Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone elseâs life, someone who hadnât been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasnât something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didnât have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.Â
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then⌠that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.Â
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone elseâs throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didnât change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didnât care about intention. His bills didnât pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didnât acknowledge it.Â
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.Â
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldnât. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.Â
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of⌠oh.Â
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him⌠breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.Â
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.Â
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dexâs knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business manâs biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasnât it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev â 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul â Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos â Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor â Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires â Diplomatic attachĂŠ poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow â Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.Â
Dexâs thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldnât be to anyone else. This wasnât chaos. This wasnât someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.Â
The target made clean exits where possible and didnât care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dexâs jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didnât. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.Â
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didnât rack up a body count like that by accident. You didnât walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and âhigh collateralâ written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasnât how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldnât find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadnât had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague â Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison â Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York â Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.Â
The target was still active.Â
âYeah,â Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything heâd done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didnât show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasnât in the same place he was. This target wasnât trying to balance the scales like he was.Â
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything heâd just read. It didnât match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what theyâd done. But the file didnât lie. The patterns didnât lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, heâd rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
â
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didnât settle. They didnât usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didnât leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadnât done that.
You were⌠easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.Â
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasnât an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything elseâ patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.Â
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasnât temporary, wasnât a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You werenât passing through. You werenât hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasnât anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didnât like that it didnât fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and⌠you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasnât. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didnât scan constantly, didnât treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.Â
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.Â
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasnât enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.Â
The problem was, he didnât have a plan for that. He wasnât a spy. He didnât build relationships, didnât ease his way into proximity.Â
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like youâd done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didnât know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
â
The next day, he âaccidentallyâ ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route youâd take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one youâd take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today andâŚ. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, wouldâve been perfect until⌠Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.Â
This wasnât what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, youâd clock him immediately.
You didnât. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
ââshit, sorry,â Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. âI didnât⌠are you okay?â
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
Heâd seen your photo. But a still image didnât account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment andâ
âYouâre fine,â you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.Â
Simple, right?Â
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
âUh⌠thereâs a coffee place just up ahead,â he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. âI can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.â
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what heâd just done.
That wasnât part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasnât how he shouldâve handled a target like you. He shouldnâtâve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didnât know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how⌠disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.Â
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. Thatâs all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
âCoffee?â you repeated.Â
âYeah,â he said, a little more steady now. âLeast I can do.â
âFor what?â you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex couldâve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. âbumping into me? Is this a line?â
âI justâŚâ he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. âIâve seen you around.â
Iâve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, âOkay.â
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like heâd expected it, like this hadnât just gone completely off-script.
âOkay,â he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
â
The cafĂŠ was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your namesâ he said he was âTony,â and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the cafĂŠ, Dex was relieved to see that it wasnât too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like youâd done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked⌠relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
âSo,â you said, dragging the word out just a little. âWhy does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?â
Dex choked.
It wasnât subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, whichâthank fuckâthe cafĂŠ being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
ââŚYou knew?â he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question youâd heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. âOf course,â you said. âDonât pretend like you donât know me.â
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didnât look alarmed. You didnât look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked⌠curious.
âOh,â he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
Sheâs a target. This is a job.
âYeah,â he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadnât just blindsided him. âI meanâyeah. I justâŚâ His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. âIâm a fan of your work.â
You didnât react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
âRight,â you said finally. You didnât sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
âAlright. No, weâre not doing this version,â you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. âCan we start over?â
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. âI⌠yeah.â
You nodded once, resetting playfully.Â
âHi. You already know my name, so Iâm skipping that part,â you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. âIâm a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.â
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. âHi,â he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
âHi,â he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. âIâm Dex. Notââ he made a vague, frustrated gesture, ânot Tony, I donâtâŚâ
Your lips twitched. âI got that.â
âRight. Yeah.â He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. âIâm⌠a good guy.â
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
âHi, Dex Not Tony,â you said, teasing him. âThatâs a strong introduction.â
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. âItâs⌠yeah,â he muttered. âWorkshopping it.â
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
âMm,â you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. âMaybe workshop faster.â
That earned you the smallest exhale that mightâve been a laugh.
âSo,â you went on, glancing at his drink. âAmericano?âÂ
He looked down at it like heâd forgotten it existed. âMmm.â
âDo you actually like that,â you took a sip of your own drink, âor did you panic-order?â
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. âPanic-order.â
You grinned. âThought so.â
âYours?â he asked, nodding toward your cup.
âIced latte. Always.â
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. âPredictable,â he said.
âConsistent,â you corrected.
âSame thing.â
âNot even a little.â Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didnât match anything heâd read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you werenât saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.Â
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The cafĂŠ. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.Â
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.Â
âOkay,â you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. âFor the record, this is the weirdest coffee Iâve had in a while.â
âSame,â he said.
âAnd Iâve had coffee in worse places.â
âSame.â
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. âYouâre just copying me now.â
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.Â
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didnât actually want to say what came next. âI should probablyâŚâ you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. ââŚgo.â
Dex nodded immediately. âYeah. Yeah, sure.â
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. âGive me your number.â
Dex tilted his head. ââŚWhat?â
You held it out, unfazed. âIn case you decide to bump into me again,â you said. âMight as well schedule it next time.â
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not toâŚÂ
Then he took the phone.
âRight,â he nodded. âYeah.â
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
âSee you around, Dex Not Tony.âÂ
âYeah,â he said, quieter now. âSee you.â
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space youâd just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
â
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.Â
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:Â
Likes iced lattes
â
Two days later, Dexâs phone buzzed.
He didnât get messages he wanted to open. He didnât need another contractâ he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:Â
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one whoâs supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.Â
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought Iâd ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?Â
Dex: You just ask people that? âhey did you kill three peopleâ?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you donât usually âaccidentallyâ run into me either so
Dexâs grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You werenât letting that go.
Dex: I said Iâve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few secondsÂ
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the cafĂŠ. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know youâd say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so Iâm choosing to believe you đ
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was⌠strange.
You werenât pushing. You werenât backing off either. You were just⌠there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.Â
Dex: Whyâd you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didnât fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,Â
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he mightâve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and youâre interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You donât seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyesÂ
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.Â
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, soâŚÂ
Dex: if youâre bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasnât part of the job. This wasnât⌠date wasnât the word he shouldâve used.Â
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.Â
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
ââŚNo,â he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It wasâ
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who âsees me aroundâÂ
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.Â
You: yeah sureÂ
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna âaccidentallyâ run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?Â
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, soâŚÂ
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
â
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. âHey, Dex.âÂ
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didnât comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second âjust in case.â
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.Â
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
âTry that one,â you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was⌠good, but he didnât say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
âItâs fine,â he said.
You snorted. âLiar.â
âIâm notââ
âDonât pretend itâs just fine,â you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
âIâm not pretending.â
âYou are.â
He hesitated, then let you win this one. âIt is good,â he admitted begrudgingly.
âThere it is.â
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didnât catch as often. You didnât circle each other as much. You just⌠talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.Â
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dexâs eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didnât notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being âcommitted to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,â andâ
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. âHold on,â he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. âwhatâŚâ
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. âYou hadâŚâ he gestured vaguely. âCustard.â
âOh.â You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. âThanks.â
âYeah.â Dex looked down at his hands. That felt⌠Unfamiliar.
He didnât know when the last time heâd done something like that was. He didnât know when the last time heâd wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didnât even have a name for it.
And while he wasnât sure he liked that, he definitely didnât hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldnât stand another second of silence.Â
âUmmm speaking of hobbies?â you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. âYou⌠donât strike me as a hobbies person.â
âI had some,â he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.Â
âPast tense is concerning.â You leaned forward just a little. âWhat, like, knitting?â
âNo.â
âScrapbooking?â
âNo.â
âBe honest,â you taunted, âI can see it.â
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. âBaseball.â
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
âYeah, I can see that,â you said, then added casually, âI used to do ballet.â
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. âOh,â he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldnât access any other way.Â
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, âWhat does that mean?â
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. âMmânope.â
âWhat?â
âNot here,â you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. âIâm not getting into that here.â
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. âCome by my place on Saturday,â you said, like it had just occurred to you. âWeâll call it our third date.â
Dex blinked. âWhat?â
You shrugged, completely unfazed. âIf youâre really curious,â you added, a small tilt to your head. âThereâs⌠fewer people.â
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was⌠this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was notâŚ
âOkay,â he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
âOkay,â you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too lateâŚÂ
This doesnât feel like a job.
â
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadnât caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like heâd already been cleared.
âYouâre expected,â he said simply.
Dex didnât respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this⌠a trap?Â
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
âHi,â you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadnât caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. âCome in.â
He couldnât find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realisedâŚ
The place was⌠expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
âHowâŚâ he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.Â
You didnât seem to notice. âMake yourself comfortable,â you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasnât worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. âI just need the bathroom. Iâll be quick.â
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.Â
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a momentâs notice.
âThatâs stupid,â he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didnât think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you werenât rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didnât try to look for what was there, but what didnât belong. Because people like you didnât leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted⌠There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didnât miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didnât hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didnât need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
âOf course,â he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldnât miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasnât exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didnât have a red Xs on their files were still active.Â
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything heâd gotten from a distance. This⌠This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
âSorry,â you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. âThat took longer than I thought.â
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didnât line up. The. it was gone.
âYouâre fine,â he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasnât here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didnât even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.Â
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, ââŚSo,â you said, more direct. âWhat do you want to know?â
â
It canât be this easy right? Dex thought.Â
Turns out, it was.Â
Which was weird, because people like you didnât just⌠hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup heâd ever walked into, or you really didnât think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.Â
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. âThanks,â he said, smaller than usual.
He didnât even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.Â
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldnâtâŚÂ Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.Â
The first sign that it wasnât poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didnât react; you didnât watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didnât interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more⌠context.
âYou donât really realize it when youâre in it,â you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. âIt just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You donât question it because thereâs nothing else to compare it to.â
Dexâs grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
âThey donât just train you. They⌠build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.â You gave him a small laugh.âHonestly? Itâs basically a cult. You have no idea what itâs like to be manipulated like that.â
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. âYeah,â he said. âI do.â
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. âOh,â you looked down. âRight.â
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were⌠unloading. Like you didnât have anywhere else to put it.
Thatâs when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was⌠because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?Â
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. Andâ
ââŚAnd you?â you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. âCâmon.â
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
âIf weâre trauma dumping,â you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, âwe might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.â You took another sip, then shrugged. âDoesnât exactly look like either of us go to therapy.â
Dex huffed. âYeah,â he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldnât, though, right? He shouldnât tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but⌠The booze was getting to him.Â
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.Â
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.Â
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.Â
You didnât interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.Â
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.Â
Dex didnât seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadnât been there before.
âGod,â you said, almost to yourself. âWeâre so fucked up.â
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.Â
âYeah.â He took another sip, âYou more than me,â he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. âExcuse me?â
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. âYâknow,â he said, âChild soldier and all.â
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. âReally?â you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. âIâm more fucked up?â
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. âYour boss broke your spine and you lived.â
Dex managed to roll his eyes.Â
âYou got thrown off a roof and you lived,â you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. âSounds like youâre pretty far from normal.â
Dex huffed again. âDidnât say I was normal.â
âMm,â you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.Â
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didnât matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didnât realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didnât realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didnât even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked⌠Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didnât cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart. Â
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didnât even remember what) and it made you look⌠harmless.Â
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didnât pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.Â
Dex didnât usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldnât have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just⌠loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didnât even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.Â
âYouâre smiling,â you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
âIâm not,â he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. âYou are.â
He shouldâve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you werenât even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. ââŚWhat?â you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didnât answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didnât feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadnât planned on doing it. It wasnât even a decision he consciously made, really.Â
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.Â
For a while, you didnât move away.Â
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no neededâ to know you wanted it, too.Â
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fractionâ
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You werenât pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didnât move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. ââŚDex,â you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you werenât thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch⌠but you didnât meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
âMm,â you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
âNo,â you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. âItâs only our third date.â
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadnât fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
âBesides,â you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, âI want you to kiss me when youâre sober.â
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.Â
Oh, well. What else can he do?
âYeah,â he managed to say. âOkay.â
Still, he didnât move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years. Â
You have enough. Kill her.Â
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employerâs request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.Â
What are you waiting for? Kill her.Â
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.Â
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at youâ from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didnât even need a gun.Â
Kill her.
And no, you wouldnât even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think wasâŚÂ
I want another date.
No. He shouldnât want that, right?
Kill her.
He didnât want that either.Â
But⌠he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?Â
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?Â
Kill her.Â
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.Â
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.Â
â
Dex didnât go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before heâd even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.Â
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.Â
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displaysâ
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote⌠she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasnâtâ He exhaled, teeth clenching. âthis wasnât important.Â
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift towardâ
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
⌠her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasnât relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didnât need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?Â
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath itâŚ
She laughed when she said âweâre so fucked up.â
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
â
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadnât just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
âHi,â you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. âHi.â
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. âYou look like youâve been here for a while.â
âI havenât.â
âYou definitely have.â
âMaybe five minutes.â That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. âKnew it.â
Sheâs faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. âYouâre late.â
âIâm two minutes late,â you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. âAnd I brought personality, so it cancels out.â
He huffed, hiding a smile. âThatâs not how that works.â
âIt is.â You insisted, tapping the menu. âAlso, you picked sushi? I didnât think you were a sushi person.â
âIâm not.â He immediately said.Â
You blinked. âThen whyâŚâ
âSeemed efficient.â What he meant was; itâs a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. Itâs efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. âYou picked it based on efficiency.â
âYes.â
âThat is the least romantic thing Iâve ever heard.â
Kiss her. Tell her sheâs pretty.
He didnât do either.
âYouâre still here,â he pointed out instead.
âYeah,â you said easily, settling back in your seat. âBecause I actually like you.â
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, âYou know anything about the ports here?â Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.Â
The question shouldâve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. âNot much,â he admitted after a second. âFisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.âÂ
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably shouldâve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. âYou always order too much.â
You lit up like heâd just handed you a piece of chocolate. âOh, weâre judging now?â
âIâm observing.â
âRude,â you said, already scanning the menu. âAlso, itâs not too much, itâs strategic.â
âStrategic how?â He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. âYou ever go hungry enough that your brain just⌠rewires? Like you donât trust âenoughâ anymore?â
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?Â
Sheâs a widow. Sheâs a weapon. Sheâs a person.
ââŚYeah,â he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. âYeah,â you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. âSo Iâll over-order. Itâs fine. We deserve it.â
Weâre so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. âOkay.â
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
âOkay, this one,â you said, pointing. âWeâre getting this.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
âIt has too muchâŚ. whatever that is.â
âThat is eel,â you squinted.
âExactly,â he shrugged.
âItâs just eel,â you pointed out. âYouâve eaten weirder things.â
He paused. âThatâs not the point.â
You grinned. âI have enough of an appetite for the both of us.â
Kill her. Kiss her.
ââŚFine,â he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.Â
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didnât hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
âTry this,â you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didnât even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
âItâs good,â he admitted.
âI know,â you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
Sheâs dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. âWe used to have this thingâtraining-wiseâwhere theyâd reward you with food if you hit certain targets.â
Dexâs attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
âTargets?â he repeated.
You winced slightly. âOkay, that sounded worse out loud.â
He didnât respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. âI meanâit was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like âhit this, get that.â Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.â
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadnât just said that.
Sheâs a monster. Sheâs a victim. Sheâs both. Kill her.
âDo you ever miss that?â he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. âThe food or the brainwashing?â
âEither.â
You smiled faintly. âSometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.â
ThatâŚ. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
âYeah,â he said quietly. âMe too.â
You didnât make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. âHey,â you said, lighter now. âAt least now we get sushi instead of, like⌠boiled cabbage or whatever.â
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. âI didnât get cabbage.â
âOh, sorry,â you deadpanned. âDid your government program have better catering?â
âNo.â
You grinned. âThen you get it.â
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things againâbad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. Sheâs faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldnât evenâ
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
âEarth to Dex?â
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.Â
You were looking at him like youâd caught his mind somewhere far away.
âWhat?â he said.
âYou spaced out,â you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. âThat was intense. Should I be concerned?â
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her sheâs pretty.
âNo,â he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. âYou do that a lot. Go somewhere else.â
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. âIâm here,â he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didnât stop.
Kill her. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs a Black Widow. Sheâs killed for corrupt governments. Sheâs taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.Â
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
â
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.Â
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. âIâve got it,â he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, âI want to.âÂ
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didnât like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldnât exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motionâinsert, wait, signâbecause that was simple, and that was something he understood.Â
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.Â
Kill her. She needs to go. Sheâs a monster. Sheâs a widow. Sheâs a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. Sheâs faking it. Sheâs dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.Â
It wasn't strategic. It wasnât calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same. Â
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.Â
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.Â
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.Â
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her sheâs pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. Sheâs a bad person. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didnât. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didnât deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didnât want to kill you before he kissed you.Â
He needed that first. Just once.Â
âIâll walk you home,â he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said âOkay,â it didnât make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldnât want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
â
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.Â
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
âHey,â you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. âHey.â
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
âI think,â you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, âyou earned it.â
Dex didnât get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met hisâŚand everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid youâd disappear. The kiss wasnât gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didnât belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it. Â
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldnât stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted⌠fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didnât matter to Dex.Â
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.Â
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldnât stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was⌠kiss him.Â
âIâll see you soon?â you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were justâŚÂ hopeful. And all he could think about was the way youâd kissed him. The way youâd let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficientlyâŚ
No. Not like that. I canât kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. Youâd bleed. Youâd feel it. Youâd die a slow, painful deathâŚ
She didnât deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you werenât looking. Just⌠bang!Â
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadnât caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
âIâyeah,â he said, voice, rougher around the edges. âYou will.â
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadnât just made a decision that shouldâve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed⌠Then he stepped back, because if he didnâtâ
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.Â
â
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, âa picnic!â said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didnât involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
Heâd decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasnât tactical, it wasnât anything like the person heâd read about in that file. You looked⌠beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. âYou lookâŚâ he started, then stopped, like the word wouldnât come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. âWhat?â
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. âNice,â he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadnât just undone him.
Kill her. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket heâd set up, hands already busy unpacking what heâd brought.
You noticed immediately. âYou brought strawberries and cream?â You asked in disbelief.Â
Dex shrugged, like it wasnât a big deal, like he hadnât thought about it too much. âYou like sweet things.â
You went quiet for a second. âIâŚâ you started, âI do.â
He didnât look at you. If he did, heâdâŚ
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didnât feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasnât the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mindâŚ
Shoot her in the head.
âIâve never done this before,â you said after a moment, glancing around. âA picnic, I mean.â
That caught Dex off guard. âWhat?â
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. âYeah. Not like this, anyway.â You picked at the edge of the blanket. âWe used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.â
You said it so lightly. Like it wasnât something that should gut him. âIn the basement of the facility I was raised in,â you went on. âSome of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.â You smiled, but it was fragile. âWeâd share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was⌠nice.â
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. Sheâs a Black Widow. Sheâs killed people. Sheâsâ
âYou deserved better,â he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. âYeah,â you said, after a second of consideration. âI think so too.â
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.Â
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didnât notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldnât help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didnât.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You donât deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.Â
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldnât do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. âI donâtâŚâ he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. âWhat?â
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. âI donât want to stay here,â he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. âDid I do something wrong?â
âNo,â he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. âNo. Itâs not that.â
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. âCome back to mine,â he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? Sheâs a terrible person. Sheâs killed more people than you.Â
Your brows lifted slightly. âYour place?â
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards⌠he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.Â
âYeah,â he said, voice smaller now. âI just⌠want more time with you.â
That part wasnât a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. âOkay,â you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
â
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadnât done a hundred times before without thinking.Â
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasnât a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs lying. Sheâs done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadnât noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didnât fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didnât argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Donât let this end. She chose you. Sheâs still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. Thatâs all it would take, thatâsâ
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was⌠quiet.Â
It wasnât sudden. It wasnât forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like youâd done it a thousand times before. Like you hadnât even considered that you shouldnât.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didnât quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressureâŚthey just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt⌠clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didnât pull away. You didnât even hesitate. You just⌠walked with him.Â
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didnât have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasnât going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system heâd built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasnât looking for redemption, and he wasnât chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.Â
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything heâd missed, everything heâd never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didnât unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. âCome in.â
â
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.Â
You didnât say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.Â
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didnât belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didnât know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.Â
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadnât disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.Â
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
âDex?â you whispered, concern threading through everything. âWhatâs wrong? â
âNothing,â he insisted, almost defensive. âNothing.â
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didnât know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something heâs never had before? That he doesnât know what this is, but itâs too much and not enough at the same time?
âIâm fine,â he added, but it didnât sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.Â
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
âI wanna taste you,â he said honestly, almost reverently.Â
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. âYouâve kissed me before.â
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didnât feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldnât hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
âNo,â he said, voice deeper now. âI want to taste you.â
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didnât stop him. You didnât pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.Â
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadnât been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt⌠wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and thenâ
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.Â
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didnât reach for anything. He didnât flinch. He didnât even try to put space between you. He just⌠looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
ââŚOh,â he said softly.
The gun wasnât the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where heâd nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow⌠he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He shouldâve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him betterâ
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didnât know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because youâd played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
âIâŚâ You swallowed. âYouâre not useful to OXE anymore.â
He had known something felt off. He just hadnât cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. âFuck,â he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.Â
You flinched immediately. âNo. Donât do that.â
His eyes flicked back to yours.
âDonât act like this was just me manipulating you,â you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. âI know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Donât you dare pretend like you werenât planning to kill me too.â
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that âaccidental run inâ in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.Â
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dexâs gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
âYou know whatâs pathetic?â he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. âI still want to taste you.â
Your breath caught audibly.
âThereâs a gun pointed at my head,â he whispered in disbelief. âand all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.â
âDexâŚâ you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. âNo, listen,â he said quickly. âI know what this is. I know what happens next.â
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didnât actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, Iâm so sick.
âI know youâre gonna kill me because itâs the job,â he continued. âFine. I get it.â His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. âBut ChristâŚâ His voice cracked. âJust let me have this first.â
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
âI could die happy,â he admitted. âJust⌠let me taste you first, sweetheart.â
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didnât move away from you.Â
âDo it, then,â you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
âFucking do it,â you said again, almost pleading now. âBefore IâŚâ
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. âYouâre shaking,â he murmured quietly.
âSo are you.â
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above himâ dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didnât want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadnât admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.Â
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldnât believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldnât believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldnât help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldnât stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. âDexââ you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.Â
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.Â
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
âHey,â he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didnât know where to touch to make sure you were okay. âHeyâ look at me.â
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. âDid I hurt you?â he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
âFuckâno,â you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. âDex, fuck! How could you even say that?â
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.Â
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. ExceptâŚÂ
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasnât shameful or weaponized or ruined⌠you had stopped wanting this to end.Â
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like heâd die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
âI donât understand you,â you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. âI donât either.â
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. âFuck, Dex,â you choked out, âyou were supposed to be a job.â
âSo were you.â
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. âI should kill you,â you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.Â
âDo it,â he whispered. âItâs what you were sent to do.â He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. âI canât,â you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. âYes, you can.â
âNo!â You shouted out, panicked. âDonât fucking⌠donât even try to make this easier!â
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldnât move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.Â
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way heâd looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. âIâm gonnaâŚâ you whispered shakily, but you couldnât finish the sentence.
You didnât want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.Â
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. âOh my god,â you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasnât, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you âHey, look at me.â
You genuinely couldnât. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. âI canât fucking do this,â you sobbed. âI canât⌠I canâtââ
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
âIâm a monster,â you whispered brokenly. âDex, Iâm a fucking monster.â
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
âYou donât get to say that like youâre different from me,â he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didnât know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. âWeâre both monsters,â he whispered.
But it didnât sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
blurb: briarâs hockey team hosts their annual fundraiser for the hurricanes at maloneâs. the prize? a date with one of the four hottest hockey player heartthrobs. the problem? you lost the bidding war to win your own boyfriend.
warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, the whole gang is here yay power of friendship, lowk crack fic with a side of romance, light jealousy, mentions of deanallie hehe, BEAU MAXWELL IS A FLIRT
âAllie, I gave you one job!â
And really, you did.
You were swamped with final exams and endless group projects. On this particular Friday nightâthe evening of the hurricanes fundraiserâyou had to meet up with your teammates to go over presentation slides.
Thus, you entrusted your beloved friend, Allie Hayes, to ensure your spot in the bidding war forâŚwell, your boyfriend.
âAw, you wanna win me over once again, gorgeous?â Logan had teased you.
You had rolled your eyes and nudged him, âItâs for a good cause.â
âYouâre paying to go out on a date with your boyfriend.â
âIâm paying to fund a little caneâs hockey endeavors.â
Except you canât do either of those things because your trusted friend turned out to not be so trustworthy.
âIâm sorry, babe! I really am,â Allieâs eyes shone with guilt. âDella had me working a table during Loganâs segment, and I lost the stupid auction paddleââ
You raised your hand up to cut her off. With a resigned sigh, you let any hard feelings flee from your system. Allie had been having a rough couple of daysâwith the Sean breakup, and her recent streak of suspicious disappearances that you still hadnât confronted her about, you knew this was a genuine mistake.
âDid he at least sell for a good price?â You asked.
â$750, baby!â
The voice came from behind you, along with a strong arm draping over your shoulders. You turned your head and met your boyfriendâs handsome face. Logan wore a gleeful smile, probably elated that the fundraiser had gone so well despite the last minute arrangements.
âWow, thatâs a lot,â you noted in surprise.
Loganâs expression shifted to a subtle pout. âYou donât think Iâm worth that much?â
You kissed his stubble placatingly. âI think youâre priceless, babe.â
That got him to grin again.
Tucker came up behind and clapped him on the back, âYour boy here got the second highest bid.â
You shared an unimpressed look with Allie, âLet me guess, the top bid was onââ
âWell, well, well, Mrs. Logan. You finally showed up,â Dean joined the circle with a smug smile.
âI know you mean that as an insult, but I take it as a compliment.â
âYou tell him, Al,â Beau popped up right behind Dean. He shot Allie a wink.
âHow much did they get on you?â You redirected the conversation back into place.
The blond shrugged casually, peering down at his drink. âNothing grand. A humble amount, really.â
Beau rolled his eyes and answered, â$1800.â
Your eyes widened, âYouâre kidding.â
Deanâs mouth hung open, âDonât stoop to their level, Mrs. Logan.â He pointed an accusing finger your way.
âIâm just shocked that somebody has that much money laying around,â you replied.
âWe couldâve renovated the theatre departmentâs stage,â Allie noted bitterly.
âI couldâve gotten new car rims,â Logan added.
âOr that new gaming console,â Tucker said.
âOr my housing payment,â you continued.
âOr better toner for his hair,â Beau teased Dean.
âOKAY! WE GET IT!â Dean exclaimed, holding his hands up to stop the discussion.
Hannah and Garrett walked by, holding hands. The former shared a bright smile, âHey, you made it!â
âHow much was your boyfriend?â You asked her.
â5 bucks.â
âHow.â You deadpanned. Garrett was a good looking guy, a very popular one at that. Youâve seen the herds of puck bunnies that worshipped him. A five dollar bid was ridiculous to even consider.
âGarrett stopped the auction once Wellsy placed her bid,â Tucker responded.
Smooth move, Graham.
And he knew it. Garrett had a shit-eating grin on his face like he knew he just won a million boyfriend points.
âThatâs so cute,â you said before turning your head to eye your boyfriend. âWhy didnât you do that?â
The boys stifled their laughs at that.
Logan paused for a beat before he replied with: âIâŚwanted to make sure we raised enough money for the children.â
Smooth move, Logan.
Garrett dapped him up like his answer was ingenious. You hmphed and looked away. Logan squeezed your waist in an appeasing gesture.
âWell, whenâs your date?â You asked.
Logan looked at his watch, which was on the wrist of the arm he had around you, so he charmingly pulled you closer to him to check the time. âIn half an hour.â
You blinked. âWhat? Why so soon?â
Dean answered, âShe requested it.â
âAnd is anyone gonna tell me who she is?â
âHIPAA,â Dean mimed zipping his lips closed.
âThatâs for medical stuff, dingus,â Hannah told him.
âIs someone a sore loser?â Dean taunted.
Your gaze flew to Allie, âYou placed a bid?â
âNo,â she defended rather quickly. âDeanâs justâŚbeing stupid.â She muttered before rushing back into the staff kitchen.
You wouldâve questioned their exchange more, but Loganâs arm returned to his side. âI should go too. You know, freshen up for my date.â
You flashed a faux smile, âKeep talking like that and youâll have to go looking for a real date after this.â
The group dispersedâGarrett tugging Hannah along for their âfairlyâ-earned date, Dean and Tucker off to count up all the money they collected, Logan away to prepare for his mystery girl, and Beau gave your shoulder a reassuring rub and said, âIf you give me $20 right now, Iâll go on a date with youâ before you glared at him enough for him to bolt out.
You decided to stick around and help the group clean up the place once the festivities ended. Surely it wasnât because you wanted to see the girl who spent hundreds of dollars to hang out with your boyfriend.
âPop a fucking button, Logan. What is this, Sunday school?â Tucker was playing with Loganâs outfit to ensure he looked presentable for his date.
Loganâs eyebrows knitted together, âRelax, Law Roach. Are you forgetting sheâs not actually my girlfriend?â
âFor $750, you better start acting like she is.â
You cleared your throat loudly.
Tucker shot you an apologetic look.
ââŚJohn?â
The pair of them turned their attentions to the voice.
There stood a tall, stunning girl with beautiful deep tanned skin, hair down in luscious locs adorned in gold hair cuffs, and smooth legs peeking out from under her skirt. She looked like a model.
She looked between the two hockey players.
âYouâre Amala,â Logan voiced.
She nodded with relief, âYes. John, right?â
âWeâre both John,â Tucker chimed in.
âOhh,â Amala nodded.
âYou can call me Logan,â your boyfriend said, stretching out a hand towards her.
âLogan,â she repeated the name, shaking his hand.
Tucker pushed Logan a step forward, âHave fun, you two.â
Logan looked over his shoulder to share one last look with you. He gave a reassuring smile, his eyes soft. Amala noticed and waved at you shyly. You waved back slowly.
Logan turned back to Amala, âWhere would you like to go? Youâre the boss.â He told her with a charming grin.
She shrugged with a smile, âHere is fine.â
âHere?â Logan raised a brow, surveying the post-function bar. âWe could, though I thought of taking you out for ice creamââ
âIce cream sounds great!â
âYeah?â He smiled. âPerfect.â
Your eye twitched as you picked up discarded confetti off the floor.
Logan guided Amala out Maloneâs with a hand hoveringânot touchingâover her lower back. The bell hanging over the door rang in a soft tune as they exited, marking their departure.
âRemind me again why I agreed to letting my boyfriend sell himself?â you queried as you picked up a broom.
Tucker raised a brow, âFor charity?â
âRight,â you sighed.
Tucker looked around, âHey, have you seen Dean? He was supposed to drive all this stuff back to the hockey house.â
You shook your head, âNo. But heâs not the only unhelpful friend. Allie was supposed to clean up with me. She literally works here!â
âHuh.â Tucker licked his lips in thought.
He picked up a stack of boxes, âWell, I have to get these home myself. Do you need a ride?â
âI promised Della Iâd clean up,â you replied.
âYou sure youâll be okay on your own?â
You shrugged, âIâll be fine, Tuck. Drive safe.â
Tucker nodded and bid goodbye before leaving the diner.
By the time you finished fixing up the place, flipping chairs over tables, and mopping the floor clean, the bell chimed again.
âWeâre closed,â you called out as you tied a garbage bag shut.
A pair of familiar arms wrapped around your torso from behind you. âNo late night service?â Loganâs voice tickled your ear.
You stood up straight and leaned back into him before remembering you were supposed to be mad at him.
You pulled back and turned to him, âHow was your date?â
Logan let out a wistful sigh, âAmazing. You know, I might need to ask her out again.â
You pinched his arm. He winced.
Logan leaned in and held your hips, âIâm kidding. Youâre the only girl I want.â He murmured as he pressed a kiss against your forehead.
That soothed your jealousy a bit. âWhat did you two do?â
He hummed. âTook her to Spoons, got ice cream, sat at a table and talked about you, drove backââ
âWait, wait,â you stopped him. âTalked about me?â
Loganâs lips tugged upwards, âYeah, we talked about you. Like the whole time.â
âWhy?â You were so perplexed.
He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and responded, âAmalaâs an exchange student. She shares a class with you. Sheâs been wanting to befriend you since the semester started but she didnât know how to talk to you. SoâŚshe enlisted my help.â
You blinked a few times. âShe went out with youâŚto ask you how she could be my friend?â
âYeah. Sweet, right?â
âOh my god, I feel like an asshole,â you breathed out.
Logan pulled you closer, âYouâre not an asshole, baby.â
âI was cussing her out in my head for the past 2 hours!â
He chuckled, âI think thatâs valid.â
âItâs not! I shouldnât have judged so soon. Fuck, I feel so bad.â You started to spiral.
Before Logan could calm you down and reassure you, the bell rang again. You both turned to the door and saw Amala stepping in.
âHey,â she shared a polite smile. âLogan, you left your wallet.â She handed it back to him.
âOh, I didnât even notice.â He took it from her hands. âThanks, youâre a lifesaver.â
She smiled with a small nod. Her eyes flicked over to you. Amala mustered up some courage and said, âLogan said so many nice things about you. No wonder he loves you so much.â
Your guilt boiled over and settled into soft mush at that. âHeâsâŚtoo kind.â
Logan rolled his eyes fondly and pulled you closer to him.
Amala smiled again then spoke, âWeâŚwe share an econ class together. The 10 am with Prof. Singh?â
You nodded, âYeah, Iâm in that class.â You didnât want to tell her that you hadnât noticed her before.
Amala nodded back, âYeahâŚI think youâre pretty cool. And smart. Do you maybe wanna study together for the final exam this weekend?â
Your lips eased into a soft, genuine smile. âIâd love that, yeah.â
Amalaâs eyes gleamed with excitement and relief. âYeah? Great, thatâsâŚâ she cleared her throat to control herself and appear nonchalant. âCool. Logan has my number, he can share that with you.â
âWill do,â Logan swore solemnly.
She waved goodbye and started heading towards the door, âAlright, text me! It was lovely meeting you both!â
And then she was gone.
You turned back to Logan. He had a smug, âI told you soâ smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes and shoved him. âShut it.â
He buried his face in your hair, âLooks like you have an admirer.â
âWhy, jealous?â You teased.
Loganâs brows lifted. âMe? Look whoâs talking. You wanted to skin me alive a few hours ago.â
He wasnât exactly wrong.
âGod forbid a girl doesnât want to see her boyfriend go out with someone else.â
Logan kissed your temple, âIt was for a good cause,â he said softly.
âI know,â you squeezed his hand. You knew how much the hurricanes meant to Logan ever since he was a kid himself.
âSoâŚâ He brought you closer to him until your foreheads rested against one another. âHow much for me to take you out on a date?â
Your eyes looked deep into his, âHmm, how much have you got?â
Logan pretended to think about it. âIf Amala didnât rob me before returning my wallet, I should have 60 bucks and a punch card for free cheesy fries.â
You faked a delighted gasp, âHow romantic!â
He chuckled at your comment before kissing you. His lips moved smoothly over yours, his kiss felt like a breath of relief after the long and busy evening. He held your chin in one hand, using the other to pull you even closer.
You separated for a moment to murmur, âNext year weâre sticking to signed hockey merch.â
Logan grinned, âGood luck trying to convince Dean of that.â
âHe needs a girlfriend.â
He hummed, âAnd for $1800 and an hour, he might already have one.â
You laughed, taking his hand and tugging him out of Maloneâs. âCome on, time for my own date with you.â
âYouâre the boss,â he murmured with a kiss on your cheek.
And maybe it was best if you didnât know that Logan purposely âforgotâ his wallet at the ice cream shop.
who remembers this trope from the movie âflippedâ?
Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader
WC: 10.5k
Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort.
Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other.
+fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr.
⤡ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify
"Absolutely not!"
Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve.Â
One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.
"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel.Â
Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"
Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"
You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."
"That's what I thought."
The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. âNat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!â
Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.
Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"
You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?
"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.
A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."
He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission.Â
The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day.Â
It shouldâve been quietâmats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.
Instead, the air was thick.
Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.
Well, you and Steve.Â
At first not openlyâno one was stupid enough to make it obviousâbut they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.
It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait:Â in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.
Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve.Â
Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worseâwhich was deeply, personally offensive.
Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.
It infuriated the hell out of you.Â
He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased.Â
It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other.Â
By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off.Â
Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.
Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.
Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.
Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.
"Come to daddy."
The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red.Â
In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart.Â
But also⌠you fucking hated his guts.Â
Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down.Â
His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.
"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.
You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed.Â
You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain.Â
"Who's your daddy now?"Â
Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"
Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice.Â
He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."
The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.
Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning.Â
The mailboxes all matchedâsleek, black, expensive-lookingâand every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.
The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own.Â
You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash.Â
Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."
You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.
He sighed. "If we crashâ"
"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.
What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care.Â
He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were.Â
Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath.Â
"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."
The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already."Â
"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather.Â
âReady, honey?â you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like youâd been saying it for years.
He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.
âAfter you, sweetheart.â
You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.
ding-dong. ding-dong.
You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.
You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like heâd been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.
Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.
Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.
Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldnât wait to know everything about you.
âOh my goodness,â she breathed, eyes lighting up. âYou must be the Adlers!â You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors.Â
He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made youâ
âGuilty,â he said easily. âFrank.â Right. Frank Adler.Â
He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. âIâm Dex,â the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. âThis is my wife, Julie.â
âHi,â you said, stepping forward like you hadnât been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. âItâs so nice to meet you.â
She lit up.
âOh, you are just adorable,â she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. âWe saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, âWe have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.ââ
You faked confusion. "Ben�"
He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I⌠uh⌠Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."
You smiled back in understanding. âWe appreciate that,â he said smoothly. âItâs been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.â
âSo,â Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, âwhat brings you two here?â There it was. The first test.
You felt Steveâs thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. âWork, mostly,â he said, not missing a beat. âI just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.â
Julie gasped softly. âOh! Thatâs right, youâre the project manager, right? We heard something about thatââ
Of course they did.
You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection⌠Just enough to sell it.
âHe wonât say it, but heâs very good at what he does.â You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again.Â
His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. âSomeone has to pay the bills,â he joked lightly, glancing down at you.
"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.
âWow,â Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. âYou two are so cute.â
You laughed, soft, a little embarassed⌠and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.
âNew couples usually take a while to settle in around here,â he said, tone still easy. âBut I think you two will fit right in.â
âWell,â you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, âweâre counting on our neighbors to help with that.â
Julie clasped her hands together. âOh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyoneâs going to be thereâitâs kind of our thing.â
âWeâd love to,â Steve said, lightly nodding.
Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. âWelcome to the neighborhood!â
Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost likeâŚÂ bait.Â
It started with waves.
Small, polite acknowledgments from across drivewaysâneighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up.Â
Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.
Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. SteveâFrankâwas âthe project manager from the city.â You were âso sweetâ and âadjusting beautifully.â
It was unsettling.
Steve got pulled in first.
Dex made it look casualâleaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.
âCouple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,â Dex had said, like it wasnât a test. Like it wasnât an invitation into something much bigger. âYou golf?â
Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didnât matter. âEnough not to embarrass myself.â
Dex chuckled. âGood. Fisk hates losing.â
That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.
Wilson Fisk didnât look like a monster either. They never did.
From the sidelines, it wouldâve looked normalâthree men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.
But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadnât been there before, and eyes that thought too much.
You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.
Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.
You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was âhaving trouble in their marriageâ this week.
You played the part. Perfectly.
But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".
About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.
Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways.Â
âWhy are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?â âBecause I took them off.â
âYou put a gun in the cereal cabinet.â âIt was concealed.â
And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.
Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didnât look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softlyâcontrolled, decorative, intentional.
Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.
âFrank,â Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. âGlad you made it.âÂ
Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. âWouldnât miss it.â
Dex clapped his hands lightly. âLetâs see if you actually know how to swing that thing.â
The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.
Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing.Â
Well, who does? He thought.
He missed a shot he couldâve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.
Dex talked the mostâeasy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.
Fisk didnât, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused.Â
By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else.Â
Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didnât look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.
âBeautiful house youâve got,â Fisk said finally.
Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. âGot lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.â
Fisk hummed. âI find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.â Steve didnât respond, Fiskâs gaze lifted then. âYou and your wife settling in well?â
For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. âYeah. She likes it here.â He paused for a second. âSheâs⌠adjusting.â
Fiskâs lips curved slightly. âIs she?â Steveâs grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.
Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.
âYou know,â Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, âI take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.â
Steve tilted his head slightly. âSeems like a lot of effort.â
Fisk chuckled softly. âIt is if you don't have the⌠resources.â
Steve didnât like the way he said that, didnât like the weight behind it.
The back nine loosened things.
Or at least, thatâs what it looked like.
Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventhâcold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghostsâand by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.
Way less about business.Â
Dex snorted at something one of the other menâsome hedge fund name Steve hadnât bothered to rememberâhad said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.
âIâm telling you,â the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, âif youâre doing it right, sheâs not walking straight the next morning.â
One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.
Steve didnât react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasnât listening.
âCâmon, Adler,â Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. âYouâve been real quiet over there.â
Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. âJust listening.â
âThatâs not how this works,â the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. âYou gotta contribute. Youâre married, right?â
âFamiliarity,â Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, âbreeds a certain ease.â
âGuess some guys are just more private.â Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I donât feel the need to talk about my wife like that."
Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.
A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.
The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.
He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automaticallyâback door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet heâd modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.
He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on.Â
Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not haveâ
Of course.
A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side.Â
The motherfucker had surveillance on your house.Â
In your house.Â
The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.
You were humming, soft and absentminded.
Like you werenât in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.
He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.
He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.
Five.
Hell, two.
But the words Fisk had saidâhad impliedâsat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.
Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared.Â
Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that wouldâve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.
He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.
Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you.Â
With you.
All naked, and very wet, and very naked, andâ
"Ahh!"Â You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the fâ" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.
We're being listened to.
"Honey,"Â You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"
Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there.Â
His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water.Â
âFisk,â he whispered, barely audible over the spray. âHe knows somethingâs off. Pretty sure weâre wired. The house is.â
Your breath hitched.
Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at hisâ "Where?"
"Everywhere." He confirmed.Â
Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.
âWell,â you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, ânext time, maybe knock?â
Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.
âDidnât think youâd mind.â One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.
Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. âOh, I mind,â you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. âYouâre lucky I like you.â
You were pretty good at⌠faking it.Â
Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.
The neighborhood dimmed in stagesâporch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.
As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway.Â
Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.
The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure.Â
You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared backâhair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.
Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinfâ normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more⌠domestic.
You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.
You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed.Â
Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him.Â
You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be.Â
Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still.Â
Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.
He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."
He shifted, turning just enough so he wasnât facing away from you anymore, his arm coming upâhesitant for half a secondâbefore settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin.Â
As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out.Â
You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.
The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.
His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didnât know where they were allowed to go.
Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.
You felt the tension in himâevery muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position youâd just put him in.
âSweetheart,â he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. âYou trying to kill me?â
From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.
You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. âYou just been working so much lately,â you murmured, just loud enough to carry.
His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it.Â
âI know, baby, I know,â he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadnât heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. âIâm sorry, sweetheart.â
Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name.Â
His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.
Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.
His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.
âWhat youâre doing,â he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, âis reckless.â
Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. âSo is getting caught.â
You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.
It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside.Â
Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience.Â
His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going toâ
He should really take this shirt off.Â
And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much.Â
"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?
"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."
Oh.
He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you toâ
The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy.Â
"O-ohâ" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.
That earned you a scolding look.Â
"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."
Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. âRelax,â you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. âYou sound like youâre filing paperwork.â
He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. âMaybe I like paperwork,â he muttered.
You scoffed. âYou do not.â
âYou donât know that.â He whined softly against you.Â
"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear.Â
It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there.Â
âYouâre unbelievable,â he breathed low, close to your ear.
âSay it louder,â you shot back quietly.
âYouâre unbelievable,â he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.
Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge.Â
You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over.Â
âOkayââ he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. âWe need a time frame. We canât justâkeep going forever.â
âTwo minutes,â you whispered. âMake it believable.â
âTwo minutes?â he echoed, actually offended. âThatâs insulting.â
The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."
Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper.Â
You nudged him again with your heel.Â
"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."
What in the fuckity fuck?
Steve?
He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well.Â
Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock.Â
"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."
That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.
And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes.Â
His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed.Â
You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.
Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying.Â
You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.
Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling.Â
"Are weâ"
ââŚgo to sleep,â you muttered.
Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood.Â
Right at the belly of the beast.Â
The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine.Â
String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance.Â
The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.
It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it allâ wrong.
Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing.Â
You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadnât touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldnât quite hear from this distance.
And there she was.
Blonde, tall, and much too interested in yourâ Steve.
Her hand landed on his arm like sheâd been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.
âThat's Sharon.â Julieâs voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. âShe's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means sheâsââ
ââlooking,â you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadnât already clocked every detail.
Julie laughed. âExactly.â
Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadnât moved away, hadnât stepped back, hadnât even noticed.
Of course he hadnât.
He was listeningâreally listeningâto whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.
âOh, donât worry,â she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. âIf he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They donât even realize when theyâre being flirted with.â
You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."
âHeâs very charming,â Julie added, watching you now instead of them. âFrank, I mean.â
Your lips curved. âHe has his moments.â
Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible.Â
His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.
âHey,â he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.
âHi,â you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. âSorry,â you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. âAm I interrupting?â
She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. âNot at all.â Steveâs hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.
âWe were just talking about the neighborhood,â she continued.
âWere you?â you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.
âOhâyes,â she said, glancing briefly at him. âFrank was just telling us about his work.â
âMm,â you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. âHe works too much.â
Steveâs brows lifted slightly. âOh, I do?â
âYou do,â you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. âI barely see you anymore.â
Sharon laughed softly. âThatâs a shame.â Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.
âIt is,â you agreed, smiling again. âBut I make sure he makes up for it.â
Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didnât quite hide the surprise.
His hand flexed at your hip. âYeah,â he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. âI do.â
For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident.Â
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt.Â
Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didnât just cost you the mission.
They cost you everything.
Youâd been handling it just fine, up until you werenât. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.
You didnât know which yetâonly that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks.Â
You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen.Â
Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more.Â
You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.
He clocked the men immediately.Â
And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.
âDonât,â he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.
âDonât what?â you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.
âTheyâre looking for someone,â he said.
âI know.â A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.
âTheyâre closing exits.â
And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. âI noticed.â You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.
Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down.Â
âBabe,â you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. âYou said one drink.â
He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.
âYeah?â he shot back easily. âThought you wanted to see more of the place.â
âOh, I do,â you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. âJust⌠from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.
âRelax your shoulders,â you murmured.
He huffed softlyâalmost a laugh, almost something elseâand adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.
A beat passed between youâquick, sharp, chargedâand then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.
âStormâs our out,â he whispered. âWe gotta go.â
âCome on,â you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. âI am not ruining my hair for this.â
âTragic,â he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.
The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main roomâheavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.
Perfect.
Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightlyâjust enough to sell itâas he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.
âCareful, sweetheart.â he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. âYouâre gonna slip.â
The back door burst open under his hand.
Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.
Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.
One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you foundâsome storage room or unused guest space, it didnât matter.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.
His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he.Â
The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned.Â
"I, uh⌠I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure.Â
âNot bad,â he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.
You scoffed lightly. âHigh praise.â
PRESENT
âFireworks are about to start,â someone called from across the yard.
And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel.Â
Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. âYouâre laying it on thick.â
âAm I?â you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.
âA little.â
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."
Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office.Â
The party swelled around you.
Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fiskâs perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.
Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold.Â
Steve.
âIâm gonna grab another drink,â you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen.Â
You moved like you werenât tracking footsteps that werenât yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.
You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.
You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.
You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.
âWhatââ
âDex,â you cut him off, already crossing the room. âComing.â His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat.Â
A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.
He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.
âMmââ you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.
Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, andâÂ
The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.
You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.
You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like youâd just noticed her. âOhââ you said, a little breathless, but smiling.
âSharon,â your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like youâd been caught.
Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face â his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out.Â
Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.
âWe were justââ
ââbusy,â you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.
ââŚright,â she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasnât quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh⌠the party."
You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again.Â
âWhat the hell was that?â His voice cut through it, low and sharp.
You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house.Â
Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didnât look back, he wouldnât follow.
Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn.Â
You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. âHeyââ he pushed still, stepping closer. âNo, seriously. What was that?â
You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.
âThat wasnât about getting caught,â he said. âYou knew sheââ Then it seemed to dawn on him.  âYou kissed me to make her jealous.â His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."
You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Pleaâ"
He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."
You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you.Â
For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb.Â
And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours.Â
Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter.Â
He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.
Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."
He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision.Â
Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh.Â
His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.
"Steve⌠People might seeâŚ"
"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"
You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day."Â
That did it.Â
Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.
His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.
His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"
He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.
Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealousâŚ" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue.Â
"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.
"Steve, what theâ"
He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.
Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.
He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.
Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair.Â
"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."
Fuck him and that nickname.Â
His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing.Â
His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission.Â
You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips.Â
The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.
At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steveâ"
He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.
Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded.Â
Not at all.Â
He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."
He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming."Â
Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage.Â
"Easierâ fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.
Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit.Â
Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you.Â
"Steve, Steve, I'mâ fuck, I'm gonnaâ"
You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue.Â
He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it.Â
He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you.Â
In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers.Â
Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.
And hard.
Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.
He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist.Â
And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness.Â
Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further.Â
You turned your head to the side. "Steve, pleaseâŚ"
He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."
He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "Sheâ she was all o-over youâŚ" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge.Â
âSteve, please put it inâŚâ
"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any.Â
You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like thisâŚ"
"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."
And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:
There's more?!
"Oh GodâŚ"
That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."
"Isâ is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.
"Barely half." He grunted.
You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again.Â
"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."
You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "Soâ hah! Good, SteveâŚ"
After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice.Â
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.
âSteve, please, please let meââ
Another harsh thrust interrupted you. âTell me the truth then.â
You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.
As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.
You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. âI was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!â You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.
âShe thought she could have you andâ andââ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. âAnd youâre myâ Ohâ oh my God!â
âYeah?â Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. âIâm your what?â
You could cry. You could cry right noâ oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. âSteveâŚâ
His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
âThatâs right, Iâm your Steve.â His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. âCome for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.â
âMmmmngghhhââ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.
Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of âfuck, fuck, fuck.â until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.
As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.
After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."
He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. âGot time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?â
You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.
âI could do this all day, Cap.â
final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh
summary on a professional level, superman respects steve rogers in a way any other hero would. on a personal level, clark would highly appreciate steve keeping away from you, his fiance.
content warnings fluff. jealous!clark x meta-human!reader. steve is sweet but he loves causing drama, a habit he adopted from nat. avengers all call reader 'kid'.
notes this is sososo impulsive, i don't know where i'm taking this but i hope you enjoy this 4th of july special!
â
"sweetheart, i got it."
"i know you do, honey, but the people of new york are observant. they'll either think you're another super soldier orâ"
clark sets down the insane amount of luggage in his arms at your knowing gaze, arms crossed as the cab driver that had just dropped the both of you off at the cozy cabin near upstate new york gawks at your fiance.
the cab driver hedges forward. "is he...?"
you shake your head with a firm press of your lips. "nope. my fiance's just from kansas. farm boy muscles and all that." while it looks like the cabbie doesn't really believe you, you've got that edge that all new yorkers never really shed so the man nods and drives off.
with no witnesses, clark lifts all of your luggage to bring inside without breaking a sweat. you sigh as you contemplate the chaos that'll most likely ensue at the avengers compound for the fourth of july weekend.
â
a month ago, natasha romanoff had arrived in your tiny box of an apartment in metropolis without even a text of warning. it would've been something you appreciated since clark had you on your kitchen counter, gently pressing you with a hungry kiss against the overhead cabinets as dinner burned on the stove. his broad frame was settled nicely between your thighs, his lips gliding down your jaw and neck before the apartment door swings open as if the intruder had a keyâ
"whoops. didn't know you had company."
you gasped and peeked over clark's shoulder who instinctively tried to shield you from natasha in all her sardonic glory. "natâ?!" you had wriggled away despite clark's insistence, ducking beneath his strong arm to meet your friend in your living room. "what are you doing here? is everything okayâ"
"everything's fine," nat had cut in, her sharp gaze taking in clark behind you who looks more like guard dog than protective fiance at the moment. "i just wanted to drop in. i should've called though, that was on meâŚ"
warmth bleeds into your back when clark had stepped forward, a silent wall of support behind you. he's not unaware of your past, of your healing powers that pulled you into nick fury's orbit. while you were never made into an avenger, you were the support they all needed whether it was to be healed or just to be around someone normal. it was about a couple years ago that you finally left new york, starting fresh in metropolis as a nurse. steve had been kind enough to help the move in process a lot more smooth than it would've been alone.
"umâ sorry. nat, this is clark kent, my fiance. clark, this is nat, one of my closest friends from new york although i'm rescinding that title after her break in tonight," you sigh as you wave a hand between both.
clark's still a gentleman through and through, even in the face of superspies that like to cross boundaries, and shakes nat's hand before his hand returns to your waist. "what's the occasion?"
"tony's throwing a fourth of july-slash-steve's-birthday weekend barbecue, thought our favorite nurse would like to come," nat smiles. "you can bring superman over here."
clark chokes on his spit. "iâ what? i'm notâ no, he'sâ"
you pat his chest. "honey, nat knows everything, it's literally her job. don't worry, your secret's safe with her. and i don't know, clark and i were gonna just stay in."
"sounds like fun," he cuts in and that little smile, dimple and all, knows you're about to lose this one. "i haven't gotten the chance to meet your friends, sweetheart."
every argument you have dies in the face of your fiance's eager expression and you sigh quietly to meet natasha's triumphant little grin. "yeah, okay. we'll be there. is it at the compound?"
"yeah, there's your usual roomâ"
"no, clark and i wouldn't wanna intrude. we'll find an airbnb or something." there's an edge to your tone that leaves no room for negotiation and natasha has enough sense to back off, nodding as she starts to head out.
when the door shuts, you groan into clark's chest who rumbles in sweet amusement as he rubs your back. "superman meeting the avengers⌠what can go wrong."
â
a lot of things went wrong upon entering the cabin. for one, there aren't any furniture. two, there isn't any running water. frustration begins to build but before it can erupt out of you, clark's cupping your cheek to kiss your forehead and your phone starts to ring.
"stark."
"hey, kid. don't be stubborn and bring supes on over to the compound, your room's all ready for you."
"i hate you, tony."
"no, you don't. although this confirmed my theory."
you pause. "what theory?"
"you got a thing for goody two shoes. tell meâ does kent say 'language' during your rated-r rants?"
you hang up the call, cutting off tony's obnoxious laughter on the other end.
â
now that the both of you are on avengers' property, your privacy is all but secured against the general public so clark had seen no issue in just flying you and your luggage over. it's a bit unsettling to see him fly in his civilian clothes but you cling to him all the same, carried bridal style while the luggage hang from his hands. you aren't sure how he isn't losing his grip but you land in the open bay where natasha and steve is waiting to greet the both of you.
the luggage are set down first, clark still hovering and once his hands are free, his feet land with you still securely in his arms. "clark?" you prompt and your adorable, beefcake of a fiance startles as he reluctantly sets you down while nat and steve approach.
"miss romanoff," clark tips his head in polite greeting but then his voice drops slightly, taking on the 'superman' voice when he turns to steve. "captain, happy birthday."
"thank you, superman," steve greets as he offers his hand. clark takes it with a solid 'clap' and a firm shake. your eyes flitter between each of them in slight anticipation because in this moment, it isn't superman and captain america facing off.
it's clark kent and steve rogers with you caught right in the middle.
something lights up in natasha's eyes and you suddenly fear for the weekend ahead.
â
fortunately, the main living space of the compound is cleared of any superheroes in favor of setting up for the outside where the main party's happening. it leaves you and clark the space to settle in and when you step in your old room, nostalgia feels like a punch to the gut.
it's still the open space layout as before, patterned after a luxury studio apartment with your own mini kitchenette. cold and impersonal for the first few minutes of stepping in but then clark walks past you to set your luggage in, his large frame somehow bringing light to the place you could barely call home. when he turns to you, gives you that smile that you've fallen so hard for, it feels like you're back in metropolis. "what?"
you shake your head with a smile, step into clark's space and giggle at the blush that he never can tamp down when you're near, and kiss his dimple. "nothing. i just love you."
"love you too, honey."
â
after changing into something more comfortable (and doesn't smell like plane) over your bathing suits, you and clark walk hand in hand towards the noise that crests and wanes from the other side of the compound. where there had been an open field meant for training (specifically for any flight simulations or volatile powers that should not be indoors), it's been fashioned into an americana-esque backyard with an actual inlaid pool.
"what theâ when did you guys install a pool?" you gape at the giant, bean-shaped pool complete with a patio and a giant cabana built above it. beside it is a familiar face manning the grill.
tony flicks his sunglasses down to peer at you above them. "a week ago. had to go all out for dear ol' cap's birthday. nice of you to join us, sweet cheeks. you gonna introduce us to your hunk of a man?"
your eyes roll but the pride in your smile is undeniable as you bring clark forward. "everyone, this is clark kent. my fiance."
an impressed whistle escapes from rhodey who tips a beer up in salute towards you. "nice rock, kid." he gives a nod to clark next. "you did good."
"gosh, thanks." clark says, rubs his neck in that sheepish way that you've found endearing every time you see it. however, it has the rest of the avengers staring in utter befuddlement. tony mouths 'gosh' in emphasis to bruce who waves his judgement away.
"cap, you got someone out for your title for boyscout," tony crows happily as he flips a patty with ease. steve, who has been lounging beneath the shade with his own lemonade, looks up from his conversation with clint and laura. when his eyes find yours then clark's, something unnameable passes through his eyes before he's striding to his feet. all six foot two of him.
clark straightens his posture. all six foot four of him.
immediately, your eyes roll. "i'm going to go say hi to the girls. you two? behave."
"honeyâ" clark splutters but his priority will always be you so he concedes, quietly takes the offered glass of lemonade from steve before he attempts to play nice. if he can keep civil with steve lombard at work, he can be the nicest guy in town for the super soldier that may as well be an ex with how his eyes follow you.
â
to his credit, clark gets along well with all of your friends from new york. tony's crass but he's got a heart of gold with his closest circle of friends. bruce and clint had teased him the least about his midwestern countenance while laura had been interested in his career as a journalist and as a superhero. natasha had been very impressed with his ability to juggle his secret identity on top of everything.
"so how'd she find out about your other identity?" rhodey asks later on as the two of them sit at the chaises by the pool. clark is polite but his eyes cut to you occasionally where you're splashing in the shallow end with laura and clint's kids, your laughter providing a soothing background to the chaos of tony and bruce arguing over what music to play.
"ah, well. i was fighting an imp with the justice gang, should've been an easy fight but it was evening and i'm not really at my strongest at that time. i fell on her roof and she was there reading. she⌠healed me." a besotted smile grows on his lips. "the day after that, she ran into me as clark but i didn't realize my biology had been something she could sense. she pulled me into an alley and just asked if i healed right."
rhodey laughs quietly. "she's a little spitfire, ain't she?"
"i wouldn't have it any other way," clark muses. the both of them turn their attention to you, nearly missing the way tony hits the top of the grill with his tongs to call outâ
"soup's on!" he hollers as he gestures to the cheeseburgers laid out to the table beside him. clark gets to his feet, ready to serve you, exceptâ
"got all your favorite fixin's," steve cuts in, that boyish half grin that's made nearly all of america swoon, as he offers you a plate. with clark's heightened vision, something ugly turns with indignance that steve did get all your favorites.
but clark will not be beat so he rushes over to the coolers, pulls out your favorite drink, and all but flies over to offer it to you. "can't forget your usual, honey," he smiles sweetly, popping the tab for you and everything. you're still halfway out the pool, one foot out and on the edge with the other still in the water, with both men offering you a plate and a drink.
"thanks, guys⌠mind if i dry off first?"
you carefully sidestep away from both of them, refusing to enable or participate this odd dick-measuring contest they've started. once you've dried off, you settle into an available chaise and nearly startles when steve and clark kneel on either side of you. you could barely get a word in as captain america himself carefully sets the plate down on the small table beside you and your darling fiance adds in a straw as well.
"okay, both of you shooâ" you wave them off. "seriously. i know both of you, you two can eat tony out of all of his homes so go. you must be starving."
when both men trudge off, natasha takes their place but she's got enough sense to at least wait for you to take a few bites of your food before she starts.
"you know, it's kinda cute."
"don't you start, nat."
"no, no. it is! you got america's heroes fighting for your attention like overgrown puppies. it's cute."
your eyes narrow. "⌠you know something."
she zips up her lips before she dives into the pool, effortless without making a splash.
you huff goodnaturedly. "show-off."
â
"come on, you two. nathan, lila, out of the pool." clint claps his hands to grab his two youngests' attention. the sun's setting behind him and even you can't deny there's a slight chill beginning to settle in.
you nod and raise your arms slightly with the intent to herd the little ones out. "you two heard your dad, let's head out. if the grown-ups say yes, we can get some s'mores started, maybe set up some lights like a campfire⌠what do you say?"
that gets them out and when clint gives you a thankful grin, you wave him off before padding out to clark where he's already got your towel out. "thanks, baby," you smile as he wraps it around you, bundling you into his arms to press a soft kiss to your lips.
behind your back, steve stands with a fresh towel and clark fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. no, that'd be very immature of him.
â
despite the chill that's threatened to drive the party indoors, tony gets a bonfire started in a fire pit he had dug out from the giant warehouse storage along with some string lights from a box labeled 'christmas?'.
the kids are drawn up in a tizzy at the thought of having christmas in july, their little hands diving into the box with the sole intent of decorating the giant cabana. you're in the middle of it all, helping them all detangle the wires while tony's sent back inside to look for an extension cord of all things.
"hold on, sweetheart," you laugh as nathan tries to climb your back while you draw yourself back to your feet, watching as his little arms try to reach up and hook the lights up. in the corner of your eye, steve approaches your periphery, hands nearly raised as if he's got the intention to lift you by your hips butâ
clark's hands find you first, his chest brushing against your back. "i got you, honey," he murmurs in your ear before giving nathan a little grin. you feel his strong grip brace your waist, firm but not uncomfortable, and lift you high.
then⌠lifts you higher.
you turn your head to see clark levitating to help you hook the lights up at eye-level. nathan gasps in excitement and nearly drops the lights in his own hand. "oopsâ careful, buddy," you chuckle as you hand back the wire.
"me next, me next!" lila squeals from below and you laugh as clark does as asked, nathan reluctantly set down for you to carry his older sister next while clark lifts you back up with ease.
by the time the entire cabana's decorated, the kids are returned safely to their parents.
"that was nice of you," steve hums to clark once the two of you are back on solid ground, offering two s'mores on a plate.
clark takes it, almost wary, but he sees something you don't and his spine relaxes imperceptibly. "thank you," he murmurs while he places a warm hand at the base of your spine. steve nods his head and when he turns to you, he ruffles your head.
"be good, kid," he tells you instead before he walks off.
â
although tony had intended steve's intention to be an absolute rager, it still turned out to be a family-friendly event. something that steve had been banking on.
"kid just landed," tony had remarked earlier, the both of them setting up the cabana after FRIDAY had updated him on your flight status. "you gonna say something?"
steve just chuckles to himself, readjusting the stability of the cabana's legs. "tony, i don't know how many times i have to say this. nothing ever happened between me and her."
tony's eyes roll. "i know. you two cost me $300 because of it, by the way."
"serves you right for betting on your friends' love lives, stark."
"yeah, yeah, whatever. but back to the question at handâ have you met her fiance?"
"superman? i don't know him personally, but he seems like a good man, someone good for her," steve shrugs, unsure of what tony's getting at.
"hm. sure, the media definitely paints him that way," tony says. "but as her closest friends and honestlyâ the closest thing she has to a familyâ we need to make sure he's good for her."
steve pauses for a moment, gives his friend a sidelong glance. "what do you have in mind?"
"easy." both men startle at the sudden appearance of one natasha romanoff. "make him jealous. see how he reacts when steve moves in on her, it'd be enough to see his true colors."
tony snaps his fingers. "operation: battle of the boyscouts is a go."
"⌠i resent that name."
â
on the morning of july fifth, the avengers compound is the ultimate postcard of serenity. sun's sitting high, a gentle breeze wafting through to carry in the scent of nature. a butterfly settles upon a blooming flower budâ
"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK."
your shrill voice cuts through the peace. the butterfly flies off.
"you tried making my fiance jealous for some inane dick-measuring contest for your own fucking entertainmentâ?!"
"language."
"language, sweetheart."
steve and clark share a surprised glance and right as they're about to exchange a little chuckle, maybe even bro it out with a fist bump in their matching flannel pajamas, you direct your glare to the both of them.
without a word, steve backs out with a sheepish grin while clark approaches to give you an apologetic kiss to your forehead.
"it's a habit, i'm sorry," he mutters against your hair and despite tony's stupid games, you melt in your fiance's arms. "i love you."
"i love you too, sweetie." tony takes the chance to inch away as you decompress in clark's arms but you huff against his chest. "clark, i'm gonna kill him."
"... it wouldn't be very 'superman' of me to let you get away with murder, honey."
thank you for reading! likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldnât charm his way out of or a woman he couldnât leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. Heâs running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
âIâm just saying,â Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. âIf Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, Iâm staging a full-team mutiny. Iâm not doing it.â
Logan snorts. âYou love bag skates.â
âI tolerate bag skates,â Garrett corrects him. âThereâs a massive difference.â
âYouâre both whining,â Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrettâs rapid-fire complaining. âJust put your heads down and skate.â
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. âTuckâs right. Itâs all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You canât blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.â
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Deanâs shoulder. âJesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?â
âWhen itâs as spectacular as mine?â Dean winks. âYeah. It does.â
He isnât trying to be an arrogant prick. Itâs just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when heâs doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection â two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
âWho was it this weekend?â Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. âWait, donât tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?â
âHer name is Tori,â Dean says easily. âAnd sheâs a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? Itâs a crime against mornings.â
âYou bought her breakfast?â Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
âI always buy them breakfast.â Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. âItâs called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.â
âIâm a quarterback,â Beau says defensively. âThrowing a football is literally my job description.â
âYeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.â
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. âOh, great. Itâs McMahon.â
âWho?â Tucker asks.
âWide receiver,â Beau mutters. âHands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Donât look at him, or heâll start complaining to me about his target share.â
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. Theyâre about to walk past the two guys when McMahonâs voice carries over the noise of the quad. Itâs loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know heâs talking.
âI had to dump her, man,â McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. âTotal waste of my time.â
âYeah?â The other guy asks.
âOh, absolutely. Iâm telling you, sheâs a frigid bitch.â
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. âI put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.â
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isnât beside him. He turns around. âDean. Come on. Donât.â
âDid you hear what he just said?â Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
âI heard it,â Logan says, his expression tightening. âThe guyâs a class-A douchebag. Letâs keep moving.â
âHe just announced to half the quad that he couldnât get a girl off,â Dean says, staring at the back of McMahonâs head. âAnd he blamed her.â
âDean,â Tucker says, stepping into Deanâs line of sight. âNot our circus. Not our monkeys.â
âIt is an insult to womankind,â Dean says. He isnât joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. âA crime. A travesty.â
âItâs a wide receiver with a fragile ego,â Beau says, grabbing Deanâs elbow. âLeave it alone.â
Dean shrugs off Beauâs hand. He isnât going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesnât even know who you are. He doesnât know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when youâre a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
âThereâs no such thing as a frigid woman,â Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahonâs conversation pauses. âJust lazy, incompetent guys who donât know where the clit is.â
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. âJesus Christ.â
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. âYou got something to say, Di Laurentis?â
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. âJust offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.â
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. âAre you calling me incompetent?â
âI think you just called yourself incompetent, man,â Dean says smoothly. âLoudly. In public. Iâm just agreeing with you.â
âI donât need to know her,â Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. âI know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesnât get off, itâs because you didnât pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isnât that what you guys call it? Fumbling?â
Beau winces. âDean.â
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. âYou think youâre so fucking funny.â
âI think Iâm highly effective,â Dean corrects him. âAnd I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girlâs name through the mud because your fragile masculinity canât handle the fact that you suck in bed.â
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. Heâs not a fighter by nature, but heâs a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahonâs path. âI think thatâs about enough conversation for one afternoon,â Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. âWatch your mouth, Di Laurentis.â
âWatch your form, McMahon,â Dean shoots back. âMaybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.â
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
âWell,â Garrett says after a moment. âThat was diplomatic.â
âI hate guys like that,â Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. âI really, genuinely hate them.â
âWe know,â Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. âYouâre the caped crusader of the female orgasm. Weâre all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? Iâm starving.â
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahonâs harsh, dismissive words.
Itâs just sloppy. Itâs pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isnât a race. It isnât just about friction. Itâs about connection, observation, communication. Itâs about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesnât know who you are. He doesnât know what youâre doing right now. Maybe youâre sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe youâre in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldnât even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
âDear Universe, please watch over this womanâs sadly neglected clitoris,â he thinks solemnly. âMay it one day find someone who actually knows what theyâre doing. Amen.â
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, thatâs what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
âHey, Beau,â Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. âYeah?â
âWho did McMahon just break up with?â
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. âWhat? Why?â
âJust answer the question.â
âI donât know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?â Beau squints at him. âWait. No. Whatever youâre thinking, stop.â
âIâm not thinking anything,â Dean lies smoothly.
âYou are. You have that look on your face.â Logan points a finger at him. âThe âDean is about to do something stupidâ look.â
âI resent that,â Dean says. âI donât do stupid things.â
âYou bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,â Garrett points out.
âIt was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You donât understand economics.â Dean waves a hand dismissively. âSeriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?â
âWhy do you care?â Tucker asks, amused.
âBecause itâs an injustice,â Dean states flatly. âIt is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. Sheâs probably out there right now, thinking sheâs the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.â
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. âYouâre not going to track this girl down, Dean.â
âI am absolutely going to track her down.â
âAnd do what?â Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. âAnd give her the orgasm sheâs been so cruelly denied. Itâs my civic duty.â
âYouâre insane,â Garrett says, though heâs grinning. âYou are actually insane.â
âIâm a humanitarian,â Dean corrects him. âIâm giving back to the community.â
âYou donât even know her name,â Tucker says softly.
âIâll find it out,â Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesnât know you yet. He doesnât know if youâre blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
âPass it, pass it, pass it,â Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch heâs practically sitting on the coffee table.
âI am passing it, you pylon,â Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. âIf you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-â
âIâm open!â
âYouâre surrounded by both defensemen!â
âShoot the damn puck!â Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Loganâs head. âYou guys are an embarrassment to the sport. Itâs a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and youâre still blowing it.â
âShut up, Graham,â Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, heâd be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isnât feeling it. His head isnât in the game. It hasnât been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldnât get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
âYouâre quiet,â Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. âYou won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.â
âIâm conserving my energy,â Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
âHeâs still thinking about his crusade,â Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. âThe caped crusader of the clitoris.â
âItâs not a crusade,â Dean says defensively. âItâs a matter of principle.â
âYou donât even know her,â Garrett points out, amused. âFor all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.â
Dean glares at him. âGarrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?â
âYou look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,â Garrett deadpans.
âMy hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,â Dean shoots back. âThe point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. Itâs an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesnât cross it with them. Itâs pathetic.â
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. âI mean, youâre not wrong. But you canât save them all, man.â
âI donât need to save them all,â Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. âI just need to save this one.â
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. Heâs still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
âPractice?â Garrett asks sympathetically.
âPractice,â Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. âCoach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone â who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon â kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.â
Deanâs ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. âMcMahon?â
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. âDonât.â
âYou were in the locker room with him,â Dean presses, shifting his body so heâs fully facing Beau. âDid you ask around?â
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. âDean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.â
âTell me you found something out,â Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. âTell me you didnât spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.â
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. âDo you want the good news or the bad news first?â
Deanâs heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. âGood news. Always start with the good news.â
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. âOkay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybodyâs business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.â
âWho?â Dean demands.
âHer name is Y/N Y/L/N,â Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. âAnd?â
âAnd,â Beau continues, âsheâs not just some random girl. Sheâs a junior. Pre-law, I think. And sheâs the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.â
Logan whistles low. âDelta Zeta? Those girls donât mess around. Thatâs the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.â
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably donât take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
âY/N,â Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. âOkay. Thatâs excellent news. Whatâs the bad news?â
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
âSpit it out, Beau,â Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
âThe bad news,â Beau says slowly, âis that McMahon wasnât the first guy to complain about her.â
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. âWhat are you talking about?â
âIâm just telling you what I heard,â Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. âHoward started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.â
âAnd?â Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
âAnd the grapevine says the same thing,â Beau mutters, looking at the floor. âNobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. Itâs ⌠itâs a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that sheâs cursed.â
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering whatâs wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didnât ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
âThey were joking about it,â Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
âLocker rooms are toxic,â Garrett says quietly from the armchair. âYou know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.â
âItâs not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,â Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. âLook, man. I know youâre on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but ⌠maybe he isnât. Maybe itâs not a lack of effort.â
Dean narrows his eyes. âWhat are you implying?â
Beau shifts uncomfortably. âIâm just saying ⌠biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she canât get off. It happens.â
âNo,â Dean says immediately.
âDean, be reasonable,â Beau tries. âIf multiple guys-â
âI donât give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,â Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. âI am shutting that theory down right now.â
âYou canât just shut down biology,â Logan argues reasonably.
âWatch me,â Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. âDo you know what the common denominator is here? Itâs not her. Itâs the guys.â
âA lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,â Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
âExactly!â Dean throws his hands in the air. âThe holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didnât bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didnât magically explode.â
Beau sighs. âDean-â
âIâm serious, Beau,â Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. âDo not sit there and tell me sheâs broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldnât find the clit with a flashlight and a map.â
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isnât laughing. He isnât playing around. He means every single word.
âWomenâs bodies arenât slot machines,â Dean says, pacing back toward the television. âYou donât just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body youâre touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.â
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
âIf she hasnât come,â Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, âit is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.â
Garrett raises an eyebrow. âAnd you think youâre the guy to put in the work?â
âI know I am,â Dean says without a second of hesitation.
âDude.â Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. âYouâre talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-â
âStop calling her that,â Dean snaps. âSheâs not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.â
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
âOkay,â Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. âOkay. I hear you. But letâs look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?â
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. âMy plan is simple. Iâm going to find her. Iâm going to get to know her. And then Iâm going to help her.â
âHelp her,â Beau repeats flatly.
âYes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.â Deanâs eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. âI am going to break the curse.â
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. âYouâre out of your mind.â
âI am a visionary,â Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like heâs developing a severe migraine. âDean, think about this for two seconds. You canât just walk up to a girl â a sorority president, no less â and offer to give her an orgasm.â
âWhy not?â Dean asks innocently.
âBecause itâs insane!â Beau yells, finally losing his cool. âBecause she doesnât know you! You canât just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, âHey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!ââ
âWell, obviously I wouldnât use those exact words,â Dean says, offended. âI have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.â
âYouâre going to get pepper-sprayed,â Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. âIâll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.â
âI am not going to get pepper-sprayed,â Dean says firmly. âI am going to be a gentleman.â
âA gentleman doesnât solicit orgasms to strangers,â Tuckerâs voice drawls from the doorway. Heâs leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
âA true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,â Dean counters smoothly. âIâm going to do it. Thatâs exactly what Iâm going to do.â
âDean, please,â Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. âSheâs a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, sheâs going to ruin your reputation.â
âMy reputation?â Dean laughs. Itâs a bright, easy sound. âBeau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. Whatâs she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.â
âSheâs going to think youâre a creep,â Beau insists.
âShe wonât,â Dean says confidently. âBecause Iâm not going to be creepy about it. Iâm going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.â
Garrett snorts. âYeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.â
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrettâs laughter, Loganâs skepticism, and Beauâs frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other peopleâs drama. You probably drink too much coffee, donât get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isnât just about his ego anymore. It isnât just about proving a point to the locker room. Itâs about you. Itâs about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. âWhen does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?â
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. âIâm not telling you.â
âFridays,â Logan provides helpfully. âUsually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.â
âFriday,â Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
âYouâre really going through with this?â Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
âI am,â Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. âIâm going to find her. Iâm going to look her in the eyes, and Iâm going to offer my services.â
âServices,â Garrett echoes, shaking his head. âYou make it sound like youâre an independent contractor.â
âIâm a specialist,â Dean corrects him with a wink. âAnd Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.â
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
Heâll check them all. He doesnât care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing heâs ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you arenât just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar Universityâs dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer â like his mother always says â never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
âWhere are you going?â Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
âI have an appointment,â Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. Heâs wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
âAn appointment,â Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. âAre you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahonâs ex-girlfriend?â
âHer name is Y/N,â Dean corrects him. âAnd I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. Iâm giving back to the community.â
âYouâre going to get arrested,â Garrett says, tossing a piece of Capân Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. âHave a little faith, Graham. Iâll be back in a few hours. Victorious.â
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isnât nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesnât get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesnât have an introduction. He doesnât have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. Heâs going to be suave. Heâs going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like itâs barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasnât expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. âCan I help you?â
Your voice is slightly raspy, like youâve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Deanâs groin.
âUh,â Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
âHello?â You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. âIâm in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if youâre looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or Iâm shutting this door.â
Deanâs brain short-circuits entirely. âIâm here to make you come.â
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. âWait. No. I mean-â
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Deanâs cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
âGet the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!â You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
âWell,â he mutters to himself. âThat could have gone better.â
He doesnât leave. He canât leave. If he leaves now, heâs just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
âGo away!â Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. âOr Iâm calling campus security!â
âPlease!â Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. âJust give me one minute! I swear to God, I didnât mean it like that!â
âYou literally said you were here to make me come!â You yell back.
âI know!â Dean winces. âI know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But Iâm not a creep, I promise!â
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
âYou have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,â you say sharply. âAnd yes, I have it in my hand.â
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isnât trying to force his way in. âOkay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-â
âI know who you are,â you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. âYou play hockey. Youâre Beau Maxwellâs best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.â
âOkay, half is an exaggeration,â Dean says defensively. âA third, maybe. But thatâs exactly why Iâm here! Listen, Iâm a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.â
You stare at him through the crack. âAre you on drugs?â
âNo! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.â
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
âOh,â you say softly. The word is hollow. âI see. You heard what he said.â
âI heard it,â Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. âAnd I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.â
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. âAnd you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?â
âNo!â Dean is genuinely horrified. âNo, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes donât know what theyâre doing, and theyâre making you feel like youâre the problem.â
You donât say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
âI came here to right a wrong,â Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. âTo redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-â
âStop naming girls youâve slept with,â you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. âYou are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle âŚâ
âIâll stand here all day,â Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. âIâll shout my references to the quad. Iâll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.â
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks heâs lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
âGet in,â you snap. âBefore someone takes a picture.â
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful â hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesnât look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
âOkay,â you say, your voice flat. âYouâre inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now letâs get one thing straight.â
âIâm listening,â Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
âYou think this is about them,â you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. âYou think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didnât try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.â
âI do, actually,â Dean says without hesitation. âI know I can.â
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. âYour ego is astounding. Truly. But youâre wrong, Dean. Itâs not them.â
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean, itâs me,â you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. âI have never come. Ever.â
Dean stops. âI know. The rumor-â
âNo,â you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. âNot just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.â
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesnât know what to say.
âItâs a dead end,â you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. âI have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesnât work. The wires donât connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.â
Deanâs heart aches. Itâs a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
âY/N,â he starts softly.
âDonât,â you say, holding a hand up. âDo not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. Itâs the guys who canât handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.â
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
âSo, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,â you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. âBut I donât need your help. I donât need a savior. And I certainly donât need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.â
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
âWait,â Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isnât crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasnât just lazy guys. Itâs a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesnât back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
âIâm not leaving,â Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. âI just told you-â
âI heard what you told me,â Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. âYou think youâre broken. You think itâs impossible. And youâre sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.â
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. âYes.â
âI am not them,â Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. âI donât care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you arenât allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.â
âItâs not that Iâm not allowed-â
âItâs a mental block,â Dean interrupts gently. âOr a physical one. Or a combination of both. But itâs not permanent. Nothing is permanent.â
âYou donât know that,â you whisper, looking away. âYou donât know my body.â
âThen let me learn it,â Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
âGive me one chance,â Dean pleads. He isnât cocky anymore. He is practically begging. âOne chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I wonât throw a tantrum, I wonât blame you, and I sure as hell wonât talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.â
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
âNo,â you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. âNo. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.â
Deanâs mind races. Heâs losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because youâre scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
âWhat if we make a wager?â Dean blurts out.
You stop. âWhat?â
âA wager,â Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. âA bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail â which I wonât, but letâs pretend for a second that I do â I will give you something you want.â
You look at him like heâs lost his mind. âThere is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.â
âDelta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?â Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. âTo raise money for the womenâs shelter downtown?â
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sororityâs philanthropic schedule. âHow do you know that?â
âI pay attention to things,â Dean says smoothly. âNow, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. Itâs a solid business model.â
âWhere are you going with this?â You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
âIf I fail to give you an orgasm,â Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, âI will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.â
You stare at him.
âAnd,â Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, âwe will do it shirtless.â
Your mouth parts slightly. You donât say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself â they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
âShirtless,â you repeat, your voice skeptical.
âShirtless,â Dean confirms. âWashing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors â theyâll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.â
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. âGarrett Graham would never agree to that.â
âI am very persuasive,â Dean promises. âI will make them do it. If I lose.â
âAnd if you win?â You ask, narrowing your eyes. âWhatâs in it for you?â
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahonâs cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him youâve never come.
âIf I win,â Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, âthen I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. Thatâs it. Thatâs the prize.â
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
âShirtless,â you say softly.
âPants are non-negotiable sadly,â Dean says solemnly. âTucker is very modest.â
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Itâs barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
âOne chance,â you say, your voice turning serious again. âYou get one chance, Dean. When it doesnât work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.â
âDeal,â Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
âWhen?â You ask.
âTomorrow night,â Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. âEight oâclock. My place.â
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. âFine. Tomorrow night.â
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
âGet some sleep, Y/N,â Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. âYouâre going to need your energy tomorrow.â
He doesnât wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight oâclock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. Heâs wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
âYouâre right on time,â Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. âCome on in.â
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. Youâre wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
âWhere are your roommates?â You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
âI bribed them to leave,â Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. âLogan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.â
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly youâre holding onto your bag.
âHey,â he murmurs, stepping closer. âRelax. Iâm not leading you to the gallows.â
âI know,â you say defensively. âIâm relaxed.â
âYou look like youâre about to take the LSAT,â Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. âLook at me, Y/N.â
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. Theyâre a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
âForget the bet,â Dean says quietly. âForget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and Iâll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?â
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. âOkay.â
âGood.â Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. âMy room is this way.â
Deanâs bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. âThe bag is just backup. Honestly, I donât think weâll need it.â
âYour confidence is terrifying,â you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
âItâs not confidence. Itâs just a fact.â Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesnât ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. âYou think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.â
âI canât help it,â you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. âIâm waiting for the part where this doesnât work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend Iâm sorry.â
âThat part isnât coming.â Deanâs voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. âOpen your eyes.â
You do. He is staring at your lips.
âIâm going to kiss you now,â Dean says, the warning a courtesy. âAnd you arenât going to think about anything except how it feels.â
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. Youâve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isnât rushed. He doesnât shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs against your mouth. âJust feel.â
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
âUh-uh,â he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. âMy clothes stay on for now. You donât get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.â
âDean,â you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. Youâre sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. âYouâre beautiful,â he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
âDean,â you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes itâs hopeless? What if nothing happens?
âStop,â Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what youâre doing. âStop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you donât cum tonight, you donât cum. I donât care. Iâm perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.â
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesnât give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. Itâs a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
âEasy,â Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. âIâve got you.â
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesnât dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
âYou taste so fucking sweet,â Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau â the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
âLook at me,â he orders. His voice isnât gentle anymore; itâs low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
âTell me what youâre feeling right now,â Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
âI ⌠I canât,â you stutter, shaking your head. âDean, itâs not going to-â
âI didnât ask whatâs not going to happen,â he interrupts sharply. âI asked what youâre feeling right now. Describe it to me.â
âIt feels good,â you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. âBut Iâm stuck. Iâm stuck.â
âYouâre not stuck.â Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. âYouâre in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.â
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
âTell me what that feels like,â Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
âItâs full,â you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. âItâs deep.â
âGood.â Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isnât teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
âDean,â you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesnât stop. He doesnât ask if youâre okay. He knows exactly what heâs doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. Itâs a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Deanâs hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
âCome on,â Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. âLet go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.â
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind â the mental block that has haunted you for years â suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what heâs doing to you. You canât think. You canât analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Deanâs mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesnât stop, even when youâre thrashing, even when youâre begging him to because itâs too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears â actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief â are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesnât look cocky. He doesnât look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
âYou see?â Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. âYou arenât broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.â
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. âOh my god. Oh my god, Dean.â
âI know,â he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. âI know.â
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasnât you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
âThank you,â you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
âDonât thank me yet,â Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. âWe have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.â
Your eyes widen. âDean, I donât think I canâIâm so sensitive-â
âI know,â he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. âBut youâre about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, weâre just playing.â
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isnât rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
âNot yet,â he pants against your mouth. âFocus.â
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
âLook at me,â he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
âYouâre perfect,â Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesnât pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
âDean,â you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. âPlease.â
âIâm right here,â he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
âLet it go again, baby,â Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. âCome for me. Give it to me.â
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. Itâs a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
âSo,â Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. âI guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.â
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. âYouâre a menace, Di Laurentis.â
âIâm a man of my word,â he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. âThough Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. Heâs been doing extra crunches all week just in case.â
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize itâs definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that youâve heard at least six times since nine oâclock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
âY/N!â Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where youâre currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. Sheâs out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. âWeâre out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.â
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. âCheck the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?â
âA little,â Jess admits, wiping her brow. âItâs barely noon, though. The frat guys wonât drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.â
You look out at the street. Sheâs right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the womenâs shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
âWe need a draw,â you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. âSomething to get the foot traffic to stop.â
âI think your draw just arrived,â Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
Heâs wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesnât just show up to random philanthropy events unless thereâs a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
âGood morning, Madam President,â Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
âDi Laurentis,â you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. âWhat are you doing here?â
âWeâre here to wash cars,â Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. âObviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.â
âYou donât have to be here,â you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. âYou won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.â
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You havenât seen him all week â midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly havenât forgotten. You havenât been able to think about anything else.
âI know I won the bet,â Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. âAnd it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.â
âOh, really?â You raise an eyebrow. âJust out of the goodness of your hearts?â
âNot exactly,â Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. âDean wouldnât shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didnât show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.â
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. âGrab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.â
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesnât move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
âThe teamâs participation comes with a new condition,â Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
âA condition?â You tilt your head. âI didnât agree to any conditions.â
âYouâre going to want to agree to this one,â Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. âWe wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.â
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. âA date.â
âA real date,â Dean confirms. âNo bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.â
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. âI donât know, Dean. Iâm pretty busy.â
âI am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.â He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
âWell,â you say, trying to suppress your laughter. âIf itâs for the good of the charity.â
âExactly. Youâre a humanitarian.â Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. âSo. Itâs a yes?â
âItâs a yes,â you agree.
âPerfect.â Dean takes a step back. âNow, where do you want me?â
âYouâre a professional,â you tease. âIâm sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.â
Deanâs grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
âHowâs the dress code looking?â He asks innocently.
âAcceptable,â you manage to choke out.
âGlad to hear it.â Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. Heâs laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. Itâs actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who heâs showing off for.
âIâm going to ask you a question,â Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. âAnd as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.â
âShoot,â you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
âDid you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?â
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. âExcuse me?â
âDonât play coy with me,â Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. âHe has been staring at you like youâre his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.â
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. âWeâre ⌠hanging out. Itâs new.â
Jess lets out a low whistle. âDamn. Good for you. Heâs gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.â
âHeâs actually really sweet,â you defend him quietly.
âIâm sure he is.â Jess smirks, hopping off the car. âIâm going to go make sure Logan hasnât flooded the neighborâs flower bed. Enjoy the view.â
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
âYouâre working hard,â you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. âIâm earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.â
âWe broke our fundraising record an hour ago,â you smile. âThe shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.â
âI told you Iâd deliver.â Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. âThough I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. Weâre talking appetizers, an entrĂŠe, and at least two desserts.â
âI think I can manage that.â
âGood.â Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. âCan I kiss you? I know weâre in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.â
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. âYes, you can kiss me.â
He doesnât need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
âWell, well, well. Isnât this a touching scene.â
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Deanâs shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.Â
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
âSlumming it, Di Laurentis?â McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. âI heard you were desperate for a date, but I didnât think youâd settle for my sloppy seconds.â
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what theyâre doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesnât step back. He doesnât let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Deanâs demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
âWhat did you just say?â Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesnât boom. It doesnât yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasnât expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. âIâm just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you sheâs a dead end in bed.â
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
âI donât need you to fight my battles, Graham,â Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesnât look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, thatâs so much worse.
âYou know, McMahon,â Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. âI actually owe you a thank you.â
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. âWhat?â
âI said thank you,â Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. âBecause if you werenât such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.â
McMahonâs face flushes a dark, ugly red. âWatch your mouth, Di Laurentis.â
âNo, you watch mine,â Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
âI tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,â Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. âI really did. I thought, âHey, maybe heâs just new at this. Maybe he doesnât know where the clit is.â But then I spent some time with Y/N.â
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
âAnd let me tell you,â Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. âThere is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.â
McMahonâs jaw drops. âYouâre lying.â
âI donât need to lie,â Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. âShe came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell heâs doing.â
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
âSo,â Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. âThe fact that you couldnât get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isnât her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.â
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isnât finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
âIf I ever hear you talk about her again,â Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. âIf I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction ⌠I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?â
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesnât say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahonâs appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
âWas that too much?â He asks quietly. âI know you donât like a scene, but I couldnât just let him-â
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
Itâs not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
âThat was perfect,â you whisper.
âYeah?â Deanâs green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
âYeah. Though you just ruined that manâs reputation forever.â
âHe ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.â Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. âBesides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.â
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. âShut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.â
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. âYou are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. Iâm being exploited for my body.â
âYou love it,â you remind him.
âI do,â Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. âI really, really do.â
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
âIâll pick you up at seven,â Dean promises. âWear something thatâs easy to take off.â
âDean!â
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago â convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
đŠđĽđđ˛đđŤ đŠđŤđ¨đđ˘đĽđ : john logan x fem! chronic fainter! reader
đŤđ˘đŹđ¤ đđŹđŹđđŹđŹđŚđđ§đ : angst, mentions of fainting, breakup implied or atleast taking a break implied, dizziness, medical inaccuracies for the plot.
đđŻđđĽđŽđđđ˘đ¨đ§ : Being a chronic fainter was a little annoying. but you learnt how to manage and by junior year at Briar, everyone around you had adapted to it too; Hannah and Allie knew how to catch the signs before you hit the floor, Garrett keeps electrolyte packets in his backpack, and the hockey house has practically developed an emergency response system.
Everyone adapts except John Logan.
Because no matter how many times you wake back up smiling and insisting youâre okay, Logan never quite learns how to treat it like something ordinary. And when one particularly bad fainting spell leaves you unconscious long enough to genuinely terrify him, the careful balance the two of you have built between normalcy and fear finally begins to crack.
Or: two times John Logan watched you faint, and the one time he realised loving you meant learning how to be scared without letting it consume him.
đđ˘đŚđ đ¨đ§ đ˘đđ : 5.7k words
đđŽđ§đ§đ˛âđŹ đĽđ¨đđ¤đđŤ : First time fulfilling a request, I hope you like it anon, im sorry that it probably isn't the fluff you are looking for but I hope you like it nonetheless. thank you @mieluno & @kthice for the text dividers
fainting had always been a little bit inconvenient.
not dramatic enough to be cinematic, not predictable enough to properly prepare for - just inconvenient in the kind of way that slowly embeds itself into every aspect of your life until you stop noticing how abnormal it actually is. It all started in high school, the first time it happened was arguably horrifying- 3rd period math class, and your crush had just offered you a pen and flashed you a crooked smile. Your heart raced, like a hummingbird wild and erratic and before you knew it, one minute you were bashfully giggling at his jokes about quadratic equations- the next you were face first in your notebook. The doctors told you Vasovagal Syncope, which in your opinion sounded like a hard metal rock band, but you took their blood pressure medicines from that day onwards.Â
Over time, you learnt how to live with it. Sometimes it was manageable. Sometimes it was just dizziness and blurry vision making you sit down on the nearest surface before your body decided to humble you publicly. Sometimes it was waking up to panicked faces hovering over you while you tried to convince everyone around you that no, seriously, this happened all the time.
which, unfortunately, was true.
Allie and Hannah learned the quickest, being roommates would do that to you. The boys learned soon after. By junior year, there was practically a system in place for it - water bottles shoved into your hands, someone grabbing your bag before you hit the floor, Garrett texting Logan before you were even fully conscious again.
Logan, however, never quite adjusted to it the way everyone else did.
he tried to.
God, he tried.
but there was something uniquely horrifying about loving someone whose body could go slack in your arms without warning. Something deeply unsettling about the way you always laughed it off afterwards, brushing it aside with flushed cheeks and a quiet, "I'm okay,â while his heart was still somewhere near his throat.
because to you, fainting was normal.
to John Logan, it never would be.
But here are the two times he dealt with it..somewhat normally. And the one time he didnât
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The library at Briar had a very specific kind of silence.
Not actual silence - that wouldâve been impossible considering half the student population seemed physically incapable of existing without aggressively whispering every thought that crossed their mind - but the sort of hushed atmosphere that made every dropped pen sound like a gunshot.
You were currently trying very hard not to contribute to that atmosphere by murdering John Logan with a highlighter.
âWhy are you looking at me like that?â Logan muttered from across the table, long legs nudging yours beneath it.
You didnât look up from your notes, underlining a sentence in your physiology textbook hard enough to nearly tear the page. âBecause,â You whispered sharply, âyouâve tapped your foot against mine for the last fifteen minutes.â
âThatâs because my feet are freezing.â
âThat sounds like a you problem.â
âIt became my problem when you shoved your icy ass converse under my legs.â
A snort came from beside you. Hannah quickly disguised it as a cough when you glared at her over your laptop screen.
Across from her, Garrett looked deeply unbothered by the entire interaction, lazily flipping a page in his philosophy textbook while Hannah slowly collapsed into silent laughter against his shoulder.
âYou two are disgusting,â Allie informed you quietly from the end of the table.
You blinked. âWeâre literally studying.â
Logan hummed, not even pretending to pay attention to the stats worksheet in front of him anymore, âYeah baby, real filthy behaviour.â
Heat crawled up your neck instantly.
The word baby wasnât exactly new. Logan had been throwing it around for months now, slipping it into conversations with such casual ease that youâd stopped reacting outwardly somewhere around week three, despite the fact every single time still felt like someone plugging your nervous system directly into a live wire.
âYouâre staring again,â You muttered.
âIâm allowed to stare at my girlfriend.â
Allie gagged dramatically.
âOh my god,â She whispered loudly, âheâs gotten even more annoying.â
âImpossible,â Hannah replied solemnly.
Garrett barely glanced up from his book. âGive it a week. Theyâll become one organism.â
âWe already basically are,â Logan said casually.
You finally looked up at him then.
That was the problem with Logan. The reason youâd fallen for him so spectacularly despite your better judgement.
He said things like that so easily. Like it was obvious.
obviously heâd started keeping protein bars in his backpack because you forgot to eat when you were stressed. obviously he waited outside your exam halls even when he had practice. obviously your legs ended up over his lap every time you sat together for longer than ten minutes.
Your chest tightened softly.
And because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you whenever you got too emotionally comfortable, your vision blurred slightly at the exact same moment.
You frowned. That was⌠inconvenient timing.
The words on your laptop screen swam for half a second before sharpening again. Your heartbeat fluttered unpleasantly.
Not enough to panic over yet. You subtly shifted in your seat, rolling your neck and readjusting your posture- hoping to god that it would be enough, trying to ignore the familiar lightheadedness curling at the edges of your body.
âHey.â
Loganâs voice dropped quieter instantly.
You looked over.
His brows had pulled together slightly, eyes scanning your face with terrifying precision.
âHow long?â He asked softly.
Damn him.
Most people didnât notice until you were actively halfway unconscious.
âIâm okay,â You whispered automatically.
A look crossed his face. Because he knew that tone. Knew what it meant when you said Iâm okay in that specific careful voice. Your boyfriend leaned back slightly in his chair, completely ignoring the fact that Garrett was now openly watching the interaction over the top of his textbook.
âWhen was the last time you ate?â
You blinked once.
Logan sighed immediately. âBaby.â
âI had coffee?â
Allie dropped her pen onto the table. âOh my god.â
âYou canât survive on caffeine and academic validation,â Hannah hissed.
âI literally can though.â
âNo,â Logan said flatly, âyou literally cannot. Thatâs the whole issue.â
Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.
Wrong decision.
The movement sent dizziness crashing through you harder this time, your stomach dipping sharply as black spots burst across your vision. Logan was moving before you could even process it properly. One second you were upright, the next his hand was wrapped around your wrist while the other steadied your shoulder.
âHey,â He said immediately, voice calm enough that someone who didnât know him wouldnât notice the tension underneath it, âlook at me.â
Your body felt frustratingly floaty all of a sudden.
âIâm fine,â You murmured weakly.
âYeah, sweetheart, that sentence is losing credibility.â
Garrett was already standing.
âIâll get water.â
Hannah reached for your bag without needing to ask while Allie shoved your laptop aside to make room.
The horrifying thing was how practised everyone looked doing it.
Like this had become routine.
Which, unfortunately, it kind of had.
âI hate all of you,â You mumbled as Logan carefully crouched in front of your chair.
âYou love us deeply,â Allie corrected.
âStockholm syndrome maybe.â
âYou literally chose to date one of them,â Hannah pointed out.
âThat weakens your argument significantly,â Garrett called over his shoulder.
Logan ignored all of them.
His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point while he watched your face with that same concentrated expression he got before hockey games. Like he could somehow prevent your body from betraying you if he paid enough attention.
Your chest ached.
âHey,â You whispered softly once your vision finally started stabilising again.
Logan looked up immediately.
You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the crease between his eyebrows. The tension sitting there.
âIâm okay.â
He closed his eyes for half a second. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss into the centre of your palm before standing back up.
The library collectively chose that exact moment to become aware of the fact that the hockey teamâs second line centre was looking at you like you personally held his heart hostage.
âOh my god,â Allie whispered dramatically.
Hannah looked emotional.
Garrett looked disgusted.
âSuddenly weâre all trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel,â he muttered.
Logan didnât even glance away from you.
âShut up,â He said absentmindedly, still watching your face carefully, âshe almost passed out.â
âI did not almost pass out.â
âThatâs not medically valid.â Logan shot.
You flicked his forehead, âYouâre not medically valid,âÂ
You stared at him for two seconds before bursting into startled laughter.
And just like that, some of the fear eased out of his shoulders.
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The thing about the hockey house was that it never really felt like anyone was visiting it.
It felt like everyone was always a part of this little ecosystem, even if half of them technically still had their own places and the other half only owned two plates and a concerning number of energy drinks that nobody could fully account for.
Tonight was one of those nights where everything blurred into something almost domestic in a way you loved. Garrett and Hannah were folded into each other on the armchair in the corner, Hannah scrolling absently while Garrett spoke over her shoulder in low, easy comments about something on his screen that she kept pretending not to care about but clearly did.Â
Dean and Allie were on the floor near the coffee table, Allie leaning against him in that casual way that somehow always ended with her stealing his hoodies and Dean acting like he was personally offended by affection while still adjusting her position when she shifted too much.
And then there was Tucker, occupying the remaining space , talking at a volume that suggested he had forgotten walls existed.
You were on the couch.
Logan was on the couch too, your legs resting across his lap, your head resting on the back of the couch. His hand had found your ankle at some point during the evening and had simply stayed there, like it had decided that was where it belonged and saw no reason to reconsider.
âHave you eaten today?,â Logan murmured into your ear, not looking up from his phone.
You didnât look away from the conversation Dean was having with Allie about whether cereal could be classified as a personality trait. âHmm?â
âDid you eat today baby?â He dropped his phone into his lap and caressed your hair.
âI think so.â
A pause.
âThat doesnât answer my question.â
âIt does if you really think about it.â
Hannah glanced over from the armchair. âSheâs lying.â
âI am not lying.â
Garrett didnât look up. âYou had toast and emotional distress.â
âI had toast and a very normal amount of stress.â
Loganâs thumb pressed lightly against your ankle once, absent and automatic, but his attention had shifted to you properly now. Not fully concerned yet, but already recalibrating the room around your answer the way he always did when he thought something might be off.
âBaby,â he said quietly, like it was a habit more than a warning.
You finally turned your head slightly toward him. âDonât start.â
âIâm not starting anything.â
âYouâre absolutely starting something.â
Across the room, Allie made a sound of exaggerated disgust without even looking up. âI can feel the health lecture forming.â
Dean nodded. âItâs in the air.â
Logan ignored them completely. âYou said you had toast this morning.â
âI did.â
âAnd then what.â
You hesitated.
Which was apparently answered enough.
Hannah sighed. âOh my god.â
âI had coffee,â you admitted finally, because there was no point pretending anymore.
Garrett closed his eyes briefly like he was praying for patience. âThatâs not food.â
âIt has beans in it.â
âThatâs not how nutrition works,â Logan said, though his voice was still calm, still even, like he was trying very hard not to make it into a bigger thing than it already was.
You shifted your legs slightly on his lap, rolling your eyes. âYouâre all obsessed with me.â
âYes,â Allie said immediately.
âThatâs not-â
âYes,â Dean repeated, âwe are.â
You opened your mouth to concede and hop to the kitchen, go grab whatever tucker had made and stored in the fridge, but the words didnât come out as smoothly as they should have.
It wasnât immediate. It never was, much to your annoyance. It was subtle in the way your body always was about these things, like it preferred to give you enough time to be pissed before it betrayed you properly.
A slight softening at the edges of your vision first, like the room had decided to lose definition without informing you. The low hum of conversation didnât change, but it felt slightly further away, like you were listening to it through water.
You frowned. This was inconvenient.
You shifted your weight on the couch instinctively, trying to ground yourself without drawing attention to it, but Logan noticed anyway. Of course he did.
His hand tightened slightly around your ankle.
âYou good?â he asked, quieter now.
You nodded automatically. âYea,â pushing off the sofa, hoping the movement would reboot your brain,â... yeah im fine.â
It came out too fast. Loganâs expression changed imperceptibly, the way it always did when he didnât believe you but hadnât yet decided whether to challenge it in front of everyone.
âHey,â he said again, softer, his hand wrapped around your wrist- following you away from your seat.
You tried to laugh it off, but it didnât quite land properly even in your own ears. âIâm finally listening to you guys, just going to grab something to eat.â
You pushed yourself to step away.
That was when it hit properly. Your body simply decided that it was no longer participating in the conversation. The room loosened, like the edges stopped agreeing with each other and in between the gaps your brain filled with black spots.
You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the back of the couch as your knees went weak in a way that didnât feel like anything at first, until it did.
âHey-â
Loganâs voice cut through immediately, sharper now, closer than it had been a second ago, but it was already too late for clarity.
There was so much movement all at once.
Someone swearing.
A water bottle being cracked open.
The shuffling of sneakers and socks against the floor.
Coming back was always the worst part.
Because there was always a moment where you could hear everything before you could properly exist inside it again. Voices layered over each other, closer this time, less casual.
âIâve got her,â Loganâs voice said, low and controlled in a way that didnât quite match the tension underneath it.
âSheâs out cold?â Dean asked, like he was trying not to panic but also deeply failing.
âSheâs not- donât say it like that,â Allie snapped immediately.
âWater,â Garrett said somewhere to the side, already moving.
And then your vision finally returned in pieces.
Ceiling first.
Then faces.
Then Logan.
He was closest.
Crouched in front of you, one hand steadying your shoulder, the other still holding your wrist like he hadnât fully decided whether letting go was allowed yet. His expression wasnât dramatic in the way people expected panic to be.
He was focussed on you, in a way that made your chest tighten before you even fully remembered why. You blinked slowly.
âOh,â you muttered. âThat was annoying.â
Relief flickered across Allieâs face instantly. âSheâs alive.â
âBarely,â Dean said.
âI heard that,â you murmured.
Logan didnât smile, âyou scared me,â he said finally. You swallowed, trying to sit up, but his hand immediately steadied you again, firmer now.
âDonât,â he said softly.
âIâm fine,â you replied automatically, accepting the water from garrett with a smile, you reach over to your bag and search for an energy bar. You hated the nutty torture snacks, but Logan insisted on you carrying them around for emergencies.
Everyone around you had relaxed, Hannah, Garrett and Tucker went to the kitchen, animatedly chatting about dinner whereas Allie and Dean went back to their places on the floor, already scrolling through her phone.Â
Logan hadnât moved, his fingers drumming against your knee. Your fingers moved without thinking, brushing lightly against his sleeve.
âIâm okay,â you said again, softer this time, like it might mean something more if you said it gently enough.
Logan exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking briefly shut like he was trying to steady something in himself. He shook his head, as if the movie had been unpaused and he had momentarily lost the plot.Â
âYeah,â he said quietly. âI know.â
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Logan got the message in the middle of something he would not later be able to reconstruct properly, not because it wasnât important, but because everything that happened immediately after replaced it so completely that the original context never stood a chance of surviving in his memory.
His phone buzzed incessantly on his desk breaking his concentration from whatever his professor was droning about ,to the group chat notifications exploding on his phone screen. It was Hannahâs name first, then Garrettâs, then Allieâs, all stacked on top of each other in a way that made him unlock his phone and scroll through hurriedly.Â
you fainted. properly. you're awake now. come back.
He read it once without reacting in any visible way, which was what made it worse in hindsight, everything else that he had been doing was irrelevant, as though the idea of continuing it belonged to someone else entirely, and he was no longer that person.
By the time he got back to the house, his hoodie was half-zipped because he had started putting it on properly and then stopped halfway through, his cap still backwards and slightly uneven like he had forgotten it was there at all and his hair underneath it flattened in places that suggested his hand had been through it more times than he had noticed.
Logan shut off his ignition and ran up the stairs, two at a time until he was bursting through the front door- his bag hanging from one shoulder as he scanned the scene in front of him. Garrett stood near the kitchen counter with a glass of water he had clearly forgotten to drink from, Hannah sat on the couch angled slightly forward in a posture that suggested she had not yet decided whether she was allowed to relax, Allie hovered somewhere between the hallway and the living room in a way that made it clear she had been going back and forth between checking on you and giving you space, and Dean existed in that familiar state of pretending not to be paying attention while absolutely paying attention.
And you were on the couch. Your eyes were open but not fully anchored yet, blinking slowly in that delayed way that made it clear your body was still catching up to where you were. Your shoulders were slightly hunched forward as if you were trying to find the correct posture for being awake again and your hands were loosely folded in your lap before you noticed him properly.
The moment you did, everything in you shifted in a way that was immediate and familiar, like muscle memory rather than thought. You sat up, twisting over the couch to meet his eyes and smile with your hand outstretched- that was when the collective inhale happened, like even the house was waiting to see what he would do.
His eyes stayed on you without breaking, taking in the fact that you were sitting there, awake, conscious, present, and yet his brain still hadnât stopped running like a hamster on a wheel, rotating again and again through all the scenarios he had plagued himself with on the drive over- a broken movie reel that fluttered between bad, worse and catastrophic.
You saw him, the way his eyes darted all over your face, how his hand was tightening and loosening against his bag strap.Â
âHey,â you said, your voice slightly rough, but it jumpstarted him to begin slowly approaching you, like a wounded animal. Your first instinct whenever he looked like that, as if you could smooth the edges of his expression back into something manageable by making yourself smaller within it, which was something you did without hesitation, like it was part of a pattern you had both already agreed to without ever discussing it.
He let you.Â
Let you intertwine your fingers with him and pull him closer next to you. Let you kiss his hands, then knuckles and then the side of his wrist. He let you ground him before he could process anything.
âIâm fine,â you said quickly, already aware of how the room was still holding itself slightly tense, and your voice tilted into something apologetic without fully meaning to, âIâm sorry guys, I must not have realised how stressed I was. I didnât mean to scare anyone, I just didnât eat properly and I got a bit dizzy and I didnât realise it would turn into anything, it wonât happen again, I promise.â
Around you, the room began to release itself in pieces.
Garrett exhaled and shifted his weight like he had been waiting for permission to stop bracing, Hannah leaned back into the couch again as her shoulders loosened, Allie moved a step closer to you and immediately started talking in that half-joking, half-relieved tone about electrolytes and how she was âputting you on a schedule if this ever happens again,â and Dean, finally, contributed something about how he shouldnât have asked about how your paper went, and heâll let you run him over with his car to relieve stress next time, which was unhelpful but normal in a way that helped everyone else reset.
You leaned into Logan without thinking, still holding his hand, your body molding into his as you rubbed circles on his knuckles and pressed your hand into his thigh
You looked up at him, already softer, already slipping back into the version of the evening where everything was normal again. But what you couldnât see was the way his emotions swirled thunderously in his mind, how he couldnât begin to relax like everyone else did- in fact he was baffled they were so normal so quickly. He barely heard you ask about his class, or notice when you peppered soft kisses to his jaw and say that you missed him- how boring it was when he wasnât there. As though the structure of his day mattered more than anything.
He tried to answer at first, his words bubbling to the tip of his tongue, but it didnât take long for him to realise they wouldnât come out in a smooth, caramelised way that would flow into the calm atmosphere of the room. He gently let go of your hand, in a decisive way that made you furrow your brows and scan his face.
âLogan?â you said, quieter now, not fully alarmed but already sensing the direction this was going.
He rubbed his hands together, throat working thickly as his adams apple bobbed. Everyone else had noticed the shift, conversations slowed. Dean stopped mid-sentence. Allieâs expression changed slightly as she looked between the two of you. Hannah went still in a way that suggested she was no longer sure whether to intervene or wait.
Logan turned to you, his hair falling in specks along his forehead, âI need a minute.â He got up and went upstairs, footsteps heavy along the ceiling of where you all stayed frozen until his bedroom door clicked closed; you blinked a few times, looking at your friends who met you with confused, concerned shrugs and shakes of their heads.
Your expression tightened and you pushed yourself up to follow him, ignoring whatever advice your friends were half-heartedly giving you.Â
When the door creaked open under your hand, you found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees and holding his head, as though he needed something solid to hold the weight of his thoughts. His cap lay discarded on the floor, shoulders slightly lifted in tension that he was not releasing, and when you entered the doorway he did not look immediately, as if he already knew what would happen if he looked at you too quickly.
When he did meet your eyes, it was not anger that you saw first, but something more difficult to place because it did not sit cleanly in any single emotion. It looked like a strain held in place for too long.
âYou shouldnât apologise like that,â he said, and you frowned slightly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. Trapping whatever conversation you were about to have within these four walls.
âI wasnât- I just didnât want everyone worrying,â you said, still trying to smooth it over in the same way you had in the other room, still trying to keep it within something manageable. The bedframe creaked under you, as if warning you from crossing your legs and sinking into this situation.
But he shook his head once, not dismissive but overwhelmed, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted into something quieter but sharper at the edges, âYou were apologising for being unconscious.â
That made you stop, properly stop, because it didnât match the version of the moment you had been holding onto, and he saw that in your face immediately.
âI wasnât here,â he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made it clear that time had not been abstract for him in the same way it was for you. âYou were just gone, and I found out from my phone blowing up, messages that had sat there for god knows how long becauseâŚâ He grit his teeth, âI just had to turn it on silent for class. And I get back to everyone telling me it was fine, that youâre fine, like that changes anything.â
You try to re-anchor him in proximity the same way you always did, your hand finding his again, your voice softening as you said, âYou canât always be there Logan, I donât want you to always be on edge. Iâm okay.â
But when he looked at you this time, there was something in his expression that did not settle with that reassurance.
âI know,â he said quietly, and it came out with more restraint than anything he had said earlier, like it was something he had been holding back for a long time and could no longer keep contained in the same shape. âI just donât know how to stop thinking about what it looked like when you werenât.â
You cup his cheek, turning him towards you, âIâm right here baby,â You kiss him, imprinting the taste of you onto his mouth, the feel of your lips together as a way to tell him that youâre still there with him, âIâm not going anywhere.â
Logan held your wrists, his fingers shaking against your skin, âI..â his eyes were wide, pupils flicking between yours, âI never know when you arenât going to be here.â
He tugged at your hands and you let him, nails digging into the bedsheet uselessly next to you. Your breath caught in your throat, face quaking and crumbling at the edges, eyelashes fluttering- beating away the bubbling tears forming on your lashline.Â
âI think Iâll sleep at the dorm tonight,â you said eventually, and your voice was softer than it had been before, tired in a way that didnât fully belong to the moment.
Logan looked up at that, but he didnât stop you, just watched with a shattered look in his eyes, his lips pursed and pressed against his hands that were clasped together. You collected your things as seamlessly as possible, and given that youâd stayed over for the entire weekend, it was proving to be harder than you thought. But you huffed and puffed with each new article that got shoved into the shoulder bag until the room looked as if youâd never stepped foot in there.Â
Youâd already begun to calculate how many trips it would take to empty out the clothes from his dresser and toiletries from his bathroom.Â
Logan still hadnât said anything, his eyes widening by a fraction when he realised just how much you had erased from his space, but he stayed silent when your fingers hesitated against the door handle and didnât dare to say anything when you turned back to him- eyes begging him to stop you, to cradle you in his arms and work it out. He ignored it all, looking through you and barely flinching when you shut the door harder than necessary.Â
You adjusted your bag strap over your shoulder with careful hands, stilling when you realised everyone was staring at you as you emerged from the stairwell, âIâm heading home guys..âÂ
Your throat tightened but you shook your head and forced a smile onto your face, it felt plasticy and fake to force the expression over your eyebrows that tightened together and nose that burned with each deep breath you took.Â
You added lightly, âIâve got that test tomorrow anyway, and itâs probably better if I just- yeah. Iâll head back.â
Allie and Hannah both turned slightly, breaking out of the pitying trance when you grabbed your keys and headed for the door.Â
Neither of them said anything at first, because there was a specific kind of silence that settles when two people are trying very hard to behave like nothing irreversible has happened only a floor above them.
âOkay,â Allie said finally, careful but not pushing, âText us when you get in?â
You nodded quickly.
âYeah, of course.â
Hannahâs eyes lingered on you a little longer, not interrogating, just observing, like she was storing away the way you were holding yourself more tightly than usual, the way Logan wasnât following you to the door, barely letting you out of his hold with attacks of kisses and whispers in your ear.Â
But neither of them asked.
Because to everyone else in the house, it still looked like something that could be explained away by stress and timing and too much noise and not enough food.
You said goodbye in a way that was deliberately light, stepping out with your usual version of composure stitched back together over something slightly less stable underneath it.
Back in the living room, the energy eventually returned in fragments, Logan had rejoined the group nearly an hour after the girls had left.Â
Allie and Hannah left together not long after you, mumbled goodbyes were exchanged and worried whispers about Logan along with promises to update them over text had gotten them out the door, and back to you .
And once the door closed behind them, the house settled into a quieter version of itself.
Dean was the first to fully break the tension, dropping onto the couch with the kind of exaggerated movement that only made sense when someone was actively trying to remind a room how normal they were allowed to be. Tucker followed soon after, already halfway into a joke about how âBriar parties are medically unsafe environmentsâ that no one really responded to but still helped reset the tone anyway.
Logan stayed silent for a moment too long in the doorway before eventually sitting down on the arm of the couch, not fully joining the group, just occupying space near it without integrating into it. The others kept talking for a while, but their volume softened slightly in the way it does when people unconsciously recognise that something heavier is still present in the room.
Eventually, Dean stretched and yawned in an overly theatrical way.
âRight,â he said, pushing himself up. âIâm calling it before I start thinking about my own mortality again.â
Tucker followed immediately, clapping Logan on the shoulder on his way past like nothing meaningful had just been discussed at all. âDonât overthink it, man,â he added lightly, already heading upstairs. âSheâs been doing that since high school apparently. Sheâs fine.â
Garrett didnât follow them right away.
Logan just exhaled once, slow, like something had tightened in his chest at the phrasing.
Once the footsteps disappeared upstairs and the house settled properly, Garrett stayed behind in the spot next to Logan, leaning against the couch and pretended not to be boring holes into the side of his best friend's face. Logan was still on the arm, staring somewhere that wasnât really the room.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
âI canât imagine it,â Garrett broke the silence, voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier group energy, âloving someone and knowing that at any point they might just not respond.â
Loganâs jaw tightened slightly at that, but he didnât interrupt.
Garrett looked down at his hands briefly before continuing, âI know everyoneâs saying sheâs used to it and itâs normal for her or whatever, but⌠thatâs not really the part that sticks, is it?â
That landed differently.
Logan looked down finally, his hands loosely clasped together, and when he spoke his voice came out lower than before, less controlled in the way it had been earlier.
âI donât know what to do,â he said, and there was no performance left in it now, no attempt to hold anything in place. âI love her so much it actually hurts, and I canât⌠I canât keep doing that thing where I pretend Iâm okay when sheâs-â
He stopped. Swallowed slightly and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Logan exhaled again, slower this time, like the words were physically difficult to keep forming.
âBut I also canât go on like this,â he finished, quieter.
That silence that followed wasnât uncomfortable in the way earlier ones had been. It was just heavy with the absence of an answer. Garrett nodded once, slowly, like he understood that there wasnât a clean solution sitting anywhere in reach.
âI think,â Garrett said carefully after a moment, choosing each word like he was placing it somewhere fragile, âit might actually be harder to let her go than it is to keep reminding yourself she wakes up every time.â
Logan turned to Garrett, and nodded slowly- a row of tears fell from his chin and onto the soft cashmere beneath him, âI just donât know how many times I can do it.â
summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.
notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!
warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.
word count: 12.2k
When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.
You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.
In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.
You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.
A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed â cough Dean cough â and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.
Which brought you to Logan.
You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.
It had not happened all at once.
You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.
You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.
Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.
And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.
You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.
What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.
You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.
When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.
Fuck me, you thought.
And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.
You smiled back and closed your laptop.
Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.
You reached for your camera on the tripod â force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up â and opened the gallery.
Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.
You stared at the screen.
Oh.
Oh no.
The real problem came later.
The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.
The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.
So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.
The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.
You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.
You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.
A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.
You did not pout. You were a professional.
"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."
"Sure," you said.
"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."
"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.
"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.
"No. I'm working."
"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.
This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.
You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.
"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."
You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.
"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"
This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.
 "I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."
"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"
Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.
You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.
Too late.
"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."
"Logan just photographs well."
"He photographs well."
"Yes."
"That's your explanation."
"That's my explanation."
Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."
"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."
"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."
You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."
"Admit it."
"I plead the fifth."
"That's not how that works."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to. I'm your best friend."
"No you're not. It's Olivia."
"On the team, I meant."
"It's probably Tucker."
"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."
You closed the laptop.
"Go to sleep, Dean."
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.
"Do not drool on me," you said.
"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.
"Don't be disgusting."
"And by the way â" he opened one eye "â he has the hots for you too."
"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."
He closed his eye again.
The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.
Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.
A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.
"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."
You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.
"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.
"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"
"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so â"
"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also â" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "â Logan is going to be there."
You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Yes you do."
"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.
"It's a Saturday."
"Content doesn't take weekends off."
"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."
"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."
"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."
You looked up for the first time. "What thing."
"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."
"I am always normal."
"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"
"It was a good play."
"To his face."
"As a professional observation â"
"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."
You turned back to the tripod.
"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."
Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.
"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but â with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan â you're pretty hot."
You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.
"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."
He walked away before you could respond.
You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.
You were definitely not going to that party.
The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.
Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.
It had been funny for approximately three weeks.
It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.
It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.
You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.
Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.
"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.
"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."
Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"
"Apparently not," Dean said.
On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.
Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.
"It's painful," Tucker said.
"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.
"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.
After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.
He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.
"You have a face," Garrett said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"
"So her nameâ" Garrett replied.
Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"
"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."
"So tell him to do something about it."
"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."
"A push," Garrett repeated.
"A significant push."
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."
"A financial one," he said.
"Dean â"
"Hear me out."
"I don't think I want to."
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."
Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."
"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."
"By paying him."
"By incentivizing him."
"Those are the same thing."
"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."
Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.
"Noted," Dean said.
He did not change his mind.
Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.
Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.
"What," Logan said.
"I have a proposition," Dean said.
Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.
"What kind of proposition," Logan said.
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."
He didnt't have to specify who the her was.
The locker room was quiet.
Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."
"Logan â"
"No, Dean."
"You like her."
"That's not â"
"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."
Logan said nothing.
"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."
"I was being polite."
"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."
Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.
Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.
Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.
He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.
I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.
"Fine," he said.
Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.
Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.
Dean produced a check from somewhere â written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed â and held it out.
Logan took it.
He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.
I was going to do it anyway, he thought.
He almost believed it.
The subject of the party was a sore one.
Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.
Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"We're going," she said.
"I said I wasn't sure â"
"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you becauseâ." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"
"Dynamic duo."
"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."
"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."
"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."
You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.
"Obviously," you said.
You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.
The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.
You found him in approximately four seconds.
Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.
You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.
Logan crossed the room.
"Hey â" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"
"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.
Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.
"You look very pretty," Logan said.
"Oh â thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.
Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."
"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."
She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.
You looked back at Logan.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."
"I had some content to edit," you said.
"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.
"Yeah," you said.
And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were â you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"
Logan laughed â a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."
"Oh," you said. "That tracks."
"Does it."
"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."
"I'll tell Tucker you said that."
"Please don't."
Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.
"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"
"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.
"Oh, I like where this is headed."
"No â I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."
You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."
"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.
"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."
"Thank you."
"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two â" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "â continue."
He disappeared back into the crowd.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.
"He's not subtle," you said.
"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."
The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.
At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.
"So â" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."
Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES â
"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."
Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."
"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.
He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.
You and Logan both looked at Dean.
Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.
"He planned this," you said.
"Obviously," Logan said.
You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.
"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."
You looked back at him.
"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."
What you did not know â what you would not know for three months â was what had happened two hours before that conversation.
The first date was a Tuesday.
Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.
He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.
You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.
He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door â soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.
You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.
Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just â oh.
What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.
You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance â the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.
He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.
You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.
"Don't," you said.
"I'm not saying anything," she said.
"You have a face."
"I have my normal face."
"Olivia."
"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.
Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.
Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.
But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.
All of that was true.
The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.
He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing â by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anywayâ. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.
So he didn't say it.
He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.
He was getting better at believing that.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.
This had become one of your favorite things â the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.
"Listen to this," you said.
"Mm."
"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."
"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."
"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."
"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.
You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.
"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.
You worked through several more questions â about communication, about conflict, about shared values â Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.
And then you got to the last one.
"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake â something that hurt you â what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C â" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "â a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."
You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.
Logan put his phone down.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.
"What would you pick?" he said.
You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just â showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."
Logan looked at the ceiling again.
"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.
"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."
"Right," he said.
He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him â at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something â and almost asked what he was thinking about.
Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.
"Good to know," he said.
You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.
You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.
Logan knew.
He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.
Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.
He closed his eyes.
I have to tell her, he thought.
He did not tell her.
Allie had not been looking for information.
She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.
And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.
She glanced at it automatically. Logan.
Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."
Allie went back to her phone.
"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's â Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"
Allie looked up.
Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you â okay. Okay, calm down. Just â tell me what happened."
A pause. Dean listening.
"So tell her," Dean said. "Just â tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll â" another pause "â Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just â yes I know you actually love her, that's not the â okay, listen â"
Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.
"What," she said.
Dean turned around.
The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession â surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
"Allie â"
"What did you do," she said. Not a question.
Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.
"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."
He told her.
He told her all of it â the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room â and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.
When he finished she said nothing for a moment.
"She's my friend," she said finally.
"I know â"
"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."
"It wasn't supposed to â"
"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."
"Allie, please just â"
"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to â"
"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just â asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me â"
"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."
She left.
Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.
He put the phone to his ear.
"She already knows," he said.
You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.
She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things â no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.
You stood very still while she talked.
When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.
"Get your keys," you said.
"(Y/N) â"
"Get your keys, Allie."
The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.
The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.
You didn't knock.
You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known â and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.
Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.
"Hey â" Logan started.
"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."
The hallway was very quiet.
"Yes," Logan said.
The word landed.
"How much," you said.
"A thousand dollars."
You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."
"It wasn't â"
"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."
"That's not â"
"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time â" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."
"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with â"
"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."
"I was going to â"
"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"
He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned to Dean.
Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.
"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought â you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."
"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."
"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing â the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were â"
"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."
"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't â I need you to not talk to me right now."
You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.
"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.
"I have to go," you said.
"Please just let me â"
"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."
You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.
You opened the door.
"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."
You walked out.
Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.
You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.
And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.
You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.
A thousand dollars.
The house was very quiet after you left.
Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.
Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.
Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything â the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it â and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:
You had deserved to know.
You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.
Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.
"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.
"I know," Logan said.
"From the beginning. I told you."
"I know, Garrett."
Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.
Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.
I have to fix this, he thought.
He had absolutely no idea how.
The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.
It was professional and brief â you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.
You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.
Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.
The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.
You started the following Monday.
The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.
You were fine.
You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.
Allie texted. Garrett texted â I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to â which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.
You did not respond to Logan.
Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.
Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.
Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.
He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team â the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching â and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.
He had always been paying attention.
That was the thing that made it so much worse.
Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.
Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.
You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.
They were not gone.
You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.
"What â" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.
The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.
You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."
Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.
"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.
"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."
The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.
Dean was looking at the floor.
Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.
"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."
"But â" Tucker started.
"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."
Jade smiled again.
"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.
"Tucker â"
"No, like â" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just â I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."
The corridor was very quiet.
"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."
Tucker nodded. Still pained.
"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."
"Thanks," you said.
You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.
"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.
You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.
He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.
You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.
Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:
"I know."
Logan started showing up.
Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.
He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October â the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.
He started showing up to the football team's games.
Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.
Olivia told you the second time it happened.
"He was there again," she said carefully.
You said nothing.
"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just â there. Watching."
You said nothing.
"I thought you should know," she said.
You knew.
You knew because you had clocked him the first time â third row back, left side,â and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.
He texted you after the third game.
logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.
You stared at the message for a long time.
yn: how would you know
logan: i was there
A long pause.
logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.
You put your phone down.
You picked it up.
yn: it's okay
Dean did not sleep the night you found out.
He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend â not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.
At four in the morning he picked up his phone.
dean: allie
allie: i'm awake
dean: i know i really messed up
allie: yes
dean: i don't know how to fix it
A long pause.
allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.
dean: i am
allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.
dean: she said never talk to her again
allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.
Dean put his phone down.
He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.
You took your own sweet time.
Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.
On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.
He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible â Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible â but tired.
You stopped when you saw him.
He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just â five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."
You looked at him for a long moment.
You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.
"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like â actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just â a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just â didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."
The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.
"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."
You looked at him.
You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.
"It's going to take time," you said finally.
Something in his expression shifted â careful, not quite hope yet.
"I know," he said.
"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."
"I know."
"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."
"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"It's enough to start with," you said.
The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."
"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."
You looked at the path ahead.
"I have class," you said.
"I know. Go."
You went.
It was a start.
Logan was harder.
Not because you were angrier at him â you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.
You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.
He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.
You read them all.
You responded to some of them.
Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.
He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.
He was just â there.
Being different.
The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.
You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.
"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.
You went outside.
The path outside the athletics building was where you found him â Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision â sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.
You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.
He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left â not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.
"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"Logan â"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."
You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.
"You remembered the peonies," you said.
"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."
"You were paying attention," you said.
"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."
You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.
"This isn't enough," you said.
Something flickered in his expression.
"I know," he said.
"I need more than flowers."
"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."
"Okay," he said.
"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."
"I will," he said.
"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."
"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."
You looked at him.
"The texts," you said. "About my work."
"Yeah."
"You were at every game."
"Yeah."
"Third row back. Left side."
He looked at you quietly.
"I know," you said. "I noticed."
Something in his expression shifted.
"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just â it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."
"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."
He nodded.
"Give me the peonies," you said.
He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.
"The rest you can take home," you said.
"Okay."
"And Logan â" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."
Something broke open in his expression â not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
You looked at him for one more moment.
"Slow," you said.
"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You went back inside.
You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything â the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.
You were not okay yet.
But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.
It was enough to start with.
The getting back together did not happen all at once.
It happened the way the crush had happened â gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.
The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.
It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.
You brought your camera.
Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.
You sat third row left side.
The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.
You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.
Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.
You got the shot.
Forty-three seconds of it, actually.
You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.
Briar won.
The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.
You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.
You looked up.
Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of â the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it â except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.
"You came," he said.
"I came," you confirmed.
"You brought your camera."
"I brought my camera."
He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"
You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen â the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.
Forty-three seconds of it.
Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.
"That's â" he started.
"Genuinely cinematic," you said.
He looked at you.
You looked back at him.
And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.
It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.
"So," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."
Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it."
"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."
"Done," he said immediately.
You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.
Better. Not the same. Better.
Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.
⡠summary: youâre the captain of the briar girlâs volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadnât known to exist until now
⡠word count: 5464
⡠warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and donât know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if itâs completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, weâre gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)
ËË°â˘*ââˇ
It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvardâs girlâs volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two pointsâ the points that both teams desperately neededâ would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.
And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.
Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppyâ or at least, it felt like you hadâ and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts.Â
But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.
And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.
It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball.Â
It didnât help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made senseâ since your freshman year, youâd been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldnât stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadnât left since.
And thatâs because youâ to be totally, completely humbleâ were a really fucking amazing libero.Â
Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didnât let it get to your head, of course. You couldnât, even if you had tried. You werenât like thatâ you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.
So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.
And, to be honest, right now, you didnât feel great.
Or good.
You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this setâ despite it being in the beginningâ you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldnât get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.
You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didnât help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was âBriar Blackoutâ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?
This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.
And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally âgot thisâ.
The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.
In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.
Youâre pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.
But you couldnât be thinking about the hockey boys right nowâ you couldnât be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.
It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind.Â
That was no good.
You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make itâ not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.
And, fuck, you really couldnât have that.
So you did what you always didâ you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb.Â
You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your headâ and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.
However, you were not where you were supposed to be.
No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.
In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken toâ hell, you didnât even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadnât flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.
To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, âOh, shit!â
You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.
As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.
You only get a quick glance of the guyâs baffledâ but heavily amusedâ eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, itâs lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court.Â
Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammatesâ Liliana Amatoâ bumps it up and over to Louisa.
Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvardâs side of the net.Â
Their libero isnât fast enough.Â
No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.
You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadnât actually saved the ball.Â
This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the âbig threeâ. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.
All you needed now was one point.
One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then youâd win.
If you guys got this point, youâd make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasnât been to in over ten years.
The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.
And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God youâve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to workâ the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, youâve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.
Like now.
You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvardâs middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didnât even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and youâre pretty sure youâve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second youâre on your back, and the next youâre on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.
You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.
But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?
It couldnât be out.
There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.
Everyoneâs eyes are on the ref, whoâs talking to the other referees. Theyâre huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like itâs in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.
It had gone in.
The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.
Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.
In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coachesâ who have yelled at you more times than you could count this gameâ joining in. Youâre so ecstatic that you donât even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.
The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.
ËË°â˘*ââˇ
Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadnât done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Maloneâs for a late night meal with three of your teammatesâ your best friendsâ and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.
Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Maloneâs with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner.Â
You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.
âHoly shit, itâs her!â Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. âSheâs literally right thereââ
âYeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,â Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, âCan you be quiet?â
âWhy?â Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. âYouâve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and itâs obvious you already have a massive crush on her.â
âI donâtââ
âYouâve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,â Garrett interrupted with a snort. âIâm pretty sure youâve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.â
Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group.Â
Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, âSheâs interesting.â
âYeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,â Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter.Â
Logan glared harshly at Tucker, âThatâs not why I find her interesting.â
âSure,â Dean drawls out.
âDude, Iâm serious,â Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blondeâs head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, âSheâs good at her sport. It's fun to watch."
âI think heâs so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,â Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. âAnd thatâs new for any Briar hockey boy.â
âOh, definitely,â Garrett agrees.
Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesnât deny it. He canât deny it, because itâs true.Â
Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briarâs sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.
Now, one thing about you was, you didnât do hockey. Like, at all. Youâve never been to a game before. You didnât understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.
It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.
The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didnât know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didnât do hockey.
âAlright,â the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. âNow, kinda venturing off⌠we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.â
You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, âOh yeah?â
âJohn Logan. How are you feeling about that?â The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldnât for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.
âSorry, who?â
Yeah, you couldnât have picked a worse fucking response.
But, in John Loganâs eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Maloneâs after the gameâ because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reasonâ he couldnât help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.
The reporterâs smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the schoolâs media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, âUh⌠John Logan?â
âYeah, um... Iâm really sorry, I have no clue who that is.â
âThe guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.â
âOh,â you respond. And because for some fucking reason you canât help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, âHockey boy.â
Like a fucking idiot.
Or, in John Loganâs eyes, like a fucking angel.
â...Right. He plays right wing for Briar menâs hockey,â she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, âYou didnât know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?â
And, of course, because for some reason your brainâs goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.
But, no, you werenât a fool in Loganâs eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.
âI knew they were here. I just donât have a clue who they are.â
âYou donât know Garrett Graham?â
âUh⌠nope? I donât think so.â
âDean Di Laurentis?â
âNot ringing a bell, sorry.â
âJohn Tucker?â
âThe guy I ran into?â
Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.
âWhat? Noâ no, that was John Logan.â
âRight.â You shake your head and you laugh, âToo many Johnâs, am I right?â
The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.
Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. Heâd played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.
And not caring when finding out who he was.
Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.
âJust go talk to her, dude,â Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. âSheâs two tables down.â
Logan followed Garrettâs gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.
God, he hadnât even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.
âNo,â he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.
âOkay, this is painful,â Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. âGive me thatââ
Dean had reached forward, plucking Loganâs phone from his loose grip.
âWhatâ dude, stopâ give it backââÂ
But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Loganâs phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.
And, oh, if looks could kill.
âAre you fuckingââ
âShhhh, thank me later.â
ËË°â˘*ââˇ
âNo way.â
âWhat?â Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, âWhatâs up?â
You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.
John Logan has requested to follow you.
âHoly fuck,â Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, sheâs already leaning far away from you, âOh, we are accepting this right nowââ
âNo! No, we are not,â you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. âHe literally just followed me. If I accept now, heâll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so giveââ
âAnd, accepted! Alrightly, follow back⌠and look at that, he already approved it!â
âI hate you,â you groan.
âBro,â Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, âhe was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.â
âYou guys are all delusional,â you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know itâs because Maloneâs is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.
âI donât think youâre grasping the severity of this situation.â
ââThe severity of the situationâ?â You repeat Jadeâs words. âThe hell does that mean?â
âThat you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled himââ
You feel your face burn, âI did not straddle him.â
âBabe,â Louisa interjects, âyou absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?â
You groan, âThey already posted it?â
âGirl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,â Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulderâ you only hadnât because he had held you against him.Â
âOh,â Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. âSo thatâs Garrett Graham,â she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, âand thatâs Dean Di Laurentis,â and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, âThatâs John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.â
âHow do you know all this?â
âLiterally everyone does except you, apparently.â
âOkay, whatever.â
Jade groans loudly, âCan we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks youâre hot.â
âNo, he doesnât.â
âGirl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.â
Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guyâs face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.
Fuck, it was kinda hot.
âThat doesnât mean anything,â you choose to say instead.
âOh, Jesus Christ,â Jade groans. âLook, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?â
You shrug, lying, âI dunno. Didnât get a good look at him.â
âAlright, Liliana, pull up the edit.â
âWhat the fuck do you mean, âthe editâ?â You question, absolutely baffled. âThis guy has edits made for him?â
âHeâs a college hockey player, and heâs fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, heâs got editsâ but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I meanââ
âYou guys are disgusting.â
âHere,â Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song âDo I Wanna Know?â by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.
âOkay,â you say once the edit finishes, âheâs hot. I get it.â
âSee!â Jade grins, âHeâs hot, and heâs definitely interested in you after tonight, which means thatââ
But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someoneâs phone. Itâs you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.
âShit! Dean, turn it downââ
It was too late, though.
You and your friendsâ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six othersâ five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.
The sixth being John Logan.
You canât even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group thatâs only two tables away, âHoly shit, heâs right there, oh my Godââ
âI can see that, Louisa,â you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, heâs making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, âWhere the fuck are you guys going?â
âTo a different table so we donât block his cock.â
âOh myââ
You canât even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Loganâs friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.
Loganâs friends didnât seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.
You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really donât know whatâs with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth arenât something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.
âMy victim.â
You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?
But you donât leave, not when Johnâs smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, âMy attacker.â
âI wouldnât call it an attackââ
âWhat would you call it?â He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.
âA collision on the playing field,â you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. âIâm sure youâre used to those. With hockey and everything.â
âSo you know who I am now?â He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.
âHard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?â
âAbsolutely,â he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. Heâs got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. Heâs still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. âYou tackling me, me catching youââ
âStraight out of a sports romcom,â you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, âWhat a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we wouldâve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!â
âOh, I know,â he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. âWeâve been snubbed.â
Fuck, he was fun to banter with.
All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.
You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didnât even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Maloneâs, except for the staff.
And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Maloneâs until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you canât help but agree.
Which is where you found yourself now.
Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache.Â
He presses more kisses to your lips. Theyâre firmer, eager, and itâs now that you know you have to break the news to him.
âWanna know another thing about me, John?â You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.
He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, âWhat?â
âI donât do hook-ups. Or casual.â
You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured thatâs what would happen, but you didnât necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you werenât going to change your rules for a guy you had just met.Â
But, no, Logan doesnât react how you were expecting at all.
No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.
Statistically Speaking - Dr. Brendon âThe Sharkâ Park x Reader
Chapter One: Trinity Santos
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter Summary: You and Brendon celebrate your upcoming first shift at PTMC with a huge family bash and a hot night together.
Tags/Notes: wife!mom!doctor!reader, brendon and reader have five kids already, parties, family shenanigans, madly in love couple, smut, oral (f), fingering (f), unprotected piv, creampie, aftercare/sweetness
Content: near fatal birth complication in past (AFE) discussed in detail: to avoid, after âAnd Felix Park joined the family a little less than eight months laterâ skip to ââHeâs perfect,â Brendon assured.âÂ
A/N: local child-free gay trans guy continues to be unable to resist giving big men 4-6 children :// happy wip wednesdays my loves!
Word Count: 7.2k
How you ended up with five kids under ten at the party celebrating your upcoming first day as an emergency department attending is simple: Brendon Park is the single greatest husband and father youâve ever seen. While your mother-in-law insists that you relax by the pool as she gets the place ready because itâs your party, Brendon watches the kids to keep them out of your hair and manages to be the sexiest man alive while he does it. Itâs been unseasonably warm this summer, but you definitely arenât complaining about soaking in a few poolside days before your job starts. Because of the heat, Brendonâs wearing one of those slutty white tank tops that clings to his sweaty muscles in the late-June heat. Heâs got your two-year-old on one hip, your four-year-old holding onto his chest like a koala cub, and your six-year-old on his shoulders. All the while, he manages to play catch with your nine-year-old and help your seven-year-old practice her solo for the community theater musical sheâs doing during summer break.
As the gorgeous setup takes shape around you â Brendonâs mother was an event planner before retirement, so every get-together turns into a whole shebang â you admire your husband expertly managing all of the kids. He looks so hot running around the yard with them, tan and sweaty and muscular, that you donât even notice the mischievous glint in his eyes when he turns to you and catches your gaze. Then, a split second after he mutters something you canât hear to the kids, the two oldest barrel toward you at top speed, yanking off their cover-ups and launching into the pool in front of you. Water splashes up onto your book and high-waisted-bikini-clad body while Brendon walks over nonchalantly.
You immediately turn to your husband and then to your laughing children. âBenji, Margot, be honest with me: Did your dad put you up to this?â
They make eye contact with each other, then their dad, and then each other again before pinching their noses shut and going under the water.
Setting your book aside, you stand up from your cozy lounger and meet Brendon at the edge of the pool, where heâs helping Nora and Theo into their life jackets since heâs a safety freak the first couple of summers between swim lessons. Once theyâre in the water with their siblings, you shove Brendon on the chest and glare. âYou are a menace, Bren. Such a bad influence on our poor children.â
âOh, yeah?â Brendon takes Felix from his carrier, kisses him on the head, and hands him off to his grandmother, whoâs floating by as she does final touches for the party. Then Brendon strips his shirt off and tugs you close to his body. You lean up onto your toes for a kiss and he happily gives it to you, arms wrapped protectively around your back. âExcited about your party?â
âPlease, we both know this is for your mom and the kids,â you chuckle as you watch her greeting the first few guests, leading them through the house and into the backyard. Itâs mostly people from the neighborhood, your kidsâ friends and the other couples you hang out with. There was a strict âno coworkersâ rule as you and Brendon hadnât yet decided how to navigate his wife joining his hospital. âMy perfect celebration looks a lot more like when you passed your first boards.â
âMmm.â He kisses you a bit deeper and remembers fondly, âThe great Cancun fuck-fest.â
âKeep your voice down,â you giggle as one of Noraâs classmates passes by you to go for the nearby spread of fruit, âthis place is crawling with children who donât need to take the F-word to elementary school this fall.â
He nips your neck and replies, âYouâre so lame for a MILF.â
Then, with his hand roving a little too low on your back for a family-friendly party, the one exception to the guest list rule taps you on the shoulder.
âAlright, pervert, itâs my turn with my new boss.â
âTrinity, you made it!â You wrap her up in a hug and squeal with delight. Trinity had been one of your closest friends during undergrad in Philadelphia. She took a gap year once you finished med school, so you had no idea her residency was at PTMC until she ran into Brendon during his first consult to the emergency department. âItâs so crazy that weâre gonna be working together after all this time. Kind of our twenty-year-old selves dream.â
âItâs gonna be fucking awesome,â she confirms with a grin as she pushes a White Claw into your right hand and clinks it with her own. âIâll finally have someone to bitch with about all the assholes I have to deal with.â
Brendon balks before you can respond. âShe gets to curse and I donât?â
You squeeze his arm and comfort him, âTrinâs a cool aunt, not a dad.â
âAn aunt to how many now, by the way?â She looks over the pool thatâs now overrun with kids and tries to scan for ones that look like you and Brendon. âLast time I saw you in person, I think there were only two of them and one on the way.â
Pointing them out one by one, you tell her, âWe have five now.â
It takes a while for the three of you to catch up on everything thatâs happened the last few years, but itâs beautiful and fun to trade stories about the kids. Starting with the oldest, thereâs Benji, who was totally unplanned when you were barely into undergrad at UPenn, having met his dad exactly nine months and two weeks before his birth at a mixer where pre-med students got to talk with MS1s about their experience. You were 19 after a gap year and he was 21 after whizzing through undergrad and MCATs at the top of his class. Even if he had sky-high dreams of being a double-board-certified surgeon by 30, Brendon wasnât just going to abandon you or his kid, so he made an honest woman of you by the time you were showing in a tiny ceremony at the courthouse, promising to give you the wedding of your dreams once the two of you had the money.Â
By the time you went into labor a few weeks after nailing your first-year finals, Brendon Park was sure of one thing: You were the woman of his dreams and marrying you was the best decision of his life. He never wouldâve expected one random hookup to become the center of his universe, but it quickly became undeniable. It was your tenacity that got him. You never skipped a class because of morning sickness, never shied away from going toe-to-toe with a professor at 30-weeks large, and never questioned your own ability to stay at the top of your class with a newborn at home. You tackled the world with a hunger and enthusiasm that made his heart stammer in his chest. Heâd never seen anything as sexy as you breastfeeding with one arm while the other you flipped through your organic chemistry textbook with the other, Brendon feeding you eggs and toast and fruit while quizzing you on test prep.
As soon as you were cleared and comfortable, Brendon couldnât bear to keep his hands off you anytime you two were alone and you were beyond reciprocal; having a husband who not only loved his baby beyond belief and set an incredible example every day had your hormones going bonkers. Hell, he even stopped going to the gym in the morning to let you sleep and started doing his workouts in the living room with Benji strapped to his chest while he did bicep curls or sitting on his back giggling loudly as he did pushups. Howâs a woman to resist when she wakes up to that?
Which meant Benji ended up with his first little sister, Margot, while you knocked out MCAT prerequisites and his father passed his USMLE Step 1 and prepared for his clinical work to start. With Brendonâs family being beyond supportive and Margot being a perfect angel as a baby, you jumped into med school headfirst and attended Brendonâs graduation seven months pregnant with Nora.Â
And, yes, you had planned not to have any more babies until you were well established in your residency. But then you matched into UPSOMâs program, nabbing your spot at Allegheny General, and Brendon took up his orthopedic trauma surgery fellowship at PTMC, and his parents decided to relocate to be near their grandkids, too. In the middle of all the chaos of moving and settling and daycare and preschools, well, some birth control pills may have been missed sort-of-not-totally-on-accident-but-not-really-on purpose-either right around the time you were celebrating Brendonâs first board certification with expensive lingerie and champagne and a trip to Cancun on his sexy new salary. So Theo happened.Â
Your track record with celebrations made the next one pretty clear, too. When Brendon finished his fellowship with another huge party, his mother, a saint of a woman, hugged you close and said, âShould we expect baby number five in about nine months?â
And that night, Brendon had you in bed once his parents had taken all the kids back to their house after the party. His thumbs brushed lovingly over your stomachâs layers of shiny stretchmarks as he asked gently, âWhat do you think, sweetheart?â
Knowing exactly what he meant, you raised an eyebrow and pushed, âAbout what?â
âWeâve got this big house with all these bedrooms now,â he purred as his fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties. âSeems like kind of a shame not to fill all of them up, doesnât it?â
You helped him shimmy your underwear off and then turned onto your side, throwing one leg over his hip. âYou know I always wanted an even number of kids, Bren. Weâve got two boys and two girls. You really want to disrupt the balance?â
âThink about it this way,â he mused as his hands roamed over your body, squeezing your ass and waist and thighs with the same greed he did when you were nineteen, âif we have five kids, then in a few years, we have a whole water polo team. We can have the Willards over and absolutely annihilate them. Establish dominance in the neighborhood.â
You press your forehead into his shoulder and laugh, âThey only have four kids.â
His eyes glimmered with mischief. âNot for long. Natâs pregnant. Jason told me this morning.â
âWell, shit, weâd better make sure their baby has a friend. Perfectly good reason to create another human being,â you replied with an eye roll, fully enjoying making him work for it even when you were already on board. You pursed your lips and pretended to think hard before suggesting, âAlthough, I believe ultimate frisbee needs seven, too, and that has some appeal for me.â
Brendon grinned wide then. He flipped you onto your back, pinned you between his biceps, and confirmed, âYou wanna have an ultimate frisbee team with me, baby?â
As his right hand went between your legs, you sighed in pleasure, âItâs really the only sport Iâve ever taken seriously.â
And Felix Park joined the family a little less than nine months later.
This time, it wasnât easy.
After four uncomplicated pregnancies and births, you were a pro. You showed up to L&D five centimeters dilated with your hair, nails, and makeup done, wearing your maroon velour tracksuit, Brendon shouldering your go bag and a brand new baby carrier right behind you. Only a few hours later, the baby was in his cot with Brendon standing over him like a hawk, the placenta had just been delivered, and everything shouldâve continued into recovery as normal. But an overwhelming, all-consuming sense that something was wrong overcame you like a hurricane.
You reached out and grabbed Brendonâs hand, fingers bruising.
His eyes snapped to yours and he saw the terror in them immediately.
Before he could even open his mouth, your blood pressure tanked, your oxygen plummeted, and the bleeding started. Your eyelids fluttered back as you dropped out of consciousness in a matter of seconds. As the OB dropped down to check for potential causes and solutions while stopping the bleeding, Brendonâs brain lasered into doctor mode as a response to the panic that rose in his throat. Not listening in the slightest as a nurse urged him to stay calm, he violated every protocol in the book by yanking an intubation kit from the closest medical cart to expertly get you oxygen, shouting for transfusions of your blood type, and beginning CPR for blood flow. Nurses and staff fell in line rapidly, deferring to his authority because it was just so forceful and complete. Brendon Park is one of those men whoâs impossible to doubt, no matter what heâs doing.
By the time an emergency specialist made it to your room three minutes later, Brendon had run the worst of the code and pretty much singlehandedly stopped you from dying right there on the L&D floor, sweat falling down his brow and onto your hospital gown as he continued compressions. It took three people to get him to step back from you. When the doctor took over on your heart, Brendon collapsed into a panic attack. Heâd never felt anything like the tightness in his lungs. A separate nurse came in to give him oxygen while he went down, his eyes wide open and darting around like he was looking for something he couldnât find. No words made it through the thick haze of his terror until he saw your vitals stabilizing again. Even then, he couldnât function until you were conscious and tested and they confirmed that you wouldnât have any lasting issues.
When you came to for real the next morning and they told you what happened, your mischievous eyes spent a second finding his and you teased, âOoooh, youâre gonna be in so much trouble, pookie.â
He laughed, swatted a tear from his cheek, and kissed you on the top of the head. âYeah, I got called up by the medical board for a review, but the hospitalâs backing me up. Should be a slap on the wrist.â
You nodded, sleepy and accepting, and asked, âHowâs the baby doing?â
âHeâs perfect,â Brendon assured softly, almost scared to be too loud. âTen pounds on the dot, 22 inches. Easily one of our top five cutest babies.â
âAnother football player,â you laughed, sounding exhausted and delighted and maybe still a touch loopy on painkillers. Leaning your head on his arm, you smile against his skin. âWe make very cute babies, even if your stupid genes make them all giants.â
He brushed your cheek with his thumb and murmured, âYour stupid genes didnât have to keep procreating with my stupid genes.â
You rolled your eyes. âShut up; youâre so annoying.â
He pouted and offered, âWhat if I told you that I brought you an Entenmannâs donut variety pack this morning? Powered, chocolate glaze, and crumble just how you like?â
With your weak arms, you reached up and pulled him into a hard kiss. He didnât care about your unbrushed teeth or greasy skin. To him, youâre everything. Heâd kiss you at the end of the world with two minutes left. You leveled him with loving eyes and said, âI lied about you being annoying. Youâre the perfect man. Now gimme those donuts.â
All in all, by the time an attending position opened up in Brendonâs hospital right as you finished your residency with five under ten, youâre pretty damn sure youâre done having babies.
âI donât know how you do it,â Trinity sighs as she sips her second or third drink. âI can barely keep myself and my roommate alive and here you are with five tiny humans and a husband.â
âOnce they stop being attached to your boob, it gets easier,â you snicker while watching the kids screeching with laughter as they dive and splash at each other. With Brendon absently rubbing your back while keeping his eyes on the party, you add, âHonestly, at this point, itâll be weird not being pregnant working at a hospital. I wonât have any excuses to take as many five-minute breaks as I want.â
âA fate worse than death,â Trinity agrees. Then she gestures between the two of you and asks, âHave you figured out how youâre gonna break it to the Pitt that their nice new attending is actually married to the scariest doctor in the hospital?â
You admire Brendonâs sharp side profile for a minute and then shrug. âI figure weâre not gonna keep it a secret but weâre not gonna bring it up. Itâs not like Brenâs going to stop being the big bad ortho bro just because Iâm there. Iâm fully prepared to be on the receiving end of his mean little tirades.â
Brendon bites back a joke about how you like him being mean plenty when itâs just the two of you, instead saying, âAnd Iâm fully prepared for you to stand on your tippy toes and scream in my face when we disagree about patient care.â
You scoff and shove him. âI did not yell at Dr. Torrence that day.â
Brendon gives Trinity a knowing look. âShe made him cry over an appendicitis diagnosis.â
Throwing your hands up mock-defensively, you cut back, âOkay, well, god forbid I care if my patients live or die.â
Trinity cracks up at that and says, âThe way you go back and forth with each other, you should place bets on how long it takes everyone to figure out that youâre married.â
Brendon tilts his beer toward her. âNow that could be fun.â
Before you can call them both children, your mother-in-law comes up behind you and leans in near your and Brendonâs ears. âThe kids are getting antsy about the cake, my loves.â
Brendon nods, stands up, and shouts in his bellowing serious voice, âEverybody gather âround; I have to give my sappy speech about how proud of my wife I am now!â
From around the pool area and by the fire pitt and grill, all the partygoers circle the central table with its cake reading Congratulations, Dr. & Dr. Park! Even the kids reluctantly clamber out of the pool after a little coaxing from their grandparents.
Brendon lifts his arm for you to step into. With an eye roll, you do, head on his chest. He dramatically clears his throat and begins, âHoney, Iâve told you a million times already, but Iâm never gonna get tired of saying it: I am so proud of you for finishing your residency and taking the next leap in your medical career. I know firsthand just how hard youâve worked every step of the way to be the biggest know-it-all in the history of the world.â
âAbsolutely right,â you cut in with a serious nod. Patting his well-defined pec, you nudge, âWrap it up, you big sap, thereâs a cake to eat.â
âAlright, alright,â he chuckles. Then he cups your cheek and says, âYou are by far the most impressive person Iâve ever met. You continue to change my definition of whatâs possible every day. I cannot wait to work with you so I can finally prove that someone actually likes me.â Brendon kisses you warmly as his friends laugh a little too knowingly. Then he hushes the crowd once more and says, âOf course, if youâve come to a Park family summer house party before, you know that we always end our toasts with a particular tradition-â
With the kids already cheering and clapping from the anticipation, you try to squirrel out from under his arm with a wicked shriek of, âBrendon Alexander Park, you swore you wouldnât do this tonight!â
â-before we can cut that cake and continue the eveningâs festivities-â
You manage to get out of his grip and make a sprinting break for the yard, careful not to run by the pool area because you will never hear the end of it from Benji after several summers of yelling at him for the same. âYou are so in for it, Bren!âÂ
â-my beautiful wife absolutely must get into the pool she insisted we put in-â
Brendon catches you easily since you arenât really trying to evade him as all your friends and family clap. You hiss, âI will murder you after this.â
â-by any means necessary!â Brendon grabs you under your ass and hoists you above his head onto his shoulders with ease. Holding your legs tight to his chest while you balance above him, he walks to the edge of the water and you pretend to put up a fight by squirming just to annoy him. Brendon grabs his beer from the table and lifts it to the sky. âEveryone, please raise your glasses and join me in celebrating the love of my life, the mother of my five perfect spoiled children, who is way too good for me even on my best days, and now my fellow PTMC attending physician, Dr. Park!â
As everyone lifts their drinks and claps and whoops, Brendon takes one celebratory swig of his beer, sets it down, and then jumps into the deep end, plunging you both into the water. Itâs the perfect temperature for swimming even without the heated feature turned on and you surface with mock offense on your face. Laughing and wiping water away, you push him on the chest and say, âI hate you. Youâre by far the worst husband on the face of the planet.â
He nods in agreement as he pulls you toward him, able to touch the bottom of the pool several steps before you can. As you instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, he kisses you and murmurs, âIâm so fucking proud of you, baby. I know there was never any doubt youâd finish your residency-â
âDamn straight.â
â-but the fact that you did it all while being such an attentive mom and wife and-â
âPlease donât make me cry,â you whimper gently. You hug him tight. âThank you so much for supporting me and us all these years. We really did it.â
âWe really did,â he confirms with a laugh. Then he leans in close and murmurs, âBy the way, I managed to pawn all the kids off to their friendsâ places for sleepovers while you were mingling, so we have the house to ourselves tonight.â
âYouâre joking,â you reply, mouth open in true shock. You cup his ear and giggle, âYouâre telling me we get to fuck loud and uninterrupted tonight?â
With a shit-eating grin, he nods and kisses you hard. âThatâs exactly what Iâm telling you, angel.â
Then, having absolutely housed a corner piece of cake in a matter of milliseconds, Benji raises his pool noodle and proclaims, âNo kissing in the pool! Get âem!â
You shriek and bury your face in Brendonâs neck as four of your kids cannonball in at once, spraying water everywhere and immediately latching onto your and Brendonâs backs.
Late that night, with the house and yard cleaned up and the kids at their friendsâ or grandparentsâ places, Brendon pulls you into the oversized shower and rubs your shoulders under the water. For a few minutes, he just lets you soak in the steam and the quiet as he greedily touches you, no shouting children running around or banging on the door. Itâs been a while since the two of you have been able to shower together for more than practical time-saving reasons, so Brendonâs eager to hold you close even as he massages shampoo and conditioner through your hair. You can feel the pride and adoration in his every touch and in his content little groans when you return the favor, working him over with a sudsy loofah and following it with your hands.
Brendon trades off once heâs clean, cupping your soapy breasts and sighing happily into a slow kiss that you step onto your toes to give him. His fingers slip down your waist, over your thighs, through your pubic hair. He even drops down to his knees and lifts each of your feet to wash them, kissing your knees once the waterâs washed away the suds. Standing up again, he murmurs gently, âTurn around, sweetheart.â
With a big yawn, you move so he can get your back, definitely not selfishly working your muscles with his hands too.
âDonât tell me youâre too sleepy for sex,â he teases as you yawn again, leaning your weight against his chest as he rubs the loofah down your lower back.
You reach down and pinch his thigh vengefully. âDid I say that?â
âOuch! Fuck, baby, I take it back,â he laughs, tightening his arms around you. He bites your shoulder playfully before saying, âLetâs get you out of here so you can prove it to me, hm?â
âI like the sound of that.â
You turn around slowly and give him one more kiss before reaching behind him and turning off the water. Brendonâs quick to grab your fluffy towel robe, wrapping you in it before your skin can even consider getting cold. Before he can turn away, you rest your arms around the back of his neck and tug him into another kiss. He holds your face between his large hands and lets out a soft, breathy sound close to a moan. You love the little noises he makes when heâs so perfectly content. Noises that only you have ever gotten to hear.
Murmuring into the kiss, you offer, âTake me to bed, handsome.â
But Brendon shakes his head no and picks up your moisturizer from the counter behind you, presenting it to you with a pointed look. âDo your post-shower routine first. Youâll be all cranky if your skin starts getting tight and I donât want you thinking about anything thatâll distract you from feeling so fucking good you go brain-dead. Got it?â
You pout as you take the moisturizer and unscrew it, âTo be loved is to be seen or whatever.âÂ
Brendon starts in on his own routine, too, opening up the medicine cabinet. âYouâre almost out of the one you take in the morning â the modafinil,â he says as he collects your handful of bedtime pills the way he does every night, taking care of you in the small moments. âYou have an appointment set up for that already?â
âYes, I do, Dr. Micromanager,â you reply, all faux-huffy. With your skin care done, he hands off your pills and you take them with a few gulps of water from the sink. âI might ask to try something else, though. Itâs been a month on them already and I donât feel like theyâre actually helping me feel less tired. Plus, now that Iâm gonna be an attending, Iâll only be on day shift, so the whole Shift Work Sleep Disorder situation might resolve itself.â
âI hope so,â he sighs, softly rubbing your back. âI know we all go through it as doctors, but I hate watching you deal with something I canât fix myself.â
âMmm.â You give him a soft kiss on the cheek and smile. âMy knight in shining armor.â
He kisses your temple. âAnd youâll always be my princess.â
Then you toy with the tie on your robe, give him your most sultry eyes, and ask, âNow can you fuck me, Sir Brendon? Or are there any more tasks I have to complete first?â
âAll you have to do for the rest of the night-â he slides your robe down your shoulders, returns it to its hook, and begins to push you backwards, into the bedroom â-is let me worship you.â
As the back of your knees hit the plush, high-thread-count comforter, you softly laugh, âI think I can do that for you.â
âThatâs my girl,â he praises as he spreads you out on the bed, making sure youâre comfortably arranged among the pillows before he pushes your knees apart. When he sees your pussy, framed by those perfect dimpled thighs and your curls of hair, his cock throbs against the sheet and he groans, âFuck, baby. Canât believe youâre mine.â
You roll your eyes and smile down at him. âIâve been yours since I was 19, Bren.â
âAnd youâre only getting better,â he purrs as he leans down and laps at your slit. With your tartness coating his tongue, he pulls back, nods solemnly, and groans like heâs just chugged a nice cold beer after a long day of work, âYeah, thatâs the stuff right there.â
You giggle and cover your face with your arm. âStop being silly; you know it turns me on.â
âAnd the worst thing Iâd ever want to do when Iâm here between my wifeâs legs,â he muses as he slides his two middle fingers inside of you agonizingly slowly, âis turn her on.â
Your back arches while you stretch around him. Once heâs touching you, thereâs no more room in your brain for teasing or comebacks. All you can think about is him. His tongue makes familiar contact with your clit and youâre done for. You let yourself sink into the pleasure of being with a man who knows every centimeter of your body as well as his own. He eats you out the way he operates: Precise, practiced, self-assured, and with ten years of training under his belt.
Loose and warm from the night drinking and the hot shower with your hot husband, youâre easily enveloped by Brendonâs obvious desire. You slip into it as naturally as you breathe. His tongue pulses against your clit and his free hand travels upward until he can take your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He pinches and rolls until he finds that combination of pressure and skill to make you moan loud and uninhibited.
Brendonâs got you right where he wants you once heâs using both his hands and his mouth to get you off. If he could use something else at the same time to heighten it for you, he would. When he feels your walls tightening slowly around his fingers, he slows way down and makes you work for it. You whine pathetically at the change in pace and grind your hips down against his fingers to get them deeper and faster the way you need.
Finally â it feels like finally even if itâs been thirty seconds because youâre so worked up â Brendon pushes you over the edge. You clamp down tight around his fingers, thighs tensing around his head, and bliss burns down the candle of your body. Brendon surges forward as you instinctively try to squirm away, his hand going to your hip to hold you against his mouth. He always insists on you riding out every single ounce of pleasure he can give you.
Your gasps turn to little hiccuping moans in the wake of your first orgasm â because, as Brendon makes it very clear, there will be a second. And likely a third if he can get you into the right loose headspace where youâll go along with everything he says. He pulls off slightly, gently rubs your hip with his thumb, and asks, âDoing okay, baby?â
With half-lidded eyes, you giggle, âVery good, Bren. Gonna come fuck me now?â
âAfter youâve only cum on my face once?â He wrinkles up his face in offense. âNo fucking way.â
You fake-pout. âMaybe I want you to cum on my face for a change.â
Brendon rolls his eyes and gets back to your clit. You laugh for a second until the contact of his tongue turns it into a moan. He makes a knowing little sound and you grind down on his tongue to get at him, which only makes him more of a menace. He gets lost in it with your juices coating his hand and your pussy still fluttering greedily around his fingers. When he slips a third thick finger into you, the corresponding groan is music to his ears. Youâre used to how ridiculous fat his cock is by now, but heâs always sure to stretch you out with fingers or toys beforehand no matter what. No way is he ever going to hurt his perfect girl, not even on accident.
As you get positively stupid, making high-pitched pathetic sounds like ah ah ah, your hands find their way into Brendonâs dark curls. When you tug against his scalp, he whimpers into your pussy, madly in love with your taste, your touch, your tenderness. Everything about you turns him on, but especially the way you totally stop thinking as you lose your inhibitions. Your hips start to roll and your fingers get greedy and Brendon is the happy recipient of each unconscious writhe and wail.
Your second orgasm is slower, looser, less a train barreling through and more a ship rising with the gentle tide, unnoticed at first but unrelenting. You chase his fingers and, this time, he doesnât mess around with any teasing or slowing down. He stays the course, certain and steady as a compass, until he feels you burst around his fingers. Your moans turn to breathy coos as he eases you through the overstimulation and back down to earth.Â
When heâs satisfied with his work, Brendon crawls on top of you and kisses your parted lips. You lean up into the kiss with a happy groan, tasting yourself on his tongue. He kisses you deeply for a minute, one hand needy on your breast as he rubs your nipples, and you feel his hard cock grinding against your thigh. You reach down and palm his length, breathily begging, âCâmon, Bren, I need you.â
He kisses your neck, his tongue and teeth worshipping the skin behind your ear, over your pulse, above your collarbone. Sounding too self-righteous for his own good, he rasps against your ear, âYeah? Need to get fucked?â
You roll your eyes and groan at him, âI didnât get married to beg for dick when I want it.â
âPossessive, much?â
You squeeze his bicep â hard, a little mean â and whine, âHolding out for absolutely zero reason because you want it as bad as I do, much?â
âYeah, youâre right.â Brendon reaches down and pumps his cock a few times as you spread your legs wider to accommodate his thick thighs. As he lines himself up with you, feeling your warm wetness inviting him in, he murmurs, âYouâre always right.â
You grin as he ever-so-slowly pushes inside of you. âGod, you know how to talk dirty.â
He groans as your eyes roll back with the pleasure of him bottoming out inside of you, already looking so fuck-drunk from his time spent between your legs. This is his favorite thing in the world: Getting you off so well and so thoroughly that he can use you however the hell he wants and youâll just be a crying, moaning mess as you happily take it. He bends so that he can hold you close, your clit bumping against his coarse happy trail. Gazing down lovingly at the way your slick, swollen pussy lips envelop his shaft, he croons, âThere you go, baby. My pretty girl.â
Clutching his shoulders, you keen pathetically, âYou feel so good.â
âYou have no idea, baby.â He grips your ass hard, holding your body against his by the ample fat there. Grunting and trying to control himself, he breathes, âI swear you feel better every time I fuck you.â
You dig your fingernails into his shoulder blades and demand, âThen how about you stop chit-chatting and fuck me?â
âThatâs what I like to hear,â he chuckles darkly, grabbing your hips to keep you locked in place, unable to do anything but take his cock. And he pounds you. He uses the full force of those sculpted thighs and ass and stomach to snap his cock forward, only pulling half of the way out before slamming back in. His blunt head punches against your cervix; it would be painful if you werenât so perfectly molded to be his and his alone, your bodies knowing one another as well as your minds.
Once youâre whimpering and biting your lip and struggling to keep your eyes open from the unrelenting force, Brendonâs dominant hand travels away from your waist and between your legs. With a delicious roughness to his tone, he purrs, âI think you can give me one more, canât you? A big one, too, maybe even get me nice and wet if I play my cards right. What do you think, baby? Can you do that for me?â
When you canât come up with a response, Brendon takes your face in one hand, pushing your cheeks in and forcing you to make eye contact. âAw, sweetie, too fuck-drunk to speak? Thatâs okay; I think you can do it, so youâre gonna have to.â
Brendonâs rough thumb pad connects with your puffy, agonized clit and he rotates his hand so he can also press down on your mons, right where his cock is thrumming. Your hips buck from the sudden wave of intensity and he laughs at just how pathetic you look and sound. Immediately, you feel the head of his cock massaging your walls ten times as strongly.
The building pressure is enough to have you squirming and twitching and you cry out, barely able to speak, âI canât, Bren, I- Fuck! Itâs too much. Iâm gonna- I canât-â
âAw, come on,â he coos, all condescending and achingly sexy, âmy wife isnât a quitter. Just get out of that big beautiful brain and let go.â He presses down more on the bulge at your lower abdomen where his cock is filling you, the pressure bordering on unbearable. His voice takes on a truly selfish darkness that brings turned-on tears to your eyes. âI can tell youâre gonna squirt, honey, and youâre doing that thing where you try not to because youâre all bashful and embarrassed.â
You whimper as your toes curl into the bed, head thrashing back and forth as, yes, you try and try to resist. âBrendon, I swear to god-â
âNone of that,â he chastises. He pulls up the hood of your clit and puts more pressure on the exposed, swollen nerves below. Pressure, pressure, pressure. His voice lulls you into a softer, more open headspace as he assures. âYou know thereâs nothing to be embarrassed about with me. I want you to fucking soak me, baby. Let go. Thatâs all you have to do and youâre gonna sleep so good. Just let me take care of you. Let me take care of everything.â
Your eyes open and meet his, dominant blue, encapsulating as the open sea, holding you in the moment the way they always do. When you find his devoted, intimate expression just waiting for yours, your pussy starts to tighten. It comes with that overwhelming urge to pee that Brendonâs made you beyond familiar with over the years. Even though you know exactly whatâs going on, your brain still tries to yank up a wall to stop you from bursting.
But Brendon knows exactly what you need. His guidance. His patience. His insistence. His voice is nothing short of a growl now as he talks you through it. âThere you go. Just a little more, baby, and youâre gonna get there. Focus on my voice, not anything else. Let yourself relax and itâs gonna feel so fucking good for both. Gonna fill you up like you need.â
Youâd be weeping if you could manage any sound above a whisper. With your nails cutting into his skin now, you squeak out, âCum inside me?â
âThatâs right, princess,â he grunts as he works hard to stave off his own orgasm. Youâre just so gushing wet and perfectly tight and pulsing and everything heâs ever wanted and more. Losing track of his rhythm and falling apart in his love for you, he swears, âI need to fill your cunt. Need to feel you cum while I do it. Câmon, pretty girl, cum with me. Please. Itâs all I need.â
And you have to obey. Your brain whites out as the orgasm thrashes through your entire body, back arching, toes curling, thighs clamping. Wetness floods from your body, soaking your husbandâs hand and thighs. Brendon thrusts sharp and short through it, burying his forehead in your neck while your cunt milks him just right. He shudders as he spills inside of you, tasting your sweat on his lips and loving every moment of your orgasm that heightens his. While his cock softens inside of you, he plants kisses like a diamond necklace over your skin, murmuring sweetness and love until youâre completely, perfectly content.
Youâre so loose and comfy that you hardly register him scooping you off the bed and carrying you to the bathroom, where he cleans you up and kisses over every place his fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks. Heâs so strong he canât help it. You come back into your body properly sitting on the countertop with Brendon in front of you, kissing your cheeks and studying your expression.Â
After a moment of just gazing at you, he cups your cheek and drops his voice low and slow. âI love you, baby. You know that, right?â
You grin at the memory of his first âI love you,â which came alongside your first ultrasound with Benji. Just as you said then, you tell him, âMore and more every day.â
He kisses the tip of your nose and smiles, shaking his head boyishly like he did when he had a flop of lazy curls that he never put product in. âLetâs get some sleep.â
You glance at the clock on your bedside table and tease, âItâs barely ten, love. Are we that old?â
âI donât know about you, but I just had my brains fucked out.â He once again lifts you up easily, this time bringing you into your walk-in closet and grabbing some of his favorite skimpy pajamas of yours and guiding them onto your body. âIâm gonna need a solid eight to ten to recover.â
You shimmy into your clothes and then hand him a particularly sexy pair of gray boxer briefs you like the feel of against your ass in the morning. âDoes that mean I get wake-up sex?â
âYes, maâam,â he promises, nipping more kisses up your neck. He follows less than a step behind you back to the bed, arms around you and destabilizing you until youâre laughing. When he tugs you into his arms beneath the covers, he offers, âYou know what I was thinking?â
Snuggling into his chest once he turns the lights out, you half-heartedly murmur, âHm?â
âOnce youâve had your first day down at the Pitt,â he muses to your half-sleeping form, âwe should come up with an order for who we think is gonna figure out weâre together when. Trinity can get in on it, too, so we can swear her to secrecy.â
Warnings: absolute tooth rotting fluff, kissing (because wuh luh wuhh), reader is low-key a joker (as in very funny NOT the joker!).
A/n: I started writing this hours after making the mood board because how couldn't I resist writing about my wife. Olivia dean fueled this fic so let's all thank her. Enjoy lov
The sunlight peeked through your bedroom curtains, bright and warm, just like the weight on the right side of you.
Beautiful and bright, with dark hair and a softness about her you couldn't even begin to describe.
Today was Trinâs off day so you decided to let her take it easy, so with that you attempted to slip away from her warm body without her stirring awake.
To your surprise you found Dennis, âoh I didn't know you woke up this early huckleberry?â you tease him, opening up the fridge before searching for the eggs, bacon, and sausage.
âYeah I normally don't.â he said causally before smirking âbut I like to keep you guys on your toes.â he teased back.
Dennis was one of the many friends of Trinity's, that you enjoyed their company.Â
He was helpful around the apartment, everyone got along, and now you guys had a built-in friend.
âDo you need breakfast?â setting the ingredients on the counter with a soft force, scared that the slightest noise would wake up your hard-working sleeping beauty.
âNah, I'm actually about to head out, meet with Javadi and maybe Mel? I'm not really sure.â He looked puzzled at his plans, but you met him with a nod and continued to get a pan out to cook the eggs and bacon.
It wasn't too long into cooking that Dennis made it known he was leaving and wouldn't be out late.
You never really understood why he always added that last part in, it's not like you and trin would be mad if he was out late.
You were about to flip over the bacon when you felt a hand wrap around your waist, âGod, you're so quiet. Nearly gave me a heart attack baby.â you let out a quiet laugh.
âGood thing I'm a doctor.â she grumbled, her face resting on your back.
 âVery good thing, because you are sneaky.â you rest the spatula on a plate before turning around, meeting her beautiful green eyes. You move the fly-aways of her hair out of her face, âGood morning babyâ you smiled at the sight of her face before cupping her jaw in your hand.
âGood morning,â she said with a shy smile, you loved it when she did that. Leaning down to capture her soft lips in a gentle kiss before releasing her lips and admiring her.
âHave I ever told you just how pretty you are?â you whispered, soaking in the quiet morning.
âYouâve mentioned it a few times.â a faint smirk playing on her plush lips.
âYeah? Well let me just remind you how gorgeous you are, my pretty baby.â you said, wrapping your hands around her waist before pulling her up, she wraps her legs around you.
You walk over to your soft couch and sit her down, âGet comfortable baby, today is a relaxation day for this household.â you say as you walk back to the kitchen, âminus huckleberry!â you shout from the kitchen.
All you hear is her quiet laughter from the living room.
-
âHere you go, made by your masc-tor chef!â you say as you hand her the breakfast masterpiece you've made.
âTheres no way you just came up with that?â she laughed, taking the plate from you.
âI swear!â you throw your hands up in an exaggerated movement. âJust accept my greatness and we shall move on.â you try your best not to let out the laugh that's lingering.
âI accept all your greatness, I guess.â her voice full of a teasing tone.
âYou guess? Oh baby I'm ride or die.â you laugh stealing a piece of bacon off her plate, you plop down right beside her.
âHey! My breakfast.â she gasped dramatically, âSorry, you had to be taxed after being unsure about my greatness.â you tease.
âRemote, please.â Trinity's hand rests in the air towards you.Â
âYour remote, my lady.â You place the remote in the palm of her hand.
âDo you wanna watch this new medical show? I think it's on HBO max?âshe asked, taking a bite of her toast.
âIâd love to beautiful.â You said as you snuggled up to her.
â synopsis a chance meeting on a flight and sharing headphones with a stranger somehow leads to building your (fairly unusual) lives around one another.
or, a series of connected oneshots that follow your atypical relationship with dex
â general tags some suggestive content (mdni), fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, awkward situations, slowburn, canon typical violence, stalking, ddba!dex, implied neurodivergent reader, references to music
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: Johnâs hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.Â
âSo,â He offers, âFancy seeing you here.âÂ
And you so donât want to let him make you smile, but you canât help yourself.Â
âThis is a bit much,â He adds as youâre wheeled onto the elevator, âI mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.â
When you propel yourself out of bed, youâre blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.Â
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,Â
âYeah?âÂ
âYou okay in there?âÂ
You nod, though your youngest sister canât see you, then manage,
ââM fine.âÂ
âCan I open the door?âÂ
â...Yeah.âÂ
Itâs a moment before Lisaâs opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where youâre still sitting on the floor.
âAre you okay?âÂ
âYou already asked me that.âÂ
âYeah, but that was before I saw you looking likeâŚWell, this.âÂ
âWho taught you to be so sweet?âÂ
âYou did.âÂ
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. âAsshole.âÂ
âUh-huh.â Lisa folds her arms across her chest. âWhat the hell, by the way?âÂ
âI donât know,â You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. âProbably something I ate last night.âÂ
âCould always call your doctor friend and make sure.âÂ
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. âHa-ha.âÂ
âHe should be getting off-shift soon,â Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, âCould invite him over for a check-up.âÂ
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.Â
âThanks for all of your help, Li.âÂ
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, âFiiine. Iâm gonna get ready for class.âÂ
âYou need a ride?âÂ
âNo, Joeyâs gonna come pick me upâdonât.âÂ
âHm.âÂ
âDonât start.âÂ
âI wouldnât have to start if you werenât making bad choices.âÂ
âYou never like my boyfriends.âÂ
âThatâs because all of your boyfriendsââ You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, âSuck.âÂ
When Lisa doesnât answer right away, you figure that sheâs leftâbut as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.Â
âAre you sure youâre gonna be okay?âÂ
âYeah,â You nod, turning to face her. âIâm working from home today, anyway. Weâve got rice, weâve got broth, weâve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. Iâm fine.âÂ
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, thenâ
âI have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.âÂ
âGo to class and learn.âÂ
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.Â
You donât feel like youâre going to throw up again, but thereâs an pain in your side, one that you hadnât noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.Â
Of course, it couldnât hurt to ask a professional. You didnât block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little questionâ
No. No.Â
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.Â
--Â
âThis is John, the guy Iâve been telling you about!âÂ
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friendâs place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.Â
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
âHi,â You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:Â
âOne more time?âÂ
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.Â
âNice to meet you!â He smiled before glancing around. âItâs a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?âÂ
It was cooler on your friendâs fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.Â
âCan I ask,â You nodded toward the Dunkin.Â
âOhâYou want a sip?âÂ
âNo, no,â You shook your head. âI was wondering why you brought aâŚFrankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.âÂ
âI could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.âÂ
âJeez, what time do you start work?âÂ
âShift starts at seven. Twelve hours.âÂ
âExplains how big the coffee is.âÂ
âSure does.â He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. âYou sure you donât want a sip?âÂ
âUhâNo. Thanks.âÂ
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.Â
âYou know, I was curious about you,â He offered once heâd swallowed.Â
âOh?âÂ
âMhm. Heard a lot.âÂ
âGood or bad?âÂ
âGood, I think.âÂ
âLike what?âÂ
âLikeâŚYouâre the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourselfâŚAnd that youâre a stickler for punctuality.â His teasing smile made your belly flutter. âEven more surprised that youâre still here, considering Iâm late for our little set-up.âÂ
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommateâs sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. Butâ
âMaybe I was curious about you, too.âÂ
Johnâs bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--Â
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.Â
And while you could waste your time speculating about something thatâll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:Â
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that youâve been able to get down. Â
But that doesnât stop your body from revolting against you.Â
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridgeâyou just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldnât really be that, could it? Youâd checked all of the dates before youâd cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.Â
Itâs your period, it has to be. This doesnât feel anything like the last time you had food poisoningâat least, what youâre pretty sure was food poisoning.Â
--Â
âHow ya doinâ over there, champ?â
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. âI feel like death.â
âYouâre answering me, so definitely not death.âÂ
âI said I feel like death, not that Iâm dyingâugh,â You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where youâd been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, âGod.âÂ
âWhat are your symptoms?âÂ
âI really donât want to disclose that to you.âÂ
âOh, câmon,â John chuckled, âIâm a professional.âÂ
âNo!âÂ
âWhy not?âÂ
âItâs embarrassing.âÂ
âIt canât be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.âÂ
âWhatâs the most embarrassing thing youâve ever seen?â
âHonestly? Coupleâa days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldnât have been.âÂ
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. âAre you serious?âÂ
âOh yeah. He thought heâd be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.âÂ
â...Okay, this is one step below that.âÂ
âJust one?âÂ
The slight smile in Johnâs tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. âMaybe a couple.âÂ
âUh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. Iâll swing by with a goodie bag.âÂ
âI canât handle goodies right now, John.âÂ
âNot even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?âÂ
âIâm not going to be much of a conversationalist.âÂ
âItâll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.âÂ
âYou have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.âÂ
âWell, this girl Iâm dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.âÂ
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.Â
âFine. JustâŚgive me a five minute warning before you get here?âÂ
âSure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodiesââÂ
âJohn!âÂ
--Â
By noon, youâve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that youâre a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.Â
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.Â
Itâs a good plan in theoryâbut your head hasnât been down for two minutes before youâre clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade youâd taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.Â
You groan, resting your forehead against the sinkâand then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Ohâgod. Do you have the patience for this call right now?Â
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.Â
âWhatâs up, Lilah?âÂ
âHoly fuck, Lisa wasnât kidding. You sound like shit.âÂ
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.Â
âMom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.âÂ
âMm, but youâre the one who really honed them, generalissimo.âÂ
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that youâve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.Â
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.Â
âWhaddaya want, bean?âÂ
âI canât just wanna talk to my big sister?âÂ
âWillingly? It would be a first.âÂ
âAre you pregnant?âÂ
The thought nearly triggers another heave.Â
âDonât be ridiculous,â You snap. âDid Lisa tell you that?âÂ
âNo, butââÂ
âIâm on birth control, I have always used protectionââÂ
âThose things arenât always 100%, accidents happenââÂ
âAnd itâs been a while.âÂ
â...If youâre sure.âÂ
âJohn and I broke up months ago,â You remind her, âAnd even before that, we hadnât beenâŚâ You wince. âIntimate.âÂ
âBlegh, okay, we get it.âÂ
âIâm just sayingââÂ
âGod forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.âÂ
âLilah, for godssakeââÂ
âI still donât understand why you broke up with that man.âÂ
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. Youâve done your best not to think about Johnâyour âhowâs and âwhyâs and âwhat mightâve beenâs. The closest youâve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.Â
â...Okay,â Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which itâs meant. âNot pregnant.âÂ
âItâs probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when Iâm PMSingâand my cramps suck right now. Iâll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.âÂ
âAnd if youâre not, your uterus will hear about it.âÂ
âExactly.âÂ
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.Â
âAlright,â Lilah sighs, âThe principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.âÂ
âLilahâ!â
âKidding! Jesus. Feel better.âÂ
âThanks.âÂ
Lilahâs grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.Â
It isnât as if you havenât explained your break up to Lilah, because you haveâat least twice. But youâll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesnât matter. Itâs not her relationship, itâs yoursâwas yours.Â
--Â
âI donât think Iâm gonna get Christmas off.âÂ
âAw, really?â You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. âI thought you asked.âÂ
âI mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came upâmore of an informal request.â He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: âI put in for it, but itâs up in the air.âÂ
âHmm. Well if you canât, thatâs alright. Itâs just gonna be me and the girls.âÂ
âWhat about your parents?âÂ
You waved John off, shaking your head. âTheyâre going to be on a cruise.âÂ
âOof,â John sighed, slouching back in his seat, âYou think you felt bad when you had food poisoningââÂ
âOkay.âÂ
âThose floating buffet-laden crap shows.â
âOkay!âÂ
âNice scenery, though.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.Â
âWhatâs your mom gonna do if you canât get Christmas off?âÂ
Johnâs lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adamâs apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.Â
â...John?âÂ
Another moment before he shrugged. âWhat she does when I usually canât get the holidays off, I guess.âÂ
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. âSo whatâd you get me?âÂ
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch youâd spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, âAs if Iâd tell you.â
âCâmon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?âÂ
--Â
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
âYou know what, why donât we reschedule?âÂ
You try to tell her that youâre fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: âIâll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.âÂ
You manage a weak smile, an, âOkay,â and a, âPing me if you need anything,â before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you canât make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.Â
Itâs nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time youâre through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesnât hold, and thereâs nothing more you can do as your world tilts.Â
--Â
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, âHoly shit,â sounds so familiar. Itâs chased by, âHow long has she been like this,â and a frantic, âShe wasnât this bad this morning!âÂ
You groan as youâre turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
âLi-Li,â You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisaâs cheek. âHow was school?âÂ
âHow long have you been on the floor?âÂ
âDid that boy drive you?âÂ
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, âOn deathâs fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.âÂ
âLilah, shut upââ
âBean,â You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. âLilah, what are youââ You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, âWhatâreââ
âChrist, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!â Lisa snaps.Â
âWhereâsââ You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, âWhereâs my work laptop?âÂ
âOkay,â Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, âJust relax, okay? Weâre gonna get you help.âÂ
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. âIâm okay, Li. Tell bean.âÂ
âLilahââÂ
âIâm on with the fucking operatorâNo, I wonât watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!â
--Â
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but theyâre only a few questions in before theyâre loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that youâre being taken to Pittsburgh General.Â
Lisaâs climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.Â
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.Â
--Â
âCan we talk about Thanksgiving?âÂ
âSure. Are we rankinâ sides?âÂ
You shot a sidelong glance in Johnâs direction, eyes narrowed slightly.Â
âTrying to make plans, actually.âÂ
âAh,â He nodded. âYeah, we can try.âÂ
âMy parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,â You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? âAndâŚI mean, weâve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted toâŚMeet them, finally.âÂ
âYou really think theyâll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?â
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.Â
âItâs a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, butââÂ
âIf theyâre the deep fried turkey type and Iâm on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.âÂ
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. âForget it.âÂ
âIâm kiddingââÂ
âNot everything is a joke, John.âÂ
--Â
Thereâs so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patientsâand somewhere, not far off, your sisterâs panicked voice as youâre wheeled into a room.
âI'm gonna be okay, Lisa,â You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You canât help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure thatâs been applied to your right side.Â
âWeâve got rebound tenderness.âÂ
âWhatâs that mean?â You hiss.
âThat means,â A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, âThat weâre looking atââÂ
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that itâs you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.Â
âShen?â Someone urges, but heâs breathing out, âShit,â eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.Â
âYou know each other?â That same voice presses, and John manages,Â
âI wasâSheâs myââÂ
âOkay,â Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, âMaâam, Iâm Dr. AbbotââÂ
And youâre trying to listen, you are, but youâre also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you canât tellâ
âDo you understand?â Abbot tacks on, but no, you donât. You didnât catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. âYour appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.âÂ
âSurgery?â Lisa pipes up, âLike, now?âÂ
âAs soon as possible.âÂ
âWhereâs Lilah?â You whimper.Â
âOhâShit, sheâs going to the wrong hospital!â Lisaâs out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.Â
âListen,â Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, âIf we donât get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. Itâs still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.âÂ
âORâs prepped,â Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.Â
âIâll go up with her.â Johnâs at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you donât understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. Johnâs hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.Â
âSo,â He offers, âFancy seeing you here.âÂ
And you so donât want to let him make you smile, but you canât help yourself.Â
âThis is a bit much,â He adds as youâre wheeled onto the elevator, âI mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.âÂ
âJohn.â
âAppendix, too, you overachiever. Couldnât you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?âÂ
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.Â
âI mean, come on,â Heâs leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, âAll of this, just to get my attention?âÂ
âYouâre so full of yourself.âÂ
âAnd you know what youâre gonna be full of if we donât get that appendix out? Pus.âÂ
âUgh,â You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, âStop.âÂ
âBetter pus than Darth Vader, though.âÂ
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.Â
âPlease stop making me laugh, it hurts,â You whimper, and he mutters, âAlright, alright,â as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, âJohn?âÂ
âYeah?âÂ
âMake sure they give me the good stuff.â When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as youâre guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.Â
âFor you? The best,â He promises. âIâll tell them to check on your funny bone while theyâre in there.âÂ
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But heâs reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.Â
âIâm scared,â You whisper.
âI know. But itâs gonna be okay.âÂ
--Â
âI like him.âÂ
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilahâs mouth. Youâd already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, thoughâLisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).Â
You didnât answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, âWhat?â
âIâm waiting.âÂ
âFor?âÂ
âThe punchline.âÂ
Lilah rolled her eyes. âNo punchline. I like him.âÂ
Your brows rose at the insistence. âThatâs a first.âÂ
âWell,â She sighed, pushing herself up, âAll of your other boyfriends sucked. Iâm gonna raid your fridge now.âÂ
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. âWhat do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?âÂ
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.Â
âJust what I said.âÂ
âThey were all nice guys.âÂ
âNo, they were all assholes.âÂ
You scoffed, âThey were not all assholes.âÂ
âFine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.âÂ
âThey were all accomplished.âÂ
âYeah,â Lilah laughed derisively, âEspecially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. Howâs his prison sentence going by the way?âÂ
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. âHe was only fined and you know it.âÂ
âRight, right.âÂ
âWould you close the fridge door if youâre not gonna take anything? Youâre letting all the cold out.âÂ
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.Â
âAs I was saying,â You added, âThey were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can beâŚDifficult.âÂ
âIf by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, youâre usually all over âem.âÂ
âThat is not what I meanââÂ
âHedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that theyâre practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.âÂ
âThat was one guy!â
âYou know why I like John?â Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. âCause itâs like youâre not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.âÂ
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldnât tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:Â
âJohnâs ambitious, sure, heâs a doctor, but heâs also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And youâre not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. Youâre not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. Youâre just, likeâŚYou. Itâs good. Kinda freaky, but good.â She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.Â
âAnyway,â She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, âOnly a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. âThanks for the vote of confidence, bean.âÂ
âAnytime, generalissimo.âÂ
--Â
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. Youâre propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoyingâbut can you really begrudge something that reminds you that youâre alive?Â
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.Â
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and heâs breathing steadily. You canât tell if itâs light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. Youâre about to tap again, butâ
âAre you snooping through my messages?âÂ
Groggy, soft, warmâthereâs that sleep-roughened voice youâve missed so much. You smile a little.Â
âNo. Trying to see what time it is.âÂ
âMm,â John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.Â
âMaybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?â
âAM,â He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
âShouldnât you be home?â You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.Â
âYouâre up!â Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilahâs joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.Â
âDid you grab my phone?â You ask, âAnd did you callâŚYou know?âÂ
âWe didnât,â Lisa winces, âWe werenât sureââÂ
âNo, no. You did the right thing,â You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:Â
âDid you bring my work laptop?âÂ
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.Â
âIâNo.âÂ
âLilah,â You groan, âThat was, like, the one thing I asked you to bringââ
You barely get it out before sheâs stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, âIâll get her.âÂ
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. âShit.âÂ
âYou shouldnât be working right now, anyway,â John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. âHere.âÂ
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once youâre finished, offering, âYou want some more?âÂ
âNn-nn,â You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilahâs sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.Â
âBean, Iâm sorryâHey!â You call out as she turns away again, âIâm not mad at you!â But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. âGreat.âÂ
âYou want me to go get her?âÂ
âNo. Lisaâs gonna try to do that, anyway. And when sheâs pissed at me, Lilah needs time to justâŚDecompress. Trust me,â You huff a laugh, âIâve pissed her off a lot.â You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.Â
â...Shouldnât you be home?â You finally ask again.Â
âMmâŚYou want me to go?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âThen Iâm right where I should be.âÂ
And itâs so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but theyâre slipping before you can stop them. John doesnât tut, tell you that itâs alright, that youâre okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.Â
âWhen Iâm, um,â You sniffle, âWhen Iâm less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?âÂ
âUsing all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.âÂ
âDid they do the surgery?â
âNo, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.âÂ
âOh.âÂ
â...So next time you want my attention, Iâm thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.â He keeps on over your quiet gigglesââGetting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, whenâs the last time you were on a roller coaster?âÂ
--Â Â
Itâs nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She wonât tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.Â
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--Â
You canât remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but youâre coming up withâŚWell, never. On the odd occasion youâve gotten sick, youâve always managed it yourselfâbut this isnât just getting sick.Â
You can get around on your own, but itâs not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you donât have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. Itâs a way of taking back just a little bit of control after youâve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.Â
Besides, youâre usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, sheâs going to have IT lock you out.Â
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesnât answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You donât try to call, or FaceTime. Youâre not sure where youâd start if you did.Â
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilahâs at the apartment, and that sheâs sitting on your unitâs balcony, itâs sort of a relief.Â
--Â
You know those things are bad for you.Â
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.Â
âI thought you were gonna die, you know?âÂ
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesnât stop there:Â
âIâd never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, justâŚLaid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like âwell, shit. Iâm not gonna get to say goodbye.â And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,â Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, âAnd your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like âwell fuck. I fucked up again.ââ Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
âYou know what I think?â She exhales, âWhat this was? God or the universe, or fucking whateverâitâs telling you to slow down.â She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. âBecause your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop isââ
âI know.âÂ
âLike thatâs psychotic. And the worst part is you canât even blame the meds, like, youâre just like that.âÂ
âI know.â You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. âIâm sorry, bean. I shouldnât have said thatâand youâre right, I canât even blame the anesthesia.â You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. âI didnât mean to scare you.â
â...Well, you didnât. Your bitch-ass appendix did.âÂ
You snort, looping your arm around Lilahâs shoulders and drawing her in.Â
âI love you, bean.âÂ
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.Â
âI love you, too, generalissimo.âÂ
--Â
âSaw Lilah on the way in.âÂ
âYeah?â You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bedâgloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
âEverything okay?âÂ
â...Fine,â You concede, âShe just has a shitty sister.âÂ
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.Â
âOkay, letâs see what we have here.âÂ
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.Â
âHowâs the pain been?âÂ
âFine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.âÂ
âYeah, thatâs from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.âÂ
âHate the use of âcavityâ there.âÂ
Johnâs lips quirk with a smile. âWounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.âÂ
âLisaâs been a very good nurse.âÂ
âMm.â John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. âHas it been itchy at all?âÂ
âNot really.âÂ
âGoodâŚA heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.âÂ
âOkay.âÂ
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
âNo fever, chills?âÂ
âNn-nn.â
âAppetiteâs back?âÂ
âMostly.âÂ
âGood.â John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. âWhen we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Whyâd you wait so long to come in?âÂ
âJustâŚâ You shrug. âI thought it was my period.âÂ
âYour cramps are that bad?âÂ
âThey can be.âÂ
âYeesh,â He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. âWhen are you due back for your check-up, remind me?âÂ
âFriday.âÂ
âOkay.âÂ
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for Johnâs hand, he slips it warmly into yours.Â
â...Whatâd your parents say?âÂ
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.Â
âI havenât told them yet.â Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. âItâs kinda too late now. I meanâIâll tell them eventually. At this point theyâll just be upset that they werenât invited.âÂ
âInvited?â He scoffs. âIt wasnât a birthday party.âÂ
âYou know what I mean. I shouldâve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didnât, and neither did the girls, soâŚNow this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Yearâs Eve in two yearâs time, when theyâre good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.âÂ
âSounds like you already have it all planned out.âÂ
âI like a plan, remember?âÂ
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. âI remember.â Itâs a moment before he hedges: âRemind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?âÂ
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. âThat was some of it. Other times, I justâŚI felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,â You wave toward your abdomen, âYou know, how chaotic it was, how scaryâŚI kinda get it now. Why youâre so level.â
â...Doesnât mean I should be doing it all the time. Iâm sorry if I made you feel like we couldnât just have a serious conversation.âÂ
You smile. âIâm sorry I was so rigid. I shouldâve been more understanding.âÂ
âHindsightâs 20/20, huh?âÂ
âFamously.âÂ
John gives your hand a little squeeze. âI should let you rest.âÂ
âOkayâŚCan I selfishly say that I donât want you to leave yet?âÂ
âYes,â He chuckles. âTell you what. Iâll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you donât roll over in your sleep.âÂ
âOh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?âÂ
âOh, all of them.âÂ
âYou really know how to make a girl feel spesh.â
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes heâd worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.Â
âWould it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?â You mumbled.Â
âThereâs that word again.âÂ
âHmm?âÂ
âSelfish.â You feel John tip his head toward you. âWanting things isnât selfish. Neither is feeling things.âÂ
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.Â
âTell you what,â He murmurs, âWeâre gonna talk about this laterâfor now, you need your rest.âÂ
âWhen are we gonna talk about it?â
âThis weekend.âÂ
âOh?âÂ
âMhm. Youâre gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, weâre gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on SaturdayââÂ
âI seeââ
âAnd weâre gonna clear up all this selfish talk.âÂ
âAnd then what?âÂ
âOh, just you wait.âÂ
âDo I get a hint?âÂ
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.Â
âYou thought that first go-around was something? Iâm gonna date the crap out of you.âÂ
You smile. âIâd rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.âÂ
lowdown â after homelander names you the seventh member of the seven, soldier boy learns exactly what your pretty little party trick can do.
ride or die â soldier boy x supe!reader ( f )
miles â 9335 ride style â smut !!!
danger on the trail â explicit sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, soldier boy being soldier boy, power dynamics, canon-typical toxicity, vought/the seven toxicity, homelander being unsettling, emotional manipulation/power use, public humiliation, manhandling, thigh grabbing, light choking, mirror sex, semi-public risk/vought surveillance implications, praise/degradation, possessive behavior, no actual romance.
liv's log â a little self indulgent because i couldn't get this scenario out of my head after doing my compound v manifestation report .á đ
the elevator climbs so smoothly, you almost donât feel it move.Â
itâs intentional. vought doesnât let important people feel machinery. it hides all the ugly effort behind glass, gold trim, soft lighting, clean mirrors, polished metals that do not dare show a fingerprint unless someone very rich has approved it. even the elevator is expensiveâsterile and floral, some corporate interpretation fo calm sprayed into the vents so no one has a panic attack on the way to meet americaâs most unstable collection of national assets.Â
sage stands behind you with her hands folded in front of her, perfectly still, perfectly bored.Â
she hasnât looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead.Â
âhomelander likes symbols,â she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesnât.Â
you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. âdoes he?â
âhe likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.âÂ
you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator donât even pretend to be hidden. âgood thing iâm very grateful.âÂ
sageâs reflection looks at you then. her posture doesnât move entirely, just her eyes. âare you?â
âiâm here, arenât i?â
thatâs not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right nowâheâs making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.
that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful.Â
âhe wants the seven to have seven members,â sage continues. âthe joke got old.âÂ
âmustâve been a very painful time for branding.âÂ
âbranding survives pain better than people do.âÂ
you almost laugh, but you donât. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long.Â
the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didnât want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecrackerâs cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend itâs practical.Â
sage notices you looking at yourself. âdonât overplay it.âÂ
you drag your gaze back to the doors. âmy face?â
âyour devotion.â
that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words arenât a warning, but they donât land cruel, either. theyâre just enough to remind you she didnât get her place here by missing things.
you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. âi would never.âÂ
âeveryoen says that before they do.âÂ
the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow.Â
the hallway outside is colder, brighterâthe kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the sevenâs meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors.Â
homelander stands when you enter. thatâs the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sageâs hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if sheâs presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth.Â
homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecrackerâs smile sharpens in a way that shows sheâs trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat.Â
soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesnât move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told heâs the prize.Â
heâs bigger in person. uglier tooâbut not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. itâs the rest of him thatâs ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off.Â
homelander smiles warmly at you.Â
âthere she is,â he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. âhalo fever.âÂ
you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. âsir.âÂ
his smile deepens. âno, no, none of that.â he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. âweâre family here.âÂ
you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it.Â
âeveryone knows who you are,â homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. âbut i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal⌠after all the instability⌠after people treating this team like some kind of revolving doorâŚâ his jaw tightens for half a secondâthere and gone. âwe are moving forward. together.âÂ
firecracker nods vigorously. âamen.âÂ
the deep nods a beat too late.Â
sage continues watching the entire room.Â
and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesnât need to be; in a room trained around homelanderâs breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight.Â
everyone looks. homelanderâs smile doesnât drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues.Â
soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth.Â
âsorry,â he says, not sounding sorry at all. âjust thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.âÂ
the room goes quiet. it honestly wasnât the worst thing he couldâve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun.Â
you feel homelanderâs attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test.Â
you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your faceâhow easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it.Â
so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. âthatâs okay. i know itâs hard when new things happen.âÂ
the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boyâs eyes flick toward him.Â
the cheaper version of captain americaâs grin widens, meaner now. ânew? sweetheart, iâve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.âÂ
âoh, iâm sure.âÂ
âmost of âem didnât need a cape to get attention.âÂ
firecrackerâs mouth twitches. sageâs face doesnât move.Â
homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. âhalo fever,â he calls you.Â
itâs not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you donât ignore him. you donât make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to.Â
âyes, sir?â
his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. âyou alright?âÂ
âof course.â you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. âi just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think thatâs appropriate.âÂ
you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesnât belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choiceânot compete with it.Â
homelanderâs gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor.Â
âa demonstration,â he repeats, tasting the idea.Â
soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. âoh, please.âÂ
homelander turns his smile on him now. âscared?âÂ
the word barely changes soldier boyâs face. it would be easy to miss if you werenât already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam.Â
âof her pretty party trick?â soldier boy laughs once.Â
homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. âgo ahead.âÂ
your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.
the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecrackerâs fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesnât move.Â
his mistake.Â
you take one step toward him.Â
âthatâs close enough,â he says.
âis it?â
his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs.Â
itâs almost embarrassingly easy to find.Â
soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buriedâthey are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone elseâs bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines.Â
the gold under your skin flares.Â
soldier boyâs breath catches. itâs small⌠but oh, itâs everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer.Â
then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trickâthe glow. the real show is about to present itself.
his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the roomânot with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.
his chair scrapes back an inch. âcut it out!â his voice is lower now, strained.Â
you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. âi thought it was a party trick.âÂ
his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecrackerâs expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. itâs soldier boy, americaâs first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him.Â
you could push harder. thatâs the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel itâthe son, the mirror, the replacement.Â
your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts.Â
soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face.Â
You give him your prettiest smile. âcute party trick, huh?â
no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow itâs worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy.Â
homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: youâre not starlight. youâre not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. youâre not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machineâs newest favorite blade.Â
âsee?â homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. âthat. that is what iâm talking about.âÂ
soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it.Â
homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. âthis is the team,â he says. âthis is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.âÂ
sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness.Â
soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him.Â
homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. âsit.â he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift.Â
and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you.Â
homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when theyâre smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty.Â
ânow,â homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. âno more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.â
his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible.Â
firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leavesânot hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers.Â
âwelcome to the family,â she says, syrupy sweet.Â
you smile back. âthank you.âÂ
her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. âyouâll fit right in.â that one is not sweet.Â
noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because heâs still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander noticesâhe notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you.Â
thatâs the thing about homelanderâwhen he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. âbig day,â he says.Â
you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. âyes, sir.âÂ
his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. youâre beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience.Â
âyou did well.â not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment.Â
you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. âiâm glad you think so.âÂ
âi do.â he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. âwhat you did with himââ his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasnât moved from his chair. âthat was impressive.âÂ
soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose.Â
homelander hearts it and lets it live. âcontrolled,â homelander looks back at you. âtasteful. strong.âÂ
âi didnât want to overstep.âÂ
âno.â his smile brightens. âyou didnât.âÂ
and he shows it againâthe pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked.Â
homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof.Â
âyour suite is already prepared,â he says. âsage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.âÂ
our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.
âthank you. that means a lot.âÂ
âit should.âÂ
and then he smiles like he has given you something sacredâa place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close.Â
you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelanderâs shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be.Â
sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after heâs gone. then, sage speaks:Â
âthis way.âÂ
you turn from soldier boy without looking like youâre turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone elseâs careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open.Â
you follow sage into the hallway. she doesnât ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it.Â
the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again.Â
your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for americaâs heroes.
you nearly laugh. they work fast.Â
sage notices without looking at the screen. âthey had drafts prepared.âÂ
âfor me?âÂ
âfor everyone.â she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. âyou were just the first one homelander wanted this week.â honest. cruel. useful.
the lock clicks open.Â
your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problemâso beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasionâdaytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief.Â
they have made you a home out of costumes.Â
your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass.Â
sage stops beside you. âsecurity is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.âÂ
your lips press together as you absorb the information. âsweet.â
ânothing about this is sweet.âÂ
âi didnât mean it literally.âÂ
âi know.âÂ
you look at her then. sageâs eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage.Â
âheâll test you,â she says.Â
âhomelander?â
sageâs gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. âboth of them.âÂ
you donât answer, because nothing is private and she doesnât look like someone you can trust fully.Â
she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. âsoldier boy doesnât like being made small.âÂ
you glance toward her. âdoes anyone?â
âno. but most people donât have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.â her eyes settle on your face. âdonât confuse humiliation with victory. itâs noisy. victory is quieter.âÂ
âis that advice?â
âitâs information.â then she leaves.Â
the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.
for the first time since the elevator, youâre alone.Â
you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator.Â
the world is going to love this version of you.
you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothesâsoft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldnât break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place.Â
the door opens behind you. you donât even need to turn around.Â
âdidnât hear a knock.âÂ
soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesnât look ashamed to be thereâmen like him rarely doâshame would require manners.
âdoor was open.âÂ
âno, it wasnât.âÂ
âit wasnât locked.âÂ
you glance back over your shoulder. âthatâs not the same thing.âÂ
he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room.Â
you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present.Â
ânice place.âÂ
he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. voughtâs pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately.Â
his mouth twitches. âyou always this particular?â
âyou always this invasive?â
âusually worse.âÂ
he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo.Â
he gives that one a second look. âthey dress you up nice.âÂ
âthat supposed to be a compliment?â
âdepends on how sensitive you are.âÂ
you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. âyou came all the way here to find out?â
he looks at you then. not the way deep had doneânot at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. itâs the first quiet thing heâs done. for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sageâs warning differently.Â
heâs not here because he thinks youâre prettyâthough, he does. heâs here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didnât give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasnât intimacyâit was trespassing.Â
âwhat the hell did you do to me back there?â he asks.Â
you keep folding. âa demonstration.âÂ
âdonât give me that shit,â he spits out.Â
âthen donât ask questions you already know the answer to.âÂ
he steps closer. âyou think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?â
you smile down at the drawer. âlet me?â you repeat.Â
âyou heard me.âÂ
âi asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.âÂ
his jaw shifts.Â
you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. âand i didnât play with anything. if i had, you wouldâve known.âÂ
soldier boyâs eyes narrow. heâs too close now. not touching yetâbut close enough that you can smell him beneath the towerâs clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.
you could touch it again. but you donât.Â
that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. âyou like doing that? digging around in peopleâs heads?â
âitâs not mind control.â you scoff. âiâm not in anyoneâs heads.âÂ
âwhatever.âÂ
âand no.â you pause. ânot always.âÂ
âbullshit.âÂ
you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. âyouâre very committed to having a bad time in my room.â
âyour room.â he looks around, unimpressed. âyou been here five minutes.âÂ
âstill mine.âÂ
he lets out a low laugh. âeverything in this building belongs to vought.âÂ
you smile. âcareful. that includes you.âÂ
his expression goes flat and itâs beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. heâs choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.
he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through.Â
âdonât touch my thing,â you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. âselective hearing. great.âÂ
he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares whoâs in it, maybe. more because heâs looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes.Â
âthis your boyfriend?â he asks.Â
you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. âno.âÂ
he picks another one. âgirlfriend?â
âno.â
âfan?â
âare you always this desperate for personal information?â
âare you always this defensive?â he argues back.Â
âonly when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.â
his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. âstrange?â
âwould you prefer elderly?â
his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when heâs trying to insult you than when heâs trying to understand you.Â
âyouâve got a mouth on you.âÂ
âand yet you keep inviting it.âÂ
the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boyâs eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough.Â
you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then itâs just stupid. âi have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.âÂ
âbrood?â
âsulk, then.âÂ
âi donât sulk.âÂ
âyou followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.âÂ
the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesnât require performance because everyoneâs seen what heâs capable of.Â
when he speaks again, his voice is lower. âwatch it.âÂ
you look back slowly. this is the lineâwhere a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger.Â
you donât apologize. you also donât press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing.Â
âthen stop acting like i chased you here,â you say, and thereâs a drop in your toneâsofter now, almost bored. âyou came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.âÂ
his stare holds yours. then, because heâs either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer.Â
you move instantly. âhey!â too late.Â
his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smilesâslowly. âwell.âÂ
âput it back.âÂ
he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are prettyâpale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasnât holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomachânot embarrassment, exactly.Â
you refuse to name it.Â
âthese vought-issued too?â he asks. fucker.Â
âput. them. back.âÂ
he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. ânah. iâm gonna keep âem.âÂ
you step toward him. âiâm not joking.âÂ
âneither am i.âÂ
âsoldier boyââ
he looks up at your voice. âben.â the correction is sudden enough to catch.Â
you stop half a step away.Â
he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only thatâthereâs something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites.Â
âif youâre gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,â he taunts, âyou might as well use my name.âÂ
you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that itâs so visible he sees it.Â
âben,â you say, clipped and sweet. âput them back.âÂ
his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his headâeasy, lazy, infuriatingâusing every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly thereâs no polite distance left between you. just himâsolid and warm and too close.
his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it.Â
he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. âdonât you think about it.âÂ
âwhat?â
âusing that little power of yours.âÂ
you look back up at him. âiâm not using it.âÂ
âsure about that?â the question is quieter than the rest.Â
for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesnât know. not fully. he doesnât know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesnât know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone.Â
good. let him wonder.Â
âi donât need it for this.âÂ
his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him.Â
your fingers tighten around his wrist. âlast chance.âÂ
âor what?â
you lift your chin. the move brings you closerâclose enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet.Â
you keep your voice calm. âdonât make me ask again.âÂ
soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yoursâmean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks heâs hiding.Â
âor what?â he asks again. âyou gonna make glow, doll?â
you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated.Â
âno,â you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. âi want you to know this is you.âÂ
his smile fades by a fraction.Â
you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you canât overpower him that way. thatâs not the pointâitâs the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. itâs the way his eyes donât leave your face. itâs that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin.Â
âput them down,â you tell him.Â
for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. itâs too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right.Â
âtell me to leave,â his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still himâbut stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you.Â
you hold his stare. âif i wanted you gone, youâd be.â
his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him.Â
you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane.Â
soldier boy kisses like he fightsâdirect, hungry, impatient with anything that isnât surrender.Â
you donât surrender. not in the way heâd want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. heâs soldier boy. heâs homelanderâs father. heâs angry because you exposed him, and youâre turned on because he came back anyway. thereâs no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands.Â
his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs.Â
âall that control,â he murmurs against your mouth. âand this is all it takes?â
you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying.Â
âdonât talk.âÂ
his mouth drags to your jaw. âmake me stop.âÂ
you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flashâdark and brightâfurious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind.Â
âyou came to my room,â you remind him. âtouched my things.âÂ
âmhm.âÂ
âyou wanted this before i did.âÂ
his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. âthere she isâŚâÂ
âiâm not using it.âÂ
âyouâre glowing.âÂ
âbecause youâre pissing me off.âÂ
he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. âthen youâre gonna light up the whole damn tower.âÂ
your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lowerârough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit.Â
he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable.Â
cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes.Â
âlook at that,â he murmurs, voice rougher now.Â
you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind youâbigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflectionâwatching you watch.Â
the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands.Â
his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment.Â
his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left.Â
âsensitive.âÂ
âyou like it.âÂ
his hand closes more firmly around your breastâenough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. âi like this.âÂ
his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still.Â
his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. âfuck.âÂ
you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you.Â
âall this from a kiss?â he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges.Â
âdonât flatter yourself.âÂ
he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan.Â
his hand tightens on your breast. âsay that again.âÂ
you canât. not cleany.Â
his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure.Â
his name comes out before you can stop it, âbenââ
his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. âagain.âÂ
you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper.Â
your fingers slip against the dresser. âben.âÂ
âthere you go,â his voice drops, thick and pleased. âknew you could ask nice.âÂ
âiâm not asking.â
âyou will.â
you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room.Â
instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit.Â
he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine.Â
âpretty,â his eyes sharpen.Â
then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and heâs on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chestâhot and roughâand when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip.Â
the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his.Â
âthis thing cost them a fortune,â you manage.
he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. âthen they can buy you another.âÂ
his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach.Â
âdonât hold back now,â he says. âroomâs probably soundproof.âÂ
âprobably?â
his smile is brief and wicked. âguess weâll find out.âÂ
you pull at the front of his suit. âoff.âÂ
thatâs all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have.Â
something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs toâimpatient and rough with the fasteningsâhis mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry.Â
he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him.Â
he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too muchâyour body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face insteadâwatches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin.Â
âfuck,â he groans. âyouâre tight.âÂ
you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through.Â
he stills when heâs fully inside you.Â
your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though thereâs nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing.Â
âlook at me,â he says.Â
you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal wayâjaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you.Â
âben,â you whisper.Â
his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry.Â
there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn.Â
âtake it,â he manages.Â
you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it.Â
so does he.Â
his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything.Â
you kiss him through it, messy and desperateâfingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it.Â
âshit,â he breathes. âyou feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.âÂ
âiâm the one making youââÂ
he thrust deeper. you cry out. âme too, sweetheart.âÂ
his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder.Â
âoh, god.âÂ
he lifts his head, eyes on your face. âwrong guy.âÂ
you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did.Â
âthatâs it,â he murmurs. âthatâs what you need.âÂ
âdonât get smug.â
âtoo late.âÂ
âbenââ
âi know,â his voice drops. âi can feel you.âÂ
he can. thereâs no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. heâs not untouched. heâs not above this. heâs not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. heâs burning too.
âyouâre glowing again,â you whisper.Â
his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. âso are you.âÂ
your lashes flutter. he feels that too.Â
âyou like that?â he asks, voice darkening. âlike my hand there?â
you donât answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride youâve got left.Â
his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. âtell me.âÂ
âyes.âÂ
his exhale is rough. âgood girl.âÂ
the words land low in your stomach.Â
he kisses you again, and this time thereâs less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. youâre close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but thereâs nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin.Â
âcome on,â he mutters against your mouth. âlet me feel it.âÂ
you shake your head, breathless. itâs not because you donât want toâbut because the edge comes too fast and too bright.
âyes,â he squeezes once. âdonât pull away from me now.âÂ
your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you canât swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck.Â
âfuck,â he groans. âthatâs it. thatâs it.âÂ
he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin.Â
his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesnât need somewhere to put the sound.Â
when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. youâre still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin.Â
one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit.Â
âwatch,â he commands before he pushes back inside.Â
the angle steals whatever breath you had left.Â
you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear.Â
âlook at you,â he growls. âtaking me so good.âÂ
your eyes close from please.
his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. âno. watch.âÂ
you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. itâs filthy seeing it this wayâhim behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make.Â
âben,â you gasp.Â
his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him.Â
his rhythm roughens. âlouder, doll.âÂ
âben.âÂ
âagain.âÂ
you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive.Â
âi canâtââ
âyes, you can.âÂ
âfuck, noââÂ
âyou can.â his voice is low at your ear. âgive me another one.âÂ
you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at onceâyour body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck.Â
âthatâs it. câmon, baby. one more.âÂ
the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirrorâthe way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection.Â
he sees you seeing it and he doesnât have the breath to deny it. âfuck.âÂ
âthere you are,â you taunt.Â
he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. âdonât start.âÂ
heâs falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing itâs stamina.Â
âso damn tight,â he mutters. âfuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew youâd take it.â
your second orgasm builds meaner than the firstâdragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. youâre glowing everywhereâchest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you.Â
âcome for me.âÂ
it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him.Â
he comes with your name half-buried in a curse.Â
his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder.Â
his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you.Â
your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through.Â
his glow fades before yours does.Â
he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart.Â
behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.
you turn around.Â
your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up.Â
for one stupid second, you think heâs going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead.Â
you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. âseriously?â
his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. âyeah.âÂ
âgive them back.âÂ
âno.âÂ
your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. âyouâre unbelievable.âÂ
âyou were saying my name a minute ago.âÂ
you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. ânext time you walk into my room without knocking, iâll make you cry.â
his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. ânext time?â
you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. âget out, ben.âÂ
he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door.Â
at the threshold, he pauses. âiâm keeping these.âÂ
youâre glad he didnât turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin.Â
