hi :)

Even on your birthday, you had to work twelve hours.

It’s not like you had a choice. Being from a small town meant there was a small staff, and being one of the most trusted workers at Diana’s, a tiny diner tucked in the crook of a bend in the road, left you with tedious hours you couldn’t work around.

Betty said it was a compliment–your manager–she praised you for the tips you got, how men with wandering eyes would linger around until you clocked in, and you didn’t have the heart to tell her that none of it seemed worth it, especially with your boyfriend waiting for you at home.

The door to the small trailer swings open, and you tip your head back in exhaustion. You immediately pull out the ponytail your hair was wrapped in, and slip off the white sneakers that were worn to the ground. You smell something, though–a sweet scent from the tiny kitchen, and you curiously walk in.

Your boyfriend is there, standing by the dining table, a dimly lit glow from the light above the stove, and now the perfectly lit candles on a few cupcakes he had perfectly baked for you on the day he took off. Your lips part in surprise at the setup: a few balloons in your favourite colour, icing to match them, and cupcakes flavoured to your taste. You look at him, and he’s smiling.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he says softly, and waves you over. You haven’t said a word; you’re so exhausted, but so enamoured.

“You… this isn’t necessary,” you shake your head as you take a few steps closer, still wearing your dirty apron and button-up. “I told you… we can celebrate on my day off,” you mumble, looking up at him, and he’s pulling out a chair for you.

“Yeah, but your birthday is today, sweetheart,” he replies quietly, his large hand finding the top of your head, lightly patting it as he guides you to sit down. “Blow ’em out, make a wish.”

You hesitantly sit down and gaze at the array of cupcakes, your heart squeezing at the thought of his old, worked hands whisking together a Betty Crocker cake mix, choosing the striped wrappers, and the glittery candles. You look up at him, and you almost have tears in your eyes.

“Hey, no… no tears,” he shakes his head and rests his hand on your shoulder, gently rubbing. “C’mon, baby, make a wish,” he coaxes again, nodding towards the candles that dwindle with each flicker of the flame.

You turn back to the cupcakes and lean over, shaking your head as you lightly blow out the candles, making a wish you won't say aloud because apparently they won't come true when you do. You hope this one comes true.

“Thank you… thank you so much,” you mumble and turn to him, wrapping your arms around his lower waist–he’s tall, still standing beside the chair, and you nuzzle your face against the front of his thigh.

“No problem, baby,” he shakes his head, sliding a hand up to run through your hair again. “Got you some stuff too, can open when you’re all finished eating your cupcakes,” he smiles, and you nod.

The chair creaks when he sits down beside you, snagging a cupcake from the display and unwrapping it. You follow and take one too, slowly peeling off the striped wrapper, and you’re instantly taking a bite out of the sweet. It tastes good, even if it’s store-bought.

“Your favourite flavour,” he comments through a mouthful, and he’s wiping icing from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “And icing, too,” he says, proud of himself.

“I know… you got it all right,” you nod, your mouthful too, and the icing is so sweet. “It’s perfect… really, I mean it, I love it all,” you say with a quick nod, looking at the balloons.

“Anything for you, darling,” he shrugs, and you smile at the obvious pride he has in his accomplishment–his girl being happy.

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence, chewing through the cupcake, icing all over your face, and you don’t have the energy to wipe it off.

“I got you, baby,” he mumbles as he leans over, wiping the icing off your chin and mouth with his thumb, licking it off. He nods in satisfaction.

He rises from the dining table, takes your wrapper and his, and tosses them in the trash. You’re licking your lips, finishing off the rest of the cupcake. He notices and rests his hand against the nape of your neck, holding you there as he stands beside you.

“C’mon,” he mumbles, squeezing the base. “Got all your presents in the bedroom, baby.”

You rise to your feet, and he guides you in front of him, holding both your shoulders from behind, forcing you to walk ahead into the bedroom. He has a few little presents on the bed, all neatly wrapped, even a bouquet. You look back up at him, and he’s smiling, nodding, wanting you to go ahead.

“Open ‘em, all for you, sweet girl,” he says, letting go of your shoulders so you can walk ahead of him even more and settle onto the bed. He sits beside you, using his hand to gather your hair, pulling it back so you can open the gifts in a quiet focus, without stray hairs bugging you.

You grab the first gift and carefully tear into the wrapping paper. It’s a cream you’ve wanted for some time, a sweet scent you always passed by in the store, and he must’ve noticed your eyes on the pretty packaging.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you tell him, looking at him, and he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I know, baby,” he nods, looking at the bottle in your hand. “Smells real nice too, suits you.”

You smile and thank him quietly before moving on to the next gift, grinning, almost laughing at the candy of your choice in your hand. He always saw you eating it during movie nights, or buying it when he let you pick out something cheap at gas stations on long road trips.

“My favourite,” you say quietly, biting your lip at the packaging, and he’s watching carefully, blinking.

“Kills your teeth, though,” he comments, and you laugh quietly, knowing it’s true.

You move onto a smaller box and tear open the wrapping paper, your eyes widening when you realize it’s a piece of jewelry–an expensive one, clearly, by the look of the packaging and the name. You swallow hard and slowly open it up.

“Oh, my gosh,” you whisper as you gaze at the delicate necklace that’s against a soft cushion to protect the charm dangling from it. “You didn’t have to, not at all.” You shake your head, quickly looking at him.

“Wanted to,” he says plainly, gazing at the charm too.

It’s something you mentioned once–such a brief, out-of-the-blue comment you made one time. The charm, a small, dainty dagger, light and barely visible unless someone is close enough and decides to squint and see the threatening object. It’s perfect, and you swallow hard, carefully peeling it from the box, and you’re biting your lip.

“I love it, I love it so much, thank you,” you whisper to him, nod quickly, and immediately lean over to give him a side hug. “I’ll wear it every day, all day, I promise.” You nod quickly again, and he can tell how eager you are.

You carefully place it back in the tiny packaging, setting the little thing aside, and you bite your lip at the next gift. It’s rectangular, usually insinuating some type of clothing. You swallow hard and tear off the wrapping paper, a blank, almost thin box before you. You lift the lid, and your jaw goes slack in awe.

It’s lingerie, but it’s not ultra-skimpy pieces from Victoria’s Secret or chain stores you can buy at the mall. It’s vintage, something he had heard you mention before–your little interest in vintage clothing, your odd admiration for timepieces, and he knew how much you’d love it. You do.

“This… this is beautiful,” you whisper to him, biting your lip; the lace, the cotton, the silk, the way it’s all perfectly crafted. “I… I don’t even know what to say to you,” you laugh, almost.

“Maybe try it on,” he suggests, and you furrow your eyebrows. “Got your size and everything; it’s for you, baby, not to just stare at,” he explains, and you look back down at the box.

You slowly stand and disappear into the washroom. Stripping from your work clothes feels good–not so tight and grease-stained, and now you have one of the most damn elegant pieces to put on your body. You almost feel bad.

You slide up the bottoms first, all silk and soft, a daring lace trim. The bra comes on next, but it’s more of a bustier bra than anything–suddenly adding a little cleavage, and making you feel a little sexier than usual. You bite your lip and reach for the garter belts next, lightly hooking them onto the other pieces. Your reflection is unlike anything you’ve seen, and you stand there, checking yourself out, swallowing hard.

When you emerge from the dimly lit bathroom, your boyfriend lifts his head, and you watch his expression shift: his eyes darken, and his lips part at the sight. You look like an angel, yet the worst thing he’s seen: innocent eyes, a stark contrast to the vintage lingerie that makes you look like something he’s dreamed of. More than that.

“Jesus Christ,” is all he mumbles as you slowly walk toward him, and he spreads his legs, urging you to stand closer. “Look at you, baby,” he whispers, his hands immediately finding your hips.

“Do you like it?” you ask quietly, looking down at your body, and then at him, his eyes shamelessly eyeing your breasts, hips, waist, and stomach.

“Turn around for me,” he asks, but he spins you around anyway, and he grins at the view from behind; all plush thighs and an ass that he’s resisting from landing a hard smack against. It’s your birthday; he can’t be mean.

“Is that better?” you ask quietly, looking over your shoulder, and he leans closer, kissing your lower back.

“Need pictures of this, baby,” he smiles and rises to his feet, gesturing for you to lie on the bed, and you immediately do.

He’s looking for the old Polaroid camera he has, and he hurries over to you, as if this might somehow end. He smiles when he holds the camera to his eye, positioning you perfectly in the frame; all spread out, lying on the bed, your body looking like something out of a magazine.

“Prettiest baby,” he mumbles, snapping a picture with a bright flash. “Birthday girl.”

You giggle and roll onto your stomach, posing; ass arching up fully, a shot that has him shaking his head. He sighs, cursing quietly.

“Out of a dream, you are,” he mumbles, taking another picture. “Everythin’ anyone would ever want, and you’re in my bed, being a fuckin’ doll,” he’s in awe, snapping another photo, and the polaroids drop to the floor by his feet.

You smile and sit up, giving him that sweet smile, and he snaps it instantly.

“Precious angel,” he nods, and gazes down at the photos that shot out, and he reaches for them, lightly tossing them on the nightstand along with the cameras. Clearly that’s old news.

“Feel bad I gotta rip it off you now,” he mumbles, lightly pushing you back onto the bed, nudging your thighs apart, and you’re giggling.

And he’s serious, careful fingers unclip the garter belts, letting them hit the floor. And you move your hips a little, an intoxicating sway against the bed as if you’re doing a little strip for him. He smiles and looks down at you, helping your bottoms down next.

You're bare against the bed now, all sweet and soft, still sweaty from your shift, but he’s wanting to eat you whole, every last part of you. He dives down and instantly goes from your stomach, and you laugh, head tipping back at the ticklish licks and kisses. He licks up to your breast, not hesitating to take a stiff nipple into your mouth.

Your eyes widen at the touch, feeling him gently sucking, his other hand sliding up to lightly cup your other one, his thumb flicking over the nipple. You whine and squirm around, arching your back, pressing the swell further into his mouth and his hand. He smirks, pulling back just as quickly, moving up to your chest and then to your neck.

“Baby,” he groans against your neck, mouthing it, panting heavily, and your eyes are already closing. “Want you to ride my face,” he whispers, nodding, his hand sliding down to cup your core.

Your eyes widen at both things: his filthy words and the way he’s gently rubbing your clit, getting you even more slick now. You whine, biting your lip.

“Please,” he whispers more, nodding. “Want you to sit on my face, sweetheart, please.”

It’s the first time this man has ever felt desperate in his life, and you can hear it in his whiny voice, the way he’s groaning and grunting, trying not to grind into you, all while he’s gently cupping your core. You whimper at the idea, but hesitantly nod.

“Yeah? Gonna ride my face, baby?” he asks, slowly moving away a little. “Please, sweet girl, want you cummin’ in my mouth,” he whispers, and you’re nodding more, agreeing to the scary idea.

He slowly moves over and off you, rolling onto his back, and you watch, nervously biting your lip. He lightly pats his chest, suggesting you straddle him there, and you slowly do, moving into the new position.

You hover over his chest, your knees on either side of his shoulder, and he’s gazing up at you, hands finding your hips. He likes this angle; your breasts, your stiff nipples, that pretty stomach, and how close his mouth is to that warmth.

“C’mon, baby,” he encourages, carefully guiding you, and you whimper the second you’re hovering over his mouth, looking down nervously.

“I-I… I don’t know,” you whisper nervously, the concept of sitting on his face making you dizzy.

He knows that overthinking ruins everything, and he slowly pushes you down onto his mouth. Your eyes widen in surprise; his mouth engulfs you, an instant warmth, a constant pressure, and you whine loudly, leaning forward.

He’s in god damn heaven; your entire weight right there, pressing into his mouth, and he slides his tongue out, using it to slide inside of you. You moan louder, never feeling anything like this before. It’s beyond overwhelming; he’s sucking and lapping, forced to keep going–he doesn’t want to stop, not at all.

He pats your hip, and you begin to grind lightly, your head tipping back as you moan louder, gently riding his face, well, as gently as you can be. It feels so good, and you swirl your hips, back arching as he groans and grunts, and you lean a little forward, wanting his strong nose to press against your clit. And it does.

But he shifts you, and takes your clit in instead; sucking on it, and you whine louder than before, still slowly grinding against his mouth. It’s so warm and wet, and you know he can taste you more than he ever has. He has no choice, and he’d do this for you again, and again.

“Feels… so, so good,” you whine, nodding quickly. “Mmm… so… good, please,” you beg.

You keep grinding your hips, right down onto his mouth, and he takes you in each time, lapping and swirling, moving his mouth with precision you didn’t know existed. His fingers curl into your hips, digging into the soft flesh. You’re already close.

He’s keeping his mouth on you, firm and consistent, his tongue doing gymnastics all for you. Your head is tipped back, and all you can do is mewl out long, whiny noises, evidence of just how good it feels to be so consumed.

You hesitantly lift your hips and shake your head, whimpering at the overwhelming feeling between your thighs. He growls and pulls you right back down, keeping that consistent feeling, a constant wave of pleasure going through you and settling in your abdomen.

Your hips are hesitant now, but you’re still grinding and grinding, whining now that the pressure is growing, and you’re holding your breath and squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

“So… so close, mhm,” you tell him, knowing how much he’d love knowing you’re going to cum so quickly. “Gonna cum… gonna cum,” you whine, and he squeezes your hip, begging you to.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted when you do; that rush of warmth in his mouth, and he’s lapping it all up, the sounds beyond obnoxious, and you’re moaning louder than ever, still rocking your hips. He lets you ride out the orgasm, the tension leaving your body, but he’s not stopping; he keeps going. He keeps lapping and sucking, and you realize he’s not done.

“This is so weird,” you mumble to your boyfriend, his body pressed against yours on the couch, and your head is on his shoulder. “This is like… the tenth time someone has gone missing this month,” you add on, gazing at the television screen. 

It’s been happening over and over throughout your town: people going missing, livestock being drained of blood, an odd pattern of deaths that would only lead to the existence of vampires, and that is totally impossible, right?

It’s a Friday night, and your boyfriend is beside you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, a gentle palm rubbing at the flimsy material of your tanktop. He nods in acknowledgment of your words and sighs heavily, shrugging.

“Yeah,” he says dryly in agreement, his head tipping back against the back of the couch, eyes finding the clock.

“You don’t… find this weird?” you laugh at his completely unconcerned look, and he looks back at you. “I go on walks all the time, and you’re not even the slightest bit scared I’m going to be snatched up and murdered,” you laugh again, grinning. 

“Not at all.” he shakes his head, turning his body towards you, lifting his hand to push back your hair. “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, baby,” he says, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I hope so.” You tilt your head slightly, your gaze fixed on his lips. “You’d protect me, right? From all the evil in the world,” you hum, your teeth showing, and he’s chuckling too this time, clicking his tongue.

“Of course,” he says casually, like it’s the most obvious thing of all time. “Protect you from anything, even yourself,” he teases, leaning forward to kiss your cheek this time.

“Even you,” you joke, and you notice the flash of disagreement on his face.

“Even me?” he repeats back, eyes narrowed. “Why would you need to be protected from me, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, stroking his hand through your hair, pushing it back.

“You’ve been… kinda weird,” you tell him, but your tone is playful. “Leaving at night… coming home early in the morning, all tired, and… a little needy,” you whisper, almost seductively, and he notices it.

“Work stuff, baby,” he clears up, sliding his hand to cup your jaw, his thumb against your bottom lip. “Why? Think I’m a killer?” he asks, flashing his white teeth. 

“No… never, not a killer,” you smile, and he slips his thumb past your lips when your lips part, and your eyes close in awe for a second.

“Good,” he mumbles, letting you suck on his thumb. “So, when I leave tonight… you’ll be a good girl, and understanding, yeah?” he asks, and you nod, heavy eyes focused on the digit in your mouth.

He pulls out his thumb, wipes the saliva on your lips, and kisses your forehead. You close your eyes, leaning into the gentle touch, and he tilts his head at the way you give in so easily.

“You’re needy,” he states, sliding his hand up to grab your face.

“Well, yeah,” you shrug, biting your lip.

The past few weeks have been odd–he’s been distant, sexually, leaving you hanging when things heat up, your legs parted on the bed, and he steps back like he’s just been hit with something. It’s confusing, and his explanations never line up, which only makes it worse.

It lines up with him vanishing into the night, coming back when the sun is up, and you’re still half-asleep, feeling him nudge into the bed, mouthing at your neck just before whispering for you to go back to sleep. You always do, even when there’s that faint stinging.

“Why don’t you go run a bath, get ready for bed?” he suggests, his voice low, threading his fingers through your hair. “It’s late, baby; want you well-rested,” he nods, sliding his hand down your neck.

“Will you join me?” you tease with a tilt of your head, and he bites his lip in thought, turning away from you for a second. He nods.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, pinching the junction between your neck and shoulder. “I’ll join you.”

You grin at the idea of the intimacy. You miss when he’d wash your hair for you, his warm hands roving over your body, grabbing your hips and waist–his touch had gone cold, literally. His temperature dropped, and you noticed it with each hug and touch. You never brought it up, even when it was unusual and didn’t sync with the summer heat.

The bathroom door creaks open as you head upstairs, and you stand before the mirror, stripping off your clothes. You stand there, bare, looking in your reflection; the odd bites at your neck, sore and tender. You rub two fingers over them, wincing at the sensitivity, the odd tenderness of the skin beneath your touch.

“Think we have… bed bugs, or something,” you complain to him when your boyfriend arrives at the bathroom door, leaning in the frame. “My neck, it’s all bitten,” you explain, and he’s blinking, unfazed. 

He stands behind you and rests a hand on your bare hip, his other hand sliding up to pull back your hair, giving him a better look at your neck.

“I don’t think we have bedbugs, baby,” he mumbles and shakes his head, examining the marks sunken into your neck: teeth, two obvious ones, a red tinge around the inflamed skin.

“Maybe it’s from… our camping trip a few weeks ago, I don’t know,” you shake your head and pull your head away from him, letting your hair cover the bites again. His hand on your hip is cold.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, his tongue running along his teeth. “Seems pretty fresh,” he adds, his eyes still focused on the bites, even if your hair shields them.

“Yeah, they hurt,” you admit, and he sighs quietly, squeezing your flesh. 

“My poor girl,” he taunts, and you smile at his words, looking at him in the mirror.

You don’t want to see it, but you do; the odd flicker in his eye as he looks down at you, the white flash, an almost glow. You swallow hard and turn your head, forcing your eyes to meet; it’s gone, just his usual colour, and he furrows his eyebrows at that confused look on your face.

“What?” he asks, his hand sliding up your hip again, finding your jawline. “Looks like you saw a ghost.”

“Nothing,” you shake your head and pull away a little, looking at the shower. “I’ll be out soon,” you nod and smile, and he kisses your bare shoulder.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he confirms, and you watch him leave the bathroom–no protest, no offer, not even a willing glance to join you. You know it’s unlike him, and he disappears, out of the bathroom and into your shared bedroom.

The bedroom is empty when you get out of the shower, a towel draped around your waist, your hair damp and draped down your back. You sigh quietly, knowing he had disappeared once again, no trace, no explanation, just a kiss and a false promise. 

You rub the bite marks as you sift through your drawers, settling for the usual white nightgown you wear, and you slide it on effortlessly. You put that vanilla lotion on your body, the sweetness going to waste, knowing your boyfriend wasn’t here to savour it. He was gone into the night, leaving you once again.

It’s more high risk now, him getting caught; bars are closing early, clubs are shutting down, officers are roaming the streets, and it’s getting tougher to get a feed in–to kill. It’s one of those nights where he can’t find a single person; not a helpless hitchhiker, not a girl stumbling back from a bar, not even a guy changing his tire–not even his last resort, a prostitute.

He can feel it, pulsating in him, the need, the want, the craving, and he hates how it wants you, and only you. No cattle, no random girl, no fresh blood, not a heart beating in his hand would satiate the burning in his stomach that he has for you, and he can hear it, even miles away; your heart beating, the solid thud he listens to when he creeps back in at four o’clock, when he has to physically restrain himself from biting into your neck, from draining you clean, and leaving you there. He has to hold back; he has to.

It only started as a small thing, sinking his fangs in, taking the tiniest sip. He remembers the whimper from you, the way your lips parted, your heart speeding up, your blood only pumping through you harder, and he got addicted to it. After each hunt, each kill, he came back to you and finished it off by lapping up whatever he could prick from you. It killed him to know you were oblivious to this, to everything.

And now he’s roaming alleyways, searching high and low, desperately looking for something to curb the hunger that’s gnawing its way through his chest, but all signs lead to you; quietly sleeping at home, vulnerable, covered in his favourite scents, the ones that make him leave the room after you have a shower or get ready for work. It’s too much; you’re practically putting icing on a cake, and he’s never been hungrier.

It’s pure instinct that leads him back to the house, and it’s the first time he’s done it in a while, showing back up without being fed, not even tasting rat’s blood–that was only for desperate measures, and suddenly, they didn’t seem to matter.

He sees you there, curled up, oblivious, eyes shut. He sucks in his breath, hands squeezing at his sides as he steps further into the bedroom. It’s the loudest it’s been, the pulsing, the sound of your heart in his ears, and he knows his eyes are red, knows if you woke up you’d scream in fear at the sight of him. That’s why he’s quiet as he crawls into bed, a cold hand finding your shoulder.

“Mmm…” you groan softly, rolling away from him, and his breath hitches at the sound. Just a sign of life has every instinct telling him to take it from you, the breath in your lungs, and the blood beneath your skin.

My girl,” he whispers, his voice deeper than usual, a low sound in the quiet night. “Wake up, please.”

“What…” you mumble, eyes fluttering, and all you can see is his head bowed in distress.

“Just… want you,” he grits out, nodding desperately, and you lazily smile.

“This early?” you ask through a hazy drowsiness, looking out of the window; the full moon, the bright light drooling in through the curtains.

“This early,” he nods in confirmation, and the second you roll onto your bed, he’s there, crawling right on top of you. Your eyes widen, laughing nervously.

“What… what’s gotten into you?” you laugh again, feeling his cold hands suddenly grab your thighs, prying them apart, forcing his way between them.

“Miss you, just need you,” he rambles on, and you’re smiling at the ceiling, biting your lip, oblivious.

It’s a need you’ve never felt from him, and to be needed is to be loved. To you, at least.

“I’ve… I’ve missed you too,” you mumble back, nodding, and he’s grabbing at your bare hips and waist, squeezing, and there’s something about his grip. It’s strong.

“You smell… sweet, so sweet,” he mumbles, lurching forward, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, his nose dragging along your shoulder. “Like… like you were made for me to eat, like I’m supposed to eat you,” he rambles more, and you’re laughing nervously, still looking up.

“I had a shower…” you explain, feeling the way he’s lightly mouthing at your neck and shoulder, not kissing, not biting, just gnawing. “Vanilla… cupcake, those silly scents,” you tell him, still sleepy.

“Want me to eat you? I’ll eat you,” he murmurs, and you can’t tell if he’s serious. “I’ll eat every part of you… baby, I’ll eat all of you, if you let me,” he pleads, and you’re in awe of the neediness in his words, the sheer power he has with his hands.

“Yeah… yeah, eat me,” you say sarcastically, and he slides his cold hands up further, grabbing right at your ribs, rubbing his thumbs against them.

“Supposed to say ‘no’ to me,” he drawls, slipping one hand from your nightgown to lift it. “Tempting me when you say ‘yes’...” he mumbles, and you feel him now pulling your nightgown off, stripping you down, flimsy straps sliding off, leaving your body bare against the bed.

“I wouldn’t mind if you ate me, though,” you joke, and he groans into your neck–you’re making this harder than it needs to be, and your heart, god, your heart is so loud.

His lips move from your neck, sliding down to your chest, and he’s gently kissing there now, the swell of your breast, and he’s never held back more; your heart is beating against his lips, and he pauses there, almost drooling onto your warm skin. He just listens, and listens, the thud, the consistent rhythm, and the fact it's yours, the fact it’s your blood, in your body, in his hands. He has to kiss down further before he sinks his teeth in.

A hand finds your thigh now, your inner thigh, and he rubs gently, a thumb grazing across the warm skin, and your head tips back. You’re deprived, just like he is; both of pleasure.

“Right here,” he mumbles into the valley of your breasts, kissing gently, his thumb rubbing your thigh. “Right here, so warm, sweetheart, all your blood… right here,” he whispers, and you shift your hips.

“Yeah… yeah, it’s an artery, you know,” you whisper, being a bit of a smartass, and he chuckles too, moving lower and down your stomach, lightly kissing the soft plane of it. He’d love to bite right here, to sink his teeth in, to rip out the soft flesh.

You wonder when he went all doctor on you; naming off the sections where blood pumps the most, his hands moving over you almost clinically, examining you, analyzing you–it feels good, and you’re just happy he’s touching you, taking all of you in for once.

“Just… I missed you, baby,” he whispers, and he looks up at you, his eyes looking at your neck again. He groans and goes back to mouthing at your stomach, licking a long stripe right up the centre, past your breasts, and right towards your neck again.

“I… I know, I miss you too,” you whisper again, lifting your hand to rest against the back of his neck, and it’s an effect he wishes you didn’t have; all warm, and human, alive.

“Can’t get enough of you, never can,” he groans, sliding his hand up your thigh, letting him gently cup you. “This body… it’s mine, baby, all mine,” he repeats, like he’s reminding himself more than you.

You gasp the minute his cold hand touches your warm core, and you’re embarrassed at the slick that presses to his palm, and he growls; the heat, the wetness, the thing only a human can do.

“You’re so, so warm…” he almost moans into your neck, and he sinks two fingers into you, zero hesitation on his part. “Inside… and out,” he whispers breathlessly, curling.

A whine leaves your mouth and your head tips back in the worst way. It’s all neck, all bare and untouched, just a vast, empty canvas that should be covered in his bite marks and teeth, and bruises. His eyes darken, and he has to convince himself you aren’t offering it to him.

“Want my girl to feel good,” he whispers, letting his fingers twist and curl, and your thighs are parting, falling open more. “You feel good, baby?” he asks, and you bite your lip, nodding.

“Feels… so good, yeah,” you mumble to him, and he has to pull away and breathe out, his other hand strongly curling into the soft plush of your thigh, and you whine at how strong it is.

He can hear your heart beating louder and louder, the consistent thuds growing as he coaxes more sounds out of you. The two sync up, and he knows it’s because of what he’s doing to you, and it only encourages him–he wants more of you, all of you.

He pulls his fingers out of you, staring at the glistening slick, the way it glistens from the light outside, and your eyes widen at how obnoxiously he shoves them into his mouth–any ounce of you is enough for him right now, even that. His tongue laps it up, and you’re breathing heavy, bare breasts right before him, and he has to look away.

He slowly goes back down, his mouth moving over your stomach again, warm and damp, sliding down further and further, finding your pelvic bone. He gnaws at the bone he can feel through the layers beneath your skin, and he moves down, lower and lower, eye to eye with where his fingers just were; warm, sweet, glistening right there. He has to lick his lips, holding back.

His mouth covers your core in a swift motion, and you toss your head back, feeling how oddly desperate he is; tongue and teeth, lips moving far too quickly, lapping and lapping, devouring and groaning. It’s obscene, the noises he’s making down there. You can only moan and whine as you try to catch your breath. 

A hand keeps your thighs apart, forcing it all open for him, like you're sacrificing a part of you so he can eat, and eat–this is the closest he’ll get to eating you, to tasting you from the inside. His eyes close in focus, and he sucks, tasting the sweetness, smelling you. He nuzzles his nose into your clit, inhaling whatever he can.

You’re gasping, toes curling into the sheets, a hand sliding down to grip his shaggy, sweaty hair. He’s sweating but cold to the touch, a clammy, bitter feeling emanating from his skin that you ignore. You can only focus on the suction of his mouth, and the way he’s going down on you; it’s like he’s under some spell, trying to eat right through you, and you’ve never felt better.

“Tastes… so good, tastes so good,” he groans into you, his deep voice vibrating right through your body. “My precious girl… all of you,” he whispers as he pulls back a little, and your eyebrows furrow.

He’s just kissing there now, light presses of his lips, just a slow worship–it feels good, gentle, a contrast to harsh words. But then he slowly leans back, lifting.

Long fingers undo the buttons of his jeans, zipper coming down, hanging low on his hips, and everything is urgent; his quick hand movements, the way he slides one hand in, groaning the minute he feels how hard he is, how he’s throbbing and pulsing, and he can hear your heartbeat. He can smell you, and it’s all too much.

He repositions himself, and your jaw goes slack the minute he drags his tip through your folds, a burst of electricity between the both of you. A relief for you, but this only makes everything worse for him, and he growls the minute he thrusts forward.

His eyes watch the way you contort beneath him; limbs all sprawled out, stiff nipples poking upwards, bathing in the moonlight, back arching, hands gripping the sheets. It’s like you’re on a platter right now, and he’s looking up at the ceiling, buried inside of you.

He slinks down, the way he moves almost unnaturally graceful, and his face finds your neck again, burying it into the crook of it, and you wrap your arm around him, placing your palm against his upper back, bracing yourself.

“Feels so good around me,” he mumbles into your ear, his mouth hanging open, panting into your neck. “You feel so good… everything about you,” he goes on, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, a warm swell in his palm, a thumb at your nipple.

You writher beneath him, arching right into his hand, and he uses that as an opportunity to slide his other hand under your lower back, keeping you almost elevated. It makes each thrust go deeper, further inside of you. All he wants is to be inside of you, any part of him, anything other than his teeth–god, he wishes.

Your moans only make it harder, the soft cries and whimpers, and he can imagine how you’ll sound when he sinks his teeth in, the surprise, the gasp, the moan when you realize how good it really feels for both of you.

His thrusts pick up, and he listens to your heartbeat also pick up, a combination that has his mind reeling, both of you chasing two different highs; finishing and feeding. Both are lethal to your sane minds, and you have no clue his thoughts–how his eyes are closed, and he’s lightly biting at your jawline, sinking teeth in, just threatening.

“Wanna eat you,” he confesses again, his voice quiet and warm on your neck. “Eat your body… your pretty thighs, baby, your stomach, your neck… your neck,” he groans out, and your head tips back at the way he speaks, so low and smooth.

“Eat me,” you plead quietly into the night, and his thrusts slow down, more meaningful and deep, and he holds you, squeezes you. It’s a deadly tango, an unknown curse about to prevail. 

“I would… God, I would,” he groans, punctuating his threatening words with solid thrusts. “Would eat this pretty body… sink my teeth into your skin, and tear out this flesh, my flesh,” he groans, and your mouth hangs open in awe.

“Mmm, please,” you mumble quietly, not taking his serious words seriously.

When he pulls his head back to look down at you, he feels it: the pressure in his gums, and then the fangs, poking their way out, and he growls, an animal-like sound. You’re too busy moaning, head tipped back, grasping his back, feeling the deep thrusts.

Your heart is beating faster as you chase a high, desperately trying to finish, and he’s panting now, eyes growing heavy, every urge in his body screaming at him to sink his teeth into that skin. 

He leans down again, and his face nuzzles into the side of your neck, and he closes his eyes, a shallow sound leaving him as it happens. 

There’s a sharp sting, followed by a burn, and your eyes shoot open–it’s nothing you’ve felt before; it hurts, and you whine loudly, gripping his shirt. He’s moaning now, those sharp teeth puncturing through your skin, an instant taste of metal hitting his tongue, blood. Your blood.

“Ah–that–mmm, that hurts,” you softly whine, and he’s still moving his hips, just letting his teeth stay there, not even feeding yet. “Hurts… it hurts,” you complain, grimacing at the sting of the bite.

Finally, he starts feeding, and that’s when it hits you. The pull and the suck, feeling the life being drained from your veins, your blood slipping into his mouth, and onto his tongue, and the light-headedness is quicker than you’d like.

You mumble something inaudible, and he’s moaning softly, his eyes fluttering, drunk off the blood you’re spilling into his mouth. It’s more than he could ask for, and he’s itching to slide a hand to your chest, to just reach in and grab that heart of yours. Not to eat, just to watch.

It’s an overwhelming feeling suddenly, how dizzy you are, losing blood, and you’re sinking into the sheets, melting beneath him, and he’s still moving his hips, lulling you into a complete state of blissed-out. He’s just as blissed out as you are right now, high off your blood supply he’s been craving since the day he saw you.

It takes his everything to pull back, but he has to now that he’s had a taste–he needs this supply to last forever, needs to keep you alive, a personal bag of blood for him to suck out of when he’s hungry. No roadkill or tipsy girl can compare to the taste on his tongue right now, and he pulls back, not even bothering to wipe his mouth.

Your neck is bloody, splattering, finding their way onto the white sheets, and blood drips from his mouth, splashing against your face; eyes closed, lips apart, completely out of it.

“Thank you… thank you, baby,” he mumbles, leaning down and peppering your face with kisses, leaving bloody marks across your face. “Thank you… my girl, my pretty girl, thank you,” he rambles on, leaving your blood smeared across your face.

It’s a mess, a disaster, and he’s soaking it up.

He’s too desperate for his own good, and he swipes two fingers over the wound–his bite wasn’t as clean as usual, wasn’t a straight feed; it was sloppy, and messy, and hungry, and he collects the rest of it, sucking it off his fingers.

He goes back down again, kissing at your lips, letting them get covered in your own blood, and you can only mumble in response, an inaudible sound from the back of your throat–you’re barely conscious, and can only feel the tenderness on your neck, and the fullness in your abdomen.

“Just want you… to feel good, sweetheart, that’s all I want,” he whispers against your mouth, and he can feel the way you’re not kissing back; just flesh over flesh, nothing more. 

You shift ever so slightly, barely a movement, but he picks up on it, his eyes watching your limbs move, a weak twitch of your arms. He slides a hand towards your wrist, long, cold fingers wrapping around you, and holding it up.

He brings the limp limb to his mouth and presses his nose against its underside, inhaling; it smells like you, and he can practically hear the blood swimming through your veins, even if it’s less prominent now that he’s left you dizzy and lightheaded. He mouths at it, leaving a damp trail of his saliva and your blood.

He stares at your unconscious body, swallowing hard at how beautiful you look; covered in your own blood, the moonlight casting a glow on your skin, and he reaches down, holding your face again.

You knew Miles before everybody else did.

Before the interviews. Before the cameras. Before people on the internet started slowing down clips of him and calling him fine like they had discovered something new. Before Sinners. Before his name started floating through group chats and timelines and conversations that had nothing to do with the little boy you used to know.

To everyone else, Miles was becoming a star.

To you, he was still the boy who used to race you down the block with untied sneakers and swear he only lost because the sidewalk was uneven.

You met him when you were nine.

Your families lived in the same neighborhood, close enough that your mothers could yell your names from different porches and somehow both of you would hear. Miles had moved to your area during the summer, skinny and bright-eyed, with a missing front tooth and too much confidence for somebody who didn’t know anybody yet.

The first thing he said to you was, “You wanna see how fast I can run?”

You had looked him up and down, unimpressed even then. “Not really.”

He blinked like nobody had ever told him no before.

Then he grinned. “You scared I’m faster than you.”

That was all it took.

You dropped the jump rope in your hand and took off before he even realized the race had started.

He chased after you yelling, “That’s cheating!”

You beat him to the end of the block by three whole steps.

From that day on, the two of you were inseparable.

Miles became your summer, your after-school walk home, your partner in trouble. You sat next to each other on stoops eating freeze pops until your tongues turned blue. You built forts out of couch cushions when your mama let him come over during rainstorms. You taught him how to double dutch badly, and he taught you how to throw a football worse. He used to sneak snacks from his kitchen and split them with you like it was a criminal operation.

When you got older, the friendship changed shape but never lost its center.

At thirteen, he started getting taller and quieter, still goofy with you but more careful around everyone else. At fourteen, you realized his smile made you nervous and immediately decided to ignore that information. At fifteen, he sang for you for the first time, sitting on the steps outside your house while the evening sky turned orange.

You remembered the way his voice stopped you.

Not because it was perfect, though even then, it was something special. But because it sounded like a part of him he didn’t show everybody. Soft, rich, honest. He looked away when he finished, embarrassed.

“Don’t laugh,” he said.

You stared at him. “Why would I laugh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Miles, that was beautiful.”

He looked at you then, and for a second, neither of you were kids.

Then your mother opened the front door and yelled, “If y’all are sitting out there, take the trash to the curb!”

The moment shattered.

Miles laughed so hard he almost fell off the step.

That was how it was with you two. Almost-moments, interrupted by real life.

By sixteen, people started noticing him more. His voice. His face. His charm. The way he could walk into a room and make it warmer without trying. He started getting opportunities, small ones at first. A performance here, an audition there, a studio session somebody’s cousin helped set up. You were proud of him. Genuinely. Loudly. You told anybody who would listen that Miles was going to be somebody.

But then life did what life does.

It stretched.

It pulled.

It separated.

Your family moved first. Not far at first, but far enough that the daily rhythm broke. No more after-school walks. No more late-night porch talks. No more showing up at each other’s houses without calling. Then you got busy with school, work, family responsibilities. Miles got busier with music, acting, traveling for auditions, chasing something that was starting to look real.

You still texted for a while.

Then less.

Then only birthdays.

Then sometimes not even that.

There was no big fight. No dramatic goodbye. No one slammed a door or said something unforgivable.

That almost made it worse.

You didn’t lose him all at once.

You lost him slowly, in unanswered messages and postponed plans and “we need to catch up soon” turning into months, then years.

By the time Sinners came out, you hadn’t spoken to Miles in nearly four years.

You saw the trailer by accident.

It popped up while you were lying in bed after work, scrolling mindlessly with one hand under your cheek. At first, you weren’t paying attention. Then his face appeared on your screen.

You sat up so fast your blanket fell.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

There he was.

Older. Sharper. Grown into himself in a way that made your chest tighten. His eyes were the same, though. That was what got you. The whole world might have been seeing him for the first time, but you could still see the boy who used to split honey buns with you on the curb.

You watched the trailer three times.

Then you went to his Instagram.

That was your second mistake.

His comments were full of people discovering him. Calling him talented. Fine. Underrated. Asking where he had been hiding. Posting heart eyes. Saying he was about to be their new obsession.

You should have felt only happiness.

And you did feel happy.

But something else sat beneath it too.

A strange ache.

Not jealousy. Not exactly.

More like grief for the version of him you once had easy access to. The version who would text you random thoughts at midnight. The version who knew your favorite corner store order. The version who used to knock on your window when he was bored and then get scared your mother would catch him.

Now he was on red carpets.

Now strangers were calling him theirs.

And you didn’t even know if he still had your number.

You almost texted him that night.

You typed:

I saw the trailer. I’m so proud of you.

Then deleted it.

It felt too small after four years.

So you said nothing.

The movie became huge. Bigger than you expected. Bigger than maybe even he expected. Suddenly, Miles was everywhere. Interviews. Clips. Articles. People talking about his performance, his voice, his presence. You watched from a distance like someone standing outside a house they used to live in.

You told yourself that was enough.

Then your best friend called.

“I got tickets.”

You frowned, sitting at your kitchen table with takeout in front of you. “To what?”

“The screening.”

“What screening?”

“Girl, don’t play with me. Sinners.”

Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going.”

“You are.”

“I can watch it later.”

“You will not avoid that man’s movie because you have unresolved childhood-best-friend feelings.”

“I do not have unresolved feelings.”

“You said that too fast.”

You sighed. “It’s weird.”

“It’s only weird because you’re making it weird.”

“I haven’t talked to him in years.”

“So? You’re proud of him. Go be proud.”

That was how you ended up in a theater two nights later, sitting in the middle row with your hands folded in your lap, pretending you were not nervous to see a man who was not even physically in the room.

Then the movie started.

And Miles appeared.

Your breath caught.

Not because he looked good, though he did. Lord, he did. But because he was good. Really good. The kind of good that made you forget you knew him. The kind of good that made you lean forward without realizing it. His voice filled the theater, and suddenly you were fifteen again, sitting on the steps, hearing him sing for the first time.

By the time the credits rolled, you were crying.

Quietly, but still.

Your best friend nudged you. “You okay?”

You wiped your cheek quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“He did it,” you whispered.

And that was the only sentence you could manage.

He did it.

That night, you finally texted him.

You stared at the message for twenty minutes before sending it.

You: I just saw the movie! don’t even know if this is still your number but… Miles, you were incredible. Like truly. I’m so proud of you!

You tossed your phone across the bed immediately after sending it, like it had burned you.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Twenty.

You told yourself he was busy. Probably had a new number. Probably didn’t even see it. Probably had hundreds of people texting him now. You were ridiculous for expecting—

Your phone buzzed.

You almost fell off the bed reaching for it.

Miles: Still my number. And you still type like you’re scared of periods.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Then another message came through.

Miles: Thank you. For real. Means more from you than you know.

You stared at the screen until your eyes blurred.

For a second, he was not a rising star. You were not two people with years between you. He was just Miles again, teasing you through a phone screen like no time had passed.

You: Don’t start with me. I was trying to be heartfelt.

Miles: I felt the heart. Also felt the lack of punctuation.

You laughed.

Out loud.

The kind of laugh that surprised you because it came from somewhere you thought had closed.

That was the beginning of the return.

At first, the messages were careful.

A little awkward.

A little too polite in places where you used to be effortless.

He asked how you had been. You told him about work, your apartment, your family, the things that had changed and the things that hadn’t. You asked about filming. He told you parts of it, not the press-friendly version, but the real one. The long days. The nerves. The pressure of wanting to prove himself. The moments where he missed home so badly it embarrassed him.

Miles: Sometimes I’d finish filming and just sit there like… damn. I wish I could tell somebody who knew me before all this.

You stared at that message for a long time.

You: You could’ve told me.

The three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Miles: I know. I think I convinced myself too much time passed.

Your chest tightened.

You: Me too.

After that, the conversations got more honest.

Then came the call.

It was late, almost midnight, and you were washing dishes when his name lit up your phone. You froze so completely the water kept running over the same plate.

You answered with wet hands.

“Hello?”

There was a pause.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

It was deeper now.

Older.

Still him.

You leaned against the counter, suddenly unable to move. “Hey.”

He laughed softly. “Why you sound nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You lying already.”

“You called me randomly at midnight after four years, Miles.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

The sound of his laugh hit you harder than you expected.

For a minute, neither of you said anything.

Then he asked, quieter, “Is this weird?”

You swallowed. “A little.”

“Bad weird?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You smiled down at the sink. “You always call people at midnight to check if things are weird?”

“Only you.”

There it was.

That almost-moment feeling.

Still alive somehow.

The call lasted three hours.

You talked about childhood first because it was safest. Old neighbors. Teachers. The corner store. That time he fell trying to hop a fence and pretended he meant to do it. The summer your mothers forced you both into the same church youth program and he kept making you laugh during prayer.

Then the conversation softened.

He asked, “Why did we stop talking?”

You went quiet.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “Life.”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe pride.”

He exhaled. “Yeah.”

“I think once it got awkward, I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“Me neither.”

Another quiet stretch.

Then he said, “I missed you.”

Your eyes burned.

You looked toward the dark kitchen window, your reflection staring back at you.

“I missed you too,” you whispered.

Two weeks later, he asked to see you.

He was coming back home for a few days between press obligations, and when he texted, Can I take you somewhere? Just us, you had to sit down.

He picked a diner you used to go to after school when you were kids, the one with the cracked red booths and fries that tasted exactly the same no matter how many years passed.

You got there first because anxiety made you early.

When Miles walked in, your heart did something humiliating.

He wore a black hoodie, jeans, and a cap pulled low, trying not to be recognized. But you would have known him anywhere.

He stopped when he saw you.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he smiled.

Not the interview smile.

Not the camera smile.

The old one.

The one that used to show up when he saw you waiting on the porch.

You stood slowly. “Hi.”

He walked over, and before you could decide whether to hug him or wave like a stranger, he pulled you into his arms.

The hug knocked the air out of you.

Because it felt too familiar.

Because he was bigger now, broader, his chest solid against your cheek, his cologne unfamiliar but his hold somehow exactly the same. His arms wrapped around you like he had been waiting years to do it properly.

“You got tall,” you mumbled into his hoodie.

He laughed against your hair. “That’s the first thing you say?”

“You did.”

“You got beautiful.”

You went still.

He pulled back slightly, eyes searching your face.

The diner noise continued around you. Plates clinking. Someone laughing near the counter. A waitress calling out an order.

But you could only hear your heartbeat.

“Miles…”

“What?” he asked softly. “I’m just saying.”

“You can’t just say stuff like that five seconds into seeing me.”

His smile turned shy. “My bad.”

But he didn’t look sorry.

You sat across from each other in the booth and ordered like you were seventeen again. Fries to share. Milkshakes. Burgers neither of you needed. For a while, it was easy. The teasing came back first. Then the comfort. Then the quiet.

He told you about Sinners. About being terrified he wouldn’t be enough. About trying to hold his own around people he admired. About how overwhelming it was now that people were watching.

“I thought I wanted to be seen,” he said, dragging a fry through ketchup. “And I do. But it’s different when it happens.”

You nodded. “Because now people see what they want.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

You looked at him for a moment.

“I see you,” you said.

His face changed.

You didn’t mean it to sound as intimate as it did, but there was no taking it back.

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why it feels different with you.”

Your chest tightened.

“Miles.”

He leaned back, looking down at his hands. “I know. We’re just getting back to being friends. I’m not trying to make it heavy.”

“It’s already heavy.”

He laughed softly, but it sounded nervous. “Yeah.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Because the truth was, the thing between you had never been simple. It had just been interrupted before either of you were old enough to name it.

After dinner, he walked you to your car.

The night was cool. The parking lot lights buzzed overhead. You stood near your door, keys in hand, both of you lingering because neither wanted the night to end.

“I’m glad you texted,” he said.

“I almost didn’t.”

“I’m glad you did anyway.”

You smiled faintly. “Me too.”

He stepped a little closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough to make your breath catch.

“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “when I was filming, there were days I kept thinking about that time on your porch. When I sang and you told me it was beautiful.”

Your eyes softened. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything with you.”

That was unfair.

Completely unfair.

You looked away, but he reached gently for your hand.

“Is that too much?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said.

Your throat tightened.

“You won’t.”

“You sure?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I want to be.”

He nodded slowly, like he respected the honesty.

“Then we’ll take our time.”

That was how Miles came back into your life.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Then all at once.

He called from hotels. You answered in pajamas, listening while he talked about interviews and fittings and trying not to read too many comments. He sent you pictures from press rooms with captions like pretending I know what I’m doing. You sent back you do know. He sent voice notes when he was too tired to type. Sometimes he sang under his breath, and you never told him those were your favorite ones.

The world was falling in love with him, but you were relearning him.

The adult version.

The man who still teased when he was nervous. The man who got quiet when overwhelmed. The man who loved deeply but carefully, like he was afraid time might take things if he held them too loosely.

One night, after a premiere, he called you from his hotel balcony.

“You looked handsome tonight,” you said.

He smiled through the phone. You could hear it. “You watched?”

“Of course.”

“You always watching?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m asking.”

You hesitated, then said softly, “Yeah. I’m always watching.”

He went quiet.

Then he said, “I wish you were here.”

Your heart tripped.

“Miles…”

“I know,” he said. “Timing.”

You closed your eyes.

Timing had always been the villain in your story.

When you were kids, you were too young. When you got older, life got in the way. Now, he was stepping into fame, and you were trying to figure out whether loving someone the world wanted a piece of was brave or foolish.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“Of me?”

“No. Of losing you again. Of this becoming too big. Of being someone you remember when things get quiet but don’t actually have space for.”

His voice softened. “You think I don’t have space for you?”

“I think your life is changing.”

“It is.”

“And I’m proud of you.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to be a piece of your past that you revisit when you’re emotional.”

The silence that followed was long.

Then Miles said, “That’s not what you are.”

You swallowed.

“You’re not my past,” he continued. “You’re one of the only parts of me that still feels like mine.”

Your eyes filled.

“I don’t know how to do all this,” he said. “The attention, the pressure, all of it. But I know I want you in it. Not as some memory. As you. Here. Now.”

You sat there with your phone pressed to your ear, heart wide open and terrified.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I mean that.”

The first kiss happened a month later.

Not at a premiere. Not somewhere glamorous. Not under camera flashes.

It happened on your porch.

The same porch where he had sung to you when you were fifteen.

He had come by after getting back into town, and the two of you sat outside long after the sun went down, talking like time had finally decided to be kind. At some point, the conversation faded, and you both just sat there, shoulders touching.

Miles looked over at you.

You looked back.

The years between you felt close enough to touch.

“I used to want to kiss you here,” he admitted.

Your breath caught. “When?”

He smiled faintly. “A lot.”

You laughed softly, nerves fluttering through you. “You never said anything.”

“Neither did you.”

“I was scared.”

“Me too.”

You turned toward him. “Are you scared now?”

He looked at your mouth, then back at your eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m more scared of not doing it.”

Your heart folded.

He leaned in slowly, giving you all the time in the world to move away.

You didn’t.

When he kissed you, it felt like the answer to a question neither of you had been brave enough to ask. Soft, warm, aching with years of almosts. His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, and you felt him exhale against your mouth like he had been holding his breath since childhood.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

Miles laughed softly.

“What?” you whispered.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His eyes opened, shining in the porch light.

“I think I’ve been missing you my whole life.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You love it.”

You smiled.

And maybe you did.

After that, loving him was still not simple.

His life was busy. People wanted him everywhere. Interviews, meetings, more auditions, more rooms where he had to prove he belonged. Sometimes you missed him even while talking to him. Sometimes he got quiet because the pressure was too much and he didn’t know how to say it. Sometimes you got scared and pulled back before he could.

But you learned.

You learned how to stay.

He learned how to make room.

And every time the world got loud, he found his way back to you.

One evening, months later, you sat in the audience at a small live performance he agreed to do between projects. Nothing huge, nothing flashy. Just a room full of people, warm lights, a microphone, and Miles onstage with his voice.

Before he sang, he looked into the crowd until he found you.

The smile that crossed his face was small.

Private.

Yours.

“This song,” he said into the mic, “is for someone who knew me before I knew what I could be.”

Your eyes stung immediately.

He laughed softly, looking down. “She also told me I was beautiful when I sounded like a nervous teenager on her porch, so if I mess up, blame her.”

The crowd laughed.

You covered your face, embarrassed and emotional.

Then he sang.

And for a moment, you were nine again, racing down the block. Fifteen again, listening on the porch. Older now, watching him become everything you always knew he could.

When the song ended, the applause was loud, but Miles only looked at you.

Like he had done it for the room, but also for the little girl who once believed in him before the world knew his name.

After the show, he found you backstage and pulled you into his arms.

“You didn’t mess up,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“So why blame me?”

He grinned against your hair. “Wanted everybody to know you were important.”

You pulled back. “Miles.”

“What?”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can,” he said softly. “I got years to make up for.”

You looked at him, your heart full and aching.

“We both do.”

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your mouth.

Slow.

Certain.

Home.

And that was what it felt like with Miles.

Not like starting over.

Like finding your way back.

Like the universe had taken the long route, cruel and winding and full of missed calls, only to bring you both to the same porch, the same softness, the same truth.

He had changed.

So had you.

But somewhere under the fame, the distance, the years, and the almosts, he was still Miles.

Your Miles.

The boy who raced you down the block.

The teenager who sang to you under an orange sky.

The man who stood under bright lights and still searched the room for the one person who knew him before all of it.

In the past…

Your mother and Sammie’s mother were next-door neighbors turned best friends. They did everything together, meaning you and Sammie had to do everything together too. From Sunday school, choir, same school, clubs, sometimes y'all's mom thought it was cute to dress y'all up in matching outfits. 

Eventually  leading to you and Sammie to become besties. 

Now even though you were only a half a year older than him, you made it your soul duty in life to make sure he knew he was the baby. From calling him nicknames like little boy, baby, baby bro, and eventually preacher’s boy. 

Sammie had a deep hatred for these lame ass names, but it was you so he let it slide.

Over time as you and Sammie got older and the teasing continued but started to tone down, as your crush on him started to flourish. But you denied it with all your heart. 

“He’s too young for me. Plus he’s my best friend… and I doubt he likes me.”, you explain to anyone who’d ask about you and sammies relationship. 

But everyone else could see it– how Sammie would zone out to watch your smile across the classroom, the way your lips curl up when you smile at his jokes, how he’d analyze every curl that fell from your hair, the way your skin glistens when you run around the tract for P.E., and the way yall sound beautiful together when harmonizing during choir. 

Sammie had feelings for you–no doubt bout it, but both of you had too much pride, and too much love for your friendship to ever say anything. 

Jump to the end of  Senior year of high school…

You and Sammie are now done with highschool, and now it’s time for you to figure out what the world has to offer you. You and your mother had been going back and forth for months about whether you should go to college near home and out of state. You wanted to stay close to home where your family, friends, and childhood were. But your mother insisted that you’d go much farther in life if you went to a big college some states over. 

Eventually, you caved and agreed with your mother’s claims and chose to go to school out of state.

Now, the day you leave for school, and it’s time to tell your friends, family, and the person you dreaded telling the most goodbye… Sammie. 

Going from seeing each other everyday to seeing each other for only a few months out of the year was going to be rough. But there was no avoiding it now. 

You and your mother walked over to Sammie’s house, greeted by a long hug from his mother and some positive words from his father. You put on a brave face while  talking to them all, not wanting them to see the fear of leaving choking you in your chest to show in your face. You barely talked to sammie the whole time you were over, unsure what to say or even how to say it—avoiding conversation with him at all costs. 

Before it was time to leave, you slipped away to the bathroom, trying to think of what to say to sammie that won’t leave you in tears.

“He’s my best friend, I’ll know what to say…”, but as soon as you opened the bathroom door, there he was. Sammie. Waiting in the hallway like he knew you were hiding from him.

“Damn you already ignoring me you couldn’t wait til left?”, he says sarcastically, but you can hear the concern underneath it. You froze, caught off guard, not thinking your silence would make him think you were ignoring him. So, you immediately threw your wall up.

“Boy, I didn’t know how to let you down easy without leaving you in tears,” you joked, nudging his side. “Plus, don’t think a little distance could make me forget about my little bestie.” You gave him a warm—if slightly worried—smile.

The tension between you was thick as he stared at you, like he was trying to find the words too.

“Of course not. You know you can’t get rid of me girl”, he says with a smirk on his face. “And stop treating me like a baby, I've been grown. You just won't accept it.”

He nudges you back, making you laugh. “Nah,” you teased. “You’ll always be my little preacher’s boy.”, you pulled him into a hug, holding him tight. He held you back even tighter—like he didn’t want to let go.

You could both feel it—the warmth, the bond, the love between you. But the hug didn’t last forever. The tall, masculine figure in your arms would have to stay behind.

For a second, you wanted to say everything. That you didn’t want to go. That you wished things were different. That maybe, if you both had just been a little braver, things could’ve been more than late-night phone calls and unsent texts.

But instead, you just held him like a memory you didn’t want to let go of.

“Now gon on,” Sammie said, voice low and playful. “Before it gets too late and you miss your train.”. You nodded, eyes a little misty, and started walking toward the front door where your mom was waiting.

“Bye, Sammie. Don’t grow up too fast, now!” you called over your shoulder with a laugh.

He chuckled, just enough to cover up the lump in his throat. “Yeah, yeah. And you don’t get into too much trouble, little girl.” 

You turned around one last time and flashed him a mischievous grin.

“Let’s remember who the little one is here.”

Before he could reply, your mom’s voice cut through the moment, calling your name.

And just like that, you were on a train to Georgia…
…leaving Sammie back in Mississippi.

Now your back home for summer…

You hadn’t been home for more than 24 hours and already your mama was dragging you around town, making you run errands like you hadn’t just survived your first year of college. Between unpacking, catching up with cousins, and fake-smiling through “You don’ grown up!” comments from nosy church ladies, there hadn’t been time to stop and breathe—let alone see him.

But you finally slipped away… finally getting a moment to go visit your ole best friend.

You walked down the sidewalk in your old neighborhood, past the familiar houses with chipped paint and crooked mailboxes, past the corner where you and Sammie used to race on bikes. Everything felt the same and yet… you didn’t.

And when you turned the corner toward Sammie’s house, you definitely didn’t expect what happened next.

He was outside. Shirtless.

Standing in the driveway like a man who knew damn well he looked good. He was taller, broader, and his skin was glistening from the heat—golden brown, smooth, and definitely not the “little preacher’s boy” you left behind.

He was working on his car, arms flexing just enough to make your breath catch.

You tried to act unfazed...Tried.

“Boy, you still out here pretending to be a mechanic?” you called out, trying to sound playful.

Sammie looked up, wiped sweat from his forehead with a towel, and his lips curled into that familiar smirk—but there was something different behind it this time. Something slower. Deeper. Like he was seeing you for the first time too.

“Well well well…” he said, voice lower than you remembered. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

You swallowed hard.

His voice was deeper too, not just in tone but in presence. He moved slower, more deliberate. Like a man who wasn’t in a rush to prove anything anymore—just sure of himself. Of what he wanted.

He walked up to you, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing every inch.

“You gon' give me a real hug or just stand there lookin’ surprised?”

You blinked, then gave him a tight hug, suddenly hyper aware of how solid his chest felt against yours. He held you for a second longer than expected, pulling back just enough to look down at you.

“I’ve missed you, my little preacher’s boy” you say softly. 

He scoffed, stepping back a little, “Still calling me that, huh?”

You nudged his side, now more muscular and lean than you remember, “You know you love it.”

He smirked, wiping his hands on the towel. “Love it? Girl, I barely tolerated it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. You would’ve cried if I ever stopped.”

“Cried? You forget who you talkin’ to.” He squinted at you, leaning in a little. “I’m not that lil boy you used to boss around, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” you said, glancing him up and down. “You done grew up a lil, huh?”

Sammie raised a brow, clearly catching the way your eyes lingered. “You tryna say I look good or something?”

Your throat went dry. You weren’t used to this version of Sammie—direct, confident, making it hard to tell if he was joking or if he really saw you now... like more than a friend and not just the girl who used to beat him in Uno.

“I’m sayin’ you don’t look terrible.” You shrugged casually, biting back a smile.

He stepped closer. “A year away and you still playin’ with me like we kids.”

“You ain’t ready for grown-woman compliments, preacher’s boy,” you teased, folding your arms.

Sammie chuckled and tilted his head. “Oh, so you grown now? One year outta town and you all woman now, huh?”

“Damn straight,” you smirked. “I eat my greens now.”

That made him burst out laughing, deep and from the chest. “Greens? Girl, you used to cry over broccoli.”

“Growth.” You lifted your chin proudly.

“Well, I like this grown-up you,” he said, eyes scanning you again, slower this time. “Confident. Mouth still slick. But I’ma warn you…”

You cocked a brow. “Warn me about what?”

He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping. “Keep teasing me like that and I might start actin’ like I’m grown too.”

You blinked, heart thumping just a little harder.

“Boy, hush,” you muttered, but your voice came out softer than expected.

“Mmhm,” he hummed, backing up toward his car. “That’s what I thought.”

You stared at him, biting your lip before shaking your head.

“Still cocky, I see.”

“And you still love me,” he tossed over his shoulder.

The next morning…

It was barely 10 a.m. and you were still in your pajamas— some old cartoon shorts and a stretched-out tank top—hair in a messy scarf, and attitude already on 10 because somebody was banging on the door, and you wasn’t expecting no guests. 

You lazily walked over to the door opening it with frustration all over your face. To your surprise it was Sammie. 

White T-shirt clinging to his arms, cargo shorts low on his hips, tool bag in one hand, smug grin in the other. Looking good as hell, unfortunately for you.

You froze.

He didn’t.

His eyes raked over you slowly—taking in your bunny slippers, your tank top with one strap hanging off your shoulder, and your scarf slowly falling off your head.

“Well damn,” he said, cocking his head, “did I catch you fresh out the bed or is this what grown looks like now?”

You crossed your arms instinctively, suddenly aware of every exposed inch of skin and how his eyes didn’t flinch away—not like before. It wasn’t teasing this time. It was... something else. He was really looking.

“Boy, what the hell are you doing here?”

He held up the tool bag. “Your mama told mine y’all kitchen faucet was leakin'. You know how they are. So my momma volunteered me like I’m the damn neighborhood handyman.”

You stepped aside with a sigh.

“She ain’t mention nothing about you coming over.”

“She probably knew you wouldn’t clean up anyway,” he teased, walking past you. “Or put on a bra.”

You threw a couch pillow at the back of his head as he walked past you, mortified. “Don’t play with me this early, Sammie.”

He laughed, easily dodging it. “I’m just sayin’. You had all that grown woman energy yesterday, now I pull up and it look like yo childhood fought you and won.”(damn sis)

“I’m still living out of boxes,” you snapped, following him toward the kitchen. “I couldn’t  find my good pajamas, so don’t start.”

“Right, right. Excuses.” He knelt down by the sink, glancing up.

You crossed your arms. “Fix the sink and shut up, Sammie.”

“I will,” he said, reaching under the counter. “Soon as you admit you missed me.” He smirked as he positioned himself under the sink to find the leak.

You rolled your eyes, smirking despite yourself. “Mmm. I missed peace. And silence.”

He chuckled, tools clinking under the cabinet. “Keep lyin’. You couldn’t even open the door right—you was too busy starin’.”

You blinked, your smirk faltering just a bit. He said it differently this time. Lower. Serious.

But before the silence could stretch too long, he flicked a piece of plastic from under the sink at you.

“You gon’ stand there or at least make yourself useful and pass me that wrench?”

Your fingers brushed his when you handed it over, and neither of you commented on how neither of you pulled back right away.

Trying to focus on literally anything except how his shirt lifted just enough to show the waistband of his boxers and the deep V line leading down.

Flashing that cocky grin.

“Dang you not even gon’ offer me a drink or wipe my sweat or somethin’?”

“I didn’t know ‘neighborhood handyman’ came with customer service demands,” you shot back, leaning on the counter.

He slid out from under the sink, sitting up on his knees. His eyes flicked over you again—longer this time. And it wasn’t funny anymore.

“Damn,” he muttered, looking you over like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. “You really grew up, huh?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That surprise or disappointment in your voice?”

“Nah. Just… something i’m taking note of,” he said, standing up slowly. His shirt clung to his chest now, damp from sweat.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then— “You missed me, didn’t you,” he said again, stepping closer this time.

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out breathy. “I missed clownin’ you. Big difference.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Nah. You missed me.”


A beat passed.


His eyes didn’t leave yours.You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him—really looked. 

“You know I did,” you said finally, your voice lower now, honest in a way it hadn’t been all year.

Sammie stepped closer, “Yeah,” he murmured, “but I wanted to hear you say it.”


Then his voice dropped, that Southern drawl thick and heavy like honey on your skin.
“You just scared.”

That made your head tilt. “Scared?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer, that cocky smirk returning. “You missed me. You just don’t know what to do with me now that I’m not some lil boy followin’ you around.”

You scoffed. “Ain’t nobody scared of you, Sammie.”

He licked his lips, eyes dragging slow over your body.
“You should be,” he murmured. “I ain’t lil no more.”

Your pulse jumped. But your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“Then show me how much you’ve grown.”

You reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him in, lips crashing into his like you were done playing games—and he didn’t hesitate, didn’t ease in. He kissed you back like he’d been waiting to shut you up for years.

His hands gripped your waist like he owned it, like they’d been there before in dreams he wouldn’t dare confess. He walked you backward, not even breaking the kiss as you hit the counter behind you, gasping as his mouth dipped to your neck.

“Sammie—wait,” you breathed, your hand curling in his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his voice a low rumble.
“You made me wait long enough.”

Your tank top was halfway up before you could respond, his hands slipping beneath it, thumbs brushing the soft curve of your waist. His lips returned to your throat, to your collarbone, trailing heat with every kiss. One second you were in the kitchen, half-dressed and breathless—and the next?

Your back hit the couch cushions.

He hovered over you, looking down, eyes dark and sure. “Say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just reached for him again, pulled him down by the collar of that stretched white tee, and kissed him like you were starving.

His hands slid down, slow and deliberate, slipping beneath your shorts to grip your thighs. You gasped when he lifted you slightly, adjusting your body beneath his like he knew exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it. You felt him, hard and ready, pressing against the inside of your thigh, and it made your breath catch.

“You still scared?” he asked again, voice brushing the shell of your ear as he rolled his hips slowly into yours.

You tried to keep it playful. “I ain't scared of a little boy who had to listen to lullabies to go to sleep till ninth grade.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, then caught your chin between his fingers and tilted your face toward him. "That boy’s gone, baby. Been gone. Let me show you what replaced him."

Then he was pulling your tank top the rest of the way off, eyes devouring every inch of skin like it was the first and last time he’d ever see it. His mouth followed, lips and tongue tasting your collarbone, your chest, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch.

You moaned his name without meaning to. That only made him bolder.

His fingers slid beneath your shorts, teasing the band of your panties until you whimpered, rocking your hips into his touch. “Damn,” he whispered, "You already this wet for me?"

“Shut up,” you panted.

“Nah,” he said, voice dropping, teasing and full of heat. “I gotta teach you sum real quick.”

His fingers slipped between your pussy lips, slow and slick, finding your rhythm like he’d been studying your body in secret. You gasped, gripping the back of his neck.

“Sammie…”

“Now you know damn well I ain’t little no more, but you’re too fucking stubburn.,” he murmured, slipping one finger inside, then two. Curling them. Stroking that spot that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.

“Say it.”

You shook your head, breathless. “Fuck you.”

He smirked. “That’s the plan.”

He kissed you again—messy, possessive—while his fingers worked you open, coaxing soft cries from your throat. When he finally pulled them out, he looked at you like he was weighing a decision.

Then he tugged his shirt off, muscles flexing as he reached for his belt. Your eyes went wide when he freed his dick, thick and hard, no trace of that 'little boy' anywhere. He caught your expression and leaned down, lips brushing your jaw.

“Still think I’m playing?”

You swallowed hard. “Shut up and show me.”

He did.

He eased into your pussy, inch by slow inch, watching your face the whole time. You moaned his name again, louder this time, and his eyes darkened.

“Damn, baby,” he hissed, gripping your hips. “I know you’ve been wanting this.”

He started to move, slow at first, letting you adjust. Each stroke dragged long and deep, the kind that made your eyes roll back. His lips found your neck again, whispering filthy praise between kisses:

“Look at you… takin’ me so good.”

“Still think I’m that lil boy, huh?”

“Say it, baby. Admit it.”

You couldn’t form words at first—just moans and gasps, fingers digging into his back. But he didn’t stop. He rolled his hips with steady purpose, pushing you higher with every thrust.

When he lifted your leg and angled deeper, you nearly screamed.

“Oh my god—Sammie—” 

You started to pull back just a little, breath catching, heart racing. It was almost too much—too good, like you couldn’t handle all of him all at once. Your body wanted more, but your mind flickered with the fear of losing control.

“Why you running?” he laughed, dragging you back against him. “Take this dick like the woman you say you are.”

“You gon’ remember this every time you try to play me like I’m still a lil kid,” he growled, sweat dripping onto your chest as he picked up the pace.

Your nails scratched down his back. “Fuck, you’re grown. Fuck—okay?!”

He smiled against your skin, victorious and still not letting up.

“Say my name,” he growls against your lips.

His strokes are slow, deep, and strategic. Every thrust hitting the right spot again and again.

“Preac…” you almost say out of habit, but the way he grips your thighs, the scent of his cologne, the heat in his stare—it’s too much.

He slows just enough to lean down, lips brushing yours. “Say it right.”

You try to sass back, breath hitching. “Please—Preacher’s b—”

He stops.

Just like that.

Your body whines at the sudden emptiness.

He gives you a cold look, jaw clenched, voice low and cocky.

“Try that nickname again, and I’ll leave you right here—dripping and needy.”

You shoot him a look, trying to tell if he’s bluffing. But no—he’s dead serious. That playful glint is gone, replaced with something darker.

Hungrier.

Still clinging to a shred of pride, you whisper, “Okay, Samm…” You pause, catching yourself—desperate to bring back the friction. Trying to grind against him.

He tilts his head, starts to pull out again. “Try. Again.”

You squirm. “Sammie—please Sammie!”

He grins like the devil and slams into you again, making your back arch off the bed.

“That’s more like it. Now keep sayin’ it—so you never forget who you dealin’ with.”

He doesn’t let up. Just deep, calculated strokes. His voice low in your ear. “I’m grown now, baby… and preacher’s boy ain’t round here no more. But Imma help you remember—every damn time I’m diggin’ inside you.”

He fucked you like a man with something to prove—each thrust rougher, wetter, louder. The slap of skin against skin filled the room along with your cries.

You could barely breathe, let alone think, as his dick filled you over and over, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping every inch.

“Who's grown now?” he grunted.

“You,” you gasped. “You are—fuck, Sammie—”

Your orgasm ripped through you, blinding and hot, your body jerking beneath him.

He followed right after, groaning loud and low as he buried himself deep, hips jerking through his release.

For a long minute, the only sound was the rush of breath between you.

Then you whispered, "Told you I wasn’t scared.", as you smirked against his neck.

He kissed your cheek, lips curling. “You're too stubborn to be scared, but it’s alright. Imma break that habit.”

~ i feel like this was a bit out of character for sammie in the movie, but we can play pretend 😉. Hope yall liked it!💫

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