Hotshit💋

Owen Brompton had been back from his date for exactly eleven minutes before deciding it’d been a catastrophe.

This was impressive, considering he’d spent the first six of those minutes insisting it had gone “reasonably well, actually” while pacing the narrow stretch of carpet between the sofa and the telly with his coat still on. The remaining five had been dedicated to tearing that claim apart in such painful detail that you suspected he’d started preparing the postmortem before the woman had even finished saying goodnight.

“She didn’t laugh.”

You looked up from your corner of the sofa, where you’d been waiting with two cans of cider and an increasingly cold box of chips balanced across your knees. Matt had let you in twenty minutes ago, taken one look at the food in your lap, and announced that Owen had apparently arranged his own emergency response team. He and Freya had disappeared upstairs not long after that, though you’d heard Matt laughing through the ceiling when Owen came stumbling through the front door with the expression of a man returning from war.

“At anything?” you asked.

“She laughed twice.”

“Then she did laugh.”

“Not properly.” Owen stopped pacing long enough to look genuinely offended that you couldn’t understand the distinction. His hair had caught the rain on the walk home, leaving the ends damp and curling around his forehead. “One of them was more of an exhale.”

“That still counts.”

“It absolutely doesn’t. People exhale all the time.”

“They’d die otherwise.”

“That’s not the point.”

He started pacing again.

The front room was small enough that three strides took him from the secondhand sofa to the cluttered shelf where Freya kept framed photos, candles and a ceramic dish full of loose change. Owen’s guitar leaned against the radiator beside one of the speakers he’d spent an entire Sunday repositioning, despite Matt repeatedly threatening to throw both of them into the street. Sheet music and unopened post had spread across the coffee table, and a single sock had somehow ended up on top of Owen’s battered amp.

The ceiling light was off, leaving the room lit by the amber lamp beside you and the blue standby glow from his equipment. Rain ticked faintly against the front window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, followed by Matt’s muffled voice and Freya telling him to leave Owen alone.

Owen pushed both hands through his hair.

“I asked too many questions.”

“You were on a date. Questions are usually encouraged.”

“Not in the manner of a police interview.”

“What did you ask her?”

“What sort of childhood she had.”

You stared at him.

Owen’s shoulders dropped. “It were relevant at the time.”

“To what?”

“We were talking about crisps.”

A laugh escaped before you could swallow it.

His expression sharpened with vindication rather than embarrassment. “See? You’re laughing now. That’s what’s meant to happen.”

“I’m laughing because you somehow interrogated a woman about her formative years over a packet of salt and vinegar.”

“She said she didn’t like them.”

“And that concerned you?”

“It suggested a sheltered upbringing.”

You moved the chips before you spilled them. “Owen.”

“I panicked.”

“I can tell.”

He finally shrugged out of his wet coat and tossed it toward the armchair. It hit the back, slid off and landed in a heap beside the leg. Owen looked at it, seemed to consider picking it up, then apparently decided his romantic failures needed his attention more urgently.

“She was lovely,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”

“How’s that the worst part?”

“Because if she’d been horrible, I could blame her.”

“You can still blame her. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m trying to grow.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Owen dropped onto the sofa beside you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, nudging your thigh against his, and the damp chill clinging to him came with the smell of rain, lager and whatever cologne he’d put far too much of on before leaving. You’d taken the piss out of him for it when he’d come downstairs earlier, and Freya had agreed with you while Matt stood behind Owen pretending to choke.

Now it had faded into something softer beneath the warmth of his skin.

He reached for one of the ciders and pressed the cold can to his forehead.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You decide you’re in love before the starters arrive.”

“I didn’t decide I was in love.”

“You sent me a message from the toilet saying she had soulful eyes.”

“That was an observation.”

“You’d known her forty minutes.”

“Some things are immediately apparent.”

You pulled the can away from his face before he could freeze his brain and cracked it open for him. Owen accepted it with a mumbled thanks, still looking personally wounded by the entire concept of dating.

The problem was that you knew he meant it. Owen might dramatize every awkward silence and attach ridiculous significance to minor details, but he never treated affection carelessly. Every crush became a possibility. Every possibility became a whole story he could already hear playing beneath the rest of his life, complete with swelling strings, a key change and the perfect final chorus.

Then reality failed to follow the arrangement, and he came home confused.

“You need practice,” you said.

Owen looked at you over the rim of the can. “I’ve been on dates.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know how dates work.”

“You asked a woman what emotional damage led to her crisp preferences.”

“I didn’t phrase it like that.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

He nudged your knee with his. “All right, then. Dating expert. What do you suggest?”

“You need someone to tell you when you’re being weird.”

“You already do that constantly.”

“Someone who can do it during the date.”

Owen lowered the cider.

His attention sharpened in a way that made you suddenly aware of how closely you were sitting, your legs still touching because neither of you had bothered to move.

You’d known him long enough to recognize the exact second an idea took hold. It appeared first in his eyes, then gathered behind his mouth while he tested the wording. Usually, this process ended with him suggesting something unnecessarily complicated and insisting it was the obvious solution.

“You could,” he said.

You blinked. “I could what?”

“Go on a date with me.”

The words settled between you.

Owen immediately started waving one hand, trying to physically rearrange them into something less dangerous.

“Not a real date.”

“Obviously.”

“A practice one.”

“Right.”

“So you can observe.”

“You make it sound like a wildlife documentary.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, you did.

The suggestion should’ve been ridiculous. It should’ve joined the long list of Owen’s ideas that only sounded reasonable after midnight, alongside buying a smoke machine for his bedroom and trying to write an entire song using nothing but things he found in Matt and Freya’s kitchen.

Instead, your stomach tightened.

You covered it with a laugh. “You want me to grade you?”

“Not grade. Just offer constructive feedback.”

“I’m giving you a failing mark already.”

“We haven’t started.”

“You’re arguing with your instructor.”

“I thought you were my date.”

“You can’t afford my rates.”

Owen’s smile appeared slowly, crooked at one corner and far more charming than anything he’d probably attempted across the table that evening. “Come on. It’ll help.”

The ease of his expression didn’t quite hide the way his thumb kept rubbing against the side of the can. Owen was nervous. He was trying not to look it, but you’d spent too many evenings beside him not to notice the little signs: the restless fingers, the slight tilt of his head, the way he filled every silence before it got the chance to reject him first.

You should’ve said no.

Instead, you leaned back against the cushions and pretended to think about it.

“We’d need rules.”

“Course.”

“We pretend we’ve never met.”

“Fine.”

“I’m allowed to stop you whenever you say something embarrassing.”

“That seems unnecessarily broad.”

“You asked for my help.”

“Carry on.”

“You don’t argue with the feedback.”

Owen opened his mouth.

You pointed at him.

He shut it again.

“And nothing that happens during the date counts.”

Something unreadable moved across his face before he nodded. “Because it’s practice.”

“Exactly.”

“Right.”

You held out your hand. “Deal?”

Owen looked at it, then at you.

His palm was warm when he took yours. His fingers closed firmly, lingering a beat longer than a handshake needed to.

“Deal.”

For a man who claimed to need emergency romantic intervention, Owen took the practice date alarmingly seriously.

Matt and Freya were going out on Saturday, which meant Owen had the house to himself for most of the evening. This information arrived in a string of messages that began with Matt and Freya won’t be here and was followed, less than thirty seconds later, by Not that I arranged that and Don’t make it weird.

You arrived just after seven to find the usual clutter from the front room stacked in precarious towers beside the stairs. Owen’s guitar had been moved into the corner. The sock had disappeared from the amp, though you suspected he’d hidden it rather than washed it, and two candles burned inside mismatched glass holders beside plates of supermarket pasta.

Owen had put on a clean shirt.

It was dark green, slightly wrinkled and buttoned incorrectly.

You stood on the front step staring at the uneven collar.

He followed your gaze and looked down.

“Fuck.”

“That’s our first note.”

“The date hasn’t started.”

“You opened the door.”

“Wait there.”

“Owen.”

He shut it in your face.

Movement thudded through the hall, followed by a muffled curse and the unmistakable sound of something being knocked off the little table by the stairs. Less than a minute later, the door opened again.

His shirt was fixed. His cheeks were pink.

“Hello,” he said with painful formality. “You must be…”

“You know my name.”

“We’re pretending.”

“You’re terrible at pretending.”

“Can we start again?”

“You’ve already used your restart.”

“You never said there was only one.”

“This is why people need contracts.”

Owen glanced past you towards the empty pavement before stepping aside. “D’you want to come in?”

You crossed the threshold, and he closed the door behind you.

The candles were excessive for a practice date. So was the bottle of wine waiting in a metal bowl full of rapidly melting ice. A tiny vase stood between the plates with a single flower inside it.

You touched one of the petals.

It was made of fabric.

“Did you buy this?”

Owen pulled out your chair. “It was already here.”

“Why did you own one fake flower?”

“I don’t. Freya does.”

“Does Freya know you stole her fake flower?”

“She said I could borrow it.”

“Did she know what for?”

Owen looked away. “Eventually.”

You could already imagine that conversation.

You sat down, mostly because the tips of his ears had turned red. Owen pushed your chair in with more force than necessary, nearly trapping you against the table, then hurried around to the opposite side. He paused before sitting, apparently trying to remember what people who’d just met were meant to say.

You waited.

He waited.

The candle flame leaned in the draft.

“So,” Owen began, “what sort of childhood did you have?”

You burst out laughing.

His composure broke with a grin. “All right. Had to get it out of the way.”

“That would’ve ended the date immediately.”

“You’re still here.”

“Only because I know where Matt keeps the wine.”

“That’s my wine.”

“Then why did he tell me not to let you open the expensive bottle?”

Owen’s eyes shifted towards the kitchen. “He’s a liar.”

He poured you a glass, briefly missing the rim and splashing a little across the table. You watched him blot it with a tea towel while muttering that this part would be edited out of the official assessment.

Once the initial performance wore off, the evening became surprisingly convincing.

Owen asked normal questions.

Mostly.

He wanted to know which place you’d return to for a single afternoon if distance didn’t matter, what album you wished you could hear for the first time again and whether you thought people were more honest in the dark. The questions were still unmistakably his, too earnest and specific for polite conversation, but they pulled answers from you that he hadn’t heard before.

You’d known Owen for nearly a year. You’d watched him fall asleep against your shoulder during a film and wake up with the seam of your shirt imprinted across his cheek. You’d sat on the floor of his bedroom while he played half-finished melodies and watched your expression before deciding whether he liked them. You knew he hated mushrooms, loved the hum of old amplifiers warming up and pretended not to care when people forgot his birthday.

You also knew he never talked about his mum for long. Her absence still sat quietly throughout the house, in the photographs Freya dusted and the way Matt’s jokes sometimes stopped too suddenly. Owen could turn almost anything into a love story, but grief was one of the few things he couldn’t arrange into music and make sense of.

Still, he surprised you.

Owen listened differently when he imagined he only had one evening to learn you.

His gaze stayed on your face, soft but steady. He didn’t interrupt unless excitement got the better of him, and even then, he always remembered where you’d stopped. He brought up details you’d mentioned months ago and disguised them as guesses, smiling whenever he got one right.

“You’re cheating,” you said eventually.

Owen paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “How?”

“You already know me.”

“You know me too.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Seems relevant.”

“You’re using prior knowledge to impress your date.”

“That’s called preparation.”

“No, it’s called fraud.”

He leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. Candlelight caught in his eyes and warmed the damp curls near his forehead.

“Are you impressed?”

You took a drink instead of answering.

Owen’s smile deepened.

“That’s not a no.”

“Your pasta’s overcooked.”

“I didn’t ask about the pasta.”

“You should. It’s the main issue currently facing us.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“You’re getting cocky.”

“Is that bad?”

“It can be.”

Owen rested his forearms on the table. “D’you like it?”

Your pulse stumbled.

He asked it lightly, but his attention had changed. The room felt smaller than it had a second ago. Rain whispered against the window, quieter than the other night, and the music playing through Owen’s speakers had reached the space between songs.

You looked down at your wine.

“Your date shouldn’t have to reassure you constantly.”

“That wasn’t feedback.”

“It is now.”

“I think you’re abusing your authority.”

“You asked me to evaluate you.”

“And you’ve been very thorough.”

His voice had lowered.

You lifted your eyes again.

Owen was still smiling, but the nervousness had returned beneath it. You could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his fingers curled against the table. For all the ridiculous confidence he could find when he was performing, he was waiting for you to decide whether he’d crossed a line.

You could’ve backpedaled.

Instead, you said, “You’re leaning.”

“So are you.”

You realized with some irritation that he was right.

You sat back.

Owen laughed under his breath.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m receiving mixed feedback.”

“You were doing better before you started congratulating yourself.”

He took another drink, but the glass didn’t hide his smile.

After dinner, Owen cleared the plates while you inspected the handwritten card he’d left beside your place setting.

PRACTICE DATE ASSESSMENT, it read across the top.

Beneath it, he’d drawn several categories with boxes ranging from poor to exceptional.

Conversation.

Table manners.

Emotional availability.

General romantic intrigue.

Kissing.

You held up the card when he came back from the kitchen.

“Kissing?”

Owen nearly dropped the plates.

“It’s a standard category.”

“According to who?”

“Everyone.”

“You made this.”

“Based on accepted criteria.”

“You left all the boxes blank.”

“I assumed you’d fill it in afterwards.”

“You assumed a lot.”

He set the plates down and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You said it was meant to be a full assessment.”

“I don’t remember promising practical demonstrations.”

“Then how can the results be accurate?”

The question came too quickly.

Owen had rehearsed it.

You narrowed your eyes. “Was this your plan?”

“What plan?”

“Dinner. Wine. Candles. Luring me into some elaborate kissing evaluation.”

“I haven’t lured anyone.”

“You shut the door behind me.”

“That’s generally what doors are for.”

“Owen.”

He lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving a very deliberate stretch of cushion between you.

His knee started bouncing.

“It was just a category,” he said.

“You could cross it out.”

“I could.”

Neither of you moved.

The music continued at a low volume. A guitar line drifted through the room, soft enough that you could hear the faint electrical hum beneath it. The candles had burned lower, wax spilling unevenly down the glass holders.

Owen stared at the assessment card in your hand.

Then he said, “I do think it’s relevant.”

“Of course you do.”

“What if that’s what’s going wrong?”

“You think women are rejecting you because of your kissing?”

“I don’t know. No one sends a detailed exit survey.”

“Maybe you should add a link after the next date.”

“I’m being serious.”

That softened you despite your better judgment.

Owen turned towards you, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa. “You said I think too much.”

“You do.”

“So I’m asking.”

“Asking what?”

“Whether you’d let me kiss you.”

The humor left the room so quietly that you almost didn’t notice until it was gone.

Owen’s face had gone very still. His knee had stopped bouncing. Whatever answer he expected, he’d committed himself to hearing it.

You looked at his mouth.

That was your first mistake.

The second was imagining it.

You’d done that before, though never anywhere Owen might see it happening. You’d wondered during late nights when his shoulder pressed against yours, during gigs when the stage lights sharpened every line of him, during conversations that drifted dangerously close to confession before one of you ruined them with a joke.

Wondering had always felt safe because it belonged to you alone.

This didn’t.

“One kiss,” you said.

Owen swallowed.

“For practice.”

“For practice,” he repeated.

“You’re not allowed to make it weird afterwards.”

“I never make things weird.”

“You once apologized to a chair after walking into it.”

“It were someone else’s chair.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He moved closer.

Not much. Barely the width of your hand. Still, you felt the shift through the sofa before his thigh touched yours.

Owen looked at you as though he was waiting for another rule.

You should’ve given him one.

Instead, you said, “Well?”

His hand rose towards your face, hesitated for a second, then settled lightly beside your jaw. His fingers were warm. The careful touch sent a far stronger reaction through you than it had any right to.

He leaned in slowly enough for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

Owen kissed you.

It was soft. Almost painfully so.

His mouth brushed yours with cautious pressure, lingering for only a few seconds before he pulled away. His fingertips stayed against your skin. He was close enough that his breath warmed your lips, but his eyes had already opened, searching your expression.

“Well?” he whispered.

You hated how unsteady your voice sounded.

“You were too careful.”

Owen blinked. “Too careful?”

“You asked for feedback.”

“I know. I just…” His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. More technical language.”

“You barely kissed me.”

“I was being respectful.”

“You looked like you were defusing a bomb.”

His eyebrows lifted. “That bad?”

“I didn’t say bad.”

Owen’s thumb moved once along the edge of your jaw.

“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”

The second kiss was different.

He closed the distance before you could make another joke, one hand sliding behind your neck as his mouth found yours with enough certainty to steal the breath you’d drawn. The caution hadn’t disappeared, but it’d changed into control, his attention sharpened by permission.

Your fingers caught in the front of his shirt.

Owen made a low sound against your mouth.

It broke whatever was left of the exercise.

He kissed you again before the last one had properly ended, mouth still warm and damp against yours as he tilted his head and pulled you in until your knees pressed hard against his thigh. His hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading against the small of your back to hold you there while his tongue traced slowly across your lower lip, teasing once before slipping into your mouth the second you opened for him. The taste of wine lingered on him, sharp and sweet beneath the heat of his breath, and the low sound that caught in his throat seemed to vibrate straight through you when your tongue met his. After that, whatever restraint he’d been clinging to disappeared. He kissed you deeper, wetter, his tongue stroking against yours with a hungry, almost desperate rhythm while his grip tightened at your waist and dragged you closer until there wasn’t any space left between your body and his.

You’d expected awkwardness. Teeth knocking. Nervous laughter.

Instead, Owen kissed the same way he listened to music: completely, intensely, with his whole attention fixed on every tiny change in rhythm.

By the time you pulled back, your grip had wrinkled his shirt.

Owen’s lips were flushed. His eyes stayed on yours.

“Better?”

The hint of smugness should’ve irritated you.

It didn’t.

“You need more practice.”

He laughed once, breathless, and kissed you again.

The assessment card slipped from your lap and disappeared beneath the coffee table.

Owen shifted closer, following the pull of your body until his chest brushed yours. His hand moved along your side, stopping whenever your breathing changed, learning the response before continuing.

“Is this part of the lesson?” he murmured.

“You wanted practical feedback.”

“I’m committed to improving.”

“You’re talking too much.”

“That’s never been one of the categories.”

“It is now.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “And how am I doing?”

You pulled him back by his collar.

“Still under review.”

Owen’s smile disappeared into another kiss.

The worn fabric sofa creaks under the weight of him half-covering you, his mouth hot and wet against your neck. Too hot. Too wet. Too fast. He's kissing you like he's trying to win something, like there's a timer counting down somewhere, and the soft scrape of his barely-there stubble against your skin is the only part of this that actually lands—rough, alive, real. 

His breath comes in quick, uneven bursts against your throat, and the hand that had been moving so carefully along your side is suddenly fisted in the cushion beside your hip, knuckles white beneath the thin skin stretched over them, like he’s pulled it away before it could reach for something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for. No longer on your waist. No longer following the line of your thigh. Not touching you at all.

You let him have a few seconds. Enough to register what’s wrong. The way his lips move too fast, skipping over the skin just below your ear where he could’ve stayed for an hour. The way his body hovers instead of settling, all that earlier confidence tightening into restraint as he braces for you to stop him.

Then you do.

“You’re rushing.”

Your voice comes out steady, almost bored, and the effect is immediate. His mouth freezes against your neck. His whole body goes still, arrested and caught mid-motion, like a record needle lifted mid-track.

He pulls back, and the shift in his breathing is sharp. A caught breath. A recalibration.

"What?" He blinks down at you, blue eyes wide and dark in the dim lamp glow, hair falling across his forehead in that shaggy mess that makes him look younger than twenty-three. "I'm—I thought—"

"You thought faster was better." You hold his gaze. "It's not."

His mouth opens. Closes. A flush crawls up his neck, visible even in the low light, and he lets out a breathless laugh that's half-embarrassment, half-relief. "Right. Yeah. No, you're—you're right. I'm just—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "I've been thinking about this all night. All week, actually. Since the pasta."

"I know."

"And I got ahead of myself."

"I know that too."

He laughs again, quieter this time, and the sound is warmer now, less frantic. His hand finally moves, uncurling from the cushion and settling on your hip, palm flat, fingers pressing just enough to feel the heat of you through your shirt.

“Okay. Okay, I hear you. Slower.”

“Slower,” you repeat. “Let it build.”

“Build.” He parrots, saying it like he was testing the word's weight on his tongue. “Right. Build-up. I can do build-up.”

You don't smile, but something in your posture shifts—a softening, a permission. "Show me."

His jaw tightens. Not in frustration. In focus. He drops his gaze to your mouth, then to your throat, then back to your eyes, and this time when he leans in, it's different. Slower. Deliberate. His mouth brushes the corner of yours first—barely a kiss, more a question—then drags down your jaw, lips parted, breath warm against your skin.

He pauses at your pulse point. Breathes there. Lets you feel the weight of him waiting. Then his mouth closes over the spot just below your ear—the one he missed before—and stays. No frantic movement. No rushing. Just the wet heat of his lips, the gentle suction, the soft scrape of teeth that makes your breath catch before you can stop it.

"Better?" he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is lower now, rougher, the nervous edge blunted into something almost cocky.

"Getting there."

He huffs a laugh against your throat, and the vibration of it travels down your spine. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, fingers splayed, palm pressing heat through the denim of your jeans. He takes his time—one agonizing inch at a time, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the inside seam, feeling the curve of muscle beneath.

The dust motes float in the lamplight, suspended and golden, and the faint smell of rain on pavement drifts through the cracked window—wet asphalt, ozone, the memory of a storm that passed hours ago. His cologne mixes with it, something clean and slightly sweet, and the combination is so specifically him that it makes your chest ache.

His thumb presses higher. Deliberate. Finding the spot where pressure turns into something else, where the seam of your jeans meets the heat of you. Your hips shift before you can think about it. A small movement. Involuntary. He notices. Of course he notices. His thumb stills, then presses harder, exactly where you need it, the pressure of denim against sensitive flesh making your breath stutter. He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark now, focused, the boyish softness sharpened into something hungrier. "Yeah? Is this better?"

You don’t answer with words, you answer him with a kiss.

Not a gentle one, but not rushed either. Your hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him down, and your mouth meets his with a hunger that surprises you both, all teeth and tongue and the wet slide of lips finally taking the time to feel each other. He makes a sharp, startled sound against your mouth that melts into a groan as the hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, fingers digging into the denim like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

His tongue meets yours, and it’s messy, sloppy in the best way, all heat and spit and the taste of the wine from dinner still lingering at the edges. He kisses like he talks when he’s nervous: too much, everything spilling out at once. But there’s something else underneath it now. Something focused. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheekbone as he angles your head and kisses you deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, the word half-lost between kisses. “That’s—you’re—”

He breaks off and kisses you again, harder this time. His tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent, and you feel it everywhere: in the ache between your thighs, in the way your toes curl inside your socks, in the heat spreading steadily through your chest.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? The talking thing. When I get nervous, I just—I talk, and I know I should stop, but the words keep coming and—”

You kiss him quiet.

His laugh vibrates against your lips, and this time, when his hand slides from your jaw down your throat, it’s deliberate. Slow. His fingers trace your collarbone, feather-light, and you shiver.

“Better?” he asks, that hint of cockiness slipping through the nerves again.

“Getting there.”

His grin flashes sharp and bright before he dips his head to your neck.

His mouth finds the spot below your ear again, the one he rushed past the first time, and he works it with a patience that makes your hips lift beneath him. Open-mouthed kisses, the wet heat of his tongue, the careful scrape of teeth that pulls a gasp from you. His hand trails lower, palm gliding down your chest, and when his thumb brushes over your nipple through your shirt, you arch into him.

“Yeah?” He breathes the word against your skin as his fingers find the button of your jeans. “Can I—?”

“Yes.”

The word comes out rough, almost a command, and he doesn't waste time. He has your jeans unbuttoned and unzipped in seconds, his hand sliding inside, palm flat against your belly, then lower. His fingers find the heat of you through your underwear, and he groans—a low, desperate sound that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't quite believe this is happening. "I can feel it through—you're soaking, and I've barely even—"

He presses harder, his middle finger finding your clit through the damp fabric, and you bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

"Don't do that," he says, looking up at you, and his eyes are dark and serious. "I want to hear you."

He pushes your underwear aside and slides a finger inside you—slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The stretch of it, the wet slide, the way your breath catches and your head falls back against the sofa cushion—he takes it all in, pupils dilating, mouth falling open.

"Christ," he whispers, and his voice is wrecked. "You feel—you're so tight, and so wet, and I haven't even—" He pushes a second finger in, and you gasp, your hips rolling against his hand. "Is that good? Tell me that's good."

"It's good." The words come out strangled. "Owen—"

He groans at the sound of his name, and his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. He works you slowly, deliberately, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, and you can feel yourself getting closer, the heat building in your belly like a coil winding tight.

"Not yet," you manage, and your hand closes around his wrist, stopping him. "If you make me come like this, I'm going to be useless for the rest of the night."

He laughs, breathless and bright. "That's the goal, though. Isn't it?"

"The goal is mutual."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a warmth that cuts through the heat. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pulls his hand out of your jeans, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as he licks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You taste incredible," he says, and there's no shyness in it. No nervous chatter. Just fact. "I want to taste you properly. I want my face between your legs until you can't remember your own name."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you're already reaching for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. He helps you, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on your shirt, tugging it off, and the cool air hits your skin as he unclips your bra and slides the straps down your shoulders.

He stops. Stares.

"Jesus," he breathes, and his voice is reverent. "Your tits are—" He swallows, hard. "Can I—?"

You nod, and his mouth is on you before you finish the movement. He takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, sucking gently, and the sensation arcs through you like electricity. His hand finds your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak, and you moan—a real sound, raw and unguarded.

He groans against your skin, the vibration making you arch into him, and his hand slides down your stomach, back into your jeans. He finds you wet and ready, and he pushes a finger inside you again, then two, fucking you slowly as his mouth works your nipple.

"Owen." His name comes out broken, desperate. "I need—"

He pulls back, looks at you with dark, hungry eyes. "What do you need?"

"I need you to fuck me."

The words hang in the air between them, raw and honest, and something in his expression shifts—a crack in the confidence, a flash of the earnest boy underneath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looks around the living room, at the sofa, the lamp, the dust motes still floating in the golden light. Then he looks back at you, and there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—nervous and hopeful and so fucking endearing it makes your chest ache.

"We should—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "My room. Upstairs. Because if Matt and Freya come home and find us going at it on the sofa, I will actually die. And not in a sexy way. In a 'my brother will never let me live this down' way."

You laugh, and it breaks something open between you, the tension easing into something warmer. "Lead the way."

He stands, offers you his hand, and you take it. He pulls you up, and you're both half-undressed, flushed and breathing hard, and the absurdity of it hits you—standing in his living room, jeans unbuttoned, bra discarded, about to follow him up the stairs like this is the most natural thing in the world.

His hand stays wrapped around yours as he leads you up the narrow staircase, his bare back warm in the dim light. His room is at the end of the hall—small, cluttered, an acoustic guitar propped in the corner and sheets tangled on the bed. He kicks the door shut behind you, and the click of the latch feels like a seal.

He turns to face you, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Takes you in. The flush on your chest, the way your jeans hang loose on your hips, the mark he left on your neck.

"This isn't practice anymore," he says quietly. "I need you to know that. Whatever this is—it's not a lesson. It's not feedback. It's me wanting you so badly I can barely think straight."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "I know."

"Good." He steps closer, his hands finding your waist, sliding under the waistband of your jeans. "Because I don't think I could fake it if I tried."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, and his hands push your jeans down over your hips. They fall to the floor, and you step out of them, standing in just your underwear as he pulls back to look at you.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."

You reach for his belt, unbuckling it with clumsy fingers, and he helps you push his jeans down. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, and you wrap your hand around it without thinking. He gasps, his head falling back, and you feel the weight of him in your palm, the heat, the throb of his pulse.

"Assessment," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "You're very hard. That's a good sign."

He laughs, breathless, and his hand covers yours on his cock. "Yeah? What else?"

"Good size." You stroke him slowly, watching his face. "Nice shape. Looks like it would feel good inside me."

He groans, his hips thrusting into your hand. "Fuck. You can't just—say things like that. I'll—"

"You'll what?"

He doesn't answer. He pulls you onto the bed, your bodies tangling in the sheets, and his mouth finds yours again, hungry and desperate. His hand slides between your legs, pushing your underwear aside, and he groans when he feels how wet you still are.

"I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "I need my mouth on your pussy. Right now."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He slides down the bed, his mouth trailing down your stomach, and when his tongue finally touches you, you cry out. He eats you like he's starving, like he's been thinking about this for weeks, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, his fingers curling inside you as his mouth works your clit.

You're close again, the heat building, and you feel yourself tightening around his fingers. "Owen—I'm going to—"

He doubles down, his tongue flat against you, his fingers fucking you faster, and you come with a gasp that turns into a moan, your hips bucking against his face as the orgasm rips through you. He works you through it, licking gently as you shudder, and when he finally surfaces, his mouth is slick and his eyes are dark and satisfied.

"Assessment," he says, grinning. "You taste incredible. Ten out of ten. Would enthusiastically eat again."

You laugh, breathless, and pull him up for a kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, and it's intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. Your hand finds his cock again, stroking him slowly, and he groans against your mouth.

"Condom," you murmur. "Do you have—"

"Nightstand. Top drawer."

You reach over, fumbling blindly, and your fingers close around the box. You pull one out, tear it open with your teeth, and he watches you roll it down his length with an intensity that makes you shiver.

He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against you, and he pauses. Looks at you.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He pushes in, slow, and the stretch of it makes you gasp. He's bigger than you expected, filling you completely, and he pauses when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—I can't—"

He starts to move, slow at first, his hips finding a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. He kisses you as he fucks you, deep and messy, his tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.

"Harder," you breathe, and he obliges, his pace quickening, the sound of skin slapping skin punctuating the air. His hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you feel yourself climbing toward another orgasm.

"Come for me," he says, his voice rough and desperate. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The words undo you. You shatter, your cunt clenching around him, and he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he comes inside you.

He collapses onto you, his weight a warm pressure, his face buried in your neck. You feel his breath, hot and uneven, and your hands find his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades.

After a long moment, he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and returns to the bed, pulling you against him. The sheets are tangled, the room smells like sex, the rain having stopped by the time the room went quiet again.

The rain had stopped by the time the room went quiet again, leaving you with the soft whir of Owen’s laptop on the desk and the occasional car moving through the wet street outside. The candles downstairs had probably burned themselves out, the abandoned pasta plates were still beside the sink, and somewhere beneath the coffee table was an assessment card neither of you had finished.

Owen lay on his back with one arm beneath your shoulders, his other hand moving absently along your arm and tracing the same path over and over, as though he needed the reassurance of finding you there each time. His hair was a mess against the pillow, and he looked exhausted, pleased and increasingly troubled.

You watched the concern gather across his face.

“You’re thinking,” you said.

Owen looked at you. “I do that sometimes.”

“You’re doing it loudly.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t need to.”

He stared up at the ceiling again. For the first several minutes after he’d pulled you against him, he hadn’t been able to stop smiling, but then you’d made the mistake of mentioning the date. Not what had happened afterward, but the date itself. Owen’s arm had tightened around you when you jokingly announced that he’d passed and was officially ready to try the real thing with someone else.

You hadn’t expected him to go quiet.

“So,” you said, trying to drag the mood back toward something safer, “final assessment.”

“Right.”

“Conversation was good once you stopped behaving like you’d memorized a list of interview questions.”

“Generous.”

“Table manners need work.”

“That wine glass was unstable.”

“You elbowed it.”

“The table’s too small.”

“General romantic intrigue…”

Owen turned his head toward you, and you stretched the pause out until his mouth twitched.

“Acceptable,” you said.

“Acceptable?”

“You shouldn’t argue with the feedback.”

“After everything I’ve done for this course?”

“You’re getting marked down for attitude.”

“I cooked.”

“You boiled pasta until it turned to mush.”

“I bought a flower.”

“You stole Freya’s.”

“I had permission.”

“It was fake.”

“It’ll last longer.”

The reply was so painfully Owen that something tightened beneath your ribs, and you looked away before he could see it.

“And kissing?” he asked.

“You’re very invested in that category.”

“I value comprehensive results.”

“You passed.”

“Just passed?”

“Owen.”

He smiled, but it faded before it had the chance to settle.

“And that’s it?”

The question was quiet enough to change the air between you.

You pushed yourself onto one elbow. “What d’you mean?”

“We finish the assessment. I’m apparently ready to be inflicted on the general public, and you go home.”

“That was the arrangement.”

“I know.”

Owen’s fingers stopped moving against your arm. It should’ve been easy to tease him after he’d given you enough material to last for weeks, from the handwritten evaluation card to Freya’s immortal fabric flower downstairs, but instead, you studied his face.

“You’re upset.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’ve already admitted that means you’re upset.”

“I admitted nothing of the sort.”

“Owen.”

He let out a long breath and rubbed one hand over his face.

“This was a stupid idea.”

Your stomach dropped. “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“Exactly. Historically, that should’ve warned us.”

“You didn’t seem to think it was stupid an hour ago.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

He gave you a look, and heat climbed into your face, but you refused to back away from the question.

“Owen, it was your rule too. Nothing counted.”

“I never said that.”

“You agreed.”

“I repeated what you said.”

“That’s usually how agreeing works.”

“I didn’t want to argue.”

“You always want to argue.”

“Not when you were offering to go on a date with me.”

The words came out sharper than everything else, and Owen closed his eyes beneath your stare, seeming to realize there was no way to drag the admission back. His hand dropped onto the duvet, fingers curling into the fabric.

“What does that mean?” you asked.

Owen opened his eyes again but didn’t look at you. “It means I wanted the date.”

“You needed practice.”

“No, I didn’t.”

A startled laugh escaped you. “You spent an entire evening listing everything you did wrong.”

“Yeah, well, there’s no shortage of material.”

“So you invented the practice date?”

“I didn’t invent the concept.”

“You tricked me.”

“I didn’t trick you.”

“You made a form.”

“That was for structure.”

“You put kissing on it.”

He finally looked at you, frustration and embarrassment fighting across his face. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”

The room went still.

Owen swallowed, but once the confession had started, it seemed to pull the rest out with it.

“I wanted to take you out,” he said. “I wanted to buy you dinner and sit across from you while you laughed at me. I wanted to know what’d happen if I asked you to kiss me. But I couldn’t ask you on a real date, because if you said no, I’d still have to see you all the time and pretend it didn’t bother me.”

“Owen…”

“And this seemed safer.”

“You thought sleeping with me on a fake date would be safer?”

“I didn’t plan that far ahead.”

“You made an assessment card.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I planned the date. I didn’t plan…” He gestured vaguely between you, the duvet slipping lower across his chest. “Everything.”

You sat up farther, pulling the sheet with you.

“So you didn’t need dating help.”

“I probably do need dating help. Just not for the reason I said.”

“What reason, then?”

Owen’s expression softened into something almost apologetic.

“Because when I like someone, I become a complete nightmare.”

Your irritation cracked. “A nightmare?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I get ahead of myself. I think about everything all at once, then I try to act normal, but in my head I’m already imagining how they’ll fit into my life, and apparently that’s considered intense.”

“Generally, yeah.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of reassuring me.”

“You lied to me about why we were doing this.”

“I created a controlled romantic environment.”

“You manipulated me with supermarket wine.”

“It wasn’t cheap.”

“The label was peeling off.”

“It tasted fine.”

You tried to stay annoyed, but Owen watched your mouth betray you.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m considering suffocating you with this pillow.”

“That’s still emotional investment.”

You shoved his shoulder, and Owen caught your wrist before you could do it again. His grip was gentle, but he didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the humor disappearing from his voice. “I should’ve just asked you.”

“Yes.”

“I was scared you’d say no.”

“You had no reason to think I’d say yes.”

His face fell so quickly that you nearly laughed again.

“That’s not the same as saying I wouldn’t have,” you clarified.

“Oh.”

Owen’s ears turned red. Despite everything that had happened, despite the confidence he’d found once you touched him, that single syllable contained the same awkward man who’d buttoned his shirt wrong before opening the front door.

You lowered yourself beside him again.

“This was still a terrible plan.”

“I know.”

“The fake flower was unsettling.”

“I’ll give it back to Freya.”

“The pasta was awful.”

“You had two portions.”

“I was hungry.”

“The kissing category was obvious.”

“I panicked while making the form.”

“And you could’ve saved yourself a ridiculous amount of trouble by asking me on a real date.”

Owen’s thumb brushed across the inside of your wrist.

“Would you have said yes?”

You let him wait.

It was cruel, maybe, but after a year of watching Owen build entire romances out of glances and coincidences, it felt fair to leave him without the ending for a few seconds.

“Yes,” you said.

His face changed, relief appearing first, then disbelief, followed by the beginning of a smile so open and boyish that you suddenly understood why he kept risking humiliation for the possibility of feeling exactly this.

“You would?”

“You’re ruining it.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Right. Calm.”

Owen visibly tried to rearrange his expression into something more restrained, but he failed, and you laughed as you leaned down to kiss him. His hand immediately settled behind your neck, keeping you there when you tried to pull back; the kiss stayed soft, but there wasn’t any uncertainty left in it, and Owen smiled against your mouth before following you in for one more quick kiss when you finally drew away.

“Tomorrow,” you said.

“What about it?”

“You can take me on a real date.”

Owen’s eyebrows lifted. “Thought we just had one.”

“This one didn’t count.”

“It counted to me.”

The simple certainty behind it left you quiet for a second, and Owen looked far too pleased with himself, so you recovered by pulling the pillow from behind him and pressing it into his face until his laughter came muffled through the fabric.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated. “Start over. No forms, no false pretenses and preferably edible food.”

He dragged the pillow down far enough to look at you.

“Can there still be kissing?”

“We’ll see how you behave.”

“I think my previous assessment should carry over.”

“You’re assuming you passed.”

“You said I passed.”

“I’ve reconsidered.”

“That’s completely unethical."

“You slept with your dating coach.”

Owen tossed the pillow aside and pulled you against him again. “You let your student kiss you.”

“You asked if you could.”

“And you said yes.”

“Only for educational purposes.”

“Course.”

His grin had become unbearable.

You placed one hand over his mouth, but Owen kissed your palm, then your wrist, his expression softening as he looked at you.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m glad you’re a terrible teacher.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I haven’t learned a thing.”

You narrowed your eyes, and Owen tightened his arm around your waist before you could reach for the pillow again.

“Except,” he added quickly, “that you’ll go out with me tomorrow.”

You settled back against his chest, listening to the quick beat beneath your ear.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re planning to interrogate me about crisps.”

He pressed a kiss into your hair.

--- --- ---

The emergency department was busier than usual during morning handover. Jack leaned against the counter at the Hub, looking exactly like someone who’d been awake for the last twelve hours, survived on too much caffeine and hadn’t had a single bathroom break. He clutched his travel mug like a lifeline, listening to Robby who skimmed over staffing for the day.

“... two residents called in sick, radiology’s backed up and we’re also a little short on the Dana front today.”

Jack tilted his head. “The what?”

Behind them Dana looked up from her tablet. “The what now?”

Robby looked over his shoulder, shrugging. “The Dana front.”

Dana exchanged a look with Jack. “I’m sorry but what the fuck does that even mean?”

Jack took another sip of his coffee, his brain trying to catch up - then realization dawned. “Oh! The Dana front!”

He pulled out his phone, unlocked it and scrolled through his gallery. When he found the video he handed the phone over. “Look for yourself.”

Dana frowned and started it. She watched Lizzie sitting on the living room floor, a toy stethoscope around her neck.

“Daddy sick.”

Jack’s voice came from behind the camera. “And who helps Daddy when he’s sick?”

Lizzie looked at him with big green eyes, her thumb already in her mouth.

“Does a doctor help Daddy when he’s sick?”

Lizzie shook her head. “No.”

“Who helps?”

“Dana.” The answer came immediately.

“A nurse?”

Now she was nodding. “Dana.”

“And who has more medical knowledge? Daddy or the nurses?”

“Dana” she whispered.

The recording ended. 

Dana covered her mouth. “Oh my God…” She looked over at Jack. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jack grinned. “Figured.”

For a beat there was silence then Dana’s face changed. She put her hands on her hips and frowned. “But - that child knows I have an entire personality outside this hospital, right?”

Robby chuckled. “No, I don’t think she knows that.”

“She looks at me and thinks - yes, that’s the blueprint for a nurse.” She let out a breath. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or horrified.”

Jack grinned.

“Okay, it’s settled - I’m taking her for a day.”

Jack’s smile faltered. “What?”

“I’m serious, Abbot.” She counted on her fingers. “The zoo. The aquarium. The playground. A museum. Ice cream. I don’t fucking care. So she learns that Dana’s are actual people and not just a job description.”

“I’m not sure this will convince her” Robby said thoughtfully.

“Well” Dana said with a shrug. “At least she has some respect for our profession. That’s a nice change of pace around here.”

Now Robby and Jack both looked equally offended. Before they could say anything Princess’ head appeared in the door of Central 7. “Dana?”

“Dana?” Robby said without missing a beat. “Another Dana needs the Main Dana.”

He ducked just in time before Dana’s pen hit his head.

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.

--- --- ---

Owen Brompton had been back from his date for exactly eleven minutes before deciding it’d been a catastrophe.

This was impressive, considering he’d spent the first six of those minutes insisting it had gone “reasonably well, actually” while pacing the narrow stretch of carpet between the sofa and the telly with his coat still on. The remaining five had been dedicated to tearing that claim apart in such painful detail that you suspected he’d started preparing the postmortem before the woman had even finished saying goodnight.

“She didn’t laugh.”

You looked up from your corner of the sofa, where you’d been waiting with two cans of cider and an increasingly cold box of chips balanced across your knees. Matt had let you in twenty minutes ago, taken one look at the food in your lap, and announced that Owen had apparently arranged his own emergency response team. He and Freya had disappeared upstairs not long after that, though you’d heard Matt laughing through the ceiling when Owen came stumbling through the front door with the expression of a man returning from war.

“At anything?” you asked.

“She laughed twice.”

“Then she did laugh.”

“Not properly.” Owen stopped pacing long enough to look genuinely offended that you couldn’t understand the distinction. His hair had caught the rain on the walk home, leaving the ends damp and curling around his forehead. “One of them was more of an exhale.”

“That still counts.”

“It absolutely doesn’t. People exhale all the time.”

“They’d die otherwise.”

“That’s not the point.”

He started pacing again.

The front room was small enough that three strides took him from the secondhand sofa to the cluttered shelf where Freya kept framed photos, candles and a ceramic dish full of loose change. Owen’s guitar leaned against the radiator beside one of the speakers he’d spent an entire Sunday repositioning, despite Matt repeatedly threatening to throw both of them into the street. Sheet music and unopened post had spread across the coffee table, and a single sock had somehow ended up on top of Owen’s battered amp.

The ceiling light was off, leaving the room lit by the amber lamp beside you and the blue standby glow from his equipment. Rain ticked faintly against the front window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, followed by Matt’s muffled voice and Freya telling him to leave Owen alone.

Owen pushed both hands through his hair.

“I asked too many questions.”

“You were on a date. Questions are usually encouraged.”

“Not in the manner of a police interview.”

“What did you ask her?”

“What sort of childhood she had.”

You stared at him.

Owen’s shoulders dropped. “It were relevant at the time.”

“To what?”

“We were talking about crisps.”

A laugh escaped before you could swallow it.

His expression sharpened with vindication rather than embarrassment. “See? You’re laughing now. That’s what’s meant to happen.”

“I’m laughing because you somehow interrogated a woman about her formative years over a packet of salt and vinegar.”

“She said she didn’t like them.”

“And that concerned you?”

“It suggested a sheltered upbringing.”

You moved the chips before you spilled them. “Owen.”

“I panicked.”

“I can tell.”

He finally shrugged out of his wet coat and tossed it toward the armchair. It hit the back, slid off and landed in a heap beside the leg. Owen looked at it, seemed to consider picking it up, then apparently decided his romantic failures needed his attention more urgently.

“She was lovely,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”

“How’s that the worst part?”

“Because if she’d been horrible, I could blame her.”

“You can still blame her. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m trying to grow.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Owen dropped onto the sofa beside you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, nudging your thigh against his, and the damp chill clinging to him came with the smell of rain, lager and whatever cologne he’d put far too much of on before leaving. You’d taken the piss out of him for it when he’d come downstairs earlier, and Freya had agreed with you while Matt stood behind Owen pretending to choke.

Now it had faded into something softer beneath the warmth of his skin.

He reached for one of the ciders and pressed the cold can to his forehead.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You decide you’re in love before the starters arrive.”

“I didn’t decide I was in love.”

“You sent me a message from the toilet saying she had soulful eyes.”

“That was an observation.”

“You’d known her forty minutes.”

“Some things are immediately apparent.”

You pulled the can away from his face before he could freeze his brain and cracked it open for him. Owen accepted it with a mumbled thanks, still looking personally wounded by the entire concept of dating.

The problem was that you knew he meant it. Owen might dramatize every awkward silence and attach ridiculous significance to minor details, but he never treated affection carelessly. Every crush became a possibility. Every possibility became a whole story he could already hear playing beneath the rest of his life, complete with swelling strings, a key change and the perfect final chorus.

Then reality failed to follow the arrangement, and he came home confused.

“You need practice,” you said.

Owen looked at you over the rim of the can. “I’ve been on dates.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know how dates work.”

“You asked a woman what emotional damage led to her crisp preferences.”

“I didn’t phrase it like that.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

He nudged your knee with his. “All right, then. Dating expert. What do you suggest?”

“You need someone to tell you when you’re being weird.”

“You already do that constantly.”

“Someone who can do it during the date.”

Owen lowered the cider.

His attention sharpened in a way that made you suddenly aware of how closely you were sitting, your legs still touching because neither of you had bothered to move.

You’d known him long enough to recognize the exact second an idea took hold. It appeared first in his eyes, then gathered behind his mouth while he tested the wording. Usually, this process ended with him suggesting something unnecessarily complicated and insisting it was the obvious solution.

“You could,” he said.

You blinked. “I could what?”

“Go on a date with me.”

The words settled between you.

Owen immediately started waving one hand, trying to physically rearrange them into something less dangerous.

“Not a real date.”

“Obviously.”

“A practice one.”

“Right.”

“So you can observe.”

“You make it sound like a wildlife documentary.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, you did.

The suggestion should’ve been ridiculous. It should’ve joined the long list of Owen’s ideas that only sounded reasonable after midnight, alongside buying a smoke machine for his bedroom and trying to write an entire song using nothing but things he found in Matt and Freya’s kitchen.

Instead, your stomach tightened.

You covered it with a laugh. “You want me to grade you?”

“Not grade. Just offer constructive feedback.”

“I’m giving you a failing mark already.”

“We haven’t started.”

“You’re arguing with your instructor.”

“I thought you were my date.”

“You can’t afford my rates.”

Owen’s smile appeared slowly, crooked at one corner and far more charming than anything he’d probably attempted across the table that evening. “Come on. It’ll help.”

The ease of his expression didn’t quite hide the way his thumb kept rubbing against the side of the can. Owen was nervous. He was trying not to look it, but you’d spent too many evenings beside him not to notice the little signs: the restless fingers, the slight tilt of his head, the way he filled every silence before it got the chance to reject him first.

You should’ve said no.

Instead, you leaned back against the cushions and pretended to think about it.

“We’d need rules.”

“Course.”

“We pretend we’ve never met.”

“Fine.”

“I’m allowed to stop you whenever you say something embarrassing.”

“That seems unnecessarily broad.”

“You asked for my help.”

“Carry on.”

“You don’t argue with the feedback.”

Owen opened his mouth.

You pointed at him.

He shut it again.

“And nothing that happens during the date counts.”

Something unreadable moved across his face before he nodded. “Because it’s practice.”

“Exactly.”

“Right.”

You held out your hand. “Deal?”

Owen looked at it, then at you.

His palm was warm when he took yours. His fingers closed firmly, lingering a beat longer than a handshake needed to.

“Deal.”

For a man who claimed to need emergency romantic intervention, Owen took the practice date alarmingly seriously.

Matt and Freya were going out on Saturday, which meant Owen had the house to himself for most of the evening. This information arrived in a string of messages that began with Matt and Freya won’t be here and was followed, less than thirty seconds later, by Not that I arranged that and Don’t make it weird.

You arrived just after seven to find the usual clutter from the front room stacked in precarious towers beside the stairs. Owen’s guitar had been moved into the corner. The sock had disappeared from the amp, though you suspected he’d hidden it rather than washed it, and two candles burned inside mismatched glass holders beside plates of supermarket pasta.

Owen had put on a clean shirt.

It was dark green, slightly wrinkled and buttoned incorrectly.

You stood on the front step staring at the uneven collar.

He followed your gaze and looked down.

“Fuck.”

“That’s our first note.”

“The date hasn’t started.”

“You opened the door.”

“Wait there.”

“Owen.”

He shut it in your face.

Movement thudded through the hall, followed by a muffled curse and the unmistakable sound of something being knocked off the little table by the stairs. Less than a minute later, the door opened again.

His shirt was fixed. His cheeks were pink.

“Hello,” he said with painful formality. “You must be…”

“You know my name.”

“We’re pretending.”

“You’re terrible at pretending.”

“Can we start again?”

“You’ve already used your restart.”

“You never said there was only one.”

“This is why people need contracts.”

Owen glanced past you towards the empty pavement before stepping aside. “D’you want to come in?”

You crossed the threshold, and he closed the door behind you.

The candles were excessive for a practice date. So was the bottle of wine waiting in a metal bowl full of rapidly melting ice. A tiny vase stood between the plates with a single flower inside it.

You touched one of the petals.

It was made of fabric.

“Did you buy this?”

Owen pulled out your chair. “It was already here.”

“Why did you own one fake flower?”

“I don’t. Freya does.”

“Does Freya know you stole her fake flower?”

“She said I could borrow it.”

“Did she know what for?”

Owen looked away. “Eventually.”

You could already imagine that conversation.

You sat down, mostly because the tips of his ears had turned red. Owen pushed your chair in with more force than necessary, nearly trapping you against the table, then hurried around to the opposite side. He paused before sitting, apparently trying to remember what people who’d just met were meant to say.

You waited.

He waited.

The candle flame leaned in the draft.

“So,” Owen began, “what sort of childhood did you have?”

You burst out laughing.

His composure broke with a grin. “All right. Had to get it out of the way.”

“That would’ve ended the date immediately.”

“You’re still here.”

“Only because I know where Matt keeps the wine.”

“That’s my wine.”

“Then why did he tell me not to let you open the expensive bottle?”

Owen’s eyes shifted towards the kitchen. “He’s a liar.”

He poured you a glass, briefly missing the rim and splashing a little across the table. You watched him blot it with a tea towel while muttering that this part would be edited out of the official assessment.

Once the initial performance wore off, the evening became surprisingly convincing.

Owen asked normal questions.

Mostly.

He wanted to know which place you’d return to for a single afternoon if distance didn’t matter, what album you wished you could hear for the first time again and whether you thought people were more honest in the dark. The questions were still unmistakably his, too earnest and specific for polite conversation, but they pulled answers from you that he hadn’t heard before.

You’d known Owen for nearly a year. You’d watched him fall asleep against your shoulder during a film and wake up with the seam of your shirt imprinted across his cheek. You’d sat on the floor of his bedroom while he played half-finished melodies and watched your expression before deciding whether he liked them. You knew he hated mushrooms, loved the hum of old amplifiers warming up and pretended not to care when people forgot his birthday.

You also knew he never talked about his mum for long. Her absence still sat quietly throughout the house, in the photographs Freya dusted and the way Matt’s jokes sometimes stopped too suddenly. Owen could turn almost anything into a love story, but grief was one of the few things he couldn’t arrange into music and make sense of.

Still, he surprised you.

Owen listened differently when he imagined he only had one evening to learn you.

His gaze stayed on your face, soft but steady. He didn’t interrupt unless excitement got the better of him, and even then, he always remembered where you’d stopped. He brought up details you’d mentioned months ago and disguised them as guesses, smiling whenever he got one right.

“You’re cheating,” you said eventually.

Owen paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “How?”

“You already know me.”

“You know me too.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Seems relevant.”

“You’re using prior knowledge to impress your date.”

“That’s called preparation.”

“No, it’s called fraud.”

He leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. Candlelight caught in his eyes and warmed the damp curls near his forehead.

“Are you impressed?”

You took a drink instead of answering.

Owen’s smile deepened.

“That’s not a no.”

“Your pasta’s overcooked.”

“I didn’t ask about the pasta.”

“You should. It’s the main issue currently facing us.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“You’re getting cocky.”

“Is that bad?”

“It can be.”

Owen rested his forearms on the table. “D’you like it?”

Your pulse stumbled.

He asked it lightly, but his attention had changed. The room felt smaller than it had a second ago. Rain whispered against the window, quieter than the other night, and the music playing through Owen’s speakers had reached the space between songs.

You looked down at your wine.

“Your date shouldn’t have to reassure you constantly.”

“That wasn’t feedback.”

“It is now.”

“I think you’re abusing your authority.”

“You asked me to evaluate you.”

“And you’ve been very thorough.”

His voice had lowered.

You lifted your eyes again.

Owen was still smiling, but the nervousness had returned beneath it. You could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his fingers curled against the table. For all the ridiculous confidence he could find when he was performing, he was waiting for you to decide whether he’d crossed a line.

You could’ve backpedaled.

Instead, you said, “You’re leaning.”

“So are you.”

You realized with some irritation that he was right.

You sat back.

Owen laughed under his breath.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m receiving mixed feedback.”

“You were doing better before you started congratulating yourself.”

He took another drink, but the glass didn’t hide his smile.

After dinner, Owen cleared the plates while you inspected the handwritten card he’d left beside your place setting.

PRACTICE DATE ASSESSMENT, it read across the top.

Beneath it, he’d drawn several categories with boxes ranging from poor to exceptional.

Conversation.

Table manners.

Emotional availability.

General romantic intrigue.

Kissing.

You held up the card when he came back from the kitchen.

“Kissing?”

Owen nearly dropped the plates.

“It’s a standard category.”

“According to who?”

“Everyone.”

“You made this.”

“Based on accepted criteria.”

“You left all the boxes blank.”

“I assumed you’d fill it in afterwards.”

“You assumed a lot.”

He set the plates down and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You said it was meant to be a full assessment.”

“I don’t remember promising practical demonstrations.”

“Then how can the results be accurate?”

The question came too quickly.

Owen had rehearsed it.

You narrowed your eyes. “Was this your plan?”

“What plan?”

“Dinner. Wine. Candles. Luring me into some elaborate kissing evaluation.”

“I haven’t lured anyone.”

“You shut the door behind me.”

“That’s generally what doors are for.”

“Owen.”

He lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving a very deliberate stretch of cushion between you.

His knee started bouncing.

“It was just a category,” he said.

“You could cross it out.”

“I could.”

Neither of you moved.

The music continued at a low volume. A guitar line drifted through the room, soft enough that you could hear the faint electrical hum beneath it. The candles had burned lower, wax spilling unevenly down the glass holders.

Owen stared at the assessment card in your hand.

Then he said, “I do think it’s relevant.”

“Of course you do.”

“What if that’s what’s going wrong?”

“You think women are rejecting you because of your kissing?”

“I don’t know. No one sends a detailed exit survey.”

“Maybe you should add a link after the next date.”

“I’m being serious.”

That softened you despite your better judgment.

Owen turned towards you, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa. “You said I think too much.”

“You do.”

“So I’m asking.”

“Asking what?”

“Whether you’d let me kiss you.”

The humor left the room so quietly that you almost didn’t notice until it was gone.

Owen’s face had gone very still. His knee had stopped bouncing. Whatever answer he expected, he’d committed himself to hearing it.

You looked at his mouth.

That was your first mistake.

The second was imagining it.

You’d done that before, though never anywhere Owen might see it happening. You’d wondered during late nights when his shoulder pressed against yours, during gigs when the stage lights sharpened every line of him, during conversations that drifted dangerously close to confession before one of you ruined them with a joke.

Wondering had always felt safe because it belonged to you alone.

This didn’t.

“One kiss,” you said.

Owen swallowed.

“For practice.”

“For practice,” he repeated.

“You’re not allowed to make it weird afterwards.”

“I never make things weird.”

“You once apologized to a chair after walking into it.”

“It were someone else’s chair.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He moved closer.

Not much. Barely the width of your hand. Still, you felt the shift through the sofa before his thigh touched yours.

Owen looked at you as though he was waiting for another rule.

You should’ve given him one.

Instead, you said, “Well?”

His hand rose towards your face, hesitated for a second, then settled lightly beside your jaw. His fingers were warm. The careful touch sent a far stronger reaction through you than it had any right to.

He leaned in slowly enough for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

Owen kissed you.

It was soft. Almost painfully so.

His mouth brushed yours with cautious pressure, lingering for only a few seconds before he pulled away. His fingertips stayed against your skin. He was close enough that his breath warmed your lips, but his eyes had already opened, searching your expression.

“Well?” he whispered.

You hated how unsteady your voice sounded.

“You were too careful.”

Owen blinked. “Too careful?”

“You asked for feedback.”

“I know. I just…” His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. More technical language.”

“You barely kissed me.”

“I was being respectful.”

“You looked like you were defusing a bomb.”

His eyebrows lifted. “That bad?”

“I didn’t say bad.”

Owen’s thumb moved once along the edge of your jaw.

“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”

The second kiss was different.

He closed the distance before you could make another joke, one hand sliding behind your neck as his mouth found yours with enough certainty to steal the breath you’d drawn. The caution hadn’t disappeared, but it’d changed into control, his attention sharpened by permission.

Your fingers caught in the front of his shirt.

Owen made a low sound against your mouth.

It broke whatever was left of the exercise.

He kissed you again before the last one had properly ended, mouth still warm and damp against yours as he tilted his head and pulled you in until your knees pressed hard against his thigh. His hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading against the small of your back to hold you there while his tongue traced slowly across your lower lip, teasing once before slipping into your mouth the second you opened for him. The taste of wine lingered on him, sharp and sweet beneath the heat of his breath, and the low sound that caught in his throat seemed to vibrate straight through you when your tongue met his. After that, whatever restraint he’d been clinging to disappeared. He kissed you deeper, wetter, his tongue stroking against yours with a hungry, almost desperate rhythm while his grip tightened at your waist and dragged you closer until there wasn’t any space left between your body and his.

You’d expected awkwardness. Teeth knocking. Nervous laughter.

Instead, Owen kissed the same way he listened to music: completely, intensely, with his whole attention fixed on every tiny change in rhythm.

By the time you pulled back, your grip had wrinkled his shirt.

Owen’s lips were flushed. His eyes stayed on yours.

“Better?”

The hint of smugness should’ve irritated you.

It didn’t.

“You need more practice.”

He laughed once, breathless, and kissed you again.

The assessment card slipped from your lap and disappeared beneath the coffee table.

Owen shifted closer, following the pull of your body until his chest brushed yours. His hand moved along your side, stopping whenever your breathing changed, learning the response before continuing.

“Is this part of the lesson?” he murmured.

“You wanted practical feedback.”

“I’m committed to improving.”

“You’re talking too much.”

“That’s never been one of the categories.”

“It is now.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “And how am I doing?”

You pulled him back by his collar.

“Still under review.”

Owen’s smile disappeared into another kiss.

The worn fabric sofa creaks under the weight of him half-covering you, his mouth hot and wet against your neck. Too hot. Too wet. Too fast. He's kissing you like he's trying to win something, like there's a timer counting down somewhere, and the soft scrape of his barely-there stubble against your skin is the only part of this that actually lands—rough, alive, real. 

His breath comes in quick, uneven bursts against your throat, and the hand that had been moving so carefully along your side is suddenly fisted in the cushion beside your hip, knuckles white beneath the thin skin stretched over them, like he’s pulled it away before it could reach for something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for. No longer on your waist. No longer following the line of your thigh. Not touching you at all.

You let him have a few seconds. Enough to register what’s wrong. The way his lips move too fast, skipping over the skin just below your ear where he could’ve stayed for an hour. The way his body hovers instead of settling, all that earlier confidence tightening into restraint as he braces for you to stop him.

Then you do.

“You’re rushing.”

Your voice comes out steady, almost bored, and the effect is immediate. His mouth freezes against your neck. His whole body goes still, arrested and caught mid-motion, like a record needle lifted mid-track.

He pulls back, and the shift in his breathing is sharp. A caught breath. A recalibration.

"What?" He blinks down at you, blue eyes wide and dark in the dim lamp glow, hair falling across his forehead in that shaggy mess that makes him look younger than twenty-three. "I'm—I thought—"

"You thought faster was better." You hold his gaze. "It's not."

His mouth opens. Closes. A flush crawls up his neck, visible even in the low light, and he lets out a breathless laugh that's half-embarrassment, half-relief. "Right. Yeah. No, you're—you're right. I'm just—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "I've been thinking about this all night. All week, actually. Since the pasta."

"I know."

"And I got ahead of myself."

"I know that too."

He laughs again, quieter this time, and the sound is warmer now, less frantic. His hand finally moves, uncurling from the cushion and settling on your hip, palm flat, fingers pressing just enough to feel the heat of you through your shirt.

“Okay. Okay, I hear you. Slower.”

“Slower,” you repeat. “Let it build.”

“Build.” He parrots, saying it like he was testing the word's weight on his tongue. “Right. Build-up. I can do build-up.”

You don't smile, but something in your posture shifts—a softening, a permission. "Show me."

His jaw tightens. Not in frustration. In focus. He drops his gaze to your mouth, then to your throat, then back to your eyes, and this time when he leans in, it's different. Slower. Deliberate. His mouth brushes the corner of yours first—barely a kiss, more a question—then drags down your jaw, lips parted, breath warm against your skin.

He pauses at your pulse point. Breathes there. Lets you feel the weight of him waiting. Then his mouth closes over the spot just below your ear—the one he missed before—and stays. No frantic movement. No rushing. Just the wet heat of his lips, the gentle suction, the soft scrape of teeth that makes your breath catch before you can stop it.

"Better?" he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is lower now, rougher, the nervous edge blunted into something almost cocky.

"Getting there."

He huffs a laugh against your throat, and the vibration of it travels down your spine. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, fingers splayed, palm pressing heat through the denim of your jeans. He takes his time—one agonizing inch at a time, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the inside seam, feeling the curve of muscle beneath.

The dust motes float in the lamplight, suspended and golden, and the faint smell of rain on pavement drifts through the cracked window—wet asphalt, ozone, the memory of a storm that passed hours ago. His cologne mixes with it, something clean and slightly sweet, and the combination is so specifically him that it makes your chest ache.

His thumb presses higher. Deliberate. Finding the spot where pressure turns into something else, where the seam of your jeans meets the heat of you. Your hips shift before you can think about it. A small movement. Involuntary. He notices. Of course he notices. His thumb stills, then presses harder, exactly where you need it, the pressure of denim against sensitive flesh making your breath stutter. He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark now, focused, the boyish softness sharpened into something hungrier. "Yeah? Is this better?"

You don’t answer with words, you answer him with a kiss.

Not a gentle one, but not rushed either. Your hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him down, and your mouth meets his with a hunger that surprises you both, all teeth and tongue and the wet slide of lips finally taking the time to feel each other. He makes a sharp, startled sound against your mouth that melts into a groan as the hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, fingers digging into the denim like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

His tongue meets yours, and it’s messy, sloppy in the best way, all heat and spit and the taste of the wine from dinner still lingering at the edges. He kisses like he talks when he’s nervous: too much, everything spilling out at once. But there’s something else underneath it now. Something focused. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheekbone as he angles your head and kisses you deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, the word half-lost between kisses. “That’s—you’re—”

He breaks off and kisses you again, harder this time. His tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent, and you feel it everywhere: in the ache between your thighs, in the way your toes curl inside your socks, in the heat spreading steadily through your chest.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? The talking thing. When I get nervous, I just—I talk, and I know I should stop, but the words keep coming and—”

You kiss him quiet.

His laugh vibrates against your lips, and this time, when his hand slides from your jaw down your throat, it’s deliberate. Slow. His fingers trace your collarbone, feather-light, and you shiver.

“Better?” he asks, that hint of cockiness slipping through the nerves again.

“Getting there.”

His grin flashes sharp and bright before he dips his head to your neck.

His mouth finds the spot below your ear again, the one he rushed past the first time, and he works it with a patience that makes your hips lift beneath him. Open-mouthed kisses, the wet heat of his tongue, the careful scrape of teeth that pulls a gasp from you. His hand trails lower, palm gliding down your chest, and when his thumb brushes over your nipple through your shirt, you arch into him.

“Yeah?” He breathes the word against your skin as his fingers find the button of your jeans. “Can I—?”

“Yes.”

The word comes out rough, almost a command, and he doesn't waste time. He has your jeans unbuttoned and unzipped in seconds, his hand sliding inside, palm flat against your belly, then lower. His fingers find the heat of you through your underwear, and he groans—a low, desperate sound that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't quite believe this is happening. "I can feel it through—you're soaking, and I've barely even—"

He presses harder, his middle finger finding your clit through the damp fabric, and you bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

"Don't do that," he says, looking up at you, and his eyes are dark and serious. "I want to hear you."

He pushes your underwear aside and slides a finger inside you—slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The stretch of it, the wet slide, the way your breath catches and your head falls back against the sofa cushion—he takes it all in, pupils dilating, mouth falling open.

"Christ," he whispers, and his voice is wrecked. "You feel—you're so tight, and so wet, and I haven't even—" He pushes a second finger in, and you gasp, your hips rolling against his hand. "Is that good? Tell me that's good."

"It's good." The words come out strangled. "Owen—"

He groans at the sound of his name, and his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. He works you slowly, deliberately, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, and you can feel yourself getting closer, the heat building in your belly like a coil winding tight.

"Not yet," you manage, and your hand closes around his wrist, stopping him. "If you make me come like this, I'm going to be useless for the rest of the night."

He laughs, breathless and bright. "That's the goal, though. Isn't it?"

"The goal is mutual."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a warmth that cuts through the heat. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pulls his hand out of your jeans, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as he licks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You taste incredible," he says, and there's no shyness in it. No nervous chatter. Just fact. "I want to taste you properly. I want my face between your legs until you can't remember your own name."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you're already reaching for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. He helps you, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on your shirt, tugging it off, and the cool air hits your skin as he unclips your bra and slides the straps down your shoulders.

He stops. Stares.

"Jesus," he breathes, and his voice is reverent. "Your tits are—" He swallows, hard. "Can I—?"

You nod, and his mouth is on you before you finish the movement. He takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, sucking gently, and the sensation arcs through you like electricity. His hand finds your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak, and you moan—a real sound, raw and unguarded.

He groans against your skin, the vibration making you arch into him, and his hand slides down your stomach, back into your jeans. He finds you wet and ready, and he pushes a finger inside you again, then two, fucking you slowly as his mouth works your nipple.

"Owen." His name comes out broken, desperate. "I need—"

He pulls back, looks at you with dark, hungry eyes. "What do you need?"

"I need you to fuck me."

The words hang in the air between them, raw and honest, and something in his expression shifts—a crack in the confidence, a flash of the earnest boy underneath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looks around the living room, at the sofa, the lamp, the dust motes still floating in the golden light. Then he looks back at you, and there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—nervous and hopeful and so fucking endearing it makes your chest ache.

"We should—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "My room. Upstairs. Because if Matt and Freya come home and find us going at it on the sofa, I will actually die. And not in a sexy way. In a 'my brother will never let me live this down' way."

You laugh, and it breaks something open between you, the tension easing into something warmer. "Lead the way."

He stands, offers you his hand, and you take it. He pulls you up, and you're both half-undressed, flushed and breathing hard, and the absurdity of it hits you—standing in his living room, jeans unbuttoned, bra discarded, about to follow him up the stairs like this is the most natural thing in the world.

His hand stays wrapped around yours as he leads you up the narrow staircase, his bare back warm in the dim light. His room is at the end of the hall—small, cluttered, an acoustic guitar propped in the corner and sheets tangled on the bed. He kicks the door shut behind you, and the click of the latch feels like a seal.

He turns to face you, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Takes you in. The flush on your chest, the way your jeans hang loose on your hips, the mark he left on your neck.

"This isn't practice anymore," he says quietly. "I need you to know that. Whatever this is—it's not a lesson. It's not feedback. It's me wanting you so badly I can barely think straight."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "I know."

"Good." He steps closer, his hands finding your waist, sliding under the waistband of your jeans. "Because I don't think I could fake it if I tried."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, and his hands push your jeans down over your hips. They fall to the floor, and you step out of them, standing in just your underwear as he pulls back to look at you.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."

You reach for his belt, unbuckling it with clumsy fingers, and he helps you push his jeans down. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, and you wrap your hand around it without thinking. He gasps, his head falling back, and you feel the weight of him in your palm, the heat, the throb of his pulse.

"Assessment," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "You're very hard. That's a good sign."

He laughs, breathless, and his hand covers yours on his cock. "Yeah? What else?"

"Good size." You stroke him slowly, watching his face. "Nice shape. Looks like it would feel good inside me."

He groans, his hips thrusting into your hand. "Fuck. You can't just—say things like that. I'll—"

"You'll what?"

He doesn't answer. He pulls you onto the bed, your bodies tangling in the sheets, and his mouth finds yours again, hungry and desperate. His hand slides between your legs, pushing your underwear aside, and he groans when he feels how wet you still are.

"I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "I need my mouth on your pussy. Right now."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He slides down the bed, his mouth trailing down your stomach, and when his tongue finally touches you, you cry out. He eats you like he's starving, like he's been thinking about this for weeks, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, his fingers curling inside you as his mouth works your clit.

You're close again, the heat building, and you feel yourself tightening around his fingers. "Owen—I'm going to—"

He doubles down, his tongue flat against you, his fingers fucking you faster, and you come with a gasp that turns into a moan, your hips bucking against his face as the orgasm rips through you. He works you through it, licking gently as you shudder, and when he finally surfaces, his mouth is slick and his eyes are dark and satisfied.

"Assessment," he says, grinning. "You taste incredible. Ten out of ten. Would enthusiastically eat again."

You laugh, breathless, and pull him up for a kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, and it's intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. Your hand finds his cock again, stroking him slowly, and he groans against your mouth.

"Condom," you murmur. "Do you have—"

"Nightstand. Top drawer."

You reach over, fumbling blindly, and your fingers close around the box. You pull one out, tear it open with your teeth, and he watches you roll it down his length with an intensity that makes you shiver.

He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against you, and he pauses. Looks at you.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He pushes in, slow, and the stretch of it makes you gasp. He's bigger than you expected, filling you completely, and he pauses when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—I can't—"

He starts to move, slow at first, his hips finding a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. He kisses you as he fucks you, deep and messy, his tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.

"Harder," you breathe, and he obliges, his pace quickening, the sound of skin slapping skin punctuating the air. His hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you feel yourself climbing toward another orgasm.

"Come for me," he says, his voice rough and desperate. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The words undo you. You shatter, your cunt clenching around him, and he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he comes inside you.

He collapses onto you, his weight a warm pressure, his face buried in your neck. You feel his breath, hot and uneven, and your hands find his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades.

After a long moment, he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and returns to the bed, pulling you against him. The sheets are tangled, the room smells like sex, the rain having stopped by the time the room went quiet again.

The rain had stopped by the time the room went quiet again, leaving you with the soft whir of Owen’s laptop on the desk and the occasional car moving through the wet street outside. The candles downstairs had probably burned themselves out, the abandoned pasta plates were still beside the sink, and somewhere beneath the coffee table was an assessment card neither of you had finished.

Owen lay on his back with one arm beneath your shoulders, his other hand moving absently along your arm and tracing the same path over and over, as though he needed the reassurance of finding you there each time. His hair was a mess against the pillow, and he looked exhausted, pleased and increasingly troubled.

You watched the concern gather across his face.

“You’re thinking,” you said.

Owen looked at you. “I do that sometimes.”

“You’re doing it loudly.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t need to.”

He stared up at the ceiling again. For the first several minutes after he’d pulled you against him, he hadn’t been able to stop smiling, but then you’d made the mistake of mentioning the date. Not what had happened afterward, but the date itself. Owen’s arm had tightened around you when you jokingly announced that he’d passed and was officially ready to try the real thing with someone else.

You hadn’t expected him to go quiet.

“So,” you said, trying to drag the mood back toward something safer, “final assessment.”

“Right.”

“Conversation was good once you stopped behaving like you’d memorized a list of interview questions.”

“Generous.”

“Table manners need work.”

“That wine glass was unstable.”

“You elbowed it.”

“The table’s too small.”

“General romantic intrigue…”

Owen turned his head toward you, and you stretched the pause out until his mouth twitched.

“Acceptable,” you said.

“Acceptable?”

“You shouldn’t argue with the feedback.”

“After everything I’ve done for this course?”

“You’re getting marked down for attitude.”

“I cooked.”

“You boiled pasta until it turned to mush.”

“I bought a flower.”

“You stole Freya’s.”

“I had permission.”

“It was fake.”

“It’ll last longer.”

The reply was so painfully Owen that something tightened beneath your ribs, and you looked away before he could see it.

“And kissing?” he asked.

“You’re very invested in that category.”

“I value comprehensive results.”

“You passed.”

“Just passed?”

“Owen.”

He smiled, but it faded before it had the chance to settle.

“And that’s it?”

The question was quiet enough to change the air between you.

You pushed yourself onto one elbow. “What d’you mean?”

“We finish the assessment. I’m apparently ready to be inflicted on the general public, and you go home.”

“That was the arrangement.”

“I know.”

Owen’s fingers stopped moving against your arm. It should’ve been easy to tease him after he’d given you enough material to last for weeks, from the handwritten evaluation card to Freya’s immortal fabric flower downstairs, but instead, you studied his face.

“You’re upset.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’ve already admitted that means you’re upset.”

“I admitted nothing of the sort.”

“Owen.”

He let out a long breath and rubbed one hand over his face.

“This was a stupid idea.”

Your stomach dropped. “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“Exactly. Historically, that should’ve warned us.”

“You didn’t seem to think it was stupid an hour ago.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

He gave you a look, and heat climbed into your face, but you refused to back away from the question.

“Owen, it was your rule too. Nothing counted.”

“I never said that.”

“You agreed.”

“I repeated what you said.”

“That’s usually how agreeing works.”

“I didn’t want to argue.”

“You always want to argue.”

“Not when you were offering to go on a date with me.”

The words came out sharper than everything else, and Owen closed his eyes beneath your stare, seeming to realize there was no way to drag the admission back. His hand dropped onto the duvet, fingers curling into the fabric.

“What does that mean?” you asked.

Owen opened his eyes again but didn’t look at you. “It means I wanted the date.”

“You needed practice.”

“No, I didn’t.”

A startled laugh escaped you. “You spent an entire evening listing everything you did wrong.”

“Yeah, well, there’s no shortage of material.”

“So you invented the practice date?”

“I didn’t invent the concept.”

“You tricked me.”

“I didn’t trick you.”

“You made a form.”

“That was for structure.”

“You put kissing on it.”

He finally looked at you, frustration and embarrassment fighting across his face. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”

The room went still.

Owen swallowed, but once the confession had started, it seemed to pull the rest out with it.

“I wanted to take you out,” he said. “I wanted to buy you dinner and sit across from you while you laughed at me. I wanted to know what’d happen if I asked you to kiss me. But I couldn’t ask you on a real date, because if you said no, I’d still have to see you all the time and pretend it didn’t bother me.”

“Owen…”

“And this seemed safer.”

“You thought sleeping with me on a fake date would be safer?”

“I didn’t plan that far ahead.”

“You made an assessment card.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I planned the date. I didn’t plan…” He gestured vaguely between you, the duvet slipping lower across his chest. “Everything.”

You sat up farther, pulling the sheet with you.

“So you didn’t need dating help.”

“I probably do need dating help. Just not for the reason I said.”

“What reason, then?”

Owen’s expression softened into something almost apologetic.

“Because when I like someone, I become a complete nightmare.”

Your irritation cracked. “A nightmare?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I get ahead of myself. I think about everything all at once, then I try to act normal, but in my head I’m already imagining how they’ll fit into my life, and apparently that’s considered intense.”

“Generally, yeah.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of reassuring me.”

“You lied to me about why we were doing this.”

“I created a controlled romantic environment.”

“You manipulated me with supermarket wine.”

“It wasn’t cheap.”

“The label was peeling off.”

“It tasted fine.”

You tried to stay annoyed, but Owen watched your mouth betray you.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m considering suffocating you with this pillow.”

“That’s still emotional investment.”

You shoved his shoulder, and Owen caught your wrist before you could do it again. His grip was gentle, but he didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the humor disappearing from his voice. “I should’ve just asked you.”

“Yes.”

“I was scared you’d say no.”

“You had no reason to think I’d say yes.”

His face fell so quickly that you nearly laughed again.

“That’s not the same as saying I wouldn’t have,” you clarified.

“Oh.”

Owen’s ears turned red. Despite everything that had happened, despite the confidence he’d found once you touched him, that single syllable contained the same awkward man who’d buttoned his shirt wrong before opening the front door.

You lowered yourself beside him again.

“This was still a terrible plan.”

“I know.”

“The fake flower was unsettling.”

“I’ll give it back to Freya.”

“The pasta was awful.”

“You had two portions.”

“I was hungry.”

“The kissing category was obvious.”

“I panicked while making the form.”

“And you could’ve saved yourself a ridiculous amount of trouble by asking me on a real date.”

Owen’s thumb brushed across the inside of your wrist.

“Would you have said yes?”

You let him wait.

It was cruel, maybe, but after a year of watching Owen build entire romances out of glances and coincidences, it felt fair to leave him without the ending for a few seconds.

“Yes,” you said.

His face changed, relief appearing first, then disbelief, followed by the beginning of a smile so open and boyish that you suddenly understood why he kept risking humiliation for the possibility of feeling exactly this.

“You would?”

“You’re ruining it.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Right. Calm.”

Owen visibly tried to rearrange his expression into something more restrained, but he failed, and you laughed as you leaned down to kiss him. His hand immediately settled behind your neck, keeping you there when you tried to pull back; the kiss stayed soft, but there wasn’t any uncertainty left in it, and Owen smiled against your mouth before following you in for one more quick kiss when you finally drew away.

“Tomorrow,” you said.

“What about it?”

“You can take me on a real date.”

Owen’s eyebrows lifted. “Thought we just had one.”

“This one didn’t count.”

“It counted to me.”

The simple certainty behind it left you quiet for a second, and Owen looked far too pleased with himself, so you recovered by pulling the pillow from behind him and pressing it into his face until his laughter came muffled through the fabric.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated. “Start over. No forms, no false pretenses and preferably edible food.”

He dragged the pillow down far enough to look at you.

“Can there still be kissing?”

“We’ll see how you behave.”

“I think my previous assessment should carry over.”

“You’re assuming you passed.”

“You said I passed.”

“I’ve reconsidered.”

“That’s completely unethical."

“You slept with your dating coach.”

Owen tossed the pillow aside and pulled you against him again. “You let your student kiss you.”

“You asked if you could.”

“And you said yes.”

“Only for educational purposes.”

“Course.”

His grin had become unbearable.

You placed one hand over his mouth, but Owen kissed your palm, then your wrist, his expression softening as he looked at you.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m glad you’re a terrible teacher.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I haven’t learned a thing.”

You narrowed your eyes, and Owen tightened his arm around your waist before you could reach for the pillow again.

“Except,” he added quickly, “that you’ll go out with me tomorrow.”

You settled back against his chest, listening to the quick beat beneath your ear.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re planning to interrogate me about crisps.”

He pressed a kiss into your hair.

Robby kisses you fervently, like he couldn't get enough. He supposes it was true. Or maybe he was just desperately avoiding the chem study packet calling his name. 

“Robinavitch!”

Your fingers thread through his long hair, lashes fluttering open slightly as the knocking sounds again, louder. 

Although Robby is less sure it's knocking at his door and not the clashing drums of the cd he's blasting; a throwback mix he’d gotten one of his roommates to burn for him. 

“Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you?

That I'm in love with you?”

Robby feels you slowing down beneath him, your face turning slightly from his. 

“Robby.”

“Hmm,” he hums, chasing your kiss swollen lips, the scruff of his facial hair scratching against your cheek, dipping into the crook of your neck to ravage your shoulder. You giggle beneath him, pink polished nails digging into the cut up sweatshirt he was wearing. 

“Robby- Michael.” That gets his attention. He pushes himself up, hair falling over his forehead, his necklace hanging loosely from his neck.

“Yeah?” You smile dreamily up at him, still caught up in the haze of his cologne and the heat of the room. 

“I think there's someone at your door,” you point a manicured nail at the big wooden door, the brass handle currently jammed with a wooden chair beneath it. He turns, big brown eyes raking over the band poster falling off by one corner plastered on its backside, the messy pile of sweats and jeans bunched in the corner, the cd player still blasting. 

Robby makes a show of pausing. He shakes his head and turns his back slowly towards you, grinning. 

“I don't hear anyone.” 

“But-”

“Hey Robby! Come on man.” 

“Think you're hearing things.” You laugh sweetly, brushing his long hair away from his face, holding it gently in place. 

“I’m not Mr. Resident advisor. I think your students need you.”

He huffs. “They can wait. I’m busy helping you study,” he mumbles against the crook of your elbow.

“Robby, we stopped studying, like, an hour ago. And I’m helping you study.” 

“No, come on. We moved on to anatomy, remember?” You giggle, moving to sit up.

Robby doesn't let you, straddling your hips, head tilted playfully as he runs a hand through his long hair. He'd been growing it out this semester. His facial hair too.

Because it was the style and the last time Robby had tried to trim it himself he’d nicked his ear so bad he wore a bandaid for a week.

Or maybe it was because you had mentioned something about liking guys with a beard-

“You're killing me with that floppy hair of yours,” you grin. Robby gives you a look, mouth pulling into a sad little pout. 

“My hair’s not floppy.”

“It is a little,” you giggle. “I like it though. Very Brendan Fraiser.”

“Oh yeah,” Robby’s brow raises, laughing. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, pulling him back down by his sleeveless sweatshirt. Robby hums amusedly as you run your hand over the scruff of his cheek. You blink up at him, eyes darkening a bit as you trail the plane of his bare shoulder, goosebumps erupting over the line of his bicep. He chuckles.

“Thought you said there was someone at the door?” 

“I don't hear anyone now,” you smile. 

Robby kisses your cheek. Then your chin. The crook of your neck. He trails down, your hands threading through his hair again as he moves downward- 

“ROBBY I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!” 

Robby shoots up, hips twisted as he watches the doorknob rattle. You whine, eyes narrowing in annoyance at the door.

“Okay. Okay okay, maybe there is someone at the door.” You give him a look, pushing him towards the edge of the mattress. Robby hops off the bed, pulling up his sweats as they slide low on his hip. 

He gives you a cheeky grin as he saunters over to the door, moving the chair blocking the lock. You grin from the bed, jean clad legs still tangled in his sheets, the sleeve of your tanktop sliding off one shoulder. 

Robby unlocks the door, and cracks it open, an arm coming up to block the space. He frowns as a familiar looking auburn haired MS1 lets out a relieved sigh.

“Finally man. I’ve been knocking for like five minutes.” Robby sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“What is it? It’s late.”

“I forgot my key.” Robby gives the kid an incredulous look.

“You forgot your key? Again?”

“Yeah. Me and a couple of the guys were at the library s- studying and I thought Sammy had his key so I left mine…” The kid rambles on and Robby sighs. Studying was obviously the poorly veiled code word for smoking… if the smell coming off his clothes and the glazed look in his eyes was any indicator.

“Okay okay- Abbot! Stop talking, geez. You’re gonna make me kill myself with your rambling.” 

“Sorry. Oh shoot. I didn’t realize you had your girl in here.” Jack cranes his neck, peering over Robby’s shoulder. Robby glances back at you, your hand lifting in an embarrassed little wave from the bed.

Your girl. 

Robby hadn't realized people perceived the two of you that way. Like you two were a set. Not just two students who made out and occasionally slept in each other's dorm. The inbetween something with no real stipulation. 

You had both agreed on that first night out together that it was just casual. Nothing tying you down, no big expectations or anything. Robby was cool with it.

He knew you'd been burned by one too many boyfriends before to want to be tied down by something concrete. You knew he had bad habits and liked a gentle escape if needed.

But your girl. 

He liked the sounds of that a little too much for a guy who refused to put labels on anything. 

You laugh, “Hi Jack.” 

“Hi,” Jack grins, stumbling a bit in the doorway as Robby slips his shoes on. “Woah.” 

Robby sighs again, grabbing the dorm masterkey from where it was laying on his dresser and shoving Jack back out the door.

“I’ll be back,” he calls over his shoulder. “Hey move it.”

“Thank you so much brother.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

------------------------------------------------------

When Robby gets back to the dorm, he’s greeted with silence. The cd long run its course, the fan no longer humming softly. The lamp is shut off, the orange glow of the hallway the only light, casting deep shadows across the room.

It’s the first thing Robby notices as he stands in the doorway of his empty apartment.

You’re gone.

Not completely, of course. There are still remnants of your existence lingering. Little touches that remind Robby you do in fact exist and aren’t some beautiful figment of his imagination.

The sheets of his bed have been straightened, the pile of books now stacked neatly on his desk; messy laundry tucked properly into the hamper. There are still little pieces of you: a few pink highlighters and gel pens strewn about his desk, a scrunchie left on his nightstand, a picture of you and him pinned to Robby’s corkboard. It still smells like you. Your fruity bubblegum and sweet bath and bodyworks spray.

Robby scratches the back of his head as he shuts his door, trying not to think about the fact you'd slipped out while he was gone. Sure. Plenty of girls had done the same before. Hey, even he had done it too. Irish exits and promises to see each other again left unfulfilled. 

But you didn't do that. 

You always said goodbye. 

Robby hates the way he keeps thinking about it. Like it meant something.

So what? He didn't care. You could leave without saying goodbye. It wasn't like you two were very serious anyway.

Robby throws the key back on his dresser, chucking his shoes back into the closet and flops onto his bed, face down. 

He doesn't know why it's bothering him so much. Why he feels the familiar tightening of his chest, the worry crawling like maggots in his brain. Robby lays there in the dark. 

And then the phone rings. He sits up, startled by the loud sound echoing from his nightstand. He crawls over the bed, reaching and picking the phone up from the receiver. 

He was expecting a call from another locked out student or someone needing maintenance to come unclog brownie batter out the drain. 

“Robinavitch here-”

“I forgot to tell you goodbye!” 

Robby’s face softens as he realizes it's you. He'd recognize your voice anywhere. He's surprised you're calling, so much so he doesn't catch what you're saying. 

“What?” Robby chuckles, just happy to hear you again. 

“I just left. I didn't even give you a kiss or anything.” 

“That's alright.”

“Did Jack get to his room alright?”

“Eventually. Although he was so stoned out of his mind, I don’t think he’d know his left foot from his right.” He hears you click your tongue on the line, sighing. 

“The life of the party. A shame he’s got to be sent away."

“Yeah.” Robby listens as you move around on the other side of the line. Something clatters and he hears you settle onto the bed.

“I’m really sorry. I should have kissed you goodbye.” 

“It’s okay, really. I think we’ve made out more than some couples do their entire marriage.” 

“Marriage?” You laugh. “You thinking about marrying me already, Robby?” 

The question is innocent. Coy in your own sweet way. Robby grins widely, glad you couldn't see the blush blooming across his freckle strewn face. 

“Maybe,” his voice cracks in spite of the joking tone he uses. You giggle. 

“Good. I really like you, you know. A million times better than the other boys who've tried to suck face with me.” Robby makes a face. 

“That's kinda a crude way to put it.”

“Just saying. They don't deserve to be remembered as anything more.” 

Robby laughs, picturing your cheeky smile. The way you’d shrug. He gets that tight feeling in his chest again and swallows thickly. 

“I know. I like you a lot too.” 

“Like, ‘want to get married’ a lot?” Robby rolls his eyes. 

“We're only 23 sweetheart. Isn't that kinda young?” 

“I’m planning on getting married by 25 Robby. I think I told you this, didn't I?” 

“Yeah. You did. But I'm barely making it through med school as it is. And you can't even remember where you parked your car half the time. You want to get married?” 

“Well yeah. You always remember where my car is. We're made for each other.” Robby laughs, a hand running down his face amusedly. Your next words hit him hard. Right in the chest.

“I don't think I’d ever want anyone else Michael.” 

There's a seriousness beneath your teasing tone. Robby thinks he almost stops breathing. Then you laugh. 

“But maybe you're right. Oh! Actually I almost forgot. I left you a little something.”

Robby clears his throat, trying to recover from that. 

I don't think I’d ever want anyone else Michael

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. It's just a little note. Something silly.”

You were always leaving little things for Robby to find. Poorly folded gum wrapper hearts in his jean pockets or post its on his car dash. Robby thought it was endearing in spite of the way his friends made fun of him for keeping them. 

“I’m sure it's not silly. Where?” 

“In your study packet.” Robby laughs. 

“Okay, where?” He repeats. You laugh. 

“Well, you gotta actually read the material to find it.” 

“Wow. You have no faith in me, do you?” 

“I do!” You protest. “I believe in you Robby. But you can't be a great doctor if you don't know the difference between the dermis and epidermis.”

Robby smiles. 

“You think I’m gonna be a good doctor?” 

“A great one. Yeah.” 

“Thanks.”

You're quiet on the other end for a moment. And then you yawn. 

“Okay enough mushy talk. I seriously have a test I’ve got to study for.” Robby chuckles. 

“Okay. goodnight hon.”

“Goodnight Micheal.”

He’s about to hang up when you add two little words. “Love you!”

The line clicks.

Robby holds the phone to his ear for a moment longer, heart clinging to those two little words. His chest tightens again, the unfamiliar feeling blooming in spite of the way Robby was trying to push it down. 

The phone clicks against the receiver with a gentle sound, the bed creaking as Robby lays down on his back. He stares up at the popcorn ceiling trying to ignore the overwhelming elation rising through him. 

Which is stupid, he immediately thinks.

It probably means nothing. You guys aren't serious like that. Not serious enough to be joking about marriage late at night at least. 

Robby knows you know about his not so pretty dating history. The long list of girls, the endless streak of letting good love slip away. He knows he's overheard your girlfriends remind you to take it slow. To remember Robby has a bad habit of leaving. 

Not being the one left. 

Robby knows people change. People come and go. He's had plenty of people leave his life. People he cares about. People he’s wanted. 

He knows things probably won't ever stay the same. 

Robby can be honest himself: he's got commitment issues. He can thank his mom for that. He sometimes likes to blame all his worst parts on her. His quick temper, his bossy nature. The need to always be right, to be needed. 

Robby knows you were joking about the marriage thing. Of course you were. 

But no one's said ‘I love you’ like that and not meant it. 

Not to him at least. Without any hesitation or doubt. Without burden. 

You said it like it was a habit he didn't even know you’d formed. Like the two of you had unknowingly grown into something more than casual dates. Something more than two med students who’d bonded over a rough emergency department rotation and less than productive study sessions. 

Something softer and sweeter. 

The thing Robby tried so hard to stop himself from wanting. 

It unraveled something deep inside him. A truth he had been trying to keep at bay for a while now. Because the truth was he did want that. To be your one and only. 

He wanted a marriage. He wanted kids. He had this vision, this dream, of being the dad someone could be proud of. The doctor who would show off his family in pictures around his office, who’d come home from blood and gore to the sounds of laughter and life. 

And yeah, maybe a part of him had begun to picture you as that person. Maybe you had begun to bleed into his dreams; the laughter brightening into your high pitched squeal, the pictures shifting into someone with your face. 

Robby doesn't even realize how long he's been lying in the dark thinking until he hears the hall lights blink out, the sign curfew was officially in place. His fingers clench around the star hanging from his necklace. 

This was stupid. He shouldn't be thinking things like that. Overly romantic and head over heels kind of thoughts that you'd see in movies. 

Life didn't work like that. Robby knew that better than anyone. 

But you’d said goodbye. You said ‘I love you’- 

Robby scrubs a hand over his face letting out a deep breath. 

“Just forget it.” 

He gets up, turning on the lamp and settling heavily into his desk chair, half heartedly picking up his textbook. Robby flips open to the marked page, fingers threaded through his hair as he tries to pay attention to the words on the page. They swim before him. 

It was just infatuation. The biological reaction to receiving attention. 

He didn't… 

You were just a fling. A casual date he’d move on from after a few months. Right? 

Robby pauses, counting how many months the two of you had actually been hanging out together.

 The number is a lot more than a fee.

“Urgh, forget it,” Robby lets out again with frustration, tossing the study packet onto the floor. He watches as the packet flutters to the ground in a crumple. As a pink flashcard slides out and onto the wood floor. 

Robby stands, crouching to pick it up. That's right. You had said you’d left him something. He picks the sturdy card up, frowning as he tries to read what it says. 

He moves back over to the lamp, tall frame scrunching close to the poorly lit bulb. The card glows a hot pink beneath the light, your sparkly pen glittering. 

U + ME = <3 

Oh God. 

------------------------------------------------------

It’s early the next morning when Robby realizes he’s totally and completely fallen for you. Literally.

He crashes onto the floor of your dorm room, his long leg catching on the ledge of the window as he tries to sneak in.

Your roommate sits up in her bed, a confused and sleepy look crossing her face as she blinks at the two of you. Robby gives her an embarrassed wave, grunting as you hold out your hand. 

“I got it, I got it.”

“Let me help you Robby,” you giggle as bend down. He lets you pull him up, giving you a flushed smile as he takes in your cotton sleeping shorts, the big band tee you'd stolen from his closet swallowing your frame. Robby presses a kiss on your cheek in thank you and moves towards the bed on your side of the dorm. 

“Sorry Amy,” you whisper, nudging her apologetically. She swats your hand away, rolling over. 

“Just wake me before the exam is supposed to start.” You giggle an ‘alright’, turning back to Robby as he fidgets with the tasseled ends of your pillowcase. 

“What’s up? I thought we were meeting up after class?” 

Robby looks up at you, still high off the adrenaline of running halfway across the big courtyard to your dorm. 

“I just…” 

The words are suddenly lost on his tongue. 

The speech he'd been practicing in his room, late into the morning. He'd been pacing a hole in his wood floors, clutching that pink flashcard in his hand as he went over what he wanted to tell you. 

He knew he had to tell you.

He knew he had to ask you. 

If you wanted to be something more. Something that came with a label and commitment. 

But for a guy like Robby, who'd never even spoken an “I love you”- not even to his grandma who'd taken him in- the task suddenly seemed monumental. He supposes it was. 

“What?” You ask, giving him a curious look. “Are okay? You look terrible.” 

Robby lets out a puff of air, chuckling quietly as you cup his scruffy face. You've got that assessing look on your face, like you've already nailed down the clinical eye doctor’s need to have. 

“I didn't get much sleep last night,” he finally says. 

“Oh. Were you really worried about studying?” You frown. 

“Um, I didn't do much studying last night.” 

“Robby,” you croon in a chastising tone. He shrugs. 

“I have a photographic memory. Remember?”

“Uh huh. Yet you keep forgetting where your shirts are,” you grin, caressing the familiar edge of a shirt he had definitely stolen back from the laundry hamper.

“That's cause you steal them,” he pinches your side. You laugh, quieting when your roommate throws you an angry glare. 

“So… why'd you come here?” 

“Um,” Robby looks over at your roommate nervously, mumbling quietly, “I wanted to tell you something.” You frown. 

“Huh?” 

“I- I wanted to tell you-” You lean in closer, trying to hear him. Robby is so nervous he can barely get his voice above a whisper.

“Take me?” 

“No-” but your eyes are already lighting up and you let out a surprised gasp. 

“Wait, are we gonna get breakfast?!” Robby blinks. “That's what you were gonna say, right? You want to take me to Starbucks. A pre exam coffee?” 

You're bouncing on the balls of your feet, clearly excited about the prospect of a caffeine pick me up and sugary pastry. Robby gives you a resigned smile. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that's what I was gonna say.” You squeal and throw your arms around him. 

“You're the best guy a girl could ever have! I gotta go change and then I’ll be right out.” 

Guy. 

Not boyfriend. Because Robby and you had agreed: no labels. 

“Yeah sure,” Robby nods, watching as you flounce over to your closet pulling out an outfit and running to the bathroom. When you shut the door he lets out a deep sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

Maybe this was better. He had time to work up the confidence to actually say what he wanted. Besides, maybe it wasn't appropriate to ask someone to be your girlfriend while their roommate was snoring five feet away.

When you come back out of the bathroom, the traces of sleep gone and smelling like toothpaste, you give Robby another concerned look. 

“Are you sure you're okay?” 

“Yeah,” he nods. A little too quickly. You grab your backpack, giving him a look over your shoulder. 

“You know you can tell me if something’s wrong. Right?” 

“Why would anything be wrong?” Robby’s shoulders tense. Was he really that obvious? You smile, reaching out, your fingers brushing against the backside of is hand. The hand clutching his necklace. 

“You're holding your star. You only do that when you're anxious.” 

He hadn't even realized he was doing it. Or that you noticed that about him. 

“I’m okay. Let's just go get your coffee. Okay?”

“Okay Michael,” you say softly. “But, go out the window. I’m not getting fined if someone catches you.”

------------------------------------------------------

The little round table you'd picked out is cold beneath your arm, the metal surface creaking beneath your elbow as you lean on it. Your leg bounces beneath the chair, the smell of roasting coffee beans and something like caramel filling your senses. 

You watch Robby as he stands in line to order, his hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt, eyes darting around the place nervously. 

Not that he'd admit it. 

He had been unusually quiet on the drive over, knuckles white against the wheel, jean clad thigh tense against the leather seat.

You tried to talk a bit. About how you wanted to get into a pedes rotation soon. If you could bribe Amy into switching textbooks with you because hers was nicer and not stained with lipgloss and coffee. 

But you’d given up after the third “hmhmm” from Robby. 

Which was fine.

You didn't mind listening to his radio, perpetually stuck on an old 70s rock station, and tracing your name on the car seat leather. 

A part of you wondered if it had anything to do with your phone call last night. You had really been laying it thick. Bringing up marriage. Saying you loved him. 

Of course it had been. How could it not.

You sigh at the table, resting your chin in your hand as Robby orders, his hand coming up to scratch the scruff on his jaw. 

You always had this problem. Getting attached too fast. Catching feelings in spite of telling yourself it was casual.

All your girlfriends had warned you. Take it slow. Don't get involved. They had rolled their eyes when you had told them Robby had asked you out. Reminded you Robby had never held a decent relationship for more than a month. 

He was a known flirt. A guy who liked to sleep around for fun. 

But he wasn't like that with you. He was funny and caring. Yeah, you guys agreed to be casual. You knew what you were signing up for.

You had been friends before that, student doctors bonded after a joint rotation in the emergency department; study partners and theater hoppers and restaurant critics and the occasional partygoer. It didn't seem like that big of a leap.  

To blur the line of friendship… with additional benefits.

But some nights, when Robby held you in a too small dorm bed, you felt like it could be something more. 

Maybe that's why you had said it. Because you'd always been upfront about your feelings. No matter who it was. All your ex boyfriends knew. They would scoff and roll their eyes if they had heard your phone call. Because of course you were talking about marriage. Of course you’d gotten attached. You always did catch feelings easily.

Robby often told you about how he felt when he first met you. How he’d asked you out to dinner after an awfully rough shift. 

“Hey. You wanna get some real food? Not the tuna melts they serve here?” 

“Robby, you know you could take me anywhere and I’d be happy.”

He liked to tell you how that had made him laugh. How you seemed so carefree. Still smiling after a terrible day. 

It made you feel special. Like he noticed the little things you hadn't even thought to think of. 

Sometimes you felt like you were getting ahead of yourself when you thought of things like marriage or being a thing. Something that came with a label. With expectations. 

And Robby-

You jump in your seat as the chair opposite you scrapes against the floor, Robby taking the seat. He chuckles as you yelp and give him a wide eyed look. 

“You okay there?”

“Just thinking,” you smile. “Got my banana bread?” 

“Of course,” he nods as he sets down your loaf slice in front of you. “The coffees are gonna be another minute.” 

“Doesn't your black sludge take like three seconds to pour into a paper cup?” You're already tearing into the slice of ooey gooey bread. It's good. Warm and nutty. 

Robby shrugs, fingers drumming against the metal surface. 

“I don't know. I’m a doctor, not a barista. And it's not sludge. Black coffee is perfectly fine for sustainable gut health.” 

You shrug. “I still think you're gonna give yourself an ulcer. Especially with the way you worry about things.” 

Robby lets out a breath, running a hand through his long locks. He doesn't say anything, just smiles. 

Oh boy. 

Maybe you shouldn't have said anything last night. At least, not on the phone. You always did this. Made things more complicated and crossed lines you’d clearly drawn for yourself. 

And now you were spiraling over a piece of banana bread about a boy you really did love instead of worrying about your exam later- 

“Here.” Robby sets a cup down in front of you. You hadn't even heard him get up. “This one's yours.” 

“Oh. Thank you-” you reach out to take the cup, the thick paper cup warm beneath your hold. Your heart beats a little faster as Robby’s fingers bump into yours, his index finger nudging into the flesh of your thumb. 

He smiles at you crookedly, eyes bright with anticipation. You take the cup-

“Hey. Did they write something on here?” You turn it slightly, noticing the thick black sharpie peeking beneath your fingers. 

U + ME = <3

You laugh with surprise, almost forgetting the little flash card you’d left Robby last night. Mostly as a joke because you knew the little things you made him always got a laugh. Or a smile. 

But mostly because it was true. And because you’d seen the way he secretly pockets the things you make him, like they were something special. 

You smile at the cup, another laugh slipping out.

“Aw Robby. You got my note! It looks so cute on-” you trail off as you turn the cup more, seeing he’s made an addition. 

U + ME = <3 (forever) 

You look up at him, his mouth pressed together in a nervous line, brown eyes staring, waiting for you to meet his gaze. It shouldn't feel like this monumental thing. But it does. 

And the way he's looking at you makes you suddenly nervous. 

“Robby-” 

“I, um,” he swallows thickly, hands flexing around his own cup. “I- truthfully I couldn't sleep last night because I was thinking about our conversation. About us.”

“Us?” 

“Yeah,” he nods. “When you said… you said you loved me.” 

You swallow thickly, suddenly feeling a bit like a young school girl. Your heart pounds and you have to remind yourself not to get your hopes up. To stay realistic-

“Did you mean it?” His question only furthers your hope. The earnestness behind it. The golden glint of his deep brown eyes. You nod.

“Yeah. I meant it.” 

“Okay. Good.” You chuckle, brows drawing confusedly. 

“Robby, what's this about?” You gesture towards your coffee, finger hovering over the Forever.

“I- well I have a question I need to ask you.” 

“Oh.”

Robby swallows thickly, laughing nervously. 

“I know we agreed to be casual, no labels. And I know you said you weren’t exactly looking for someone to be your, um,” Robby’s hand moves, frowning as he searches for the word. 

“To be my forever?” You offer shyly. Robby freezes. And then he nods. “Yeah,” you swallow thickly. Robby lets out a shaky breath.

“I know it’s not what you were looking for. Or what I was looking for. But after our talk on the phone last night, I realized… I realized I might like you a lot more than just being my sleeping buddy.” 

“Study partner,” you smile. Robby laughs.

“Right. Although we said no labels.”

“Right,” you look away, flushing.

“Anyway,” Robby clears his throat, hands shaking against his coffee. "I really like spending time with you. Talking and studying and everything else. You’re funny and pretty and smart and… and everything a good doctor should be.”

That makes you feel warm inside. Being called a good doctor. Maybe more so than being called pretty. Of course you were pretty.

“And I wanted to know if you’d like to be something more. If you’d like to by my girl-”

“YES.” 

He looks up at you in surprise, mouth hanging open.You can feel your ears go red, you hide behind your hands.

“Did I say that way too fast?”

Robby laughs, loud and genuine. 

“I- No I think it was just the right amount of enthusiasm.” You smile shyly, peeking out from your fingers. He’s smiling at you fondly, the tension gone from his shoulders. He’s still got the embarrassed flush on his cheeks, the stupidly cute smile on his face. 

“Good. That's good. Forever huh?” You look up at him. 

“Well, I don’t think it’d be appropriate to ask you to marry me.” You laugh loudly.

“No. No, definitely not. I’d have to gently let you down. Tell you we skipped a few steps.”

“Yeah,” Robby scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, I’m definitely not ready for that.”

“What made you think you were ready for this?”

“Being your boyfriend?” You nod and smile. You liked that. Robby nudges your leg beneath the table with his sneaker.

“Something Jack said.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He pauses, and then leans forward, inches from your face. “And how could I not let the girl who said she loves me go without her knowing I feel the same.” 

You go soft at that. Your heart melting. You bridge the small gap between you, noses brushing as you press a gentle kiss to his lips. He deepens it, the table creaking beneath him as he leans further, cupping your face. 

You’re pretty sure the coffees have gone cold. You’re almost positive the exam you had to take had already started. But one thing you knew for sure was that you loved Robby. 

You loved Michael Robinavitch. And you think you would always.

Forever and ever and ever.

------------------------------------------------------

Did you catch the lyric references? ;)

“Perhaps Miss Stowell is the same way?” She offered kindly. “You only have danced with her the once, but have you had a conversation with her?”

Benedict rolled his eyes, tapping his foot in frustration. “I do not wish to speak with Miss Stowell—I hardly had wished to dance with her but Colin was being exceptionally… Colin.”

She laughed. The tall man before her was acting like a petulant child, like a baby without his lolly. “Perhaps you should have said conversation?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” she gently pressed his shoulder, turning Benedict towards the crowd behind him. “Miss Stowell and her mother are coming this way.”

He blanched, turning quickly back to his friend, nearly feeling the glaring daggers in his back. “You must help me.”

She held out her wrist, offering her dance card. “I seem to have an extra space?”

“Anything,” Benedict said hurriedly, taking the pencil and scrawling his name against one of the many lines on her card—pointedly ignoring the fact it was entirely empty. She tried her best to not gasp at the way he held her wrist. 

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Lady Stowell said cheerily, her smile anything but. “I say, you are a tricky man to pin down.”

“Lady Stowell,” Benedict grinned, acknowledging both ladies, “Miss Stowell, forgive me, but I fear that was by design—can’t be everywhere at once, can I? Busy man, after all.”

The ladies laughed, a pleasant sort, trying their best to not act offended. “Are you looking for another dance partner, Mr. Bridgerton?” Miss Stowell asked sweetly, laying it on almost as thick as honey, the lady in violet beside him seemingly ignored entirely. “I do think I have it in me for a dance this eve…”

His eyes opened a fraction of an inch, a silent plea.

It was a good thing she was proficient in reading him.

“Actually,” (Y/N) spoke up, gaining a sideways sneer from the mama to the left. “Mr. Bridgerton has promised the next dance to me.” For good measure, she lifted her wrist, as if her words alone would not satisfy the hungry pair. 

“Yes!” Benedict’s shoulders dropped in relief, a chuckle deep from his chest. “I have promised the next dance to Miss (Y/L/N). I fear I won’t be taking any more time on the dance floor this eve after.”

“Surely you have the energy for one more dance after?” Lady Stowell pressed. “It is unbecoming to leave a lady waiting.”

“Indeed,” Benedict nodded thoughtfully. He tapped his fingers against his waist. “Which is why I should take Miss (Y/L/N) onto the dance floor at once—to prepare for the quadrille.”

“I believe it’s the cotillion next—”

“Never matter,” Benedict said, offering his arm. “Miss (Y/L/N)?”

The feeling of her arm against his own, or the look of disgust coming from both of the Stowells, the pride in her chest—she couldn’t decide what felt more victorious. Regardless, she could only focus on keeping her heart rate in check, hoping it kept in time with her clicking heels to the floor.

“Not a terribly smooth exit,” she whispered, daring to get a bit closer to him.

He leaned in equally as close. “Smooth or not, I believe it may have worked,” his ever-famous lopsided grin peeled against his cheeks, “they may be scowling now, but soon enough they’ll put their efforts to some other lowly sucker.”

“You must feel like a right swindler,” she laughed, dipping her head towards the man. The orchestra had begun their first pull at their strings.

He bowed back. “I feel lighter than air, all thanks to your quick thinking.”

“I have been known to do that from time to time,” she teased.

They had danced before, it was only the truth. Ever since her first season, albeit only just last year, Benedict had made good on his promise to dance with her at nearly every ball. 

“I fear I will be a terrible dancer when the time comes,” she expressed, leaning back on the swing, pumping her legs just that bit harder to fly higher. “No one will wish to dance with me, no worthwhile man, anyway.”

“Your tutors are bad at their job, then.”

“Mama said they are the best that money can buy,” (Y/N) said, continuing to swing. “But I still have two left feet and cannot keep count correctly.”

“I was a bad dancer, once.”

“Was?”

“My mother,” Benedict said quietly, matching her pace with the swinging, “she insisted on teaching me and my brothers the proper steps, proper hand placement and the like.”

“Perhaps she could teach me?”

His feet dug into the dirt, halting all movement. “No.”

“What—no!?”

“She is far too busy as lady of the house,” Benedict said, trying his best to balm his friend’s worried heart. “But… I could teach you?”

“You? Teach me to dance?”

“Well, not entirely, we’re getting to be that age where being alone is problematic,” Benedict sighed, his eyes meeting the stars. “Scandal making and whatnot—all before you’ve even debuted! What a mess that would be—”

“Get to the point, Bridgerton,” she said, finally planting both feet back on the ground, though, no malice was in her voice. 

“Let us say this,” Benedict rose from the wooden swing. “When you debut, I will be a faithful dance partner—a dance at nearly every ball until you find yourself a husband. That way, even if you do not have a line of suitors begging to fill your card,” he scoffed, “as if that is even a possibility, I will be there to give you ample practice.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said, sincerity in his eyes, his tone, his very being. “Is that not what friends are for?”

It had been the promise of children, in a fit of giggles under the stars. A promise he had so carefully kept—and carefully he did.

Careful with his hand placements, careful with his footwork, careful in the way he held her heart.

Of course, he had not known so much that last part. 

“You’ve gotten better, you know,” Benedict mumbled in the moment she was close enough to hear. 

“At dancing?” She breathed, trying to not make a face. 

“All that practice,” Benedict pulled away, only to swing her back towards him, “you’ve had a fine teacher.”

“I have, haven’t I? Complimenting yourself, in a rather roundabout way, I might add,” she giggled. “Very Benedict Bridgerton of you.”

He furrowed his brows. “Am I to be offended?”

“Not at all,” she twirled. “It was intended as a compliment—should you allow your head enough time to deflate.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” he shook his head slightly, just enough to catch her eye in the dance. “Surely you’ve danced with other bachelors this season? I cannot be the only one you’ve shared dances with.”

“No, only you,” she quietly admitted.

“Only me?” He nearly laughed. “How do you expect to find a husband if you’re galavanting away with just me every ball?”

She allowed the dance to fill any awkward space—in the conversation and in their space—the twirls and steps far too concerning than furthering their discussion. She had grown increasingly more stiff in her movements, nearly begging to be free of his grasp, of his touch. His brows had furrowed, a fraction of an inch, not enough for anyone looking on to notice, but she did. She always noticed. 

With a triumphant end, the dance ceased. Partners bowed and curtsied, allowing her to quickly duck out of the ballroom. “Excuse me.”

He was quick to follow her exit, nearly two steps behind her at all times. 

Damn his long legs. 

“(Y/N), wait!”

“I need a respite,” she called out, walking quicker towards the staircase. “Please, allow me this.”

He caught up to her by the time she made it to the balcony doors on the next floor, his hand covering her own on the knob. “No, I refuse to leave you.”

“Benedict, go back to the ball, if anyone were to see us alone—”

He turned their hands, twisting the knob with purpose and nearly pushing her out onto the balcony. It all had happened so fast, she hardly realized they had made it outside. “There,” he placed his hands on his hips, “now no one is likely to see us alone.”

“And if someone was in the gardens?” Her gloved hand waved wildly over the edge of the stone railing—a lush canopy of greenery trickled down to the aforementioned gardens below. A true piece of pride for the estate owners, to be sure. “If they happened to look up here?”

“All of the fun is in the ballroom,” he scoffed. “No one is likely to go out to the gardens at this hour, not when Lady Hanover made a big spectacle of their entertainment for this eve. Everyone will be watching that, I hear it’s another theatrical dance of some kind, you know how the ton has been eating those up.”

“Good,” she nodded. “You should go and watch it, then. Envelop yourself in the arts.”

“And leave myself susceptible to the mamas and debutantes once more? Especially after I clearly offended a great friend of mine?” He crossed his arms. “You take me for a fool if you think I would leave you in this moment.”

“Perhaps you should be foolish, then,” she quipped, crossing her arms in protest. “Or, perhaps you should listen to that great friend of yours and leave her be?”

“Not until you tell me why you ran from the dance,” he said matter-of-factly, hands gripping his hips a fraction tighter. “It clearly had something to do with what I said.”

“Again with your ego, Bridgerton,” she laughed dryly. “Not everything is about you—”

“But this is about me, of that I am sure—”

“No!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands down to her sides. “It is not about you! It is decidedly and never has been about you!”

He took a step back, bewildered. 

“You are correct,” she continued, “I have had no other dance partners this season, I fear I have only ever had one other dance partner besides you—and he has been married off. Not that I would have married him anyway, he rather had an unsightly mole and terrible breath—”

“I do not think I understand?”

“It is not for you to understand,” she seethed. “Society is never for men to understand, you just have the pleasure to show up and do what you please while the women must flaunt around and beg for attention, beg for a lowly dance in hopes of securing a match, lest we find ourselves attached to the wall and dying a spinster.”

“You are hardly at that point, you are only on your second season,” Benedict noted.

“My second, leading to my third and fourth and probable fifth—”

“You must breathe,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, raising his own in a mirrored fashion. “Take a deep breath and hold it in.” Against her better judgment, she did as he asked. Deep breath in, her chest rising, holding for just a few seconds before letting it out. “Good, again.”

“This seems foolish—”

“Is it not working?” She shrugged his hands off her shoulders, fighting back her urge to grunt in annoyance. “See?” He smiled, ever-so-slightly. “Now, do you think you can find it in your heart to explain what’s going on in that fascinating head of yours?”

“As I tried to explain,” she took another deep breath, mostly for her composure. “You have been the only suitor I’ve danced with this season.”

“Suitor is a strong word,” he mumbled.

“Is that not what you are? In the eyes of the rest of the ton? Not everyone is privy to our personal lives,” she said plainly. “Sure, a good handful know of the friendship between our mothers, but not of the friendship between us."

“I do not see how that is relevant?”

“As far as everyone else is concerned, you are a suitor,” she said. “At the very least, you have taken pity on me. It is a wonder how Whistledown has not gotten word of this.”

“I would not call it pity,” Benedict said, a bit hurt. “Not for a moment.”

“What other word, then? Compassion? Sympathy?”

“I merely was helping a friend, we had made a deal—”

“A deal that has grown far too close to the sun, as it were,” (Y/N) nodded. “If I am to be dancing with you and no one else, truly, how am I to find a husband?”

“Have you not noticed what attention is brought to you after we dance?” Benedict asked. “Truly?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“After every dance we partake in, you are greeted by a handful of gentlemen—not a swarm, mind you—but enough to take notice and share a few pleasantries.”

“I do not see how this is relevant?”

He laughed sweetly. “My dear, do you truly not see it? Dancing with a Bridgerton gains you intrigue, if I were to see something in you, perhaps there is something that the other men of the ton are overlooking as well.”

“They never ask me to dance, never come calling—”

“We shall work on that, then,” Benedict nodded, hand pulling at his coat. “Take their interest more seriously, make them yearn for more.”

“I do not think I understand?”

He looked up at the stars, groaning in frustration. “How you do not see your own charms is beyond me…”

“Come again?”

“I said you must try harder,” he corrected quickly. “For these men to grow attached, enough to garner a proposal, you must try your very best.”

She blinked. “Right. As if the last year and a half I have been trying my very worst.”

“Flutter your eyelashes,” he pointed. “Lift your voice, make it sound breathy, airy. Men seem to love it when women do that.”

“Are you giving me wooing lessons?” She laughed, realizing the notion of his words.

“If it will help you find a match,” Benedict tilted his head to the side, “yes, I suppose I am.”

“I do think I can keep their interest if I put my heart into it,” she mumbled. “I appreciate the help, Ben, I do, but I think I just need to be in the right mindset.”

Ben. She had called him Ben. When had she called him that last? “Have you not been putting your heart into it before tonight?”

How could I? With you holding it?

It was what she wished to say. 

“I think,” she said instead, “perhaps we continue our annual dance at these events, maybe sprinkling the occasional promenade or two. You said so yourself, it makes me highly sought after—even for a few minutes.”

“And?” He leaned against the railing. “What do I get out of this arrangement?”

“Have you not thought this through yourself?” She nearly laughed. “I was practically repellant to the Stowells, imagine how well you could avoid the rest of the hungry and insatiable debutantes if you were to dance with me every ball?”

“I already do dance with you at nearly every ball?”

It was her turn to look to the stars. “Men…”

“But I suppose…” He thought aloud. “You’re correct, the way the Stowells melted off of me just from the prospect of our dance was thrilling—quite the act.”

“I think we could be fine actors,” she added. “And by the end of the season, I will have a husband lined up and you will not have to worry about restless mamas—one could hope, anyway.”

He held out his hand.

“Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

She didn’t have to think a second longer to take it.

—

They made good on their promise, keeping up with their dances at the events of the season—(Y/N) charming the trousers off of the now interested gentlemen, Benedict swiftly avoiding all the vying debutantes. She had a handful of callers from this endeavor, though, none of the follow through she had anticipated. 

“I just don’t understand what I am doing wrong,” she said quietly, walking along the lake, arm in arm with Benedict. “Surely one of my callers found me intriguing enough to come calling again?”

“I am just as surprised as you are,” Benedict said just as low, smiling to those passing by. “Not a single one has come back?”

“Save for Lord Hargrove,” she said. “He has danced with me twice, but only called upon me the once. We were supposed to promenade this afternoon, but, I fear he may have forgotten.”

“Hargrove?” Benedict clicked, his face souring. “You are interested in him?”

“I do not have much of a choice,” she laughed politely. “He is seemingly the only man interested in me—and he is a baron, I could do far worse.”

“Baron or not,” Benedict sneered, “he has substantial debts and rather works his way through the brothels. You, Miss (Y/L/N), can do far better.”

“Better to marry a rake than die a spinster,” she hummed.

He stopped walking, effectively pulling her back with her next step. “You must know I am correct? That you deserve better than Lord Hargrove?”

“In the grand scheme of things, it’s probable, sure,” she sighed, enjoying the patch of shade they found themselves under. “But, much like my mama, my patience is growing thin. I need to find a husband this season—if Lord Hargrove is my only option, I will see it through.”

Benedict took a sharp breath. “Fine. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Naturally,” she smiled politely. “But, perhaps you could offer your assistance further in the park? I do fear that gaggle of girls is headed your way.”

His blue eyes widened at the sight, pulling her arm rather fiercely closer to him. “Walk. Now.” —

Much like she found him on any other occasion, Benedict Bridgerton was stuck to the wall nearest the refreshments, glass in hand.

“You should smile, you know,” she teased, practically floating over to his side. “Much more handsome that way.”

“You don’t say?” Benedict smiled, not on her suggestion, but purely from her presence alone. “Perhaps I should continue to scowl, then. Dissuade any debutantes to come this way.”

“I fear scowling is more Lord Bridgerton’s style,” she quipped. “Smiling is much more becoming on you, especially when you truly mean it.”

“And how can one ‘truly mean’ to smile?” He crossed his arms.

“It’s in your eyes,” she shrugged, pulling a glass of lemonade off the table. “The way they shine in the light, how they crinkle with joy when your cheeks lift. That is how I know you ‘truly mean it’.”

Unbeknownst to him, the very tips of his ears grew pink. “Practicing your wooing, are we?”

She laughed into her glass. “No? Why would you think that?”

The pink trailed to his cheeks, now. “N-no reason,” he grabbed another glass and downed it quickly. “I just assumed you needed to test a few lines before engaging further with suitors this evening.”

“I’m afraid this is my respite,” she sighed, discreetly trying to stretch her legs. “I’ve been dancing all night if you can imagine!”

“You have?”

“Take a look for yourself!” (Y/N) thrusted her wrist towards the Bridgerton, showing off her rather full dance card. “I had no need to fill the card with false names like I have done in events past—every one is genuine.”

His fingertips grazed the card, holding it closer to the candlelight. Benedict had no reason to doubt her, of course, it was entirely plausible that every name was genuine. “Well, how about that?”

“Lord Green stepped out for a moment,” (Y/N) explained, pointing to the very middle of her card. “Hence my timing for a respite. I cannot say I am entirely too disappointed, Lord Green seems much too attached to his mama.”

It was a polite laugh, the one Benedict allowed to escape his lips, nearly a reflex whilst he was busy reading her card. “I see you have a dance with Lord Hargrove?”

“Oh yes,” she said sweetly. “Lord Hargrove has made much more an effort into a courtship since we’ve spoken last. He has called upon me twice more.”

“Has he, now?”

“I know how you feel about him,” she smiled. “But, I think he’s my best bet to be engaged by the end of the season.”

“You don’t say?”

“Careful with your hand, Ben,” she said quickly, placing her gloved hand upon his. “You’re gripping that glass rather tightly. I’d hate for you to shatter it, lest you end up with glass in your skin."

“You’re right,” he composed himself, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You should be pleased,” she nearly sang. “Your efforts have proven fruitful—your friend is unlikely to die a spinster now!”

He laughed humorlessly. “Yes, yes, I am so pleased our agreement has succeeded.”

“Have they stopped as well? The mamas and daughters?”

“Mostly,” he said. “Half of the ton assumes I am trying to court you, the other half are wondering why we haven’t made a courtship official.”

“Is that so?”

“Nearly everyone at the Gentleman’s Club has asked me about it once or twice,” he rolled his eyes. “Lord Hargrove was being much too annoying about the entire ordeal.”

“He asked about us?”

“That is what you gathered from my retelling?”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” He scoffed. “He nearly wanted to put my head on a stick!”

“It shows his passion,” she argued. 

“You can do far better than that neanderthal,” he quipped back.

“And who do you suggest?” Her arms had crossed, nearly on their own. “Seeing as you know better than I for my match.”

“Take your pick,” he flicked her dance card. “I’m sure any other man on that list is much more suited for you than Lord Hargrove.”

“What has gotten into you?” (Y/N) took a step back. “What happened to my supportive friend? That is the entire reasoning for our arrangement is it not? For me to find a suitor?”

“You are well suited for other men of the ton,” Benedict explained. “Hargrove will break your heart, amongst other things.”

“I do not believe that is your decision to make, if I wish to see a courtship and potential marriage with Lord Hargrove, that is entirely my choice—”

“A terrible one, really.”

She set her glass down. “I think I am finished speaking to you.”

“If it is coming from the same area in which you also think marrying Lord Hargrove is a good idea, perhaps you should reconsider that too.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He hadn’t had much focus in the duration of the evening, but with the way his gaze was trained on her figure growing smaller from him—storming out of the ballroom? He couldn’t pry his attention away, no matter how much it hurt.

—

As pleasant as a spring rose.

It was what her mother had told her, a phrase to frame her stature and demeanor during this mornings slew of callers. They had dwindled since the falling out with a one Mr. Bridgerton, but Lord Hargrove had redoubled his efforts, calling upon the (Y/L/N) home nearly every other day.

“I think we make a good match,” Lord Hargrove hummed politely. 

“A pleasant one,” she agreed quietly, afraid to say the wrong thing.

“How I missed you on your last season is beyond me,” he laughed, taking yet another biscuit from the silver tray—he had already cleared a dozen since his arrival this morning. “Perhaps it was because you were hiding near the walls?”

“A wallflower,” she nodded. “I do think that is a good reason for your lack of notice—”

“Perhaps it was that Bridgerton fellow?”

Her neck could have snapped with how quickly she turned to look at Lord Hargrove. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is no secret that you and Mr. Bridgerton share a famed friendship,” he bit into his biscuit. “It is also no secret that he had been trying to court you all season—a failed attempt, I should add.”

She brushed the crumbs off of her skirt, as they had flown from his lips downward. “Oh, I do not think Mr. Bridgerton had any earnest in a courtship with me. Just a rather good dance partner.”

“With the way that bloke looked at you?” He barked a laugh, more crumbs flying down to the ground. Seemingly feeling polite, he took a sip of tea to quench his palate. “He’s a sore loser for getting to you after me.”

Her head quirked a bit to the left. “Well, you didn’t exactly ‘get’ me—” 

“And with the way he spoke of you at the Gentleman’s Club?” Hargrove scoffed. “He’s a bloody poet, alright. Couldn’t understand half of the dribble he was trying to say, I think he was trying to sound smarter than me.”

“That was weeks ago, was it not?” (Y/N) countered.

“What do you mean?” He arched his brow. “This was just the other evening.”

“Oh.”

“Joke’s on him,” Hargrove scooted a bit closer to the woman beside him. “Because I’ve got the pick of the litter.”

She tried to laugh, but the sound was akin to a weak breeze. “Lord Hargrove, I fear you are thinking ahead, we are not—”

“Maid!” Hargrove snapped his fingers, gaining the attention of the lady’s maid. “Grab us another pot of tea.”

“Her name is Ursula—” 

“I should remain here until Lady (Y/L/N) returns, she is but fetching her embroidery tools.”

“There’s no need,” he waved. “Fetch the tea.”

“But, my lord—”

“Now!” He had nearly shouted at the poor girl. 

“Right away, my lord,” Ursula bowed, quickly exiting the room.

“You hadn’t the need to yell,” (Y/N) scolded quietly, “Ursula did nothing wrong.”

“The help was not being very helpful,” Hargrove said pointedly. “Forgive me for allowing her to recall her place.” His voice was filled with anything but forgiveness. “But… now we have a moment alone.”

His fingers tapped on her shoulder, his arm somehow snaking behind her. She hardly felt at ease, her entire body seizing at the contact. “We shouldn’t be alone.”

“If you are to be my wife, it will be fine,” Hargrove hummed, leaning closer to her ear. “I am sure your mother is willing to overlook such a thing.”

(Y/N) pried herself away from Lord Hargrove, nearly jumping out of her skin to get away. “If I am to be your wife, I would expect you to treat me with a little more grace.”

“Dramatic little thing,” he clicked. “No matter, I think we can work this little crease out before we are wed—”

“You keep saying that we are to be wed, yet you have neglected a proposal,” she pointed, taking another step back. “You are making assumptions on my behalf, assumptions that I would accept a proposal—”

“Of course you are going to accept,” Hargrove stood up, matching her eye line. “You have no other offers, no other suitors. I am the only one in the ton who is willing to overlook your downfalls and mold you into the perfect wife.”

“As if I were clay? You are going to mold me?”

“Naturally.”

She stood a bit straighter. “Lord Hargrove, this courtship has been quite the journey, but I am afraid we have reached the end of its course. I do implore you to leave my home at once, your dignity still intact.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, you think it’ll be that easy?”

She faltered. “Naturally.”

“What if I were to tell the rest of the ton that we had a romantic rendezvous in this very room? That you had been compromised? That you begged me to ruin you?”

“You wouldn’t,” she nearly gasped.

“We should work on that,” Hargrove tutted, pursing his lips. “Because you clearly do not know your future husband all that well.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged. “You have a pleasant face, seem just smart enough to not grow bored of and, above all else, have a rather sizable dowry,” he looked directly at her. “Of course, that is if your father hadn’t lied about such a number.”

She couldn’t find the words to form a rebuttal, only trying her hardest to set him aflame with her gaze alone.

“You reeked of desperation,” he continued, putting a hand into his pocket, “luckily enough, I was the only gentleman worth his salt to pick up on it.”

Somehow, by all that is good, she had made it to the doorway of the drawing room, her hand already turning the knob. “Leave.”

Lord Hargrove grinned wickedly, like a villain in her stories. “Of course, I would hate to get in the way of your wedding planning.”

She opened the door wider.

“Oh,” he turned, exiting the drawing room, “and do pay mind—I am fond of roses.”

—

Lady (Y/L/N) and the dowager Lady Bridgerton shared tea once a month, a catch-up of sorts. With their busy lives, it was hard to find time to meet and socialize, especially with daughters in the season. This time around, it was all cheers and celebrations with the news of Miss (Y/L/N)’s engagement to Lord Hargrove just the day prior. A future baroness in the making was surely a call for tea. 

“Did you have a good tea, Mother?” Benedict asked absentmindedly, stroking his charcoal against his artist’s pad.

She nodded tightly. “Of course, Lady (Y/L/N) always puts out the stops for our teas.”

“Lady (Y/L/N)?” Benedict looked up. “I thought you were meeting with Lady Danbury?”

Violet removed her gloves, barely paying her second eldest son any mind, a whisper of a smile on her pink lips. “Did I? I must have muffed the names, then.”

“Mother, even I recall you mentioning Lady Danbury,” Gregory said from across the room, having been playing earnestly with Hyacinth. Marbles, all over the carpet.

“If Gregory recalls that,” Hyacinth sat straighter from the floor, pointing at her brother, “it has to be true. You know how terrible of a memory he has.”

“Like I said,” Violet hummed, finally sitting on the lounge across from her son. “I merely mixed the names up.”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Right.”

“How was Lady (Y/L/N)?” Hyacinth said, bounding over to her mother, clearly having grown bored of her game with Gregory. 

“Oh, just fine as usual,” Violet waved, her voice airy. “It is always so good to catch up with such an old friend. We had much to celebrate, as it turns out.”

“Celebrate what?” Gregory chimed in. 

“Her daughter has received a proposal from Baron Hargrove,” Violet said softly. “I am told she has agreed to the proposal and the news will break at tomorrow’s ball.”

A short snap, that was all the sound that came from Benedict, his charcoal cleanly broken in half.

“Lord Hargrove?” Hyacinth questioned. “Oh! That stinky man with the beard!”

“Hyacinth Bridgerton,” her mother scolded. “We do not speak of people in such a way.”

“What? Benedict said he was stinky,” her finger pointed to her older brother, who had been sitting as still as a statue across the room. “He also mentioned his beard.”

All eyes were trained on Benedict.

“He mentioned his occasional use of musk during his hunts,” Benedict said offhandedly. “Hence the stink.”

“I see,” Violet pursed her lips.

“An engagement?” Benedict practically threw his artist’s pad on to his lap. “Truly? They are to be wed?”

“It is a fine match,” Violet said. “After two years in the season, marriage to a baron is quite noble. Lady (Y/L/N) seemed overjoyed.”

“She’s going through with it?” Benedict pressed.

“I—of course she is,” Violet tilted her head. “After two years, she’s unlikely to find a better match than Lord Hargrove.”

“And you would be alright with one of your daughters marrying Lord Hargrove?” Benedict stood from his seat, now towering over his family. “Francesca or Eloise becoming his baroness?”

His mother’s face blanched. “Well, no—”

“My point exactly, Mother,” Benedict scoffed, making a swift exit of the drawing room.

“Since when did he care so deeply about Miss (Y/L/N)’s marriage candidates?” Hyacinth wondered aloud. 

“I think, in a way,” Violet sighed, “he always has.”

—

The rain against her window was unrelenting, an outpouring of her emotions manifesting into the real world—tears she couldn’t bring herself to shed. Not any more, she had decided hours ago. 

“So stupid,” she mumbled into her covers, the sound muffled by the plush pillows on her bed. With not much force, she rolled over onto her back, eyes trained on the ceiling. “I was so alright with marrying him at the start of the season…”

Her fingers ran up and down her blanket, a nervous habit she had from when she was a young girl. It helped her ground herself, keep her thoughts from running wild. With the pouring rain, it was hard to hear herself think, let alone try and figure out her entire marriage predicament.

Tap! Tap! 

She pried her eyes from the ceiling to the window on her left, knowing full well that the rain didn’t sound like that. 

Tap! Tap!

Throwing her covers off, she made haste in re-lighting the candle sitting nearest her bed before adventuring across her bedchambers to the clinking window—which in reality was a door made of windows, leading to a small balcony overlooking the family gardens.

“Perhaps a bird is trying to get in?” She wondered, taking cautious steps towards the glass. Peering into the darkness of the night, she saw nothing but the shadows and rippling rain down the pane. “Odd.”

Tap!

Now with her attention solely on the window, it was clear it hadn’t been a bird or the rain—it was a pebble, no bigger than a coin. Three of them rested on the flooring of her balcony, the rest seemingly were back down on the ground from which they came. She pressed the window open, against her better judgment, to get a better view of the ground below the small balcony. Standing in the dead of night was a face she hadn’t expected to see anytime soon.

“Benedict?”

“Allow me up?” He asked hopefully, one hand on his chest, the other full of small rocks. 

She had half a mind to slam the window—door—back shut. “Why would I do that?”

“I must speak to you.”

“You could not have called upon me?”

“It is a matter most urgent, and I cannot wait until tomorrow to speak to you,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on desperate. 

She had hardly stepped out onto the tiny landing, afraid of the rain soaking her to the core. “Whatever you have to say, I suppose you could say it from where you are.”

“And awake your entire family and staff?” Benedict scoffed. “It will take only a moment, I am rather swift at climbing.”

Her fingers tapped against the knob to the large glass door, buying time. “Fine. But only for a moment.”

He made quick work at scaling the building, a trellis of ivy was his main leverage to get to the balcony. It was funny, he had thought once before, that she even called it such a thing. The landing was not wide enough to consider itself anything of the sort, barely two people could stand on it comfortably. Before he could even leap over the railing, she held her hand out, effectively stopping him. “What is that for?”

“I just—it did not occur to me that you would be wet.”

“It is raining,” he said plainly, arms straining from the position he held. 

“It is.”

“May I still come in?”

“Yes,” she shook her head. “Wait! One moment!” As quickly as she disappeared, she returned to the door with a spare blanket in hand. She held it out towards him. “Spare me the dripping, could you?”

He took it the moment he landed on the balcony floor, gingerly wrapping it around his soaking form. He took three steps into her bedchambers and finally out of the rain, a sigh leaving his lips, a relieved breath taken in “Thank you.”

“Save your gratitude,” she said softly, “at least, for when you are done explaining why you scaled into my bedchambers in the middle of the pouring rain?”

His fingers gripped the fabric around his shoulders, taught and tight against him. “You are marrying Lord Hargrove.”

She blinked. “Yes, I am.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“I am quite certain,” she crossed her arms. “He proposed this afternoon, I would have been a fool to say no.”

“Surely you have gotten other offers—”

“Like a pig for slaughter,” she nodded. “My father nearly had to beat them with sticks to keep the suitors away.”

“Sarcasm is unbecoming,” Benedict said sternly.

“Perhaps then you should say something more intelligent, then?” She countered. “Of course I have no other offers. Lord Hargrove is to be my husband, I am to be a baroness.”

Her words, though speaking the truth of the matter, held much more than that. Benedict caught it quickly, the sadness to her tone, how the ends of her sentences felt too final. Too much. “A baroness…”

“It is not the peerage my mother would have preferred,” she admitted. “I reckon Mother was aiming for me to marry an earl or duke, but we take what we can get, I suppose.”

“And the oaf whom you are marrying?”

“What of him?”

“You will… be happy with him?”

Her head tilted, just a fraction. “Happiness is of little importance in these matters.”

“When your happiness is tied to a man like that, I worry for you,” Benedict said sincerely. “He is drowning in debts, practically spending every other night at the brothels—he will not treat you in they way you deserve.”

“What if he does?” Her eyes were pleading. “Treat me in such a way, perhaps I deserve anything my future husband is to provide for me.”

“You deserve so much more than that,” Benedict nearly cried. “You deserve someone who can bring out the best in you, make you happier than anyone on this wretched planet—Lord Hargrove is not that man.”

“And where do you think I will find that man, then?” She asked, staring at him as if he held the answers to all things. “You say it so easily, as if I will meet a man such as that before the news of my engagement is public and—”

“Perhaps you would find him dripping rainwater in your bedchambers.”

“W-what?”

He dropped the blanket, taking a brave few steps closer to her, needing to be closer to her. “I have been a fool, (Y/N). All this time, I thought—no, I was determined that I had no need for a wife, no need to participate in the season. What good is a wife, anyway?”

“You are making little sense—”

“Forgive me, it is hard to explain,” Benedict shook his head, droplets of water landing on the wood below. “What I mean to say, is what good is a wife, when I already had such a friend who gave me all the fulfillment many men look for in a partner? I took you for granted—a constant in my life since our youth.”

“A-and now you are here to tell me all of this?” She couldn’t decide which of his eyes to look into, flickering between both of them in a rapid fashion. “Tell me how fabulous our friendship was to you, a friendship that seemingly was a placeholder for your potential romantic relationship?”

“You are right, I am making little sense,” Benedict groaned. “I did not see you in such a light, a fool I was for that, before the slightest idea that you would be with someone else came to fruition. And now… you are to be married.”

“I am to be married,” she nodded. “So… rotten timing on that one.”

He laughed. “A bit rotten, certainly. But do you, and I feel like a fool for asking, do you feel any inkling of that for me?”

“You’re dead serious?”

“I am professing my feelings for you dripping wet in the middle of the night,” Benedict said plainly. “I cannot imagine it gets more serious than that.”

“Benedict,” she said his name sweetly, like a hymn. “I have held you in the highest regard since we were children, higher than most. I always said you were a foolish one, perhaps most foolish in the sense that you never truly looked at me the same way I was looking at you.”

“You mean…?”

“I have cared for you, deeply, for a very long time, longer than I believe I will be willing to admit,” she said, her cheeks darkening in the candlelight. “I assumed since you had little want or need from a wife or marriage that it would be silly of me to admit those feelings to you ever.”

“And if I married someone else?”

“We’d still be friends,” she smiled sadly, smiled at a future she tried her best to not think of. “The closest of confidants. I Imagined we’d meet up every now and then and complain about our spouses—I’d give you advice on how to talk to your wife and the like, you giving me the same sagely wisdom on my husband.”

“But now you know I feel the same,” Benedict’s voice was lighter than it had been all evening, he could practically fly. “So there is no need to think of such a horrific future—we are the artists of our lives, we can mold it however we see fit!”

“Ben…”

He reached out to grab her hands, holding them tightly in his own. “You do not need to marry Lord Hargrove. Call off the engagement—we can begin a courtship in earnest, a real one.”

“I cannot.”

Their hands fell, still entwined. “You cannot or will not?”

“Cannot,” she repeated, a bit lowly. “My engagement is practically set in stone, I cannot refuse Lord Hargrove’s engagement. He…” (Y/N) knew she could trust Benedict with the truth—she could trust him with anything, including her heart. “He has made it clear that calling off the engagement is not an option.”

“Well, it hardly is ever an option by the ton’s standards,” Benedict scoffed. “But I think after some time the rest of Mayfair would overlook such a thing, given both of our family’s high standings…”

“No,” she shook her head. “You do not understand, Benedict. Lord Hargrove has made it abundantly clear that if I do not marry him he will claim that I had been ruined, that I urged him to ruin me.”

Benedict heard her speak, heard the words that she shared with him, but his entire mind went blank, the pale blue of the room suddenly had turned a violent red. “He… what?”

“I did not think him such a vile man,” she admitted. “But he had been hunting, and I was his prey. Meek and mild and ready for the kill, a perfect choice for his wife, apparently.”

“You are not meek and mild—”

“But I am!” She nearly shouted. “I cannot stand up to him, I will go along with what he says, he is entirely in control.”

“I have never known you to simply go along with anything—he clearly does not know you, truly.”

“But with what he is holding over me?” She pressed a hand to her chest.“What it would do to my family? We’d be practically exiled to the countryside in shame—no matter my marriage chances after the fact, which would be slim to non-exinsistant.” 

He reached out for her—to grab her hand or otherwise, he did not know. All he did know was that he needed to be close to her, comforting her in any way he could. 

“As terribly as I wish to pursue a courtship with you,” she smiled sadly, “and I do, I have wished for nothing more in my life, it is not possible. Not with the way Lord Hargrove has me in his grimy claws.”

His smile matched her own, wistful and forlorn. “I feel like a fool, for not realizing how I felt about you sooner. I fear we are like ships passing in the night…”

“You are no fool,” she assured him, trying to stand a bit taller, a bit more composed. “If it is anyone’s fault, it is entirely my own, I should have—could have said something sooner.”

Benedict placed a steady hand on her shoulder, still chilled from the rain. “No. Do not blame yourself—”

“Who else do I blame? I was desperate for a husband this season, and now I will have one,” she laughed to herself. “Even if he is loathsome and cruel…”

“Things no one deserves, but especially not you—”

“On the bright side, I will be a baroness, so, that is a balm to a rotten situation.”

“His baroness,” he corrected.

“What do you wish me to do Benedict?” (Y/N) said, a bit exasperated. “I have no way out of this, no way for us to explore a potential courtship, one that certainly could lead to nothing—”

“As if I would let you go so easily,” Benedict said. “If you think our courtship would lead anywhere but us at the end of an aisle, you are sorely mistaken.”

Her breath hitched. “You would be so keen on marrying me?”

“You think so little of yourself, it pains me to hear you say such things,” Benedict said. “Of course I would. I hardly think trying to get you to break off an engagement to another without plans on eventually marrying you is… idiotic.”

“Idiotic…”

“Entirely so,” Benedict beamed. “If I had half of a mind I’d take you to Scotland now, marrying you as soon as our carriage would allow.”

Her breath hitched. “You’re not seriously suggesting we elope, are you?”

“It was mostly in jest,” Benedict assured her, sighing softly. He took a moment of pause, recollecting his thoughts. “Although, it would be difficult to have you marry Lord Hargrove if you were already wed…”

“We’d come home to scandal,” she said quickly.

“Nothing our families can’t fix,” he shrugged. “Besides, I rather think the ton would appreciate such a story. Childhood mates fueled by love and desire, desperate to be married so quickly—”

“So quickly they couldn’t wait for a proper license,” she added. “Wouldn’t that add to whatever Lord Hargrove is surely to put out there, though? That I’m a ruined woman, marrying you so quickly seems to align with his lies.”

“And at the end of the day, you will be married off,” Benedict shrugged again. “Any scandal to come of his musings will be squashed by that fact alone. We do run the risk of being scorned from society for a bit…”

Her mind recalled a less-than-quaint cottage Benedict had mentioned once or twice, his personal escape from society. 

“But a year in the country could do us some good too…?”

Benedict smiled, his heart feeling light.

“Pack a bag. We leave at dawn.”

—

Much like their hypothesis, their mothers, were in fact, enraged with their terribly thought out plan. Anthony even had some choice words to share with his brother upon their return, most of them not a proper choice for pleasant society.

But, simply put, what’s done was done, she now had a new ring on her finger and was promised to Benedict in every way that mattered.

Lord Hargrove took as equally kind to the news as their mothers did, as Benedict had expected. But, when (Y/N) offered half of her dowry as a consolation, Hargrove found it reason enough to let her go, to trap another poor debutante into a marriage. Seemingly enough, as the timing would have it, Lord Hargrove had no need for the dowry after all.

It turned out the debt collectors seemed more keen on escorting the baron out of the country than hearing his pleas for help.

What was the most shocking of the entire endeavor was Whistledown. By the stars above, she nearly seemed accepting of their sudden elopement. Whilst the rest of the ton gossiped about the true nature of the Bridgerton’s sudden marriage, Whistledown made it clear that she believed nothing untoward may have happened before the couple fled to Scotland.

“She says, ‘The passions of love are a fickle thing. Friendship, though as arduous as it may be at times, is the best foundation for a marriage. This author hopes the newlyweds are truly at peace,’” (Y/N) smiled softly, looking across her new drawing room, hoping to find the gaze she had been longing to see. Instead, she found her husband still hunched over his easel has he had been the last few hours.

“Whistledown seems like a fan,” Benedict hummed, peeking over his canvas. 

“Clearly,” she giggled, placing the leaflet on the table beside her. “Everyone loves a happy ending.”

Benedict tutted. “I told you to not move! You were perfectly in the light, and now there is an unfortunate shadow…”

“I have been sitting like this for hours,” she sighed, trying her best to regain her posture from before. “I think we both deserve a respite from this daunting task.”

“You believe that I shouldn’t finish the first portrait of Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton with the utmost haste?” He gasped, sidestepping away from his easel. “I have finally found my muse, and now she wounds me so…”

Purposefully forgetting his instruction from before, she rose from her seat to walk over to her husband. He had been covered in paint, a habit she knew he tried very loosely to kick—but if she were honest with herself? She found him rather handsome when mussed with the pigments. “I wound you?”

“In the deepest way,” he nodded dramatically, placing a hand on his hip, pallet hooked in his thumb. Splotches of blue and green were the latest addition to the mountain of paint in his hand. “I was finally getting the shading just right.”

“I do fear we have all the time in the world for you to finish your painting,” she placed a hand on his shoulder, trying her best to sneak a peek at the half-finished product. He was insistent on her not seeing it, claiming it would be a belated wedding present. “Besides, it has only been a month since we’ve been out of the city, were we not planning on staying out here for a year?”

He nodded at that. “A year to allow the gossip to die out, a year for me to enjoy my wife.”

“So? You have a year to finish the painting,” she snaked a hand around his waist, pulling him closer to her. (Y/N) tried becoming more accustomed to touching him, allowing herself the pleasure to enjoy the feel of her husband under her fingertips. Benedict never found a reason to complain about it. “Perhaps it can be an anniversary gift?”

The feeling of her touch set him ablaze, nearly forcing him to throw his pallet aside to embrace her properly. “An anniversary gift?”

“Yes. I can think of a few things we could rather be doing than having me sit in this chair, still as a statue…”

“Oh?” He grinned devilishly. “And what sorts of things are bouncing around in my pretty wife’s head, hm?”

“Lunch plans, mostly,” she said honestly, watching his face fall in disappointment. “But I suppose I could be more creative in my thinking?”

“I urge you to be more creative,” he nearly growled. 

It was no secret that the last month had been filled with the enjoyments a husband and wife could partake in—both in and outside of the bedroom. It took them some time to christen every room in My Cottage, as the newly appointed Mrs. Bridgerton underestimated how not quaint the cottage truly was. 

“Maybe if my husband asked me nicely?”  

“Please think more creatively,” he pleaded. “You did marry an artist, after all.”

“Perhaps I will think more creatively in the bath,” she said, poking his nose, revealing green pigment on her fingertip. “Somewhere I think you should join me this afternoon?”

“Oh love,” he grinned, dipping down to press his forehead to her own. “You do have such great ideas.”

His lips met her own, as they had hundreds of times over the last month. Benedict claimed he was making up for lost time, an oversight on his late realization of the true depth of his feelings for his missus. Every time they kissed, it felt like the first time, the promise of love between every labored breath and muffled moan. 

To think his current happiness began with a promise, a promise to dance. A promise that allowed Mr. Bridgerton to, in fact, have a reason to dissuade debutantes from bugging him.

You know James is selfless, and a giver, so obviously that does not change in the bedroom.

He won't touch you for a long time once your relationship starts, wanting to take things slow. It will take even longer if you're inexperienced or a virgin.

But once he finally gives in to his urges after waiting for a year? He can barely control himself.

You finally realize that sweet, responsible, mature Wilson is secretly a freak, and not as vanilla as you thought.

He's vocal, always whimpering and whining into your neck as he presses you into the mattress, even when he's the one in control. But can you blame him? He's pent up after years of being alone and you're so warm and wet and perfect it just brings it out of him.

He'll talk you through every second of it, slow and gentle or fast and rough, it doesn't matter.

And you CANNOT tell me that he's not into cockwarming. I can already imagine how he'd beckon you to sit on his lap as he works. He's a busy man, but wants to do anything to make his little girlfriend happy anyway. He'll make you sit there with him buried inside you for what seems like hours, sternly reminding you not to move an inch, no matter how bad you both want it.

Or sometimes he'll make you rub yourself on his thigh or the tip of his dress shoe, letting you use him for your pleasure as he sits at his desk and flips through files.

He surprises you by tying your wrists together with his tie, shoving your face into the mattress as his chest presses against your back. It's okay when he's rough, when he's selfish. He deserves it. You don't mind being his outlet when things get too stressful.

And those big brown puppy eyes that look up at you from between your thighs as he eats you out, lacing his fingers with yours as he dives back in for a third time… GOD.

When you wake up in the middle of the night, restless and sweating he’ll just gently shush you, turning you over and slipping his hand into your pajama shorts, fingering you back to sleep.

Only… tonight didn’t feel like that.

There was something oddly calm about him, something almost restrained. He wasn’t prowling the room or looking at her like he was already planning what came next. He didn’t even try to make one of those cheap jokes he usually threw around like cigarettes. He was just there, settling in, like he’d come to stay for the night in the most harmless way possible.

He opened the bag and started pulling things out—fries, burger, and a few paper-wrapped packages that looked suspiciously like he’d ordered half the menu.

Valentina stared. “How many people are you feeding?”

Liam shrugged again. “I was hungry,” he said simply.

Valentina took a fry and chewed slowly. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was… strange. Almost peaceful.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly.

Liam didn’t pretend not to understand. He leaned back in the chair, bottle in his hand, eyes on her. “Yeah, I did,” he replied.

Valentina’s eyebrows lifted. “Why?”

Liam tilted his head. “Because they were talking about you like you were some sort of… cartoon,” he said, voice low. “Like you weren’t real.”

Valentina’s chest tightened. Liam continued, shrugging like he didn’t care even though he clearly did.

“And because it pissed me off.”

Valentina stared at him. There was something oddly intimate about that.

“Why do you care?” she asked.

Liam’s smirk returned, but softer now.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “I don’t care.”

Valentina snorted. “You’re a liar.”

Liam raised his bottle slightly, like a toast. “Maybe,” he admitted.

Valentina took a sip and winced. “Jesus.”

Liam laughed. “That’s the point.”

Valentina shook her head, then looked at him again. Her voice came out quieter than she expected. “I’m not used to someone defending me,” she admitted.

Liam went still for a moment, his expression tightening like he’d been caught off guard. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say—he did. The words were right there, waiting. The problem was that he could already feel what they meant the second they left his mouth, and he didn’t want to give them that kind of weight. He swallowed, eyes flicking away from her face.

“Well,” he muttered, “get used to it.”

Valentina blinked, caught off guard, and her heart did something embarrassingly stupid in her chest. She hated it instantly. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, as if changing her posture could hide the softness that was starting to creep into her face.

“You know,” she said, trying to sound casual, “you’re not as much of an asshole as you think you are.”

Liam scoffed immediately. “I’m a massive asshole.”

Valentina smiled. “Yes,” she said. “But you’re also… loyal.”

Liam’s jaw tightened, subtle but immediate, the kind of reaction that made it obvious he didn’t know what to do with compliments. He didn’t like being praised, didn’t like being seen too clearly—and Valentina could tell. She could tell because she was exactly the same.

“So,” he said. “You really called Creation just to get my number?”

Valentina’s cheeks warmed. “Shut up.”

Liam grinned, delighted. “That’s mental,” he said. “You could’ve just asked me.”

Valentina narrowed her eyes. “And you would’ve given it to me?”

Liam leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp. “I’d give you anything you asked for,” he said.

The words landed heavier than they should have. Valentina froze, Liam blinked, as if he hadn’t meant to say it like that. He cleared his throat, immediately recovering.

“Except my last cigarette,” he added quickly. “That’s sacred.”

Valentina laughed. There it was again—relief. She took another sip of her drink. She looked down at her hands. Missy had always known how to fight, but Valentina had always known how to feel. And tonight, sitting in that hotel room with Liam across from her like he somehow belonged there, she could feel both at once. It scared her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself to be soft around anyone.

She lifted her eyes again.

“Thank you,” she said, more firmly this time. “For real.”

Liam’s expression shifted slightly. He waved it off like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the most genuine thing he’d done in months.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Don’t go getting emotional on me.”

Valentina smiled. “I won’t.”

A pause. Then Liam stood up abruptly, stretching, walking closer to the bed like he was restless again.

Valentina tensed instinctively. But Liam didn’t touch her. He simply stopped near her, leaning down slightly, voice low.

“You’re a pain in the arse,” he murmured.

Valentina looked up at him. “So are you.”

Liam smirked. “Good.”

He reached out then—not for her body, not for her waist, not for anything obvious. He touched her chin gently, guiding her face upward. Valentina didn’t move away. Liam hesitated. And that hesitation alone told her everything. He wanted her. But he wasn’t taking her. So she leaned in first. And kissed him.  It was a small kiss. A test.

Liam kissed her back like he’d been waiting for permission his entire life. When they pulled apart, Liam’s forehead rested against hers for half a second. He exhaled softly. Valentina swallowed. Then she did what she always did when something felt too real. She stepped back.

“Okay,” she said, voice shaky despite her attempt at control. “You should go.”

Liam looked at her, eyes dark. “You kickin’ me out?” he asked, half amused.

Valentina nodded once. “Yes.”

Liam stared at her for a moment longer, then—shockingly—he didn’t argue. He simply grabbed his jacket from the chair and walked toward the door. Valentina followed him.

At the doorway, Liam turned back, leaning against the frame like he always did. Smug, but quieter now. Valentina crossed her arms.

“If you’re going to keep chasing me,” she said, voice sharp again, “you should probably fix things with missus.”

Liam barked out a laugh. “That’s not her name,” he said, eyes gleaming.

Valentina smiled innocently. “Whatever.”

Liam shook his head like she was impossible. Then he looked at her again, expression unreadable.

“Night, Valen,” he said softly.

Valentina’s heart clenched. “Chau, Liam,” she replied.

He hesitated like he wanted to say something else. Then he left. Valentina closed the door gently behind him. And for the first time since arriving in England, she leaned her back against the wood and let herself breathe. Because she could still feel his mouth on hers. And she hated the fact that she already missed him.

Valentina flew back to Argentina a few days later. She was overwhelmed. Two weeks had been enough to flip her world upside down. The Brit Awards, the scandal, the tabloids, the endless questions, the British press turning her into a villain, Abbey Road, Liam Gallagher. And he was the worst part—because Liam wasn’t just a complication anymore. He was starting to feel like a threat, the kind that could ruin her simply because she was beginning to want him.

The plane ride felt endless. She only slept in fragments, her head pressed against the window as the plane hummed around her, her thoughts looping in circles she couldn’t escape. She kept wondering what Liam had done the next morning—if he’d regretted it, if he’d laughed about it, if he’d already moved on like it was nothing. She even caught herself thinking that maybe she should’ve given him her number. And she hated herself for it, hated the fact that she was wondering at all.

When the plane finally landed in Buenos Aires, everything changed instantly. The air was warmer. Louder. Familiar. The chaos felt different there. It felt like home.

Valentina stepped into the airport and immediately heard her name being shouted from somewhere behind the barriers. People waving flags, holding signs. Journalists, fans, photographers.

“¡Missy! ¡Missy!”

She flinched instinctively, then forced herself to smile, slipping into that skin like she’d never taken it off. Missy. The popstar.

Someone handed her flowers. Someone screamed that she was brave. Someone yelled that she’d made them proud.

“You were so strong,” someone told her, voice shaking. “You made them listen.”

“You represented us,” another said. “You went to their country and you didn’t bow.”

Valentina swallowed hard. For the first time in days, she felt something settle in her body. Support. She wasn’t alone here.

There were hands reaching for her, not to tear her apart, but to hold her up. She nodded politely, signed a few things, smiled for the cameras, gave short answers that her PR team would approve of. And when she finally got into the car that took her home, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire time she was in England.

A few days later, Valentina was sitting at her dining table with her closest friends. The ones who knew her before Missy.

They were drinking wine, eating empanadas, laughing too loudly, talking over each other like only Argentine women could. Someone had brought dessert. Someone had brought cigarettes. Someone had brought gossip.

Valentina had barely taken her second sip of wine before one of them leaned forward with a grin that was too excited to be innocent.

“Okey,” her friend said. “Now you’re going to tell us everything.”

Valentina blinked. “Everything what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” another one cut in, already laughing.

the third one added, eyes glittering, “Liam Gallagher.”

Valentina nearly choked on her drink. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “Here we go.”

Her friends cheered like it was a football match.

“Tell us!” someone yelled.

Valentina raised her hands. “Okay, okay. Calm down.”

They did not calm down.

“So,” her friend said, leaning in with dramatic seriousness. “Is he hot in person?”

Valentina rolled her eyes. “He’s annoying.”

“That’s not what I asked,” her friend replied immediately.

Valentina sighed, trying not to smile. “Yes,” she admitted. “He’s… attractive.”

The entire table erupted.

“I KNEW IT!” someone screamed.

“BOLUDA,” another laughed, slamming her hand on the table. “Tell me he’s taller in real life.”

“He’s tall,” Valentina muttered.

“And does he smell good?” another one asked.

Valentina stared at them like they were insane. “What kind of question is that?”

“A very important one,” her friend replied.

Valentina hesitated. And that hesitation was all they needed. The room exploded again.

“Oh my God,” Valentina groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Stop.”

“No, no,” one of them said, pointing at her like a prosecutor. “You hesitated. That means he smells good.”

Valentina laughed despite herself. “He smells like cigarettes,” she admitted.

“And?”

“And leather,” she added quietly, almost against her will.

Her friends screamed like she’d confessed to murder.

“AY NOOOO,” someone wailed. “You’re done. You’re finished.”

Valentina tried to keep her expression neutral, but the memory hit her anyway—Liam standing in her doorway, bottle in hand, smirking like he belonged there. The kiss.

Her friend leaned forward, lowering her voice dramatically.

“Did you sleep with him?”

Valentina froze. Her cheeks warmed. Then she shook her head quickly.

“No.”

Her friends stared at her.

Valentina blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t?” one of them repeated, scandalized. “You mean Liam Gallagher was in your hotel room and you didn’t sleep with him?”

Valentina’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not an animal.”

“No,” her friend corrected. “He is.”

Valentina threw a napkin at her. They laughed, but the laughter softened when Valentina’s expression shifted. When she looked down at her wine glass like she was watching something sink.

One of her friends noticed.

“Hey,” she said, gentler now. “What happened, then? Like… really.”

Valentina hesitated. The room grew quieter, she swallowed. “He defended me,” she said softly. Her friends exchanged glances. “In England,” she continued. “On TV. Like… publicly. He told them to fuck off.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated it. “It was the first time in a long time I felt like someone was… on my side. Not because they had to be. Not because it was their job.”

Her friend leaned closer.

“And how did that make you feel?” she asked carefully.

Valentina stared at the table for a moment. Then she whispered, like it was a confession she wasn’t sure she wanted to make out loud.

“Safe.”

The word landed heavy. Her friends didn’t joke this time.

Valentina took a deep breath. “And then he showed up at my hotel with food and drinks,” she added, voice slightly more amused. “Like a psycho.”

Her friends laughed again, but it was softer now.

“And?”

Valentina hesitated. Then she admitted the part she hadn’t said yet.

“We kissed.”

The room went insane.

“NOOOOOOO!” someone screamed, standing up.

“AY DIOS,” another one yelled. “I’M GONNA DIE.”

Valentina laughed, covering her face. “It was just a kiss,” she insisted.

 “And how was it?”

Valentina paused. She could still feel it. The way he hesitated before touching her chin. The way he kissed her like he was trying not to show how badly he wanted it.

Valentina swallowed. “It was…” she started. Her friends stared. Valentina exhaled. “Good,” she admitted.

The room erupted again. One of her friends clapped slowly like she was watching a performance.

“So,” she said, smirking. “You’re in trouble.”

Valentina scoffed. “I’m not in trouble.”

 “You’re smiling,” One of them pointed out.

Valentina’s smile faded instantly. She looked away. Then, quieter, she admitted something that surprised even herself. “I think I might be…” she hesitated. “Falling.” The room went still. Valentina exhaled sharply, annoyed at her own honesty. “But it’s impossible,” she added quickly. “He lives in England. I live here. It’s not real.”

Her friend reached for her cigarette pack like she was about to deliver the most important information of the decade.

“Valen,” she said, voice dripping with satisfaction, “you’re not going to believe this.”

Valentina narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Her friend leaned forward. “Oasis are coming to Argentina.”

Valentina’s heartbeat stopped. “What?”

“In a month,” her friend repeated, grinning like a devil. “They’re coming to Buenos Aires. They’re playing Luna Park.”

Valentina blinked, stunned. “No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” her friend insisted. “It’s already announced.”

Valentina stared at her wine glass like it had suddenly become dangerous.

Her friend smiled wider. “So no,” she added, voice sweet as poison, “it’s not impossible.”

Valentina’s stomach twisted. Because suddenly, the distance didn’t feel like an ocean anymore. It felt like a countdown.

One month later…

The apartment was filled with laughter, low music, and the constant clinking of glasses. Her friends were relaxed, comfortable, like they were just getting ready to go out to some random club in Palermo on a Friday night.

But Valentina couldn’t stop looking at the clock. Every time she did, her stomach tightened a little more.

Her friend was watching her from the couch with a smile that was already way too suspicious. “You’re nervous,” she said, like it was obvious.

Valentina lifted her glass and took a long sip. “No,” she answered automatically.

Her friend laughed. “Valen… you’re shaking.”

Valentina clenched her jaw. “I’m not shaking,” she said. “It’s cold.”

“It’s thirty degrees,” another one shot back.

The three of them laughed. Valentina didn’t. Because in her head there was no music, no wine, no jokes. There was a hotel in London and a kiss.

She stood up suddenly. “Okay,” she said, firm. “I’m going to change.”

Her friend followed her with her eyes. “Wear something that kills him,” she called from the living room.

Valentina didn’t turn around. “He’s already dead.”

She walked into her room and closed the door. For a moment, she just stood there in the middle of the room, staring at her reflection.

Valentina, the girl, the one who got nervous, the one who overthought everything, the one who didn’t know what to do with the idea of seeing him again. She exhaled slowly.

She chose her outfit like she was choosing a version of herself. Black, tight, perfect, didn’t care if it was too much. She did her makeup with steady hands—sharp liner, defined lips. Every detail was a step further away from Valentina. Every movement a reminder of who she was when the world was watching.

When she was done, she looked at herself again. And she wasn’t Valentina anymore. She was Missy and Missy wasn’t afraid of Liam Gallagher, she would look him in the eyes and make him nervous.

She walked out of the room. Her friends went quiet the second they saw her. One of them literally froze.

“Jesus…”

Valentina raised an eyebrow, grabbed her glass, and finished it like fuel. Then she smiled. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The car stopped a few blocks away from Luna Park.

The city felt different with that kind of noise that only exists when too many people are gathered for the same reason—shouting, chanting, laughter, bottles clinking, engines cutting off, street vendors yelling the same things over and over.

Like all of Buenos Aires knew something was about to happen.

The doors opened and the sound rushed in like a wave. Valentina stepped out first. The heat wrapped around her instantly. Cigarettes. Beer. Sweat. Leather. Street. Rock.

This was a completely different crowd than hers. Her shows were lights, screens, choreography, screaming fans and cameras. This was something else—raw, physical, messy.

Her friends stepped out behind her and stared at Luna Park like it was a church.

“This is historic,” one of her friends whispered.

Valentina turned her head slightly, smirking. “It’s a concert,” she said, like her heart wasn’t beating too fast.

“Shut up,” they all answered at once.

Valentina let out a short laugh and started walking toward the entrance. And then she saw it. The sign. The massive banner hanging above the venue.

OASIS — LIVE IN BUENOS AIRES.

Her friend nudged her shoulder. “Come on, Missy,” she said. “Or we’re dying out here.”

Valentina snapped back, and Missy stepped in again. She pulled out her VIP pass like it was a diplomatic credential. Within seconds they were being guided through a side entrance, escorted by a staff guy who couldn’t stop staring at her.

Because even without trying— Missy had that effect.

The backstage corridors of Luna Park were full of cables, equipment, technicians shouting instructions. The crowd’s noise filtered through like a constant roar vibrating through the walls.

Missy walked like she knew exactly where she was going. Like she wasn’t thinking or wasn’t counting the seconds.

They reached the side of the stage, behind a barrier where the sound hit like a punch to the chest.

Her friends froze. “This is insane,” one of them whispered.

And in that exact moment— the lights went out. And the stadium exploded. The roar was so loud it felt like the place might collapse. Missy felt it in her bones, her skin prickled. A guitar hit like a gunshot. And then they appeared. No soft introduction, just sound, presence and attitude.

Oasis walked onto that stage like they were walking into a fight. And the crowd became one single, screaming mass.

Missy spotted Noel first, focused, calm, like this was routine. Then him, Liam. He walked out like the stage had been built for him. Cigarette in hand. That insolent stare.  No smile. Just a look at the crowd like he was sizing them up.

And when he started singing— something shifted, the way his voice carried something sharp, almost violent, the confidence, the arrogance. The kind that couldn’t be faked.

Liam Gallagher sang like the world owed him something. And the world seemed to agree.

Missy watched, completely locked in, and didn’t even realize she was smiling until one of her friends nudged her again.

“You like him,” she whispered.

Valentina glanced sideways. “Shut up,” she said but she was smiling.

The show moved like a storm, song after song. Guitars. Beer. Chaos. The crowd jumped like it was one body, Missy let herself go, for the first time in weeks. She didn’t think about anything, she was just another girl in the crowd, jumping, laughing, singing what she could. Letting it all go.

And when the show ended—she stood there, breathless from that rush only live music could give.

Missy ran a hand through her hair, messy, her makeup just slightly smudged.

One of her friends threw her arms around her. “That was incredible,” she said, almost crying.

Missy nodded, still smiling. “Yeah,” she replied. “It was incredible.”

And then, at that exact moment, the same staff guy came back. “Missy?” he asked, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

She turned. “Yeah.”

“Backstage is ready,” he said.

Her friends nearly lost their minds but she felt the nerves hit her all over again, like a punch to the chest. Her heart picked up instantly. The idea of seeing him again was no longer abstract. It was imminent.

She walked through the backstage corridors with her group, listening to the chaos behind the scenes—people rushing, voices in English, laughter, bottles popping open. The air was thick with smoke and adrenaline.

The backstage door opened, and there he was. Liam was leaning against a wall, a bottle in his hand, a towel hanging around his neck. His hair was damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to his body, that easy smile of someone who had just owned an entire stadium.

He was talking to someone, laughing— until he looked up. And saw her, his smile changed, wider and more real, almost dangerous.

Liam straightened immediately. “Oi!” His voice cut through the room like a bullet.

Missy froze. Liam walked toward her with that shameless confidence that felt almost genetic. And when he got close enough, he looked at her like the world had narrowed down to just that one space between them.

“You came,” he said, a satisfied smile pulling at his lips.

Missy raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I did,” she replied, her Argentine accent unmistakable.

Liam let out a short laugh, like he loved hearing her talk. He leaned in slightly, too close. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

Valentina took over her mind, the girl that got strange feelings about the boy from Manchester. “No.”

Liam’s smile only grew. “Liar.”

Valentina held his gaze. And for a second, the noise of the backstage disappeared. Her friend was behind her, practically shaking like she was witnessing God. But Valentina didn’t see him like that. She saw him for what he was. A problem, a beautiful one, an unbearable one. One she hadn’t been able to get out of her head since London.

She crossed her arms. “The show was incredible,” she said, finally.

Liam looked at her with a mix of pride and provocation. “Yeah?” he asked.

Valentina smiled, slightly crooked. “I didn’t know much about the band,” she added casually. “I just knew the singer was the most insufferable person on the planet.”

Liam laughed, loud and easy. “Is that right?” he said, stepping even closer, like he wanted her to feel the heat of him.

Valentina didn’t move. “Yeah,” she said. “Insufferable.”

Liam lowered his voice. “And yet… here you are.”

Valentina blinked, and the words hit harder than she wanted to admit. Because it was true. She was there, in his world.

She shrugged. “I came for the music,” she lied.

Liam smiled like he found that adorable. “Sure you did,” he murmured.

Behind him, Noel appeared, cigarette in hand, looking absolutely exhausted. He looked at Valentina. Then at Liam. And his face said everything without saying a word.

“Jesus,” Noel muttered. “You again.”

Valentina smiled like she was greeting a diplomat. “Hola.”

Noel raised an eyebrow. “Hola,” he repeated, pronouncing it terribly.

Liam shot Noel a warning look. “Don’t start.”

Noel shrugged, amused. “I’m not starting,” he said. “I’m just watching.”

Valentina turned back to Liam, still smiling. “¿Y ahora qué?” she asked in Spanish, like she didn’t care if he understood.

Liam frowned.

“What’s that mean?”

Valentina looked at him like he was a child. “It means,” she said slowly in English, “what now?”

Liam lifted the bottle in his hand like that was the answer. “Now,” he said, “we drink.”

Valentina shook her head, amused. “Of course,” she murmured.

Liam leaned in again, lowering his voice like it was something just for her. “There’s an afterparty,” he said, like it was inevitable. “Come with us.”

Valentina looked at him, suspicious. “Why?”

Liam smirked, unfazed. “Because it’s not over yet,” he said. “And you don’t look like someone who’s done for the night.”

Valentina crossed her arms. “I’m not going anywhere with you just because you asked,” she replied, cool.

Liam tilted his head, studying her. “Not just me,” he corrected. “The whole band. Crew. Friends. It’s just a party.”

She didn’t move. “Sounds like a bad idea,” she said.

Liam stepped a little closer, just enough to make it personal.

“Everything with you sounds like a bad idea,” he murmured. “And you keep showing up anyway.”

Valentina held his gaze. God, he was annoying. And worse— he wasn’t wrong.

Behind her, her friends were already silently begging her to say yes with their eyes. Traitors.

Valentina let out a quiet breath. “You’re very persistent,” she said.

Liam grinned. “Only when it’s worth it.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile she couldn’t quite hide. And for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself something dangerous: to say yes without controlling everything.

“Fine,” she said. “But if I get murdered, it’s your fault.”

Liam grinned, delighted. “You’re not getting murdered,” he replied. “I’ll murder them first.”

Valentina rolled her eyes. “Dios,” she muttered.

Liam looked at her. “What does that mean?”

Valentina smiled sweetly. “It means you’re an idiot.”

Liam laughed. And as he guided her through the backstage like she belonged there, Valentina felt it again, that same electricity. she’d felt in London. That quiet, terrifying sense that something was about to explode. And this time… she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

The ride to the hotel was quick, but loud.

Valentina sat in the backseat with her friends, her whole body still buzzing from the concert. Liam sat in the front with Noel, talking to the driver like Buenos Aires belonged to him throwing out casual, teasing comments, like the city was some new toy he’d just been handed.

Valentina didn’t catch everything but she noticed the way Liam kept turning his head, every so often, just to look at her like he needed to make sure she was still there.

When they got to the hotel, they were ushered in through a private entrance. Everything felt too easy—doors opening, people nodding with quiet respect, elevators gliding up in silence.

Valentina knew this kind of luxury. This kind of purchased calm.

They stepped into a massive suite. Low music. Bottles scattered across a table. Half-empty glasses. A couple of people already there, laughing, smoking. The air smelled like whisky and cigarettes.

Liam walked in first, of course. Noel behind him, quieter. Valentina lingered for a second by the door, taking it all in. Her friends scattered almost immediately, fascinated—by the atmosphere, the English, the surreal feeling of being at an Oasis afterparty in Buenos Aires. One of them was already glued to Noel like it was the most natural thing in the world but he didn’t seem to mind.

Noel passed by, cigarette in hand, and looked at Valentina like she was a headline.

“So you followed us,” he commented, dry.

Valentina raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t follow anyone,” she replied. “I was invited.”

Noel let out a short laugh. “Sure.”

Liam shot him a look. “Shut up.”

Noel walked off with a faint smile, clearly enjoying the show.

Valentina leaned back against the table, scanning the room. The music was low, almost background noise, but the atmosphere was thick—laughter, smoke, fast English conversations. Everything felt normal. But it wasn’t, because Liam was too close. He stood beside her like it was accidental, his shoulder brushed hers every time he shifted. His presence was heavy, insistent, like a hand resting at the back of her neck. Valentina took another sip, pretending not to notice.

Liam tilted his head toward her, closer than before, voice easy now, almost lazy. “You don’t look like a girl who listens to guitars,” he said.

Valentina glanced at him, not sharp this time, more like amused. “And you don’t look like a man who shuts up,” she replied, taking another sip of her drink.

Liam huffed a quiet laugh, caught off guard for a second, then leaned into it. “Fair,” he said. “But you came anyway.”

Valentina tilted her head slightly, studying him. “Maybe I like surprises.”

Liam’s eyes flickered, something darker settling in. “Or maybe you like bad decisions.”

Valentina smiled, slow, a little dangerous now. “Same thing.”

Liam looked her up and down, not even trying to hide it this time. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That checks out.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. If anything, she leaned back just enough to make him come closer. They held each other’s gaze, the space between them tightening without either of them moving much at all. The conversation wasn’t really about words anymore. It was about how far they could push. How long they could pretend nothing was going to happen.

Liam shifted closer, just a fraction, Valentina didn’t move. “Still think I’m insufferable?” he asked, voice lower now.

Valentina lifted her glass again, eyes locked on his. “More than ever.”

Liam smiled. “Good.”

Valentina frowned. “Good?”

He leaned closer to her ear. “Means you’re still paying attention.”

Valentina felt the warmth of his breath, her skin prickled. She pulled back just enough to regain control. “You’re drunk,” she accused.

Liam laughed. “You’re sober,” he replied. “That’s worse.”

The night stretched on in drinks and smoke, but Valentina barely followed any of the conversations. Because Liam never left, hovered, refused to give her space.

At some point, the suite door opened and the energy shifted. A man dressed entirely in black walked in without knocking. He looked like security.

He looked directly at the Gallagher brothers. “You two,” he said, flat.

The room went quiet for a second,

“What?” Liam asked.

The man didn’t react. “Someone wants to see you.” He gestured toward the door. “Now.”

They didn’t really have a choice. Both brothers headed toward the exit.  Then the door closed and the party was left hanging in a strange silence.

The door closed behind them, and the hotel hallway fell into silence.

The man dressed in black walked ahead without saying a word. Liam followed with his hands in his pockets, but that cocky smile was gone. Noel walked beside him, serious, cautious.

“Who the fuck is it?” Liam asked.

“You’ll see,” the man replied without turning around.

Liam let out a dry laugh. “Great.”

They reached a massive door, the man opened it without knocking and the sound that came from inside wasn’t music.

It was laughter, loud, argentine style. Smoke and chaos.

They stepped in and froze, in the center of the room was Diego Maradona. Like he owned the entire planet. Drink in hand, dressed in black, surrounded by people orbiting him like satellites.

When he saw them, he stood up instantly, arms wide open like he’d been waiting for them his whole life. “¡EEEEH! ¡LOS INGLESES!”

Noel’s face completely dropped, Liam froze. The rockstar attitude disappeared in a second. Neither of them knew what to do with their bodies. They looked like teenagers.

Noel swallowed. “Oh my God…” he muttered.

Liam didn’t speak. He just stared at him like it couldn’t possibly be real.

Diego walked toward them, smiling wide, proud, effortless, pointing to Noel. “¿Qué hacés, nene? Vos sos el serio.” (How you doing, kid? You’re the serious one.)

Noel tried to speak, but his English got stuck somewhere in his throat. “Uh… hello,” he managed, awkwardly. “It’s… an honour.”

Diego laughed loudly. “¿Qué dice?” he asked someone nearby, then looked back at them, amused. (What’s he saying?)

Liam finally reacted. “You’re… you’re Maradona,” he said, like he needed to say it out loud to believe it.

Diego pointed at him immediately, delighted. “¡ESE! ¡ESE ME GUSTA!” (That one! I like that one!)

Noel let out a nervous laugh.

Liam dragged a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ hell…”

Diego looked at them, satisfied. “Ustedes son fanáticos del fútbol, ¿no?” (You’re football fans, right?)

Noel nodded quickly. “Yes. Very. We’re… big fans.”

Liam nodded too, more serious now. “Yeah. City.”

Diego’s face lit up. “¡Aaaah! ¡Manchester! ¡Bien ahí!”

He motioned for them to sit, and they obeyed instantly. Noel sat stiff. Liam just looked around like a kid in a room too big for him.

Diego lifted his glass. “Quería conocerlos, ustedes son atrevidos.” (I wanted to meet you—you’ve got guts.)

Noel didn’t fully understand the words but he understood the tone.

Liam swallowed.

Diego took a sip, then leaned in slightly. “¿Ustedes saben lo que es Inglaterra, no? Se creen los dueños del mundo.” (You know what England’s like, right? They think they own the world.)

Liam’s jaw tightened and Noel glanced at him.

Diego raised an eyebrow, enjoying it. “Pero ustedes…” he continued, pointing at them with his drink, “ustedes son del pueblo. Se nota.” (But you… you’re from the people. You can tell.)

They looked at each other, even without understanding everything, they understood that.

The door opened again, the man in black stepped in and whispered something in Diego’s ear.

Diego nodded. Then shouted, like he was in a stadium: “¡VALENTINA!”

The Gallagher brothers went still.

Liam frowned. “Valentina?” he repeated.

The door opened, and she walked in. Valentina froze for half a second when she saw him. The Missy mask dropped instantly. Just Valen.

“Diego…” she whispered.

Diego grinned and opened his arms. “VENÍ, NENA.”

She walked to him like she was in a dream. He hugged her tightly, warm, protective, like he’d known her forever.

“Desde que volviste que quería conocerte. Vos no sabés lo que hiciste allá.” (Ever since you came back, I wanted to meet you. You have no idea what you did over there.)

Valentina swallowed hard. “Diego… esto es un honor para mí.” (Diego… this is an honor for me.)

He shook his head. “No. El honor es mío.” (No. The honor is mine.)

She looked at him, eyes shining. “Vos sos el ídolo de una generación.” (You’re the idol of a generation.)

Diego smiled, softer now. “Y vos sos mi ídola, nena. Lo que hiciste en Inglaterra…” (And you’re my idol, girl. What you did in England…)

Her throat tightened. “Aprendí de vos,” she whispered. “Nunca tirarnos para atrás.” (I learned from you. Never back down.)

Diego looked at her, and the whole room understood. He hugged her again. “Así es.” (That's right)

Liam couldn’t stop staring at her, at the way Diego held her, at the way he looked at her, with pride, with something almost sacred. Like she wasn’t just a person, like she was bigger than a singer. And something in Liam snapped into place, like he was finally understanding her.

Diego let her go slowly, one hand still resting on her shoulder, and turned to the Gallagher brothers.

“Esta,” he said, pointing at her, “es arte argentino.” (This one—she’s Argentine art.)

Valentina flushed and Liam just stared. Like his entire world had shifted but Diego noticed. His eyes went straight to Liam, measured him, read him and smiled.

“Ah… ¿y ustedes ya se conocen?” (Ah… so you already know each other?)

Valentina answered quickly. “Nos conocimos en Londres. Me ayudaron un poco.” (We met in London. They helped me out a bit.)

Diego raised his eyebrows. “Aaaaaah…”

Then looked back at Liam, like he was aiming at him. “Ojo lo que le haces a la nena… ¿me escuchaste, pendejo?” (You better watch what you do to her… you hear me, kid?)

Noel burst out laughing. Valentina covered her face, mortified and Liam raised his hands slightly.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, half laughing, half nervous.

Diego didn’t understand the words, but he understood the expression perfectly. And laughed. “¡ESO! ¡Así me gusta!” (That’s it! That’s what I like to see!)

Valentina looked up again and Liam was still looking at her.

Everything that followed happened fast. Like the night itself had decided to speed up just to mess with them.

Someone—no one knew who—pulled out a camera. Diego insisted, loudly, that they needed a picture. Not one of those polite, awkward celebrity shots. A real one. So they stood there, all four of them, squeezed together in the middle of the suite. Diego with his arm wrapped around Valentina like she was his niece. Noel stiff at first, still processing everything, until Diego pulled him closer. And Liam didn’t even try to play it cool. He stood next to Valentina, completely overwhelmed, staring at the camera like he couldn’t believe his own life.

The flash went off. Once. Twice.

Diego kissed Valentina’s cheek dramatically, like a blessing, then clapped his hands. “Listo. Ahora vayan a hacer quilombo.” (Alright. Now go cause some chaos.)

And just like that, the myth disappeared. The door closed again. And the world snapped back into place.

Back in the rockstar suite, the party was still alive. Music low, smoke thick, bottles everywhere, people laughing like the night was endless.

The moment Noel walked in, he looked like he’d just returned from war. He didn’t even take a drink first. He immediately started talking — fast, loud, almost hysterical.

“You lot are not gonna believe this,” he announced, pointing behind him like the hallway was some kind of portal. “Maradona’s in the other bloody room.”

The room exploded.

“What?”

“No way.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Noel was grinning like a child. “I swear on my life,” he insisted. “He’s… he’s unreal. He’s lovely. He hugged me. He called Liam a fuckin’ troublemaker.”

People laughed, some screamed, some clapped. Someone offered Noel a cigarette and he took it like he’d earned it.

Noel kept talking, gesturing wildly, describing everything as if he was telling a legend around a campfire.

Meanwhile… Liam walked Valen back into the room with his arm around her shoulders, holding her like she might disappear if he blinked.

Valentina was still stunned, still half floating, like her feet hadn’t fully touched the ground since Diego had said her name. They sat down together, away from the noise, away from Noel’s excited rambling, away from everyone.

Valentina let out a breath, almost laughing. “What the hell just happened?” she whispered.

Liam blinked, then let out a breath of his own, sharp and disbelieving. “That was… Maradona,” he said slowly, as if saying it out loud was the only way to process it.

Valentina nodded quickly, still overwhelmed. “Yeah,” she said. “That was Diego.”

They stared at each other for a second. And then they both laughed, because it was too much and it was insane and neither of them knew what else to do.

Liam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head. “I can’t believe he knew my name,” he muttered.

Valentina covered her mouth, smiling like a teenager. “I can’t believe he called me,” she admitted. “He said he wanted to meet me… I thought it was a joke.”

Liam looked at her again, and something in his eyes shifted. The playful chaos melted into something else. Valentina was still talking — still trying to laugh it off — when Liam moved. He grabbed her face gently, like he’d been waiting his entire life for permission he didn’t need and kissed her.

The world disappeared, the noise in the room faded into nothing— gone. There was only her, her mouth, her warmth, her taste.

Valentina froze for half a second, shocked… And then she kissed him back. Harder. Like she hated him and at the same time like she’d been dying to do it.

When Liam finally pulled away, he stayed close, forehead almost touching hers, breath uneven.

His eyes were darker than before.

“You don’t get it,” he murmured, voice low, almost rough. “I didn’t get it. Not until now.”

Valentina blinked, confused, heart pounding.

Liam swallowed, like he was struggling to say something he wasn’t used to saying. “I saw it,” he continued. “In there. With him.”

“The way he looked at you,” Liam said. “Like you’re… like you’re not just a singer. Like you’re something else.”

Valentina’s throat tightened.

Liam shook his head, voice getting more intense. “The weight,” he said. “The way you walk like you’re ready to fight the world and win.”

Valentina stared at him. She couldn’t speak.

Liam leaned closer, like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re a force of nature,” he whispered. “You’re… fucking unbelievable.”

Valentina felt something crack open inside her chest. Because she’d been called sexy,  dangerous, controversial, provocative, a whore, a hero, a problem. But no one… No one had ever looked at her like this. Like she was real.

Her eyes burned. She swallowed hard, trying to hold herself together. And then reality hit her like a slap. She pulled back slightly.

Her voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut. “Liam,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

Valentina looked him dead in the eyes. “You’re married.”

The words dropped between them like a cold glass of water. Liam’s face changed instantly.

He exhaled slowly. “We’re separated,” he said. “It’s done.”

Valentina didn’t move. Her expression didn’t soften. “You’re still married,” she insisted, like she needed him to say it out loud.

Liam nodded once. “Yeah,” he admitted. “On paper.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’ve got to sort it,” he said. “The divorce. All that shit. It takes time.”

Valentina stared at him. And she could feel herself slipping back into control, into Missy, into the part of her that didn’t let men ruin her life. Because she’d seen this story before a thousand times. Men who promised but only left mess behind them and called it love.

She stood up slowly, smoothing her outfit like she was putting armor back on.

Liam watched her, almost desperate. “Valen—”

She looked down at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t get to kiss me like that,” she said softly, “and then tell me you’re still someone else’s husband.”

Liam swallowed. He looked like he wanted to argue. But he couldn’t because she was right.

Valentina stepped back, putting distance between them, even though her heart was still racing.

She gave him a small smile “Sort it out,” she said.

Liam’s jaw tightened. “I will.”

Valentina held his gaze for a second longer. Then she turned, walking away into the noise of the party like nothing had happened. But her hands were shaking. And Liam stayed sitting there, watching her disappear into the smoke and music… Like he’d just been hit by something he didn’t know how to survive.

The months passed.

Valentina went back to her life again, the shows got bigger, the headlines got louder, the tension with the government didn’t fade—it evolved. She learned how to carry it better. How to weaponize it.

Missy grew and Valentina adapted. And London— London stayed somewhere in the back of her mind like a song she couldn’t quite forget.

Across the ocean, Liam went on with his life too. Tours, interviews, fights. But something had shifted. He didn’t talk about it but it was there.

Every now and then, Argentine television would run international segments—quick flashes of what was happening abroad.

Most of it, Valentina ignored. Until one day it was his name that caught her.

Liam Gallagher.

The segment wasn’t about music. It was about the divorce.  His ex on television, talking too much. Him outside buildings, arguing with paparazzi, snapping back at questions that crossed lines they had no business crossing. He looked the same.

Valentina watched in silence, and then turned the TV off like it meant nothing.

A few days later

Her manager knocked on her dressing room door. “Valen,” he said, half confused, half amused. “You’ve got an international call.”

She frowned. “Who?”

He hesitated, then smiled slightly. “England.”

Valentina’s stomach dropped, just for a second. Then she stood up like it didn’t matter. “Put it through.”

The phone on the table rang once.

She picked it up. “Hello?”

There was a brief pause.

“Oi!.” Liam’s voice.

Valentina closed her eyes for half a second. Then leaned against the table. “Didn’t know you still remembered my number,” she said.

“I didn’t,” he replied. “Had to annoy half your team to get it.”

Valentina let out a quiet breath. “Figures,” she muttered.

There was a small silence. Not uncomfortable. Just… loaded.

Liam broke it first. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you.”

Valentina didn’t pretend. “Yeah.”

Another pause. She could almost hear him thinking. Or maybe just pacing.

“It’s done,” he said finally. “Properly this time.”

Valentina didn’t answer right away. Because she knew what he meant. And she wasn’t going to make it easy.

“You said that before,” she replied.

Liam exhaled, sharp. “Yeah, well,” he said. “This time it’s not a line.”

Silence again. He shifted. She could hear it in his voice. That rare thing, at least for someone like him, the effort.

“I’ve been meaning to call,” he added. “Didn’t know if I should.”

Valentina smirked slightly. “You usually don’t care about that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well. You’re not… usual.” That landed.

She didn’t show it. “What do you want, Liam?” she asked.

He didn’t answer immediately, his voice dropped. “I can’t get you out of my head.”

Valentina stared at the wall in front of her. Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone. “You’ll survive,” she said.

Liam huffed a quiet laugh. “Probably,” he admitted. “But I don’t really want to.”

She rolled her eyes—but there was no real bite behind it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he agreed easily. “Been told.”

Another pause.

“I get it now,” he said.

That made her look up. “Get what?”

“You,” Liam replied.

Valentina frowned slightly. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said. “But I know enough.”

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t give him anything. So he kept going.

“That night,” he said. “After the show. In the hotel.” A beat. “The way you walked in like you owned the place.” Another. “The way everyone looked at you.” And then, quieter— “The way he looked at you.” Valentina swallowed. “I get what that means now,” Liam continued. “What you carry.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to.

“It’s not light,” he said. “Being you.”

That one hit. Valentina leaned back against the table, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t romanticize it,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he replied immediately. “I’m saying I know it’s not easy.” Silence. “And I’m saying I don’t care.”

Valentina closed her eyes. There it was. “Liam…”

“I know what it is,” he cut in. “Being around you. It’s not simple. It’s not quiet. It’s not—safe.” A breath. “I’m not expecting it to be.”

Valentina shook her head slightly. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

She almost laughed. “No, you don’t.”

“I do enough,” he insisted. “Enough to know I want it.”

Another silence. He didn’t rush to fill it this time, and neither did she.

Because now— this wasn’t flirting. This was something else, something real.

Valentina finally spoke, quieter now. “And what is it you think you want?”

Liam didn’t hesitate. “You.”

Valentina knew this wasn’t normal. It never had been.None of the men she’d been with before had understood what it meant to live like this—to carry the weight of fame, of scrutiny, of always being watched, always being talked about. They liked the idea of her but not what it cost. No one had ever really understood her. Not completely. But maybe… maybe this could be different.

Her heart was already betraying her, beating too fast, too loud, like it was trying to get ahead of her thoughts. Just thinking about him did that. Hearing his voice made it worse. And when she saw him— She couldn’t even put it into words.

But there was still one thing neither of them could ignore. Distance, an entire ocean. Two completely different worlds.

Valentina let out a slow breath. “And the distance?” she asked finally. “What do you plan to do about that?”

There was a pause on the other end. Then Liam scoffed lightly, like the answer was obvious. “I’ve got enough money to put ya on a private jet whenever I feel like it.”

Valentina blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. “Of course you do,” she said, shaking her head.

“Problem solved,” he added, smug.

“Yeah, sure,” she replied, amused now. “Very practical.”

There was something softer in her voice now. Less guarded somehow more real.

She shifted slightly, leaning her weight against the table. “I’ve got three more shows,” she said. “Then I’m off for four months before the next tour.” A beat. “What are you planning to do with that information?”

Silence.

“I’ll get to you,” Liam said. Like it was already happening.

Valentina felt her stomach drop slightly. In a good way. She smiled, even if he couldn’t see it.

“You better,” she said.

Another pause. Neither of them wanted to hang up.

Valentina looked down at the floor. “Okay…” she said softly. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” Liam replied, but he didn’t sound like he wanted to.

“Liam?”

“Yeah?”

Valentina swallowed. “Don’t make me regret this.”

There was no hesitation this time. “I won’t.”

She closed her eyes and hung up.

The third show was supposed to be just another night. Another day at work, eruption of lights, screams, bodies moving in sync with her. Missy was in full control. Every movement calculated. The crowd was loud, even feral. And she owned it like always.

Somewhere between the second chorus and the drop— she felt it. Something shifting at the edge of her vision. A presence that didn’t belong to the choreography, the lights, the rehearsed chaos. Missy didn’t break, but Valentin noticed.

At the side of the stage, half-hidden in the shadows, surrounded by crew members who didn’t quite know what to do with him— Liam Gallagher. Hands in his pockets, expression unreadable like none of that impressed him. And yet he hadn’t looked away once. His eyes tracked her every move, almost analytical.

Valentina’s chest tightened, just for a second but enough to throw her half a beat off, something no one else would notice, but she did. Missy kept going because Missy didn’t stop for anyone, not even him.

But something had changed. There was a new kind of energy in her movements, more reckless, more alive. Like she wasn’t just performing anymore for the whole stadium she was doing it for him.

The final song hit like a storm, lights exploding, the crowd screaming her name like it was a chant, her voice cutting through everything, raw and powerful.

Backstage was a blur, people talking, hands grabbing, voices congratulating. But Valentina didn’t stop. She saw him, at the distance, and that was it. He was exactly where she saw him while performing. Like he knew she would come to him.

She ran, and when she reached him, she didn’t say a word. She grabbed his shirt and kissed him, hard, like the distance had been sitting in her chest this whole time and finally had somewhere to go.

Liam didn’t hesitate. He kissed her back just as hard. Like he’d been waiting for that exact moment. Like he knew it would happen.

When they finally pulled apart, both a little breathless— Liam looked at her like he was seeing her again for the first time, up close, not through a stage.

“Told you I’d get to you,” he said.

Valentina laughed under her breath, still too close to him. “You’re insane,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said. “You knew that.”

She shook her head, smiling, eyes still locked on his. “You didn’t even tell me.”

“Would’ve ruined it,” he replied.

Then Liam stepped back slightly, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a plane,” he said.

Valentina raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do.”

He nodded toward the exit, casual, like it wasn’t insane.

“Come with me.”

Valentina stared at him, still catching her breath, still half Missy half Valen.

“You’re serious,” she said.

Liam looked at her like that was a stupid question. “When am I not?”

She laughed softly. “Always.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not now.” Another beat. “Come on,” he added, quieter this time. “You said you got a couple of months, yeah?” He remembered. “Let’s see what happens.”

Valentina felt it again, that stupid, reckless, terrifying pull. She exhaled slowly. Then smiled. “Okay.”

Liam’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes did. “Okay?” he repeated.

Valentina nodded. “Okay.”

Liam was already there when she stepped out of the dressing room. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there for hours, like he owned the hallway. Hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, waiting.

Valentina stopped when she saw him and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been standing there long?” she asked.

Liam didn’t move. “Long enough,” he said. “You took your time.”

She smirked, grabbing her jacket. “Some things are worth waiting for.”

Liam’s mouth twitched. “Hope so.”

She walked past him, not slowing down, expecting him to follow and of course he did.

The night air hit them the second they stepped outside. Cooler now. The adrenaline of the show still buzzing under her skin.

The car was already waiting. Liam opened the door without saying anything. She got in. This time, they sat side by side in the back. Closer than before. Not touching yet but close enough that it felt intentional.

“You always this dramatic after a show?” Liam asked, glancing at her.

Valentina let out a small laugh. “You mean running away?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugged. “Depends who’s waiting outside.”

Liam huffed. “Cheeky.”

“You ever had trouble with paparazzi?” he asked.

Valentina turned slightly toward him. “Once,” she said. “One tried to grab my arm outside a hotel.”

Liam’s expression shifted instantly.

“What happened?”

“I slapped him.”

Liam blinked. Then laughed. “Good.”

“What about you?”

He leaned back slightly. “Had one follow me for three days straight once,” he said. “Didn’t say a word. Just kept showing up.”

Valentina frowned. “That’s creepy.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Punched him on the fourth.”

She laughed. “Of course you did.”

The tension didn’t disappear. It just… softened. Turned into something easier. More familiar.

“First time in a private jet?” Liam asked casually.

Valentina glanced at him, unimpressed. “Please. I’ve been on private jets since I was nineteen.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She smirked slightly. A beat. Then— “First time doing certain things in one, though… maybe.”

Liam turned his head toward her, interest immediate. “No mile high club for you then?”

Valentina looked out the window, hiding the hint of a smile. “Mm. Not yet.”

The airport came into view, they stepped out, walked side by side. The plane stood waiting, lights soft, door open, like an invitation.

Valentina looked at it, genuinely impressed. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

Liam glanced at her. “Told ya’”

She shook her head slightly, smiling. “Show-off.”

“Obviously.”

They walked in. And the door closed behind them with a soft click. The space suddenly felt smaller. Valentina took a few steps inside, looking around, taking it all in. Leather seats, soft lights, everything too perfect and intimate.

She turned and Liam was right there. Closer than before. For a second, neither of them spoke.

“You still think I’m a bad idea?” he asked.

Valentina tilted her head slightly. “I think you’re a terrible idea.”

Liam smiled. “Yeah?”

She stepped closer. “But I said yes anyway, didn’t I?”

That was it, the distance disappeared. Liam’s hand found her arm first. Slow. Tracing upward just slightly. Valentina inhaled sharply and didn’t step back.

Her hands found his jacket, gripped it, pulled him in. The kiss hit fast. It wasn’t like London. It was months of tension finally snapping. Liam’s hands moved to her arms, her sides, her waist, like he was mapping her out, like he needed to confirm she was real.

Valentina leaned into him, restless, electric, her fingers curling into his shirt.

She shifted, ended up half sitting on his lap, needing to be closer, needing— The intercom crackled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We are preparing for departure.”

They both froze just for a second, then Valentina laughed in Liam’s lips.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Liam let out a low chuckle, forehead resting briefly against hers. “Timing’s shite.”

They pulled apart reluctantly, not really letting go. Valentina slid off his lap, but stayed right beside him.

Seatbelts clicked, but the space between them didn’t grow. If anything, it got worse. Liam’s hand found hers, then her wrist, then her arm again, like he couldn’t stop.

Valentina turned her head slightly toward him. “Can’t keep your hands to yourself?”

Liam smirked. “Don’t want to.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Impaciente.”

“What’s that mean?”

She leaned in slightly. “Impatient.”

Liam huffed. “Yeah. That sounds right.”

The engines roared to life and the plane began to move. They kept talking, about nothing and everything at the same time, and in the middle he never really let go of her in the way his thumb traced slow circles against her skin.

The seatbelt sign finally clicked off, Liam looked at her. Valentina's hand found his knee first, her touch electric, fingers tracing lazy circles that shot straight to his cock.

“Fuck… “ she murmured while palming his cock through the jeans, Liam looking at her in disbelief, not breaking the eye contact. He groaned, shifting closer, his hand sliding up her thigh, rough palm grazing the soft skin.  He was already hard, cock straining against his jeans like it had a mind of its own.

Valentina bit her lip, her dark eyes locking on his, that sensual energy radiating off her like heat from a flame. She unbuckled fully, leaning in to nip at his earlobe.

“Show me how bad you want it. Touch me. Make me wet for you.” Her voice dropped low, commanding.

Liam didn't need telling twice. His fingers dipped under her pants, finding her lace panties soaked already. He pushed them aside, two fingers sliding into her slick pussy with a wet schlick. Valen gasped, arching against the seat, her hand flying to his bulge again, palming him through the denim.

“God, you're throbbing,” she whispered, dirty and direct. “Bet you've been dreaming of burying your cock in me, huh? Stretching my tight cunt.”

“Fuuuuuck baby,' he rasped, pumping his fingers deeper, curling them to hit that spot that made her thighs quiver. His free hand fumbled with his zipper, freeing his thick cock—veins pulsing, tip already leaking pre-cum. He spat into his palm, the sound obscene in the cabin's hush, and wrapped his fist around himself, stroking slow and firm while he fingered her. The jet's gentle vibration thrummed through them, amplifying every slick slide, every ragged breath.

Valen’s hips bucked, chasing his hand, her free fingers digging into his shoulder. “That's it…  harder.” She leaned in, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss, tongues tangling messy and hot. But she pulled back, eyes gleaming. “I want to ride you.”

She straddled him quick, pants removed as fast as she could, panties shoved aside as she positioned herself over his lap. Liam's hands gripped her ass, squeezing the firm flesh.

“Wait love, it’s been months. Won't last long if you do that.” His voice was wrecked, cock twitching against her entrance.

She smirked, grinding down just enough to tease the head against her folds. “I don't care. The flight's long, we got plenty of time.”

He nodded, helpless, as she sank down, her pussy swallowing him inch by inch, hot, tight, velvet grip that made his vision blur.

“Shite... so good,” he grunted, thrusting up shallowly.

They moved together, her bouncing slow at first, breasts heaving under the tank top. Her dirty whispers fueled him: “oh my god… f-fuck me like that baby.”

But it was too much—her heat, her words, the months of denial. Barely five minutes in, and Liam's balls tightened, a guttural “Fuck—'!” ripping from his throat as he erupted, hot spurts flooding her deep.

Valen slowed, feeling him pulse inside her, a soft laugh bubbling up—not mocking, just delighted, breathless.

“It gets me so wet that you are so eager for me.” She kissed his forehead, still clenching around him, milking every drop.

Liam panted, forehead pressed to her collarbone, a sheepish grin cracking through the haze.

“Give us a min, yeah? Gonna make it up to ya proper.” He lifted her off gently, his cock slipping free with a wet pop, cum trickling down her thigh.

Before she could protest, he slid to his knees in the narrow space between seat and cabin wall, the carpet rough under him. “Spread for me, love.”

She obliged, reclining back, legs parting wide as he pushed her skirt higher. He dove in without preamble, mouth latching onto her pussy, lips sucking her clit, tongue delving into her folds, lapping up their mixed juices with sloppy, eager strokes. Saliva dripped everywhere, his chin glistening as he ate her out like a starving man.

“Taste so fuckin' sweet,” he mumbled against her, the words vibrating through her core. Fingers joined in, spreading her open while he sucked harder, tongue flicking relentless.

She moaned loud, hands fisting his hair, hips grinding against his face. “Sí, just like that—.” Pleasure built fast, her body coiling tight, and then she shattered, orgasm crashing over her, thighs clamping his head as she cried out, waves of bliss pulsing through her.

Liam rose slow, wiping his mouth, eyes dark with renewed hunger. He scooped her up effortlessly, positioning her on the seat facing him, legs over his shoulders. His cock was hard again, slick and ready.

“Now for round two,” he growled, sliding back in deep in one smooth thrust that bottomed out. She gasped, nails raking his arms.

This time, he lasted, drawing it out, hips snapping steady and deep, angling to grind against her g-spot with every plunge.

“Take it, love. Gonna fuck you till you can't think straight.”

She came again quick, pussy fluttering around him, but he didn't stop, pounding harder, sweat slicking their skin, the jet's hum masking their moans, back arching, “Liam—fuck, yes!” And still he drove on, relentless, until one built, her walls clenching vise-like.

“Para—stop, it's too much!” Valen gasped, but her body betrayed her, gushing hot and wet around him, squirting in forceful spurts that soaked his cock, his jeans, the seat.

That undid him completely. Liam's control snapped, a roar tearing from his chest as he slammed deep one last time, cumming harder than before, ropes of seed spilling into her, hips jerking erratic. “fuuuuuuuuck—"

They collapsed together, limbs tangled, breaths heaving in sync. Valentina's head lolled on his chest, a sated smile curving her lips, while Liam's arms wrapped around her possessively. Exhaustion hit like a wave, the adrenaline crash pulling them under. As the plane droned on toward London, they drifted off, molded together, spent and utterly wrecked, the promise of more hanging thick in the air.

The captain’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the cabin. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be landing shortly. Please return to your seats.”

Valentina stirred first. A soft groan against Liam’s chest, her body shifting slightly as reality began to seep back in. Liam followed a second later, blinking slowly, disoriented, like he’d forgotten where he was.

Then Valentina lifted her head, looked at him, hair a mess, shirt half open. That smug, sleepy expression that hadn’t quite left his face.

She started laughing.

Liam frowned slightly, still waking up. “What?” he muttered.

Valentina covered her mouth, shaking her head. “Look at you,” she said.

He glanced down at himself.

“Not bad for your first time,” he said.

Valentina raised an eyebrow. “First time what?”

Liam smirked. “Joining the mile high club.”

She stared at him for half a second, then rolled her eyes. “Not bad for your first time with me.”

“I’m a great lover,” he shot back, half laughing

Valentina leaned over him slightly, brushing her lips quickly against his before he could react. “Don’t get cocky,” she murmured.

Liam blinked, caught off guard, and he hated how much he liked that.

“Bathroom,” she said, already pulling away, stretching slightly like nothing had happened.

“Yeah,” Liam replied, still watching her.

When Valentina came back, she didn’t sit immediately, she stood behind him instead, hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Liam barely had time to register it before she leaned down and kissed him again.

He froze for half a second, then smiled. “Sneaky,” he muttered.

Valentina shrugged, moving around to sit beside him again. “Had to make up for lost time.”

“Didn’t feel like we lost any.”

She smirked. “Confidence suits you.”

The plane began its descent. London appearing slowly beneath them. Landing was smooth, too smooth for everything that had just happened.

A car was already waiting. The drive was quieter than before. Valentina leaned her head back against the seat, watching the city pass by. Different from Buenos Aires, colder.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“My place,” Liam said simply.

She nodded, didn’t question it.

The house wasn’t loud. Wasn’t what she expected. It was lived in. Messy in small, human ways. Records scattered. A jacket thrown over a chair. Glasses left where they didn’t belong.

Valentina walked in slowly, taking it all in. “This is very… you,” she said.

Liam dropped his keys somewhere random. “Yeah?”

She turned toward him. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. A quiet one.

Then Liam moved past her. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you around.”

It wasn’t a formal tour.

“This is where I write sometimes.”

“That’s where I sleep.”

“That’s where I don’t clean.”

Valentina followed him, smiling softly.

At one point, she stopped in the kitchen. Ran her fingers along the counter. “You actually live here,” she said.

Liam leaned against the doorway. “Where else would I live?”

She looked at him. Something softer in her expression. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Somewhere less… real.”

Liam watched her for a second. “You hungry?” he asked.

Valentina smiled slightly. “Always.”

He grabbed whatever was in the fridge. They ate standing up. Talking and laughing about their situation, how it was incredible that less than 24 hours everything had changed.

At one point, Valentina reached over and wiped something from the corner of his mouth without thinking. Liam froze just for a second because domestic little motion felt different. Dangerous in a completely different way.

Later, she ended up on the couch. Curled slightly, half asleep. He dropped onto the sofa next to her, thigh pressing against hers like it was the most natural thing.

“Oi, you look proper knackered, love,” he drawled, voice rough around the edges but laced with genuine warmth. “That flight was a right bastard, innit? Need a brew or summat to sort you out?”

Valentina blinked awake, a lazy smile curving her lips as she turned to him. “Yeah, it was intense.” She stretched.

Liam leaned back, arms draped over the sofa, listening with that smirking attentiveness, But then, true to form, he cut straight through the fluff, curiosity sparking in his eyes. Out of the blue, he cocked his head, grin turning sly.

“Right, since we're going to be roomies... what's your poison in the sack, eh? Wanna know what gets you going, like.” His tone was dead casual.

Valentina's cheeks went pink, her eyes flashing wide for a beat, caught off guard by his bluntness. She wasn't one to back down on sex talk; it was her playground. Biting her lip, she chuckled, the sound cutting the air.

“Fuck me, you don't mess about. Fine, cards on the table. I like it all, really. Sex just... hits the spot for me. The lot of it, the heat, the push and pull.'

Liam's blood surged at her straight-shooting answer, his imagination firing on all cylinders with flashes of her writhing under him. That openness was pure fire. Heat coiled low in his gut, and he scooted closer, all predatory grace. One hand slid up, fingers grazing the back of her neck in lazy, teasing strokes, while the other planted on her thigh, kneading the muscle through her trousers with firm intent.

The touch sent sparks through Valentina, melting away the last of her tiredness. She tilted into his hand on her neck, blush lingering but her voice dropping low and teasing as she locked eyes with him.

“After that flight, I could do with loosening up proper…” It came off light at first, like cheeky chat, but the sultry edge crept in, her stare dipping to his mouth.

Liam's breath caught, his strokes turning bolder as her words lit him up. “Fuck me, you're a right tease,” he muttered, thumb edging higher on her thigh, voice gravelly with want.

The space between them crackled, thick with the promise of more.

He eased back a touch, eyes serious under the lust—his affectionate streak kicking in amid the swagger. He extended his hand to her and she rose with him, his arm snaking around her waist to steer her down the hall to his bedroom.

The room glowed soft from the bedside lamp, the big bed a mess of sheets begging for them. Door shut with a click, and Liam spun her, hands framing her face as he crashed his mouth to hers—hard, demanding.

She matched him, fingers clutching his shirt, yanking him flush. Tongues tangled in a messy, hungry clash, exploring deep as the kiss heated up. Liam's hands roamed down, snagging her top's hem and peeling it off, baring her lacy bra and the swell of her tits. He pulled away to drag his lips along her jaw, down her throat, teeth grazing her collarbone while he flicked open her bra, letting it drop.

Valentina sucked in a breath as air hit her skin, nipples peaking tight. She ripped at his shirt, hauling it free to expose his lean, inked chest, palms sliding over the taut ridges.

“Feel me” she murmured, steering his hand to her breast. He did, thumb swirling her nipple before tweaking it, pulling a sharp moan from her.

They stumbled to the bed, clothes flying—her trousers and knickers hitting the floor, his jeans shoved off till they were bare, skin hot and alive. Liam guided her down, body blanketing hers as he kissed south, mouth latching onto a nipple to suck hard, tongue lashing the bud. Valentina bowed up, fingers twisting in his hair, pushing him lower.

“Further down,” she gasped, voice raw. He went, lips trailing her belly, knees nudging her thighs apart. Fingers skimmed her slit, finding her soaked, and he eased one in, hooking to rub her walls. She jerked, a whine slipping out as he added another, thrusting steady while his thumb worked her clit in tight circles.

Liam eyed her, hooked on the way her lids squeezed shut, mouth slack with bliss.

“You're dripping fer it” he rasped, pulling his fingers free to kneel between her legs.

His cock stood rigid, tip brushing her opening. He sank in slow, savoring the grip of her heat, inch by inch till he bottomed out. Valentina hooked her legs round him, dragging him full depth.

They started measured, hips circling, each drive long and thorough, stoking the fire. She pushed back, nails raking his back as pleasure stacked. “Fuck me harder,” she demanded, and he ramped it, pounding deep with slick, echoing smacks. Sweat gleamed on them, the air thick with pants and cries.

Her hand dipped between, fingers rubbing her clit to amp it. Liam dove for her mouth, kisses sloppy and fierce. He angled sharper, nailing that sweet spot till she keened, her cunt squeezing him tight.

It built deliberate, no hurry, they dragged out the slides, the grinds, till she broke, climax ripping through in quakes, pussy pulsing around his cock. Liam chased it, slamming home as he unloaded, flooding her with hot spurts and a rough growl.

They tumbled spent, breaths ragged, his arms hauling her in tight for the comedown.

A month passed like that, between stolen stares, sex in forbidden places, late night talks and getting to know each other better. What was supposed to be a few days turned into weeks without either of them really noticing when the shift happened. At some point, Valentina stopped living out of her suitcase, her clothes started appearing in places they weren’t supposed to be. A jacket over the back of a chair, boots by the door, a toothbrush that wasn’t his. Liam never said anything about it. But he never moved them either. And in between all that something settled. She was there, and he wasn’t asking her to leave.

But of course, the world found them. It started small, a picture. Blurry. Taken from across the street. Valentina stepping out of Liam’s house. Hair loose, sunglasses on, laughing at something he had just said.

Then another, them walking together, close to be nothing and by the end of that week— it was everywhere.

“ARGENTINE POPSTAR MOVES INTO GALLAGHER’S HOME.”

“LIAM’S NEW OBSESSION.”

“FROM MALVINAS TO MANCHESTER?”

Valentina stared at the headlines in silence. The TV murmured in the background. English voices talking too fast. She didn’t understand every word, but for her it was enough.

Liam walked in halfway through it. Saw the screen. “Turn it off,” he muttered.

Valentina didn’t move.

“Valen.”

She grabbed the remote. Turned it off. The silence that followed was worse.

“It was going to happen,” Liam said.

Valentina turned toward him. “Yeah,” she said. “I know.” But her voice wasn’t steady.

He noticed. “What?” he asked.

She hesitated.

And that was enough to set him off. “What?”

Valentina ran a hand through her hair. “This is different for me, y’know?” she said. “You’re used to this.”

Liam scoffed. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

She shook her head. “No, but you know how to deal with it.”

“And you don’t?” he shot back.

That hit. Valentina’s expression hardened slightly. “I deal with things differently.”

“Yeah?” Liam said. “Looks like the same shit to me.”

Silence.

“This isn’t just gossip for me,” she continued, quieter now. “This affects everything back home.”

Liam frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Valentina looked at him. “It’s not just me dating someone,” she said. “It’s me dating you.” A beat. “English,” she added.

Liam’s jaw tightened. “Right,” he muttered.

She immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“Yeah, you did,” he cut in.

“No,” she insisted. “I mean the context, the politics, the way people are going to read this—”

“Not my problem,” Liam snapped.

That did it, Valentina straightened. “It is my problem.”

“And I’m part of it,” he shot back.

“And I didn’t say you weren’t!”

Silence again. They stood there, facing each other like strangers for the first time.

Liam ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You knew what this was,” he said.

Valentina laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Did I?” Another beat. “Because I don’t remember signing up for this part,” she added.

Liam stared at her. “Then what did you sign up for?”

That question hung in the air, heavy. Valentina didn’t answer right away. Because she knew the answer. She just didn’t like it.

But then something else broke through first.

She shook her head, stepping closer, voice sharper now. “You also have to understand something,” she said. “I’m the one who left everything to be here. I’m living miles away from home—” Liam opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him interrupt. “—and now I’m getting hate here and back in Argentina,” she continued, her voice tightening despite herself. “Do you get what that feels like? Because I don’t think you do.”

That landed. Liam didn’t answer immediately. For once— he didn’t have something quick to throw back.

“We can’t control this,” Valentina said. “The press, the headlines, what people say—”

“But we can control us,” Liam cut in.

She looked at him. “And what are we doing?” she asked.

Liam didn’t hesitate. “Not letting them ruin it.”

Valentina let that sit. “And how do we do that?” she asked.

Liam shrugged slightly. “We stop hiding.”

She blinked. “What?”

“We say it,” he said. “Yeah, we’re together. And they can piss off.”

Valentina stared at him. “That’s your big plan?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Works for me.”

She almost laughed, it was so him, so reckless.

Valentina exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Okay.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

She looked at him, more grounded now.

“Okay,” she repeated.

“We can deal with it.”

Then he moved, closed the distance between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. Valentina barely had time to react before his arms were around her. He pulled her in, holding her there for a second longer than necessary. Like he needed it too. Then he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Uncharacteristically gentle.

Then he moved, closed the distance between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. Valentina barely had time to react before his arms were around her. He pulled her in, holding her there for a second longer than necessary. Like he needed it too. Then he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Uncharacteristically gentle.

For a second, neither of them moved. The words hung there—fragile, but real. Then, like some kind of cosmical joke, her phone rang.

Valentina frowned, pulling it from the table. The screen lit up with a name she hadn’t seen in days. Her stomach dropped.

“Shit.”

Liam watched her, already reading it. “Who is it?”

“My manager.”

She hesitated for half a second before answering. “Hey.” The shift in her voice was immediate.

Liam didn’t need to understand the words this time. He understood the tension.

“Yeah, I know—” she started, pacing now. “No, I didn’t disappear, I’m—” She stopped herself, glanced at Liam and turned slightly away.

The voice on the other end didn’t let her breathe.

“I’ve seen it, yeah… it’s here too,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “No, I’m not ignoring it—” A pause. Her expression changed. “What do you mean they’re saying that?” she asked, quieter now.

Liam leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her carefully.

“I know it’s been a month,” she said. “But it’s not like I just—” She stopped again. Because there was no way to finish that without it sounding worse.

Her voice dropped. “Yeah… I get it.”

She listened this time. “…yeah,” she said finally. “We’ll talk later.” And she hung up.

The room felt different, if it was possible heavier. Valentina didn’t turn around right away. She just stood there, phone still in her hand. Like it had pulled her back into something she had been ignoring.

Liam pushed off the wall. “Bad?” he asked.

She let out a breath. A real one. Then turned.

“They think I disappeared,” she said

Liam frowned. “You did, a little.”

Valentina let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I did.”

“It’s bad over there,” she continued. “Not just the press. Everything.” She ran a hand through her hair again. “I haven’t talked to my friends in weeks. My mom keeps calling. They don’t know what’s going on—they just see headlines and…” she trailed off. “I didn’t even notice,” she admitted quietly. “I was just… here.”

Liam watched her. “And now?” he asked.

Valentina shook her head slightly. “I miss them.”

Liam looked away for a second, thinking. Then back at her. “Alright,” he said.

Valentina frowned slightly. “What?”

“We figure it out,” he continued. “You go back when you need to. I’ll come to you. Or you come here. We don’t—” he gestured vaguely between them “—we don’t have to stop because of that.”

Valentina blinked. “You’re serious,” she said.

Liam scoffed lightly. “When am I not?”

She almost smiled. “That’s actually a terrible argument,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” he said. “Still works.”

Valentina looked at him. “You’d come to Argentina?” she asked.

Liam shrugged. “Why not?”

She huffed a small laugh. “You don’t even speak Spanish.”

“Don’t need to,” he replied. “I’ve got you.”

Valentina looked down for a second, then nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said.

He nodded.

The statement never came, not officially. No press release. No carefully chosen words. No explanation crafted for public consumption.

For a while, it got worse. Headlines multiplied, opinions sharpened, and both sides of the ocean had something to say about them. Argentina talked. England talked. Everyone decided what they were, what they meant, what they represented.

Valentina went back to Argentina. The first few days were loud. Cameras outside. Questions everywhere. People waiting for her to say something that could be turned into a headline.

She didn’t give them much. And then, a few days later, he showed up. The cameras found them immediately, as always. A couple of flashes, then more, voices calling out, questions overlapping, chaotic and desperate for something usable.

Valentina stopped, Liam looked at her for a second, like he was checking if she wanted to keep walking. She didn’t move, he reached for her hand. Valentina intertwined her fingers with his without hesitation. The cameras went wild.

“Are you together?” someone shouted.

“Is this real?”

“Is this serious?”

She just stood there, hand in his, grounded in something that didn’t belong to them.

“Yeah,” she said simply. “We’re together.”

Liam didn’t add anything, he squeezed her hand once, just then they kept walking.

After that, something shifted. The noise didn’t disappear, but it changed. Less speculation, less invention. More… acceptance. Valentina stayed in Argentina for a while. Longer this time. She needed it. Her friends, her family, her language, her rhythm.

Liam went back to England, they didn’t try to make it easy, they just made it work. Calls at strange hours. Missed time zones. Messages that didn’t arrive when they were supposed to. Long silences that didn’t mean anything, and short ones that meant too much.

Sometimes he would catch a clip of her on TV, mid-performance, larger than life, untouchable to anyone but him.

Once, in the middle of a show, she changed a lyric just enough that no one else noticed. But he did. And somewhere, miles away, he laughed.

Another night, his voice carried through a live recording, before singing he would dedicate the song to “someone in the end of the world”. She heard that too.

Weeks later, he showed up again, just a knock on her door.

She opened it, already smiling. “Thought you said you were busy,” she said.

Liam shrugged. “Changed my mind.”

Another time, it was her. London. Rain, grey skies, his jacket thrown over her shoulders before she could even say she was cold.

“You hate this weather,” he said.

“I hate it less when you’re here,” she replied.

They moved like that, between places, between lives, never perfectly aligned, never fully settled. But always finding their way back.

“Hey,” you say carefully, stepping closer. “Why’s it so dark in here? Power bill due or something?”

A weak huff of a laugh. “Yeah. Thought we’d live dangerously.”

That’s not right either.

You stop in front of him, hands on your hips, studying him. He keeps his gaze down, focused on the label of the bottle like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“How was work?” he asks quickly. Too quickly.

There it is.

Deflection

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you crouch in front of him, trying to catch his eyes. He shifts again, turning just enough that the side of his face disappears into shadow.

“Peter.”

“I’m listening,” he says, forcing lightness into his tone. “Go on. Tell me about your day.” You reach out, fingers brushing his wrist. He flinches. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else might notice.

But you do, and your chest tightens.

“…What happened?”

“Nothing.” Immediate. Firm. Too firm. “Long day, that’s all.”

“Look at me.”

“I am—”

“Peter.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, he turns, and the breath leaves your body.

The bruise is already blooming along his cheekbone, dark and ugly against his skin. There’s a split at the corner of his lip, dried scab pulled tight when he presses his mouth into a line.

Your vision goes red.

“Who—”

“Hey.” He catches your wrist before you can even stand, grip firm but not harsh. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” you echo, voice sharp, disbelieving. “Don’t what, Peter? Don’t ask who did this to you?”

“You already know who.” Of course you do.

Of course you do. Your jaw clenches so hard it aches. “I’m going over there.”

“No, you’re not.” You try to pull your hand free, but he’s already on his feet, already holding both your wrists now, keeping you in place. Not hurting you—never that—but not letting you go either.

“Peter, I swear to God—”

“He’s not worth it.”

“He hit you!” The words crack out of you, louder than you intended. Your chest is heaving now, anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak tangling together. “He does not get to—he does not get to put his hands on you and just—what, walk away? Like it’s nothing?” Peter’s grip tightens for just a second.

“It’s not nothing,” he says quietly. You falter. There’s something in his voice. Not anger. Not exactly. Something heavier. Older.

Tired

“It’s just… not new,” he adds. That hits harder than anything else. Your anger doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, softens at the edges into something that aches.

“Pete…” Your voice breaks a little now. “You can’t just—sit here and act like it’s fine.”

“I’m not,” he says, his eyes rolling up to meet yours for a fleeting moment, pleading. “I just don’t want you in the middle of it.”

“I’m already in the middle of it.” You tug one hand free, pressing your palm carefully to his uninjured cheek, forcing him to really look at you this time. “Hank hates me, remember? Because I ‘put ideas in your head.’ Because I ‘turn you against him.’” A flicker of something crosses his face. Shame. Maybe.

“He said that again,” you realize. Peter exhales, eyes dropping for a moment.

“Yeah.” Your thumb brushes lightly under his eye, avoiding the bruise. Then you lean in without thinking, pressing a soft kiss just beside it, careful, feather-light. He stills under you.

“And what did you say?” you ask softly, your lips lingering near his skin. A small, almost disbelieving huff leaves him.

“I told him he doesn’t get to talk about you like that.” Your heart stutters.

You tilt your head, brushing your mouth against the corner of his, avoiding the cut as best you can. “Yeah?” you murmur.

His breath catches. “Yeah.”

“And then?” you ask, quieter now, your nose nudging his.

“And then he didn’t like that very much.” Of course he didn’t. You close your eyes briefly, your forehead pressing to his, your lips ghosting his once more—gentle, reassuring, not asking for anything more than closeness. For a second, neither of you move. Then you pull back just enough to look at him again, gentler now.

“Come on,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his jaw before pressing another soft kiss there. “Let me take care of you.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not,” you cut in, but there’s no heat in it this time. Just certainty. You press one more kiss to his temple, lingering. “And you don’t have to be. Not here.” Something in him gives at that. You see it clear as day in his eyes.

The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction, the fight draining out of him as he finally, finally lets himself lean into your space. His forehead dips to your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him without hesitation, holding him close.

“…Okay,” he says quietly.

++++++++

The night settles into something softer after that. You clean the cut on his lip, your hands careful and warm, your touch grounding. Every now and then, your thumb brushes his chin, your fingers steadying him, and when you’re done, you press a gentle kiss just beneath the injury—close, but not touching.

He watches you the whole time as his hands hold your waist, his thumbs drifting to just under the edge of your shirt to rub the skin underneath tenderly. Peter’s expressive eyes trace your face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s reminding himself that this—this—is real. 

That he made it here.

That he chose this.

Later, you guide him to the couch, curling up beside him, his arm heavy and familiar around your shoulders. You tuck yourself in close, one leg draped over his, your hand resting over his heart as he pulls the thick throw blanket over you both from the back of the sofa.

The TV hums in the background, but neither of you are really paying attention. Your fingers drift absentmindedly over his arm, then up, brushing along his collarbone, then up to the back of his neck to twirl the short, soft hairs around the tip of your finger. He exhales softly, his chin tipping down until his lips find your hairline where he lets them linger.

“You remember our first apartment?” you ask after a while. His hand was up the back of your shirt, rubbing circles tenderly because he knew you loved how it felt. 

Peter hums against you, pressing another absent kiss into your hair. “The one with the broken heater and the neighbor who played drums at two in the morning?”

“That’s the one.” you chuckle.

“Hard to forget.” You could hear the sleep in his voice, but you haven’t quite lost him yet.

You smile faintly, turning your head just enough to press a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. “You told me it was temporary.”

“It was.” There was relief in his answer, because thank god it was temporary.

“It didn’t feel like it at the time.” you mumbled, this time gently pecking the center of his neck where his adam’s apple bobbed in reflex. 

“No,” he admits, his hand sliding further up your back slowly, thumb tracing lazy circles. “It didn’t.” There’s a pause. Then, softer, “But we got out.”

You tilt your head, fully looking up at him. “Yeah. We did.”

His gaze meets yours, something steady and certain there now despite everything. His hand leaves your back and comes up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek before he leans in, pressing a slow, careful kiss to your lips—soft, restrained, mindful of the cut but no less full of feeling.

“You helped me do that.”

You don’t pull away far, your lips still close to his when you whisper, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You did,” he insists quietly, brushing his nose against yours. “You…made me believe I could do more than I was–to gets stability. To go to the academy.” Your chest tightens again, but in a different way this time. Warmer.

“You always could do anything you wanted, Peter.” And that was true–Peter was intelligent, compassionate, and fully capable of tackling anything set before him. It was Hank who was the issue, and Hank who held Peter back in any way he could. 

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s easier when someone’s standing in your corner.” You don’t respond with words. You just lean in again, kissing him softly—once, twice—slow and grounding, your hand curling at the back of his neck to keep him close.

He exhales into it, his hand tightening slightly at your waist.

+++++++

The bath is your idea.

Peter protests at first—half-hearted, already worn down—but eventually he gives in, letting you coax him into the warm water. The tension bleeds out of him slowly, like something unwinding strand by strand.

You sit behind him, your legs bracketing his hips, fingers combing gently through his hair, massaging his scalp. Every so often, you lean forward, pressing soft kisses along his shoulder, to where his neck meets his taut shoulder—slow, comforting, unhurried.

His eyes close with a heavy sigh.

“Stay,” he murmurs, pulling one of your arms to his chest where he links your fingers together. Your other arm moves to wrap around his chest, holding his back firmly to your chest

You press a kiss just behind his ear. “I’m not going anywhere, Pete.”

A quiet hum of agreement.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of water and your breathing, your touch, your lips brushing his skin in quiet reassurance.

Peaceful

Safe

+++++++++

By the time you both make it to bed, the house feels like itself again.

Soft. Warm. Yours.

Peter lies on his side, facing you, one hand resting at your waist like he needs the contact, like he needs to know you’re still there. You trace the edge of the bruise lightly, then lean in, pressing the gentlest kiss just beneath it.

“Still hurts?” you ask.

“A little.” He mutters, but he gives you a little sideways grin.

“Liar.” you say with squinting eyes.

The grin widens. “Maybe.”

You shift closer, your leg tangling with his, your hand sliding up his bare chest until it rests over his heart. You kiss him again—soft, lingering, a little deeper this time, but still careful. He responds immediately, like he’s been waiting for it, his arms tightening around you instinctually. When you pull back, your foreheads rest together.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his one more time. “Always.” His eyes flicker, something vulnerable and raw surfacing for just a second.

“I know.” And he does, that’s the difference. No matter how loud the past gets, how heavy it tries to be, it doesn’t follow him here.

Not all the way.

Because here, in the quiet dark, with your arms around him, your lips soft against his, your breath warm against his skin, he's not alone.