.

She settles stiffly at your side. But still, when you reach for her, she lets you.

The next few days settle into something close to normal.

The first day is the hardest, then it slowly comes back to your usual routine.

Coffee in the mornings, her gruff little smirks at things you say, shows watched side by side at night. The bruises fade, your body heals, and so does the silence between you.

Almost.

Because Sevika never makes a move.

Not once.

You brush her hand, she squeezes it. You kiss her, she kisses back.

But when you lean in harder, when your hands slip lower, she stills. Withdraws. Stops you before going too far. Not cold but cautious in a way she never was before.

You don’t say anything at first, you tell yourself she just needs time.

But days pass, and nothing changes.

Until one night, when you’re straddling her on the couch, your mouth on hers, deep and desperate, your hand wandering over her stomach.

She kisses you back at first; hungry like she’s missed this just as much as you did.

But then her palm presses to your hip, halting you, holding you still before you can undulate against her.

“Sev,” you murmur against her lips, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are dark, conflicted, but the restraint is written all over her face.

You breathe, steady but aching.

“…Is this because of what happened?”

For a long second, she doesn’t answer.

Her jaw clenches, her gaze flicks away, but she can’t lie to you.

Slowly, she nods once.

You raise your head just enough to look at her, your voice low, a little awkward but steady all the same, still proud of her for answering a way or an other.

“…I’m fine, Sev. It’s been days, you know? I won’t break.”

Her jaw works, tensed and so many other things at the same time.

Confusion, fear, hurt, guilt.

She exhales sharply through her nose, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to force words out that won’t come.

“I know,” she mutters finally, voice rough. “I just— I don’t know, I can’t…” Her grip tightens on your hip, not harsh, just grounding. “I want—”

She stops, swallows, shakes her head.

Like she doesn’t deserve to want you.

You lean back fully on her chest, cupping her face, forcing her to meet your eyes. “But I want to. And you want it too.” Your voice softens, but the certainty is there.

“There’s nothing to be scared of now. We can do it slow. Step by step.”

Her gaze flickers over your face like she’s searching for a catch, for hesitation.

But all she finds is you, earnest and flushed and waiting for her to trust you again.

For once, Sevika doesn’t have an answer.

She just breathes, rough and heavy.

Your thumbs brush her jaw, not shaking even though your heart is racing.

You swallow, cheeks still red, and whisper, “It’s not… the roughness I crave. I just crave you. I want you, Sev. However you’ll have me.”

The words hit her harder than anything else could’ve these last few days. Her chest tightens, her throat aches, and for a moment she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, her body, her need.

She wants to argue, to tell you it isn’t that simple. It’s the way you look at her, soft, certain, not scared, that steals every protest from her tongue.

Her arm slides around you, pulling you closer, hesitant at first until your weight settles against her chest.

You guide her hand down, slow, patient, giving her every chance to stop, every chance to breathe.

“Step by step,” you murmur against her lips, kissing her slow this time, nothing rushed, nothing desperate.

Just her.

And she lets herself follow your lead, each touch more deliberate, more careful, like she’s relearning you piece by piece.

Her fingers tremble at first, but the longer you kiss her, the steadier she becomes, giving in to the way you anchor her.

It’s not rough, not chaotic, not like it was before.

But it’s still you and her, still the same fire, reshaped into something slower, softer.

Something that makes her truly believe that she can still have you without hurting you.

We did it !! It’s finally done! Almost a month without updating any fic… college is so tiring. I hope the first scene wasn’t too weird, I didn’t want it to be too dramatic or unrealistic to Sevika’s character; it was so hard for me to find the right balance between Sevika’s personality and the awkwardness and unsettling feeling of the scene if it happened in reality. Anyway… I hope you love it, I have other angst fic coming up!! The update is kinda random, but it’s okay

words: 7.3k

—Stop being so damn kind.

One thing Sevika is firmly convinced of is that you’re too kind.

Way too kind.

She got no patience for assholes, no tolerance for people who think they can take up space in ways that grate on her nerves.

Rude customers, smug strangers, people who think rudeness is charm, it all makes her want to bark back. She’s always been like that, sharp edges and short fuse, among all the other flaws she thinks she has.

It makes her look like a dick most of the time, and fine, maybe she is one.

Completely one, actually.

At least she’s honest about it.

But you? You’re soft-spoken where Sevika is harsh, sweet where she’s all bite and scowl. You’ll smile at the waiter who screws up your order, tell him not to worry, that you don’t mind. You’ll say thank you to the girl in the store even when she’s rolling her eyes. You’re polite to people who don’t deserve it, and it makes Sevika go fucking crazy sometimes.

Crazy enough that she grits her teeth and wonders how the hell you’ve gone through life without somebody taking advantage of that kindness.

And then she met your mom.

That’s when it clicked; where you got it from.

A woman who greets her at the door with a laugh and a hug, not troubled the slightest that she has a prosthetic or that her daughter came home with a girl, who insists Sevika stay for dinner no matter what excuse she has loaded on her tongue, who finds excuses to the rudest jerks sometimes.

She says it’s because she’s a psychologist. Sevika thinks, respectfully, that it’s not a reason… and that it’s bullshit.

Too candid, too warm, too much.

At first, Sevika couldn’t stand how disarming it felt. She’d sit stiff in her chair while your mom passed her another plate, asking questions, beaming at her like she was already family. Unsettling as hell. Completely different from your father, who was just a bit colder. Not rude; reserved. But it’s way better now.

It’s not like her own family was ever like that. Her father knows she has a girlfriend, has heard her say it, blunt and flat across the phone, but that’s all he knows.

No names, no details, no invitations to dinner. It’s easier that way, and Sevika isn’t interested in changing it. It’s good as it is.

Since your parents live a bit outside the city, visits aren’t exactly convenient. But in college, the two of you started spending weekends there almost every week. Friday night drive, Sunday night back.

At first it was just for you, your mom missing you, wanting to cook for you, fuss over you. Sevika came once and didn’t plan on making it a habit.

But then she came along again, because you asked, because you smiled at her in that way that makes saying no impossible.

And by dint of going, it became… normal.

Now, it’s not strange for her to drop her bag by the door and kick her shoes off without thinking.

Not strange to hear your mom call out a cheerful “girls, dinner’s ready!” from the kitchen. Not strange to find herself sitting on the porch with your dad, the two of them in quiet conversation, sharing a beer and a cigarette as the sun goes down. Not strange to take a coffee with your mom early in the morning because they’re two light sleeper.

It’s almost, almost, like her home too.

She wouldn’t call it that, not out loud, but she feels it. In the way your mom always saves a portion just for her.

In the way your dad has stopped being stiff and now greets her with a nod that’s closer to fond than neutral. It isn’t the same as the rough house she grew up in, the walls filled with her father’s silence and her own sharp words.

This is softer, steadier.

And somehow, against every one of her instincts, Sevika’s found herself tangled in it. A routine she doesn’t just put up with. One she actually enjoys. She’s not sure when your dad became someone she could almost call a friend, and she’s not sure when your mom’s fussing stopped grating and started feeling… good. Like family.

She’s still not used to that word, will never say it out loud either. But sometimes, sitting at your parents’ table, catching your mom’s easy laugh and your dad’s subtle comments, she lets herself think it.

Today’s one of those Saturday again.

Less often now, since you both graduated a few months back, and life keeps going in different directions, but you’re both on leave for two weeks, and it feels natural to use a bit of that time here, in the house where you grew up in.

Sevika wakes up first, like she always does. She never sleeps much, not even here.

Your old bedroom is familiar to her in a way that’s almost embarrassing; she could trace the space with her eyes closed and find her way in the dark without looking.

You’re curled against her, soft and warm, and for a moment she lets herself sink into it. One big hand spread across your back, nose brushing your hairline, eyes half-lidded in that lovely, heavy quiet of early morning.

But she never stays in bed for long.

Sliding out carefully so she doesn’t wake you, Sevika pulls on a sweatshirt, a pair of sweatpants, and heads downstairs.

She doesn’t bother with lights in the corridor, she knows the way.

The kitchen drawers are familiar too, her movements easy, practiced. Mug, coffee, the little tea pot you made when you were little your mom insists on keeping even though no one else touches it.

When she turns, coffee in hand, she finds her already there.

Your mom, in her usual place at the table, framed by the soft, golden spill of morning light through the window. She turns her head toward Sevika, offering a tired smile that still somehow carries warmth, like she’s been waiting for Sevika to wake up.

“Good morning,” she says softly, voice rasped by sleep.

“Morning,” she says as she pulls a chair out and sits across from her, setting the mug down with a soft clink. Your mom’s eyes crinkle with quiet amusement as she watches her settle.

“You’re always so early,” she teases, her voice carrying that lilting fondness that used to throw Sevika off balance.

Sevika huffs, half a smile tugging at her mouth as she brings the mug to her lips. “Can’t help it.”

That earns her a soft laugh before your mom tilts her head slightly. “Did you sleep well?”

Sevika nods. “Yeah. Pretty good.” Then, after a beat, she lowers the mug and asks the question she already knows the answer to. “You still having trouble sleepin?”

Your mom gives a small shrug, that same sweet smile holding steady on her lips. “Always. A bit more painful lately, but,” she waves a hand as if brushing it away, “it’s okay.”

Sevika takes another sip, eyes dropping to the table for a moment. She doesn’t push. It’s not her way. And besides, your mom never wants pity.

They sit like that, quiet but not awkward, Sevika drinking her coffee while she eats her breakfast, the air easy between them as they talk.

After a while, your mom glances up again. “Did she tell you about dinner tonight?”

Sevika frowns, searching in her memory, then shakes her head. “No. Forgot, I guess. What about it?”

“I knew it,” your mom chuckles softly, shaking her head. Like she knows her daughter so much she already knew you forgot to tell Sevika. “Her dad invited a few of his coworkers. You girls should go out together, it’s going to be very boring. Even if there’s a young man your age tagging along.”

Sevika doesn’t let it show on her face, but her jaw works once, slow. She hates people, mostly men honestly, and the casual mention of him irritates her in a way she won’t name. But your mom is smiling, offering you both an escape instead of a trap, and that, Sevika appreciates.

“Yeah,” she says finally, leaning back in her chair. “I’ll see with her.”

Your mom nods, satisfied, and the little talk keeps going. Easy, familiar, affectionate. Coffee and breakfast and the kind of conversation Sevika never thought she’d find herself wanting.

By the time Sevika finishes her coffee, the house is still quiet, a brighter morning light filling in the corners. She rinses the mug, sets it down with practiced ease, then heads back upstairs.

The bathroom smells faintly of your soap, steam clinging to the air, proof you’ve already taken your shower.

Sevika brushes her teeth, pulls her hair back loosely, then pushes open the bedroom door.

You’re sprawled on the mattress, scrolling on your phone, face relaxed in that half-dreamy expression you always have after a shower.

The second you see her, you light up, smiling wide enough that the phone slips forgotten on the mattress beside you.

She closes the door behind her with her foot, stepping closer, then hooks her hands around your ankles.

She tugs your legs, making you giggle softly as she drags you toward her on the mattress, the sheets bunching underneath.

She doesn’t stop until she’s braced between your thighs, big frame hovering over you, her weight pressing into the space you make for her without any hesitation.

“Good morning,” you say in a soft voice, your arms winding around her neck and your legs curling around her hips, as she dips her head for a quick kiss.

Just enough to taste your smile, the lingering smell of her coffee and mint, enough to make her morning feel complete.

“Your mom said your dad invited coworkers for dinner,” Sevika murmurs against your lips. Then she leans back just enough to meet your eyes, her mouth twisting into a face she can’t quite help. “Even a ‘young man our age’, to your mom’s exact words.”

You snorts, because that expression is too much, half scowl, half annoyance, entirely Sevika. “Ow,” you say, grinning as the tip of your nose almost brushes hers. “I forgot that.”

Sevika kisses you once more, slow enough to steal another laugh from your throat, then pulls back with a sigh.

“You know,” she says casually, as if it’s just now occurring to her, “I suddenly really want to go visit my father I haven’t had on the phone for weeks.”

You gasp dramatically and slap her shoulder, laughter bubbling up bright and helpless at her dark humor. “Don’t say that.”

“What?” she says, deadpan, though the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away.

You shake your head, still grinning. “I shouldn’t laugh about that.” Then, in your most innocent voice, you add, “But I don’t understand why you don’t want to see some ‘young man our age’.”

That gets the exact reaction you expect.

Sevika groans, brows furrowed, a sound long and disgusted, and buries her face into your neck like she can hide there, muttering something incoherent against your skin.

Her weight settles over you more fully, all heavy warmth and mock sulking.

You laugh again, threading your fingers into her hair. “Okay, jokes asides. I don’t wanna be there either.” You press a quick kiss to her temple. “We even can go back home tonight, we don’t have to stay until tomorrow if you don’t want to.”

At that, she goes still for a moment then huffs quietly, not lifting her head.

Her arms tighten around you in silent agreement, because the thought of escaping back into your little cocoon, just the two of you, is way more tempting than she’ll ever admit out loud.

By the evening, you’re both moving around your old room, tossing clothes back into bags with that lazy rhythm of people who don’t really want to rush but also don’t want to linger.

Sevika folds her sweatshirt into her duffel, and you’re just zipping yours when the crunch of tires on gravel cuts through the quiet.

You pause, glance toward the window.

Through the sheer curtains, you catch sight of a couple cars pulling up the drive, men in shirtsleeves climbing out, voices carrying.

You groan under your breath. “Oh, fuck me.”

Sevika looks up instantly, her eyes narrowing the way they always do when she hears something too suspicious for her tastes.

“They’re early,” you sigh, brushing your hands over your face. “We’ll have to say hi at least.”

Sevika joins you at the window, crossing her arms. “As long as we’re with them until we reach my car,” she glances down at you, voice flat, “I’m your best friend.”

You snort, the tension breaking for just a second. “Of course. We’ll make it quick.”

Stepping closer, you rise on your toes and press a fast kiss to her lips, your grin against her mouth. “Very friendly thing to do.”

She huffs as her hand rests low on your back.

“We just say bye and go,” you promise, your voice softer now. “No fuss. Home fast.”

And she nods, once, because you both know what it means.

Back in your city, you don’t care who sees, don’t care about eyes or whispers. But here, with your dad’s coworkers, it’s easier this way. Cleaner.

And she’ll play along, because at the end of it, it’s just the two of you walking out the door together.

When you both head downstairs, bags in hand, the voices are already echoing from the hall. The house feels heavier with it, with laughter, the sound of men greeting one another with too much confidence.

You round the corner first, Sevika a step behind, and there they are: three older men clustered around your father, most of their hair gone white or gone entirely, and just like your mom said, one younger. Way younger.

Somewhere around your age, sharp smile too quick to flash.

“Ah, there they are,” your dad says, ushering you both forward. “My daughter and her friend.”

You smile politely, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag. “Good evening!”

Sevika nods once, expression unreadable.

It’s seamless, the way you both play the part; best friends on your way out, parents backing the act without missing a beat.

But of course, there are questions.

The older men want to know what you studied, where you’re working now, if you’re staying in the city.

You answer quickly, keeping it neat, rehearsed almost. No openings, no details to invite more.

You don’t want to linger.

Sevika stays silent. Not cold, not rude, just there. Polite enough to avoid being called out, but nowhere near looking like she’s enjoying herself. Her eyes steady, her mouth flat.

That’s when she notices him.

The younger one.

His gaze keeps drifting, always landing on you. Too attentive, too bright, his smile wider when you talk than when any of the old men do.

It grates instantly, the way his focus sticks.

Sevika exhales through her nose, quiet and sharp, then shifts the duffel higher on her shoulder. “I’ll put the bags in the car,” she says, her eyes flicking toward you just long enough to catch the soft crease between your brows.

Then she’s moving past, out the door, her steps heavier than they need to be as she heads for the car, because better keep her hands busy than let them curl into fists at her sides.

It doesn’t take her even three minutes to haul the bags out and toss them neatly into the trunk.

Quick work, muscle memory. She could’ve stayed in the car, waited it out, but some quiet instinct tugs her back inside.

Maybe it’s not wanting to look rude to your parents, but she won’t admit it. Maybe it’s also because she doesn’t like leaving you in that room with all those eyes.

When she steps back into the hall, she sees it instantly.

The younger man has drifted closer to your side, talking louder than the others, hands shoved in his pockets like he thinks it makes him casual.

You’re smiling, big, bright, but Sevika reads it for what it is. She knows you.

It’s performed.

Your back is too straight, your shoulders held just so. That too-sweet politeness you slip on like a mask whenever you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings.

And Sevika hates it.

She knows better.

Knows you well enough to see the difference between genuine warmth and this brittle smile you hand out like a courtesy. The boy doesn’t.

To him, it probably looks like interest.

Sevika doesn’t like him.

Doesn’t like his timing, doesn’t like his grin, doesn’t like the way his attention clings to you. But she won’t see him again, so, fine.

She can let it slide.

Almost.

“Done,” she says as she steps back to your side, voice even, casual, like she’s only talking about the bags. She almost lets “baby” slip in the middle of it, but swallows it down, keeps her tone flat.

Your smile falters into something real this time when you glance up at her. Relief, clear as day.

That’s the cue; you turn back, give the men one last polite goodbye, send your parents a flying kiss across the room. Sevika lifts her hand in a wave, short and easy, before you’re both stepping toward the door.

The front door clicks shut behind you, muffling the voices inside.

The car doors shut with a heavy thump, the world outside silent. You drop into the passenger seat, blowing out a little sigh as you click the belt into place.

“Not as quick as we wanted,” you say, glancing toward her, “but fast enough. Thanks for the bags, babe.”

Sevika’s hands are on the wheel, knuckles slightly pale where she grips it. She doesn’t answer right away, jaw tight, eyes fixed out the windshield.

That stormy quiet of hers is louder than any words.

You tilt your head, watching her. You know her moods; know when she’s tired, when she’s teasing, when she’s angry. This is none of those. This is… pissed.

Softly, almost careful, you ask, “What’s wrong?”

It catches her before she can turn the key.

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and unguarded for a second, and you see it plain as day: something’s gnawing at her, something she hasn’t decided whether to spit out or bury.

Sevika exhales through her nose, slow and hard, like she’s trying to push the weight out of her chest. One hand leaves the wheel to slide through her hair before settling back down, fingers flexing.

“It’s nothing,” she mutters first, shaking her head. “Just me being… a dick. Worked up over nothing.”

You don’t buy it. You never do.

Her mouth twists, like the words taste bitter even before she lets them out.

“Didn’t even last five minutes in there and—” she cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “Too short to be that pissed. I know. I’m trying.”

The honesty, rough and reluctant, hangs in the space between you.

You lean in a little, your smile soft, your hand finding her arm. Your fingers trace over her bicep in slow circles, grounding. “Was it about that guy?” you ask gently.

Her eyes flick to yours, sharp but softer, like she’s about to deny it, but she can’t. Not with your hand warm against her skin, not with the way you’re looking at her like you already know the answer.

Sevika doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t need to. The silence is enough.

She exhales again, quieter this time, shoulders dropping just slightly under your touch.

You keep tracing her arm, your voice gentle. “Hey… I know you’re trying.” Your smile grows, small but steady. “And I’m proud of you. Really.”

Sevika’s brow furrows, like she doesn’t know what to do with the praise, like it sits too soft against all the jagged pieces inside her.

You take her hand where it rests on the gearshift, lift it, and press your lips against the back of her knuckles.

That earns it a flicker of a smile.

Quick, reluctant, but real.

You lean back in your seat, still holding her hand for a second longer before letting go.

“Come on, big girl,” you murmur. “Drive us home.”

Something eases in her shoulders at that, the tension bleeding out just enough. She turns the key, the car rumbling to life, and pulls onto the road.

The playlist you always share hums low from the speakers, filling the quiet without pressing on it.

After a mile or so, her hand slips from the wheel to settle on your thigh, heavy and warm, grounding her as much as it grounds you.

A few days pass, routine slipping back into place. Vacation, slow mornings, evenings together, the comfort of your apartment wrapping around you like a cocoon.

Normal. Easy.

Until downtown.

You’re wandering aimlessly, shopping bag light in your hand, eyes drifting across the storefronts. Just window-shopping, just daydreaming, nothing serious. The sun is warm, the air buzzing with weekend noise. And then—

Oh. Please no.

You spot him before he spots you, but it’s too late.

The man from your parents’ dinner, striding down the sidewalk with that same quick smile.

You consider ducking into the nearest shop, but his gaze locks on yours, and you know you’re caught.

“Hey!” he calls, voice bright, like you’re old friends instead of near-strangers.

You manage a polite smile, standing straighter, smoothing your expression. “Hi.”

He stops in front of you, all casual confidence. “Funny running into you! How’ve you been?”

Small talk, questions. You answer, quick and polite, just enough to get through it. Your laugh comes a little too forced, your smile stretched a bit too wide, showing teeth.

“Do you have Instagram?”

Your stomach dips. You shake your head, lying. “No, I don’t, sorry. Not really into social medias, you know, all that…”

He grins anyway. “Then your number?”

You freeze.

You want to say no.

The word sticks. Instead, you hear yourself laugh softly of awkwardness, embarrassment. Something he should notice, he doesn’t.

“Okay. Well. Fine.” You rattle it off, watching him tap it into his phone.

“Perfect,” he says, pocketing the device. “We’ll talk later.” He waves as he moves past, already pulled away by his own errands.

The second he’s gone, you exhale hard, pressing a hand to your face.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

You curse at yourself for not having the backbone to just say no, for slipping into that same old habit, too polite, too careful, too worried about hurting someone’s feelings.

And now… he has your number.

That night, you and Sevika are sprawled out on the couch, dinner plates forgotten on the coffee table, TV playing something neither of you are really watching. Sevika’s arm is slung heavy across the backrest, fingers idly brushing your shoulder.

You shift a little, nervous, chewing your lip before slipping it naturally, “So, yeah… oh, and— I forgot to tell you, I saw him today.”

Her gaze sharpens instantly, turning toward you. “Who?”

“You know, the guy. From my dad’s dinner.”

Sevika frowns, already irritated. “And?”

You sigh, almost pouting as you look at her. “He didn’t give me a single chance to escape, he asked for my number.”

Her brows pull tighter. “And you gave it to him?”

“I—yeah,” you admit, wincing at the look on her face.

Sevika sits up a little straighter, scowl deepening. “What forced you to say yes? How did you not just say no?”

You stutter, looking everywhere like you’re lost, helpless. “It’s not easy, Sev! I tried to decline but he just—kept pushing. And it’s not like I’m going to answer his texts or anything, I just wanted to be—”

“Polite,” she cuts in sharply, finishing for you.

The word lands like a stone between you.

You blink at her, then let out a breath. “Yeah. Polite.”

Her jaw works, irritation simmering under her skin.

Not at you, but at the fact you’re still carrying this instinct to make yourself small, make yourself sweet, even when you don’t want to.

Sevika leans forward, elbows on her knees, glaring at the TV screen like it’s safer than looking at you.

“I don’t get it,” she mutters, voice low but sharp. “Why do you always do that? Forcing yourself to smile, to nod, to give people what they want. It’s not that hard, you tell them to fuck off. Done. End of story.”

You sighs, cheeks warm. “Because I’m not you, Sev.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Her jaw flexes. “But you don’t owe him anything. You don’t owe anyone anything. He asks, you say no, you walk away. Simple.”

Your heart squeezes, not because she’s wrong, but because she’s right. And you hate that.

But you also love her for it; love how easily she cuts through bullshit, how she never bends when she doesn’t want to.

You wish you had that.

“I know,” you say quietly. “But he was so insistent. And I didn’t want to hurt him, I just—” You groan, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. “Said I didn’t have Instagram, and then he asked for my number, and I just… didn’t find an excuse fast enough… It was easier to give it.”

Sevika shakes her head, a humorless laugh scraping out of her chest. “Easier for who? Sure not for you.”

You drop your hands, frowning. “Hey, I hate that I can’t just say no. I know it’s stupid, that it’s not that bad. But we haven’t seen him for days, right? We probably won’t see him again.”

Her gaze cuts to you, sharp, skeptical.

“And if I do…” You cross your arms, stubborn, trying to convince yourself as much as her. “I’ll just keep walking. Promise.”

“You won’t,” Sevika snaps before you can even finish, her voice low and certain. “You’ll smile and nod again.”

You stare at her, caught, your mouth opening, closing, before you say. “…Well. Maybe.” Your arms tighten across your chest, chin lifting stubbornly. “But I’ll keep walking! I swear I will.”

Her brows lift, unimpressed.

“I will,” you insist, even as your voice softens. “I’ll learn how to… tell people to fuck off. One day.”

Sevika drags a hand over her face, groaning into her palm.

Every instinct in her is on fire; anger at him, frustration at you, rage at the way the world teaches you to swallow yourself.

And beneath all that, something hotter, sharper: the raw, gnawing need to pull you close and never let anyone else touch you.

“God, you drive me crazy,” she mutters, voice rough.

Her arm shoots out, catching you around the waist, hauling you easily into her lap. You lean in, and her hands are already gripping your hips, keeping you there. Her forehead drops against your shoulder, breath hot through her nose.

Even through her fury, her possessiveness screams louder.

You exhale, some of your own tension melting as your arms loop around her neck.

She’s angry, she’s scowling, but she’s holding you like she’ll never let you go.

Your fingers find the back of her head, slipping into her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her face up.

“Come here,” you murmur, and then you kiss her, firm, sure, all heat and teeth.

Sevika growls into your mouth, like she’s been waiting for you to do that all along. Her grip tightens on your hips, dragging you closer across her thighs until there’s no space left.

The kiss turns messy fast, all tongue and sharp breaths, her frustration spilling out between your lips.

You gasp against her mouth when her metal hand slides lower, squeezing your ass, grinding you down against the thick muscle of her thigh. “Sev—”

She swallows your protest in the kiss, biting at your bottom lip before sucking it soft.

“Don’t ‘Sev’ me,” she mutters against your mouth, breath ragged. “You drive me insane.”

You only answer with another kiss, hands fisting in her hair, letting her frustration burn against your body, your skin, your lips.

It’s not sex, not yet, but it’s the kind of desperate makeout that tips right at the edge of it: your legs spread over her lap, her thighs pressing between yours, grinding, her hands roaming rough over your body while her mouth claims every inch of yours.

Through the night, the phone buzzes once, forgotten on the couch. But you don’t hear it.

Too busy moaning Sevika’s name, too busy clawing at her shoulders while Sevika devours you whole, every kiss, every groan, every breath scorching with want.

And Sevika doesn’t notice either, too lost in the way your lips shape her name like a prayer and a curse all at once as she sighs yours.

It’s not until the next morning, when the sunlight filters weakly through the curtains and the sheets are a mess around your tangled legs, that it makes itself known this time.

You’re warm from Sevika’s mouth against yours, her bare body pressed lazy and heavy over yours naked too, proof that you already both came an hour ago but want each other again… when the vibration rattles across the bedside table.

You lean in the feeling of her weight, her skin, the low growl in her throat as her hand cups your jaw.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand, calling this time.

You break the kiss with a laugh, breathless, your lips swollen. “Might be my boss…” you tell her, still giggling softly, chest rising against hers.

Sevika grunts, unimpressed, her mouth chasing yours again. “No,” she mutters against your lips, almost like a pout. “Leave it.” Her hand grips your jaw just so, as if trying to pin you in place with her other hand pressed next to your shoulder on the mattress.

You roll your eyes, still grinning, and slip a hand out from under the sheets, fumbling for the phone.

“One sec,” you murmur, still smiling as you drag it to your ear, not even glancing at the screen.

“Hello ?” you say to the phone with your most professional voice mid heat.

There’s a pause on the other end.

Too long, too awkward.

But then a man’s voice, too eager: “Oh, Hi! It’s me. From the other day… from your dad’s work. Thought maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?”

Your blood runs cold.

You freeze, eyes wides, your body going still under Sevika’s.

Sevika doesn’t move, but her eyes cut straight into you, sharp and blazing.

She heard him. Very clearly.

And the fury simmering in her stare makes your stomach flip.

Naked. In bed.

Sevika between your legs, her lips still wet from kissing you breathless.

And him.

Your throat works, words catching before tumbling out too fast, too breathless. “Wow, okay. Uh, hum, yeah, no, I’m… so busy. Lately.”

He hesitates. “Oh. Well, tell me when you’re free—”

“No,” you blurt, your voice a touch too high, too quick.

“I won’t be free. I’ll be even more busy.” You glance helplessly at Sevika, her glare burning into you, your whole body thrumming with nerves and leftover arousal. “Actually I’m… I am busy. Right now. Sorry. Bye.”

You hang up before he can answer, the line cutting off with a blunt beep.

The phone drops onto the nightstand beside you, your hand trembling slightly from the terrible timing. The silence afterward is thick, pressing in around you, broken only by the sound of Sevika’s breath, rough against your cheek.

She’s still on top of you, still naked, but the way she’s staring; dark, dangerous, has nothing to do with sex.

And everything to do with him.

“Why the fuck didn’t you shut him down instantly?” Sevika’s voice is rough, low, but it thrums with that sharp edge you know too well, way too well.

The edge of her jealousy, all bite and fire.

You swallow.

Her weight is still over you.

And you know that if this were anyone else, if it weren’t you under her, she’d already be tearing something apart.

Because she knows. She knows she has to control herself.

Because after this argument months ago; the worst you ever had together, she can’t act on instinct. She can’t do that anymore.

She remembers the fear of losing you, the realization, your cries, your threats of ending this all if she doesn’t stop.

She tries.

She really tries.

Because for once in her life, since she met you, she found herself wanting to wake up and share her life with someone.

You slide your palms over both shoulders, steady, grounding her, even the prosthetic, warm under your touch from her body heat.

“I couldn’t,” you say softly, but your voice trembles.

Sevika’s jaw tightens. “The hell you couldn’t—”

“It’s not about being polite,” you cut in, firmer this time, stroking your thumbs over the curve of her shoulders. “Okay? It’s not. He works with my dad. You get that? I couldn’t just hang up instantly, Sev. Imagine what he’d say to him at work. I couldn’t risk that.”

Her nostrils flare, her whole body coiled tight above you.

But she doesn’t snap back, she’s holding it.

You can see it in the way she bites down on her fury, fighting it like it’s a living thing clawing at her throat.

You bring your hand up, cupping her jaw, your thumb brushing over the tense, sharp line of her jaw. “I’m blocking his number now, okay? Right now.”

Sevika’s eyes flickers, heat still storming in her gaze, but your words, your touch; they’re dragging her back from the edge.

Sevika’s shoulders tremble faintly, the fury running through her like a live current.

She’s trying, god, she’s trying, to hold it back, to keep from snapping the way she once did. Her breath comes harsh through her nose, chest rising and falling against yours like she’s holding back a storm.

You press your hand to her jaw, gentle, steady. “I know.”

Her eyes flicker to yours, sharp, questioning, but you nod, and it’s enough.

You don’t have to spell it out. You know she’s trying, and you’re glad she is.

She’s doing so good. Better and better.

You pick up your phone again, your thumb moving quick, deliberate. Block. Delete. The contact vanishes, and you set the phone face down on the nightstand like proof.

“There. He can’t call me anymore.”

Sevika swallows, the tension still taut in her shoulders, but your voice cuts through it like balm.

You tug lightly at her, “Come here.”

And she does, almost collapsing into you, burying her face against your neck, her broad shoulders folding under your touch.

You wrap your arms around her, caressing the nape of her hair, soft strokes that make her exhale ragged against your skin.

“I was serious when I said I’d keep walking,” you murmur into her hair, pressing a kiss there. “And now he can’t call me anymore. That’s a good start, isn’t it?”

Her hands tighten around your sides, letting you pull her flush against your bare chest as she lets herself believe you.

She exhales against your throat, rough, like the fury’s finally bleeding out of her. She’s calmer now, not cold, her whole body still buzzes with leftover tension under her skin.

Then, like you can’t help it, you tilt your head, lips brushing her temple, before trailing lower; soft kisses pressed to the edge of her jaw, down the line of her neck from what you can kiss for now in this position.

That’s all it takes.

She lifts her head, eyes dark, searching yours.

Whatever she finds there, it’s enough to tip her over.

Her mouth is on yours in the next heartbeat, hot and hungry, kissing you with a growl that rumbles from deep in her chest.

You gasp into her mouth as she shifts her weight, pinning you down in the mattress even more, her thigh pressing between yours again. Her metal hand grips your hip hard, pulling you closer, like she can fuse you into her.

Your arms loop tighter around her shoulders, feeding the fire with another kiss, sloppy and desperate.

Her mouth drags from your lips to your jaw, then lower, biting lightly at your neck before soothing it with her tongue.

“Mine,” she mutters, voice rough and vibrating against your skin.

You sigh, back arching into her. “Always.”

And with that, the anger’s gone; burned off, melted down into pure heat, into the way she kisses you like she’s starving, into the way she holds you like she’ll never let go.

And then she’s moving; sliding down your body, the sheets dragged lower with her until cool air rushes over your bare skin, pebbling it with goosebumps all over your body to the tip of your nipples.

You shiver, the contrast almost dizzying, your hips grinding to nothing in anticipation.

Sevika doesn’t rush.

Her lips trail heat down your sternum, across your stomach, the scrape of her teeth just enough to make you gasp.

And then she’s lower still, settling between your thighs, spreading them wider with her palms until you’re open to her.

You can barely breathe when she looks up once, her gaze heavy, burning. Then she dips down, and her mouth meets you like she’s kissing your lips; slow, deep, hungry.

The reaction is instant.

Your head tips back, a soft sigh slipping out as your hips lift into her touch.

Your legs fall wider, desperate, your fingers curling in the sheets.

Sevika moans against you, the sound vibrating through her tongue, through you.

One of her hands locks firm around your thigh, holding you steady as she works her mouth over you, claiming every shiver, every gasp like proof that you’re hers.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, knuckles white as her tongue drags slow and deliberate through your slick heat. You can’t bite it back; the sound that breaks from you is loud in the quiet bedroom, needy, her name spilling out in a sigh.

“Sevika—”

It only makes her vocal against you again, the vibration shooting through your core. Her grip on your thigh tightens, anchoring you open for her as she devours you like she’s starving.

And God, you’re noisy. Shamelessly so.

It’s always been that way with her, you can’t help it.

Every gasp, every cry, every broken whimper fills the room, louder and louder the deeper she goes.

She drags it out of you, makes you come undone until you’re not just speaking her name, you’re singing it.

Sevika knows it, too. Knows every sound is for her, because of her, hers alone to hear.

She eats you out like she’s proving it, like every flick of her tongue and press of her lips is a claim.

She kisses your clit the same way she kissed your mouth; hungry, deep, unrelenting, pulling another sharp cry from you, your hips bucking against her face.

“Yes, Sevika,” you moan, your voice breaking. Your thighs tremble around her shoulders, but she doesn’t let up, doesn’t even think about it.

Every sigh, every cry; you’re giving it to her. And she takes it, greedily.

It builds fast, sharp; you can feel it tearing through you, coiling tight in your belly as Sevika works her mouth against you like she was made for it.

“Sev—ah, fuck—” Your voice is wrecked, softly high and shaking. Your back bows off the mattress, thighs clamping around her head, trapping her there.

Not that she’d ever complain.

She groans against you, deep and satisfied, as you shatter for her.

The orgasm rips through you hard, your hips jerking helplessly, every muscle taut as you sigh your pleasure over and over.

Sevika doesn’t let up until you’re gasping, trembling, the peak burning itself out in calm waves.

Only then does she ease off, her tongue slower now, gentler; licking you clean, savoring every drop, pressing soft kisses where seconds ago she was devouring you.

Your hand drags weakly into her hair, fingers weaving through the strands.

You tug, not to pull her away but to touch her, caress her, grounding yourself as your chest heaves for air.

She stays nestled between your thighs, humming low as she laps at you lazily, softer now, almost tender.

Your body relaxes slowly, the tremors fading, your breath finally steadying as you stroke her hair. A shaky laugh escapes you, warm and fond.

She looks up at you from between your legs, her lips and chin shining, her eyes dark and soft all at once.

“Come back here,” you whisper, a smile tugging your lips.

She obeys, crawling back up over you, muscles shifting under flushed skin. Her weight settles against yours again, heavy and grounding, and you sigh like your body knows no other home.

Her face hovers close, and you catch the glisten at her chin and her mouth. You giggle softly, brushing your thumb over the corner of her lips.

“You look like a mess,” you tease, voice still shaky, tender.

She huffs out a laugh, but before she can retort you tilt your head up and kiss her. Slow, deliberate. Mouth to mouth, chin to mouth, unbothered by the taste of yourself on her tongue, cleaning her face like she cleaned your core.

Because this, this is yours.

Something too special to be lived twice. Too loving to be universal. Yours, Sevika’s, no one else’s.

Her sigh melts into the kiss, all tension bleeding out of her at last. One of her hands cradles your jaw, the other holding her body pressed on the mattress beside your waist.

When you finally part for air, you rest your forehead to hers, your fingers threading in the damp strands of her hair.

“Better?” you murmur.

Her eyes are heavy-lidded, softened in a way only you get to see.

And with a low rumble that sounds almost like surrender, she says, “Yeah. Better.”

Sevika buries her face against your neck, breath still rough, damp strands sticking to her temple. You cradle her, nails tracing the line of her scalp.

“I know you’re trying so hard,” you murmur into her ear, voice soft and steady. “And I’m proud of you.”

She frowns against your skin like she did in the car days ago. Sweet words still trip her up, even after all these years. Doesn’t know how to take them, what to do with them.

Her throat works, but nothing comes out; so she just nods silently, pressing her face deeper into the warm crook of your neck, like a child hiding from the world.

A little pillow talk slips between you after a while; her voice low, barely giving more than a few words, but enough. Always enough.

When you tilt your face up, smiling against her lips, your whisper comes like a spark:

“Do you want me to return the favor back?”

Her eyes open, heavy and dark, then narrow at you with the faintest smirk tugging her mouth.

“Like I would ever say no,” she rumbles, voice rasped and already dripping with want.

Of course she wants you. You both know it. You just wanted to hear her admit it.

And when you push her gently on her back, straddling her hips, her head falls into the pillow with a soft thud.

Her eyes close, chest rising and falling beneath you, everything else; her fury, her jealousy, the world outside, forgotten the second you touch her.

I’ve been working on this one for days, god. I read it at least five times to be sure I didnt let any spelling mistake…. so tired. but glad I finally did it. hope you guys like it ♡ (I love her hair, can you tell?)