very gay, 24yo bellatrix lestrange/ rhea ripley coded idiot, with an obsession for movies, shows, women, wwe, sci-fi, horror, acting and people with accents. (she/her)
Summary: Neither of them thought a random project creative came up with will turn into... this.
The locker room hums with the usual chaos. Boots on concrete, the hiss of hair spray, the faint echo of the crowd outside. I’m sitting on a bench, taping my wrists, trying to focus when the door creaks open.
A producer steps in with a clipboard tucked under his arm, looking way too casual given the bomb he’s about to drop.
"New plan!" he says “Creative wants you in a tag team starting tonight.”
My stomach sinks. “With who?”
He glances down at his clipboard like it matters, then smirks. “Iyo Sky.”
The tape nearly slips from my fingers. “You’re kidding." But clearly he’s not, because the next second I hear the sharp rhythm of boots against the floor and I don’t need to look up to know who it is, but I do anyway. Iyo is framed in the doorway like she owns it, arms folded across her chest, eyes sharp enough to pin me in place.
She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, unreadable, like she’s dissecting me without a word.
“Well,” I mutter, tugging the tape tighter around my wrist. “guess we’re partners now.”
Iyo tilts her head slightly. Her expression doesn’t change, but her voice cuts through the air, low and even. “We'll win.”
It’s not a suggestion. Not even optimism. Just a fact carved out of stone.
I blink at her, a laugh almost slipping out. “That’s all it takes, huh? Just say it and it happens?”
Finally, a flicker of something. The corner of her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “If you can keep up.” she says simply.
That pulls a laugh out of me, sharper this time. “Unbelievable. I don’t even know if I can trust you in the ring. Hell, you don't even know if you can trust me." Iyo’s eyes narrow just a fraction, like the word trust rubs her the wrong way. “Trust doesn’t matter.” Her english still isn’t perfect, but it’s clear enough, confident. “The way we fight matters.”
I should be annoyed. And honestly? I am. But beneath the irritation, there’s this other feeling low in my chest like I’ve just been thrown into a storm I didn’t see coming, and I'm excited to see what happens next.
Iyo doesn’t wait for me to answer. She turns and walks away without another word. The echo of her boots fades down the hall, leaving the locker room strangely quiet.
This partnership is either going to crash and burn… or set the whole place on fire.
⸻
Before our first match, the hallway feels colder than it should. Concrete walls, buzzing lights overhead, the muffled roar of the crowd bleeding through the arena. Iyo’s already leaning against a wall when I show up, arms crossed, eyes closed like she’s meditating. Or simply ignoring me. Hard to tell.
“Can we go over the match?" I say, stopping a few feet away.
Her eyes flick open, assessing me. “You'll know what to do in the ring. I'll teach you."
I blink. “You mean during the match?”
She pushes off the wall, shrugging one shoulder. “We have no time now. They threw this thing..." she gestures between us "...together too fast. I read people easy. Just follow me this time."
“That may be easier for you, maybe.” I shoot back. “But if you pull something unexpected out there, I need to know before you decide to turn it into a highlight reel.”
Iyo’s gaze doesn’t waver. She's calm and steady, like she’s seen this argument a hundred times. “You keep your pace. I match it. We win.”
The way she says it so simple, so matter-of-fact, like my doubts are irrelevant, makes my teeth clench... but it makes me consider the idea. "You’re seriously that confident?”
Her lips curve, just slightly. “Yes.”
I huff, running a hand through my hair. “Look, Iyo, I’m not doubting your skill, but we're both aware how good tag teams work. Are you sure we can pull it off and we won't just end up tripping over each other—”
“You talk too much.” she cuts me off smoothly. Not harsh, just true in the way she delivers it. “Save it for the ring."
For a second, all I can do is stare at her. “Fucking hell.”
Iyo’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, seeing that she's riling me up. Probably didn't think it'd work this well. She leans in just enough that I catch the faintest scent of perfume and peppermint gum. Her voice drops lower, softer, steady. “Don’t worry. I protect my partner.”
The words land heavier than they should. Protective. It’s not what I expected from her and it makes something in my chest tighten in a way I don’t like admitting. She straightens, brushing past me as the stagehand waves us toward the gorilla.
She doesn’t look back, and I’m left standing there with my heart racing, and not from nerves about the crowd, but from the realization that I have no idea what’s going to happen when I step into that ring with her.
The arena lights burn hot as we step through the curtain. The crowd is deafening, but all I can think about is the woman walking two steps ahead of me. And I probably look like a lost puppy right about now. Iyo doesn’t look at me once. Her focus is straight ahead, eyes locked on the ring like it’s the only thing that exists.
We climb inside and wait. Liv bounces out first, all bright energy, waving to the crowd. Raquel follows, towering, calm, but dangerous. They look like a team. Like they’ve been through the wars together. Which, of course, they have.
Unlike Iyo and me, who have barely spoken five full sentences.
The bell rings and I start things off with Liv, fast-paced, trading holds and counters. At first, it clicks. My body remembers what to do. But when I reach for a tag, Iyo doesn’t move. She’s still on the apron, one hand gripping the rope, eyes sharp but still. Watching.
“Anytime now!” I snap, dodging a kick from Liv. Iyo tilts her head, then finally extends her hand. The second I slap it, she launches into the ring with the precision of a blade.
And she’s good. So damn good that every kick lands sharp, every counter flows into the next. Even I get caught up watching the way she moves.
But at some point she pulls out a sudden springboard that throws everything off, and from that moment on the timing is wrong. Raquel catches her mid-air and slams her down. The crowd groans and I'm on the same page as I’m already leaning over the ropes, hand out. “Tag me, Iyo!”
She rolls through, eyes flicking up at me, but instead of tagging she tries to push through Raquel and her stubbornness nearly gets her pinned. I can feel the frustration bubbling in my chest, because this is exactly what I meant backstage.
When she finally crawls over and makes the tag. I hit the ring like a storm, adrenaline falling into the cracks, trying to make up for everything that went wrong since that springboard. I manage to drop Liv and send Raquel stumbling, and for a moment it feels like we’ve got the momentum back.
But then Liv ducks under my clothesline and catches me with a kick to the jaw. I hit the mat harder than I expected, ears ringing. The crowd is buzzing, and suddenly everything feels too fast, too loud.
Liv goes for the pin, but I kick out at two. I try to push up, but my vision blurs and she tries again. Except this time I can't do it.
That's when I feel a sudden rush of air beside me. Iyo dives in, breaking the pin with a brutal kick that sends Liv sprawling. But she doesn’t stop there. She hauls me up with surprising strength, one hand braced on my back. “I told you not to worry.”
Her eyes burn with something I’ve never so far from her. For the first time all night, I believe her. Then turns, unleashing on Liv with a ferocity that makes the crowd lose it. She doesn’t even glance at me again, but the message is clear.
She’s not letting me fall. Not tonight.
Iyo’s kick sends Liv crashing to the mat. She doesn’t waste a second, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me toward our corner.
“Recover." she says sharply, sliding through the ropes. I don’t argue, because my lungs burn and my jaw aches from Liv’s kick, so I just cling to the ropes and try to breathe. Across the ring, Liv’s crawling to Raquel, desperation written all over her face. The tag happens and Raquel thunders in, all fury and momentum, but Iyo meets her head-on.
It’s like watching lightning crack against stone. Raquel swings heavy, all raw power, but Iyo moves with razor precision, too sharp and too fast. Still, Raquel catches her eventually, scooping her up and slamming her down so hard the mat shakes. Then comes the pin.
My breath catches for a second, but she still kicks out. Raquel hauls her up, looking for another slam meant to maybe keep her down this time, but I’m back in, breaking it up with a flying forearm make Raquel stumble backward a little.
The ref pushes me out, yelling, but it’s enough for Iyo to slip free, staggered but standing. Her eyes find mine across the ropes. She extends her hand and I slap the tag.
The crowd roars as I hit the ring, adrenaline surging again. Liv charges, but I duck her attack and catch her with a spinebuster that rattles the canvas. Raquel steps in, but Iyo’s already there, cutting her off with a springboard dropkick that sends her sprawling through the ropes.
It’s chaotic, loud and messy, but for the first time tonight, we’re moving together. In sync.
Liv stumbles back into me, dazed. I catch her and set her up with a sharp glance to the corner, where Iyo’s already climbing the turnbuckle. No hesitation, no words needed.
I hoist Liv into position and hold her steady just as Iyo launches. Her moonsault is perfect, crashing down onto Liv with devastating precision.
The crowd explodes.
I drop to my knees, hooking Liv’s leg for the pin while Iyo shields us from Raquel’s desperate dive.
One! Two! Three! We win.
The ref raises our arms, but I’m too busy staring at Iyo. Sweat drips down the side of her face, chest rising and falling fast, but her expression stays unreadable. Except for her eyes. They flick toward me, sharp but steady, like she’s silently saying I told you so.
I should roll my eyes or throw back some snark, but the words catch in my throat. Because the truth is, I can still feel her earlier words echoing in my head: I protect my partner.
And I know now that she meant them.
⸻
Airports drain the life out of me. Lights that are too powerful, endless lines, the body heat of hundreds of strangers pressed too close. It's a kind of exhaustion I'll never get used to.
I yank my hoodie higher over my face, hoping it’ll make me invisible, though the kid two rows ahead in the security line is already whispering my name to his mom.
By the time I push my suitcase through the checkpoint, I’m ready to collapse. Meanwhile, Iyo is already waiting on the other side, perfectly composed, suitcase rolling effortlessly behind her.
“How do you not hate this?” I mutter as I catch up, dragging my bag like it somehow offended me. Iyo glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t think about it.”
“Must be nice.” She gives a little shrug, lips pressed together in the ghost of a smile. “You think too much.”
I scoff, but it’s not defensive. “It's called bservation. You should try it.”
This time, she actually smirks. So faint that one could miss if they didn't pay attention, but it's there, before turning her attention back to the terminal signs overhead. We weave through the crowds, me trailing behind her as she slips past people so effortlessly while I keep getting shoulder-bumped by people who aren’t even looking where they’re going.
By the time we reach the gate, I’m sweating and ready to either pass out right here ans now, or punch someone if they rub me wrong. Iyo, on the other hand, is calm and looks like she just stepped out of a photo shoot.
I drop into the chair beside her, throwing my bag at my feet. “Remind me again why management doesn’t give us private flights?”
“Because we’re not Brock Lesnar." she says without missing a beat, eyes still on her phone.
I choke on a laugh. “So you do complain sometimes.”
She doesn’t answer. Just scrolls through her phone and I eventually realize she’s rewatching last night’s match. I see myself on the screen for half a second before she tilts the phone away.
“You’re analyzing." I say.
“I’m always analyzing." She replies calmly, still watching. Then she finally glances at me, her eyes sharp. “You were good.”
The words catch me off guard. I blink. “Was that a compliment?”
“Yes." she says simply like she doesn’t see what the big deal is, then she turns back to the screen, conversation over.
Our boarding group is called. The line is slow, I grumble under my breath about people not knowing how to put their bags in the overhead bin, and I hear her laugh quietly, almost hidden, but definitely there.
By the time we find our seats, I’m already dreading the flight. Iyo slides into the window seat, folding herself neatly, earbuds already in. She looks like she’s settled in for hibernation.
I try to find a comfortable angle, but it’s useless. My head keeps lolling forward, jerking back when I almost slam into the tray table.
“Hey, relax.” Iyo murmurs suddenly, eyes still closed. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pack of gum, holding it out to me without looking.
I take one, a little stunned. “Thanks.” She hums, slipping a piece into her mouth, then rests her head against the window.
I try to focus on anything else but the takeoff, except my anxiety still get the better of me for a bit. My shoulder brushes hers once, twice, and I pull back both times. The third time, I don’t move. She doesn’t either.
Eventually, the motion of the plane drags me under. My head tips slightly toward her shoulder, and this time, I let it rest there. She’s warm and steady, not shifting away or nudging me off.
When I wake up, the plane is descending and the seatbelt sign is glowing overhead. I blink a few times, a little disoriented at first, before realizing two things at once: one, my neck doesn’t hurt this time, and two, I’ve been leaning against Iyo the entire flight.
She notices me stirring but doesn’t comment, just pulls her bag from under the seat and starts getting ready to leave. Not mentioning it. Just quiet acceptance, like it didn't bother her at all.
Somehow, that makes my pulse race more than if she’d called me out.
⸻
By the time the cab drops us off at the hotel, my body feels like it’s running on fumes. The flight, the layover, the constant motion of travel, all of it stacks up until the only thing I want is a shower and a bed. And I don't even think I could actually fall asleep this early, but I just want to lay down.
We get to the front desk and the clerk slides two key cards across the counter. “One room. Two queens.”
I blink. “Wait—”
But Iyo’s already taken both cards, sliding one into her pocket before handing the other to me without hesitation, like it’s not even worth commenting on.
“Seriously?” I mutter as we drag our suitcases into the elevator. “They couldn’t spring for separate rooms?”
Iyo presses the button for our floor, arms folded loosely. “It’s fine.”
“Yeah, for you. You probably meditate yourself to sleep. Me? You might want to commit murder."
Her head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly. “What makes you think I don't already?"
I gape. “What?”
“Messing with you.” Her mouth curves just slightly into closest thing I’ve seen to a grin. “You do do things in your sleep.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You could’ve woken me up!”
“No. It was… funny.”
The doors slide open before I can think of a comeback. She wheels her suitcase down the hallway, and I trail after her, still trying to wrap my head around the information I just received.
The room is cute. A dark but warm aesthetic, two black beds with identical dark green comforters. Iyo claims the one closest to the window without hesitation. I toss my bag on the other and immediately beeline for the bathroom.
“Shower first." I announce.
“Go." she says simply, already pulling out a small notebook and pen.
When I emerge in an oversized shirt and shorts, steam clinging to my skin, Iyo’s still at the desk. She’s sketching lines and arrows, little stick figures in ring positions. Match ideas.
“You'll don’t switch off?” I ask, toweling my hair. She doesn’t look up. “No.” Then, after a pause “You should see this.”
I pad over, peering at the page. It’s a sequence of tag exchanges between us, the timing tight and clean. She taps the stick figure version of me. “If you do this—” she demonstrates with a quick flick of her wrist, “then I can finish here.”
I blink, impressed despite myself. “That’s… genius.” Her eyes flick to mine, steady, almost challenging. “Of course.”
We hover there for a moment, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of her shampoo, sharper than the hotel’s cheap soap on me. The air feels heavier than it should.
I clear my throat and back up towards my bed. “Well, good to know I’m just a doodle in your evil genius notebook.”
Iyo finally sets the pen down, leaning back in the chair. “Better than being no one.”
I roll my eyes, flopping onto the mattress, but I can’t fight the small smile tugging at my lips.
Later, when the lights are out, I catch myself listening for her breathing. It’s steady and for some reason, it anchors me.
⸻
I wake up to the faint sound of running water only to realize after a few seconds that it’s the shower. Of course Iyo’s already up.
By the time I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes, Iyo steps out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam rolling out behind her. She doesn't say anything as she crosses the room to dig through her bag, already locked into the day ahead.
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to remember what city we’re in. “Morning." I mumble, voice raspy.
She hums, noncommittal, pulling out her ring gear. It’s like watching someone assemble armor.
We don’t talk much on the way to the arena. The shuttle is crowded with talent and staff, everyone buzzing about the card tonight. Iyo just sits there silently. earbuds in, gaze fixed out the window.
By the time we walk into the arena, the energy hits me like a train. Production crew hauling cables, refs in polos huddling over cue sheets, the faint bass of soundcheck rattling through the halls. This place always feels like a giant machine coming to life right before a show.
We head to the locker room. I dump my bag and start lacing my boots, trying not to think too hard about the fact that we’re teaming again tonight.
“You ready?” Iyo asks suddenly, her voice quiet but cutting through the silence that has stretched over the room in the last minute.
I glance up. “I mean, yeah. I guess.”
Her brow furrows, just slightly. “Not good enough.”
I huff. “What do you want me to say? ‘Yes, captain, I’m ready to destroy all in our path’?”
She doesn’t laugh. She just studies me until the attention makes my skin prickle. Then she nods, finally satisfied, and goes back to tightening her wrist tape.
Out by gorilla I can already hear the crowd roaring. The muffled chants bleed through the curtain, and I feel that addictive rush kick in.
Iyo leans in close so I can hear her over the music. “Stay sharp. We can do this clean.” I nod, ignoring my racing heartbeat.
When our music hits, everything else fades away. The lights, the crowd, the cameras, it all blurs until it’s just us and the ring.
The match itself is chaos, as usual. Liv’s quick, darting around like a pinball, while Raquel’s all brute strength, tossing me across the ring like I weigh nothing. My ribs scream after one particularly nasty slam, but I grit my teeth and crawl to the corner.
Iyo’s hand stretches out, steady and sure. I slap it and she enters the ring with lightning speed. Her precision is terrifying. The crowd eats it up.
What surprises me is how natural everything feels between us this time. Neither of us has to call spots. She ducks, I cover. She launches, I’m already in position. It’s like we’ve been tagging for years, not weeks.
The match comes to an end soon. Raquel staggered, Liv down. Iyo is perched on the top rope, ready take it home. Just before she leaps, her eyes flick to mine for a split second. 'Trust me.' And I do.
She jumps, hits her moonsault clean, and the ref counts three. After the bell rings, we stand there, arms raised, sweat dripping, crowd chanting.
And for the first time, I realize I’m not just celebrating a win. I’m celebrating us.
The crowd is chanting our names in waves that crash against the barricades. I can feel the sweat dripping down the side of my face and my neck, my chest heaving, my lungs burning. But all of that gets drowned out by the way Iyo stands beside me, essentially grounding me.
I eventually lean back against the ropes, watching her silhouette framed by blinding spotlights, and I know without needing anyone to spell it out that this is her world and she pulled me into it.
⸻
Backstage, the second we step through the curtain, the noise dulls into a hum. Crew members clap us on the back, voices overlapping, “Great match!” “That moonsault was insane!” “Nice finish.”
We mumble thanks, I'm still catching my breath, but Iyo doesn’t break stride. She moves fast, cutting through the bodies in the hallway until we’re finally back in our corner of the locker room.
I slump onto the bench, grabbing a bottle of water and pouring half of it straight over my head. Cold rivulets run down my neck, but it’s not enough to put out the fire in my chest. “Damn,” I mutter, “that was… something.”
Iyo is in front of the mirror, peeling tape off her wrists, but she glances at me in the reflection. “You kept up.”
I blink. “Thanks? That’s… high praise, coming from you.”
“It’s not praise.” she says flatly, tossing the used tape into the trash. “It’s a fact. You did good.”
I can’t help laughing. “You’re unreal, you know that?”
She finally turns, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I think she’s going to brush it off and retreat into her quiet shell again. Instead, she studies me and something softer flickers in her eyes.
“You’re better than you think.” she says simply. The words hit harder than any clothesline and I swallow, caught off guard. “…Thanks."
She nods once, as if that’s all there is to say, then digs in her bag for a clean shirt.
But as I sit there, watching her move, I can’t shake the thought that maybe this slow, careful rhythm between us isn’t just about matches.
⸻
Another morning, another hotel, different city. This time the fact that we share a room doesn't matter anymore. I might've actually felt worse if I was on my own.
The first thing I notice is the sunlight sneaking through the gap in the heavy curtains. The second thing is the smell of coffee.
I blink myself awake and sit up, groggy, hair a little messy. Iyo is already dressed in jeans, a loose shirt, hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She’s perched at the small small coffee table next to the window with two cups next to her, one steaming and the other iced.
“You’re up early, again." I say. She glances over her shoulder. “Always.”
“Of course.” I drag myself out of bed, stretching until my back pops. “And you… got both of us coffee?”
One eyebrow lifts. “Yes. Do you not want?”
I shuffle across the room still sleepy, snatching the iced latte, needing my emotional support drink. The first sip is heaven. The iced factor, slightly sweet, added salted caramel. Did she really pay attention that much?
I sigh, practically melting into the chair opposite her.
“Okay, I take back every insult I’ve ever thrown your way.”
Her lips twitch. “That is a lot.”
I grin. “Yeah, but this is worth it.”
For a while, we just sit there. The quiet isn’t awkward, just easy. I watch her notebook open on the table between us, more diagrams and lines, strategies and sequences, ideas scribbled in neat handwriting. “You really never stop, do you?” I say softly.
She doesn’t look up. “No.” Then, after a pause, she sets the pen down and meets my eyes. “But… this helps.”
The way she says it so quiet, almost vulnerable, makes my chest tighten. I don’t push, don’t make a joke. I just nod, sipping my coffee.
Eventually, I notice her glancing at my disaster of a suitcase by the bed, thanks to me losing a war with it last night and being honestly too tired to fix it, knowing I'll do it today.
“What?” I challenge.
“Mess." she says simply.
“And here I thought we were having a moment. Don't worry, it bothers me too. I'll finish this and fix it.”
Her shoulders lift in a tiny shrug, but I catch the faintest smirk on her lips, as if there's something else on the tip of her tongue.
I grab the nearest pillow and throw it at her. She ducks it without even trying, smirk widening as it sails past and lands uselessly against the wall.
“You’re impossible.” I mutter.
She sets her coffee down and leans forward, elbows braced on her knees, eyes fixed on me. The lazy amusement in her face sharpens into something deliberate and a lot more dangerous, like the moment before she launches off the top rope.
“And you’re slow." she says, softer. A blade disguised as a whisper.
I narrow my eyes. “I just woke up! And in the ring, I'm not.”
She tilts her head. “In the ring, you fight. Any other time…” Her gaze flicks down, not subtle and deliberate, before dragging back up to meet mine. “You hesitate.”
The air thickens. My breath stutters, just enough for her to notice. And of course she couldn't miss it.
“Too bad you're quiet now." she murmurs, voice smooth, teasing. “I think I like you better loud.”
Heat crawls up my neck. My instinct is to snap back, but my throat’s too dry. So I just stare at her, stubborn, refusing to give her the satisfaction.
Her lips twitch, the barest hint of a smirk. “See? Hesitation.” She sits back slowly, like a predator stretching after the hunt. “Maybe you’re brave only when there’s a crowd.”
That stings. “You think I can’t handle you?” I bite back, sharper than I meant to.
Her eyes flash, dark and amused, like she’s been waiting for me to crack. “I think,” she says, leaning in just enough that her voice skims the edge of my skin, “you don’t know what it means to try.”
My chest tightens. Too close. Too calm. She’s not just teasing me, but testing me, daring me to rise to the challenge.
I swallow hard and force a shaky laugh. “Keep poking and you’ll find out exactly how brave I can get.”
For a split second, something flickers in her eyes, like satisfaction or victory, or maybe hunger. Then she leans back once again, retrieving her coffee like none of it happened. “Good" she says simply.
And just like that, the tension snaps. The room looks the same, smells like coffee, but my hands are tightening around the coffee cup.
She doesn’t look at me again, perfectly content, calm as a blade in its sheath. And I can’t stop wondering if she plans to test me like this until I break or worse... if maybe I want her to.
⸻
Once again, the hum of the arena seeps through the walls before we even step out. My fingers tighten on my laces, grounding myself.
Beside me, Iyo is like a statue. It’s like she doesn’t feel the chaos building outside, like nothing can touch her.
I’m not sure if that steadiness comforts me or makes me want to shake her until she cracks.
“They will try to get between us.”
Her voice cuts through the air. But she doesn’t look up.
My brows knit. “Huh?”
She finally glances at me, not casual tho. It’s piercing. “Michin and B-Fab. They will not just fight your body. They will… test your head.” She tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing, and her tone sharpens. “They will see what I see.”
My chest tightens. “And what do you see?”
“The way you look." she says simply, as if it’s obvious. “Your hesitation.”
That one word lands like a stone dropped into my stomach. I snap back too quickly, too defensive. “I don’t hesitate, or at least not that much."
Her gaze doesn’t waver. Her voice doesn’t rise. She just slices through me, calm and clinical. “You do.”
It would almost hurt less if she shouted. Instead, it’s matter-of-fact, like she’s writing an analysis in one of her notebooks. Like she’s already dissected me and found the weak point.
I grit my teeth, pulling my laces tighter than necessary. “So you don’t trust me out there?”
There’s a pause. Then she leans closer, enough that her breath brushes my skin when she speaks. “I trust you more than anyone.” A heartbeat. A shift in her expression. Then, almost imperceptibly, her lips curl. “But I want to see you prove it.”
My breath catches. She knows exactly what she’s doing, digging her fingers into my soul without touching me, just to see how far she can push.
Before I can spit back an answer, the music hits. Cue time. No more space for words, and whatever storm she started backstage, we carry it into the ring with us.
The bell rings and B-Fab is on me like a predator. Her strikes are sharp, her holds cruel, every twist of my arm and wrench of my shoulder meant to break more than bone. Michin hovers on the ropes, a vulture waiting to pick apart scraps.
And through it all, B-Fab spits venom. “Where’s your partner now, huh? She’s not coming to save you, honey. You’re all alone.”
The words dig too sharp because they echo Iyo’s. Hesitate. Distracted. Unproven.
I claw toward our corner, lungs burning, but when I finally lift my head, there she is. Ready for the tag, unwavering eyes locked on mine. No doubt, just unshakable certainty. It’s enough to shove me forward. I lunge and slap her hand.
Iyo comes into the ring with the same speed I still can't get used to. She’s terrifying and beautiful at the same time, her body moving like she’s ten steps ahead of everyone else, and none of us can take our eyes off of her.
Then she glances at me mid-chaos. Not casual look, but a gaze that's sharp enough to actually slice. Are you ready? Or will you hesitate again?
It lights something in me and I move before I can think, storming back into the match with her, the rhythm suddenly perfect between us. As if we’ve trained for this a thousand times.
Iyo climbs the ropes having the whole arena leaning forward in their seats. She twists through the air impossibly gracefully, her moonsault crashing down like thunder.
One. Two. Three.
The crowd erupts, but I stand there buzzing, caught between adrenaline and the sharper electricity of her gaze.
Iyo lifts her arm, calm and collected, then she brushes past me as we leave the ring, her shoulder catching mine just enough to make me stumble one step.
⸻
Backstage she finally spares me a glance. “Better.” The word is almost a praise. Then, quieter: “But still slow.”
It’s neither cruel nor kind. A knife edge, which leaves me bleeding with nothing but the echo of the crowd in my ears.
And I know she's far from being done.
My heart’s still hammering from everything that happened in the last 30 minutes. Winning should feel clean, pure, but I can already taste the storm before I see it.
The demons are waiting. Michin's really not that bad once she steps out of the competitiveness of the ring, however, who I don't like is her partner.
They’re propped against some equipment crates, like two predators at ease after playing with their prey. B-Fab's arms are folded, her mouth curled into that cruel half-smile that makes you want to hit her all over again. Michin stands beside her, hands on her hips, eyes glinting with something different.
“Well, well...” B-Fab drawls, voice low and sharp. “Congrats on barely scraping through. But let’s be honest.” Her eyes slide over me like she’s sizing up a carcass. “Iyo carried that match. You’re just lucky she was in there to clean up your mess.”
Michin leans in, smirk widening. “Yeah. Dead weight.” Her tone is different from her partner, less venom, but her gaze lingers in a way that makes my skin prickle and I can't tell if in a good or bad way. “Cute dead weight, though.”
I blink, heart racing. "Huh?”
She shrugs, lips quirking as her eyes travel down and back up. “Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got work to do. But sloppy can be… a lot of fun.” Her smile twists. “Maybe give me a call when this Iyo situation comes to an end. I'd love a chance with you.”
My breath catches, anger and heat crashing into each other.
B-Fab chuckles, enjoying the show. “See, our lovely Michin is generous. I’d just leave you in the dust.”
Before I can answer or process the tangled mess in my chest, Iyo spawns right next to me. “She's good, better than you," she says more towards B-Fab, her voice soft but cutting, “even if she hesitates.”
The world tilts. My stomach twists. What the hell—
B-Fab barks out a laugh. “Dude, even your partner can't compliment you fully.”
Michin’s grin softens in a certain way and she closes in on me, her voice dipping just low enough to be intimate. “I actually like a little hesitation. That way you give me time to take control.”
My face burns hot, fury sparking at the edges, but before I can speak, Iyo’s voice slices through the haze once again. “That doesn't matter.” She repeats, her eyes pinning me, unblinking. “She still wins with me.” And it lands like yet another test.
B-Fab shakes her head, pushing off the crates with a huff. “You'll still always be second string.” She brushes past, shoulder slamming into mine with deliberate force. Michin lingers. She leans in so I can feel the warmth of her breath against my ear. “Think about what I said." She whispers, voice laced with something far too casual. Then she smiles softly and saunters after her partner, glancing back once just to watch me seethe.
Silence crashes in their wake. My fists ache from how hard I’ve clenched them and I whip toward Iyo, fury sparking in every nerve.
“Are you kidding me?” My voice is sharp, low, close to shaking. "You let them rip me apart, you let her—” My throat chokes on the memory of Michin’s words. “You just stood there and—”
Iyo doesn’t move, doesn’t soften, doesn’t give me anything. She tilts her head getting more infuriating by the second. “I told you." She says, low. “I like to see how you prove yourself.”
My chest heaves. “Prove myself? I think you just like watching me squirm.”
For a moment, her lips twitch with the barest spark of a smile threatening to surface. She steps closer, her presence overwhelming. “Both." She says softly, then brushes past me as she walks off.
And I’m left standing there, burning from head to toe with rage and something else.
⸻
The locker room is yet again, too quiet. What is it with this place being empty when I don't want it to be? My head is still a little stuck on last week's encounter with the partners from hell.
I scrub my face with a towel, hard enough that my skin stings, but it does nothing to help me. Her smirk is still there when I close my eyes.
When I drop the towel, Iyo is standing across from me, watching silently, leaning back against the lockers with her arms crossed, eyes locked on me as if she’s already gotten inside my head.
“What?” I snap.
Her head tilts slightly, expression unreadable. “She got in your head.”
“She did not.” But it's too fast, too sharp and she sees right through it.
She doesn’t even breathe differently. “You’re still thinking about her.”
I push up from the bench, trying to walk off the irritation crawling under my skin. “No, I’m thinking about how you stood there and let her run her mouth. Or how you intervened only to not be of help at all. You just fed her ammunition."
Her lips twitch, just barely, like I’ve said something funny. “Yes.” The calm in her voice is worse than anything.
I turn on her, fury spiking hotter than I mean it to. “Why? Huh? You let her humiliate me in front of whoever was around, and you just stood there like you were enjoying the show!”
Iyo pushes off the lockers. Every movement is controlled, like she’s measuring the space between us. “Because I was.”
The words knock the air out of me. “You—”
She steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of her body, close enough that my heart stutters. Her eyes don’t leave mine. “I wanted to see what you would do. Fight her or hesitate again?"
The word lands like a blade. My fists clench tight enough that my nails dig into my palms. “You really like saying that, don’t you?” My voice is raw, shaky with the force I’m holding back. “Hesitate. Like it’s the only thing you see when you look at me. Iyo, you didn't give me time to say something before you swooped in only to make it worse."
Iyo studies me in silence, her gaze sharp and unyielding.
Then, softly: “No.”
I blink. “No?”
Her lips curl faintly, not quite a smile. “I see more.” The words should soothe, but they don’t. They twist tighter because she doesn’t say what, doesn’t explain, just leaves it hanging.
My chest heaves. “Then why the hell—”
“Because you fight better when you’re burning.” She cuts me off, her voice low, calm, infuriating, one finger pointing at my chest. “When she distracts you, when you get angry, you stop overthinking. You are sharper, faster, more dangerous.”
My mouth goes dry. “So what, you’re just going to let her keep doing that? You’re just going to let her—” I choke on the word, heat crawling up my neck. “—humiliate with me, until I snap?”
Iyo’s eyes flash, quick and sharp, like she’s caught something. She leans closer, her voice a murmur that slides under my skin. “Did it bother you more that one insulted you… or that the other wanted you?”
The question guts me. I suck in a sharp breath, words tangling on my tongue.
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m another match tape, another puzzle. “You don’t know. That is why you’re burning now.”
I want to scream at her. I want to shove her. I want... I bite down hard, teeth grinding. “You’re unbelievable."
For the first time, her lips curve into the faintest shadow of a smile that’s not soft at all. “Good,” she murmurs, voice like silk over steel. “stay that way.”
She doesn’t walk away. She lingers a second longer, close enough that the space between us feels electric, close enough that I have to hold my breath or I’ll do something I can’t take back.
Then, she finally steps back, slipping out the door like she hadn’t just set me on fire and left me to burn.
I collapse back on the bench, every nerve raw. All their voices, all their words crash into each other, becoming impossible to untangle. And I know neither of them is going to let this go, nor will I.
⸻
Weeks later, this feud is still going and the crowds adore it. Lights burn hot on my skin, sweat still slick down my back from the last match. I can feel the energy buzzing, restless, before Michin’s voice cuts through everything like a blade.
“Look who it is.”
Her tone is sharp, but her grin is worse. She’s leaning on the ropes, microphone in hand, eyes locked right on me like she’s already got me cornered. “Miss ‘I swear I’m not distracted.’ Funny, ‘cause you looked pretty distracted last week when I had you pinned.”
The crowd erupts into jeers and laughs, hitting me like waves. My blood spikes, hot and ugly.
B-Fab steps up beside her, voice dripping mockery. “Distracted’s a nice way of saying sloppy. But then again,” she glances at Michin with a smirk, “I’d probably lose focus too if she was in my ear.”
Michin chuckles low into the mic, then raises her voice again. “That’s right. The way you froze up? Like you couldn’t decide whether to slap me or kiss me?” She pauses, savoring the pop from the crowd. "Yeah, I bet you thought about that."
I want to tear the mic from someone’s hand, to shout until my throat breaks or they learn to shut their mouths. But then Michin softens her voice, syrupy sweet, and it makes my stomach knot. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m patient. You’ll come around.”
The arena explodes and I feel like the floor has certainly dropped out from under me. I take one step forward, mic clutched so tight that my knuckles ache. I’m ready to answer, to rip her apart with words, when a hand lands lightly on my wrist.
Iyo.
She doesn’t yank me back or whisper anything in my ear. She just lays her hand there, steady, calm, as if she’s reminding me without saying it: wait.
And Michin sees it. She's feeding on it and so is the crowd. “See?” she calls, gesturing toward us. “Even now she's holding you back. You know she's not protecting you, right? She's testing you. How long are you gonna let her treat you like a toy?”
That's when the crowd loses its mind. The words slam into me hard enough to shake my ribs. My heart hammers so loud it feels like the whole arena can hear it. Iyo then moves slow, deliberately raising the mic. Her eyes never leave Michin, but I can feel her gaze burn the side of my face all the same.
“She breaks,” Iyo says flatly, her voice cool, measured, carrying even in the noise. “or she doesn’t. It's easy. However, still not a toy."
The crowd gasps, the sound swelling like a storm. I whip my head towards her, searching her face for anything. But there’s nothing there except that stupid emotionless mask of hers.
She drops the mic, letting it thud to the mat and then she turns her back on all of it. On B-Fab, on Michin, on me and simply walks out.
The noise crashes around me, Michin is grinning ear to ear, B-Fab is laughing like this is the best show she’s seen all week, which by the way, reminds me of those hyenas from Lion King, and I’m left standing there, throat locked, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
Because they weren’t wrong. She didn’t protect me. She tested me. And not only did I let her, but I failed to prove anything.
⸻
Back at the hotel, the door clicks shut behind us, a hollow and final sound. The dim light casts long shadows across the room. I drop my bag onto the arm chair, letting it fall with a thud that feels far too loud in the heavy silence. Every single one of my nerves is raw from the arena, from the taunts, from the tests.
Iyo just stands kinda in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching. She doesn't have to move to dominate the space, and I can’t ever stop my pulse from doing summersaults when this is the case.
“You’re thinking about her." she says softly, and it’s like she’s already inside my head.
“What?” I snap, heat prickling up my spine. “No—”
“Yes." she cuts in, eyes locking on mine. “Michin got under your skin and you almost reacted. You wanted to answer."
I clench my fists, jaw tight. “So now you're complaining that I almost reacted? I thought that's what you wanted. I was actually surprised you intervened—"
“I didn’t mean to stop you.” she interrupts again letting each word slice through me. "I wanted to see what you would do, how far you would go, I only wanted you to be careful with your words. You stopped for some reason."
I take a small step toward her. “You—this isn’t some experiment." My voice roughens with frustration, but doesn't rise. It's not what I do. “It’s humiliating and infuriating. And you—”
Iyo comes closer. She knows by now this has an effect on me. Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I control the space." She murmurs, voice low, deliberate, almost intimate. “I control the test. But you… get to decide how far you push.”
My stomach tightens. “I—”
Her lips curve into a faint, dangerous smile. “But only I decide how far you really take it.”
Everything shifts. The words cut sharper than Michin's, but even worse, they're sharper than my own frustration. It’s possessive, commanding, intoxicating. My heart plummets. I once again want to shout, to lunge, to shove her, anything, but my body freezes in the tension she’s woven.
She tilts her head, watching my reaction with that unreadable precision. “The fire she gave you,” she murmurs, her voice dipping lower, almost a whisper, her hand once again going to my chest, trying to point to the actual fire there, “is yours to use… but it's still under my control how far you go.”
I stumble back slightly, palms sweating. My mind is scrambling, hot and sharp with conflicting thoughts: anger, frustration, a helpless pull towards her.
She doesn't let up and gets closer as if to not let me slip away, driving me completely insane. My breath hitches. I can practically feel her pressing against me, warmth brushing my entire body. She leans in, one hand on my shoulder, her scent finally hitting me fully: leather, something sweet and something uniquely hers.
“Every movement,” she murmurs, eyes never leaving mine, “every reaction… I’m watching. I measure it. I decide what counts, what matters.” Her hand lowers slowly, hovering near mine, almost teasing, before she lets it drop. “I’m never here to punish you. Just keep you in check.”
I might actually catch on fire one of these days with this woman. I want to tell her to stop, but my words fail. My tongue feels thick, my throat tight. My mind reels between wanting to challenge her and wanting to melt into this.
Iyo steps back finally, but not fully. She moves towards her bag, pulling out the things she'll need tonight, but her gaze never truly leaves me. The tension she created stays, and it is more and more suffocating by the second. Everything is aching, on fire and tangled in a knot I can't unravel. I finally sit down on the edge of the bed, trying to catch my breath.
Iyo goes about doing her stuff, but the room still feels like it's under her control. Even without touching me, without bending a rule, she’s left me raw, reactive and wound tight.
⸻
After yet another annoying day, the training room hums with fluorescent light, mats squeaking under distant footsteps. I’m rolling through drills, counting reps, feeling the burn everywhere, when I feel that undeniable charge in the air, prickling across my skin.
“Finally decided to show up properly?” Michin’s voice cuts through, low, teasing, sharp.
I glance up. She’s leaning against the far wall near the entrance, hip cocked, arms crossed, but her gaze is intense, predatory even. It’s not just teasing today, and I feel the pull in my chest.
I try to ignore her, forcing myself to focus on everything else, but she steps onto the mat, closing the distance slowly. Five steps, three, two,one… maybe half a meter between us. She lets her hip brush the edge of one of the cones I’m using, enough to make me aware. That's when finally I lift my eyes to hers.
“You’ve been practicing, more and more” she murmurs, voice low, confident, eyes scanning me like she knows something I don't, “but your mind isn’t here.”
“I’m fine." I mutter, trying to keep my voice even.
Her smirk widens. “Sure." she says, stepping closer, hand reaching my forearm. The contact is brief, teasing, but the heat radiating off of her hits me like a spark.
Then she presses against me, shoulder to shoulder, chest brushing mine ever so slightly. My entire body stiffens. She tilts her chin, lips grazing the shell of my ear. “I could make this so much more interesting, you know?" She whispers low and dangerous.
Her hand slides over mine, tracing the back of my hand slowly up my arm, the touch light but insistent. I don’t move. I choose not to resist her this time. I truly have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm tired of always being tense.
She leans even closer, pressing her chest a fraction more against mine, thighs grazing as she shifts. Every millimeter of closeness is a challenge, daring me to react. “You really don't mind this, do you?” she murmurs, lips grazing near my ear, breath warm. “Come on, give me a chance here. I think you want me to keep going, but I won't push more unless you let me, princess.”
I swallow hard, muscles coiling, heart hammering. I still make no move to stop her. I actually don't think I 100% want to.
Her hand slides further over my shoulder, thumb teasing the curve of my collarbone. She tilts her head, measuring me. I don’t give her a verbal response, but I don't push her away either. I hold still, letting her control the space.
She shifts again, brushing her lips just a fraction against my jaw, near my ear. My breath catches. The mats and mirrors around us make the space feel impossibly small, the room shrinking to just the two of us.
“Hmm… so compliant.” she whispers, pulling back a little, letting just enough air into the space to make me ache for more. “Maybe you’ve been waiting for someone bold enough to take the first move.”
Her hand lingers on my arm a moment longer before drifting down, brushing along my side, claiming, teasing, yet not making an actual move here. The heat coils in my stomach tighter and tighter. I can’t breathe or think normally. I almost unconsciously mutter a "Maybe."
Finally, she steps back more, giving me enough room to realize how close we are and how dangerous this all really is. Her grin is wicked. “Good.” she murmurs, voice soft but commanding. “I like when we don't fight.”
And then, as if she can’t resist teasing me one last time, she leans in again, and softly presses her lips against the corner of my mouth. My chest seizes, heart threatening to jump out.
She pulls back, steps towards the door, hips swaying, leaving me on the mat to process everything. Maybe she really wasn't kidding about giving her a chance all thosw weeks ago, when she first said it. She’s left a trail of heat behind her that I can’t shake, proof that she’s already claimed more of me than I expected.
Even from a few feet away, the tension lingers like a storm cloud, and I know that if she leaned in again, I wouldn’t have stopped her.
⸻
At some point during the next days, the unthinkable happens. The hallway is quiet, with occasional distant footsteps the only sound. I’m leaning against a wall, stretching my shoulders lightly after having paced for about 10 minutes due to a little anxiety, when I sense my partner before I see her.
“I saw her.” Iyo says softly, her eyes glinting in the light.
I blink. “Saw… who?”
“Michin." she murmurs, tilting her head with that faint, sharp glint in her eyes. She doesn’t move aggressively, just steps closer.
“And?” I ask, trying to sound casual while being a little confused, because what's her problem now?
Her smirk is subtle, controlled. “And you didn’t stop her.” she murmurs, letting her fingers press lightly at my side. “Interesting.”
I shift slightly, caught off guard. “I… wasn’t expecting you to notice, or care for that matter.” I admit, voice low.
She steps even closer, sliding an arm around my waist in a swift move, pulling me in just enough that our bodies align, and then leans in. Her voice a soft whisper.
“I notice everything. Even what you think you can hide.”
My heart skips a beat. I swallow hard, trying to find some leverage in the wall behind me. “I… didn’t do anything." I murmur, the tension coiling in my stomach.
Her lips twitch faintly. “Didn’t do anything?” she repeats, tone teasing. “Debatable.” She tilts her head, gaze sharp. “You reacted differently than I expected.”
I shiver. “What… do you mean?”
Her fingers shift lightly at my waist, guiding me imperceptibly closer. “You’ll see, eventually.” she murmurs.
I bite my lip, heart racing. “I don’t—”
“You don’t what?” she interrupts, voice soft but sharp, teasing. “Don’t like attention? Don’t like being watched? Or just don’t like me doing that?”
“Maybe a bit of all three.” I admit, breath catching.
Her smirk deepens, the smallest curl at the corner of her lips. “Good.” she says, voice low. “I like when you’re honest.” Then, softer: “Even if it’s inconvenient.”
I can’t stop any of this tension winding tighter even if I try. “You are… a menace.” I murmur, almost involuntarily.
Her smirk lingers, faint but knowing. “You don't hate it." She states, letting her presence press closer.
I grit my teeth, pulse hammering. “Maybe."
She tilts her head, eyes flicking briefly to the space around us, then back. “You didn’t push her away.” she murmurs. “That tells me a lot.”
I meet her gaze, breath uneven. “Yeah? What does it tell you?”
Her smirk darkens. She tightens the arm around me again and tilts her chin towards me. “That… one wrong move and you’ll see what I’m capable of.”
Her proximity, the teasing, the cryptic words every element makes my situation worse. She pulls back fractionally, leaving me reeling, smirk still on her lips, eyes locked on mine. But even as she straightens and takes a step back, the tension lingers, heavy and charged, like smoke curling around us. A quiet promise that this isn’t over.
⸻
Next week, as we head up to the ramp, through all the noise, the kinetic energy, Michin leans against the ropes, head tilted, smirk already tugging at her lips like she knows something I don’t. B-Fab, by contrast, is stone-cold serious, every fiber of her being screaming danger. It’s one hell of a combination that's meant to rattle anyone before the bell even rings.
Iyo lets me go first, while she's on the apron, leaning casually against the ropes, arms folded, unreadable, a reminder that every move I make is under her microscope. Finally, the bell rings.
B-Fab starts, fast and ruthless. Her strikes sting, they're sharp and precise, keeping me backpedaling before I’ve even settled. I take a forearm that rattles me, force myself to reset, to answer with one of my own. And when I finally toss in a counter, it feels like a small victory. It unfortunately doesn’t last long because B-Fab's control is relentless, and soon she’s dragging me toward her own corner. And then Michin tags in.
Her smirk widens as she slides into the ring. “Miss me?” She mutters just loud enough for me to catch before she lunges.
She’s all pressure, quick jabs, grabs at my wrist that linger longer than they should, a palm pressed to my jaw for a second too long as she shoves me into the corner. The ref warns her, and she just raises her hands in mock innocence, eyes flicking back to me, sparkling with mischief.
She traps me in a hold, her arm tight around my neck, her mouth so close to my ear I can feel her breath. “Don’t tap out yet.” she whispers, her voice low, husky, deliberate. “I’m having too much fun.”
Heat floods my face, and I wrench free harder than I need to, earning a laugh from her as she takes a playful step back. I can feel the crowd, a mix of boos and cheers, but Michin doesn’t care. She’s taunting me, poking at me, making me chase her.
And out of instinct, I glance toward our corner. Iyo hasn’t moved, but I swear there’s the faintest tilt of her head, the barest curl of her lip. Not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. Something in between.
The match grinds on. B-Fab nearly has Iyo down for the three-count at one point, and for a terrifying moment, it feels like we’re done. I make a run for it, breaking up the pin at the last possible second, the crowd coming alive as the ref’s hand hovers in the air. My chest is heaving, my arms are shaking, but there’s no time to think. B-Fab whips me into the ropes, Michin reaching for the tag, both of them closing in fast.
Except, I pull out a reversal, instinct taking over. A tag to Iyo, a flash of teamwork, a last-second counter that turns the tide. The sequence is tight and a little too chaotic, but it works. We take down B-Fab hard, isolating Michin just enough to hit the final combination.
The bell rings, and the arena erupts. Victory, but barely. I am completely finished when we're done, barely able to drag a proper breath in. I stagger to my feet, raising our arms, and I let myself feel the rush.
But then there's Michin again. She brushes past me on the apron, fingers grazing my jaw this time, a smirk twisting her lips. “You like it a little rough, don’t you?” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. Before I can react, she’s gone, hopping off the apron with a toss of her hair, laughing to herself as her partner pulls her away.
The crowd's noise drowns out my thoughts, but when I finally glance a few meters behind me, Iyo is still there, watching silently.
Later, backstage, I’m toweling off when I feel that prickling at the back of my neck. I turn, and Iyo there, doing nothing in particular. Just standing a few feet away, calm and unreadable, eyes on me like she’s peeling me apart layer by layer.
She doesn’t speak right away. She just steps forward a little. Gently, she takes the towel from my hand, proceeds to wipe the rest of the water that's on my face, then tosses it over her shoulder and brushes a damp strand of hair from my face.
“You let her touch you. You didn't pull back, again.” She says softly. Not a question, not angry, but more distant than comfortable with the softness in her voice.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Iyo’s fingers slowly trail away from my hair. She lets the silence stretch until it hurts, until my heart doesn't know what to do with itself. Then she gives the faintest smirk, the kind that says she’s already won whatever game she’s playing.
“You won the match,” she murmurs, finally stepping back, her gaze still locked on mine. “but I’ll decide when you win me.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me standing there, breath caught somewhere in my chest, towelless, buzzing with adrenaline that has nothing to do with the match anymore.
⸻
Another match, another time when we finally work, we synchronise, we dominate in the ring. Across the ring though, Michin's eyes find me immediately. She’s perched on the apron, leaning lightly on the ropes in a way that should be a little to sensual for live television. Her smirk is sharp, mischievous, and I can feel it liek a quiet thrum against my chest even before she steps through the ropes.
The moment she’s tagged in, she closes the distance. Her movements are deliberate, enticing. A brush of her arm against mine as we lock up, a whisper just at the edge of my ear, the faint heat of her body lingering when she pivots out of a hold. Each contact is calculated to unravel me, and every nerve in my body wakes up screaming.
“You’re so predictable.” She murmurs, voice low but audible to me alone. “I like it.”
I shove her back, trying to keep a professional distance, but the ring confines us. Her laughter echoes off the ropes as she steps around me, spins, and drops low to sweep my legs. I scramble to my feet, but she’s right there again, pressing closer than strictly necessary, teeth flashing in a grin as her fingers brush my jaw in passing. The referee doesn’t notice any of this, thank fuck, but I do. Every inch of it.
Iyo calls for a tag, and I leap across the ring to meet her. Our hands clasp, a perfect handoff. Her moves are fluid and lethal, every strike calculated. B-Fab is forced back, Michin flailing to intercept, but Iyo is already three moves ahead. I feel her shoulder graze mine in a spin at a point when we're both tagged in, grounding me, reminding me we’re a team. It's subtle but intimate. A physical connection that makes Michi ’s provocations sting even more.
Everythinf escalates once Michin grows bolder, more aggressive, pressing against me in holds, brushing her lips near my ear, whispering, taunting. She hooks me in a pin attempt, body pressing just long enough to make me shiver. I kick out, adrenaline and frustration burning through me. Iyo is there, making sure I'm good after breaking free, tagging in at exactly the right moment, hands firm on my waist as we coordinate our next sequence.
Finally, we execute a flawless impact reversal that catches both Michin and B-Fab off guard. Victory.
The crowd cheers wildly, but I barely notice. My eyes are on Michin. She’s straddling the ropes, smirking like she just claimed some victory of her own. She leans close to me, fingers brushing against my cheek, lips pressing quickly to it in a bold, reckless kiss. Gasps ripple through the audience, but I freeze. What the hell just happened?
Iyo is beside me, hands resting lightly on my waist and back. Her gaze burns into me, reading every reaction, taking in Michin’s audacity without flinching. The contrast is almost unbearable.
Later, the air is cooler, the sounds of the arena dimmed to a low hum. We've just been talking and walking through the narrow hallways and after a particular pause she finally brings it up. She’s gentle, stopping me with a hand on my wrist, pulling me aside for a bit. Until we’re not far apart. The space is tight, not uncomfortable, but I know damn well a storm is brewing under her gaze.
She lifts a hand, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, fingers lingering. Every motion carries weight. Her eyes meet mine, soft but unreadable, and I don't know what to do.
“You let her get away with that stuff, again.” She says, her voice measured, cutting through the lingering heat of Michin's provocations.
“I…” I falter, heat flooding my face.
Iyo leans closer, arm brushing lightly against my waist, asserting. Her face hovers near mine, close enough to ignite every nerve. “Do you want to see how far she’ll go?” Her words drop lower, sharper, slicing into me: “Do you want to see how far I will?”
The hallway seems to shrink. My mind flashes back to Michin’s reckless kiss, the whispers in my ear during the entire match, the press of her body whenever she got the chance. Iyo’s proximity suffocating, and I realize that I’m caught between them. The reckless flame and the precise ice, and I can’t escape either.
Iyo steps back, as if a little disappointed, letting the tension linger.
⸻
I step into the prep room, needing a moment to gather myself. Michin is already there, leaning casually against a crate, one foot tucked up, eyes locking on mine with that quiet intensity that always makes my chest ache.
“I… I just needed a moment.” I murmur, voice tight, trying to steady myself.
She smiles softly, the kind of smile that melts something in my chest, and takes a tiny step closer. “Then stay with me.” She whispers, voice low, smooth, coaxing. “Just here… just for a moment. Please.”
Her hand drifts lightly toward mine, barely touching, just enough to send sparks up my arm. “I don’t care about feelings. I doubt you can actually have them for me.” She murmurs, tone a little teasing, coaxing, almost breathless. “I just want this. You. Right now.”
I exhale sharply, heart hammering, nerves twisting in my stomach. My body wants to resist, my mind screams, but the softness in her eyes, the warmth radiating off her, it’s impossible to ignore.
Before I can think, she leans in, lips brushing against mine, soft at first, giving me time to push her away if I want to. My knees nearly buckle. I wasn't expecting this. My hands lift, hesitantly, to her shoulders, unsure if I should push her away or let it happen.
Then she deepens it, just slightly, pressing against me in a way that’s more daring, more fiery. Her hand slides lightly to the small of my back, guiding, not forcing, but enough that I feel her intent, her confidence, and it makes me gasp.
"Mmm…” I breathe, a little stunned, chest heaving, mind spinning. “I… don't know—”
She hums softly against my lips, tilting her head, whispering, “Please.” Something in her voice is so soft, almost broken, impossible to resist.
I feel the heat between us spike, senses swimming, and for a bit, I give in, letting my lips meet hers fully. It isn't too rough, just a little urgent, electric, sending fire straight through me. My hands tremble lightly, fingers gripping her arms for balance. The kiss continues, I give in more and more, she holds me tighter, sweeter.
Bht reality eventually snaps in. The truth of my feelings, my restraint, the fact that my heart isn’t hers. I pull back sharply, breathing fast. My hands move from her shoulders to rest on her chest, creating a flicker of space.
Michin smiles softly, knowing, just enough to make me ache, not mocking, just satisfied with the stolen moment. “I know, don't worry." She murmurs, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “I know where your heart is. I just wanted this moment. That’s all.”
I exhale shakily, my mind spinning, heat still thrumming through my veins. “Yeah… that's all.” I whisper, stunned at the fire she ignited, realizing how close I came to giving in more than I should have.
She smiles softly, kisses my hand, and steps back, letting me breathe, but the tension lingers, smouldering. I can’t deny the thrill, the temptation, the pull, but that’s where it ends… for now.
⸻
Later at night, we're in our room and I’m standing at the mirror, brushing my hair, trying to shake the exhaustion from the day. The reflection feels safe, neutral, until it isn’t. I need to put a bell on this woman.
Iyo appears behind me, silent as ever, her presence making the room feel smaller instantly. Her gaze burns into my back through the mirror, and before I can turn, her hand comes to rest lightly at my waist. Just a touch. Barely there. But it roots me to the spot.
“You let her kiss you.” Her voice is low, steady, but there's something in it I don't know how to describe. Not accusing, not even fully mad, just stating a fact in a certain way.
My breath hitches, brush slowing in my hand. “What—” I try to play dumb, but even my reflection betrays me. My eyes are too wide. My lips press too tight.
She leans in, close enough that her chin rests on my shoulder, her breath grazing the curve of my ear. “Michin” she murmurs, the name almost a whisper. Her fingertips trail up my side, feather-light, then stop just under my ribs. Not enough to push. Not enough to hold. Just enough to remind me she’s there, and I can’t move.
I force a weak laugh, shaking my head, trying to slip away from the weight of her eyes in the glass. “You’re imagining things.”
Her fingers move, just slightly, brushing along my jaw this time, tilting my chin toward the mirror so I have to meet her eyes in the reflection. “I don’t imagine. And you know it.”
Heat blooms under my skin. I can’t stop it. My lips part, a useless denial caught in my throat. “Iyo, it wasn’t—”
“You didn’t stop her though.” She interrupts softly. No bite, no raised tone. Just that calm, unshakable certainty that guts me far worse than anger ever could. Her hand slides back to my waist, holding me still without force, a ghost of possession in the gesture.
“I—” My voice cracks, falters and dies. I can’t look away from her eyes burning into mine through the mirror, can’t escape the way every nerve in my body reacts to her nearness.
She dips her head slightly, close enough that the corner of her lips brushes my temple, not a kiss, not quite. “And you know how patient I am.” She says quietly, like a warning, or a promise. “But still, I see everything.”
Her hand lingers at my waist for another long second, then slips away, leaving my body aching from the absence. My chest rises and falls too fast, my grip tight on the brush like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality.
Iyo doesn’t move back far, though. She stays close enough that I still feel her heat, still know the control hasn’t shifted, not really. “And I don’t share.”
The words land heavy, final, undebatable.
⸻
Even days later, I can’t shake her. Iyo doesn’t have to speak to make me aware of her presence. It’s in the way she moves, the way she lingers just a step too close, the faint warmth of her near me.
We’re at the hotel lounge, casual in appearance. I reach for a coffee, and she’s beside me. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the mug first. The contact is minimal, but it sends a jolt straight through me. My pulse spikes, and I can feel her noticing it.
A low, calm voice cuts through the hum of the room. “I hope you’re aware,” she murmurs, leaning slightly closer so only I can hear her words, “that last time… that was the one wrong move.”
Heat floods me. I try to shrug it off, to keep my tone light. “I—”
Her thumb brushes ever so briefly along my hip, a light, deliberate touch that pins me in place without force. “Hmm.” She murmurs softly, almost to herself. “Just thought I’d make sure you're aware.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She keeps close most of the time. Not in any bad way, I wouldn't have it any other way if I'm being honest. Always a shadow in the corner of my mind, a brush of heat in the periphery.
⸻
The training room smells faintly of sweat and chalk, sunlight spilling across the mats. I’m already sore when Iyo comes to demand even more from me. Silent as always, and suddenly I’m more aware of myself than I should be. I drop into a stretch, rolling my shoulders forward, trying to focus on my breathing, but I feel her before she says anything. She has this way of filling a space without making a sound, like the air gets heavier simply because she’s in it.
She doesn’t announce herself. She never does. One moment I’m bent forward, the next her shadow falls across me. A hand rests lightly at the small of my back, steady, anchoring. “You’re too slow with that." She murmurs, voice low, almost teasing, almost instructional.
Her thumb grazes along my spine. Barely pressure, but enough to send a shiver crawling up my skin.
I shift forward to shake it off, to make it look like I’m adjusting on my own, but her hand lingers as if to remind me who’s actually in control. When she finally pulls away, I feel the absence like a chill.
We train together like it’s routine. Drills, strikes, motions, the rhythm of repetition. But she’s always near, correcting me with the press of her palm against my shoulder, guiding me by placing her hand around my wrist, her fingers tightening just enough to make me follow. Every correction feels charged with something unspoken.
Later, during cool-down, I drop to the floor, knees bent, leaning forward with my hands on the tops of my shins while I try to drag air back into my lungs. Sweat stings my eyes.
She comes down beside me, then leans in to retie my shoe. She doesn't look like she minds the proximity, but then again, she never does. My chest tightens, but I keep my eyes forward, because if I look at her now I won’t be able to hide the subtitles happening on my face.
She straightens, brushing imaginary dust from her hands, but doesn’t move away. When we stand up, she hovers close so her breath ghosts my ear. “Keep up.” she says, tone deceptively light.
It’s not a suggestion.
We leave together, moving towards the lounge. She keeps close enough that our arms graze now and then, her pace effortlessly matching mine. I tell myself it’s coincidence, but I know better. At the drink station, our hands collide on the same bottle. Her fingers linger against mine a fraction longer than necessary, curling slightly before she lets go. It’s subtle, invisible to anyone watching, but my pulse stumbles all the same.
Back in the lounge, she finds a reason to pass behind me, the brush of her hand against my shoulder light but unmistakable. Later, when we’re reviewing footage, she leans in close, her chin almost grazing my shoulder as she watches the screen. “Too much hesitation here.” She says, pointing. But when her finger leaves the screen, she rests it on my forearm.
By the time night falls, my nerves are frayed. All the gentle gestures, adjusting my posture as we walk, standing close enough in the elevator that our arms press together, whispering instructions that feel more intimate than they should. All of it is extremely intimate, none of it isobvious, but each touch, each look, each quiet word presses into me like a brand.
She never mentions the thing with Michin again. She doesn’t have to. Every move, every brush of her hand, every deliberate inch of proximity is a warning. A claim.
And I don’t pull away. Not once.
It’s not weakness. It’s something worse: I’m beginning to crave it, my body betrays me before my mind catches up. Every day she pushes a little further, and every day I feel myself inching closer to give in, unable and unwilling to stop her.
⸻
Training is brutal today, but not because the drills are harder. It’s because she’s watching me again, every move I make under her gaze that feels heavier than it should. I misstep, stumble, and before I can right myself, her arm snakes around my waist, steadying me. She doesn’t let go right away. Her grip is firm, solid, but there’s no roughness in it.
“Careful." she murmurs.
I swallow, nod, but when she releases me I almost regret losing that contact. When my strike veers off course, she steps behind me, her chest brushing lightly against my back as she guides my arm higher, fingers firm around my wrist. Her tone is calm, low. “Here. Like this.” The command is there, but so is the patience.
Later, I’m sprawled against the wall, catching my breath, and she’s already there, handing me a bottle of water. I take it with a muttered thanks, expecting her to pull back and go right back to her things, but she stays close. Her hand lingers a moment longer at my shoulder, fingers warm, grounding me.
“You push too hard.” She says softly, almost like it’s a scolding, but the way her thumb rubs absent circles against my collarbone betrays something else.
At lunch, she sits across from me again. But this time her hand comes down lightly on mine when I fidget with the fork, steadying me with the simplest touch. It’s enough to still me completely. She doesn’t even look down, just leaves her palm resting over my knuckles until she’s ready to move it away.
The rest of the day is worse. Or better. I can’t tell anymore. In the hall later, she guides me around a corner with her hand at the small of my back, but this time her touch is soft, not just directing but almost protective. I freeze at the warmth of it, at the ease of how naturally she does it.
And then, when we end up side by side on the couch in the lounge, she doesn’t press close. She doesn’t corner me. Instead, she shifts just enough that our shoulders touch, and leaves it there.
It’s maddening, the way she makes me feel caged without a single harsh move. The way her presence presses on, quiet and sweet, until I don’t know if I want to lean into her or run from my feelings.
She notices. Her hand drifts briefly to my knee, not gripping, just resting. Her thumb brushes once, slow, a stroke too tender for me to mistake it for anything accidental. I still don't pull away.
⸻
Training ends late, and I’m flat on the mat, chest rising too fast, sweat cooling uncomfortably against my skin. My arms twitch when I try to push myself up, but before I can get anywhere, Iyo is there. She doesn’t even make a sound, just drops into a crouch in front of me, knees bent, her expression unreadable as always.
Her hand slides behind my back, firm and steady, guiding me up with ease. “Slow.” she murmurs, her voice calm but carrying weight, as if it’s not a suggestion but an order.
I let her pull me upright, breath stuttering. Her palm stays at the small of my back longer than it needs to, warm through my shirt. I wait for her to remove it. She doesn’t.
“You’re always pushing too hard.” Her voice softens, and she leans in just enough to brush a damp strand of hair from my temple. The contact is fleeting, featherlight, but it pins me harder than any hold she’s ever locked me in.
Later, when we spar again, I go in too fast, too reckless, and she sweeps me down in a clean motion, body hitting the mat with a dull slap. Before I can scramble, she straddles me, weight steady, her palm catching my wrist. But instead of crushing me down, she eases up, letting her fingertips trace along the inside of my forearm as she releases me.
“Stop fighting air.” She says, eyes locked on mine, her tone low, quiet, almost amused. “Breathe.”
By the time we drag ourselves back to the hotel, I’m bone-deep exhausted, my body bruised and buzzing. Sharing a room is second nature by now, but walking in still ties me in knots. I flick on the light, drop my bag by the bed, and try to shake off the tension.
The door clicks shut behind me, soft but final.
I don’t have time to turn before I feel her. Iyo steps in close, her arm sliding around my waist from behind, her palm spreading flat against my stomach. She doesn’t pull hard, doesn’t need to, just guides me into stillness, like it’s inevitable.
Her breath brushes my ear as she speaks. “You let her touch you.”
I know she's not over it, she's been silently acting up for quite a while now, but the words make me freeze mid-step. My throat goes dry. “Iyo…”
“She wanted too much.” Her thumb strokes an unhurried line across my hip, making my pulse stutter. “But you gave her just enough.”
“I didn’t really—” My protest comes out thin, unconvincing, even to myself.
She turns me with that same arm, so easily it feels like I never had a choice. When I face her, her eyes catch mine, dark and steady. Her hand lifts to my cheek, thumb brushing beneath my eye in a touch that feels both tender and unshakable. “I know.” She murmurs.
I should probably move. Step back. Say something. But the room feels too small, her gaze too heavy.
“You should’ve pushed her away sooner.” Her tone is quiet, even, but her words cut. The fingers at my jaw slide lower, tracing my skin. “Please don’t make me watch something like that again.”
My chest aches, a nervous, electric heat flooding me. “Iyo…” My voice cracks.
She leans closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. “I told you before… one wrong move.” Her touch is impossibly gentle, cupping my jaw as if she’s holding something fragile. Her eyes, though, are sharper than glass. “This was it.”
Before I can summon another excuse, she sorely closes the space. Her palm at my waist tightens, her other hand sliding to cradle the back of my neck. She draws me in until our foreheads nearly touch.
Her voice drops, soft but final. “No more.”
And then her lips brush my cheek, deliberate and unhurried, just shy of the corner of my mouth. It’s not rushed. It’s not careless. It’s claiming, tender enough to make my heart ache, firm enough to make my body shiver.
I freeze under the weight of it all. And I don’t pull away.
She lingers, her breath warm against my skin, before pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “Now you know.” she whispers, the words blurring the line between warning and promise.
Her hand slips from my jaw, but her arm stays firm around my waist, anchoring me there. I don’t know if she’s waiting for me to move, or if she’s making sure I don’t.
The room is quiet except for my pulse hammering in my ears. I’ve never been more aware of how close we are — how easy it would be for her to take another half-step, another breath, another kiss.
But she doesn’t. She leaves me stranded in that space between wanting and fearing, her claim pressed into my skin, undeniable.
⸻
The restaurant is buzzing, voices spilling over each other, plates clattering as the staff weaves through the tables. It should feel easy, normal, but nothing is normal once Chelsea slides into the booth beside me before I can stop her.
“Hope you don’t mind.” She says, smiling like she’s already sure I won’t. “You looked like you needed company.”
Except I didn't, because all I have to do is I glance across the table. Iyo’s there, quiet and composed, sliding into her seat with deliberate calm. The kind of calm that makes my heart race because it’s anything but.
Chelsea leans against me as she waves for a drink. “So,” she says brightly, “tell me how you make everything in the ring look so damn effortless. You never mess up.”
I shift, angling away from her slightly. “That’s not true.”
“It is.” Her grin widens. “Come on, don’t be modest.” She bumps my shoulder with hers like we’ve been friends forever.
Iyo’s fork doesn’t touch her food. Her gaze is steady, locked on me, not Chelsea.
Chelsea keeps pressing. “Maybe I need to start training with you. I could learn a lot.”
“Iyo’s the one who carries the team. She makes me look better than actually I am." Across the table, I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of Iyo’s lips. Not a smile. Something sharper.
Chelsea laughs. “You’re deflecting. That’s cute.” Her hand brushes mine on the table. This time I pull it back, folding it in my lap.
Her eyes narrow just slightly. “What? Too much?” I manage a thin smile. “I just that Iyo and I… we’ve got a rhythm. I’m not looking to change that.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and as soon as they do, I know Iyo heard every syllable. Her glass hovers for a beat too long before she sets it down again.
Chelsea tilts her head, softer now. “I’m not trying to steal you away. Just… trying to get closer.”
Her voice dips, intimate, and she leans in like the whole table has melted away, like we’re the only two people in the room. For one suspended second, it feels like she might actually make a move, right here in front of everyone.
My breath catches, but I stop her, hand gently pressing to her shoulder, holding her back just enough. “Chelsea,” I murmur, “this isn't a place where you can do stuff like that.”
She blinks, then smirks faintly, as if my resistance only entertains her. “So somewhere else, then?”
I let out a quiet laugh, half-nervous, half-exasperated, and shake my head. “No. That’s not what I meant.” But she lingers too close anyway, the air charged, her perfume sharp in my nose.
All the while, Iyo doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. And when I look up, her eyes are locked on me with a weight that makes me feel like I’ve already betrayed something sacred.
When Chelsea leans in again, laughing at something small, her shoulder brushes mine a little too deliberately uu. I force myself to lean back just slightly, enough to give space but not enough to make it obvious. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Iyo’s head tilt, a movement so small most people would miss it. But I feel it like a spotlight.
Iyo doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t say a word. She just reaches for the bottle in the center of the table and refills my glass before topping off her own. Smooth, effortless, her sleeve brushes against my wrist as she slides the glass back in front of me. And it’s the polite but steady look she gives Chelsea while doing it, that makes her falter.
For the first time tonight, Chelsea hesitates. Her playful smile flickers, her hand retreating from where it lingered a little too close. “You two are… close, huh?” she says, trying for lightness.
Iyo doesn’t even bother with words. Just a faint upward curl of her lips, before she takes a slow sip from her glass.
The silence stretches just long enough for Chelsea to fidget, then she laughs, waving a hand. “Anyway, I’ll go say hi to the others before they think I ditched them.” She slides out of the booth, flashing me one last grin, not quite as sure of herself anymore, before disappearing into the crowd.
The second she’s gone, the air changes. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, but Iyo doesn’t give me space. Her knee nudges against mine under the table, purposefully enough to send a jolt straight through me.
“You looked uncomfortable.” she says, her voice calm, smooth as glass.
I swallow, shifting in my seat. “I handled it.”
“Mm.” She tilts her head, her gaze never leaving me. “Did you?”
Her tone isn’t exactly sharp, not even openly possessive, but it’s cutting all the same, her dominance wrapped in silk instead of steel. And the way her knee stays pressed against mine, unshakable, tells me exactly who won that little battle.
⸻
The hallway is silent except for the muted thud of my pulse in my ears. We’re alone now. Iyo doesn’t bother pretending anymore.
Her hand moves from the small of my back to my waist, slowly but surely. Her fingers don’t just brush, they press, curling until her palm fits flat against me. It’s not rough, but it is unyielding, like she’s reminding me exactly where I am.
“I told you nothing goes unnoticed by me.” She murmurs, voice a low, dangerous silk that slides right under my skin. “And this time I saw enough.”
My back hits the doorframe before I realize she’s guiding me there. She isn’t shoving. She doesn’t need to. The quiet pressure of her arm at my waist steers me until there’s nowhere else to go.
“Iyo—” I try, but my voice falters.
She steps closer, the scent of her perfume mixing with the faint tang of her skin. Her thumb strokes a slow circle against my hip, gentle, almost tender, but her grip on my waist doesn’t loosen. “You think you can play with fire and I won’t feel it?” she whispers. “That you’ll let her almost go to far and I’ll do nothing?”
My stomach flips. “It wasn’t—”
Her nose almost brushes mine now. She tilts her head, studying me, that unreadable stare pinning me in place. “I know you stopped her, eventually.” It’s not harsh, but quiet, almost soft. “But I’ve been patient.” Her thumb moves again, softer this time, tracing the hem of my shirt. “Too patient.”
Her other hand comes up to cup my jaw, warm against my skin, fingers resting at my throat. It’s both a caress and a claim. “You already made the big mistake." She breathes, echoing her earlier warning. "I warned that I'll lose my patience."
Her thumb strokes higher, just beneath my jaw, sending a shiver through me. It’s maddening.
I manage a trembling whisper, trying to hold her gaze. “I know. So, what exactly are you going to do?”
Iyo’s smile curves, slow and dangerous and almost sweet. “This,” she murmurs, and leans in, not for my lips, but my cheek, then moving to the corner of my jaw, lingering long enough for heat to bloom under my skin, but as I think that's all, she bites. Not too hard, but enough that it'll leave a small mark.
Her voice is right next to my ear now. “I will not let anyone take from me what I’ve earned.”
The words melt into a softer sound as her thumb traces one last circle against my hip before she finally, slowly moves away. Not a full step back, not yet. Just enough to let me breathe, while her presence still fills every inch of the space between us.
I’m left clutching the edge of the doorframe, breath shaky, trying not to lean forward again. She watches me, calm and composed, as if nothing happened.
“You’re mine to protect.” She says quietly. “And mine to warn.”
Then she steps back fully, that faint smile still playing at her lips, as if she’s just left me a secret I can’t unfeel.
⸻
Her warmth lingers everywhere she touched me. “You can’t…” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “You can’t just do that.”
Iyo tilts her head slightly. “Can’t?” She repeats softly, like the word amuses her. She takes one unhurried step closer again, just enough that I can smell her perfume. “Or shouldn’t?”
I swallow hard. “Both.”
Her eyes flicker, something dark and amused curling at the edges. “I beg to differ... you didn’t pull away.”
I'd like to tell her she’s wrong, but my fingers are still gripping the doorframe and my knees don't feel all that steady. “That’s not the point.” I manage, though it sounds more like something softer rather than an argument.
Iyo’s hand rises, slow and deliberate, until her fingers hook just under my chin. She doesn’t force me to look at her, just gently tilts my head up just enough that our eyes meet. “Then tell me the point.” She murmurs, voice like velvet over steel.
Her thumb strokes once along my jaw, gentle now, the contrast making my pulse trip. “Because from where I’m standing…” Her eyes flick to my mouth and back to my eyes, “…the point is that you let her touch you. And now you’re letting me."
Heat spikes up my neck. “I didn’t let—”
“Yes,” she interrupts softly, “you did.” There’s no bite in her tone, just that soft, terrifying certainty. “But I know you're only letting others to test me."
I try to push back again, but my voice comes out quieter. “First of all, you don’t own me. And second, why are you so sure you're right?"
Iyo’s smile curves, slow, almost fond, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know." She whispers. Her thumb sweeps once more across my jaw, feather-light now, almost affectionate. “But you feel like mine when you’re here. And that... is why I'm sure.”
The words slip between us like smoke. My breath catches. Her hand stays at my chin, a caress, a promise, a claim she isn’t fully making but isn’t denying either.
I can feel myself leaning forward a fraction, like my body is betraying me. “This isn’t fair.” I whisper, barely audible.
Iyo leans in just enough for her breath to brush my ear, her voice a low purr. “No,” she says softly, “it isn’t.”
Then she lets her hand fall away, leaving heat behind where her skin had been. “Go inside." She murmurs. “Before I stop being patient.”
I’m left staring at her, the hallway spinning around us, my lips parted but no words coming out. She’s still standing there, calm as if nothing happened, but I know she’s just shown me more than she ever has before.
⸻
Morning light filters through the blinds, soft and golden, when I stir. My alarm buzzes. I reach for my phone, but a hand moves faster. Iyo. She silences it before it can go off again and ends up half‑on top of me, her hair falling across my neck.
I freeze, chest tightening, because she’s here, warm and impossibly close, her body pressing against mine. She lets out a quiet, soft chuckle.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, soft and almost innocent, but there’s a spark in her voice. “I intended to keep it from bothering you.”
Her fingers trail along my shoulder, teasing. My skin tingles under her touch, but I realize that I don’t pull away. If anything, I shift toward her, though my mind screams that I shouldn’t.
“You could’ve let me get it." I whisper, coming out even softer than I was aiming for.
“And miss this?” She murmurs, tilting her head so that she looks like a curious little panther. Her hand drifts lower along my side, a deliberate, languid touch. “You like it when I do this.”
I let out a shaky breath, trying to form a protest, but all I can manage is, “Maybe...”
Her gaze locks with mine, calm, teasing, predatory in the way only she can be. “Hmm?” She hums, chin tilting up so our faces are inches apart. “You know, it all tells me something. Every twitch, every breath you don’t realize you’re holding.”
A shiver runs through me. “You’re… relentless.” I manage, voice low, but a little defiant.
Her hand moves to my hip, pressing just enough to make my pulse spike. “And you’re… surprisingly compliant." She replies, smirk tugging at her lips. “I like that.”
I tilt my head, attempting some bite. “Compliant? Don’t flatter yourself.”
Her laugh is soft, low, teasing, and she leans in slightly more, the prosimity making me want to scream. “Oh, I don’t need flattery. Just you, yielding like this.” She murmurs, letting her palm drift over my side with a teasing press, brushing the curve of my ribs. “And you're giving me plenty of that.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, small and breathless. “Plenty?” I reply, voice shaky. “You’re the one climbing over me like this. I barely had time to wake up, you know, let alone do anything.”
Her smirk curves like a blade. “No... you’re the one letting me.” Her palm slides higher up my ribs, slow and warm, fingers splaying until her thumb brushes just beneath the swell of my chest. She’s lazy about it, like she’s drawing her way through a map she already owns.
I draw in a shaky breath, my back arching the smallest bit against her. “Iyo…” I whisper, not even sure what I want to say.
She leans down, her mouth hovering a fraction above my collarbone. “Do you know what it does to me when you say my name like that?” She murmurs, then drags her lips along the edge of my collarbone in a slow, hot line. She stops to nip, just enough pressure to make me gasp, then soothes the bite with a kiss.
My hands twitch against her shoulders, half‑push, half‑pull, completely lost. “Th—this is…” But I don't finish the sentence.
She hums low against my skin. “Too much?” She teases, tracing a lazy path lower now, fingertips gliding back down to the curve of my waist, then teasing my thigh. “Or not enough?”
Before I can answer she bites again, a little higher up this time, just under the hollow of my throat, and the sound that escapes me is soft and startled. She freezes for a heartbeat, then smiles against my skin like she’s won something.
“That,” she whispers, her lips brushing up to the base of my neck, “is exactly what I wanted to hear.” Another gentle nip, then she drags her mouth back down, a hot trace along my collarbone that leaves me trembling.
“Come on, Iyo—” My voice breaks around her name. My fingers curl against her arms, not pushing her away, almost yanking her closer.
She humms, thumb brushing the side of my thigh while her other hand strokes the back of my neck, firm but soothing. “You're about to pull me in and you don’t even know it.”
She shifts her body just enough that her thigh slides between mine, the contact subtle but deliberate. Then she kisses the side of my jaw in a very mischievous but giddy manner.
“You’re…” I try, but the words dissolve into a sweet laugh.
“I’m what?” She asks softly, thumb stroking up and down my side, then higher again, daring. “Driving you crazy?”
I nod without meaning to. She smiles, a low, satisfied sound, and bites me one last time just under my jaw, sharp enough to make a sound spill out of me, helpless, before she soothes it yet again with a kiss.
Her voice is warm, teasing, but there’s an edge of softness under it now. “Good," she murmurs. “I want you like this.”
I suck in a breath, my hands finally gripping her shoulders, not to stop her but to anchor myself. “Iyo…”
“Yes?” Her lips hover near my ear, warm breath making me shiver.
“You’re insane.” It comes out as a whisper, more plea than protest.
Her chuckle is low and wicked. “And you, are not stopping me.”
She doesn't stop anything, none of the teasing, in such a way that makes my chest tighten. I instinctively wrap my arms around her shoulders, steadying myself against her, and realize how powerless I am to stop the pull she’s creating, because I fell a long time ago.
Her smirk is wicked, but her eyes melt my heart. “You know you’re impossible, right?” I whisper, exhaling hard, letting my words mix with my shivering.
“Or maybe I just know exactly how to make you give this game up. How to make you react.” Her lips brush my jaw again, teeth grazing lightly before she kisses the spot softly.
I can’t stop the small laugh that escapes me, shaky, breathless. “I don’t think I should let you.” I manage, voice low.
She hums, teasing. “But you do. Every time.” Her fingers drift to the small of my back, pressing into me as if marking her claim and I can’t help the sharp inhale that escapes me.
“You, are insane. And I hate you.” I whisper, fingers pressing against her shoulders tighter, holding myself steady while leaning into her anyway.
“You do not.” she murmurs, soft and low. “And it's deliciously easy to drive crazy. You let me. Every inch.”
My chest tightens, but I refuse to pull away. If anything, I use the way my body reacts and I pulling her closer half meaning to, half not.
She makes a move I don't expect. She moves her thigh, and intentional or not, I can’t stop the small sound that escapes me, a mixture of laughter and moan, and she hums low, satisfied. Her fingers slide up, tracing along my chest again, teasing the edges of my skin, while her lips brush the corner of my mouth.
Something breaks inside me. I tilt my head into her, lips parting almost involuntarily. My fingers move from her shoulders, threading into her hair, pulling her closer as she meets me halfway. Her lips find mine, soft at first, then demanding, teeth grazing, tongue tracing, claiming.
Her hands roam, holding me tight. My body reacts in every way, pressing into her, trembling, shivering, almost begging for more without realizing.
She hums against my lips, teeth grazing mine, then slowly pulls back, lips brushing along my jaw, leaving a trail of warmth and fire. Her eyes, dark and satisfied, lock on mine. “That,” she whispers, voice low, intimate, “is exactly what I wanted.”
I gasp, fingers still clutching her shoulders, body flush and trembling. “You’re going to ruin me.” I manage, voice half-laughing, half-breathless.
Her smirk softens into something gentler, still dominant, still claiming. “Maybe." She murmurs, hands lingering, warm and deliberate. “Or I’ll just show you how much you can take… and love every second.”
I exhale, shivering, leaning into her, caught somewhere between surrender and craving, and I know I’ve given in completely, utterly, and she knows it too.
But she doesn't go further, we just sit there for a bit.
⸻
When we finally get up, it’s like she’s decided restraint doesn’t exist anymore. At breakfast she sits too close, knees pressed to mine under the table. In the car, her fingers thread with mine, thumb stroking the inside of my wrist in slow, maddening circles. Every small gesture is a challenge to back out, daring me to pull away. I don’t.
At work she’s worse. During training she adjusts my stance with her whole body, her chest flush to my back, her palm flattening over my stomach to shift my center of gravity. She speaks low enough that only I can hear. “Relax. Breathe. Move with me.” Her fingertips drag along the inside of my arm when she lets go, nails grazing just enough to leave a ghost of a mark.
By the third time she corrects me, I feel like I need an ice bath. “You’re doing this on purpose.” I whisper when she leans in again.
“Yes.” she says simply, lips brushing the edge of my ear. “Because I can.”
My body answers before I do, leaning back into her touch, tilting my head just enough for her mouth to find my cheek and give me a small kiss.
The rest of the day is a blur of her endless trading, so much so that I might end up punching her for it. She takes my hand openly now, guides me through hallways like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When someone calls my name, stands behind me, far enough not to bother whatever conversation I'm having, but close in case I need anything.
Every time I think she’s done, she finds another way to push: a whisper, a touch higher on my thigh, a slow drag of her nails across my shoulder when no one’s looking.
By the time we’re back at the hotel, my nerves are raw. I close the door behind us, pressing my back to it. She steps in front of me, one hand braced above my head, the other still holding mine.
“You didn't go insane.” She murmurs, eyes dark. “But you are on edge.”
“I hate you." Is all I can get out while trying my hardest not to actually hit her for being so damn annoying.
Her thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, then slides up to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a whisper of control. “This is me,” she says. “Testing how much you can take. You could always tell me to stop, and you know I would, but you're not."
My hands land on her chest, this time not to steady myself but to grab her and pull her closer. “I…” The sound that leaves me is half a moan.
“Say it.” She whispers against my skin. “Say what you want.”
I tilt my head back against the door, eyes shut, breath uneven. “I don’t know anymore.” I admit, a laugh breaking out. “I can’t think when you’re like this.”
Her mouth curves. “That’s the point." She murmurs. “To make you forget.”
Her lips find mine then, no hesitation, and the kiss this time is deep, relentless, the kind that erases thought entirely. I answer without restraint this time, hands sliding around her neck as if to keep her from backing away.
When she finally pulls back, she rests her forehead against mine, breath ragged but eyes steady. “Now you know how to stop holding back and let me hold you.” She says quietly. “And I’m being gentle, for now.”
I’m trying to catch my breath, chest rising and falling.
She smirks, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Soon, you’ll beg me to be this soft.”
⸻
Sunlight filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the floor. I stir, half-aware, and immediately feel her presence before my eyes even open. Iyo is there, already awake, sitting cross-legged on the couch across from the bed, coffee in hand, phone forgotten. She’s casual, but there’s an intensity in the way she watches me, patient and amused.
I blink, trying to focus, and she smiles faintly. “Morning.” She says, voice low, teasing, like she’s savoring the moment before I even fully exist in it.
“Morning.” I reply, voice hoarse, pulling the covers closer around me. “You’ve been up forever, huh?”
She shrugs, tilting her head, letting her gaze roam over me just long enough to make me shift under the blankets. “Not forever. But long enough to wait for you to wake.”
I groan, burying my face in the pillow. “And you've just been watching me?”
“Mmm, not exactly.” She says lightly, sipping her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Just observing from time to time while scrolling through Instagram.”
I peek at her from under my lashes, half-exasperated, half-intrigued. “Okay, weirdo. I swear you act like a vampire."
She laughs softly, but it’s not entirely lighthearted. “Really? I prefer… captivating.” Her gaze sharpens, scanning me with a quiet intensity that makes my chest tighten.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, still groggy, and she leans forward just enough to brush her a few strands of messy hair away from my face. The contact is casual, but it sends a shiver up my spine. She notices immediately and smirks.
“You are always... less than composed, in the morning." She teases. "It's kind of cute."
“Yeah, well, I'm glad you like it.” I murmur, trying to sound indifferent, but my heart is racing.
Her eyebrow quirks up, amused. “And you like that I notice.”
I bite my lip, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I mean, I can't say I don't.
She leans back slightly but keeps her eyes locked on mine. “I know. I like that you're not pretending anymore.”
I try to focus on the rhythm of my breathing, but her patience does something to me.
By the time the morning sunlight fully fills the room, my resolve is a fragile thing. She watches me, always in control of the space, of the energy between us. It's casual, soft, but every brush, every purposeful movement, every measured word has me leaning closer without realizing it.
The morning stretches on, a slow, consuming prelude, tension coiled tight, every glance and touch charged, leaving me aware of her dominance, of her intent, of the fire simmering just beneath the surface. And somehow, I already know this is only the beginning.
⸻
By the time we leave the hotel, the sun has climbed higher, and the streets are already alive with people. Iyo walks beside me, not too close, not too far, just enough that I feel her presence pressing against the edge of my awareness. Her hand brushes casually against mine once as we step out, and my chest tightens instantly. I can’t help but glance down at her fingers lingering on my skin for a second longer than necessary.
“I didn’t think you’d agree to run errands so early.” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Her smile is slow and soft. “I like mornings. And I like… being with you, doing things like this.” She murmurs, her eyes glinting as she catches me staring at her for just a moment too long.
We move through the store, side by side. Every time I reach for something, she moves just a hair closer, her arm brushing mine deliberately. It’s casual enough to be believable, but precise enough to make my stomach twist in ways I haven’t felt before. She leans slightly into my space, letting her warmth seep into me, but I’m stubborn. I pull back, telling myself it’s just manners, just distance. But when she adjusts a can on a shelf, her hip presses into mine for longer than it needs to, and I feel the spark of heat ignite low in my belly.
“Can't you tone it down?” I murmur, voice low.Becaue I'm supposed to focus on the stuff at hand, not on how I want her more and more each time she teases me, but I don't tell her that.
Her lips curl into that slow, knowing smile. “No. Why?” she answers softly, as if savoring the words. "Am I more than you can handle.
I stop my movements for a second and swallow the true answer, knowing that'd be letting her win. “No.”
She hums, the sound soft but deliberate, a thread of challenge woven through it. “We’ll see." She says, and just like that, she’s moving ahead, leaving me trailing behind her, just enough to notice how she always seems to be aware of where I am, what I’m feeling.
By the time we hit the training gym, my resolve has already started to fray. She doesn’t change her approach, every contact leaving me tingling, making me painfully aware of her closeness.
During drills, she’s teasing without overtly distracting me. A comment here, a whisper there, and I find my concentration wavering. “Focus." She murmurs in that low, teasing tone only I hear, leaning just close enough that the heat from her side presses into mine. I catch her glancing at me when she thinks I’m not noticing, smirking subtly, watching my reactions. I try to shake it off, but I can feel her power, the control she exerts with just a look or a tilt of her head.
Lunch is more of the same. We sit across from each other, plates untouched while we talk. Every so often, she leans forward, her hand brushing mine while she reaches for something, or her knee bumps lightly against mine under the table. Infuriating. She watches me over the rim of her glass, waiting for me to betray any sign of distraction. And I do, just a flicker of heat, just a twitch, and she notices instantly, that faint glimmer of triumph in her eyes.
The afternoon is a blur of work, but Iyo never relents. Her presence is constant, a steady pressure I can’t shake. When we stand to review something, she steps just behind me, her arm brushing against mine as she points at the board. Each touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake. My pulse jumps, my focus wavers, and I have to stop myself from leaning into her, from letting her see how much she’s unraveling me.
Even moving through the hallways, she’s deliberate. Not too close, never blatant, but when she passes her hand finds mine, her fingers curling around mine just long enough to remind me that she’s there. Grounding. Every glance, every tilt of her head, every faint smirk, all calculated to make me acutely aware of her.
When we leave the office, the tension is nearly unbearable. I feel everything. She’s like a constant, gentle storm, wearing me down without even trying too hard, and I am stuck with a mix of dread and anticipation that I’ve been teetering on the edge of since this morning.
⸻
I’m chopping vegetables, the rhythm familiar, almost comforting. The scent of garlic and olive oil fills the kitchen, but I feel a weight at my side before I register it.
Iyo is standing there, leaning lightly against the counter. Her eyes don’t leave me, and even in the soft evening light, there’s an edge to her gaze that makes my chest tighten. I try to focus on the knife, on the vegetables, but I can feel her before I see her hands. The warmth in the air, the slight shift of her weight closer to mine.
“You’re too quiet." She says, voice low, teasing, as she slides a hand lightly over my forearm, enough to make me flinch. “Do you even know I’m here?”
I bite back a smile, trying to ignore the heat crawling up my spine. “Of course I do.” I say, though my voice is tighter than I want it to be.
Her hand doesn’t leave. She presses against me as she reaches to grab a spice jar, forcing our hips to brush together. My stomach knots. I’m supposed to be okay in here, supposed to finish dinner, but her nearness makes it anything but easy.
“You always look like you’re about to lose your mind when I touch you.” She says, almost softly, almost teasing, but there’s a dangerous undertone that makes me swallow hard.
“Not exactly." I reply, though I can’t stop the way my fingers grip the knife a little tighter, before I turn to face her, not actually letting go of the knife. Just sort of using it as a prop to gesticulate with.
She smirks, and her hand moves deliberately, tracing the back of my wrist with her thumb, lingering. “Maybe not yet." she says. Then, leaning over to grab the cutting board, she presses her body just enough against mine that my breath catches. “But I’m counting on it being the case soon."
I step back reflexively, trying to regain space, but she matches me, steps closer, corners me gently against the counter. “You know," She murmurs, letting her fingers linger at my hip. “I’ve been patient… but I have very little left.”
I swallow, gripping the edge of the counter tighter. “And what if I push back?”
“You can try." She whispers, and the low heat of her voice makes my chest pound. Her hand drifts higher now, resting on my waist, pressing me into her just enough to make me stagger slightly. My mind screams at me to move, to pull away, but once again I don’t.
She has all the control. My focus wavers, and I find myself leaning toward her, though my head tells me not to, simply because this is not the moment.
Her fingers slide along my collarbone, lingering on the sensitive line there, and she catches the faint hitch in my breath. “Finally unraveling I see."
I glare at her, trying to regain composure. “You’re insane. I'm busy, Iyo." I say, but the words are half protest, half admission.
“I know.” She replies, almost smug. She moves closer, spins me around, guiding my hand to help chop, but instead, her thumb brushes along the back of my fingers, sending a jolt through me. I can’t focus on the task, can’t focus on anything but her touch.
I finally set down the knife to avoid accidents, hands suddenly shaking. She notices, of course, and smiles. A cruel, knowing smile. “You look like I finally got to you.”
“I’m fine.” I lie, though my stomach flips and my heart hammers.
Her hand drifts higher again, grazing the curve of my ribs, light enough to make me shiver but hard enough to make me aware that she knows exactly what she’s doing. She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I can make you beg, you know.” she says, voice smooth. “And I think you’re very close already.”
My hands twitch, wanting to push away, wanting to grab her, wanting to do anything, and yet I freeze. The kitchen, the vegetables, the mundane task of dinner, none of it exists. Only her. Only her heat. Only her dominance.
She presses closer when I shift, guiding me gently but firmly with her hands on my waist and shoulders. Her body molds to mine as she bends to pick something from the counter, her chest pressing into mine, and I let out a sharp breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“So,” she whispers, tracing the line of my jaw with her thumb, tilting my face toward her. Her other hand slides down my back, pressing me more firmly into her. “are you going to do something?"
I can’t speak. I want to. I want to tell either stop it or do something herself. My hands find her shoulders without thinking, gripping to steady myself even as my body betrays me, leaning into her.
But she reads my mind as her lips hover near mine, teasing, brushing against the corner of my mouth. Her thumb strokes my jaw, her other hand slips around my waist to pull me impossibly closer. “Do you want me to stop?” she murmurs, though her tone makes it clear she doesn’t care for the answer.
"No... don't.” I admit, my voice barely more than a whisper. My resolve is crumbling.
Her smile deepens, triumphant. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m not.”
And then her lips are on mine. Slow. Pressing. Consuming. Every day, every touch, every moment of control she’s exerted over me, every subtle brush culminates here. I don’t resist it, but I try to catch my breath, to steady myself, to remember I still exist outside of her touch.
Her hands roam and my fingers clutch her shoulders, digging in, reacting without permission. The kiss deepens, and every nerve in my body ignites. I can’t do anything but respond.
And then, just as quickly, she pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against mine, breath mingling. My heart hammers, my chest aches, my mind is spinning. I look at her, at the smirk that says she knows exactly what she’s done, how everything shifted for good now.
She whispers, almost casual now. "Be mine, please?"
I can’t deny her. I am no longer caught between resistance and surrender. The tension finally snaps, leaving me breathless, undone, but electrified.
We stay like that, pressed together in the kitchen, the world outside completely gone, until the moment fades to black.
⸻
After dinner she doesn’t hesitate anymore. Her mouth is on mine almost instantly, claiming, insistent, like she’s been waiting for this moment forever. I meet her halfway, letting her take over completely, and the second our lips touch, every rational thought evaporates. Her hands are everywhere, one pressing into my waist, pulling me impossibly close, the other tangled in my hair, tilting my head just so.
Her kisses are rougher now, teasing and biting, urgent and deliberate. She presses her body against mine, shifting so every inch of me feels her heat. My hands grip her shoulders, then slide along her back, needing to feel her as much as she needs me. She moves with a purpose, tracing the curve of my ribs with her hands, letting her thumbs brush over my sides, her lips following the same path, biting lightly, claiming.
Every motion she makes is calculated to unravel me completely, a nip at my jaw, a brush along my neck, the way she presses against me just enough to make me shiver against her. She’s relentless, a storm I willingly throw myself into.
Her lips pull away for a second, just to let her forehead rest against mine, and she whispers, low and commanding, “You’re mine.” I feel it in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders, in the press of her body. There’s no restraint left there, no hesitation, just her dominance and I melt into it, letting her own the space, own me.
Then she kisses me again, harder, dragging her lips over mine with rough precision. Her hands are everywhere, teasing and claiming, daring me to keep up. I let myself follow, let myself be carried by her, the heat of her body and the fire in her eyes burning into me. She bites lightly at my collarbone, then traces upward along my neck, making a low growl vibrate from my chest, and she smiles against my skin, knowing exactly what she’s doing.
She presses closer, almost pinning me with her weight, her hand sliding along my waist, hooking around my back to pull me tighter. Every shiver, every gasp, every tremble is a victory, and she knows it. Her lips find mine with claiming force, teasing, biting, tasting, driving me insane.
I have nothing left to resist. I give in completely, letting her set the pace, letting her take over entirely. Every kiss, every touch, every press of her body is sharp and consuming, leaving me dizzy and shivering under her dominance.
Finally, she pulls back just enough to look at me, her chest heaving against mine, her eyes dark and satisfied. "I hope you know this was never a game for me. I love you, Y/n." And in that moment, I don't want to argue or defy her anymore.
"It wasn't for me either. You already know where my heart lies."
Hi. Hello. I just read "Truth, Dare or You" and I've got to let you know.. It really is one of the best fics I've ever read. Regardless to fandom. Your warnings say, "smut, or like a try. Idk, I think it's shit tbh." GIRL WHAT!?!?? The way you've build that tension between the reader and Rhea was unbelievable! It got me to a point where I literally screamed, "oh my god I can't take it anymore!!!" but in the best way!! It was a totally captivating read. My body felt tense the whole time. I felt a little relief when they finally kissed, but god damn.. it only lasted for a second because that smut part was just... I don't know even know to describe it. It's so deep on every level. I wish I could put it into words just like you did so beautifully. Thank you so so much for this piece! I'm sure I'm gonna read it again.
hii!
thank you so much! i honestly thought it didn't turn out that well, but i'm glad to hear such good feedback on it 🥺🖤
Summary: It all begins with resistance and ends with something completely different. But in pure truth, no one can play hard to get with her for too long...
The room hums when I step inside. Faint and mechanical, like the walls are breathing. Someone’s been here.
Someone still is.
The monitors blink awake before I touch anything. Light spills across the floor in a fractured grid, casting shadows I don’t trust. And there she is, exactly where she shouldn’t be. In my chair. Arms draped like it belongs to her.
Cipher.
Her hair’s messy and defiant. Like she cut it with the same blade she guts firewalls with. She's not her usual self. She just watches me the way she always does. Quiet. With intent. Like I’m some complicated equation she hasn’t solved yet but desperately wants to.
“You’re getting slow.” she says. Her voice is low, like it’s meant to crawl under my skin. “I expected you to show up five minutes ago.”
“I should call backup.”
“You won’t.”
She’s right. I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t move at all. The air’s gone heavy. Thick with static and something unspoken.
I cross my arms. “Tell me why you’re here. And don’t waste my time.”
“There’s a breach in your system.” she says, tilting her head. “Remote, elegant, smarter than anything you’ve seen in years. Not mine.”
“And I should believe you?”
She shrugs. “I’m sitting in your chair, not erasing your files. That should say enough.”
God, she’s exhausting. Not just because she’s dangerous, but because she’s brilliant, relentless, and for some reason, obsessed with me. It shows in every line of code she lobs at my team like a love letter we’re too stupid to decrypt.
“You’re risking everything just to what? Play savior?”
Her gaze doesn’t falter. “I’m not interested in saving anyone.”
“Then what are you doing?”
She stands, and it’s subtle, but I flinch. Not from fear — from her sheer presence. Like the room shifts to accommodate her movements. Like she bends the grid around her.
“I’m trying to be something better.” she says, voice softer now, “For you.”
I feel that line like a wire pulled tight inside my ribs.
“You don’t get to say that.”
“I know what I’ve done.” Her voice flickers. Not quite regret, but something adjacent. “You’re the only one who ever looked at me like I wasn’t a monster.”
“I never said you weren’t.”
“No,” she murmurs, stepping closer, “but you didn’t look away either.”
And that’s the problem. I still don’t.
⸻
She doesn’t speak. Just lifts her hand, palm up, and offers something small and metallic onto the console.
It clinks once.
I blink down at it.
A drive. Slim, black, unmarked.
Cipher watches my face, carefully. “You’re tracking a shell company laundering funds through your agency’s South Africa node, right? Stolen weapons, off-record movements, ghost files that don’t add up.”
I don’t answer. She doesn’t need me to.
“I pulled the original chain-of-command data. The real one. Before it was scrubbed.” She nods at the drive. “Names, locations, routes. They’ve been bleeding your system for months.”
My fingers close around it before I think better of it. It’s warm, like it’s only left her hand. Like it still carries her pulse.
“I could’ve sold it.” she says. “To your enemies. To mine. I didn’t.”
“No." I murmur. “You handed it to me instead. All dressed up like a peace offering.”
She smiles, faint. “More like a gesture.”
I stare at her. This version of Cipher stripped of theatrics, stripped of ego is almost harder to face than the one behind a keyboard. This one is real. And that’s the problem.
“I didn’t ask for a gesture.”
She exhales, a little too sharp. “No. You didn’t.”
I step in closer, until I can smell her — ozone and cold metal, the scent of wires overheating, of adrenaline and control. She doesn’t move.
“You think this is how it works?” I ask. “That you hand me a drive and suddenly I forget what you’ve done?”
“No." she says, barely above a whisper. “But I hoped it might make you see.”
“See what?” I press.
“That I’m not the same woman you hunted.”
I let silence stretch between us. I want her uncomfortable. I want her off-balance. Because I don’t know what she’s doing to me — and that makes me dangerous.
“Then prove it,” I say. “Not with tech. Not with gifts. Prove it with something that costs you.”
Her mouth tightens. “What do you mean?”
“Show me a weakness." I say. “Any genius can show off. But if you want to be better—for me? Let me see what scares you.”
⸻
The door slides open mid-briefing.
Of course.
She steps in like she’s been invited, which she hasn’t. Wearing all black, hair sharp, arms crossed like she’s bored already. Her eyes scan the room once before naturally landing on me.
Roman frowns. “Why is she here?”
“She has intel.” I say quickly, not looking at her. “That’s all.”
Cipher smiles, just a little. Enough to set off warning bells through my spine.
“Oh, don't be like that." she says, voice smooth as glass. “You sounded much more welcoming last night.”
Heads turn.
I don’t move.
Tej squints. “Wait — what?”
Cipher’s eyes flick lazily toward him, then back to me. “Just a… private conversation. Very enlightening.”
I clench my jaw. She’s walking the knife’s edge between harmless and intimate, threading her words with double meanings only I can really decode.
And god, she’s enjoying it.
“Should we be worried?” Letty mutters.
“You should be grateful." Cipher says brightly. “I cleaned up your network mess, exposed a leak, and I didn’t even ask for a thank-you. Honestly, I deserve flowers.”
“Or a straitjacket,” Roman mutters.
I try to refocus on the board. The mission. The data. But she leans beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat off her skin.
“You’re welcome, by the way.” she says just for me. “Though I’m still waiting for your version of gratitude. Something… hands-on.”
My head turns sharply. She meets my glare with a calm, pleased expression, like she’s testing how far she can go before I snap.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.” I whisper.
She tilts her head. “Isn’t that why you keep letting me in?”
Everyone’s watching us once again, but no one quite knows why. There’s confusion in the air. Tension. Curiosity.
Cipher just smiles wider, like she’s poured gasoline across the room and now she’s waiting to see what catches first.
⸻
When the second the door hisses shut behind the last person, I round on her.
“You think that was funny?”
Cipher’s already leaning against the far wall like she’s been waiting for this. Like this is the real meeting. Her arms are still crossed, but there’s a glint in her eyes now. Unapologetic. Amused.
“I thought it was tame, honestly.”
“You humiliated me.”
“No." she says simply, “Just rattled you a little. It's different.”
I stalk toward her before I can think better of it. “You want to ‘help’? Fine. But don’t you ever pull that kind of shit in front of my team again.”
She pushes off the wall slowly, like a cat stretching. Every movement measured. “Is this the part where you pretend you didn’t like it?”
“Like—?” I laugh once, sharp. “God, your ego is actually beyond unhinged.”
“Don’t deflect.” Her voice drops, quiet now. “You could’ve shut it down. You didn’t. You let them wonder.”
I glare. “Because I didn’t want to cause a scene.”
“You didn’t want to lie.”
My hands ball into fists. She steps closer, like she’s testing my perimeter. My willpower.
“You hate that I make you feel anything." she says softly. “But you do. That’s why you push me away so hard.”
I hold my ground. “You don’t get to play psychologist after screwing with me in front of half the damn room.”
Cipher tilts her head slightly, eyes scanning my face like she’s mapping my weak points. “I’m not screwing with you." she says softer. “I’m letting you see me. The question is, what do you see?”
I breathe out through my nose, steadying myself. “I see someone who still doesn’t understand consequences.”
Her gaze sharpens like I just said something important.
And I think I did.
She steps in, slow, deliberate. I don’t move. I won’t be the one to step back.
“Consequences.” she repeats, voice low. “Funny. You speak like someone who doesn’t want to deal with her own.”
I grit my teeth. “This isn’t about me.”
“No?” Her hand brushes mine as she moves past me. Not an accident, never with her. “Because the way you looked at me across that room said otherwise.”
I spin, catching her wrist before she can take another step. She stops instantly, her body going still under my grip. Her eyes flick in interest to where I’m holding her.
“I’m warning you.” I say.
“You always are.” Her voice softens into something more dangerous. “And you never mean it.”
Her skin is warm. Too warm. I let go, but she doesn’t step back.
She’s close now, too close, and every time she speaks, her breath ghosts across my cheek.
“I’m not trying to play you.” she says, quieter. “I’m trying to be real with you. But you’re terrified of what that looks like.”
I scoff, but my voice cracks around the edges. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“No.” she murmurs. “You’re scared of what you feel for me.”
That’s when it shifts.
Not because she's touching me, but because she doesn’t. She almost does. Her hand lifts, hovering near my jaw. Not quite brushing, not quite pulling away.
The tension coils in the silence between us, thick and crackling, charged like a live wire waiting for contact.
“I could kiss you right now." she says, soft and maddening. “And you wouldn’t stop me.”
My pulse kicks. “You’re so sure of yourself.”
“No, lovely." she says. “I’m sure of you.”
And then she steps back, slow and smooth, leaving cold air in her place.
But her voice lingers.
“Tell me when you’re done pretending.”
And she’s gone, slipping through the door before I can say a word.
⸻
Weeks pass.
I don’t bring it up.
What she said. What she did.
I bury it like a classified file and seal it twice. I move forward. I lead missions. I act like nothing’s changed.
But she keeps showing up.
Not in dramatic ways. Not at first.
Just… present. Always two steps behind me. Or two steps ahead.
⸻
One night, a debriefing ends late.
I head back to my quarters and find the door already open.
A soft click of music inside. Low. Haunting. Familiar.
She’s sitting on my bed, boots off, legs crossed. Her jacket folded neatly beside her.
“I fixed your surveillance logs.” she says without looking up. “The ones you didn’t realize were corrupted.”
I stare at her. “You broke into my room.”
She finally looks at me. “It's cleaner than when I came in.”
⸻
Another time, post-mission. I take a bullet. Shallow. Stupid. I downplay it.
She doesn’t.
Cipher’s in the med bay before the blood dries. She doesn’t speak. Just sits there, watching the nurse patch me up. Watching me breathe. Watching me lie about how fine I am.
When we’re alone, she presses a little container into my hand.
Custom-mixed salve. High-grade. Nothing on the market.
“It won’t scar.” she says. “Unless you want it to.”
⸻
She keeps giving.
Encrypted drives. Weapon blueprints. Shielded communications. A silenced pistol that fits my grip exactly.
She never says why. But I know.
Even when she speaks in riddles, her message is always the same:
“See me. Trust me. Let me be good for you.”
⸻
One night, she gives me a weakness. Just like I asked.
We’re alone. End of a long op. Everyone’s sleeping. She finds me in the hangar, bathed in red light from the aircraft beacon.
She walks up slowly. Quietly.
Then she holds out a photo.
A small, faded one.
A child. Maybe three. Pale curls. Big eyes. Smiling at someone behind the camera.
“My son." she says. “He’s gone.”
I blink. “I didn’t know—”
“You weren’t supposed to.” Her voice is careful, almost fragile. “But you asked for something that cost me.”
She leaves the photo in my hand.
Walks away again.
And still, I don’t let myself crack.
Not yet.
Not even when my fingers keep going back to that worn edge of the photo like it means something.
⸻
Mission site: Abandoned refinery outside Berlin. Intel said light resistance. Intel was wrong.
We’re pinned.
Smoke chokes the corridor. The comms are jammed. Someone — Dom? Letty? — is shouting through static. I’m behind cover with a jammed weapon and a gash in my leg that won’t stop bleeding.
And then everything goes silent.
Just for a moment, and the lights go out.
The enemy’s backup generator hums to life, but it’s no longer running their systems. The turrets fail. Comms flicker back online. Drones drop like flies midair.
“What the—” Roman breathes, somewhere behind me.
And then I hear it.
The soft click of her high-heeled boots on steel.
She steps out of the smoke like a ghost wearing leather and fire.
Cipher.
Expression unreadable.
“Really?” she says. “This is the team that almost took me down? Disappointing.”
Tej stares. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Stand down.” I bark, limping up. “She’s not here to fight.”
I think.
⸻
She doesn’t hesitate.
In less than five minutes she reroutes the extraction path, rewires the surveillance grid, opens locked doors we couldn’t blast through.
And when I freeze, cornered by a soldier I didn’t hear, she’s the one who takes him down with one clean shot.
Just like that.
No thanks.
No applause.
She doesn’t even look at the others.
Just me.
⸻
Later at the extraction site when the team’s recovering, she finds me behind the transport truck, away from the chaos. No blood on her, no scratches. Just calm, collected Cipher, like she didn’t just save half the damn team.
I turn, arms crossed, pulse still running hot from adrenaline and confusion.
“You tracked us.”
“I protected you.”
I shake my head. “You helped all of us.”
She nods once. “Because they matter to you.”
There’s a pause. The kind that stretches, taut and full of things neither of us wants to say out loud.
“I didn’t ask for this.” I tell her.
“No," she says. “but you needed it.”
I scoff. “So this is what now? Your redemption arc?”
“No." she says again, quieter this time. “It’s not about redemption.”
She steps forward, and suddenly it’s just the two of us again, the noise behind us fading into a dull hum.
“It’s about you.” she says. “And proving that I can be what you asked me to be.”
“Why?” I demand, voice cracking.
She studies me like I’m the most important puzzle she’s ever touched.
“Because I don’t want to destroy things anymore,” she says. “I want to protect something. For once. To find worth protecting. And that's you.”
⸻
The sky’s turning violet behindus as we leave the extraction point. Smoke still curls off metal. The team’s regrouping, shouting over the hum of the engines. Injuries, damage, half the op blown to hell, but we’re alive.
Because of her.
Cipher hasn’t moved far. She’s leaning against the transport crate like she’s part of the background, like she didn’t just rip apart half a militia with a keyboard and a sniper round. Her eyes are on me, of course. Always.
I don’t want to walk over.
Yet I do anyway.
“Why are you still here?” I ask, low.
She shrugs. “Waiting for you to decide if this changes anything.”
“It doesn’t." I snap.
She doesn’t flinch. “You don’t mean that.”
I step in closer. “You saved them. All of them. You could’ve just taken me and disappeared.”
“I thought about it." she admits, so casually it knocks the breath from my chest. “But I knew you wouldn’t forgive me.”
“You think I forgive you now?”
She leans in, voice quiet, steady. “No. But I think for one second, when I pulled you out of that blast zone, you didn’t hate me either.”
I hate how true that is.
I hate the image burned into my brain, the blur of her face, the way she cradled my head like I was something fragile. Like I mattered.
“You’re relentless." I breathe.
“And you’re still pretending this is one-sided.”
She reaches out, slow and careful, her fingers brushing mine. It’s not a grab. It’s barely a touch. It’s a question.
I don’t answer.
Not with words.
But I don’t pull away either.
My hand turns, slowly, deliberately to hold hers properly.
Her fingers thread through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I hate her for that.
And I don’t let go.
When she steps closer, I don’t stop her. When her other hand lifts to touch the side of my face — tentative, rare, like she’s not sure I’ll let her — I stay still. Her thumb grazes my cheekbone, barely there.
It’s the softest she’s ever been with me.
And I let her.
Only for a second too long.
And then —
“Hey.”
Tej.
His voice cuts through the space like a blade.
I rip my hand back, step away fast like I’ve been burned. Cipher just lowers hers without a flinch. Casual again. Mask in place. But her eyes are still on me.
Tej’s gaze bounces between us. His posture’s loose, but his eyes aren’t.
“You good?” he asks me. But it’s not really a question. It’s a flag.
I nod quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”
He looks at Cipher, then back at me. “She really did save our asses today.”
“Guess even sociopaths have their moments." I mutter.
Tej doesn’t smile. “Right. But she didn’t just save you.”
“I noticed.”
He steps closer, voice quieter. “So… what’s going on?”
“Nothing." I say. “It's not like she's part of the team.”
“No,” he says carefully. “But she’s orbiting you like she wants to be.”
I go still.
“She doesn’t do things unless there’s a reason." he adds. “So whatever this is… you might want to figure it out before it figures you out.”
He walks off before I can answer.
And behind me, I can still feel her watching.
Always.
⸻
Days later, we're all together in Dom's garage.
Cipher's last stunt isn't forgotten. It's looming over us. So is the fact that she drops in every now and then with small gestures or facts or random pieces of information.
The energy in the room is off. Too many eyes, too many words unspoken. Everyone’s here — Letty, Tej, Roman, Ramsey, Dom — scattered around, pretending to focus on repairs or intel. But the tension crackles like static.
They’re waiting for someone to say it.
Letty’s the one who finally does.
“You gonna finally tell us what happened out there?” she asks, voice casual but not really. She’s leaning against the workbench, arms crossed.
I look up from the monitor in front of me. “Which part?”
“She showed up out of nowhere. Saved our asses. And then disappeared again.” Letty shrugs. “Only difference is, this time, you were the last person seen with her for a while."
“She found an opening in their firewall and jammed the strike system. No one else could’ve done it that fast." Tej adds, like he’s trying to stay neutral. “But yeah. After that… you were gone.”
Roman whistles low. “And then you walked out lookin’ like you’d seen God.”
That gets a few uneasy looks. I just arch a brow. “You think she’s God now?”
“I think you’ve got some explaining to do." Letty says, firmer now. “Not just to us. To yourself.”
I close the laptop slowly and look around at the team.
Dom stays quiet, arms folded, watching.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
Letty pushes off the bench. “Are you working with her?”
“No.”
“Are you protecting her?”
“Not from you.”
“Y/n, don't forget she’s dangerous." Ramsey says. “Brilliant, sure, but she’s left a trail of bodies and code behind her that we’ve been cleaning up for years.”
“She knows that." I say.
Roman laughs. “Oh, okay! She knows! Well that changes everything.”
“She’s trying to be different." I say, quieter. “She’s been trying.”
“People like her don’t change." Letty says.
“And she's not people like you." I reply, meeting her eyes. “And she’s not pretending to be.”
That silences the room for a beat.
“She saved all of you." I continue. “Not just me. She didn’t owe us anything. No angle, no deal, no leverage. She just did it. And she didn’t ask for credit. Didn’t stay. Didn’t even speak to anyone but me.”
Tej frowns. “So why did she show up?”
I hesitate. “Because I asked her to, once. Months ago. I told her if she wanted to prove she could be better, she needed to help more than just me. She remembered.”
Letty crosses her arms. “You gave her that chance?”
“I gave her the truth." I say. “She decided what to do with it.”
Roman looks between everyone, incredulous. “So you’re just… cool with her now? Cipher? Queen of war crimes?”
“No," I say. “but I’m not fighting her like I used to.”
That lands hard.
Ramsey speaks next, gentle but serious. “Are you falling for her?”
I blink. The words knock something loose in my chest.
“No." I say at first. “I don't think so.”
It’s quiet again.
Letty’s watching me the closest. She tilts her head. “So this is real.”
“Yeah.”
“You know what this means, right?” she asks. “If you’re wrong about her—”
“I know.” I pause. “But I’m not.”
Dom finally speaks. “We’ve all had moments like this. People we couldn’t explain. Couldn’t walk away from. But if you’re gonna stand in front of this team and ask us to trust her through you, then you’d better be damn sure.” He's not trying to be rough. More like a worried big brother.
I nod. “I am.”
That’s when the garage door opens and Cipher walks in.
She doesn’t say anything. Just stops near the threshold, her eyes sweeping the room. She’s in black again, of course, cropped jacket, hair a mess, calm like always — but her gaze lingers on me.
And this time?
I don’t look away.
⸻
I knock.
It’s unnecessary. Her surveillance footprint spans blocks, not feet — I know she saw me on the cameras. I know the heat signature of my pulse is probably outlined on some screen in real time.
Still. I knock.
The door unlocks with a low hiss. Mechanical. Precise. Her kind of welcome.
She stands in the doorway barefoot, holding a glass of something aged and amber. She’s not dressed for war this time — no leather, no black tactical precision. Just a loose shirt, black sweatpants, her hair falling slightly over one eye, mouth unreadable. Beautiful in a way that’s softer, stripped back. Unpracticed.
“Didn’t think knocking was your style.” she says, voice cool, but not cold.
“I can surprise you." I reply.
Her eyes flick down my body, slow. “You always do.”
She moves aside to let me in. Doesn’t ask why I’m here. Not yet.
The inside of the place is cleaner than I’d expect. Not warm, nothing about Cipher is warm, but it’s lived in. Minimalist tech elegance. Sparse furniture. Dark surfaces. Silence like a religion.
I take a few steps in. She closes the door behind me. Still watching.
“I assumed,” she says, walking toward the kitchen counter, “that after your little declaration in front of the team, you’d be forced into some kind of group therapy session or exile.”
“Not yet." I say.
“Give them time.”
She sips from her glass, slow. Calculated. Every movement measured like she’s calculating outcomes in her head. And maybe she is.
Her gaze sharpens. “So? What are you doing here?”
I take a breath. “You heard what I said.”
“I did.” She turns fully now. “But you didn’t stick around after to see what it did to me.”
Her voice is even, but there’s a crack beneath it. Hairline. Human.
“I meant it." I say.
She studies me like I’m something she hasn’t programmed for. “So you came all this way just to confirm that?”
“No.”
One step forward. Deliberate. Not too close yet.
“I came because I didn’t like how we left things.”
She lifts a brow. “We didn’t leave anything. You did. After that mission. After—whatever that was.”
“That wasn’t the end.”
“Felt like it." she says. “You looked at me like you wanted something, and then you backed off like it burned.”
“I didn’t back off because I was afraid." I say. “I backed off because I knew the second I let this happen… it wouldn’t be something I could walk away from.”
Her breath catches, barely. She covers it by setting her glass down. Her hands are too steady. Which means she’s trying too hard.
“I’ve had people lie to me," she says. “say things they didn’t mean. Offer feelings like currency. Try to use me to fix something broken in them.”
“I’m not here to be fixed.”
“And I’m not here to be anyone’s secret." she says, voice sharper now. “Or your rebellion. Or your maybe.”
I don’t respond with words.
I move closer, slow and unflinching. And when I reach her, I don’t touch her like she usually touches me. Not with power or provocation. I touch her gently. Like she’s allowed to be breakable in front of me.
Her breath leaves her in a soft exhale, like she’s been holding it since I walked in.
“You weren’t a maybe." I murmur. “Not when you showed up. Not when you got me out. Not when you saved them.”
She stares at me like she’s waiting to be betrayed. And I hate that it’s instinct for her.
“I saw your face after I spoke." I add. “You looked surprised.”
Cipher tries for a shrug, but it doesn’t quite land. “Didn’t think you’d say it like that. Like I meant something.”
“You do.”
I brush a hand down her arm. She lets me.
“I don’t know what this is,” I say. “but I’m not pretending it’s not happening anymore.”
Her expression shifts slightly, quietly. And it’s everything. The mask doesn’t fall, but it thins.
“You’re not afraid of what they’ll think?” she asks.
“They already think it.”
A moment of silence. Dense. Full of unsaid things.
Then she lifts her hand slowly and brushes her fingers over my cheek. The touch is tentative, unsure in a way that breaks my heart a little.
“If I kissed you now,” she says, “would you stop me?”
I don’t blink.
“No.”
So she does.
Not with the hunger she’s capable of. Not with control. But with something softer. A first kiss that tastes like tension and surrender, like trust given instead of stolen.
I kiss her back like I’ve wanted to for too long. And this time, I don’t pull away first.
When it finally breaks, we stay close. Our breath mingling. Her hand still on my face like she’s anchoring herself to the moment.
“You came to me." she says, voice small.
“I’ll keep doing it.”
She closes her eyes like the truth hurts and heals all at once.
“Stay." she whispers.
My answer is simple.
“Okay.”
⸻
It happens in fragments.
Not all at once. Not like a storm. But slowly and quietly, like water reshaping stone.
She doesn’t say, you can stay here now. Doesn’t ask. Just leaves the door unlocked more often. Just clears space in drawers that weren’t meant for anyone else. One morning, there’s a toothbrush beside hers in the glass. Later, a jacket of mine hanging near the door like it belongs there.
Like I do.
⸻
She cooks exactly once.
I don’t think she meant to. I just find her standing barefoot in the kitchen one night, hair tied messily back, a pan sizzling with something that smells like garlic and heat and unfamiliar effort.
She doesn’t look up when I enter, just mutters, “It’s not poisoned.”
I sit on the counter, watching her move — precise, efficient, but not robotic. She burns the edge of something and curses under her breath, and I swear, for a second, she looks almost human.
We eat in silence. On the floor. She complains about the table being “too performative.”
Halfway through, she hands me a forkful from her plate. I eat it without a word. She watches like it’s a test.
I must pass, because she relaxes against my side after that, thigh to thigh.
⸻
I catch her humming once. Just a note or two under her breath while she rewires something on her desk. Her lips barely move. She doesn’t realize she’s doing it until I tilt my head.
She freezes.
I smile. Say nothing.
But that night, when I curl up beside her, she exhales against my neck like I gave her permission to be soft.
⸻
She learns the shape of my body with her eyes before her hands.
I see her study me when I’m not looking. Or when I pretend not to be. The way my spine curves when I stretch. The scar under my collarbone. The way I crack my knuckles when I’m trying not to bite back a thought.
I think it soothes her, knowing me like data.
But sometimes she reaches out mid-sentence and fixes a stray hair behind my ear. Like instinct.
That always undoes me more than anything else.
⸻
Date one - Night Market
She doesn’t call it a date.
Of course she doesn’t.
To her, it’s just a walk through a market lit by strings of lanterns swaying in the dusk wind, somewhere between nowhere and nowhere else. No mission. No threat. No surveillance net dragging behind us. Just her in dark denim and a jacket that swallows her frame like armor she’s trying not to wear.
She keeps her hands in her pockets.
I try sweets from a street vendor, something unfamiliar and sticky with syrup. I hold a piece out to her without speaking.
Her lips part. She tastes it. Doesn’t flinch, but her jaw tenses like she’s debating whether this was a mistake. I wait.
“It’s… chaotic." she mutters.
I laugh. “So are you.”
She doesn’t argue.
Later, in the thick of the crowd, her hand grazes mine. Light. Barely a touch. But deliberate. She holds it there for three full steps before retreating, eyes straight ahead like she didn’t just shake my ribcage loose from the inside.
I say nothing.
But I feel it for hours after.
⸻
Date Two – The Jazz Experiment
She shows up at my door holding a vinyl in one hand and a bottle of wine she only half-pronounces. No warning. No plan I can decipher. Just says, “You trust me?”
I do. That’s the terrifying part.
We go to her place once again.
The change of scenery makes it seem more stripped of pretense tonight. No holograms or code bleeding from the walls. Just low light and shadows, and the soft flicker of a candle she must’ve lit because she read somewhere that people do that sort of thing.
She sets the record down. Static hums, then the needle drops, and it’s jazz. Smoky, aching, full of space and ache and restraint. The kind of music that doesn’t beg to be heard but waits to be noticed.
“I hate noise." she says. “But this kind? I make exceptions.”
She doesn’t sit too close. Just close enough. A folded distance between us, charged and deliberate.
She doesn’t look at me often, but I feel her watching when I let my eyes fall closed. When my head tips back. When my bare foot brushes hers under the table.
And then, slow as breath, I lean into her shoulder.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t stiffen. Just lets her arm rest against mine. A quiet touch that means stay in a language she’s still learning to speak.
Neither of us says a word for the rest of the record.
But when it ends, she leans her head to mine just slightly and I swear the silence shifts, getting warmer than before.
⸻
The movie’s almost over.
Some sci-fi classic she insists is “technically genius but emotionally bankrupt,” but I stopped paying attention halfway through. Not because the plot lost me. But because of the way Cipher’s thigh has been pressed against mine the entire time. The way her arm rests behind me on the couch, gently hugging my shoulders. The way her fingers brushed mine at one point and didn’t leave after.
We’ve done this a few times now — nights in, drinks shared, kisses stolen in between missions and long silences. We’ve become something soft without ever calling it anything. And tonight, like every time before, there’s been this rhythm to it: stay close, stay quiet, stay on the edge.
Except something’s different now. She’s quieter than usual. Less composed. Her eyes flick to me more often. Like she’s waiting for something. Or bracing for it.
The credits start to roll, and I feel her shift. A slight exhale. As if she’s about to say something and decides against it.
I don’t let her retreat.
“Tell me." I say softly, turning to her.
She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze stays fixed on the screen, though her jaw tightens. “I’m thinking… this is dangerous.”
“The movie?”
“You.” Her voice is low. “This.”
That makes me pause.
“We’ve kissed, Cipher.” I remind her gently. “You’ve slept here. I’ve slept there. You bring me tea, and I don’t even like tea.”
A flicker of a smile. Brief, crooked, vulnerable. “I know.”
“Then what’s dangerous about this?”
She turns toward me at last, and I see it. Want. Naked and raw, flickering just behind her eyes. She’s been holding it in for too long.
“Because I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
And suddenly the room’s too quiet. The flickering light from the screen dances across her cheekbones, her collarbones. She’s closer than she was a second ago. Or maybe I leaned in. I can’t tell.
“You really don’t have to." I whisper.
And when I kiss her, soft and deliberate, she kisses me back like it’s the first time and the last time all at once.
⸻
We fall apart in pieces.
Clothes peeled away slowly, not because we’re unsure, but because we are. Because this matters. Because we’ve imagined this so many times we want to get it right.
I straddle her lap as we kiss, her hands resting on my waist with careful, reverent pressure. But when I roll my hips against her, she lets out a breath that cracks something open between us.
She leans in, kisses my neck, my shoulder, the place just beneath my ear that makes me shiver.
“You’ve been driving me insane, you know?" she murmurs. “Every time I saw you laugh with them. Every time you looked at me like you wanted more.”
“I did.”
Her hand slips between us, fingertips grazing skin, learning the shape of me like she’s decoding something sacred. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to want it.”
I guide her hand lower. “You are.”
The bed is warm, unfamiliar with how lived-in it feels now.
She lays me back with aching patience. Traces her fingers down my chest, across my ribs, my hips. Each motion deliberate. She doesn’t devour, she memorizes. As if this is the only moment that’s ever mattered.
But when her mouth finds the inside of my thigh, when her teeth graze skin, when her voice drops and she tells me exactly what she wants to do to me, the tenderness fractures.
Her tongue moves like she’s trying to burn the memory into me. Slow strokes, sharp edges, that controlled precision finally unspooling into need.
“Look at me." she commands, voice low, rough.
I do. And the way she stares up at me. Lips slick, eyes dark, it unravels me.
She doesn’t stop when I come the first time. Doesn’t stop when I gasp her name again. She just keeps going until my fingers are buried in her hair and I’m begging her through gritted teeth for a break.
Only then does she rise and I pull her up into my arms, switching us so she's beneath me.
My turn.
She’s tense beneath me not out of fear, but anticipation. Cipher, the most unreadable woman in the world, is trying not to fall apart. And failing.
I kiss her neck, then lower. Watch her eyes flutter shut when I trace my fingers along her slick heat, teasing her until her hips lift with a desperate sound.
“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so long. Like you matter." I whisper. "Because you do.”
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.
I slide inside her slowly, deliberately, and her mouth drops open in a silent cry. Her back arches, her hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
I move steadily. No teasing, no delay, just the rhythm her body begs for.
When she comes, it’s sudden. Shaking. Jaw clenched as her body clenches around me, eyes wide like she can’t believe she’s finally allowed this.
I kiss her through it. Hold her when it’s over.
After, the silence is softer.
She stays curled against me, face pressed to my neck, arms around my waist like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
“You okay?” I ask gently, brushing damp hair from her forehead.
Cipher nods. “Yeah. I just…”
“What?”
“I didn’t think I’d ever get this." she whispers. “Not with you. Not with anyone.”
“You’ve got me." I say. “I’m here.”
She doesn’t answer. Just presses closer.
Like maybe now she believes it.
⸻
The Next Morning
She’s half draped over me, her head tucked beneath my chin, one leg wedged possessively between mine like she claimed the entire left side of the bed in her sleep.
The room’s quiet, the kind of stillness that feels lived-in, not empty.
Our skin’s still warm. The sheet tangled somewhere below us, useless at this point.
I let my fingers trail along the bare line of her spine. Up. Down. Just enough to make her hum.
It’s the smallest sound, but she makes it without thinking and that feels like something big.
“You good?” I ask, murmuring into her hair.
“Hmm" she replies, already sounding unimpressed with the question. “You’re asking me that again?”
I smirk. “Just making sure you’re not plotting my death.”
“I’m not." she says, deadpan. “But I haven’t ruled it out.”
I laugh softly, and her arm curls tighter around my waist, which kind of ruins the threat.
She feels good like this. Relaxed. Warm. Bare, not just physically but not hiding, not calculating. Like she forgot to put the firewall back up and isn’t in a rush to do it.
She shifts just enough to glance up at me, messy-haired and pillow-creased, eyes still sharp even with sleep softening the edges.
“Stop staring.”
“Not staring." I lie. “Admiring.”
Her brow lifts. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Mmhmm. You should get used to it.”
“Unlikely,” she mutters, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she nudges in closer, her nose brushing my throat now, breath curling against my skin.
A beat passes.
“You’re clingy in the morning." I whisper, lips twitching.
“I am not.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You're wrapped around me like you’re afraid I’ll vanish.”
“That’s not clingy. That’s tactical.”
I snort. “You’re literally cuddling me, Ciph. It’s okay. You can just say you like me.”
She groans, dramatic and muffled. “If I say it out loud, will you stop talking?”
“Nope.”
Another groan. Then, quieter: “Fine. I like you. You’re tolerable. You make acceptable coffee. And your face is… bearable.”
“Wow." I say, grinning now. “Talk dirty to me, why don’t you.”
She tilts her head just enough to nip my shoulder. “Don’t tempt me. I’m still recovering.”
“You’re the one who—”
“I know what I did.”
We both laugh softly, the way people do when the sun hasn’t fully risen yet and the world still feels far away.
For a while, we don’t talk. I play with her hair, and she lets me. She traces invisible lines on my ribs with the tips of her fingers like she’s committing me to memory without needing to admit it.
Eventually, I murmur, “Wanna get up?”
“No.”
“Hungry?”
“Yes.”
I blink down at her. “Then—”
“I’m prioritizing.”
“And what exactly are your priorities right now?”
She lifts her head just enough to kiss the corner of my mouth. A slow, lazy thing. Then she whispers against my lips, “This. And maybe pancakes.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Pancakes. Okay.”
We finally pull ourselves out of bed, mostly because the floor isn’t as cold as we thought, and the kitchen feels like the right kind of domestic rebellion.
She steals my hoodie but I don’t fight her on it. Her legs are bare and her hair’s wild and she looks so good leaning against my counter that I forget I’m supposed to be whisking batter.
“You’re watching me again." she says without looking up from the coffee machine.
“Still admiring." I reply.
She smirks. “Clingy.”
“Says the one in my clothes and acting like this is our kitchen."
That earns me a glance. Sharp, amused, and far too soft at the edges. “I don’t hear you complaining.”
“I’m not." I say, flipping the first pancake onto a plate. “I could get used to this.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for two mugs, fills them both, then pads over and nudges one into my hand.
When she finally looks at me again, it’s quiet, steady.
AN: i swear i didn't see how slightly similar this one and the one with Andy are :)) this one was written more than a month ago and i simply didn't get around to editing it.
Summary: Beneath sharp glances and quiet defiance, something unspoken stirs. Power shifts, boundaries blur, and in the hush between words, a fire takes root—slow, forbidden, impossible to ignore.
Gothic Literature: Thursday, 5 PM.
The last class of the day. This room always feels colder than it should, lit too dimly, like someone designed it to match the curriculum.
Stone walls, creaky floors, dark windows. A crypt disguised as a seminar room. Perfect for Professor Ripley.
She arrives on the dot, as usual, without a sound. No flustered bags or scattered papers. No fake smiles or pleasantries. Just her.
She moves like the silence belongs to her. Like the air itself pauses until she allows it to move again. Rhea Ripley. Technically, Dr. Ripley, but no one dares call her that. We’re all a little too afraid. Or turned on. Or both.
And I? I can’t really stand her. She might be brilliant, but she is annoying as hell.
She’s wearing black again. She rarely wears anything but black, really. Long leather coat she shrugs off immediately, turtleneck stretched across her chest, long sleeves hugging her arms perfectly. Her frame is bigger than the chair she settles into. She doesn’t sit so much as dominate the space around her. Her hair is down, as usual, and it frames her face perfectly. Her eyes are the color of warning signs and cold steel, and I’d kill for the chance to make them blink first.
I’m already watching her when she looks up.
“Y/n,” she says smoothly, with a voice that makes even the most pretentious literature feel like sin, “if you’re going to stare, at least be bold enough to have something to say.”
A few people chuckle nervously. I don’t look away.
“I was just thinking it’s funny.” I reply casually, controlled, resting my chin on my hand. “The way everyone in Dracula loses their mind over some guy in a cape who barely speaks. Like, how is that fear? That’s camp.”
She sets down her pen. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Camp,” she repeats, as if tasting the word. Her mouth curves into something halfway between a smirk and a threat. “So you’ve reduced the founding cornerstone of Gothic horror to… drama club aesthetics?”
I shrug, but I can feel my pulse quickening. “All I’m saying is that true horror isn’t about monsters. It’s about people. Dracula’s interesting, sure. But Mina? Jonathan? Lucy? They’re the real tragedy. He’s just the catalyst.”
There’s a long pause. The silence stretches thin and taut. I know what she’s doing — letting it sit, letting everyone feel the weight of the exchange. This is how she teaches. With stares, and silences, and sentences that sound like weapons.
Then she stands.
It’s calculated, quiet, and somehow it sends a chill down my spine. She walks — no, stalks toward the front of the room. Her heeled boots hit the stone floor like punctuation. Her presence is gravitational. I swear I hear someone shift in their seat just to give her more space, even though she hasn’t asked for it. She never has to.
“Let’s talk about real horror, then.” she says, eyes never leaving mine. “Let’s talk about proximity. Power. The kind of fear that creeps into your bones not because of what’s said, but because of what isn’t.” She pauses in front of me. Inches away. “That feeling of being watched. Of being known. Of being...”
Her voice drops.
“...read.”
My throat tightens. My face warms up. It’s not a blush, I refuse to give her that, but my breath stutters in a way I pray no one else notices. She doesn’t have to touch me. She could press one hand flat against the desk and I’d feel it in my spine. She’s carved out a space around me, and it’s just us now, locked in some wordless challenge.
“This is Gothic literature,” she says. “Seduction and control. Fear wrapped in beauty. Obsession dressed as logic. Power,” she draws out the word “wearing a smile.”
Then she turns away. Just like that. Dismisses me.
“I want a paper." she says to the room, still walking, back toward the blackboard. “Two thousand words. Your definition of fear. Psychological, social, emotional. Use any text we’ve read. Due next week. And Y/n?”
I look up again, meeting her eyes as she glances back over her shoulder.
“You’d better scare me.”
And then she starts the actual lecture, like that whole exchange was nothing but a warm-up. Like she didn’t just unmake me in front of thirty other students with a five-minute staredown and a handful of words.
But she knows what she did.
And so do I.
⸻
After, the hallway outside the lecture room is narrow and dim, just like the rest of this part of campus: old stone, flickering lights, tinted windows. It smells like old books and something colder, maybe metal. I usually hate how quiet it is out here after class. Today it’s worse.
Because I hear her footsteps.
I’m almost at the stairwell when the sound of her boots echoes behind me, steady, unhurried, the same pace she always keeps, like she has all the time in the world and the world bends to match it. I don’t have to turn. I feel her long before I see her.
“Y/n” she says behind me, smooth and flat, like she’s picking up a conversation we never actually finished.
I pause, just for a second, hand hovering over the stairwell door handle. I half turn and she’s there. Not close, not far, just… looming. Casually.
I arch a brow. “Yeah?”
Her expression doesn’t shift. She steps closer.
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself in lectures. But I will now.” She pauses. “You’d better scare me.”
Her voice is lower than before, more private, like she’s peeling away the professor voice she uses to silence a room, and using something sharper, quieter, just for me. It feels like a blade dragged softly against my skin.
“I thought that was just for dramatic effect.” I reply. I try to make it sound dry, detached. My default defense. “You know, to keep the class awake or something.”
She tilts her head just slightly. Her eyes flick over my face, slow and deliberate. “No. You’re already enough of a distraction. I don’t need to bring the dramatics.”
My heart slams once, hard, against my ribs. But I don’t let it show.
“Then why are you following me?”
“I’m not,” she answers, voice a little colder now. “You just haven’t left.”
I swallow. I hadn’t realized I was still standing there, hand still on the door I haven’t pushed open. Because she doesn’t let you leave, not when she’s speaking. Not when she’s looking at you like that.
I lower my hand and turn fully to face her. The corridor feels smaller than before. Too narrow. Too quiet.
“You really think I’m a distraction?” I ask, and I can’t help the way my voice changes on the word. “Or are you just trying to put me in my place?”
“Why would I do that?” she murmurs. “You seem too fond of misplacing yourself for me to meddle.”
There’s a moment. A second, maybe two, where everything goes still. Just the sound of her voice hanging in the cold air, and the heat building slowly under my skin, rising like steam.
She steps forward again, just a little. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the difference. I don’t move back.
She looks down at me — and she really does have to look down — and says, “You really think because you can spar with me in class, that you can do the same outside of it?”
“I think,” I say carefully, “you want someone who can keep up with you. And maybe you’re not used to getting just that.”
That does something. Her jaw tightens slightly, but it’s there. A shift. A crack in the ice.
She leans in, her voice barely a breath now. “You have no idea what I want, or I’m used to.”
And then she walks away.
Not a goodbye. Not even a glance back. Just the sharp scent of her perfume lingering behind her, and the sound of her boots disappearing down the hall.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
She didn’t even touch me. Didn’t have to.
But I can still feel her, her presence, like heat pressed into my skin, like her shadow reached out and left fingerprints.
And I think…
…I really do want to scare her.
⸻
A week later, I drop the paper on her desk.
No words, no flourish. Just a neat stack of pages printed on thick ivory paper. I chose that paper on purpose. It feels heavier in the hand, like it carries weight. Like it’s not just a paper. It’s a challenge. A dare. A key turned in a locked door.
Rhea doesn’t pick it up. Doesn’t even glance down at it. She just watches me as I pull my hand away, fingers barely brushing the polished wood of her desk. Her gaze is unreadable. A blank page hiding something violent between the lines.
I break the stare first. That, I’ll allow her. For now.
Class today is on The Turn of the Screw. Of course it is. Nothing like a slow descent into psychological chaos and unreliable narration to keep the mood appropriately feral. She paces in front of the chalkboard like she owns the idea of tension, like Henry James wrote it just for her.
She opens the discussion by writing one word in big, deliberate letters on the board: Ambiguity
Then she turns.
“Who decides what’s real?” she asks. “The narrator? The reader? The professor?”
A pointed glance my way. I don’t take the bait.
Not yet.
Someone in the back mumbles something about interpretation. Rhea doesn’t even acknowledge it. She starts walking again, circling the room slowly like a storm gathering around a house with too many windows.
“The governess sees what she believes. But do we?” she presses. “What makes fear more potent: knowing the truth, or not knowing it?”
I raise my hand. “Not knowing.”
She stops moving. “Why?”
“Because the unknown gives us permission to imagine something worse than what’s actually there.”
Her head tilts just slightly. “Interesting,” she says. “So ambiguity is seductive.”
I smile. “Always.”
There’s that silence again. That silence she uses when she wants to pull the oxygen out of the room and force everyone to listen, even when she’s not the one talking.
Her eyes stay on me a second longer. Then she moves on and continues the lecture.
Class ends twenty minutes late. No one dares to complain.
I take my time packing up, and even though I don’t look at her I can feel her behind me. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.
“Y/n” she says as the last student shuffles out, the door clicking closed behind them.
I straighten, turning to face her.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t need to. Her voice is smooth as marble, but something simmers underneath it. Something I’m not entirely sure she’s trying to hide.
“I read your paper in our break.”
Well she’s in a hurry. I arch a brow. “And?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She takes a step forward, then another. Not aggressive, just with purpose. Like she’s walking through fog with a knife in her hand and a map in her mind.
“It was… interesting,” she finally says. “You know how to twist a sentence until it bleeds. And you understand fear.” She pauses, eyes sharp. “Intimately.”
My stomach tightens. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t,” she murmurs. “Not from me.”
Another pause. Longer this time. And then—
“I’d like to speak with you further about your analysis. Later. Now I’m in a rush.”
She says it like it’s not any obligation, but I know better.
“What time?” I ask.
“Eight. My office.”
She doesn’t wait for confirmation. Doesn’t need it. She turns and walks away, the scent of her trailing behind. Dark, woddy, floral, with a vibrant hint of tobacco smoke.
I watch her disappear down the hall.
I’m not sure what scares me more. That I don’t know what she wants…
…or that I think I do.
⸻
The space outside her office is darker than the rest of the building, like even the overhead lights know not to push too hard near her. My footsteps echo against the old wooden floor, and I hesitate outside the door, just for a second. The number’s small and brass and cold to the touch when I brush my fingers over it.
No knock.
I just open it.
Because she told me to come.
And because I want to see what happens when I stop pretending.
Her office is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined.
Dim lighting. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in deep mahogany. Thick curtains drawn tight over the windows. No photos. No personal clutter. Just old hardcovers, iron bookends shaped like gargoyles, and a single desk — wide, deep, the kind you could lay someone across if you wanted to make a point.
She’s already there. Sitting behind it like a shadow made solid. A cup of tea — black, probably scalding — rests near her elbow, untouched. She doesn’t look up right away, as if making me wait is part of the game. Or maybe part of the lesson.
Finally, she speaks.
“Close the door.”
Not a greeting. Not a request.
I do.
The click echoes in the silence like a sentence being passed.
She gestures to the chair across from her desk, a sleek, armless thing with nowhere to hide.
I sit.
She watches me for a long, unnerving second. Her eyes drag over my face like she’s cataloguing me. Not looking at me, but into me, sorting through drawers I didn’t give her permission to open.
“Your paper was evocative,” she says. “Dark. Precise. I found myself rereading certain lines just to feel their weight again.” A pause. “There’s one in particular. Where you describe fear as a presence, a silhouette in a locked room.”
I nod once. “It was a metaphor.”
“No,” she says softly. “It was recognition.”
That stops me.
My breath catches, just slightly, but it’s enough for her to see it. Her eyes flash with the faintest glint of satisfaction, like she’s finally confirmed something she already suspected.
“Fear,” she continues, “isn’t always about danger. It’s about power. The knowledge that someone could destroy you… but hasn’t.”
Her fingers tap once against the desk. Then stop.
“And sometimes,” she adds, “that kind of fear is… welcome.”
My heart is pounding now, too loud in my ears. I can’t tell if I’m excited or terrified. Maybe both.
“I wrote what I knew,” I say.
“I know.”
Another silence.
Then she stands.
She walks around the desk slowly, the way she moves when she wants to take up space. And she does. All of it. By the time she reaches the front of the desk, she’s no longer Professor Ripley. She’s something older, sharper, carved out of stone and heat. She leans against the edge, arms crossed, her body the only thing that could stop me from reaching the door if she wanted to.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
She picks my paper up from the desk and flips to the second page. Her fingers are long, strong, ink-smudged along the side from hours of grading. I try to ignore the tattoos, otherwise I’ll truly be lost. She reads one line aloud, voice steady but low:
“To be seen entirely and still left untouched. That’s the cruelest intimacy.”
She looks up. “Do you believe that?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
She steps forward.
Now she’s right in front of me. I’m still sitting, and she’s towering. Not looming, just present, like a storm cloud deciding whether to break. Her thigh brushes my knee. Barely. Just enough to register as contact.
Just enough to scramble whatever coherent thoughts I had left.
She leans down like a predator cornering it’s prey, slow, until I can feel the heat of her breath near my ear and the only other thing that registers to me is her scent — earthy but floral, dark, woody, with a vibrant tobacco edge. This is how I know every time she's close. It's very distinctive.
“Then why do you keep asking to be touched?” she murmurs.
My breath catches fully this time, audibly. My fingers grip the edge of the chair like it’s the only thing tethering me to the floor.
She straightens again, tall and imposing.
And she doesn’t wait for an answer.
Instead, she reaches over and picks up the small black book sitting on her desk. A first edition Frankenstein, I think. She brushes something off its cover, and then hands it to me.
“Read this.” she says, voice back to neutral, but still low. Still intimate. “We’ll discuss it next week.”
I take the book. Our fingers don’t touch. But they could. Fuck, they almost do.
She walks to the door and opens it slightly.
Dismissal.
But when I pass her, she doesn’t move out of the way completely. Her body brushes mine, with just a fraction of pressure and her eyes hold mine one last time.
“Goodnight, Y/n”
It’s not warm. Not cold.
It’s a promise. Or a warning.
I step outside of her office and back into the dark and mysterious hallways, heart pounding, palms sweating, book clutched tight in one hand like it might bite me.
Once again she didn’t touch me.
But I think she left fingerprints anyway.
⸻
Another week, another Gothic lit class.
The lecture hall feels heavier today. Like the air itself is charged, thick with something unsaid. I take my usual seat near the front, flipping open my notebook but barely catching her words.
Rhea strides in just one minute late — sleeves rolled up this time, a bit above her wrists, a small glimpse at the ink trailing up.
I figured there are more tattoos a while ago, when I noticed the ones on her hands for the first time, but having it confirmed peaks my interest even more.
I wonder what she looks like in a t-shirt...
Nope. Not opening that door.
Her eyes find me instantly, sharp and steady, dragging my attention away from the ink. Hopefully she didn’t notice where I was staring.
She doesn’t start with a greeting or formalities. Instead, she drops a single sheet of paper onto her desk, then turns to the class.
“Today,” she says, voice low and deliberate, “we’re going to discuss the theme of obsession in Gothic literature.”
I know that theme all too well.
She starts calling on students to share their thoughts, but her gaze keeps drifting back to me. It’s almost like a game. A dangerous one.
And I refuse to even play, yet.
When she finally calls on me, the room falls quiet. I meet her eyes, steady and defiant.
“Obsession,” I say, “is what happens when control slips away. When the lines between fear and desire blur.”
A flicker of something, maybe approval? amusement? crosses her face before she masks it with that sharp professor look.
“Good." she replies. “But tell me, Y/n, when does obsession become dangerous? And who holds the power then?”
I hold her gaze for a long moment, feeling the heat of the unspoken challenge.
“When it’s mutual,” I say finally, voice low, “and no one’s willing to back down.”
She smiles then. Not warm. Not cold. Something dark and promising.
“Exactly.”
The class resumes, but the space between us remains charged, electric.
I know this is just the beginning.
When the lecture ends, the room empties slowly, students gathering their bags, voices rising into the usual post-class murmur. But the noise fades into the background, replaced by the pulse in my ears, the echo of her gaze burning through me long after she turns away.
I pack my notebook carefully. Her words twist in my mind like a dark ribbon. The whole room feels charged, as if the storm has narrowed to just the two of us.
I don’t move right away. Instead, I watch her from my seat, her back to me as she stacks papers on her desk. The soft scrape of her movements punctuates the quiet, steady and unnerving.
Only a few students remain, the other’s footsteps fading down the hall. The space between us shrinks even more.
I prepare to leave the room too since I dont think she has anything else to say, but my heart races when she suddenly looks up, eyes boring into mine without hesitation, unwavering, as if daring me to meet her challenge.
“Y/n, stay behind for a moment.” she says, voice low and commanding, no room for refusal.
I stand, swallowing hard but holding my ground. My footsteps echo as I slowly cross to her desk, tension crackling like static.
The last students file out, the door clicking shut with a finality that reverberates like a verdict.
She folds her arms, the muscles beneath her sleeves flexing subtly. The symbols peaking from under her sleeves are like a secret language inked on skin.
She doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker in her gaze, a softened edge I almost miss.
“As I mentioned last time, you wrote a good paper.” she says folding her hands neatly on the desk. “Not many students understand fear the way you do.”
I nod slowly, words stuck somewhere between my mind and my throat.
“But,” she continues, her voice dropping, “sweetheart, there’s still a lot you need to learn about control.”
My pulse quickens. I know she means more than just literature.
She leans forward over the desk slightly, her presence filling the space between us. Her sharp scent wraps around me.
“Control,” she says, “isn’t just about power over others. It’s about power over yourself. Knowing when to hold on… and when to let go.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unreadable.
“Do you think you have that kind of control?”
I meet her gaze without hesitation.
“I’m learning.”
Her lips curl in an almost smirk before she straightens. The movement is fluid, like she’s both stepping closer and pulling away at once.
“Good.” Her voice is low, rough, deliberate. “Because this isn’t a game you win by playing it safe.”
The silence between us thickens, almost suffocating. I want to say something, anything, but the weight of her presence pins the words inside me.
She studies me for a long moment, then rises.
My breath catches as she circles the desk, closing most of space that was left between us. Her thigh brushes lightly against mine, a whisper of the slightest contact, but it’s enough to ignite sparks along my skin.
Her voice drops to a near whisper.
“Be ready to lose.” she murmurs.
Then she steps back.
The door opens, and she’s gone before I can find my voice.
I’m left standing there, heart hammering, caught in a storm of fear and desire twisting through me.
Damn. She doesn’t even have to touch me to own me.
And maybe, just maybe, I want her to.
⸻
Another week passes. It’s ten minutes before lecture, and I’m leaning back in my chair, half-listening to Charlie and Avery bicker about whether Dracula is sexy or not.
“She literally invites death into her bedroom.” Avery argues, gesturing with her pen. “That’s Gothic, it's romance, it’s iconic—”
“That’s a cry for help.” Charlie deadpans.
I laugh quietly, spinning my pen between my fingers.
“It’s all a cry for help.” I mutter. “This whole genre is just centuries of people being horny and afraid at the same time.”
That gets a big laugh from both of them.
Avery turns to me. “What about Professor Ripley? You think she fits the Gothic archetype?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean: aloof, unreadable, physically intimidating and exasperating in just about every way?”
They both nod. Hard.
I tilt my head, thinking. “She’s not just Gothic. She’s… the female personification of Terrifier.”
They stare.
“You know,” I continue, grinning, “the clown from the horror movie? Except instead of a hacksaw and clown makeup, she’s got literature degrees and veiny, muscular arms. Same vibe though. Completely fear-inducing but kind of hot?”
Avery bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, you’re going to hell.”
Charlie snorts. “She does have murder clown energy.”
“I’m serious.” I say, amused. “Tell me she wouldn’t make an amazing slasher villain. Tall. Dark. Silent. You think you’re safe, then boom! You’re torn to pieces. ”
They’re still laughing when the room goes quiet.
I don’t have to turn around to know why.
I already feel her.
A chill climbs my spine as I glance toward the door.
Rhea Bloody Ripley stands in the doorway, backlit by the pale hallway light. Navy blue v-neck creating a beautiful frame around her necklaces, black jeans and the signature black boots.
A gorgeous demon prepared to strike.
And her eyes?
On me.
Not a single expression. Not even the smallest twitch.
But I know she heard.
And suddenly, Terrifier doesn’t feel so funny.
⸻
The next night, it’s later and darker than I expected for this part of campus. I’m cutting through a narrow alley on my way back from grabbing a heavily needed coffee, the streetlights flickering above. The frostiness of the coffee ended up giving me more peace than I expected, but now I have to focus on getting back home.
And then the peace is gone.
Because the demon is here, hiding in the shadows.
Leaning against the brick wall of a building, arms crossed. I almost don't see her. She’s wearing a black, fitted t-shirt that shows how muscular her arms actually are, the tattoos on full display not making it any easier on me. Jesus... now I don’t have to wonder anymore, but I wish I did.
She looks effortless, but there’s a storm beneath her calm.
I freeze.
She tilts her head, watching me like a predator watching the prey who just realized the cage door is locked.
I try to keep walking, keep my pace even, avoid eye contact, pretend she isn’t there. Maybe I can escape and say I didn't see her.
But she steps forward.
Two long, sure strides.
Blocks my path.
“Running away?” she asks, voice low, rough, no hint of patience. “That’s new.”
I try to slide past her, but she steps right into my space, her scent dark and electric in the crisp night air.
“No,” she says, voice dropping to a low purr that vibrates deep in her chest. “You don’t get to ignore me.”
Her hand closes around my arm with firm but soft, controlled pressure — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who’s in charge here. I want to jerk away, to pull free, but something in her gaze pins me in place. It’s a dangerous mixture of calm and threat. She’s holding a fuse and daring me to trigger it.
Her eyes bore into mine, sharp and unblinking, that stupid blue swallowing every single one of my thoughts. I can feel the heat of her body, the strength in her arms, the steady, commanding rhythm of her breath. It’s impossible to look away.
“I’m not someone you walk away from,” she says, each word deliberate, coated with an edge of promise and warning, “not if you want to keep playing this game.”
She leans in. Her proximity makes my pulse thunder in my ears and my breath catches, shallow and uneven.
For a long moment, we just hold still, caught in a silence that’s thick and electric.
Then her grip tightens, just slightly, a reminder that she could break me if she wanted, but she doesn’t. Not yet.
“You think you can walk away from this. You truly think you will if I let you.” she whispers, voice low enough that it’s almost a caress and a knife pressed against my throat at the same time. “But you won’t. Not really.”
My heart pounds, the heat rising beneath my skin until I feel nothing else besides the charged space between us.
I want to say something, to protest, to claim control back, but the words stick, caught in the web of her dominance.
She pulls back, gently, just enough to let me breathe but not enough to let me go. Her gaze never leaves mine.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she moves past, a deliberate claim.
One look back at me over her shoulder and then she's gone.
"Terrifier" I think, swallowing hard.
And I’m the idiot who walked right into the funhouse.
⸻
The classroom buzzes with restless energy as students settle in. Avery shoots me a grin from across the room, eager for the next round of sparring with Professor Ripley. She’s only missing the popcorn at this point.
I lean back, eyes finding Rhea — the same kind of all black style of outfit she usually goes for, except this time she chose a black, thin, kinda see through summer cardigan resting over a black tank top.
It is summer and getting hotter and hotter so I don't blame her.
And here I was planning to maybe not be her sparring partner today.
When she pauses, I raise my hand.
“Yes, Y/n?” Her voice is smooth but sharp, expectation laced with challenge.
I hold her gaze, voice steady. “Fear in gothic literature isn’t just about the supernatural, it’s about control. Losing it or craving it. Which is ironic coming from someone who controls a room just by standing there.”
The room stills. I catch a flicker of dark amusement or warning in her eyes.
She steps down from the podium, moving toward me deliberately. The space shrinks.
“You think you understand control better than I do?” she asks softly.
I smirk. “I was honestly just saying, you know? But I do think I’m starting to."
She bends to pick up a dropped paper from my desk. Her hand brushes mine, light and deliberate.
A spark. I don’t pull away.
Later, during a break I’m in the nearly empty hallway, I notice her turning a corner and coming my way before she gets to me, so at least the element of surprise is out of the question.
I slow, thinking for a second that I can get away this time, but she catches my hesitation and I see a flicker of a smile. Then she speaks before I can try to turn away.
“You’re getting bold.” she says quietly as she gets closer. “Careful not to cross lines you can’t come back from.”
I meet her gaze. “Maybe I want to.”
She takes two intimidating steps closer. The scent of leather and something darker wraps around me.
Before I can react, she moves past me and she’s back in our class.
Like I said, I hate this woman with a passion.
⸻
The lecture hall feels heavier than usual today. I follow Rhea's movements across the room as she sets up the projector. Her gaze flicks my way, sharp and assessing.
I raise my hand during the discussion, deliberately interrupting a point she’s making.
“Professor, isn’t the true horror in gothic literature the loss of control over one’s own desires?” I say, voice steady but edged with challenge.
She pauses, eyes narrowing just enough to send a warning through me.
“Y/n, you know you’re skating on thin ice lately." she says, voice low but audible, making the entire room turn to look.
I meet her gaze without flinching. “I just wanted to make sure the idea I got from all this isn't a completely wrong one."
Her face gives me absolutely nothing. "You're not wrong. Now, back to what I was saying..."
And she keeps going after dismissing me like that.
After class, the hallway is mostly empty. I lean against the wall, arms crossed, waiting.
Rhea approaches, her strides confident, each step echoing dominance.
“You enjoy provoking me." she states, voice cold.
“I do." I reply, stepping closer, deliberately invading her space.
Her dark eyes flash, and she grips my wrist, firm and unyielding.
“Know your limits." she commands.
But I only smirk, brushing my fingers lightly over the back of her hand before pulling free.
⸻
Later, in her office, I’m sorting through some papers she handed me.
I offered. There might be this permanent banter between us and she might be the one person who annoys me the most, but I couldn't help myself seeing how much she has on her plate.
Rhea watches me over her glass, her eyes dark and intense. Unlike last time, I’m not across from her but on her left, a little over the corner of the desk, close enough to almost touch. I can literally feel her breath if she leans in to look at something I'm working on.
“Careful with those.” she says, low and clipped. “They’re still supposed to be mine, you know? I can already see huge differences and I know you know my system. My style.”
I laugh, soft but menacing. “Maybe I want to take control. And you gave me free rein here, so technically… that’s on you.”
The smirk I throw her way does exactly what I want. It riles her.
There's a short, sarcastic laugh. Then it vanishes. The huntress returns.
She straightens, looming just a little, then leans in. The space between us shrinks. Fast.
I reach out, let my fingers brush over hers, then start tracing the ink I can’t stop staring at. Couldn't do it if my life depended on it.
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t pull away. But her eyes flash with warning.
“Do not forget your place, little one." she says, voice low and fierce, then continues without moving a muscle. “You’re reckless.”
I glance up, meet her intense gaze.
“And you’re predictable." I answer, voice a whisper.
She moves closer, her hand flexes over the edge of the desk beside me.
Her proximity is magnetic, almost suffocating.
I push further, letting my fingers trail over her forearm, feeling the warmth beneath the thin sleeve.
The muscles beneath my fingers tense involuntarily and her breath stutters slightly.
Instead, she lowers her voice. “Touch me like that again and you’ll see just how unpredictable I can be.”
I bite my lip, smiling up at her in a very Harley Quin way, daring her. “Can't wait.”
She backs up, the tension crackling between us like electricity.
Oh, we're on.
⸻
The wind cutting through the alley I'm in feels wrong.
Not cold, just sharp. Too sudden for almost the middle of June. Like the air itself is trying to warn me.
I ignore it. I keep walking. Faster.
The streets are quieter than they should be. My phone is long dead in my hand. I glance behind me again and feel the prickle across my spine.
He’s still there.
Pacing behind me like he owns the sidewalk. Not too close, but not far enough. Smiling I think, though I can’t quite see it.
My skin crawls.
I take a hard turn toward a row of dim buildings, hoping to shake him off. But my gut says I’ve only made it worse.
His footsteps follow.
I don’t even remember how I got here, just that I’d gone out yet again for iced coffee and air and somehow let time get away from me. Classic. Smart. Stupid.
“Hey.”
His voice bounces down the alley, smooth and slurred like he thinks I owe him something.
“Where you headed?”
I don’t answer.
“Aw, don’t be like that.”
I pick up my pace.
He does too.
Another turn. Another narrow street. Shadows lurch along the brick walls beside me.
And then—
I run straight into someone.
Hard.
I hit solid muscle and something soft, cotton maybe. I stagger back with a gasp, hands out to steady myself.
That’s when I see her.
Rhea.
But it's not what I'm used to.
She’s not in the usual leather, or signature boots. Only the black aspect remains. She’s in shorts and a faded, slightly oversized t-shirt that sways around her hips like a dare, along with some vans and her headphones are simply resting around her neck. Her tattoos on full display and it's like they’ve been resting, sleeping, waiting for a reason to wake up.
The streetlamp behind her flickers once, like even it knows she’s a force to be reckoned with.
Her entire being wraps around me protectively without her actually doing so.
Her eyes cut behind me, toward him.
Her stance shifts slightly. Nothing showy. Just enough to promise violence if he takes one more step.
And he knows it.
Because the moment her jaw ticks, he mutters something under his breath and disappears into the dark.
Just like that.
Like a bad dream that realizes it’s outnumbered.
My pulse is thudding.
“Are you okay?” she asks, eyes still scanning the alley like she might chase him down just to make sure he stays gone.
“Yeah.” I say. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Then she finally looks at me. Fully. And I forget how to swallow.
There’s a slight shine to her collarbone. Her shirt clings perfectly. She looks like she walked out of a different universe and into mine on accident. Bare skin, bare arms, and that same unreadable stare.
It also looks like the woman was on a walk or maybe a run and I stumbled in the middle of it.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” she says. “Especially looking like that.”
My lips part. “Looking like what?”
She doesn’t answer. She just starts walking.
No offer. No gesture. Just that quiet expectation that I’ll follow.
And I do.
The summer air wraps around us, thick, slow and too warm for the tension laced between our bodies. But there’s that breeze again. A wrongness in it. Or maybe that’s just what it feels like to want something I’m not supposed to.
We walk in silence, the soft tap of our sneakers on pavement the only sound.
I glance at her again.
The shirt rides up a little with each step. Her muscles shift, flex. Her fingers are curled like she’s holding back the urge to hit something. Or grab something.
So I do it.
I touch her.
First, I wrap my hand around her arm.
It's light. Nothing more.
But she stops walking almost instantly.
“You really want to test me again?” she says, without turning her head.
“Wasn’t testing anything.” I say softly.
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp and hungry.
“I told you not to do that.”
“You did.”
Her breath catches slightly. “And you didn’t listen.”
“Just wanted to see what would happen.”
Her jaw clenches.
I don't pull away.
Instead, I let it linger. Make it obvious.
Deliberate.
My fingers slide up the curve of her bicep. Not teasing. Not tentative. Just there, like a promise. I trace the line of her skin, push the edge of her sleeve up with my thumb, brushing the seam slow, certain.
I watch her face the whole time.
She doesn’t move.
But she’s breathing heavier now. Her eyes are locked on mine like she’s calculating something dangerous. Like if I take it one step further, she won’t stop herself.
I step closer. Barely.
Enough to close the air between us.
“You let people think you’re made of stone.” I whisper.
“Maybe I am.”
I smile. “Then how come you flinch when I get too close?”
Rhea moves fast.
She grabs my wrist, same as last time, but rougher now, hotter. Her palm presses into my pulse point.
“You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“I think I do.”
“You don’t.”
Her voice drops, low and dark and almost shaking. “You think I’m going to just give in?”
My breath stutters. “No.”
“Good.” she says, stepping even closer. “Because I’m not. That would be too kind.”
The way she says it makes my knees weak.
“You keep touching me like that,” she continues, her other hand ghosting near my jaw, “and I will not be gentle.”
“I know.”
“You think that’s what you want?”
“I don’t think.” I whisper. “I feel.”
Her eyes narrow.
And I do it again.
My hand moves down her arm, fingers splaying. My nails barely graze her skin.
I trace the inside of her elbow.
She flinches.
Not visibly. Not obviously. But I feel it. A twitch in her muscles. A moment of restraint straining to hold.
And then she snaps.
She backs me into the wall so fast I don’t even register movement. Just pressure. Heat. Her body pressed against mine, her hands slamming flat against the brick on either side of my head.
She’s not touching me.
Not exactly.
But she might as well be everywhere.
Her face is inches from mine, her breath warm against my cheek, her stare devouring.
“You think I won’t ruin you?” she whispers.
“I think you already are.”
Her breath catches. Her throat flexes.
She tilts her head just slightly. Like she’s deciding where to start.
Then—
Nothing.
Just silence. Charged and aching.
She pulls back. Slow. Controlled. Her eyes dragging across my face like she’s memorizing the lines just to hate them later.
And then she lets go of the wall.
“Go home.” she says again, quieter this time. “Now.”
But I don’t move.
Not until she steps away. Even then, I don’t want to.
I want to touch her again. I want her to lose control. But I just nod. Turn. Walk away.
And her stare follows me all the way down the street.
As if she still doesn't quite trust the night with me.
⸻
It’s been two weeks of chaos.
Two weeks since Rhea showed up like a gothic knight in shining armour.
Two weeks of us orbiting each other like stars destined to collapse.
Every encounter is a landmine. She brushes past me in the halls and my breath stutters. She stares too long in class, daring me to say something, do something. And I do. Every damn time.
I talk too much in seminars. Challenge her arguments. I flirt with danger. I flirt with her.
And she gives it right back.
But there’s a difference now. A sharpness that wasn’t there before. Her comments have gotten colder. Calculated. Sometimes cruel. And every time I think I’ve gotten under her skin, she slips right out again, like I never touched her at all.
She’s pushing me away.
But she doesn’t want to let go.
That contradiction has been tearing me apart for fourteen long days.
And today, it explodes.
It starts with her cutting me off mid-sentence in class. “If you spent half as much time studying as you do arguing with me, your scores would show it.” The words land with a smack. Half the room glances at me, the other half glances at her.
I hold my tongue. Barely.
After class, I storm into her office, heart racing.
“You enjoy humiliating me?” I ask, teeth clenched.
She doesn’t look up from her desk. “You enjoy asking for it.”
I laugh once, bitter. “Right. Of course. Everything’s my fault. Your words mean nothing, right? It’s just me being too sensitive.”
Her eyes lift. Cold. Unreadable.
“Careful.” she says. “You’re not ready to hear what I really think.”
I almost say something else. Something reckless.
But I don’t.
I walk out before she can hurt me again.
And this time, I do run.
I take to the streets with no direction, no destination. Just anger and hurt propelling my feet forward. I don’t cry. I don't really do that.
The sun’s gone down, the city swallowed by warm summer air and that occasional unsettling breeze that slips under your skin like a warning. I walk until the tension in my chest starts to fracture, until the fight in me simmers into something closer to grief.
Why does she do this?
Why give me just enough to hope and then shove me back again?
A sharp sound behind me.
Footsteps, close.
I turn, already knowing.
Rhea.
She’s yet another black t-shirt, slightly oversized and hanging loose on her frame, sleeves rolled up to her biceps. She looks infuriatingly good, and I want to punch her and kiss her in the same breath.
“Don’t." I warn, stepping back.
She doesn’t stop.
“Why are you here?” I snap. “You made it pretty clear in your office I’m just a nuisance.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“You’ve been meaning things for two weeks, Rhea.”
My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks.
She pauses, maybe for the first time in all of this, and the street goes quiet around us. Just the wind and the distant hum of the city and my racing pulse.
Her eyes find mine.
“I’m sorry." she says. Quiet. Steady. Just that.
Not a tremble. Not weakness. Just a truth she couldn’t hold back any longer.
My chest tightens.
Not because it fixes anything.
But because she said it.
I look at her for a long moment. I want to scream. I want to walk away.
But I do neither.
Instead, I step forward.
I reach for her arm. Not tentative this time either, not teasing. Possessive.
My fingers wrap around her bicep, and I hold on.
Her jaw flexes.
“You don’t get to apologize and pretend this will just go away." I whisper.
She steps in, her hand brushing the side of my neck.
“I’m not pretending.”
And something shifts.
I press into her.
My hands run over her arms, up under her shirt, palms grazing hot skin. I drag my nails gently down her sides, watching her breath hitch.
She grabs my waist, yanking me in until we’re chest to chest.
The kiss is... something different.
Not too harsh, not too soft. Longing. Want. Desire.
Teeth. Tongue. Heat.
It’s not gentle. It’s not romantic.
It’s all us. All Rhea.
She groans into my mouth, biting my lower lip before kissing me again, harder this time.
Her hands are rough, finding every inch of me they’ve been denied for months. They slide under the hem of my top, splay across my lower back, grip the curve of my hip like she owns it.
I pull back, gentle, steady, just long enough to say, “Take me home.”
She doesn’t ask twice.
And we get to her place.
Us coming through the door of her apartment is the most controlled thinderstorm to ever exist.
Her hands on my waist. My mouth on her neck. Her teeth nipping at my jawline, muttering dark things between kisses.
The second the door shuts behind me, hard, her mouth is on mine again.
She lifts me, slams me gently into the wall, never breaking contact.
Her voice is a soft purr. “You still sure about this?”
My fingers tangle in her hair. “I am.”
She drags her mouth down my neck, biting. Hard enough to mark.
My head tilts back, a gasp slipping from my lips.
“I hate how much I want you.” she breathes, words harsh against my skin.
“Then stop fighting it, Rhea. Please."
She turns me around, and carries me toward the bedroom. Her hands hold me steady as ever, one still tugging at my clothes, tracing lines she’s memorized from a distance.
She puts me down gently. One more push and I'll be falling on the bed. But she stays there, predatory, close, yet gentle and safe.
In the soft lighting, I finally see her face clearly.
She’s fire and restraint. Like something feral barely kept in check.
And then I touch her again.
Hands flat against her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. I trail my fingers down, under the hem of her shirt, let them linger just below her navel.
She exhales sharply. Her control slips again.
And I want to make her lose all of it.
She tackles me back onto the bed, crawling over me with slow, deliberate menace.
“You know that if you keep touching me like that,” she murmurs, lips inches from mine, “I won’t stop.”
“I never said I want you to, and you know it.”
Her eyes darken.
“Then let me hear you say it.”
I meet her gaze, unflinching.
“I want all of you.”
Her mouth finds mine again. The rest of our clothes disappear in a blur of hands and gasps. Her touch is everywhere. Rough, reverent, relentless.
There’s no room left for teasing. No room for restraint.
AN: absolutely had to go back to my roots with this one, especially after the old guard 2 coming out.
Summary: One refused to break, the other never stopped pushing. Somewhere between ruin and want, Andy let herself feel again.
Warnings: smut but it's not something wow :)
I wake up choking on blood that’s no longer mine.
The world around me stinks of smoke, scorched metal, and burning rubber. My shirt’s torn where the bullets ripped through me. I remember the sound, like fireworks going off inside my chest. I remember collapsing.
And now I’m standing up.
Breathing.
Alive.
My hands shake as I press them to where the wounds should be, but all I feel is smooth skin. No blood. No holes. No pain. Just… me. Whole again. Somehow.
I don’t get to think about it for long.
Footsteps echo off the concrete, heavy and fast. Someone’s coming. I grab the closest thing I can: a broken metal pipe. My fingers barely wrap around it, but it’s better than nothing. I push myself back against the alley wall, crouched, ready, heart racing like it’s trying to outrun death a second time.
Three shadows break through the smoke.
The first is tall and sharp-eyed, moving like every step is measured. The second broader, with something sad in the way he holds himself. And the third—
Her.
She walks like she owns every inch of ground beneath her boots. Hair dark and wild. Eyes like they’ve seen the world burn a thousand times over.
She stops a few feet in front of me. Looks at the pipe in my hand.
“Cute.” she says flatly. “Put it down.”
“Back the fuck off.”
My voice wavers, but I don’t drop the pipe. I already died tonight. I’m not going down without a fight if it happens again.
The woman doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She studies me like I’m a puzzle she already knows how to solve.
“You’re loud for someone who just came back from the dead.”
I flinch. Just a flicker. But she sees it.
She turns to the others. “She's definitely the one. No question. The dream fits.”
“The one?” I echo, breathless. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll see,” says the taller man. “It’s… complicated.”
“You want to explain why I’m not dead instead?” I snap. “Why my chest is fine when it was full of holes ten minutes ago?”
“Because you’re one of us.” the woman says — and finally looks at me, really looks. Her voice softens just enough to unsettle me. “It hurts like hell the first time.”
I don’t know what to say.
I grip the pipe tighter. My knees feel like glass, and I want to scream or cry or run, but none of those feel like real options right now.
She turns her back on me and starts walking away like she’s said all she needs to.
“No real answers?” I yell after her. “You just expect me to follow you like this is some immortal cult recruitment drive?”
She stops. Glances over her shoulder.
“You want to live?” she says. “Then move.”
And I do.
I don’t know why. But I do.
⸻
The car ride is quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch. I sit in the backseat like a ghost, trying not to breathe too loud. The guy driving — Booker, they called him — keeps glancing at me like I might explode. The one in the back beside me, Nicky, offers a small smile I don’t return.
And her?
She sits up front, staring out the window like nothing in this city can surprise her. Like I’m just another errand she has to deal with before she gets back to something important.
She hasn’t looked at me since I got in.
When we finally stop, it’s outside an old house that looks like a fortress that should’ve collapsed a decade ago. Inside, it’s colder, all exposed brick painted black, weapons lining the walls, half-drunk coffee on the table. A war room, if war rooms had a permanent layer of blood and secrets soaked into the floorboards. Next after it is the living room where the other two, Nile and Joe, are waiting.
I stand there awkwardly, still clutching the stupid metal pipe.
Andy — that’s her name, I overheard one of them say — heads to a table and starts cleaning her axe like she hasn’t just kidnapped me from death.
“Nice place” I mutter. “Very murder-chic.”
“Thanks.” she replies without looking up. “We just remodeled.”
“Let me guess. After your last hostage bled out and came back screaming?”
She stands.
I straighten up, immediately regretting it and shutting my mouth.
She crosses the room slowly, controlled, eyes locked on mine. I hate the way my pulse skips and I take a small step backwards. I hate the way she’s still so damn calm.
“You think you’re the first this has happened to?” she says. “You’re not special.”
“I never said I was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I scowl. “Wow. You must be a hit at parties.”
Booker lets out a quiet laugh. I catch Nicky rolling his eyes at Joe who's also laughing. None of them seem shocked by this back-and-forth. Like Andy picking a fight is a normal Tuesday.
I glance at her. “Are you all immortal? Or is it just her with the stick up her ass?”
Andy’s lips twitch. Barely.
She takes another step toward me, and this time I don’t back up. But I feel her presence like pressure. Like standing too close to a fire.
“You want answers?” she says, voice low. “Then shut up and listen.”
“I died three hours ago,” I snap. “I think I’ve earned a little room to freak out.”
“Freaking out is one thing. Acting like you know what’s happening? That’ll get you killed. Again.”
“You mean again again?”
She huffs a breath. It’s almost — almost — a laugh. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You died. You came back. Like I said, you’re one of us now.” she says. “We don’t age. We don’t die. Until one day we might if we're not careful enough. That’s the system.”
“That’s not a system. That’s—”
She shrugs. “Yeah. Exactly."
A beat of silence. I glance at the others, but they don’t step in. They just watch us.
“Maybe we start with her name, Andy.” Joe offers gently.
Andy doesn’t ask.
She just looks at me.
And for some reason, I answer. “Y/n.”
She nods. “Y/n. Great.”
Turns away again. Back to her axe. Like I’m checked off a list.
I stare at her back, hands clenched at my sides. There’s a knot in my chest I can’t name. I don’t know if I want to punch her or… no, definitely punch.
But I follow her anyway when she leads me to my room.
Because as much as I hate it and as much as she pisses me off, I believe her.
I believe whatever this is… it’s just beginning.
⸻
“This is a terrible idea.”
I’m standing in what used to be a garage and now apparently it doubles as a training space. The floor is cracked concrete. The air smells like sweat and gunpowder. And Andy’s tossing me a practice knife like I know what the hell I’m doing.
I catch it. Barely.
“Not the worst one I’ve had.” she says, circling me. “Top ten, maybe.”
I glare. “Oh, great. I get to be one of your mistakes.”
“Only if you’re slow.”
I tighten my grip on the knife. “You realize I’ve never even held one of these before today, right?”
She stops. Looks at me like that’s not her problem.
“You already died once.” she says. “Now you learn.”
“That’s your pep talk?”
She doesn’t answer. She just lunges.
I don’t expect it. One second she’s standing still — the next, she’s a blur of dark hair, hard muscle and cold calculation. I stumble back, instinct barely kicking in as the knife in her hand flashes toward me.
I raise mine too late. She knocks it out of my grip in half a second.
I’m on the ground before I even realize I’ve fallen. My elbow skids across the concrete.
She doesn’t offer a hand. Of course she doesn’t.
I sit there, heart pounding, fury rising.
“You done?” I hiss.
“Not even close.”
She backs off, waiting. Not taunting. Just watching. Like a wolf watching a cub try to bite.
I pick up the knife again.
This time, I swing first.
She blocks me. Effortlessly. Again and again. I keep trying, but it’s like punching a tornado — nothing lands, and the wind just keeps throwing everything right back at you.
After a few minutes, I’m breathless and sweating. My arms ache. She hasn’t even broken a sweat.
“You keep leading with your right.” she says, voice flat. “Stop telegraphing your moves.”
“Oh, thanks, coach.”
“You want to stay alive, don’t you?”
“I thought the whole point was that I can't die.”
She stops, eyes hard.
“That’s not how this works.” she says quietly. “You just don’t know if or when and we haven't figured out why or if there's a way to prevent it, yet."
That sobers me.
She steps forward again, knife lowered now. Less teacher, more threat.
“You think immortality makes you invincible?” she murmurs. “It doesn’t. It just makes the pain last longer.”
Something twists in me at that, but not exactly fear. Something deeper. Something that sits between my ribs and presses against my spine.
I stare at her.
“You enjoy this?” I ask.
She blinks. “What?”
“Tearing me down. Proving you’re stronger. Is that what gives you this drive?”
There’s a flicker of something in her eyes then, brief, almost human. And it's gone just as quick as it appears.
“I don’t enjoy anything,” she says.
That… sounds like the truest thing I’ve heard all day.
I exhale slowly, then lunge again.
This time I don’t go down as fast. This time I make her step back. Only half a step. But she notices.
When we break apart again, breathing heavy, she nods once.
“Better.”
I don’t know why, but the word settles somewhere warm in me.
I still hate her.
I still want to wipe that unreadable look off her face.
But maybe I don’t want to leave.
Not yet.
⸻
By the time she calls a break, my lungs are burning and every part of me feels bruised, even the parts I didn’t know had muscles. I drop to the ground with a groan and let the knife clatter next to me.
Andy doesn’t sit.
Of course she doesn’t.
She just paces the edge of the concrete space like she’s still judging every move I didn’t make fast enough.
“I’m gonna kill you in your sleep.” I mutter, half into my shoulder.
Her mouth twitches.
“If you can get close enough.”
“Okay, General Buzzkill. We get it. You’re the baddest immortal in the room.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
But I glance up and she’s watching me again. Not like a threat or like prey. Just watching. Quiet. Still. That same weight behind her eyes I’ve been trying to ignore since I first saw her.
I sit up slowly. “Why do you hate me so much?”
She doesn’t blink.
“I don’t hate you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She shrugs. “You’re untrained. You’re impulsive. You don’t listen.”
“I died yesterday.”
“And you’ll die again if you don’t toughen up.”
“Is that what this is?” I stand, pushing the ache out of my legs. “Tough love?”
Her eyes narrow. “This is survival.”
I throw the knife onto the floor.
“God, you’re exhausting.”
“And you’re alive.” she snaps, stepping toward me. “Because we found you in time. Because we pulled you out before someone put two more bullets in your skull and buried you under a freeway.”
I freeze.
Her voice lowers.
“You think I like this? Any of it? I’ve seen what happens when new ones go rogue. I’ve seen them hunted. Tortured. Used. We don’t have the luxury of being gentle.”
Something inside me cracks at that. Not because she said it loud, but because she didn’t. Because for a second, she sounds tired. Not angry. Not hard. Just tired in a way that makes my chest ache.
I speak before I can think.
“Who did you lose?”
Her eyes flash. That wall slams right back down.
“That’s none of your business.”
“You looked at me like I was someone else the moment you saw me,” I press. “So don’t act like I’m just a soldier to train.”
She turns away. Not because she’s giving up. More like she’s trying not to say something she’ll regret.
Silence thickens between us.
I could leave it there. I should.
But I step toward her instead.
“You know,” I say, softer, “for someone who’s supposed to be a leader… you’re really bad at talking to people.”
She turns her head just enough to look at me. Something flickers in her expression. Not anger. Not even annoyance.
Something older.
“I stopped trying to talk to people when they stopped living long enough to hear me.”
And just like that, I understand more about her than I want to.
I look at her. Really look. Past the sharp lines and the cold stare and the steel in her voice.
And I see it. Not weakness, not warmth, but grief that’s dried into armor.
I step back.
“I’m still here,” I say.
She doesn’t answer. But her eyes don’t leave mine.
And for once, we stand in silence that doesn’t feel like war.
⸻
Later, in the middle of the night.
I wake up choking on air that won’t fill my lungs.
My heart’s pounding so loud I think it might crack my ribs open from the inside. The blanket’s twisted around my legs, damp with sweat. My hands are shaking.
I think I fell asleep on the couch without realising.
I died.
And I can still feel it — the fire, the heat, the way my body crumpled like it didn’t belong to me anymore. The sound of the gunshots in that alley plays on a loop in my skull. And that cold split-second between breath and nothing.
I sit up fast, elbow slamming into the edge of the couch. The house around me is dark, quiet. Everyone’s out cold. Nicky’s snoring can be heard from his and Joe's room but aside from that it's quiet.
But she’s awake.
Of course she is.
Andy stands near the window, half in a shadow, sipping something from a chipped mug. She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t need to. I know she heard me.
“Can't sleep?” she asks without looking back.
I swallow hard, throat dry.
“I did,” I manage. “Just didn’t stick.”
A beat passes. She nods slightly. Like she understands too well.
I drag my legs over the side of the couch and sit in the dark, breathing slowly. The living room smells like old leather and gun oil and whatever tea she’s drinking. Something bitter.
“You always stay up?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sleep’s overrated.”
“Not when you wake up feeling like your lungs are full of bullets.”
Finally, she glances over her shoulder. Her eyes catch the moonlight and it's probably the most deadly sighting a person can catch. Quiet. Measured. See-through-you blue.
But I see the way they linger a second longer than they need to.
“You’ll get used to it.” she says.
I laugh, hollow. “What? Dying?”
“Coming back.”
I press my palms onto my eyes. “I watched my mom die last year.” I whisper, surprising even myself. “Cancer. Took everything from her piece by piece. She held my hand. She told me she wasn’t afraid.”
Andy doesn’t move.
“But I was. I was terrified. Because it wasn't the first time I lost a parent to a stupidly unfair illness."
Silence.
I hear the creak of floorboards before I feel her presence. She walks over slowly, mug still in hand, and sits across from me on the arm of a chair. Close, but not too close.
“I thought dying would be the worst part,” I say quietly. “Turns out it’s what comes after.”
She nods once. “It usually is.”
I look at her. Really look. She’s still in the same clothes from earlier. Still armed. Still unreadable.
But her posture is different now. Looser. Still guarded, but not fortified.
“You remember yours?” I ask.
Her jaw flexes. She looks down into her tea like it might tell her what to say.
“Too many.” she answers finally.
I want to ask more. I want to pry. But something about the way she says it makes me stop.
“I don’t know how to be this” I whisper. “…thing.”
“You don’t have to know. Not really. Not now.” she says. “You just have to survive long enough to figure it out.”
I smile faintly. “That’s your version of comfort?”
“Take it or leave it.”
Her tone’s dry, but her eyes are on mine again, and this time there’s something warmer there, not soft or vulnerable. Just real.
I look down. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You sat with me.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
Eventually, she stands and walks towards the hallway, to her room, back into the shadows. But before she disappears entirely, she says—
“Nightmares don’t go away. But they do get quieter. And when they don’t… we make noise that's louder them.”
I don’t say anything.
I just lie back down, and for the first time since this whole thing started I don’t feel alone.
⸻
Somewhere in the next few days she wants to train me again. I don't complain. I just try harder than last time.
She moves like a storm — fast, cold, and unstoppable. I throw a punch, but she’s already sidestepping, countering with a quick jab that I barely block. My arms scream, but I don’t back down. Not yet.
“Faster.” she snaps, eyes blazing. “More focus.”
I grit my teeth and charge again, blade flashing in my hand. She catches my wrist, twisting with just enough force to make me stagger, but I catch my balance and shove her away.
She stumbles but recovers instantly, a ghost of a smirk ghosting across her face. “Not bad.”
I wipe sweat from my brow, chest burning, heart hammering.
“You’re tough.” I say, voice rough.
“Only because I had to be.”
We circle each other, neither giving an inch. The air is thick with unspoken things — the mistrust, the challenge, the strange pull I don’t want to name.
She feints left, strikes right, and I’m forced to dive, scraping my knee against the cold concrete. But I hear her breath catch.
“You’re learning,” she says.
“Maybe I’m teaching you something, too.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We clash again, faster this time, the rhythm settling into something fierce and dangerous — like a dance only we know the steps to.
And when she pins me briefly against the wall, our faces inches apart, I see it for just a flicker. A softness buried deep behind the storm.
She pulls back, breathless.
“That seems like enough for now.”
I laugh, bitter and breathless, but underneath it all, I’m smiling.
Because maybe… just maybe, we’re not so different after all.
⸻
At some point next week, I need a break.
It’s supposed to be nothing.
Just a walk. A few blocks away from the house. My chest’s been tight all day, like I can’t get enough air with Andy watching me like a hawk, judging every breath I take. So I slip out without telling anyone. Fifteen minutes, max.
I don’t notice the man following me until it’s too late.
One second I’m heading back, turning into a shortcut alley, which I know it's pretty stupid in itself, and next thing I know he’s there. Fast. Big. Blade glinting in the low light. He doesn’t know what I am. Thinks I’m just another target.
He gets one swing in.
It slashes across my ribs before I react — hot, white pain flashing through my side. I cry out, stumbling back, heart slamming into my throat. I raise my knife. I can't believe I'm saying this but thank fuck for Andy drilling into me to always have one with me. I’m ready. I am.
But then he’s not on me.
He’s on the ground.
Because she’s there.
Andy moves like hell unleashed. No warning. Just the sound of her boots pounding the pavement and her blade flashing once, twice — precise, clean and lethal. The man doesn’t have time to scream. He just drops.
Dead.
I press my hand to my side, still breathing hard, blood wet between my fingers.
She turns to me slowly. Her eyes are wild. Not angry, but furious. Not just at him. At me.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” she snaps, storming toward me. “Do you think you can just walk off into the dark like this and trust that nothing's going to happen?”
“I just needed air.” I hiss, flinching as the wound starts to pull back together. “It wasn't supposed to... he came out of nowhere!”
“I already told you multiple times that you're not untouchable!”
“I know that, Andy—”
“Do you?” she growls, voice low now, but dangerous. “Because that looked a hell of a lot like someone who forgot how fast this world chews people up.”
I look at her.
I mean really look at her.
Her fists are still clenched. Her jaw’s tight. Her chest is rising and falling like she just ran through fire.
And her eyes are on me like I almost died.
Because maybe I did.
And maybe she couldn’t stand the thought of it.
She steps closer, lowers her voice, but it doesn’t get gentler. Just heavier.
“You don’t get to die on me, Y/n."
My throat goes dry.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is my breath and the blood I can still feel drying under my shirt. She’s close enough to touch now. Close enough I can see the pulse ticking hard in her neck.
I try to say something.
But I don’t. Because this quiet, furious protectiveness is new. And it’s charged. I think I like this side of her.
So I just say, “Sorry.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and something in her hard expression flickers, just for a heartbeat.
Then she exhales through her nose. Still intense. Still unreadable.
“You’re lucky I got here fast.”
“Yeah" I murmur. “I am.”
And neither of us moves away.
⸻
I’m still sore when we get back, but not from the stab wound, not really. That healed hours ago. It’s everything around it that aches.
The adrenaline. Andy’s voice echoing in my skull. “You don’t get to die on me.”
I can’t stop thinking about it.
But thankfully, the others give me zero time to stew in it.
The moment I step into the house, Nile’s on me.
“Okay, what in hell happened? We need the tea.” she says, practically bounding over. “You disappear for thirty minutes and come back with murder face and blood on your shirt.”
“It's not really my blood.” I mutter.
“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Booker chimes in, raising an eyebrow. “Because it’s not.”
“Technically,” I say, tossing my jacket on the back of a chair, “it was mine. Just not for long. And then someone added his to the mix.”
Joe peers over the top of his book. “Ah. So we’re back on the ‘immortal but still self-destructive’ routine.”
“Classic move." Nile grins. “Which Andy must’ve loved.”
Speak of the devil.
Andy steps inside behind me, dead silent, still brimming with leftover fury she’s pretending doesn’t exist.
Nicky, barely glancing up from cleaning his rifle, says casually, “Did she stab you, or just threaten to?”
“Threaten." I say, dropping heavily on the arm of the couch. “With her eyes.”
“Ah, yes,” Nicky nods solemnly. “The infamous Andromache the Scythian death glare. More effective than most weapons.”
Andy glares at him in perfect silence.
Booker leans back in his chair. “Did she tell you the thing about not dying on her?”
My head snaps toward him.
He grins. “Yeah. She pulls that one out when she’s really invested.”
Andy finally speaks. “I can still kill all of you.”
“And that’s not denial." Nile says, biting back a laugh.
“She only says that when she’s cornered emotionally.” Joe stage-whispers.
I turn to her with a smirk. “So it is personal after all."
Her eyes lock on mine. Calm. Measured. And dark.
“You’re enjoying this." she says.
“I mean… yea." I say. “Certainly feels nice not being the rookie punching bag for once.”
Nicky raises his mug in a mock toast. “To Y/n. Who lived. Barely.”
“Cheers.” Nile echoes.
Booker nods gravely. “And got yelled at like one of the chosen few.”
I can feel Andy’s patience thinning like a wire pulled too tight.
So I lean back, stretch my legs out, and grin at her with just enough smugness to push.
“Something you’d like to add, boss?”
Her gaze flicks to me. Cold. Unreadable. Calculating.
But then there's a shift.
Subtle. Slow.
“I’m just waiting for the moment you slip up again.” she says, walking up to me.
I stand back up, defiant. “Oh yeah?”
She stops just in front of me. Close enough to be a challenge. Close enough that I can smell that strange mix of steel, earth, and blood she always carries.
“I’m going to enjoy making you pay for this.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
The corner of her mouth lifts. Sharp. Dangerous. But not unfriendly.
“We’ll find out.”
And just like that, the air between us pulls tight again. The others don’t even try to hide their looks.
“Oh boy,” Nile mutters. “We’re gonna need popcorn for this.”
⸻
Later at night, the next day.
Everyone else has drifted off — Nile passed out on the couch with a half-eaten protein bar, Nicky and Joe curled up together like something out of a Renaissance painting, Booker sprawled in a chair, a book dropped from his hand.
I’m in the kitchen, alone, half-focused on peeling a stubborn orange, when I feel her behind me.
Andy.
I don’t turn around. But I feel her before she even speaks. That still, deliberate presence that sets every nerve of my back on edge.
“You enjoyed yourself today.” she says quietly, voice like velvet dragged across steel.
I stop what I'm doing and smirk without looking at her. “Little bit, yeah.”
A beat.
Then a hand slips past me, slow and deliberate, reaching for a glass from the shelf above me. Her arm brushes mine. Her front is almost pressed to my back. Warm. Solid. Unapologetically close.
“That was quite a show you put on." she murmurs near my ear.
I swallow. “I didn't know it was gonna go like that. They they'll team up against you."
“Oh, I think you had a vague idea that it could happen.” She steps to the side, just enough that I can finally see her out of the corner of my eye. Her face is calm. Composed. But her eyes burn with something cooler than fire. “They’re predictable. You… not so much.”
“You sound almost impressed.”
“I’m not.” Her voice lowers. “I’m interested. There’s a difference.”
She circles me and steps in front of me now, somehow making me turn unconsciously, close enough that my back presses against the edge of the counter. She rests the glass down beside my half-peeled orange. Then her hand settles casually, on my wrist.
I freeze.
It’s not a threat. Not a grip. Just contact. Intentional.
“You liked turning it on me.” she says, gaze locked on mine. “Getting the others to laugh."
“And you didn’t?” I ask, voice quiet now, breath thinner than I’d like.
Her thumb brushes once along the inside of my wrist. Just once.
“I don’t like being cornered.”
Her other hand comes to rest beside my hip, fingertips ghosting the counter, caging me in without force.
“But I do like evening the odds.”
I laugh, but it catches in my throat. “Is this your idea of payback?”
She doesn’t answer.
She just lifts her hand from the counter — and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Slow. Careful. Her fingers trail just slightly against my jaw, then linger at the hinge for a beat too long.
“You’re not immune to me." she says.
I stare at her. Heart pounding. Voice gone.
“You can talk back. You can challenge me. You can even pretend you’re in control.” Her fingers drift down my neck, a featherligh touch before she finally pulls back. “But we both know what happens when I get close.”
She steps away. Calm. Cool. Untouched.
I’m still pressed to the counter, pulse in my throat, skin burning.
She looks over her shoulder as she leaves the room.
“Next time,” she says, “be ready for more than teasing.”
And then she’s gone.
Just like that.
⸻
The next day, I pretend nothing happened.
So does she.
The others go about their routines — cleaning weapons, stretching, bickering over supplies. But Andy’s nowhere in sight. Not for hours.
And then, sometime after sunset, she finds me.
I’m in the back room, sharpening a blade. Alone. Half-focused.
She says nothing as she steps in and closes the door behind her.
The sound clicks like a promise.
“I was thinking,” she says, tone too neutral to trust, “we haven’t trained since you got cocky.”
I don’t look up. “You want to humble me again?”
She shrugs off her coat. “I want to see what you learned.”
I stand.
She’s already preparing, running her hands through her hair to slide it back a little. No warmup. No soft edges. Just her — razor-sharp and waiting.
We circle. No weapons this time.
Just fists. Bodies. Will.
She moves first, fast, testing. I block. Barely.
She smirks. “Good.”
I go on the offensive. She dodges. Fluid, easy.
I strike again. She catches my wrist and twists. I pivot, free myself, and press in too close.
She lets me.
For one second too long.
And then she hooks my leg and I’m on my back, breath punched from my lungs. She doesn’t even break a sweat.
She leans over me, one knee between mine, pinning me to the mat.
“That all you’ve got?” she murmurs, voice low and even.
My hands come up to push her off, but she grabs them, presses them above my head, hard enough to hold, not hurt.
Her grip is warm.
Her face is inches from mine.
“I thought you were here to train.” I breathe.
Her eyes flick down to my lips.
“I am.”
Her free hand skims along my jaw, down my throat, until her fingers settle on my sternum, light and firm. Holding me in place like a pinned animal.
“Your heartbeat’s erratic.” she says quietly.
“Yours isn’t.”
“Exactly.”
I shift under her, trying to find air that doesn’t taste like her.
“You play dirty.”
She leans down just a little more.
“You haven’t seen dirty yet.”
And just like that she pushes off me, back to her feet, like nothing happened.
I lie there a second longer, breath short, skin flushed.
“Again?” I ask, voice rough.
Andy turns, gaze unreadable, mouth curved just slightly.
“Oh,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “We’re just getting started.”
⸻
I don’t remember falling asleep. The exhaustion drags me under before I can fight it. I left the door cracked open just a sliver, enough for light to slip in and, maybe, someone else too.
She said she'd be close if I needed her. I wanted to test it.
I never thought she’d come.
But here she is.
The room is quiet, gray with the first light of dawn filtering through the curtains. Then a presence, steady and sure.
I stir, half-conscious, senses sharpening. Not in the chair across the room where I expected her to settle. It’s beside me.
Next to me.
My heart races. Not from fear, but something rawer. Anticipation. Something electric.
I open my eyes slowly and see her: Andy. Fully clothed, lying half on her back, half on her side, watching me with those impossible eyes.
“Hey." I whisper, voice tight.
Her voice is low, smooth like gravel. “You left the door open.”
I swallow, heat rising to my cheeks. “Didn’t think you’d come in.”
She smirks faintly. “You didn’t lock it.”
“I thought you’d take the chair.”
“I thought about it.”
She shifts closer, the mattress creaking softly beneath her. Heat hums between us.
“But you didn’t,” I say, breath uneven.
Her gaze sharpens, unflinching. “You wanted me close. Despite what you keep saying, you like it when I'm here to look after you."
I say nothing. Words fail under the weight of that truth.
Her hand moves slowly, deliberately, until her fingers ghost over mine. Just a whisper of contact, but it lights a fire through my skin.
“I promised to even the field.” she murmurs, voice thick with meaning.
“By sleeping next to me?”
A slow, amused curve touches her lips. “You sound surprised.”
“I thought you didn’t sleep.”
“I don’t.” she replies, steel threading through her tone. “But I stay where I’m needed.”
Her eyes search mine, unreadable and intense.
Then, her hand slides fully over mine, curling her fingers around my wrist with quiet certainty.
My breath catches.
“You’re playing with fire.” she says softly.
I meet her gaze, steady despite the heat pooling low in my belly. “So are you.”
The space between us shrinks. Her breath fans my cheek. Warm, steady and impossible to ignore.
I’m rooted in place.
Then, with slow, deliberate grace, her other hand traces down my arm, fingertips curling lightly at my wrist, anchoring me.
Her voice drops to a whisper, so close it trembles against my skin.
“You won’t be the one who breaks me.”
I swallow hard, heart pounding wild.
She leans in, the scent of earth and iron close around her, and presses a kiss to my temple.
Not soft. Not tentative.
Claiming.
Dominant.
I’m caught, breathless and undone.
She pulls back just enough to gauge my reaction, eyes dark, unyielding.
“You think you’re in control?” she murmurs, a trace of challenge in her tone.
I shake my head, breath shallow. “No.”
A slow, satisfied smile curves her lips.
“Good.”
Her grip tightens once before she releases my hand and slides just out of reach.
But the charge lingers, thick and undeniable.
She’s made her move.
And the game has only just begun.
⸻
We stop for supplies on the way back to the house in some half-forgotten, rusted-out town with one gas station, a diner, and a convenience store that hasn’t seen a health inspector in a decade.
The others fan out, taking shifts watching the cars and stretching their legs. I duck into the store to grab something to snack on. Just moving, keeping my hands busy.
He corners me before I even realize he’s there.
What is it with guys lately? I swear...
Some guy. Local. Tall, sunburned, smells like smoke and sweat. Starts off “friendly,” slurred charm and a too-wide smile.
I try brushing him off politely.
It doesn’t work.
His hand lands on my arm. Too familiar. His body too close.
“You’re not from around here.” he says, voice low, like he’s offering something. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not,” I say, pulling my arm back. “So maybe keep your hand to yourself.”
He laughs, like I’m teasing him. “C’mon, I’m just being nice. No need to get all—”
His fingers slide down to my wrist, and before I can react, he's in trouble.
Andy doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t shove. Doesn’t even look angry at first.
She just appears.
One second, I’m cornered.
The next, her hand is wrapped around his wrist, tight and unyielding.
Her body slots between mine and his like a wall of steel, all stillness and precision. Her voice is soft. Controlled.
“I think you misunderstood.”
He blinks. Laughs nervously. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything—”
Her grip tightens. Something pops in his wrist. He chokes back a sound.
“Oh, I know what you meant. I watched you touch her,” Andy says, eyes fixed on his face. “She pulled away. You didn’t stop.”
His bravado starts to collapse under her stare. “I—it was a joke. I didn’t know she was—”
She leans in closer, voice lower now. “Now you know. She’s with me.”
He flinches. Her tone leaves no room for argument.
No mistake.
Andy lets go just a second too late for him to think it’s mercy. He stumbles back clutching his wrist and flees like he finally realized he’d stepped on a landmine.
She turns to me then.
Her eyes search my face — not frantic, not asking — but checking. Searching. Seeing. Reading.
I’m fine. A little breathless. A little stunned.
But then her hand finds my waist.
The touch is subtle. Firm.
Grounding.
“Let’s go.” she says simply, like the moment didn’t just burn the oxygen out of the room.
We walk out together, her hand not leaving me. Not once.
As we pass Booker, he raises an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”
Andy doesn’t look back. “Handled.”
⸻
Back at the house, the team filters in one by one, conversation light, movements easy — like nothing happened.
Like the man back at the store didn’t grab me.
Like Andy didn’t nearly snap his wrist in three places.
But my skin still burns.
Not from fear.
From her.
Andy disappears for a while, as she always does after she’s too close to something that matters. I half-expect her to stay gone for the night. To avoid the look I’ve been holding for her since the ride back.
But she doesn’t.
I hear her boots down the hall, steady, unhurried. And then she’s in my doorway, same calm expression. Same unreadable eyes.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, twisting the hem of my shirt between my fingers.
“You don’t need to stand there like you’re waiting for permission.” I say quietly, not looking up.
A beat.
Then I hear the door click shut.
She steps inside.
Slow. Careful. Predatory in a way that makes my breath catch in my throat.
“You didn’t say thank you.” she says.
I scoff, finally looking up at her. “Is that what this is about?”
She takes another step closer. “You were cornered. I handled it.”
“Yeah. You handled it.”
I rise to my feet, meeting her in the middle of the room.
“You could’ve just pulled me out.” I say. “But you didn’t.”
“No,” she agrees, voice even. “I didn’t.”
There’s a pause, thick and electric.
“Why?” I ask.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Because he put his hands on you. Because he didn’t stop. And because I didn't like that. I don't like sharing." She says the last part lower, almost muttering.
The air leaves my lungs in one hard exhale.
“You’re not subtle, you know that?” I say, heart hammering.
“Neither are you,” she answers, stepping even closer.
Now we’re inches apart. Close enough to feel the heat between us.
“You could’ve just told me.” I say.
“I don’t talk when I can act,” she says. “And I wanted him to remember what happens when someone touches what’s mine.”
My breath stutters. Mine.
She lifts her hand — slow, deliberate — and runs her fingers lightly along my jaw, down my throat. Barely a touch. But it holds weight. Possession. Warning.
I don’t pull away.
I can’t.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Did it scare you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.”
Her hand rests on my waist now, firm and warm.
“Because next time,” she says, voice like fire under control, “I won’t stop with just his wrist.”
And I believe her.
I lean into her touch though not fully, not completely, just enough to show her I’m here. That I didn’t run.
“You didn’t have to scare him like that.” I whisper.
Her thumb brushes just beneath the hem of my shirt, not moving higher. Just anchoring.
“I didn’t do it for him.” she says.
⸻
It starts with a joke.
We’re stuck at home, if I can even call it that, while Nile and Booker run recon. Rain lashes at the windows. Thunder rumbles low across the sky. I’m curled on the couch flipping through some old paperback, trying not to fall asleep.
Andy walks in, freshly showered, barefoot, wearing that damn black tank top and sweatpants slung so low it’s unfair. She crosses the room like she owns the air.
She always does.
And sometimes I wonder if she really might own it.
She looks at me. Smirks. “You always sit like that when you’re trying not to think about me?”
I blink. Where the hell did that come from? “Excuse me?”
She gestures lazily. “All tucked up. Pretending to read. You’re terrible at pretending.”
“I’m actually trying not to think about throwing you out the window.”
“Mm.” She sits on the arm of the couch. “That’s not what your breathing says.”
I snap the book shut. “You’re so full of yourself.”
I really fucking hate it when she can see right through me like this.
She tilts her head, eyes glittering. “I’m not wrong, though.”
There’s a dangerous pause, the kind she loves. The kind she loves to build. Then she slips down from the armrest and sits beside me, far too close, like this is hers now too.
“You flinch when I touch you,” she says, matter-of-fact. “but not like you’re scared. Like you’re trying not to feel it.”
My pulse jumps.
I laugh once, sharp. “You’re imagining things.”
Andy’s voice is calm. Patient. Wicked.
“No. I’m not.”
Her hand brushes my shoulder — casual, like it means nothing, but we both know that’s a lie.
“You breathe differently. You blink slower. You shift your weight away.”
“I don’t—”
“Even now.” she murmurs, fingers gliding along my arm, featherlight. “There it is.”
I try to move, but she catches my wrist.
Not hard. Not painful. Just final.
She takes a second to study me.
Her gaze pins me in place. “Let’s play something.”
I raise a brow. “Play?”
“You don’t move. No flinching. No pulling back. No deep breaths. No clever remarks.”
“And what happens if I win?”
She leans in, nose almost brushing mine. Her voice is low and terrible and beautiful.
“You won’t.”
“But if I do?”
Andy smiles like the devil. “Then you get to do the same to me. To test me.”
A beat of silence. The world narrows to the space between us.
“…Fine.” I say, and I hate how breathless it comes out.
She doesn’t waste time.
Andy shifts onto the couch, one leg folding beneath her, the other bracing her weight as she faces me fully. Her hand slides down from my wrist to my thigh. Not suggestive. Just there. Aware of what it does.
She starts slow.
Her fingers trail along the inseam of my pants, innocent and infuriating, before gliding back up to my hip where they rest. No movement. Just presence.
“Still breathing?” she murmurs.
“Barely.”
“Good.”
Her other hand lifts to my neck, fingers skating just under my jaw. She watches the flutter of my pulse, the way it betrays me.
Then her thumb slides to the corner of my mouth.
“You always talk back,” she says softly, like she’s admiring something she plans to break. “I wonder what it’ll take to shut you up.”
I hold my ground. Just barely.
She leans in, lips almost brushing my cheek, her voice slipping just beneath my skin.
“Still not reacting?”
“Nope.” I whisper. My voice cracks on the second syllable.
She laughs low, pleased, lethal.
“Liar.”
Then her hand drops to my knee and pushes it gently open.
I don’t move, but my breath goes shallow. Everything tightens.
Andy notices. Of course she does.
Her hand follows the line of my thigh up, slow, so slow it’s cruel. Not chasing heat, chasing control.
She leans in again, this time to my ear. Her lips do touch now. A whisper. A sin.
“I could wreck you without even trying,” she says.
My hand curls into the couch cushion, nails digging into the fabric.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, still close, her body a cage around mine.
“Say it.” she murmurs.
“…Say what?”
“That I’m right.”
I grit my teeth.
She waits.
And I know that if I say it, she wins. But if I don’t—
Her thumb dips under my chin. Tilts it up.
The air snaps between us.
I stare at her mouth. Then her eyes.
“Fine.” I say, voice shaking. “You’re right.”
Andy hums, satisfied.
And then, without warning — she leans in and kisses just below my jaw.
Not a soft kiss. Not a tease.
A claim.
She stays there. Breath on my skin. Her hand still on my thigh. Her control absolute.
Then she pulls away, slow, deliberate, eyes on mine.
“You did well.” she says.
“I want my turn." I manage.
She stands and the absence of her is worse than the touch.
“You’ll have to earn it.”
⸻
I find her outside.
The storm’s passed, but the wind still curls through the night like it wants to be remembered. The air is sharp with damp pine, wet stone, something ancient and quiet.
Andy stands alone on the back porch, hands in her pockets, jaw tight. Watching nothing.
She hears me approach, of course.
“You’re persistent.” she says without looking.
“You like that about me.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t deny it either.
I walk up beside her, lean against the railing, close enough to feel her heat.
Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Expectant.
“I’m here to earn my try.” I say finally.
Andy turns her head just enough to glance at me. “Are you now?”
“I don’t like to back down from a challenge.”
“No.” she murmurs. “You push. Even when you don’t know what you’re pushing into.”
“I think you want me to push.”
A beat.
She lets out a quiet, amused exhale, the closest she’ll give to a laugh. “Careful.”
“I’m done being careful.”
And then I touch her.
Slow and deliberate.
Not rushed. Not greedy. I reach up and gently tuck a small strand of hair that got loose behind her ear, letting my fingers trail along her cheek, her jaw. I take my time. Watching her.
She doesn’t move.
I step in closer, hand slipping to the back of her neck. My palm warm against her skin, thumb brushing the hollow behind her ear.
“I know what I’m doing.” I whisper.
Her breath changes. Sharp and low.
I feel it.
I press a kiss to her neck, right where she marked me before.
She lets me.
For a second.
Then she grabs me.
Not rough. Not angry.
Just suddenly. Her hands are at my waist, spinning me, walking me back until my spine hits the porch post with a quiet thud.
She pins me there with her body. Her eyes are fire.
“You’re playing with something you don’t understand." she says.
“Then teach me.”
Her mouth is inches from mine. Her hands still on me, holding me in place. Her breath is a storm.
And then—
She steps back.
And that’s when it happens.
Her expression changes. Not teasing. Not smug.
She looks… raw.
Wounded.
“You think I can be tamed,” she says quietly. “That this is some game.”
“I know it's not,” I say, confused now. “You’re the one who started it. Who let me."
Andy shakes her head. “I started it because I thought you could handle it. Because I thought I could.”
I step toward her again, gentler this time. “What are you talking about?”
She doesn’t move.
“I’ve buried everyone I’ve ever touched,” she says. “Lovers. Friends. Family. All of them. I’ve watched them die. I’ve held their hands while they forgot me. While they aged. Bled. Fell apart. I live, and they don’t.”
A beat.
“And then you happened.”
My breath catches. “Andy—”
“You’re not ready." she says, voice hoarse now. “You think you are because you want this. Because it feels good. But you’re not ready for what I’ll become if I let you in.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.”
I take a step closer. “Why? Because you care?”
Her jaw tightens.
“I care." I say anyway. “You do too. So stop pretending that’s not what this is.”
Andy stares at me. That unreadable expression again — only now I can feel what’s beneath it. Pain. Rage. Desire. Fear.
She looks like she might leave.
But instead, she touches my face.
Her thumb brushes beneath my eye. Soft. Reverent.
And then she whispers, “Don’t make me love you.”
It’s the quietest thing she’s ever said.
And it hits like a goddamn explosion.
⸻
The next day is a mess of silence.
No one says anything, but they feel it.
That something happened. That something’s shifted.
Andy and I don’t look at each other all morning. I pretend I’m fine. She pretends I don’t exist.
It’s childish. It’s infuriating.
By late afternoon, I snap.
She’s in the weapons room, alone. Cleaning a blade like it personally offended her.
I lean in the doorway.
“We going to talk about last night?”
She doesn’t look up. “Nothing to talk about.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“I told you to leave it.”
I cross the room. “No, you told me not to make you love me, which is just about the most manipulative thing you could’ve said.”
Andy slams the blade down on the table.
“That’s not what it was.”
“Then what was it, Andy? A warning? A scare tactic? You thought if you said something sad enough I’d just back off?”
Her jaw tightens. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
“And I thought you were braver.”
That gets her attention.
She turns slowly, eyes cold. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“No. I think you’re afraid of yourself. Of what happens if you stop pretending this isn’t real.”
“Immortality doesn’t come with a future. You want something I can’t give you.”
“I haven’t asked for anything.”
“You didn't have to," she snaps. “because you already matter and I can’t afford that.”
The words hit hard, like she meant to wound.
But I don’t flinch.
I step closer. Steady. Intentional.
“You think I don’t know what it means to carry grief?” I say, voice low. “To lose everything? To wonder if it’s worth it to care again? I’ve lived that. Hell, you know I'm not even the last time that happened."
Andy says nothing.
I keep going.
“I’m not here to be another grave in your memory, Andromache. And you'd be stupid to think I won't do my damn best to make sure you're not one on mine. I’m not asking you to fall into something blind. I’m standing in front of you right now, telling you I’m not walking away. Not unless you make me.”
She stares at me like I’ve split her open, but says nothing.
“You want to protect me?” I whisper. “Then stop trying to push me out.”
Her breath stutters — just for a second. But I see it.
The crack. The tremble. The mask slipping.
“You don’t get it,” she says, softer now. “You don’t understand what it’s like. To feel so much for someone and know it’ll end in pain. So many times, the same fucking thing."
I nod once. “Then love me anyway. Trust me. Worst case scenario, let it hurt later.”
Silence.
A beat.
Then another.
Her expression changes. Not soft and not broken.
Real.
Andy steps toward me. Slowly. Like she’s making a choice with every inch.
And when she stops in front of me she just rests her forehead against mine. Hands loose at my sides. Breathing like she hasn’t in centuries.
“I hate that you say things like that.” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“I hate that I believe you.”
“I know that too.”
We stay like that for a long time.
And when she finally moves, it’s not to run.
It’s to stay.
⸻
The house is still.
After the last time when she finally didn't run neither of us actually made a move. It's just been quiet and peaceful.
We spent time, she's been siting closer to me, being just slightly softer.
It’s late. One of those hours that doesn’t feel real, where the silence hums louder than anything. I can’t sleep.
I find Andy in the hallway on my way to the kitchen.
She’s leaning against the window, staring out into the dark. Arms crossed over her chest, jaw set like she’s fighting some internal war.
I guess she can't sleep either.
She turns her head when I approach. Eyes meet mine. And for once, she doesn’t say anything sharp or clever. Just watches me.
I stop a few feet away. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“No.”
I wait.
She lets out a breath and looks away. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“This time I meant it.”
I nod, stepping closer to her, careful not to push too hard. Just to be there.
“Can I ask you something?”
Andy turns her eyes back to mine.
“What?”
“Do you want me?”
She goes still.
That charged, awful, beautiful stillness she always slips into right before something cracks.
I take another step. Close enough to feel her heat. “Because I do. I’ve tried not to. I’ve tried so hard. But I’m tired of pretending.”
“I’ve spent centuries learning how to pretend.”
“Then let me help you forget.”
Silence.
Andy’s hand reaches out cautiously and brushes my wrist. Light, barely there. But it makes every nerve in my body stand.
I cover her hand with mine.
Her voice is quiet. “If I kiss you now—”
“You will. I know, don't worry. I want you to." I whisper.
Her jaw clenches. She stares at me like I’m a cliff she’s about to leap from.
And then she steps forward and does.
The kiss starts soft. Slow. Her lips just brushing mine, hesitant, like she can’t quite believe I’m real.
Then I kiss her back.
And the moment I do, something in her breaks open.
Andy’s hands slide up into my hair and pull — not harsh, but hungry. Her mouth claims mine fully now, heat flaring, kiss deepening in seconds. It’s not polished. It’s not patient. It’s real. Her lips part against mine, breath catching, and when I press closer, her body answers without hesitation.
She groans into my mouth, and I swear I’ll never forget the sound.
I tug her shirt up just slightly, fingers brushing the bare skin at her waist, and her whole body jolts like I’ve set her on fire.
She kisses me harder.
Her hand moves to the back of my neck, holding me in place as her mouth drags down my jaw, then back to my lips again like she can’t decide where to devour me first.
We stumble back against the wall. My spine hits it, her hips pin me there and God, she moves like she’s wanted this for centuries and finally let herself admit it.
I gasp into her mouth. “Andy—”
She cuts me off with another kiss, deeper this time. Messier. Desperate.
I’ve never been kissed like this.
And I kiss her back like I never want it to stop.
Her thigh slips between mine, and I react — a breathless moan against her mouth — and that makes her smile. She pulls back half an inch, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot and ragged.
Her voice is wrecked. “Tell me to stop.”
I shake my head instantly. “Please don’t.”
Her lips crash into mine again.
We don’t make it to the bed.
Not right away.
Because she needs to feel me want her. Needs to know it’s real.
And I let her.
Because I do.
⸻
Andy’s kiss turns hungrier, rougher. Her thigh presses up between mine, and my body grinds against her like instinct.
Like I’ve been waiting for this.
Because I have.
She pulls back just long enough to whisper, “Bedroom. Now.”
Her voice is hoarse. Commanding.
And I go.
We stumble into the room, kissing, breathing, tugging at clothes, everything frantic now, everything earned.
Andy shuts the door with her foot and spins me, pushing me back until my knees hit the bed.
I fall back. She follows.
Crawling over me with that slow, lethal grace that makes it clear she’s not just here to make me feel good.
She’s here to ruin me.
“Take your shirt off.” she says.
It’s not a suggestion.
I obey.
Her eyes flicker down as I do, and the sound she makes low in her throat, something like reverence laced with want, shoots straight through me.
“Lie back." she says.
I do.
And then she’s on me, straddling my thighs, her mouth finding my neck, biting just enough to make me whimper. Her hands trail over my ribs, down my stomach, slow and certain, like she’s learning me by touch alone.
Her mouth follows.
Kisses. Bites. Licks.
Every inch of me, from collarbone to navel, kissed open.
Worshipped.
Owned.
She makes her way down my body, lips brushing skin that’s already burning. She kisses the inside of my thigh, teeth scraping just enough to make me twitch.
And then her hand pushes my legs open.
She looks up at me.
Eyes dark. Voice calm. Controlled.
“Keep your eyes on me.”
I do.
Her mouth closes over me and I gasp, fingers clutching the sheets, spine arching. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t have to. She licks slow, deliberate, building pressure until my hips lift off the bed.
“Andy—”
“Shh,” she murmurs, lips slick. “You’ll come when I say.”
I groan.
Half-plea, half-surrender.
She slides two fingers into me without warning, and I cry out, thighs shaking, body clenching around her. Her mouth never stops. Her fingers curl just right.
She watches me fall apart and smiles.
“You’ve wanted this for so long." she says against my skin.
“You’ve teased. Fought. Tested me.”
She thrusts again, deeper.
“This is what happens when you lose.”
I whimper. “Please—”
She adds a third finger.
“I said, you’ll come when I say.”
And she keeps going.
Until I’m a mess, breathless, legs trembling, hips trying to chase what she keeps just out of reach.
Then her voice softens, just barely.
“Now.”
I fall apart with her name in my mouth. Shaking. Crying out. Her hand holding me down through every wave.
She doesn’t stop until I collapse, trembling.
But she doesn’t move away either.
Instead, she kisses her way back up, dragging her tongue over my skin, settling her weight over me.
“You still breathing?” she murmurs, mouth brushing my ear.
“Barely.”
“Good.”
And then she leans in and kisses me deep, slow, letting me taste myself on her lips. It’s filthy. Intimate. Kind of beautiful.
But I’m not done.
When she tries to move off me, I flip her over surprising her enough to make her laugh, breathless and low.
“Your turn.”
She doesn’t stop me.
But she watches.
Every second.
Her eyes follow my hands as I undress her, gaze never wavering until I finally take her in. All of her. Scars and strength and skin that still feels like mythology.
“You’re staring." she murmurs.
“I’ll stop when I’m done memorizing.”
She closes her eyes like that does something to her.
And then I show her what she’s made of me.
My mouth finds her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the dip of her stomach.
She breathes my name like it’s the only thing that steadies her.
When I finally slide between her thighs, she parts for me instantly. Wet. Ready. Body pulsing with need.
But she still says, “You’d better not stop.”
And I don’t.
"Wasn't planing to."
I make her fall apart the way she made me, slowly, deeply, over and over, until her hands are in my hair and she’s whispering things I don’t think she’s ever said to anyone. Things in languages I don’t know.
When she comes, it’s quiet, devastating, her body arching, muscles clenching, mouth open in something like prayer.
And afterward, we lie there. Tangled. Spent. Bare.
Andy turns her head, eyes on mine.
“I don’t want this to end.”
“It won’t.”
She studies me for a long moment.
And for once, there’s no mask.
Just her.
She leans in and kisses me slow. Deep. Like a promise.
And I know I’ve just become the only thing in this world that can both destroy her… and save her.
Warnings: smut, or more like a try. idk, i think it's shit tbh
Summary: Two souls collide beneath the weight of restraint and longing—what begins in fire ends in silence, a night of reverent touch unfolding into morning stillness where love speaks without sound.
The hum of the air conditioner buzzes quietly in the background as I tuck my legs under me on the plush carpet of Liv’s hotel room. Candles — well, battery-operated ones — flicker around the room, giving the illusion of something a little more intimate than we probably intended. Liv swore the lighting set the mood better. For what, hell knows.
It’s a typical post-show night: a few matches in our bones, room service scattered across the dresser, and the kind of lazy laughter that only comes with people who’ve bled, sweat, and cried together.
“So,” Liv announces, eyes gleaming mischievously “we’re doing this. Truth or Dare. Classic. No backing out.”
“God, you're such a menace.” Bianca groans, but she’s smiling.
Raquel chuckles, nursing a bottle of flavoured sparkling water. “Who even plays this anymore?”
“You’re all just scared” Liv shoots back.
“I, for one, am not scared.” Rhea laughs from her spot against the foot of the bed, legs spread lazily and an arm slung over a pillow she dragged with her. She’s dressed in black sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, and yet she somehow still looks like a final boss. “Bring it on.”
I try to look anywhere but at her. Rhea Ripley. One of my favorite wrestlers long before I ever got called up from NXT. Now she’s sitting across the room from me like it’s no big deal. And I’m… trying to not combust.
We do interact, and it's not just polite hellos and goodbyes or whatever. We really do talk, I just have to always try to keep my liking of her as internalised as possible. I don't want to make things weird with my stupid attraction.
“Alright” Liv claps her hands. “Y/N, you’re the newbie so you’re starting us off.”
“Seriously?” I blink. “Isn’t it your game?”
“Exactly.” She grins. “So, truth or dare?”
My heart ticks up a beat. All eyes are on me. I pick the safer option for now.
“Truth.”
“Who’s the hottest person in this room?”
There’s a pause. Laughter bubbles up around me.
“Come on, that’s easy!" Bianca says.
My gaze flickers instinctively toward Rhea before I force it away. If she noticed, she doesn’t say anything. But the smirk on her lips makes my stomach tighten.
I clear my throat. “I mean… it’s probably Rhea.”
Whistles erupt. Raquel laughs. Liv beams like she’s just cracked a code. And Rhea? Rhea raises a brow, head tilted in that amused, dangerous way of hers.
“‘Probably?”
I shrug, playing it casual. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Oh, it already did.” she purrs.
⸻
Next round Rhea chooses dare, which surprises literally no one.
“Dare you to swap shirts with the person to your left,” Liv says without looking, a little distracted by something on her phone.
Rhea is already standing. “Come on, rookie. Let’s go.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
You've got to be shitting me. I'm that person.
I freeze. “Really?”
She shrugs. “Unless you want to forfeit.”
I swear I see a flicker of something else in her eyes — challenge, mischief, maybe even... curiosity? The others are already hollering like we’re at karaoke night. I roll my eyes but stand.
Her shirt is still warm when I pull it over my head, and it smells like her perfume. I can’t help but inhale a little too long.
When we face the group again, now in perspective I’m swimming in black cotton and Rhea is almost bursting at the seams in my crop tee. It does make her look incredible tho, just like one of her fitted ones would.
“Oh my god” Raquel gasps. “You look hot. I did not think this was gonna be the outcome.”
“I know" she says and then turns to me. “Don’t you think?”
I try not to choke. “I’ve seen worse.”
Her smirk widens.
The game continues. Someone dares Bianca to prank call Rollins, resulting in Becky chiming in and mocking him in a way only a wife can, and Liv ends up confessing she once cried backstage because her eyeliner got in her eye mid-match.
The room is lit with stories and laughter, but every time Rhea leans back or shifts just slightly closer, I feel it.
The heat of her body. The tension I’m pretending not to notice. The occasional glance that lingers too long.
Eventually, Liv yawns and calls it: “Last round, then I’m crashing.”
Rhea looks at me, her voice low. “Truth or dare, rookie?”
I should say truth. I really should.
“Dare” I say instead.
She smiles slowly. “I dare you to tell me your real answer.”
I blink. “What?”
“When Liv asked who the hottest person was,” she says, leaning towards me now. “You said ‘probably.’ I dare you to drop the probably.”
The room goes quiet.
"I can't believe you're wasting a perfectly good dare on this." The reply flies out of my mouth completely out of nowhere, but I take the win. It's the most okay thing she could've asked for.
Then my mouth is dries. But I meet her eyes.
“You’re the hottest person in here." I say quietly.
Rhea doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk.
She just says “Good.”
And then nothing. No laughter. No teasing.
Just this charged silence between us that crackles like static.
Liv gets up to start cleaning. Raquel and Bianca are already discussing breakfast plans. But Rhea doesn’t move. She watches me, like something’s shifted.
Like the game’s not over.
⸻
When Liv kicks us out — yawning, still giggling, mumbling something about needing beauty sleep — I’m standing in the hallway, still wearing Rhea’s shirt. It hangs halfway down my thighs, and at this point, I’m too tired to care.
The others peel off toward their rooms with lazy goodnights. Of course, Rhea’s right behind me.
“Hey,” she calls out just as I swipe my keycard. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I turn, card still in the lock. “Wha—Ah... this. Didn't forget. I'm just way too tired. Can't I just give it back to you tomorrow or something?”
She tilts her head, taking another look at the shirt I’m swimming in. Something in her gaze changes. "Mmm. You know, if you want to keep it that much you can just say so, princess."
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. You know damn well it's not about the shirt," even though it sort of is comfort wise, but she doesn't have to know that. "and you know how I get, eventually not wanting to move a muscle after a hard match. I just want to sleep.”
“Oh, I'm sure you do.” she says with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.
I roll my eyes. “Unbelievable.”
She steps closer, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself. “And yet… I know you don't mind one bit that it smells like me. I'm pretty sure you're specifically fond of that part."
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Do you ever stop blushing?”
I go still.
She notices. Of course she does. Rhea doesn’t miss anything, especially not something she can turn into ammunition.
She cocks her head, her voice low and lazy. “You did say I was the hottest person in the room. Can’t blame you for wanting a souvenir.”
“I only said it because I was dared." I shoot back, jamming the card into the door again. The light turns green. Thank god.
“Mhm.” She steps in closer as I push the door open, her voice brushing right against my ear. “But you picked dare.”
I pause, fingers tightening around the handle. Her breath too warm. Too close.
“Because I’m not a coward.”
“Didn’t say you were,” she says, still grinning. “I just think it’s cute when you try to act like I don’t scare you.”
“You don't.”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “What is your deal tonight?”
“You." she says simply. “You’re fun to mess with.”
“Well, congratulations. You’re annoying as hell.”
“You keep saying that.” She leans against the doorframe now, like she’s got all night. “But here you are. Wearing my shirt. All flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You are adorably flustered." another step closer.
“You’re delusional.”
“And you’re staring at my lips.”
I immediately look away.
She laughs — soft and victorious — and takes a step back.
“Relax,” she says. “I’m just playing.”
I narrow my eyes. “You always ‘just play’ with people?”
“Only the ones who make it fun.”
There’s a beat. I hate how that lands. How she says it like it means more. Like it could mean something.
I try to shake it off. “Go to bed, Ripley.”
She takes another step back into the hallway, but not before saying, “You looked good in my shirt, little one.”
I say nothing.
“But I bet you’d look even better out of it.”
My jaw drops. “You’re such a dick.”
Her grin is all teeth. “Takes one to flirt with one.”
And then she’s gone. Just like that. Walking away, hands in her pockets, like she didn’t just wreck my night with a single sentence.
I shut the door slowly and lean back against it, heart pounding. Her scent is still all I feel. I hate that I notice that.
I hate how smug she is. How infuriating. How easy she makes it look.
I hate that it’s working.
⸻
The next night, I’m sore in all the worst ways. My match was solid — stiff, physical, the kind of thing that gets the crowd out of their seats. But my body’s definitely paying for it.
I’m halfway through peeling off my boots backstage when I hear the voice I’ve come to dread and crave in equal measure.
“Well, well. Look at you, little tough girl.”
I don’t even glance up. “Don’t you have a mirror to flex in?”
“Don't need to.” She walks past, slow and cocky, then circles back, standing right in front of me with her arms crossed. “Saw your match.”
“Oh, goodie. Let me guess. You have notes?”
“Nah.” She leans on the bench next to me. “You were decent.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But your strike game’s sloppy.”
I finally look up, annoyed. “It is not.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Prove me wrong, then. Tomorrow. Training ring. Noon.”
There it is again — that push. That constant need to get under my skin and crawl around inside it.
“You want me to spar with you?”
She smiles like I’ve said something adorable. “Scared?”
“Never.”
“I know.” She leans in a little. “But maybe you should be.”
⸻
The next morning, we run a promo together — very last-minute booking. It’s supposed to build heat for a potential feud. Except… the tension’s already there. No script required.
“You think you belong up here?” she snarls into the mic. “You’re nothing but another wide-eyed rookie with a big mouth and no grit.”
I step up to her, close enough that the crowd loses it, and I don’t even blink. “Say that again when you’re on your back next week.”
Her eyes flicker.
Not in surprise, but interest.
Toe to toe. Eye to eye. And for a second, the silence between us says more than the lines we rehearsed.
Then she smirks and shoves me — hard enough to sell it, but not hard enough to be the end.
I stumble back, lip curling into a grin.
Oh. It's on now.
And I’m playing to win.
⸻
At noon, we’re in the training ring.
I show up a minute early. She shows up ten minutes late.
She doesn’t apologize. Just rolls under the ropes and stands, tall and ready, like she was born here.
“Hope you stretched,” she says, cracking her neck.
“Hope you did.”
We circle. No bell. No referee. Just us.
She comes in first — a quick jab to test me. I dodge. Barely.
Then a lock-up. She’s strong. Unfairly strong.
I push harder. She laughs. “Is that all you’ve got?”
I growl and shove, breaking the hold, stepping back.
“You’re fast,” she admits. “But you don’t commit.”
I lunge in. She counters. I hit the mat with a loud thud.
“Fuck!” I sit up, winded, pissed.
She crouches beside me. Not to mock, just to be close.
“Get up.” she says, quiet. “Again.”
I shoot her a glare. “Why? So you can throw me around again?”
“If you’re lucky.” she murmurs.
And god help me. I flush.
We go again. And again. She pushes me harder than anyone else has in months. And I give it right back.
By the time we collapse against opposite ropes, we’re soaked in sweat, panting, bruised and buzzing with something I don’t have words for.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, watching me like she’s reading a book she already knows the ending to.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re not bad,” she says. “When you shut up and stop overthinking every move.”
“Wow. What a compliment. Want me to frame it?”
She stands slowly and tosses me a towel. “No need. You’ll remember it. You always remember what I say.”
I catch the towel mid-air, teeth clenched. She might have a point but she doesn't have to know that. “You’re really full of yourself, huh?”
She leans in over the top rope, sweat-slick hair clinging to her cheek. “No, love. I’m full of you.”
I blink.
“What does that even—”
“Think about it.”
She slides out of the ring, landing lightly on the floor, and starts walking off like she didn’t leave a fire under my skin.
I sit there, towel in my lap, heart racing, brain short-circuiting.
And I think, not for the first time...
I am so, so screwed.
⸻
The next few days blur into one long, aching sprint—gym, flights, promo shoots, quick matches, not enough sleep. My body hurts in all the right places, and my brain won’t shut up in the worst ones.
Mostly because of her.
Rhea’s been pretty quiet since the spar. No teasing. No smug smirks in catering. Not even a shoulder-check in the hallway. Just… space.
Too much of it.
Which is why when Liv slides into the booth next to me at the bar later that week pressing her thigh to mine, drink in hand, eyes glittering, I don’t immediately push her away.
“Hey,” she says, smile soft but purposeful. “You clean up well.”
I glance down at my ripped jeans and t-shirt. “You must be drunk.”
“Oh, I am,” she grins, sipping something bright pink. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
She’s leaning in close, closer than usual. And sure, Liv flirts with everyone, but tonight it’s different. Sharper. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“You okay?” she asks, her voice quieter now. Just between us.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She raises a brow. “You don’t look fine. You look like someone trying way too hard to not think about someone.”
I tense. “What makes you say that?”
“Call it a vibe.” She plays with the rim of her glass. “Or maybe I just noticed how weird things got between you and Mami after that training session I knew nothing about.”
I glance away. “Weird how?”
Liv leans in, her breath warm against my neck. “She hasn’t looked at anyone but you since.”
That lands.
Before I can respond, Liv places a gentle hand on my thigh and turns toward me completely. I feel the change before it happens. The slow, calculated pause, like she’s giving me a chance to back out.
I don’t.
And then she leans in just as gently and kisses me.
Full. Slow. Unapologetic.
Her lips move against mine with just enough pressure to make my breath catch. Her hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face toward hers. It’s not a drunken stumble of a kiss.
It’s intentional.
Calculated.
Hot, yes — but not messy. Just controlled enough to leave me dazed.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “You needed a distraction.”
And that’s when I feel it.
The presence.
I open my eyes, and there she is.
Rhea.
Across the bar, standing next to Raquel and Bianca, drink untouched in her hand, eyes fixed on me with something that’s definitely not indifference.
It’s not rage either. It’s worse.
It’s quiet. Cold.
Liv knows. Of course she does. She lingers close to me another second — a little too close — before sliding out of the booth with a wink.
“Just giving her a little push.” she says as she walks off.
I barely hear her.
My pulse is too loud.
I keep my eyes down and pretend to check my phone, pretend everything’s fine. But I can feel Rhea’s stare like a spotlight burning through me.
And then she moves.
Not straight toward me. She takes the long way around, casual on the surface, but I see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curl around her glass tighter than necessary.
When she finally stops at my table, she doesn’t say anything at first.
Just stands there.
I look up. Force a casual, “Hey.”
She hums, low and flat. “Having fun?”
I shrug. “Just talking.”
“I saw.”
My jaw tenses. “So?”
“She kissed you.”
“I noticed.”
The silence stretches for a few seconds. Thick. Uncomfortable.
“She’s not your type.”
“And you’d know?”
She steps in closer, eyes pinned to mine. “You’ve got a type.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Her voice is low. Controlled. “People who make you crazy.”
I almost laugh. “Then I must be your type.”
That smirk flashes — sharp and brief — but it doesn’t soften her tone.
“Liv plays games.”
“And you don’t?”
She leans in, so close it makes my heart stutter.
“Not with things I want.”
The air shifts. Her voice hits too deep, too real. I can’t come up with anything clever this time.
She waits a second longer, like she wants to see what I’ll do with that.
But I don’t move. Don’t speak.
So she steps back, jaw tight, and walks away.
Again.
Leaving me sitting there with the ghost of Liv’s kiss still burning on my lips…
…and something way hotter building under my skin.
⸻
I show up early this time. It's morning and I need to train anyway for tonight, not just because we came to an agreement on another meeting.
No one else is here yet. The lights in the training facility buzz low, half of the overheads still off. It’s quiet. Still. Not even the sound of ropes creaking or weights clinking in the far room.
But the second I roll into the ring, I know this will go just as well as last time.
I stretch. I pace. I wait.
And then, boots on the mat.
She slides under the ropes like a storm cloud: silent, heavy and electric. Her hair’s tied up in a messy bun. She’s wearing a cutoff tee that clings to her arms, black tape wrapped tight around her wrists. She looks like a threat. Like trouble.
Like everything I haven’t stopped thinking about since the night Liv kissed me.
No greeting. No warm-up.
She walks straight to the center.
“Let’s go.”
I roll my shoulders, climb to my feet. “Not even a hi?”
She shrugs. “Didn’t come here to talk.”
No kidding.
We circle, slower this time. No teasing. Just eyes locked and jaws tight.
I move first, testing her with a feint. She sees it, catches my arm, flips me with almost too much force.
I land hard.
I grin up at her. “Feel better now?”
She stares down at me. “Get up.”
I do.
She charges again. I sidestep, shove her shoulder. She spins, grabs me by the waist, takes me down clean.
It’s not training anymore.
This is something else.
We’re sweating within minutes. Breathing hard. Neither of us holding back now.
She lands a strike to my ribs that’s almost stiff enough to bruise.
I throw one back. She dodges. We grapple again, tangled, panting, too close.
“Jealousy looks good on you.” I mutter, breaking the hold.
Her eyes flash.
“You think I’m jealous of Liv?” she growls.
“She kissed me.”
“She did.”
“You saw her.”
“I did.”
I don’t get a chance to say anything else. She slams into me with another lock-up, this one rougher. More desperate.
She pushes me to the corner, forearm across my collarbone, her breath hitting my cheek.
“She did that to piss me off.” she says.
“Yeah?” I snap. “Did it work?”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t back up.
Her thigh is pressed between mine. Her hand braced on the rope beside my head. Every inch of her body is burning against me like a fuse.
And then, softly — too softly:
“You’re not hers.”
I breathe in sharply.
Neither of us moves. The only sound is our breathing, ragged and synced, and the hum of the lights above us.
She looks at my mouth.
I look at hers.
She leans in slightly. Just enough.
But I turn my head at the last second, chest heaving.
“I thought we weren’t playing games.” I say.
“I’m not,” she growls.
“Then stop acting like this doesn’t mean anything.”
She pauses. Her lips are close to my ear now. “I never said it doesn’t.”
We’re still. Everything feels fragile. Unspoken things hanging in the air between us like broken glass.
And then, just as suddenly, she steps back.
“Again” she says.
I blink. “What?”
“Again” she repeats. “You’re not done.”
And just like that, the moment is gone.
She gives me space.
But the heat doesn’t go anywhere.
Not from the way she looks at me. From the way she doesn’t touch me when she walks past. Not from the bruises I know I’ll feel tomorrow worse than ones from any match.
And not from the ache building in my chest as I watch her, jaw tight, mouth unreadable, fists clenched like she’s holding back something louder than anything we’ve said.
This isn’t over.
Far from it.
⸻
The gym clears out fast.
After the second round of sparring, after that almost moment in the corner, we go again until sweat drips down my spine and my knuckles feel bruised and my lungs burn. Rhea doesn’t go easy on me. She never does.
But this time… she also doesn’t gloat when she pins me.
She just lets go. Rolls off me. Breathes.
Then she grabs her water bottle and towel and stalks off without a word, disappearing into the back hallway near the lockers.
I sit there for a moment, dazed, heart still trying to catch up to everything that didn’t happen.
And then I get up and follow her.
She’s alone in the corridor, leaning against the wall. Shoulders tense. Face unreadable.
When she hears my footsteps, she doesn’t look at me right away.
“You shouldn’t let people kiss you if you don’t mean it.” she says flatly.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I step closer, arms crossed, ignoring the ache in my thighs and the sweat clinging to my shirt.
“She kissed me. Not the other way around.”
“You let her.” Rhea says, still not looking at me. "You chased her at first when she pulled back."
“And you let it get to you,” I fire back.
That gets her.
She turns her head slowly, eyes sharp but tired. “I’m not jealous.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”
She pushes off the wall and steps in my space in a split second.
“I’m. not. jealous.” she repeats. “I’m…”
She trails off.
That silence stretches between us again, long and suffocating. I hate this more than I hate her smug smirks and taunts.
“Say it,” I whisper.
Her jaw clenches. “What?”
“Whatever it is you’re choking on. Say it.”
Her eyes meet mine. There’s nothing teasing in them now. Just heat. Frustration. Resentment maybe, but not the kind born from hatred. The kind that comes from wanting something and not knowing what the hell to do with it.
“I can’t,” she says quietly. “Not yet.”
I step in before I can stop myself and I almost take all the space that's left between us.
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I belong to you.”
Her breath catches. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
“I don’t” I add before she can say another word.
And it’s a lie. A stupid, shaky lie. Because she already owns half of me and she hasn’t even touched me properly yet.
She looks at me like she knows it’s a lie too.
But she doesn’t call me out.
She just says, “I never asked you to.”
And that? That somehow hurts worse.
And there is it. My guard comes crashing down right before her eyes.
I take a shaky step back. Her arms stay at her sides. No fists. No grab. Nothing. Just… that look again. That damn look.
“You didn’t have to.” I murmur more to myself than her, but I think she heard it anyway.
And then I walk away, because if I don’t I’ll stay.
I’ll break.
And I think we both know we’re not ready for that just yet.
⸻
Later that night, long after the show ended.
The locker room smells mostly like disinfectant at this time, really late in the evening, and it feels suffocating — like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
I’m folding my gear, mind trying to focus on anything but the weight sitting heavy on my chest.
The door creaks open.
Rhea steps in, arms crossed, eyes sharp as knives. She doesn’t say hi.
I don’t either. I don't acknowledge her, but she knows I'm aware of her presence.
She stands there like that for a long, heavy moment, neither of us willing to be the first to break the silence.
Finally, she mutters, “You didn’t have to walk away this morning.” But I know that tone. She means she didn't want me to, but what was I supposed to do?
I glance up, dry. “Maybe I didn’t want to talk.”
She snorts, shaking her head like it’s the dumbest excuse she’s ever heard.
“Since when do you avoid fights?”
“Since I learned which ones aren’t worth having.”
She steps closer, voice low and mocking. “What’s this, then? You’re scared?”
I scoff. "Of you? No chance.”
Her eyes flash with something fierce, almost impressed.
“Then why run?”
“Running isn’t the same as walking away.”
“Try telling that to your pride.”
I snap, sharp and hot. “I’m not the one acting like I’m the only one who gets to be pissed off or be hurt around here."
She knows exactly what I mean. I couldn't hide the hurt in my eyes this morning and I sure as hell can't now. She narrows her eyes, stepping even closer, until there’s barely any space left.
“We’re both stubborn,” she says, voice rough “so what now?”
“We might be stuck.” I meet her gaze evenly. “Neither of us wants to let go.”
She smirks softly, almost fond. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I say.
A beat.
Then she adds quietly, “Maybe one day we’ll stop pretending this is a game.”
I stare at her, heart hammering. “Maybe.”
But I don’t know if that day is today.
We stand there, two stubborn forces refusing to break, the silence between us charged with everything neither of us can say.
And somehow that’s enough.
For now.
⸻
We’re alone in the arena this time.
It’s late again.
The echo of our earlier match still hangs in the air, heavy and electric.
I needed to blow off some steam. I didn't realise when she showed up, at first, only when she wanted me to notice, but she definitely has the same reason.
I’m catching my breath, leaning against the ropes, sweat sliding down my face.
Rhea steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off of her — closer than usual.
“Not bad.” she says, voice low and rough. “You almost had me.”
She's been kicking my ass if we're being honest, and now she has me trying to dodge her and her kendo stick. I made her drop it and almost pinned her.
I smile weakly, wiping sweat off my brow. “Almost’s not good enough.”
She moves in, eyes locked on mine, challenging.
Then, suddenly, her hand is gently holding my wrist as if trying to figure out what to do with me further — just resting there, steady, warm.
Too long to be casual.
My skin prickles.
“Rhea” I murmur.
She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingers tighten just slightly, and her eyes flicker — vulnerable and fierce, but almost… uncertain.
“Stop.” I say, voice sharper than I mean.
She leans in, breath hot against my ear. “Or what?”
“Or I don’t know what.”
She smiles, but it’s not playful. It’s dangerous. Her kind of dangerous.
“Nope, tell me what.”
I swallow hard, heart pounding.
Because everything between us is screaming.
Say it. Do something. Break this.
But uncertainty and stubbornness root me in place.
“I’m not the one who's trying to blur lines.” I whisper.
Her gaze drops to my lips, then back up.
“Maybe I like crossing lines.”
“Maybe you like pushing me.”
“Maybe I like when you push back.”
She lets her forehead rest on mine. Her other hand moves gently to my waist as if to keep me there. Still gently pushing me. Possessive, but not really. A scared kind of possessive.
The space between us almost collapses.
I want to lean in.
I want to pull away.
I want to scream and laugh and kick her ass all at once.
Instead, I choose to step back, breaking the tension like a fragile glass shattering. Not because I don't want her, because I do with everything in my being.
But because I'm not sure this isn't just a game for her.
Rhea blinks, jaw tight.
Okay, maybe not the best move on my part.
“Fine. Good game.”
And walks away.
Leaving me trembling, unsure. This is getting too insane for me.
⸻
The backstage hallway hums with distant voices, but it feels like I'm in a pressure cooker — the air thick and electric.
I’d been joking with Dakota just minutes ago, carefree and easy — nothing more than friendly banter. But Rhea’s eyes catch mine like a blade, narrowing with something I can’t quite name.
Then she's in my space, again.
“Another contender? You two were very cute laughing together.” she says, voice low, sharp enough to cut through the noise.
I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. So?”
She steps forward, her presence overwhelming. “So, you think I’m just supposed to stand there and watch?”
I square my shoulders. “Watch what? I'm not yours and I'm just friends with Dakota anyway.”
Her jaw tightens. “No. But I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t sting.”
Then a beat, and she continues. "And for the record, Dakota has been talking about how much she'd like to date you for months."
I did not know that... but I ignore it for now.
“Sting?” My voice edges with disbelief. “What do you want me to say to that? You're the literal embodiment of mixed signals, woman."
“Say that I’m enough.” she spits out, the words almost breaking free but held back by fierce pride.
I stare, stunned by the raw vulnerability beneath her anger.
And by the fact that I finally got what I was waiting for, unsure until now.
“You are enough.”
For a fleeting moment, her guard drops. But then she’s back, sharp and untouchable.
“Then act like it.”
I step closer, heat rising in my chest. My hand wanting to reach out to hers. “Maybe... I’m waiting for you to say what you really mean.”
Her laugh is bitter, bitterer than I’ve ever heard. “I’ve said enough. You just don’t want to hear it.”
“No. You’re scared to say the things that matter.”
Her eyes flash with challenge. “Scared? That’s rich coming from you.”
I swallow hard, voice low. “This isn’t a game. Not for me.”
She’s silent for a beat, breath shaky, then whispers, “It never was."
We’re inches apart now, the tension unbearable, the silence screaming. But I get stuck. I want to pull her close but I can't right away, and I don't get my shit together in time.
She turns away like she’s done with this conversation. Like she’s done with me.
But something in me snaps.
I step forward, hand tight around her arm, effectively stopping her and pulling her back slowly. Close enough that I feel the heat of her body. Close enough that I can see the tension pulling at her jaw, the way her breath hitches just a little.
"No. No more bullshit."
There's a literal question mark on her face.
“Say it.” I whisper, voice low and steady. “Say what you really want. Not the words you’re hiding behind. Say what you never can."
She doesn’t move. Not right away. She's not even turned towards me. yet.
Then she laughs. It's bitter and raw and it shatters the silence and sends a chill down my spine.
But it's nothing compared to what comes next.
“You want me to say it?” she spits. “Fine.”
Before I can blink, she turns, closes the space between us and one of her her arms curls around my waist, pulling me flush against her. It's strong and sure around me like she's claiming ground.
The movement is so fast that I also hold onto her on instinct, arms flying on her shoulders.
Her other hand comes to rest gently part on the side of my face, the spot that covers both my jaw and my neck, guiding me so I hold her gaze.
Her arm tightens around me just enough to remind me who she is: relentless, unbreakable.
“I want you.” she snarls, voice thick with everything she’s been swallowing for too long.
The words hit me like a punch.
Not gentle. Not sweet.
Raw and fierce.
My knees threaten to buckle.
I stare up at her, breath caught, heart pounding like a war drum.
She leans in, breath hot against my lips.
“But you make me crazy,” she snarls. “You push me to the edge, and I’m sick of pretending I don’t need you.”
The way she holds me steady and dominant and the way she looks at me. It's that look again.
It’s everything I never knew I wanted.
I’m done.
No smart retort. No witty comeback.
Just a shudder, a gulp, and the desperate want to let go.
Rhea’s eyes burn into mine, fierce and unyielding.
“You’re mine. Please, princess, be mine.” she growls.
And suddenly, I don’t care about the fight anymore.
I want to give in.
"I am."
Her hands tighten around my waist, grounding me, asking me not to pull away. My breath hitches, caught between shock and something raw, desperate, soft.
Rhea’s eyes flick down to my lips, then back up — searching yet fierce.
"Can I kiss you?"
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just us. No fights, no teasing, no games. Just the heavy, fierce pull between two stubborn hearts finally breaking loose.
"Yes."
Then she leans in.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Her lips brush mine, a featherlight touch that sets my skin on fire.
I freeze.
Then I make the last push, closing the distance fully.
Her mouth opens against mine, breath mingling, hands threading into my hair, pulling me closer with a strength that leaves me breathless.
God, the fact that she is so much stronger will be the death of me.
It’s everything and nothing I expected — rough but tender, urgent but careful.
We lose ourselves in the kiss — the tension, the frustration, the longing spilling over at last.
When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against mine, eyes shining with something soft beneath the storm.
“About time,” she murmurs.
I laugh breathlessly, heart pounding.
“Yeah” I whisper. “About time.”
And somehow, it feels like we’ve finally come home.
⸻
We leave in silence, not from awkwardness, but because nothing we could say would do this moment justice.
Her hand is holding mine as we walk, warm and protective, a silent promise that she's here. Choosing me.
When she opens the door to her hotel room, it’s dimly lit and quiet, like the world has decided to hush for us.
I step inside, and she doesn’t follow immediately. She watches me — this unreadable, dark, blue-eyed stillness in the doorway — like she’s cataloging every second. Then, finally, she moves, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. No rush. No tension.
Just inevitability.
She comes to me slowly. Her steps deliberate. Measured. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And exactly what I do to her.
When her hands find my jaw, her thumbs stroke just beneath my cheekbones, and her eyes are locked on mine. Calm. But there’s something molten there, something barely tethered. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
Her mouth meets mine with a terrifying gentleness, and all the air leaves my lungs. There’s no desperation in the way she kisses me now. It’s deep, confident. Like she’s not taking anything — she’s offering.
And I take it. All of it.
She peels my jacket off slowly, like she’s unwrapping something fragile. Her lips graze the side of my neck, then lower. A kiss at the base of my throat, then another, softer, where my pulse stutters under her mouth.
“You’re shaking,” she says, not mocking — just noticing.
“So are you,” I whisper.
A faint smirk tugs at her mouth. “Yeah.”
She strips me layer by layer. Not hurried. Not greedy. Like she wants to see everything. Memorize. Her hands are slow, sure, reverent. When I reach to undress her, she lets me — patient, quiet, letting me explore the muscle beneath ink and shadow.
And when she’s finally bare in front of me, I can’t stop staring.
She steps forward, presses her body to mine, and kisses me again, deeper this time, more controlled. But there’s a tremble under the surface. Like if she lets herself go, she’ll come undone completely.
She lowers me onto the bed with a steadiness that betrays how hard her breath falls when I lie back, looking up at her.
And then she climbs over me, her hands planted firm beside my shoulders, her body bracketing mine in heat and purpose. She doesn’t speak. She studies me for a second that feels like forever.
And then she shows me.
Every kiss is deliberate. Every touch is measured. She draws a line of heat down my body with her mouth, her hands keeping me exactly where she wants me. Her control isn’t performative, it’s protective. It’s reverent.
She touches me like I’m sacred and she’s trying not to break me. But the deeper she goes, the more the cracks show in her restraint.
When she finally slips between my legs it’s not rushed, but slow. Devastating. Her tongue is patient, focused, like she wants to ruin me and remember every detail.
She doesn’t stop when I gasp her name. If anything, it fuels her.
Her hands grip my thighs with quiet force, holding me open for her, grounding me while I fall apart. And when I reach down, threading my fingers into her dark hair, she lets out a low sound into me. Something primal, unguarded, like she’s been holding this in for far too long.
She takes her time. She makes me take my time. And when I shudder under her mouth, she doesn’t rush to finish me. She holds me there. Gently. Devotedly. Like she wants to keep me at the edge, just to savor the way I come undone for her.
When I finally crash over, it’s not just pleasure. It’s surrender. I fall into her, into the way she’s looking at me like I’ve always belonged to her and she’s only now letting herself admit it.
But she’s not done.
When she comes back up, kisses me deep, wet, tasting of me and I feel her hand slide down, slow and warm and sure. She enters me with precision and ease, her thumb brushing my cheek as I arch beneath her.
“Eyes on me,” she murmurs.
And I do. I can’t look away.
Because her face — when she moves inside me — is the most honest thing I’ve ever seen.
No mask. No armor. Just Rhea.
The sound she makes when I whisper her name again breaks whatever composure she has left. She thrusts deeper, her rhythm never frantic, but weighted. Certain. Her jaw clenches, and her eyes shine with something that might be pain, or pleasure, or love. But it’s hers, and she’s not hiding it anymore.
She touches me like she’s sorry.
She fucks me like she’s been waiting a lifetime.
Her body is still pressed to mine, her breath uneven against my shoulder, the curve of her spine slick with heat. But her weight is careful. Even now she’s holding back. For me.
And I want to see her fall.
I shift beneath her, hand sliding up the nape of her neck to cradle her jaw, coaxing her to look at me. Her eyes are heavy, dark, but so open it almost hurts.
“My turn,” I whisper, and before she can object, I roll us over with slow, deliberate ease. She lets me. Doesn’t fight, just exhales like I took the air right out of her lungs.
Rhea Ripley. Laid out beneath me. Breathless and quiet and undone.
She stares up at me like I’m something she can’t believe is real.
I kiss her deeper this time, more certain and I let my hands trace every inch of her body with purpose. Her collarbone. The inked ridges of her biceps. The softest part of her waist. Every spot I’ve watched from a distance, craved in silence, now mine to explore.
And she lets me.
No, she gives herself to me. Head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut when I drag my mouth down her sternum. Her hand comes to rest in my hair, not guiding, not controlling, just there. A tether.
I take my time.
I kiss her stomach, the hollow just beneath her ribs. I trace my tongue along the lines of definition, feel her tremble beneath me.
She’s quiet, but her body isn’t. It responds to every touch, every brush of my mouth — a stuttering breath, a twitch of her thigh, her fingers curling just a little tighter.
And when I slide down between her legs her hips lift to meet me like a prayer.
“Oh” It’s a breath, not a word, and it nearly undoes me.
I want to worship her. I want to prove that she’s not the only one who feels this deeply.
So I do.
I taste her slow and focused, my hands steady on her hips, keeping her anchored while I lose myself in her. Every sound she makes is etched into me. The low, guttural noises when I circle my tongue just right. The catch in her breath when I suck harder. The near-silent way she says my name like it’s sacred.
“Fuck.” she groans, low and hoarse, and I feel her start to shake.
But I don’t stop.
I want her to break the way she broke me. I want to feel it when she lets go. No mask, no control, just her. Just Rhea.
And when she does, when her thighs tighten around me, when her breath turns into something ragged and unfiltered and real... it’s everything.
She falls apart in my mouth, her body arching off the bed as her fingers dig into the sheets. She doesn’t hold back. Not anymore.
And I stay with her through it, kissing her softly, letting her hips roll against my tongue until her body stills under mine.
Then I rise, kiss my way back up her stomach, her ribs, her chest, until I’m curled into her again.
She’s warm. Shaky. Breathless.
I tuck myself into her and she wraps her arms around me instantly, like instinct. Her lips press to my temple. She’s quiet. Still holding me like I’m something fragile, even now.
But her heartbeat is loud in her chest. Unruly. Like the feelings she still hasn’t said.
No words are said. None are needed.
Because everything she didn’t say tonight, everything she’s been too afraid to feel she’s already told me.
With her hands.
With her mouth.
With the way she’s holding me now, like I’m not just something she wants. I’m something she can’t lose.
⸻
I wake before the sun does.
The room is still dark, but I can feel the light beginning to shift behind the curtains. The kind of blue that only exists at dawn, soft and tentative, like the day isn’t ready to start yet. Like it’s giving us this moment before anything else can touch it.
Rhea is still asleep beside me.
Her arm is draped over my waist, heavy and protective. Her face turned just slightly toward me, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen her before. Vulnerable. Peaceful.
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
There’s a stillness to her that steals the words right out of my mind. The same hands that gripped me like she couldn’t bear to let go last night now rest against my skin with something closer to reverence. Like she’s forgotten how to guard herself in her sleep.
And I realize this is the first time she’s let herself be this close.
Not just physically. Really close.
I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face, then stroke her back gently. Slow and careful. Her lashes flicker, but she doesn’t wake. Her fingers twitch slightly against my hip, like even unconscious, she knows I’m here.
My heart aches in that quiet, open way that only happens when something matters too much.
Last night wasn’t just a confession.
It was surrender.
She never said the words. I didn’t either. But they were there, in the way she touched me, in the way her voice broke when I whispered her name, in the way she held me like she was terrified of losing something she never thought she could have.
And I don’t think I need her to say it.
Not yet.
Because this — this quiet morning, her body wrapped around mine, the steady rhythm of her breath against my skin. This tells me more than any words ever could.
I shift just slightly, enough to press a kiss to her shoulder.
She stirs, just barely, then tightens her arm around me, pulling me closer without opening her eyes.
And damn it, I fall even deeper.
A soft murmur escapes her lips but it's nothing clear, just the sound of comfort, of home.
And I smile.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not wondering where I stand.
I’m here. She’s here.
And maybe tomorrow we go back to the chaos. Maybe nothing changes out there.
But in here where it's this quiet, borrowed morning I have her.
Emily Prentiss x Jennifer Jareau | angsty, cute and slightly chaotic
AN: to my utmost surprise, this wasn't in any of my plans and it just came up on twitter. gotta give credit where is due, i felt compelled to write this asap.
Summary: They orbit each other in silence... haunted by timing, fractured by want. A mistake, a raw confession, and years of longing collapse into truth. Chaos follows. Finally, love answers.
It's pretty late at night already. The office is quiet in that strange way it only is after a case. The kind of silence that hums behind your ears and wraps itself around your ribs. JJ stands alone by the windows, arms crossed tight, forehead pressed to the glass.
It’s raining. Of course it is.
The lights behind her cast a pale shadow, but she doesn’t move. Not when someone else enters the room. Not when the footsteps pause behind her.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Julia Ochoa’s voice is low, quiet, nonjudgmental.
JJ blinks once. “Probably.”
A soft laugh. “You okay?”
JJ doesn’t answer.
“Right,” Julia says, stepping closer, “Dumb question.”
JJ turns slightly, enough to see the faint lines of concern around Julia’s mouth. She’s always been direct, warm in a way that never pushed too hard. And JJ, god help her, has appreciated that more than she should.
“Do you want to get out of here for a bit?” Julia asks.
JJ hesitates.
“Not like that,” Julia adds, raising her hands. “Just air. Coffee. Distraction.”
JJ looks back out at the rain. She doesn’t want company. She doesn’t want anything, really.
But something about being alone feels worse than it should tonight.
“Sure,” she says.
Twenty minutes later, they're in a quiet café across the street. It’s one of those odd places that never quite closes. Warm light, a clatter of cups, and the sound of rain against the awning overhead.
JJ sips her drink without tasting it.
Julia watches her. Not too directly, but carefully.
“Do you ever stop?” she asks softly.
JJ lifts her eyes. “Stop what?”
“Carrying everything like it’s your job to hold the whole damn world up.”
JJ gives a weak smile. “No. Not really.”
Julia leans back. “That must be exhausting.”
JJ shrugs. “It’s… survival.”
There’s a pause.
Then Julia reaches out, hand brushing JJ’s across the table. Her touch is gentle, grounding. JJ doesn’t pull away — not exactly. But she doesn’t react either.
“I’ve admired you for a while,” Julia says. “You probably knew that.”
JJ stiffens.
“I didn’t plan to say anything. I know your history. And I know you’ve got… complications.” A pause. “Especially with her.”
JJ’s eyes snap up. “Emily?”
Julia nods. “You look at her like you’re drowning. And you don’t even notice.”
JJ doesn’t respond. She can’t. Her throat feels thick, heavy with something she doesn’t want to name.
“I’m not trying to complicate anything,” Julia says, voice low. “But I’d regret not trying.”
Then she leans across the table and kisses her.
It’s soft. Unexpected. Not forceful — just… there.
JJ doesn’t move. But then she does.
Her lips part slightly. Just slightly. The briefest reflex. An automatic response to a question she didn’t realize she’d been asked.
But even as she leans forward half a breath, her mind screams someone else’s name.
She pulls away so fast she knocks her coffee off the table.
“I’m sorry,” Julia says immediately, rising. “That was—”
“No, I—” JJ stands too, heart hammering. “It’s not you. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“JJ—”
But JJ’s already stepping back. Hands trembling. She turns to leave—
And freezes.
Emily is standing just outside the café entrance. Coat soaked. Expression unreadable.
JJ’s heart plummets.
Emily’s eyes flick from her to Julia and back again. She doesn’t say anything.
She just turns.
And walks.
JJ doesn’t sleep that night. Doesn’t even go home. She spends the night at a 24-hour diner staring at her reflection in a cold cup of coffee.
By the time she gets to back to Quantico, her nerves are stretched too thin to pretend.
Emily’s already there. Sitting at her desk. Calm. Controlled. Cold.
JJ stands in the doorway, breath caught in her throat.
“Emily,” she says, voice soft.
No response.
JJ steps closer. “Please. Just talk to me.”
Emily lifts her eyes slowly. “About what?”
JJ’s stomach twists. “Last night.”
Emily stands. “Don’t. Don’t insult me by pretending it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t what it looked like.”
Emily’s voice is low, clipped. “It looked like you were kissing her.”
Emily doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. “So you let her.”
“I froze. I didn’t mean to. I—”
Emily cuts her off. “Did you want her?”
JJ shakes her head.
“Then why?”
JJ looks away.
Emily steps forward. “Why, JJ?”
JJ’s voice shakes. “Because… for a second… she reminded me of you.”
The words hang in the air like smoke — impossible to grab, impossible to ignore.
Emily recoils like she’s been slapped.
JJ steps forward. “I didn’t know until it happened. I wasn’t kissing her, I was... God, I was trying to stop myself from wanting you.”
Emily closes her eyes.
JJ continues, barely able to breathe. “I’ve buried it. I’ve buried it for years. I had Will. I had a family. And I told myself I was just loyal. But that’s not what it was. I was running from this. From you.”
“You think I haven’t?” Emily says quietly. “You think I haven’t spent years keeping my mouth shut every time you laughed too long at one of my jokes?”
JJ’s eyes widen.
“I stayed silent,” Emily says, stepping closer, “because you were married. Because you had kids. Because you were safe.”
“I’m not safe,” JJ whispers.
“No,” Emily says. “But you’re honest now.”
JJ’s voice cracks. “It took me too long.”
Emily’s continues after a slight pause, expression softer now, but still brittle. “What do you want, JJ?”
JJ steps into her space, eyes searching. “I want to stop lying. I want you.”
Silence.
Then Emily kisses her.
It’s not gentle. Not really, but not bruising either. And yet again, it’s not soft.
It’s years of tension and rage and sadness combusting into something electric.
JJ gasps, fists tangling in Emily’s coat. Emily grabs her like she’s drowning.
And maybe she is.
When they break apart, forehead to forehead, neither of them speaks.
They just breathe.
Together.
Hours later, in the conference room, Garcia watches them both like a hawk. She says nothing.
At first.
Then she gasps so loud the whole room turns.
“Okay. I knew it!”
JJ startles.
Emily stiffens.
Tara sighs. “Penelope…”
“No. No, don’t Penelope me, Tara. I’ve spent the last decade watching these two eye-bang each other across crime scenes. You think I don’t recognize a post-kiss glow-up when I see one?!”
Luke hides his smirk behind a file.
Garcia dramatically points at Emily and JJ. “Admit it!”
JJ groans into her hands.
Emily, deadpan: “You’re insufferable.”
Garcia beams. “And right. As always.”
She pulls out a glittery “Love Wins” sticker from her bag and slaps it on the whiteboard.
JJ mutters, “She’s going to plan a party.”
Emily sighs. “She already has.”
Garcia gives them both a knowing smile. “It’s about damn time.”
AN: this ended up being so much longer than i anticipated, but honestly i just needed to get it off my chest. i didn't even plan on it to be her (character or not) yet again, but she fits the idea and resembles the actual person the most.
Summary: A brilliant student. A guarded professor. Neither meant to blur the line but, late-night talks, lingering glances, and shared secrets pull them into dangerous territory. In a world of rules and reputations, how long can they pretend it’s just admiration?
I’ve known her name for years.
I’ve seen it on journal covers, interviews, tucked into citation-heavy academic blogs, in the footnotes of books I read far too early in high school to understand. It always made me pause —Ashley Fliehr, PhD.
Not a name you forget. Not if you’re even remotely interested in criminal psychology. Not if you’re obsessive, which I am.
I never imagined I’d meet her.
Let alone sit across from her in a first-floor lecture hall, wondering if I look as nauseated as I feel.
It’s the first day of senior year. The hallway outside is still chaos, backpacks, perfume clouds and bodies trying to squeeze past one another like particles in a container too small. But inside, the air feels tight for a different reason.
She’s not even speaking yet. Just setting up her presentation, flipping open a manila folder with clinical precision.
Everything about her is so controlled. So sharp. A fitted black blouse tucked into matching slacks, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs like she couldn’t be bothered to roll them twice. Her hair down, but neat. Perfectly tucked in the right places so it says I’m here to work.
When she turns to face us, she looks around the room with eyes that aren’t cold, but calculated. Still. Focused.
And then they land on me.
Only for a second. Maybe not even that. A flick of blue-gold recognition. Or not. It could just be the paranoia talking — I’ve been vibrating since I saw her name on the syllabus.
But my heart still trips. I know it’s irrational, but it happens anyway.
She clears her throat and I try not to flinch.
“Good morning. I’m Professor Fliehr. This is CRIM 431 or Criminal Profiling and Applied Psychology. If you’re in the wrong room, you have ten seconds to make your escape.”
A few chuckles. I smile, but it’s reflexive. My stomach is in freefall. Her voice is richer than I expected. Calmer. Controlled, but warm. I hate how it makes me want to lean forward in my seat. And I hate that I do.
No one moves. Of course not. This is one of the most coveted classes in the program. And she knows it.
Ashley clicks the remote and the first slide appears on the screen behind her "The Psychology of Pattern and Motive" in clean serif font. Beneath it: “Everything human behavior leaves behind is a language. Learn to read it.”
She turns to the class again, tilting her head slightly. “That quote isn’t from some long-dead philosopher or serial killer. That’s mine.” A pause. “You’ll find I don’t romanticize murder. But I do respect language. It’s the only thing killers and profilers both have in common.”
I stop breathing for a second.
She begins her lecture like she’s not performing, but it feels like a performance anyway. Everything precise. Nothing wasted. The syllabus review turns into a case study analysis within twenty minutes, and I’m scribbling notes like a lunatic, trying not to look unhinged.
Next to me, Dani — brilliant, caffeine-addicted, and already on her second Red Bull of the morning — whispers, “Jesus, she could say ‘blood spatter’ and I’d still blush.”
I stifle a laugh. “You are blushing.”
“You’re sweating, babe.”
She’s not wrong. But I also feel electrified in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. Like something just shifted under my skin and now I can’t get comfortable again.
When class ends, no one moves. It’s like we’re all stunned. Like we expected her to be good, but not this.
She closes her laptop and thanks us, in that same even voice, but I could swear she glances at me again. My whole chest tightens.
“See you Thursday,” she says.
And then she’s gone. Just like that.
The Group Chat Explodes Later:
Alex: y’all. Y’ALL. that woman is dangerous.
Dani: i would happily commit a felony for her
Me: you guys are insane
Dani: your mouth was open the whole time babe
Alex: bro did you volunteer to be class liaison or was that some kind of fever dream
Me: I did. I think.
Dani: she asked for someone and you raised your hand like it was the hunger games
Me: shut up
It’s true. She asked. My hand moved on its own. I don’t even remember deciding.
The text comes at 9:46 PM
Unknown Number: Hello, this is Professor Fliehr. I found your contact info in your file and I just wanted to confirm you'll remain liaison for CRIM 431.
Me: Yes, that’s me. Happy to help.
Ashley Fliehr: Thank you. I’ll forward you the adjusted schedule for the mock case analysis week. I noticed the class calendar missed an update. Please confirm when you get it.
I respond. She sends the file. It’s all so efficient, so dry. And yet my brain is catastrophizing over whether I sounded “too eager” or “not eager enough.”
I stare at the screen too long.
Me: Got it. Confirmed. Thanks, professor.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Ashley Fliehr: Appreciate it, Y/N. Let me know if anything’s unclear.
I reread her last message seven times like it’s a clue in a crime scene.
God, I’m so screwed.
The next few days crawl like molasses. I find myself counting down until I'm back in her class.
I tell myself it’s just because I love the subject. Because criminal psychology is fascinating. Because the way she connects motive to action, mind to crime scene, it’s brilliant. But I know better. I feel it in every whispered glance, every accidental brush of her gaze.
Thursday arrives faster than I want it to.
I’m late — of course I’m late. Always when I need it the least. It’s already the third lecture and I’m hoping I don’t have to stand in the back like some lost freshman.
I burst into the lecture hall, heart pounding like I’m the one about to be examined. Every seat is taken and the room, usually so hushed, buzzes quietly with focused energy.
My eyes dart around desperately until I see her sitting behind her desk, scanning the room like a hawk. Next to her, she pats single empty chair — the spare one that almost no professor ever uses.
I’m almost paralyzed by the thought of sitting there. Right next to her.
But what choice do I have?
I swallow hard and take the chair. The wood creaks under me. She glances over, eyes briefly flickering to me, not reprimanding. Not judging. Just noticing. The smallest nod almost invisible unless you’re paying attention.
That’s when my brain decides to short-circuit.
I try to focus on the case she’s presenting — a cold-blooded killer with a chilling mind, but every time she speaks, her voice feels closer than usual. Warmer. The light through the window catches her hair just right and for a few seconds everything else in the room blurs.
After class, Ashley approaches me with a folder. “I wanted to give you the updated reading list early,” she says softly. The way she hands it to me — the briefest touch of her fingertips — leaves a spark I can’t explain.
“I… thank you,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.
She nods once, eyes holding mine a moment longer than necessary. Then she’s gone.
Two nights later, my phone buzzes just after midnight.
Ashley Fliehr
I hesitate, then answer.
“Y/N?”
It’s Ashley, her voice low, tired. Real. Not the professor’s polished tone I hear in class.
“We have a scheduling conflict for the mock trial presentation,” she says. “I’m… still waiting on some confirmations. Could you check with the department and let me know if any students have requested reschedules?”
I blink at the clock. Midnight.
“Of course,” I say.
Her sigh is soft but carries weight. “Thanks. I don’t sleep much these days.”
That sentence hangs between us, heavier than anything else.
We talk for fifteen minutes. Mostly logistics. But the line is charged. Quieter than the city streets outside my window.
When I finally hang up, my hands are shaking.
The next day, Dani corners me before class.
“You’re a mess. What’s going on?” She smirks, but there’s genuine curiosity in her eyes.
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s nothing. Just… a lot with school.”
Alex joins, crossing her arms. “You and Professor Fliehr are totally vibing, aren’t you?”
I laugh nervously. “What? No. We talk about class stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” Dani nudges me playfully. “Class stuff at midnight, with low sleep and sighs?”
I glare at them. “You’re impossible.”
They grin, triumphant.
One afternoon, I’m in the library researching when Ashley appears behind me.
“I didn’t actually expect to see you here,” she says, voice low.
I look up, startled. She’s holding two coffees.
“Thought you might need this.” She hands me a cup. Our fingers brush. Electric. Again.
“Thanks,” I say, barely above a whisper.
She sits opposite me. “You’re doing well. I’m impressed.”
My cheeks burn.
“I just… I want to learn everything. About the cases. The psychology. About you, maybe.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You want to learn about me?”
I laugh nervously. “Not like that. I mean… you’re a mystery. I want to understand what makes you tick.”
She leans back, eyes thoughtful. “Good luck.”
I grin. “That’s your polite way of saying ‘don’t bother’.”
“Maybe,” she says with a smirk.
I wake up every Monday and Thursday with a stomach full of nerves and caffeine. I’ve developed a routine: sit two rows back, always show up early, never look at her for too long. I’ve mastered pretending I’m normal. Or I think I have.
But I can’t unlearn the way my heart reacts when she walks into a room.
Ashley doesn’t glide or sweep in dramatically. She arrives, with quiet gravity. Like she’s been there before you even noticed. Like she’s already figured out what you’re going to ask before you ask it.
Today, though, she’s different.
Her hair’s down. Not new. Just different. Nothing scandalous. Just unpinned, and the slightest kind of messy. Long and golden and falling over one shoulder.
My heart actually skips. It physically hurts. I look away immediately, like I’ve been caught staring at the sun.
“Is it illegal to look that good while talking about sociopaths?” Dani mutters beside me, eyes wide.
“I think it should be,” I whisper back, and then Ashley starts the lecture and I forget how to breathe.
The sign-up sheet for one-on-one meetings goes up after class. Ashley tells us to come prepared, to bring something we’re struggling with, to be specific.
Of course, I pick the last slot on Thursday. Late afternoon. It'll be mostly empty by then. I hate myself for choosing it. I hate how excited I am for it.
When I show up, the building is nearly silent. Ashley's office door is half open, the light warm and golden inside.
“Y/N,” she says when I knock. “Right on time.”
She’s wearing reading glasses. I almost short-circuit.
I sit. I try not to fiddle with my sleeve. She gestures for me to speak.
“I… I wanted to talk about the case files you posted. The ones from the Glover murders.”
She tilts her head, eyes on me. “You’ve read all of them?”
I nod. “Twice.”
She smiles. It’s small. Almost proud.
“You think he’s a classic narcissist?” she asks.
“No,” I say without thinking. “I think he wants to be one. I think he performs for attention because he doesn’t understand real connection. I think he’s pretending. Like he’s rehearsing emotion.”
Ashley leans back in her chair. And for the first time, she looks at me differently. Not like a student. Not like someone she’s obligated to guide.
Like someone who sees.
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “That’s not in the notes. That’s not anywhere.”
I swallow.
Her eyes stay on mine. “You’re not just good at this, Y/N. You’re dangerous.”
My heart beats too loudly. I can hear it in my ears. I try to laugh, but it sounds awkward and thin.
“Is that a compliment?”
She lets her gaze linger a second longer than it should. Then she turns toward her desk.
“Of course it is.”
The next late-night message is casual. Kind of.
Ashley Fliehr: Could you confirm whether the ethics seminar is scheduled before or after the forensic workshop next Friday? The department double-booked my calendar.
Me: I’ll check. Do you want me to email them now?
Ashley Fliehr: If you don’t mind. I know it’s late.
Me: It’s fine. I’m awake. You don’t sleep much anyway, right?
Three dots. Then none. Then three again.
Ashley Fliehr: That’s true. Some habits are hard to unlearn.
I stare at her words. Read them like a riddle.
Then I ask something I’ve wanted to ask since the first lecture.
Me: What made you leave fieldwork?
A long pause. I almost regret it.
Ashley Fliehr: That’s a story for another time.
Then:
Ashley Fliehr: But I will tell you, sometimes it’s harder to walk away from people than it is from danger.
I stare at that for a long time.
I don’t reply.
It happens the following week. Rainy, gray, and cold in that specific way fall manages to be — damp enough to soak into your skin, quiet enough to remind you of everything you’re trying not to feel.
I show up late again, this time because I can’t get out of bed.
The fifth anniversary of my dad’s death. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Dani. They don't need to know.
I sit in the back of the lecture hall, hoodie on, hood up. I don’t take notes. I barely hear Ashley's voice over the blood rushing in my ears.
After class, I try to escape. But I feel her hand on my arm just before I reach the door.
“Y/N.”
I turn, swallowing hard. “Yes, Professor?”
She looks at me — really looks.
Her tone softens. “Are you okay?”
It’s a stupid question. The kind people ask out of habit. But she means it. I can feel it in my bones.
I nod. “Fine.”
“You’re not.”
Her voice isn’t cold. Not prying. Just steady.
I break.
Not loud. Not in front of the others. But in that little hallway just outside her office, under fluorescent light that buzzes too loudly.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s just… today’s hard. I usually compartmentalise better than this. It's a stupid anniversary.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean. She doesn't have to. She read my file and I am very aware of that.
She steps a little closer. Still professional. Still safe. But enough to let me feel her presence.
“Your father?”
I nod.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s just… worse this year for some reason.”
“Grief isn’t linear,” she says. “And it’s not polite. It doesn't knock. It shows up when you least expect it.”
I smile weakly. “You should put that on a mug.”
She lets out a quiet breath — almost a laugh.
And then, just for a second, she touches my shoulder. Her hand warm. Steady. Safe.
“I’m glad you told me.”
I nod again. Try not to cry. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t fix.
But she stays there. And that alone breaks me open in a way I’m not ready to admit.
After the hallway, after I let the façade slip, after her hand touched my shoulder like it belonged there — something changes.
Not drastically.
But internally, in the soft parts of me I never let anyone touch.
She didn’t offer solutions. She didn’t overreach. She didn’t say, “if you ever need to talk” like they all do. She just stayed, just enough, just close enough to make me wonder if I imagined it.
Did I imagine it?
That’s the question that haunts me most days now.
Ashley still looks at me the same. But not the same. Still speaks in that calm, measured voice. But sometimes she pauses before saying my name, like she wants to linger on it. Like she does.
I start watching her more than I should. Not out of obsession. More like… mapping out constellations no one else can see.
Where her gaze falls. Where it doesn’t.
Who she smiles at. How she doesn’t quite do it the same way with anyone else.
It’s maddening. Not because I’m sure she feels something.
But because I’m not.
And it’s the not knowing that sets my thoughts spinning.
She stops me after class again. This time it’s about the department’s decision to shift the final project dates. Totally ordinary.
But her hand grazes mine as she hands me the new schedule.
Barely anything.
Except I flinch. Not hard, just in slight surprise. And her eyes flick to mine for a beat too long.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
She tilts her head. “Did I startle you?”
“No,” I say too fast. “No. I just wasn’t expecting… contact.”
She hums, amused. “Noted.”
And that’s it. She walks away.
I stare after her, confused and increasingly aware that I’m starting to read between words that may not be meant to be read.
It’s 1:04 AM. The text is short.
Ashley Fliehr: The ethics panel got approved for next month. Good work coordinating that, by the way. You’re unusually efficient.
I read it four times before I reply.
Me: Thanks. I try to be worthy of my insomnia.
She types back immediately.
Ashley Fliehr: I don’t think it’s insomnia if it produces results. That’s discipline.
Me: That’s one way to romanticize a deeply unhealthy sleep pattern.
Ashley Fliehr: Spoken like someone who still believes she can fix herself by sleeping more.
I blink.
It’s not flirty. Not really. But something in her tone through the screen — the candor, the precision — feels like a hand slipping under my skin.
And I reply without thinking.
Me: I’m starting to think you’re a lot less unreadable than people say.
This time, the dots appear… then vanish.
No reply.
I toss my phone onto the bed and lie there, staring at the ceiling. My pulse drums in my neck.
I regret the message. I don’t regret it. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“You have a problem,” Dani says, stabbing her fork into my pasta as if it insulted her personally.
“Thanks,” I say, deadpan.
“You don’t just like her. You’re obsessed.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not. I admire her. I respect her. It’s… intellectual.”
“Bull,” she says. “You’re emotionally spiraling over a woman who has never so much as winked at you.”
“She doesn’t wink.”
“Exactly,” Dani says, chewing. “She gives meaningful eye contact and lingering glances. She makes you spiral the way God intended: with nuance.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t. You just want her to pin you against a chalkboard and whisper about forensic inconsistencies.”
I drop my fork. “Okay. That’s enough.”
It happens the week after midterms.
Ashley tells me she’s attending a panel at the city courthouse — open to students. She mentions it after class, so casually it barely registers.
“You’d enjoy it,” she says. “It’s mostly behavioral profiling in pre-trial assessments. Niche, but you strike me as someone who likes the niche.”
I nod, confused but honored. “I’ll be there.”
And I am. I show up early. Sit near the back. Watch her speak from a polished oak stage with a confidence that could break cities.
Afterward, I linger by the exit — and I don’t know why, until she appears beside me.
“Walk with me?” she asks, her voice soft, noncommittal.
We walk.
The air is cold. Her coat brushes my arm. Every step is charged with things I don’t know how to name.
“You speak differently outside of class,” I say finally.
She glances at me. “How so?”
“Less filtered.”
She smiles faintly. “That’s dangerous, coming from you.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because I’ve seen how closely you listen.”
We stop at the edge of the courtyard. Lights from the courthouse glow behind her, painting her in soft gold.
My throat dries.
“Are you saying I know too much?”
“I’m saying you notice too much,” she says, her voice low. “That’s the difference.”
I laugh nervously. “Well. I’ve been told it’s annoying.”
“It’s not,” she says, eyes on mine. “It’s rare.”
And then — she nods, professional again. The moment closes like a door.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
I don’t see her for for a bit after the courthouse.
She’s there — in class, through very professional texts, in late-night group announcements about project deadlines and reading changes — but not there. Not the same.
She doesn’t linger when she speaks to me. Doesn’t pause when she says my name. Doesn’t stay after class like she used to.
And I start to wonder if I crossed some invisible line I didn’t even know existed.
Maybe I stood too close that night. Maybe she caught on.
Maybe she’s finally doing what professors are supposed to do — keeping distance.
And the worst part? I can’t blame her.
Dani notices, of course. She always does.
“You haven’t mentioned your favorite ethically tormented professor all week,” she says over coffee.
“She’s busy.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“No, I’m—” I pause. “Okay, maybe. A little.”
“You think she’s pulling away?”
I nod, slowly.
Dani doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, carefully: “Do you think she knows?”
I look up sharply. “Knows what?”
“That you’re in love with her.”
The words hit too clean, too sudden, and I blink like she just slapped me.
“I’m not in love with her.”
Dani lifts an eyebrow.
“I’m not,” I repeat, quieter. “I just… I admire her. A lot. I’ve admired her since before I ever met her. And now that I do know her, it’s worse, because she’s everything I imagined, but also more — more decent. And good. And careful. And she sees me. And I—”
I stop. I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
Dani leans across the table and rests her chin in her hand. “Right. Not in love at all.”
Ashley finally emails me again. Group announcement. But she BCCs me separately, with a note:
Ashley Fliehr: Can you clarify the reading list? I think the departmental upload duplicated the old syllabus.
That’s it. Professional. Simple. Expected.
But my fingers hover over the keyboard longer than they should before I reply.
Me: I’ll double-check and let you know. Thanks for looping me in.
I don’t say anything else. Not personal. Not soft.
I match her professionalism like armor.
It’s midnight. Again.
My phone buzzes quietly against the sheets.
Ashley Fliehr
I stare at it for three rings before I pick up.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal.
“Sorry to call late,” she says, her voice lower than usual. “I tried to send the file. It bounced.”
“That’s okay. I was still awake.”
“Of course you were.”
There’s a pause. I can hear her smile — soft, tired, teasing.
“I mean that as a compliment,” she adds.
My throat tightens.
“Can you send it to my student email?” I ask, too fast. “It might go through there.”
“I will. But that’s not why I called.”
I freeze.
There’s static in the silence.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she continues. “About me being less filtered outside of class.”
“I—” I swallow. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know,” she says gently. “That’s the problem.”
I stop breathing.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“You do,” she replies. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
I’m on my knees on the bed now, heart beating too loud to hear anything else.
“I haven’t crossed a line, have I?” I ask.
Her silence answers me.
And then: “Not yet.”
Not yet.
Not yet.
Before I can ask what that means, she clears her throat. “I should let you sleep. Send me the corrected reading list when you have it.”
And the line goes dead.
I dream of her hand on mine.
Of her voice in my ear, low and quiet, saying things I don’t understand but want to believe.
Of that moment in the hallway, on the anniversary of my father’s death, when she looked at me like I wasn’t just a student. Like I was something she recognized. Something she wanted to protect.
When I wake up, I write down everything I remember. Every word, every glance. I’m trying to build a map — a logic system that explains the way she moves around me. A language of almosts.
But it never adds up.
Some days she’s warm. Present. Lingering in the space between phrases like there’s more she’s not saying.
Other days she’s distant. Polished. Unreachable.
I don’t know which one is real.
Maybe they both are.
It’s after a guest lecture. She’s standing outside the building, alone in the dim light of the streetlamps, coat drawn tightly around her. Everyone else has left. I have to walk past her to go on my merry way.
“You should be home,” she says, without looking up.
“You too.”
She finally turns to me. Her face unreadable.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I ask.
She exhales slowly. “No.”
And then: “Are you?”
I stare at her. “I think I’ve been waiting for you since the first day of class.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
Her eyes flash. Something trembles in her jaw — tension, conflict, heat. But she doesn’t move.
“You can’t say things like that,” she says finally, but her voice isn’t cold. It’s wrecked.
“I know.”
“And I can’t answer them.”
I nod.
And then, softly: “But I didn’t imagine it, did I?”
The silence between us stretches like glass.
“No,” she says, after a long pause. “You didn’t.”
And just like that, my chest cracks open.
But she steps back. One step. Like that’s all she can give.
Then: “Go home, Y/N.”
The days after that are worse.
Not because she avoids me. But because she doesn’t.
She treats me exactly the same. Just like before. Just enough warmth to keep me afloat, just enough space to keep me unsure.
But I know what she said. I heard it.
You didn’t imagine it.
She gave me truth, and then stepped back into shadows like it cost her something. And maybe it did. Maybe that’s the only way she knows how to survive this — to compartmentalize, to pretend nothing’s shifted.
But it has. I feel it everywhere now.
When she calls on me in class, her voice brushes over my name like it means something.
When we pass each other in the hallway and her eyes find mine for half a second too long.
When I sit at the spare chair beside her desk again because there’s nowhere else, and her knee rests near mine, steady and still, and neither of us moves.
It’s not overt. It never is.
But my skin knows the difference.
My skin remembers her.
I don’t talk to Dani about it anymore. She sees the look on my face and just nods, like we’ve gone past words. Past the part where concern helps.
Alex, though — she’s quieter. She watches me unravel slowly and just says, “You’re in deeper than you think, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
The truth is I don’t know if I’m sinking or floating. I just know I can’t get out.
It gets worse the day I show up to her office with a question and end up staying for over an hour.
We talk about a case study — an ethics review that devolves into moral ambiguity, conflicting testimony, and a psychologist who signed off on something they never should have. I ask too many questions. She lets me. She always does.
“I don’t understand how you stay neutral,” I say at one point, frustrated. “How do you not let yourself feel it?”
She looks at me across the desk, eyes sharp but soft. “Who says I don’t feel it?”
“But you always look—”
“Controlled?”
“Untouchable.”
A pause. Her gaze narrows slightly, but not in judgment. In curiosity.
“I have to be,” she says. “It’s not about detachment. It’s about keeping the walls where they need to be.”
“Even if it hurts?”
“Especially if it hurts.”
I nod slowly, eyes on my hands. “Sounds exhausting.”
There’s a silence that stretches too long. When I look up, she’s still watching me, expression unreadable — but not unfeeling.
“I think you’d be surprised,” she says quietly. “What I let myself feel.”
I don’t breathe for five whole seconds.
She doesn’t elaborate. I don’t ask her to.
When I finally stand to leave, she walks me to the door. Her fingers brush my lower back — lightly, like an accident. But I know it’s not.
I feel it the entire walk home.
That night, I stare at my ceiling for hours.
I want to ask her what she feels. I want to ask her if I’m making this worse. If I’m making her life harder by existing in this space — by wanting her, obviously, carelessly, visibly.
But I also want to ask her to stop pretending this doesn’t matter. Because it does. I see it in the small hesitations, in the things she doesn’t say, in the way she sometimes reaches out like she’s going to touch me — then doesn’t.
The next day in class, she won’t meet my eyes. Not even once.
I feel like I’ve been erased.
But then the text comes — short, clipped.
Ashley Fliehr: If you have a moment after class, I’d like to speak with you privately.
My stomach flips.
The moment comes. Everyone leaves.
I wait at my desk like I’m waiting for sentencing.
She closes the door behind the last student, then crosses the room slowly, hands behind her back like she’s thinking too carefully.
I stand. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” she says. “But I might have.”
My chest tightens. I say nothing.
She walks to the windows, then turns, leaning her hip against the ledge. Her posture is relaxed, but her face isn’t. It’s guarded. Careful. But under that — I see it. Conflict. Worry. Heat.
“I’m not used to being unsure,” she says finally.
I nod, slow. “Neither am I.”
“I know I’ve crossed a line with you. Even if I haven’t… technically.”
I swallow. “I don’t know where the line even is anymore.”
Her voice softens. “That’s the problem.”
I take a step toward her. Just one. Her eyes track me, but she doesn’t move.
“I never expected this,” I whisper. “Not with you. Not like this.”
“Do you think I did?”
“You’re a profiler, Ash—" I stop myself. I don't have permission to call her by her name whatsoever.
She laughs once — short, bitter. “You can call me Ashley. And to answer you, I’m not omniscient.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I say gently.
“You don’t make this easy.”
“I don’t mean to make it hard.”
Her eyes close for a moment. “You’re—”
She stops.
I take another step. Close now. So close I can hear the hitch in her breath.
“Say it.”
She opens her eyes. They’re burning.
“You’re not my student the way the others are.”
And there it is. Laid bare.
Something inside me breaks open and breathes for the first time.
But before I can move, she lifts a hand — not touching, just stopping.
“If we let this happen,” she says, voice low, “everything changes.”
“I know.”
She exhales shakily. “I need time.”
“I’ll wait.”
Her lips part. “You already have.”
I leave before I say something I can’t take back. My heart is shaking.
I wait outside until I’m sure I can walk without stumbling.
I think about her voice "You’re not my student the way the others are" and I replay it all the way home, again and again, until it feels like prayer.
She’s more careful after that.
Not colder, not distant — just… contained. Smoother. Like she’s trying to repack herself into a version that can survive this without consequence.
But I’ve already seen what’s underneath.
And that’s the worst part: I can’t unsee it. I can’t un-feel the way she looked at me that day, like the truth was dragging itself out of her ribcage.
I try to be professional. I match her tone in every message, speak less in class, laugh softer when she passes by. But I can feel her eyes on me sometimes, when I’m not supposed to be looking. I feel the gravity of her attention — quiet, steady, unrelenting.
It pulls.
And it aches.
One night, I’m walking out of the library close to midnight and find her parked outside window down, thumb resting against the steering wheel like she’s thinking too hard. Ah, the damn all black 2015 Camaro...
I don’t even flinch. Or let myself drool. I just walk toward her.
“You stalking me now?” I ask, gently, trying to tease.
She doesn’t smile. “You shouldn’t walk home this late. Alone.”
I blink. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t always have to be.”
My breath catches.
She reaches over and pushes the door open from inside.
“I’ll drive you.”
There’s no hesitation. I get in.
The car smells like her. Warm cedar and mint tea and old pages. Something steadying. Something too soft for the way my chest feels right now.
We don’t speak for the first two minutes.
“You always work this late?” I ask eventually.
“I don’t really sleep.”
“That seems unhealthy for someone who teaches ethics.”
That gets a smile. Barely. But it’s real.
She glances at me. “That’s fair.”
“Do you ever take your own advice?”
“Rarely.”
I stare ahead. “You should.”
She doesn’t answer.
She pulls up to my building and leaves the car running.
I don’t move.
“Why did you really come tonight?” I ask, finally. “You could’ve just emailed. Or pretended you didn’t know I was here.”
“I didn’t come to lecture you.”
“So then why?”
“I don’t know.” Her hands tighten on the wheel. “Maybe I just wanted to see you in a space that wasn’t mine.”
My throat closes.
“You say things like that,” I whisper, “and then pretend they don’t mean anything.”
She turns toward me. Her voice is low, precise. “I never said they didn’t mean anything.”
“But you walk away anyway.”
“I have to.”
“No,” I say, “you choose to.”
Silence stretches.
“I don’t want to be your mistake,” I say finally. “I don’t want to be the thing you bury under all your perfect self-control.”
“You’re not a mistake.” Her voice cracks on it. “You never have been.”
I swallow hard. “Then what am I?”
Her hand is still on the gearshift. She doesn’t look at me, but her jaw flexes like the answer costs her something.
“You’re temptation I don’t know how to survive.”
And just like that, I feel like I’m on fire.
I lean toward her before I can stop myself. Close. Closer.
But she holds still.
She doesn’t stop me. But she doesn’t move either.
“Tell me to go,” I whisper.
She exhales — quiet and painful. “Go.”
I step out into the cold night like I’m being punished.
The door closes behind me and she drives away without looking back.
And I hate her a little, just for how good she is at pretending she doesn’t want this as badly as I do.
The next week, she cancels two lectures. Says she’s consulting on a case.
I don’t hear from her. Not even for liaison things.
Dani starts checking on me hourly like I’ve been ghosted by God.
“You’re unraveling,” she says, sitting on my bed while I scroll through articles on my phone. “You need to do something.”
“I did.”
“Then do it again. Force her hand. You’re losing your mind.”
When she returns, she looks more tired than I’ve ever seen her.
Dark rings under her eyes. A clipped way of speaking. Her wrist still bears the red indentation of the caseband she wears when she works active crime scenes.
And when I raise my hand in class, she doesn’t even look up when she calls on me.
The restraint cuts sharper than any touch.
After class, I wait. Again. Even when Dani tries to drag me to lunch. Even when Alex raises her brows in warning like you’re asking to suffer.
Ashley doesn’t tell me to leave.
Instead, when the last student leaves, she closes her laptop, leans her elbows on the desk, and finally looks at me like she’s starving.
“I lied,” she says, barely audible.
I don’t move.
“That night in the car,” she continues. “I told you to go. But I didn’t mean it.”
I swallow. “Then why did you say it?”
“Because if I didn’t, I would’ve pulled you across the seat and kissed you like I didn’t care that it would ruin us both.”
My knees nearly buckle.
She stands slowly and walks around the desk, close — not touching, just enough that I can feel the air shift.
I whisper, “So ruin me.”
And she smiles. Just once. Sad and full of longing.
“I’m trying not to.”
I tilt my head back to meet her eyes. “You think I’m not already ruined for anyone else?”
Her breath catches.
We don’t kiss.
We don’t touch.
We don’t cross the line — not really.
But something breaks in the air between us. Quietly. Irrevocably.
And this time, neither of us tries to fix it.
I start pulling away.
Not on purpose. Not out of strategy. Just because I’m tired.
Tired of deciphering glances. Of standing at the edge of a line neither of us is brave enough to cross. Of waiting for something to happen while nothing ever really does.
I still do my job. I still sit in her class. I still hand out the damn resources and answer late-night emails and show up with tired eyes and polite answers.
But I don’t linger anymore.
I don’t go to her office.
I don’t look too long.
And it kills me.
Dani watches all of this unfold with the quiet worry of someone who’s already planned the playlist for the post-heartbreak drive.
Alex doesn’t say anything until we’re walking to campus one morning and she stops cold and says, “You look like you’re grieving someone who’s still alive.”
And I laugh. Except it sounds wrong.
I don’t text Ashley. I don’t answer when she reaches out — not right away, not like before. I give her silence. I give her space. I give her everything except myself.
Until the day she shows up to one of our liaison meetings late — the only time she’s ever done that — and catches me right after everyone else is gone, before I get to leave. She slides into the empty chair across from me with something in her eyes I haven’t seen before.
Guilt.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
I nod. No emotion.
She watches me for a second, then says, “Are you... okay?”
I blink slowly, then lean back in my chair, arms crossed. “What does it matter?”
That stuns her.
“I—what?”
“You only ask when I stop orbiting you, right?” I keep my voice low, steady. Not cruel — just tired. “You don’t want me too close, but you don’t like me too far either.”
Her jaw tenses. “That’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not fair.”
She says nothing. She doesn’t try to explain.
And that silence?
That’s what shatters me.
I laugh — bitter and brittle. “God, I thought maybe for once someone saw me. Not just my grades or my self-control or my ability to not make things harder for them. But really saw me. I thought maybe it meant something.”
“It does.” The words tear out of her, low and broken.
I stare at her. “Then why do I feel like I’m the only one burning?”
She looks like she’s trying to stay calm, but the control is slipping. Her eyes are glassy, her mouth tight.
“You’re not the only one,” she whispers.
I look away. I can’t hear it. Not if she’s going to walk away again.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she pushes her chair back, stands, and paces around me like something’s finally come loose.
“I wanted to be better,” she says. “I wanted to protect you from this.”
“You don’t get to play protector when you’re the one who lit the match.”
My voice trembles at the end.
She’s close now. Her hand twitches like she might reach for me — but she doesn’t.
I stand up too. Head high. Shoulders straight, even though I feel like I’m breaking.
“You don’t get to tell me it meant something,” I say, “and then treat me like a liability.”
“I never—”
“You did. You are.”
I pause. My eyes sting.
“I was patient,” I whisper. “I waited. I made excuses for you. I let myself believe this was just timing. But it’s not, is it? You were never going to do anything. You were never going to choose me.”
Her breath catches.
“I did choose you,” she says, voice shaking. “Every time I kept my distance. Every time I held back. I thought that was choosing you.”
“No,” I say. “That was choosing fear.”
Silence.
We stand there in it.
My fists clench at my sides. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to grab her by the lapels and shake the sense back into her.
But I don’t.
I turn to leave.
And then I feel her hand — finally — close around my wrist.
“Don't walk away.”
My eyes close. My chest stutters.
“Then stop me.” I whisper.
She pulls me toward her. Not forcefully. Just enough to breathe the same air. Just enough for her voice to break when she says:
“I want you.”
Not as a fantasy. Not as a secret.
Not later. Now.
I open my eyes. She’s close enough that I can count every hair in her lashes, every freckle on her cheek. Her breath is shallow. Her eyes are wide. No walls. No masks.
Real.
We still don’t kiss.
But something in me settles. Something quiets.
The agony isn’t gone. But the waiting is.
Because now we both know.
And no matter what happens next — the game is no longer one-sided.
I find out through a forwarded email.
No warning. No explanation.
Just a sterile, “We regret to inform you…”
I sit there for a second, reading the words over and over like maybe if I blink enough they’ll rearrange into something else. Something fair.
They don’t.
I worked for that position. I earned it. Everyone knows I earned it.
But apparently, someone on the damn review board decided it would be “inappropriate.” That I’m too “closely affiliated with a faculty member involved in the course.”
And even though her name isn’t in the email, I know who they mean.
I close my laptop. I try to breathe.
It doesn’t work.
By the time I make it to her office, I’ve already told myself three different versions of how I’m going to handle it. Calm. Measured. Rational.
Instead, I knock once. Hard. And then walk in before she answers.
She looks up, startled. “Y/N?”
“Did you know?” I ask. I’m not yelling. But I’m shaking. That’s worse.
“Know what?”
I drop my bag onto the floor. “That they pulled my application. The assistantship.”
Her face changes. Too fast for her to hide it.
So she did know.
“They said it would be a conflict of interest,” she says, carefully.
“I know what they said.”
“I wasn’t part of the decision—”
“But you didn’t stop it.”
Her expression falters. “I tried.”
I laugh — sharp and bitter. “Not hard enough.”
She stands. “Y/N—”
“No, don’t. Don’t give me the professional voice. Don’t tell me about procedure or policy or how it was ‘out of your hands.’”
She closes the distance between us. “It was out of my hands.”
I look away, throat burning. “But it wasn’t out of your heart.”
Silence.
And then I say it. The thing that’s been clawing at me since the moment I opened that email:
“You let them think something was happening between us.”
Her eyes flash. “I didn’t let—”
“You could have defended me. You could have told them it was nothing. Or told them it was something. But you said nothing, didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t—”
“Because you were scared,” I spit. “Because if you denied it, it would be a lie. And if you confirmed it, you’d be ruined. So you let me take the hit.”
She looks like I slapped her.
I regret it the moment I say it — but it’s already out.
I turn away. “You let them reduce everything I’ve done this year to a rumor. To a shadow of you.”
Her voice comes quiet behind me. “That’s not what I wanted.”
“But that’s what happened.”
I try to leave.
But she grabs my hand — gently, like I might vanish.
“I would never reduce you,” she says. Her voice is rough. “You’re the one thing this year that’s made me believe in this again.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
So she keeps going.
“I wanted to protect you. I wanted to keep you untouchable. But I see now — that made you feel invisible.”
I close my eyes. My breath shakes.
“I’m tired,” I whisper. “I’m tired of wanting you in the dark.”
She steps around me, places a hand on my face. I let her.
“You don’t have to anymore.”
The kiss happens like a breaking dam.
Not soft. Not polite.
Desperate. Messy. Real.
She tastes like tea and adrenaline. Her hands are in my hair, mine are clutching her waist like I’ll drown without her. Everything is hot, breathless, pulled from months of longing.
She pulls back first. Just enough to look at me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder.”
“You’re here now.”
She nods. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
It doesn’t happen all at once — the being together.
There’s no dramatic announcement. No email to the faculty. No social media post.
Just time.
Time to let the air settle. Time for the noise to die down. Time for people to get bored of whispering, if they ever really were.
It helps that she’s careful. That we’re careful. But also that neither of us feels like hiding anymore.
I still don’t get the assistantship. But I get something else — something better, something no one else in that program has.
I get her.
And she gives me everything.
It’s not in big gestures or sweeping romance. It’s in the things she says when no one else is listening. The way she watches me when I’m talking about something I love. The way she smiles when I make her laugh — really laugh — and looks like she doesn’t remember what life felt like before I did that.
It’s in the quiet nights we spend in her apartment, curled up with tea and case files she lets me help annotate. The subtle shift in the way she reaches for me when she thinks I’ve had a hard day — not to fix it, but to let me rest against something solid.
It’s in the mornings, too. The ones that happen after I sleep over — innocently, nervously, and eventually as if I belong there. She always wakes up earlier. Always moves quietly through the kitchen. But sometimes I catch her watching me sleep from the doorway, holding her mug like she’s trying to memorize something holy.
She never says it first.
But I do.
One evening, while we’re both too tired to think and too content to care, I say it.
“I love you.”
Just like that.
No flourish. No fear.
She looks at me, and something inside her relaxes. Like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.
“I know,” she says. “I’ve known for a while.”
And then: “I love you too.”
She says it like she’s tasting it for the first time. Like it was never allowed before but now that it is, she’ll never stop saying it.
We don’t kiss after that.
We just sit there. Quiet. Her fingers tangled in mine.
There’s no rush anymore. No edge to balance on. No storm to brace for.
Just this. Just us.
At graduation, I see her standing off to the side, just barely apart from the other faculty. Her posture is perfect. Her eyes find mine across the crowd like a magnet.
We don’t touch. We don’t speak.
But I smile.
And she smiles back — small, private, devastating.
It’s the kind of smile that says: this is only the beginning.
Because it is.
I walk across the stage with her name in my heart.
And when it’s over, and the cameras stop flashing, and the crowd thins out, I find her again.
This time, I don’t have to pretend.
I wrap my arms around her. Bury my face in her shoulder.
She holds me like she’s been waiting forever to do it in daylight.
Summary: A stranger caught in a cursed town, a Queen chained by denial. Desire simmers beneath silence, until love detonates like magic. One kiss, one spark, and everything changes.
There are moments when silence weighs more than any words could. In Regina’s office, I’ve learned to live inside that silence - sharp, electrified, thick with all the things we refuse to say.
I sit at my desk just outside her door, the same spot I’ve claimed for the last four years since… well, since I woke up in Storybrooke. Literally woke up. No fanfare, no portal, no curse mark, nothing. Just me, in a bed at Granny’s, with no memory of how I got there and no fairy tale name to explain it away.
I don’t belong here. Everyone knows it. But no one knows what it means, least of all me.
“You’re early,” comes a voice, low and unmistakable, slicing through the air like velvet steel. I don’t have to look up to know it’s her. Regina Mills, Mayor of Storybrooke. Terrifying. Brilliant. Unreasonably gorgeous. And the one person who could unravel me with a glance.
“Of course,” I say, keeping my tone light, flipping through the paperwork she asked for yesterday. “How else would the town run if not for its underpaid, overqualified assistant?”
Her heels click as she walks past me into her office, and I catch the faintest scent of her perfume - something dark, like roses soaked in fire. She pauses in the doorway, looking at me over her shoulder. “You forgot underappreciated.”
“I assumed that part was implied.”
And just like that, she smirks and disappears into her office, leaving the door cracked open. Which is code, after all these years, for: You can come in.
I do, balancing her coffee in one hand and the file folder in the other. She’s already behind her desk, glasses perched on her nose, scanning something with a crease in her brow. That crease, I’ve noticed, only disappears when I make her laugh. Which is rare. Like catching lightning in a jar.
She glances up as I set the coffee down. “You didn’t forget the nutmeg this time.”
“I never forget the nutmeg.” I hesitate. “You just forget to taste it when you’re thinking about ten other disasters at once.”
Her lips twitch, the closest she ever gets to soft. “We don’t have time for disasters today. I need to speak with Emma and the others about Zelena.”
There it is. The cloud. Ever since Zelena returned - Regina’s psychotic half-sister with a god complex and a flair for theatrical destruction - everything’s been a countdown. We just don’t know to what. “Has she done something?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. I fail. Regina looks at me. Not through me, at me. And that alone is dangerous. “She will. I can feel it.” And I believe her.
The day unravels like thread from a too-tight seam. Meetings, more threats, something about potions and barriers and magical surveillance, but I stop following around noon when I nearly spill her coffee while staring at her mouth mid-sentence.
It’s infuriating. This pull. This magnetic, reckless, all-consuming thing between us. No one talks about it. I doubt she even knows it’s real. And I… I can’t afford to let it slip out. Because if I tell her how I feel, if I even let the edge of it show, I risk everything.
Not just my job. Not just her walls going up higher than before. No. I risk losing the only person in this damn cursed town who makes me feel like I belong.
It happens later that night.
I’m walking home from Granny’s when the sky goes wrong. That’s the only way I can explain it — wrong. The streetlamps flicker. The air tastes like ozone. And then I see her.
Zelena.
She’s waiting under the clock tower, that grotesque grin carved across her face. I spin to run, already reaching for my phone, but she’s faster. Her magic coils around me like chains.
“Now, now,” she says, her voice honeyed poison. “We can’t have you spoiling my little finale.” Pain blooms across my vision, and the last thing I see before everything goes black is the town square fading behind me.
I wake up tied to a chair in the clock tower. Which would be enough of a horror show - if not for the thing attached to me. A twisted, magical device strapped around my chest, pulsing faintly. It hums against my skin, a heartbeat just out of sync with mine. There’s a screen above me.
Heart Rate: 74 BPM
Below it: TRIGGER AT 120 BPM
What the actual hell? “Clever, isn’t it?” Zelena’s voice rings out from somewhere above. “It’ll go boom if your heart gets too excited. Too scared. Too… in love.” My blood runs cold.
She knows. Somehow, that wicked green witch knows. “Oh don’t worry,” she adds, practically purring. “I’ve made sure your little girlfriend won’t find you too soon. This? This is going to be the masterpiece.” And then she’s gone. The room is silent, save for the ticking of the clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Heart Rate: 76 BPM
I close my eyes. I try to breathe. I think of anything but Regina. But I know her. She’ll come for me. The question is, can I survive it?
Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out.
I repeat it like a mantra, like it could stitch the fraying edges of my sanity back together.
Do not think of Regina. Or the way her voice softens, almost imperceptibly, when she says my name. Or how her hand once lingered on my back a second too long after a town meeting. Or about the time she looked at me like I was the only person who’d ever surprised her.
Heart Rate: 81 BPM
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, twisting my wrists against the ropes. The bindings are tight, enchanted maybe. My phone? Gone. Magic? I have none.
Zelena’s trap is sadistic and genius - she didn’t just tie me up; she weaponized my own goddamn feelings.
If I panic, I die. If I hope, I die.
If she walks through that door and I so much as look at her the way I want to? Boom.
I let my head fall back against the chair with a dull thud and close my eyes. The tower ticks around me - time marching mercilessly on, like it knows something I don’t.
Somewhere in town, I know Regina’s pacing. She always paces when she’s trying not to feel. She’ll pretend she’s calm, that this is just another crisis. That she’s handled worse, and she has. But I’m not just another person. And whether she realizes it or not, I know Zelena picked me for a reason. Because Regina cares. Even if she can’t admit it. Even if it terrifies her more than any curse.
And maybe… maybe I care too much.
Flashback. Two months ago.
It’s late past midnight. Regina’s still in her office, and I should’ve gone home hours ago. “Why are you still here?” she asks without looking up from her papers.
I sit on the edge of the desk. “Because if I leave, you’ll drink an entire bottle of wine and convince yourself you don’t need anyone.”
Her hand stills. She looks up slowly, her expression unreadable. “That’s a bold assumption.” I shrug. “So deny it.” She doesn’t.
Instead, she closes the folder, stands, and walks around the desk until she’s standing inches from me. I swear the air between us crackles.
“Maybe I like pretending,” she says, quiet. And I want to say I know. I want to say me too. But I don’t. Instead I say, “I’ll be here when you’re ready to stop pretending.”
Then I walk away before I can see her reaction.
Heart Rate: 89 BPM
“Okay,” I whisper now, tethered to death, “so that was maybe not the most helpful memory…” The ropes are chafing. My mouth is dry. Time is bleeding away. Where is she?
Regina
The library has been overturned. The clock tower is silent. And Regina is losing it. Emma finds her just as she slams her palm against a wall, magical energy crackling up her arm. That, never happens. She doesn't know anyone who controls her magic better than The Queen.
“We’ll find her,” Emma says. But Regina isn’t listening. Her fingers twitch, a tell she never shows unless she’s unraveling inside. “Zelena took her. I know it,” Regina growls. “She wouldn’t - she wouldn’t just disappear like this. She’s smart. She would’ve left a trail.”
Emma frowns. “You said she’s human. No magic. Maybe she-"
“She’s not just human,” Regina snaps. Then catches herself. Lowers her voice. “She’s mine.”
There it is.
Emma blinks. “What did you just say?” And Regina’s jaw clenches. “Nothing.” But it’s already said.
Back in the tower, I hear something. A pulse of energy. A shimmer in the air. And then, her voice. “Y/N!” It’s hoarse. Desperate. Her. I freeze. My heart pounds once, hard, and I look at the screen.
Heart Rate: 98 BPM
Oh no. No, no, no.
“Regina,” I croak, voice cracking as I strain to be heard. “Don’t come closer!”
Her footsteps skid to a halt on the metal stairway. A beat of silence, then she appears, rounding the curve like a force of nature, eyes wild, hair windblown and tangled, lips parted like she’s been running through fire.
The moment her gaze lands on me, on the twisted mess of arcane wires and cursed metal strapped tight across my chest, she goes still. Pale. Her face folds into something raw and terrifying.
“What-?” Her voice breaks on impact. I breathe, trying not to panic. “It’s rigged.”
Her eyes lock on mine, and it hits me: she’s terrified. Not of the bomb. Not of Zelena. Of losing me.
It’s all there - behind the fury, the disbelief, the sheer rage. Underneath it all: fear.
“I’m going to fix this,” she says. Not a promise. A command. Like she can bend the world into submission with just her will.
“I know.” My voice is soft. Broken. “But you have to stay back.” Her brow furrows, lips twitching like she’s about to argue. “Why?” she demands, but doesn't exactly stop, still taking extremely slow steps forward. I swallow hard. “Because you make my heart race.”
Heart Rate: 104 BPM
Her body jerks like I slapped her.
“Regina, please,” I whisper. “Stop.”
And she does. Mid-stride, halfway across the tower. Breathing hard, chest heaving like she’s drowning in everything she’s feeling and not allowed to express. I can’t stop looking at her. Even now. Even like this.
She stares at the bomb again, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. Rage boils off her in waves - directed at Zelena, at fate, at herself. And me… I just burn. For her.
And she moves again, slowly. She’s not even touching me. She doesn’t have to. Her presence is like fire licking at my skin.
“What in hell did she do to you?” she growls, voice stripped of its usual icy control. “She made it so I can’t feel,” I whisper. “Or I die.”
Regina freezes.
“I mean it. If my heart rate hits 120…” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to.
And that’s when it happens - her expression breaks. Not all the way. Just a fissure. A single, awful crack in her armor before it slams back into place. But I see it. And it wrecks me.
“Then you’re going to have to stay calm,” she murmurs, stepping lightly, circling, voice low and dark. “Even while I take this thing apart. Even while I stand here… wanting to tear the world apart for daring to touch you.”
Heart Rate: 107 BPM
I flinch. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want them too much.”
Regina’s gaze darkens. She takes a single, calculated step around the side of me, eyes fixed on the device. Her breath grazes my cheek. She’s so close, I can feel the heat of her body. Not touching, but god, it’s worse than if she were.
“You think I don’t feel anything?” she says, voice nearly a growl. “You think I haven’t dreamed of what you taste like?”
Heart Rate: 112 BPM
“Regina, please—”
“You make me reckless,” she whispers. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”
“You’re doing it right now.”
She circles around me, fingertips ghosting over the air near my shoulders, not touching, never touching, but it’s like her hands are on my skin anyway. My pulse pounds in my ears.
She leans closer, lips near the shell of my ear. “Do you remember that night? When you stayed late in the office… and I stood behind you for five minutes before I even spoke, just watching you breathe?”
Heart Rate: 115 BPM
My breath catches. “I almost touched you,” she says, voice dark silk. “Almost leaned down and kissed the side of your neck. You’d just brushed your hair to the side. You were wearing that stupid black blouse that drove me insane.”
“I know the one,” I whisper.
“I think about it every time you walk past me. Every time you roll your eyes at me in meetings. Every time you smile at Henry.”
“Stop,” I plead, dizzy. But I don’t really mean it. And she knows. “I don’t want to stop,” she growls. “I want to take you home, lock the door, and make you forget every damn person who ever touched you before me.”
Heart Rate: 119 BPM
I gasp. She sees the number. The world slows.
And then she kisses me.
It’s not sweet. It’s consuming. Her lips crash into mine with years of held-back longing - raw, wild, hungry. Her hands tangle in my hair. She kisses like she’s been starving for it, like she doesn’t care if the world burns as long as I burn with her.
For a terrifying moment, the device lets out a shrill beep, but Regina lifts a hand mid-kiss and pours magic into it like she’s cracking open the sun.
The runes flash. The device detonates, but not how I expected it. With light. It shatters into glittering dust around us, and her body surges against mine to catch me as I sag forward, heart pounding against her chest.
“I rerouted the spell,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to mine, still breathless. “Your heartbeat was feeding it. So I fed it mine.”
“You kissed me to save me.”
"No," she breathes "I kissed you because I couldn't wait another second."
The second we’re back at her house, the door clicks shut and something snaps between us. She doesn’t speak. She just walks straight toward me, grabs my coat, and peels it off with trembling hands.
I let her. Watch her. Her breath is heavy, her body taut like a bowstring pulled to its limit. “I need to touch you,” she says, barely more than a whisper.
“Then touch me.”
Her hands frame my face. She tilts my head back and kisses me like she’s trying to memorize me - slow, deep, possessive. I groan into her mouth as her tongue teases mine, her hands sliding into my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp.
She walks me backwards into the living room, and when we stumble onto the couch, I land half-straddled over her lap. She clutches my waist, holds me there like I’m the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
“You have to stop looking at me like that,” she growls.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not the villain. Like I’m someone worth falling for.” I brush her hair behind her ear. “You are.”
Regina leans up to kiss me again, slower now, not as desperate, but deeper. More searching. As if she’s scared it will never be enough. As if she doesn’t believe I’m real.
Her mouth moves to my jaw, then my throat. She sucks gently just below my ear and I whimper.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I murmur, clinging to her shoulders.
“Why?”
“Because if you keep kissing me like that, I’m not going to want to leave this couch.” She smirks against my skin. “Who said you were leaving?”
Hours later, we’re tangled together under a throw blanket. We never made it to the bedroom, didn’t need to. We’re fully clothed again. But her hand rests low on my stomach now, skin beneath the hem of my shirt. Just touching. Just there.
She kisses my shoulder. “I’m sorry I waited so long.” I sigh. “I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Because if this is what we were waiting for…” I turn to look at her. “It was worth it.”
She kisses me again, slow, intense, promise-laden. And for once in her long, complicated, painful life… Regina Mills lets herself believe in forever.
Charlotte Flair x fem reader | slow-burn | angst | happy ending
AN: bear with me... this ended up being a pretty long one. also, no I don't only write for Charlotte, you can ask me if you want anyone specific. I don't think i'll write for men, but I will for a lot of women.
Summary: A backstage symphony of stolen glances, bruised egos, and silent longing - where fire meets restraint, and confusion dances with desire.
I've been here for quite a few years, and I don't just mean WWE, at this point I think I also mean life, but nothing - nothing - has ever baffled me like Charlotte Flair.
Not the grueling travel schedule. Not the politics backstage. Not even the time I got concussed during a ladder match and tried to shake Triple H’s hand with a banana. No. None of that compares to the walking contradiction that is The Damn Queen.
Because for some godforsaken reason, she hates me. At least, that’s how it feels.
She barely looks at me outside the ring. When she does, it’s with this sharp, unreadable expression that makes me want to melt into the nearest wall. It’s not even indifference, because I could work with indifference. No, this is something else. Contempt. Irritation. Loathing.
And I have fucking no idea why.
I’ve never disrespected her. Hell, I barely talk to her unless I have to. She’s intimidating. Legendary. Cold. She’s Charlotte Flair — Ric Flair’s daughter, a multiple-time champ, wrestling royalty. And I’m just… me. A mid-carder with decent mic skills, a respectable win-loss record, and a heart that beats way too fast every time I hear her entrance music.
And no, I don’t want to unpack that.
It starts again tonight. We’ve got a tag match. Random pairing. Me and Charlotte vs. Damage CTRL. Why? Who knows. Maybe the writers are bored. Maybe God just likes watching me suffer.
Charlotte walks past me at the gorilla without a word. She doesn’t even nod. Not that I expected her to, but the air gets twenty degrees colder when she brushes by me. Her arm grazes mine and I flinch, like she burned me.
Maybe she did.
In the ring, we win - because of course we do. She’s Charlotte Flair. She puts Bayley in the Figure Eight and I keep Iyo Sky from interrupting. That’s all. Quick, clean, professional. But backstage? Nothing.
She walks off. Doesn’t wait for me. Doesn’t say good job. Just… leaves. “Okay, what the hell is her problem?” I mutter to myself.
“You mean Charlotte?” a voice pipes up beside me.
I jump. It’s Rhea, of course, looking like the devil’s favorite powerlifter. She’s got that smug, knowing glint in her eye that says she’s been watching.
“Do you have cameras in my brain?” I groan. “Nah, I just have eyes,” she says. “And for the record, you suck at hiding how much she messes with your head.”
“I do not-”
“She looks at you and you turn into Bambi on ice.”
Later that week, things only get worse. I’m in catering with Liv and Rhea, eating, when Charlotte walks in.
She doesn’t even glance at me, but I freeze anyway. My fork stays mid-air like I’ve been caught cheating on a test. Rhea follows my gaze and smirks, then leans over and whispers, “She’s in your head rent-free.” Liv giggles. “Just ask her what her deal is.”
“She’ll eat me alive.”
“Maybe she wants to,” Rhea says under her breath. I choke on a piece of broccoli. “Okay, stop,” I manage, coughing. “This isn’t a crush. It’s trauma.”
Liv raises that stupid perfectly shaped eyebrow. “So trauma makes you stare at her ass like that?” Rhea howls with laughter. I bury my face in my hands and mutter something about moving to Canada.
But here’s the thing. It’s not just awkward avoidance and stares anymore. It’s small things. Weird things.
Like the time I tripped backstage during a segment change and she caught me by the elbow - quick, instinctive - and then dropped my arm like it offended her. Or when I heard her arguing with creative over a promo and she mentioned me - asking why they weren’t booking us again after we “had chemistry.”
Chemistry? With me?
I try to forget it. Try to pretend I didn’t hear. But my brain replays it like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
Then comes the moment that breaks me.
We’re at a club in Atlanta, post-show. I’m with Rhea, Liv, and a few of the guys. Loud music, neon lights, way too much tequila.
I’m dancing, just trying to forget the mess of my week, when I feel it - a hand at the small of my back. Warm. Confident. Familiar.
I turn.
Charlotte.
She’s standing far too close. Wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, no trace of her usual icy persona. Just heat. Tension. “You should be careful,” she says into my ear, voice low, words brushing my neck. My heart slams in my chest.
“Why?” I ask, barely audible.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth. “Because you keep making me forget we’re not supposed to feel things here.” Then she walks away. Just… leaves. Again.
And I’m left there, stunned, adrenaline buzzing, mouth slightly open like a fool on the dance floor.
Rhea catches me the next day. “You look like a zombie,” she says bluntly. “She said something to me last night.”
“Ooh, what’d she say?” So I repeat it. Liv, who’s sitting nearby tying her boots, whistles. “Damn. That’s not hate, babe. That’s a meltdown waiting to happen.”
“She walked away again,” I mutter. “What does she want from me?”
“To drive you insane, apparently,” Rhea says. “Honestly, she probably doesn’t even know. Queen of emotional constipation, that one.”
Weeks pass. Matches, promos, backstage near-misses. Every time I think it’ll fade, it gets worse.
We keep being put in segments together. I catch her staring once during a backstage interview - just out of frame. Intense. Unblinking. Like she’s trying to memorize the shape of me. And then she looks away, hard and fast, like she hates herself for it.
I'll end up in an asylum at this pace.
I try to keep my head down after that night at the club.
After the way Charlotte pressed into me like gravity itself, said something that made my knees weak - and then walked away like she hadn’t just turned my entire nervous system into static.
I can’t keep doing this. I’m not built for this game of emotional whiplash. But it seems fate doesn’t give a damn what I’m built for, because two nights later I’m sitting backstage, stretching out my shoulder when someone tosses a towel at me. It lands on my head.
I look up, frowning. Charlotte. No words. Just a raised eyebrow, then she walks off. I stare at the towel like it’s a crime scene. “Okay, what the actual hell,” I mutter.
“Again?” Rhea says from behind me. She’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “She threw a towel at me.”
“She threw it like she wanted to tuck you in and then run away screaming,” Liv chimes in, passing with a protein shake.
I rub my temples. “I feel like I’m in a lesbian fever dream written by someone who’s never seen human emotions before.”
Next time it’s worse. We’re doing media together. Group interview. I try to sit on the opposite side of the room, but Charlotte grabs the chair next to me.
Her thigh brushes mine. She doesn’t move. Not even when the mic’s off. She answers questions like she’s not pressed against me from hip to knee, like she’s not occasionally glancing at me with an expression I can’t read — not longing, not anger, not fondness -just fire.
And I can’t move either. I don’t want to draw attention to it. But my heart’s trying to break out of my chest. Afterward, she stands up and murmurs, “Good job,” like she doesn’t sound pissed about it.
She keeps doing things like that.
Passing me in the hallway and brushing her hand along my back for just a second too long.
Watching one of my matches on a monitor with her arms crossed, mouth tight, like she’s mad at me for doing well.
Throwing an ice pack at me after a stiff bump in the ring - not offering, not asking, throwing - and walking off before I can thank her.
My thoughts feel like barbed wire, tangled up and cutting deeper the more I try to make sense of them.
It comes to a head one night after a dark match.
We’re both booked. I’m tagging with Bayley, she’s tagging with Bianca. No interaction in the ring, but I feel her eyes from across the canvas. I feel them after, too - when I’m limping backstage, sweaty, sore, bruised.
She walks past me in the hallway and grabs my wrist. Just for a second. Just long enough to stop me.
“What?” I snap. I’m exhausted, aching, and I can’t take this anymore. Her jaw flexes. “You were too slow getting out of that reversal.”
I blink. “Are you coaching me now?” She lets go like I bit her. “Forget it.” She turns and leaves.
I just stand there, chest heaving, fury and hurt and want all coiled up in a knot behind my ribs.
It’s Rhea who finally says it. “Stop letting her treat you like a punching bag with cheekbones.”
“She’s not—”
“She is,” Liv says, plopping down beside me. “A hot one. But emotionally constipated as hell.”
“I don’t know what she wants.”
“She wants to set you on fire and then scream at the flames,” Rhea mutters.
“She wants to kiss you stupid,” Liv corrects. “And then run away and blame you for it.”
I look down at my phone. Charlotte’s name stares back at me from a recent call sheet. “She’s driving me insane,” I whisper.
“Good,” Rhea says. “Time to return the favor.”
So I do.
I start showing up in her space. Not obvious - just enough to get under her skin. I laugh louder when I know she’s nearby. Wear something tighter in catering. Brush past her in narrow hallways with a polite little “excuse me” like I don’t notice the way her eyes flare every time.
She doesn’t say anything. But she seethes.
And then one night, I push too far.
I post a photo on Instagram - just a mirror selfie, a tight crop, short caption - but the comments go wild. Fans ship me with Liv. Or with Rhea. Or both. Charlotte doesn’t follow me, but I know she saw it.
Because that night, after a live show, I walk into the locker room and she’s there.
Waiting.
Alone.
She slams the door behind me. “You think this is funny?” she says. I blink. “What?”
She steps forward. “Playing games. Acting cute. Letting everyone think you’re just available to whoever looks at you long enough.”
My heart stops. “Are you jealous?”
“You don’t get to ask that.”
“The hell I don’t-” Charlotte grabs my jaw. Not hard. Just enough to shut me up. Her fingers are trembling.
“I have tried,” she says, voice rough. “I have tried to ignore this. To shut it down. To forget you. And you just keep-” her voice breaks a little, “-being there. Looking like that. Laughing like I’m not falling apart every time I hear it.”
I swallow hard. “You could’ve just told me,” I whisper.
“No, I couldn’t,” she snaps. “Because I don’t do this. I’m not built for soft. I don’t know how to want someone and not destroy them in the process.”
“You haven’t destroyed me.”
“You’re crying in locker rooms because of me.”
“I’m crying because I’m confused!”
“You think I’m not?!” She lets go of my jaw and paces like a caged thing.
“You scare me,” she mutters. “You’re… bright. Good. And I’m so fucking tired of being the cold one who ruins everything she touches.”
I take a step forward. “Then stop running.”
She stares at me.
“I don’t need you to be soft,” I say. “I just need you to try.”
Her chest rises and falls fast. Her fists clench.
And then she’s kissing me. It’s not gentle. It’s brutal.
Teeth, heat, pressure. Her hands are in my hair, on my waist, pulling me close like she’s furious about how much she wants me. My back hits the lockers. She presses into me like she’s trying to erase the distance we’ve kept for months.
And I kiss her back like I’ve been waiting to. Because I have. When we break apart, breathless and wrecked, she presses her forehead to mine.
“I’m still a mess,” she whispers.
“So am I.”
She doesn’t smile. Just nods. And for once, she doesn’t walk away.
AN: hiii loves! no idea if you remember me or the one fanfic I posted a long time ago, but I decided to come back and actually continue writing. I've had ideas since then, a lot of them, but I just couldn't come here and write... personal reasons. however now that I am here, I hope you enjoy!
Summary: She was never meant to win her heart - just the match.
Three years.
Three years of locker room banter, backstage interviews, late flights, early call times, and a complicated friendship built on the shaky foundation of polite smiles and veiled snark. That’s what Charlotte and I have shared.
And underneath it all — buried like a secret too dangerous to speak — my feelings. My stupid, persistent, heart-gnawing crush on the Queen herself.
Of course, no one knows. They see us together — her polished and powerful, me a little rougher around the edges, still clawing my way up the ladder — and they think we’re just colleagues. Sometimes friendly, sometimes not. Never in between.
And now we’re feuding.
Creative pitched it last week: a slow build, with me as the upstart challenger and Charlotte playing the gatekeeping veteran. Heat, tension, promos that sting a little too much because they’re rooted in something real.
Tonight’s the big match. Pay-per-view. I’m supposed to win.
But not clean. That’s the part I hate — the part that gnaws at me like guilt in my gut. They want me to pull the ropes, cheat the count, do something underhanded to get over on the Queen. I agreed, even nodded my head when the producers laid it out, but now that I’m standing behind the curtain, lacing my boots, my hands are shaking.
And it’s not the nerves.
It’s her.
I glance down the hallway and see her talking to a road agent. She’s all gold and command — even in a hoodie and no makeup, Charlotte walks like she’s already in the ring, like the world belongs to her and she’s just choosing who gets to borrow a piece of it.
And for a second, just a second, she looks over her shoulder. Her eyes find mine.
There’s something there. A flicker of recognition. Challenge. Something else I can’t name.
She doesn’t smile. She just nods once.
I swallow hard.
Yeah. This match is gonna destroy me.
The crowd roars when she enters. They always do. Her robe flares around her like fire, and I feel that old familiar chill down my spine — the one I always get watching her do what she does best.
She’s flawless. Dangerous. Magnificent.
And she’s glaring at me like she’s ready to tear me limb from limb.
Good.
I glare back. The bell rings.
We circle, we lock up, and I feel it — the weight of her, the intensity. It’s always there in her matches, but tonight it feels personal. She’s pushing harder, faster. I don’t know if it’s part of the act or something real bleeding through, but I match it. Move for move. Hit for hit.
She pins me early. I kick out.
I roll her up. She powers out.
We clash in the middle, forearms and insults and heat that sets my skin on fire.
Somewhere in the third act of the match, I’m supposed to cheat. Distract the ref. Pull the tights. Something dirty enough to get me booed, but not enough to derail the push.
I have the chance. She’s down, just for a second, selling the hit.
All I have to do is hook the tights. Make the cover. One-two-three.
But she looks at me — sweat on her brow, chest heaving — and something in her eyes stops me cold.
I freeze.
And she flips me. Quick as lightning.
One.
Two.
Three.
The bell rings.
The crowd erupts — half in shock, half in joy.
Charlotte sits up, blinking in surprise. She wasn’t supposed to win.
And I wasn’t supposed to lose.
Backstage is a storm.
Producers are scrambling, agents are panicking, someone’s yelling about rewriting the arc. I mumble apologies, say I got caught up in the moment, pretend it was a botch.
Charlotte’s silent.
She watches me from across the hallway, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
Later, when the chaos fades and most of the crew disperses, she corners me near catering.
“You weren’t supposed to lose,” she says flatly.
“Yeah. I know.”
“You had me.”
I shrug. “Guess I dropped the ball.”
“You didn’t.”
Her voice is quieter now. Accusing.
“You looked at me,” I say. “I got distracted.”
Charlotte blinks. “Seriously?”
I shrug again, trying to laugh it off, but my throat’s dry. “Guess I finally cracked under pressure.”
She steps closer, voice low. “Or maybe you didn’t want to beat me that way.”
I say nothing.
“You’ve had three years to take your shot, Y/N. Why hesitate now?”
That stings — not because she’s wrong, but because she’s so close to the truth it’s dangerous.
“I didn’t want to win dirty,” I say. “Not against you.”
Her jaw tightens. “You think I’d care about that?”
“I would,” I shoot back. “I care.”
Silence.
Then, softly — so soft I almost miss it:
“I saw it in your face. Right before I pinned you.”
She’s too close now. Close enough I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.
“What’d you see?”
She hesitates, and for once, she looks unsure.
“Something real,” she says. “For once.”
And then she leans in, voice like a challenge.
“Tell me the truth.”
I laugh. It’s bitter and tired and a little desperate. “What do you want me to say, Charlotte? That I’ve had a crush on you since the first time we tagged together? That every time we touched in the ring I felt like my whole body was short-circuiting? That I’ve spent three years pretending not to care because it was easier than getting crushed by you?”
There’s silence again — thick and electric.
And then she moves.
Her hand cups my jaw. Her thumb brushes just under my lip. And her mouth — God — her mouth is soft and hot and finally, finally on mine.
The kiss is nothing like I expected.
It’s not dominant or overpowering. It’s not about victory or control.
It’s tender. Hungry. Like we’ve both been holding our breath for years and are finally allowed to exhale.
When we break apart, her forehead rests against mine.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for months,” she murmurs.
“You had a funny way of showing it.”
She smirks. “Didn’t want to make it easy for you.”
“You never do.”
She kisses me again, slower this time. Deeper. Like we’re making up for every second we wasted.
And for the first time in three years, I don’t feel like I’m chasing something I can’t have.
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