Pairing: James Franco x Reader.
TW: Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral sex, fingering
Synopsis: Based on this request & this request.
Requested by @valiumdollface <3
The wallpaper in the hallway had always been the same—tiny roses climbing up cream-colored vines, slightly yellowed at the edges where sunlight hit them year after year. Grandma called it "charming." Grandpa called it "a goddamn time capsule." You called it home, even if home smelled like Earl Grey tea and the faintest hint of mothballs from the attic no one ever opened.
"You're humming again," Grandma said without looking up from her crossword. She sat at the kitchen table, pencil tapping against the newspaper.
"Am I?" you murmured, leaning against the doorway. The melody lingered in your throat—something half-remembered, something your mother might’ve sung years ago when she still visited more than twice a year. You hadn’t realized you’d been doing it.
The pencil stopped tapping. Grandma peered at you over her reading glasses, the kind with the chain that always got tangled in her sweater buttons. "That song," she said, tilting her head. "It's one of hers, isn't it?"
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how the air in the kitchen had gone still. The refrigerator hummed softly in the corner, the only sound for a heartbeat too long. "Yeah," you admitted, tracing a finger along the doorframe. "From that album she made when I was little. The one with the—"
"The carousel on the cover," Grandma finished, voice softer now. She folded the newspaper carefully, like she was handling something fragile. "You used to fall asleep to that record. We'd find you curled up next to the stereo."
A car door slammed outside, startling you both. Grandpa's voice carried through the screen door, gruff but warm. "Got the mail," he announced, followed by the creak of hinges. Then, lower, almost hesitant: "And, uh. Company."
You turned just as James stepped into the hallway, sunlight catching the dust motes around him like he'd walked straight out of one of your mother's old Polaroids. He looked different—older, obviously, but also softer somehow, his hair pushed back haphazardly, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held a bottle of wine in one hand and an uncertain smile in the other.
"Hi," he said, gaze flickering from Grandpa to Grandma before landing on you. There was a pause—just a fraction of a second—where his expression did something complicated. Then he grinned, easy as anything. "Wow. Last time I saw you, you were stealing my shoelaces to make bracelets."
Grandpa snorted. "She was ten."
"And I never got those laces back," James said, stepping further in. The floorboards groaned under his weight. "Your grandparents were kind enough to invite me for dinner. Hope that's alright."
You nodded, suddenly hyperaware of your socked feet against the linoleum, the way your hair was probably a mess from where you'd been twisting it around your fingers earlier. "Yeah," you said, then, because it felt necessary: "Mom's not here, by the way."
James blinked, then laughed, shaking his head. "I know. I—" He glanced at Grandma, who was now very deliberately rearranging the salt and pepper shakers. "I came to see you guys."
Something warm unspooled in your chest. You didn't have time to examine it before Grandpa clapped James on the shoulder. "Well, don't just stand there like a lost tourist. Help me open this damn wine."
As they disappeared into the dining room, Grandma caught your wrist, her fingers cool and papery. "Be careful," she murmured, so quiet you almost missed it.
She hesitated, then squeezed once before letting go. "The wallpaper," she said at last, nodding toward the hallway. "It's starting to peel by the stairs. Don't want you tripping."
Outside, a breeze stirred the curtains. Somewhere beneath the smell of tea and mothballs, you caught the faintest hint of James' cologne—something woody, something familiar.
You wondered if your mother would recognize it.
The wine tasted like cherries and regret—or maybe that was just the way James kept glancing at you when he thought no one was looking. Dinner passed in a blur of clinking silverware and Grandpa’s terrible jokes, the kind that made Grandma roll her eyes but laugh anyway. James laughed too, loud and unguarded, his fingers loose around his wineglass. You tried not to stare at the way his thumb traced the rim, the way his sleeves were still rolled up, revealing a faint tan line where a watch might’ve been.
"You’re staring," Grandma murmured as she passed you the mashed potatoes.
"I’m not," you lied, taking the bowl. Your fingers brushed hers, and she gave you that look—the one that said she knew exactly what you were thinking. You focused very hard on not dropping the potatoes.
James leaned forward, elbows on the table. "So," he said, "what’ve you been up to? Last I heard, you were studying—art history, was it?"
You blinked, caught off guard that he remembered. "Yeah," you said, pushing a stray carrot around your plate with your fork. "Finished last semester."
"Still painting?" James asked, and there was something in his voice—not quite nostalgia, but close.
Grandma cleared her throat. "She’s got a whole studio set up in the garage. Covered half my gardening tools in turpentine stains."
James grinned, that same crooked thing you’d seen in old magazine spreads. "Can I see?"
The fork slipped in your fingers, clattering against the plate. "Now?"
James shrugged, unbothered. "Unless you've got something better to do." His gaze flicked to Grandpa, who was already waving a hand.
"Go on, kid. Save me from your grandmother's critique of my gravy technique."
Grandma swatted his arm with a napkin.
The garage smelled of turpentine and the lingering ghost of gasoline from Grandpa’s old lawnmower. You flicked the light switch, the single bulb buzzing to life, illuminating canvases stacked against the far wall. Some were half-finished, others abandoned mid-stroke—a series of landscapes that never quite captured the way the light bled through the oak trees in the backyard. James lingered in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, taking it all in with a quiet intensity that made your pulse flutter.
"Wow," he said, stepping inside. His shoes scuffed against the concrete floor. "You’ve been busy." He reached out, fingertips hovering near a canvas where you’d layered blues and purples into something resembling twilight. "This one’s beautiful."
You swallowed, suddenly self-conscious. "It’s not done. The colors are all wrong."
James tilted his head, considering. "No, they’re not. They’re just not what you expected." He glanced at you, that same half-smile playing at his lips. "Sometimes things turn out better when they don’t go according to plan."
James' fingers finally grazed the canvas, tracing the jagged edge where your brush had hesitated mid-stroke. The garage felt too small suddenly, the air thick with the scent of linseed oil and something else—something like the charged stillness before a summer storm. You watched his profile in the dim light, the way his lashes cast shadows when he blinked slowly, taking in your work with a focus that made your throat tight.
"You paint like her," he said quietly, and your breath caught. Then he turned, meeting your eyes with an abruptness that startled you. "But it's not the same. Your strokes are heavier. More deliberate." He tilted his head, considering. "Less afraid to leave marks behind."
You exhaled sharply, not realizing you'd been holding your breath. The compliment—if that's what it was—settled between you like a shared secret. Outside, a car passed on the street, headlights briefly painting gold across James' cheekbones before the garage plunged back into yellowed bulb-light.
"You haven't answered my question," you said, stepping closer to adjust a leaning canvas. Your shoulder brushed his arm, warm through his rolled-up sleeve. "Why now? After all these years?"
James didn't move away when your shoulder touched his. Instead, he leaned slightly into the contact, like a tree bending toward sunlight. "Funny thing about time," he said, fingers now tracing the dried paint on your palette knife. "It stretches in ways you don't expect. One day you're standing on a movie set arguing about script changes, and the next..." His thumb caught a fleck of cerulean blue. "You're realizing you never actually tasted the peach cobbler your friend's daughter used to steal from your plate."
The memory hit you like a soft punch—five years old, sticky fingers, his exaggerated outrage when you'd taken the last bite from his dessert. You'd forgotten until this moment how he'd winked at Grandma afterward.
"You remember that?" you asked, voice smaller than you intended.
James' smile deepened the creases at the corners of his eyes. "I remember all of it." His gaze dropped to your paint-stained fingertips, then back up with an intensity that made your knees weak. "The shoelace bracelets. The way you'd sing along to demos completely off-key. That time you put glitter in my guitar case and I found it for months afterward."
The palette knife slipped from your fingers and clattered onto the concrete floor, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet garage. James crouched to pick it up, his knees popping audibly—a small, human sound that made you bite back a smile. He examined the knife with exaggerated seriousness, turning it over in his hands like it held some secret message.
"Still murdering the poor tools, I see," he said, rising and offering it back to you handle-first. His fingers brushed yours, lingering just long enough for you to notice the calluses along his fingertips—old ones from working, newer ones you couldn’t account for.
You took the knife, suddenly hyperaware of the paint smudged across your wrist, the way your hair was coming loose from its messy bun. "I should probably clean that," you mumbled, gesturing vaguely at the knife.
James shook his head, leaning back against your worktable. The wood creaked under his weight. "Leave it. Looks better with character." He nodded toward the canvases. "You ever show these to anyone?"
You twisted the palette knife between your fingers, the dried paint cracking slightly under your grip. "Just Grandma," you admitted. "She says they're 'interesting,' which is her polite way of saying she doesn't get them."
James chuckled, low and warm, the sound curling around you like the scent of turpentine in the air. He pushed off from the table, stepping closer to a canvas you'd been avoiding—the one where the colors had bled together in a storm of frustration, layers scraped back and rebuilt until the texture resembled tree bark more than paint.
"And this one?" he asked, tracing the air just above the surface, never quite touching. His shadow stretched long across the concrete floor, merging with yours near the baseboard.
You hesitated. That one held too much—the week your mother canceled her visit for the third time that year, the way Grandpa's hands had trembled when he tried to fix the porch swing, the way the kitchen smelled like burned sugar for days afterward. "It's just... practice," you lied, rubbing at a fleck of cadmium red on your thumb.
James didn't call you out on the lie. Instead, he tilted his head, studying the canvas with that same unnerving focus. The garage was so quiet you could hear the rustle of his jeans as he shifted his weight. "Funny how practice turns into truth when you're not looking," he murmured, finally touching the very edge where you'd gouged the paint with the palette knife. "This part here—" His finger hovered over the deepest groove. "It's like you were trying to dig through to something."
Your breath hitched. He saw too much.
The overhead bulb flickered, casting strange shadows across his face—one moment familiar, the next a stranger standing too close in your childhood garage. You reached for the palette knife still in your hand, needing something solid to ground you. The dried paint flaked off under your thumb.
James exhaled sharply through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. "You always did that," he said, nodding at your fidgeting fingers. "Even when you were little. Your grandma would braid your hair and you'd unravel the ends by sundown."
The palette knife slipped from your fingers again, landing with a dull clatter against the concrete. You didn’t pick it up this time. Instead, you watched James’ face—really watched it—for the first time since he’d walked into the house. The lines around his eyes were deeper now, the stubble along his jaw more salt than pepper. But the way he looked at you—like he was trying to memorize the way the light caught your eyelashes—that hadn’t changed at all.
"You remember too much," you whispered, pressing your paint-stained palms against your thighs. The denim was rough under your fingertips, grounding.
James huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back against your worktable. The wood groaned under his weight. "Occupational hazard," he said, tapping his temple. "Writers notice things." His gaze dropped to your hands, then back up. "Like how you still twist your hair when you’re nervous."
Your fingers froze mid-motion, tangled in a loose curl. You hadn’t realized you’d been doing it. Slowly, deliberately, you let your hand fall back to your side. "Maybe I’m not nervous," you lied, lifting your chin. "Maybe I just like my hair."
James grinned, slow and knowing, as if he could taste the lie on your tongue. "Maybe," he allowed, pushing off from the table. He took a step closer—just one—but it made the garage shrink around you. His cologne mingled with the turpentine, something warm and woody beneath the chemical sting. "But you always did that before asking for something too. Third grade, when you wanted my dessert. Sixth grade, when you needed help with your science project." His voice dropped, teasing. "What do you want now?"
The question hovered between you, loaded. You swallowed, suddenly aware of the paint smeared across your knuckles, the way your heartbeat thudded in your throat. "Answers," you said before you could stop yourself. "Why you're really here."
James stilled. For a moment, the only sound was the distant creak of the porch swing where Grandma and Grandpa were undoubtedly pretending not to eavesdrop. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it ached. "I told you. I came to see you."
"You haven't seen me since I was twelve."
James' hand paused mid-air, fingers tangled in his own hair. The garage light buzzed softly overhead, casting his shadow in fractured angles across the paint-splattered floor. "Twelve," he repeated, like he was testing the weight of the number. "You had braces. And that purple backpack with the—"
"Space cats," you finished automatically, then flushed when his eyebrows lifted. "It was a phase."
"It was adorable," he corrected, smiling in a way that made your toes curl in your socks. Then his expression sobered, shoulders dropping as he exhaled through his nose. "I should've come sooner. But after things ended with your mom..." His thumb rubbed absently at a fleck of paint on your worktable. "I didn't want to overstep."
The unspoken words hung between you—*I didn't know if I'd be welcome*. You studied the scuff marks on your sneakers, suddenly unsure where to put your hands. "Grandma kept all your Christmas cards," you offered quietly. "Even the ones after."
James' fingers stilled on the paint fleck. The garage air thickened with something unsaid—something older than the turpentine smell clinging to your clothes. "She kept them?" His voice came out rough, like he'd swallowed sawdust.
"Tied them with red ribbon in her bottom desk drawer." You kicked at a dried drip of ultramarine on the concrete, watching it flake away. "Said it'd be rude to throw away perfectly good stationery."
A laugh punched out of him—sharp and surprised—before dissolving into something softer. "That sounds like her." He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip, considering you with an expression you couldn't name. "And you? Did you...?"
"Read them?" You shrugged, pretending the question didn't make your pulse jump. "Mostly. The one from 2016 had a coffee stain shaped like Australia."
James laughed again, this time quieter, more private—the kind of laugh that curled around you like smoke from a campfire. "That was the year I spilled an entire latte on my tax documents," he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Must've bled through to your card." His fingers traced the edge of your worktable absently, following a groove where you'd once dug a palette knife too deep. "You never wrote back."
The accusation was gentle, but it still made your stomach flip. "I was fourteen," you defended weakly, picking at a fleck of dried paint on your wrist. "All my letters were about my pet goldfish dying and whether or not I should get bangs."
James' mouth quirked. "I would've read them." He said it so simply, like it was fact—like there was no universe where he wouldn't have pored over your teenage scrawl about goldfish funerals and bad haircuts. The thought made something warm bloom behind your ribs.
Outside, the porch swing creaked conspicuously—Grandma's not-so-subtle reminder that you weren't alone. James glanced toward the sound, then back at you, his expression softening. "We should probably..." He nodded toward the house.
You followed James’ gaze to the kitchen window where Grandma’s silhouette moved behind the curtains—too deliberately casual. The moment stretched thin between you, taut with the weight of all those unwritten letters and unspoken visits. James cleared his throat, shifting his weight in a way that made the floorboards groan. "Your grandparents still make that peach cobbler?" he asked, the sudden lightness in his voice almost convincing.
"Only when they're trying to bribe me into cleaning the gutters," you said, matching his tone despite the way your pulse still thrummed in your fingertips. You bent to pick up the palette knife again, using the motion to hide your face. "Grandpa burns the crust every time."
James chuckled, rubbing at a paint smear on his forearm. The motion pulled his sleeve higher, revealing a faded tattoo you didn't recognize—a tiny crescent moon tucked near his elbow. "Some things never change." His fingers lingered near the ink, then dropped abruptly as the back door squealed open.
"Kids!" Grandpa's voice carried across the yard, rough with faux exasperation. "Either come eat this damn pie or help me scrape it off the pan!"
The pie was, predictably, burned at the edges—Grandpa’s signature touch—but the peaches in the center were still warm and syrupy, clinging to the tines of your fork as you twisted it absently. James sat across from you at the kitchen table, his sleeves still rolled up, a faint streak of cadmium red now smudged near his elbow from where he’d leaned against your worktable. You wondered if he’d notice it later, in some hotel mirror, and remember the exact shade of your garage light.
"You’re quiet," Grandma observed, passing James the whipped cream. Her eyes flicked to you, then away, too knowing.
"Just thinking," you said, stabbing at your pie with more force than necessary. The crust shattered audibly.
James smirked, dolloping cream onto his slice with exaggerated care. "Dangerous habit." He licked a drop off his thumb, and you looked away too quickly, heat crawling up your neck.
The whipped cream canister sputtered in James' hands, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet kitchen. He frowned at it, giving it an experimental shake. "Out of ammo," he announced, tapping the nozzle against his palm.
Grandma sighed, pushing back from the table. "I'll get the backup." She disappeared into the pantry, her slippers whispering against the linoleum.
James watched her go, then turned his attention to the pie plate, nudging it toward you with his knuckles. "You gonna finish that?" he asked, nodding at your mangled slice.
You pushed the plate toward him, your fork scraping loudly. "All yours."
James' fingers brushed yours as he took the plate, lingering just long enough for you to feel the calluses again—the rough texture of pen ink. He scooped up the remains of your pie with deliberate slowness, like he was savoring the act itself as much as the dessert. "Still can't handle crust," he murmured, glancing up through his lashes. "Some things never change."
You flexed your fingers under the table, still warm where he'd touched you. The kitchen clock ticked obtrusively above the sink, each second stretching like taffy. Grandma was taking suspiciously long with that whipped cream.
James swallowed the last bite and set the fork down with a soft clink. His thumb traced the rim of his water glass, leaving smudges in the condensation. "You know," he said abruptly, "that tattoo you asked about earlier—" He rolled up his sleeve further, revealing the full crescent moon. "Got it the summer after..." He trailed off, but you knew. After your mother. After the muse period. After everything.
You reached out before you could stop yourself, fingertips hovering just above his skin. The ink was faded at the edges, the lines gone soft with time. "Why a moon?"
James' pulse jumped under your fingertips—just once—before he stilled completely. The moon tattoo looked like something from a dream you'd half-forgotten, its edges blurred as if he'd been underwater when they inked it.
"Because," he said slowly, watching your fingers hover above his skin, "moons don't disappear. They just..." His breath hitched when your fingertip finally grazed the faded ink. "Change shape."
Grandma dropped a canister of whipped cream on the counter with a thud that made you both startle. You snatched your hand back, but not before you saw the way James' throat worked when he swallowed—like he'd tasted something bittersweet.
Grandma arched an eyebrow as she unscrewed the cap with deliberate slowness. "Backup's expired," she announced, shaking the can. The nozzle spurted weakly, dribbling cream onto the counter in a sad little puddle.
The canister hissed one last pitiful spurt of cream onto the counter before Grandma tossed it into the trash with more force than necessary. James cleared his throat, rolling his sleeve back down over the moon tattoo with careful precision—like he was covering up evidence.
"Guess we'll have to suffer through dry pie," he said, but his voice came out uneven.
You stared at your empty plate, the tines of your fork leaving tiny scratches in the ceramic. The kitchen air felt charged suddenly, thick with all the things you hadn’t said—about tattoos, about time, about how his skin had felt warm under your fingertips. Grandma wiped the counter briskly, her sponge moving in tight, agitated circles.
"Well," she declared abruptly, tossing the sponge into the sink. "I'm beat." She untied her apron with sharp tugs. "James, you're on dish duty since you ate most of the pie."
James grinned, already rolling his sleeves higher as Grandma swept past him. "Yes ma'am." His elbow bumped yours as he reached for the plates—an accident that didn't feel like one. You watched his forearms flex under the soapy water, the moon tattoo disappearing beneath suds.
"You're staring again," he murmured without turning around.
The dish towel in your hands twisted tight. "Am not."
James passed you a dripping plate. "Liar." His fingers lingered under the pretense of ensuring you had a good grip. The water was too warm, his touch too deliberate. You wondered if he could feel your pulse through the ceramic.
The plate slipped between your fingers, landing in the sink with a clatter loud enough to make Grandma pause in the hallway. James didn’t flinch—just fished it out with a chuckle, his fingers brushing yours again in the soapy water. "Still butterfingers," he teased, shaking droplets off the plate before handing it back.
You took it with a huff, drying it more aggressively than necessary. "Still annoying," you shot back, but the insult lacked heat. James grinned like he knew.
Grandma reappeared in the doorway, her sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows. "James," she said, too casually, "the guest room’s made up if you want to stay. It’s getting late."
James' hands stilled in the water. He glanced at you—just a flicker—before turning to Grandma with that easy smile. "I wouldn’t want to impose."
"Nonsense," Grandma said, already plucking a spare toothbrush from the cabinet. The way she rattled the medicine drawer suggested she'd planned this. "You'll break your neck driving those winding roads in the dark."
James shot you a look—half amusement, half plea—as Grandma brandished a towel like a matador. You shrugged, fighting a smile. "She's not wrong about the roads."
James exhaled through his nose, shoulders relaxing as he surrendered. "Alright." He accepted the towel, his fingers brushing Grandma's for a beat too long. A silent conversation passed between them—something that made Grandma's eyes soften before she busied herself folding dishrags.
The guest room smelled like lavender and mothballs, the same as it had when you were twelve and hid there during thunderstorms. You lingered in the doorway as James set his bag on the quilt—the one Grandma had knit the year your mother first left on tour. His fingers lingered on the stitching before he turned abruptly, catching you watching.
The guest room lamp flickered when James flipped the switch, casting his shadow long across the quilt—stretching toward you like an invitation. He paused mid-motion, one hand still on his bag’s zipper, and tilted his head. "You gonna hover there all night?"
You stepped inside before you could overthink it, the floorboards creaking under your socks. The room felt smaller with both of you in it, the air thick with lavender and the faintest hint of James' cologne clinging to his collar. "Just making sure you don’t steal the good towels," you said, nodding toward the embroidered ones Grandma reserved for "company."
James snorted, unzipping his bag with deliberate slowness. "Wouldn’t dream of it." He pulled out a worn t-shirt, the fabric soft-looking from years of washing. You recognized the band logo—one your mother had played constantly during that brief, hazy summer when James had lived in the pool house. The memory hit you like a missed stair step.
"You still have that?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
James froze mid-fold, the shirt dangling from his fingers like a flag of surrender. The guest room’s lone bulb buzzed overhead, casting his face in sharp relief—the way his lashes shadowed his cheekbones, the faint stubble along his jaw that hadn’t been there when you were twelve. "Yeah," he said finally, voice rougher than you expected. "Some things stick."
You hovered near the dresser, tracing a chip in the varnish with your thumbnail. The silence stretched taut between you, broken only by the distant hum of Grandma’s TV downstairs. James shook out the shirt with exaggerated care, avoiding your eyes. "Your mom gave it to me," he admitted, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. "After that show in Santa Fe."
The admission settled between you like a fallen leaf—light, but with edges that could still cut. You remembered that summer: the way your mother's laughter had sounded different around James, how she'd left her bedroom window open so the sound of his late-night guitar playing could drift in. The shirt in his hands was a relic from a time when you'd been too young to understand why his presence made the air feel charged.
"You kept it," you said softly, watching his fingers tighten around the fabric.
James exhaled through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Sentimentality's a hell of a drug." He tossed the shirt onto the bed, the fabric landing in a careless heap that contradicted the careful way he'd handled it moments ago.
You traced the dresser's chipped edge harder, the splintered wood catching on your skin. "Did you keep anything of mine?" The question tumbled out before you could swallow it back.
James went perfectly still. The guest room’s lone bulb flickered again, elongating his shadow across the quilt as if stretching toward some unspoken answer. He exhaled sharply through his nose—not quite a laugh—and reached into his back pocket.
The shoelace bracelet was frayed at the edges, the colors faded from years of handling. You recognized the pattern instantly—the uneven knots you’d made at summer camp when you were nine, the way the purple threads had bled into the blue after you’d worn it swimming. James ran his thumb over the weathered fibers, his voice dropping to something barely audible. "Never took it off until the threads started snapping."
Your breath caught. He'd kept it. All this time.
The realization hit you like a rogue wave—knocking the air from your lungs, leaving you scrambling for footing. James watched you with that same quiet intensity he’d used on your paintings earlier, like he was trying to memorize the exact shade of your surprise.
The bracelet dangled from his fingers, swinging slightly like a pendulum counting down to something inevitable. You reached out without thinking, your fingertips grazing the frayed ends—touching proof that all those childhood moments you'd assumed were forgettable had been pocketed like pebbles in his memory.
"Jesus," you breathed, wrapping a loose thread around your index finger until the tip turned pink. "I can't believe you—" The words dissolved as James' hand shifted, his palm upturning so the bracelet pooled against his lifeline. The gesture felt unbearably intimate—like he was offering you back a piece of yourself you hadn't realized was missing.
James exhaled sharply through his nose when your fingers brushed his palm, but he didn't pull away. "Kept it in my laptop bag for years," he admitted, voice roughened by something that wasn't laughter. "Found it again when I was unpacking." His thumb stroked the faded fibers absently, the motion achingly familiar.
You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you stood—close enough to see where his collar was fraying, to catch the faint scent of detergent and something uniquely James beneath it. The guest room seemed to shrink around you, the walls pressing in until all you could focus on was the pulse visible beneath the delicate skin of his wrist.
The bracelet trembled between you, suspended in the charged silence. James' fingers twitched—not pulling away, but shifting just enough to let the worn threads slip into your palm instead. Your pulse jumped as the bracelet settled against your skin, still warm from his pocket.
"Seems like it's yours again," he murmured, his knuckles brushing your wrist as he withdrew.
You curled your fingers around the bracelet, the fibers rough and familiar. The guest room air felt thick suddenly—too warm, too still—as if even the dust motes hovering in the lamplight were holding their breath.
James cleared his throat and turned back to his bag with forced nonchalance, digging through its contents like he hadn't just handed you a piece of your shared history. "So," he said, too casually, "what time does your grandma usually—"
The bedroom door creaked open before you could answer. Grandma stood silhouetted in the hallway, holding two steaming mugs that smelled suspiciously like her "special" bedtime tea—the one she only brought out for heart-to-hearts. Her gaze flicked between you and James, lingering on the bracelet clutched in your fist.
"Thought you kids could use some chamomile," she said, thrusting the mugs forward with a knowing look that made your ears burn.
James accepted his with a too-bright smile. "You read my mind, Patricia." His pinky finger brushed yours as you took your mug—a fleeting touch that sent heat racing up your arm.
Grandma hovered in the doorway, her slippers tapping an impatient rhythm against the hardwood. "Well?" she prompted when neither of you moved. "Drink up before it gets cold."
The chamomile tea scalded your tongue when you took too quick a sip, the burn distracting you from Grandma’s scrutinizing gaze. James blew on his steaming mug with exaggerated care, his lips quirking when you scowled at him over the rim of your cup.
"You still take honey in yours?" he asked, already reaching for the little pot Grandma had set on the nightstand.
You nodded before realizing—he shouldn’t know that. Not unless he’d paid attention twelve years ago, watching you dump spoonfuls into your nighttime tea after bad dreams. James stirred the honey in with the precision of someone who’d done it before, the spoon clinking three precise times against the ceramic before he handed it back.
Grandma cleared her throat. "I’ll leave you to it," she said, but the way her fingers lingered on the doorframe said otherwise. James raised his mug in a mock toast, the steam curling around his face as he took a slow sip. The moment the door clicked shut, his shoulders dropped half an inch—a tell you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been watching so closely.
James set his mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic barely muffling the tremor in his fingers. You watched the steam curl upward between you—ghostly tendrils dissolving into the lavender-scented air. The bracelet lay heavy in your palm, its frayed ends tickling your skin like a half-remembered whisper.
"You’re still gonna wear it?" His voice was low, roughened by the tea or something else. His eyes flicked to your wrist where the bracelet should’ve been—where it *had* been, twelve summers ago.
You shook your head, suddenly hyperaware of your bare wrists, the way your pulse jumped beneath thin skin. "Lost the habit." The lie tasted bitter, worse than the oversteeped chamomile.
James hummed, noncommittal. His fingers traced the rim of his mug where the glaze had worn thin. Outside, an owl called—two mournful notes that made the guest room feel even smaller, the walls pressing closer.
The mug trembled in your hands as James leaned back against the dresser, the wood creaking softly under his weight. His gaze tracked the path of your thumb rubbing absently over the bracelet—your nervous habit mirrored in the way his own fingers tapped restless rhythms against his thigh.
"You kept it all these years," you said, more statement than question. The bracelet’s threads had darkened with age, the blues and purples muted into something duskier. Like the colors in your mother’s old photographs.
James exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. "Told you. Occupational hazard." He rolled his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his back. "Writers hoard memories like squirrels with acorns."
The comparison should’ve been funny, but something in his tone made your stomach tighten. You unspooled the bracelet between your fingers, testing its give. "And painters?" you asked quietly. "What’s our hazard?"
James’ fingers stilled against his mug. His gaze flickered to your paintings leaning against the far wall—the ones he'd studied with unsettling intimacy earlier. "Painters," he said slowly, "see everything twice. Once when it happens." His voice dropped, gravel-rough. "Again when they mix the exact shade to remember it by."
The bracelet slipped from your fingers, landing with a whisper-soft sound on the quilt. You reached for your tea to hide the tremor in your hands, but the mug was empty save for a few clinging chamomile petals. James watched them swirl as you tilted the cup, his reflection fracturing in the ceramic curve.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose screen on the guest room window. The sound startled you—an excuse to step away—but James moved faster. His palm pressed flat against the rattling pane before you could blink, his sleeve riding up to reveal the crescent moon tattoo again.
"Still broken," he murmured, jiggling the window frame. The motion made his forearm flex—a detail you shouldn't have noticed.
The rattling window stilled under James’ palm, his fingers splayed wide against the glass like he was trying to press something back into place. Moonlight spilled through the warped panes, striping his forearm in liquid silver—the tattoo disappearing and reappearing with each shift of his muscles. You stared, transfixed, until his throat cleared.
"Your grandma still got that toolbox?" he asked, too casual, already crouching to examine the window latch. His knee popped audibly—a sound that shouldn’t have been endearing. "The red one with the—"
"—ducks on it," you finished automatically, then froze when James glanced up, his lips twitching. "Don’t," you warned, heat crawling up your neck.
James held up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Wasn’t gonna say a word." He nudged the window frame with his knuckles, testing its give. "Though if you know where she keeps the screwdriver..."
The toolbox rattled when you lifted it from the hall closet, its weight familiar—Grandpa’s old red metal case with the peeling duck decals you’d stickered there at age seven. James knelt by the window when you returned, his shirt stretched tight across his shoulders as he wrestled with the stubborn latch.
"Need a—" You reached past him with the screwdriver, your forearm brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through you, sudden and electric. James inhaled sharply, his fingers closing around the tool a second too late, his pinky hooking around yours in a fleeting caress.
"Thanks," he murmured, voice low enough to raise the fine hairs on your neck. He turned back to the window with forced focus, twisting the screwdriver with more force than necessary. The latch groaned in protest.
You watched his hands work—the same hands that had strummed guitars on late-night talk shows, that had penned lyrics half the world swooned over. Now they fumbled with a rusted window latch in your grandparents’ guest room, knuckles whitening with effort.
The screwdriver slipped with a metallic screech, sending James lurching forward—his shoulder knocking into yours with enough force to make you stumble. You caught yourself against his back, palms flattening against the heat of him through cotton. His breath hitched audibly, muscles locking under your touch.
"Shit," he muttered, more to the window than to you. The screwdriver clattered to the floorboards between his knees.
You didn't move. Couldn't. Not with the way his spine arched slightly under your hands, not with the smell of his shampoo—something woodsy and faintly citrus—filling your lungs. The window reflected your tangled silhouette back at you: his dark head bowed, your fingers curled into his shirt like you were anchoring yourself.
James turned his head just enough to catch your gaze in the glass. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the hazel whole. "You okay?" The question came out rough, like he'd been running.
Your fingers twitched against his back, the fabric warm from his skin. The windowpane reflected his parted lips back at you—close enough to see the faint scar above his upper lip where he'd split it open years ago. You remembered that scar from tabloid photos, remembered tracing it with your thumb on magazine pages when no one was looking.
"Fine," you lied, voice cracking like the old floorboards beneath your knees. James exhaled sharply through his nose—not quite a laugh—and twisted slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes directly instead of through the glass. Up close, his irises weren't just hazel but striated with gold flecks like sunlight through whiskey.
The toolbox lid slipped from your grip with a metallic clang, sending screwdrivers rolling across the floor. James caught one before it hit the baseboard, his fingers closing over yours around the cold steel. "Still butterfingers," he murmured, but his thumb stroked your knuckle in a way that made your pulse stutter.
Outside, the porch swing creaked—Grandma's not-so-subtle reminder. You jerked back, your knees hitting the toolbox with a dull thud. James' grip tightened instinctively, keeping you from toppling backward. His other hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in without touching.
The scent of lavender thickened between you, mixed now with the metallic tang of the spilled toolbox. James didn’t move—his forearm still braced against the wall, his breath warm where it ghosted over your collarbone. You could count his eyelashes from this distance, see where his stubble faded into softer skin near his mouth.
"You should probably let go," you whispered, though your fingers stayed curled around the screwdriver between you.
James' throat worked as he swallowed. His grip loosened, but his knuckles brushed your inner wrist as he withdrew—a touch that lingered like a question. The screwdriver clattered to the floor between you, the sound too loud in the quiet room.
Downstairs, Grandma's TV switched channels with a burst of static. James exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed off the wall, putting careful distance between you. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed in a way that made your fingers twitch with the urge to smooth it.
The screwdriver rolled under the bed with a metallic clatter, the sound jarring in the sudden quiet. James exhaled sharply through his nose—half laugh, half surrender—and pushed up from his crouch, his knees popping audibly. "Guess that latch is staying broken," he murmured, brushing wood dust from his jeans with quick, distracted strokes.
You stayed frozen against the wall, the floral wallpaper pressing into your shoulder blades. Moonlight slanted through the now-still window, striping James’ forearms where his sleeves were still rolled up. The crescent tattoo peeked out from the fabric, edges softened by years and poor lighting.
James glanced at you sidelong, his fingers pausing mid-brush against his thigh. "You’re staring," he said softly, not unkindly.
Your throat clicked when you swallowed. "Am not."
The bracelet dangled from your fingers like a pendulum, its frayed threads catching the lamplight. James watched it swing—once, twice—before reaching out to still it with a fingertip. His touch was featherlight, barely there, but the contact sent a tremor up your arm that had nothing to do with the drafty window.
"You kept it," you repeated, stupidly, because the words kept catching in your throat like burrs.
James' mouth curved at one corner—not quite a smile. "Told you I would." His thumb brushed the uneven knot you'd tied twelve summers ago, the gesture achingly familiar. "Even when the purple started bleeding into the blue."
The confession hung between you, suspended like dust motes in the lamplight. Somewhere downstairs, Grandma's TV switched to a commercial, the sudden burst of laughter making you both startle. James' fingers flexed around the bracelet, his knuckles whitening for a heartbeat before he gently pried it from your grip.
James tucked the bracelet into his pocket with careful precision, his fingers lingering against the fabric like he was memorizing its weight. The guest room air thickened with the scent of spilled chamomile and the sharp tang of old metal from the toolbox. You flexed your fingers against your thighs, still feeling the ghost of his touch on your wrist.
"Should probably clean this up," James muttered, gesturing to the scattered tools with a forced lightness that didn't reach his eyes. He crouched, his knees cracking audibly against the hardwood as he gathered screwdrivers with exaggerated focus.
You knelt beside him, the floorboards creaking under your weight. Your pinky brushed against his when you both reached for the same wrench—a fleeting contact that made James freeze mid-motion. His breath hitched, barely audible above the hum of Grandma's TV downstairs.
The wrench clattered against the others as you dropped it too quickly. James exhaled through his nose—a sound that wasn't quite a laugh—and closed the toolbox with a decisive click. His fingers lingered on the duck decal you'd stuck there as a child, the edges peeling from years of handling.
The toolbox lid clicked shut with finality, but neither of you moved from your knees. James' fingers still rested on the peeling duck decal, his thumb tracing its outline with absentminded precision. The guest room felt suddenly cavernous despite its small size, the space between your shoulders charged like the air before a summer storm.
"You should—" you started, just as James said "We should—"
The overlapping words hung suspended. James huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, the sound barely audible over the creak of floorboards as he shifted his weight. His knee pressed against yours through the thin fabric of your pajama pants—warm and solid and accidental until it wasn't.
The toolbox wobbled between you, its red paint chipped where James' thumb had rubbed too hard. The silence stretched thin—like the worn-out elastic of your childhood hair ties tucked in Grandma's dresser. You watched James' throat work as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing against the loose collar of his shirt.
His knee stayed pressed to yours.
Rain began pattering against the window—just a few stray drops at first, then a sudden downpour that rattled the loose pane James had failed to fix. The sound startled you both; James jerked back like he'd been scalded, his shoulder knocking against the nightstand. The lamp swayed dangerously, casting wild shadows across the quilt where your mother's initials were stitched into the corner.
You caught it before it toppled, your fingers brushing the warm bulb. James' hand shot out to steady the base, his fingers overlapping yours—calloused fingertips against your knuckles. The contact lasted three heartbeats. Neither of you moved.
The lamp's glow flickered as rain streaked the window, turning James' profile into something fractured—his eyelashes casting spidery shadows where they caught the light. You stared at your overlapping hands, the contrast stark: his fingers tanned from tour buses and festival stages, yours still faintly stained with yesterday's paint. His thumb twitched against your wristbone, the pulse point there hammering traitorously.
James exhaled sharply through his nose—not quite a laugh—and withdrew his hand first. His sleeve rode up as he rubbed his jaw, revealing the crescent moon tattoo again. You focused on its blurred edges, the way the ink had faded into skin over the years. Like a memory half-remembered.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Downstairs, Grandma's TV switched to a weather report, the volume too loud for coincidence. James' lips quirked at the obvious hint. He pushed to his feet with a quiet groan, his knees popping audibly. "Guess I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the guest bed where his bag lay open, the worn band shirt still crumpled atop the quilt.
You stood too quickly, your sock catching on a loose floorboard. James caught your elbow before you could stumble, his grip firm but fleeting. His palm was warm through your sleeve—warmer than the chamomile tea had been. "Careful," he murmured, closer now, his breath stirring the hair near your temple. He smelled like rain-soaked leather and the faintest trace of Grandma's detergent.
Your fingers curled into fists to hide their trembling. The bracelet lay abandoned on the nightstand now, its frayed edges catching the lamplight like accusations. James hovered near the window, his silhouette blurred by rain-streaked glass—a figure caught between staying and fleeing.
"You should take the bed," you said abruptly, gesturing to the quilt. The words came out too loud, cracking on the last syllable like old varnish.
James turned slowly, rainwater dripping from his hair onto the collar of his shirt. He studied you with that same unsettling focus he'd used on your paintings earlier—like he was mixing the exact shade to remember this moment by. "Where will you sleep?"
"The couch." You edged toward the door, your sock catching again on the same loose board. James made an aborted movement forward—as if to catch you—before shoving his hands into his pockets.
The floorboard groaned under your shifting weight, louder than your racing heartbeat. James' fingers twitched in his pockets—half-formed gestures of restraint. Rain drummed against the window like impatient fingertips, the rhythm syncopated with Grandma's TV switching channels downstairs.
"You'd freeze out there," James murmured. His voice had that gravel texture again, the one he used when singing about heartbreak in minor keys.
You shrugged, fingers twisting the hem of your shirt. "Grandma keeps blankets in the—"
"Stay." The word hung between you, simple and devastating. James exhaled sharply, as if surprised by his own boldness. He gestured to the quilt with its careful stitching—your mother's initials barely visible in the lamplight. "It's big enough."
The rain lashed harder against the window, drowning out the hum of Grandma’s TV. You stared at the quilt—at the faint, embroidered "E" your mother had stitched into the corner during her rebellious teenage years. James’ socked feet shifted on the hardwood, the fabric whispering against the floorboards. "Just sleep," he clarified, too quickly. "Nothing else."
You wondered if he heard the lie in his own voice.
The mattress springs whined as James sat on the far edge of the bed, methodically untying his shoelaces. He kept his eyes downcast, his lashes casting shadows over the sharp planes of his cheeks. You hesitated by the door, your fingers tracing the familiar chip in the frame where you’d slammed it during a childhood tantrum.
James peeled off his socks with a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. "I promise I don’t snore." His tone was light, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the mattress.
The bedframe creaked when James shifted to make space, the sound unnaturally loud in the charged quiet. You hesitated at the threshold, your socked toes curling into the worn carpet—the same carpet you'd spilled grape juice on at twelve, the stain still faintly visible under the lamplight.
James exhaled through his nose, deliberately turning his back to you as he pulled back the quilt. "I'll take the floor if—"
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. You crossed the room in three quick strides, the floorboards groaning under your sudden movement. James froze mid-motion, his hands still tangled in the quilt's edge. Up close, you could see where his collar was fraying, the tiny stitches coming loose along the seam.
The mattress dipped when you sat on the opposite edge, leaving a careful foot of space between you. James remained perfectly still, his fingers now clenched in the fabric. The scent of rain and something distinctly James—vanilla shampoo overlaying something earthier—wrapped around you like a second skin.
The lamp flickered once before dimming, plunging the room into near-darkness save for the watery moonlight filtering through rain-streaked windows. James exhaled sharply and finally released his death grip on the quilt.
"You still steal covers?" His voice was barely audible over the rain, the question layered with twelve years of unspoken familiarity.
You kicked off your socks deliberately slowly, letting them land near his discarded ones. A mismatched pair. "You still hog the pillows?"
James huffed something approximating a laugh. The mattress shifted as he lay back, his weight creating a gravitational pull you resisted by staying rigidly upright. His arm brushed yours when he reached to turn off the lamp—a fleeting contact that burned through your sleeve.
The darkness swallowed the room whole when James clicked off the lamp, leaving only the erratic pulse of raindrops against glass. You lay stiff as a board beside him, counting the faint creaks of the house settling—each one louder than James’ steady breathing beside you. The quilt between you might as well have been a canyon.
Then his fingers brushed yours in the dark—accidental, probably—but the contact sent a current up your arm that had you holding your breath. James stilled too, his exhale shuddering slightly. Neither of you moved away.
"Cold?" he murmured after three heartbeats, his voice rougher than usual. His pinky curled tentatively against yours beneath the quilt.
You swallowed hard. "A little." The lie tasted sweet, like stolen honey.
The rain intensified, drumming a frantic rhythm against the roof as James' pinky lingered against yours—a question asked in braille. You held your breath, caught between pulling away and twining your fingers fully with his. The quilt shifted as James turned onto his side, facing you in the dark. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint citrus of his shampoo mixed with something deeper, muskier.
"You're shaking," he murmured. His hand covered yours completely now, calloused fingertips tracing the ridges of your knuckles.
"I'm not." But your teeth were chattering—from cold or adrenaline, you couldn't tell.
James exhaled through his nose—that almost-laugh again—and tugged your hand toward him beneath the quilt. Your elbow bumped his ribs, eliciting a soft "oof" that dissolved the last of the tension. His chest was solid under your palm, his heartbeat a steady counterpoint to your erratic pulse.
Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of James' shirt, the worn cotton warm from his skin. His heartbeat stuttered under your palm—once, twice—before settling into a rhythm that matched the rain's tempo against the window. The darkness made every sensation sharper: the scratch of his stubble against your forehead when he shifted closer, the way his exhales ghosted over your temple in uneven bursts.
"Better?" James' voice was gravel-rough, his lips brushing the crown of your head as he spoke. His arm settled around your shoulders with careful precision, as if you might splinter under too much pressure.
You nodded against his collarbone, your nose brushing the hollow of his throat where his pulse jumped. The scent of him—vanilla and rainwater and something achingly familiar—flooded your senses. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that this was the closest you'd been to anyone in years.
James' thumb traced idle circles on your shoulder blade through your shirt, the motion slow enough to be absentminded. His other hand still clutched yours against his chest, your fingers now loosely intertwined. The bracelet lay forgotten on the nightstand, its frayed threads gleaming dully in the moonlight.
The storm outside swelled to a crescendo just as James' breath hitched—his thumb pausing mid-circle against your shoulder blade. You felt the exact moment he realized how tightly you clung to him, your fingernails digging crescents into his palm. His exhale warmed your hairline, slow and measured, like he was counting beats between lightning strikes.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered—so low you felt it more than heard it, the vibration of his vocal cords humming through your temple where it pressed against his throat.
You didn't. Couldn't. Not when his pulse rabbited beneath your lips, not when his fingers trembled where they laced through yours. The quilt slid away as you shifted, baring your shins to the chilled air. James made a wounded noise when your knee brushed his thigh—a sound that had no business being that broken.
Then his mouth was on yours—not tentative, not questioning, but desperate in a way that stole your breath. His teeth caught your lower lip just shy of painful, his palm cradling your jaw like something precious. The taste of him—chamomile and honey and something darker—flooded your senses as he rolled you onto your back without breaking contact.
His hands were everywhere at once—tracing the arch of your ribs through your thin shirt, fingers catching on the hem to drag it upward. You gasped into his mouth when his palm slid bare against your stomach, the callouses rough against your skin. James shuddered at the sound, his hips pressing yours into the mattress with enough force to make the bedframe groan in protest.
"You—" he started, then broke off when you arched against him, your thigh slotting between his. His exhale was ragged against your cheekbone. "Christ, you feel—"
The words dissolved into a groan as your fingers found the waistband of his jeans, tugging impatiently at the button. James caught your wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. "Wait," he panted, forehead pressed to yours. His breath came in uneven bursts, mingling with yours in the scant space between you. "We should—"
"You started this," you pointed out, nipping at his lower lip. The taste of him—honey and whiskey and something indefinably James—lingered on your tongue.
James made a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and surrender—before his mouth crashed back onto yours with renewed hunger. His fingers fumbled with the button of your jeans, the backs of his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin below your navel. You gasped when his palm slid under the waistband, his fingertips tracing the dip of your hipbones with agonizing slowness.
"Still impatient," he murmured against your mouth, his thumb circling the hollow where your pulse fluttered. The accusation was undercut by the way his own hands shook as he peeled the denim down your thighs.
You retaliated by sinking your teeth into the tendon of his neck, tasting salt and the faint metallic tang of his aftershave. James hissed, his hips stuttering against yours in a way that sent heat coiling low in your belly. The mattress protested as he rolled you over, pinning your wrists to the quilt with one broad hand while the other made quick work of his belt buckle.
Moonlight caught the flex of his forearms as he yanked his shirt over his head, revealing a torso mapped with faded scars and fresh tan lines. You traced the longest one—a thin white crescent along his ribs—with your tongue. James' breath hitched, his fingers tightening around yours. "Christ," he rasped. "Still—"
James didn’t finish the sentence. His breath fractured when your teeth grazed his ribcage, his grip on your wrists going slack just long enough for you to flip him onto his back. The headboard slammed against the wall with the force of it—too loud, reckless—but neither of you stopped. His pupils swallowed the hazel of his irises whole as you straddled his hips, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs.
"You were saying?" you breathed, dragging your nails down his chest.
James arched off the mattress with a choked-off sound, his hands finding your waist to steady you—or maybe to anchor himself. His thumbs pressed into the jut of your hipbones, possessive and reverent all at once. "Still a tease," he managed, voice wrecked.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the sweat-slick planes of his chest for one blinding second before darkness swallowed the room again. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing the way his abdomen tensed beneath you. James made a sound like a guitar string snapping, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.
James exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around your hips as you shifted against him. The mattress springs groaned in protest beneath your combined weight—too loud, too telling—but neither of you stilled. His breath hitched when you leaned down to scrape your teeth along his collarbone, the taste of salt and summer sweat blooming on your tongue.
"You're—" His voice cracked as you rolled your hips again, the friction drawing a ragged groan from deep in his chest. His hands slid up your ribcage, fingers splaying across your back to press you flush against him. The heat of his skin seared through your thin shirt, his heartbeat wild and erratic beneath your palm.
Then his mouth found yours again—hungrier this time, less controlled—and the world narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the way his fingers tangled in your hair to tilt your head just so. You could feel the tremor in his hands, the barely-there restraint as he mapped the curve of your spine with trembling fingertips.
The storm outside reached a fever pitch, rain hammering against the window like it was trying to get in. James broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead pressed to yours as his chest heaved. "We should—" His voice was wrecked, syllables crumbling into a moan when your nails raked down his stomach.
James cursed through gritted teeth when your fingers found the button of his jeans again, his hips jerking off the mattress involuntarily. He caught your wrist mid-motion, his grip slick with sweat. "Wait—just—" His breath came in ragged bursts against your temple. "We don't have—"
You silenced him with your mouth, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to make him groan. The taste of him—honeyed tea and something darker—flooded your senses as you tugged his jeans past his hips. His underwear strained against the evidence of his arousal, the fabric damp where it clung to him.
James made a sound like a wounded animal when you palmed him through the cotton, his fingers tightening painfully in your hair. "Fuck," he rasped, hips bucking into your touch. "You—Christ—" His words dissolved into a groan as you slid your hand beneath the waistband, your fingers curling around him properly.
The mattress springs screamed when James suddenly flipped you onto your back, his knee slotting between your thighs with enough pressure to steal your breath. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your ear—the one you'd always hated anyone touching—and you arched off the bed with a gasp.
James exhaled sharply against your throat, his teeth grazing the fluttering pulse there. "Still hate this spot," he murmured—half observation, half challenge—before laving his tongue over the exact place that made your hips jerk. His fingers tangled in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing more skin to his mouth. "You react the same way."
You gasped when his knee pressed harder between your thighs, the skin rubbing just right through your underwear. The storm outside mirrored the chaos inside—rain slashing against the window, thunder rolling through the walls like the bassline of some forgotten song. James' breath hitched when you raked your nails down his back, his muscles twitching under your touch.
"Still—" His voice cracked as you arched against him, your hips rolling in a rhythm that had him cursing into your collarbone. His hands shook where they gripped your waist—too tight, then loosening like he was afraid you'd break.
The headboard slammed against the wall when James shifted his weight, his thigh sliding higher between yours. The friction drew a ragged sound from both of you—your moan tangling with his groan. His mouth found yours again, swallowing your gasp as he ground against you in a slow, torturous roll of his hips.
The rain blurred into white noise as James' hands found the hem of your shirt—hesitating for one excruciating heartbeat before dragging it over your head. Cool air rushed across your bare skin, but his gaze burned hotter where it traced the newly exposed lines of your collarbones, the dip between your ribs. His throat worked soundlessly, like he was memorizing the topography of you.
"Jesus," he rasped, fingertips hovering over the mole beneath your left breast—the same one he'd traced with childish curiosity when you were ten and changing for the pool. His exhale shuddered when you arched into his touch, your ribs expanding against his palm like a bird's wing testing its cage.
The mattress groaned as James shifted lower, his lips replacing his fingers against that familiar speck of pigment. You tangled your hands in his hair—longer now than in those old tour photos—and tugged sharply when his tongue flicked over your nipple. The sharp sting of pleasure-pain drew a gasp from your throat that James swallowed with a satisfied hum, his teeth grazing the peaked flesh.
Outside, the storm intensified—rain sluicing down the window in sheets that turned the glass into a funhouse mirror. Your reflection warped and twisted as James' mouth moved lower, his lips charting a course down your quivering abdomen. The quilt bunched beneath your hips when he hooked his fingers in your waistband, pausing just long enough for you to feel the tremor in his hands.
"Still?" he murmured against the jut of your hipbone, nose brushing the sensitive skin there. The question was layered—part observation, part plea—his breath hot through the damp fabric.
Your fingers tightened in James' hair—not pushing him away, not pulling him closer—just holding on as his breath ghosted over the damp cotton stretched tight across your hips. His thumbs hooked under the waistband, the calluses scraping delicate skin as he hesitated.
"You remember," you whispered. It wasn't a question.
James exhaled sharply through his nose—that almost-laugh again—and pressed his forehead against your thigh. The denim of his jeans scratched your bare legs as he shifted. "Every fucking detail," he admitted, voice wrecked. His fingers flexed against your hips. "Even the ones I tried to forget."
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the tense line of his shoulders for one blinding second. You watched the shadows of raindrops race across his skin like tiny rivers mapping unknown territories. His lips brushed your inner thigh—once, twice—before he dragged your underwear down with agonizing slowness.
The fabric whispered against your thighs as James peeled away the last barrier between you, his breath stuttering when you instinctively pressed your knees together—a reflex from teenage modesty that felt absurd now. His fingers curled around your knee with unexpected gentleness, coaxing your legs apart with a patience that belied the way his shoulders trembled.
"Look at me," James murmured against your inner thigh, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. When you hesitated, he squeezed your knee—not a demand, but an anchor. "Please."
Moonlight caught the gold flecks in his irises when you obeyed, his gaze holding yours as he lowered his mouth to you with devastating slowness. The first touch of his tongue drew a broken sound from your throat that James swallowed like communion, his hands tightening on your hips when you arched off the mattress.
"You taste—" His words dissolved into a groan against your skin, his nose brushing the thatch of curls as he inhaled deeply. "Christ, just like honey—"
The rest of his sentence vanished into your skin as his mouth sealed over you properly—hot and wet and unbearably precise. His thumbs dug into your hipbones, holding you down as you writhed against the mattress, every nerve ending alight with sensation. The storm outside mirrored the rhythm James set—slow, deliberate licks interspersed with sharp bursts of pressure that had your thighs trembling against his ears.
James moaned against you when your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, the vibration sending shockwaves through your abdomen. His nose bumped your clit as he shifted angles, his tongue circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with a familiarity that shouldn't have existed—not when the last time he'd touched you like this was in your childhood swing set, pushing you higher toward the clouds.
The thought shattered when James slipped two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just so as his thumb replaced his tongue against your clit. Your back arched off the bed violently, a strangled cry escaping your lips before James' free hand clapped over your mouth—his eyes flashing up to yours in silent warning. Grandma's TV still murmured downstairs.
The dual sensations—his fingers working inside you while his thumb pressed relentless circles—threatened to undo you completely. James watched your face with rapt attention, cataloging every twitch of your eyebrows and flutter of your lashes like a composer memorizing a melody. His fingers crooked again, brushing that spot that made your vision whiten at the edges.
Your thighs clamped around James’ head instinctively as pleasure coiled tight in your belly—too fast, too much. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core as he doubled his efforts, his fingers moving in a rhythm that matched the pounding rain outside. The pressure built inexorably, your fingers twisting in his hair hard enough to hurt, but James only pressed closer, his nose bumping your clit with each desperate breath.
Then—just as you teetered on the edge—he pulled away completely.
You made a sound halfway between a sob and a snarl, your hips chasing his retreating mouth. James chuckled darkly, wiping his glistening chin on your thigh as he crawled back up your body. His erection pressed hot and heavy against your hip, the damp cotton of his boxers the only barrier left.
"Patience," he murmured, though his own breathing was ragged. He caught your wrists when you reached for him, pinning them above your head with surprising ease. The motion arched your back deliciously, pressing your bare chest against his.
James pinned your wrists higher, his body covering yours in a heated press of skin and muscle. The weight of him grounded you even as lightning cracked outside, illuminating the raw hunger in his eyes. He kissed you deeply, tongue stroking yours with deliberate hunger while his free hand slid between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, circling your clit with teasing pressure before plunging inside again, curling just right. You moaned into his mouth, hips bucking wildly against his hand, chasing the building coil of pleasure.
“James—” His name broke on your lips as he added a third finger, stretching you perfectly. He released your wrists only to grip your thigh, hiking it over his hip so he could grind his hard length against you through his boxers. The friction was maddening, every roll of his hips promising more. You tugged at his waistband until he shoved the fabric down, freeing himself. Hot, thick, and pulsing, he dragged the head of his cock through your folds, teasing your entrance until you were whimpering.
He pushed in slowly at first, inch by inch, groaning low in his throat as your walls clenched around him. The stretch burned sweetly, filling you completely. James buried his face in your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he bottomed out with a shudder. “So fucking perfect,” he rasped, holding still for a heartbeat before starting to move—deep, steady thrusts that rocked the old bedframe. Rain hammered the window in time with your bodies, skin slapping against skin, breaths mingling hot and desperate.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails raking down his back as pleasure spiked higher. James angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust until stars burst behind your eyelids. His hand slipped between you, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. The dual sensation sent you spiraling—your orgasm crashing over you hard, walls pulsing around him as you cried out his name. He followed moments later with a broken groan, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, warmth flooding you in waves.
Panting, James collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush you. He pressed lazy kisses along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth—soft and reverent now that the storm inside had quieted. You traced the crescent moon tattoo on his arm, smiling when he shivered under your touch. The rain eased to a gentle patter, and somewhere downstairs Grandma’s TV finally clicked off, leaving only the peaceful creaks of the old house.
He rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest and tucking the quilt around you both. His fingers combed gently through your tangled hair, smoothing it away from your flushed face. You nestled closer, listening to his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, the faint scent of sex and chamomile lingering between you. James kissed the top of your head, his voice a warm rumble in the dark. “Stay right here. I’m not letting you sneak off to that couch.”
You laughed softly, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Grandma will know by breakfast anyway.” He hummed in agreement, arm tightening around you protectively. The bracelet from earlier lay on the nightstand, a quiet symbol of years finally circling back. In the quiet aftermath, everything felt right—peeling wallpaper, mothballs, and all.
James tilted your chin up, his eyes soft with moonlight and something deeper. “You’re mine, my muse,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours in a sweet, lingering kiss. “Always have been.”
Author’s Note: God this is a long one. If there are any mistakes, I wrote this over the course of two months so. I hope this was worth the wait!
