I just wanna come on here and say thank you for all the love and encouragement I have gotten over these past few years and with that I feel like I need to say this. I am no longer gonna be active on this account anymore I want to start over again with a fresh start and with a bigger community that will help me grow and be more creative in life. I will be deleting all my works and reposting them on my new account once I figure out when I want to do that. I want to thank you guys so much for supporting and following me and if you want to follow my new account here it is @loonatears. I will be deleting this account in a few days but I felt like I had to explain why before I just disappear.
Also all my incomplete work and anons will be done on my new account so don’t think I forgot
Since that kiss in the pantry, everything between you and Abby had shifted in a way you couldn’t quite explain. It was subtle at first, a few extra glances, a lingering touch here and there, but it was enough to send your heart racing every time you saw her. You told yourself it was just a moment, a one-time thing—something driven by heat, by everything you’d been suppressing. But with each passing day, it became harder to deny that it was more than that.
Abby never pushed, never rushed you. She gave you the space you needed, always respecting your boundaries, even as your connection deepened. She’d always been thoughtful like that—tuned into you in a way that felt... different from what you were used to. You were used to being invisible to your husband, your needs always secondary, but Abby—Abby saw you. She didn’t just see the woman on the surface; she saw everything. And for the first time in so long, it felt like you mattered.
During the days when your husband was at work, Abby would show up at your door with Ezekiel in tow. At first, you hesitated, unsure if letting them in so often was a good idea, but the way she looked at you, with her quiet, steady understanding, made it hard to say no. And in truth, you were grateful. She would step in without you needing to ask, a quiet comfort in the chaos that was your life. While you scrambled to manage everything—dishes, laundry, endless piles of work—Abby would step in with that quiet strength of hers, taking care of the kids, ensuring they were fed and entertained, so you could catch your breath.
Abby’s presence became a small, bright light in your overwhelming days. You found solace in the way she would help you with Madison, Kimberly, Jayden and Nico, her steady hands helping with everything from changing diapers to feeding bottles to brushing little heads of hair. Ezekiel, with his quiet intelligence, would play quietly with the younger ones, offering Madison a hand when she needed it or sharing toys with Kimberly, always with that kind smile of his. They didn’t just become a presence in your home—they became a part of your rhythm, something you never thought you could have, especially with everything that had happened in your own family.
Abby didn’t just help with the kids, though. She took care of you, too, in a way you hadn’t realized you were craving. She would linger by your side when you felt the weight of everything on your shoulders, offering gentle reassurance, or simply holding your hand when you needed the comfort of another person. When you were exhausted from doing everything alone, she would make you tea, or simply sit beside you in the quiet, not asking for anything, just giving you the peace you hadn’t known you needed.
There were moments—small, fleeting moments—when you would catch yourself staring at Abby, heart full of gratitude and longing, wishing that everything could just fall into place. Wishing you could be the person she deserved without the constraints of your current life holding you back.
But every time you caught yourself, you’d pull away, guilt gnawing at the back of your mind. You were married. You had kids. You had responsibilities, and you couldn’t let your mind wander too far from the reality of it all. Abby never made you feel that pressure, though. She never forced you to make a decision, never demanded anything in return for her kindness. But you felt it—the quiet tension between the lines, the electricity building each time she came to your door, the way your heart would race when she smiled at you, when her fingers brushed against yours.
She wasn’t your escape, you reminded yourself. She was your ally, your friend, a support system in the chaos. But sometimes, when your kids were in bed and the house was quiet, you’d find yourself longing for more. Longing for the care and tenderness Abby offered without question, without hesitation. It made you wonder what it would be like to let go of all the walls you had built, to let yourself feel the freedom you hadn’t known since before you were married.
As the days turned into weeks, the boundary between what was right and what was beginning to feel so right blurred. You were falling for Abby, slowly but surely, in a way that felt both terrifying and liberating all at once. The way she made you feel cared for, seen, loved—without expecting anything in return—was something you hadn’t realized you’d been starved for, something that began to gnaw at your heart when you weren’t with her.
She was at your door every morning now, without fail. You had stopped asking for her help and had started welcoming it. It wasn’t just the kids she helped with, though that in itself was a godsend, but it was the way she made everything feel less lonely. The way her presence filled a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty.
She steps inside, the door clicking shut behind her with a quiet finality. You had stopped locking it once your husband left for the day—an unspoken invitation for Abby to slip in seamlessly, filling the gaps where you were left to carry everything alone. She never questioned it, never made you feel like a burden for needing the help. She just showed up.
Trailing in behind her, Ezekiel clutches his dinosaur toy in one small hand, his other rubbing his tired eyes. The moment he spots Madison and the others, his posture shifts, his little feet already poised to run off and join them. But before he can, Abby places a gentle hand on his shoulder, her voice steady yet soft. “Say hello to Y/N first before you go play, Ezekiel.”
The boy halts mid-step, turning to face you with a sleepy grin. “Hi, Mrs. Y/N!” he says, his little wave filled with a warmth that tugs at something deep in your chest.
You manage a soft smile, waving back. “Hey, sweetheart.”
And just like that, he’s off, disappearing into the small chaos of childhood laughter filling the house. Abby watches him go for a moment before turning her attention back to you. Her expression shifts, that familiar warmth still present, but there’s something deeper beneath it, something searching. She leans back against the kitchen counter, arms crossing loosely over her chest as her gaze settles on you.
She smiles at you warm, effortless, like it costs her nothing at all. And you wish, God, you wish you could return it with the same ease. But the exhaustion, the weight of everything you carry, clings to you too tightly, wrapping around your ribs like a vice. The effort of trying to push it all aside, even for a second, feels impossible. So instead, you do what you always do—you move.
You step past her, reaching for the nearest task, something to keep your hands busy, something to focus on besides the way your chest feels too tight, besides the way she sees you.
But Abby doesn’t let you.
Her fingers curl gently around your wrist, her grip firm but careful, a tether pulling you back before you can disappear into routine again. You freeze, caught off guard, blinking up at her as she tilts her head slightly. Her brows knit together, concern etched into the softness of her expression.
"Y/N." Her voice is quiet, steady. "Smile."
The request is simple. Too simple. And yet, it knocks something loose in your chest.
You swallow, searching for some kind of defense, something that will make her let you go. "I smile," you argue weakly, but even you don’t believe it. Abby does. She always does. And she sees right through you. A quiet chuckle escapes her, something small and knowing. She shakes her head before stepping in closer, her presence grounding. "Not enough." The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should be. You open your mouth to protest, to tell her that you’re fine, that she doesn’t need to worry—but the words never come. Because before your mind can convince you to pull away, before you can second-guess it, you just… let go.
For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself a moment of relief. Just one.
You lean into her, resting your head against her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath you. It’s brief because it has to be, because the guilt is already creeping in but it’s enough. Enough to remind you that you are here. That you are not alone. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you finally speak. "Thank you for helping." You hesitate, gripping onto the fabric of her shirt for just a second before exhaling shakily. "I’ve never had this kind of help before."
Abby exhales softly, and without hesitation, her arms come around you, solid and sure, holding you like it’s second nature. She doesn’t tell you that you don’t need to thank her. She doesn’t try to convince you that you deserve more than this. She just holds you.
Pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head, she rubs slow, soothing circles into your back, her voice a quiet murmur against your hair.
"No need to thank me." A pause. A promise. "I got you."
You pull away from her warmth, but not before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. It’s quick, almost shy, but the way she doesn’t immediately pull back makes your heart skip. The feeling lingers on your lips as you turn back to the sink, letting the familiar sound of water running and dishes clinking settle your nerves. But Abby doesn’t leave. She stays there, still leaning against the counter, her eyes fixed on you.
"How about a little picnic?" she asks, her voice quiet and gentle, but there's a warmth in it that makes you stop what you're doing for a moment.
You don't answer right away, continuing to scrub a plate with more force than necessary. The weight of her gaze stays on you, waiting.
"Just me, you, and the kids," she continues, her voice a little closer now, nudging herself into your space. "A day outside, some fresh air. No chores, no responsibilities."
You let out a sigh, turning the faucet off and gripping the edge of the sink, trying to find some balance between the pull of her suggestion and the heaviness in your chest. "I don’t know, Abby. I have so much s—"
She cuts you off before you can finish, stepping in front of you. Her hands come to rest gently on your waist, firm yet soothing, grounding you as her touch sends a wave of warmth through your body. "Just one day," she says softly, her tone unwavering. "If you don’t like it, we never have to do it again."
You stare at her, lips parting as if to argue, but the words don’t come. Your eyes flicker to the floor, fighting the rush of conflicting emotions that pull at you. The weight of everything you’ve been carrying, the endless cycle of cleaning, cooking, meeting expectations that were never yours to meet. All of it feels suffocating at times, and the thought of just one day free of it, just one day to breathe, begins to soften the edge of your resistance.
Would it really hurt?
You glance up toward the stairs, hearing the faint sounds of your kids’ laughter echoing down. The joy in their voices is so simple, so pure, it tugs at your heart. You can almost see them outside, running across the yard with the sun warming their faces, their laughter filling the air. You imagine sitting beside Abby, no pressure, no responsibilities. Just a moment of peace.
Your throat tightens, the words almost caught in your chest, but you swallow them down and take a deep breath.
"Fine," you whisper, barely audible. Then, a little stronger, with more conviction, "Let’s do it."
Abby’s expression shifts, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her face. She doesn’t say anything else. she brushes a strand of hair from your face, her fingers lingering at your cheek.
"You get the kids ready and grab a blanket," she murmurs. "I’ll handle everything else."
You nod, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of your lips, something lighter blooming in your chest. For the first time in so long, you feel something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in what seems like forever—hope. A tiny spark of it, something you thought might have been lost.
As you walk past her toward the stairs, you can’t help but let that smile grow a little wider, allowing yourself to believe, just for today, that maybe you deserve a break. Maybe you deserve this.
Walking into the kids' room, you pause for a moment to take in the familiar chaos. Madison and Ezekiel are sitting cross-legged on the floor, engaged in some intense game that involves making up silly stories with their toys. Their laughter fills the air, a sound that always brings warmth to your heart. Kimberly, sitting nearby, watches them with wide, fascinated eyes, her attention completely captured by whatever game they’re playing. Jayden is sitting alone, chewing on one of his toys, his little face scrunched up in concentration. Nico, meanwhile, is sleeping soundly in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern, so peaceful in his slumber that it almost seems like he’s untouched by the noise around him.
As soon as Madison catches sight of you walking in, she springs to her feet with an excited squeal. "Hi, Momma!" she chirps, her face lighting up like a little sunbeam. She waves her arms wildly as if she’s just spotted you after years apart, even though it’s only been a few hours since breakfast. You smile back at her, your chest swelling with affection as you make your way over to the closet to grab a blanket for the picnic.
But before you can even reach the shelf, Madison’s face suddenly shifts, her expression turning curious as she watches you. “What’s wrong, Momma? Where are we going?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. There’s an innocent concern in her voice, a sweetness that makes your heart ache. You stop in your tracks, kneeling down in front of her. Gently, you tuck a loose curl behind her ear and cradle her small face in your palm.
“Abby is taking us on a picnic,” you say softly, letting the words settle between you.
The second the words leave your mouth, Madison's face lights up like a Christmas tree. She shrieks with glee, her little hands flailing as she jumps up and down in excitement. The sound is almost too high-pitched, but it's full of joy, and it makes your heart flutter. Kimberly, always ready to follow her older sister's lead, claps her tiny hands together and bounces in place, giggling with the same unrestrained excitement.
Jayden, who’s been quietly playing on the floor, doesn’t join in the chorus of celebration, but his face breaks into a huge grin, and a soft giggle escapes him as he watches his sisters. The room is filled with the sound of their joy, and it makes you feel lighter just being surrounded by it.
Madison, still buzzing with energy, whirls around to grab Ezekiel’s hands. “Ezekiel! Your momma is taking us on a picnic!” she practically sings, her voice bubbling with pure happiness. Her enthusiasm is so contagious that you can’t help but smile, watching as Ezekiel giggles along with her. The sudden excitement, though, is enough to rouse Nico from his nap. The peaceful silence of his sleep is shattered by a sharp, startled cry. His little face scrunches up, and the high-pitched wail echoes through the room.
Madison freezes immediately, her bright smile fading into a look of guilt as she glances at you. Her eyes widen, and she takes a cautious step back, almost as if preparing for a scolding. “I’m sorry, Momma. I woke up Nico,” she whispers, her voice small and full of regret.
Your heart tugs at the sight of her concern, her big eyes filled with worry. You quickly shake your head and smile at her, reassuring her with a soft, gentle tone. “It’s okay, baby. It wasn’t your fault.” You walk over to Nico’s crib, your arms outstretched as you lean down to lift him. His tiny body is warm and soft against your chest, and as soon as he’s settled in your arms, his cries slowly start to fade, replaced by the quiet sniffs of a baby who just needed to feel the safety of your touch.
You sway gently, rocking him in your arms as his tiny hands grip onto your shirt, and the crying gradually gives way to a contented sigh. He’s calm now, his little body melting into yours as you continue to rock him back and forth, rubbing soothing circles on his back. You whisper quietly to him, “Shh, it’s okay, Nico. You’re alright.” Before you can say anything more, Abby’s voice breaks through the soft lull of the room, her familiar tone filling the space with its calm warmth.
“Everything okay?”
You hear Abby’s voice before you see her, soft but laced with concern. You turn, finding her standing in the doorway, her brows slightly furrowed as she looks between you and the now-settling Nico in your arms. The sight of her, the reassurance in her presence, does something to you—calms you in a way you didn’t even realize you needed.
Letting out a quiet breath, you give a small nod, still swaying gently with Nico in your arms. “Nico woke up,” you explain, your voice carrying the weight of your exhaustion, but there's also a tenderness in the way you speak about him.
Abby exhales, her shoulders relaxing as she steps fully into the room. “I got Jayden,” she says softly, her voice steady, as if this is just another part of her day. She moves toward Jayden, who’s sitting on the floor, his small hands reaching up toward her with innocent eagerness. Abby crouches beside him, her grin wide as she ruffles his curls with affection. She makes quick work of slipping his tiny sneakers on, the sound of the soft Velcro and the shuffle of his small feet filling the air.
Jayden kicks his legs, giggling uncontrollably as Abby’s fingers tickle his sides. "You ready for the best picnic ever, little man?" she asks, her voice low but playful, her eyes dancing with warmth. Jayden’s response is an enthusiastic nod, his little arms flailing as he lets out a delighted squeal, clearly thrilled by the idea of a picnic. Abby finishes tying his shoes, her hands nimble and sure as she adjusts the laces.
Watching the scene unfold, you feel something shift in your chest. The way Abby so naturally interacts with your children, like she’s been doing this for years, is a kind of magic you never thought you’d experience. She doesn’t just care for them—she connects with them. She’s part of the rhythm of your home, part of your family in a way that feels effortless, yet profound. For the first time in a long while, something inside you whispers that this—that this feeling—is what family is supposed to feel like.
Abby looks up at you then, her eyes meeting yours with an unreadable softness. She lifts Jayden effortlessly, settling him in her arms as he wraps his little hands around her neck. With a smile, she murmurs, “I got everything packed up in my truck.” Her words are casual, but there’s a depth to them, like she’s offering more than just a picnic—it’s an invitation to let go, to trust, to be.
As you walk down the stairs and out the door, a wave of anxiety crashes over you. What if your husband found out? What would happen if he came home early and saw an empty, uncleaned house? What if he walked in and found you, playing house with another woman? The fear bubbles up inside of you like a knot, and your feet freeze on the last step.
This wasn’t normal. You didn’t leave the house by yourself—not unless it was for church, the grocery store, or to drop the kids off at school. Every other moment, you were expected to be there, within these walls. You weren’t allowed to do anything else, to go anywhere else. And now... now, you were stepping outside, into something that felt like freedom, but freedom that came with its own set of consequences. This house had become a prison, and the world outside felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
Abby, oblivious to the storm of worry inside you, opens the door. The kids burst through, their laughter and giggles filling the air like a bright, blinding light. They’re carefree, already caught up in the magic of the moment. But you stand frozen, caught between wanting to join them and the weight of all the “what ifs” that suffocate you.
Abby notices your hesitation, and for the first time, she softens. She turns to you, her hand outstretched. "Come on, Y/N. It’s gonna be fun, trust me."
You hesitate, your breath shaky as you look at her, then at Nico in your arms, and then back at Abby. You want to say no, but something inside you just needs a break from the constant weight on your shoulders. After a long breath, you finally give in, your fingers brushing against hers as you take her hand. It’s simple, but it feels like a step toward something you didn’t realize you were craving.
Abby gently takes Nico from your arms, placing him in the car seat, then opens the door for you. “Don’t stress yourself,” she says softly, her voice a quiet anchor against the storm inside your mind. You let out a shaky breath as she closes the car door, and her calmness is a balm to your nerves. She moves quickly, buckling in Jayden and Kimberly before getting in herself.
With a rev of the engine, Abby turns to look in the rearview mirror at the kids. “Who’s ready for our picnic?” she asks, her voice light, almost teasing.
The kids burst into a roar of excitement, their collective joy ringing in the car like a symphony. You catch a glimpse of their faces in the mirror, their wide eyes filled with happiness, and you feel a small spark of warmth deep inside.
And then Abby drives off. The world outside the window blurs into motion, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, today could be different.
The drive there was worlds apart from the usual tension-filled trips with your husband. Instead of the stifled silence or sharp words that often accompanied car rides, there was an easy comfort in the air. The kids were talking over each other, their excited voices filling the truck without any fear of being scolded for being too loud. Madison and Kimberly were laughing, whispering back and forth in their own little world, while Jayden, always the chatterbox, babbled about whatever his little mind had come up with that day. Nico, strapped in his car seat, cooed contentedly in the back, his small hands waving in the air as if he was just as excited as the rest of them.
But it wasn’t just your kids who were enjoying the freedom of this moment. Ezekiel, Abby’s son, was in the mix, happily playing with a small toy in his lap, making little noises of his own as he watched the world whiz by outside the window. His occasional giggle blended seamlessly with the rest of the chatter, as if he were always meant to be part of this lively atmosphere. Abby glanced back at him through the rearview mirror with a soft smile, checking on him in between moments of glancing at the road, a picture of calm assurance.
What really struck you was the absence of tension. Normally, your husband’s presence on these drives would make everything feel tight and stifled, his constant reminders to keep the kids quiet, to behave properly, hovering over every conversation. But here, with Abby behind the wheel, there was no need for that. She let the kids talk, laugh, and express themselves freely, her eyes occasionally flicking to them with a smile or a gentle word to encourage their joy.
As you glanced around, you realized something you hadn’t even thought about until now. This wasn’t just a break for you, escaping the weight of everything you carried at home. No, this was a break for your children too. They were allowed to be themselves in a way they rarely got to be allowed to talk loudly, laugh without restraint, and just be without worrying about causing any disruptions. Even Ezekiel seemed to thrive in this environment, his bright eyes alight with excitement, free from the pressure of expectations that often loomed over him at home.
And Abby, in her quiet way, had helped create this space. She hadn’t just made it about giving you a break—she had also made it about giving your children something they deserved: the ability to simply exist without the constant pressure of living up to someone else’s rules. With every gentle word she spoke to them, every kind glance she shared with Ezekiel, you realized how much of a gift this day was not just for you, but for all of you.
It was rare that you got to experience this kind of freedom, and even rarer for your children. But here, in this moment, there was nothing holding them back. They were happy, carefree, and so was Ezekiel. He was part of the group, fully included in the joy of the day, just as he should be. The weight of everything else—of your husband, of the expectations, of the pressure—faded away as you let yourself sink into this rare peace. It felt like a small victory, a chance to breathe that you’d almost forgotten you needed. And it wasn’t just yours—it was something you and Abby were offering to your children, to Ezekiel, and even to yourselves.
As Abby pulls up to the park, the engine hums to a stop, and she switches off the ignition. She turns to face the kids, her voice bright with excitement. "We’re here!" she announces. The moment the words leave her mouth, the kids erupt in a chorus of cheers, their voices blending together in a symphony of joy. They scramble to unbuckle their seatbelts, barely waiting for the car to come to a complete stop before they’re ready to burst out of the vehicle.
Abby chuckles, shaking her head at the flurry of energy, before she gets out and starts helping the kids with their seatbelts. You sit there for a moment, still in the car, the realization slowly settling in. You actually did it. You actually left the house. You didn't just think about it, didn't just imagine the freedom—you did it. A mix of relief and disbelief washes over you as you take in the moment. For so long, leaving the house had seemed like an impossible feat, something you weren’t allowed to do without consequences. But now, here you were, in the middle of it, feeling something you hadn’t felt in a long time: choice.
You take a deep breath, willing the unease to dissipate, before you finally open the door and step out of the car. Abby's already setting up the picnic blanket near a large maple tree, the basket she packed full of food resting beside it. You help her lay Nico down on the blanket, giving him a moment to squirm and explore in his own little way, his tiny hands reaching up at the sky, his eyes wide with wonder at the world around him.
Madison and Ezekiel immediately take off running, their laughter carrying through the air, the sounds of their joy so pure and unrestrained. Kimberly and Jayden, not to be left behind, follow as best they can, their little legs moving as fast as they can manage, the younger ones struggling to keep up with the older kids’ energy.
Abby sits down on the blanket next to you, her arms gently wrapping around you, pulling you closer. You lean into her, your head finding its place on her chest as the peaceful sounds of the park fill the space around you. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, the sun shining down through the leaves above, and the gentle rustling of the trees.
“You’re doing great,” Abby whispers softly, her voice steady and soothing. You let out a long breath, the weight of everything you've been carrying lightening just a little. You smile faintly, feeling her warmth, her solid presence beside you. You interlace your fingers with hers, the simple touch offering more comfort than you thought it would.
You turn your gaze to the kids, watching them chase each other through the grass, their faces alight with joy. Abby follows your gaze, her voice tender as she speaks. “Look at them, having fun.” She pauses for a moment, as if reflecting on the significance of it all. “Ezekiel told me he’s not so lonely anymore, not since he started playing with Madison and the others.” There’s a softness in her tone, a quiet pride, as she looks at you, her eyes warm and open.
You look up at her, your eyes meeting hers. Her gaze is gentle, filled with understanding, and for a brief moment, the world outside of this peaceful bubble you’ve created fades away. It’s just you and Abby, here with the kids, and something deep inside you shifts. Maybe it’s the way the sunlight dances on her hair, or how her hand feels in yours, but in this moment, you feel something that’s been missing for a long time a connection, a sense of belonging, not just for you but for your children as well.
You stay in the quiet of the moment, feeling the peaceful rhythm of your breath match Abby’s. The air feels different here—lighter, freer, almost like the weight of the world hasn’t quite found its way into the space you’ve carved out beneath this tree. You look at Abby again, her gaze still soft but purposeful as she watches the kids play.
Her hand gently squeezes yours, grounding you. “I’m glad we did this,” she says quietly, as though reading the quiet thoughts you hadn’t voiced. The kids are running in circles now, a blur of limbs and laughter. It’s the kind of joy that feels contagious, so unburdened and alive. You watch them for a moment, feeling a smile tug at your lips, a warmth spreading across your chest.
“I didn’t think I could,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, your words directed more to yourself than to Abby. “I didn’t think I could get out. I never... I never really realized how much I needed to.”
Abby doesn’t answer right away, her attention still on the kids, but her grip on your hand tightens just slightly. It’s not forceful, just a reminder, as if telling you, I’m here. It’s all she needs to say, and you feel the truth of it settle into you. In that moment, you realize that this wasn’t just a picnic, or a break from the house, it was something far more important.
The fact that you could leave, that you could make a choice, felt like a small rebellion, a reclaiming of something you thought was lost. Abby’s right here beside you, a steady presence, and suddenly the heaviness you’ve carried for so long doesn’t seem so impossible to face.
You take in a slow, deliberate breath, the weight in your chest lifting just a little more. For the first time in a while, you feel like you’re not suffocating under the pressure of expectations—yours, your husband's, society’s.
“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” you say, voice cracking slightly, but the gratitude in your tone is undeniable. It’s a simple thing, really—just a day in the park, just a moment outside the walls of your house. But it’s more than that. It’s a chance to breathe again, to remember that there’s more to life than everything that’s been piled onto you. And Abby made it happen, without any fanfare or demand for recognition. She just... did it.
She smiles at you, that same calm smile that feels like a lifeline. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/N. Just... keep trusting me, okay?” There’s no rush in her voice, no pressure. Just an invitation, a quiet promise that she’s here for the long haul, ready to help you untangle whatever’s been holding you back.
You nod slowly, feeling the gravity of her words sink in. Trusting Abby feels easy in a way it never has with anyone else. The way she makes you feel like you matter, like your needs—your fears are valid, and worth addressing.
“I’ll try,” you say softly, squeezing her hand in return. Your gaze drifts back to the kids, who are now tumbling across the grass, laughing with abandon, their carefree spirits filling the space.
The day stretches before you, a soft, hopeful kind of promise, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to truly hope for more days like this—days when the weight feels lighter, when you can simply exist without the constant pressure of being everything for everyone.
Kimberly toddles over to Abby, her little feet kicking up bits of grass as she makes her way across the picnic blanket. She taps Abby’s shoulder with her tiny fingers, her face set with determination. Abby, who had been resting back on her hands, looks down at her with a curious smile.
“What is it, kiddo?” Abby asks, shifting so she’s sitting up straight.
Kimberly doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, she raises a small hand and points toward the picnic basket, her dark eyes expectant. Without a word, she clambers into Abby’s lap, settling against her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Abby lets out a small chuckle, wrapping an arm around her instinctively to keep her steady.
“What are you after, huh?” Abby teases, her fingers brushing gently over Kimberly’s back. “You got something in mind?”
Kimberly’s little finger continues to point, unwavering. “Juice, Mom.”
Everything around you stills.
The laughter of the older kids playing in the distance dulls, the rustling of leaves in the gentle afternoon breeze fades, and all you can hear is the rapid pounding of your own heart.
You freeze, the motion of reaching for a napkin completely forgotten. Your gaze snaps to Kimberly, then to Abby, who has gone completely still beneath the weight of that single word.
Mom.
She called Abby Mom.
Abby’s lips part slightly, her blue eyes widening as she processes what just happened. Her grip on Kimberly tightens instinctively, protectively, but she doesn’t correct her. She doesn’t question it. Instead, she looks at you.
And you don’t know what to say.
Your mouth feels dry, your mind a mess of emotions you can’t even begin to untangle. Kimberly doesn’t seem to realize the significance of what she’s done—she just keeps looking at Abby expectantly, waiting for her juice like it was the most normal thing in the world to call her Mom.
Abby blinks, then clears her throat, her voice a little softer when she finally speaks. “Juice, huh?” She reaches over, pulling a small bottle from the basket before twisting off the cap and handing it to Kimberly.
The little girl beams, taking the juice with both hands and sipping happily. She wiggles a little deeper into Abby’s hold, completely oblivious to the way your entire world has just shifted.
Abby looks at you again, searching your face for a reaction, for permission, for something.
You don’t know how to respond.
Kimberly remains curled up in Abby’s lap, sipping her juice, blissfully unaware of the weight of her words. She called Abby Mom. And Abby… she didn’t correct her.
Abby shifts slightly, adjusting Kimberly so she’s more comfortable, but her eyes stay locked on you. There’s something careful, something almost hesitant in her expression when she finally speaks.
“I didn’t want to correct her,” she says quietly, watching you for any sign of discomfort.
You hold Nico close, his small, steady breaths against your neck grounding you. You should say something. Maybe correct Kimberly yourself. Maybe tell Abby that it was just a slip of the tongue, that it didn’t mean anything.
But that would be a lie.
You glance down at Kimberly, completely at ease in Abby’s arms, and then back up at Abby, who’s still waiting for your response. A part of you wants to dwell on it, overthink it, let the fear creep back in. But another part of you—the part that’s been longing for something safe, something real—pushes all that doubt aside.
You swallow, offering Abby a small, soft smile.
“It’s okay.”
Abby’s lips twitch into something like relief, and before either of you can say anything else, Madison’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Momma!”
She comes running over, her curls bouncing as she skids to a stop in front of you, practically vibrating with excitement. “Can you play in the water with me?” she asks, clasping her hands together, her wide, pleading eyes making it impossible to say no. Abby chuckles, giving Kimberly’s back a small rub before glancing at you. “Go,” she encourages. “I’ll keep an eye on Nico and Ms. Kimberly.” You hesitate for only a second before sighing, carefully setting Nico down on the blanket. The second you’re up, Madison grabs your hand, dragging you toward the lake.
“Come on, Momma!” she urges, her excitement contagious.
Jayden and Ezekiel are already in the water, splashing at each other, their laughter ringing through the air. As you step closer, you slip off your shoes, dipping your toes in first—only for a sharp chill to shoot up your legs.
“Oh-” You suck in a breath, shivering slightly before laughing. “It’s cold!”
Madison giggles at your reaction before spinning back toward Jayden and Ezekiel, kicking at the water and sending droplets flying in every direction. Jayden yelps, shrieking with laughter as he splashes back, while Ezekiel joins in with a mischievous grin.
You watch them, smiling as you move your feet in slow circles beneath the water, enjoying the rare feeling of peace. And then Madison suddenly stops. She turns toward you, her excitement dimming just a little, her voice softer now.
“Momma, I like Miss Anderson.”
You blink down at her, caught off guard. “You do?”
Madison nods, her curls bobbing with the motion. “She makes you smile,” she says simply. “And she makes us laugh.” Your heart clenches at her words, at the sincerity in her voice. Before you can respond, she hesitates, her little hands playing with the hem of her shirt. “I wish she could replace Daddy,” she murmurs, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.
Your breath catches.
Madison looks down, her fingers twisting together as her face falls. “I wish she could be our second mom,” she says, her voice just a whisper now. Then, as if she’s afraid she’s said something wrong, she finally looks back up at you, eyes glassy. “I don’t like Daddy, Momma. He makes you cry… and he’s rude.”
Your throat tightens.
She shouldn’t have to notice these things. She shouldn’t have to carry these thoughts in her little heart. You sink down to her level, your hands gently cupping her face as you take in the sadness in her eyes, the way her tiny body is tense, like she’s bracing herself.
Tears prick at your own eyes as you press a kiss to her forehead.
“Oh, baby,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
And then you pull her into your arms, holding her tight as she clings to you.
Madison buries her face into your shoulder, her small body trembling slightly as she clings to you. You stroke her curls gently, pressing another kiss to the top of her head as you blink away your own tears.
No child should have to feel this way. No child should have to wish for a different father, for a different life. You hold her tighter.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” you whisper again, voice thick with emotion.
Madison sniffles, her grip on you tightening before she finally pulls back, her big, brown eyes searching yours. “Are you mad at me?” she asks hesitantly, her voice so small.
Your heart shatters.
“Oh, sweetheart, no.” You shake your head quickly, cupping her face in your hands. “Never. You can always tell me how you feel, okay?” She nods, but you can see the uncertainty still lingering in her expression. You hate that she’s even questioning whether her feelings are allowed. You brush away a stray tear from her cheek before offering her a small smile. “You know what? I really like Miss Anderson too.”
Madison’s face lights up, her sadness momentarily forgotten. “You do?”
You nod, glancing over your shoulder toward Abby. She’s still sitting on the picnic blanket, holding Nico against her chest, his tiny body completely relaxed in her arms. Kimberly is beside her, contently sipping from her juice box while Abby absentmindedly runs her fingers through her curls.
It’s such a natural sight.
Like they belong there.
Like this is how things are supposed to be.
You turn back to Madison, brushing another curl behind her ear. “Yeah, baby. I really do.”
Madison beams before suddenly gasping, her eyes widening with excitement. “Can we tell her? Can we tell Miss Anderson we like her?”
You hesitate.
Not because you don’t want to tell Abby—God, you do—but because this is still so fragile. You’re still so scared.
But then you look at your daughter’s hopeful expression, and something inside you steels.
“Yeah,” you say softly, nodding. “We can tell her.”
Madison lets out a delighted squeal before grabbing your hand. “Come on, Momma! Let’s tell her now!” She tugs you toward the picnic blanket, her excitement contagious. You laugh softly, wiping away the last traces of your tears as you let her pull you forward.
As you approach, Abby looks up, a soft smile already on her lips. “You guys have fun?”
Madison nods enthusiastically, her curls bouncing as she shifts from foot to foot, barely able to contain her excitement. “Momma says she likes you!” she blurts out before you even have the chance to sit down.
Your entire body goes still.
Your breath catches in your throat as your wide eyes dart to your daughter, who is now grinning up at Abby like she just handed her the best news of her life. You swear you can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, the weight of those words settling deep in your chest.
You glance at Abby hesitantly, afraid to see her reaction. Afraid that maybe she won’t feel the same. That maybe this moment—this thing between you—has all been in your head.
Abby raises an eyebrow, clearly amused as she leans back slightly, arms crossed over her chest. There’s a teasing glint in her eye, but beneath it, something else lingers. Something softer. Something hopeful.
“Oh yeah?” she muses, turning her attention to you.
You swallow hard, suddenly feeling warm under the afternoon sun, though you know it has nothing to do with the weather. You can’t bring yourself to look at Madison anymore—her innocent excitement is too much—so you keep your focus on Abby instead.
“Yeah,” you murmur, voice quieter than you intended. “I do.”
The words come out almost like a confession, one you weren’t sure you were ready to say out loud. But now that they’re out there, hanging in the space between you, you realize how right they feel.
Something in Abby’s expression shifts. The teasing fades just enough to reveal the sincerity beneath it. And then she smiles.
Not just any smile—but that smile. The kind that reaches her eyes, the kind that makes her dimples appear, the kind that makes your heart stumble over itself in your chest.
“I like you too,” she says, her voice just as soft, just as certain.
And just like that, something settles in your chest. Something you didn’t even realize had been restless all this time.
Madison giggles, clapping her hands together like she’s just witnessed the best love story unfold right before her eyes. “I knew it!” she exclaims before skipping off toward Ezekiel, already eager to share the news. But you barely notice. Because Abby is still looking at you, that smile still lingering on her lips.
And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.
The drive home was quiet—not because of the words left lingering between you and Abby, but because the kids had all drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep, their tiny bodies worn out from the excitement of the day. The soft hum of the engine filled the silence, and for a moment, it almost felt like you were driving toward something good rather than away from it.
But then Abby’s truck slowed, the familiar sight of your house creeping into view, and your stomach twisted painfully.
The streetlight outside flickered, casting eerie shadows over the driveway, and as soon as the truck came to a stop, the weight of reality crashed down on you.
You didn’t want to go back.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, your breath shaky as you stared at the house—the place that had felt less like a home and more like a cage for as long as you could remember. Today had been the first day in years that you’d felt truly free, the first day where laughter hadn’t been followed by fear, where your children could just be kids without walking on eggshells. And now, after just a few hours of warmth, of safety, of happiness, you had to step back inside and pretend none of it ever happened.
Pretend you weren’t suffocating.
Pretend you weren’t miserable.
Pretend you were someone you weren’t.
Abby must have sensed the shift in you because she didn’t move to turn off the truck just yet. Instead, she rested a hand on the gear shift, glancing at you carefully, her voice gentle when she finally spoke.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to look at her. The soft glow of the dashboard lights traced over her face, highlighting the quiet concern in her eyes, the silent promise in them.
For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if you didn’t have to go back. If you could just drive past this house and keep going—if you could give yourself and your kids a new life, one without fear.
But life wasn’t that simple.
You swallowed hard, pushing the fantasy aside before it could take root. With a deep breath, you reached for the door handle, steadying yourself. “I have to,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her.
Abby didn’t argue. She just exhaled slowly, nodding, but before you could step out, her fingers brushed over the back of your hand—a fleeting touch, but enough to ground you. “I’ll be here,” she murmured. “Whenever you need me.”
You didn’t trust yourself to respond. Instead, you gave her a small, wavering nod before finally opening the door, stepping back into the life you wished you could leave behind.
The house was eerily silent as you moved through the dimly lit hall, gently pulling the blankets up over each of your sleeping children. Their faces were peaceful, untouched by the fear and weight you carried, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching them.
Madison’s words echoed in your mind. I don’t like Daddy, Momma. He makes you cry.
You had tried so hard to shield them from this. You had done everything in your power to keep them safe, to keep him away from them when his temper flared. But was it enough? Had it ever been enough?
A deep sigh left your lips as you turned to leave the room, carefully easing the door shut behind you. But as soon as you stepped into the hallway, you heard it—the unmistakable sound of heavy, unsteady footsteps, the creak of the floorboards beneath his weight.
Your stomach dropped.
He was home.
The scent of alcohol hit you before you even saw him. And when you did—when he stepped out of the shadows, swaying slightly, his bloodshot eyes locking onto you—you knew this wasn’t going to end well.
“Where the hell have you been?” he slurred, his voice thick with drunken anger.
Your throat tightened. Did he know? Of course he did. He always knew.
“I was he—”
He lifted a hand suddenly, and before you could stop yourself, you flinched. A bitter smile twisted across his face at the reaction. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Don’t lie to me.” Your mind raced for an answer, a way out, something to de-escalate before things turned worse. “I was here,” you said quickly. “Cleaning.”
It was a lie. A pathetic, obvious lie. But he was drunk—maybe he wouldn’t press it.
For a second, it seemed to work. His head tilted slightly as if considering your words, and then, just when you thought he might let it go, his expression twisted into something ugly. “Oh, okay,” he mocked, stepping back. But the momentary relief vanished as he suddenly whipped the glass bottle in his hand toward you. You barely had time to react before it shattered against the wall beside you, shards flying, the sharp scent of liquor filling the air.
Your breath caught in your throat as he stalked forward, his voice rising. “You think I’m stupid, Y/N? You think I don’t notice things?” His hands grabbed your arms, shaking you hard enough to make your head spin. “You don’t think I know you’ve been playing house with that—” He sneered, his grip tightening. “With that fucking dyke?”
Your heart pounded. He knew.
Tears pricked your eyes as he shoved you back, your spine hitting the wall with enough force to make you gasp. “You think I don’t see what’s going on?” he spat. “I saw her coming into my house. Rubbing all over my wife. Talking to my kids like she has any damn right—”
His voice blurred, rage twisting his words into something unintelligible. Your body was frozen, trapped between the wall and the fury in his eyes, as panic clawed its way up your throat.
His grip tightened on your arms, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. His breath was hot and reeked of alcohol, his words slurred but no less venomous. “You really thought I wouldn’t find out?” he sneered, shaking you again, your head snapping back against the wall. “Thought you could just run around behind my back like some cheap whore?”
Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you forced yourself to stay still, to not give him a reaction that would make things worse. Stay calm. Stay quiet. Don’t provoke him.
“I wasn’t—”
His hand moved too fast for you to react, slamming against the wall beside your head with enough force to rattle the picture frames. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Y/N!” he roared.
You flinched, your body instinctively shrinking against the wall. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. The kids were asleep—God, please let them stay asleep.
He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin, the scent of whiskey clinging to him like a second skin. His voice dropped into a low, venomous whisper, each word laced with cruel amusement.
“You really think she’s gonna save you?” His lips curled, twisting into something sharp, something cruel. “You think she’s gonna take you away from me?”
His fingers twitched at his sides before he reached up, tracing a knuckle along your jaw in a mockery of affection. The touch was deceptively light, a sick contrast to the storm brewing in his eyes. Then, his expression darkened.
“You’re mine,” he hissed, his voice barely above a growl. “You. And those kids.”
He stepped closer, caging you in, making the walls feel smaller, the air thinner. His eyes bored into yours, daring you to contradict him, daring you to fight.
“You think that bitch is gonna take care of them? Think she’s gonna want you once she realizes you ain’t worth shit?”
Disgust curled in his tone, but there was something else beneath it—possession. A sick, twisted need to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
Then, before you could react, before you could so much as breathe, his hand lashed out. The impact was immediate, the sharp crack of skin against skin echoing through the room. The rings on his fingers bit into your cheek, amplifying the pain, sending a sharp, stinging heat spreading across your face.
He watched you, his breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling like a man who had convinced himself he had every right to do this.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, eyes dark and unforgiving. “Not you. Not them kids.”
Your head snapped to the side from the force of the slap, the taste of metal blooming in your mouth. The pain throbbed, sharp and searing, as the imprint of his rings dug into your skin. For a moment, the room blurred—your vision swimming, your breath caught somewhere between shock and something dangerously close to fury.
But you didn’t speak. You didn’t move.
His hand lingered at his side, fingers flexing, like he was considering doing it again. Like he wanted to.
He let out a slow, heavy breath, shaking his head as if you were the problem. As if you were the one who drove him to this. His lips curled into a sneer, his voice dipping into something almost mocking.
“See what you make me do?” He reached out, gripping your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. His touch was rough, bruising, like he wanted to make sure you felt every bit of his control. “You belong to me. Ain’t no one coming to save you. No one’s gonna love you like I do.”
The weight of his words settled over you like a noose tightening around your throat.
Then, his gaze flickered, shifting toward the hallway—toward the room where the kids were. A slow, knowing smile crept onto his face, something dark gleaming behind his eyes.
“You wanna leave? You wanna take them?” His fingers dug into your jaw, enough to make your teeth clench. “Go ahead. Try it. See what happens.”
His grip loosened just enough for you to pull away, but you didn’t dare move, not yet.
He let out a low chuckle, stepping back with an air of arrogant ease, like he had all the time in the world. Like he had already won. The smirk on his face lingered as he turned, making his way up the stairs, his heavy footsteps disappearing into the bedroom.
The moment he was out of sight, your legs gave out beneath you, and you slid to the floor, your body curling inward as your hands instinctively cradled your swollen cheek. The sting was sharp, the metallic tang of blood coating your tongue. The pain was nothing new, but tonight—tonight, something cracked inside you.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over in hot, silent streams as you whispered to yourself, "I need to get out of here."
The thought turned into action before you could second-guess yourself. You pushed yourself up, wiping at your face, and stumbled toward your children's bedroom. The moment you stepped inside, your hands shook as you yanked an old suitcase from the closet, unzipping it with frantic urgency. You didn’t think—you just grabbed, stuffing clothes, shoes, anything your hands landed on.
Your mind reeled, flashes of the last five years playing in a relentless loop. The bruises. The gaslighting. The cheating. The nights spent crying yourself to sleep while he acted like nothing was wrong. The threats—God, the threats. Every time you tried to leave, he reminded you just how powerless you were. And for so long, you believed him.
Until Abby.
Abby, who looked at you like you were someone. Who made you feel like you were more than just a punching bag, more than just some broken woman too afraid to walk away.
Your breathing hitched, chest tightening until you were gasping for air. You pressed a trembling hand to your lips, trying to keep quiet, but the sound was enough to stir Madison. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes as she sat up in bed.
"Momma?" Her small voice was thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"
You swallowed the sob clawing at your throat and crossed the room, kneeling beside her. Gently, you stroked her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Shh, baby," you whispered. "We need to go. Get your things, okay?"
She stared at you, her little face scrunching in confusion, but she nodded. No questions, no complaints—just trust.
One by one, you woke Kimberly and Jayden, telling them the same thing. Sleepy and confused, they obeyed, moving quickly but quietly, stuffing their backpacks with whatever they could grab. You moved to the crib, lifting Nico carefully into your arms. He whimpered, stirring slightly, but you rocked him, whispering soft reassurances until he settled back into sleep.
You listened, straining to hear any movement upstairs. The bathroom door was still shut. Good. Keep wasting time in there.
Turning back, you looked at your children—Madison, Kimberly, Jayden, and little Nico in your arms. They didn’t understand, not fully, but they trusted you. And they were ready. You inhaled deeply, steeling yourself. Then, carefully, you peeked into the hallway before stepping out into the living room. The front door loomed ahead, freedom just on the other side.
Your gaze dropped to your hand. The wedding ring glinted under the dim light, a symbol of promises long broken. A life you never wanted.
Your fingers trembled as you slid it off. It felt lighter than you expected, as if it had never truly belonged there in the first place. Without hesitation, you placed it on the table. A final goodbye.
With one last breath, you turned the knob and slipped out into the night.
Every step across the yard felt agonizingly slow, your pulse thundering in your ears. You kept looking back, expecting to see the door swing open, to hear his voice, to feel his hands dragging you back. But the house remained still.
Abby’s porch light flickered ahead, a beacon in the dark. You all but ran up the steps, your heart pounding as you knocked—once, twice, then harder. Your desperation bled into each bang against the wood.
"Come on, Abby," you whispered, voice shaking. "Please—please answer."
The porch light flickered on, and moments later, the door swung open. Abby stood there, her face groggy with sleep, confusion evident—until she saw the bags. The kids. You. Her smile faded. Her eyes darted to the bruise forming on your cheek, the raw redness where his rings had cut your skin. "I—I had nowhere else to go," you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. "He hit me. Please—please let me in."
Abby didn’t hesitate.
"Come inside," Abby said, her voice firm, steady—like an anchor in a storm you had been drowning in for years.
You stepped over the threshold, each footfall heavy with exhaustion, with fear, with the unbearable weight of everything you had just done. The kids trailed behind you, their little hands clutching their bags, their tired eyes flickering with confusion and trust all at once.
Then the door shut.
The lock clicked into place, sealing you away from that house, from him.
Something inside you cracked.
Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent but relentless. Your body trembled, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, refusing to let you rest. You didn’t even realize you were swaying until Abby gently pried Nico from your arms.
"I got him," she murmured, her touch steady, reassuring. "Come on, let’s get them settled."
You nodded, but it felt mechanical—like you weren’t really there, just watching yourself move. Abby led the kids down the hall, her voice soft as she whispered to them, soothing their worries, making them feel safe.
Safe.
You stood there, frozen, as the reality of it all loomed over you. You had done it. You had left. But instead of relief, there was only a crushing hollowness, a weight pressing down on your chest so hard you thought it might break you. You moved on autopilot, sinking onto the couch. The second you sat down, the silence wrapped around you, deafening. Your hands clenched in your lap, fingernails digging into your palms as you stared ahead, unblinking.
You needed to cry, to let it all out, to sob until there was nothing left inside you—but the tears wouldn't come the way they should. You swallowed them down, forcing yourself to sit up straight. Stay strong.
But strong for who, exactly?
You weren’t in that house anymore. You weren’t standing in front of him, pretending you weren’t scared. So why did you still feel like you had to hold yourself together? Footsteps padded back into the room, and then Abby was there, sinking down beside you. "I put the kids in the room with Ezekiel," she said softly, her voice warm, grounding. Before you could say anything, she pulled you into her arms. The warmth of her, the solidness of her presence, undid something in you. Your body sagged against hers, your face pressing into her shoulder as your breath hitched in uneven gasps.
"He—" your voice broke, and you swallowed hard before forcing it out. "He hit me, Abby. He found out—he knows about us."
Abby tensed for half a second, but then her arms tightened around you, her hand moving up to cradle the back of your head.
"Shh," she whispered, her voice steady. "You don’t have to think about that right now."
You wanted to fight it—to tell her that fear wasn’t something you could just shut off like a light. That the terror sitting in your chest, coiled tight like a spring, wouldn’t simply disappear because she said so.
But the way she held you—the quiet strength in her arms, the way her fingers traced soothing circles against your back—it was enough to make you want to believe her. Enough to make you sink just a little deeper into her warmth, even as your mind screamed at you to stay alert.
Then, gently, she pulled away.
She stood, her movements slow, deliberate, giving you time. Then she held out her hands. “Come with me.”
You hesitated.
She noticed.
Her gaze softened, but she didn’t waver. “Follow me.”
You swallowed hard, your hands trembling as you reached out and took hers. Her palms were warm, steady—nothing like the hands you were used to. The ones that hurt. The ones that tore you down piece by piece.
Abby gave your hands a light squeeze before leading you forward, turning off the living room lights as she went, plunging the space into darkness. You followed her down the hall, past the soft murmurs of your sleeping children, until she stopped at a door and pushed it open. The room inside was small but warm. A bed, neatly made. The kind of place meant for peace, for safety. “You’re tired,” she murmured, guiding you inside. “You need rest.”
That word—rest—felt like a foreign thing, something you weren’t allowed to have.
Rest. Rest. Rest.
Your mind repeated it like a warning. Like something dangerous. Because rest meant letting your guard down. It meant leaving yourself open. And the last time you did that, it nearly destroyed you.
But Abby—Abby—wasn’t him.
She had been patient, even when you pushed her away. Even when you swore you could handle this alone. And yet, here she was, standing beside you, still willing to hold you up when you weren’t sure you could stand on your own. She led you to the bed, sitting you down gently before settling beside you. Close, but not too close. Giving you space, but letting you know she was here.
“We’ll figure everything out tomorrow, okay?” she said softly.
Tomorrow.
A future. A choice. Something you never thought you’d have again.
Her fingers reached for your face, cradling your jaw as her thumb brushed lightly over the fresh bruise. You tensed at the touch, but she was careful—so careful—like she knew just how much you had already endured.
She did know.
And she wished she could have saved you sooner.
For so long, you had pushed her away, convinced yourself that she couldn’t be your way out. But now, sitting here, feeling the way her touch only soothed, never hurt, you realized something—she was never going to let you go again.
Not unless you wanted her to.
Abby leaned in slowly, hesitating, waiting—her breath ghosting over your lips, her body still, waiting for you to decide. She wasn’t talking. She wasn’t demanding.
She was giving you a choice.
“Do you trust me?” she whispered.
Your breath hitched.
For a moment, the fear clawed its way up your throat, choking you. But when you looked at her—the quiet patience in her eyes, the way she was holding herself back just for you—you felt something else, too.
Something softer.
Your hands found her face, fingers tracing the edges of her jaw, her cheekbones. Solid. Real. Safe.
“I always have,” you whispered.
The moment the words left your lips, she leaned in.
Her lips met yours in a way that felt nothing like the past.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. There was no pressure, no demand. Just warmth, just patience. Just her.
Her hands remained steady—one cupping your face, the other resting lightly on your waist, like she was afraid you’d break if she held on too tight. You melted into her, exhausted, overwhelmed, but for the first time in years, safe.
She pulled back first, her forehead pressing against yours as she exhaled, slow and steady. “We can stop,” she murmured, her voice gentle, careful. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, shaking your head.
Because if you stopped now, the fear might creep back in. The past might claw its way up your throat and pull you under again. But right now, in this moment, there was only her. Only this warmth, this safety, this impossible chance at something new.
She searched your face for hesitation, for regret, but when she found none, she nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. She didn’t kiss you again—not yet. Instead, she shifted, guiding you gently onto the bed. You tensed for half a second, old instincts screaming, but she just pulled the blanket over you, tucking you in with a tenderness that made your chest ache. She didn’t try to pull you close. Didn’t try to hold you down. She just sat beside you, watching, waiting.
And that was when it hit you—she wasn’t going anywhere.
Not tonight.
Not unless you told her to.
Your fingers curled around the sleeve of her shirt, gripping it lightly. “Stay?”
Her expression softened, and she nodded. “Of course.”
flinched, instinctively bracing for the criticism that never came.
But Abby—Abby wasn’t him.
Her hands were steady, warm as they traced over your skin, her touch reverent, careful. She didn’t rush, didn’t demand, didn’t make you feel less than. Instead, she looked at you like you were something to be worshipped, something sacred.
Her fingers brushed over your stomach, the soft lines of your body, the places you had learned to hate because he had made you hate them. But when Abby touched you, it wasn’t with judgment—it was with admiration. With something so tender it almost hurt.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” she murmured, her lips pressing against your shoulder, trailing warmth in their wake. “Not from me, baby.”
Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you swallowed them down, focusing on the way she felt. The way she kissed down your body, taking her time, like she had all the patience in the world. Like she wanted you to unlearn every cruel word, every harsh touch, every moment of self-doubt he had left behind.
Her hands spread over your hips, holding you like you were something fragile, something precious. Her mouth followed, trailing heat and devotion over every inch of you. And when you finally looked down, meeting her gaze, there was nothing but love staring back at you.
Real, undeniable, unconditional love.
And for the first time in forever, you let yourself believe it.
She leaned down again, her lips meeting yours with more passion this time. The hesitation was gone—she had your permission now, and she intended to show you just how much she wanted this. Wanted you.
Her hands trailed down your body, slow, deliberate, never rushing. She never looked away, her gaze locked onto yours as if afraid that if she did, you might disappear. As if you were something fragile, something fleeting, and she wasn’t willing to risk losing you.
With agonizing patience, she slipped your shirt up, her fingers grazing your skin as she peeled the fabric away. Not once did she break eye contact, watching you as though she was memorizing you, as though she was trying to make sure you stayed here with her, in this moment, and not in the past.
Then, her lips followed where her hands had been. Soft, reverent kisses trailing down your body as she rid you of each layer, until there was nothing left between you and her.
You felt exposed. Vulnerable. And when her eyes roamed your bare form, drinking you in with something close to awe, you turned away, shame creeping in, clawing at your chest.
But then she smiled.
“God, you’re beautiful,” she whispered, her voice so full of sincerity it made your throat tighten.
You tried to smile back, but it didn’t come—not when the past still loomed over you like a shadow. Memories of your husband’s sharp words, the way he’d sneer whenever your body changed, how he made sure you knew every extra pound was a failure. And after Nico—after the sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the way your body no longer felt like your own—you never got the chance to change it.
But Abby didn’t care.
She had never cared.
“Let me take care of you, yeah?” she murmured, her lips brushing against your cheek.
You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, barely able to meet her gaze.
Her smile returned, warm and reassuring, before she kissed you again. This time, her hands followed—caressing, exploring, showing you with every touch that she wasn’t just here to take; she was here to worship.
Then, she shifted, adjusting you with ease until you were on her lap, your back pressed to her chest, her strong arms wrapped securely around your waist. You gasped at the sudden change, your body tensing instinctively, but she only held you steady, her grip firm yet patient.
“Just breathe,” she soothed, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.
Her hands guided your face, tilting it towards the mirror in front of you.
And there you were.
Bare. Exposed. Ugly.
You turned away, your stomach twisting at the sight.
But Abby wouldn’t let you.
“Look at yourself,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear, her breath warm, grounding.
And then—she parted your legs.
Her hands, strong yet impossibly gentle, kept you steady as her fingers trailed lower, teasing, barely there, yet enough to send a shiver up your spine. The first brush of her fingertips against your clit was featherlight, a slow, deliberate stroke that had your breath catching in your throat.
Your fingers dug into her thighs, trying to ground yourself as pleasure coiled in your stomach, warm and insistent. But still, you turned away, unable to face your reflection, unable to see yourself the way she did.
Abby wasn’t having it.
“Watch,” she murmured, her voice low, coaxing, but firm.
She wasn’t asking.
She wanted you to see. To see the way you melted beneath her touch. To see how beautiful you were when you let go.
To see what she had always seen.
Her eyes never left your face as she kept working you, slow, careful, reverent. “You’re beautiful, Y/N,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, the words sinking deep, wrapping around the parts of you that had forgotten how to believe them.
Her fingers moved with agonizing precision, rubbing slow, purposeful circles over your clit, soft but insistent. In the mirror, she watched you—the way your body tensed, the way your thighs trembled, the way you fought the urge to pull away even as you craved more.
You groaned, torn between shying away and sinking into her completely. The contradiction warred inside you, but the need won.
“Abby,” you whimpered, your voice breaking on her name. “More—please.”
A pleased hum rumbled in her chest as she pressed a kiss to your shoulder, her lips warm and reassuring.
And then—she gave you what you asked for.
She pushed a finger inside, slow and steady, letting you feel every inch, every stretch. Your mouth parted in a shaky moan, your hands gripping her tighter as she filled you, her other hand never ceasing its soft, deliberate movements against your clit.
“Good girl,” she praised, her voice rough with something deeper, something primal. “Just like that.”
And this time—you didn’t look away.
Abby worked you open slowly, never rushing, never pushing more than you could take. She watched you in the mirror, her gaze locked onto your face, catching every twitch, every shudder, every unspoken plea for more.
Her finger curled inside you, searching, learning, until she found the spot that had you gasping, your head falling back against her shoulder. A smirk ghosted across her lips as she did it again, dragging her fingertip against that spot with precision, like she wanted to draw every sound from you, like she wanted to pull you apart piece by piece.
“Fuck, Abby—” You moaned, your hips rocking into her hand, needing more, needing everything.
“I know, baby,” she murmured against your neck, her breath hot, teasing, sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you.
Her free hand slid up your stomach, fingers splaying over the softness there, holding you in place as she added another finger, stretching you, filling you, coaxing another desperate sound from your lips.
“Look at yourself,” she whispered again, her voice a mixture of command and praise. “Look how good you take me.”
You forced your eyes open, your gaze meeting hers in the mirror. The sight made your breath hitch—her strong arms wrapped around you, her hands working you apart, her expression so full of hunger and something deeper, something you weren’t sure you could name.
She looked at you like you were something to be worshipped.
Like you were something precious.
Your lips parted, a whimper slipping free as she fucked you with slow, deliberate strokes, her palm grinding against your clit just right. Your body tensed, the pressure building, every touch sending you higher, tightening the coil in your stomach.
“That’s it,” Abby praised, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re so good for me.”
You were close—so fucking close.
Your fingers clutched at her wrist, your thighs trembling as the pleasure threatened to consume you. Abby felt it, knew it, and instead of letting up, she pressed a kiss to the side of your jaw, whispering the words that finally unraveled you.
“Come for me, baby.”
And just like that—you did.
The pleasure crashed over you in waves, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you gasping as your body locked up against hers. Abby held you through it, her hands steady, her lips whispering soft, reverent praises against your skin as you rode it out.
Only when the aftershocks left you boneless in her arms did she finally slow, her fingers slipping from you, her touch shifting from teasing to soothing.
She kissed your temple, her hands rubbing gentle circles over your stomach as she whispered, “You okay?”
You nodded weakly, still catching your breath, your body still thrumming from the intensity of it all.
Abby chuckled, low and warm, her breath brushing against your ear as she held you close. She pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder, then another, her lips trailing downward as she carefully eased you onto the bed. She moved with purpose—not just to take, but to give, to replace every memory of him with something new, something that belonged to only you and her.
Her hands, rough yet tender, mapped your body with slow, deliberate caresses, fingertips ghosting over your skin like she was memorizing every inch of you. She wasn’t rushing, wasn’t impatient—she was savoring you, worshipping you, as if she had all the time in the world.
Then, her lips followed.
She started at your collarbone, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin before sucking lightly, just enough to leave a mark. A quiet, pleased hum vibrated against your skin when you gasped, your body arching into her.
She liked that.
Liked seeing the way you reacted, how your breathing changed, how your body responded to her.
She moved lower, pressing her mouth to the swell of your breast, her tongue flicking over your nipple before she sucked, slow and purposeful. The sensation sent heat curling in your stomach, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as your fingers found her short hair, tangling into the strands.
“Abby,” you breathed, barely more than a whisper.
She smirked against your skin, her mouth trailing downward, leaving a path of love bites along your ribs, your stomach, the soft flesh of your inner thighs. Each one was placed with intention, a silent claim, a way to erase every touch before her.
By the time she settled between your legs, you were already trembling.
You felt seen. Worshipped.
Her hands slid up your thighs, strong fingers spreading you open, her thumbs tracing soothing circles against your skin. She took a moment to just look at you—all of you—and when her eyes met yours again, they were dark, needy, full of something deeper than lust.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” she whispered, voice thick with reverence.
You turned your face away, heat creeping up your neck.
But she wasn’t having that.
“Hey,” she murmured, shifting up just enough to capture your lips again, slow and deep, her fingers tipping your chin so you’d look at her.
Her forehead pressed against yours, her breath mingling with yours. “I mean it,” she whispered. “I want you to believe it.”
You swallowed, your chest tightening. You wanted to—God, you wanted to. But the years of being picked apart, of feeling like your body wasn’t yours to love, still lingered in the back of your mind.
Abby knew that.
That’s why she took her time.
When she finally positioned herself between your legs, her slick heat pressing into yours, she didn’t take—she let you feel it first, the warm, slow friction of her against you, her body melting into yours. Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping her arms. She groaned at the contact, her grip tightening on your hips as she rolled her hips forward, grinding against you in the slowest, most agonizing rhythm imaginable. “Abby,” you whimpered, nails digging into her skin.
She shuddered at the sound of her name on your lips. “Feels good?” she rasped. You could only nod, your head falling back against the pillow as she rocked into you again, the delicious friction sending pleasure curling low in your stomach. She wasn’t rough—not this time. She was taking her time, watching every expression that flickered across your face, feeling every shudder, every twitch, like she wanted to engrave it into her memory.
Her hand slid up your body, fingers brushing over your stomach before reaching your chest, palming the soft flesh, teasing.
“Look at us,” she whispered.
You hesitated, knowing what she meant. Knowing that the mirror beside the bed reflected everything. You swallowed hard.
“I—”
She thrust forward, her slick clit grinding against yours, and you gasped, eyes fluttering open at the sensation.
“Look,” she urged again, her voice softer now, full of something almost pleading.
So, you did.
And what you saw nearly broke you.
The two of you, bodies intertwined, her broad form wrapped around you, her muscles flexing as she moved, her face twisted in pleasure—it was intimate, raw, something deeper than just sex.
You saw her.
You saw yourself.
And for the first time, you didn’t hate what you saw.
Abby caught your gaze in the reflection, her lips curling into a soft smile. “That’s my girl,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple as she rolled her hips again, coaxing another broken moan from your lips.
The pressure was building, tighter, hotter, deeper.
Her hand slid between your bodies, her fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles.
You whimpered, your body tensing, the pleasure too much, too good.
“That’s it, baby,” she whispered, kissing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
Your body shattered.
The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your breath stuttering, your body arching, your fingers digging into her back as you came, pleasure rolling through you in waves.
Abby followed soon after, her hips stuttering, a strangled moan slipping from her lips as she buried herself against you, her body shaking with her own release.
She held you through it. Kept moving, slow and gentle, until the pleasure faded into soft aftershocks. Until you were just breathing together, bodies tangled, lips barely brushing.
Then, silence.
Warm, safe, full.
Abby pressed one last kiss to your lips before tucking you against her chest, pulling the blanket over you both.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t have to.
Because when she whispered, “I love you,” into your hair, you already knew.
Abby’s arms stayed wrapped around you, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against your back. Her lips brushed against your hair, a soft, absentminded press—like she just needed to feel you there, grounded in her arms.
Neither of you spoke for a long time.
The room was quiet, save for the slowing rhythm of your breaths, the occasional sound of the sheets shifting as Abby traced slow, lazy circles on your stomach with her fingertips.
It was grounding. She was grounding.
You swallowed hard, the weight of everything settling in—what you had just shared, what it meant. How different it was from what you had known before.
How easy it would be to fall into the fear, to let the echoes of the past creep in, to tell yourself you didn’t deserve this.
But Abby wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Hey,” she murmured, her voice still thick from the pleasure, but softer now. She pressed another kiss to your shoulder, her lips lingering there. “You still with me?”
You nodded against her, blinking slowly. Yes. You were here. With her.
She hummed in response, pleased, her arms tightening slightly around you. “Good.”
You shifted slightly, turning onto your side to face her, your hands sliding up to her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath your palm. Her eyes softened when she met your gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moved.
You just looked at each other.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t afraid of being seen.
Abby’s thumb brushed against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” she asked gently, her voice careful, like she was ready to hold you together if you suddenly fell apart.
You could only nod, because yes, you were.
More than okay.
For the first time in years, you felt safe.
Abby exhaled softly, her forehead pressing against yours. “Good,” she whispered again. “Because I meant what I said, y’know.”
You swallowed. “About what?”
Her fingers traced absentminded patterns on your hip, her voice low but firm. “That you’re beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat. You started to turn away, but Abby caught your chin, tilting your face back toward hers.
“Hey,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over yours. “I need you to hear me.”
You blinked up at her, your fingers tightening slightly against her skin.
She kissed you again, slow and reassuring, like she was trying to press the words into you. Like she wouldn’t stop until you believed them.
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that—bodies pressed together, exchanging soft kisses, whispering against each other’s lips, holding each other in the dark.
But at some point, exhaustion settled in, your body melting further into hers. Abby pulled the blanket up around you both, her hand running soothingly along your back as you buried your face into the crook of her neck.
She pressed one last kiss to your temple, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time, you actually believed it.
Abby let you rest, truly rest—something she knew you hadn’t done in years. She handled everything, making sure you didn’t have to lift a finger.
When your husband came banging on her door the next morning, demanding to see his wife, Abby didn’t hesitate. She squared her shoulders, met his drunken rage with an unshaken stare, and sent him away without a second thought. She didn’t give him an inch, didn’t let him weasel his way back in with apologies or empty threats. And while he wasted himself away in whatever bar or gutter he crawled into, she went back to your house, collecting the last of your things—the clothes, the kids’ toys, the small pieces of your life you were finally taking back.
And the kids? She cared for them like they were her own. She made them breakfast, kept them entertained, ensured they never felt the weight of the storm you were escaping. Every now and then, she’d peek into the room where you slept, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, the way your brow would furrow even in sleep. She wanted to smooth away every crease, every shadow of pain he left behind. She would sit at the edge of the bed, just watching, wondering how someone as strong as you had been forced to endure so much. But now… now you were here. And she wasn’t going to let you slip away.
“Is Momma ever gonna wake up?”
Madison’s small voice pulled Abby from her thoughts. She looked down to see the little girl standing in the living room, watching her with wide, worried eyes.
Abby softened, offering a gentle smile. “Of course she will,” she reassured her, ruffling her curls. “And when she does, we’ll all go to the park. How does that sound?”
Madison nodded, but instead of running off to play, she hesitated. Her tiny fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt as she stared up at Abby, something uncertain in her expression.
“I don’t wanna see Daddy anymore,” she whispered, her voice small but firm. Her lower lip trembled as tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “I want you to be my new dad. You make Momma happy. Please don’t leave us.”
Abby’s breath caught in her throat.
She had faced down men twice her size without blinking, fought through storms that had tried to break her—but nothing had ever shaken her quite like this.
Madison wasn’t just asking for comfort. She was asking for permanence. For security. For a love that didn’t come with pain.
Abby crouched down, gently wiping the tears from Madison’s cheeks. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I promise.”
Madison sniffled, her little body trembling as she threw her arms around Abby’s neck, holding on like she never wanted to let go. Abby instinctively wrapped her arms around her, steadying the tiny girl against her chest. Madison clung to her, pressing her face into Abby’s shoulder, and in that moment, Abby could feel just how much this meant to her—how much she needed this.
Then, Madison pulled back just enough to meet Abby’s gaze, her eyes wide, uncertain, yet filled with so much hope. She hesitated for only a second before asking in the softest voice, “Can I call you Mom too?”
Abby’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected that—not so soon, not so openly. But the way Madison looked at her, like she was waiting for permission to love her, like she needed Abby to say it was okay, broke something inside her.
A slow, warm smile spread across Abby’s face as she gently cupped Madison’s cheek. “You and your siblings can call me whatever you want,” she murmured, her voice steady, filled with nothing but certainty.
Madison’s face lit up with pure joy, the weight she had been carrying lifting in an instant. Without hesitation, she leaned in and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to Abby’s cheek before giggling and darting off to play, her little curls bouncing with each step.
Before Abby could fully process the moment, a small tug at her pant leg made her glance down. Jayden stood there, his round eyes filled with curiosity, his tiny arms raised expectantly. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to.
Abby let out a soft chuckle, bending down to scoop him up with ease. He nestled against her without hesitation, resting his head on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Abby held him close, her heart swelling as she realized—this wasn’t just a moment. This was the beginning of something bigger, something real.
Your eyes flutter open, disoriented for a moment as you take in your surroundings. The room is bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the walls. Panic sets in almost immediately. You overslept. Your heart lurches, and you scramble out of bed, fumbling for your robe as you rush to the door.
You forgot to clean.
You forgot to take care of the kids.
You forgot—
But as you step into the living room, reality doesn’t meet you with the usual weight of dread. There is no angry man waiting to bark orders, no overwhelming list of tasks you must complete to avoid his wrath. Instead, the space is filled with something else entirely—something you barely recognize.
Laughter. Warmth. Family.
Madison is the first to notice you, her eyes lighting up as she dashes toward you. “Momma’s up!” she exclaims, throwing her little arms around your waist. Before you can even react, Kimberly follows suit, wrapping herself around your leg, and even Ezekiel, usually more reserved, runs to you with a beaming smile.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, running your fingers through their hair as you hold them close. They’re safe. They’re happy. And then, your gaze drifts toward the kitchen.
Abby stands at the stove, effortlessly balancing a sleepy Jayden on her hip while stirring a pot with her free hand. In the corner, Nico babbles happily in a playpen, giggling at nothing in particular. The scene is so… normal. Domestic, even. It takes you a second to process that this is your life now—that you don’t have to be afraid anymore.
“Hello, sleeping beauty,” Abby teases, flashing you a small smile as she starts plating food.
You don’t say anything at first, just watching her—watching this. The way she moves with such ease, cooking for your kids, holding Jayden like he’s always been hers, making sure everyone is taken care of. It’s overwhelming in a way you can’t quite put into words.
You glance around, suddenly aware of the mess—scattered toys, little shoes abandoned by the door, a crayon rolling off the coffee table. Instinct kicks in before you can stop yourself, and you bend down to start picking them up.
But before you can get far, Abby is there, her hand gently stopping yours.
“No, no. I got it, okay? Just sit at the table,” she says firmly, her touch lingering on your wrist as she meets your gaze.
“But—”
She shakes her head, not letting you finish. “I’ll do all the heavy labor around here. You just rest, alright?” Her voice is so full of certainty, of care, that you don’t argue. Instead, you let her lead you to the table, where she carefully settles Nico and Jayden into their highchairs before bringing over the food.
“Mom, can I help?” Ezekiel pipes up, eager to be involved.
Abby grins and nods, handing him some utensils to place on the table. Madison, never one to be left out, rushes up next. “I wanna help too, Mom!” she announces proudly.
You smile
Dinner is a quiet kind of chaos—the good kind. The kind where there’s giggling between bites, where Kimberly insists on feeding Nico even though half of it ends up on his bib, Jayden eating the food in front of him, where Madison keeps trying to sneak extra pieces of food onto your plate, saying, “You need to eat more, Momma.”
Ezekiel talks about his favorite game, going into a detailed explanation that only a kid his age would find fascinating, and Abby listens—really listens—nodding along like his words are the most important thing in the world. It’s such a stark contrast from what you’re used to that your chest tightens.
For so long, dinner had been a silent affair, tense and suffocating. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and everything could go south in an instant. But here? Here, the air is light. The table is full of life.
Abby catches your gaze from across the table, and it’s like she sees every thought running through your head. She doesn’t say anything, just reaches over and places a hand on yours, her grip steady and grounding. You swallow past the lump in your throat and squeeze back.
After dinner, the kids insist on a movie night, and you don’t have the heart to say no. They pile onto the couch, dragging blankets and stuffed animals with them, making a mess of the living room that Abby just cleaned. But she doesn’t scold them—doesn’t care at all, really. She just chuckles and lets them bury her under the weight of small bodies and soft laughter.
You sit on the edge at first, hesitant, unsure of where you fit in this picture. But then Abby reaches for you, pulling you in, slotting you right against her side like you belong there.
And maybe you do.
Madison curls up in your lap, her tiny fingers gripping your shirt. Kimberly tucks herself against your arm. Ezekiel lays in Abby’s arm and Jayden is already half-asleep on Abby’s chest, and Nico, bundled up in a blanket, rests peacefully in his playpen.
The movie plays in the background, but you barely register it. Instead, you focus on the warmth surrounding you, on the way Abby’s fingers trace absentminded circles against your arm, on the quiet, steady rhythm of her breathing.
You don’t realize how exhausted you still are until your eyelids grow heavy. The last thing you hear before drifting off is Madison’s sleepy whisper:
“Momma, can we stay here forever?”
And for the first time, you don’t have to lie.
"Yeah, baby," you murmur, your fingers gently threading through Madison's soft hair as you finally, finally let yourself rest. The weight that’s been hanging over you for so long, the constant worry, the need to always be on edge, melts away. “We’re not going anywhere.”
You turn to Abby, a smile creeping onto your face. It’s different now—real, unguarded, unbroken. She’s the woman who saved you, the woman who stayed, who didn’t give up on you even when you doubted yourself. The one who was patient when you couldn’t even recognize your own worth. The one who helped you find your courage.
"I love you, Abby," you say, your voice soft but full of everything you couldn't say before, leaning in to kiss her cheek. It’s not a desperate kiss, not a goodbye, but a promise, a pledge. A pledge that you’re here, with her, and you’re finally letting yourself believe it.
The truth hits you like a wave. You had dreams once. A childhood dream of being a ballerina—spinning, twirling, the spotlight shining down, your heart light and free. It was your escape, your sanity while living in a cage you built yourself, with him in the center of it. You clung to that dream because it was all you had, the only thing that kept you going when nothing else made sense.
But now... now you realize something you never truly understood before. You don’t need to be a ballerina to feel like you’re dancing anymore. You’ve already found something even better, something you never thought you’d deserve.
You’ve found a family. A family with laughter, with love, with chaos that doesn’t feel suffocating but freeing. A family that isn’t bound by broken promises or fake smiles. A family that isn’t based on fear, but on the kind of unconditional love you always thought was out of reach.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t need to pretend. You don’t need to hide the cracks or the bruises or the old scars. You can just be. You can just love. You can just exist.
And as you look at Abby, holding your kids close, the world outside seems so far away. It doesn’t matter anymore. This is your home. This is your family. This is the dream you never knew you needed.
You take a deep breath, your heart full to the brim, and you finally let yourself believe in the future.
"Thank you," you whisper under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, but Abby hears it. Her eyes soften, and she squeezes your hand in reassurance.
"We’ve got this," she says, her smile lighting up the room.
And for the first time in so long, you believe her. You believe in the life ahead of you. You believe in the family that you never thought you could have.
You’ve found your peace. You’ve found your place. And nothing could ever take that away.
And so, you rest—because for the first time in your life, you finally can.
Warnings: Threesome, Switch Sevika, Blowjob (Sevika receiving), public sex (at Y/N’s job), praise/dirty talk, pet names (baby girl, baby and doll), Oral (Mel receiving), Mel Dom!Mel, Dom!Reader, (1940’s slang)
A/N: I wrote Sevika as trans, and I’ve seen mixed reactions some saying it’s offensive and others saying it’s not. My intention is never to offend, so if this portrayal is hurting anyone, please let me know, and I’ll rewrite it or take it down. I want to be mindful and respectful of how people feel about representation. This is very lengthy so hopefully everyone enjoys it.
The 1940s, often remembered as the Golden Age, was a decade of war, change, and cultural evolution. With World War II raging across the globe, countless men were sent overseas to fight, leaving women to step into roles once dominated by men. No longer confined solely to the home, women worked in factories, took up jobs in offices, and proved their capabilities beyond keeping the house clean. This shift in societal expectations ignited early movements for civil rights and women’s rights, as people began questioning the rigid structures of the past.
Despite the war casting a long shadow, entertainment thrived. Jazz clubs were the heart of the nightlife, their smoky interiors alive with the sultry melodies of saxophones and the smooth voices of legendary jazz singers. Hollywood flourished, and the burlesque scene exploded in popularity, offering people a thrilling escape from the grim realities of wartime.
For you, burlesque dancing was more than just a job, it was a way of life. The stage was your world, the warm glow of the spotlights, the dazzling sequins on your costume catching every flicker of light as you moved. You thrived on the attention, the way men eagerly tossed their money at your feet, and how women whispered enviously, wishing they had a body like yours. It was a game, a performance, and most importantly, it paid the bills.
Club Desire
A haven of glamour, seduction, and exclusivity. This wasn’t just any burlesque club, it was the best of the best, a place where only the most captivating performers were allowed to grace the stage. It stood as a sanctuary for women, offering them independence, protection, and a chance to make a name for themselves in a world that often overlooked them.
Unlike the seedy joints scattered across the city, Club Desire set the standard as a beacon of elegance and prestige that made other establishments look like cheap imitations. It wasn’t just the number one club in the country for its dazzling shows and high-profile clientele, it was a symbol of power, an empire built on allure and talent. And your boss? She’d do anything to keep that image untarnished.
Dancers hurried around the dressing room, adjusting corsets, perfecting their curls, and dusting powder onto their skin to catch the light just right. The club’s golden rule was simple: perfection. No smudged lipstick, no loose straps, no missteps. Every performance had to be flawless, every moment intoxicating.
You moved to your usual spot by the mirrored vanity, adjusting the straps of your sequined dress, feeling the cool silk against your skin. Naomi, ever the cool cat, leaned beside you, fixing the seams on her thigh-high stockings. She shot you a smirk through the mirror.
"Nervous, doll?" she teased, fastening the last clip of her garter belt.
You scoffed, dabbing a final touch of rouge on your cheeks. "You know me, sweetheart. I was made for this."
And it was true. You thrived under the stage lights, reveled in the attention, in the way the crowd’s eyes followed your every move, entranced, yearning. Club Desire wasn’t just your workplace it was your stage, your kingdom.
A sharp knock at the dressing room door cut through the chatter, and a voice barked out, "Five minutes, girls!"
It’s showtime.
Naomi winked at you, smoothing down her dress. As you slipped into your heels and made your way to the stage entrance, you could already hear the announcer hyping up the crowd. The anticipation crackled in the air like a live wire.
The moment your heel clicked against the polished stage, a hush fell over the room, followed by the slow, rising hum of excitement. The band struck up a sultry tune, the soft wail of a saxophone weaving through the thick haze of cigar smoke, setting the mood just right. The golden glow of the stage lights kissed your skin, catching every shimmering detail of your dress, every curve, every teasing movement.
You knew how to work a crowd. It was a game of push and pull, temptation and restraint. Give them just enough, keep them wanting more. Your hips swayed to the rhythm, your gloved fingers trailing along your shoulder before slipping down your arm, peeling the silk away with agonizing slowness. The men at the front leaned in, their cigars smoldering in forgotten ashtrays, their drinks left untouched as they watched, spellbound.
You spotted familiar faces in the crowd, businessmen loosening their ties, soldiers on leave looking for a last taste of something sweet before shipping back out, women with red lips and sharp eyes watching with quiet admiration.Some came for the show, others came for the escape. Either way, they all left captivated.
At a table near the back, nestled in the shadows where only the high-rollers and untouchables sat, a pair of figures caught your eye. Mel Medarda and Sevika. You nearly missed a step but years of experience kept your movements smooth, your expression unshaken. What were they doing here?
Mel sat poised, her chin resting delicately on her hand, her legs crossed watching you with an unreadable expression. Regal. Amused. Intrigued. Beside her, Sevika lounged back, a cigarette dangling from her lips, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as she observed you through lidded eyes.
They didn’t belong in this crowd. Not as patrons, at least. Mel was too powerful, too calculated to be here for just a night of entertainment. And Sevika? She looked like she owned the place rather than simply visiting it.
Something about the way they watched you intense, deliberate, expectant sent a shiver down your spine.
Your routine continued flawlessly, but your mind raced. Had they come for you?
As you finished your routine with a slow, deliberate turn, the final note of the saxophone lingering in the air, the room erupted in applause. Whistles, cheers, the clinking of glasses. Money fluttered onto the stage like golden leaves in the autumn wind. You bent down with a practiced smile, scooping up a few bills, letting the men in the front row believe for just a second that they were special.
But your focus was elsewhere.
Mel and Sevika hadn’t moved.
They were still watching you, the applause, the spectacle, the noise none of it seemed to faze them. Unbothered. In control.
You took your time stepping off the stage, offering the crowd a last lingering glance before disappearing behind the velvet curtain. The second you were out of sight, you exhaled, running a hand down your arm to shake off the tension coiling beneath your skin. Something was off.
"Nice work out there, doll," Naomi’s voice pulled you back. She leaned against the vanity, reapplying her lipstick in the mirror. "You had those boys eating outta the palm of your hand."
"Yeah," you muttered, rubbing your arms as if that could rid you of the feeling of being watched.
Naomi turned to you, arching a brow. "What's with the long face? Thought you liked the attention."
You hesitated before speaking. What could you even say? That two of the most powerful women in the city were sitting front row, eyeing you like you were a game piece they were about to move? That something about their presence made your skin prickle, even after years of performing for all kinds of men and women?
Before you could respond, the dressing room door creaked open, and the boss’s sharp heels clacked against the floor.
"Y/N," she called, her expression unreadable, her lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a warning.
You straightened immediately. "Yeah, boss?"
She stepped closer, fixing a stray strap on your dress, smoothing out the fabric like she cared.
"You’ve got company," she said, her voice low. "And they don’t like to be kept waiting."
Your stomach twisted. You already knew who she was talking about.
Mel and Sevika.
Naomi shot you a look, curiosity flickering in her eyes, but you couldn’t focus on that now. You swallowed hard, forcing a breath through your nose.
"Where?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
The boss grinned. "Private room. Go on, doll. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint ‘em."
You hesitated, then nodded, smoothing down your dress, adjusting your gloves.
You forced a steady breath, smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress before stepping out of the dressing room. The club was alive with music, smoke, and laughter, but it all blurred as you made your way to the private rooms. Your heels clicked against the polished floors, every step sending a pulse of nervous energy through your veins.
Mel Medarda and Sevika.
These weren’t your average patrons, the kind that got sloppy on whiskey and loose with their wallets. They had power. Real power.
Reaching the door, you hesitated. A second too long.
"Go on, sugar," the bouncer grunted, barely sparing you a glance as he opened the door for you. No turning back now.
You stepped insideThe air was thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume.
The lighting was lower than in the main room, casting deep shadows against the plush velvet seating. Mel lounged effortlessly on the couch, her head resting against Sevika’s shoulder. A glass of something dark swirled in her hand. Sevika, ever the enforcer, exhaled a stream of smoke, eyes locked onto you like she was sizing you up.
You cleared your throat, trying to steady your nerves as you spoke, “The b-boss sent me. Said you ladies were lookin’ for entertainment.” You forced the words out, keeping your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.
Mel’s gaze lingered on you, her head tilting slightly as a slow, knowing smile crept across her lips. It wasn’t the kind of smile that made you feel comfortable, it was the kind that made you feel like she already knew everything about you, like she was always ten steps ahead.
"Entertainment," she repeated, her voice like honey, smooth and dangerously calm. "I suppose that’s one way to put it." She took her time with the words, drawing them out, letting the weight of them settle in the room.
Sevika, lounging beside her, took another lazy drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling up around her like a serpent. She exhaled slowly, the tendrils of smoke rising toward the ceiling before her sharp gaze landed on you. “Close the door, sweetheart,” she drawled, her tone a little colder now, a little more commanding. “Don’t want anyone listenin’ in on our little chat.”
You felt a shiver run down your spine as you turned toward the door, closing it with a soft click, the sound echoing too loudly in the otherwise quiet room. You could feel the tension thickening, wrapping around you as the room seemed to close in.
Turning back, you found both women watching you with eyes that didn’t miss a thing. Mel leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping against her drink, while Sevika’s eyes never wavered from you, watching you like a hawk.
Mel patted the seat next to Sevika, her smile sharp and teasing. “Sit. She doesn’t bite… unless you want her to.” She said it like she was enjoying the game, swirling the wine in her glass as she watched you closely. The flicker of amusement in her eyes was unmistakable.
You glanced over at Sevika, taking in the sight of her. The buff, brown-skinned woman was lounging with an almost predatory calm, her gaze fixed on you, a hunger in her eyes that was both intense and unsettling. She didn’t look at you like a stranger no, she looked at you like she already knew exactly what she wanted.
You hesitated. You had dealt with men and women wanting something from you before, but this? This felt different. There was no pretense, no soft words or polite gestures, just raw, unapologetic desire.
Despite the knot forming in your stomach, you forced yourself to sit. Your hands gripped the edge of the seat for a moment before you relaxed into it, trying to look composed, even though every nerve in your body was on edge.
Mel’s smile widened as she took another sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving you. Sevika’s gaze didn’t falter either, still locked onto you with an intensity that left no room for doubt.
Mel studied you for a long moment before setting her glass down. "You’ve got quite the reputation here. The boss speaks highly of you."
You forced a small smile, keeping your posture poised. "I aim to please."
Sevika scoffed, the sound low and amused. "That so?"
Mel leans over Sevika’s lap, closing the space between you. "We didn’t ask for just any girl tonight," she murmurs, her voice smooth but edged with something that sends a shiver down your spine. "We asked for you." Her gaze locks onto yours, intense and unyielding.
Your eyes drop to your dress, unsure how to respond to the dark-skinned woman before you. She clicks her tongue in disapproval, then tilts your chin up with a single finger.
"You’re very pretty," she muses, her eyes drinking you in. "The way your body moves… so graceful."
Before you can react, she shifts, climbing over Sevika and settling into your lap. Your breath hitches as she leans in, her warm breath ghosting over your neck.
"Thank you," you manage to whisper. She smiles, lips dangerously close to your skin.
Mel hums, the sound vibrating against your skin as she brushes her nose along your jawline. "Shy, are we?" she teases, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sevika exhales sharply, clearly amused. "Don’t scare her off, Mel," she drawls, though there’s no real warning in her tone, only entertainment.
Mel ignores her, fingers trailing lightly down your arm, her touch featherlight but deliberate. "I like the quiet ones," she murmurs, her lips just barely grazing your ear. "They always surprise me."
Your breath stutters, heat pooling in your stomach at her closeness. Her confidence is intoxicating, and the way she looks at you like she already knows how this night will end makes it impossible to pull away.
"Relax," she coaxes, pressing a hand against your thigh. "You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want this."
Sevika leans back, taking a slow sip of her drink as she watches, her gaze dark with interest. "Go on," she says, nodding toward you. "Tell her what you want."
Mel tilts her head, waiting, patient but expectant. Her fingers trace lazy circles against your leg, and you know there’s no escaping her attention.
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Mel watches you closely, waiting, her patience unwavering.
"F-Fuck, I don’t know," you finally whimper, your voice barely above a breath.
Sevika chuckles, low and amused, as she pours herself another drink. "If you don’t know, doll, how can we give you what you want?" She tilts her head, smirking. "Hmm?"
Frustration coils in your chest, your body thrumming with need. You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily. "F-Fuck me," you gasp. "Touch me, do anything."
The moment the words leave your lips, Mel is on you.
Her mouth crashes against yours, the kiss nothing like you’re used to hungry, all-consuming. It’s as if she’s devouring you, taking what she wants without hesitation. When you moan, she takes it as an invitation, her tongue slipping past your lips, claiming you completely.
Mel’s fingers press into your thighs as she deepens the kiss, her body molding against yours. The heat of her, the way she moves with such effortless dominance, has your head spinning.
Sevika watches from her seat, swirling the liquor in her glass with a lazy smirk. "Mel’s always been a bit greedy," she muses, amusement lacing her tone. "Hope you can keep up, doll."
Mel doesn’t bother responding, her focus is entirely on you. Her hands roam, tracing the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, her touch featherlight but deliberate. She drinks in every sound you make, every hitch in your breath, like she’s savoring it.
She pulls back just enough to let you breathe, her lips hovering over yours. "You taste sweet," she murmurs, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "I knew you'd be sweet."
Your body is burning, anticipation coiling deep in your stomach. She shifts in your lap, rolling her hips just slightly, and it sends a shock of pleasure through you. Your fingers dig into her sides, grounding yourself, because everything about her is overwhelming.
"Look at you," Mel purrs, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet her gaze. "You’re already falling apart for me."
Sevika hums in agreement, taking another slow sip of her drink. "She’s a pretty thing when she’s desperate."
Mel grins, wicked and knowing. "Lucky for her, I like desperate."
Her hands tighten on you, and you realize you’ve given yourself to her completely.
Mel’s hands roam your body with a purpose, but it’s not enough not for her. With a slow, deliberate pace, she begins to strip you of your burlesque costume, piece by piece. Each article of clothing falls away, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air and their hungry gazes.
Once you’re bare, she takes her time admiring you, fingers tracing the curves of your body before she effortlessly lifts you into Sevika’s lap. The shift is dizzying, your body now pressed against the firm, solid warmth of the other woman. Sevika leans back, watching you with a smirk as Mel settles behind you, her breath hot against your ear.
"You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this," Mel whispers, voice dripping with desire. Her lips graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
Before you can respond, she shifts her leg beneath you, her knee suddenly pressing up against your clit. The unexpected pressure has you arching your back, a sharp moan escaping your lips.
Sevika chuckles, the sound dark and amused. "Usually, my wife and I don’t indulge in things like this," she muses, her rough hands finding their way to your waist. She grips you firmly, holding you in place as her thick thigh presses against your aching core. "But then we saw you dancing, prancing around that little stage we just had to take a bite."
She guides your movements, rocking your hips against her leg, each slow grind sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Mel’s hands don’t stay idle; they glide over your body, teasing, exploring, her touch featherlight yet possessive.
"Just look at you," Mel murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "So eager for us."
Sevika’s grip tightens on your waist, guiding your movements as you grind against her thick thigh. The friction is intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure through you with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips. Your hands grasp at her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, but the teasing smirk on her lips tells you she’s enjoying watching you struggle for control.
Mel, still behind you, drags her fingers down your arms before wrapping them around your torso, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "That’s it," she coos, her voice smooth as silk. "Let us see how good you can be."
Sevika hums, her thigh flexing beneath you, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine. "Bet you’ve never been touched like this before," she murmurs, her gaze locked onto your face, drinking in every little reaction.
Your breath comes in quick, uneven gasps, your body melting under their touch. Mel presses soft, teasing kisses along your neck, her hands roaming over your bare skin, adding to the unbearable heat pooling in your core. She drags her nails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake before her fingers ghost lower, hovering just above where you need her most.
Sevika tilts her head, amused. "Think she’s ready for more?"
Mel chuckles against your skin, her breath hot and teasing. "Oh, she’s been ready," she purrs. "Haven’t you, sweetheart?"
Your only response is a whimper, your body trembling with need. You’ve never felt this exposed, this worshiped, this desperate for more.
Mel’s fingers finally dip lower, and Sevika tightens her grip, keeping you right where they want you. There’s no escaping them now—not that you’d ever want to.
Mel’s fingers trail lower, teasing, barely touching where you need her most. The anticipation is maddening, and your hips stutter against Sevika’s thigh, seeking more. A low chuckle rumbles from Sevika’s chest as she watches you unravel.
"Look at her," Sevika murmurs, her voice thick with amusement and something darker. "Already shaking, and we’ve barely even started."
Mel hums in agreement, her lips brushing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "She’s so sensitive," she muses, her breath hot against your skin. "I think she likes being teased."
Your whimper is involuntary, frustration and need tangling in your chest. "Please," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper.
Mel smiles against your skin, pleased with your desperation. "Mmm, that’s better," she murmurs before finally slipping her fingers between your thighs. The first touch is barely there, a soft stroke against your slick heat, and your whole body jolts in response.
Sevika’s grip on your waist tightens as she forces your movements to slow, keeping you from chasing that pleasure too fast. "Let her play with you," she says, her tone commanding. "Let her take her time."
Mel grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your jaw. "Sevika likes to drag things out," she murmurs, her fingers dipping lower, teasing your entrance before retreating. "But I don’t mind making you beg."
A soft, frustrated moan escapes you, your head falling back against Mel’s shoulder. She takes advantage, her teeth grazing your throat before she soothes the spot with her tongue. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine.
"Tell me what you want," Mel purrs, her fingers continuing their slow, torturous exploration. "Use your words, sweetheart."
Sevika smirks, her thigh flexing beneath you again, sending another wave of pleasure through your body. "Yeah, doll," she drawls. "If you don’t ask properly, how will we know what to give you?"
The pressure is unbearable, their combined touches making you dizzy. You can barely think, barely breathe, but you force yourself to speak through the haze of pleasure.
"Please," you whisper, voice trembling. "Touch me… make me feel good."
Mel hums, satisfied. "Good girl."
And with that, she finally gives you what you’ve been begging for.
Her fingers part your slick folds with deliberate intent, a single digit teasing your aching core before plunging inside. But Sevika isn’t satisfied—not yet. Sensing your need for more, she leans in close, her breath warm against your skin. Her grip tightens around your jaw, forcing you to meet her gaze as she squeezes, a silent demand for your full submission.
Your glazed eyes lock onto the woman before you, Sevika’s signature smirk stretching across her lips as she drinks in the sight of your wrecked state. The pleasure coursing through your body is unbearable, heightened by Mel’s ruthless touch between your trembling thighs. Every calculated stroke of her fingers against your dripping heat pushes you closer to the edge, winding you up so tightly you feel like you might snap.
Sevika watches with dark amusement, her sharp gaze flickering between your parted lips and the desperate way you writhe under their control. She leans in, her breath warm against your skin, planting soft, teasing kisses along your jaw, across your cheekbones—each press of her lips a stark contrast to Mel’s relentless abuse of your overstimulated cunt.
Your moans are breathless, needy, and your voice shakes as you finally break. “I- I’m close,” you whimper, the pleasure cresting into something unbearable. “Mel, please- please let me cum.”
The woman behind you hums in approval, the sound rich with amusement. You can practically feel the smirk against your skin as she continues working you closer, her fingers curling just right, sending sparks through your already-overwhelmed body. But just as that final wave is about to crash over you, just as your body tenses in anticipation of release she stops.
Her fingers slip away, leaving you empty, aching, and teetering dangerously on the edge of blissful oblivion. A strangled whine rips from your throat, your hips jerking in a desperate attempt to chase the pleasure she so cruelly denied. But Mel only chuckles, her hands gripping your hips to still you, her amusement evident in the smug lilt of her voice.
“Not yet,” she murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss against the shell of your ear. “You’ll cum when we say so.”
And at that moment Sevika unzips her pants “I wanna fuck that pretty face of yours” she says removing you from her lap Mel pushes you down on your knees “if you do a good job Sev might reward you” she says bending down with you “I’ll help you lead” Mel says pulling down Sevika’s briefs her cock plops out precut already coating the base.
Sevika exhales a low, guttural moan, her head falling back against the couch as her muscles tense with anticipation. Her broad chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, and her fingers twitch at her sides, fighting the urge to grip something perhaps your hair, perhaps Mel’s.
Mel smirks, clearly pleased by Sevika’s reaction. She shifts, resting her head on Sevika’s thick thigh as she gazes up at you with an amused glint in her golden eyes. One of her hands moves with practiced ease, wrapping around the base of Sevika’s cock, her fingers stroking slow, deliberate motions along its length.
“She’s very vocal,” Mel muses, her voice smooth and teasing as she rubs her thumb over the slick tip, smearing the glistening precum. She tilts her head slightly, casting you a look of expectation. A silent challenge.
You swallow hard, your pulse quickening as you watch the way her hand moves so effortless, so sure of itself. Then she lifts her gaze, that knowing smile still playing at her lips. “You try.”
Your breath hitches, but you obey. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers wrapping around Sevika’s cock, warm and throbbing beneath your touch. The moment you begin stroking, mirroring Mel’s rhythm, she pulls away, withdrawing her hand and leaving you to continue alone.
But she doesn’t leave entirely. Instead, she leans in closer, her lips parting as she presses soft, teasing kitten licks against the sensitive head. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it sends a violent shudder through Sevika’s body.
“F-fuck,” Sevika groans, her voice breaking, her head tilting back even further as her hips jerk slightly upward. Her restraint is slipping, and Mel hums approvingly against her.
You glance at Mel, catching the wicked glint in her eyes before she flicks her tongue again, slow and deliberate, drawing another strangled moan from Sevika. It’s intoxicating watching the way she teases, the way she makes Sevika unravel with such minimal effort.
Mel hums against Sevika’s skin, her tongue trailing slow, teasing circles around the sensitive head before pulling away just enough to glance at you. The corner of her mouth curls into something smug and knowing as she watches you hesitate, your hand still working along Sevika’s length, but not nearly with the confidence she expects.
"Come on," Mel purrs, her voice smooth as silk, "don’t be shy. She likes it when you take your time.”
Sevika lets out a ragged breath, her fingers digging into the couch as she fights the urge to thrust up into your grip. Her muscles twitch, her body reacting to even the slightest movement, and it’s intoxicating the power you have over her in this moment.
Encouraged, you lean in, mirroring Mel’s earlier movements. You start slow, pressing soft kitten licks against the tip, tasting the salty precum that beads at the head. Sevika groans at the contact, her breath stuttering, and her thighs tense on either side of you.
Mel watches you closely, her golden eyes gleaming with approval. “That’s it,” she murmurs, her fingers ghosting over your jaw before she guides you gently, angling your head just right. “Open up.”
The way she says it so casually yet commanding sends a shiver down your spine. You obey, parting your lips as you take Sevika into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before sinking lower, taking in more of her inch by inch.
Sevika’s response is immediate a sharp inhale, a deep groan that rumbles from her chest. One of her hands flies to your hair, her grip tightening but not pushing, just holding. Like she’s trying to ground herself, to keep some semblance of control.
“Fuck—” she hisses through clenched teeth, her head tilting back against the couch.
Mel chuckles softly, clearly amused by how quickly Sevika is unraveling. She presses her cheek against Sevika’s thigh, watching with a lazy sort of satisfaction as your mouth works around her. “She’s so sensitive tonight,” Mel muses, her fingers stroking absentmindedly along Sevika’s thigh. “I wonder how long she’ll last.”
Sevika growls in response, her grip tightening in your hair for just a second, and Mel laughs, pleased with herself. She shifts closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispers, “Let’s find out, shall we?”
Then, as if to test you both, she joins in her tongue flicking out to tease whatever part of Sevika isn’t already claimed by your mouth. The sudden added sensation makes Sevika curse, her hips jerking involuntarily.
“Fuck- Mel, you-” Sevika’s voice breaks off into a strangled moan, her entire body shuddering beneath your combined efforts.
You feel her thighs tremble against your shoulders, her grip faltering for just a moment before tightening again. She’s close you can feel it, hear it in the way her breathing turns ragged, in the way her muscles lock up, desperate to hold back just a little longer.
Mel pulls back just enough to glance up at Sevika, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Think you can hold out a little longer?” she taunts, her lips glossy, her voice full of amusement.
Sevika glares down at her, but the effect is ruined by the way her chest heaves, by the way her jaw clenches like she’s barely hanging on. “Shut up,” she grits out, but there’s no real bite to it, just raw, desperate need.
Mel only smirks, then turns back to you. “Let’s push her a little more,” she whispers, her fingers brushing over your cheek as she urges you forward. “I want to hear her beg.”
Sevika’s breath is ragged, her muscles taut with restraint, her fingers tightening in your hair as if she’s clinging to the last shred of control she has left. Her thighs tremble against your shoulders, and the deep, guttural groans ripping from her chest send heat pooling low in your stomach.
Mel watches with lazy satisfaction, her golden eyes glinting with mischief as she tilts her head, lips still slick from where she had teased along Sevika’s length just moments ago. She wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb before resting her chin against Sevika’s thigh, observing you with quiet amusement.
"She’s trying so hard," Mel muses, her voice smooth, teasing. She flicks her gaze up to Sevika, smirking. "You always act so tough, but look at you now."
Sevika growls in response, her grip tightening in your hair for a fleeting second before she forces herself to loosen it. "You talk too much," she grits out, her voice hoarse, strained.
Mel chuckles, clearly pleased. "Oh, I do," she purrs, her fingers trailing lazily up Sevika’s thigh. "But you love it."
Sevika doesn’t respond not verbally, at least. But the way her hips twitch, the way her head falls back against the couch, the way she exhales a sharp, shuddering breath every part of her betrays just how much she’s unraveling.
Mel turns her attention back to you, her fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin slightly so that you look up at her. "You’re doing so well," she murmurs, her voice softer now, coaxing.
Before you can react, Mel leans in, her hand guiding you as she joins you once more, her tongue dragging slow, deliberate strokes along the underside of Sevika’s cock, her movements synchronized with yours.
The effect is immediate Sevika jerks beneath you, her hips bucking up involuntarily, a strangled groan ripping from her throat. "Fuck—"
Her head slams back against the couch, her fingers digging into the cushions so hard her knuckles turn white. You can feel the way she’s trembling, the way she’s barely holding herself together.
Mel hums against her, sending vibrations coursing through her already overstimulated nerves. She pulls away just slightly, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin as she murmurs, "Not yet."
Sevika lets out a choked, frustrated noise, her entire body thrumming with tension. "Mel—"
Mel smirks, tilting her head slightly as she glances up at her. "You’ll cum when we say so," she reminds her, echoing her earlier words with wicked satisfaction.
Sevika curses under her breath, her jaw clenched, her entire body coiled so tight she’s seconds away from snapping.
Mel looks at you again, golden eyes dark with hunger. "Let’s make her beg," she whispers. Then, without another word, she takes Sevika deeper, her tongue working expertly, her fingers gripping your chin to encourage you to follow suit.
Sevika gasps, her body lurching forward as her restraint shatters. "Fucking please," she groans, her voice raw, desperate.
Mel pulls back just enough to smirk up at her. "There it is," she murmurs, satisfied. She glances at you, her thumb tracing your bottom lip.
Sevika growls low in her throat, her hips jerking slightly. "Shut the fuck up," she grits out, but there’s no real venom behind her words only raw, aching need.
Mel laughs, her voice rich and sweet like honey, but there’s something wicked underneath it. She turns back to you, her fingers tracing the edge of your jaw before tilting your chin up, her eyes searching yours. "What do you think?" she asks, her voice soft, but the command beneath it is clear. "Should we give her what she’s begging for?"
You glance at Sevika at the way her head is thrown back against the couch, her thighs tense against your shoulders, her cock twitching against your tongue, glistening with need. She looks wrecked. Absolutely desperate. And the thought sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.
You nod.
Mel smirks, pleased with your answer. "Good," she purrs. "Then let’s ruin her."
Without hesitation, she moves first, her tongue flicking out to tease along Sevika’s length, slow and deliberate, before taking her into her mouth. The way she moves is practiced, confident, completely in control and it’s mesmerizing.
Not wanting to be outdone, you follow her lead, your lips wrapping around the other side of Sevika’s cock, your tongue working alongside Mel’s in a synchronized rhythm. The reaction is immediate.
"F- Fuck!" Sevika chokes out, her entire body lurching forward, one hand flying to Mel’s hair, the other gripping the back of your head. Her thighs tense, threatening to snap shut around you both, but Mel’s firm hand on her leg keeps her spread wide.
Mel moans around her, the vibrations sending a violent shudder through Sevika’s body. You feel her cock twitch against your tongue, her breaths coming faster, more erratic. She’s right there hanging on by a thread, so close to unraveling.
Mel pulls back slightly, just enough to speak, her voice dripping with amusement. "She’s trying so hard to hold back," she muses, glancing up at you. "But we can’t have that, can we?"
You shake your head, and Mel grins, wicked and knowing. "Then let’s finish her off."
You don’t hesitate. You take Sevika deeper, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue pressing against the sensitive underside as you bob your head. Mel mirrors you, her fingers squeezing Sevika’s thigh as she works her closer to the edge.
Sevika’s entire body goes rigid. "Oh- fuck, I-"
She tries to warn you, but it’s too late. Her grip tightens in your hair as she comes undone, a wrecked, guttural moan tearing from her throat as her hips jerk up, her release spilling onto your tongue. She shudders violently, her body trembling, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths.
Mel pulls away first, licking her lips as she watches Sevika with a satisfied smirk. "There we go," she murmurs, her voice thick with amusement. "Such a good girl for us."
Sevika groans, her head lolling to the side, utterly spent. Her fingers twitch in your hair before she finally releases you, exhaling a shaky breath.
Mel reaches for you, her fingers brushing against your chin as she tilts your face toward hers. "You did so well," she praises, her voice soft now, intimate. "Did you enjoy yourself?"
The way she’s looking at you, eyes dark and knowing, makes your stomach flip.
Mel runs a hand through her hair as she rises to her feet, golden eyes locked onto you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. Her smirk is soft but full of purpose as she tilts her head.
"Lay on the couch for us, baby girl," she orders, her voice smooth as silk, leaving no room for hesitation.
You obey instantly, shifting to lie back against the plush cushions. The moment you settle, Mel hums in satisfaction, a pleased smile curving her lips. "Such a good girl," she muses, trailing her fingers along your thigh as she watches you, her touch light yet possessive.
Sevika, still catching her breath from her previous release, chuckles lowly. She shifts beside you, one hand wrapping around her still-sensitive cock, giving it a slow, lazy stroke as she watches you with darkened eyes. "Hope you're ready for me, baby," she rasps, aligning herself with your aching, slick cunt. Her smirk is sharp, teasing. "You can take me, can’t you?"
Before you can answer, Mel moves, straddling your chest, her knees pressing into the cushions beside your head. She glances down at you, brushing her fingers through your hair, her expression softer than Sevika’s but no less commanding.
"Hopefully, I’m not too heavy," she murmurs, but the playful gleam in her eyes tells you she already knows the answer.
Then, without waiting for a response, she positions herself over your mouth, lowering herself slowly, her warmth, her scent overwhelming you in the best way.
Sevika groans at the sight, gripping your thighs as she presses forward, sinking into you with a deep, slow thrust. "Fuck," she growls, head tilting back as she stretches you open. "Tight little thing, aren’t you?"
Mel lets out a soft laugh, her fingers tightening in your hair as she rolls her hips against your lips. "Let’s see just how well she can handle both of us," she purrs.
Mel exhales a slow, pleased sigh as she settles against your mouth, rolling her hips with unhurried precision, savoring every flick of your tongue. Her fingers thread through your hair, holding you in place, not forcefully, but with enough control to remind you who’s in charge.
"That’s it," she purrs, her voice smooth, indulgent. "Just like that, baby. Make me feel good."
Sevika, however, is far less patient. A frustrated groan rumbles from her chest as she pushes inside you, her thick length sinking into your slick heat. The way you tighten around her, clenching instinctively, draws a deep, guttural curse from her lips. She pauses for just a moment, her breath heavy, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as she steadies herself. Then, without warning, she pulls back slowly, deliberately before driving forward again, pressing deeper, stretching you open inch by inch.
Each thrust is measured, controlled, yet brimming with restrained intensity, as if she's savoring every second of the way your body yields to her.
"Shit," she growls, her voice strained, rough. "You feel so fucking good."
Mel chuckles at Sevika’s lack of restraint, amusement flickering in her golden eyes. "Careful," she muses, lifting herself slightly, only to press back down against your eager mouth. "You don’t want to break her just yet."
Sevika lets out a sharp breath, her fingers tightening against your skin. "Tch. She can take it."
And to prove her point, she sets a steady rhythm, rolling her hips into yours, stretching you with every deep, measured thrust. Her cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body. The force of it makes your moans vibrate against Mel’s cunt, drawing a sweet gasp from her lips.
"Oh," Mel breathes, her nails grazing your scalp as she shudders. "That’s perfect, sweetheart. Just like that."
The weight of her against your mouth, the way Sevika fucks into you with slow, controlled force—it’s overwhelming in the most intoxicating way. Every sensation crashes into you at once, heat pooling low in your stomach, pleasure mounting with every thrust, every roll of Mel’s hips, every deep, throaty moan Sevika lets out above you.
Sevika watches with dark, hooded eyes as Mel rocks against your face, her lips parting in pleasure. "She’s making you feel good, huh?" she mutters, her voice thick with lust.
Mel hums, biting her lip as she gazes down at you. "Oh, she’s doing beautifully," she praises, her fingers tightening in your hair. "So eager to please."
The pace builds Sevika thrusting harder, deeper, pushing you closer and closer to that delicious edge. Your muffled moans grow more desperate, your body tightening around her, drawing a sharp hiss from her lips.
"Fuck, baby," Sevika grits out, her thrusts turning rougher, needier. "You gonna cum for us?"
Mel smirks, her own pleasure evident in the way she gasps at every flick of your tongue. "I think she is," she murmurs, her voice thick. "Be a good girl and let go for us, won’t you?"
Between the relentless pace of Sevika’s thrusts and the intoxicating taste of Mel on your tongue, the coil inside you snaps. Your body seizes, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your muffled cries vibrating against Mel’s cunt as you come undone beneath them.
Sevika curses under her breath as she feels you tighten around her, her rhythm faltering for just a moment before she chases her own release, slamming into you with deep, desperate thrusts.
Mel watches, golden eyes dark with satisfaction, her hips rolling through her own climax as she presses down just a little harder against your mouth, riding out the waves of pleasure.
Sevika isn’t far behind. With a sharp, ragged groan, her grip on your thighs tightens, and she spills inside you, her breath hitching as she thrusts shallowly, drawing out every last drop of pleasure.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged breathing of all three of you, bodies tangled together in the aftermath.
Mel is the first to move, exhaling a satisfied sigh as she lifts herself off you, her fingers brushing tenderly over your flushed cheek. "You did so well, darling," she murmurs, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, tasting herself on your tongue.
Sevika, still catching her breath, smirks as she pulls out, running a hand through her damp hair. "Fuck," she mutters, shaking her head in disbelief. "You’re dangerous."
Mel chuckles, stretching languidly before turning to you with a knowing smile. "Mmm, but she’s ours now, isn’t she?"
Sevika grins, reaching down to squeeze your thigh. "Damn right."
You can hardly believe what just happened. Here, in the private room of your job, you had just spent the last hour tangled between the two most powerful, most breathtaking women you knew. The air still carries the remnants of heat, the faint scent of sweat and desire clinging to the space like a ghost of what had just transpired.
A smirk tugs at your lips as you glance around, the reality settling in. If you wanted, you could tell everyone spin the story into something legendary, a tale of indulgence and reckless pleasure. But some things are better kept unsaid. Some moments are too raw, too electric, too wholly yours to be shared.
Instead, you exhale, running a hand through your hair as you steady yourself. You’ll carry this secret like a brand against your skin, a delicious memory etched into your bones. And as you step back into the world beyond that door, no one will have any idea what just happened behind it.
AN: do you know how hard it is thinking of headcannons for this woman? I tried my ABSOLUTE hardest to make it as cannon to her character as possible and I made sure to make it lengthy as possible. Also this was based off this one fanart I found on here that I sadly can’t find.
She’s usually up at 6AM. Not because she wants to but because that is when Anaya wakes. No alarm needed. She’s already halfway out of bed before the fussing starts.
Makes real breakfast like eggs, toast, potatoes, and a ridiculous amount of bacon. Claims it’s “for the baby,” but we all know who eats six strips before you even get up.
Has your coffee ready like clockwork. Never smiles when she gives it to you. Just grunts, “Mornin’. Go kick ass.”
She's not the apron-wearing, Pinterest mom type. She Never wears the classic housewife look. It’s all muscle tanks, joggers, band tees, and sometimes that old leather jacket she refuses to throw out. Cigarette behind the ear, not lit (she tries to quit for her daughter, but old habits never die).
Has her hair tied back, scars on display, robotic arm gleaming under the kitchen lights.
She doesn’t call herself a “housewife” but acts like one every day. If someone else calls her that, like a friend or a family member She grunts, lights a cigarette, and mutters, “Yeah. So?”
She acts like she’s annoyed when you tease her about being a housewife, but she secretly loves it.
Sevika never saw herself settling down, but once she did, it hit her like a punch to the chest, this quiet, domestic life? She’d kill to protect it.
Handles all the heavy lifting around the house literally and emotionally. Leaky roof? She’s on it. Baby teething and screaming all night? She’s the one pacing the hallway with her tucked to her chest, whispering calm nonsense. but she still makes your coffee just the way you like it every morning.
Keeps the house spotless but not fussy. Everything is practical, efficient, and deeply hers. You tried to buy decorative pillows once she threw them like a discus into the hallway.
Baby-proofed the entire house herself. Installed corner guards, outlet covers, and baby gates that require two hands and a prayer to open.
Her name is Anaya, a soft name that Sevika picked out, surprising you both. (You can change it if you want)
Anaya got your eyes and Sevika’s scowl. Chubby cheeks, big curious eyes, always grabbing her mama’s metal fingers.
Her daughter is the only creature on the planet who makes Sevika melt. Big, soft cheeks, giggly snorts, and chubby hands reaching for her scarred face? Yeah. She’s a goner.
Sevika is not soft by nature, but you and the baby bring out a version of her that’s damn near unrecognizable to anyone who knew her back in Zaun. She's a "tough on the outside, but a absolute marshmallow for her girls" kind of wife.
I hope this is a safe space but Sevika 100% listens to jazz like deep, brooding stuff. She prefers instrumental tracks, trumpet, sax, stand-up bass. Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, John Coltrane, Chet Baker when she’s feeling tender.
Late at night, she plays old vinyl on a secondhand turntable she restored herself. The low hiss of the record starting is practically sacred.
She doesn’t explain her choices, but you’ve caught her pausing at certain solos like they say something she doesn’t know how to put into words.
It’s always on low volume in the background while she cooks or tidies the house.
Anaya’s lullaby is jazz. Sevika rocks her while humming along, sometimes adding her own quiet rhythm with her metal fingertips on the baby’s back.
In the early mornings, you’ll find her at the kitchen table with coffee, newspaper, and a Coltrane record playing gently. Hair still messy from sleep, house quiet except for saxophone and birdsong.
She has a hidden stash of photos of the baby on her communicator like hundreds. Pretends she doesn’t take them. You know better.
Wears a necklace you gave her with the baby’s initials on it under her shirt. Only touches it when she’s stressed or tired.
She slow dances with you in the kitchen while dinner simmers. No words, just the rise and fall of horns, her hands on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder.
If you’ve had a rough day, she’ll put on Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday, pull you into her lap, and let the music speak for her.
Once, you walked in and found her in the nursery rocking Anaya to “Naima” eyes closed, swaying in rhythm, completely at peace.
Surprisingly good at cooking. She doesn’t do fancy, but her food hits like, home. Lots of stews, grilled meats, and roasted vegetables. She seasons like a pro and uses that cybernetic arm to mash plantains like a boss
Savory over sweet. Her palate leans toward rich, bold flavors spices, sears, and anything cooked low and slow.
Heavy-handed. No measuring cups. It’s all instinct. She cooks with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s feeding people she loves.
“Trust me. If I’ve made it more than twice, it won’t kill you.”
Anaya strapped to her chest in a carrier while she stirs a pot.
She doesn’t always say she loves you. But she seasons your rice exactly how you like it. She cooks with one arm so she can hold the baby with the other. She leaves leftovers in the fridge labeled with your name.
Does all the errands while wearing the baby strapped to her chest like a living shield.
The grocery store staff are terrified of her. No one questions the tattooed woman grabbing eight jars of applesauce and staring down anyone who lingers too long in her aisle.
If anyone tries to say anything about her being a housewife, she dares them to say it again. Proud protector of her home, her woman, and her daughter.
NSFW
Sevika’s housewife vibe completely flips in the bedroom. All that restrained energy, all those controlled gestures unleashed.
She’s slow, intense, and hyper-focused. She watches your reactions like a hawk, cataloguing what breaks you.
Very much a giver. Obsessive about your pleasure. She doesn’t finish unless you do first , sometimes more than once.
Kitchen sex happened once after you teased her while she was cooking she bent you over the kitchen island with one hand still holding a spoon.
She didn’t even take her apron off. Just dragged your panties down, muttered “Should’ve behaved,” and wrecked you until your legs gave out. Afterwards, feeds you bites of whatever she was making, while you sit on the counter in just a shirt and nothing else.
She adores your body after having Anaya. Scar, stretch marks, softness she’s obsessed. She kisses your stomach like it’s holy ground. “You made her in here,” she murmurs against you Sevika’s housewife vibe completely flips in the bedroom. All that restrained energy, all those controlled gestures unleashed.
Some nights she gets overwhelmed by it goes down on you like it’s worship, mumbling thank yous between your thighs.
She doesn't need formal dom/sub labels, but there's power in how she touches you. In how you let her.
Sometimes she calls herself “Daddy” in a low growl especially when she’s fucking you from behind with your legs shaking and her hand around your throat.
But more often, she calls you “mama.” In reverence. In filth. Whispered against your skin as she takes you apart: “Let me make mama feel good. Let me take care of you.”
Quickies while Anaya naps. Always risky. Always worth it.
The dryer buzzer goes off? She ignores it. You’re already bent over the washing machine, her hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.
When you come out flushed and trembling, Sevika smirks and goes, “Laundry’s done, babe.”
You say one thing about being tired or tense and she’s immediately kissing your neck, dragging you to bed, muttering “Let me help you unwind.”
That always leads to you face-down in pillows, ass up, her mouth on you like she’s starving, refusing to stop until your legs are shaking.
She loves holding you by the throat not rough, but firm. Controlling.
She’ll squeeze just enough to make you whimper, then lean down and whisper, “That’s my girl. So fucking good for me.” You melt. Every time.
Her other hand always finds your clit when she does it. She knows exactly what you need and exactly how slowly to give it to you.
Sevika lives to use the strap on you. She takes her time choosing it, watching you undress, making you ask for it. She prefers when you’re tied down for it spread open, blindfolded, dripping for her.
When she slides in, she mutters, “Miss this, didn’t you?” and absolutely rails you through the mattress until you’re begging her to stop and she’s smirking like the devil.
She always says “We’ll be quiet.” You never are. Baby monitor’s on. House is still. She promises to go slow, gentle, quiet. Five minutes later, you’re sobbing into the sheets while she pounds into you, teeth in your shoulder, sweat dripping down her neck.
“Told you we couldn’t be quiet,” she teases afterward, licking her fingers clean.
You’ve never experienced focus like Sevika’s mouth between your legs. She doesn’t just eat you out she commits.
Buries her face, groans into you, holds you down when you try to run.
You’ll come once and she’ll keep going. Twice? She’s just warming up. She gets off on how wrecked you get under her tongue.
She jerks off to the memory of it later. Usually in the shower. Often thinking about the exact sound you made the third time you broke.
Sevika loves fucking you in front of the mirror. It's not just visual it's about power. She wants you to watch yourself fall apart for her.
She stands behind you, hand around your throat or arm across your waist, whispering filth in your ear:
“Look at that face. You see how pretty you are when you beg?”
She makes you keep eye contact with your reflection. Every orgasm, every whimper—“Eyes up. Be a good girl.”
Sometimes she fingers you from behind while you sit in front of the vanity post-bath. Just a towel, her mouth on your neck, and your reflection wet and wrecked.
Sevika gets off on almost getting caught. Like when Anaya napping, and she bends you over the kitchen table with the baby monitor in full view.
“Keep your voice down,” she warns right before she slaps your ass and shoves two fingers in.
She loves fucking you in places you shouldn’t be: laundry room, balcony, the hallway, even the nursery rocker (when she’s feeling especially risky).
One time, she forgot the curtains were open. Now the neighbors won’t look you in the eye and Sevika? She smirks every time.
You already have Anaya but Sevika still talks about putting another baby in you like it’s her life’s mission.
She’ll say it in your ear while she’s fucking you, voice low and wrecked:
“Gonna fill you up again. Look so fuckin’ pretty knocked up.”
Even when she’s not using her strap, she fingers you through an orgasm while kissing your stomach, murmuring,
“Wanna see you round with my kid again. You’d carry it so well.”
The idea isn’t just sex it’s ownership, devotion, obsession. She wants every inch of you marked by her.
Early morning. Anaya’s still asleep. Sunlight through the curtains. You’re in her old t-shirt and nothing else. Sevika wakes up hard, sees the little wet patch on your shirt, and groans,
“Still leakin’ for me, mama?”
She wraps an arm around you, pulls your tit into her mouth, and suckles while fingering you slowly from behind.
You’re half-asleep and already moaning, legs trembling as she rubs slow circles over your clit and murmurs, “You’re so soft like this. So mine.”
She makes you come twice before breakfast. Her face never leaves your chest.
I’m gonna make a part two of this but of just basic Sevika headcannons cause I have so many written just let me know if you wanna be tagged in that Ⓒ atereaste
Since that kiss in the pantry, everything between you and Abby had shifted in a way you couldn’t quite explain. It was subtle at first, a few extra glances, a lingering touch here and there, but it was enough to send your heart racing every time you saw her. You told yourself it was just a moment, a one-time thing—something driven by heat, by everything you’d been suppressing. But with each passing day, it became harder to deny that it was more than that.
Abby never pushed, never rushed you. She gave you the space you needed, always respecting your boundaries, even as your connection deepened. She’d always been thoughtful like that—tuned into you in a way that felt... different from what you were used to. You were used to being invisible to your husband, your needs always secondary, but Abby—Abby saw you. She didn’t just see the woman on the surface; she saw everything. And for the first time in so long, it felt like you mattered.
During the days when your husband was at work, Abby would show up at your door with Ezekiel in tow. At first, you hesitated, unsure if letting them in so often was a good idea, but the way she looked at you, with her quiet, steady understanding, made it hard to say no. And in truth, you were grateful. She would step in without you needing to ask, a quiet comfort in the chaos that was your life. While you scrambled to manage everything—dishes, laundry, endless piles of work—Abby would step in with that quiet strength of hers, taking care of the kids, ensuring they were fed and entertained, so you could catch your breath.
Abby’s presence became a small, bright light in your overwhelming days. You found solace in the way she would help you with Madison, Kimberly, Jayden and Nico, her steady hands helping with everything from changing diapers to feeding bottles to brushing little heads of hair. Ezekiel, with his quiet intelligence, would play quietly with the younger ones, offering Madison a hand when she needed it or sharing toys with Kimberly, always with that kind smile of his. They didn’t just become a presence in your home—they became a part of your rhythm, something you never thought you could have, especially with everything that had happened in your own family.
Abby didn’t just help with the kids, though. She took care of you, too, in a way you hadn’t realized you were craving. She would linger by your side when you felt the weight of everything on your shoulders, offering gentle reassurance, or simply holding your hand when you needed the comfort of another person. When you were exhausted from doing everything alone, she would make you tea, or simply sit beside you in the quiet, not asking for anything, just giving you the peace you hadn’t known you needed.
There were moments—small, fleeting moments—when you would catch yourself staring at Abby, heart full of gratitude and longing, wishing that everything could just fall into place. Wishing you could be the person she deserved without the constraints of your current life holding you back.
But every time you caught yourself, you’d pull away, guilt gnawing at the back of your mind. You were married. You had kids. You had responsibilities, and you couldn’t let your mind wander too far from the reality of it all. Abby never made you feel that pressure, though. She never forced you to make a decision, never demanded anything in return for her kindness. But you felt it—the quiet tension between the lines, the electricity building each time she came to your door, the way your heart would race when she smiled at you, when her fingers brushed against yours.
She wasn’t your escape, you reminded yourself. She was your ally, your friend, a support system in the chaos. But sometimes, when your kids were in bed and the house was quiet, you’d find yourself longing for more. Longing for the care and tenderness Abby offered without question, without hesitation. It made you wonder what it would be like to let go of all the walls you had built, to let yourself feel the freedom you hadn’t known since before you were married.
As the days turned into weeks, the boundary between what was right and what was beginning to feel so right blurred. You were falling for Abby, slowly but surely, in a way that felt both terrifying and liberating all at once. The way she made you feel cared for, seen, loved—without expecting anything in return—was something you hadn’t realized you’d been starved for, something that began to gnaw at your heart when you weren’t with her.
She was at your door every morning now, without fail. You had stopped asking for her help and had started welcoming it. It wasn’t just the kids she helped with, though that in itself was a godsend, but it was the way she made everything feel less lonely. The way her presence filled a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty.
She steps inside, the door clicking shut behind her with a quiet finality. You had stopped locking it once your husband left for the day—an unspoken invitation for Abby to slip in seamlessly, filling the gaps where you were left to carry everything alone. She never questioned it, never made you feel like a burden for needing the help. She just showed up.
Trailing in behind her, Ezekiel clutches his dinosaur toy in one small hand, his other rubbing his tired eyes. The moment he spots Madison and the others, his posture shifts, his little feet already poised to run off and join them. But before he can, Abby places a gentle hand on his shoulder, her voice steady yet soft. “Say hello to Y/N first before you go play, Ezekiel.”
The boy halts mid-step, turning to face you with a sleepy grin. “Hi, Mrs. Y/N!” he says, his little wave filled with a warmth that tugs at something deep in your chest.
You manage a soft smile, waving back. “Hey, sweetheart.”
And just like that, he’s off, disappearing into the small chaos of childhood laughter filling the house. Abby watches him go for a moment before turning her attention back to you. Her expression shifts, that familiar warmth still present, but there’s something deeper beneath it, something searching. She leans back against the kitchen counter, arms crossing loosely over her chest as her gaze settles on you.
She smiles at you warm, effortless, like it costs her nothing at all. And you wish, God, you wish you could return it with the same ease. But the exhaustion, the weight of everything you carry, clings to you too tightly, wrapping around your ribs like a vice. The effort of trying to push it all aside, even for a second, feels impossible. So instead, you do what you always do—you move.
You step past her, reaching for the nearest task, something to keep your hands busy, something to focus on besides the way your chest feels too tight, besides the way she sees you.
But Abby doesn’t let you.
Her fingers curl gently around your wrist, her grip firm but careful, a tether pulling you back before you can disappear into routine again. You freeze, caught off guard, blinking up at her as she tilts her head slightly. Her brows knit together, concern etched into the softness of her expression.
"Y/N." Her voice is quiet, steady. "Smile."
The request is simple. Too simple. And yet, it knocks something loose in your chest.
You swallow, searching for some kind of defense, something that will make her let you go. "I smile," you argue weakly, but even you don’t believe it. Abby does. She always does. And she sees right through you. A quiet chuckle escapes her, something small and knowing. She shakes her head before stepping in closer, her presence grounding. "Not enough." The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should be. You open your mouth to protest, to tell her that you’re fine, that she doesn’t need to worry—but the words never come. Because before your mind can convince you to pull away, before you can second-guess it, you just… let go.
For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself a moment of relief. Just one.
You lean into her, resting your head against her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath you. It’s brief because it has to be, because the guilt is already creeping in but it’s enough. Enough to remind you that you are here. That you are not alone. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you finally speak. "Thank you for helping." You hesitate, gripping onto the fabric of her shirt for just a second before exhaling shakily. "I’ve never had this kind of help before."
Abby exhales softly, and without hesitation, her arms come around you, solid and sure, holding you like it’s second nature. She doesn’t tell you that you don’t need to thank her. She doesn’t try to convince you that you deserve more than this. She just holds you.
Pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head, she rubs slow, soothing circles into your back, her voice a quiet murmur against your hair.
"No need to thank me." A pause. A promise. "I got you."
You pull away from her warmth, but not before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. It’s quick, almost shy, but the way she doesn’t immediately pull back makes your heart skip. The feeling lingers on your lips as you turn back to the sink, letting the familiar sound of water running and dishes clinking settle your nerves. But Abby doesn’t leave. She stays there, still leaning against the counter, her eyes fixed on you.
"How about a little picnic?" she asks, her voice quiet and gentle, but there's a warmth in it that makes you stop what you're doing for a moment.
You don't answer right away, continuing to scrub a plate with more force than necessary. The weight of her gaze stays on you, waiting.
"Just me, you, and the kids," she continues, her voice a little closer now, nudging herself into your space. "A day outside, some fresh air. No chores, no responsibilities."
You let out a sigh, turning the faucet off and gripping the edge of the sink, trying to find some balance between the pull of her suggestion and the heaviness in your chest. "I don’t know, Abby. I have so much s—"
She cuts you off before you can finish, stepping in front of you. Her hands come to rest gently on your waist, firm yet soothing, grounding you as her touch sends a wave of warmth through your body. "Just one day," she says softly, her tone unwavering. "If you don’t like it, we never have to do it again."
You stare at her, lips parting as if to argue, but the words don’t come. Your eyes flicker to the floor, fighting the rush of conflicting emotions that pull at you. The weight of everything you’ve been carrying, the endless cycle of cleaning, cooking, meeting expectations that were never yours to meet. All of it feels suffocating at times, and the thought of just one day free of it, just one day to breathe, begins to soften the edge of your resistance.
Would it really hurt?
You glance up toward the stairs, hearing the faint sounds of your kids’ laughter echoing down. The joy in their voices is so simple, so pure, it tugs at your heart. You can almost see them outside, running across the yard with the sun warming their faces, their laughter filling the air. You imagine sitting beside Abby, no pressure, no responsibilities. Just a moment of peace.
Your throat tightens, the words almost caught in your chest, but you swallow them down and take a deep breath.
"Fine," you whisper, barely audible. Then, a little stronger, with more conviction, "Let’s do it."
Abby’s expression shifts, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her face. She doesn’t say anything else. she brushes a strand of hair from your face, her fingers lingering at your cheek.
"You get the kids ready and grab a blanket," she murmurs. "I’ll handle everything else."
You nod, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of your lips, something lighter blooming in your chest. For the first time in so long, you feel something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in what seems like forever—hope. A tiny spark of it, something you thought might have been lost.
As you walk past her toward the stairs, you can’t help but let that smile grow a little wider, allowing yourself to believe, just for today, that maybe you deserve a break. Maybe you deserve this.
Walking into the kids' room, you pause for a moment to take in the familiar chaos. Madison and Ezekiel are sitting cross-legged on the floor, engaged in some intense game that involves making up silly stories with their toys. Their laughter fills the air, a sound that always brings warmth to your heart. Kimberly, sitting nearby, watches them with wide, fascinated eyes, her attention completely captured by whatever game they’re playing. Jayden is sitting alone, chewing on one of his toys, his little face scrunched up in concentration. Nico, meanwhile, is sleeping soundly in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern, so peaceful in his slumber that it almost seems like he’s untouched by the noise around him.
As soon as Madison catches sight of you walking in, she springs to her feet with an excited squeal. "Hi, Momma!" she chirps, her face lighting up like a little sunbeam. She waves her arms wildly as if she’s just spotted you after years apart, even though it’s only been a few hours since breakfast. You smile back at her, your chest swelling with affection as you make your way over to the closet to grab a blanket for the picnic.
But before you can even reach the shelf, Madison’s face suddenly shifts, her expression turning curious as she watches you. “What’s wrong, Momma? Where are we going?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. There’s an innocent concern in her voice, a sweetness that makes your heart ache. You stop in your tracks, kneeling down in front of her. Gently, you tuck a loose curl behind her ear and cradle her small face in your palm.
“Abby is taking us on a picnic,” you say softly, letting the words settle between you.
The second the words leave your mouth, Madison's face lights up like a Christmas tree. She shrieks with glee, her little hands flailing as she jumps up and down in excitement. The sound is almost too high-pitched, but it's full of joy, and it makes your heart flutter. Kimberly, always ready to follow her older sister's lead, claps her tiny hands together and bounces in place, giggling with the same unrestrained excitement.
Jayden, who’s been quietly playing on the floor, doesn’t join in the chorus of celebration, but his face breaks into a huge grin, and a soft giggle escapes him as he watches his sisters. The room is filled with the sound of their joy, and it makes you feel lighter just being surrounded by it.
Madison, still buzzing with energy, whirls around to grab Ezekiel’s hands. “Ezekiel! Your momma is taking us on a picnic!” she practically sings, her voice bubbling with pure happiness. Her enthusiasm is so contagious that you can’t help but smile, watching as Ezekiel giggles along with her. The sudden excitement, though, is enough to rouse Nico from his nap. The peaceful silence of his sleep is shattered by a sharp, startled cry. His little face scrunches up, and the high-pitched wail echoes through the room.
Madison freezes immediately, her bright smile fading into a look of guilt as she glances at you. Her eyes widen, and she takes a cautious step back, almost as if preparing for a scolding. “I’m sorry, Momma. I woke up Nico,” she whispers, her voice small and full of regret.
Your heart tugs at the sight of her concern, her big eyes filled with worry. You quickly shake your head and smile at her, reassuring her with a soft, gentle tone. “It’s okay, baby. It wasn’t your fault.” You walk over to Nico’s crib, your arms outstretched as you lean down to lift him. His tiny body is warm and soft against your chest, and as soon as he’s settled in your arms, his cries slowly start to fade, replaced by the quiet sniffs of a baby who just needed to feel the safety of your touch.
You sway gently, rocking him in your arms as his tiny hands grip onto your shirt, and the crying gradually gives way to a contented sigh. He’s calm now, his little body melting into yours as you continue to rock him back and forth, rubbing soothing circles on his back. You whisper quietly to him, “Shh, it’s okay, Nico. You’re alright.” Before you can say anything more, Abby’s voice breaks through the soft lull of the room, her familiar tone filling the space with its calm warmth.
“Everything okay?”
You hear Abby’s voice before you see her, soft but laced with concern. You turn, finding her standing in the doorway, her brows slightly furrowed as she looks between you and the now-settling Nico in your arms. The sight of her, the reassurance in her presence, does something to you—calms you in a way you didn’t even realize you needed.
Letting out a quiet breath, you give a small nod, still swaying gently with Nico in your arms. “Nico woke up,” you explain, your voice carrying the weight of your exhaustion, but there's also a tenderness in the way you speak about him.
Abby exhales, her shoulders relaxing as she steps fully into the room. “I got Jayden,” she says softly, her voice steady, as if this is just another part of her day. She moves toward Jayden, who’s sitting on the floor, his small hands reaching up toward her with innocent eagerness. Abby crouches beside him, her grin wide as she ruffles his curls with affection. She makes quick work of slipping his tiny sneakers on, the sound of the soft Velcro and the shuffle of his small feet filling the air.
Jayden kicks his legs, giggling uncontrollably as Abby’s fingers tickle his sides. "You ready for the best picnic ever, little man?" she asks, her voice low but playful, her eyes dancing with warmth. Jayden’s response is an enthusiastic nod, his little arms flailing as he lets out a delighted squeal, clearly thrilled by the idea of a picnic. Abby finishes tying his shoes, her hands nimble and sure as she adjusts the laces.
Watching the scene unfold, you feel something shift in your chest. The way Abby so naturally interacts with your children, like she’s been doing this for years, is a kind of magic you never thought you’d experience. She doesn’t just care for them—she connects with them. She’s part of the rhythm of your home, part of your family in a way that feels effortless, yet profound. For the first time in a long while, something inside you whispers that this—that this feeling—is what family is supposed to feel like.
Abby looks up at you then, her eyes meeting yours with an unreadable softness. She lifts Jayden effortlessly, settling him in her arms as he wraps his little hands around her neck. With a smile, she murmurs, “I got everything packed up in my truck.” Her words are casual, but there’s a depth to them, like she’s offering more than just a picnic—it’s an invitation to let go, to trust, to be.
As you walk down the stairs and out the door, a wave of anxiety crashes over you. What if your husband found out? What would happen if he came home early and saw an empty, uncleaned house? What if he walked in and found you, playing house with another woman? The fear bubbles up inside of you like a knot, and your feet freeze on the last step.
This wasn’t normal. You didn’t leave the house by yourself—not unless it was for church, the grocery store, or to drop the kids off at school. Every other moment, you were expected to be there, within these walls. You weren’t allowed to do anything else, to go anywhere else. And now... now, you were stepping outside, into something that felt like freedom, but freedom that came with its own set of consequences. This house had become a prison, and the world outside felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
Abby, oblivious to the storm of worry inside you, opens the door. The kids burst through, their laughter and giggles filling the air like a bright, blinding light. They’re carefree, already caught up in the magic of the moment. But you stand frozen, caught between wanting to join them and the weight of all the “what ifs” that suffocate you.
Abby notices your hesitation, and for the first time, she softens. She turns to you, her hand outstretched. "Come on, Y/N. It’s gonna be fun, trust me."
You hesitate, your breath shaky as you look at her, then at Nico in your arms, and then back at Abby. You want to say no, but something inside you just needs a break from the constant weight on your shoulders. After a long breath, you finally give in, your fingers brushing against hers as you take her hand. It’s simple, but it feels like a step toward something you didn’t realize you were craving.
Abby gently takes Nico from your arms, placing him in the car seat, then opens the door for you. “Don’t stress yourself,” she says softly, her voice a quiet anchor against the storm inside your mind. You let out a shaky breath as she closes the car door, and her calmness is a balm to your nerves. She moves quickly, buckling in Jayden and Kimberly before getting in herself.
With a rev of the engine, Abby turns to look in the rearview mirror at the kids. “Who’s ready for our picnic?” she asks, her voice light, almost teasing.
The kids burst into a roar of excitement, their collective joy ringing in the car like a symphony. You catch a glimpse of their faces in the mirror, their wide eyes filled with happiness, and you feel a small spark of warmth deep inside.
And then Abby drives off. The world outside the window blurs into motion, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, today could be different.
The drive there was worlds apart from the usual tension-filled trips with your husband. Instead of the stifled silence or sharp words that often accompanied car rides, there was an easy comfort in the air. The kids were talking over each other, their excited voices filling the truck without any fear of being scolded for being too loud. Madison and Kimberly were laughing, whispering back and forth in their own little world, while Jayden, always the chatterbox, babbled about whatever his little mind had come up with that day. Nico, strapped in his car seat, cooed contentedly in the back, his small hands waving in the air as if he was just as excited as the rest of them.
But it wasn’t just your kids who were enjoying the freedom of this moment. Ezekiel, Abby’s son, was in the mix, happily playing with a small toy in his lap, making little noises of his own as he watched the world whiz by outside the window. His occasional giggle blended seamlessly with the rest of the chatter, as if he were always meant to be part of this lively atmosphere. Abby glanced back at him through the rearview mirror with a soft smile, checking on him in between moments of glancing at the road, a picture of calm assurance.
What really struck you was the absence of tension. Normally, your husband’s presence on these drives would make everything feel tight and stifled, his constant reminders to keep the kids quiet, to behave properly, hovering over every conversation. But here, with Abby behind the wheel, there was no need for that. She let the kids talk, laugh, and express themselves freely, her eyes occasionally flicking to them with a smile or a gentle word to encourage their joy.
As you glanced around, you realized something you hadn’t even thought about until now. This wasn’t just a break for you, escaping the weight of everything you carried at home. No, this was a break for your children too. They were allowed to be themselves in a way they rarely got to be allowed to talk loudly, laugh without restraint, and just be without worrying about causing any disruptions. Even Ezekiel seemed to thrive in this environment, his bright eyes alight with excitement, free from the pressure of expectations that often loomed over him at home.
And Abby, in her quiet way, had helped create this space. She hadn’t just made it about giving you a break—she had also made it about giving your children something they deserved: the ability to simply exist without the constant pressure of living up to someone else’s rules. With every gentle word she spoke to them, every kind glance she shared with Ezekiel, you realized how much of a gift this day was not just for you, but for all of you.
It was rare that you got to experience this kind of freedom, and even rarer for your children. But here, in this moment, there was nothing holding them back. They were happy, carefree, and so was Ezekiel. He was part of the group, fully included in the joy of the day, just as he should be. The weight of everything else—of your husband, of the expectations, of the pressure—faded away as you let yourself sink into this rare peace. It felt like a small victory, a chance to breathe that you’d almost forgotten you needed. And it wasn’t just yours—it was something you and Abby were offering to your children, to Ezekiel, and even to yourselves.
As Abby pulls up to the park, the engine hums to a stop, and she switches off the ignition. She turns to face the kids, her voice bright with excitement. "We’re here!" she announces. The moment the words leave her mouth, the kids erupt in a chorus of cheers, their voices blending together in a symphony of joy. They scramble to unbuckle their seatbelts, barely waiting for the car to come to a complete stop before they’re ready to burst out of the vehicle.
Abby chuckles, shaking her head at the flurry of energy, before she gets out and starts helping the kids with their seatbelts. You sit there for a moment, still in the car, the realization slowly settling in. You actually did it. You actually left the house. You didn't just think about it, didn't just imagine the freedom—you did it. A mix of relief and disbelief washes over you as you take in the moment. For so long, leaving the house had seemed like an impossible feat, something you weren’t allowed to do without consequences. But now, here you were, in the middle of it, feeling something you hadn’t felt in a long time: choice.
You take a deep breath, willing the unease to dissipate, before you finally open the door and step out of the car. Abby's already setting up the picnic blanket near a large maple tree, the basket she packed full of food resting beside it. You help her lay Nico down on the blanket, giving him a moment to squirm and explore in his own little way, his tiny hands reaching up at the sky, his eyes wide with wonder at the world around him.
Madison and Ezekiel immediately take off running, their laughter carrying through the air, the sounds of their joy so pure and unrestrained. Kimberly and Jayden, not to be left behind, follow as best they can, their little legs moving as fast as they can manage, the younger ones struggling to keep up with the older kids’ energy.
Abby sits down on the blanket next to you, her arms gently wrapping around you, pulling you closer. You lean into her, your head finding its place on her chest as the peaceful sounds of the park fill the space around you. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, the sun shining down through the leaves above, and the gentle rustling of the trees.
“You’re doing great,” Abby whispers softly, her voice steady and soothing. You let out a long breath, the weight of everything you've been carrying lightening just a little. You smile faintly, feeling her warmth, her solid presence beside you. You interlace your fingers with hers, the simple touch offering more comfort than you thought it would.
You turn your gaze to the kids, watching them chase each other through the grass, their faces alight with joy. Abby follows your gaze, her voice tender as she speaks. “Look at them, having fun.” She pauses for a moment, as if reflecting on the significance of it all. “Ezekiel told me he’s not so lonely anymore, not since he started playing with Madison and the others.” There’s a softness in her tone, a quiet pride, as she looks at you, her eyes warm and open.
You look up at her, your eyes meeting hers. Her gaze is gentle, filled with understanding, and for a brief moment, the world outside of this peaceful bubble you’ve created fades away. It’s just you and Abby, here with the kids, and something deep inside you shifts. Maybe it’s the way the sunlight dances on her hair, or how her hand feels in yours, but in this moment, you feel something that’s been missing for a long time a connection, a sense of belonging, not just for you but for your children as well.
You stay in the quiet of the moment, feeling the peaceful rhythm of your breath match Abby’s. The air feels different here—lighter, freer, almost like the weight of the world hasn’t quite found its way into the space you’ve carved out beneath this tree. You look at Abby again, her gaze still soft but purposeful as she watches the kids play.
Her hand gently squeezes yours, grounding you. “I’m glad we did this,” she says quietly, as though reading the quiet thoughts you hadn’t voiced. The kids are running in circles now, a blur of limbs and laughter. It’s the kind of joy that feels contagious, so unburdened and alive. You watch them for a moment, feeling a smile tug at your lips, a warmth spreading across your chest.
“I didn’t think I could,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, your words directed more to yourself than to Abby. “I didn’t think I could get out. I never... I never really realized how much I needed to.”
Abby doesn’t answer right away, her attention still on the kids, but her grip on your hand tightens just slightly. It’s not forceful, just a reminder, as if telling you, I’m here. It’s all she needs to say, and you feel the truth of it settle into you. In that moment, you realize that this wasn’t just a picnic, or a break from the house, it was something far more important.
The fact that you could leave, that you could make a choice, felt like a small rebellion, a reclaiming of something you thought was lost. Abby’s right here beside you, a steady presence, and suddenly the heaviness you’ve carried for so long doesn’t seem so impossible to face.
You take in a slow, deliberate breath, the weight in your chest lifting just a little more. For the first time in a while, you feel like you’re not suffocating under the pressure of expectations—yours, your husband's, society’s.
“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” you say, voice cracking slightly, but the gratitude in your tone is undeniable. It’s a simple thing, really—just a day in the park, just a moment outside the walls of your house. But it’s more than that. It’s a chance to breathe again, to remember that there’s more to life than everything that’s been piled onto you. And Abby made it happen, without any fanfare or demand for recognition. She just... did it.
She smiles at you, that same calm smile that feels like a lifeline. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/N. Just... keep trusting me, okay?” There’s no rush in her voice, no pressure. Just an invitation, a quiet promise that she’s here for the long haul, ready to help you untangle whatever’s been holding you back.
You nod slowly, feeling the gravity of her words sink in. Trusting Abby feels easy in a way it never has with anyone else. The way she makes you feel like you matter, like your needs—your fears are valid, and worth addressing.
“I’ll try,” you say softly, squeezing her hand in return. Your gaze drifts back to the kids, who are now tumbling across the grass, laughing with abandon, their carefree spirits filling the space.
The day stretches before you, a soft, hopeful kind of promise, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to truly hope for more days like this—days when the weight feels lighter, when you can simply exist without the constant pressure of being everything for everyone.
Kimberly toddles over to Abby, her little feet kicking up bits of grass as she makes her way across the picnic blanket. She taps Abby’s shoulder with her tiny fingers, her face set with determination. Abby, who had been resting back on her hands, looks down at her with a curious smile.
“What is it, kiddo?” Abby asks, shifting so she’s sitting up straight.
Kimberly doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, she raises a small hand and points toward the picnic basket, her dark eyes expectant. Without a word, she clambers into Abby’s lap, settling against her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Abby lets out a small chuckle, wrapping an arm around her instinctively to keep her steady.
“What are you after, huh?” Abby teases, her fingers brushing gently over Kimberly’s back. “You got something in mind?”
Kimberly’s little finger continues to point, unwavering. “Juice, Mom.”
Everything around you stills.
The laughter of the older kids playing in the distance dulls, the rustling of leaves in the gentle afternoon breeze fades, and all you can hear is the rapid pounding of your own heart.
You freeze, the motion of reaching for a napkin completely forgotten. Your gaze snaps to Kimberly, then to Abby, who has gone completely still beneath the weight of that single word.
Mom.
She called Abby Mom.
Abby’s lips part slightly, her blue eyes widening as she processes what just happened. Her grip on Kimberly tightens instinctively, protectively, but she doesn’t correct her. She doesn’t question it. Instead, she looks at you.
And you don’t know what to say.
Your mouth feels dry, your mind a mess of emotions you can’t even begin to untangle. Kimberly doesn’t seem to realize the significance of what she’s done—she just keeps looking at Abby expectantly, waiting for her juice like it was the most normal thing in the world to call her Mom.
Abby blinks, then clears her throat, her voice a little softer when she finally speaks. “Juice, huh?” She reaches over, pulling a small bottle from the basket before twisting off the cap and handing it to Kimberly.
The little girl beams, taking the juice with both hands and sipping happily. She wiggles a little deeper into Abby’s hold, completely oblivious to the way your entire world has just shifted.
Abby looks at you again, searching your face for a reaction, for permission, for something.
You don’t know how to respond.
Kimberly remains curled up in Abby’s lap, sipping her juice, blissfully unaware of the weight of her words. She called Abby Mom. And Abby… she didn’t correct her.
Abby shifts slightly, adjusting Kimberly so she’s more comfortable, but her eyes stay locked on you. There’s something careful, something almost hesitant in her expression when she finally speaks.
“I didn’t want to correct her,” she says quietly, watching you for any sign of discomfort.
You hold Nico close, his small, steady breaths against your neck grounding you. You should say something. Maybe correct Kimberly yourself. Maybe tell Abby that it was just a slip of the tongue, that it didn’t mean anything.
But that would be a lie.
You glance down at Kimberly, completely at ease in Abby’s arms, and then back up at Abby, who’s still waiting for your response. A part of you wants to dwell on it, overthink it, let the fear creep back in. But another part of you—the part that’s been longing for something safe, something real—pushes all that doubt aside.
You swallow, offering Abby a small, soft smile.
“It’s okay.”
Abby’s lips twitch into something like relief, and before either of you can say anything else, Madison’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Momma!”
She comes running over, her curls bouncing as she skids to a stop in front of you, practically vibrating with excitement. “Can you play in the water with me?” she asks, clasping her hands together, her wide, pleading eyes making it impossible to say no. Abby chuckles, giving Kimberly’s back a small rub before glancing at you. “Go,” she encourages. “I’ll keep an eye on Nico and Ms. Kimberly.” You hesitate for only a second before sighing, carefully setting Nico down on the blanket. The second you’re up, Madison grabs your hand, dragging you toward the lake.
“Come on, Momma!” she urges, her excitement contagious.
Jayden and Ezekiel are already in the water, splashing at each other, their laughter ringing through the air. As you step closer, you slip off your shoes, dipping your toes in first—only for a sharp chill to shoot up your legs.
“Oh-” You suck in a breath, shivering slightly before laughing. “It’s cold!”
Madison giggles at your reaction before spinning back toward Jayden and Ezekiel, kicking at the water and sending droplets flying in every direction. Jayden yelps, shrieking with laughter as he splashes back, while Ezekiel joins in with a mischievous grin.
You watch them, smiling as you move your feet in slow circles beneath the water, enjoying the rare feeling of peace. And then Madison suddenly stops. She turns toward you, her excitement dimming just a little, her voice softer now.
“Momma, I like Miss Anderson.”
You blink down at her, caught off guard. “You do?”
Madison nods, her curls bobbing with the motion. “She makes you smile,” she says simply. “And she makes us laugh.” Your heart clenches at her words, at the sincerity in her voice. Before you can respond, she hesitates, her little hands playing with the hem of her shirt. “I wish she could replace Daddy,” she murmurs, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.
Your breath catches.
Madison looks down, her fingers twisting together as her face falls. “I wish she could be our second mom,” she says, her voice just a whisper now. Then, as if she’s afraid she’s said something wrong, she finally looks back up at you, eyes glassy. “I don’t like Daddy, Momma. He makes you cry… and he’s rude.”
Your throat tightens.
She shouldn’t have to notice these things. She shouldn’t have to carry these thoughts in her little heart. You sink down to her level, your hands gently cupping her face as you take in the sadness in her eyes, the way her tiny body is tense, like she’s bracing herself.
Tears prick at your own eyes as you press a kiss to her forehead.
“Oh, baby,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
And then you pull her into your arms, holding her tight as she clings to you.
Madison buries her face into your shoulder, her small body trembling slightly as she clings to you. You stroke her curls gently, pressing another kiss to the top of her head as you blink away your own tears.
No child should have to feel this way. No child should have to wish for a different father, for a different life. You hold her tighter.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” you whisper again, voice thick with emotion.
Madison sniffles, her grip on you tightening before she finally pulls back, her big, brown eyes searching yours. “Are you mad at me?” she asks hesitantly, her voice so small.
Your heart shatters.
“Oh, sweetheart, no.” You shake your head quickly, cupping her face in your hands. “Never. You can always tell me how you feel, okay?” She nods, but you can see the uncertainty still lingering in her expression. You hate that she’s even questioning whether her feelings are allowed. You brush away a stray tear from her cheek before offering her a small smile. “You know what? I really like Miss Anderson too.”
Madison’s face lights up, her sadness momentarily forgotten. “You do?”
You nod, glancing over your shoulder toward Abby. She’s still sitting on the picnic blanket, holding Nico against her chest, his tiny body completely relaxed in her arms. Kimberly is beside her, contently sipping from her juice box while Abby absentmindedly runs her fingers through her curls.
It’s such a natural sight.
Like they belong there.
Like this is how things are supposed to be.
You turn back to Madison, brushing another curl behind her ear. “Yeah, baby. I really do.”
Madison beams before suddenly gasping, her eyes widening with excitement. “Can we tell her? Can we tell Miss Anderson we like her?”
You hesitate.
Not because you don’t want to tell Abby—God, you do—but because this is still so fragile. You’re still so scared.
But then you look at your daughter’s hopeful expression, and something inside you steels.
“Yeah,” you say softly, nodding. “We can tell her.”
Madison lets out a delighted squeal before grabbing your hand. “Come on, Momma! Let’s tell her now!” She tugs you toward the picnic blanket, her excitement contagious. You laugh softly, wiping away the last traces of your tears as you let her pull you forward.
As you approach, Abby looks up, a soft smile already on her lips. “You guys have fun?”
Madison nods enthusiastically, her curls bouncing as she shifts from foot to foot, barely able to contain her excitement. “Momma says she likes you!” she blurts out before you even have the chance to sit down.
Your entire body goes still.
Your breath catches in your throat as your wide eyes dart to your daughter, who is now grinning up at Abby like she just handed her the best news of her life. You swear you can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, the weight of those words settling deep in your chest.
You glance at Abby hesitantly, afraid to see her reaction. Afraid that maybe she won’t feel the same. That maybe this moment—this thing between you—has all been in your head.
Abby raises an eyebrow, clearly amused as she leans back slightly, arms crossed over her chest. There’s a teasing glint in her eye, but beneath it, something else lingers. Something softer. Something hopeful.
“Oh yeah?” she muses, turning her attention to you.
You swallow hard, suddenly feeling warm under the afternoon sun, though you know it has nothing to do with the weather. You can’t bring yourself to look at Madison anymore—her innocent excitement is too much—so you keep your focus on Abby instead.
“Yeah,” you murmur, voice quieter than you intended. “I do.”
The words come out almost like a confession, one you weren’t sure you were ready to say out loud. But now that they’re out there, hanging in the space between you, you realize how right they feel.
Something in Abby’s expression shifts. The teasing fades just enough to reveal the sincerity beneath it. And then she smiles.
Not just any smile—but that smile. The kind that reaches her eyes, the kind that makes her dimples appear, the kind that makes your heart stumble over itself in your chest.
“I like you too,” she says, her voice just as soft, just as certain.
And just like that, something settles in your chest. Something you didn’t even realize had been restless all this time.
Madison giggles, clapping her hands together like she’s just witnessed the best love story unfold right before her eyes. “I knew it!” she exclaims before skipping off toward Ezekiel, already eager to share the news. But you barely notice. Because Abby is still looking at you, that smile still lingering on her lips.
And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.
The drive home was quiet—not because of the words left lingering between you and Abby, but because the kids had all drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep, their tiny bodies worn out from the excitement of the day. The soft hum of the engine filled the silence, and for a moment, it almost felt like you were driving toward something good rather than away from it.
But then Abby’s truck slowed, the familiar sight of your house creeping into view, and your stomach twisted painfully.
The streetlight outside flickered, casting eerie shadows over the driveway, and as soon as the truck came to a stop, the weight of reality crashed down on you.
You didn’t want to go back.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, your breath shaky as you stared at the house—the place that had felt less like a home and more like a cage for as long as you could remember. Today had been the first day in years that you’d felt truly free, the first day where laughter hadn’t been followed by fear, where your children could just be kids without walking on eggshells. And now, after just a few hours of warmth, of safety, of happiness, you had to step back inside and pretend none of it ever happened.
Pretend you weren’t suffocating.
Pretend you weren’t miserable.
Pretend you were someone you weren’t.
Abby must have sensed the shift in you because she didn’t move to turn off the truck just yet. Instead, she rested a hand on the gear shift, glancing at you carefully, her voice gentle when she finally spoke.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to look at her. The soft glow of the dashboard lights traced over her face, highlighting the quiet concern in her eyes, the silent promise in them.
For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if you didn’t have to go back. If you could just drive past this house and keep going—if you could give yourself and your kids a new life, one without fear.
But life wasn’t that simple.
You swallowed hard, pushing the fantasy aside before it could take root. With a deep breath, you reached for the door handle, steadying yourself. “I have to,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her.
Abby didn’t argue. She just exhaled slowly, nodding, but before you could step out, her fingers brushed over the back of your hand—a fleeting touch, but enough to ground you. “I’ll be here,” she murmured. “Whenever you need me.”
You didn’t trust yourself to respond. Instead, you gave her a small, wavering nod before finally opening the door, stepping back into the life you wished you could leave behind.
The house was eerily silent as you moved through the dimly lit hall, gently pulling the blankets up over each of your sleeping children. Their faces were peaceful, untouched by the fear and weight you carried, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching them.
Madison’s words echoed in your mind. I don’t like Daddy, Momma. He makes you cry.
You had tried so hard to shield them from this. You had done everything in your power to keep them safe, to keep him away from them when his temper flared. But was it enough? Had it ever been enough?
A deep sigh left your lips as you turned to leave the room, carefully easing the door shut behind you. But as soon as you stepped into the hallway, you heard it—the unmistakable sound of heavy, unsteady footsteps, the creak of the floorboards beneath his weight.
Your stomach dropped.
He was home.
The scent of alcohol hit you before you even saw him. And when you did—when he stepped out of the shadows, swaying slightly, his bloodshot eyes locking onto you—you knew this wasn’t going to end well.
“Where the hell have you been?” he slurred, his voice thick with drunken anger.
Your throat tightened. Did he know? Of course he did. He always knew.
“I was he—”
He lifted a hand suddenly, and before you could stop yourself, you flinched. A bitter smile twisted across his face at the reaction. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Don’t lie to me.” Your mind raced for an answer, a way out, something to de-escalate before things turned worse. “I was here,” you said quickly. “Cleaning.”
It was a lie. A pathetic, obvious lie. But he was drunk—maybe he wouldn’t press it.
For a second, it seemed to work. His head tilted slightly as if considering your words, and then, just when you thought he might let it go, his expression twisted into something ugly. “Oh, okay,” he mocked, stepping back. But the momentary relief vanished as he suddenly whipped the glass bottle in his hand toward you. You barely had time to react before it shattered against the wall beside you, shards flying, the sharp scent of liquor filling the air.
Your breath caught in your throat as he stalked forward, his voice rising. “You think I’m stupid, Y/N? You think I don’t notice things?” His hands grabbed your arms, shaking you hard enough to make your head spin. “You don’t think I know you’ve been playing house with that—” He sneered, his grip tightening. “With that fucking dyke?”
Your heart pounded. He knew.
Tears pricked your eyes as he shoved you back, your spine hitting the wall with enough force to make you gasp. “You think I don’t see what’s going on?” he spat. “I saw her coming into my house. Rubbing all over my wife. Talking to my kids like she has any damn right—”
His voice blurred, rage twisting his words into something unintelligible. Your body was frozen, trapped between the wall and the fury in his eyes, as panic clawed its way up your throat.
His grip tightened on your arms, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. His breath was hot and reeked of alcohol, his words slurred but no less venomous. “You really thought I wouldn’t find out?” he sneered, shaking you again, your head snapping back against the wall. “Thought you could just run around behind my back like some cheap whore?”
Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you forced yourself to stay still, to not give him a reaction that would make things worse. Stay calm. Stay quiet. Don’t provoke him.
“I wasn’t—”
His hand moved too fast for you to react, slamming against the wall beside your head with enough force to rattle the picture frames. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Y/N!” he roared.
You flinched, your body instinctively shrinking against the wall. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. The kids were asleep—God, please let them stay asleep.
He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin, the scent of whiskey clinging to him like a second skin. His voice dropped into a low, venomous whisper, each word laced with cruel amusement.
“You really think she’s gonna save you?” His lips curled, twisting into something sharp, something cruel. “You think she’s gonna take you away from me?”
His fingers twitched at his sides before he reached up, tracing a knuckle along your jaw in a mockery of affection. The touch was deceptively light, a sick contrast to the storm brewing in his eyes. Then, his expression darkened.
“You’re mine,” he hissed, his voice barely above a growl. “You. And those kids.”
He stepped closer, caging you in, making the walls feel smaller, the air thinner. His eyes bored into yours, daring you to contradict him, daring you to fight.
“You think that bitch is gonna take care of them? Think she’s gonna want you once she realizes you ain’t worth shit?”
Disgust curled in his tone, but there was something else beneath it—possession. A sick, twisted need to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
Then, before you could react, before you could so much as breathe, his hand lashed out. The impact was immediate, the sharp crack of skin against skin echoing through the room. The rings on his fingers bit into your cheek, amplifying the pain, sending a sharp, stinging heat spreading across your face.
He watched you, his breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling like a man who had convinced himself he had every right to do this.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, eyes dark and unforgiving. “Not you. Not them kids.”
Your head snapped to the side from the force of the slap, the taste of metal blooming in your mouth. The pain throbbed, sharp and searing, as the imprint of his rings dug into your skin. For a moment, the room blurred—your vision swimming, your breath caught somewhere between shock and something dangerously close to fury.
But you didn’t speak. You didn’t move.
His hand lingered at his side, fingers flexing, like he was considering doing it again. Like he wanted to.
He let out a slow, heavy breath, shaking his head as if you were the problem. As if you were the one who drove him to this. His lips curled into a sneer, his voice dipping into something almost mocking.
“See what you make me do?” He reached out, gripping your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. His touch was rough, bruising, like he wanted to make sure you felt every bit of his control. “You belong to me. Ain’t no one coming to save you. No one’s gonna love you like I do.”
The weight of his words settled over you like a noose tightening around your throat.
Then, his gaze flickered, shifting toward the hallway—toward the room where the kids were. A slow, knowing smile crept onto his face, something dark gleaming behind his eyes.
“You wanna leave? You wanna take them?” His fingers dug into your jaw, enough to make your teeth clench. “Go ahead. Try it. See what happens.”
His grip loosened just enough for you to pull away, but you didn’t dare move, not yet.
He let out a low chuckle, stepping back with an air of arrogant ease, like he had all the time in the world. Like he had already won. The smirk on his face lingered as he turned, making his way up the stairs, his heavy footsteps disappearing into the bedroom.
The moment he was out of sight, your legs gave out beneath you, and you slid to the floor, your body curling inward as your hands instinctively cradled your swollen cheek. The sting was sharp, the metallic tang of blood coating your tongue. The pain was nothing new, but tonight—tonight, something cracked inside you.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over in hot, silent streams as you whispered to yourself, "I need to get out of here."
The thought turned into action before you could second-guess yourself. You pushed yourself up, wiping at your face, and stumbled toward your children's bedroom. The moment you stepped inside, your hands shook as you yanked an old suitcase from the closet, unzipping it with frantic urgency. You didn’t think—you just grabbed, stuffing clothes, shoes, anything your hands landed on.
Your mind reeled, flashes of the last five years playing in a relentless loop. The bruises. The gaslighting. The cheating. The nights spent crying yourself to sleep while he acted like nothing was wrong. The threats—God, the threats. Every time you tried to leave, he reminded you just how powerless you were. And for so long, you believed him.
Until Abby.
Abby, who looked at you like you were someone. Who made you feel like you were more than just a punching bag, more than just some broken woman too afraid to walk away.
Your breathing hitched, chest tightening until you were gasping for air. You pressed a trembling hand to your lips, trying to keep quiet, but the sound was enough to stir Madison. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes as she sat up in bed.
"Momma?" Her small voice was thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"
You swallowed the sob clawing at your throat and crossed the room, kneeling beside her. Gently, you stroked her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Shh, baby," you whispered. "We need to go. Get your things, okay?"
She stared at you, her little face scrunching in confusion, but she nodded. No questions, no complaints—just trust.
One by one, you woke Kimberly and Jayden, telling them the same thing. Sleepy and confused, they obeyed, moving quickly but quietly, stuffing their backpacks with whatever they could grab. You moved to the crib, lifting Nico carefully into your arms. He whimpered, stirring slightly, but you rocked him, whispering soft reassurances until he settled back into sleep.
You listened, straining to hear any movement upstairs. The bathroom door was still shut. Good. Keep wasting time in there.
Turning back, you looked at your children—Madison, Kimberly, Jayden, and little Nico in your arms. They didn’t understand, not fully, but they trusted you. And they were ready. You inhaled deeply, steeling yourself. Then, carefully, you peeked into the hallway before stepping out into the living room. The front door loomed ahead, freedom just on the other side.
Your gaze dropped to your hand. The wedding ring glinted under the dim light, a symbol of promises long broken. A life you never wanted.
Your fingers trembled as you slid it off. It felt lighter than you expected, as if it had never truly belonged there in the first place. Without hesitation, you placed it on the table. A final goodbye.
With one last breath, you turned the knob and slipped out into the night.
Every step across the yard felt agonizingly slow, your pulse thundering in your ears. You kept looking back, expecting to see the door swing open, to hear his voice, to feel his hands dragging you back. But the house remained still.
Abby’s porch light flickered ahead, a beacon in the dark. You all but ran up the steps, your heart pounding as you knocked—once, twice, then harder. Your desperation bled into each bang against the wood.
"Come on, Abby," you whispered, voice shaking. "Please—please answer."
The porch light flickered on, and moments later, the door swung open. Abby stood there, her face groggy with sleep, confusion evident—until she saw the bags. The kids. You. Her smile faded. Her eyes darted to the bruise forming on your cheek, the raw redness where his rings had cut your skin. "I—I had nowhere else to go," you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. "He hit me. Please—please let me in."
Abby didn’t hesitate.
"Come inside," Abby said, her voice firm, steady—like an anchor in a storm you had been drowning in for years.
You stepped over the threshold, each footfall heavy with exhaustion, with fear, with the unbearable weight of everything you had just done. The kids trailed behind you, their little hands clutching their bags, their tired eyes flickering with confusion and trust all at once.
Then the door shut.
The lock clicked into place, sealing you away from that house, from him.
Something inside you cracked.
Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent but relentless. Your body trembled, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, refusing to let you rest. You didn’t even realize you were swaying until Abby gently pried Nico from your arms.
"I got him," she murmured, her touch steady, reassuring. "Come on, let’s get them settled."
You nodded, but it felt mechanical—like you weren’t really there, just watching yourself move. Abby led the kids down the hall, her voice soft as she whispered to them, soothing their worries, making them feel safe.
Safe.
You stood there, frozen, as the reality of it all loomed over you. You had done it. You had left. But instead of relief, there was only a crushing hollowness, a weight pressing down on your chest so hard you thought it might break you. You moved on autopilot, sinking onto the couch. The second you sat down, the silence wrapped around you, deafening. Your hands clenched in your lap, fingernails digging into your palms as you stared ahead, unblinking.
You needed to cry, to let it all out, to sob until there was nothing left inside you—but the tears wouldn't come the way they should. You swallowed them down, forcing yourself to sit up straight. Stay strong.
But strong for who, exactly?
You weren’t in that house anymore. You weren’t standing in front of him, pretending you weren’t scared. So why did you still feel like you had to hold yourself together? Footsteps padded back into the room, and then Abby was there, sinking down beside you. "I put the kids in the room with Ezekiel," she said softly, her voice warm, grounding. Before you could say anything, she pulled you into her arms. The warmth of her, the solidness of her presence, undid something in you. Your body sagged against hers, your face pressing into her shoulder as your breath hitched in uneven gasps.
"He—" your voice broke, and you swallowed hard before forcing it out. "He hit me, Abby. He found out—he knows about us."
Abby tensed for half a second, but then her arms tightened around you, her hand moving up to cradle the back of your head.
"Shh," she whispered, her voice steady. "You don’t have to think about that right now."
You wanted to fight it—to tell her that fear wasn’t something you could just shut off like a light. That the terror sitting in your chest, coiled tight like a spring, wouldn’t simply disappear because she said so.
But the way she held you—the quiet strength in her arms, the way her fingers traced soothing circles against your back—it was enough to make you want to believe her. Enough to make you sink just a little deeper into her warmth, even as your mind screamed at you to stay alert.
Then, gently, she pulled away.
She stood, her movements slow, deliberate, giving you time. Then she held out her hands. “Come with me.”
You hesitated.
She noticed.
Her gaze softened, but she didn’t waver. “Follow me.”
You swallowed hard, your hands trembling as you reached out and took hers. Her palms were warm, steady—nothing like the hands you were used to. The ones that hurt. The ones that tore you down piece by piece.
Abby gave your hands a light squeeze before leading you forward, turning off the living room lights as she went, plunging the space into darkness. You followed her down the hall, past the soft murmurs of your sleeping children, until she stopped at a door and pushed it open. The room inside was small but warm. A bed, neatly made. The kind of place meant for peace, for safety. “You’re tired,” she murmured, guiding you inside. “You need rest.”
That word—rest—felt like a foreign thing, something you weren’t allowed to have.
Rest. Rest. Rest.
Your mind repeated it like a warning. Like something dangerous. Because rest meant letting your guard down. It meant leaving yourself open. And the last time you did that, it nearly destroyed you.
But Abby—Abby—wasn’t him.
She had been patient, even when you pushed her away. Even when you swore you could handle this alone. And yet, here she was, standing beside you, still willing to hold you up when you weren’t sure you could stand on your own. She led you to the bed, sitting you down gently before settling beside you. Close, but not too close. Giving you space, but letting you know she was here.
“We’ll figure everything out tomorrow, okay?” she said softly.
Tomorrow.
A future. A choice. Something you never thought you’d have again.
Her fingers reached for your face, cradling your jaw as her thumb brushed lightly over the fresh bruise. You tensed at the touch, but she was careful—so careful—like she knew just how much you had already endured.
She did know.
And she wished she could have saved you sooner.
For so long, you had pushed her away, convinced yourself that she couldn’t be your way out. But now, sitting here, feeling the way her touch only soothed, never hurt, you realized something—she was never going to let you go again.
Not unless you wanted her to.
Abby leaned in slowly, hesitating, waiting—her breath ghosting over your lips, her body still, waiting for you to decide. She wasn’t talking. She wasn’t demanding.
She was giving you a choice.
“Do you trust me?” she whispered.
Your breath hitched.
For a moment, the fear clawed its way up your throat, choking you. But when you looked at her—the quiet patience in her eyes, the way she was holding herself back just for you—you felt something else, too.
Something softer.
Your hands found her face, fingers tracing the edges of her jaw, her cheekbones. Solid. Real. Safe.
“I always have,” you whispered.
The moment the words left your lips, she leaned in.
Her lips met yours in a way that felt nothing like the past.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. There was no pressure, no demand. Just warmth, just patience. Just her.
Her hands remained steady—one cupping your face, the other resting lightly on your waist, like she was afraid you’d break if she held on too tight. You melted into her, exhausted, overwhelmed, but for the first time in years, safe.
She pulled back first, her forehead pressing against yours as she exhaled, slow and steady. “We can stop,” she murmured, her voice gentle, careful. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, shaking your head.
Because if you stopped now, the fear might creep back in. The past might claw its way up your throat and pull you under again. But right now, in this moment, there was only her. Only this warmth, this safety, this impossible chance at something new.
She searched your face for hesitation, for regret, but when she found none, she nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. She didn’t kiss you again—not yet. Instead, she shifted, guiding you gently onto the bed. You tensed for half a second, old instincts screaming, but she just pulled the blanket over you, tucking you in with a tenderness that made your chest ache. She didn’t try to pull you close. Didn’t try to hold you down. She just sat beside you, watching, waiting.
And that was when it hit you—she wasn’t going anywhere.
Not tonight.
Not unless you told her to.
Your fingers curled around the sleeve of her shirt, gripping it lightly. “Stay?”
Her expression softened, and she nodded. “Of course.”
flinched, instinctively bracing for the criticism that never came.
But Abby—Abby wasn’t him.
Her hands were steady, warm as they traced over your skin, her touch reverent, careful. She didn’t rush, didn’t demand, didn’t make you feel less than. Instead, she looked at you like you were something to be worshipped, something sacred.
Her fingers brushed over your stomach, the soft lines of your body, the places you had learned to hate because he had made you hate them. But when Abby touched you, it wasn’t with judgment—it was with admiration. With something so tender it almost hurt.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” she murmured, her lips pressing against your shoulder, trailing warmth in their wake. “Not from me, baby.”
Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you swallowed them down, focusing on the way she felt. The way she kissed down your body, taking her time, like she had all the patience in the world. Like she wanted you to unlearn every cruel word, every harsh touch, every moment of self-doubt he had left behind.
Her hands spread over your hips, holding you like you were something fragile, something precious. Her mouth followed, trailing heat and devotion over every inch of you. And when you finally looked down, meeting her gaze, there was nothing but love staring back at you.
Real, undeniable, unconditional love.
And for the first time in forever, you let yourself believe it.
She leaned down again, her lips meeting yours with more passion this time. The hesitation was gone—she had your permission now, and she intended to show you just how much she wanted this. Wanted you.
Her hands trailed down your body, slow, deliberate, never rushing. She never looked away, her gaze locked onto yours as if afraid that if she did, you might disappear. As if you were something fragile, something fleeting, and she wasn’t willing to risk losing you.
With agonizing patience, she slipped your shirt up, her fingers grazing your skin as she peeled the fabric away. Not once did she break eye contact, watching you as though she was memorizing you, as though she was trying to make sure you stayed here with her, in this moment, and not in the past.
Then, her lips followed where her hands had been. Soft, reverent kisses trailing down your body as she rid you of each layer, until there was nothing left between you and her.
You felt exposed. Vulnerable. And when her eyes roamed your bare form, drinking you in with something close to awe, you turned away, shame creeping in, clawing at your chest.
But then she smiled.
“God, you’re beautiful,” she whispered, her voice so full of sincerity it made your throat tighten.
You tried to smile back, but it didn’t come—not when the past still loomed over you like a shadow. Memories of your husband’s sharp words, the way he’d sneer whenever your body changed, how he made sure you knew every extra pound was a failure. And after Nico—after the sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the way your body no longer felt like your own—you never got the chance to change it.
But Abby didn’t care.
She had never cared.
“Let me take care of you, yeah?” she murmured, her lips brushing against your cheek.
You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, barely able to meet her gaze.
Her smile returned, warm and reassuring, before she kissed you again. This time, her hands followed—caressing, exploring, showing you with every touch that she wasn’t just here to take; she was here to worship.
Then, she shifted, adjusting you with ease until you were on her lap, your back pressed to her chest, her strong arms wrapped securely around your waist. You gasped at the sudden change, your body tensing instinctively, but she only held you steady, her grip firm yet patient.
“Just breathe,” she soothed, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.
Her hands guided your face, tilting it towards the mirror in front of you.
And there you were.
Bare. Exposed. Ugly.
You turned away, your stomach twisting at the sight.
But Abby wouldn’t let you.
“Look at yourself,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear, her breath warm, grounding.
And then—she parted your legs.
Her hands, strong yet impossibly gentle, kept you steady as her fingers trailed lower, teasing, barely there, yet enough to send a shiver up your spine. The first brush of her fingertips against your clit was featherlight, a slow, deliberate stroke that had your breath catching in your throat.
Your fingers dug into her thighs, trying to ground yourself as pleasure coiled in your stomach, warm and insistent. But still, you turned away, unable to face your reflection, unable to see yourself the way she did.
Abby wasn’t having it.
“Watch,” she murmured, her voice low, coaxing, but firm.
She wasn’t asking.
She wanted you to see. To see the way you melted beneath her touch. To see how beautiful you were when you let go.
To see what she had always seen.
Her eyes never left your face as she kept working you, slow, careful, reverent. “You’re beautiful, Y/N,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, the words sinking deep, wrapping around the parts of you that had forgotten how to believe them.
Her fingers moved with agonizing precision, rubbing slow, purposeful circles over your clit, soft but insistent. In the mirror, she watched you—the way your body tensed, the way your thighs trembled, the way you fought the urge to pull away even as you craved more.
You groaned, torn between shying away and sinking into her completely. The contradiction warred inside you, but the need won.
“Abby,” you whimpered, your voice breaking on her name. “More—please.”
A pleased hum rumbled in her chest as she pressed a kiss to your shoulder, her lips warm and reassuring.
And then—she gave you what you asked for.
She pushed a finger inside, slow and steady, letting you feel every inch, every stretch. Your mouth parted in a shaky moan, your hands gripping her tighter as she filled you, her other hand never ceasing its soft, deliberate movements against your clit.
“Good girl,” she praised, her voice rough with something deeper, something primal. “Just like that.”
And this time—you didn’t look away.
Abby worked you open slowly, never rushing, never pushing more than you could take. She watched you in the mirror, her gaze locked onto your face, catching every twitch, every shudder, every unspoken plea for more.
Her finger curled inside you, searching, learning, until she found the spot that had you gasping, your head falling back against her shoulder. A smirk ghosted across her lips as she did it again, dragging her fingertip against that spot with precision, like she wanted to draw every sound from you, like she wanted to pull you apart piece by piece.
“Fuck, Abby—” You moaned, your hips rocking into her hand, needing more, needing everything.
“I know, baby,” she murmured against your neck, her breath hot, teasing, sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you.
Her free hand slid up your stomach, fingers splaying over the softness there, holding you in place as she added another finger, stretching you, filling you, coaxing another desperate sound from your lips.
“Look at yourself,” she whispered again, her voice a mixture of command and praise. “Look how good you take me.”
You forced your eyes open, your gaze meeting hers in the mirror. The sight made your breath hitch—her strong arms wrapped around you, her hands working you apart, her expression so full of hunger and something deeper, something you weren’t sure you could name.
She looked at you like you were something to be worshipped.
Like you were something precious.
Your lips parted, a whimper slipping free as she fucked you with slow, deliberate strokes, her palm grinding against your clit just right. Your body tensed, the pressure building, every touch sending you higher, tightening the coil in your stomach.
“That’s it,” Abby praised, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re so good for me.”
You were close—so fucking close.
Your fingers clutched at her wrist, your thighs trembling as the pleasure threatened to consume you. Abby felt it, knew it, and instead of letting up, she pressed a kiss to the side of your jaw, whispering the words that finally unraveled you.
“Come for me, baby.”
And just like that—you did.
The pleasure crashed over you in waves, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you gasping as your body locked up against hers. Abby held you through it, her hands steady, her lips whispering soft, reverent praises against your skin as you rode it out.
Only when the aftershocks left you boneless in her arms did she finally slow, her fingers slipping from you, her touch shifting from teasing to soothing.
She kissed your temple, her hands rubbing gentle circles over your stomach as she whispered, “You okay?”
You nodded weakly, still catching your breath, your body still thrumming from the intensity of it all.
Abby chuckled, low and warm, her breath brushing against your ear as she held you close. She pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder, then another, her lips trailing downward as she carefully eased you onto the bed. She moved with purpose—not just to take, but to give, to replace every memory of him with something new, something that belonged to only you and her.
Her hands, rough yet tender, mapped your body with slow, deliberate caresses, fingertips ghosting over your skin like she was memorizing every inch of you. She wasn’t rushing, wasn’t impatient—she was savoring you, worshipping you, as if she had all the time in the world.
Then, her lips followed.
She started at your collarbone, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin before sucking lightly, just enough to leave a mark. A quiet, pleased hum vibrated against your skin when you gasped, your body arching into her.
She liked that.
Liked seeing the way you reacted, how your breathing changed, how your body responded to her.
She moved lower, pressing her mouth to the swell of your breast, her tongue flicking over your nipple before she sucked, slow and purposeful. The sensation sent heat curling in your stomach, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as your fingers found her short hair, tangling into the strands.
“Abby,” you breathed, barely more than a whisper.
She smirked against your skin, her mouth trailing downward, leaving a path of love bites along your ribs, your stomach, the soft flesh of your inner thighs. Each one was placed with intention, a silent claim, a way to erase every touch before her.
By the time she settled between your legs, you were already trembling.
You felt seen. Worshipped.
Her hands slid up your thighs, strong fingers spreading you open, her thumbs tracing soothing circles against your skin. She took a moment to just look at you—all of you—and when her eyes met yours again, they were dark, needy, full of something deeper than lust.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” she whispered, voice thick with reverence.
You turned your face away, heat creeping up your neck.
But she wasn’t having that.
“Hey,” she murmured, shifting up just enough to capture your lips again, slow and deep, her fingers tipping your chin so you’d look at her.
Her forehead pressed against yours, her breath mingling with yours. “I mean it,” she whispered. “I want you to believe it.”
You swallowed, your chest tightening. You wanted to—God, you wanted to. But the years of being picked apart, of feeling like your body wasn’t yours to love, still lingered in the back of your mind.
Abby knew that.
That’s why she took her time.
When she finally positioned herself between your legs, her slick heat pressing into yours, she didn’t take—she let you feel it first, the warm, slow friction of her against you, her body melting into yours. Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping her arms. She groaned at the contact, her grip tightening on your hips as she rolled her hips forward, grinding against you in the slowest, most agonizing rhythm imaginable. “Abby,” you whimpered, nails digging into her skin.
She shuddered at the sound of her name on your lips. “Feels good?” she rasped. You could only nod, your head falling back against the pillow as she rocked into you again, the delicious friction sending pleasure curling low in your stomach. She wasn’t rough—not this time. She was taking her time, watching every expression that flickered across your face, feeling every shudder, every twitch, like she wanted to engrave it into her memory.
Her hand slid up your body, fingers brushing over your stomach before reaching your chest, palming the soft flesh, teasing.
“Look at us,” she whispered.
You hesitated, knowing what she meant. Knowing that the mirror beside the bed reflected everything. You swallowed hard.
“I—”
She thrust forward, her slick clit grinding against yours, and you gasped, eyes fluttering open at the sensation.
“Look,” she urged again, her voice softer now, full of something almost pleading.
So, you did.
And what you saw nearly broke you.
The two of you, bodies intertwined, her broad form wrapped around you, her muscles flexing as she moved, her face twisted in pleasure—it was intimate, raw, something deeper than just sex.
You saw her.
You saw yourself.
And for the first time, you didn’t hate what you saw.
Abby caught your gaze in the reflection, her lips curling into a soft smile. “That’s my girl,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple as she rolled her hips again, coaxing another broken moan from your lips.
The pressure was building, tighter, hotter, deeper.
Her hand slid between your bodies, her fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles.
You whimpered, your body tensing, the pleasure too much, too good.
“That’s it, baby,” she whispered, kissing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
Your body shattered.
The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your breath stuttering, your body arching, your fingers digging into her back as you came, pleasure rolling through you in waves.
Abby followed soon after, her hips stuttering, a strangled moan slipping from her lips as she buried herself against you, her body shaking with her own release.
She held you through it. Kept moving, slow and gentle, until the pleasure faded into soft aftershocks. Until you were just breathing together, bodies tangled, lips barely brushing.
Then, silence.
Warm, safe, full.
Abby pressed one last kiss to your lips before tucking you against her chest, pulling the blanket over you both.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t have to.
Because when she whispered, “I love you,” into your hair, you already knew.
Abby’s arms stayed wrapped around you, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against your back. Her lips brushed against your hair, a soft, absentminded press—like she just needed to feel you there, grounded in her arms.
Neither of you spoke for a long time.
The room was quiet, save for the slowing rhythm of your breaths, the occasional sound of the sheets shifting as Abby traced slow, lazy circles on your stomach with her fingertips.
It was grounding. She was grounding.
You swallowed hard, the weight of everything settling in—what you had just shared, what it meant. How different it was from what you had known before.
How easy it would be to fall into the fear, to let the echoes of the past creep in, to tell yourself you didn’t deserve this.
But Abby wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Hey,” she murmured, her voice still thick from the pleasure, but softer now. She pressed another kiss to your shoulder, her lips lingering there. “You still with me?”
You nodded against her, blinking slowly. Yes. You were here. With her.
She hummed in response, pleased, her arms tightening slightly around you. “Good.”
You shifted slightly, turning onto your side to face her, your hands sliding up to her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath your palm. Her eyes softened when she met your gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moved.
You just looked at each other.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t afraid of being seen.
Abby’s thumb brushed against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” she asked gently, her voice careful, like she was ready to hold you together if you suddenly fell apart.
You could only nod, because yes, you were.
More than okay.
For the first time in years, you felt safe.
Abby exhaled softly, her forehead pressing against yours. “Good,” she whispered again. “Because I meant what I said, y’know.”
You swallowed. “About what?”
Her fingers traced absentminded patterns on your hip, her voice low but firm. “That you’re beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat. You started to turn away, but Abby caught your chin, tilting your face back toward hers.
“Hey,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over yours. “I need you to hear me.”
You blinked up at her, your fingers tightening slightly against her skin.
She kissed you again, slow and reassuring, like she was trying to press the words into you. Like she wouldn’t stop until you believed them.
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that—bodies pressed together, exchanging soft kisses, whispering against each other’s lips, holding each other in the dark.
But at some point, exhaustion settled in, your body melting further into hers. Abby pulled the blanket up around you both, her hand running soothingly along your back as you buried your face into the crook of her neck.
She pressed one last kiss to your temple, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time, you actually believed it.
Abby let you rest, truly rest—something she knew you hadn’t done in years. She handled everything, making sure you didn’t have to lift a finger.
When your husband came banging on her door the next morning, demanding to see his wife, Abby didn’t hesitate. She squared her shoulders, met his drunken rage with an unshaken stare, and sent him away without a second thought. She didn’t give him an inch, didn’t let him weasel his way back in with apologies or empty threats. And while he wasted himself away in whatever bar or gutter he crawled into, she went back to your house, collecting the last of your things—the clothes, the kids’ toys, the small pieces of your life you were finally taking back.
And the kids? She cared for them like they were her own. She made them breakfast, kept them entertained, ensured they never felt the weight of the storm you were escaping. Every now and then, she’d peek into the room where you slept, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, the way your brow would furrow even in sleep. She wanted to smooth away every crease, every shadow of pain he left behind. She would sit at the edge of the bed, just watching, wondering how someone as strong as you had been forced to endure so much. But now… now you were here. And she wasn’t going to let you slip away.
“Is Momma ever gonna wake up?”
Madison’s small voice pulled Abby from her thoughts. She looked down to see the little girl standing in the living room, watching her with wide, worried eyes.
Abby softened, offering a gentle smile. “Of course she will,” she reassured her, ruffling her curls. “And when she does, we’ll all go to the park. How does that sound?”
Madison nodded, but instead of running off to play, she hesitated. Her tiny fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt as she stared up at Abby, something uncertain in her expression.
“I don’t wanna see Daddy anymore,” she whispered, her voice small but firm. Her lower lip trembled as tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “I want you to be my new dad. You make Momma happy. Please don’t leave us.”
Abby’s breath caught in her throat.
She had faced down men twice her size without blinking, fought through storms that had tried to break her—but nothing had ever shaken her quite like this.
Madison wasn’t just asking for comfort. She was asking for permanence. For security. For a love that didn’t come with pain.
Abby crouched down, gently wiping the tears from Madison’s cheeks. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I promise.”
Madison sniffled, her little body trembling as she threw her arms around Abby’s neck, holding on like she never wanted to let go. Abby instinctively wrapped her arms around her, steadying the tiny girl against her chest. Madison clung to her, pressing her face into Abby’s shoulder, and in that moment, Abby could feel just how much this meant to her—how much she needed this.
Then, Madison pulled back just enough to meet Abby’s gaze, her eyes wide, uncertain, yet filled with so much hope. She hesitated for only a second before asking in the softest voice, “Can I call you Mom too?”
Abby’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected that—not so soon, not so openly. But the way Madison looked at her, like she was waiting for permission to love her, like she needed Abby to say it was okay, broke something inside her.
A slow, warm smile spread across Abby’s face as she gently cupped Madison’s cheek. “You and your siblings can call me whatever you want,” she murmured, her voice steady, filled with nothing but certainty.
Madison’s face lit up with pure joy, the weight she had been carrying lifting in an instant. Without hesitation, she leaned in and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to Abby’s cheek before giggling and darting off to play, her little curls bouncing with each step.
Before Abby could fully process the moment, a small tug at her pant leg made her glance down. Jayden stood there, his round eyes filled with curiosity, his tiny arms raised expectantly. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to.
Abby let out a soft chuckle, bending down to scoop him up with ease. He nestled against her without hesitation, resting his head on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Abby held him close, her heart swelling as she realized—this wasn’t just a moment. This was the beginning of something bigger, something real.
Your eyes flutter open, disoriented for a moment as you take in your surroundings. The room is bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the walls. Panic sets in almost immediately. You overslept. Your heart lurches, and you scramble out of bed, fumbling for your robe as you rush to the door.
You forgot to clean.
You forgot to take care of the kids.
You forgot—
But as you step into the living room, reality doesn’t meet you with the usual weight of dread. There is no angry man waiting to bark orders, no overwhelming list of tasks you must complete to avoid his wrath. Instead, the space is filled with something else entirely—something you barely recognize.
Laughter. Warmth. Family.
Madison is the first to notice you, her eyes lighting up as she dashes toward you. “Momma’s up!” she exclaims, throwing her little arms around your waist. Before you can even react, Kimberly follows suit, wrapping herself around your leg, and even Ezekiel, usually more reserved, runs to you with a beaming smile.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, running your fingers through their hair as you hold them close. They’re safe. They’re happy. And then, your gaze drifts toward the kitchen.
Abby stands at the stove, effortlessly balancing a sleepy Jayden on her hip while stirring a pot with her free hand. In the corner, Nico babbles happily in a playpen, giggling at nothing in particular. The scene is so… normal. Domestic, even. It takes you a second to process that this is your life now—that you don’t have to be afraid anymore.
“Hello, sleeping beauty,” Abby teases, flashing you a small smile as she starts plating food.
You don’t say anything at first, just watching her—watching this. The way she moves with such ease, cooking for your kids, holding Jayden like he’s always been hers, making sure everyone is taken care of. It’s overwhelming in a way you can’t quite put into words.
You glance around, suddenly aware of the mess—scattered toys, little shoes abandoned by the door, a crayon rolling off the coffee table. Instinct kicks in before you can stop yourself, and you bend down to start picking them up.
But before you can get far, Abby is there, her hand gently stopping yours.
“No, no. I got it, okay? Just sit at the table,” she says firmly, her touch lingering on your wrist as she meets your gaze.
“But—”
She shakes her head, not letting you finish. “I’ll do all the heavy labor around here. You just rest, alright?” Her voice is so full of certainty, of care, that you don’t argue. Instead, you let her lead you to the table, where she carefully settles Nico and Jayden into their highchairs before bringing over the food.
“Mom, can I help?” Ezekiel pipes up, eager to be involved.
Abby grins and nods, handing him some utensils to place on the table. Madison, never one to be left out, rushes up next. “I wanna help too, Mom!” she announces proudly.
You smile
Dinner is a quiet kind of chaos—the good kind. The kind where there’s giggling between bites, where Kimberly insists on feeding Nico even though half of it ends up on his bib, Jayden eating the food in front of him, where Madison keeps trying to sneak extra pieces of food onto your plate, saying, “You need to eat more, Momma.”
Ezekiel talks about his favorite game, going into a detailed explanation that only a kid his age would find fascinating, and Abby listens—really listens—nodding along like his words are the most important thing in the world. It’s such a stark contrast from what you’re used to that your chest tightens.
For so long, dinner had been a silent affair, tense and suffocating. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and everything could go south in an instant. But here? Here, the air is light. The table is full of life.
Abby catches your gaze from across the table, and it’s like she sees every thought running through your head. She doesn’t say anything, just reaches over and places a hand on yours, her grip steady and grounding. You swallow past the lump in your throat and squeeze back.
After dinner, the kids insist on a movie night, and you don’t have the heart to say no. They pile onto the couch, dragging blankets and stuffed animals with them, making a mess of the living room that Abby just cleaned. But she doesn’t scold them—doesn’t care at all, really. She just chuckles and lets them bury her under the weight of small bodies and soft laughter.
You sit on the edge at first, hesitant, unsure of where you fit in this picture. But then Abby reaches for you, pulling you in, slotting you right against her side like you belong there.
And maybe you do.
Madison curls up in your lap, her tiny fingers gripping your shirt. Kimberly tucks herself against your arm. Ezekiel lays in Abby’s arm and Jayden is already half-asleep on Abby’s chest, and Nico, bundled up in a blanket, rests peacefully in his playpen.
The movie plays in the background, but you barely register it. Instead, you focus on the warmth surrounding you, on the way Abby’s fingers trace absentminded circles against your arm, on the quiet, steady rhythm of her breathing.
You don’t realize how exhausted you still are until your eyelids grow heavy. The last thing you hear before drifting off is Madison’s sleepy whisper:
“Momma, can we stay here forever?”
And for the first time, you don’t have to lie.
"Yeah, baby," you murmur, your fingers gently threading through Madison's soft hair as you finally, finally let yourself rest. The weight that’s been hanging over you for so long, the constant worry, the need to always be on edge, melts away. “We’re not going anywhere.”
You turn to Abby, a smile creeping onto your face. It’s different now—real, unguarded, unbroken. She’s the woman who saved you, the woman who stayed, who didn’t give up on you even when you doubted yourself. The one who was patient when you couldn’t even recognize your own worth. The one who helped you find your courage.
"I love you, Abby," you say, your voice soft but full of everything you couldn't say before, leaning in to kiss her cheek. It’s not a desperate kiss, not a goodbye, but a promise, a pledge. A pledge that you’re here, with her, and you’re finally letting yourself believe it.
The truth hits you like a wave. You had dreams once. A childhood dream of being a ballerina—spinning, twirling, the spotlight shining down, your heart light and free. It was your escape, your sanity while living in a cage you built yourself, with him in the center of it. You clung to that dream because it was all you had, the only thing that kept you going when nothing else made sense.
But now... now you realize something you never truly understood before. You don’t need to be a ballerina to feel like you’re dancing anymore. You’ve already found something even better, something you never thought you’d deserve.
You’ve found a family. A family with laughter, with love, with chaos that doesn’t feel suffocating but freeing. A family that isn’t bound by broken promises or fake smiles. A family that isn’t based on fear, but on the kind of unconditional love you always thought was out of reach.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t need to pretend. You don’t need to hide the cracks or the bruises or the old scars. You can just be. You can just love. You can just exist.
And as you look at Abby, holding your kids close, the world outside seems so far away. It doesn’t matter anymore. This is your home. This is your family. This is the dream you never knew you needed.
You take a deep breath, your heart full to the brim, and you finally let yourself believe in the future.
"Thank you," you whisper under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, but Abby hears it. Her eyes soften, and she squeezes your hand in reassurance.
"We’ve got this," she says, her smile lighting up the room.
And for the first time in so long, you believe her. You believe in the life ahead of you. You believe in the family that you never thought you could have.
You’ve found your peace. You’ve found your place. And nothing could ever take that away.
And so, you rest—because for the first time in your life, you finally can.
Had to pause reading Me and my Husband for a moment to go listen to Fable by Gigi Perez and then take a deep breath and come back
U capture sm emotion I'm overwhelmed (in a good way ofc)
I’ve actually never heard of Gigi Perez before, so I had to check out that song and OMG, it’s so good! I’m so glad you and everyone else is loving Me and My Husband so much I honestly didn’t have much faith in it at first, but reading all your kind comments really makes me so happy!
It’s been days since the kiss. Days filled with the weight of silence, of not knowing how to look at her, how to look at yourself. The memory of her lips—soft, fleeting, but searing—lingers in the back of your mind, always there. You try to bury it, to drown it in the routine of your daily life, but it keeps resurfacing, like a whisper that won’t go away.
Each time you see her, you look the other way, pretending not to notice her standing just across the street, pretending she’s not there, like she doesn’t occupy a space in your heart that you can’t shake. You feel guilty—so guilty. Not because you don’t know what to say to her, but because you wish you didn’t feel that way at all. You wish you could pretend like it didn’t happen, that it didn’t matter.
But it does. It matters more than anything, and that’s what scares you.
The first light of morning seeps into your room, slanting through the curtains, casting a faint glow across the floor. The quiet is thick, the kind of quiet that follows a night spent tangled in your own thoughts. You shift in the bed, blinking the sleep from your eyes as your mind refuses to quiet down. Your eyes drift to your husband, turned away from you, deep in sleep. His back rises and falls in an even rhythm, unaware of the turmoil swirling within you.
You stare at him for a long moment, searching for some kind of comfort, but it’s no use. There’s nothing there but the same distant emptiness that’s been there for months now, maybe even longer. His body takes up space in the bed, but it feels like there’s a thousand miles between you.
You shake your head, the exhaustion from the past few days weighing on you. You don’t even have the strength to keep pretending, to keep up the act. You want to slip away from this—away from him, away from the guilt that churns in your stomach every time you think about Abby.
You slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him. The cool floorboards press against the soles of your feet, sending a chill up your spine as you move toward the door. For a moment, you pause, casting a glance back at your husband’s sleeping form—his steady, rhythmic breathing a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside your chest. The weight of it all crashes over you, a tidal wave of guilt, confusion, and frustration, but you don’t let yourself linger. You can’t afford to. There’s no time for weakness, no time for any of this.
You let out a quiet sigh, closing the door softly behind you as you step into the hall. The house is still, eerily so, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of floorboards as you make your way down the hallway. The silence feels suffocating, a constant reminder of how far you’ve fallen from what you once hoped for, from what you once promised yourself.
You stop in front of the kids’ bedroom, hand hovering over the door handle. There’s a moment of hesitation as you draw in a breath. And then, with a quiet push, the door creaks open.
Your eyes immediately find Madison. She’s sitting up in bed, her small body curled into the softness of her blankets, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her face, still heavy with the remnants of slumber, lights up when she sees you, her lips forming a sleepy smile.
“Mornin’ momma,” she murmurs, pushing herself off the bed with a small groan, her tiny hand clutching the stuffed animal she’s never without. The worn edges of the fabric are familiar, comforting in a way you wish you could be for her.
Her eyes—half-lidded and still filled with the haze of sleep—search your face for something. Comfort. Reassurance. The answer to a question she doesn’t know how to ask yet. She doesn’t know how broken you feel, how fragile the thread holding you together is. All she knows is that she’s still her innocent, trusting self, believing that everything is okay.
Your heart aches as you look at her, at the way she clings to the safety of her stuffed bunny as if it can protect her from everything in the world. You want to believe that it can, want to believe that you can, but the weight of the day presses on you.
For a brief moment, you forget everything else the guilt, the confusion, the tension. You forget about the kiss that has turned your world upside down, the storm that’s been brewing inside you. All that matters is her. This small, precious part of your life.
You kneel down in front of her, letting your smile slip out even though it feels foreign on your face. You reach out, brushing her messy hair away from her face, the soft strands still damp with sleep.
“Morning, sweet girl,” you whisper, your voice soft despite the storm brewing deep inside you. You kneel down to her level, your hands gently cupping her small shoulders, pulling her into a hug. Her tiny frame melts into yours, the warmth of her little body against you grounding you in a way you can’t explain. It’s a fleeting comfort, a moment of peace in the chaos, but for that heartbeat, you let it fill you.
The scent of her hair, faintly sweet and so familiar, clings to you as she leans against you, her small hands resting lightly on your back. The weight of everything falls away for just a second, and in that moment, she’s your world. The kiss that changes everything, the confusion in your heart none of it matters. Not when you’re holding her, when you feel her so close that her breath mingles with yours.
After a beat, you pull away reluctantly, though her little arms stay wrapped around you for just a moment longer, as if she knows something you’re not ready to admit. You smile softly, brushing her messy hair from her forehead, your fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Her face, still marked with the remnants of sleep, gazes up at you with wide eyes full of innocent curiosity.
“Can I help you clean, Momma?” she asks, her voice sweet and earnest, her words thick with the slowness of early mornings. The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re struck by how much she wants to help, to be part of something, to ease your burden in the way only a child can.
Her eyes search your face, her little brow furrowed as if she’s trying to figure out if you’ll let her. The innocence in her expression makes your heart ache—a gentle reminder of the simple world she’s still living in, unaware of the messiness that exists beyond it. It’s almost unfair, you think, that she should be forced into this too early.
You swallow the lump in your throat, forcing another smile, though it feels tight and hollow. “Not today, baby,” you say gently, stroking her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin under your fingers. “You just go sit at the table, okay? Let me take care of breakfast.”
She looks at you for a second, her brows furrowing slightly in quiet contemplation, as if she doesn’t quite understand why she can’t help. But then, with the same unwavering trust that only a child can have, she nods, the tip of her stuffed bunny still clutched tightly in her tiny hand.
“Okay, Momma,” she says, her voice small and soft. She gives you one last lingering look before turning to shuffle off toward the kitchen, her steps still clumsy with sleep.
You watch Madison as she trudges toward the kitchen, her little feet padding softly on the floor, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. There’s something so painfully normal about this moment, something that makes the chaos in your mind feel so foreign to the routine of this life you’ve built. It’s all so normal, so mundane, yet you can’t shake the feeling that you’re losing grip on it.
The clock is ticking louder in your ears as you move toward the kitchen, still caught in the weight of the moment with your daughter. You glance at the hallway mirror for just a second as you pass, catching a glimpse of yourself—tired eyes, hair slightly mussed from sleep, shoulders tense with the weight of everything unsaid, unresolved. It’s like staring at a stranger, someone who’s supposed to be in control, who’s supposed to know what to do. But you don’t. You can barely keep it together.
In the kitchen, the sunlight filters through the window, casting soft light on the countertops and the little chairs where your children sit. Madison is already at the table, her bunny still clutched tightly against her chest, and you can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. She’s so small, so innocent, and yet, here you are—holding it all inside, pretending that everything is fine.
“Momma, are we goin' to church today?” Madison asks, her tiny voice drifting over from the kitchen table. She peeks over the top of her chair, her big brown eyes already searching for reassurance. You pause for a moment, glancing up from where you’re pouring the orange juice, catching the innocence in her expression.
You smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yes, dear. After breakfast,” you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel.
As you pour her a glass of juice, you walk over to where she’s sitting and place it gently in front of her. She looks up at you with a soft smile, her fingers wrapping around the glass like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Thank you, Momma,” she says, her voice still thick with sleep, before her little hand caresses your cheek. You lean into it for just a moment, letting the softness of her touch remind you of something pure, something you’re desperately clinging to.
You return her smile, though it’s brief, and continue your movements—trying to keep the world at bay. You turn to finish preparing breakfast, the sizzling of the pan and the smell of eggs filling the air. But before you can focus, you feel small feet smacking against the floor. The sound is familiar, like the thudding of tiny hearts that always need something from you.
Suddenly, you feel a tiny arm wrap around your leg, a gentle, unrelenting pull that makes it hard to move. You look down, already knowing who it is without having to check.
“Jayden,” you say softly, your voice tinged with patience, but also a little exhaustion. “You need to let go of my leg so I can finish making breakfast.”
But he doesn’t listen. Instead, his little arms tighten around your leg as he looks up at you, his wide, pleading eyes silently asking to be picked up. You sigh quietly, the weight of the moment pressing against you.You bend down slightly, resting one hand on his small back, but you don’t pick him up just yet.
Before you can respond, you hear a soft giggle from behind you. You turn, and there’s Kimberly, already out of bed and standing next to Jayden, holding the glass Madison had been drinking from. She’s sipping from it with an exaggerated slowness, clearly enjoying the attention it brings. Her messy curls are sticking up in all directions, and her pajama pants are a little too big, trailing on the floor as she moves.
“Momma, she’s drinkin’ my juice!” Madison’s voice rings out, sharp and accusatory as she points at Kimberly, who is savoring the last of the orange juice in the cup that had once been hers. The three-year-old’s small hands wrap around the cup with exaggerated care, making sure she gets every last drop.
You turn toward Madison, catching her eye as you try to soothe the situation. “I’ll get you more, okay?” you say gently, your tone soft but firm. You know it’s a small issue, but you also know how big these moments feel to them. Madison’s face scrunches for a second before she nods, the hint of a frown still playing at the corners of her mouth. She then turns back to the table, her focus shifting from the juice to the task at hand.
You let out a quiet sigh, your eyes scanning the room—your kids, the mess, the dishes piling up in the sink, the sound of the ticking clock echoing louder with each passing second. Time is slipping away, and you feel like you’re falling behind, trying to keep up with a constant whirlwind of needs. The push and pull of duty—caring for them, tending to the house, getting everything in order—is a familiar rhythm, one you know well. But right now, it feels like more than you can keep up with.
You don’t have time to stop, though. You don’t have the luxury of slowing down. You move, you keep going—because that’s what you do. For them. For your kids.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, crouching down to scoop Jayden up into your arms as his soft whimper reaches your ears. His little face is scrunched in frustration, clearly wanting something that you can’t quite understand, but as soon as you pull him close, his small hands wrap around you, and his head presses into your shoulder. His warmth is like a balm, settling your restless heart for just a moment. You close your eyes, allowing yourself the briefest taste of peace as you feel the gentle rhythm of his breath against your skin. It’s fleeting, but it’s enough.
You pull yourself back into the present, gently placing Jayden back down on the floor. His small feet begin wiggling, eager to get to work on his own breakfast, his determination as strong as ever, even at his tender age.
“Can I help set the table, Momma?” Madison asks, her voice sweet, but you can hear the excitement bubbling in it as she looks up at you. Her eagerness to help, to be part of the action, is both endearing and distracting.
You smile softly, grateful for the momentary relief. “Yes, sweetie. Put the napkins on the table, please.” You try to keep your tone calm, to keep your voice from betraying the chaos that’s swirling just beneath the surface.
Madison’s face lights up, her eyes sparkling with joy as she hurries to grab the napkins. Her little feet patter against the floor, quick and purposeful as she scurries off, determined to help in whatever way she can. You turn back to finish breakfast, the sizzle of food on the stove a constant reminder that there’s no time to waste, no time to slow down.
Your husband’s heavy footsteps thud down the stairs, breaking the quiet of the house. He appears in the doorway, stretching as he yawns and looks around the kitchen. “Good mornin’,” he mutters, his voice low and groggy from sleep.
Madison, focused on the task of finishing up the table, doesn’t respond right away. She’s arranging the utensils and napkins, meticulously placing them in their spots. When she looks up and catches your eye, you give her a gentle smile and nod, signaling that it's okay to greet him.
“Good mornin’, Daddy,” she says finally, her voice soft but sweet as she carefully sets a fork down, her tiny fingers brushing the table’s surface.
Your husband nods, distracted, and without another word, he turns toward the door, heading outside to grab the morning paper. The cold air rushes in as the door opens, and the sharp click of it slamming shut causes a slight jolt in the room. You hear him muttering to himself as he shuffles through the paper. He doesn’t waste time before speaking, his tone irritated, the sharpness clear in his voice. “Hurry up, why don’t you? I don’t wanna be late to church.” The words hang in the air, heavy and impatient.
Before you can respond, the sound of the door slamming behind him echoes loudly throughout the house, a final punctuation to his command. The noise is too much for Nico, still in his crib. The sudden sound jolts him awake, and his wail rings out, cutting through the air with urgency.
You glance at your husband, hoping for some recognition, some shift in his expression. But his gaze never leaves the paper. He remains seated at the table, sifting through it as if nothing has happened. His eyes flicker toward Nico’s cry, and then he sighs, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You gonna shut that baby up?”
The words strike like a cold slap. You feel the frustration well up, but you swallow it down and manage a tight smile. “I’ll go do that, dear,” you reply, the words a mere formality, as you turn away to deal with the mess the morning has stirred up.
You walk down the hall and into the nursery, the sound of Nico’s cries getting louder the closer you get. As you open the door, the sight of him sitting up in his crib brings a mixture of exhaustion and tenderness. His tiny face, scrunched in discomfort, softens when he sees you. His cries instantly stop, and he breaks into a soft, happy giggle, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.
The moment he giggles, your heart catches. He’s so small, so innocent, and so full of life that it feels like the weight of everything else can be pushed aside, if only for a second. You smile down at him, reaching into the crib to scoop him up, cradling him close. His warmth calms you, even if only for a moment, and you allow yourself to breathe deeply, letting go of the noise and tension of the house.
Breakfast is finally on the table, and the smell of it fills the air, but there’s little time for you to savor it. You sit at the table, holding Nico in your arms, spooning bits of soft cereal into his mouth as you try to keep him content. He gurgles and kicks his little legs, his tiny hands grasping at the spoon with more interest than his actual hunger. You smile down at him, but there’s no real time to enjoy the moment—there’s too much to do. The clock ticks away, each second pulling you closer to the time you need to leave.
Your husband finishes his breakfast quickly, pushing his chair back with a slight scrape of the legs on the floor. Without a word, he stands up, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and heads for the hallway, likely to get ready for church. The sound of his footsteps fades as he disappears into the bedroom, leaving the weight of the morning all on your shoulders.
You sigh softly, trying to focus on the task at hand. As Nico babbles happily in your arms, you turn your attention to the chaos at the table. Madison is finishing her last bite of toast, Kimberly is poking around at her bowl of cereal, and Jayden is already starting to squirm in his seat, clearly done with his food. You give them all a look, your smile warm but tinged with the exhaustion that’s been building all morning.
"Alright, let’s get you gremlins ready for church,” you say, your voice light despite the underlying tension. The kids look at you, their faces a mix of anticipation and the remnants of sleep. They all seem to know the drill by now—church means more clothes, more brushing, and a little less time to play.
Madison, always the helpful one, hops off her chair and starts gathering her things, ready to get dressed. Kimberly follows her lead, mimicking her older sister with enthusiasm, while Jayden, still too small to fully understand, just starts to wander around, his small feet pattering against the floor. You can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself, even as you feel the weight of everything pressing in.
You gently place Nico back in his high chair, making sure he’s secure, before standing up and walking toward the kids' room to get them dressed. The day is already slipping through your fingers, but as always, you push forward, taking one step at a time.
Once the kids are dressed and ready, you finally slip away into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. The room is small, the air still carrying the faint scent of lavender soap and baby powder. For the first time this morning, you are alone. No tiny hands tugging at your clothes, no cries demanding your attention—just you and your reflection.
You take a deep breath, turning toward the mirror. Your dress is simple yet elegant, the fabric soft against your skin as you smooth it down over your hips. The color compliments your complexion, bringing a subtle warmth to your tired features. You reach up, your fingers slipping through the tight coils of your hair, adjusting a few stray curls that frame your face. No matter how much you try to tame them, they always have a mind of their own. Some days, you find it frustrating. Today, you don’t have the energy to care.
You take a step closer, examining the woman staring back at you. There’s exhaustion in your eyes, dark circles just barely concealed beneath a thin layer of makeup. You tilt your head slightly, searching for something beyond the weariness—something that still feels like you. But before you can dwell on it for too long, a voice slices through the brief moment of peace.
"Can you hurry up!" your husband’s voice rings from downstairs, sharp and impatient. The sound grates against your nerves, making your shoulders tense involuntarily.
You exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the sink for just a second longer before forcing yourself to let go. One last glance in the mirror, one final adjustment to your dress, and you step away. The moment of solitude is over. Time to go.
You step out of the bathroom and make your way into the living room, smoothing out your dress once more as you enter. The morning sunlight filters through the windows, casting a soft glow over the room, making the scene feel almost peaceful—almost.
Madison is the first to notice you. She turns from where she’s standing near the couch, her big, expressive eyes lighting up as she takes you in. A wide, toothy grin spreads across her little face as she hurries toward you, her small hands reaching for the fabric of your dress.
"You're beautiful, Momma," she says sweetly, tilting her head as if she’s admiring you like one of her storybook princesses.
Your heart swells at her words, a warmth spreading through you despite everything weighing you down. You crouch slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, baby," you murmur, brushing a stray curl away from her face.
Before you can savor the moment any longer, your husband strides toward the front door, his heavy footsteps echoing through the space. Without a word, he pulls it open, letting the morning air rush inside.
"Let's go," he says curtly, his voice lacking the warmth you just shared with your daughter.
You swallow down the sigh threatening to escape and straighten up. Turning back to your children, you gently herd them toward the door, checking to make sure their little shoes are on properly, their clothes are neat. Jayden clutches your hand tightly, his tiny fingers wrapping around yours like he’s afraid to let go. Kimberly trails just behind, still clutching a toy she refused to leave behind. And Nico, bundled in your arms, lets out a soft coo, entirely unaware of the tension surrounding you all.
With everyone gathered, you follow behind your husband, stepping outside into the bright morning light. The crisp air greets you as you carefully help the kids into the car, making sure seatbelts are fastened and little legs aren’t dangling awkwardly.
The ride to church is fast. Too fast. The silence in the car is thick, heavy uncomfortable in a way that makes your chest feel tight. No one says anything. Not Madison, who usually chatters about everything she sees out the window. Not Jayden, who often hums under his breath when he's content. Even Kimberly, your little mischief-maker, sits quietly, uncharacteristically subdued.
Your husband keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight. You stare out of the window, watching the world blur past, your own thoughts just as tangled as the curls on your head.
The church appears in the distance, its tall steeple standing against the sky like a quiet reminder of the place you’re heading a place of worship, of peace, of reflection. But as the car slows to a stop in the parking lot, you can’t shake the feeling that none of those things will come easy today.
"Welcome," the pastor greets warmly as you step inside with your children. His kind eyes sweep over your little ones, offering them a gentle nod before turning to the next family arriving behind you.
Your husband barely acknowledges the greeting, already walking off in another direction where to, you don’t know, and frankly, you don’t care. You exhale softly, adjusting Nico in your arms before scanning the room for an open seat.
You find one near the middle of the congregation and begin making your way toward it, guiding Madison, Jayden, and Kimberly along. But just as you step closer, your movements falter. Someone’s already sitting there.
Abby.
She’s leaning back slightly, her muscular frame relaxed in the wooden pew, her expression unreadable. Your breath catches for just a moment, your mind instantly flashing back—to the last time you saw her. The last time you spoke. The last time her lips were on yours.
You don’t say anything. You simply lower yourself into the seat beside her, placing a pacifier in Nico’s mouth to quiet his soft babbling. The warmth of Abby’s presence lingers at your side, almost palpable, yet neither of you move.
"Y/N," she finally says, turning toward you, her voice softer than you expected.
For the first time in days, you glance up at her really look at her. It’s brief, fleeting, but your eyes meet, and the unspoken weight of everything that has happened sits between you.
You don’t answer. Instead, you give her a small, polite smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
Before she can say anything else, your husband appears beside you, settling into the pew with a heavy sigh. His presence feels like a shift in the air, pressing down, suffocating.
And that’s when the pastor begins his sermon.
Abby slides a folded piece of paper toward you, the slight rustle barely audible over the pastor’s voice. Your fingers hesitate before picking it up, unfolding it carefully beneath the shield of the table.
Are you gonna continue to ignore me?
The words are scrawled hastily, but they hit like a hammer to your chest.
You swallow, your grip tightening around the note as your eyes flick up to her. Abby doesn’t look away. She holds your gaze, her expression unreadable, but there’s something there—something expectant, something frustrated. She places a pencil in your hand, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest second, sending a jolt up your arm.
You inhale sharply, turning your focus back to the paper. The weight of everything of the sermon, of your husband’s presence, of your children sitting beside you presses in on all sides. But still, your fingers move.
I don’t know, Abby.
You hand the paper back without looking at her.
There’s a pause, long enough for you to hear the scratch of the pencil as she rereads your words. You can feel her reaction before you see it—the way her body tenses ever so slightly, the way she shifts just a little away from you, like your words pushed her back.
You don’t turn. Instead, you stare ahead, eyes settling on Madison, who sits with her hands neatly folded in her lap, the picture of a little lady in public, soaking in every word from the pastor. Meanwhile, Kimberly and Jayden fidget beside her, their tiny bodies struggling to keep still, feet kicking lightly against the pew.
Your husband's glare burns into the side of your face, his displeasure a silent but suffocating presence. You place a gentle hand on Jayden’s lap, shaking your head in a quiet warning. He stops immediately, Kimberly following suit, though the restless energy still hums beneath their tiny limbs.
Nico shifts in your arms, his small body pressing closer as he buries his face into your chest, his breathing slowing.
You exhale softly, rocking him just a little, grounding yourself in his warmth.
Beside you, Abby is still.
The note is gone.
But the words between you feel louder than ever.
Minutes pass, the weight of the sermon pressing down on you, but your mind is anywhere but the words being spoken. The steady hum of the pastor’s voice fades into the background as a gentle touch brushes against your arm. The warmth spreads across your skin, slow and deliberate, and for a second, you think you imagined it.
But then it happens again—soft, lingering.
Your breath hitches as you glance down, watching as Abby’s fingers trail featherlight along your forearm before she subtly intertwines her hand with yours. Her grip is firm yet careful, as if she’s testing how far she can go, how much you’ll allow.
She doesn’t look at you.
Her eyes remain ahead, fixed on the pastor, her expression unreadable. But her thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles against the back of your hand, grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Your stomach twists.
You should pull away. Your husband is right beside you, just inches away, unaware of the way your fingers are slotting so easily between Abby’s. The air feels too thick, too dangerous, like one wrong move could bring the whole world crashing down around you.
But your heart is screaming something different.
You want this. You want her.
For the first time in a long time, something as simple as holding hands feels like breathing again, like being seen. Like being wanted.
But then Madison’s laughter echoes softly from the pew beside you, the sound pure and innocent as she giggles at something Kimberly whispers in her ear. Jayden kicks his feet against the bench, restless, while Nico sleeps soundly against your chest.
Your babies.
They need stability. They need a father.
Your throat tightens as guilt claws its way up, drowning out the desperate ache inside you.
But Abby? She doesn’t let go.
And when you finally turn your head, meeting her gaze, she’s already looking at you—her face bathed in soft, warm light filtering through the stained-glass windows. A quiet, knowing smile tugs at her lips, as if she already knows what you’re thinking.
As if she’s willing to wait.
The pastor’s voice shifts. It’s subtle at first, but you notice it immediately. The words coming from the pulpit are still about marriage, but there’s a sharp edge to them now, a condemnation of something unsaid, something hidden.
“Marriage, the sacred union between a man and a woman,” he begins, emphasizing each word as if he’s driving a point home. “A covenant made before God, one meant to reflect His love, His plan. Yet, we live in a world where many try to twist that meaning, where people think they can redefine love, change what’s holy to fit their desires, to suit their will.”
You feel your chest tighten. It’s not loud, but it’s there like a dark cloud forming in the room. You glance at Abby, whose hand is still gently resting on yours, and for a moment, you feel the weight of the pastor’s words sink in like an anchor. The tension in the air is palpable.
“Some people believe that love can exist outside of what God intended,” the pastor continues, his voice thick with disapproval. “That love can be shared between anyone, regardless of the bounds He set. But the truth remains: God’s word doesn’t change, and His truth is eternal.”
A quiet chill runs down your spine. The words are directed at you, at what you’ve been hiding, at the way Abby’s hand feels in yours, so natural, yet so wrong in this moment.
You try to focus on anything else, but the room feels suffocating. You hear the faint rustling of the papers your husband is flipping through, unaware of what’s happening around him, and for a moment, you wish you could disappear.
“There are those who take what is sacred and twist it into something unrecognizable, to fit their desires and pleasures,” the pastor’s voice rings out, almost louder now. “But don’t be deceived. What is unnatural cannot stand in God’s eyes. What is not meant to be will crumble under the weight of its sin.”
You feel a wave of panic surge through you. The pastor’s words sting, each one a direct hit to something deep within you. You want to pull your hand away from Abby’s, but the weight of the moment keeps you frozen in place. Your heart is racing, a knot of guilt tightening with each word. This isn’t just about faith or religion anymore it feels like an attack on who you are, on who you and Abby are together.
Abby’s hand moves slightly, as if sensing your hesitation, but neither of you speaks. The tension between you both is thick, but neither of you can break the silence. You don’t dare meet her eyes, terrified of the truth they might hold, terrified of what she might think if she sees the panic in yours.
The pastor’s voice grows louder as he delivers the final blow: “Do not let sin rule your heart, for those who fall into temptation will find that they’ve strayed too far to return. It may feel right in the moment, but it leads only to destruction. And those who partake in it, no matter how much they try to hide it or justify it, will be called to account for their actions.”
You slowly pull your hand away from Abby's, the loss of her touch like a cold breeze against your skin. Your fingers linger for a moment, but then you place your hand gently on Nico, cradling him in your arms as if that will make everything okay. The weight of the pastor’s words presses down on you like an invisible hand squeezing your chest, suffocating you with its intensity.
You glance up at Abby, and her eyes meet yours. There’s a flicker of pain there, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you. She doesn’t say anything, but the hurt in her expression is unmistakable. It's like the connection you had—something so simple, so natural—has been shattered in an instant. You look away, unable to meet her gaze, afraid of what you’ll see in her eyes, afraid of what she might think.
The pastor’s voice swells again, his words cutting through the tension that now clings to the air like smoke. You feel exposed, like a spotlight is shining down on you, pulling everything you’ve tried so hard to hide into the light. Your stomach twists into knots as you try to steady your breathing, but it’s no use. It feels like everyone can see the turmoil inside you, see the truth you’ve been hiding from your family, from your community. It’s all out there now, hanging like a dark cloud over your head.
Nico stirs in your arms, his small hands reaching up for you as if he can sense the shift in your mood. You rock him instinctively, your gaze fixed on your husband, who’s still completely absorbed in the service, oblivious to the storm that’s brewing right next to him. You want to scream, to shake him awake, but instead, you hold Nico tighter, hoping the physical act will somehow center you, make the world stop spinning for just a moment.
The pastor’s words continue to echo in your mind, louder now, as if they’re meant to be a reminder of the sin you’re entangled in. You can feel the weight of the judgment hanging in the air, suffocating any hope you had of escaping it. You glance down at your lap, wishing you could disappear, wishing you could erase the space between you and Abby, wishing you could undo everything that’s happened in the last few days.
But you can’t.
You glance at Abby again, and she’s looking ahead, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her face carefully neutral, but you can’t shake the feeling that she’s fighting something too. The silence between you feels like it’s stretching on forever, thick with the unspoken. Your heart aches with a mix of guilt, longing, and confusion.
The sermon drones on, the words meaningless now, just background noise to the chaos that’s unraveling inside you. The damage has already been done. The secret you’ve been hiding, the bond between you and Abby, has been exposed, even if only to yourself. There’s no going back now
__________
The evening is thick with the hum of forced smiles and conversations you’re not really part of. Your husband’s church friends fill the house, laughing too loudly, clinking glasses, and pretending like everything is normal. But you know better. You know it’s all a façade, and the cracks are beginning to show. Abby is here, of course, a little too present in every corner of the room, her gaze never straying too far from yours. She’s holding a beer, her fingers wrapped tightly around the bottle as she watches you from the couch. Her face is tight with something—anger, frustration, maybe even hurt. You can’t tell, but you feel it, like an electric pulse connecting the two of you.
Nico is asleep in his crib, blissfully unaware of the tension thickening the air. Your other three kids are outside in the backyard, playing with the other children who came over. They’re lost in their own little world of laughter and shouts, and for a moment, you allow yourself to wish you could be as carefree as they are.
But instead, you're stuck playing this role. The perfect wife, the dutiful hostess, the one who smiles and serves.
“Y/N, get me another beer,” your husband’s voice cuts through the noise of the room, his tone sharp and demanding, as though he believes that’s the least you can do. You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy to.
You nod, giving a soft “Yes, dear,” and walk over to the kitchen, trying to move like it’s just another task, another thing on the endless list you’ve been given. You grab a beer from the fridge, your hands shaking slightly as you twist the cap off. The cold metal in your palm feels like a lifeline—something tangible you can hold onto, even as everything around you feels wrong.
You walk back into the living room, handing the beer to your husband without saying anything. He takes it without a second glance, already absorbed in a conversation with one of his friends. You should feel relief, but instead, it’s just another reminder of how little you matter here. He’s not even looking at you. Not really.
"I’m gonna get the chips from the pantry. I’ll be back," you say, your voice too bright, too forced. It’s a lie, but it’s the only way you can escape.
You don’t wait for a response, just turn and walk away before he can demand anything else. You move quickly, almost too quickly, towards the pantry. Your heart is pounding now, the quiet thud of it growing louder in your ears with every step. The last thing you want is to stay in that room, to be near Abby, to feel her eyes on you, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and things left unsaid.
When you slip into the pantry, you push the door closed softly behind you, the darkness offering a momentary escape from the chaos of the house. You rest against the shelves, taking a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. For a few seconds, you let the silence wrap around you, the stillness almost comforting. But then the reality of the situation crashes back down on you.
Abby. The way she’s been looking at you. The way her presence alone feels like a weight you can’t lift. You should have handled things differently. You should have said something. Done something. But all you can do now is hide, just a little longer. Just enough to breathe.
You wipe your hands on your dress, trying to shake off the nerves. You know you can’t stay in the pantry forever. You know you have to go back out there, back to your husband, back to the role you’ve been cast in. But for just a moment, you let yourself be still. You let the noise from the party fade away, as if this tiny space could give you a breath of freedom.
Until you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Heavy, deliberate steps approaching the door. Your heart skips a beat. The door opens, and Abby walks in, closing it behind her with a soft click. She stands there, taking up the small space between you and the shelves, her eyes not leaving yours.
Neither of you says anything at first. The silence is thick, almost oppressive. You both know exactly why you’re here, why you're in this cramped, dark space away from the prying eyes of the party, away from everything that’s been gnawing at you all evening. The tension that’s been simmering for hours finally finds its release, but it’s more suffocating than freeing.
“You’ve been avoiding me all night,” Abby says, her voice low but sharp, cutting through the quiet like a knife.
You don’t answer right away. You can’t. The words feel stuck in your throat, tangled in the mess of everything you’re feeling. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, refusing to look at her directly. Your eyes are locked on the rows of canned goods in front of you, as if they hold some kind of answer.
“I’ve been busy, Abby,” you say, your voice a little too defensive, a little too brittle.
Abby lets out a bitter laugh, a sound that’s not at all amused. Her gaze burns into your side, and you can feel the weight of it even without looking. “Busy? Really?” she says sarcastically, her tone dripping with disbelief. “Is that what you’re going with? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve been busy avoiding me, not just the damn chips.”
You wince, the words hitting harder than you’d like to admit. Her voice cuts through you—like she’s reading you, peeling back the layers you’ve been trying to hide behind. She knows. She knows exactly what you’re doing.
“Why are you doing this?” Abby continues, her voice quieter now, but there’s still a sharp edge to it. She takes a step forward, closing the distance between you two, though you don’t move. She doesn’t touch you, but her presence is almost too much to handle. “You can’t keep pretending, Y/N. Not with me, not with yourself.”
Your breath hitches. Her words rattle something deep inside of you, something you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. You know she’s right. You’ve been running from this, from her, for so long. But the world outside this pantry—the world with your husband, the role you’ve played for years feels like a trap you can’t escape from. Not yet.
“I’m not pretending,” you say, though you know it’s a lie. You’re pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re pretending to be someone your husband wants, someone your kids can rely on. Someone perfect. But when Abby looks at you like that, when she makes you feel seen, truly seen, you realize how far from perfect you really are.
“You are, though,” Abby replies, her voice softer now, but the pain in it cuts through you. “You’ve been pretending for so long that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to just be... to just feel.”
Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, all you can hear is the faint sound of the party in the other room—the laughter, the chatter, the clinking of glasses. It feels distant, like a world you don’t belong to anymore.
You want to respond, to say something, but the weight of it all crushes your chest. Abby’s still watching you, her gaze never wavering, waiting for you to answer. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something, and if you move even a little bit, you’ll fall.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” you say, your voice trembling. The words feel foreign, like you’re speaking someone else’s truth. You wish you had more to give, more to offer, but all you feel is exhaustion.
“I want you to talk to me and stop avoiding me,” Abby says, her voice quiet yet firm, as she leans in closer, invading the small space between you both. Her eyes lock onto yours, unreadable but full of intent. “You’ve been weird since that kiss at my house.”
The words hit you like a wave. Your heart stutters in your chest, and suddenly, everything feels too much. The kiss, that kiss plays over and over in your mind, but hearing Abby bring it up like this only makes you tense up. You instinctively turn your head away from her, feeling the heat rise in your face.
Abby doesn’t let you off the hook. Without hesitation, she reaches forward, her fingers brushing gently against your chin. She tilts your face back to meet hers, her smirk soft but knowing. “If you’re feeling guilty about it, don’t,” she says, her voice low and almost soothing, like she’s trying to take the weight off your shoulders.
Her words land in the pit of your stomach, and for a brief second, it feels like time stops. You’ve been carrying this guilt, this feeling of what am I doing? for days now, but hearing her say it don’t feel guilty is like a brief moment of release. It’s as if she’s given you permission, even if you’re not entirely sure what that permission means.
You look up at her, your thoughts spinning. Abby’s gaze is steady, unflinching, but soft. She doesn’t look at you with judgment. Just understanding. A part of you wants to pull away, but the other part of you—the part that feels so exhausted from holding everything in—just wants to let go, to let her in.
You stand there, caught between two worlds—one where you're still clinging to the role of the perfect wife, and the other, where Abby's presence pulls you in directions you never thought you'd go. The tension crackles in the air, thick and palpable, and for a moment, you feel paralyzed. You want to speak, to let everything out, but the words are locked behind a wall in your throat. The silence stretches between you, suffocating, and it feels like the longer you stay silent, the harder it becomes to break the stillness.
Abby doesn't let the silence grow too long. She takes a small step closer, the space between you narrowing until you can feel the heat of her body radiating against yours. Her hand hovers near yours, just a breath away, as if she's waiting for you to make the first move, to close the gap, to break down the wall you've put between you two. It's a silent invitation, one that you feel deep in your bones, but you're not sure if you're ready to cross that line.
“I know this is hard,” Abby says, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the tension. It’s soft, but carries an edge of determination. “But you can’t keep running, Y/N. You don’t have to keep pretending.”
Pretending. The word hits you like a punch to the gut. That's exactly what you’ve been doing—pretending everything is fine, pretending that you can hold everything together while you're suffocating. You want to argue, to tell her that it’s not that simple, that it’s too complicated to walk away from everything you’ve built. But the words don't come. The weight of her words is enough to stop you in your tracks.
“I know it’s not easy,” Abby continues, her voice steady, but the quiet urgency behind it is clear. “But you deserve more. You deserve to be happy. And your kids deserve to see you happy too. They’re gonna grow up seeing the way you are, and they’ll start to think that this—” She gestures between you and behind her, “—is normal. That this is okay.”
Her words lodge themselves in your heart. The thought of your children growing up, learning from you and believing this chaos is what love is supposed to look like, breaks you open in ways you didn’t think possible. You’ve always tried to protect them from it, tried to shield them from the anger, the cold distance, but Abby’s right. They’re learning from you. They’re watching everything, and if you don’t change, if you don’t do something, they’ll grow up thinking this is how relationships are supposed to be. That thought claws at you, making your chest ache with a mix of guilt and pain you can't escape.
“I don’t know how to leave,” you finally say, the words barely a whisper. Your voice trembles, and your hands begin to shake. “I don’t even know where to start.” The weight of everything presses down on you, suffocating. How do you walk away? How do you leave when you’ve spent so long trying to keep the facade intact?
Abby steps forward, her presence steady and calming. She reaches for your hand, her touch gentle, but firm. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, and it’s enough to make you pause, enough to make you feel like you’re not completely alone in this. “I’m here,” she says softly, her voice so much more than just words. “I’ll help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Her words are a lifeline, but they bring a new kind of fear. What if you do this? What if you let go of everything you’ve known? Everything changes the moment you reach for her, the moment you accept her help. And yet, as much as you’re scared, there’s something inside you that’s telling you this might be the only way to breathe again. That you deserve more than what you've been settling for.
“I... I’ll think about it,” you whisper, your voice wavering, unsure but desperate for change.
The silence hangs in the air, but it’s different this time. It’s not the suffocating kind you’ve come to know; instead, it feels like the world is suspended, waiting for something to happen. There’s a shift between you and Abby, something unspoken but undeniable, and for a brief moment, everything feels still. You can almost hear the beating of your heart in your ears, drowning out the noise of the world outside.
And then, just as you begin to think you’re safe, as if you can breathe again and maybe just keep the world at bay for a little while longer, Abby steps forward. There’s no hesitation, no second guessing. She closes the distance between you with quiet certainty. Her hand reaches out, her fingers brushing your arm lightly, sending a wave of heat through you.
Without a single word, she leans in. The space between you shrinks, and then, her lips are against yours. The kiss starts soft gentle, like she’s testing the waters, unsure of how far you’ll let her go. But it doesn’t stay tentative for long. It deepens almost instantly, as though it was always meant to be this way, as though both of you have been waiting for this moment your whole lives. You can feel it—the raw urgency in the way she pulls you closer, the electricity that builds with every second.
Abby’s hand moves up to cup your face, her touch warm and steady, and suddenly, everything falls away. The walls you’ve built around yourself, the guilt, the fear, all of it crumbles. There’s no room for any of it now. It’s just the two of you in this moment, the weight of everything else fading to nothing. She kisses you with an intensity that steals your breath, a kiss that’s more than just a physical connection. It’s an unspoken promise, an understanding that says, I see you. I’m here.
And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself go. You let the world outside disappear, and you let Abby pull you deeper into the kiss, into this uncharted territory. The pull between you is magnetic, a force that feels both terrifying and liberating, and you let yourself surrender to it, not caring about the consequences. You feel seen for the first time in forever, like she’s holding you in a way no one else ever has.
When the kiss finally breaks, you’re left breathless, your chest rising and falling quickly as you try to regain some semblance of control. Abby pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes searching yours, her gaze soft but filled with something more, something that makes your heart race all over again.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, her voice low and full of conviction.
You don’t need her to say anything more. At that moment, you know. You know that whatever happens next, whatever the future holds, you don’t have to face it alone. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you can breathe.
second part done the third part will be the final part so if you wanna be tagged let me know Ⓒ︎ seulszn
Warnings: Threesome, Switch Sevika, Blowjob (Sevika receiving), public sex (at Y/N’s job), praise/dirty talk, pet names (baby girl, baby and doll), Oral (Mel receiving), Mel Dom!Mel, Dom!Reader, (1940’s slang)
A/N: I wrote Sevika as trans, and I’ve seen mixed reactions some saying it’s offensive and others saying it’s not. My intention is never to offend, so if this portrayal is hurting anyone, please let me know, and I’ll rewrite it or take it down. I want to be mindful and respectful of how people feel about representation. This is very lengthy so hopefully everyone enjoys it.
The 1940s, often remembered as the Golden Age, was a decade of war, change, and cultural evolution. With World War II raging across the globe, countless men were sent overseas to fight, leaving women to step into roles once dominated by men. No longer confined solely to the home, women worked in factories, took up jobs in offices, and proved their capabilities beyond keeping the house clean. This shift in societal expectations ignited early movements for civil rights and women’s rights, as people began questioning the rigid structures of the past.
Despite the war casting a long shadow, entertainment thrived. Jazz clubs were the heart of the nightlife, their smoky interiors alive with the sultry melodies of saxophones and the smooth voices of legendary jazz singers. Hollywood flourished, and the burlesque scene exploded in popularity, offering people a thrilling escape from the grim realities of wartime.
For you, burlesque dancing was more than just a job, it was a way of life. The stage was your world, the warm glow of the spotlights, the dazzling sequins on your costume catching every flicker of light as you moved. You thrived on the attention, the way men eagerly tossed their money at your feet, and how women whispered enviously, wishing they had a body like yours. It was a game, a performance, and most importantly, it paid the bills.
Club Desire
A haven of glamour, seduction, and exclusivity. This wasn’t just any burlesque club, it was the best of the best, a place where only the most captivating performers were allowed to grace the stage. It stood as a sanctuary for women, offering them independence, protection, and a chance to make a name for themselves in a world that often overlooked them.
Unlike the seedy joints scattered across the city, Club Desire set the standard as a beacon of elegance and prestige that made other establishments look like cheap imitations. It wasn’t just the number one club in the country for its dazzling shows and high-profile clientele, it was a symbol of power, an empire built on allure and talent. And your boss? She’d do anything to keep that image untarnished.
Dancers hurried around the dressing room, adjusting corsets, perfecting their curls, and dusting powder onto their skin to catch the light just right. The club’s golden rule was simple: perfection. No smudged lipstick, no loose straps, no missteps. Every performance had to be flawless, every moment intoxicating.
You moved to your usual spot by the mirrored vanity, adjusting the straps of your sequined dress, feeling the cool silk against your skin. Naomi, ever the cool cat, leaned beside you, fixing the seams on her thigh-high stockings. She shot you a smirk through the mirror.
"Nervous, doll?" she teased, fastening the last clip of her garter belt.
You scoffed, dabbing a final touch of rouge on your cheeks. "You know me, sweetheart. I was made for this."
And it was true. You thrived under the stage lights, reveled in the attention, in the way the crowd’s eyes followed your every move, entranced, yearning. Club Desire wasn’t just your workplace it was your stage, your kingdom.
A sharp knock at the dressing room door cut through the chatter, and a voice barked out, "Five minutes, girls!"
It’s showtime.
Naomi winked at you, smoothing down her dress. As you slipped into your heels and made your way to the stage entrance, you could already hear the announcer hyping up the crowd. The anticipation crackled in the air like a live wire.
The moment your heel clicked against the polished stage, a hush fell over the room, followed by the slow, rising hum of excitement. The band struck up a sultry tune, the soft wail of a saxophone weaving through the thick haze of cigar smoke, setting the mood just right. The golden glow of the stage lights kissed your skin, catching every shimmering detail of your dress, every curve, every teasing movement.
You knew how to work a crowd. It was a game of push and pull, temptation and restraint. Give them just enough, keep them wanting more. Your hips swayed to the rhythm, your gloved fingers trailing along your shoulder before slipping down your arm, peeling the silk away with agonizing slowness. The men at the front leaned in, their cigars smoldering in forgotten ashtrays, their drinks left untouched as they watched, spellbound.
You spotted familiar faces in the crowd, businessmen loosening their ties, soldiers on leave looking for a last taste of something sweet before shipping back out, women with red lips and sharp eyes watching with quiet admiration.Some came for the show, others came for the escape. Either way, they all left captivated.
At a table near the back, nestled in the shadows where only the high-rollers and untouchables sat, a pair of figures caught your eye. Mel Medarda and Sevika. You nearly missed a step but years of experience kept your movements smooth, your expression unshaken. What were they doing here?
Mel sat poised, her chin resting delicately on her hand, her legs crossed watching you with an unreadable expression. Regal. Amused. Intrigued. Beside her, Sevika lounged back, a cigarette dangling from her lips, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as she observed you through lidded eyes.
They didn’t belong in this crowd. Not as patrons, at least. Mel was too powerful, too calculated to be here for just a night of entertainment. And Sevika? She looked like she owned the place rather than simply visiting it.
Something about the way they watched you intense, deliberate, expectant sent a shiver down your spine.
Your routine continued flawlessly, but your mind raced. Had they come for you?
As you finished your routine with a slow, deliberate turn, the final note of the saxophone lingering in the air, the room erupted in applause. Whistles, cheers, the clinking of glasses. Money fluttered onto the stage like golden leaves in the autumn wind. You bent down with a practiced smile, scooping up a few bills, letting the men in the front row believe for just a second that they were special.
But your focus was elsewhere.
Mel and Sevika hadn’t moved.
They were still watching you, the applause, the spectacle, the noise none of it seemed to faze them. Unbothered. In control.
You took your time stepping off the stage, offering the crowd a last lingering glance before disappearing behind the velvet curtain. The second you were out of sight, you exhaled, running a hand down your arm to shake off the tension coiling beneath your skin. Something was off.
"Nice work out there, doll," Naomi’s voice pulled you back. She leaned against the vanity, reapplying her lipstick in the mirror. "You had those boys eating outta the palm of your hand."
"Yeah," you muttered, rubbing your arms as if that could rid you of the feeling of being watched.
Naomi turned to you, arching a brow. "What's with the long face? Thought you liked the attention."
You hesitated before speaking. What could you even say? That two of the most powerful women in the city were sitting front row, eyeing you like you were a game piece they were about to move? That something about their presence made your skin prickle, even after years of performing for all kinds of men and women?
Before you could respond, the dressing room door creaked open, and the boss’s sharp heels clacked against the floor.
"Y/N," she called, her expression unreadable, her lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a warning.
You straightened immediately. "Yeah, boss?"
She stepped closer, fixing a stray strap on your dress, smoothing out the fabric like she cared.
"You’ve got company," she said, her voice low. "And they don’t like to be kept waiting."
Your stomach twisted. You already knew who she was talking about.
Mel and Sevika.
Naomi shot you a look, curiosity flickering in her eyes, but you couldn’t focus on that now. You swallowed hard, forcing a breath through your nose.
"Where?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
The boss grinned. "Private room. Go on, doll. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint ‘em."
You hesitated, then nodded, smoothing down your dress, adjusting your gloves.
You forced a steady breath, smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress before stepping out of the dressing room. The club was alive with music, smoke, and laughter, but it all blurred as you made your way to the private rooms. Your heels clicked against the polished floors, every step sending a pulse of nervous energy through your veins.
Mel Medarda and Sevika.
These weren’t your average patrons, the kind that got sloppy on whiskey and loose with their wallets. They had power. Real power.
Reaching the door, you hesitated. A second too long.
"Go on, sugar," the bouncer grunted, barely sparing you a glance as he opened the door for you. No turning back now.
You stepped insideThe air was thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume.
The lighting was lower than in the main room, casting deep shadows against the plush velvet seating. Mel lounged effortlessly on the couch, her head resting against Sevika’s shoulder. A glass of something dark swirled in her hand. Sevika, ever the enforcer, exhaled a stream of smoke, eyes locked onto you like she was sizing you up.
You cleared your throat, trying to steady your nerves as you spoke, “The b-boss sent me. Said you ladies were lookin’ for entertainment.” You forced the words out, keeping your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.
Mel’s gaze lingered on you, her head tilting slightly as a slow, knowing smile crept across her lips. It wasn’t the kind of smile that made you feel comfortable, it was the kind that made you feel like she already knew everything about you, like she was always ten steps ahead.
"Entertainment," she repeated, her voice like honey, smooth and dangerously calm. "I suppose that’s one way to put it." She took her time with the words, drawing them out, letting the weight of them settle in the room.
Sevika, lounging beside her, took another lazy drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling up around her like a serpent. She exhaled slowly, the tendrils of smoke rising toward the ceiling before her sharp gaze landed on you. “Close the door, sweetheart,” she drawled, her tone a little colder now, a little more commanding. “Don’t want anyone listenin’ in on our little chat.”
You felt a shiver run down your spine as you turned toward the door, closing it with a soft click, the sound echoing too loudly in the otherwise quiet room. You could feel the tension thickening, wrapping around you as the room seemed to close in.
Turning back, you found both women watching you with eyes that didn’t miss a thing. Mel leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping against her drink, while Sevika’s eyes never wavered from you, watching you like a hawk.
Mel patted the seat next to Sevika, her smile sharp and teasing. “Sit. She doesn’t bite… unless you want her to.” She said it like she was enjoying the game, swirling the wine in her glass as she watched you closely. The flicker of amusement in her eyes was unmistakable.
You glanced over at Sevika, taking in the sight of her. The buff, brown-skinned woman was lounging with an almost predatory calm, her gaze fixed on you, a hunger in her eyes that was both intense and unsettling. She didn’t look at you like a stranger no, she looked at you like she already knew exactly what she wanted.
You hesitated. You had dealt with men and women wanting something from you before, but this? This felt different. There was no pretense, no soft words or polite gestures, just raw, unapologetic desire.
Despite the knot forming in your stomach, you forced yourself to sit. Your hands gripped the edge of the seat for a moment before you relaxed into it, trying to look composed, even though every nerve in your body was on edge.
Mel’s smile widened as she took another sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving you. Sevika’s gaze didn’t falter either, still locked onto you with an intensity that left no room for doubt.
Mel studied you for a long moment before setting her glass down. "You’ve got quite the reputation here. The boss speaks highly of you."
You forced a small smile, keeping your posture poised. "I aim to please."
Sevika scoffed, the sound low and amused. "That so?"
Mel leans over Sevika’s lap, closing the space between you. "We didn’t ask for just any girl tonight," she murmurs, her voice smooth but edged with something that sends a shiver down your spine. "We asked for you." Her gaze locks onto yours, intense and unyielding.
Your eyes drop to your dress, unsure how to respond to the dark-skinned woman before you. She clicks her tongue in disapproval, then tilts your chin up with a single finger.
"You’re very pretty," she muses, her eyes drinking you in. "The way your body moves… so graceful."
Before you can react, she shifts, climbing over Sevika and settling into your lap. Your breath hitches as she leans in, her warm breath ghosting over your neck.
"Thank you," you manage to whisper. She smiles, lips dangerously close to your skin.
Mel hums, the sound vibrating against your skin as she brushes her nose along your jawline. "Shy, are we?" she teases, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sevika exhales sharply, clearly amused. "Don’t scare her off, Mel," she drawls, though there’s no real warning in her tone, only entertainment.
Mel ignores her, fingers trailing lightly down your arm, her touch featherlight but deliberate. "I like the quiet ones," she murmurs, her lips just barely grazing your ear. "They always surprise me."
Your breath stutters, heat pooling in your stomach at her closeness. Her confidence is intoxicating, and the way she looks at you like she already knows how this night will end makes it impossible to pull away.
"Relax," she coaxes, pressing a hand against your thigh. "You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want this."
Sevika leans back, taking a slow sip of her drink as she watches, her gaze dark with interest. "Go on," she says, nodding toward you. "Tell her what you want."
Mel tilts her head, waiting, patient but expectant. Her fingers trace lazy circles against your leg, and you know there’s no escaping her attention.
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Mel watches you closely, waiting, her patience unwavering.
"F-Fuck, I don’t know," you finally whimper, your voice barely above a breath.
Sevika chuckles, low and amused, as she pours herself another drink. "If you don’t know, doll, how can we give you what you want?" She tilts her head, smirking. "Hmm?"
Frustration coils in your chest, your body thrumming with need. You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily. "F-Fuck me," you gasp. "Touch me, do anything."
The moment the words leave your lips, Mel is on you.
Her mouth crashes against yours, the kiss nothing like you’re used to hungry, all-consuming. It’s as if she’s devouring you, taking what she wants without hesitation. When you moan, she takes it as an invitation, her tongue slipping past your lips, claiming you completely.
Mel’s fingers press into your thighs as she deepens the kiss, her body molding against yours. The heat of her, the way she moves with such effortless dominance, has your head spinning.
Sevika watches from her seat, swirling the liquor in her glass with a lazy smirk. "Mel’s always been a bit greedy," she muses, amusement lacing her tone. "Hope you can keep up, doll."
Mel doesn’t bother responding, her focus is entirely on you. Her hands roam, tracing the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, her touch featherlight but deliberate. She drinks in every sound you make, every hitch in your breath, like she’s savoring it.
She pulls back just enough to let you breathe, her lips hovering over yours. "You taste sweet," she murmurs, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "I knew you'd be sweet."
Your body is burning, anticipation coiling deep in your stomach. She shifts in your lap, rolling her hips just slightly, and it sends a shock of pleasure through you. Your fingers dig into her sides, grounding yourself, because everything about her is overwhelming.
"Look at you," Mel purrs, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet her gaze. "You’re already falling apart for me."
Sevika hums in agreement, taking another slow sip of her drink. "She’s a pretty thing when she’s desperate."
Mel grins, wicked and knowing. "Lucky for her, I like desperate."
Her hands tighten on you, and you realize you’ve given yourself to her completely.
Mel’s hands roam your body with a purpose, but it’s not enough not for her. With a slow, deliberate pace, she begins to strip you of your burlesque costume, piece by piece. Each article of clothing falls away, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air and their hungry gazes.
Once you’re bare, she takes her time admiring you, fingers tracing the curves of your body before she effortlessly lifts you into Sevika’s lap. The shift is dizzying, your body now pressed against the firm, solid warmth of the other woman. Sevika leans back, watching you with a smirk as Mel settles behind you, her breath hot against your ear.
"You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this," Mel whispers, voice dripping with desire. Her lips graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
Before you can respond, she shifts her leg beneath you, her knee suddenly pressing up against your clit. The unexpected pressure has you arching your back, a sharp moan escaping your lips.
Sevika chuckles, the sound dark and amused. "Usually, my wife and I don’t indulge in things like this," she muses, her rough hands finding their way to your waist. She grips you firmly, holding you in place as her thick thigh presses against your aching core. "But then we saw you dancing, prancing around that little stage we just had to take a bite."
She guides your movements, rocking your hips against her leg, each slow grind sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Mel’s hands don’t stay idle; they glide over your body, teasing, exploring, her touch featherlight yet possessive.
"Just look at you," Mel murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "So eager for us."
Sevika’s grip tightens on your waist, guiding your movements as you grind against her thick thigh. The friction is intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure through you with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips. Your hands grasp at her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, but the teasing smirk on her lips tells you she’s enjoying watching you struggle for control.
Mel, still behind you, drags her fingers down your arms before wrapping them around your torso, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "That’s it," she coos, her voice smooth as silk. "Let us see how good you can be."
Sevika hums, her thigh flexing beneath you, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine. "Bet you’ve never been touched like this before," she murmurs, her gaze locked onto your face, drinking in every little reaction.
Your breath comes in quick, uneven gasps, your body melting under their touch. Mel presses soft, teasing kisses along your neck, her hands roaming over your bare skin, adding to the unbearable heat pooling in your core. She drags her nails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake before her fingers ghost lower, hovering just above where you need her most.
Sevika tilts her head, amused. "Think she’s ready for more?"
Mel chuckles against your skin, her breath hot and teasing. "Oh, she’s been ready," she purrs. "Haven’t you, sweetheart?"
Your only response is a whimper, your body trembling with need. You’ve never felt this exposed, this worshiped, this desperate for more.
Mel’s fingers finally dip lower, and Sevika tightens her grip, keeping you right where they want you. There’s no escaping them now—not that you’d ever want to.
Mel’s fingers trail lower, teasing, barely touching where you need her most. The anticipation is maddening, and your hips stutter against Sevika’s thigh, seeking more. A low chuckle rumbles from Sevika’s chest as she watches you unravel.
"Look at her," Sevika murmurs, her voice thick with amusement and something darker. "Already shaking, and we’ve barely even started."
Mel hums in agreement, her lips brushing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "She’s so sensitive," she muses, her breath hot against your skin. "I think she likes being teased."
Your whimper is involuntary, frustration and need tangling in your chest. "Please," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper.
Mel smiles against your skin, pleased with your desperation. "Mmm, that’s better," she murmurs before finally slipping her fingers between your thighs. The first touch is barely there, a soft stroke against your slick heat, and your whole body jolts in response.
Sevika’s grip on your waist tightens as she forces your movements to slow, keeping you from chasing that pleasure too fast. "Let her play with you," she says, her tone commanding. "Let her take her time."
Mel grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your jaw. "Sevika likes to drag things out," she murmurs, her fingers dipping lower, teasing your entrance before retreating. "But I don’t mind making you beg."
A soft, frustrated moan escapes you, your head falling back against Mel’s shoulder. She takes advantage, her teeth grazing your throat before she soothes the spot with her tongue. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine.
"Tell me what you want," Mel purrs, her fingers continuing their slow, torturous exploration. "Use your words, sweetheart."
Sevika smirks, her thigh flexing beneath you again, sending another wave of pleasure through your body. "Yeah, doll," she drawls. "If you don’t ask properly, how will we know what to give you?"
The pressure is unbearable, their combined touches making you dizzy. You can barely think, barely breathe, but you force yourself to speak through the haze of pleasure.
"Please," you whisper, voice trembling. "Touch me… make me feel good."
Mel hums, satisfied. "Good girl."
And with that, she finally gives you what you’ve been begging for.
Her fingers part your slick folds with deliberate intent, a single digit teasing your aching core before plunging inside. But Sevika isn’t satisfied—not yet. Sensing your need for more, she leans in close, her breath warm against your skin. Her grip tightens around your jaw, forcing you to meet her gaze as she squeezes, a silent demand for your full submission.
Your glazed eyes lock onto the woman before you, Sevika’s signature smirk stretching across her lips as she drinks in the sight of your wrecked state. The pleasure coursing through your body is unbearable, heightened by Mel’s ruthless touch between your trembling thighs. Every calculated stroke of her fingers against your dripping heat pushes you closer to the edge, winding you up so tightly you feel like you might snap.
Sevika watches with dark amusement, her sharp gaze flickering between your parted lips and the desperate way you writhe under their control. She leans in, her breath warm against your skin, planting soft, teasing kisses along your jaw, across your cheekbones—each press of her lips a stark contrast to Mel’s relentless abuse of your overstimulated cunt.
Your moans are breathless, needy, and your voice shakes as you finally break. “I- I’m close,” you whimper, the pleasure cresting into something unbearable. “Mel, please- please let me cum.”
The woman behind you hums in approval, the sound rich with amusement. You can practically feel the smirk against your skin as she continues working you closer, her fingers curling just right, sending sparks through your already-overwhelmed body. But just as that final wave is about to crash over you, just as your body tenses in anticipation of release she stops.
Her fingers slip away, leaving you empty, aching, and teetering dangerously on the edge of blissful oblivion. A strangled whine rips from your throat, your hips jerking in a desperate attempt to chase the pleasure she so cruelly denied. But Mel only chuckles, her hands gripping your hips to still you, her amusement evident in the smug lilt of her voice.
“Not yet,” she murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss against the shell of your ear. “You’ll cum when we say so.”
And at that moment Sevika unzips her pants “I wanna fuck that pretty face of yours” she says removing you from her lap Mel pushes you down on your knees “if you do a good job Sev might reward you” she says bending down with you “I’ll help you lead” Mel says pulling down Sevika’s briefs her cock plops out precut already coating the base.
Sevika exhales a low, guttural moan, her head falling back against the couch as her muscles tense with anticipation. Her broad chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, and her fingers twitch at her sides, fighting the urge to grip something perhaps your hair, perhaps Mel’s.
Mel smirks, clearly pleased by Sevika’s reaction. She shifts, resting her head on Sevika’s thick thigh as she gazes up at you with an amused glint in her golden eyes. One of her hands moves with practiced ease, wrapping around the base of Sevika’s cock, her fingers stroking slow, deliberate motions along its length.
“She’s very vocal,” Mel muses, her voice smooth and teasing as she rubs her thumb over the slick tip, smearing the glistening precum. She tilts her head slightly, casting you a look of expectation. A silent challenge.
You swallow hard, your pulse quickening as you watch the way her hand moves so effortless, so sure of itself. Then she lifts her gaze, that knowing smile still playing at her lips. “You try.”
Your breath hitches, but you obey. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers wrapping around Sevika’s cock, warm and throbbing beneath your touch. The moment you begin stroking, mirroring Mel’s rhythm, she pulls away, withdrawing her hand and leaving you to continue alone.
But she doesn’t leave entirely. Instead, she leans in closer, her lips parting as she presses soft, teasing kitten licks against the sensitive head. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it sends a violent shudder through Sevika’s body.
“F-fuck,” Sevika groans, her voice breaking, her head tilting back even further as her hips jerk slightly upward. Her restraint is slipping, and Mel hums approvingly against her.
You glance at Mel, catching the wicked glint in her eyes before she flicks her tongue again, slow and deliberate, drawing another strangled moan from Sevika. It’s intoxicating watching the way she teases, the way she makes Sevika unravel with such minimal effort.
Mel hums against Sevika’s skin, her tongue trailing slow, teasing circles around the sensitive head before pulling away just enough to glance at you. The corner of her mouth curls into something smug and knowing as she watches you hesitate, your hand still working along Sevika’s length, but not nearly with the confidence she expects.
"Come on," Mel purrs, her voice smooth as silk, "don’t be shy. She likes it when you take your time.”
Sevika lets out a ragged breath, her fingers digging into the couch as she fights the urge to thrust up into your grip. Her muscles twitch, her body reacting to even the slightest movement, and it’s intoxicating the power you have over her in this moment.
Encouraged, you lean in, mirroring Mel’s earlier movements. You start slow, pressing soft kitten licks against the tip, tasting the salty precum that beads at the head. Sevika groans at the contact, her breath stuttering, and her thighs tense on either side of you.
Mel watches you closely, her golden eyes gleaming with approval. “That’s it,” she murmurs, her fingers ghosting over your jaw before she guides you gently, angling your head just right. “Open up.”
The way she says it so casually yet commanding sends a shiver down your spine. You obey, parting your lips as you take Sevika into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before sinking lower, taking in more of her inch by inch.
Sevika’s response is immediate a sharp inhale, a deep groan that rumbles from her chest. One of her hands flies to your hair, her grip tightening but not pushing, just holding. Like she’s trying to ground herself, to keep some semblance of control.
“Fuck—” she hisses through clenched teeth, her head tilting back against the couch.
Mel chuckles softly, clearly amused by how quickly Sevika is unraveling. She presses her cheek against Sevika’s thigh, watching with a lazy sort of satisfaction as your mouth works around her. “She’s so sensitive tonight,” Mel muses, her fingers stroking absentmindedly along Sevika’s thigh. “I wonder how long she’ll last.”
Sevika growls in response, her grip tightening in your hair for just a second, and Mel laughs, pleased with herself. She shifts closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispers, “Let’s find out, shall we?”
Then, as if to test you both, she joins in her tongue flicking out to tease whatever part of Sevika isn’t already claimed by your mouth. The sudden added sensation makes Sevika curse, her hips jerking involuntarily.
“Fuck- Mel, you-” Sevika’s voice breaks off into a strangled moan, her entire body shuddering beneath your combined efforts.
You feel her thighs tremble against your shoulders, her grip faltering for just a moment before tightening again. She’s close you can feel it, hear it in the way her breathing turns ragged, in the way her muscles lock up, desperate to hold back just a little longer.
Mel pulls back just enough to glance up at Sevika, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Think you can hold out a little longer?” she taunts, her lips glossy, her voice full of amusement.
Sevika glares down at her, but the effect is ruined by the way her chest heaves, by the way her jaw clenches like she’s barely hanging on. “Shut up,” she grits out, but there’s no real bite to it, just raw, desperate need.
Mel only smirks, then turns back to you. “Let’s push her a little more,” she whispers, her fingers brushing over your cheek as she urges you forward. “I want to hear her beg.”
Sevika’s breath is ragged, her muscles taut with restraint, her fingers tightening in your hair as if she’s clinging to the last shred of control she has left. Her thighs tremble against your shoulders, and the deep, guttural groans ripping from her chest send heat pooling low in your stomach.
Mel watches with lazy satisfaction, her golden eyes glinting with mischief as she tilts her head, lips still slick from where she had teased along Sevika’s length just moments ago. She wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb before resting her chin against Sevika’s thigh, observing you with quiet amusement.
"She’s trying so hard," Mel muses, her voice smooth, teasing. She flicks her gaze up to Sevika, smirking. "You always act so tough, but look at you now."
Sevika growls in response, her grip tightening in your hair for a fleeting second before she forces herself to loosen it. "You talk too much," she grits out, her voice hoarse, strained.
Mel chuckles, clearly pleased. "Oh, I do," she purrs, her fingers trailing lazily up Sevika’s thigh. "But you love it."
Sevika doesn’t respond not verbally, at least. But the way her hips twitch, the way her head falls back against the couch, the way she exhales a sharp, shuddering breath every part of her betrays just how much she’s unraveling.
Mel turns her attention back to you, her fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin slightly so that you look up at her. "You’re doing so well," she murmurs, her voice softer now, coaxing.
Before you can react, Mel leans in, her hand guiding you as she joins you once more, her tongue dragging slow, deliberate strokes along the underside of Sevika’s cock, her movements synchronized with yours.
The effect is immediate Sevika jerks beneath you, her hips bucking up involuntarily, a strangled groan ripping from her throat. "Fuck—"
Her head slams back against the couch, her fingers digging into the cushions so hard her knuckles turn white. You can feel the way she’s trembling, the way she’s barely holding herself together.
Mel hums against her, sending vibrations coursing through her already overstimulated nerves. She pulls away just slightly, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin as she murmurs, "Not yet."
Sevika lets out a choked, frustrated noise, her entire body thrumming with tension. "Mel—"
Mel smirks, tilting her head slightly as she glances up at her. "You’ll cum when we say so," she reminds her, echoing her earlier words with wicked satisfaction.
Sevika curses under her breath, her jaw clenched, her entire body coiled so tight she’s seconds away from snapping.
Mel looks at you again, golden eyes dark with hunger. "Let’s make her beg," she whispers. Then, without another word, she takes Sevika deeper, her tongue working expertly, her fingers gripping your chin to encourage you to follow suit.
Sevika gasps, her body lurching forward as her restraint shatters. "Fucking please," she groans, her voice raw, desperate.
Mel pulls back just enough to smirk up at her. "There it is," she murmurs, satisfied. She glances at you, her thumb tracing your bottom lip.
Sevika growls low in her throat, her hips jerking slightly. "Shut the fuck up," she grits out, but there’s no real venom behind her words only raw, aching need.
Mel laughs, her voice rich and sweet like honey, but there’s something wicked underneath it. She turns back to you, her fingers tracing the edge of your jaw before tilting your chin up, her eyes searching yours. "What do you think?" she asks, her voice soft, but the command beneath it is clear. "Should we give her what she’s begging for?"
You glance at Sevika at the way her head is thrown back against the couch, her thighs tense against your shoulders, her cock twitching against your tongue, glistening with need. She looks wrecked. Absolutely desperate. And the thought sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.
You nod.
Mel smirks, pleased with your answer. "Good," she purrs. "Then let’s ruin her."
Without hesitation, she moves first, her tongue flicking out to tease along Sevika’s length, slow and deliberate, before taking her into her mouth. The way she moves is practiced, confident, completely in control and it’s mesmerizing.
Not wanting to be outdone, you follow her lead, your lips wrapping around the other side of Sevika’s cock, your tongue working alongside Mel’s in a synchronized rhythm. The reaction is immediate.
"F- Fuck!" Sevika chokes out, her entire body lurching forward, one hand flying to Mel’s hair, the other gripping the back of your head. Her thighs tense, threatening to snap shut around you both, but Mel’s firm hand on her leg keeps her spread wide.
Mel moans around her, the vibrations sending a violent shudder through Sevika’s body. You feel her cock twitch against your tongue, her breaths coming faster, more erratic. She’s right there hanging on by a thread, so close to unraveling.
Mel pulls back slightly, just enough to speak, her voice dripping with amusement. "She’s trying so hard to hold back," she muses, glancing up at you. "But we can’t have that, can we?"
You shake your head, and Mel grins, wicked and knowing. "Then let’s finish her off."
You don’t hesitate. You take Sevika deeper, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue pressing against the sensitive underside as you bob your head. Mel mirrors you, her fingers squeezing Sevika’s thigh as she works her closer to the edge.
Sevika’s entire body goes rigid. "Oh- fuck, I-"
She tries to warn you, but it’s too late. Her grip tightens in your hair as she comes undone, a wrecked, guttural moan tearing from her throat as her hips jerk up, her release spilling onto your tongue. She shudders violently, her body trembling, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths.
Mel pulls away first, licking her lips as she watches Sevika with a satisfied smirk. "There we go," she murmurs, her voice thick with amusement. "Such a good girl for us."
Sevika groans, her head lolling to the side, utterly spent. Her fingers twitch in your hair before she finally releases you, exhaling a shaky breath.
Mel reaches for you, her fingers brushing against your chin as she tilts your face toward hers. "You did so well," she praises, her voice soft now, intimate. "Did you enjoy yourself?"
The way she’s looking at you, eyes dark and knowing, makes your stomach flip.
Mel runs a hand through her hair as she rises to her feet, golden eyes locked onto you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. Her smirk is soft but full of purpose as she tilts her head.
"Lay on the couch for us, baby girl," she orders, her voice smooth as silk, leaving no room for hesitation.
You obey instantly, shifting to lie back against the plush cushions. The moment you settle, Mel hums in satisfaction, a pleased smile curving her lips. "Such a good girl," she muses, trailing her fingers along your thigh as she watches you, her touch light yet possessive.
Sevika, still catching her breath from her previous release, chuckles lowly. She shifts beside you, one hand wrapping around her still-sensitive cock, giving it a slow, lazy stroke as she watches you with darkened eyes. "Hope you're ready for me, baby," she rasps, aligning herself with your aching, slick cunt. Her smirk is sharp, teasing. "You can take me, can’t you?"
Before you can answer, Mel moves, straddling your chest, her knees pressing into the cushions beside your head. She glances down at you, brushing her fingers through your hair, her expression softer than Sevika’s but no less commanding.
"Hopefully, I’m not too heavy," she murmurs, but the playful gleam in her eyes tells you she already knows the answer.
Then, without waiting for a response, she positions herself over your mouth, lowering herself slowly, her warmth, her scent overwhelming you in the best way.
Sevika groans at the sight, gripping your thighs as she presses forward, sinking into you with a deep, slow thrust. "Fuck," she growls, head tilting back as she stretches you open. "Tight little thing, aren’t you?"
Mel lets out a soft laugh, her fingers tightening in your hair as she rolls her hips against your lips. "Let’s see just how well she can handle both of us," she purrs.
Mel exhales a slow, pleased sigh as she settles against your mouth, rolling her hips with unhurried precision, savoring every flick of your tongue. Her fingers thread through your hair, holding you in place, not forcefully, but with enough control to remind you who’s in charge.
"That’s it," she purrs, her voice smooth, indulgent. "Just like that, baby. Make me feel good."
Sevika, however, is far less patient. A frustrated groan rumbles from her chest as she pushes inside you, her thick length sinking into your slick heat. The way you tighten around her, clenching instinctively, draws a deep, guttural curse from her lips. She pauses for just a moment, her breath heavy, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as she steadies herself. Then, without warning, she pulls back slowly, deliberately before driving forward again, pressing deeper, stretching you open inch by inch.
Each thrust is measured, controlled, yet brimming with restrained intensity, as if she's savoring every second of the way your body yields to her.
"Shit," she growls, her voice strained, rough. "You feel so fucking good."
Mel chuckles at Sevika’s lack of restraint, amusement flickering in her golden eyes. "Careful," she muses, lifting herself slightly, only to press back down against your eager mouth. "You don’t want to break her just yet."
Sevika lets out a sharp breath, her fingers tightening against your skin. "Tch. She can take it."
And to prove her point, she sets a steady rhythm, rolling her hips into yours, stretching you with every deep, measured thrust. Her cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body. The force of it makes your moans vibrate against Mel’s cunt, drawing a sweet gasp from her lips.
"Oh," Mel breathes, her nails grazing your scalp as she shudders. "That’s perfect, sweetheart. Just like that."
The weight of her against your mouth, the way Sevika fucks into you with slow, controlled force—it’s overwhelming in the most intoxicating way. Every sensation crashes into you at once, heat pooling low in your stomach, pleasure mounting with every thrust, every roll of Mel’s hips, every deep, throaty moan Sevika lets out above you.
Sevika watches with dark, hooded eyes as Mel rocks against your face, her lips parting in pleasure. "She’s making you feel good, huh?" she mutters, her voice thick with lust.
Mel hums, biting her lip as she gazes down at you. "Oh, she’s doing beautifully," she praises, her fingers tightening in your hair. "So eager to please."
The pace builds Sevika thrusting harder, deeper, pushing you closer and closer to that delicious edge. Your muffled moans grow more desperate, your body tightening around her, drawing a sharp hiss from her lips.
"Fuck, baby," Sevika grits out, her thrusts turning rougher, needier. "You gonna cum for us?"
Mel smirks, her own pleasure evident in the way she gasps at every flick of your tongue. "I think she is," she murmurs, her voice thick. "Be a good girl and let go for us, won’t you?"
Between the relentless pace of Sevika’s thrusts and the intoxicating taste of Mel on your tongue, the coil inside you snaps. Your body seizes, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your muffled cries vibrating against Mel’s cunt as you come undone beneath them.
Sevika curses under her breath as she feels you tighten around her, her rhythm faltering for just a moment before she chases her own release, slamming into you with deep, desperate thrusts.
Mel watches, golden eyes dark with satisfaction, her hips rolling through her own climax as she presses down just a little harder against your mouth, riding out the waves of pleasure.
Sevika isn’t far behind. With a sharp, ragged groan, her grip on your thighs tightens, and she spills inside you, her breath hitching as she thrusts shallowly, drawing out every last drop of pleasure.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged breathing of all three of you, bodies tangled together in the aftermath.
Mel is the first to move, exhaling a satisfied sigh as she lifts herself off you, her fingers brushing tenderly over your flushed cheek. "You did so well, darling," she murmurs, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, tasting herself on your tongue.
Sevika, still catching her breath, smirks as she pulls out, running a hand through her damp hair. "Fuck," she mutters, shaking her head in disbelief. "You’re dangerous."
Mel chuckles, stretching languidly before turning to you with a knowing smile. "Mmm, but she’s ours now, isn’t she?"
Sevika grins, reaching down to squeeze your thigh. "Damn right."
You can hardly believe what just happened. Here, in the private room of your job, you had just spent the last hour tangled between the two most powerful, most breathtaking women you knew. The air still carries the remnants of heat, the faint scent of sweat and desire clinging to the space like a ghost of what had just transpired.
A smirk tugs at your lips as you glance around, the reality settling in. If you wanted, you could tell everyone spin the story into something legendary, a tale of indulgence and reckless pleasure. But some things are better kept unsaid. Some moments are too raw, too electric, too wholly yours to be shared.
Instead, you exhale, running a hand through your hair as you steady yourself. You’ll carry this secret like a brand against your skin, a delicious memory etched into your bones. And as you step back into the world beyond that door, no one will have any idea what just happened behind it.
Warning: Abuse, Sexism, Smut (in later part), cussing, homophobia, Men being Men, child abuse, happy ending, substance abuse, cheating, religion.
A/N: This fic is based off the song Me and My Husband by the Queen Mitski. This is 8k words and very detailed (I’m sorry) I'm gonna make a second part so if you wanna be tagged lemme know
PT2 PT3
You once had a dream, a dream so vivid, so intoxicating, that it consumed every part of your childhood. You imagined yourself as a ballerina, twirling effortlessly beneath golden chandeliers in grand ballrooms, the soft glow of stage lights reflecting off delicate pearls sewn into the finest tutus. Your makeup was flawless, your movements enchanting, your presence ethereal. Every plié, every pirouette, every grueling hour of practice was supposed to lead to that moment, your moment. But dreams don’t always survive reality.
Now, here you are, walking down an aisle lined with pristine white roses, a bouquet of lilies trembling in your grasp. The weight of the dress is your mother’s choice, not yours feels suffocating, like a costume for a role you never wanted. The lace scratches against your skin, a constant reminder that this is not a fairy tale. This is not a stage. This is not the life you fought for.
A fake smile is plastered on your lips, carefully practiced like a performance, but there’s no standing ovation waiting at the end of this. Only a lifetime of pretending. Your heart pounds against your ribs, a caged bird desperate to break free, but your feet keep moving forward. Each step feels heavier than the last, a silent surrender to a future you never chose.
Your mind races, a storm of memories and regrets swirling in your head. What if you had tried harder? What if you had run away when you still had the chance? What if you turned around right now? The thought lingers, tempting, but you know better. You are stuck, stuck in a life you feared, stuck in a fate you never wanted, stuck in a dream that died long before today. And no matter how much you want to scream, you know no one would hear you.
The church is silent, save for the quiet rustling of fabric and the faint echo of the pastor’s voice.
"Do you, Y/N, take Kieran to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
His words hang in the air, suffocating you, pressing against your chest like a boulder. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your throat tightens, and the weight of every choice that led you here crashes down on you all at once.
You don't answer.
The pastor watches you with a patient smile, oblivious to the war raging inside you. Kieran stands beside you, his hand resting over yours, his grip firm, too firm, a silent warning. His smile is unwavering, expectant, like he already knows the answer before you speak it.
Say it. Just say it. Two words. That’s all it takes.
But in your mind, all you can hear is the music, the soft, delicate piano of a ballet recital, the sound of your own laughter as a child, the rhythm of pointe shoes tapping against the studio floor.
I wanted to be a ballerina.
You swallow hard, forcing the dream away, shoving it into the dark, neglected corner of your heart where it has no place anymore. You give your answer, and the pastor nods approvingly, continuing with the ceremony as if nothing is wrong.
But everything is wrong.
Your gaze shifts to the two empty chairs at the front, the ones meant for your parents. They aren’t here. They never planned to be. In their eyes, you threw away everything they worked for, discarded their vision for your life like a crumpled draft of a perfect future. But what they never understood was that this wasn’t your future either. You weren’t chasing love. You weren’t running toward happiness. You were simply running running from disappointment, running from failure, running from a world that never let you be what you truly wanted. And now, here you are, stepping into a life that isn’t yours.
—
That was five years ago.
Now, you are twenty-two. Kieran is thirty-five. You live in a quiet neighborhood, far away from everything and everyone that once made you feel alive. The suburbs are suffocating, a picture-perfect prison where the grass is always green, the houses always neat, and the wives always miserable.
You have four children now, four little souls who look to you for love, for safety, for warmth. But how can you give them something you no longer have? Your husband, the man who promised to cherish you, spends his nights with other women and his days reminding you of your place. His hands, once meant to hold you, now strike with purpose. He tells you when to speak, when to smile, when to cry. And when you cry too much, he makes sure you remember why you shouldn’t.
You cook. You clean. You play the role of the devoted wife, the doting mother, the woman who should be grateful for the life she has. But every night, when the house falls silent, when your children are tucked into bed and your husband is lost in sleep, you slip out onto the porch.
You stare at the sky, the vast, endless expanse of stars twinkling above you so free, so untouchable. Your fingers grip the wooden railing as silent sobs rack your body. You don’t know who you’re praying to anymore, but you pray anyway. Pray for escape. Pray for someone anyone to hear you, to care, to save you.
But no one does.
No one ever does.
You wipe your tears, sucking in a shaky breath as you turn back toward the house, toward the life you never wanted, toward the nightmare you can never seem to wake up from.
"I wanted to be a ballerina."
The words leave your lips in a whisper, barely louder than the wind, before you step inside and close the door behind you.
Your days blend into one another, a never-ending cycle of routine and exhaustion. The morning sun has barely begun to rise when you wake, slipping silently out of bed before anyone else stirs. There is no time to linger, no moment to breathe in the quiet. The house must be spotless every surface wiped down, every floor scrubbed until it gleams, every corner free of dust.
Then comes breakfast, a full meal prepared from scratch, every ingredient measured with precision, every movement calculated. Not because you want to impress anyone, but because if it isn’t perfect, there will be consequences.
By the time everything is in place, you have exactly ten minutes to yourself. Ten minutes to exist outside of being a wife, a mother, a servant. Ten minutes before your husband wakes up.
You hear his footsteps descending the stairs, the familiar creak of the third step making your heart jump instinctively. You brace yourself.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice light, casual, as he walks into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.
You don’t trust your voice to sound right, so instead, you hum a soft melody in response, keeping your eyes down. A safe answer. An unprovocative answer. But it isn’t enough.
There’s a scrape of a chair against the tile floor as he sits across from you. “I have a project at work,” he says between sips of coffee. “I’ll be staying late. Eat without me.”
You nod, still not looking at him, still careful. But it’s the wrong move.
“When I’m talking, I expect eye contact,” he snaps, his tone shifting from indifferent to dangerous in an instant.
Your breath hitches as you lift your gaze to meet his. Fear flashes across your face, and he sees it. He always sees it. And he loves it.
His expression softens, his lips curving into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He slides his chair closer, the wooden legs screeching against the floor, and reaches out to touch your face. His fingers are gentle, tracing over your cheek, a stark contrast to the bruises he’s left there before.
“I love you,” he says.
You wish you could understand what love means to him. You wish you could make sense of how a man who claims to love you can also be the same man who terrifies you. But you can’t. You never will. So you do the only thing you can—you force a small smile and nod, pretending, always pretending.
The day drags on, long and grueling, filled with never-ending tasks. The floors must be swept, the laundry folded, the beds made with perfect precision. The children need attention, their needs coming before your exhaustion. Then there’s dinner to prepare, and not just dinner, dessert, too. Everything must be ready before your husband walks through the door, or you’ll hear about it. Over and over again, until the words cut deeper than any bruise ever could.
And when the sun finally sets, when your body screams for rest, you know better than to listen. Because rest is a luxury you don’t have. Not in this house. Not in this life.
You hum softly, the gentle melody barely louder than the whisper of the evening breeze slipping through the open window. Your fingers move carefully through your daughter’s thick, brown locs, working through the knots with practiced patience. She sits between your legs, small and fragile, her back resting against your chest. Her tiny frame is warm against you, her breathing soft and steady.
As you weave her hair into neat sections, your mind drifts wondering, fearing. Do they know? Do they understand?
Your children are still young, too young to fully grasp the weight of their world, but they aren’t blind. They see the way you flinch at sudden movements. They hear the way your voice changes when you speak to their father. They feel the tension that hangs in the air like a thick, suffocating fog. And while they may not have the words to describe it, you know, you know that it’s affecting them.
The confirmation came during the last parent-teacher conference.
You sat beside your husband, hands clasped tightly in your lap, your pulse drumming an anxious rhythm as the principal sifted through a thick folder. A heavy silence loomed over the room, stretching out like a warning before she finally spoke.
“Mr. and Mrs. L/N,” she began, her voice measured, careful. “We’ve collected some artwork from your eldest child.”
Your stomach twisted as she pulled out the drawings, dozens of them, scattered across the desk in a flurry of colors and lines. Crude, childlike figures, their shapes barely distinguishable, yet painfully clear in their message. You saw yourself, a woman drawn in shaky, jagged lines. A man stood beside you, your husband, his figure dark, looming. And in nearly every picture, something was wrong.
In one, you were on the floor, your body curled in on itself while the larger figure towered over you. In another, your child had drawn you with tears streaming down your face, your hands clutching your stomach as if bracing for impact. There were others, too scenes you recognized all too well, moments that had played out in the shadows of your home but now lay exposed in bright, crayon-colored horror.
Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t need to ask what they meant.
The principal exhaled, watching you carefully, her fingers drumming against the desk. “Now, I don’t know what’s going on in your household,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “But whatever it is, it’s clear that this is not a safe space for a child to be in.”
Her words slammed into you like a gut punch, knocking the air from your lungs.
You didn’t dare glance at your husband. You already knew what his expression would be tight-lipped, jaw clenched, eyes dark with quiet, seething rage. A silent promise that you would pay for this later.
And you had.
Now, sitting here, your daughter nestled in your lap, her small voice humming along with yours, you wonder how much longer you can keep pretending. How much longer you can keep them shielded from the storm that rages within these walls.
Because if they already see it, if they already feel it then maybe you’re too late. Maybe the damage has already been done.
As your children run through the house, their laughter echoing softly against the walls, you move with quiet urgency, tending to your endless list of chores. The floors must be spotless, the furniture dust-free, every misplaced item returned to its proper place. The kitchen needs to be in perfect order before you even begin cooking—because if it’s not, he’ll notice. He always notices.
You glance at the clock. Two hours. That’s all the time you have to scrub away any imperfections, to prepare dinner exactly the way he likes it, to make sure there’s nothing, nothing that could set him off tonight.
But as you wipe down the counters, kneeling to pick up scattered toys along the way, a different hope settles in your chest. You hope whatever is keeping him at work lasts longer than expected. You hope, just for a little while, that the house remains untouched by his presence. That your children can play without the weight of fear pressing down on them.
Because these rare moments when his shadow isn’t looming over you, when the air isn’t thick with tension are the only times you and your children can breathe.
You step outside, grateful for the brief moment of peace, watching as your children run and play, their laughter ringing through the air like music you once cherished. You let the cool breeze hit your face, a small, fleeting comfort in a life that feels like it’s constantly suffocating you. But it’s a moment of freedom, however brief, and you hold onto it.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a truck pull into the driveway next door. A new neighbor. The thought stirs something in you, curiosity maybe? The desire to greet someone new, to make a connection. But then, reality hits. Your husband would want to go with you. He would want to make sure you didn’t step out of line, make sure the interaction was on his terms. The thought of him joining you, watching your every move, makes the idea of introducing yourself feel too heavy, too complicated. So you stand there, watching instead of acting.
A muscular woman climbs out of the truck, her movements sharp and purposeful. She’s got a single braid running down her back, and she moves toward the truck bed, probably to grab some boxes. You can't help but stare.
A woman. Moving in next door.
You wonder if she’s different if her story is anything like yours. Could she be here, in this same neighborhood, living a life that doesn’t suffocate? Or maybe, like you, she’s just trying to make it work, trying to survive the weight of it all. Your heart twinges with longing what if she understood? What if she knew the pain of walking through your own front door, knowing you were trapped, knowing you were invisible, knowing your life was nothing like you once dreamed it would be?
Your thoughts are interrupted when a small figure dashes out from behind the house, a little boy, his laughter bright and carefree. He holds a plastic dinosaur in one hand, his face lit with a smile so wide it almost hurts to see. "Momma, momma, the house is huge!" he shouts, running in circles around her, his feet kicking up dust as he giggles.
The woman your neighbor looks down at the boy with a tenderness that makes something inside you ache. She smiles softly, bending to catch him in her arms, laughing at his excitement. But then, she straightens, her eyes scanning the neighborhood. They meet yours.
She smiles at you, a warm, inviting smile, before giving a small, hesitant wave.
For a moment, you freeze. You could wave back, maybe even walk over and introduce yourself. But something holds you back. The weight of your own silence, the fear of being seen for who you really are, the unspoken rules that keep you in your place.
Instead, you turn away, looking down at the ground, your heart heavy in your chest. You usher your children back inside, pushing past the small pang of regret that starts to settle in your gut.
Another chance at connection slips away. And you can’t help but wonder, with a bitter twist in your heart, if it was ever really yours to begin with.
You shut the door behind you, the soft click of it closing sounding like finality. The air inside the house feels thicker somehow, as if the outside world, full of possibilities and fleeting moments, has evaporated into something unreachable. You stand in the hallway for a moment, the echoes of your footsteps the only sound in the stillness.
Your kids are still playing, oblivious to the world around them, the joy of their laughter cutting through the silence like a knife. You force a smile as you watch them, but it’s hollow, a shadow of the joy they should be feeling.
There’s so much left to do. So many chores, so many tasks to complete before your husband gets home. Dinner to cook, the house to clean, everything perfect. It’s always like this always the same, endless cycle of small duties that keep you trapped, that keep you busy enough not to think too hard about anything. You don’t have the luxury of rest, not when there’s always something else waiting for you, some small task that needs your attention.
But right now, your mind keeps drifting back to the neighbor. The woman, the boy. Their easy laughter. That brief moment of connection that was so close, yet so far. You can still see her smile in your mind’s eye, the softness of it, the warmth that for a split second made you feel like you could be part of something bigger, something better.
You shake your head, pushing the thoughts away. You can’t afford to think about her life, about what could’ve been. You can’t let yourself feel anything but the responsibilities piled up around you.
But the question lingers, quiet but persistent: What would it be like if you could just be free? Free to step outside and be yourself, free to talk to someone without fear of the consequences.
As you walk into the kitchen to start dinner, you realize you’re moving on autopilot again. The knife in your hand is familiar, the cutting board beneath it a routine. But something feels off, a shift inside you, like a small crack starting to form on the surface.
For a moment, you pause. You look at the vegetables in front of you, the simple task of chopping them feels like the only thing you can control in this life. And it occurs to you that, for the first time in a long time, you want something more. You want more than this life of quiet submission, more than this existence where every day feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.
Your hands are still, the knife resting on the cutting board, and you think just for a second Maybe tomorrow will be different.
But then the sound of your husband’s car engine rumbles in the distance, and the world goes back to what it has always been. You sigh, picking up the knife again, the weight of it grounding you in the life you know.
For now.
You keep chopping, one slice at a time, knowing tomorrow will come with the same expectations. But there’s something inside you now, a small spark, something that maybe, just maybe, is enough to keep you going.
Dinner is done. The house is spotless, every corner scrubbed, every toy picked up. Your kids are bathed, their small faces glowing from the warm water, their hair still damp as they run around, carefree. The time to yourself that you so desperately crave is finally here only ten minutes, but it feels like a fleeting gift, one you never seem to get enough of.
You sink into the couch, exhaustion hitting you like a wave, your eyes closing for just a moment as you savor the quiet. For a brief second, the weight of it all lifts, and you imagine what it would be like to simply rest, to feel like yourself again. You let out a shaky breath, one you didn’t realize you were holding in.
But then, the sound of the door unlocking breaks the silence. You freeze, the peace shattering like glass. The door creaks open, the familiar footsteps you’ve come to dread echoing in your ears. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart skips a beat, and in an instant, you’re back in the role you never asked for.
Your husband steps inside, his shoes scraping against the floor as he shuts the door behind him. The air in the room shifts, the heaviness returning like an old friend. He looks around, scanning the house, his gaze sharp, calculating. You don’t even need to ask what he’s thinking you know.
"How was your day?" he asks, his voice flat, almost disinterested. But you know the question isn’t really for you. It’s just a routine. A way to check if you've done your part. His eyes flicker toward the kitchen, then back to you, waiting for a response. You force a smile, standing up quickly, trying to hide the weariness that threatens to consume you.
"It’s fine," you say, your voice soft, steady. But inside, it feels like everything is unraveling. You just wanted those last few minutes. Those precious, fleeting moments of silence, just to breathe, just to feel like you’re allowed to exist without serving someone else’s needs for once. But now, they’re gone.
Your kids are still playing in the other room, unaware of the shift, unaware of the tension that’s already thickening in the air. You glance at the clock, only ten minutes and you know you’ll spend the rest of the night fighting for whatever small scraps of peace are left. You hate that you have to force yourself to breathe, to stay calm, to stay perfect for him.
You hear him moving through the house now, checking things, his footsteps getting closer. You brace yourself, your body stiffening as the familiar dread creeps in.
The moment you were hoping for, the sliver of peace, is slipping away like water through your fingers.
You step into the kitchen, the faint scent of the day’s exhaustion lingering in the air. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in, as you gather everything needed to set the table. The routine is almost mechanical by now like every other evening before this one, and every evening that’s come before it. You move quickly, your hands shaking ever so slightly as you set out the plates, utensils, and glasses, making sure everything is perfect. It’s the least you can do. At least in this small space, you can control something.
The soft sound of his footsteps echoes through the hallway, the familiar thud of his boots on the stairs. He doesn’t speak as he passes through, the weight of his presence almost palpable as he heads upstairs to your shared room. He’s probably going to get comfortable, change into something more suited for relaxation after a day of whatever it is he does. You don’t really know, not anymore. The distance between you both has grown too wide for you to care about the details of his day.
As you hear him move upstairs, you feel an unfamiliar pang of something maybe irritation, maybe longing. It’s hard to distinguish these days. You force yourself to focus back on the dinner preparations, but it’s hard not to feel like a ghost in your own home, invisible in the same space you once thought you’d share everything with him. Now it’s just a routine. Another night, another meal. No words exchanged unless necessary.
You place the last of the dishes on the table, your movements slower now, as if each action takes more effort than the one before. You look down at your hands, the rough skin from years of doing everything, from maintaining the house to caring for the kids to keeping him satisfied. Your nails, chipped and bare, remind you of all the things you’ve lost your own identity, your sense of self.
And yet, you continue. You set the table, trying to make the best of what you have left. But inside, there’s a quiet ache, a space that’s only growing wider with each passing day.
His footsteps upstairs, the creaking of the floorboards, feels like a distant echo now. It’s almost as if the walls themselves are blocking out the sound of him, distancing you from the reality of the life you’ve somehow found yourself in. You swallow hard, pushing the thoughts away, trying to focus on the task at hand. Dinner needs to be served. The children need their mother.
And you? You just need a moment.
A moment that feels like it’s forever out of reach.
As you move around the kitchen, the scent of warm spices and simmering food fills the air, though it does little to soothe the unease curling in your stomach. Your hands work on autopilot, scooping portions onto each plate with practiced efficiency, the weight of the evening pressing heavily against your back. The faint creak of the staircase makes your muscles tighten instinctively, your body already anticipating the shift in atmosphere.
Your husband’s footsteps are slow, measured, followed by the softer, lighter pitter-patter of your children’s. They make their way down the stairs, filing into the dining room in a quiet procession. You glance up just in time to see him lower himself into his usual seat at the head of the table, his presence immediately filling the room with an invisible tension.
The children take their places without a word, their small bodies stiff as they settle into their chairs. They know the rules. No unnecessary noise. No fidgeting. No missteps that might draw unwanted attention. Their wide eyes flicker between you and their father, reading the energy in the room before deciding how to carry themselves for the evening.
Your husband leans back slightly, his gaze heavy as he watches you move, waiting for his plate. He doesn’t offer to help, doesn’t acknowledge the effort it takes to prepare every meal, to keep everything running smoothly. He simply expects, expects the table to be set, the food to be plated, the house to be pristine.
You swallow down the lump forming in your throat and force your shaking hands to stay steady as you lift the final dish from the counter. The weight of the serving tray feels heavier than usual, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion settling into your bones. You walk carefully toward the table, the warmth of the food against your fingertips a stark contrast to the chill that has settled deep inside of you.
Your children sit with their hands folded neatly in their laps, their gazes flickering toward you, seeking silent reassurance. You offer them the smallest of smiles, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, before turning your attention back to the task at hand.
As you place the last plate down, your husband clears his throat, an impatient sound that makes your stomach tighten. You know what it means. You’re moving too slowly. Taking too long.
You murmur an apology, though you’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for, and take your seat at the table. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, as you wait for the inevitable his judgment, his approval, or worse, his disappointment.
Your hands rest tightly in your lap, fingers clasped together so hard that your knuckles ache. It’s the only way to keep them from shaking. You stare down at your plate, pushing bits of food around with your fork, but the thought of eating makes your stomach churn.
You’re not hungry. Not for this meal. Not for this conversation.
Swallowing against the tightness in your throat, you force yourself to speak.
“We have new neighbors,” you murmur, barely loud enough to be heard over the clinking of silverware against plates.
Across from you, your husband barely glances up, too busy stuffing his mouth with food to acknowledge your words right away. You wait, your pulse a steady drumbeat in your ears, until finally he looks at you.
Just a glance. A fleeting moment of attention. But it’s enough to send your heart skittering against your ribs.
You regret speaking immediately.
“We should introduce ourselves,” he says between bites, wiping his mouth lazily with a napkin. “Be neighborly.”
Your stomach knots so tightly it’s painful. You don’t want to.
You don’t want to stand next to him like a perfectly trained wife, offering a forced smile while he takes charge of the conversation. You don’t want to meet the woman next door, the one with the muscular frame and sharp eyes and feel her gaze linger too long, like she’s trying to see you.
Because what if she does? What if she looks too closely? What if she already knows?
But saying no isn’t an option. Not in this house. Not with him. So, you do the only thing you can.
You nod.
A single, obedient nod. And with that, your fate is sealed.
The rest of dinner is quiet. Suffocating. The only sounds are the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft rustling of napkins. Your children eat quickly, eyes lowered, shoulders tense. They can feel it too that subtle shift in the air, the way the weight in the room seems to press down harder when your husband is thinking. Calculating.
You don’t look at him, but you feel his gaze settle on you every now and then, like he’s waiting for something. Some sign of defiance. A reason to be angry.
You don’t give him one.
After dinner, you clean up in silence. You wash the dishes, wipe down the counters, make sure everything is in perfect order just the way he likes it. All the while, your mind is racing, heart pounding with an anxious rhythm that refuses to slow down.
Because you know what’s coming next.
And sure enough-
“Get ready,” he says from the living room, standing by the front door as he adjusts his watch. “We’re going.”
Your hands tighten around the dish towel in your grip.
You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to move. To comply. To do exactly what’s expected of you.
A few minutes later, you step onto the porch beside him, the evening air crisp against your skin. The sky is a deep navy now, the last traces of sunlight fading over the horizon. Crickets hum softly in the distance.
Next door, the house is still lit up. The moving truck is gone, but a few unopened boxes sit on the porch. Through the window, you see the faint silhouette of the woman from earlier, pacing around her living room, arranging furniture.
Your stomach twists.
You don’t want to do this.
But you have no choice.
Your husband knocks. Three sharp, authoritative taps. The kind that announces his presence, the kind that demands attention.
It doesn’t take long for the door to open.
And then, there she is.
Up close, she’s even taller than you realized. Broad shoulders, strong arms, brown hair pulled back into a single braid. There’s something steady about her presence, something firm yet…warm.
She blinks at the two of you, her expression shifting from curiosity to polite surprise.
“Uh- hey,” she says, glancing between you and your husband. “Can I help you?”
Your husband steps forward, offering his hand with that well-rehearsed, charming smile that you’ve seen fool so many people before.
“Evening,” he says smoothly. “We live next door. Just wanted to come by, introduce ourselves properly.” He says trying to look in the opened door probably for a husband.
She hesitates for a second before shaking his hand. You watch as she grips it firmly, her posture relaxed but observant.
Your husband turns to you then, his smile still fixed in place. “This is my wife.”
You force yourself to meet her gaze, and for a brief moment, you swear you see something flicker in her eyes, something unreadable.
But it’s gone just as quickly.
“I’m-” Your voice catches in your throat, so you clear it and try again. “I’m Y/N.”
She nods, offering a small smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Abby.”
Abby.
The name settles somewhere in your chest, unfamiliar yet strangely significant.
From inside the house, a small voice calls out.
“Momma?”
You glance past Abby just as a little boy comes into view, clutching a toy dinosaur in his tiny hands. His curls bounce as he runs up to her, eyes wide and curious as he peeks at the two strangers on their doorstep.
Abby chuckles, resting a hand on his shoulder. “This is my son, Ezekiel” Abby introduce as the little boy waves and runs off Your husband smiles at the little boy before speaking
“What a nice boy you have,” the man comments, his voice warm with forced politeness. Abby offers him a small smile, nodding in gratitude, but her eyes drift toward you silent, hesitant, your gaze lowering to the ground.
“And what does your husband do for work?” he asks, his curiosity laced with something less innocent than casual small talk.
Abby’s smile doesn’t waver, though there’s a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “I don’t have one,” she answers simply.
You nod in agreement beside her, confirming her words without elaborating.
“Oh, divorced?” he pressed, his tone too nosy, too expectant. Abby studies him, wondering why he seems so invested in the status of a stranger’s love life.
“I guess you could say that,” she replies, her voice measured as she glances at you.
The man bobs his head in understanding before his lips curve into a smug smile. “Well, if you’re ever in need of a new one, I might be able to help you find one,” he offers, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Though, you might have to lose some of the muscle. Makes you look a little... masculine.”
His words land with an air of casual cruelty, but Abby only stares at him, as if he’s just spoken in a language she doesn’t understand. You can feel the weight of his remark, the sheer audacity of it, and a part of you wants to say something to cut in, to apologize on behalf of your husband. But you don’t.
Instead, Abby turns to you, her eyes catching yours. She sees it, sees the silent apology written in your expression, the regret pooling behind your gaze. And, somehow, despite the tension hanging in the air, she smiles.
“Oh, uh, no, I’m really fine, actually,” she says, her voice steady but kind. “I’m pretty happy being a single mother.”
She punctuates her words with a small, confident smile, but your husband barely lets them settle before your husband coughs into his fist, an exaggerated sound that barely masks his irritation. “Well, that’s surprising,” he says, forcing a chuckle as if Abby had just told a joke instead of asserting her independence. “Most women I know can’t handle all that on their own. Must be exhausting.”
Abby tilts her head slightly, her smile still in place but now honed to a fine edge, like a blade hidden beneath silk. “It has its challenges,” she admits, her voice smooth, deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no vulnerability just quiet certainty. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
Your husband makes a noise under his breath, something between a scoff and a grunt, barely audible. His eyes drift across the room, scanning the half-unpacked boxes stacked against the walls, the lingering signs of transition still settling in. “You’ve got a lot to unpack,” he observes, his tone casual, almost thoughtful. “Need a hand getting everything sorted?”
Abby doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she watches him, her expression unreadable, as if weighing the offer itself rather than the words behind it. The pause stretches just long enough for discomfort to settle, but before she can say anything, your husband clears his throat and smiles an easy, practiced expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“My wife can help you.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s not even a question. It’s a decision, handed over without thought, as if your time and effort belongs to him to give away.
You feel his eyes on you, expectant, waiting for you to nod along like you always do. But the words sit heavy in the air, pressing against your chest, and all you can do is look away, shifting in place as a quiet discomfort settles in your bones.
Abby notices. She doesn’t press, doesn’t call attention to it, she just studies you for a moment, her sharp gaze softening slightly before she gives a small nod. “Yeah,” she says, her tone measured but light. “That would be nice.”
Your husband claps his hands together, seemingly satisfied with how effortlessly he’s delegated your time. “Great,” he says, flashing a smile like he’s just solved a problem. “She’s good at that kind of thing organizing, tidying up. She keeps our place in order.”
There’s something about the way he says it, so dismissive yet possessive at the same time, that makes your stomach twist. Like you’re just another extension of the home he thinks he owns, another thing to be managed.
Abby doesn’t look at him. She keeps her gaze on you instead, her expression unreadable but attentive. It’s subtle, but you can feel it she’s waiting for something. Maybe for you to speak. Maybe for you to push back. Maybe just to see if you will.
You don’t.
You just look up at her and give her this face smile “I’ll help” you murmur, though the word feels hollow in your mouth.
Your husband pats your shoulder lightly, as if to seal the deal, then turns his attention back to Abby. “See? She’s happy to help.”
Abby exhales softly, something like amusement flickering across her face, but it’s fleeting. She steps aside, gesturing toward the boxes. “Well, I won’t say no to an extra set of hands.”
Your husband nods, clearly pleased with himself, but his attention is already drifting—like he’s done his part and the rest no longer concerns him. “Alright, I’ll leave you two to it,” he says, stretching his arms before casually checking his watch. “I’ve got some things to take care of anyway.”
With that, he turns on his heel and walks away without a second glance, leaving you standing there with the woman in front of her door. His absence lingers for a moment, a quiet finality in the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
Abby shifts her attention back to you, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you for a second longer than necessary before stepping aside, wordlessly inviting you in.
You hesitate, only for a beat, before crossing the threshold. As soon as you do, Abby gently pushes the door shut behind you, the soft click of the latch settling into place. The air inside is warmer, quieter, almost cocooning.
“Thanks for helping,” she says, her voice light but sincere as she walks ahead of you.
You glance at her, offering a small nod in response. “Yeah, of course.”
But as she moves toward the scattered boxes, your gaze flickers down to the watch on your wrist. *8:30 PM.* You do a quick calculation in your head if you help her with everything she needs, you can probably be out of here before *10 PM.*
It’s manageable. A couple of hours. Then you can go home, slide back into the quiet routine you’ve grown used to.
Abby doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on the time. “You didn’t have to,” she says, her tone softer now, more thoughtful. She walks over to one of the unopened boxes, kneeling as she tugs at the flaps, prying it open with ease.
You shake your head slightly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” And maybe that’s true.
Or maybe it’s just easier to say than admitting you don’t quite know how to refuse.
You crouch down, carefully lifting the flap of one of the boxes on the floor, your fingers brushing over the edges of a few photographs that are loosely packed inside. As you move the items around, your eyes land on a picture—an image of Abby and her son at a theme park, their faces bright with joy. The moment captured is full of light, a rare instance of carefree happiness, and you can't help but smile at the sight of it.
For a moment, you forget the reason you’re here, lost in the simplicity of the photograph, the love between mother and child so evident. You gently pull it out, holding it between your fingers as if the memory is fragile, precious.
You glance up at Abby, suddenly aware of the quiet tension that’s still lingering in the air between you. You take a breath, your voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “I wanna apologize for my husband,” you say, the words feeling heavier than they should.
Abby’s eyes flicker to you, but she doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, there’s a subtle shift in her expression, like she’s heard this before—or perhaps it’s the kind of thing she’s come to expect from people like your husband. She doesn’t speak immediately, just watches you with a gaze that’s more resigned than anything else.
“It’s fine,” she replies, her tone smooth, almost indifferent. “I’m used to men like him.”
Her words hit you harder than expected. There’s no bitterness, no anger, just a calm acceptance a kind of understanding that makes you pause.
You’re not sure if it’s the way she says it, or the sheer matter-of-factness of her voice, but it makes you feel like you’ve just glimpsed a side of her you weren’t prepared for. Abby isn’t just playing along with the situation, pretending it doesn’t affect her. She’s *adapted* to it, found a way to make peace with it.
You hold the photo a little longer, your fingers tightening around it before carefully placing it back in the box, suddenly aware of how small the space feels. A quiet, uncomfortable weight presses in, but Abby doesn’t seem bothered by it, she’s already back to her own work, moving onto the next box, as though the moment never happened.
“You know you don’t have to take that?” she says suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a soft but deliberate interruption.
You freeze in your tracks, the words hanging in the air like a riddle you can’t quite solve. The rhythm of your thoughts stutters, and for a moment, you just stand there, blinking at her in confusion. What is she talking about?
You turn toward her, still processing, and notice the subtle way her smile seems to stretch just a little wider, more knowing now. There’s a strange glimmer in her eyes, something calculated, something that makes you feel like you’ve missed something important.
You open your mouth, then close it again, not sure how to respond, still caught off guard. "Wh- what?" you ask, your voice almost faltering as you search her face for some kind of explanation.
Abby stands there, her posture relaxed, arms crossed casually as if she’s waiting for you to catch up, for the pieces to fall into place. The smile on her face, it doesn’t waver, but there’s an edge to it now, a knowingness you didn’t expect.
Abby’s gaze lingers on you, sharp yet steady, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t need to raise her voice to make herself heard her words cut through the space between you like a knife, precise and deliberate.
“You know,” she says, her tone measured, almost casual, but there’s an undeniable weight behind it, “the disrespect.”
The statement lands like a slow, creeping chill, settling into your skin before you even fully process it. Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, but you don’t move, don’t respond. You just stare at her, expression carefully blank, waiting—hoping—she’ll drop it and move on.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she shifts her stance, arms still crossed loosely, her presence unwavering. “I might’ve just met you today,” she continues, her voice softer now, almost gentle, “but no woman deserves to go through that.”
The words hit a little deeper than you expect, stirring something uncomfortable in your chest. But rather than let them sink in, let them *mean* something, you push back the only way you know how.
A snicker escapes you, short and humorless.
She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
She doesn’t know you.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. Defensive. Immediate. A reflex you don’t even think about before it’s already out.
Abby doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even blink. If anything, the corners of her mouth twitch slightly, like she expected that response. Like she’s seen it before.
And that just makes your skin crawl even more.
Your stomach twists with regret almost instantly, the sharpness of your own words lingering in the air like a slap you can’t take back. You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers against your temples before finally looking up at her.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, unsteady. “I- I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
You don’t wait for her to respond. Instead, you stand abruptly, needing to put some space between you and the weight of the conversation. Your legs carry you across the room almost on autopilot, and before you even think about it, you sink onto the brown couch sitting against the bare wall. The worn fabric is rough beneath your fingertips as you clasp your hands together in your lap, staring down at them, feeling the awkwardness settle in your bones.
Abby doesn’t say anything right away. You hear the soft rustle of her clothes as she shifts, and when you glance up, she’s watching you with that same unreadable expression. But there’s no judgment in her eyes. No irritation. Just quiet understanding.
“It’s fine,” she says after a moment, her voice calm, steady. “I understand.”
And then, without hesitation, she walks over and sits down beside you.
The silence that follows is thick but not uncomfortable. Just… there. Heavy with unspoken things neither of you seem ready to voice. The only sound in the empty house is the faint creak of the couch as you both sit there, unmoving, breathing in the stillness.
You should say something.
You should *do* something.
But for now, you just sit. And, somehow, that feels like enough.
Abby leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly as she rests her arm along the back of it. She doesn’t look at you right away, giving you space, letting the silence stretch between you both. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it carries a weight you’re not sure how to address.
You shift slightly, rubbing your palms against your thighs, grounding yourself in the rough fabric of your jeans. The house around you feels too big, too empty, the lack of furniture making every sound more pronounced—the soft creak of the couch beneath you, the faint hum of the street outside.
“I didn’t mean to assume anything,” Abby says eventually, breaking the silence, her voice softer than before. “I just… I recognize certain things.”
Your chest tightens, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. There’s something about the way she says it—not pitying, not prying. Just understanding.
You force out a small, dry chuckle, shaking your head. “You must think I’m pathetic.”
Abby turns to look at you then, her brow furrowing slightly. “No,” she says, firm and immediate. “Not at all.”
You glance at her, and for the first time since stepping into her house, you really see her. The steady confidence, the way she holds herself—not just physically, but emotionally. It’s something solid, something unshakable. And for some reason, that makes your throat feel tight.
“I’m not…” You start, but the words die before they fully form. You’re not what? Weak? Trapped? Lying to yourself?
Abby watches you, waiting.
You exhale sharply and shake your head, dropping your gaze. “Forget it.”
She doesn’t push. She just nods, as if she already knows you’re not ready to say it out loud. Instead, she leans back again, giving you room to breathe.
Abby shifts slightly beside you, her gaze steady, unreadable. “Talk to me, Y/N,” she says, her voice low but certain. “I’m your friend.”
The words sit heavy between you, pressing against something fragile inside your chest. You want to believe her, to let the dam break and spill everything out. But you can’t. Not like this. Not right now. And especially not to someone you barely know.
Your fingers tighten against the fabric of your jeans, and you shake your head. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I can’t.”
Abby watches you for a moment, searching your face, but she doesn’t push. She just nods, accepting your silence for what it is. “Alright,” she says simply, leaning back into the couch, giving you space.
The silence in the room stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing against your chest like a weight you can’t shake off. You rub your hands together, a feeble attempt to ground yourself, but it only makes you more aware of the warmth radiating from beside you, of the way Abby’s presence fills the space, steady and unshaken. It’s unnerving how calm she is, how effortless it seems for her to sit there when you feel like you’re unraveling.
You don’t know how it happens.
One moment, you’re staring at your hands, trying to focus on anything but her, trying to steady the erratic pounding in your chest. The next, you glance up, and she’s already looking at you.
She’s closer than you realized.
The dim glow of the lamp catches on her features, softening the sharpness of her jawline, her cheekbones. But it does nothing to dull the intensity in her eyes the quiet understanding, the weight of something unspoken lingering between you. It’s in the way she doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, just waits.
Your breath catches.
And then, before you can stop yourself, before reason can drag you back to reality, you lean in.
The kiss is fleeting barely a second but it’s enough. Enough to feel the warmth of her lips, the way she stills against you, frozen in surprise. Enough for your heart to drop the instant it happens, for cold panic to settle in your stomach like a stone.
What have you done?
You pull back so fast it feels like the air itself is pushing against you, your chest rising and falling in short, panicked breaths. “I—” Your voice dies in your throat. There are no words for this. No way to explain the rush of emotions crashing into you all at once.
Abby blinks, her lips still slightly parted, her expression unreadable. The shock hasn’t fully faded from her face, but she doesn’t say anything.
You can’t do this.
“I have to go,” you blurt out, your voice sharper than you mean for it to be. You push yourself up from the couch too fast, the world tilting slightly as you grab your bag with unsteady hands. You refuse to meet her eyes, refuse to acknowledge the way your skin still tingles where she touched you.
“Y/N—”
But you don’t let her finish. You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the door, toward anywhere but here.
The second you step outside, the cold air slaps against your skin, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging inside you. Your pulse pounds in your ears, your lips still tingling with the ghost of a kiss you shouldn’t have stolen.
this is not a question, but I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed “Careless Whisper”!! you wrote it so beautiful and it was truly one of the best things i’ve read on this app so thank you!! 💕💕
Argh you guys are so sweet 🥹. I’m honestly glad people enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.
I didn’t know Sub Mel was something I NEEDED wtf GIVE me moreeee
I'm a firm believer in Sub Mel I mean the girl deserves the world like, Miss Girl has been carrying herself like a badass for too long, she needs to be spoiled, adored, and absolutely worshiped. Imagine her trying to act all tough, but the moment she gets even a little bit of soft affection, she melts. Like, she goes from ‘stone-cold protector’ to ‘clingy, touch-starved mess’ in 0.2 seconds. ACKK IMMA STOP IM SORRY
I’ll definitely make some more Sub Mel in the future I’ll keep in mind when I write another smut for her 😉
There isn’t a part two 🧍🏾♀️ that was the end uh I wasn’t expecting to make a part two. I wanted to have an excuse to make Mel a Sub and also make Angst. So uh yeah enjoy
