welcome whores :)

“Wow,” Matt says beside you, his lips twitching upward faintly as his head tilts to take in the scene. “This place is alive.”

“Alive,” you snort, swatting him gently on the arm as you guide him through the threshold. “It’s a full-on circus. Foggy must be in hell.”

“Can confirm,” Foggy interjects. He’s appeared behind you as if summoned by the mere mention of his name. There’s a smear of frosting on his button-down, and there’s a crazy light in his eyes you haven’t seen since college. “Thank God, cavalry’s here. I was this close to drinking Scotch out a sippy cup.”

You laugh, leaning in to hug him as Matt claps him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday to the big guy!” you grin as Foggy pulls back. “Officially one! How’s it feel?”

“Haven’t heard, huh? We’re auctioning him off later,” Foggy deadpans, though the affection peeks through. “Which reminds me—mind if I pawn off your husband for a bit?” He turns to Matt, gesturing toward the kitchen where a battalion of Nelson women’s engaged mid-conversation, holding plastic cups and talking animatedly. “Dude, do me a solid and work your lawyerly magic on the aunties, please. They’ve been talking about SNTs all afternoon and frankly, I cannot feign interest anymore.” 

“Oh, Fog, I don’t know if I’m the guy for that—” Matt starts, but Foggy’s already steering him toward the fray. “You’re exactly the guy, go make them cry with one of your blind crusader stories. Right this way, ladies,” Foggy urges, as Matt’s protests are drowned out, swallowed by the chattering mass of Nelson aunts. 

You stay back, still laughing, and duck toward the table of snacks. From the few remaining drinks, you grab a can of Yoo-Hoo and your finger along its sweaty condensation—until the sharp wail of the baby cuts through the din. 

You turn. 

Across the room, the birthday boy’s squirming in his frazzled aunt’s arms, flushed and clearly seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. Without thinking, you slip over to them (Yoo-Hoo forgotten), holding out your hands with a soft, “Here, let me.”

Teddy comes to you easily, his weight settling against your hip as he lets out one last cursory wail before quieting. His chubby fists tangle in the fabric of your dress, his head falling against your chest as his breathing hitches. You rock him gently, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath until his cries subside entirely. It doesn’t take long before he’s calm, little body relaxing against yours as he smacks his lips softly, his stubby fingers patting at your collarbone. 

Across the room, the Nelson women chatter on around Matt.

“You poor dear,” one of them coos, clutching his elbow, “how’s work? Foggy says the firm’s doing very well. You boys must be rolling in clients.”

“It’s steady,” Matt says mildly, “we’ve been lucky.”

“And her?” someone else asks. “That sweet girl of yours still hasn’t run away screaming?”

A small smile curves his mouth. “Still here, thankfully.” A chuckle goes around the circle. 

“Oh honey,” Foggy’s mom cuts in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, when do you think you’ll have one of your own?”

Matt raises his eyebrows, amused and a little cornered.

One of the great-aunts is squinting across the room. “Hmph, looks like she’s halfway there already.”

He tilts his head slightly, tuning in—adjusting the direction of his senses—then stops. His heart stutters. The space between you—the constant hum of your heartbeat, the soft lilt of your voice as you soothe the baby—it’s all amplified in his head, pulling his attention like a magnet. 

“Must be nice,” another jokes. “You can always tell who’s gonna be a good mom. Poor Foggy looked like he was going to pass out.”

Matt smiles faintly, his usual charm just barely masking how his throat has tightened. “Ah, she’s good with kids. Always has been,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light.

The mention of children is a trap he’s navigated before, typically with casual deflections that fall back on vague hopes of someday. But this time, the words are harder to shake off, and when one of the aunties has so pointed it out—the way you’re holding Foggy’s baby, calm and radiant and perfectly at ease—it feels less hypothetical and more, well, inevitable.

“Well, you’re doing well for yourselves now,” one of the women says, her tone pointed but kind. “Don’t wait too long. You’ve got a good thing going—and if you ask me, you could use one of those little ones running around.” 

“We’ve got some time,” Matt laughs offhandedly. “Haven’t really sat down and talked it through in depth. Maybe soon.”

Mercifully, the conversation shifts, but Matt’s distracted now. Every word buzzes in the background as he hones in on the sound of you: the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your voice swaying upward as you coo at Teddy, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift your weight to keep him secure on your hip.

Before he knows what’s happening, you’ve made your way across the room to him, oblivious to the swirl of tension beneath his skin as you’re saying something lighthearted about how “it’s about time Uncle Matty took a turn.” He doesn’t even have time to protest before the toddler’s being nestled against him, pudgy fingers pawing at his tie.

“Careful,” he says, a little alarmed. “I could drop him.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Couns,” you say breezily, smoothing a hand over Matt’s arm. “You’ve done this before. Plus he’s pretty sturdy, you know. Babies are tougher than they look.”

Matt falls silent, holding the baby cautiously, keeping completely still so that not even his breathing will disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Teddy squirms briefly before miraculously—horrifyingly—settling into his chest, and Matt’s heartbeat jumps, but the baby’s doesn’t. There’s just the faintness against his sternum, the rise and fall of milky breath; he can feel the pulse in his tiny wrist. The echo of a hiccup in his ribs. He finds himself cataloguing every flicker of life beneath the fragile skin. 

It’s overwhelming.

“Matt,” you say softly, “you okay?”

He nods, handing Teddy back to you a little too quickly. “Yeah. It’s just—he’s warm.”

“He didn’t pee on you, did he?”

“No—no,” Matt chuckles faintly. “Not that kind of warm.”

You lift a brow at him, but say nothing more. The baby yawns, then burrows into you again. Matt can hear everything. The low, involuntary sound you make when the baby nestles just right under your chin. The shift in your skin temperature: your whole body warmer than usual. And that scent—he’d missed it before, but God here it is, subtle but unmistakable under the usual fare of your perfume. Sweet earth, clean sweat, and something deeper, headier. His heightened senses tell him what his mind has tried to ignore; it makes his chest tighten and imagination run rampant. He tries to shake away the thought, wresting his focus from the way you smell so right, so perfect, but it’s hurtling like a tidal wave.

By the time you’re on the train ride home, the realization has planted itself in the hollow of his chest, refusing to be moved. You sit beside him, scrolling idly through your phone, humming some barely-there melody under your breath.

He’s silent the whole time, thoughts turning over in endless waves.

It’s already dark outside when you arrive at the apartment. Matt’s still unusually quiet, his mind somewhere else entirely. You shrug off your coat by the door and toss it onto the hook with a bit of flair. Trying to fill the silence, you busy yourself with telling him about the Nelson family dog—a story you picked up about the ratty little mop of a thing getting passed around from household to household like a fuzzy hot potato.

“It’s probably because it’s so ugly,” you grumble lightly, shooting him a grin as you kick your shoes off toward the mat. “Swear, if you could just see it, it really is so ugly it’s insane.”

Matt is usually one to tease, grinning back in that sly, devil-may-care way, but tonight he doesn’t even give you a huff of amusement. Your brows draw together in concern: could someone have said something earlier? He wasn’t one to let offhanded comments get to him, but there had been exceptions… Or maybe the party was too much? Its noise and chaos and endless stimulation, well— you could see this silence as an aftermath.

“Matt?” you finally ask, your tone gentle as you cross the small space to him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing near the door, barely out of his coat. “Are you okay? You’ve been so quiet since we left. Did something happen at the party?”

The longer he stays silent, the more determined you become to shake an answer out of him. Whatever storm is brewing in his mind, you’ll be damned if he keeps it locked away, as he tends to do. It triggers your instinct to soothe. Or at the very least, poke fun at it to take the edge off. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here. Whose ass do I have to beat? Was it Uncle Tommy? Was it something I–”

“Sweetheart,” Matt cuts through your ridiculous coaxing. Though his tone is steady with concerted effort, there’s a flush creeping up the column of his neck, coloring the edge of his ears.

You step back half a pace, blinking. “What?”

“It’s nothing. Please.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. Matt, tell me what’s going on with you.” In truth, you greatly dislike all this unceremonious pushing and goading, but the last time he’d gone quiet like this it turned out he’d been hiding a broken rib and a tender side from late night patrol. You frown, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m not. Honestly.” The shift is almost imperceptible, but you notice the way his body tenses further, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, “Forget it.”

“Forget it?!” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. That at least earns you the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, but he smothers it so fast you wonder if it was a figment of your imagination. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” You wag a halfhearted finger at him. “You absolutely do not get to brood like that then ‘forget it’ me! You’re going to tell me, Matthew”—the way you enunciate his name is pointed—“because you at least owe it to me to tell me if you’re hurt, or I swear to God I’m—”

“Fine,” he snaps, putting an end to your mock dramatics. The tension in him pulls tight enough that the words tumble out unguarded. “Let’s have a baby.”

You blink.

The air around you seems to still, as if the apartment itself is holding its breath, having followed his bidding for silence.  “What?”

“I want a baby with you,” he confesses slowly, sounding pained. It sounds almost like loathing, the derision with which he views how badly he means it. 

You laugh before you can stop it, strangled and half-scandalized. “Matt, Jesus! What the hell…”

But your startled amusement is already tapering off as it clicks into place. Oh. His quietness, his strange mood during the ride home—it was now making perfect sense. Earlier, you were utterly at ease with Teddy, and maybe he’d been, too. The situation now glaringly obvious, your heart starts to race and Matt’s expression darkens when he picks up on it, his lips twitching with that slow, devilish smile you know all too well.

“Oh,” you begin, blinking up at him as you straighten.

That smile. Christ.

“Yes, oh,” he says, already closing the distance between you. “I mean it.”

His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with deliberate pressure.

“Let’s make one,” he murmurs. “Right now.”

Your heart hammering violently in your chest, you tip your head back slightly to meet the wine-dark mirrors of his glasses. In the reflection, all you can see is yourself. His next step seals the last inch of space between you, and when his mouth finds yours, whatever resistance you had left dissolves like sugar on the tongue.

His kiss is needy, and you feel his every hot exhale fanning your cheeks as a hand slips to your waist—guiding you, pushing you back, back until your spine hits the wall. His other hand curls around your nape gently, cushioning the press of your head against the panel. You gasp into him, grabbing at the tense muscles of his shoulders through his shirt. He’s so close, pressing so close now that you can feel the heated hardness through his slacks. Well, he seems to not mind. If anything, he wants you to feel it, grinding himself against your stomach.

“Somebody’s eager,” you tease playfully, never mind that you’re growing lightheaded from the delicious burn of his stubble scratching your face. “Christ, this is a lot of intensity for a lady who just inhaled too many cupcakes. Mmf, ow!”

His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping at it lightly before letting it free.

“Not now, honey,” he rasps against your mouth. You know it well enough to be a warning, but you don’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling. The hand at your waist slips upward, finding the curve of your breast over the flimsy material of your dress. Your face grows embarrassingly hot, and Matt’s breath hitches, groping you a little harder, more possessively, and the thought crosses his mind: the sensation of your tits rounding out for him, growing swollen, heavy with milk… Fuck, the thought makes his cock jerk hard in his pants, and the guttural moan that tears from his chest seems to surprise even him.

Fuck, Matt, get it together.

Shaking his head, he dips down to the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. You smell so damn good—milky and earthy and uniquely you—it’s a shame you’re oblivious to it. What you aren’t oblivious to, though, is the way he’s trembling slightly. From restraint or the desperate undercurrent of his desire, you can’t tell.

“Is this really you?” you ask, breathless now, trying to wriggle just enough to make him loosen his grip. This isn’t like him—not Matt the charming husband, the overzealous lawyer. But you do recognize him. This voice, it belongs to the man who comes home late at night beaten within an inch of his life, collapsing on the floor as you scramble for the medkit. But that part of him has been quieter, gentler lately, less frequent with the overly suicidal excursions—a promise he’d offered you when he asked you to marry him. 

And yet here he is now, returned with that fire reignited, directed solely at you.

“You smell so good I can’t think straight,” Matt murmurs, his nose dragging along your throat, pausing to press a hot, deliberate kiss behind your ear. “You wanna know something?”

You nod, the unbearable heat trickling between your thighs.

“You were holding him,” he begins, voice rasping like he can barely get the words out, “and all I could think about was my baby. Our baby. You’re ovulating right now, and Christ, sweetheart—I can smell it on you.”

That stops your breath cold. You’re reeling, your internal voice screaming for decorum, coolness, anything that might save face—but it’s impossible to, not when hot nerves are zinging traitorously through your body at his words. Not when his hands are on you, hot as brands. Not when he’s put words to the question you’d been hoping he’d bring up again for the past year.

It’s so embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Case in point–

His hand cups your sex through your soaked underwear, pressing the heel of his palm into you hard.

“Matt—!” It’s more of a plea than anything else, but you barely manage to say anything else before his hands slide down your weakened thighs, broad palms curling under them, and he lifts you effortlessly. He hikes you up further against the wall, grinding his hips into you and fuck, you can feel him pulsing—he’s like iron, a fact you’re darkly aware of even through the unconscionably selfish layers of his clothes hiding his hardness from view. The sheer force of his want makes you gasp, hands to his chest as if to push him away—though you clearly have no intention of doing so.

But seemingly, he does.

He pulls back from the kiss, and for the first time all night, you catch a flicker of hesitation cross his face. A crack in the mask of breathless certainty, the very same that had carried you across the room and into his arms just minutes ago.

“Are you sure you want this?” 

You almost laugh. He’s asking you? When he’s the one tearing you out of your clothes, talking filth? “Are you?” 

“I… Well–” The vibrations of his voice tickle your collarbone as Matt rests his head against your shoulder, unceremoniously snapped from the trance of his arousal. Visibly, achingly, he’s searching for words that won’t come. You take it upon yourself to help him out.

“I am.” It’s unsatisfactory; his silence tells you this. For a moment there’s only his measured breathing. But you know what he’s not saying, and he doesn’t have to tell you. It’s there again—the old voice in his head, convincing him he doesn’t deserve any of this, much less the privilege of asking for anything more. The quickly vining doubt in him dictates it: allowing himself this is the most selfish thing he can do. 

You cup his face in your hands so he can’t turn away from you.

“Matt, I know what you’re thinking,” you say gently. “I want this, alright?”

For a split second, you wonder what it’ll take to pull him back from his misery. You swallow, rubbing the sides of your thumbs along his cheeks soothingly. “I want it. Not in spite of your life; because of it. Yes, you bleed and lie and you flake out and… keep going on these fucking suicide missions and yes, yes they scare the shit out of me… But even if I’m scared, I believe you’ll come home, because you always do; that’s who you are. You keep getting back up even if the world’s given you so much reason to be unkind to it.” 

Wordlessly, you reach up and remove his glasses gingerly, tossing them toward the table. They land somewhere with a dull clatter. In the half-light of the living room, you can only make out parts of him, the cut of his cheekbone, the impressionistic slopes of definition on his face. This must be just a fraction of how he sees you, defined solely by blunt form and sensation.

“And that’s why I’m here, too. It’s just my choice as it is yours.” You press your forehead to his, finding him scorching against your clammy skin, before pulling back again. “Your night patrols, all that… If you believe that people deserve all the chances they can get, that there’s always a future for them no matter what came before, then have faith that it includes you, Matt. Everything you fight for is why I believe we could do this. What’s ahead could be dangerous, but what if it’s worth it a—what’s that word you like?” Your lips quirk slightly. “A thousandfold more. We can still bring good into the world, in all the ways we can, can’t we?”

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He closes his eyes. He does want it, all of it, more than anything in the world and he’s being the greediest man in the world right now, taking and taking and you’re letting him. Have faith that it includes you.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it is. It’s no question if it’s with you.” You pause for a bit, before leaning back in, eyebrows wiggling playfully. “And you know, I haven’t refilled my prescription… So if we do this, it’s real. So ask me again.”

An incredulous, lighthearted scoff finally breaks through him. “Unbelievable. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer between us, sweetheart? That was one hell of an argument,” he says, chuckling boyishly through the pecks you’ve started to nip on his cheeks. “Fine. Last chance—are you sure about this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ha, ha, Mr. Murdock. Please. As if you believe in last chances.” 

He grins, can’t help it, can’t hide it; it’s crooked and a little desperate. But it’s impossible to skirt around it, your body betraying every rational thought. “Yes,” you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. “Yes, I want this. I want you.”

The words have barely left your mouth before Matt presses his hips into yours again, his groan muffled against your neck. The conversation has quelled the worst of his fears—but not the hunger. If anything, your unshakeable trust in him has unleashed something deeper within, darker and older than guilt. Something he can’t say aloud.

But God knows it. And he knows it.

The knowledge threatens to unmake him: he could fill you now, right now with your heated body primed and the timing perfect, let nature take its course. Your cunt is soft and warm and open, ripe and ready for him. And fuck, it hits him like a train.

Fucking you full to knock you up, marking you with proof of your unwavering faith— 

The thought makes his cock ache so hard it’s a mercy he’s still clothed.

Conversely you’re a mess, dress bunched up and panties soaked, and your heart is beating so hard you’re sure it’s deafening him. Matt locks your thighs over his forearms and carries you down the hall in steady steps, kiss never breaking until your back finally hits the bed. He’s over you in seconds, broad and solid and trembling with restraint that’s quickly breaking.

He looms above you, working deftly on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other braced beside you on the mattress to keep you where he wants you. His lips—rosy and pouted, kiss-swollen—curl into a knowing half-smirk.

“You have no idea,” his voice is rich with the thickness of his lust, “the way you taste and smell right now. If you could feel what I feel standing this close to you, you’d lose your mind.”

The shirt finally slips free, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail over his chest, marked by two long scars like uneven wings taking flight. Then his broad shoulders, the planes and valleys of muscle. Oh, Christ. He leans down, his hands already finding the material of your dress.

“Up,” he coaxes, warm but unyielding. You obey instinctively, helpless to raise your arms up and shimmy a little so he can peel the dress up and toss it aside in one smooth motion. His lips descend to your collarbone, stubble grazing the sensitive skin there as he kisses you with maddening patience. Every sensation of his tickling, hot breath sends sparks rushing through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough. You squirm, desperate for more, but he’s already working his way down—kisses tracing paths between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

Nose nudging against the soaked fabric, Matt inhales deep, a shameless groan rumbling from his chest as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping for me, honey. Been like this since the train home, haven’t you?”

You flush but don’t deny it. The damp feel of the delicate lace between your thighs is proof enough. He chuckles softly at your silence, a finger twisting under the waistband to peel the damp fabric down, sliding it off the smooth skin of your legs to toss it aside. And suddenly, the room seems to be completely saturated by your arousal, steeping into every inch of air he pulls into his lungs.

Still, Matt doesn’t seem to be in any rush. His lips return to your inner thighs, tracing sultry kisses to burning flesh. Thighs pressed to his ears, the sound of your arteries reverberates like a drumline inside his skull. Femoral, uterine, iliac —he can name every one he hears. A symphony thrumming for him, hot and rhythmic. He kisses the spot where it sings beneath your skin.

(What an asshole, you’re thinking, knowing his every peck is deliberate; every drag of his tongue is just close enough to where you need him that it makes you squeal with frustration.)

“Matt,” you snip, tugging at his locks to guide him where you want him. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already!”

He pulls back from between your legs, lips curved into a cocky grin. “Be patient,” he chides, shaking his head like you’re a child spoiled rotten. “I gotta take care of you first, don’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he isn’t done.

“I heard, it’ll take better if you come first,” he says evenly, using that court voice, the one he uses to explain the facts of a case and win over the jury without fail. “So… I’m gonna make you come again…” a kiss on the inner side of your knee, “…and again….” on your inner thigh, “…and again…” on your pubic mound, “…until your body has no choice but to take me.”

The filthy promise pulls you taut as his nose bumps against your clit. “Oh? And just where did you hear this news from, Counselor– Oh Christ–!” You gasp, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue darts out, tasting you lightly before pulling back just long enough to smirk at how you tremble under him.

“See?” Matt says, voice positively dripping with smugness. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Let me handle it, alright?”

And then he buries himself between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with ravenous precision. Fuck, he could die happy right then, the sour-sweet taste of your slickness robust and vividly ripe on his tongue, incomparable to its scent he’d only enjoyed since before that point. You cry out, your head falling back to the mattress as he pulls you higher with every stroke of his tongue, every flick and flat press against your clit, mouth working generously to kiss your needy cunt open.

Determined to see you come undone, he dives his rough fingers into you, his tongue maintaining pressure upon your clit. Your walls clench at the sensation of being breached, nerves going haywire with excitement as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you call out his name, he brushes at that sensitive spot, conditioning you by the whimpers and cries falling out of your mouth. Training you like an animal to associate the heightened pleasure with his name, though really he has no need to. No one has ever touched you with such precise devotion as him. 

Your heels dig into his back, hips canting to demand more. Matt grunts against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you can feel the mattress dipping slightly as he ruts against it, his own desperation spilling over.

“Matty—fuck—” you pant, hands clutching at the sheets. He only growls in response, his free hand curling against your legs to hold you in place, barring any attempt at escape. He’s eating you like a man starved, shamelessly groaning and fucking the mattress at your taste—and with the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap, you fold and unfold, instinctively trying to get away.

But Matt, all-knowing and bent on denying you the privilege of holding back, presses down harder inside you, rubbing while he sucks at your clit. You curse uncontrollably and the white-hot high finally, finally washes over you violently, downwards, down then up with your thighs clamped around his head, clenching around his thick, thrusting fingers. Matt refuses to slow down or let up, working you through every spasm until you’re left a panting, boneless mess beneath him.

“Christ,” you mutter weakly, when you can get it together enough to speak. The world’s still spinning around you, folded inwards to just the sight of him sitting back on his heels. His mouth and jaw are obscenely glistening with your wetness. Matt, sensing your hitched breath, correctly infers that you’re staring shamelessly at him, and at the bulge that’s tented angrily between his legs.

Smug little shit that he is, he brings his hand up to his mouth. The pretty-pink petals of his lips purse around his fingers as he revels in your taste. Matt hums his praise low in his throat, but you don’t get to enjoy the show as much as you want. The mattress shifts, and his hands close tight around your waist, turning you over onto your arms and knees.

Bent over for him, the anticipation is electric, your body still oversensitive from your high. But you can’t help it, that errant need to reassert yourself.

“Jesus, finally,” you muse, smirking above your shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk, Counselor.”

That earns a snap.

You hear the leathery rasp of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants, a sound that makes your toes curl.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, pushing your head forward. He leans down to press a hard, claiming kiss to your shoulder blade. The cold metal of the belt buckle kisses your wrists a moment later, and he binds them behind your back in a practiced knot, giving the binding a perfunctory tug to test its hold. 

Oh. Fuck.

Every inch of your arched posture has you laid bare for him in surrender. Your shoulders are sunken into the mattress, having lost the arms to brace yourself with. Ever the gentleman, he holds you steady with a firm grip while the other hand touches between your thighs, trailing all the way to your wet slit. He inhales sharply at the mess waiting for him, your arousal clinging sticky up to his knuckles. 

Matt huffs a laugh under his breath.

“So fucking ready for me,” he murmurs. 

Fisting his cock, he gives it a few rough tugs, precum slicking over his palm as he aligns his hips behind you, pushing forward. You feel the fat, hot head of his cock notch between your folds, and your cunt clenches on instinct, greedy for the stretch about to come. But Matt’s cruel with his patience, and his pace is leisurely slow.

One of his hands finds the knot of your bound wrists and tightens his grip, using the tension to anchor himself. 

He’s soaking in every detail. How your heat radiates off every cell of your skin; the fertile slick seeping out of you, perfuming the air so thickly he can taste it on his tongue. He can hear your heartbeat in your cunt, veins rushing with blood and fuck, he wants to ruin it, claim you with a violence that will leave no doubt in your body, least not in your womb. But even completely soaked, he knows your body needs time to adjust to him.

You whimper, pushing back to take control, but Matt holds you rooted in place. “Ah,” he tuts, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re not getting it that easy, sweetheart. Patience, remember?”

“I literally just fucking came!”

He grits his teeth. The blunt crest of his cock presses into you, splitting you open and it knocks any trace of defiance from your mouth, bordering on too much but your pussy’s welcoming it, spasming around the overwhelming sensation as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh fuck—” you gasp, “you’re so deep, Matt– Matt—”

“Yeah?” Voice almost cracking as he draws his hips back, only to thrust forward again with a punishing roll that has you keening. “I told you. So fucking tight. Jesus. Your pussy’s just pulling me in.”

Your body jolts with every thrust, each one driving deeper, testing the limits of what you can take. Every time he slams in, your cunt makes a wet humiliating sound and then the hand gripping your wrists slides up, pushing between your shoulder blades to shove you down hard into the mattress as his movements pick up. Fucking you in earnest, his cock drilling into your heat with a brutal, single-minded rhythm that has you whimpering, crying out his name.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he snarls, grabbing the round swell of your ass, “you want it as bad as I do. You smelled so fucking good all day, d’you know how hard it was for me? It was torture. So good with that baby— Gonna let me give you one? Make you mine? Do you want that, honey?”

“Yes–fuck–yes,” you’re panting, thighs trembling as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens, “want it so bad, Matt, don’t stop–”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Matt growls, his chest pressing flush against your back. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. “How many kids do you want, honey? I’ll give you as many as you’ll let me. I’ll put one in you right now. Not gonna stop til I fill you up.”

The shift in angle forces a sob from you as he sinks even deeper, his cock grinding up deeper than before, hitting that unbearable bundle of nerves with a dense pressure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your arms are still trapped between your bodies, they’re numb and aching but it feels so so good, getting fucked by your husband with abandon. Matt doesn’t falter; he’s fully over you, pinning you down with his full weight as his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the tender skin before biting down hard.

You cry out, pain-blinded. The sharpness slices clean through you and with the overwhelming heat, the stretch of him inside you—there it is, you come undone with a fractured sob, violent and searing. Your bound hands writhe uselessly, the bite on your shoulder singing as your vision whites out. Your ears ring, barely registering Matt’s voice swimming in and out of focus, calling you Good girl good girl… his hand petting your head, stroking your hair as your body shakes for him.

Then he’s pushing himself upright again, pulling out and rising to his knees behind you. His praises are still trailing out of him in soft whispers. One hand reaches for the belt at your wrists, tugging—your spine pulled upright by the motion. You whimper a breathy protest as your limbs stretch from disuse.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, voice buttery and low. He sounds so sweet it makes your bruised core flutter, even now. His hands work at the leather binding behind you and finally, mercifully, you’re freed. But your body’s limp, shaking from the aftermath, and without the belt holding you up, you collapse forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Matt chuckles. “Easy, baby.”

He eases you over onto your back carefully, slipping a pillow under your spine to support your sore back. He’s pressing kisses all over your cheeks— and his cock, still swollen and slick with your release, twitches at the salt clinging to his mouth. You’ve been crying.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle along your jaw. “So sweet for me. Is my girl tired?”

You can barely say anything; you nod shakily. Your arms are tingling from the blood finally returning.

“And does she want to stop, hm?” A kiss to your cheek. “Does my sweet girl want to stop?”

You manage a small shake of your head.

A rough, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

The pins and needles in your arms are buzzing unpleasantly, but your cunt clenches at his voice anyway. You whine pitifully, and of course he hears.

“One more, alright, honey? Will you give me one more?”

Then he’s shifting, settling himself between your legs again. His hands wrap under your knees–thumbs pressing into the tender divots beneath the joints—and he presses them forward, toward your shoulders. Folded in half, you gasp at the stretch. Completely open beneath him, pinned by nothing but his weight, you shiver under the totality of his presence over you.

“This,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your lower belly, “this is where our baby’s gonna grow, sweetheart. Right here.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance and you’re so wet it slides through the mess of your arousal, teasing but not entering, just enough to make you sob.

“Matt—please—”

“Shh,” he soothes, lining himself up, pressing in. “There we go. So good for me, you’re taking it so well.”

This angle—God, it’s worse than before; better than it. Deeper, impossibly so, hitting places inside you you’ve never felt before, spots that send your nerves screaming. You sob helplessly as your body struggles to accommodate him, every thrust dragging against your walls, each ridge and vein of his cock felt completely. 

“C’mon,” he pants as his movements pick up the pace, thrusts growing fast and erratic. “Gimme this one, sweetheart. Just one more for me, I promise.”

The bed protests beneath you, the frame rattling against the wall. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and just as you start to feel that sharpness creeping up again, something stupid occurs to you: you’re loud. Your screams, the creak of the bed, the sound of your cunt around him– the neighbors—

You turn your head, trying to muffle yourself against your arm.

Matt growls, yanking your arm down and at the same time, he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with bruising force, hard enough to knock all the breath from your lungs. You can’t stop the scream of his name torn from your throat.

“Matt— please, the neighbors—”

“No,” he snarls. “I’m your husband. I get to fuck you as loud as I want. You want this?” 

You nod frantically, too breathless to answer.

His hand finds your throat, grasping firmly around the delicate column. He feels the hammer of your pulse against his palm, heavy and turbulent like a rushing flood. He tightens his grip just enough to feel it catch beneath his thumb. To him, it seems unmistakably perverse—this power to still you if he wanted. And yet your trust is entire, your faith in him unshaken. 

“Then let them hear,” he says. “Let them hear what I do to my wife. Let them know how good I’m fucking her.”

A generous god, a present one. That’s what you’ve made him.

“Say my name,” he demands, voice rough, “want to feel it in your throat.”

“Matthew,” you choke out, completely helpless to his touch. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…

It’s slipping. That darker thing inside him rising, coaxed loose by the mess of needy wetness where you’re connected. It wants to claim you and mark you, become His peer, one worthy of your devotion. 

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He licks the salt from your neck. “Can feel how close you are.”

His hand leaves your throat and presses flat against your stomach, right above where his cock punches deep. The pressure of his cock bulging under his palm sends another wave through your body. The feeling at the pit of your gut’s starting to rapidly swell, acute and compounding by the second as he fucks you with the whole length of his cock. 

“Feel that?” he rasps, pressing down harder. “That’s where m’gonna fill you. Right into your womb. And if it doesn’t take this time— I’ll fucking make sure it does the next. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Then his hand drops lower, to your cunt, gathering your creamy slick with his thumb to rub the swollen nub of your clit with. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says, the words strangled. “Come while I fuck my baby into you.”

You look down where you’re connected, where his cock sinks in and out of you, coated in slick and so much need and you break. Your walls seize around his length, body convulsing as your climax tears through you. You cry out, legs twitching and nails raking across the sheets. Above you, Matt groans with a guttural, broken sound. His hips drive forward once, twice—the head of his cock kissing the ripe seal of your womb, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, filling you with so much it leaks around his cock even as he keeps pumping deep as he can go. His sweat’s dripping onto you as he holds you tightly, arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. You twitch beneath him, aftershocks rolling still and he collapses onto you, pulsing with the last desperate pulses of cum from his cock.

Your body’s completely pliant, legs trembling even when he finally stills. 

“Let gravity help,” he says, easing out gently. He slips the pillow from beneath your back and tucks it under your hips, before slumping beside you. You giggle weakly, nuzzling into his neck. Your sweet husband’s back, placing soft lingering kisses all over your face as his chest heaves from the earlier exertion.

“So,” you start, the haze starting to set, “can you really tell?”

“...Yes,” Matt admits. His voice is husky, warm with affection. “You smell different. And you’re warmer, just a little–”

“Smell different?! Do I stink or something?”

He laughs into your hair, arm pulling you in tight. “Sweetheart, I think we’ve established well enough that you smell absolutely beguiling to me.”

You roll your eyes, your finger tracing absent shapes on his chest. Heart, triangle, star. He hums at each one.

Smiley face. That earns a chuckle. 

“Anyway, you weren’t half bad with Teddy either,” you muse thoughtfully. “I think you’d make an amazing dad.”

You opt not to tease him about the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Matt.” You clear your throat. “You know, I really do want it, but… I just want you to know that I’m happy, even just now. And I’m not stupid, I know you could…,” you try not to say die, “...well, the worst could happen. Even then, I’d still want this life with you, whatever I can get. When we got married, I knew that would come with it, and– And if we do have a kid, if the future holds that for us, then it won’t just be us. We have Foggy and Karen and Marci, and my family, too. Takes a village and all that, y’know?”

You pause to catch your breath, Matt nodding you on.

“Point is, we’ll never be left alone, no matter what. I know that’s something you worry about a lot. So if– if something ever did happen to you…” You force yourself to say it, “we’d survive. We can keep living. But between surviving with you and without you, I’ll always choose with. So I’m asking you to let yourself have this. If you really want it. Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Have faith that it includes you.

He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking gently at the slope of your arm.

“I promise,” he says at last, “I really do want it.”

He knows you know the rest. That’s all he can say, pressing a kiss to your temple. Thank you isn’t nearly enough, but it buzzes in his pulse anyway. Smiling faintly into your hair, he lets it stretch just long enough… Before the gravity of the moment slips from his shoulders, not all the way but just enough to let in that familiar, crooked grin.

“Oh, but you know, honey,” he murmurs, lips on your cheek, “you’re not pregnant yet.”

The laugh bubbles from your throat, and he can feel the sound against his skin.

“That was just round one.” His hand slides down to grip your thigh, and he feels you shiver. Perfect. “Let’s get to work then, Counselor.”

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the collar, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”

“Just to the bathroom. Gonna freshen up.” 

To freshen up, he thinks, and not to brush your teeth. Is he going to presume himself a lucky man from turn of phrase alone? No. But does he sit in bed waiting anxiously for you to return? Yes. Clark wouldn’t say it’s hard to get you out of your clothes, euphemism or otherwise; you aren’t uncomfortable around him anymore, just your tentativeness remains. He has to be gentle with you, and he doesn’t mind. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fully dressed when you return, smelling noticeably of lotion and something else he can’t name aptly as you stop at your side of the bed. His stomach flickers with heat as you switch off the bedside lamp, leaving the TV as the only light source. 

“Okay?” you ask softly. 

“Perfect, sweet girl,” he says, matching your tone, almost lost under the sounds of the movie. 

You nod. 

His breath catches and stills as you reach for the edge of your shirt and pull it off. 

Then you slip your shorts down your hips and Clark’s mind takes time to catch up. Like, a ridiculous amount of time. 

You’re not not cute, he wants that cemented in the record forever. You are a darling. In whatever plain white panties you deign to show him, in your simple t-shirt bras and especially out of them, you’re a wonder. Clark can’t believe you’re of earth, sometimes, until he thinks of course you are. You are charmingly, broadly human. 

Right now, you’re wearing the cutest matching set he’s ever seen, his mouth immediately cottoned with longing.

They aren’t ‘sexy’, objectively, a fake satin that looks perfectly comfortable to sleep in. The panties have a lettuce hemming, pink fabric, and his entire body has started to fill with a telling heat following the lines of you. “Are those strawberries?” he asks. 

You pull the sheets back and set yourself down beside him. Your little ankle socks stay on. Fuck, his blood is practically boiling in his veins. 

“Honey, you’re gonna have to let me see,” he says lightly. 

“No, ‘cos you looked at me too long. You’re done.”

You’re serious and teasing at once. 

“How was I supposed to not look?”

“Practice your restraint,” you say, really joking now. If Clark concentrates he can hear the patter of your heart picking up. Anticipation sends a flush over your skin. 

“Let me see you again,” he says, warming your thigh through the sheets. “Please.” 

You lay further down in the bed and breathe deeply. “Kiss me first,” you say, and there, he can hear the thread of your nerves, how much courage it actually took you to stand there and shimmy out of your clothes, knowing it was a big change.  

“Yeah, I will,” he promises, raising a hand to your cheek. “You– I don’t know how to say it. You’re–” He takes a calming breath as you had. He could be far more gentlemanly about the situation if he tried. “Fuck,” he groans instead, tapping his nose against yours, hovering for a kiss. Sweet girl.

You laugh, self-satisfaction new and wholly delightful on you as you tip your chin up to meet his lips. 

You moved back just a month or so ago to care for your ailing mother. It’s been a tough month, and you just started your new job as a bank teller. In a town this size, it’s dull work, but it was nice getting to know the residents. And it’s nice to get out of the house. You love your mom, but caring for someone is hard. The nurses come during the day, but most evenings, it’s on you.

Recently, though, your mom had been telling you to get out and see some of the town; meet some new people. You know she means “find a man,” even if she doesn’t say it out loud.

“I’d like to see you married before I die, darling. It’s important,” she said earlier this morning. You just sighed and left the house. It had been a while since you’d been with anyone, and even longer since you’d been in a relationship. But Laredo isn’t a huge place, and everyone you know is either married or had moved away.

And you don’t want to fuck just anyone. You need someone understanding and patient, and there aren’t a lot of men out there like that. So you resigned yourself to a life of celibacy until you could move somewhere else, and that was that.

Of course, after you reassure yourself of this decision, Javier Peña walks into your bank to open a savings account. He is, in fact, just as gorgeous as everyone says. Strong nose, sharp jaw, thick mustache, broad shoulders, and big brown eyes hidden behind yellow aviators. You sigh at the gorgeous combination of features, lost in a daydream until he swaggers up to your counter, knocking you out of the fantasy and forcing you to put on your customer service face.

“Can I help you, sir?” You ask, your voice a few octaves higher than your natural pitch.

“I’d like to open a savings account,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask how you’re doing, doesn’t try to start a conversation while you pull out the forms he needs. It’s a wonderful change from the small talk generally forced on you.

“Do you have anything you’d like to deposit today, sir?” You ask after he completes the paperwork and you photocopy his identification. He even looks good in his driver’s license picture.

“Yes,” he says. “This.”

He hands you a stack of bills, looking around warily as you count them out.

“Something the matter?” You ask.

“I, uh...old habit,” he says.

“I don’t think there are any drug traffickers in here today,” you say dryly, then cringe. The residents of your hometown do not often appreciate your sense of humor. You’re about to apologize when he chuckles under his breath.

“No,” he says. “Doesn’t look like there are.”

You finish depositing his money and tell him to have a good day, and he walks out of the glass doors while you ogle after him.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, missy,” your co-worker, Ellen, says. “Shouldn’t get mixed up with him. He’s a heartbreaker.”

“Does anyone actually know anyone other than Lorraine that he wronged?” You ask. You aren’t sure why you’re defensive, but he’d been so polite. Ellen shakes her head and goes back to her work.

He comes back the next week to deposit more. And then he wants to open a checking account the next week. The week after, he brings in some neatly rolled coins to exchange. Javier seeks you out, always. More than once, you notice him letting other people go ahead just so he can get you.

“Can I take you to dinner?” He asks, quite abruptly, just as you finish counting out his withdrawal. You lay the last bill on the stack. He’s really interrupting your celibacy plan, but the puppy-dog eyes draw you in.

“I’d like that,” you say.

“Friday?” He asks, looking hopeful.

“Yeah, that should give me some time to find a sitter.”

“Oh,” he says, “You have kids?”

He doesn’t seem upset, just curious.

“No, God, not at all. It’s my mom. She can’t really be left alone for too long.”

He frowns, and you realize you might have divulged too much information. Who wants to date a woman with baggage? You’re just about to tell him it’s fine if he wanted to cancel, but he speaks before you can.

“That’s pretty expensive, huh?” He asks. You shrug and nod, because it’s the truth. “Hm.”

“It’s really okay; I don’t mind,” you say, mostly to fill the silence.

“Can I do another transaction?” He asks.

“Oh, um, of course,” you say, taken aback at his sudden shift, and a little embarrassed that he moved on so quickly.

“I wanna take out a hundred dollars from my savings.”

You hand him a one hundred-dollar bill, and he hands it back to you.

You look at him, confused, and a grin spreads across his handsome face. “For the sitter.”

“I can’t—”

“It’s part of the date. I’m paying, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” you murmur. You give him all the details—your phone number, your address. He’ll pick you up at seven.

He walks out of the bank with a little spring in his step, and you smile to yourself, clutching the bill.

***

Javi’s nervous. When’s the last time he went on a date? A proper date, with dinner and drinks and flowers? This is Steve’s fault. When Javi came back stateside, Steve told him to settle down during one of the monthly phone calls that had become routine.

“Connie and Olivia are the only things keeping me going. I don’t know what I’d do without them. Find something to hold on to and cherish so you can get your bearings. It’s tough out there alone,” Steve said in that West Virginia drawl.

Javier rolled his eyes at first, but after a few months, he’d started to feel it. His dad was good company, but they’d gotten on each other’s nerves enough that Javi had gotten his own place not far from Chucho’s.

The little ranch house felt huge, and that girl from the bank—she’s cute. Gorgeous, even. The joke she made the first time they met? The same undeserved hero-worship marred his interactions with everyone else in this town since he came back, and she took him down a peg. He liked that in a woman. Why not take her out?

Javi rings the doorbell to her place—a modest craftsman bungalow tucked off into a neighborhood just off the main highway. She opens the door in a little black dress that reminds him of Julia Roberts wears in Pretty Woman. He doesn’t watch a lot of movies, but he loves that one. Not that he’s ever admitted it to anyone. She wears black pumps and a sparkling necklace, and he drinks in the sight of her, feeling very under dressed in his blazer and jeans.

“You look great,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. She smiles and tells him he does, too.

He does all the things he’s supposed to do, all the stuff he remembers doing when he dated a million years ago. He opens doors, pays for her meal, orders nice wine (he thinks it’s nice, at least—he’s always preferred whiskey). And at the end of the night, he takes her home and kisses her good night.

As she shuts the door, wobbling a little from the wine and her heels, he takes what feels like his first breath all evening. He wonders if calling her tomorrow is too soon.

***

Javier invites you to his place for the fourth date, offering to cook. You’re a little suspicious because from everything he’s told you about himself (which, to be fair, is not a lot), he doesn’t seem like much of a cook. But it doesn’t matter. At this point, you’re more interested in getting a full sentence out of him. It’s not that he’s rude or shy, even. He just doesn’t seem to have much to say.

Instead, he listens to with an intent you’re not used to from a man. He asks you questions about yourself, and doesn’t use them as a springboard to talk about himself. Sometimes it’s more of an interrogation than a conversation with those big brown eyes trained on you.

You’d like to pull him out of his shell just a little.

When you arrive at his place, he opens the door wearing a white apron. Oh, God, he’s adorable. You wonder if he cooks a lot, or if it’s a recent purchase. He invites you in, looking quite handsome in a plaid button-up and jeans. His hair is a little messier than you’ve seen it, and when you enter the kitchen, you see why.

It’s a mess. Propped on the counter is a cookbook turned to a recipe for chicken parmesan with angel hair pasta. For you, it’s a simple dish, and one you’ve ordered out with him. He must have noticed. For him, though, it seems to have upended his life. The scent of burnt meat fills your nose. He turns to you with an apologetic smile.

“You burnt the chicken, huh?” You ask.

“I couldn’t tell if it was cooked,” he says gruffly, a little defensive. “Didn’t want to give you salmonella.”

You quirk your mouth at him, surprised at his thoughtfulness. You lay a hand on his shoulder and his eyes flick to it. Wondering if you’ve overstepped—there hasn’t been much physical contact between the two of you yet—you make to withdraw your hand, but he brings his own up to his shoulder and laces his large fingers in the spaces between your own.

“...You have stuff to make huevos rancheros?” You ask. The tension in his forehead melts and he breaks into a wide smile.

“You’re not mad?” He asks.

“Why on Earth would I be mad?”

***

Javier parts his lips in surprise. He’s not sure why she’d be upset with him, exactly, but he’d been sure he’d screw this up somehow.

“Yeah,” he says, “I have that.”

She slides her heels off and moves past him, gathering up the soiled dishes and making her way to the sink. He tries to stop her, to tell her she doesn’t need to do that, but she slinks out of his reach and shakes her head.

“I didn’t want to have you cleaning,” he says, and she laughs.

“It’s no big deal,” she shrugs. “Get all the stuff we need out while I do this.”

She moves quickly, making short work of the mess he’s made. The second attempt at dinner is a success—simple, but delicious. She asks him questions this time, drilling into him the way he’s drilled into her. She dances around his time in the DEA, asking about what he liked to do in Colombia, if he had any places he missed. Javier, for once, doesn’t dread answering questions about his past.

She teases him about his reputation, and he can only sigh. You leave one woman at the altar, and you’re a womanizer for life.

“And what do you think about it, sweetheart?” He asks. He means it to be flirtacious, but it comes out like a plead.

“I think...I think your past is none of my business,” she says, choosing her words with care. He finds, though, that he might want it to be.

“I didn’t date, exactly,” he admits. “Just had a couple of girls I knew well.”

She sits back and nods, waiting for him to go on. Normally he might hesitate, but she has kind eyes. In some ways, she reminds him of Connie—strong, open, opinionated, and caring. He never coveted her, exactly, but he told himself if he ever found a woman even a little like that, he’d hold on to her. It was like he’d told Steve when Connie went home—there are women worth fighting for, and she was one of them. He thinks the woman in front him might be one, too.

And here she is, carving shallow fissures into his past to see if he’ll meet her halfway. He can do that.

“They were informants. Prostitutes, mostly,” he said, waiting for the inevitable, but she breezes past it.

“Anyone special?” She prods. He thinks of Helena, of Gabi, even Elisa. They were special, but not how she means. He shakes his head.

“Must have been lonely, all those years,” she says, reaching her hand across the dining room table to stroke his knuckles with her thumb. He clears his throat and shakes his head, because this fissure is too deep for now.

“Should we watch a movie?” He asks.

***

You notice the abrupt change of subject, but say nothing.

“Sure,” you agree. “What movie?”

A hint of embarrassment washes over him as he picks up the Blockbuster case. “Uh, it’s...it’s called Fools Rush In? The lady said it was a romantic comedy.”

Your eyes light up. “With Salma Hayek?”

His embarrassment gives way to subdued delight, and he nods.

“I’d been wanting to see that!” You say, sitting delicately on the couch, curling your legs to your side. The dress you chose is a little much for a night in, but you couldn’t help it. You wanted to look as close to gorgeous as you could for this man. He’d kissed you a few times, and you’d held hands, but he’d so far been physically reserved. And it wasn’t that you were dying to have sex—because that’s where the complications come in—but you did want to know that you were desirable. That he wants you. Because despite the complications, you really, really want him.

He turns off the lights and sits next to you, his denim-clad thigh pressing against your bare leg, and rests his arm behind your shoulders. You scoot a little closer and lean into his torso, head resting on his chest. He pulls you in even more, placing his hand on your shoulder and tracing light circles on your arm with thick, calloused fingers.

***

The movie’s funny, and plenty romantic, he supposes, but he can’t stop looking at her in the dark. She’s never been this close for this long, and he wants to tilt her chin up to press his lips against hers. He wants to push the straps of her dress down and kiss her bare shoulders. It’s been a while since he’s been with a woman, and she’s always so stressed. Caring for her mom or working. He wants to lift some of that off of her in the best way he knows how.

So he leans down and kisses her neck. Softly at first, to see how she reacts. She doesn’t stiffen, but melts into him, and he takes it as a good sign. His lips travel further around her neck, nipping her chin with gentle teeth and eliciting a soft moan from her.

She leans back to give him better access to explore her with his mouth. He slips her dress straps down and nibbles her bare shoulders, kissing his way down to the top of her breasts. He’d like to taste those, too, but he leans up instead, capturing her soft lips in a wet kiss. She moans straight into his mouth and his half-hard cock strains against his jeans.

Javier leans back and pulls her on top until she’s straddling his thigh. He rubs her soft hips, fingers digging in lightly as she rocks back and forth on him, grinding herself into his thigh. She whimpers slightly as he rucks her stretchy dress down to reveal a lacy black bra, which he unclasps with ease. Her breasts bounce as he unveils them and he lets out a groan.

“Baby,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to cup her and swipe a thumb over her nipple. “Look at you.”

***

He is laser-focused, listening to your body’s needs, watching the way you react to each touch and lick and nibble. His mustache tickles you as he takes your nipple in his mouth, suckling softly. The hand that cups you is huge—thick, long fingers and a wide, meaty palm. You whimper at the size of it.

Your instinct is to be quiet, but he pulls moans out of you like it’s his life’s purpose. Every noise you make, he answers with his own. A groan, a pant, a soft word of praise. He puts his hands on your hips and rocks you back and forth, the friction of his clothed thigh rubbing against your cunt. You’re so lost in how good it feels, how safe you feel with those big hands running up and down your arms, you forget to worry about what comes next.

“Do you want to go to the bedroom, baby?” He asks. And here’s where you make the decision. To have the conversation, or hope for the best. To decline, even if you don’t want to decline, or say yes and see if things go differently this time. The heat between your legs and the heartbreakingly beautiful man underneath you wins out, but just as you’re about to nod, he asks if everything’s okay, like he picked up your hesitation.

And, you remind yourself, he probably had.

“All fine,” you assure him, but you’re not sure how you’re going to do this. He kisses you again, deep and hard and messy, his tongue sliding lazily into your mouth. He nudges you backward, tapping your thigh to signal he wants you to get up.

On the short walk to the bedroom, he kisses the back of your neck and you shiver at his warm breath dusting over your skin. You let the sensation ground you as you walk into a pleasantly neat room, bed made and all. Most men could barely manage to pick up all the empty beer cans, much less make the bed.

He stops here for just a moment to unbutton his shirt and pull it off, revealing a smooth, bronze chest, muscled arms, and an age-softened belly you wanted to kiss. You wonder, maybe, if you can just give him a blowjob, and then postpone anything for you until next time. If there was a next time.

Javier closes the gap between the two of you and strokes your cheek. You decide to go for it, peppering kisses on his neck and down his chest, dropping to your knees to unbuckle his belt and kiss his stomach, palming the bulge in his jeans. If it’s as big as it feels, this is going to be even more difficult for you. You focus on your task, but he cups his hand under your chin and tilts your face up to look at him.

***

Javier doesn’t like receiving first. He likes exploring a new partner, finding what they like, learning their body. He isn’t a hard man to please. His talents lie in making the person he shares his bed with scream his name, and he wants it just as much, if not more, than their pretty lips around his cock.

“Not yet,” he whispers. He pulls her up and undresses her slowly, taking note of the places that make her whimper as his hand traverses her skin. Once she’s fully bare, laying naked in front of him, he takes in her form under the low light and groans. Her breathing comes out in soft pants as he takes her nipple into his mouth again.

“Like this?” He asks when she moans at his touch, loving the frantic nod she gives him. Javier’s hand moves over her body, down her stomach, squeezing her ass and nudging his knuckle through her damp folds. He groans at her arousal and brings his fingers up to his mouth for a taste. “You taste so fucking good.”

Javi knows he’s good at this part. He’s a quiet man, preferring to speak only when he has something to say, but his voice is his favorite toy to pull out during sex. And she’s especially responsive. He wonders if this is new, if no one’s spoken to her like this before.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty for me, baby,” he murmurs, circling her clit as she whines underneath. “You know how often I think about this? About making you come?”

She shivers underneath him, opening her mouth and closing it again, and he smiles against her chest. Yeah, this is new for her. He nibbles on her neck and soothes the teeth marks with his tongue as she grows wetter by the second, dripping between his fingers.

Javier leans up and kisses her softly as he slides a finger inside of her, freezing when he feels her entire body tense up. She gasps, but not in a good way. He pulls back from her lips to search her face and finds her looking away from him, biting her lip with her face screwed up in something too much like pain.

***

You knew he’d do it soon, and you knew those fingers would be too much, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop him. He feels so good against you, so soft and warm and firm. Strong. So you let him inside, praying this time it’s different, and, of course, it hurts. Your heart stutters, dropping with disappointment. It burns, like always, and you don’t know why. It’s always been like this. You’ve asked doctors, and they wave it off, telling you to try more lube or just tough it out. It always hurts a little at first. It’ll feel better, eventually.

But it never does. And you think, maybe, this is just what sex feels like. Maybe everyone else just has a higher pain tolerance. Or maybe your body is just broken. If this man can’t make you enjoy it, you’re positive it’s impossible.

He pulls back and looks at you, and you realize the sharp gasp has given you away. You’re close to ruining an almost perfect night, so you try to rearrange your face; to turn the gasp of pain into something that sounds vaguely pornographic. You want him to have a good time, at least.

“What is it?” He asks, his brown eyes soft with curiosity and concern.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” you murmur, but he’s just not that easy to fool. He pulls his finger out of you quickly and you yelp with pain. He looks panicked now, and you’re not sure you’re ready to explain any of it. “Sorry,” you say, looking away again.

“Hey, hey. Come on, baby, what’s going on? Did I hurt you?”

And how to explain that it wasn’t him or his gentle fingers that hurt you? How to explain it was your own body that decided penetration was not in the cards? That you could barely stand to put in tampons? That you’d never enjoyed a man’s cock inside of you because you were too busy breathing through it? That your past boyfriends had called you damaged goods when they couldn’t get you off?

It’s all too much—you and all your baggage trying to date. Your little skirts and slinky dresses were false advertising. And then, of course, hot tears of embarrassment pool at the corner of your eyes, spilling over the sides of your cheeks. Would he ask for the sitter money back? God, what was he going to tell his friends? How soon would the total population of Laredo, Texas, know you were damaged goods, too?

***

It happens so fast Javier doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t know what he’s done. Moved too quickly, maybe? Misread a signal? Panic and dread grow inside of him—flashes of Helena laid on a mattress, bruised and broken for someone else’s amusement—as he tries to piece everything together. What has he done? She pushes him away as he struggles to react, reaching for her clothes.

“Wait, please, sweetheart,” he says softly, “Please tell me what’s going on.”

She turns to face him, still bare and beautiful as ever, covering herself awkwardly, and he pulls the blanket off the bed to wrap around her shivering figure. “It’s really not a big deal,” she says.

“It seems like it is,” he points out, leading her back to the bed. “I’d like to know.”

“It...hurts. It hurts when...ugh, it hurts when I fuck, okay? Or put anything in there. It’s always hurt. Nothing has ever felt good. I usually just...get through it,” she admits, wiping her eyes. “No one’s ever noticed enough to stop.”

Javier’s quiet for a moment, processing the information. The way she clenched and gasped and tensed up, the look of pain on her face. “No one’s ever stopped?” He asks. She shakes her head. He moves forward to put his arm around her and thinks better of it. “Can I touch you?”

“..Yes,” she says. He pulls her close and kisses her deeply. His instinct to retroactively protect her from every piece of shit who’s violated her without caring pulses within him, but he pushes it down.

It’s not about him.

“Let’s slow it down, huh?” He asks. “We don’t have to do anything tonight.”

“I wanted to, though,” she says. “I wanted it to be you.”

His eyes drop to her lips, and he looks back into her eyes. “Maybe you just need to relax,” he says in a husky voice. She laughs.

“Well, yeah. But I’m too...I just don’t think sex is good for me.”

Javier feels his own sense of pride claw at his chest. “What about if I kiss you down there? What if we just start with that?”

She rolls her eyes, then looks horrified at herself. “I’m sorry, it’s just...I’ve never come from that.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, “Has a man ever made you come at all?”

She looks at him shyly. “No.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “If you want me to show you something, lay back.”

***

You’re skeptical. You’ve gotten this speech before. They last five minutes and get tired, looking up from between her legs and asking if you’ve come. So you lie and say sure, and get it all over with.

And that’s what sex has been, always. Getting it over with. So you lay back and take a deep breath. Javier crawls between your legs and leans up to your mouth, kissing you so, so softly it makes you want to cry. There’s something tender there that you can’t explain, and you think fleetingly, that maybe he loves you.

He makes his way down your body, kissing every single inch of you he can reach, talking to you the whole time.

“Preciosa,” as he reaches your collarbone. “Hermosa,” to the crevice between your breasts. He moves to your pussy, still slick from his earlier ministrations. Javier nudges your lips open with his nose and you gasp as he grazes your clit.

“She likes that?” He asks.

You nod and whimper. And then he inhales. A deep, shuddering inhale followed by a long groan—like he’s never smelled anything so sweet. You’ve just gotten over the noise he made when he licks a long, lazy stripe along your seam until he reaches your clit. You gasp as he runs his tongue over it, flicking it softly at first.

Javier’s fingers dig into your thighs, gripping you hard. He’s concentrating, you realize. This wasn’t just a way for him to get you ready—he likes it. Wants to make it feel good. Feel great. And, oh God, does it ever. He presses the flat of his tongue to you, the firm pressure driving you wild as he breathes you in. You can hear him moaning between your legs, whispering praise into your cunt, and your eyes roll into the back of your head at his sweet words.

***

Javier senses her getting closer. He can always tell, but it’s trickier with her. Usually he can feel slick walls contracting and pulsing, ready to coat his fingers or cock in her juices. But this isn’t a usual situation. So he works twice as hard, uses his other senses—feels her thighs start to tremble under his large hands as he kneads her soft flesh, hears her breath coming in short gasps and whimpers, sees her eyes squeeze shut and her hands scramble for purchase on the bed as she bucks into him.

And there she goes. She cries out, gushing beautifully onto his greedy tongue.

“Javi,” she whines, “Javi, Javi, Javi—”

He smirks to himself as she babbles his name. Javi wants to talk her through it but he can’t; his lips are sealed over her pussy and he won’t leave it until he’s pulled a second one out of her, so he moans into her instead. This is a woman who wants to know he’s present, he’s there with her.

The second one comes faster, almost immediately after. He licks and licks and licks until she pushes his face away from oversensitivity. He leans back on his knees, still wearing his jeans. His cock strains against the rough denim as he watches her recover. She looks so beautiful and wild like this, stretched on his bed, far away from that self-conscious uncertainty from before.

As she recovers, her eyes grow wide with it again and she bites her lip—a habit he’s starting to love. But before she can get too far into her own head, she looks down and sees his cock bulging in his denim pants as he palms himself for relief. For the second time that night, she dives towards it.

“Please let me suck your cock, Javi,” she pleads. This time he can tell that she means it. Before it was a flimsy offer, one he realizes she made to satiate him for the night. His chest burns with guilt, but her eyes sparkle as she cups him and he’s so fucking hard. He resists.

“Next time, sweetheart. I promise.”

“But—”

“Let’s take a shower,” he offers. She wilts a little, her eyes less shiny with the perceived rejection. He cups her face in his hands and brushes her lips with his. “This is about you, sweetheart.”

She nods, seeming to understand what he means.

In the shower, he touches her again with his fingers, whispers filthy things in her ear, making her come so hard on shaking thighs he has to lower her to the shower floor while she sobs his name.

***

You blush at the way Javier talks to you, filthy and sweet at the same time. But it’s not only the physical side of the relationship that blossoms over the next few weeks. He meets your mom, and she loves him. You’re not sure if it’s because she really loves him or if she’s just ready for you to be married, but it’s nice that she approves. Her health, for once, is improving. You’ve been able to leave her alone at night with no issues, and she keeps pushing you out the door.

“He looks like Burt Reynolds,” she observes when he leaves one night after dinner. Your mother leans conspiratorially toward you. “Does he have chest hair like him?”

You only laugh and shake your head. You think she’d be disappointed if she knew the truth.

He hasn’t brought up the subject of penetration with you since you’d told him it hurt, but the longer the two of you go without talking about it, the more nervous you became. Sure, it’s fine now, but what happens six months down the road when he decides he wants someone he can fuck easily. And Javi’s been so good to you, it feels bad to even think about it. You need to know.

This is the spiral you’re stuck in when he picks you up from work one day. He’s clearly just left the ranch with his grass-stained jeans and damp pink t-shirt. His sweaty throat glistens and he grins at you over the top of his yellow aviators as you slide into the passenger side of his truck.

“Evenin’,” he says, leaning over to kiss your forehead. “My place or yours?”

And then you burst into very noisy tears. His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Baby?” He asks, putting his hand on your shoulder as you sob in the bank parking lot.

“What are we doing?” You ask. He frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this? How long are you gonna keep dating me until you get bored with not being able to fuck me?” You ask, lip trembling, your stomach clenching in fear now that you’d brought it up. Maybe he hadn’t thought of it, and now he will. Javier’s quiet for so long you think he’s mad at you.

“My place, then,” he says, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other lacing his fingers with your own. “We can talk about this there.”

He strokes your hand with his thick thumb and brings it up to kiss it softly every now and then. The drive is less tense than you imagined, but quiet. He pulls you into the house, and there’s very little talking as he leads you to the shower to rinse off the day, washing you from head to toe. You sink into him, finally relaxing.

***

Javier spreads her out on the bed, still wet from the shower. He wonders how deep this goes for, how much of a scar this has left. He has his fair share of pain and secrets, but he thinks she carries some shame with this, too. Javier is bad at talking, bad at expressing himself verbally, bad at making himself understood without using his body—but for her, he’s going to try.

“What do you need from me?” He asks. She bites her bottom lip again.

“I guess I just...don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

She sighs. “You could have anyone. Anyone in this town, or in a million towns, and you’re wasting your time with me. And I’m broken.”

It frustrates him when she says that, when she talks so poorly of herself.

“You’re not broken, sweetheart. I wish you’d stop saying that.”

She looks away from him and swallows thickly.

“The truth is, I can do just fine without ever going inside of you. The last month has been...something I never thought I’d get,” he says. “But we can try something. And we can go slow—as slow as you need.”

She looks at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

***

His fingers are thick and long. A pinky first, after you’ve come by his hand or his tongue. He shifts it around, opening you up, millimeter by millimeter. He soothes you with whispered praise and soft kisses. Props you up with pillows and spreads your legs as wide as they’ll go. He works with precision and focus, and eventually, his middle finger can slide in without much resistance.

“Let’s try a second,” he murmurs one night. “I think you’re ready.”

It pinches, just a bit, but you manage to relax into it. “There she is. There you go, bebita. Doing so well for me. Does that feel good?”

His voice caresses you as softly as his tongue, and you whimper confirmation.

“Gonna go a little faster, pretty girl.”

He adds his thumb to your clit and you clench involuntarily. He stops and holds his fingers in you. “Relax, bebita.”

You didn’t know it could be like this. Didn’t know you could feel stretched and full without being in pain. Didn’t know there was a special spot in you that he could find and stroke and bring you to a different plane. Could make your legs shake and your eyes leak and your pussy quiver around his fingers.

He’s so patient, taking his time and pulling you apart, happy to have your lips around his cock or fuck his own hand as you fall apart on his mouth or fingers.

And then one night, it happens. You just know you want his cock and you know you can take it. Or at least, you want to try. Javi’s cock is huge and thick and intimidating, but you don’t think you can go another moment without him inside you. He’s worried at first, thinking about how tightly you squeeze his fingers, but once he’s assured, he makes his excitement clear.

The amount of lube you’ve gone through the past two months is insane, but he bought an extra bottle. He warms you up, dousing you in his saliva and lube and your own juices.

“Get on top, bebita. You can control it better,” he says. And so you lower yourself slowly, slowly, slowly until you feel that stretch.

“Breathe,” he whispers, noticing you holding your breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. You slide further, concentrating on his arms and hands and eyes. It burns, but not for long. You bottom out, crashing onto him with a strangled sound.

“You’re doing so well,” he assures you. “You’re doing so fucking well, bebita. Taking my cock so, so well. Christ, you’re so fucking tight, baby. Breathe.”

You can tell he’s struggling to stay still, struggling to keep himself from bucking into you. You relax around him and he groans.

“There she goes. Good girl,” he says. You shudder at the praise, whimpering as you start to move. You don’t know how much of him you can take, but you want to try to make him come. You want to make him feel good, make him moan your name. You want to thank him for everything, for his patience and soft eyes and gentle hands.

You suspect he isn’t used to hearing praise like that, and it hurts you.

He stays still underneath you, his hands kneading into you, eyes heavy-lidded; full of warmth and reverence. You bounce faster, never quite pulling off of him, and his fingers grip harder. You’re sure there will be bruises that he’ll soothe with his tongue and lips later, but it’s okay for now. The sensation grounds you. The control he’s given you is wonderful, but you want to try something. You want to feel how much he’s wanted you.

“Can you—mm—can you get on top?” You pant. His eyes grow dark and round, surprised at the request, but unable to hide his desire.

“Are you sure?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“Please,” you beg. “I wanna know what it feels like when it’s good.”

***

Javier understands, even if he’s hesitant. She wants him to claim her. And God help him, he wants to. Her pussy is so tight it’s choking his cock even with her legs spread wide open over him, and he takes deep breaths to control his hips.

“Yeah, baby. We can do that. You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

She nods fervently and shimmies off of him without so much as a wince, and his heart swells at the sight. Javier gathers the pillows and makes a neat stack and leans back to look at her as she crawls onto them, legs spread open and waiting for him.

She glistens for him and he can’t help it; he ducks his head down and laps at her softly.

“Fuck, you taste so good—”

“Javi, fuck me. Please, please fuck me.”

He looks at her, and she means it. He wonders if she’s ever begged anyone like that before, and common sense tells him no. He tries to contain his pride, but he can’t. He’s fucking good at this.

“You want me to fuck you, baby? That’s what you want?” He growls as he crawls up to her. “You sure?”

She nods feverishly, threading your fingers through his hair. “Please.”

He notches the head of his cock at her entrance. Before he enters, he leans close to her and kisses you softly, lovingly, and says, “Please tell me if it hurts, amor.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and he pushes in. “Breathe,” he says.

She’s still tight, but she relaxes, wrapping her legs around his waist and spreading herself as wide as she can. He’s gentle at first, careful in the way he moves in and out. But she teases him. She bites his earlobe and murmurs his name, whispering how badly she’s wanted this. How badly she’s wanted this to feel good.

“You can go harder, Javi,” she says. He’s hesitant, of course.

“Maybe we should—fuuuuck,” he groans as she slips her fingers between her legs to feel his cock gliding in and out of her.

“Show me how you fuck, Javier. Please—I wanna know how much you want me,” she whines. And, shit, that breaks him. Her begging, her pleading, that whine, her moans. He slams into her and she gasps in pleasure.

“You—you don’t fucking know how much I want you—how much I always want you,” he murmurs into her neck, words punctuated with thrusts and her moans. She’s loosened up some; relaxed around him. He picks up speed as she circles her clit, bearing down to match his rhythm. “Oh, fuck, there she is. You want my cock that bad?”

He watches her face, alert for any signs of pain or hesitation, and when he sees none he keeps fucking her harder than he thought she’d be able to take.

“Fuck, Javi, fuck—I’m—”

But he feels it already. He feels her clench around him, strangling his cock so hard he can’t move. He kisses her through it, his tongue sliding over hers as she moans and sobs his name.

“So good, amor. So good, doing so fucking well, such a good fucking girl,” he murmurs into her mouth. She’s even more relaxed, and he takes advantage, snapping his hips and moaning as her juices gush onto his cock. She looks up at him then, and bites her lip and oh, fuck. “Where?”

“In me,” she begs. “Inside, please.”

His orgasm comes in shuddering waves, his seed surging into her and leaking back out around him. She murmurs praises into his neck (“You’re so good to me. You’re such a good man.”), and he collapses onto her.

They stay like that for a while, soaking into each other’s skin, until their breathing evens out and he pulls back to look her in the eyes. He pulls out of her and she whimpers, sending a flicker of panic into his gut.

“No,” she says, cupping his face, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Just liked you in there.”

“How...how was it?” He asks. He’s afraid for a moment, afraid she’ll say he hurt her, that he’d missed something. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she kisses him and says, “I never knew it could be so...incredible.”

“I wonder what was different,” he muses.

A wicked grin crosses her face. “Guess we’ll have to practice more and find out.”

***

He laughs and rolls off of you, disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a wet washcloth to clean you up. You toddle in the bathroom to pee, already starting to feel the ache, but it’s fine.

Amor. He called you “amor.”

He gripped the steering wheel with such force his knuckles turned white, thoughts racing as he replayed the conversation over and over again, her words swirling amid the tempest in his mind. 

He’s my ex-boyfriend. 

I don’t owe you anything, Frankie. 

She had laughed at him; laughed like his heart wasn’t about to spill out of his chest and stain his shirt crimson. Amy used to laugh things off, too, always with a convenient excuse the moment he questioned her. 

But she wasn’t Amy, was she? 

Frankie pulled over and took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Had she laughed at him?

With some distance between himself and the inn, that pigheaded indignation started to clear. 

Frankie was a stubborn man; he knew this. That mulishness kept him in a relationship that died a long time before they finally called it quits, regardless of how miserable it’d made him. Was it going to prevent him from starting something good, too?

But what the hell else could those texts have meant? 

She’d never mentioned anything about some asshole ex-boyfriend. He swallowed, throat dry as he realized he’d never really asked her, either. He’d been too busy living their little snowglobe romance, too elated that a beautiful woman might be so interested in him, even knowing as much of his past as she did. 

Asking what he did before this. Offering to help with all his tasks around the inn. Helping pick out a tree for his daughter she hadn't met. It wasn't like this was some torrid, passionate affair, either--they hadn't even had sex. 

"Fuck," he muttered, looking at his phone--the one she'd so sweetly teased him about--and dialed the only person he could count on to tell him how much of an idiot he'd been.

“‘Lo?” Pope’s groggy voice greeted him.

“Hey, man,” Frankie said. “Time is it over there?”

Frankie heard grumbling and bedsheets rustling. “Lucky you didn’t wake up the missus,” Pope groused. “It’s seven AM.”

“Seven AM? Up and at ‘em, you lazy fuck,” Frankie goaded because he could never pass up a chance to give his best friend shit. 

“Ah, I miss you, too. What the fuck do you want?” 

Frankie chewed his lip, trying to figure out how to best approach the subject of Girl Problems about a woman Santi’d never met. 

“I think I fucked up,” Frankie said.

Santi groaned. “Not the goddamn coke ag—”

“No, it’s not the fucking coke, man. Listen.”

Santi listened with very few interjections, too preoccupied with the coffee maker Frankie could hear in the background. 

“So,” Pope said after long, noisy sip of coffee. “Let me make sure I get this. You meet a pretty damsel in distress, shack up with her for two weeks, get along great, by some fucking twist of fate she likes you back, and then you bail at the first hint of a problem. Am I getting this right?”

“I…yes,” Frankie grumbled. It sounded so much worse when it was repeated back to him. 

“And you accused her of lying when she tried to explain? And you got pissed when she told you to fuck off. Is that everything? ”

“Hm,” Frankie acknowledged. 

“You needed to wake me up for this?”

Frankie groaned again. “What do I do?”

“You know what you do. Go back and beg forgiveness, pendejo. On your shitty knees. You got scared, man. I get it. She sounds…too good for you, the way you describe her. But damn, maybe you need someone too good for you.” 

Frankie grunted because it was easier than admitting Pope was right. “How’s Yovanna?” He asked instead. 

"Not pissed off at me," Pope laughed.

Frankie hung up a few minutes later with his stomach in knots. 

He needed to apologize. He wanted to apologize. Accepting that she might not forgive him was the hard part.

“You need to try,” he said to himself, turning his truck around and heading back to the inn. “You have to try.”

He tried to rehearse what he'd say on the drive home, but everything came out wrong. Nothing felt adequate. He also practiced his reaction for when she inevitably told him to get lost because she never wanted to see him again. 

He did not, however, prepare himself for what he found when he arrived—an empty attic, cleared of every bit of her presence. The bed neatly made, no lotion by the nightstand, no face down well-read book on her pillow, no hoodie on the floor. Her bags were gone; even her toothbrush had disappeared. It was like she had never even been there. 

She wasn't even answering her phone.

Claws of panic sunk into his chest--she couldn’t have gotten far on foot, right? Unless one of the guests had given her a ride somewhere. Or, and his stomach twisted at the thought, maybe she'd told Alba and Ollie what had happened and they'd helped her. 

Frankie trudged back down the stairs, hands shaking as he opened the door. 

Of course it would be Jason who inserted himself into something delicate and new and ruined it. What the fuck did he mean he couldn’t wait to see you? He knew you weren’t in Atlanta anymore, and now here he was still making your life miserable eleven hundred miles away. You chose not to call him—instead, you sent a text that just said FUCK OFF, blocked his number (for good this time), and went back to your current predicament. 

Frankie had been so quick to believe the worst. Almost like he'd been waiting for you to disappoint him. 

Like he'd wanted you to.

You should focus on keeping your things off the floor.

You bristled at the way he’d spoken to you; as if you were a child and not a woman he’d invited into his bed. Anger helped, so you held onto it as long as you could, picking up all the things you’d scattered across his space and shoving everything into your bags. You’d put your things into one of those empty closets on the floor below and hope no one got too mad about it, at least until you figured out where to go from here. 

Asking if they had an empty room would be embarrassing, but what else could you do? You still needed a place to stay for a couple of nights. And Frankie, clearly, did not want you anymore. 

There was always that other place--the one across town where he'd threatened to stand guard if you insisted on getting a room. You doubted that offer was still good.

As the anger dwindled, you searched your memory for something you’d missed, something you should’ve picked up, but you couldn’t think of a thing. All the signals he’d given you were good, up until that very last fight. 

He didn’t want to sleep with you, you thought. 

You’d brushed that off on him being the kind of guy who took his time with someone new. But then, of course, he’d mentioned other women he’d brought up here, hadn’t he? And you doubted they were just here to stay until their cars were fixed. 

So maybe that was it. Just another asshole in a long line of assholes who took some weird pleasure in screwing with you. 

Alba caught you just as you’d opened the attic door to go downstairs.

“Hello, dear,” she said, taking in your puffy eyes and disheveled appearance. “I was just on my way to see Frankie about a leaky faucet. Is everything okay?”

“It’s…do you have any rooms available?” You asked, avoiding her eyes. 

“One just opened up, but why don’t we go have some tea first? I just restocked,” she said kindly. You didn’t really want tea, or to talk, but after everything she and Ollie had done for you, you couldn't refuse her.

“Sure,” you sighed.

The kitchen was in the back of the house, off a hallway next to the dining room. It offered a little more privacy than the rest of the house, especially when there were no meals to prepare for the moment. You’d snuck away here a few times to get a moment alone. It smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg, and now peppermint as your herbal tea brewed in your cup. 

Alba didn’t ask you what happened; didn’t push you for information. She just sat with you, asking about your new job (ugh) and what you’d been planning to do for the holidays had you not been stuck here (double ugh). 

“I don’t know what happened,” you blurted out eventually after a lull in the conversation. Alba said nothing. “I got a text from my stupid ex-boyfriend messing with me and Frankie thought we were still together, and I don’t know. He wouldn’t even look at the phone.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, lifting her cup and taking a sip. “He wouldn’t look at the phone?”

“I mean,” you said with a long-suffering sigh, “I tried to explain that my ex was just being a dick—sorry—and I held the phone up to show him the texts and he wouldn’t even look at it. Like, he’d already made his mind up and he didn’t want anything to change it or something.”

Alba sat down her cup, her eyebrows pinched together and head cocked to the side. “What’s Frankie told you about his past?”

You sat up straighter. “Well, I mean, I know he was in the military. I know he has a kid and an ex-wife. I figure…I don’t know, it hasn’t even been two weeks, and we’ve been busy.”

Alba nodded. “I ask because there are things in Frankie’s past that it doesn’t seem like he’s told you, and I don’t know if he’s comfortable telling you, so I won’t. Things that might make him a little skittish when it comes to finding someone he really likes, or might love. Things that might make him get in his own way.” 

You raised your eyebrow at her vague, ominous explanation. 

“I don’t say that to scare you, dear. I just think it’d be worth trying to talk again when he comes back. After he’s cleared his head,” she said. Your stomach was in knots again, but the peppermint tea helped. “He didn’t know about your ex-boyfriend?”

You shrugged. “No. I figured that was a lot to throw on him.”

“Maybe he felt like you’d kept it from him. You know men get these ideas,” she said, shaking her head. You weren’t sure exactly what ideas she was talking about, but she was right about one thing--you hadn’t shared much about your past yet, but that wasn’t unique to Frankie. Sharing too much always scared people. 

“So I should just wait, you think?” 

“Couldn’t hurt,” she said. You sighed. 

“I don’t even know where he went.” 

“Don’t worry yourself. He’ll be back. Besides, I know where he lives,” she winked.

“Thanks for the tea, Alba. I’m gonna…I think I’m gonna go do some thinking.”

Frankie had almost given up looking for her. Alba and Ollie were nowhere to be found, either, and none of the guests had seen her in the last few hours, either. 

Feeling defeated, he decided he'd go back to the attic and wait. Maybe she'd come back. 

His heart leaped into his throat when he found her sitting on the bed, her feet kicking back and forth as she stared out of the window, apparently so lost in thought she didn’t hear him come up the stairs. 

That last step, though—the one he’d needed to fix for ages—creaked loudly enough that she whipped her head around, eyes wide and weary. She offered a timid smile, like she was afraid he’d start yelling again. 

He really fucking hated himself for that. 

She stood, hands shoved in her coat pockets. Their eyes met and he was sure she had been crying.  

“I fucked up. I really, really fucked up.” His shoulders tensed as he waited for the verbal lashing that he deserved. 

She took a deep breath. “Yeah. You did.” 

“I’m an idiot,” he said, taking one tentative step towards her. 

“Yeah, you kinda are.” 

He took another step, and she didn’t move. 

“I understand if you want nothing to do with me after that. You shouldn’t want anything to do with me,” he said, pulling his hat off and running a hand through his hair. She still wasn’t yelling. He twisted the cap in his hands and took a deep breath. “But can I just—can I explain?”

“Of course, just…please don’t yell anymore. Just talk to me, Frankie. What did I do to make you think I’m a liar?” 

“Nothing!” Frankie said, desperate to find the right words. She deserved to know the truth. “You didn’t do-fuck, it was all me. I took out my stupid fear on you. I got scared. You said your car was gonna be ready and I thought, well, this is the end of it. And then I saw those texts, and I don’t know, I think it just gave me a reason. Me and Amy…I don’t mean to say I didn’t have a part in that relationship falling apart. I did. 

But she gave up on us and didn’t even tell me, and I thought we were doing okay. We went to therapy, we went on dates, we were happier. Turns out she was happier because she’d found someone else. I didn’t want to be that someone else.”   

He fell silent, searching her face for any hint of what she might be feeling and wringing his hat. She closed the gap between them in two quick steps, laying her hands over his, calming his fidgeting like she always did. 

“I’m not her, Frankie. I would never do that to you. Or anyone.” 

“I know. I know that. So fuckin’ sorry,” he mumbled. “Don’t deserve you.” 

“Hey,” she ducked her head, trying to make eye contact. “Hey, look at me. Please?”

As if he’d ever deny her another thing. 

She cupped his face in her warm hands, so close he could smell her perfume, and he let himself lean into her palm. “I understand why that scared you. I should have told you about Jas—”

“No,” he said, curling his fingers around her wrists. “You were right. You didn’t owe me anything and—”

“Let me finish, please.” He fell silent again and nodded. “You shared so much with me, and I didn’t do you that same courtesy, and I understand it felt like I was hiding something. You have your baggage and I have mine. But you have to let me explain. You have to listen to me, okay?”

He nodded so vigorously that something in his neck popped. If she was giving him a second chance, he’d do anything she wanted.

“I will! That won’t ever happen again. And I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry I got scared. I’m sorry I yelled at you. You should hate me—I’ll never, ever do that again. That wasn’t me.”

Frankie cleared his throat, blinking away the tears stinging his eyes. He didn’t like that man—the man who yelled and sneered and found reasons to pick a fight. He didn’t want her to know him, not even the small glimpse she’d gotten a few hours ago. 

“I know it wasn’t,” she said, still rubbing her thumb over his jaw. “Can I give you a hug?” 

He didn’t answer, just pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, ducking slightly to press his nose into her cheek. She pulled back after a moment and looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes dropping to his lips. Frankie swallowed thickly, suddenly very aware of her breasts pressed against his chest. 

She bit her lip and giggled, and Frankie had the overwhelming desire to worship her. Not that he hadn’t wanted to all this time; he’d kept himself in check only because he didn’t want to make her feel like he expected anything. She leaned up and kissed him, the softest whimper escaping from somewhere deep inside of her, and he let himself squeeze her tighter. When they broke apart, she looked up at him again, eyelids heavy with need.

“Baby,” she breathed. “Please.”

It might have been too soon, but you didn't care. 

You'd folded the moment he walked into the room with rosy cheeks and brown eyes full of contrition and hope. And thank the stars he’d apologized, begged for your forgiveness, explained himself as well as he could because you didn’t know if you had it in you to tell him off the way you'd planned.

Frankie was a good kisser, you knew that simply from all the kissing you’d done over the last few days, but you realized quickly as he sealed his lips over yours now—he’d been holding himself back. Your hands dropped to his waist, fingers curling through his belt loops and pulling his hips closer as he slid his tongue over your lips, a mess of teeth and tongue as you granted him entrance with a sigh.

He pushed you back toward the bed, a frenzy of needy groans and warm breath on your neck, fingers scrambling at the button of your jeans. Frankie stopped, took a deep breath, and you hoped—prayed-he hadn’t changed his mind. “You want this?” He asked. “Is it too soon?”

“Please,” you murmured, eyelashes fluttering. “I need you.”

Frankie overwhelmed you, distracting you so much you couldn’t even worry about the things you might have done before. Not with the way he yanked your pants off and fell to his knees, spreading your legs and nuzzling the embarrassingly damp gusset of your panties. 

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, licking at the wet fabric. “Gonna take care of you, don’t worry. Gotta get you ready first.”

The last of the cold winter sunlight bathed him in its glow, bouncing off of his red cheeks and illuminating the strands of silver in his hair. His eyes were closed as he pressed kisses to your inner thighs, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin, teasing you.

“Frankie,” you whined. He chuckled as you slipped his fingers through your hair and gave it a light tug. Yes, you were impatient, but could he blame you?

“Just let me look at you a minute, baby, hm?” He asked, his voice rumbling in his chest as he pulled your panties down. “Lift that cute ass up for me. Good girl.” 

God.

All the doubts you'd had before vanished as he sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes roaming your cunt like he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

“Goddamn, baby. So wet for me,” he murmured, sliding his thumbs up and down the outside of your lips and tugging gently. If it were anyone else you might snap your legs shut, close the curtains, throw a blanket over both of you—but this wasn’t just anyone.

 You only squirmed as the cold air hit you, desperate for relief. “Frankieeeeee.” You whined more obnoxiously, but he just chuckled again. 

“All right, baby girl, all right.”

He let you go to take his shirt off, shushing your protests with gentle reassurance and throwing your legs over his shoulders. He was warm and strong against you, nuzzling your pussy and breathing you in. 

And then you felt his tongue, wet and soft, lick up your seam until he brushed your swollen, needy clit. You bucked your hips, hands pulling his hair at the electric shock it sent through your body.

“Fuck, baby, you taste so fucking good,” Frankie groaned. His hands were curled around your legs, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. You let go of his hair and tugged one hand away, lacing your fingers with his. He whimpered and squeezed, his tongue pressing firmly into your clit as he shook his head left to right. 

It was hard to keep your hips still, but he didn’t seem to mind it, just whispered encouragement into your pussy as his tongue dipped down to your entrance and slipped inside. “Take what you need, baby, fuck my face. Wanna make you come so fuckin’ bad.”

His nose nudged at your clit, providing just enough stimulation to drive you wild. His long tongue curled inside of you just far enough to brush something that sent tingles all the way up to the top of your scalp. You shivered, crying out a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth before the whole goddamn inn heard you. 

“Shh,” Frankie murmured, pulling his tongue out and drifting back to your clit, rubbing frantic circles with his tongue. “Fuck I wish you could scream, baby, bet that sounds so damn pretty.”

“Frankie, I need—I need, um—” You clenched around nothing, your brain too focused on the feeling of Frankie’s tongue to get out any coherent sentence. He gazed up at you, eyes glassy, looking just as lost as you felt. 

"Tell me. Tell me and I can give you whatever you want,” he said, his thumb taking over for his tongue as he waited for your answer. You squeezed his hand, still laced with yours. 

“Fingers, please, Frankie,” you sobbed, and a ravenous grin spread across his face. 

He let your hand go, slipping one large finger inside of you, moaning at the way you felt clenching around him. “You want another one?” He asked. 

You just nodded and whined, too overwhelmed for words. He slid a second finger into your cunt, twisting his wrist and curling up into that same spot his tongue hit earlier as he dipped his head back to your pussy. 

“Come on,” he grunted. “Come for me. Want you to come all over my face. Grind on it if you need to, that’s it, use me, do what feels good—”

Both hands pulled at his hair, pushing your hips up and doing exactly what he told you. You didn’t know how he was breathing like that, mouth and nose pressed entirely against your cunt, but he seemed more interested in making you feel good than getting oxygen. 

You felt him murmuring, the vibration of his voice rippling against your core, and with one last firm stroke, your legs locked around his head, eyes rolling back and walls shaking around his fingers as you gushed and gushed.

“That’s my girl,” he groaned, pressing delicate kisses to your thighs and clit. “Fuck, look at you, look at that, my good girl, look how much that little pussy needed that.”

“Frankie,” you whimpered, reaching for him with pleasure running through your whole body. He pulled his fingers out of you, at your side in an instant. 

“What is it, you okay?” He asked, eyes all wide with concern. Arousal still pulsed through you, and you pulled his fingers to your mouth, licking yourself off of him. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You giggled, pulling his face to yours and kissing him hard. “That was fucking amazing, Frankie.” 

His ears went pink and he smiled boyishly, like he was pleased to have helped. You lay next to him, foreheads touching as you caught your breath.

“Take off your clothes,” you said softly. Frankie, always the good soldier, obeyed. Your eyes went wide at the sight of his cock, thick and long and leaking, peeking from his foreskin and standing rigid against his soft belly. “Now take off the rest of mine.”

He took your top off, not bothering to undo the clasps of your bra as he yanked it right over your head. Normally you’d cross your arms over your belly—normally you’d keep your top on the whole time—but he wasn’t your shitty ex, and he groaned at the sight of your tits, grabbing a handful of each and kneading them.

“You like those?” You teased. 

“Nice fuckin’ tits. Nice everything. Gorgeous everything,” he said, leaning down to draw your nipple into his mouth. “You’re so pretty.”

“You’re pretty, too,” you said, unlatching him from your nipple and crawling further up the bed. “Now come fuck me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, but stopped when he was hovering over you, nudging your legs apart. “I…shit, I don’t think I have a condom.”

After everything, you did not care one fucking bit about a condom. “I mean…I have an IUD. And I can bring up the app my last test results were on. So, if you—”

“You trust me?” He asked. 

“Should I not?” You shot back. Frankie didn’t answer, just grinned, kissed you, and pulled your legs around his hips. 

“You ready for me, baby girl?” He asked. You eyed his cock, wondering the same thing. 

“Go slow?” You asked. 

“I will,” He said, reaching down to spread your slick around, pressing his fingers back inside of you. “But you’re so wet down there. Feel like I could slide right in.”

Frankie notched himself against you, pushing in slowly, his eyes bulging at your warmth. He shut them tight as he pushed further, and any stretch went away quickly, giving way to a delicious fullness. He bottomed out and dropped down, caging you with his arms and pressing his lips against yours as he started moving. 

“Feel so fucking good,” he groaned. His eyes were still closed, eyebrows smushed together in concentration. “Feel too fucking good. Dunno—fuck, shit, baby I don’t know how long—”

But it excited you, driving him that crazy, making him feel so good he had to concentrate to keep himself from coming. He tried to pull out, but you crossed your ankles around his lower back and pulled his hips back to you. 

His eyes opened to find you and your devilish grin egging him on. “Just fuck me how you want to, Frankie. Fuck me like you want me, please,” you begged. “Fill me up. I need it.”

Frankie’s eyes flashed, nostrils flared as he kissed you again, picking up his pace and slamming his hips against yours. “Yeah?” He asked. “You want me to fuck you like that? Want me to fill you up with my come? Make your pretty pussy leak with it?”

You must have hit a nerve—all you could do was hold onto him as he fucked you, kissing your lips, your face, your neck—

“Gonna, oh shit, baby, gonna—”

“Come,” you murmured softly against his mouth. He came with a low groan, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth until he was finished. You smirked at the feeling of him trickling out of you, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you. 

“Ah, fuck,” he panted. “Shit. I should—couldn’t help myself. Pussy felt too good.”

You smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. 

“I’m flattered,” you murmured, because you were. “You liked filling me up.”

He slipped out of you, and you whimpered at the loss of him. “I, uh, have a thing about it,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Wanna do that again.”

“Me too, Frankie.”

“Gonna make it better,” he mumbled, nosing your neck, as if it hadn’t been amazing. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” You teased.

“Don’t care.”

Frankie rolled off of you, his eyes scanning your body as he cupped your breast with one big palm. 

“Why’d you stay?” He asked, looking away from you. “After I was such an asshole, why’d you stay?”

“Well, I was on my way out to see if Alba had any rooms available yet, and she made me go have tea with her. And we had a talk, and she said there were…things…in your past that might make you react differently.”

“Is differently code for ‘like a piece of shit’?” 

You huffed a laugh. “I don’t know, Frankie. That’s just what she told me. So I came back and waited for you because I didn’t think you’d been yourself. I wasn’t gonna leave. I was just mad.”

He furrowed his brow and frowned. “Where’s all your stuff then? It was gone when I came up here the first time looking for you.” 

“Oh, um,” you started, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I packed everything up, you know, right after, thinking I would find a different room and then just left it in case you…you know, in case you weren’t interested anymore.”

Frankie’s face crumbled, and you wished you hadn’t said anything about it. “I’m such an asshole,” he said, rolling off the bed. “I’m such a fucking—where is it, where’s your stuff?”

“It’s in the closet at the foot of the stairway—Frankie! Wait!” 

He was across the room in just a few strides, halfway down the staircase before he stopped. 

“...You’re naked,” you pointed out. 

You heard the sound of his footsteps climbing back up, giggling before he’d even reached the top. Your tummy flipped at the sight of his red cheeks and sheepish grin as he climbed back into bed, blanketing you with his warm body. 

“I should clean you up first anyway,” he murmured, peppering kisses down your body until he was back between your legs, watching himself drip out of you.

“Yeah,” you said. “You should.”

Several hours later, Frankie finally made his way downstairs, finding Ollie tinkering with the hot water heater. Ollie wordlessly handed the wrench over to Frankie and stood back to watch. 

“Little late today, Frankie.” 

“Yes, sir, sorry about that,” Frankie responded without turning around. He had no idea what Ollie had been trying to fix; nothing was wrong with the ancient appliance. 

“I heard a truck peel out of my driveway earlier. Made quite a ruckus,” he tutted. 

“Yes, sir.” The old wrench clanked as Frankie tossed it down into Ollie’s rusted metal toolbox. 

“You do something stupid?” 

“Yes, sir,” Frankie responded without hesitation. Ollie nodded and ushered him into the small sitting room down the hall. 

Like a kid called into the principal’s office, Frankie stood awkwardly until Ollie gestured for him to take a seat. A small fire crackled in the brick fireplace, but it wasn’t the cause of the heat that burned Frankie’s cheeks.  

“I’m sorry, Ollie, didn’t mean to be so late.” 

Ollie sighed and pursed his lips. “You know as well as I do the reason I sat you down. Has nothing to do with being late.” 

Frankie nodded. “I know.” 

Ollie continued. “You don’t speak much of your father, and I get the feeling that he isn’t around too much, if at all. If I had to guess, he took off when you were little and never looked back.” He paused and stared at the flames, clasping his hands in his lap. 

“You ran away this morning, and I would bet everything in my pocket that something with her scared you off.” 

Frankie’s silence was all the confirmation Ollie needed. 

“But, here’s the difference. You came back. Son, listen to an old man who has made more mistakes than you could ever know.” Ollie leaned forward. “Don’t run away from her. And if you do, dammit, you come running back as quick as you can. Hear me?” 

Frankie swallowed the lump in his throat. “I-yes, sir. Never again.” 

Ollie settled back in his chair, satisfied with his answer. “Good. Now go make sure she knows that.” 

Frankie’s alarm woke you just before the sun rose. 

You groaned and threw an arm over your face as the bed shifted beside you and Frankie pulled you into him, still very naked. After the previous day’s events, he’d spent the night on his knees—quite literally—worshiping you, wordlessly begging forgiveness. You’d been more than happy to let him grovel, but after keeping each other up half the night, leaving this warm cocoon would be a herculean effort. 

“Morning,” Frankie murmured, kissing the back of your neck, one hand wandering down your torso. You shuddered, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his gentle fingers. You squeezed your thighs together, unsure how you could possibly want more after everything last night and whimpering as his stiff length pressed against your back. 

“Morning,” you breathed. 

“Everything okay?” He teased, coaxing your legs open. “Something you want?”

There was no way your pussy could take more, not after last night, but you wanted it anyway. And from the way he throbbed against you, so did he. Frankie dipped his fingers between your swollen lips, retreating as you hissed from the sensitivity. 

“Did I hurt you? Are you okay?” He asked.

“I’m okay,” you said, pulling his hand back. “Just be gentle, please, Frankie, I need it.”

He groaned against you, rubbing gentle circles around your clit and shushing your whines as he slid one finger inside of you. “You can take it, baby girl, doing so good for me. Poor little thing. Can’t get enough, can you?”

You wanted to slap him a little, the cockiness evident in his voice, but he was right. “No,” you whimpered. “Need you. You could—fuck—you could fuck me again if you want. S’okay if it hurts a little—”

Frankie rutted harder against you, his cock slipping between the cleft of your ass as he sucked on the back of your neck. “Don’t wanna hurt you, baby, just want you to feel good,” he gritted out. “You feel so fucking good like this. So fucking soft, how are you so fucking soft?”

You felt it happening suddenly, built up out of nowhere, your cunt pulsing softly as you reached up and tugged at his hair, whining into his mouth. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Good fuckin’ girl, that’s right, perfect little pussy sucking me right in—fuck—”

Frankie pressed his hips into you, grinding his cock against your ass as his release splashed across your back. He groaned, his sweaty forehead pressed against yours as he gently pulled his finger from you and brought it to his lips to lick it clean. He turned over and dug around on the floor until he found his undershirt from the day before, wiping himself off of you before he turned you over and kissed you hard. 

“Hi,” you giggled. 

He nuzzled you. “Hey,” he sighed. “Fuck me, I can’t get enough of you.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you teased, breathing him in as the sun’s rays filtered into the room, bouncing softly off his cheekbones. You kissed his nose and cheeks and chin and he blushed, bashful at the attention. 

“I gotta go do some stuff around the inn,” he lamented, as though leaving this bed was the greatest of tragedies. “But you stay here in bed, okay? And I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Oh, you don’t—”

“Please let me take care of you,” he said softly. You swallowed your protests. 

“Okay, Frankie,” you said, brushing a curl from his forehead. “I need a really long shower anyway, I think. I’m covered in come.”

Frankie laughed as he rolled out of bed to take his own shower. You stretched as you watched his cute bottom disappear into the bathroom. 

Taking Frankie’s order very seriously, you lazed around after your shower. Your phone rang just as you were dozing off. According to Cal, he’d moved your car up to first in line since you’d been so patient with the process, and he knew you needed to get home. You thanked him enthusiastically, ignoring the nervous pit growing in your stomach. 

You’d hoped to have a few days of distance from the argument if only to let the dust settle before talking more about it. What if he wasn’t completely over it, and it just upset again? And what if you both realized that there was nothing really anchoring you here? 

There was barely time to worry about it before you heard the door open and close, followed by his heavy footsteps up the stairs. It was now or never. 

He was smiling, gripping in his big hands a couple of bags of something that smelled incredible. You savored this moment, this second of time when he was so happy to see you, holding it safe in your heart to remember in case everything came crashing down.

“Hey, Frankie,” you said, setting your phone down. 

His smile slid off his face as he clocked your concern, setting the bags down and coming to your side. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” you said, swallowing thickly and chewing your lip. “Um, Cal called. My car’s ready now.”

Frankie’s eyes softened. “You didn’t wanna tell me,” he said, and you couldn’t deny it. 

“Frankie, I just—I thought there’d be a little more time, you know? For everything to calm down,” you explained. “I don’t wanna leave yet. Or ever.”

It was the first time you’d admitted that out loud, fully aware of how ridiculous it was to tell a man you’d only known a little less than two weeks that you never wanted to be without him. 

“I don’t want you to leave yet, either. Or ever,” he said. “But I know you have to, and that’s okay. That doesn’t mean we can’t be together. I know I was an idiot, but you’re not that far away. And I think I love you, Dash.”

The room stilled with his confession, and you cocked your head, a smile spreading across your face. 

“Look, I know that sounds ins—”

“I think I love you, too, Frankie.”

He let out a shaky sigh, the tips of his ears flushing red. 

“Yeah?” He asked. 

“Yeah.”

Your heart was beating out of control, so loud you were sure he could hear it, but that was okay. Frankie Morales loved you, and you loved him, and you’d work the rest of it out. 

“So,” he said, pressing his lips to yours and drawing you closer. “I have a question for you.”

“What’s that?” You asked, throwing your arms around his neck. 

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

As a nanny to their two children, not much manages to creep past you about the inhabitants of the luxurious home you shared, and there’s one thing you’re absolutely certain of: Melissa Miller was growing to resent her husband. The two of them had worked hard to make their millions, but Mr. Miller, it seems, hasn’t stopped.

You barely see him outside his study or away from his office downtown. Sure, he makes time for the kids, but that’s when you aren’t needed. They love him, clamouring for him whenever he walks through the door, showing off their latest school work or dance routines they’d picked up from their friends.

That’s when you clock out for the day, watching him shed his suit jacket and tie, his offspring using him as a climbing frame. You retreated to your bedroom in those situations; listening for the terse exchanges you’d hear between husband and wife in the hallway after dark.

Melissa’s words from the previous Friday come back to you as you stand outside the study: swirling the blush-coloured liquid in her glass, stem held delicately between expertly manicured nails. Her friends had nodded and pouted in sympathy, her dissatisfaction towards her husband quite apparent as you made your dinner quietly in the corner.

Fantastic father, you guys know that. He’s a truly great guy. But, he’s married to his career. Not to me. Not for a long time.

The look on her face told you everything you needed to know. You’d seen it before with your girlfriends, felt it before yourself when your relationship with your college boyfriend had run its course.

She’d checked out mentally already.

You’d overheard her again one day when you’d been doing laundry, whispering on the phone about her plans. There’s a guy at work, she’d giggled. James from Accounting. Is this what it’s like to have someone actually want you?

You weren’t getting involved. It wasn’t your place.

Besides, Mr. Miller is always good to you; paying you more than you’d ever dreamed of, asking how your day was going on the odd occasion you see him around the grand home they’ve invited you to live in. For the most part, he simply stays out of your way.

You just admire him from afar.

You know he’s fifty: you’d helped the kids sign his birthday card last year, heard his sarcastic comments about being an older father. He’s a whole twenty-two years your senior, but the fact he was incredibly fucking handsome was never lost on you. Dark hair threaded with silver, same as the scruff along his cheeks. A thick moustache over his full upper lip, beautiful curved nose, brown eyes kind and warm. Taller than you, but never imposing.

A crush on the much-older man who employs you to work in his own home? A fucking terrible idea, to be honest. So, you don’t indulge it; ignoring your daydreams about him in the other wing of the house, sharing a bed with a wife who no longer loves him.

You shift from foot to foot, now, as the floorboards creak beneath you. Melissa hasn’t been home all day, a note left to say Mr. Miller and the children were the only ones who’d need dinner. You wonder, idly, if she’s with James from Accounting right now, drawing up divorce papers and planning how to split the childcare.

So, you’ll simply knock on the study door, just to see if Mr. Miller is okay, let him know you’ve finished for the day.

That’ll be fine, right?

Your fist connects lightly with the smooth oak, and you hear his low voice telling you to come in.

“Hey, Mr. Miller. The girls are sleeping, so I’m gonna turn in for the night. There’s chilli already made, if you wanted anything to-”

“Can I ask you a question?”

His interruption comes as a surprise, until he turns in his chair. He looks.. Defeated. His thick-rimmed glasses in one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. White shirt unbuttoned with his chest exposed, tie pulled loose, shoulders slouched dejectedly.

“Uh, sure.”

Chewing your lip, you stand in front of his desk, his gaze bloodshot and broken. You twist your hands, feeling your palms begin to sweat.

“Did you know about my wife wanting a divorce?”

///

He’s never been this direct, never really asked you any other questions than how was your weekend?

This is new.

Apparently, Melissa had called him. It was over. There was someone else; had been for a while. She’d taken a bag of clothes to her mom’s, would come by in the morning to see the children. He tells you the facts, tone laced with bitterness as he scrubs a hand across his face.

You feigned innocence; gasping and grimacing at all the right times. It truly was a mess: she’d clearly blindsided him, and it showed.

“I know I shouldn’t have been workin’ so late all the time, that I probably should’ve paid her more goddamn attention,” he sighs. “I guess we were strugglin’, but I thought that just came with being parents, y’know?”

You nod encouragingly, even though you don’t know. This is the most Mr. Miller has ever spoken to you; pouring his heart out to the girl he pays to look after his babies. You’re not even sure he knows your surname.

“‘f that’s what she really wants, I won’t stop her. It’s just — the kids. I don’t want ‘em thinkin’ badly of me.”

You fight a strange urge to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows, take his face in your hands. You’re unsure what’s come over you; you know he’s a grown man — much more grown than you.

“Mr. Miller, they’d never think that. You’re the best daddy ever — that’s what they tell me, every single day,” you babble, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “It’s probably for the best, in the long run. If — if she isn’t happy.”

Fuck. You’ve said too much.

He blinks slowly up at you, eyes shining in the reflection of the low lamplight. “‘f you say so, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

You try to shift your focus away from how the name makes you feel, the butterflies that begin to drift in your belly. He’s so fucking handsome: you like being his darlin’, his sweetheart.

You wonder what else you could be for him.

“Been tryin’ to guess how long she’s been screwin’ some other fucker behind my back, too. Makes me feel like a damned fool.” He pinches the bridge of his nose again as he talks, elbows set on his thighs.

In truth, Melissa and her paramour couldn’t be further from your mind: he’s here, and you want to help him feel better, in any way you can.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Miller? To make it easier?”

He chuckles, then. “Stop callin’ me that, maybe?”

“‘Least I made you smile,” you tease, eyebrows raised. Your hand finds his shoulder, and he moves his to rest over it. His palm all but swallows yours whole; warm and rough as he squeezes. Despite yourself, and his obvious anguish, a buzz of desire claws at your spine.

You’re standing over him, now, watching as his eyes find your waist, the curve of your chest. You squirm a little, unsure of how to feel. Something changes in his gaze: a decision being made. You’re rocked by the realisation of how badly you want him, and how much you probably fucking shouldn’t do.

“You really wanna help me, huh?”

His voice is barely a murmur, and you know he’s offering you a choice. Something tells you that Mr. Miller would never make you do anything you didn’t want to do — that you’re safe with him. Eyes falling to the broad expanse of his chest, the thick biceps in his white shirt; you know you want this. Just as much as he does.

“Yes,” you breathe quietly. “I really do.”

Something passes between you both: unspoken, but shared in its secrecy. You’re confident he’s doing this out of spite, a form of payback towards the woman who’s left him for someone else; but your panties are wet, and you’re past caring.

“Lock the door, darlin’.”

///

Never in a million years did you think you’d find yourself here when you woke up this morning: rolling your hips over Mr. Miller’s thighs in his office chair, his teeth in the column of your throat. Dress hiked up around your waist, his hands grab at your ass, and he’s devouring you like a man starved.

“You’re real fuckin’ pretty, baby. I ever tell you that?”

A giggle bubbles in your chest, the absurdity of the situation finally permeating your consciousness.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“No,” he repeats back to you softly. “That wouldn’t have been right, would it?”

You shrug your shoulders, dragging his lips to yours. This isn’t right either: his wedding band cool against your skin, his name on the paycheck that goes into your account each month. The thrill of it all is heady, but you find it spurs you on even more.

The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating; he tastes faintly of whiskey, his cologne almost overwhelming. He’s touching you gently, softly; but each gesture is full of intent, unbridled lust spilling over on both sides.

Mr. Miller plays with the straps of your dress, thick fingers pulling at the dainty bows that hold it in place. He breaks away from you, your chin in his hand as he seeks permission.

“I think you’re pretty all over, baby girl. You gonna let me find out? Let me see if I’m right?”

He’s hard, and huge: you feel the solid shape of him against your core. His words make you shudder in his arms, warm wetness pooling in your underwear.

“Y—Yes, yes, Mr. Miller. I want you to —“

He slides the thin fabric down your forearms, tutting under his breath. “It’s Joel, baby. ‘m just Joel.”

You nod in submission, chest heaving as he exposes you in an agonisingly slow fashion. It’s worth it, though, to watch his pupils dilate as your tits spill free, feel his intake of breath as his hands squeeze and tug at you mercilessly.

“Joel.”

His name is a strangled curse on your tongue, his head dipping to spread messy kisses across your collarbones, tongue dragging lower, kissing the peaks of you reverently. Your back arches of its own accord, pushing you further into his warm, wet mouth.

Your mind is empty of any coherent thought save for the indescribable way Joel’s making you feel. You want to touch him, too, whining as you scrabble for his belt buckle, his bulge prominent and mouth-watering. That laugh rumbles through his chest again, and he pries your fingers away, kissing the tips individually.

“Next time, sweetheart, y’can have it. I promise. Get up on the desk f’me, now.”

Next time.

The idea of it makes you dizzy, leaning on his forearm as Joel helps you onto the priceless antique. He drags your dress from under you, panties falling to the floor, sneakers following with a thump. You’re fully bare for him; dripping onto his facts and figures, his spreadsheets and contracts.

Joel’s throat bobs at the sight of you, his fingernails scratching at his jaw.

“Oh, baby. She needs me, huh? She needs me real bad.”

He deftly hooks your legs over his shoulders, heart beating out of your chest as he lowers himself to your centre. Gripping his silvered curls, his tongue slides over your core, and you buck your hips eagerly into his mouth. He’s so fucking good at it: one huge hand flat on your belly, the other linked with yours.

Joel takes his time, moving to slip his fingers inside you slowly, telling you you’re doin’ so good for him, that you can take ‘em, that he knows you can. It’s all you can do to hold onto him for dear life as you come; reduced to nothing more than a pliant plaything for him, in awe of how you’re responding so impatiently already.

“Joel.. Please. I wanna feel you. More of you.”

He smirks, popping the button of his slacks. He pulls his cock free: it’s big, just like you thought it would be; stiff in his hand and leaking over his thick fingers. You swallow, bracing yourself a little. Joel notices your hesitancy, his thumb on your lower lip, tugging it from your teeth.

“You still wanna do this? Hey, s’okay if not,” he says gently, kissing your forehead. The tenderness is unexpected, but you welcome it anyway, reaching down to wrap your fingers round the sheer width of him. His breath shortens deliciously as you stroke him, and you spread your legs a little wider.

“I want you to fuck me, Mr. Miller.”

The deliberate use of his name pulls a groan from him, brown eyes turning to black. He feeds you it slowly: hand wrapped round your throat, tongue in your mouth. Your nails pierce his skin as he stretches you exquisitely, bare feet digging into his ass to feel him even deeper.

“Attagirl,” Joel tells you through ragged breaths, and you note the pride in his voice. It makes you grin, urging him on as pens and paper fall to floor, desk shaking with the snap of his hips. His pounding is relentless, and before long you’re coming together, his hand over your mouth to subdue your cries of fucked-out bliss.

His spend splashes over your belly, damp foreheads pressed together as your heart rates settle. Joel tucks himself away after a beat, roots around in the draws for some tissue. Your thighs are still shaking, hips sore from his solid grip, but you’re smiling.

You’ve never felt this good after sex: even though it was with the man who employs you, over his desk in the home he shares with his soon to be ex-wife. The absurdity of it all, again, almost makes you giggle.

He dabs at your stomach, throwing the tissue in the trash. Joel wraps one strong forearm round your middle, tipping your chin to look up at him. He searches your face, and you’re glad you don’t see regret in his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Never better.”

His lips against yours are soft now, the earlier hunger dulled by mutual orgasms. You decide not to worry about what comes next, attempting to forget the fact you’re probably jobless for sure. But you know you’d do it all over again, that you’ll go to sleep tonight dreaming of him inside you.

Joel slides your panties along your thighs, helps you wrangle your dress over your head. You’re only just noticing he’s still got all his fucking clothes on; you didn’t get to see him, not the way he saw you.

Next time, sweetheart, y’can have it. I promise.

You wonder whether there’ll ever really be a next time.

He clears his throat, pulls you to your feet. The moonlight curves against his nose, moustache still slick with the remnants of you. You know you probably should feel awkward or ashamed, but you don’t want to flee. You want to stay right here, rooted to the spot beneath him.

“Listen.. I, uh, I don’t know what the arrangements are goin’ to be movin’ forward, but I’d like it if you stuck around.”

His hands settle on your hips, and you blink up at him through your lashes. Just having him touch you again — so innocently, with no real intent behind it — has you wondering what took this so long to fucking happen.

“Me too, Mr. Miller. I’d like that very much.”

///

Your whole life, everything you knew—gone. It doesn’t seem real, it’s just not possible, and yet here you are. Here you are in a world that still feels so familiar, and sickeningly not. Your thoughts are a vicious storm in your mind, merely intensifying the throb running along your forehead. Your system flutters between confusion, denial, mourning.

It’s enough to make you want to simply fall back into the blissful void of unconsciousness, until—

“Sweetheart?”

Matt. 

Your heart still jumps at his gentle rasp, a part of you longing to just soften into his hold and cling to him like you’d done so many times before, but you can’t. He’s not—he’s not your Matt. Not anymore. 

It’s hard to pull away from the fingers tracing your cheek, and when you open your eyes, they wince from the light shining through the large windows. He’s knelt on the floor beside you, a frown of concern creasing his brows as you slowly shift on weak limbs until you’re sitting upright on the leather.

You study his features through raw, hazy eyes, and it’s only now you notice the subtle changes you had missed upon your return to the apartment—the few more creases lining his face, the extra spatterings of grey strands amongst his dark tresses. His hair… it’s shorter too, now that you’re really looking. How had you not seen that? Not noticed?

Maybe it was the panic. It had to have been. You didn’t notice anything else when you ran in. Your surroundings had changed within a second, everything was all just so confusing and mad—you had just wanted him, you wanted home. Turns out, you had no home to return to. No one to return to. 

There must be so many others. The pain must be immense throughout the world. Lovers returning to mere memories. Parents returning to kids left behind, now years older and practically strangers. Children returning to homes that were no longer there, lost amongst the new world and without anyone familiar around them to find comfort in. God, they must be so scared.

Matt’s hand returns to your face, the backs of his fingers testing the feel of your forehead before ever so slowly trailing away until they rest where your pulse thrums through the skin of your throat. It’s not necessary—he’d hear it across town. Maybe he’s seeking physical reassurance that you’re really here, right in front of him.

“Talk to me,” he pleads quietly, “say something, anything.”

You find nothing worth speaking. You doubt you’d even have the strength to speak with how dry and heavy your tongue feels in your mouth. His hand moves, fingers hot on your skin as he cups the underside of your jaw and this time, you don’t quite have the strength to pull away.

All you want is this.

His touch, his presence—him.

“Sweetheart, I—” he stops, head tilting ever so slightly towards the door.

You watch him stiffen, tension rolling through his shoulders as he rises from his knelt position before turning towards the door to the apartment expectantly. It takes longer for your senses to catch up, but eventually the dull thud of boots hitting the flooring outside of the apartment hits your ears—

Frank.

Where was he through all of this? Had he been left to carry on with life, trying to make sense of a world left in ruin? Or had he been washed away with the breeze, just like half the planet? Universe? You want to ask Matt, but words seem to fade away on your tongue. 

He doesn’t bother knocking—he never has.

While there had been some stirrings of indifference between him and Matt after everything that happened, there was still a solid foundation of respect, which quickly extended to you the more you attempted to coax the beaten and bloodied man into your clutches for some much needed medical treatment. You were more than acquaintances, a little less than friends—just close enough for him to feel comfortable coming and going from the apartment should he have ever needed patching up.

“Apparently it’s been a while,” Frank mutters gruffly as a somewhat greeting once he’s stepped into the apartment, and you feel the same air of confusion and denial radiating from him.

He had been gone then, like you. How is he handling this? Does he feel as lost as you? As scared? You’d always thought him to be someone not exactly immune to the feeling, but at least stronger than others. As much as you feel for him, hurt for him, knowing exactly the type of thoughts and feelings that plague him, you find comfort in the fact that you weren’t alone in this.

Matt doesn’t respond, and Frank sighs tiredly, eyes flashing briefly to the side under his heavily bruised and swollen brow.

“I ain’t here to fight, Red.”

Matt’s tongue flicks over his lips and he gives a humourless huff, still not relaxing from his defensive stance. Maybe he was expecting Frank to be pissed and burst in like a raging bull with red in his vision, seeing as he and Karen had something brewing slowly between them all those years ago, but Frank doesn’t seem to be interested in any violence whatsoever.

You’re not even entirely sure what he’s here for.

“Well, Karen’s not here—”

“I know, she was with me,” Frank rumbles deeply, head tilting as he appraises Matt, “told me the happy news—congrats.”

It’s not insincere, but it’s damn near close. 

His gaze moves to you.

He studies the way you sit, drawn in on yourself and cuddling your chest in an effort to hold yourself together. You can feel how raw and swollen your eyes are, and when you finally manage to tiredly lift them to meet his, Frank seems to soften.

It’s only slight, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know his mannerisms well, but you see it.

“I was thinkin’ you might need a place, after hearin’ about—” he swallows, jaw rolling ever so slightly. He exhales sharply and shifts on his feet, “You got anywhere to go?” 

He’s here for you?

Matt intervenes immediately. “She’s staying here, Frank—”

Staying here? In the apartment you used to live in? That he now lives in with another woman? Was his idea to leave you sleeping on the couch alone, while they sleep in your bed together? No, it’s not your bed anymore. It’s their bed. Their apartment.

Five years of Daredevil and regular concussions must’ve really killed some of his brain cells. Is he even still Daredevil? Maybe married life changed his perspective on his dangerous nightly habits. Maybe his perspective changed on a lot of things. Is he even the same Matt you had left behind?

Frank’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing into a scowl as they flick back to Matt. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t askin’ you—was I, Red?”

“No,” you finally rasp in reply to his earlier question before Matt could retort, voice rough and weak in your throat, “no, I don’t.”

He nods, expecting your answer. “You got a bag?”

“I don’t know if I have any things left,” you mutter, bitterly wondering where your belongings went. Storage? Donated? The trash? How long did they leave it, did Matt leave it before tossing it all away? Like you’d never even existed, like you’d never even mattered. “Do I have anything here, Matt?”

Matt baulks at the ice coating your tone, and it’s unfair. You know that. Deep down you know you’re being unfair, a part of your mind gently reminding you that you probably would’ve thought and done the same in his position should it have been reversed, but you don’t care.

The familiar bite of anger, pain, still stirs relentlessly in your system and it trumps all reason and logic.

You had a life, and now it’s in complete ruins.

What are you supposed to do with that?

Frank nods sagely, “We’ll get you some things, ain’t gotta worry about that. You comin’?”

As much as you want to reject the idea of leaving, as much as your heart screams at you to stay with Matt because he’s all you know, he’s all you have, and he was telling you how much he loved you only mere hours ago… you give a minimal nod, and shift to stand from the couch.

It wasn’t hours ago—it was five years.

Five years.

Matt instinctively steps in front of you to keep you from moving any further, his tongue darting across his lips in an apparent panic, “You’re going with him?”

“Can you give us a minute? I won’t be long,” you ask Frank quietly, aching at the way Matt’s anxiety seems to heighten at your words.

Frank gives a single nod, and then slips out, the door clicking quietly shut behind him. Matt ignores it, every sense focused in on you and the way your heart beats a broken rhythm in your chest, the way your nails pick at the cotton of your sleeves, the way fresh tears smell building on your lash line—

“I have nowhere else to go,” you mutter, body now numb to feeling and just utterly exhausted from the onslaught of emotions the day had thrust upon you. “I can’t stay here, Matt. I can’t. Seeing you two—God, it’ll kill me. I can’t do it.”

Why you? Why did it have to be you? 

A part of you wishes it would’ve been Karen in your place, uncaringly and unknowingly torn from her life to leave everything she ever loved behind, only to return to a world that had survived, that had moved on without her… and you don’t even have the energy to feel guilty for such a thought yet.

It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t even Matt’s.

“Sweetheart,” Matt pleads softly, hands seeking and taking your hands tightly, “just—just tell me what to do. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

The thought is immediate—would he leave her? Could you ask that of him? Could you expect him to just drop and abandon everything he’s built during your absence?

You want to.

You want to tell him to break it off with her as soon as physically possible, to kick her out so you could be at home where you’re comfortable and with him and just act like nothing happened—

—but you can’t.

You can’t bring yourself to say the words.

What would he think of you asking a question like that? Would he even do it? You know how he feels about divorce, what his religion thinks of divorce. His whole belief system, his life, his God… would he abandon it all for you?

Looking at him now, how he physically pleads with you with those soft, lost eyes looking for guidance, you believe that maybe, just maybe, he would. 

But you can’t ask that of him.

You could never, and would never, ask that of him.

Unless—

“Were you happy?” You ask softly, eyes bouncing between his where they rest just left of your face. 

He blinks, a slight frown forming between his eyes in an effort to make sense of your unexpected words, “What?”

“Before I—” you take a breath, tongue rolling along your lips to moisten the sudden dry skin, “—before I just materialised back onto the street… were you happy? With your life? With her?”

Without me?

Say no.

God, please say no.

You begin to wonder why you asked. Maybe you’re a glutton for punishment, maybe you think nothing could possibly hurt any more than it already does, but when his expression falters, when his mouth opens and nothing seems to make it past his lips, you know that’s not possible.

This… this seems to hit the hardest.

He was happy.

He was happy before you came back.

He was happy without you. 

And it’s… good.

It is.

Of course you don’t want him to be anything but that. He had found what he wanted from life—some normality, some peace, and it’s with that understanding that you realise you have no place here anymore. At least not with him. You have no part in his life now, and it shreds that last little untouched piece of your hopeful heart to absolute ruins.

Denial still pulls at your mind, still blatantly refuses to accept that five years had actually passed. You’d been nothing but a distant memory to him, to your friends, to the world, and yet, everything is still so vividly fresh for you. You only got out of bed, held him, kissed him, a few hours ago—a few fucking hours!

Five years.

“It’s okay,” you mutter, as his saddened eyes flutter in a panic, “I want that for you, Matt. I’ve always wanted that for you, even if that means I’m not—that we’re not—”

You ache at the thought of being apart from him, a feeling he had already experienced and endured. 

“Three years,” he says quietly, brokenly, a slow gathering of tears building along his lash line, “three years I searched, I waited, I prayed… if I had known—if I had known you… I wouldn’t have—”

—moved on. 

You envision Matt lost in the organised pews with dozens of other faceless mourners, on his knees and weeping into his closed hands, begging for the strength to finally let you go. He was granted it, after enduring agony for such a stretch of time, and now it’s all fallen to pieces at your return.

“It’s okay,” you repeat softly, the feeling of your heart beating in your throat choking the words, “it’s okay.”

“No,” he shakes his head, face creasing as the tears begin to make their way down his cheeks, “no, it’s not. I’ve only just gotten you back. You’re back, and now—now I—God. I can’t say goodbye. Not again. I can’t.”

“So don’t,” you say simply, a fresh build of your own tears streaking your cheeks, “we won’t say goodbye. Just… just forget. Forget I ever came back, Matt. Everything will be as it was.”

He recoils sharply, as if you physically struck him. “I can’t do that—”

“Yes, you can. You have to, we all have to.”

“No, I won’t—”

“You told me to tell you,” you croak weakly, the feel of his coarse stubble piercing the soft skin of your palm as you cradle his cheek, “you told me to tell you what to do, and that you’ll do it. Well, this is it, Matt. This is what I’m telling you to do—forget I ever came back. It’ll be easier for everyone. You can keep what you had—what you have, and I—”

And you?

What will you do?

Where will you go?

Your hand falls from his face, only for it to be snatched up and returned to its previous spot with his own pressed tightly against it to keep it there. His tears smear against your skin, the evidence of his heartbreak an obvious reminder that he never let go completely.

There’s something still held for you within him, it just wasn’t the same as when you left.

His forehead comes to rest against your own, and you weaken into the familiar comfort of his touch, just for a moment. You don’t want to let go, don’t even know if you can. There's nothing left to be said, nothing left to be worked out. This is just it.

Why does it have to be this way? Your stomach churns at the idea of walking out for good. How can you? Nothing has changed for you—everything you feel for him is right there, right there where it’s always been, and you can’t do anything with it.

You indulge in the moment a little longer, stretching out to softly press your lips to his with the bittersweet taste of a loving goodbye—one last time. You savour the feel of him, his lips, so warm, so soft and sweet and familiar—

—and then pull away, the air filling the space between you lingering with the memory of what could have been.

Making his way around his desk afterwards, one of his hands absently grabbed his folded up cane from off of it as he headed towards the door of his office. He could already hear Karen and Foggy in the firm's main room, the pair of them clearly talking about wedding related things. As he stepped out of his office and into the room, he could feel the air shift minutely as both of them looked over in his direction.

“More wedding details, Fog?” Matt asked, walking over to where the pair were leaning against the front office desk.

“Did you know that absolutely everything is a detail?” Foggy complained. “Like napkins. Did you know napkins mattered? Because I didn't. They're literally meant to wipe your dirty face and hands on, why does it matter what they look like? Or what material it’s made out of? It's a napkin!”

“Don't let Marci hear you say that,” Karen teased.

Matt could hear the way her fingers were tapping away at the screen of her phone. Probably sending a text message from the sounds of it. 

“I just want a break from all the wedding planning,” Foggy grumbled. “I feel like half our place is currently storage for some binder or seating chart or wedding magazine or stack of business cards and pamphlets.”

“Well you'll get a bit of a break from it this weekend,” Karen assured him, setting her phone onto the desk beside her. “When we go wedding dress shopping with Marci on Saturday. She'll be talking all our ears off about the details for the whole day instead of yours.”

Foggy let out a dreamy sigh at the thought. “And I'll be relaxing at home by myself thinking about literally anything else while all you lovely bridesmaids, who I'm sure are vastly more interested in color schemes and table decor, discuss all of that,” he replied. 

At the mention of bridesmaids, Matt's mind immediately jumped to you. He hadn't seen you since the night he'd offered to walk you back to his place and let you sleep over after you'd had a little too much to drink at Josie’s. The same night you'd randomly kissed him and told him you'd had feelings for him–something that had come as a complete shock to Matt. 

You had actively avoided him ever since then. Ignoring his phone calls and texts. Never returning a single voice-mail he'd left asking to talk to you about what had happened that night. You'd stopped meeting up with everyone at Josie’s, only spending time with Karen and Marci over the past couple of months. Foggy even only ever saw you whenever you'd stopped by to see Marci at their apartment when helping with the wedding planning. 

Matt expected you to be embarrassed after the incident, especially because he could feel the way your body had reacted before you'd sprinted out of his apartment and back into the rain outside. He'd felt bad, wondering if he'd really done something wrong that night to accidentally lead you on. He hadn’t meant to, he’d just wanted to make sure you were alright. You’d seemed off all night to him, but you had no idea about his heightened senses, so it wasn’t as if he could ask you why your body was all over the place that night. It had been confusing, and the amount of beers you’d drank certainly hadn’t helped him get a read on you, either.

He thought he’d been doing the right thing that night. The fling with that woman wasn’t worth risking you walking home in the rain drunk–which he’d overheard you talking to yourself about doing. He hadn’t wanted to risk something happening to you, because Matt damn well knew what could happen to drunk women walking home alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d certainly rescued a few himself. But somehow you must’ve misread the entire situation and thought he’d been after more than that. Which was absurd because you’d always just been a great friend to him since he’d met you. A really close friend who he’d been sorely missing lately.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Matt said your name aloud, catching the attention of both Karen and Foggy. “Is she…going to be there this weekend, too?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah, she’s one of the bridesmaids,” Karen answered. “So of course she’ll be there on Saturday.”

“I’m guessing she’s still not talking to you then, huh buddy?” Foggy asked him.

Matt sighed, shaking his head. He’d hated the silence from you and he had no idea how to fix things.

“No,” he replied. “She’s still very much ignoring me.”

“I don’t exactly blame her,” Karen cut in. “The whole situation sounded incredibly embarrassing and awkward when you told us why she was avoiding you. Especially considering how quiet she naturally is. For her to just kiss you and then to be rejected by you right after?” 

“Ouch,” Foggy muttered. “Yeah, she’s probably never speaking to you again, man. Sorry.”

Matt ran a hand across his mouth, his shoulders sagging in defeat. The thought of never spending time with you ever again physically hurt. He’d never again hear another one of your ridiculous jokes or have another surprise drop-in lunch visit at the office from you. You always somehow remembered his favorite sandwich from his favorite sandwich shop, too. He’d always thought it was sweet that you’d made a mental note of his particular order, considering you had no idea how delicate his palate was with his heightened senses. Though he supposed now knowing that you’d had feelings for him all along had that attention to detail making more sense.

Standing in the office, an uncomfortable feeling twisted his stomach into knots, his heart squirming in his chest as the realization that you might really be gone from his life fully hit him. He didn’t like it one bit.

“You okay, Matt?” Foggy asked him. “You sort of look like you’re going to be sick.”

Slowly, Matt shook his head. “I just wish I could fix things,” he confessed. “I wish she’d just talk to me again. I don't like this weirdness between us.”

He heard the way the air shifted in the room again. As if both Karen and Foggy had looked at each other. Matt’s eyes narrowed curiously behind his glasses, his head tilting to the side. Both of their heart rates had slightly elevated at almost the exact same moment when they’d done that. 

Why?

“So uh, you really miss her, huh?” Foggy asked.

“Of course,” Matt answered easily. “She’s one of my best friends.”

“Yeah?” Karen questioned.

Matt’s head canted curiously to the side at the odd tone in her voice. What were they getting at?

“Yeah,” Matt reiterated. “She’s been an important person in my life ever since the pair of you introduced us a while back. We always got along so well, and she always had such witty things to say. I miss talking to her. Josie’s just doesn’t feel the same without her anymore.” He ran a hand through his hair in growing aggravation. “I hate that I can’t just call her and hear her voice whenever I want anymore. And that she never randomly stops into the office just to say ‘hi.’. It–it hurts that she’s just gone now.”

The air shifted again as Karen and Foggy clearly exchanged a look with each other. Frustration began to fill Matt at whatever it was they weren’t saying.

“What?” Matt snapped. “You both keep looking at each other, I can feel it. What’s that about?”

Foggy cleared his throat, his attention returning to Matt. “It’s just…are you sure you just miss your friend?” he asked carefully. 

Matt pulled a face at the ridiculous question. “What? Of course I do,” he shot back.

“No,” Karen said, shaking her head. “He means, are you sure you miss her because she’s just a friend to you?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to–”

Matt abruptly stopped short, his mouth hanging open for a second as Karen’s words suddenly registered in his mind. Lips pressing together seconds later, Matt’s hands landed on his hips as he shifted his weight on his feet.

“What’re you trying to say?” Matt asked the pair. “That you think I like her? As more than a friend?”

“Well, buddy,” Foggy began carefully, “you’ve been acting pretty moody lately. Ever since she stopped talking to you. And you haven’t been as interested in the ladies, either. We’ve both noticed you turning them down. I don’t think you’ve brought a single person back to your place since that night.”

Matt scoffed, shaking his head. “So? I just haven’t been interested in that exactly,” he replied stiffly. “That doesn’t have anything to do with her.”

“You perk up at her name every time she’s mentioned,” Karen added. “And for the past couple of months you always find some way to randomly ask how she’s doing or what she’s been up to.”

“And when we told you she’d gotten onto that dating app,” Foggy chimed in, “you were in a horrible mood the whole day afterwards. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so grumpy for no reason to quite that extent before. I mean,” he continued with a chuckle, “that was like a Matt Murdock record level of moody. And there was no reason for it that day except for, well, that .”

Matt licked his lips, his fingers digging into his hips through his dress clothes. He’d just been worried about the jerks you might meet on that site, that was all. And he’d been jealous that you were still talking to Foggy, Karen, and Marci but not him. That had been all it was.

Right?

Karen leaned up against the side of the desk, her arms crossing over her chest as she focused on Matt. He bristled under the attention, feeling like he was suddenly on the stand and she was about to interrogate him.

“Let me ask you something,” she began, “and I want you to be honest and really think. How’d you feel when she kissed you that night?”

Matt frowned in her direction. “I told you, it’d been a shock,” he answered. “I hadn’t anticipated her to do that. Then I was worried I’d given her the wrong impression and I felt horrible that I’d upset her.”

Karen was roughly shaking her head at him. “No, how did it make you feel Matt?” she asked again.

“I mean I–” he stopped short again, his mouth closing almost immediately.

In all honesty, with everything that had happened that night, he hadn’t really thought about that. He’d been afraid of you thinking he was trying to take advantage of you when you were drunk, something he’d never do. And then he’d been upset and worried about you running out of his place crying and trying to make it home that night. He couldn’t even follow after you because it wouldn’t make sense that a blind man could navigate his way down the stairwell after you like he knew he’d be able to. And he was certain if he’d called your name down in the lobby–because he shouldn't have been able to know you by the sound of your heartbeat and scent of your perfume–you’d only run out of the building and ignore him. Chasing after you hadn't been an option.

But he had wanted to. Something he hadn’t even thought about after the fact because he’d been so upset at you ignoring his calls and messages. All he'd been focused on was how much it hurt that he'd lost such a great friend. He hadn't really stopped to think about how he had wanted to follow you or how that surprise kiss had made him feel. 

Had he enjoyed it? It had been timid and hesitant, only a brief kiss, but it hadn't been horrible. He'd just…never thought about you like that before. Because you weren't the kind of woman who blatantly threw yourself at him, the type he'd bring back to his apartment for a fuck and then be content to never see again. 

You definitely deserved more than that. 

You were the type someone brought home to meet their parents, the type a guy planned dates for, wanted to spend holidays with. You were the long term, committed relationship type of woman. The type Matt avoided because the thought of something serious scared him, especially with how he spent most of his evenings. 

But he missed you. He missed the scent of your perfume you always wore, the smell sometimes even lingering on his clothes when he'd return home from Josie’s. He missed the way you'd try to fill awkward silences whenever you were with him, always saying whatever random thing was on your mind. He missed the way your heart usually jumped whenever you first spotted him–because he'd always known you were attracted to him but he'd never thought more of it than that. He missed the sound of your voice after a difficult day at work, on days like today. 

“Well?” Karen prompted, breaking through his thoughts. 

“I uh,” he began, pausing to clear his throat, “I guess I never really thought about her like that before. I've always avoided anything possibly serious, and I've always tried to keep her at a distance because she didn't know about Daredevil. So I never really gave it much thought. Especially since she'd always just been there before. But now that she's not…” Matt trailed off, aware of the strange and unfamiliar feeling growing in his chest. “I guess I miss her more than I think I even realized,” he finished softly. 

“So wait, let me get this straight,” Foggy began, excitedly waving his hands in front of himself. “You're just now realizing that maybe you really do like her? Like for real? As more than just a good friend?”

A small smile slid across Matt's lips as he thought of the sound of your laughter and how he wished he could hear it tonight after the shit day he’d had. His hands dropped from his hips, that stupid smile growing a little at the thought of you. “I suppose I am,” he admitted. 

Foggy pushed off the desk and crossed the few steps over towards Matt. Both of his hands flew forward, grabbing Matt's shoulders in a tight grip and lightly shaking him. Back by the desk, Karen tried to hide her laugh behind a hand.

“Then dammit, Murdock,” Foggy ordered, “Go tell her that!”

The smile grew wider on Matt's face, an idea forming in his mind already. If you weren't going to answer your phone, he'd find a way to make sure you couldn’t ignore him. 

Straightening up your kitchen now that you'd finished with dinner, you paused what you were doing when you heard your phone alert you to a notification. Turning around, you picked it up from where it had been sitting on the counter, curious to what the notification was about. 

Unlocking your phone, you noticed you'd received another message on the dating app you'd downloaded weeks ago. Leaning your back against the nearby counter, a smile drew itself across your lips. It was the first message you'd gotten this week and the sight immediately lifted your mood. The prospect of someone possibly being interested in you had your stomach excitedly jumping up into your chest.

You opened the message, beginning to excitedly read it over. Though the more you read, the faster your smile shifted into a frown. It was yet another sleazy sounding guy clearly trying to talk himself up in a way that sounded both fabricated and disrespectful. You cringed at the things he’d said about your photos–things he clearly thought were meant to be compliments but were vastly inappropriate and made you feel uncomfortable instead of flattered. Reaching the end of the brief message, you were shaking your head and closing out of the app before setting your phone back onto the counter with a roll of your eyes. It wasn't even worth your time responding back to the guy after a few of the things you'd read because he absolutely wasn't a match and you had no interest in ever meeting him.

With a sigh you made your way towards your fridge, your mind now focused on that unopened bottle of wine in there. It looked like you'd be having another night in with yourself tonight. But just as you'd opened the door to your fridge, your hand about to reach in and grab the bottle of red wine, there was a knock at your apartment door. 

You paused, half-bent in front of your fridge as your eyebrows drew together in confusion at the interruption. Assuming it might’ve been Karen or Marci stopping by to go over something for wedding dress shopping which was planned for Saturday, you gradually stood back up and closed the fridge door. You figured that bottle of wine could wait a few more minutes.

Making your way out of your kitchen, you cut through your living room and over towards your door. Unlocking it, you pulled the door wide open without even glancing through the peephole first. Expecting to see either blonde woman standing there, you were stunned to instead find Matt standing in your hallway with a small smile on his lips. 

Your heart lurched its way into your throat at the sight of him, your lips parting in surprise. Hand tightening around the handle of your door in a death grip, you fought your initial urge to just slam it in his face. What the hell was he doing here? Matt was the absolute last person you wanted to see standing at your door after your last interaction with him. It had been a few weeks since that nightmare of a night where you'd drunkenly kissed him and you still became insanely embarrassed at the memory of it. You certainly had no interest in talking to him about it further. You'd already apologized for just kissing him like you'd done, now all you wanted to do was never speak to him again. You figured he had to have gotten the hint already with how you’d been ignoring him.

So why was he suddenly at your apartment?

He said your name, that smile still on his mouth as he held up his right hand. Your face twisted into a look of confusion at the sight of a bouquet of beautiful flowers you hadn’t initially noticed he’d been holding. 

“Can I take you to dinner this Sunday night?” he asked.

Teeth gritting down hard together, your eyes narrowed back at him as anger quickly ignited within your gut. You immediately remembered drunkenly confessing to him that you couldn’t remember the last time a guy had brought you flowers or asked you on a date. Now here he was doing both after he’d just very obviously and clearly rejected you. Did he think this was some way to break the ice between you both after what had happened? Some sort of way to turn everything into a joke?

“Do you think that's funny?” you asked sharply. “Making fun of me like this? As if I don’t feel like an absolute dumbass already, now you come here rubbing it in my face? You don’t like me like that, I got the message loud and clear already, Matthew. I don’t remotely find this funny.”

Matt's expression quickly morphed into one of shock and surprise at your reaction. He shook his head quickly, a crease forming between his dark brows.

“No, that’s–that’s not what I’m doing at all!” he exclaimed earnestly. “I guess I shouldn’t have led with that. Can I just come in and talk to you? Explain everything? Please?”

You were about to tell him no, wanting to hide your hurt, disappointment, and embarrassment behind a wall of anger instead of crying over Matt yet again, especially in front of him once more, but the solemn and desperate look on his face gave you pause. Matt and you had your jokes, but even this would’ve been a bit ridiculous for him to have planned out as a way to smooth things over between the pair of you after what had happened. He’d never seemed callous like that in the past. But the only other thing that would make sense was him actually coming here to ask you on a real date. Which also seemed equally absurd since almost seven weeks ago he’d already told you that you were just a friend.

“I swear if you let me explain, this will seem far less confusing,” he assured you. “Just–just give me five minutes?”

With an irritated sigh, you stepped away from the door. “Fine,” you relented. “Five minutes, Matt.”

An almost nervous smile spread across his lips as he made his way through the doorway and into your apartment. You closed the door behind him, your body a confusing mix of emotions that you were struggling to make sense of right now. You were upset about seeing him again after that embarrassing moment, your anger quickly giving way to discomfort. It didn't help that the tiniest spark of hope had reappeared in your chest at the prospect of him truly being here to ask you out on a date, but you immediately reminded yourself of what happened the last time you’d stupidly thought there was a chance Matt had feelings for you. You didn’t want to wind up misreading things with him a second time.

Turning back towards him, you were met with the bouquet of flowers in his extended hand. It was a stunning mixture of dahlias and greenery that couldn't have been cheap now that you were really looking at it. 

“Dahlias are your favorite, if I’m not mistaken,” he said softly. “I remembered you mentioning that before at Josie’s when Marci had been talking about flowers for the wedding.”

Eyes darting up from the bouquet in his hands, they landed on his face. He still looked nervous and you weren’t entirely sure what to make of that. Matthew Murdock never outwardly got nervous. You also weren’t sure what to make of him remembering your favorite flower months after you’d brought it up around him just once. 

Not knowing how to really respond, the confusing mix of emotions in your body only growing, you hesitantly reached a hand out and accepted the flowers. “Thank you,” you murmured. 

In an attempt to keep your hands busy, and because you weren’t remotely interested in being the one to lead the conversation, you made your way back into your kitchen. You were aware of Matt following after you as you searched for the lone vase in one of your kitchen cabinets. Eventually you found it and began to fill it with water, impatient for Matt to say something as you kept your back to him. 

“About that night,” Matt began cautiously, “when I’d invited you to stay over and you kissed me?”

Turning off the kitchen faucet, your eyelids slowly lowered. Your body tensed, bracing yourself for whatever was coming next. Keeping your back to him, you knew you couldn’t bear to look at him right now with whatever he was about to say. The jumbled, drunken memory of that evening came flooding back to you and you were immediately hit with a wave of embarrassment, tears stinging at your eyes behind closed lids. You remained silent though, waiting for him to continue.

“I hadn’t anticipated that, if I’m being honest,” he finally continued, still speaking in a measured tone. “My intention had been to make sure you made it somewhere safe that evening because I knew you’d drank a bit more than usual. I couldn’t stand the thought of you walking home alone drunk at night in the rain. So I’m sorry if I was giving off signals to you that were other than that at the time because they weren’t intentional.” He paused, clearing his throat lightly. “And it–it wasn’t exactly until this afternoon that I realized maybe some of them were subconscious because I hadn’t quite realized what I actually felt until today.”

Your hands tightened around both the vase and the bouquet of flowers as you held your breath. That flicker of hope had grown just marginally in your chest without your permission, and now it was teetering on the edge of growing larger or diminishing itself entirely. You felt like you couldn’t take another breath as you waited for him to clarify what he meant.

“It’s been weeks since we’ve talked,” Matt said, pain in his voice. “Weeks since you’ve come to Josie’s or stopped by the office. Or answered one of my phone calls. And everyday has just felt off because of it. Because I miss you. And I thought for the longest time it was just because I was missing one of my best friends, but then Karen and Foggy apparently caught onto something that I hadn’t even noticed in myself.”

With shaking hands, you opened your eyes and slipped the bouquet of flowers into the filled vase. Nervously you turned around, reaching your hand out to set them onto the counter next to you before your gaze finally landed back on Matt. He was standing at the other end of your small kitchen now, and it was almost as if he knew your eyes were on him as a gentle smile began pulling up the corners of his lips.

“If we’re being honest,” Matt confessed, “I’ve always tried to avoid relationships. I haven’t had the best of luck with them, and well, there are things someone actually dating me would need to be made aware of–something I generally don’t open up about. But I think I’d be ready to discuss that with you after dinner Sunday night if you’d let me take you out.” 

He paused, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet as he gripped his cane tighter between both of his hands. Briefly you wondered what things he meant, but he was speaking again before you’d had long to contemplate that comment.

“The truth is, I didn’t truly realize what you meant to me until you were no longer a constant in my life,” Matt admitted. “And I can’t stand not having you around. Not just because you’re my friend, but because I have feelings for you, too. Feelings that are more than friendly that I’d like to explore further if you’d still be willing to as well.” 

Heart skipping a beat entirely in your chest, you exhaled a quivering breath at the admission. Matt liked you. You . He’d really come here to bring you flowers and to ask you on a date, not to mock you or make light of your currently sad and lacking situation of a love life. You heard him let out a nervous laugh as your mind continued to race at everything he was saying.

“I uh, really wish you’d say absolutely anything right now,” he continued, “because your silence is scaring the hell out of me. I can’t tell if you’re still mad or just trying to process everything.”

Swallowing hard, you tried to find the words to express how you were feeling. You could barely understand your own mind right now after he’d dropped all that on you. You'd gone so long never believing he'd be interested in you like that, and then after what had happened weeks ago when he'd blatantly rejected you, you really figured you'd never be anything more to him. But now here he was telling you the opposite and you could hardly believe it.

“I’m still sort of processing,” you replied, voice just above a whisper. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to hear you ever say any of that. Certainly hadn’t been expecting to hear any of this tonight.”

A sheepish smile tugged at his lips just before he hung his head, nodding lightly. “Yeah, it sort of surprised me earlier, too,” he told you. “I’m shocked I wasn’t quite as aware of my own feelings as Karen and Foggy seemed to be, but uh…that probably has a little something to do with some other things going on in my life.”

Chewing your lip nervously, you continued to take in the sight of him standing across from you in your kitchen. He was still dressed in his dress clothes from work, clearly having finished late and having come straight here to see you afterwards. The nerves in your stomach gradually intensified as you took in the smile on his handsome face that you could somewhat make out despite the way he’d ducked his head. Seconds later his covered gaze rose up, falling back on you. You only gnawed on your bottom lip faster, something electric feeling like it was sparking between you both in the small space all the sudden. A feeling that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

“So I suppose now I’m curious to know if you’d let me take you to dinner Sunday night, since I know you’ve got plans for Saturday?” Matt asked hopefully. “Would that…be something you’d like?”

“Yes,” you whispered, nodding immediately.

Matt took a few steps forward, the smile that had been lighting up his face growing warmer. His hands reached up, removing the glasses from his face before he slipped them into the inside pocket of his suit coat as he continued to make his way towards you. You leaned further back into the counter behind you, your hands landing on either side of the countertop as you tried to steady yourself. You weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, but there was a glint in his eye that had your breath coming in sharper than usual.

“And in that case,” Matt continued, his voice dropping a few octaves to something sultry and soft, the sound increasing your pulse as he continued to close the gap between you both, “would it be alright if we had a redo of our first kiss? This time with both of us sober and actually anticipating it?”

Breath still coming in shallow, it was difficult for your brain to send the signal to your mouth to actually formulate a sentence. You’d managed a quiet noise in response as he came to a stop just in front of you, his body mere inches from yours as he set his cane to the side. You could practically feel something sparking between the pair of you as he just stood there, his eyes focused along your chin. His head tilted to the side as if in silent question when you hadn’t given him a verbal confirmation.

“I–yes,” you finally answered.

He leaned in, moving so painfully slow as he came to rest his forehead against yours. His hand was suddenly on your neck, delicately gliding his fingertips upwards until the palm of his hand cupped your cheek, cradling it in his warm hand. His thumb rested just beneath your jaw, somehow knowingly tilting your mouth up further towards his at just the right angle. You felt lightheaded beneath his touch and the close proximity, your body involuntarily sinking forward into his when the tip of his nose just barely brushed against yours.

Matt shifted just the slightest bit before you felt his lips finally land on yours. Your eyelids immediately fluttered shut, a faint sigh sneaking out of your throat at how soft his lips were–softer than you recalled them. With the way he carefully began to move them against yours, you felt your knees going weak. Hands releasing the grip you had on the countertop, they darted forward and grabbed fistfuls of his dress shirt, just beneath his suit coat. 

As you held onto him like a lifeline, his mouth pressed more firmly against yours. Fingers curling into his dress shirt, you pulled him roughly into your body. He stumbled forward into you, a rumbling growl coming from his chest in response. The delicious weight of him against the front of you only pressed you farther into the counter behind you as his other hand landed on your hip, gripping it tight.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that Matt gently broke away, his own breath heavy as he rested his forehead back to yours. Your tongue darted out, licking your damp lips as you tried to catch your breath. You could still taste him on you, the realization causing you to actively have to stop yourself from leaning forward and kissing him again. 

“Well there's–there's certainly something there,” Matt said with a breathy laugh. “But uh, maybe we should leave things there until after Sunday night?”

You nodded, though it was hard to fully agree when his hips were still pressing you back into your kitchen counter and his mouth was mere inches from yours. Especially knowing how damn good of a kisser he was now, you wondered what else he did well.

“Right,” you breathed out.

He shifted against you, burying his face against the crook of your neck as he wrapped his arms around you. You couldn't fight the smile on your face at how he clearly didn't want to pull away from you, instead getting closer to you. You'd never seen him this affectionate with anyone else before.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your neck. 

Tentatively your hands released their grip on his shirt, your own arms snaking their way around his waist and drawing him closer. You came to rest your forehead against his shoulder, eyes closing as you relaxed into him. 

“I missed you, too,” you admitted. “And I'm sorry for getting drunk and kissing you like an idiot and then ignoring you for weeks.”

“Well, I admit it wasn't great being ignored by you,” he said, his lips tickling you as he spoke. “But at the same time, if you hadn't done either of those, I might never have realized how I felt about the woman who'd always been right in front of me the whole time.”

Your smile grew, your arms holding him a bit tighter. “I suppose that makes me feel a little less embarrassed, then.”

Matt nuzzled his face further into your neck, the bit of stubble on his cheeks pleasantly tickling you. You couldn't fight the giggle that slipped out of you in response. Seconds later you swore you felt his mouth pulling into a smile against your skin. 

“So Sunday night,” Matt began slowly, “if I show up with flowers for you again, you're not going to yell at me, are you?”

You couldn’t resist the laugh that fell out of you. Burying your face further against his shoulder in slight embarrassment, you replied, “No, I'm definitely not going to yell at you for bringing me flowers again.”

“Good,” he said, amusement in his tone. “Because that was admittedly a terrifying experience.”