summary: This summer is one for the books. you've graduated from your dream school and you get to be outside with your favorite cousin. But returning to the town you ran away from has its little patch of drama
warning: 18+ mdni!!, aaron!fromatl!xreader, bully!aaron, black!fem!reader, prissy!reader (as she should be), southern dialect, Racist remarks towards reader, manipulative side character, drama drama drama, n-word ,smut, very dirty talk, they kind of get aggressive?, a slightish daddy kink, pet names (mama, ma, baby), unprotected p in v (keep the rub ON!) ,dom/sub switch, missonary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, from the side. trifling phone calls, cheating (kinda)
wc:9.1k (I got carried away)
Music, smoke, and the overwhelming smell of alcohol practically made the party more crammed than it already was. Your back held up the wall as you watched people laugh and dance. You were waiting for your cousin to return but for whatever reason she had not made it back. Not that you were anxious about her absence though, you were enjoying yourself…surprisingly enough.
Fifteen year old you wouldn’t have thought twice about attending a party with anybody from the place you ran from first thing out of graduation. It wasn’t even in your plans to be here but Mina had brought it to your attention the minute you got back home. The host was a former homecoming king of your school and had just graduated themselves.
Leaving town, despite your parent’s wishes, to attend an HBCU hundreds of miles away. Despite the horrible commute from the eastside to the Northside, they made it a mission to get you away from your “unpleasant” and “radically diverse” neighborhood. That was all according to them though. You made your best memories with the most amazing people over the years. The blend of cultures motivated you to want to explore your own. Even with your parents trying to cut down your play time short everyday as a child to avoid influence, you always made the most of it.
You’d spend hours upon hours researching black history during school hours and during your free time. The Good, the bad, and the treacherous but most importantly…the beauty. At just 10 years old, you became infatuated with all things you. When old enough, most of your paychecks, sometimes all if you had it to spare, went towards clothes, self care items, etc. Your mom often had plenty to say and despite their shared opinions about your influence by the surrounding area, your dad wasn’t one to interfere with your spending habits.
“Y/N, you need to start picking a more age appropriate style for yourself. You can’t go around presenting yourself to others like some 5 year old still obsessed with princesses and fairy tales.” Your mom announced as you maneuvered around the kitchen looking for items to throw your breakfast together. “I’m tired of that school calling me for nonsense and I scheduled a silk press for you on Thursday. Take care of that bird’s nest you got up there.” she mumbled the last thinking it went unheard.
Your brows furrowed. You’d spent hours on your hair the night before. You thought it looked cute despite the multiple attempts you made to just stop and throw it in a puff. Your hair was rather thick stopping a little past your bra strap with type 4 coils that sometimes had a mind of their own.
“Oh no need. I already have my hair done.” You politely dismissed, stuffing an apple into your bookbag.
“I wasn’t asking y/n.”
“I know” your eyes met hers as you finished zipping up your bag.
Your dad signed. “Leave her alone. She looks fine and her outfit is within the dress code.” he had heard and wasn’t about to listen to another argument this early. “Punkin go wait in the car. I’ll be out in a little.”
On the other hand, your school was not the most accepting and you knew why too.Your family was one of early bloomers so you filled out your clothing a little more than the girls around. Not that you cared though. Mainly because you couldn’t change it and you didn’t want to either. You were comfortable in your body, your hair, and your skin. People around were not used to this and that was their problem not yours.
You’d always receive stares and hear the not so quiet jokes made. One would think you were the only black person attending. In all actuality, you were just the first to not shy away from yourself
That being said, you were almost always the talk of the class. As outspoken as you were, how could you not be? But it was one particular group of boys you always caught the attention of: Joshua, Michael, Logan, and Aaron.
It was their everyday mission to antagonize you. The satisfaction on their faces when you would end up in trouble with your teachers, or your principal, was infuriating. The snide remarks as you would leave from being chastised would always end up with you locked in a bathroom stall crying tears of anger. You couldn’t seem to understand why they would target you so much.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Ruby bridges! Been waiting for you! Where’s the rest of the black panther party?” the prepubescent voice of Michael, the brunette ringleader, rang in your ears. Every day it was a new insult with him. It was so strange because you just knew he did his research solemnly for insults and never to diminish his ignorance. You weren’t in the mood for him today so your response to him today was silence.
An eraser was launched into your afro and snickers sounded off throughout the classroom. Your hands reached to remove it. “Nothing to say today?”
Still you said nothing, continuing to focus on the video that played on the projector ahead. Your hair being pelted with different items and the laughter becoming more audible. A subtle shake of your leg became audible through the classroom.
“Can you stop the tapping? I can’t hear” you turned seeing a smirking Janica. Yet your foot still continued to go and the taunting didn’t subside. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Aaron dap up his friend, and a smile on his face that showed almost all 32. That was always his thing. Never saying anything but finding his friend’s jokes so very funny.
“Baaabbeee stop” a blonde haired, green eyed girl under his arm chirped into the air. You were over this class and these people.
“Y/N can you stop with the tapping? Janica asked you nicely.” Your teacher called from the front of the classroom. A look of surprise almost flashed over your face before you got up from your seat and exited the room. As you expected, your mom and your dad were contacted and you were put on punishment. But not fully with your dad taking your side.
You’d moved on from that though. Kinda..
“Whew! I’m sorry boo I got a little caught up with my new boo daddy over there” your cousin appeared, two red solo cups in her hand. One extended towards you, “I got you some el jimador”
Sucking your teeth, you turned your lip up quick. “You know I said I was cool off tequila Mimi. I don’t need a repeat of last time.”
“Oh stop complaining you were so fun that night!”
“I was so drunk that night”
“I took care of you though! You made it out” she pointed. “Now loosen up boo. Cmon now” she tipped the cup towards you. “You’ve graduated in the Top 3% and you already got a job lined up boo! You don’t think you deserve a little night out? I know you was put up all them years.”
You waved her off. “I got out Mimi” you attended a darty or two…freahman year. Couldn’t find it in you to continue.
“I hate liars” she sipped from her drink, looking around at the party. “We gotta get you a man-”
“No we don’t”
“Why not? Boo daddy got a cute friend. I’ll put you on”
“Mhm” you sipped from your cup, uninterested.
“I see what the problem is” your face frowned up a little
“What?”
“You still stuck on ole boy”
“Ew, hell nah” disgust written all over your face.
“So you did hook up with that one kappa you were always talking about?” she smiled, nudging you with her shoulder.
“See how you draggin’ it though? I mentioned him twice and no I did not hunch on that man.”
“I knew you wasn’t no solider for real.” she shook her head.
“I was not bout to get with him. That boy was a free for all”
“That’s why they have condoms.”
“You so damn nasty” you laughed. “And I’m really cool off this tequila”
“Well come dance with me then” she pleaded, pulling you towards the slightly crowded floor.
As you danced with your cousin, you could feel the liquor coursing through at this point. The DJ was mixing together hit after hit and all you and your cousin could do was move. Hyping each other up as if you were the only two out there.
It had been a long time since you’d gone out with her. She was your favorite cousin after all and with you being away, you didn’t have anyone to go out with. Truth be told that was the reason you didn’t attend as many parties while away.
Even with all the back to back hits the dj played and the fun you were having, you kept bumping shoulders with just about everybody. And for whatever reason you felt like you were being watched. The darkness of the party combined with everything, overstimulated you quickly. Exhaling hard, you leaned into your cousin telling her it was time to go. The tequila making your body hot and the influx of people on the dance floor only added to fire. She agreed and you two made your way out of the party.
“Finally some fresh air” You breathed.
“They were goin crazy in there. Got choked up a little myself honestly.”
“Aye!”
“‘scuse me!” You stopped and you turned to face a tall figure. “Ion know who but, this belong to one’a y’all” his low but clear tone of voice announced as he made it a few feet in front of you.
Patting your back pocket, you signed, “Oh my gosh, thank you.” you took the phone from his hand looking at his face finally.
“Fasho…Y/N right?” your face scrunched.
“Yeeah” tilting your head slightly as you observe the person’s features. The buzz cut, piercing blue eyes. I know this not..”Aaron?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah”
“Uhuh” you assessed him from head to toe.“Thank you again. Bye” you grabbed your cousin’s hand continuing your way to the car. He moved to object.
“Wait-” Mina barely gets a chance to look back at the stranger again. “Wait girl hold up! How do you know him?” she breathed trying to keep up with your steps.
“Went to school with him” you said as you fumbled with the key fob trying to unlock the car.
“Wait he that little boy-”
“Not right now mimi” you interrupted about to get into the passenger side.
“Y/N!” your door was refusing to open at this moment for whatever God awful reason. You could hear his footsteps approaching.
“Please get from round me” you held your hand up halting him from getting any closer. “Mimi, open this door.” You jiggled the handle in frustration.
“I’m trying!”
“I ain’t tryna take up too much more of your time-”
“You not taking shit. I’m not tryna talk to you, period.” Your voice remained calm despite your true feelings.
“Cmon now. I know you not holdin’ grudges from all them years ago.” The cocky smirk on his face pissed you off. His hands were tucked into his pockets and head tilted, looking at you with all the audacity in the word. You looked at him trying to find the words right now but all you could muster up was:
“You for real right now?” The sound of the car unlocking caught your attention and you immediately pulled the handle. “I already said thank you for the phone. It’s no reason for you to be in my face.”
“You don’t know that”
“Don’t know what?”
“That there isn’t a reason”
“I know it’s not.”
He took a step closer, the door acting as a barricade between you two. “You coulda dropped something else.”
“I didn’t”
“Maybe your girl could have”
“She didn’t”
“Maybe it was just an open opportunity for me to come talk to you.” he shrugged and his hands found the door leaning on it. “Maybe it just took you being careless for me to finally have a good enough reason to talk to you.”
You stood there completely unmoved by his words.”Wow..”
“What?”
“Just…wow” your head shook in disbelief. You moved to make your way inside the car, closing the door behind you. Taking a step back from the car, he watched as you put on your seat belt and you and your cousin exchange inaudible words. That same stupid smirk on his face when you two pull off into the night.
Several days had gone by since that night. You would be lying if you said the moment hadn’t interrupted your thought process at least one time out of each day. What you couldn’t really understand is how different Aaron looked. It had been years of course, but his whole demeanor had changed.
It was a quick realization from the minute he approached you. He was not the same dude you would see in school. Never did ya’ll hold conversation before that night but you know for a fact he didn’t have that form of dialect in school. He didn’t have that sense of style either. It was as if you and him didn’t attend the same school. As if he didn’t hang around the friend group that he did.
The main question was..What the hell changed?
“I hate that auntie and nem sent you across town to that overly republican ass school. And I really don’t understand how the same dude from the other night went there with you. You sure that’s how you know that boy?”
“MiMi I really don’t want to talk about him right now” you continued to look at the T.V. screen in your cousin’s living room.
“I mean he was dressed kinda nice, talked smooth as hell, and my God did he smell good. Did you smell him?” rolling your eyes and looking over at her you sighed.
“So you don’t want to watch the show?”
“I just need to know a little more punkin. Like are you sure you ain’t meet him while away at college?” groaning softly you faced her.
“I am positive. We went through the same school district for majority of my life. He chilled with the same three white dudes everyday from middle school til graduation. You are just as confused as I am but Mimi I really want to watch the rest of this so can we please?”
“Okay okay” she threw her hands up in surrender. “No more mystery dude.” she fixed the blanket you two shared and turned up the volume on the T.V.
The episode concluded and your cousin turned to you. “OOh you know what would be good right now? Some pizza and a little sweet treat” her fingers pinching together as she picked up her phone. “You want pepperoni?”
“Sounds good to me. We getting the Pillsbury cinnamon rolls or going to that little bakery?” you started to put on your shoes moving to get your things. “And order two pizzas. I’m hungry as hell.”
“Not gone lie, I already had both in the cart” you laughed a little reaching for the handle of the door. “And I want the Pillsbury ones. Miss Addie be too packed on Thursdays. You want me to come with you or you got it?”
“Oh please you weren't getting up to go anywhere” your head shook opening the door. “Text me what you want to drink!” closing the door behind you and making your way down stairs you hit the corner and right into somebody.
“Oh my Gosh! I am so sorry” a petite brunette quickly apologized to you. Her country accent was obvious as she continued to explain how she didn’t see you coming around the corner.
“No problem really, we both weren’t paying attention.” you assured. Going to move around her, you stopped seeing none other than Aaron. His face almost held a little bit of confusion before the corner of his lip curved upward. He finished making his way up the steps and stood beside the girl.
“Wassup?” he greeted.
“Oh nothing babe, just had a head on collision.” she chirped, laughing and oblivious that he wasn’t inquiring but talking to you. As you stood there trying to avoid eye contact with him, you decided to end this interaction.
“Yeah, ya’ll have a good one though.” you went to move around but your path was blocked slightly but his figure.
“Where you off to?” aaron took in your attire. Your oversized pink graphic tee and grey flowy bottoms attempted to cover your curves but failed. He could see the slight movement of your thighs as you shifted to your right leg. Your puff pulled back, complimented with an oversized baby pink silk scrunchy.
“None of your business, ‘scuse me” you side stepped again as did he. His finger accidentally grazes your arm and almost makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He was close enough for you to smell his cologne and your eyes fluttered close for half a second. Pull yourself together
“Just makin’ conversation” he eyed you, tongue grazing over his bottom lip before taking it in. your eyes following the moment before looking into his eyes.
“Well stop” a small laugh left him. “You always this annoyin?”
“Only with you”
“Lucky me”
The brunette stood eyeing you two. “You guys know each other or?..”
“Yeah” “No” you and him faced off a little. You lightly smacked your teeth ready for this to be over.
“Went to school together.” his attention never leaving you, despite your eyes finding every other thing in the hallway to look at right now.
“Ooooh that’s cool!” looking at her, your face contorted a little. She not there all the way I see.
“Right” he agreed with a smile growing on his face watching the aggravation settle on your face.
“You two should exchange numbers! Aaron’s parties are the best! He has one coming up soon. He can text you all the details.” You had never been so irritated with a stranger this far into your adulthood, but these two were really doing it to you.
“No-”
“Good idea Ashley” his gaze still laser focused on you. Looking back and forth between the two, you contemplated pushing him down the stairs. “Would love to catch up with an old friend”
“Stop with the bullshit Aaron” you mumbled.
A small smile with the tiniest bit of mischief adorned his face. “Cmon Y/N it's been a minute and it’ll be fun.
Side eyeing the girl, you almost rolled your eyes at her smile that was urging you two to swap information.
Just get it and block him.
Reluctantly you held out for his phone, he willingly placed it in your hand. When finished you turned away from them. “Alright, I really have to get going.”
“Okay, see you soon!” Ashley waved as you started to go down the stairs again. Passing by Aaron you could feel his body heat from just a few feet away. You were pissed that your heart was actually racing right now because you really didn’t know why. Breathing deeply, you hurried down the stairs.
The sun was long gone by now and the light from the T.V. was the only thing that lit the room up. You had both fallen asleep after consuming half of your pizzas and downing a couple cinnamon rolls. Netflix was asking if you still wanted to watch the show when you came to.
Ding ding
Looking over at your phone, you tried to make your eyes adjust to the brightness from both screens. Your eyes almost acted as lenses as you focused in on the screen. Seeing it was imessage, you unlocked it trying to see who it was.
Xxx-xxx-3874
You up?
Bye Aaron
Xxx-xxx-3874
So cranky
Your girlfriend know you text girls this late?
Xxx-xxx-3874
What girlfriend?
Ew
Xxx-xxx-3874
I’m fr
Your boyfriend must be next to you right now.
Tryna deflect nd shit
You more annoying than I remember
Xxx-xxx-3874
So you been thinkin bout me?
Don’t flatter yourself
Xxx-xxx-3874
lol I been thinkin bout you too.
Asked around nd heard you graduated. Congratulations.
The text makes you sit up a little.
What you want aaron? Like fr
Xxx-xxx-3874
Just checkin in on you.
stop. never did nothing like that before.
Xxx-xxx-3874
don’t be that way.
I got a bit of a business proposition for you
No.
Xxx-xxx-3874
you not even gone let me say wassup first?
No
Xxx-xxx-3874
It's a job though
I know you looking for one, just graduated nd shit. you really gone turn down some extra cash?
…what is it?
Xxx-xxx-3874
Tutoring
They really need this credit too
Said they’ll pay well
Ok, how much and what subject?
Xxx-xxx-3874
Biology course
$25 hr
I’ll sleep on it.
You didn’t read his reply but instead turned your phone face down and nuzzled further into the couch under your blanket. Twenty-five an hour sounded like the perfect amount to get you enough for a deposit on an apartment. You were actively waiting on your first day at a job that had interviewed you last week. They’d hired you almost immediately offering slightly above the intermediate salary.
Excited was an understatement but when looking for a place outside of your parent’s residence, it was nearly impossible. Your monetary graduation gifts and your dad’s gas fill every few days kept you stable. Even with your job away at school, you had managed to save but application fees were adding up.
You had text Aaron scheduling for next week and told him where the person could meet you at and when. You’d already been sitting there for thirty minutes prior to when the person was supposed to actually arrive. You messed with the waistband of your capris as you read from the books that you had searched high and low in the library pertaining to biology. This was your favorite course so you were beyond ready for this session to start.
A chair pulled out in front of you and a waft of floral perfume invaded your nostrils and made you glance up.
“Hey!” the girl greeted with an eager smile on her face. “I’m Ashley, from y'know the other day.” Laughing a little she placed her bag on the chair beside her. “I would’ve set this whole thing up myself if I knew you would be my saving grace for this semester.”
Your brows lifted and a sharp exhale left your nose. “All things happen for a reason, yeah?”
“Oh for sure! I have been sulking all week trying to get a tutor at my school but the minute Aaron started talking about how smart you were in school, and how you were salutatorian and everything. I couldn’t help but know if you were interested in tutoring!” she continued on and on but you were still stuck on Aaron bragging about you to a complete stranger.
“Of course! I don’t mind at all. We can get started right now actually..” you reached for your stack of books and she revealed hers and the session began.
It was going very well to say the least. Ashley was someone that preferred strict clarification on the lesson and she could not receive that from her professor. She expressed how he was a foreign man whose accent was..rather thick. That sometimes he was so preoccupied with his other job that all she could rely on was zoom meetings and not in person class.
You definitely understood and by the time you two wrapped up Ashley was still continuing her ramble. Not that you cared, She had already paid you and now you were just being a listening ear.
“It's just so funny because Aaron never talks about high school or anything but with you, it was the most he had ever mentioned that place. You two must have been very close and just lost touch.” She packed her books and you put away your things.
“Oh no. we never really talked”
It was as if that went over her head because she continued to ramble. “I’ve met a lot of his friends or homeboys, as he calls it. He doesn’t have any lady friends though. Well there is one but he met them through me…” she continued to rant as you nodded your head, mind in the clouds.
You thought you knew how to talk but this girl blew you by a long shot.
“I guess he really doesn’t go for black girls” that pulled you out of your daze.
“I’m sorry?” she looked at you.
“Oh no offense or anything, he just mentioned how he had his heart broken by a black girl before and blah blah blah….” She waved it off as if she just told you the weather or something.
“I mean, do you know any girl that urges her boyfriend to get another girls number ? he’s not really one to go for blacks so I know it wouldn’t have been any funny business going on.”
You stood kind of frozen in place trying to understand how the conversation even got here.
“Uhuh”
“But you know how some guys are with their preferences and everything. And no offense again yknow no hard feelings, but I don’t think that’s such a bad thing yeah? Like I have no problem dating black guys. Most of them seem to flock to me anyway. Like white girl magic or something” she looked at you smiling a little and as always, completely oblivious.
Almost in shock , your mouth slightly agape trying to find out what is going on right now. “Um I don’t think-”
“I’m not trying to make you mad or anything. It's just a majority of black men prefer white women. Like your beautiful but from my understanding they just kind of grow tired of some of the..other ones”
Your head tilted slightly “Other ones?”
“Yeah like” she stopped and looked around before saying “the ghetto ones”
“Ooooh” your brow rose in a mock realization. “I see”
“I knew you would understand! I knew you were a nice one”
“I think that concludes this session for today” you got up from the table starting out the door.
“See you later! Oh wait I didn’t get your nu-” you had made it to the library’s steps, fumbling with your phone trying to dial your cousin. The phone rang twice before she picked up.
“Mimi”
“What girl? What’s wrong?” her tone of voice was laced with concern when she heard yours.
“I think I’m being punk’d!”
“Huh?!”
“Everything was going so well Mina. We were reading together, she was asking questions, we had genuinely reached flow state and somehow everything went left.” You proceeded to tell her about what just transpired and if you were there to see it, you would have seen how her jaw collapsed to the floor.
Already you were in your car continuing your chat with her on the way back to your house.
“I have never been more confused in my life, Mimi. It was like a switch just went off in her head and words just started flowing out non stop. Like this was definitely a conversation you would expect to hear between her and a best friend maybe but this is just-”
“Some bullshit!” she yelled through the phone. Mina was honestly more pissed than you were. You and her clearly had different up bringings but because she was ready to run one with Ashley. You were used to this type of talk just caught off guard by it. “This hoe called you an ugly black bitch and that her nigga wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole! Then she proceeded to tell YOU! She understands WHY!?! This bitch is looney!
“Damn…you right” now parked in your driveway, you were zeroed in on her rant.
“Bi- YOU DAMN RIGHT I’M RIGHT”
Sighing a little, your head hit the back of your seat. “This is far too much. I need that $25 an hour but not that damn bad.”
“I’d tell you what you best do, but you wouldn’t like it.”
“And what’s that?”
“Betta go snatch his lightskin ass up! He clearly ain’t tellin her the whole truth the way he was lookin at you the other night. He look like he one to trick too?!? Yeah i’d be on that as of yesterday”
You shook your head. “I don’t even want to insert myself in that mess Mina. Not even worth it.”
“Oh you onna them.”
“Onna who?”
“Them women that like to take the high road. I like to too, being a lady and all but bitch I’d be zoomin’ down the back road today.”
Laughing, you got out of the car and started toward the porch. “Imma call you back in a few, just let me get in here and get settled.”
“Okay, but call me back!”
“I will Mimi bye!”
Dragging yourself through the house and into your room, you plopped on your bean bag chair in the corner. Closing your eyes, sleep started to take over mind before your phone started vibrating again.
Picking it up without looking at it, you groaned “Mimi I said i would call you back later.”
A deep laugh came from the other side of the phone. “Ain’t a day that goes by that you not irritated”
Sighing hard “Why are you calling me?”
“Was checking to see how the tutorin’ went today…and wanted to invite you and ya girl to a kickback at my place.”
“It was good until it wasn’t and no”
“Whatcha mean, why not?”
“Cause you and your girlfriend are weird.” you hung up before he could say anything else.
Aaron called back immediately. You sent it to voice mail and he called back once again.
“What?!?”
“Man you can chill out on that girlfriend shit”
“Bye Aaron”
“Hol’ on Y/N, damn! You rushin’ and I know you ain’t got nothin’ to do.”
“There ain’t never been a time when me and you needed to talk to one another””
“So you didn’t just hear me invite you to a kick back at my place?”
“Didn’t you just hear me say no?”
“Y/N”
“Aaron”
He laughed a little, “Stop pretending like you don’t wanna pull up”
“I’m not pretending”
“Right. See you this weekend.”
“You won’t” you hung up growing tired of the back and forth. “Arrogant ass nigga”
A couple days later
You and Mina sat in her car, parked along the cul de sac right outside of Aaron’s house. You two had spent the last hour arguing about how you failed to say anything about the party. She had found out about it from social media. A close friend of a close friend of Aaron's decided to post the set up and upon asking you if you wanted to go to a party, you’d let the unaccepted invite slip.
“What part of ‘We outside this summer’ don’t you understand?”
Leaning back in the passenger seat and looking over at her, you shook your head. “We can be outside at the club or something. We didn’t have to come here.”
“Girl boo! You actin’ real put up right now. Just because ole boy and you not on the best of terms don’t mean we gotta miss out on a good time.”
“That’s exactly what that mean”
“I-Get out the car.” Mina went to open her door, mumbling to herself. “Not bout to do this with you. All these fine ass men out here.”
Get out the car she mouthed through the windshield.
Having a mini protest before opening the car door you looking around at all the people. The bass could be felt when you were still seated in the car but now, music flowed through every limb of your body as you and Mina made your way inside.
“And to think we were going to miss out on- ooh he fine who is that?” locking eyes with a tall darkskin dreadhead. He smiled at her revealing his pearly whites, nodding.
“Ladies”
“Hey” you both replied. Well Mina more so purred. Seeing where this was going you ventured off.
You made your way to the kitchen. Looking at the array of liquor bottles set up. Deciding not to go with any liquor, you just settled for some juice. As you sipped from your cup, you looked over the rim, seeing none other than Aaron. He approached, stopping right in front of you.
“Look who decided to show up.”
You rolled your eyes, “Not in the mood”
“Knew you wanted to see me”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Mina forced me over here”
“Excuses excuses”
“Aaron”
“You love sayin’ my name huh?”
“I barely like you existing”
He faked being hurt, putting a hand on his chest. “Dang baby, what I ever do to you?”
“Don’t play dumb”
“I’m for real”
“I am too”
“We were kids Y/N.”
“That don’t make it any less disrespectful Aaron”
“I never even said anything though, that was mostly Michael and them.”
“You laughin’ was participation” he sighed a little.
“Y/N, I was a kid. Just followin’ the crowd man you know how it was”
“No I don’t, cause I never did no weird shit like that” he nodded slightly.
“You right you right. In all seriousness I didn’t realize I was hurtin’ your feelings and for that I am sorry.”
Looking off to the side and then back at him, you scanned his eyes and could honestly say you saw the sincerity in them. You sighed a little.
“You forgive me?” a small smirk on his face, he took a step forward. You avoided his gaze trying not to smile. “Ahh see you playin””
“I’m not”
“Yes you are. You know you wanna be my friend.”
“Ew stop that”
“Go ahead and say it”
“Stoop Aaron, damn!” a hand going out to push his chest but he didn’t budge. “Irritatin’ me”
“Say it”
“You don’t give orders to me”
“This my shit baby. Way I see it, I can.”
Tilting your head, your eyebrows rose in surprise. “Real snippy for somebody who wants forgiveness”
He laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender.
Swirling the cup in your hand and sighing, “ I forgive you” you mumbled
“Damn it's loud in here. Say that again for me” his cupped his ear leaning close. A smile was evident on his face.
“I forgive you dummy”
“Aww look at that, sounds like the start of a beautiful friendship”
“You owe me though”
“Owe you what?”
“I’ll let you know. Just get your pockets ready lightbright”
Shaking his head laughing. “Whatever it takes” he shrugged.
“uhuh” you studied his face. “What ever happened to your best friends anyway?”
“Got into some shit senior year and we ain’t been in contact since.” he wasn’t mentioning everything.
“Some shit like…?”
“Nosyyyy” he picked, leaning back a little. Your laugh filled his ears and caused him too as well.
From there you two flowed into a conversation. He was surprisingly funny and so much of a casual flirt, that you barely noticed it. The bass from the speakers had completely stopped and his space was starting to clear out. But none of that had really registered to the both of you.Mina was somewhere with that dreadhead. She made sure to find you and update you on her whereabouts before giving you and Aaron a look that only you caught.
“Aye man we bout to head out” a friend of his came, dapping him up. “We headin’ to Ray’s if you want to pull up.
“Aight Imma slide through”
“Baby!” an all too familiar voice rang in your ear over the music. You mentally groaned and sipped from your cup.
“Babe! You didn’t hear me calling you?” a chipper Ashley came to stand by Aaron. “Oh hi Y/N, how are you?!?”
A closed mouth grin was all you could muster up. “Wassup?”
“I had the best time at tutoring. Babe, she is a genius! Like truly my saving grace” she rambled.
“Really?“ Aaron's attention is still on you.
“Yes! Ugghh tell him about…” and motormouth was off. Somehow Aaron was engaging but you couldn't bring yourself to actually listen to whatever she had to say.
“Like babe she is one of the nice ones I was telling you about!” that caught your attention. Aaron’s face contorting into one of confusion.
“Nice ones?” he mumbled to himself.
“Oh and I love your hair! This is yours right?” her hand reaching out to touch your curls and your neck craning to the side. The only thing that surprised you was not her question but Aaron's hand going to push hers away from your hair. Not trying to have her see you sweat, you put on a smile.
“What babe I wanted to feel it”
It?!?!
“Ashley you can’t be doing that” he looked at her as if she had lost her marbles.
“She knows I mean nothing by it Aaron no need to be all serious”
“Yes, this is my hair”
Ashley shrugged a little, “Yeah but like “I brought it” and it’s all mine or “I grew it myself” all mine?” looking over her face you noticed that same funny expression that all the little girls used to have when making fun of you in middle and high school. Seeing where this was heading you looked back and forth from her to Aaron.
“Where you get off asking me some dumb shit like like that?” you stepped to her.
“I was just asking a question”
“No you were just being funny”
“Why are you getting so defensive?” feeling your body get hot. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.
“You one ignorant bitch you know that?” Your finger pointed in the middle of her face. A gasp left her mouth and turned to look at Aaron. By now MIna and Quan, the dreadhead, had returned and could hear you and her. She walked around the island and made her way to your side.
“You cool y/n?”
“I'm straight. Bout to check this hoe temp though” your eyes never leaving Ashley's.
Gasping, she turned to look at Aaron. “Baby are you gonna let her talk to me like that?”
“This hoe…” mina said already over this. “She clearly not gone do shit”
“Fuck you, you ghetto hood rat! You don’t kn-” you lunged forward but was caught mid air and carried to the other side of the kitchen
“Let me the fuck go!” your screams traveled through the house. Mina was trapped behind the dreadhead trying to find a way to wriggle out of his grasp.
“Y/N you good bruh, Y/N Chilout!” Aaron held your waist trying to get you as far away from her as possible.
“You tried to hit me!” Ashley screamed, still stuck in her place in the kitchen.
“Bitch when I get my hands on you!” you shouted with Aaron carrying you down the hallway. You were trying to grab hold to every wall you could think of to keep from being pulled but it was no use.
“Ashley, take yo ass home!” Quan yelled. He had just caught Mina from jumping off the counter and was struggling to not keep her steady.
Aaron eventually got you into a room pushing you in and shutting the door. “Let me outta here Aaron! I’m not playin’ witcho ass!”
This went on for almost thirty more minutes and instead of being mad now all you could do was sit on the bed, arms crossed, and wait for somebody to let you out. You didn’t even bother to cut the light on. The screen saver on his Roku T.V kept the room illuminated. Quan had come to the door saying he had taken Mina to her car. She and you were on the phone talking when the room door finally opened and in walked the prison guard.
“You cool now?”
“Aaron don’t piss me off again, please” you ignored him getting back to your conversation.
“I already told her I would take you home. Y’all just getting each other mad all over again”
“Mina hold on” you hung up facing him. “Wassup wit you and her? You usually take in stray white girls off the side of the road? or you caught her attention.” he stifled a laugh coming to stand in front of you.
“What is ya’ll beef? You just got done tutorin’ the girl the other day.”
“It’s clear she’s threatened by me.”
“Why though?”
“Cause she think I wanna fuck you dummy.” a look of surprise graced his face.
“She said that?”
“Aaron, it's pretty obvious she does.” you looked at him irritated he would ask such a stupid question. “If I wanted to, I would’ve already had you.”
“Oh really?”
“Hell yeah”
A sharp breath left him as he studied you. Rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay bruh”
You tilted your head, "Wouldn't be that hard to do, really”
“What you tryna say?” He looked amused. You stood from your spot on the bed walking up to him. Due to your height, you were just about chest to chest with him.
“I’m saying it’s nothing to fuck you and send you back to your delusional ass girlfriend” your eyes scanned him from his eyes down to slightly below his belt. Going back up his body you could see his pulse pick up as you as the confidence leave his body a little. Truly, he was holding it together but your words were breaking his facade.
“You trippin Y/N”
“Am I though?” you moved closer. His reply was nothing.
“I mean you have yet to defend her and I don’t see you movin away” you started to trace a vein on his forearms moving up.
“S-she not my girl y/n. I told you that already”
“Mm she don’t seem to think so.” your fingers touched the back of his neck but with no help from you, he had craned his head down to closer to yours. You could feel the coolness of his breath, looking into his eyes. “Now, tell me something” your tone soft and inquisitive and “What you doing keepin’ a bitch like her around?”
“Just a quick fuck” he mindlessly spoke, shrugging his shoulders.
“Really?” you stepped back, holding his hands. “So you wouldn’t mind helping me take these off?” moving his fingers to the buttons on your shorts. “Right?” a slight groan rumbled in his chest.
“Y/N” his eyes zeroed in on your bottoms.
“I can’t do it by myself baby help me, please?” the softness of your voice having him almost entrancing. With your fingers over his, you helped him to undo the button and zip the zipper down. Walking back until you felt the bed on the back of your knees, you sat down. He said nothing as he walked forward and stopped watching you look up at him through your lashes.
Reaching up and grabbing the collar of his shirt, you pulled him down to you.
“You makin’ this shit hard y/n”
A light chuckled left you. “Well let me make it easy for us both.” pulling him down even more, he has no choice but to kneel. Aaron, being used to not being in control in the bedroom, was so confused how he was so turned on by the dynamic at the moment. Yet he obeyed, pulling down your shorts and panties.
As you spread your thighs to him he almost moaned. “Sexy ass” he whispered to himself before slowly dragging his tongue up and down your slit. His tongue circling around your clit pulling a gasp out of you. Your hand finds the back of his head, gently pulling him in deeper.
“auughh” a moan leaving you as you watched him work. His eyes closed as his mouth latched onto your clit and he softly suckled at the bundle of nerves. “Look at me baby” his eyes fluttered open but his tongue never ceased. Staring into your eyes his pace picked up slightly and the sounds of pussy eating and your moans filled the space of the room. “Shit just like that baby”
His underwear was starting to become uncomfortably tight with hearing your moans. He’d never heard anything so beautiful before. There was no doubt his precum had completely soaked through his underwear by now.
Watching your every reaction, paying attention to how your body jolted when his tongue found its way inside, or how you would grind hard and desperate when he would stick his tongue out for you to use. He groaned as you took off your top leaving you completely naked before him. Your titties sat perfectly as you played with your nipples head falling back.
You noticed, “You like em baby?”
He moaned, nodding his head still eating. Grabbing his hands you guided them to palm your boobs. He massaged them carefully, his hands barely able to grasp the entire mound. With light pressure his fingers played with your nipples.
“Yess just like that don’t stop” his eating even sloppier now. “Oooh my gawd, yes”
“Aaron I’m gonna cum” you almost whined. Your hands coming to the back of his head, chasing your release. “Don’t stop baby please!” his suction grew a little harder helping you chase your climax.
“Don’t stop baby don’tstop- I’m cumming ooou-” a sharp gasp followed by a long moan left you as it did Aaron too. His eyes closed as he finished just at the same time you did. Slurping up your slick from your pussy, he came up your body meeting you in a heated kiss.
“Mmm” you moaned into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Your tongues clashed with one another, greedily as the kiss grew more and more heated. Your hands went to undress him and he eagerly helped. Pulling away you looked down at his underwear noticing the wet stain on the front.
“Somebody got a little carried away” you teased.
Smacking his teeth he went for your neck leaving sloppy kisses, “chill out bruh- ssshit” you started to stroke him using his cum as lubricant.
“You fucked her raw?”
“F-fuck no ma” chuckling you planted a kiss to his ear. Guiding him in you both released a sigh. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you leaned into a slow yet needy kiss. Aaron started to move, finding the urge to not cum so quickly almost impossible.
“Shiit baby just like that..don’t stop aaron please..this dick feel so gooood oh my gaaw-ahhh” your talking made it no better. Your walls wet and hugging him so.
“Damn y/n..pussy so fucking good ma shit…could live in this shit baby” his forehead rested against yours. His hips grinding harder as his hands beside your head gripped the covers.
“Ooohh yess..right there” his pace picked up and your legs opened wider. Your hands held your ankles as you looked down between you two meeting. The sight making aaron groan. His buried in your neck. “You fuck this pussy so good baby” you moaned caressing his back. Nails digging into his back when he started hitting it at a different angle. Your lips finding his ear.
“I-” a moan left him and his thrusts started to lose rhythm.
“What baby?”
“I’m not gone l-last long”
“No?”
“S-shit”
“You gonna cum for me baby boy?” the name almost making him nut right then. “Say baby aoo-my goodness”
“Yeesss y/n shit”
“I want you to come on my pussy baby. Okay?”
“I hear you”
“You gonna make me cum baby” he kissed your cheek making his way to your mouth. He reached down, thumb finding your clit drawing circles to match his pace. Your head was thrown back into the bed as your orgasm tore through you.
“Look so fucking pretty coming on my dick ma” he grunted. Thrusting twice before he pulled out not even needing to stroke as his cum coated your folds.
Pushing him onto the bed you climbed on top of him. Rubbing his nut into your clit moaning. The site made him catch his bottom lip between his teeth. Grabbing his length, you ease down on him.
“You wet as hell y/n” he groaned, hands finding your hips.
“Just for you baby..uuh..just for you” picking up the pace, Aaron tried to hold in his moans. “You stretchin’ this pussy out so good”
“Don’t talk like t-that y/n..damn right there” he eyes closing and head falling back. Feeling you stop he looked confused. sitting up on his forearms he started to say something but it didn’t take for him to see you straddle his legs with your back to him. aww shit.
Easing him back inside, you began to bounce.
“Keep ridin’ this dick baby..don’t stop..good ass pussy..feels too fuckin’ good..work that shit baby” his mindless drabble making your head spin but you leaned forward arching your back more going a little faster. “Hell yeah y/n just like that” his hand came down on your ass.
“Harder baby” you moaned. Earning you one smack after another and another.
Watching his dick disappear into your pussy over and over again was a sight. The clapping of your ass hypnotizing him. Your coils sticking to your back as he thrusted up into you, catching your rhythm. “s-shit so fuckin fat..c-creamin all on this dick ma..who makin you cream like this?”
“You”
“Who baby?” a concentrated wave of thrust started to push up into your spot, his hands moving you back onto him. Unable to say anything, your mouth wide open as you have no choice but to take it. “Tell me baby..hm?..who got yo shit this wet?”
“F-fuuuucckk you aaron uuughh”
“Been wantin’ yo sexy ass so mothafuckin’ long girl. Ain’t nobody getting this pussy but me..f-fuck..fuck allat otha shit”
“Aarroonn” your eyes tearing up as you tried to brace yourself.
“That’s right. you gone come on my dick again baby?”
“Yes!”
“Yeah? Show me mama. Gimme all that nut” and that you did. Except this time your arousal squirted onto his member. His hand reached forward and found your clit again.
“OOOhh my Gawwdd”
“Yess baby there you go..mhm..don’t stop..don’t you fuckin stop gimme all the shit baby come on…So fuckin good.” he cooed.
“Mmmm” you whined as he stroked you through it. He rubbed your back helping you come down from your high. You could feel him peppering kisses on your back. His member left you as he pulled you off and laid you beside him, pulling your back into his chest. You had begun to relax but the sound of a phone ringing interrupted the moment. Listening closely, it was clear it was not your phone. Reaching behind him on the night stand he sighed seeing the contact.
Looking back you see it was none other than Ashley. “Pick up” he looked at you like you were crazy but you had already reached up and pressed the green button, then the speaker when it connected.
“Hello? Babe?”
A smirk forming on your face hearing her voice.
“Ashley, what you callin me for?” he sighed.
“Baby, I just wanted to apologise for earlier cause I know those girls won’t. That was so uncalled for! I know how you don’t like drama in your space.” oh she wanna…okay.
“Ash you can’t put all of the blame on t-them” he stuttered feeling you reach back and stroke him before guiding him into you. Leaning forward some, you started moving. Your walls swallowed his dick again in what felt like a vice grip from this position. “C-chill” whispered.
“But it so was! You saw how defensive she got over nothing?!” you started throwing it harder. You moaned purposefully for her to hear. “What was that?”
Reaching for the phone you threw it above your heads, and moved Aaron’s take hold to your waist. “S-shit nothing” you were about to laugh but a hand came up to your jaw forcing your head back “ole nasty ass” his mouth coming to your ear. Your wetness and the sound of you two connecting were audible now.
“A-aron are you watching porn or something” you guided the hand on your hip to your boobs making him grope them. He didn’t need much help, your nipples getting trapped between his thumb and forefinger. You slowed down reaching the tip of his dick before slamming back down.
“Get that shit” he mumbled in your ear.
“You feel so good daddy” you moaned out loud. The name and the sensation of you rolling from his top on down making his eyes roll back.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now Aaron?!”
“You gone make a nigga nut y/n..gone make me..oouu shit” his mouth finding your neck. He still held a firm grip on your jaw making your back arch even more. “So fuckin’ nasty ma”
“Mhm baby”
“Are you fucking her right now?!? Oh my God!” Aaron was too lost in your pussy to care about the phone.
“You want daddy to nut in this good ass pussy, don’t you baby?..hm?”
“S-shit yes nut in me pleeeaassee” you threw it back harder.
“Aaron I swear to God”
“You fuckin this dick so good mama..keep fuckin me baby..Just like that..I’m bout to nut..sssshhhiiittttt” his body stilled as you pulled his nut out of him. Your fourth one ripping through you as well. Hitting so hard, your loud moan ended in a sharp gasp. The heavy breathing between you two loud but the three beeps from Ashley hanging up.
“Damn we in some shit” he laughed a little, catching his breath.
“I don’t care” your voice coming out hoarse making you and him look at each other. You hit his chest as he laughed. “Shut up!”
“Man come on” he got up from the bed. Guiding you to him, he picked you up and walked to the ensuite bathroom. Your head laid on his shoulder, lids heavy until he put you on the cold toilet. You groaned and pouted while he turned on the shower.
“Girl you better pee and stop playin”
“It's so cold though” you whined while peeing. “Can you get out? I need to wipe” you looked at him.
Smacking his teeth, “if you don’t getcho ass up so we can get in the shower.”
it feels like the community has been a little quiet lately, so i wanted to drop a little cheesy cameron cade one shot and see what everybody’s been up to.
also…
are we still messing with tyriq???
because ever since the girlfriend reveal it’s been crickets and i’m trying to see if we’re still standing ten toes down or if everybody moved on 😭
let a girl know.
anyways, i hope y’all enjoy this one. thank you for always showing love and making this space so fun ♡
Not Another Girl
Cameron Cade had a reputation.
You had every intention of avoiding it.
Cameron had other plans.
Dance rehearsal dragged out longer than you wanted it to.
Your body ached the second you stepped outside the building with your dance bag hanging off your shoulder while two of your friends walked beside you equally exhausted.
"I swear coach hates us," one of them groaned.
You laughed tiredly while adjusting the strap slipping down your arm. "She definitely trying to kill us before nationals."
The cool night air hit your skin after hours inside the hot studio. Campus looked calmer this late at night, most students already back in their dorms while lights from nearby buildings glowed against the dark sky.
Then one of your friends suddenly grabbed your arm. "Oh my God."
"What now?" you sighed.
"The football team."
Your other friend perked up. “Where?"
You looked ahead noticing the football players crossing the lot not too far away still dressed from practice, loud and laughing amongst themselves while heading toward the athletic building.
Your friends weren’t wrong, the football team did have some fine men on it.
Especially one in particular.
Cameron Cade walked near the middle of the group wearing gray sweats and a compression shirt that looked disrespectful on his body. His duffel bag hung off one shoulder while he laughed at something one of his teammates said.
Even from a distance people naturally gravitated toward him.
Annoyingly.
"One thing about Cameron," your friend muttered shamelessly. "That man is fine."
You rolled your eyes. “Please.”
"Oh don't do that," she laughed bumping your shoulder. "You know that boy fine."
"I didn't say he was ugly."
"Which means she agrees!" your other friend yelled.
You laughed shaking your head. "He also talk to half the girls on this campus."
"And?" your friend shrugged. "I'm not trying to marry him."
You snorted while glancing back toward the football players again. The campus rumors matched the visuals, Cameron really was attractive and he knew it too.
Every time you saw him around campus he carried himself with this stupid effortless confidence that made people automatically stare.
It was irritating.
A little intriguing too but mostly irritating.
Your friends were still going on about the football team when you realized you were missing something.
"I left my speaker in the dance room."
One of them groaned. "Girl no."
"I'll be quick," you promised turning around toward the building again. "Don't wait up for me."
"Oh we won't!" your friend yelled.
You pointed at her accusingly while laughing. "Fake."
"We love you though!"
Their laughter echoed behind you while you made your way back toward the dance building shaking your head to yourself.
A few minutes later you finally pushed back out the doors with your speaker tucked underneath your arm feeling victorious.
Until you looked up nearly walking straight into someone. A hand shot out catching your arm before the collision fully happened.
“Careful,” a deep voice came softly. “You almost tackled the starting quarterback.”
Your breath caught.
Cameron Cade stood in front of you already looking amused. Up close he looked even more unfair in the face, his buzz cut fresh and sharp while sweat still lightly gleamed against his skin from practice.
You stepped back quickly clearing your throat. "My bad."
Cameron glanced down at the speaker tucked against your hip before looking back at you again.
"You dance team right?" he asked casually.
You blinked once. "And you play football," you answered dryly.
That made him laugh.
"Damn," he laughed softly. "You don't even know me and already got an attitude."
You adjusted the speaker against your hip before looking up at him. "I know enough to have an attitude."
Cameron's eyebrows lifted like that answer entertained him. "Oh so you judging me off rumors?"
"If the shoe fits." you shrugged.
That made him laugh again shaking his head while looking down at you a little more carefully. "Nah," he said. "You funny as hell."
"And you flirt with everybody."
"You jealous already?"
You let out a short laugh. "Oh please."
Cameron smirked leaning against the wall beside you. "So you do pay attention to me."
"Kinda hard not to when half the female population on campus is attached to your hip."
"You really think you got me figured out already?" He asked.
"Everybody got you figured out."
Cameron tilted his head watching you before smiling. "You know what your problem is?"
Your eyes narrowed playfully. "What?"
"You decided what type of person I was before I even got the chance to talk to you."
You held his stare trying not to fold under the way he was looking at you. "And?"
“Now I gotta change your mind.”
A couple football players walked past the building entrance before one of them called out:
"Aye Cam you coming?"
Cameron didn't even look away from you. "In a minute."
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard at that.
"Aight then,” he said. "Lemme get your number."
You shake your head. “No sir”
The smile on Cameron's face shifted enough to let you know he wasn't expecting that answer.
"...damn."
You laughed softly finally stepping around him. "Goodnight Cameron."
He turned immediately watching you walk backwards a few steps. "So that's it?"
You shrugged. “You’ll survive.”
Then you turned walking off toward the parking lot before he could say anything else.
-
Your sociology lecture had barely started when the classroom door swung open.
A couple people looked up briefly before returning to their laptops once Cameron walked in wearing all black, with nothing but his phone in his hand.
His eyes landed on you and that stupid smirk appeared across his face.
You looked back down at your notebook pretending not to notice while your friend beside you started grinning.
"He’s coming this way," she whispered.
"Be quiet."
You could hear him getting closer before he finally stopped beside your desk.
"Is this seat taken?" He stood there looking entertained with himself already.
“Yes actually,” you answered smoothly. “It is.”
His smirk only deepened. “Mhm.”
You rolled your eyes fighting a smile before moving your bag off the empty chair beside you.
Cameron sat down comfortably and it annoyed you more than it should’ve.
Your professor continued talking at the front of the room while you tried focusing on the lecture and pretending his entire presence wasn't distracting.
You then feel something nudge your foot underneath the desk. You look over, Cameron sat there staring toward the front of the classroom like he hadn't done anything at all.
You narrow your eyes, he kept a straight face for about three seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched.
Childish.
You looked back toward the board trying to ignore him until your pen suddenly disappeared from your hand. Your head snapped sideways, Cameron casually examined your pen like he didn’t just snatch it out of your hand.
“Can you stop?”
“Stop what?” he asked innocently.
You look at your pen in his hand. “That doesn’t belong to you.”
He looked down at your notebook. "Your handwriting nice."
You snatched the pen back while Cameron laughed quietly beside you.
A few minutes passed peacefully before he leaned over again.
"What you writing?"
"Notes, where are yours? You haven’t wrote a single thing down.” you say looking at him.
Cameron leaned back in his chair unbothered. "I got tutors for that."
"Do you actually," you whispered back, "or you got people doing the work for you?"
Cameron's eyebrows shot up. He placed a dramatic hand over his chest while opening his mouth in fake offense, the shocked expression pulling a quiet laugh from you before you could stop it.
"Still judging off rumors I see," he accused.
You sucked your teeth softly. "I only asked a question."
"It was backhanded."
"You still didn’t answer it though," you pointed out lifting your chin a little. "And that's answer enough."
You turned your attention back toward the board, beside you, Cameron chuckled low under his breath, then suddenly his finger flicked lightly underneath your chin.
Your head snapped toward him again. “Can you not?”
Cameron only held his hands up innocently in surrender before leaning back comfortably into his chair. You rolled your eyes shaking your head, but the smile threatening your lips gave you away.
After that he finally stopped bothering you. At least physically, because his presence alone made focusing almost impossible.
Every time he shifted beside you or laughed quietly at something on his phone your attention drifted right back toward him against your will.
It was ridiculous.
When class ended you barely remembered anything your professor talked about.
The sound of chairs scraping across the floor filled the room while students started packing their things, Cameron stood first.
He looked down at you. “I’ll see you later.” The words sounded confident but you couldn’t shake how it sounded more like a question.
You stood too adjusting your bag onto your shoulder. "I doubt it."
You walked past him before he could say anything, but you could feel his eyes following you the entire way toward the classroom door.
That alone made your stomach flip.
Right before walking out, you glanced back over your shoulder one last time. Then gave him a small wave.
Cameron stared after you smiling to himself while you disappeared into the hallway.
-
Dance rehearsal finally ended close to nine and your entire body was worn out.
The music had been blasting for hours, your coach had been in a mood all night, and all you wanted at this point was a shower and your bed.
You walked out the building with your friends beside you laughing at something one of them said when another suddenly grabbed your arm.
“Oww Girl.”
You recognized that tone. “What?” you sighed.
Nobody answered which made you look up.
Cameron stood leaned against the hood of a black SUV parked near the curb, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie while talking to one of his teammates.
His head turned like he felt you looking at him.
Your stomach betrayed you.
The corner of Cameron's mouth lifted when he spotted you standing there.
"Mhm," another one of your friends hummed. "Quarterback waiting outside dance rehearsal for YOU specifically.
You rolled your eyes. "How do you know he's waiting for me?"
All three of your friend stopped walking just to stare at you.
“Please. That man looked at you the second we walked out.”
You tried fighting your smile while walking closer toward the parking lot.
Cameron pushed himself off the car once your group got near. His teammate muttered something to him before laughing and walking away.
Now his full attention rested on you.
It should’ve been illegal at how he was looking at you.
"You stalking me now?" you asked once he stopped in front of you.
Cameron looked down at you. "You say that like you hard to find."
One of your friends snorted loudly behind you.
You shot her a look while Cameron laughed under his breath.
The girls finally continued walking ahead leaving you alone with him underneath the glow of the campus lights.
The silence between you somehow felt comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
"What are you doing here?" you asked shifting your weight onto one leg.
Cameron shrugged. "Wanted to see you."
Your brows pulled together because the honesty caught you off guard.
He noticed too because his smirk appeared right after. "You look shocked."
“I am.”
He waved you off. "You just don't trust me yet."
That shut you up because he wasn’t entirely wrong.
Cameron started walking beside you toward the parking lot like there was never a question about whether he was walking you to your car or not.
"You hungry?" he asked after a minute.
You looked over at him suspiciously. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"A simple yes or no would've worked."
You rolled your eyes. "Yes."
"Aight."
"Aight what?"
"We getting food."
You let out a laugh. "Cameron."
"What?"
"You just decided that?"
He looked down at you with a shrug. "You act like I asked you to marry me. It's food."
You tried so hard not to smile but Cameron had this irritating way of making you laugh when you wanted to stay guarded.
"You are very persistent."
“You still ain’t give me your number yet either.”
You stopped walking near your car turning toward him slowly. Cameron looked satisfied with himself like he already knew he was winning you over little by little.
"You’re not tired of asking?"
"Nah."
Your eyes narrowed playfully. "What if I say no again?"
Cameron stepped closer just enough to make your heart beat harder. "Then I ask again tomorrow."
The confidence in his voice should not have affected you as much as it did. You stared at him before sighing dramatically and holding your hand out.
A grin spreads across Cameron’s face. "See," he said pulling his phone from his pocket quickly. "Knew you liked me a little."
You snatched the phone from his hand typing your number in before handing it back to him.
"Don't call me."
Cameron looked down at the contact before glancing back up at you with a smirk. "That don't even sound convincing."
You fought a smile but failed miserably. “Whatever.”
He laughed before sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Aight, let's go."
You paused. "Wait."
Cameron looked at you.
"I can just follow behind you."
He shook his head. “No.”
You raised an eyebrow. "No? Afraid I'll drive home instead?" you teased.
"Shiiddd, you might."
A laugh escaped you.
Cameron took a few steps backward toward his SUV before adding, "I'll have you back on campus at a decent time."
"Okay fine," you relented. "But you're paying."
The smile Cameron gave you made it seem like that had never been up for discussion. "Wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I didn't."
You rolled your eyes. "Who told you that you were a gentleman?"
"Everybody."
You shake your head. “Boy you ain’t shit.”
"You still gave me your number though."
"Keep talking and I'll take it back."
"Too late."
Before you could come up with a comeback, Cameron stepped around the vehicle and opened the passenger door for you.
"Thanks," you murmured stepping in.
He nodded once before closing the door.
A moment later he slid into the driver's seat, buckled his seatbelt, and started the engine.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, you glanced out the window hoping the darkness would hide the smile tugging at your lips.
-
Ten minutes into the drive and Cameron had already made you laugh three times.
He was talking about about random things that happened at practice while you occasionally laughed and shook your head at him.
Twenty minutes later the two of you sat across from each other in a small wing spot just off campus.
A basket of fries sat between you while Cameron worked through an order of wings like he hadn't eaten in days.
You watched him before finally asking. "How many girls have you brought here?"
Cameron looked up, the corner of his mouth twitched. "What kind of question is that?"
You pointed a fry at him. "You can't answer a question with a question."
Cameron laughed shaking his head. "You are nosey."
You shrugged. "I be curious."
"That's dangerous."
"For who?"
Cameron looked at you over the top of his cup. "Me apparently."
You laughed, pleased with yourself.
The conversation died down for a moment before you spoke again.
"So."
Cameron looked up. "So?"
"How long you been playing football?"
His expression softened a little. "Since I was seven."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Seven?"
"Mhm."
"That's like... your entire life."
Cameron shrugged. "Pretty much."
A smirk slowly appeared on your face. "Are you any good?"
Cameron sucked his teeth. "Man watch out."
Your laugh came out before you could stop it. "I'm serious."
"You know exactly who I am."
"That wasn't my question."
Cameron pointed at you from across the table. "See? This why I don't like talking to you."
"Because I keep you humble?"
"Because you’re irritating."
"Mhm."
"Real irritating." The smile on his face ruined any chance of it sounding convincing.
You leaned back in your chair crossing your arms with a knowing look on your face.
"Your turn," he said.
"My turn?"
"How long you been dancing?"
A smile immediately found its way onto your face. "Since I was five."
"Five?"
"See? Now who's saying that's crazy."
Cameron laughed. "Fair."
You picked at a fry. "I always wanted to dance at an HBCU though."
That seemed to catch his attention. "Really?"
You nodded. "Yeah."
"Why?"
The question made you smile wider. "The culture."
Cameron nodded.
"The band."
He nodded again.
"The energy."
"Mmm."
"The halftime performances."
That earned a grin from him. "I knew that was coming."
You laughed. "You football players think everything revolves around y'all."
"It do."
You threw a fry at him. Cameron caught it before it even reached his chest. The smug look on his face made you regret it.
"Oh that's annoying."
"Natural talent."
"Highly unlikely."
He laughed.
Between talking about majors, professors, and childhood dreams, Cameron stopped feeling like this larger-than-life person everyone on campus seemed to know. He just felt like Cameron, funny, easy to talk to, and annoyingly charming.
“So you major in marketing?” He asked.
You nod. “Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted. "That explains a lot."
You narrowed your eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He pointed at you. "You talk too much."
Your mouth fell open. "I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You laughed. "You've literally been talking this entire time."
"Yeah but my voice nice."
You stared at him. The confidence, the audacity, the stupidity. All rolled into one person.
“God help whoever has to deal with you every day.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Cameron just smiled.
A comfortable silence settled between you as you reached for another fry.
You were in the middle of explaining something when the words slowly died in your throat.
Cameron was looking at you like he’d forgotten what you were talking about entirely. The look on his face made your heart rate pick up a bit.
You stopped talking. "What?"
"Hm?"
"Why are you staring at me?"
A smile tugged at his mouth. "I'm listening."
"No you're not."
"I am."
"No."
Cameron laughed quietly.
Then leaned forward. "Hold on."
You blinked. "What?"
His thumb brushed lightly against the corner of your mouth.
Your entire train of thought disappeared.
"There." He leaned back in his seat. “You had sauce right there.”
You sucked your teeth. "You just wanted to touch me."
Cameron smirked. "That's what you got from that?"
Heat crept up your neck. "I'm just saying."
"You had sauce on your face."
"Mhm."
"You did."
"Mhm."
Cameron shook his head laughing. "You’re too much."
His eyes dropped to his phone before he looked back at you “It’s getting late.”
You glanced toward the window and realized he was right. You completely lost track of time. "Wow."
Cameron stood up. "Come on."
You grabbed your bag while he tossed a few bills onto the table.
"Told you I was paying."
"Such a gentleman." you said sarcastically.
Cameron grinned shrugging his shoulders. "What can I say?”
You laughed as the two of you headed toward the door.
Back on campus, Cameron parked right by your car.
"Thanks for dinner."
"Anytime."
You opened the door before pausing. "Goodnight, Cameron."
Something about the way you said his name made him smile.
"Goodnight."
You shook your head laughing quietly before climbing out.
Cameron watched until you were safely in your car.
Then finally drove off.
-
The next few weeks settled into a rhythm. Seeing Cameron became part of your routine.
He’d be waiting outside your classes more often than not, always claiming he was already headed that way anyway.
You never believed him.
Your friend didn’t either.
Every time Cameron appeared, they exchanged knowing looks before looking at you. It was so annoying.
Lunches turned into study sessions. Study sessions turned into walks across campus. Walks across campus turned into spending entire afternoons together without either of you realizing how much time had passed.
Cameron started showing up after dance rehearsals, leaning against his car waiting like he didn’t have anything better to do. Which was ridiculous considering he was Cameron Cade.
The football team wasn’t much better. The first time you stopped by practice, one of Cameron’s teammates spotted you standing near the fence and yelled, “There go your girlfriend.”
Several heads turned.
You almost laughed at how quickly Cameron’s face changed.
“She not my girlfriend.”
His teammate gave him a look. “Yet.” Cameron didn’t have a comeback and you never let him live that down.
The texts became more frequent.
Good luck on your exam.
You eat yet?
Practice was terrible.
Call me.
Look what they serving in the cafeteria.
He always found a reason to text you and you answered every single time. You stopped being surprised when his name lit up your phone. Stopped pretending you didn’t look for him after class. Stopped wondering if he’d show up because he always did.
Cameron had stopped feeling like a distraction and became someone you genuinely looked forward to seeing. Which would’ve been fine if it didn’t scare you a little, but you stopped worrying about what happened next and let yourself be happy.
-
The entire campus seemed to be outside.
Music blasted from speakers in the distance while students crowded every inch of campus. People danced in the streets, laughed in clusters, and shouted greetings every few steps as they passed familiar faces.
The smell of food floated through the air from vendors lined along the sidewalks while a dance circle had formed near the center of the crowd, drawing cheers every time somebody stepped into it.
“This is exactly why I love this school,” your friend said, grabbing your arm as the two of you pushed through the crowd.
You laughed. “You say that every event.”
“Every event proves me right.”
A smile tugged at your lips as you looked around.
The energy was infectious. Students wearing Greek letters strolled past. Someone was carrying a plate piled embarrassingly high with food. A group nearby was arguing over who had the best step team on campus. It felt like the entire university had shown up.
“Come on,” your friend said grabbing your hand instead. “Let’s get something to eat before the line gets ridiculous.”
You let her drag you toward the food trucks shaking your head while she continued talking.
A little while later, you and your friend had managed to claim a spot near one of the food trucks. A plate of jerk chicken, rice, and plantains sat between the two of you. You scoop up some more rice, your eyes drifting across the crowd for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Looking for someone?” your friend asked with a smirk.
Your eyes snapped back to her. “What?”
She laughed. “You heard me.”
You sighed, your shoulders relaxing. “I haven’t seen him today.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Your friend’s expression softened. “Ya’ll really be spending a lot of time together.”
You gave her a look, lowkey already knowing where this conversation was headed.
“Are y’all like… a thing?”
You sucked your teeth. “Can it just be time well spent?”
Your friend held her hands up in surrender. “I was just asking.”
You shook your head smiling and stood up. “I’m gonna go get something to drink.”
“Get me one too.”
“No.”
“You’re rude.”
You laughed as you walked away.
The line wasn’t bad just long enough for you to pull out your phone and scroll while you waited. A group of girls stood a few feet away talking loudly over the music. You weren’t paying attention at first, not until you heard a familiar name.
“Cameron.”
Your thumb paused over your screen.
“You talking about Cameron Cade?” one of the girls asked.
The other girl laughed. “Yep.”
“What about him?”
The girl shrugged. “I was with him last night.”
Your stomach dropped.
“You lying.”
“I’m serious.” The girl laughed again. “I was just with him last night.”
You stared at your phone, reading the same text message over and over without actually processing a single word. Maybe she was lying. Maybe she wasn’t. The problem was you didn’t know, and that bothered you.
Cameron wasn’t yours.
The two of you had never established anything. Never had that conversation. Never put a title on whatever this was. So technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong.
That didn’t stop the sinking feeling settling in your chest.
You tried focusing on your phone again, but it was pointless. The girl kept talking, her friends hanging onto every word while she laughed and continued the story. Before she could get any further into detail, you shoved your phone into your pocket and stepped out of line.
The drink didn’t matter anymore.
You needed a minute.
The music seemed louder as you moved through the crowd, weaving around groups of students and trying to ignore the knot forming in your stomach. You weren’t even sure where you were going. Somewhere quieter, hopefully. Somewhere you could get yourself together before you did something stupid.
“Y/n.”
You looked up to find your friend making her way toward you.
“There you are,” she said before smiling. “Cameron is looking for you.”
Your eyes lift finding him standing a short distance behind her. Any hope of getting a minute to yourself disappeared when you saw him.
His attention was already on you.
You looked away before he could read whatever was written on your face. Your friend glanced between the two of you, her smile slowly fading as she took in your expression.
“You okay?” she asked carefully.
You swallowed and forced yourself to nod. “I need a minute.”
Something in your voice must’ve told her not to push because she simply nodded.
You turn in the opposite direction barely making it a few steps before you heard your name.
“Y/n.”
You kept walking.
You didn’t stop until the music faded into the background and the crowd thinned enough for you to breath. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath and shook your head, trying to get rid of the feeling sitting heavy in your chest.
“Didn’t know you were into chasing.”
Cameron’s voice made you snap your eyes open and turn around. A grin sat on his face from having finally caught up to you but when he got a good look at you, it disappeared.
His brows pulled together. “What’s wrong.”
You crossed your arms over your chest narrowing your eyes at him. “Were you with someone last night?”
He tilted his head at you. “Wha-“
You held up your hand. “Actually, don’t even answer that.”
Cameron frowned. “No, you asked now we’re talking about it.” “Yes, I was with someone last night, but it wasn’t like that.”
You gave him a knowing look. “Oh? How typical.”
Now it was Cameron’s turn to narrow his eyes. “What did you hear?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He shook his head. “Nah, we’re not doing this. What did you hear?” His voice dropped lower.
You looked away. “She made it seem like it was like that.”
“And you’re believing her?”
“Can you blame me?” You held your hands out before crossing your arms back over your chest again.
A humorless chuckle left Cameron as he shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
You look up.
“All this time we’ve been spending together and you still don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
You laughed softly, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “Come on, Cameron.”
“No.” His voice was firm. “No because I want to know.”
You swallowed. “This is exactly way I didn’t want to have this conversation.”
“Why?”
You shook your head. “Because I sound crazy.”
“I need more than that.”
You blinked. “What?”
Cameron held your gaze. “I need more than that y/n.”
You let out a frustrated laugh. “It’s not my place to question you about things like that.”
“Who decided that?”
Your eyebrows raised. “Are you going let me talk or are you going to keep interrupting me?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.” Cameron wasn’t letting up, it felt like he was physically pulling the truth out of you.
You huff. “Fine. What she said bothered me because I like you. Is that what you wanted to hear?” The words were out now with no room for taking them back.
“Yes.” Cameron says without hesitation.
You look away shaking your head. “You don’t get it.”
Cameron made a face. “What is there to get y/n?”
“I wasn’t supposed to catch feelings for you.” you blurt out.
“Why not? Cameron pressed stepping closer to you. Close enough to make you look up at him. The movement stole whatever response you’d been about to give.
You went quiet frowning up at him.
Cameron raised an eyebrow taking one finale step closer to you making you drop your arms and straighten up. “Answer the question.” he demanded.
"Let's not act like that reputation is non-existent."
He sucked his teeth waving you off. "Here you go with that bullshit again, acting like you know me based off of whatever you made up in your head.”
All you could do was roll your eyes.
Cameron shook his head. “When we first met? Cool. I understood it.” His hand motioned between the two of you. “You didn’t know me. You heard some stories, made your little assumptions, whatever.”
You opened your mouth. “My little assumptions?“
“Yes, your little assumptions” Cameron mocked.
Despite everything, the corner of his mouth twitched but it disappeared just as fast.
“We’re way past that now. You’ve spent all this time with me and you know how I move. Now some random girl says something and suddenly we’re back at day one.”
The conviction in his voice made your stomach twist.
“Cameron-“
He shook his head. “No, because I am tired of hearing about that reputation shit.”
You opened your mouth to argue but you he cut you off. “You like me, Y/n, and you heard what that girl said and started trippin.”
The confidence in his voice was infuriating.
“I was not trippin.”
“You absolutely were.”
You rolled your eyes again.
Cameron looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were standing here acting like liking him was a bad thing.
He took a step back. “You need to grow up.”
Your mouth fell open. “I need to grow up?” You gestured toward yourself.
“Yeah.” He nodded once. “Because you’re standing here arguing with me over something somebody else said instead of paying attention to what’s been right in front of you this whole time.”
You hated how much sense he made.
Cameron took another step back before you can respond. “I’ll see you later y/n.” he turned and walked away.
You stared at his retreating back before throwing your hands up. “Ugh!”
You weren’t even sure who you were more irritated with.
Him.
Or yourself.
-
Ten minutes before halftime and you couldn't focus on anything. The dance team was gathered near the tunnel making final adjustments before taking the field. Some girls stretched, others ran through counts, everyone seemed locked in expect you.
You kept making adjustments to your uniform until you let out a frustrated breath.
This was ridiculous.
You'd spent the last two days trying not to think about Cameron and every time you replayed the conversation from the block party you got annoyed.
You need to grow up.
The audacity, you rolled your eyes just thinking about it because who did he think he was?
The nerve of him to stand there and tell you to grow up after following you across campus and forcing you into a conversation you hadn't even wanted to have in the first place.
And yet...
The more you thought about it, the less upset you felt because if Cameron truly didn't care, none of that would've happened. He could've let you walk away, shrugged it off, he even could have told you it wasn't his problem and gone back to the party.
Instead he'd followed you, listened and argued with you. You hated where that realization was leading. Not because it was uncomfortable but because it made sense.
Your eyes drifted toward the sideline where the players were. Cameron was out there somewhere probably unbothered. The thought almost made you laugh expect, you didn't actually believe that anymore.
Not after the look on his face when you'd questioned him and the way he'd kept asking you the same question.
Why not?
You swallowed.
That question kept replaying in your head. It was the way he'd looked so confused by the idea that you weren't supposed to like him. As if the possibility had never crossed his mind.
A loud cheer erupted from the crowd, pulling you from your thoughts. You blinked and looked toward the field a small smile tugged at your lips.
Maybe Cameron wasn't the only one who needed to stop being hardheaded.
-
The whistle blew, signaling halftime.
You fell into line with the rest of your teammates trying to focus on the performance ahead of you instead of everything else occupying your mind.
The stadium buzzed with excitement.
The band was already preparing to take the field.
Students filled the stands.
You were adjusting your gloves when you felt someone step beside you.
"You done trippin?"
Your eyes cut toward Cameron and a frown pulled at your lips.
The corner of his mouth lifts. "That's the look you got for me?"
You rolled your eyes. Cameron nudged your shoulder hard enough to knock you out of line.
The side eye you gave him was lethal. "You don't have anything else better to do?" you asked.
Cameron shrugged looking down at you. "I was worried about you."
You shook your head stepping back into line. "I thought you said I needed to grow up."
Cameron laughed.
You looked away.
That didn't stop him from stepping directly into your line of sight. "Have you?"
The teasing in his voice made you roll your eyes even harder.
You refused to answer.
Cameron lifted his hand and placed his index finger beneath your chin lifting it until you were looking at him.
"Fix your attitude."
You pressed your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
One of the coaches yelled for the players, Cameron dropped his hand and took a step back.
"Break a leg." Then he turned and jogged off the field.
Gosh he made it impossible to stay upset.
-
The halftime performance came and went.
Before you knew it, you were back in the stands watching the game.
The final minutes of it felt endless.
You were supposed to be sitting with the rest of the dance team, but at some point you’d found yourself standing.
Along with everyone else.
The score was so close.
The stadium buzzed with nervous energy as the offense lined up one last time.
Your heart pounded.
The ball snapped and the crowd came alive. Players collided at the line, bodies moving in every direction as the play developed. Cameron disappeared behind a wall of jerseys before suddenly breaking free.
The stadium erupted.
The screaming around you got louder as Cameron took off down the field. Every person in the stands seemed to rise to their feet at once.
Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. Five.
Touchdown.
The noise that followed was deafening. Students rushed the field while the band poured onto the turf. Teammates swarmed Cameron before he could even celebrate, and within seconds the entire stadium had dissolved into complete celebration.
Beside you, the dance team was losing their minds.
“We won!”
“We really won!”
You laughed as one of your friends nearly knocked into you.
People were everywhere.
You were still celebrating with your teammates when someone suddenly grabbed your wrist.
Your head snapped around. “Cameron-“
He cut you off.
One hand landed on your waist as he pulled you toward him, and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours.
You froze, completely caught off guard. The noise of the stadium seem to fade because all you can do is focus on Cameron. The fact that he was kissing you infront of everyone.
When you finally came back to yourself, the laugh that had been threatening to escape you all night disappeared into the kiss instead.
Cameron smiled against your lips like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
The hand on your waist tightened briefly as he pulled you closer. Then, noticing your arms still hanging awkwardly at your sides, Cameron grabbed your wrists and guided them around his neck.
The move pulled you even closer into him.
Your fingers found the back of his neck as you finally relaxed against him. His hand settled against your waist while his lips moved against yours with an ease that made your heart stutter.
Like he wasn’t worried about the crowd, the game, or the fact that half the campus was probably watching.
Your fingers traced along the back of his neck as you pulled him closer, and in the back of your mind you found yourself wondering why you’d spent so much time fighting this.
Especially when kissing him felt this right.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were smiling.
“You done?” you asked, trying and failing to sound annoyed.
Cameron shook his head. “Can you stop acting like that?”
Your brows furrowed. “Acting like what?”
He looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Stop acting like I don’t want you.”
You stared at him.
Cameron took a breath. “Be mine, I don’t want anybody else.”
He looked nervous and that might’ve been your favorite part of the night.
You laughed.
“Why you laughing?”
You shook your head. “Because.” You smiled. “You really got on national television and made a fool of yourself.”
“A fool of—”
“Yes.” You nod. “A fool.”
Cameron eyes narrow. “You got a funny way of saying yes.”
You smiled wider while you reached up and grabbed his jersey. “Good thing I am saying yes.”
Writing a fanfiction is not for the weak when you're still new to thumblr😭😭. I'm still learning how to use the app itself. NATE STFU part 2 will probably be released later on tonight or in the morning but i'mma be locked in working on it for the rest of this evening I'm so excited to release itt😝🥳
Thank you to all of you for supporting my last two fanfics you all really loved Nate stfu part 1 so I'm dropping a part 2 very soon love you lots🫶🏾💞🤭
Summary: You pull your Michael, who’s been your celebrity crush for years. Only one problem—you’ve been writing fanfiction for years for the man, and now you have to find a way to keep your worlds separate. However, what happens when Michael finds out about your smutty little blog?
Warning(s): SMUT (18+, MDNI), smut writing, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex (m/f), deepthroating, spitting, cum swapping, daddy kink, backshots (if I missed something, don’t beat me up lol) I hope you guys enjoy. Let me know what you think!
You’d always found solace in fanfiction.
There was something so special about all of the stories that you’d read throughout the years about your favorite celebrities or your TV crushes. Your first introduction to fanfiction was Wattpad. Your friends had let you in on the coveted website and suggested it to you.
The first fanfic that your friend suggested just so happened to be a Mindless Behavior fanfic about Princeton. You were hooked. How had this world–this fandom–been escaping you for the past years?
Naturally, your relationship with the site continued to progress as you read more stories. You’d stay up till 2 AM just to read a story written by someone who was no doubt the same age as you.
Next, there was fanfiction.net.
You’d spent countless hours scouring through all of the Vampire Diaries fanfiction that you could get your hands on. You can’t recall the exact moment that you landed on Tumblr, but you knew that it just all clicked together for you.
The ‘x reader’ tag became your home.
You thoroughly enjoyed reading all of the stories about your crush on Zayn from 1D. With Tumblr, there seemed to be this brand new world of possibilities for you to read. However, there’s something that you’d noticed in your many hours of scrolling through Tumblr.
There weren’t many ‘x black!reader’s stories for you to indulge in. There was a handful of writers who’d become your solace when you looked to be shipped with a certain character or celebrity, but there weren’t many. You’d long grown tired of clicking on an interesting story only to have the reader be described as having long, flowy blonde or brunette locks that the male character could run his hands through. Similarly, you’d grown tired of reading smut where the reader was clearly described as having pale skin and pink nipples.
That wasn’t your story. As a black woman, you weren’t able to visualize yourself in these spaces or stories because they weren’t written with women like you in mind. To make matters worse, it seemed like fandoms were intent on erasing black women, who look like you, from the lexicon of the content.
It was all so draining and so very degrading.
Growing up, you’d always envisioned yourself as a writer. You loved stories, and reading was your way of escape. On sites like Wattpad and Tumblr, you could be transported to worlds and stories where you were the center of the story. There’d been many times when you opened up a Word document and started to type a story, only to never finish it.
For you, you compared yourself to other writers and their ability to write a compelling story. When you looked back at your own words on the paper, it felt like child’s play. So, you stopped writing. You subjected yourself to the role of an avid but silent reader who admires her favorite writers.
That was your role for a few years.
You’d silently heart the stories, but you were never brave enough to comment.
There were so many different stories in your head that you wanted to see on the platform. Silently, you wished that your favorite writers would somehow read your mind and bring the story to life without you asking. However, as the saying goes, “a closed mouth doesn’t get fed.”
The turning point for you was Black Panther.
You were there as the explosion of fanfics arose for Erik Killmonger, T’Challa, and M’Baku. What a time to be alive when all of your favorite writers were putting out work that should’ve been receiving some type of literary award. One night, after an hour of constantly reading about Erik Killmonger putting the reader through the mattress, you made your move.
You wrote and published your first-ever Tumblr fic.
As soon as you pushed the publish button, you immediately closed your laptop like it was an explosive waiting to detonate. You couldn’t bring yourself to go back and check to see what the reviews were.
What if they thought it was trash? What if your grammar was terrible? What if you didn’t capture the essence of the characters? What if no one read it all? For the sake of your mental health, you didn’t go back to check how your story was doing until two days later.
At the two-day mark, you found yourself logging back into Tumblr. You’d worked up the courage to see if there was any feedback. To your absolute shock and delight, people loved your story.
The hearts and comments overflowed as people asked for more. Thus, stargirlwriteswas born. Through your blog, not only did you give room for yourself to grow and see yourself be represented, but you made space for other black women to feel like they were being seen and heard. In your stories, the black women were always being loved on, worshipped, and cherished.
You’d grown a following and support system so big that you couldn’t imagine a future where you weren’t writing on Tumblr.
Honestly, you don’t know what to call what happened.
Fate. Coincidence. God.
You honestly have no clue, but this is the story of how you met your celebrity crush and bagged him. It started at the library–naturally. You liked the library. You liked coming to the library to work on your stories and your books. You’d recently been picked up by a publishing company to release your new Southern Gothic thriller. Between writing for your books and working on screenplays, you still found the time to work on writing on Tumblr.
There was no way you were letting your community down. Not after all of the support and love that they’d given you up to this point. In the library, you liked to sit at the back table that was conveniently away from everyone, but still, there was a giant window that allowed you to see outside.
It was the perfect spot.
No one had dared to venture into your self-proclaimed territory. Not until today.
You heard the light footsteps as they approached the back table and saw the man from the corner of your eye. He had a cap on his head, and from his body language, you could tell that he didn’t want to be seen. He was craving privacy just as you were.
The man looks over at you before clearing his throat, “Hey, I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, but do you mind if I sit here? It’s just, I kind of want privacy, and this spot just seems like fewer people come here.”
There was a distinct nagging in your head that let you know that you knew his voice from somewhere, yet you brushed it off. Truthfully, you could’ve told the man no, but there was something inside you that begged you not to.
Plus, the table was huge, so it’d look a little weird if you were hoarding it for yourself.
“Yeah, of course.” You slide some of your scattered papers down towards yourself as the man takes a seat. After a few seconds, you and the man both begin working simultaneously on your projects. You can see him glancing over at you a few times, but you choose to ignore it.
From the corner of your eye, you see him take the hat off his head. He takes a tentative glance at you, but you still don’t entertain the notion of looking at him. For the next twenty minutes, the only sounds are you and the man typing on your computers and then writing down notes on your respective journals.
You finally look up and happen to glance in his direction and freeze.
You now understand why he was so adamant about hiding his face. You try not to freak out as you finally clock the fact that Michael B. Jordan is sitting across from you. The man whom you’ve had a crush on for years. And also the same man whom you’ve been writing the filthiest smut for. Talk about an embarrassing predicament.
Yet, you decide to play it cool. The last thing you want is for the man to think you’re fangirling over him when he’s trying to work.
Michael looks in your direction, “Hey, sorry to bother you again, but do you know where they keep the printers?”
You nod, “Yeah, they’re just around the corner. You can just click print, and it’ll ask for your name so that they don’t mix it up with anyone else’s papers.”
Michael nods at your instructions before giving you a sheepish smile, “Would you mind coming with me and helping? I just know I’ll forget everything at the printer.” He gives you a tight-lipped smile before quickly adding, “That’s if you’re free. I wouldn’t want to take you away from your work.”
“Sure. I got you,” You said, laughing a little before standing from your chair. Michael slides the cap over his head again before falling in step beside you. As expected, the printer is exactly where you said it would be. Michael leans over your shoulder to get a look at what you’re doing. A chill travels up the length of your spine at the feel of his body against yours. You can feel the heat from his body seeping into yours.
You bite your lip softly while peering up at him. Michael seems to notice the close distance and steps back. An embarrassed look crosses his face, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to all up in your space.”
“It’s fine.”
You click the file that has his name on it, and the papers start flowing from the printer. You grab them and hand the stack to Michael. The tips of his fingers brush against yours as he grabs the papers. You try to ignore the tingle that rushes up your skin at the feel of his skin. He gives you a quiet “thank you” before you both venture back to your corner of the library.
You take your seats at the same time.
Michael reaches across the table with his hand outstretched, “I’m Michael, by the way.”
You give him your name as you connect your hand with his. Internally, you’re freaking out at the fact that out of all days, you’re sitting across from your celebrity crush and practically holding his hand. The delusional part of you is telling you that he’s down bad for you, and this is the start of something beautiful. The writer part of you is mentally tracking all of the subtle movements that Michael makes with the full intent of incorporating them in your writing.
However, you quickly push those thoughts to the side because it feels a bit parasocial in a way.
You and Michael fall back into your rhythm of working on your projects. He looks up at you as you scribble down notes on your notepad. “What are you working on?”
You lift your eyebrows in surprise, “Just a play.”
“That’s neat. What’s it about?” Michael seems genuinely interested in your work as he leans further on the table.
“It’s a Southern gothic play about a young woman returning home to face her past trauma.”
Michael nods, “That sounds really dope. You planning to put it on Broadway?”
“Yeah, my agent and I have been working to get everything in motion.”
“Good luck. I’d like to come see it when you get it off the ground,” Michael said, sparing another dazzling smile in your direction.
You smile in response, “Definitely. What are you working on?”
Michael gives you a shy smile, deep dimples popping out of both cheeks, “I’m working on a romance, actually. It’s a story of two people who are married, trying to make it work, but somewhere along the line, their communication becomes lost. The only way that they know how to reach each other is by speaking through this new technology system.”
“That sounds like an amazing concept. You’re working on the script now?”
“Yeah, I’m just getting stuck on a few things, especially with my main woman lead. I’m struggling to get her voice just right, especially in the scene where they’re confronting each other,” Michael states, leaning back in his chair.
You bite your lip nervously, “I could read it if you wanted me to. I mean, I have experience writing romance, and I’m also an avid reader, so maybe I could give you a few pointers.” You’ll definitely leave out the part where you write avid romance and smut stories with him as the male lead.
“If you don’t mind, that’d be great. I’d hate to take you from your thing, though,” Michael responds.
You quickly shake your head, “No, I promise it’s fine. Plus, we writers have to stick together.”
Michael slides his laptop over in your direction before strolling to the part that he wants you to read. He unintentionally starts to watch you and your facial expressions as you’re taking in the work. Your eyes quickly skim across the work, and you make mental notes along the way until you stop at the point where Michael stopped typing.
He looks at you expectantly once you stop reading. “It’s good. The storyline that you’ve crafted so far in this scene is good. I like the tone, but I’m only getting one side of the argument. I’m hearing your male protagonist’s voice very clearly in this argument, but what about the female lead? What does she ultimately want to express in this argument?”
Michael takes a second, “She wants to feel heard. She wants him to understand that she hasn’t felt seen by him in a while in their relationship.”
“Good. You know your theme and intentions, but it’s not coming through in the scene. All I hear is his voice. Even the lines that you have for her, they’re still in line with his wants. Put yourself in her shoes and react. If you have a partner who hasn’t been meeting your needs, how would you respond as a woman?”
Michael goes through his brain for the answer. On some level, he knows how he wants it to go, but he’s still stuck. He gives you a helpless look, which makes you chuckle.
“How about this? You rewrite it again, and I’ll give you my critique.”
Michael nods before sliding the computer back towards himself. He takes your words into account and begins typing on the document again. He peers over the top of the computer as you continue scribbling in your notebook. You don’t catch the way that his eyes zoom in on the way that your teeth bite at the end of the pencil. He’s fascinated by you. You don’t even react to the fact that you clearly know who he is.
Little does Michael know, you’re having a full-blown panic attack on the inside.
After a solid twenty minutes pass, he stands and leaves the table. You expect to see that he’s packing up his things, but once you clock that all of his stuff is still here, you shrug. Maybe he had to go to the bathroom. A few minutes later, Michael plops into the seat with a handful of snacks.
Wordlessly, he slides a pack of Hi-Chews and chips in your direction. You stop writing and give him a questioning look. Michael shrugs, “To say thank you for your help.”
“What if I didn’t like Hi-Chews?”
“There’s a wrapper sticking out of your bag,” Michael points out, nodding his head towards your open laptop bag. You glance at the bag, and sure enough, a brightly-colored wrapper sticks out.
You can’t stop the laugh as it bursts from your lips, but you cover your mouth. Soon, Michael joins you in laughing.
“Let me take you out for a coffee after this.”
That’s the story of how you pulled your celebrity crush.
Your relationship with Michael surprises you each day. It really blows your mind that the man that you’ve been writing about for years is finally your boyfriend. Initially, you slow down on writing fics for Michael on Tumblr. It all feels a bit parasocial, especially when you’re with him most of the time.
But that still doesn’t stop the writer in you.
The more you fall for Michael, the more ideas pop into your head for possible stories. However, you channel the energy into working on writing your own novels. You really try to fight the urge to write on Tumblr. But the Tumblr app on your phone calls to you like the green goblin mask.
It only takes one specific kiss from Michael, with him pressing you against an elevator wall, to run to Tumblr. The community that you had built over the past years all express how happy they are to have you back, and you fall back into posting naturally.
Most of the people reading your writing would never suspect that you’re Michael’s new beau.
‘@donwrites: ugh sis, you write Michael so good! It’s like you know him personally.’
If only they knew that you had been kissing the man seven days out of the week and cuddling in his bed.
You keep the writing from Michael. If you’re typing at his house, you’ll play it off as working on a new novel or screenplay. He’s none the wiser to the fact that his girlfriend is writing the most downright filthy smut involving him.
It’s a random Thursday when Michael gets suspicious.
He’d invited you over under the guise of working together. You both found that you were a lot more productive when you worked across from each other. You slide the glasses up the bridge of your nose as you type quickly on the computer. You’re honestly in a flow state with the current story that you’re writing about Michael. You’d had the idea to write a story about him dominating the reader after a recent miscommunication.
You move to exit the bedroom. Sharp tears sting at your eyes as the heat builds in your chest. You sniffle loudly and wipe furiously at your eyes. The ache in your chest increases with each step that you take towards the door. You’re so close to the door when Michael grabs your arm. You try in vain to tug your arm from his grip, but he tightens his hold on you.
“Michael, let go of me,” You mutter, your chest heaving up and down.
“No, you don’t get to walk away. I don’t know about any of them other niggas you’ve been dealing with, but we talk things out around here. Go sit down,” He states, a hard edge to his voice.
You shoot him a hard look, defiance swirling through your irises. Michael matches your stance and squares his shoulder as he stares down at you, “You think I’m playing?”
He takes a step closer, his eyes growing darker. He moves until he’s standing chest-to-chest with you. Michael moves a hand up to your face and smushes your cheeks between his fingers. Your wide eyes meet his as he brings his face closer to you.
“Does it look like I’m playing with you?”
You give him a surp––
“What you working on over there, baby?” Michael questions from his side of the office.
You give him an awkward smile. How does one say, “Oh, nothing, babe, just writing out some nasty smut involving you for some equally freaked out women to read?”
Instead, you just respond, “Oh, nothing. Just some romance stuff.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the complete truth either. Michael doesn’t push the issue. He’s asked to read some of your writing before. You’ve obliged and let him read the things that aren’t fanfiction. Though he suspects that you may be writing something else that you don’t want him to see.
Michael’s not dense. He’s well aware of the rise of smut and spicy scenes in the book community. He figures that you may be writing something along that vein, but he respects you too much to pry. Though he secretly wonders what freaky stuff you could be writing.
The sex between you and Michael was good. Real good. However, there were certain aspects that you and Michael had explored. For example, he didn’t know about your desire to be dominated by him. He didn’t know about all of the nasty and explicit things that you imagined him doing to him. With Michael, he was very sensual and emotional in the act of sex, which you loved.
But you also yearned for him to turn you every way but loose.
For the next ten minutes, you type more for the story, including starting on the smut scene. You’re genuinely reaching flow state when your phone vibrates on the couch.
“I’ll be back, my agent is calling,” You said to Michael. He nods before looking down at his own computer. You minimize the Tumblr tab before exiting the room.
Once you leave the room, Michael can’t help the way that his eyes gravitate over to your laptop. The MacBook Pro is practically calling him to take a look. Maybe just a quick peek. He tiptoes across the room and lifts the top of the laptop. He peeks through your folders, including the one labelled “stories.” There’s nothing out of the ordinary there. It’s all the stories and screenplays that you’ve let him read.
He suspects he was overthinking and is about to close your computer when he notices your web browser is still open. Michael slides the mouse over to the open tab and quickly clicks on it.
Tumblr.
Now what’s this? His curiosity gets the better of him, and he browses through the website. He’s surprised when he sees stories popping up about himself. He clicks on the “Michael B. Jordan x black!reader” tag and feels like the world shifts for him. There’s a myriad of things here. Some sweet stories, but his intrigue goes up when he sees the NSFW stories.
Michael looks off to the side where there’s clearly a profile and clicks “view blog.”
dollhousewrites.
Is this you? He clicks on the post labelled Masterlist and finds that you have an extensive body of work. Michael clicks on the post labelled with his name and realizes that there are a lot of stories about him. He clicks on the most recent post from two weeks ago called “Terms and Conditions.”
Just as he’s about to start reading, he hears your footsteps approaching. He quickly airdrops the link to himself before closing your laptop and sitting at his desk.
He’s the picture of perfect innocence as you enter the room. He smiles at you, “Hey, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, she just wanted to let me know that my publishers want to talk about my next book release for the fall,” You respond, giving him a wide smile.
“That’s great, baby. I’ll take you out tomorrow so we can celebrate,” Michael said, and he meant it. Even when you were both still forming a friendship, he watched how hard you worked on your books and screenplays. You were careful with which details you ingrained in your characters. He’d forever be talking about how you’re his favorite writer, and how he has one of the world’s greatest writers as his girlfriend.
Still, he yearns to know more about you, and that starts with delving into your Tumblr stories.
That night, while you’re sleeping next to him in bed with your back turned, Michael pulls up the Tumblr link on his phone. He strolls through the stories again and starts from the beginning of what he learned is called “a masterlist.” Your initial stories are centered more around Erik Stevenson. You truly capture the essence of what makes the character tic. The recklessness and die-hard mentality for his cause. Michael thinks that you may understand Erik better than he does.
As he progresses through your masterlist, he clocks the different eras of his career that you write for. Hell, you’d even written about Vince Howard from a college perspective. He notices the shift once he enters his Sinners era. The works are a lot more mature and erotic. It’s during this part that he reaches the stories that you’ve personally written about him.
He clicks on Terms and Conditions once again. He’s sucked into a world where you’ve characterized him down to the tee. You’ve incorporated some of the subtle mannerisms that you’ve noticed him doing from your time of dating him.
He even catches a few of the phrases that he commonly says in the story. It’s when he makes it to the smut portion of the story that things shift for him. Michael feels the heat rising within his chest and traveling further down.
Michael removes his head from between your legs, your juices shining all over his mouth. He presses one last lingering kiss to your pulsing clit. You whimper at how sensitive you are. He gives you a dark smile, hunger swirling beneath his brown irises, “You taste so good, baby.”
“Please, Michael,” You beg, doe-eyes desperately begging for more.
Michael brings his hand up to encircle your pretty neck, “What do you need from me, baby? Just tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want you to fuck me, daddy.”
He groans at the sound of your desperate words and gently lays you back on the counter. Chills run through your body at the cool marble pressing against your heated skin. Michael takes the moment to look at you, naked and vulnerable, in his hands. Love bites litter the expanse of your skin from where he got greedy earlier. He takes both of your thick thighs in his hands and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter.
He crudely slaps his dick across your pearl as you flinch from the pleasure.
“You don’t want me to be nice to you tonight,” He inquires. You shake your head. You always liked him when he toed the line between cruel and permissive. Michael gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip down on your pussy. He slides his dicks through the mess, combining it with the slick that he’s oozing from you.
He takes the tip of his dick and notches it in your––
You shift in the bed and turn on your side to face him. Michael all but jumps out of his skin as he quickly locks his phone and glances to see if you’ve caught him. Peering closer, he lets out a deep sigh of relief once he concludes that you’re still sleeping.
He takes a second to just breathe. He’s never felt so overwhelmed by reading something. Is this what you wanted him to do to you? He’s dabbled here and there with some rough play and kinks in his sexual life, but he can’t recall a specific moment where he’s allowed himself to fully lose control and just give in. He spares you another glance and fully looks at the content expression on your face. His sweet girlfriend has been writing all this filthy stuff right under his nose.
By the way that his dick is straining against his brief, he concludes that he likes it just as much as you and your readers do.
Michael’s being weird, and that’s putting it lightly because he’s naturally kind of weird at home. No, this is different from his usual weird behavior. He’s been a lot more clingy, which you definitely don’t mind. But he’s been crowding your space more and seemingly more horny for you, which again you aren’t complaining, but you wonder where the shift came from.
Even now, as you both leave the after-party of an event that he was invited to, he’d been all over you. Throughout the night, he kept his grip tight on your waist and would frequently press kisses to the side of your neck.
Now, inside the car, he reaches across to rest his hand on your thigh, which isn’t unusual for him. However, you clock the way that his hand slides up the apex of your thighs, where your dress has shifted. Michael grips your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road.
“Are you okay?” You ask, which makes him jump in surprise.
Michael looks down and clocks where his hand is. He goes to remove his hand until you place yours over his to keep it there.
“I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?” Michael asks, worry filling his eyes. You always admired that about Michael. He was a gentleman through and through, and consent was always key with him.
“You’re not making me uncomfortable. I’m just asking if you’re okay. You’ve been crowding me all week. At the party, you were all over me. Now, I’m not complaining, but I could swear you’re ovulating,” You said, smiling widely at him.
Michael shrugs, “I can’t help it. You just look so sexy.”
He chooses the moment to venture further up where his fingers brush against your panties, which are growing wetter by the second. He peeks over at you, “Take them off for me.”
You give him a surprised look, to which he smirks, “Just humor me, babygirl.”
You slide your hands under your dress and tug your panties down your legs. Michael opens his hand to you and gestures with his eyes for you to put the panties in his hand. You oblige, and your jaw drops when you see him bring the wet material up to his nose.
“Open your legs,” He orders.
You spread your legs, but try to scooch down so that you’re not dripping down on his leather seats. Michael smacks his lips, “Baby, don’t worry about making a mess. That’s the whole point. I wanna smell your pussy on my seat the next time that I get in here.”
You’re clutching at your invisible pearls. Michael guides his hand back to your wet center and trails his fingertips up and down to gather your wetness on his fingertips. He slides two fingers across your clit and rubs circles across the throbbing pearl. Your pretty lips form a pout as the whimpers drop from your mouth. Moving down, Michael’s fingers dip in and out of your entrance as you roll your hips to meet his touch.
Michael bites his lip at how needy you are. It’s turning him on more knowing that he can’t fully watch you how he wants, but he has to rely on his touch and hearing. “Spread your legs wider for me, baby.”
You open your legs, and truthfully, you can’t pretend to be shy with your pussy out in his car. Michael plunges two fingers inside your dripping hole. Loud wet noises fill the car as he curls his fingers in and out of you. He presses the palm of his hand into your clit. You throw your head back against the seat as you loudly moan. You clutch at his hand, and Michael’s even more turned on; he clocks you humping against his hand.
The driveway to his house appears, and he turns to you briefly, “Go ahead and cum for me, babygirl.” He curls his fingers across your spot, and soon, your walls tighten as your release consumes you. Michael pulls into the driveway and has the pleasure of watching as you ride your release out. His eyes wander over your form as your breasts press against the dress. As you come down, your eyes meet his. He gently pulls his fingers from you, which are drenched with your release. Michael slides his fingers up to his mouth and sucks your juices from his fingers.
He makes a big display of it by closing his eyes and moaning. Once he opens his eyes, he catches your lustful stare. “Come on, we’re not done yet.”
Inside the house, you and Michael are all over each other. Hands messily groping at each other as he slams you against the wall. You can see the brief moment that he pauses, afraid that he’s hurt you, but you smile widely at him. He leans closer until his breath ghosts over your lips, “You don’t want me to be nice to you tonight.”
You freeze. Your confused eyes meet Michael’s as he smirks at you.
“Pause,” You state, pushing gently at his chest. He sets you down on your feet before you move to create distance between yourselves.
You rack your brain at how he could know that sentence. That sentence of all the possibilities of things that he could’ve said to you. Michael waits patiently on the other side of the room for you to make the connection.
You groan loudly, “You read my story, didn’t you?”
Michael looks like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He tries in vain to appear aloof, but he fails miserably. “Yeah, that night your agent called. I was just curious about what you were writing. I didn’t mean to disrespect your boundaries. I’m sorry.”
You bite your nails, a nervous habit of yours that Michael had been helping you break.
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I mean, this is so embarrassing. You literally found out that I’ve been writing fanfics about you, and I’m dating you!” You exclaim. You begin pacing back and forth in the room until you move to walk towards the door.
Michael frowns and quickly crosses the space to stop you, “Why are you leaving?”
He frowns even more when he sees the tears in your eyes. Guilt courses through his body. He steps in front of you and grasps your face in his hands, “Baby, I’m really sorry. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you or anything like that. This is on me, I shouldn’t have been snooping through your stuff. But I just wanted you to know how much I liked it and to incorporate some of it.”
You sniffle and frown at him, “What? You liked reading my story?”
“Yeah, you know I always like reading whatever you write. If anything, I was flattered that you put that much work into writing for me and my characters. The way you write me, baby, I’ve never seen myself that way. It turned me on, to be honest.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. I keep going back to read all of your stories over.” He pauses to laugh, “I even created an account to start liking your stories.”
You think back to your recent follows and laugh loudly, “Boy, are you bakari87?”
Michael laughs before nodding, “Yeah, mbjlover was already taken.”
There’s a moment of silence before you both break into laughter. Michael looks at you before pressing his lips to yours. “I mean it when I say that I really liked it, babygirl. I was kind of hoping that we could recreate some of the moments from your Terms and Conditions story.”
“You really liked that one?”
“Yeah, the part about me spitting on the reader’s pussy really did it for me.” He slides his hand down to close around your throat. Your eyes move to meet his as the heat floods throughout your body.
Michael keeps his hand around your throat as he carefully navigates you toward the couch. He gestures for you to take off your heels, which you do. With the heels off, it adds to the height difference between the two of you. He navigates behind you to toy with the zipper of your dress. The sound of the zipper fills the room as you can feel the excitement building in your core.
The dress falls to your feet as you stand naked before Michael. He runs his across your figure, taking in all the details that he’d committed to memory. Once he’s in front of you, he roughly grabs your face in his hands and smushes your cheeks together.
“This is the part where you have fucking the reader’s throat. Let’s start there,” He orders gently. You nod obediently and sit on the couch. You go to button his pants when he stops you, “You can’t remember your own story, babygirl? You open my pants with your mouth.”
Your mouth waters as you remember the plot point. Moving forward, you run your face across his bulge. You mouth at the button and move your head to the side to pop it open. You look up at Michael through your lashes as you grasp the zipper between your teeth and move down. Michael is nice enough to remove his pants for you.
He grabs the back of your head and presses your face into his covered dick. You mouth at his covered dick, your spit staining the front of his briefs. Kissing upwards, you lick at the happy trail of hair leading down into his briefs. Grasping the fabric between your teeth, you pull the briefs down until Michael’s dick is finally exposed to the air.
“Let me feel your throat, baby,” Michael mutters. You shudder at the realization that he’s quoting directly from your story. You don’t even need directions for your next actions. You lick along the underside of his dick right along the pretty vein that runs through it.
Your lips close around the tip of Michael’s dick, where his precum covers your taste buds. You suck at his sensitive tip as he groans and throws his head back. You move your mouth down to begin bobbing up and down on his dick. Your hand follows to cover the base where your mouth doesn’t reach.
Michael curls his hand through your hair and pulls you back, “Stick your tongue out.”
You do, and he leans down to release a trail of spit into your waiting mouth. Your eyes flutter as you moan at the filthiness of the act. Michael guides you back to his dick, but this time it’s different. You cross your arms behind your back just as you had written in your story. Michael looks down at you for consent, and you gladly give it.
The first push of his dick makes you gag a little. He pauses to let you adjust. You nod in his hold, and he resumes thrusting. You breathe through your nose as he enters your throat. Spit from your mouth drips onto your breasts and the floor. Tears fill your eyes as your mascara begins to run. Michael looks down and moans loudly, “You look so beautiful, Princess. You’re doing so good for Daddy.”
Pleasure sparks through Michael’s body at the whole scenario. It turns him on even more with how much you trust him to use you like this. Feeling bold, he pushes your face down so that your nose is engulfed in his pubes. You breathe through your nose and moan around his dick as it settles in your throat. Michael shudders at the feel of your warm throat. After a few seconds, he pulls out of your mouth completely.
He looks down at you again as you give him a wide smile. Tear, spit, and mascara streak across your face, but to Michael, you’ve never looked more beautiful.
He helps you to stand as he lifts you in his arms. You see him walking to the counter, and your pussy clenches in anticipation. Gently, he lays you across the marble counter. He quickly discards his shirt before moving between your legs.
“Please, Michael,” you beg, wide eyes meeting his.
“What do you need from me, baby? Just tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want you to fuck me, daddy.”
He pulls you closer to the edge of the counter. He takes both of your thick thighs in his hands and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter. Just like the story, Michael gathers the spit in his mouth and deposits it crudely on your wet center. He slaps his dick across your clit where the spit landed and rubs the mess in with your combined slick.
Only this time, he won’t be getting interrupted.
He guides his tip to your entrance, and you both watch as he slips inside your warm walls. Your combined moans fill the empty kitchen as Michael’s thigh touches the back of yours. He pulls back and watches as pussy clings to him. His dark eyes find yours, “You see that? Pretty pussy is begging to keep me in.”
A deep breath leaves your mouth as he thrusts back in. Michael covers your body with his as he thrusts in and out of you.
“Michael..” you whine, once he lifts one of your legs to hang over his shoulder.
“I know, baby. You’re doing so good for me,” He responds, connecting his lips to yours. You whimper as he pulls out of you. You can feel your walls clenching in response to the loss.
Michael maneuvers your body from the counter and bends you over. You shiver as your nipples brush against the cool surface. You look back as Michael lines his tip up with your opening again, “I wanna see that pretty ass bounce on me.” You arch your back in the way that you know he likes, which makes him groan.
Michael slides inside you as he watches your backside ripple under his thrusts. You look back at him as you start thrusting back against him. Michael’s gaze is focused on the motion of your ass and the ring of cream that’s coating the base of his dick.
“You’re so deep, baby,” You whimper.
Michael can feel his own release building inside of him. He grabs your hips to start thrusting again. He reaches under you to start stroking your clit. He leans over to your open mouth, and you stick your tongue out again. A string of spit leaves his mouth and falls into your waiting mouth. A loud cry leaves your mouth as your orgasm hits. You shake in Michael’s hold as tears trail down the side of your face. He kisses your tears and continues to thrust inside of you.
With one last stroke, Michael moans loudly at this own orgasm consumes him. His own body shakes against your own as he pulls you flush against him. You and Michael moan at the mutual feeling of his cum shooting against your womb. When he pulls out, his cum trails down your thighs.
You surprise him by dropping to your knees and taking his cum-stained dick into your mouth.
“Baby, wait..”Michael pleads, still sensitive from his own orgasm. You ignore him and keep bobbing your head while fondling his balls. Michael practically screams as he cums again, his white release painting your tongue.
You stand up, and Michael clocks that you haven’t swallowed yet. You gesture for him to open his mouth. Your own hand comes to close around his throat as you spit his cum back into his mouth. You don’t waste any time sliding your tongue into his mouth as you both swap the cum back and forth until it’s gone.
You both pull back as you give him a demure smirk.
“I hope you write that into the next story for all of your freaky followers,” Michael comments.
“Oh, I most definitely will. I’m sure that they’ll love to hear that their Oscar Winner loves the taste of his own cum,” You mutter against his lips.
Michael laughs, “I like it when it’s coming from you. But I’m not done with you yet. There are a few other stories that I wanna recreate, starting with your Sinner story.”
Let’s just say, the girls were treated to a lot more Michael content, approved by the man himself.
Summary: Everybody in Texas knew the story of Adonis Creed and Kyri Davis. High school sweethearts. Built from nothing. The golden couple who turned young love into an empire of money, fame, and Southern luxury. From championship belts to billion-dollar sports agencies, Donnie gave Kyri everything they ever dreamed about when they were seventeen years old. But somewhere between the ranch house, the private jets, and the expensive silence filling their home, love started rotting beneath the surface. When Donnie catches Kyri crossing a line neither of them can come back from, their relationship spirals into an open relationship built on resentment, loneliness, and emotional starvation. While Kyri chases freedom, Donnie slowly unravels beneath the weight of humiliation and heartbreak, until one unexpected night changes everything.
The ranch house sat quiet beneath the Texas sunset, golden light stretching across the wrap-around porch and bleeding into the fields beyond the property line. The land looked endless from the front steps. Acres of tall grass swaying in the evening breeze. Horses shifting lazily behind white fences. The gravel driveway curls through the property like a private road built for someone important.
And Adonis Creed had built all of it for her.
The house itself looked like something ripped from a luxury magazine, trying to sell rich Southern dreams. Dark wood beams. Massive stone fireplaces. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ranch land. Expensive leather furniture softened by handmade quilts, Kyri swore she’d replace one day but never did. Every room carried traces of the life they built together. Pictures from championship fights are framed beside old high school prom photos. Signed gloves displayed beside candid snapshots of vacations and birthdays and smiling moments that felt older than they actually were.
From the outside, they looked perfect. The former heavyweight champion turned billionaire businessman, and the woman who stayed beside him since they were kids. People in town loved telling their story. High school sweethearts. Texas royalty. Built from the ground up. Nobody ever talked about what happened after the dream finally came true.
The house smelled faintly like cedarwood and expensive candles, the kind Kyri ordered in bulk and barely noticed anymore. A massive black duffel bag rested near the front door beside Donnie’s polished dress shoes, proof he’d only been home for less than an hour. His jacket hung neatly over the back of a dining chair. His watch sat beside an untouched whiskey glass.
The dinner he made was getting cold.
Again.
Steam no longer rose from the short ribs sitting untouched at the center of the dining table. Candles flickered softly between crystal glasses and folded linen napkins. Donnie stared at the empty chair across from him for a long moment before finally glancing toward the hallway.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. No Kyri. Only the distant sound of her laughing softly upstairs.
Probably on the phone again.
Donnie leaned back slowly in his chair and rubbed one large hand down his face. His suit vest strained across his chest from another fourteen-hour workday, but exhaustion wasn’t what sat heavy on him.
It was disappointing. The kind that had become routine.
He looked down at his phone again.
8:43 PM
Their reservation had been for eight.
The same steakhouse they used to sneak into years ago, when they were broke teenagers splitting one plate and pretending not to be hungry afterward.
Back then, they used to sit in the corner booth sharing fries and talking about impossible futures like they were already real.
Kyri wanted a huge house.
Donnie wanted enough money so his daughters would never struggle.
She used to laugh and say he talked like an old man trapped in a teenager’s body.
Now Donnie owned half the damn city.
His company handled:
athlete management
endorsement deals
NIL contracts
PR scandals
recruiting five-star high school talent
college athlete branding
Every week, some new kid walked into his office looking at him the same way Donnie once looked at heavyweight champions on television.
Like greatness was sitting right in front of them.
He built an empire from fists and discipline.
And Kyri still canceled.
Again.
The text she sent an hour ago sat open on his screen.
Raincheck tonight babe. Headache.
No apology. No explanation. Just that.
Donnie swallowed quietly and locked the screen.
Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Texas night.
The silence inside the house somehow felt louder.
Years ago, this place used to feel alive. Back when they were seventeen. Back before the money. Back before people started treating Adonis Creed like a brand instead of a man.
He could still remember the first time Kyri came to one of his amateur fights.
She showed up late, wearing ripped jeans, gold hoops, and a Houston Astros jacket two sizes too big for her. She spent the entire fight yelling louder than anybody in the gym despite barely understanding boxing back then.
"Get his ass, Donnie!"
Embarrassing as hell.
But he remembered grinning between rounds because she was there.
Back then, she looked at him like he was becoming something.
Not like something she already owned.
He remembered her sneaking into his room afterward through the bedroom window at his mama’s old house, laughing while trying not to wake anybody up.
"You got beat up a little," she teased quietly while pressing frozen peas against his jaw.
"Won though."
"Barely."
He grabbed her wrist then, pulling her into his lap while she laughed harder, her curls falling into her face.
"You still came," he muttered.
Kyri smiled at him differently back then. Soft. Warm. Like loving him was easy.
"Always gon’ come for you," she whispered.
And for a long time, she did.
She stayed through:
His first Golden Gloves win.
bad managers
injuries
cheap apartments
endorsement meetings
media scrutiny
championship pressure
long nights
longer mornings
She used to sit beside him while he studied contracts at tiny kitchen tables in apartments barely bigger than hotel rooms. Used to help him rehearse interviews before sponsorship meetings. Used to lay across his chest while they talked about buying land somewhere quiet once all the fighting was over.
And Donnie listened to every dream she ever spoke out loud.
The ranch house existed because of those conversations.
Kyri had been there through all of it.
Donnie never forgot that.
Maybe that was part of the problem.
Because even now, after everything had changed between them, he still loved her with the loyalty of that seventeen-year-old boy who thought she hung the moon.
The sound of heels finally echoed down the staircase.
Donnie looked up immediately.
Kyri appeared in the doorway wearing one of those silky lounge sets she liked spending absurd amounts of money on. Her hair was wrapped loosely, her lips were glossy, and her phone still in her hand.
Beautiful. Always beautiful. Even now. That was the dangerous part. No matter how distant she became, Donnie still looked at her like she was the first good thing that ever happened to him.
"You still up?" she asked casually.
Donnie stared at her for a second before forcing a small smile.
"Made dinner."
Her eyes flicked toward the table briefly.
"Baby, I told you my head hurt."
"Yeah. I know."
Kyri walked toward the kitchen island without looking at him fully, her attention already back on her phone. The screen light reflected in her eyes while she scrolled.
Donnie watched her quietly.
Watched how easily she ignored him now.
No kiss. No thank you. No noticing the candles. Nothing.
She opened the fridge.
"You eat already?" she asked.
"Was waitin’ on you."
"Oh."
Just "Oh." That one syllable somehow hurt more than yelling would have.
Donnie looked down at his plate.
He used to know how to make her smile.
Used to know exactly what she needed before she even asked.
Now every conversation felt like knocking on a locked door.
Kyri grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the counter while typing something into her phone.
A smile tugged briefly at the corner of her mouth. Tiny. But real.
Donnie noticed immediately.
And something ugly twisted low in his chest.
Because she hadn’t smiled at him like that in months.
"Who you textin’ that got you cheesin’ like that?" he asked lightly.
Kyri barely looked up.
"Stella sent me something stupid."
"Mm."
He wanted to ask more.
Didn’t.
That had become another habit.
Avoiding conflict. Avoiding pressure. Avoiding anything that might make her pull further away.
Because lately it felt like Kyri was always halfway out the door emotionally.
And Donnie was exhausting himself trying to pull her back.
Earlier that morning, he’d sent her flowers.
Last week, he canceled meetings to take her to Austin for the weekend.
Two weeks before that, he bought tickets to a private resort in Cabo after she casually mentioned needing a vacation.
Nothing lasted.
Nothing reached her.
And the harder he tried, the more distant she became.
Kyri finally glanced up from her phone.
"You got that NIL dinner tomorrow?"
Business. That’s what they talked about most now. Business. Schedules. Appearances. Logistics.
Donnie nodded slowly.
"Yeah. Got a quarterback comin’ in from Louisiana. Five-star kid."
"The tall one from TikTok?"
He gave a tired laugh through his nose.
"That’s what you know him from?"
"That boy fine," she said absentmindedly while scrolling again.
The joke probably wasn’t meant to hurt.
But somehow it did.
Because once upon a time, Kyri used to look at him like he was the finest man alive. Now she barely looked at him at all.
Donnie stared quietly at her for another long moment.
The kitchen lights reflected softly against the marble countertops. Somewhere upstairs, the television in their bedroom played low enough to barely hear. The entire house felt too big suddenly.
Too expensive. Too quiet. Too empty.
Then finally, he stood from the table.
The chair scraped softly across the hardwood.
Kyri glanced up briefly.
"You mad?"
And there it was. Not concerned. Not affection. Just irritation at the possibility of emotional labor.
Donnie forced another smile.
"Nah," he lied smoothly.
Because that’s what he always did. Kept the peace.
Kyri hummed softly and looked back down at her phone.
Conversation over.
Donnie grabbed his whiskey glass and walked toward the back porch.
Outside, the warm Texas air wrapped around him immediately. Crickets chirped through the darkness. The horses shifted quietly somewhere beyond the fence line.
The porch lights cast long shadows across the wood beneath his boots.
He sat heavily in one of the rocking chairs overlooking the property and stared out into the night.
This was supposed to be the dream. The house. The money. The woman he loved. The life they built together. So why the hell did he feel lonely inside it?
Inside, Kyri laughed softly at something on her phone again.
And Donnie sat outside alone, pretending not to notice how much that sound hurt now.
The rain didn't just start; it announced itself with a low, guttural growl of thunder that vibrated through the chassis of the black Escalade. By the time Donnie turned off the main highway, the sky had unzipped itself, unleashing a torrential downpour that turned the long gravel driveway into a shimmering, black ribbon. The windshield wipers beat a frantic, hypnotic rhythm, but they were no match for the silver sheets of water that blurred the world outside, smearing the fence posts and the endless, rain-darkened Texas plains into an impressionist painting of grey and green.
It had been a week of paper cuts, each one deeper than the last. Three NIL negotiations that felt more like hostage situations. Two media crises that required him to be both a fixer and a therapist. And the cherry on top: a nineteen-year-old five-star recruit, a kid with the world at his feet, threatening to torch his entire future because another agency had dangled a bigger, shinier endorsement deal in his face. Any other night, Donnie would have stayed at the office, a lone warrior battling a sea of emails and spreadsheets until the city lights bled into the dawn.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he came home early.
For her.
On the passenger seat, nestled in expensive cream tissue paper, was a bouquet of deep red roses so perfect they looked almost artificial. Beside them, a sleek black velvet box lay innocently. Inside, a custom diamond bracelet—delicate, timeless, and astronomically expensive—waited. He’d spent two weeks agonizing over the design with the jeweler, every detail calibrated to a casual comment Kyri had made months ago about wanting something elegant she could wear every day, not just for special occasions. The reservation confirmation for a private rooftop restaurant downtown glowed softly on his phone's screen, a digital beacon of his intention. It was one of the first places they had ever celebrated, back when they were so broke they couldn't even afford appetizers, splitting a single entree and feeling like royalty. Now, the owner would shut down an entire section at the whisper of Adonis Creed’s name.
The Escalade glided to a stop beneath the covered porte-cochère. Donnie cut the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof. He grabbed the flowers, their petals cool and fragrant against his fingertips, and stepped out into the humid, storm-charged air.
The ranch house stood against the bruised twilight sky, a warm, honey-glowing beacon of comfort and stability. It was beautiful. It was quiet. It was too quiet.
The moment the heavy front door clicked shut behind him, a feeling like a cold finger traced its way down his spine. Something was wrong. The usual soundtrack of their life was absent. No neo-soul drifting from the Sonos speaker in the kitchen. No television murmuring from the living room. No scent of the vanilla and amber candles Kyri loved to burn. Just silence. A profound, cavernous silence that made the 8,000 square feet of custom-built luxury feel less like a home and more like a mausoleum.
Donnie loosened his silk tie, the expensive fabric feeling like a noose around his neck. Rainwater darkened the shoulders of his bespoke wool coat. His eyes automatically darted toward the kitchen, expecting to see her at the island, a glass of wine in hand, scrolling through her phone.
Empty.
"Kyri?"
His voice didn't echo. It was swallowed by the stillness. No answer.
He moved deeper into the house, his Italian leather shoes silent on the polished concrete floors. The flowers felt heavy in his hand, their vibrant red a jarring splash of color in the muted, monochromatic palette of the entryway. Then he heard it.
A soft sound from upstairs.
Breathing.
A moan.
Donnie froze, his entire body seizing up like a machine that had been abruptly shut off. For a beat, his brain, a finely tuned instrument of logic and reason, simply refused to process the input. No. It couldn't be. It was the wind, the house settling, a trick of the acoustics.
Then another sound followed. Quieter this time. Breathy. Intimate. Unmistakably female. And it was coming from Kyri’s office.
The bouquet of roses slipped slightly in his grip, the stems digging into his palm. His chest tightened, a sudden, vicious vise that stole the air from his lungs. The hallway upstairs seemed to stretch and warp, the distance to her office door feeling like a mile. Every step was a monumental effort, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps as his pulse hammered a frantic, violent rhythm against his eardrums.
Another moan. And this time, there was no denying it.
Kyri.
Donnie stopped outside the partially closed door, a sliver of light cutting across the dark hallway floor. For a second, he just stood there, a statue carved from ice and disbelief. If he didn't move, if he didn't breathe, maybe reality would bend. Maybe he would wake up.
Then he pushed the door open.
Kyri jerked in her chair as if she’d been electrocuted.
"Shit!"
Her laptop slammed shut with a violent clap, the sound sharp and final in the quiet room. It skittered sideways on the polished desk, nearly toppling over. The air in the room was thick with the scent of vanilla candles and her favorite perfume, a cloying, sweet smell that suddenly made him sick. Her hair was a messy cascade around her shoulders, and the silk robe she wore was hanging loose off one shoulder, revealing the delicate strap of her camisole.
Donnie’s eyes, trained to see everything, took it all in in a single, gut-wrenching sweep. The disheveled hair. The hastily closed laptop. The panicked, wide-eyed look on her face. It was the panic that hurt the most. Not guilt. Not remorse. Panic. The raw, primal fear of a predator that had been caught in a trap.
For several long, agonizing seconds, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft, steady patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Donnie just stared at her, his face an unreadable mask. Kyri stared back, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts. His heartbeat felt erratic, a wild drum solo in his chest.
"What was that?" he asked finally.
His own voice surprised him. It came out calm. Too calm. A quiet, deadly monotone that was more terrifying than any shout.
Kyri swallowed, the click of her throat audible in the suffocating silence. "Nothing."
Donnie’s gaze shifted from her face to the closed laptop on the desk. Then back to her. "Don’t do that."
"Do what?" she asked, her voice thin, defensive.
"Lie to me while I’m standin’ right here."
Kyri shot up from her desk, the motion sharp and aggressive. "Why are you home early?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. Not "Oh my god, Donnie, you're here!" Not "What a surprise!" Just immediate, naked defensiveness. A challenge.
Donnie slowly held up the bouquet of deep red roses, their vibrant beauty a cruel irony in the moment. "Wanted to surprise you."
Her expression flickered. A flash of something—guilt? regret?—crossed her features before the wall slammed back into place, hard and impenetrable. "Donnie, it’s not what you think."
"Then tell me what I walked in on," he said, his voice still dangerously quiet.
Kyri crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a classic defensive posture. "I was watching porn."
Silence.
The word hung in the air between them, so absurd, so pathetic, that Donnie actually laughed. It was a short, sharp, humorless sound. "Porn," he repeated quietly, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Yes."
"So who were you talkin’ to?"
Kyri’s jaw tightened, a stubborn line forming on her beautiful face. "Nobody."
"I heard you."
"You’re overreacting."
There it was. The trifecta. Gaslighting. Deflection. Turning the knife back on him. Making his pain his problem.
Donnie stared at her for a long, hard moment, his mind racing, connecting dots he hadn't even known existed. Then, slowly, deliberately, he walked to the desk and set the flowers down. Their petals brushed against the cool, dark wood. The black velvet jewelry box followed beside them, a small, heavy testament to his hope.
Kyri’s eyes darted down to the box. Something uncomfortable, something that looked a lot like shame, flickered across her face.
Too late.
"Who was it?" Donnie asked again.
This time, his voice sounded tired. And the exhaustion hurt worse than any anger ever could.
Kyri looked away first, her gaze fixed on a point on the wall just over his shoulder. And suddenly, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, Donnie knew. This wasn't a suspicion. This wasn't a fear. This was knowledge. This wasn't new. This wasn't a mistake. This had history.
"Kyri."
She rubbed both hands over her face, a gesture of utter frustration, before finally speaking, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I met somebody online a couple months ago."
The room went completely still. The air seemed to crystallize. Donnie felt something inside him, something essential, break loose and drop into a dark, bottomless pit. "A couple months," he repeated, the words tasting like poison.
Kyri rushed forward, her voice rising, defensive. "It’s not serious!"
"You said months."
"Because we talk sometimes!"
"You were havin’ phone sex with another man in our house," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion.
"Don’t say it like that!" she cried, her face crumpling.
Donnie blinked at her slowly, his disbelief giving way to a cold, hard clarity. "How the fuck should I say it then?"
Kyri looked frustrated now, almost irritated that he was daring to be upset. "You’ve been distant too, Donnie!"
He stared at her, truly, deeply stared at the woman he had built his entire world around. "I been workin’."
"Exactly!"
"That’s not the same thing."
"You think buyin’ gifts fixes everything," she shot back.
The words landed hard because somewhere, in the deepest, most insecure part of him, he feared she might be right. He looked at the bracelet sitting unopened beside the wilting roses. The reservation confirmation still glowed on his phone screen. All the effort. All the trying. All the reaching. And she still looked emotionally checked out, a stranger standing in front of him in their own home.
"Did you sleep with him?" Donnie asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Kyri hesitated.
A fraction of a second too long.
His stomach turned. "No," she answered finally, her voice firm. But she wouldn't look him in the eye. And in that moment, Donnie suddenly realized he didn't know when she had stopped telling the truth.
The storm outside intensified, thunder rattling the windows like an angry fist. Kyri crossed her arms again, her chin jutting out in defiance. Then came the sentence that changed everything.
"Maybe we should open the relationship."
Donnie looked at her like she had just reached into his chest and torn out his heart. "What?"
Kyri exhaled sharply, a sound of pure exasperation. "I’m serious."
"You get caught cheatin’ and now suddenly you wanna be progressive?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulous disbelief.
"I’m not cheating if I’m telling you the truth now."
"Now?" The word echoed harshly, full of venom.
Kyri’s frustration bled into anger. "Maybe we got together too young. Maybe we never got to experience other people."
Donnie just stared at her. This woman knew every scar on his body, every fear that haunted his dreams, every version of himself that existed before the money and the fame. And somehow she was talking about their seventeen-year relationship like it was a college phase they needed to outgrow.
"So what?" he asked, his voice hollow, empty. "You wanna date other people while still livin’ in my house?"
Kyri rolled her eyes immediately, a gesture of such casual dismissal it felt more violent than a slap. "See? That’s exactly what I mean. Everything always becomes about money with you."
Donnie actually looked offended, his pride stinging. "Because I mentioned the house?"
"Because you act like providing things means I owe you ownership over my life."
The sentence hit him like a punch to the gut, a low, dirty blow. Because despite everything, despite the rage and the hurt, Donnie never once thought he owned her. He loved her. That was the problem.
Kyri seemed to sense his shift, her expression softening slightly when she saw the raw, wounded look on his face. "I’m not saying I don’t love you," she said, her voice quieter now, more manipulative. "I just think maybe we need space to figure ourselves out."
Space. Such a harmless-sounding word for something that felt like it was tearing his entire world apart.
Donnie’s gaze drifted toward the closed laptop on the desk. Then back to the woman he had spent over half his life loving. And for the first time, a terrifying, soul-crushing thought settled into his chest, heavy and cold.
This didn't start tonight.
Which meant he had already been losing her for a long, long time.
The rules started three days later.
Kyri wrote them sitting barefoot at the kitchen island, the arches of her feet pressed against the cool leather of the barstool. She sipped her iced coffee through a metal straw, the condensation beading on the glass as she discussed dismantling their seventeen-year relationship with the same casual tone she’d use to plan a weekend trip to Cabo.
Donnie stood across from her, a ghost in his own home. He was still in the slacks and wrinkled button-up he’d pulled on that morning, a uniform that felt like a costume now. He hadn't slept properly since the night in her office, not since the world had tilted on its axis. The skin beneath his eyes was a bruised, shadowed purple, his jaw a permanent, tight line of clamped muscle. Outside, the Texas heat was a physical presence, a thick, wet blanket pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the sprawling green of the ranch into a hazy, watercolor dream. Somewhere near the stables, the low, mournful twang of country music drifted from an old truck radio, a sound that used to feel like home.
Inside, the air-conditioning was on full blast, but the chill had nothing to do with the temperature. It was a cold that emanated from the space between them, a vacuum where warmth used to be.
Kyri’s fingers flew across her phone screen, her manicured nails clicking softly. "Temporary arrangement," she said, her voice crisp, business-like. "Just for a few months. To… recalibrate."
Donnie just stared at her. The effortless way she compartmentalized his agony, her neat little labels for his heartbreak, was a violence in itself. He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, a puff of air that tasted like defeat.
Kyri finally looked up, her expression faintly annoyed, as if he were being difficult. "What?"
"No emotional attachment," he continued, his voice a low, flat monotone as he recited the inevitable list. "No embarrassing each other publicly. Discretion. And don’t ask, don’t tell."
"You got all this planned out already?" The question was barely a question, more a statement of weary disbelief.
Kyri’s gaze didn’t waver. "I’ve been thinking about it for a while."
There it was again. Another confession slipped between the teeth of a lie. For a while. The words echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence of the kitchen. Donnie leaned forward, his palms pressing flat against the cool, unforgiving marble of the countertop. He looked down, not at her, but at the polished stone between them, a gulf he suddenly knew he could never cross. The woman he loved, the woman whose name was etched onto his soul, had been packing her bags in her mind for months. Maybe years. And he’d been too busy polishing the floors of the cage to notice she’d already found the key.
"You don’t gotta do this if you don’t want to," she said, a flicker of something—pity?—in her voice.
But they both knew that was a lie. A courtesy. The truth was ugly and simple: whether he agreed or not, Kyri was going to keep seeing other men. The only difference now was whether she did it behind his back or to his face. The realization hollowed him out, leaving a cavernous, echoing space where his hope used to be.
"Few months," he repeated, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.
Kyri nodded, relieved. "Just to see if space helps us."
Space. That damn word again. Like this was a benign relationship reset, an emotional tune-up, instead of the slow, methodical poisoning of everything he’d ever believed in. He looked at her for a long, hard moment. Still beautiful. Still familiar. Still the girl he’d loved since he was a boy. And yet, she felt further away than the stars in the vast Texas sky.
"Aight," he said finally.
The single word was a surrender. A white flag.
Kyri exhaled, a soft, almost inaudible sound of relief. And that, right there, was the sharpest pain of all. She had expected a fight. Expected yelling, expected tears, expected the grand, dramatic performance of a man whose heart was being shattered. Instead, he had given her permission to do it politely. To break his heart quietly.
The first few weeks were a special kind of hell. A purgatory of his own making. Donnie threw himself into the gaping maw of his work. The Creed Agency headquarters in downtown Dallas, a gleaming glass tower of his own design, became a sanctuary. At least there, he was needed. The constant, frantic hum of the office was a balm. Meetings distracted him. Negotiations gave him purpose. Contracts, media strategy, and endorsement deals were problems he could solve, unlike the gaping, unsolvable wound in his life.
His schedule became a weapon he used against himself. Five a.m. workouts that left him shaking. Back-to-back athlete meetings where he had to be charismatic, brilliant, and in control. NIL dinners with entitled teenagers and their overbearing parents. PR crisis calls at 2 a.m. Late-night sponsorship negotiations that stretched until dawn. Anything to avoid going home.
At the office, he was a king. Young athletes, giants of muscle and ego, practically bowed in his presence. Interns scurried out of his path. Wealthy, powerful men shook his hand like he was a messiah, certain that a meeting with Adonis Creed could secure their children’s future. And women… women noticed him everywhere. At charity galas, at industry events, at business dinners, at upscale bars near the agency. Waitresses slipped him their numbers on napkins. Influencers lingered a touch too long, their eyes full of open invitation. Women in power suits smiled at him, their gazes lingering just a second too long.
Donnie ignored every single one. Not out of some misplaced moral high ground. He ignored them because, emotionally, he was still hers. He was a dog tied to a post in the yard, watching his master run free through the neighborhood. She was out exploring freedom, and he still felt a pang of guilt if he looked at another woman for too long. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic.
Some nights, he’d drive the aimless loops of the Dallas tollways for hours, the city lights a blurry smear through his windshield, before finally, inevitably, turning the Escalade toward home. Other nights, he’d sit alone on the wide wrap-around porch with a bottle of Blanton’s, watching thunderstorms roll across the property, the lightning illuminating the vast, empty darkness. The rhythmic creak of the rocking chair and the relentless scream of the crickets were the only sounds. Inside the house, he could hear the shower start, the rustle of a garment bag, the quiet hum of Kyri getting ready for a date. And Donnie would sit there, and he would pretend not to notice.
That became the rhythm of their lives. A silent waltz of avoidance. Silence. Distance. Polite, meaningless nods in the hallway.
And Kyri… she started to glow again. That was the worst part. The absolute, soul-crushing part. She laughed more, a real, throaty laugh he hadn’t heard in years. She smiled more, her eyes lighting up with a secret joy. She spent longer getting ready, a ritual of transformation he was no longer a part of. Sometimes he’d catch her in the hallway mirror, pouting her lips, taking a selfie, a private performance for someone else’s eyes. Sometimes he’d hear her from the bathroom, her voice a soft, intimate giggle as she whispered into her phone. And sometimes, she’d come home after midnight, smelling like expensive cologne that wasn’t his, and champagne, and the faint, metallic scent of another man’s skin.
Every time it happened, something inside his chest twisted, a little tighter, a little deeper. But because of the rules, he couldn’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. The arrangement slowly turned their beautiful ranch house, their sanctuary, into enemy territory.
One Friday night, he came home close to one in the morning, utterly drained after finalizing a massive NIL contract with a cocky quarterback from Houston. The house was mostly dark, a sleeping giant except for the kitchen, where a single recessed light cast a warm, lonely glow.
And there she was. Kyri sat barefoot on the massive kitchen island, wearing one of his old Georgetown t-shirts, the soft cotton worn thin. She was quietly eating takeout noodles straight from the container with chopsticks, scrolling through her phone with her free hand. For a single, heart-stopping second, the image was almost normal. Domestic. Familiar. Like old times.
Then his eyes adjusted. And he saw it. A fresh, purplish hickey, low on the delicate skin of her neck, just above her collarbone. An angry brand in the shape of another man’s mouth.
Donnie stopped dead in his tracks. His blood ran cold.
Kyri looked up, her expression casual. "You just get home?"
His eyes stayed locked on the bruise. A brand. A claim. A declaration.
She noticed his gaze immediately. And her expression didn't soften with embarrassment or shame. It hardened. A wall of pure, unadulterated defensiveness. Like he was the one breaking the rules by having the audacity to see it.
"You hungry?" she asked, her voice sharp.
Donnie swallowed, the motion painful against a throat that had suddenly gone bone-dry. "Nah." His voice was a rough, scraped thing.
Kyri looked uncomfortable for a precise two seconds before glancing back down at her phone, dismissing him. Conversation over.
Donnie walked past her, his footsteps heavy, leaden, toward the staircase. Halfway up, he heard her phone buzz with an incoming text. Then he heard her laugh. That soft little laugh again. The same one he used to think belonged only to him.
Sleep became a foreign concept after that. Donnie spent most nights lying awake, staring at the expanse of the ceiling while Kyri slept beside him, a warm, breathing presence that smelled like perfume and unfamiliar places. Sometimes, in the deep of the night, she would curl against him automatically, her body seeking his out of old habit. That almost hurt more than the cheating itself. Because her body, the muscle memory of their shared life, still remembered him. Even if her heart didn’t.
Weeks bled into months. And slowly, something inside Donnie began to change. Not healing. God, no. Not yet. It was exhaustion. The kind that comes when heartbreak stops feeling like a sharp, stabbing pain and starts feeling like a permanent, dull ache in your bones. He stopped trying as hard. He stopped asking if she wanted him to pick up dinner on his way home. He stopped planning date nights; she would only cancel. He stopped waiting up.
And Kyri noticed.
One night, she found him asleep in his home office, slumped in his leather chair with a stack of endorsement contracts spread across his chest. She stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the dark.
"You could’ve came upstairs," she said quietly.
Donnie barely looked up from the glow of his laptop screen, his eyes gritty with fatigue. "Fell asleep workin’."
Kyri lingered for a moment, a silent, unresolved question hanging in the air between them. But instead of speaking, she just nodded and disappeared back upstairs.
And Donnie sat there alone, listening to the silence swallow the house all over again, a king in a castle that was no longer his home.
The bar smelled like whiskey, rain, and old wood, a trinity of scents that felt like the state’s unofficial anthem. Low R&B, smooth and melancholic, drifted through the room, a sonic blanket over the low hum of conversations that blurred together beneath the dim, honey-colored lighting. The place was a secret, tucked away on the edge of downtown behind a brick facade most people drove past without a second glance. It was one of those establishments where the town's old money oil barons sat beside retired athletes, both pretending not to recognize each other while their expensive watches flashed like silent boasts. It was a place where women in designer dresses laughed too loudly after midnight, and the bartenders had learned years ago that their livelihoods depended on being ghosts, not repeaters.
Donnie sat alone in a corner booth, nursing a glass of Blanton’s he barely tasted. The ice had long since melted, diluting the amber liquid into a pale, sad shadow of its former self. Outside, rain streaked down the tall, arched windows again, a relentless, weeping pattern. Texas storms had been following him for weeks, or maybe he was just finally noticing them, the external weather mirroring the perpetual climate of his soul. The exhaustion in his body had settled somewhere deeper now, a permanent resident in the hollow space behind his ribs, a quiet, aching void that waited for him every time he walked through the front door of the ranch house.
Across the room, a sudden burst of laughter erupted near the bar. Donnie barely looked up. His phone buzzed once against the dark wood of the table, a familiar, dreaded vibration. Kyri. For half a second, his stomach still performed its old, conditioned trick, a little flip of anticipation. Then he remembered, and the feeling curdled into a dull, heavy dread. He opened the text.
Going out with friends tonight. Don’t wait up.
No heart emoji. No nickname. Nothing soft. Just information. A dispatch from a life he was no longer a part of. Donnie locked the screen without replying, the gesture feeling more final each time. The bartender, a portly man with a kind face who knew his regulars, appeared as if by magic and poured another bourbon without a word. That should’ve embarrassed him, the public display of his misery. Instead, he just accepted the glass with a quiet nod of thanks, the ritual of it a small comfort in a world that had lost all its rituals.
A few women had already recognized him tonight. A brunette in a dress so tight it looked painted on had lingered near his table, her perfume a cloying cloud of vanilla and ambition. Another had sent him a drink, a glass of expensive tequila he’d let sit until the ice melted. Someone near the bar had whispered his name at least twice, a sibilant whisper that followed him like a ghost. Adonis Creed still carried a gravitational pull everywhere he went, a planet with his own orbit of admirers. Tall, broad-shouldered, his expensive suit loosened just enough to look dangerous instead of polished, his face was still a familiar sight from magazine covers and championship interviews. Even exhausted, he looked like someone people wanted a piece of.
Normally, he knew how to handle the attention, how to deflect it with a polite smile or a cool, distant stare. Tonight, he was a ghost in his own life, and he barely noticed it. Because no matter how miserable things became, some pathetic, loyal part of him still felt tethered to Kyri. Still waited for her. Still loved her.
The bathroom hallway sat just beyond the back bar, a dark, narrow passage. Donnie only noticed because a flash of movement caught his eye, a familiar silhouette that made his entire body go still. Kyri.
She wore a dark brown slip dress he’d never seen before, a garment so simple yet so devastatingly effective it turned heads the moment she walked in. The fabric hugged her body like a second skin, smooth and liquid against her brown skin, the high slit along her thigh flashing a tantalizing glimpse of leg with every step she took. Her hair was a cascade of soft curls around her shoulders, and large gold hoops brushed against the delicate skin of her neck whenever she tilted her head back to laugh.
And there was a man behind her. Tall, young, with a cocky grin and a hand resting low against her back, his fingers s possessively. Too comfortable. Too familiar.
Donnie stared. The room suddenly felt distant, the sounds and smells and sights blurring at the edges, like he was watching a scene from underwater. Kyri looked happy. Not the polite, performative happiness she wore at charity events. Not the tired, strained happiness she sometimes faked for him. Actually, genuinely happy. The man leaned close, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered something. She smiled, a wide, unguarded, brilliant smile. That same smile Donnie used to spend thousands of dollars on vacations and jewelry and cars just to coax out of her now came easily, freely, from another man saying something stupid in a bar.
Something cracked quietly inside his chest, a hairline fracture on the surface of his heart. He should’ve looked away. He should’ve finished his drink and gone home. Instead, he watched, a silent, tortured voyeur in his own personal horror show. He watched the man guide her toward the dark, inviting maw of the bathroom hallway. He watched Kyri glance around once, a quick, furtive check, before pulling him into the shadows near the restroom doors.
Then the touching started. Hands everywhere. The man pressed her lightly against the wall, his body a cage of muscle and intent. Kyri grabbed the front of his shirt, laughing under her breath, a sound Donnie felt in his bones. His mouth brushed near her neck, and her fingers slid into his hair, tangling, pulling. It was intimate. It was comfortable. It was practiced. Like this wasn't new. Like they had done this before.
Donnie couldn’t breathe for a second. This wasn’t some abstract arrangement anymore. It wasn’t a theory. It wasn’t the rules. It wasn’t carefully worded conversations in their pristine kitchen. This was real. His girl. The woman he’d spent over half his life loving, the woman he’d built an empire for, was touching another man like she used to touch him. He watched the stranger’s hand slide lower, lower, tracing the curve of her hip before she grabbed his wrist with a grin that looked almost playful, almost challenging.
God. Donnie remembered when she used to look at him like that.
Kyri disappeared into the men’s restroom with him a second later, the dark hallway swallowing them whole. Donnie looked down at the untouched bourbon in front of him, his hands suddenly feeling numb, detached. People around him kept talking. Kept laughing. Kept living. And somehow, the world continuing to function normally felt like the cruelest insult of all.
Ten minutes later, Kyri walked back out, smoothing down her dress while the man adjusted his watch behind her. She looked flushed. Beautiful. Happy. Neither of them noticed Donnie sitting in the corner, a shadow in his own life. The man wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her toward the exit. Kyri leaned into him naturally, her head resting on his shoulder. Like she belonged there.
Donnie watched them leave together through the rain-covered windows, their forms blurring into streaks of color and light. Then he finally looked away. For the first time since all of this started, he felt something worse than anger. Something deeper, more corrosive. Humiliation. Not because she wanted somebody else. Because somewhere along the line, he’d become the man sitting alone in bars waiting for someone who had already left emotionally.
"Damn."
The voice, a low, drawling alto, startled him. Donnie looked up.
Stevie stood beside the booth, holding a tequila soda in one hand, the condensation beading on the glass like tiny jewels. She was a study in contrasts. A short, blonde pixie cut that was both edgy and elegant. Gold rings stacked across both hands, catching the light. Her brown skin seemed to glow beneath the amber bar lights, a warm, rich tone that was impossible to ignore. A black leather jacket was thrown over one shoulder, and beneath it, a simple white tank top was tucked into dark jeans that fit her like trouble. Sharp eyes. Sharp mouth. Sharp everything. Confidence rolled off her in waves, not loud or performative, but solid, unshakable, a quiet self-assurance that was more intimidating than any boast.
He recognized her immediately. Stevie was a family friend of Kyri’s cousin Stella. Donnie had seen her at countless cookouts, birthday dinners, and holiday parties. Usually, she was somewhere in the background, holding court with a small group of people, her sharp wit and dry humor a counterpoint to the town's more saccharine social graces. And Kyri hated her. Which, in retrospect, should’ve been a flashing neon sign warning him that Stevie was probably the most interesting person in the room.
"You look like somebody shot your dog," Stevie said bluntly, her Texas accent a slow, warm drawl.
Despite everything, a rough, broken laugh escaped Donnie’s chest. It was small. Surprised. Real.
Stevie slid into the booth across from him without asking, a move that was both presumptuous and strangely welcome. "That bad, huh?"
Donnie rubbed one hand across his jaw, the rasp of his stubble a grounding sensation. "Somethin’ like that."
Stevie’s gaze flickered toward the exit where Kyri had disappeared moments earlier. Understanding dawned in her eyes, clear and immediate. But she didn’t pity him. That was important. Most people looked at Donnie like he was a god, a figure too powerful, too successful to be touched by mortal pain. Stevie just looked at him like a tired man sitting alone in a bar, a sight she’d clearly seen before.
"You want me to lie or tell the truth?" she asked, taking a sip of her drink.
"Depends on what the truth is."
"The truth is, you look miserable."
Another laugh slipped out, this one a little easier, a little more genuine. "Appreciate that."
"You rich people really don’t know how to suffer quietly," she teased, a glint of amusement in her eyes.
Donnie shook his head slowly, a small smile playing on his lips. "I ain’t rich people."
Stevie raised an eyebrow, a gesture of pure, elegant skepticism. "You drove here in a truck worth more than my first apartment."
"That don’t mean I stopped bein’ from here," he countered, his voice low, earnest.
"Mm. Fair enough," she conceded, nodding slowly.
The bartender appeared again, setting down another tequila soda for her without a word. "You come here often?" Donnie asked, feeling the need to fill the silence, to keep this strange, comforting conversation going.
"Enough to know they water down the tequila after midnight," she said, a wry smile playing on her lips.
He laughed again. And for some reason, the sound felt strange coming out of him, like his body had forgotten the mechanics of it.
Hours passed more easily than they should have. That surprised him most. Stevie talked with her hands, her fingers painting pictures in the air as she told ridiculous stories about art gallery clients trying to sound intellectual while clearly high. She complained about wealthy men treating therapy language like personality traits, her impression of a bro-y CEO saying "I'm just in my toxic masculinity era" so spot-on he almost spit out his bourbon. She roasted him twice for owning a pair of custom-made Lucchese cowboy boots that cost more than her car payment.
At one point, she told a story about an oil heir trying to explain the meaning behind a piece of abstract art while accidentally standing directly in front of the exhibit upside down, trying to see it from a "different perspective." Donnie laughed hard enough to choke on his bourbon, a real, gut-busting laugh that felt like a release, like a pressure valve being opened for the first time in months.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, Donnie started talking too. Really talking. Not the polished, media-trained version of himself. The real one. The tired one. The lonely one. He told her about the arrangement, not every sordid detail, but enough. The words came out in a rush, a confession he hadn't even known he was holding.
Stevie listened quietly, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on his. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t offer fake sympathy or empty platitudes. She just listened.
When he finally finished, the silence that settled between them wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. Stevie leaned back against the booth slowly, her gaze thoughtful. "Sounds like Kyri wanna have her cake and eat it too," she said plainly.
Donnie looked down into his bourbon, the swirling liquid a distorted mirror of his own thoughts. Because deep down, he already knew that. "Maybe," he admitted quietly.
Stevie studied him for a second, her eyes sharp, discerning. "Question is why you lettin’ her?"
That hit harder than he expected. Because he didn’t have a good answer. Love, maybe. Habit. Fear. Seventeen years of shared history. Probably all of it, tangled together in a knot he couldn't seem to untie.
Stevie watched him quietly for another moment before sighing softly, a sound that was both weary and wise. "You know what your problem is?"
Donnie glanced up, his eyes tired. "Should I even ask?"
"You keep mournin’ somebody who still alive," she said, her voice soft but firm.
The sentence landed directly in his chest, a perfect, painful bullseye. Because that was exactly what this felt like. Grief. Slow, agonizing grief. The kind that dragged itself out over months until you barely recognized your own life anymore.
Outside, rain hammered softly against the windows while the bar emptied slowly around them. The bartender eventually lowered the music. Chairs started turning upside down on empty tables near the front, a signal that the night was over. But neither of them moved. And for the first time in months, Donnie realized something important.
He didn’t feel lonely sitting across from Stevie.
Not even a little.
The first time Donnie went to The Gilded Cage, he almost drove past it.
The gallery sat tucked between an old record store and a closed-down cigar lounge near the arts district just outside downtown. From the street, it was a study in subtlety. Black brick exterior. Gold lettering, elegant and understated, across dark, reflective windows. A single gas lantern hung above the entrance, casting a warm, flickering light onto rain-slicked pavement. It whispered its presence rather than shouting it.
Which somehow fit Stevie perfectly.
Donnie sat in his truck for a moment, the engine idling softly, watching people move in and out of the building. Artists with paint-stained fingers, models with haunted eyes, rich couples dressed in black silk and cashmere, moving with the easy confidence of people who had secrets to keep. A few familiar faces from Dallas society, people he’d seen at charity galas and corporate events, were pretending not to notice each other, their polite nods a dance of social camouflage.
His phone buzzed against the center console.
Stevie.
You gon’ sit outside all night or actually come in?
Despite himself, a real smile spread across Donnie’s face. That had started happening more lately. Smiling. It felt unfamiliar at first, like a muscle he hadn’t used in years, a foreign expression on a face that had forgotten how.
Their friendship had slipped quietly into his life over the last several weeks, a slow, creeping vine that had wrapped around his barren emotional landscape. Late-night phone calls that somehow lasted until two in the morning, their conversations a comfortable mix of bullshit and brutal honesty. Random diner runs after work, greasy fries and burnt coffee shared in a booth that felt more like home than his own kitchen. Stevie was sending him blurry pictures of ridiculous art pieces with captions that roasted them so savagely he’d laugh until his sides hurt. Donnie was calling her while driving home from meetings just because the silence in the truck had started to feel heavier, more oppressive than the noise of the city.
None of it was planned. It just… happened. And somehow, all of it mattered.
He killed the engine and stepped out of the truck, crossing the street toward the gallery.
Inside, The Gilded Cage glowed gold and amber beneath low-hanging lights. Smooth jazz drifted softly through the space, a sophisticated, sensual counterpoint to the low hum of conversations and the quiet clinking of ice in expensive glasses. The gallery itself felt intimate, almost conspiratorial, instead of pretentious. Huge, arresting paintings lined dark, exposed-brick walls beside abstract sculptures that looked like captured emotions and black-and-white photography that was so raw it felt like a violation. Some pieces were beautiful. Some were deeply uncomfortable. Some were openly, unapologetically sensual.
One massive canvas near the center of the room stopped him in his tracks. It depicted two faceless figures, their forms a riot of tangled limbs, rendered in thick, impasto gold paint and deep, velvety shadows. It was a portrait of passion, of anonymity, of pure, unadulterated need.
"That one makes church women nervous," a low, familiar voice said beside him.
He turned. Stevie stood there, holding two glasses of bourbon, the amber liquid catching the light. Tonight her blonde pixie was slicked neatly back from her face, a sharp, elegant frame for her features. Delicate gold chains rested against the deep brown skin of her neck, exposed by a black silk button-up she wore with the top few buttons left open, a casual, confident invitation. Rings flashed across her fingers as she handed him a drink.
She looked expensive. But not polished. There was still something rough around her edges, something wild and untamed that no amount of silk or gold could ever cover. Something real.
"You own this place?" Donnie asked, his eyes roaming the space, taking it all in.
Stevie snorted softly, a sound of pure, unadulterated derision. "Nah, I just like bossin’ people around in here."
He laughed. And there it was again. Easy. Everything with Stevie somehow felt easy. Effortless.
"Seriously," he said, his voice sincere. "This nice as hell."
Her expression softened, the usual sharp wit in her eyes giving way to something warmer, more vulnerable. "Thank you." The sincerity surprised him. Because Stevie joked through almost everything, a shield as much as a weapon. But this place… this place mattered to her. He could tell.
People greeted Stevie constantly as they moved through the gallery. Artists hugged her, their faces lighting up. Bartenders smiled when she passed, their respect evident. A wealthy older couple, pillars of Dallas society, waved from across the room, their smiles genuine. Stevie belonged here. Not because of money or status, but because she had built something people actually loved. That realization sat strangely heavy in Donnie’s chest. Kyri loved luxury. Stevie loved creation. There was a difference.
Later that night, they ended up on the gallery's rooftop, a hidden oasis with a panoramic view of the city. They shared a greasy bag of fries from a 24-hour diner, the salt and vinegar a sharp, welcome contrast to the smooth bourbon they’d been drinking. Downtown lights shimmered in the distance, a sprawling carpet of diamonds. The Texas air felt warm, thick, and alive.
Stevie leaned back in her chair, one worn leather boot resting on the metal railing. "So you finally tell Kyri no yet?" she asked, popping a fry into her mouth.
Donnie glanced over, a frown creasing his brow. "No to what?"
"Anything."
He laughed quietly, a self-deprecating sound. "You make me sound pathetic."
"If the boot fit," she shot back without missing a beat.
"Damn."
"I’m serious though," Stevie said, her tone shifting, becoming more pointed. "You talk about her like she your boss instead of your partner."
That bothered him. Mostly because it wasn’t completely wrong.
Donnie looked down at the city lights below, a dizzying, beautiful maze. "It ain’t like that."
"Then why you always apologizin’ for takin’ up space?"
He frowned slightly. "I don’t do that."
Stevie gave him a look. The kind of look that said she already knew better, that she saw through the carefully constructed facade of the calm, accommodating partner. And for some reason, Donnie didn’t argue. Because lately he’d started noticing it too. How often he adjusted himself to keep the peace. How quickly he backed down from his own wants. How much of his life revolved around avoiding conflict with Kyri. Even now. Even after everything. The realization made him deeply uncomfortable.
A week later, Stevie dragged him to an all-night diner on the outskirts of town after one of his athlete meetings ran late. The place was a greasy spoon, a relic from another era, with sticky vinyl booths and a waitress who called everyone "honey." The waitress recognized Donnie immediately and flirted shamelessly while pouring his coffee, her lingering touches and overly bright smile a performance he’d seen a thousand times.
Donnie stayed polite. Distant. Professional. A wall of quiet, unbreachable reserve.
Stevie noticed. She noticed everything. The restraint. The way his voice deepened slightly when he was irritated was a low, warning rumble. The way people listened immediately when he spoke calmly, his natural authority was undeniable. The way his eyes tracked every room automatically was a fighter's instinct for assessing threats and exits. The way control sat on him like a well-worn coat, a natural part of his being, even while he pretended not to want it. Donnie carried authority without trying. But he hid from it emotionally. That fascinated Stevie.
"You know somethin’ funny?" she said, stealing a fry off his plate.
"What?"
"You intimidating as hell till it come to Kyri."
Donnie sighed tiredly, the fight draining out of him. "Everybody got a weakness."
"Mm. I don’t think she your weakness."
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers across the sticky Formica table. "Then what is she?"
Stevie held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes sharp, discerning, before answering. "Habit."
The word hit him hard enough to quiet the entire table. Because habit explained things that love no longer could. It explained the inertia, the fear of change, the slow, creeping decay of their shared life.
Weeks turned into months slowly. And somewhere amid all the conversations and late-night drives and gallery visits, Donnie started to change. Small things first. He stopped answering Kyri’s passive-aggressive comments with apologies. He stopped rearranging meetings every time she demanded attention at the last second. He stopped asking permission to exist comfortably inside his own home.
One afternoon, Kyri called him during a crucial recruiting meeting, her voice tight with irritation, demanding he leave early to pick up a piece of furniture she’d ordered. Normally, he would’ve done it. He would’ve made his excuses, apologized to the room, and left. Instead, he leaned back in his expensive leather chair, looked out at the Dallas skyline, and said calmly, "Can’t. I’m workin’."
Silence. A long, shocked silence on the other end of the line. Kyri sounded genuinely, profoundly shocked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
Another silence, this one thick with her rising anger. "You’ve been actin’ different lately."
Donnie stared out the office windows, his reflection a ghost against the sprawling city. Maybe he had. "Maybe I’m just tired," he answered. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. For the first time in years, Donnie was starting to remember himself outside of Kyri.
And Stevie saw it happening before he did.
One night after closing the gallery, she found him leaning against the front counter, watching her count the day's receipts, the quiet domesticity of the moment feeling more intimate than anything he’d experienced in months.
"What?" she asked without looking up, her fingers flying over the stack of cash.
Donnie shrugged. "Nothin’."
"You starin’."
"Am not."
Stevie smirked, a slow, knowing smile. "You smile more now."
That caught him off guard. Because she was right. The realization sat quietly between them, a truth that was both comforting and terrifying.
Stevie finally looked up from the register, her eyes finding his in the soft, amber light. "There you is," she said softly.
Donnie frowned slightly. "What that mean?"
Stevie locked the register drawer with a definitive click before walking toward him slowly, her movements fluid and deliberate. "Means I think you been hidin’ pieces of yourself so long you forgot what they looked like."
The words settled somewhere deep in his chest, a profound, unsettling truth. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that before. Not carefully. Not with kid gloves. Just… honestly.
And standing there beneath the soft amber lights of The Gilded Cage, Donnie realized something that scared him a little. He looked forward to seeing Stevie more than he looked forward to going home. That thought should’ve filled him with guilt. Instead, it filled him with a profound, undeniable sense of relief.
Later, as they were locking up, Stevie leaned against the door, her arms crossed over her chest. "You know, this ain't just about Kyri," she said, her voice low, serious.
Donnie paused, his hand on the door. "What you mean?"
"This… this new you. This backbone you're growin'. It can't just be for her. You can't only turn it on when she calls. You gotta start using it on everybody."
He frowned, not understanding.
"People been walkin' all over you for years, Donnie. Not just her. Business associates. The media. Those damn vulture recruits who think you owe 'em somethin'. You let 'em disrespect you to your face, and you just stand there takin' it, all polite and controlled." She pushed off the door and stepped closer, her eyes intense. "You need to learn to tell 'em to shut up before you fuck 'em up."
He blinked, taken aback by the raw, visceral language. "Stevie—"
"I'm serious," she interrupted, her voice dropping. "You got this fire in you, this… this power. You just keep it on a leash. You think bein' calm and collected is the only way to be respected. But there's a difference between bein' calm and bein' a doormat. You need to let 'em see the teeth. Let 'em know that if they push you too far, they ain't just gonna get a polite letter from your lawyer. They're gonna get you. And you are a fuckin' storm, Donnie. It's time you started actin' like it."
Her words were a revelation, a permission slip he didn't know he needed. She wasn't just telling him to stand up to his girlfriend. She was telling him to reclaim himself. All of himself. The calm negotiator and the storm that lurked beneath. The champion and the man.
They were back in the sanctuary of The Gilded Cage’s rooftop, the city lights a sprawling, silent galaxy beneath them. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the faint, lingering smell of rain. Donnie was leaning against the railing, a glass of bourbon dangling from his fingers, his mind a million miles away. Or maybe a few feet away, focused on the pair of black sandals Stevie had propped up on the chair opposite him. He’d been… distracted by her feet lately. It was a small, strange thing, but he’d noticed the way his eyes would track them, the elegant arch of her foot, the delicate way her ankles were accentuated by her sandals. He’d even made a joke once, a half-serious, half-desperate attempt at flirting, about emptying his bank account for a few pictures of her pedicured toes. She’d laughed it off, but he’d seen the flicker of understanding in her eyes.
"You're quiet tonight," Stevie said, her voice a low, smooth drawl that cut through his thoughts. "More than usual."
"Just thinkin'," he murmured, not taking his eyes off the distant skyline.
"About?"
"Everything. Nothin'." He sighed, running a hand over his face. "Feel like I'm livin' in someone else's life lately."
Stevie was quiet for a moment, letting his words hang in the warm night air. "Maybe it's time you started livin' in your own," she said softly.
He turned to look at her then, really look at her. The way the city lights caught the gold chains around her neck, the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the confident set of her mouth. "And how do I do that?"
Stevie took a slow sip of her drink, her gaze unwavering. "By stopin' bein' who everybody else thinks you're supposed to be. By findin' out who you are when no one's watchin'."
Donnie frowned, a familiar frustration coiling in his gut. "Easier said than done."
"Maybe not," she said, her voice dropping, becoming more intimate, more conspiratorial. "Maybe you just need the right place to do it."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What you talkin' about?"
Stevie leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her voice a low, seductive whisper. "You ever heard of a place called Sinners?"
The name itself sent a shiver down his spine, a thrill of something forbidden, something dangerous. "Can't say I have."
"It's a club," she said simply. "A private club. For people who want to… explore. Without judgment. Without the whole world watchin'."
Donnie felt a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity. "What kind of explorin'?"
Stevie’s eyes gleamed with a knowing light. "The kind that matters. The kind that wakes you up."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle between them. "Look, I'm gonna be real with you, Donnie. I see things in you. Things you keep locked down tight. A need for control that's so deep it's almost a part of your DNA. A… darkness. A part of you that likes to watch, that likes to… possess."
Donnie’s breath hitched in his throat. She saw him. She saw the parts of himself he’d spent a lifetime hiding, the parts of himself he was ashamed of, the parts of himself that craved more than the quiet, desperate life he’d been living.
"I'm a Dom, Donnie," she said, her voice clear, direct, unashamed. "It's what I do. It's who I am. And I'm good at it. I have a sub. A man who pays me for the privilege of kneelin' at my feet. Who gets off on my praise, my punishment, my control."
Donnie stared at her, his mind reeling. He should've been shocked. He should've been disgusted. Instead, he was… fascinated. Aroused. A fire was starting to burn low in his belly, a fire he hadn't felt in years.
"And I see that same fire in you," she continued, her voice a low, hypnotic hum. "I see the way you look at me. I see the way you look at my feet." She smirked, a slow, wicked smile that made his blood run hot. "Don't think I haven't noticed. You got a thing for feet, Adonis Creed. And that's okay. It's more than okay. It's a part of you. A part of you that deserves to be fed."
Donnie felt a blush creep up his neck, a hot, prickling wave of embarrassment and desire. He was exposed. Seen. And it was terrifying. And it was the most liberating thing he'd ever felt.
"I want to take you to Sinners," she said, her voice softening, becoming a gentle invitation. "No pressure. No expectations. Just… a place to watch. To learn. To see what's out there. To see what's in you."
Donnie looked at her, his heart pounding a frantic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was scared. He was terrified of what he might find, of what he might become. But he was also tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of being a shadow of himself.
"I want to see the real you, Donnie," she whispered, her eyes locked on his. "Not the billionaire. Not the provider. Not the public figure. The man underneath. The man who craves control. The man who needs to be worshipped. The man who needs to worship."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air thick with the scent of her, with the promise of something new, something dangerous, something real. "Okay," he said, his voice a raw, rough whisper. "Okay."
A week later, they stood outside Sinners. It was hidden beneath an old, luxury hotel outside town, a place that looked like it hadn't been updated since the 1920s. The entrance was unmarked, a simple, black door with a single, gold knocker. Stevie knocked, a sharp, deliberate rap. A moment later, the door opened, revealing a tall, imposing man in a well-tailored suit.
"Stevie," he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. "Good to see you."
"Marcus," she replied, her voice cool, confident. "This is Donnie. He's with me."
Marcus’s eyes flickered over Donnie, a quick, assessing glance. "Welcome to Sinners," he said, stepping aside to let them in.
Inside, the club was a revelation. It was nothing like Donnie had expected. It wasn't sleazy or grimy. It was… elegant. A study in dark wood, deep velvet, and soft, gold lighting. Live jazz drifted from a hidden sound system, a smooth, sophisticated soundtrack to the scenes playing out around them. There were voyeur balconies overlooking the main floor, a long, well-stocked bar, and a series of private rooms, their doors closed, their secrets safe.
Donnie’s eyes widened as he took it all in. He saw a woman on her knees, her head bowed, as a man whispered in her ear, his hand stroking her hair. He saw a couple on a large, velvet chaise lounge, the woman tying the man's hands with a length of silk, her expression one of pure, unadulterated power. He saw a man on a stage, his back to the audience, as a woman in a corset and thigh-high boots used a flogger on his back, the rhythmic thwack a hypnotic, mesmerizing sound.
Stevie guided him to a quiet, secluded booth in the corner, a place where they could see without being seen. "Just watch," she whispered, her hand resting on his arm, her touch a grounding, comforting presence. "Just observe. Don't think. Just feel."
Donnie did as she said. He watched. He saw the raw, unfiltered desire on people's faces. He saw the trust, the vulnerability, the profound, almost spiritual connection between the Dominants and the submissives. He saw the pleasure, the pain, the release. And he felt something inside him, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time, begin to stir.
He saw a man kneel at a woman's feet, his lips pressed against the toe of her shoe, his eyes closed in ecstasy. And he felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire shoot through him. He saw a woman praise her sub, her voice a low, husky purr, "Good boy. You're such a good boy for me," and he felt a strange, unfamiliar ache in his chest, a desire to be praised, to be found worthy, to be… good.
And then he saw her. Stevie.
She was on the other side of the room, a vision in black leather and raw power. Her sub, a tall, muscular man with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite, was on his knees before her. His head was bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. Stevie circled him slowly, her movements fluid, predatory. She stopped in front of him, her booted foot resting on his shoulder.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice a low, sharp crack of a whip.
The man looked up, his eyes filled with a devotion so pure, so absolute, it made Donnie's breath catch.
"You've been a good boy this week, haven't you, Terrance?" she purred, her hand stroking his hair.
"Yes, Mistress," he breathed, his voice a hoarse, reverent whisper.
"Tell me what you want," she said, her voice a low, seductive taunt.
"To serve you, Mistress," he said without hesitation. "To please you. To be yours."
Donnie watched, mesmerized, as Stevie put Terrance through his paces, her commands sharp, her praise soft, her control absolute. He saw the power in her, the confidence, the raw dominance. And he saw the peace in Terrance, the surrender, the profound, soul-deep release that came from giving up control.
And in that moment, Donnie understood. This wasn't just about sex. This wasn't just about kink. This was about connection. This was about trust. This was about seeing and being seen, truly and completely, for who you were.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Stevie standing beside him, her eyes soft, her expression knowing. "You see?" she whispered.
Donnie nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a low, seductive promise. "This is who you are, Donnie. This is the man you've been hiding. The man who craves control. The man who needs to be worshipped. The man who needs to worship."
He looked at her, his eyes wide with a newfound understanding, a newfound hunger. "And what about you?" he asked, his voice a raw, rough whisper. "What do you need?"
Stevie’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something vulnerable, something raw, passing through them. "I need to submit," she whispered, her voice so low he could barely hear it. "To the right man. To a man who's strong enough to handle me. To a man who's not afraid to take what he wants."
Donnie felt a power surge through him. He looked at her, at the woman who had shown him this world, who had seen the darkness in him and hadn't run away. And he knew. He knew what he wanted.
He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. "I'm not afraid," he said, his voice a low, confident growl.
And in the dim, seductive light of Sinners, under the watchful eyes of the club's patrons, Donnie leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a declaration. It was the kiss of a man who had finally found himself and who was ready to claim the woman who had shown him the way.
The first time it happened, it wasn't in the shadowed, opulent world of Sinners. It was in the sterile, impersonal quiet of a hotel room in downtown Dallas. The Four Seasons. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a city he owned but no longer recognized. He hadn't planned it. He'd just called her, the need a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. "I need to see you," he'd said, his voice a low, raw command he didn't know he possessed.
She'd arrived without question, letting herself into the suite with a key card he'd left for her at the front desk. She was wearing a simple black dress, her hair slicked back. She looked like she was there for a business meeting. But her eyes, when they met his, told a different story.
They stood there for a long moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken questions, with the weight of what they were about to do.
"You nervous?" Stevie asked, her voice a low, steady hum.
Donnie let out a slow breath, a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl. "A little."
"Good," she said, a small, wicked smile playing on her lips.
She walked toward him slowly, her hips swaying with a predatory grace. She stopped in front of him, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. "You remember what I said?" she whispered, her eyes locked on his. "About needin' to submit to the right man?"
Donnie nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
"Show me," she breathed. "Show me you're him."
That was all it took. The dam broke. The carefully constructed wall of control he'd built around himself for years crumbled into dust. He reached out, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. And then he kissed her. It wasn't the kiss from Sinners, a declaration of intent. This was a kiss of need. A kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperation. A kiss that said, I'm here. I'm ready. Take me.
Stevie responded in kind, her body pressing against his, a soft, willing surrender. But it was a surrender that was also a challenge. A test. And Donnie was determined to pass.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with a hunger that was both terrifying and exhilarating. "On your knees," he commanded, his voice a low, rough growl that was both a question and a demand.
Stevie’s breath hitched, a flicker of surprise and desire in her eyes. She sank to her knees slowly, gracefully. She looked up at him, her expression one of complete and utter trust. And that, right there, was everything. It wasn't the submission that mattered. It was the trust. The fact that this strong, beautiful, dominant woman was willing to put herself in his hands, to let him see her, to let him have her, was a gift so profound it almost brought him to his knees.
He reached down, his hand cupping her chin, his thumb stroking her lower lip. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent whisper.
And then it began.
Their relationship grew in the shadows, in the stolen moments between meetings and obligations, in the secret weekends and hidden hotel stays that became their sanctuary. It was a world built on rituals, on a shared language of desire and devotion.
There was the ritual of undressing. He would undress her slowly, reverently, his fingers tracing the lines of her body, his lips following in their wake, learning every curve, every twitch of the nerve. It was an act of worship, a slow, deliberate exploration that left them both trembling with need.
There was the ritual of the commands. He would tell her what to do, his voice a low, hypnotic hum. "Touch yourself for me." "Tell me what you want." "Cum for me." "How many spankings today" And she would obey, her body a willing instrument, her responses a symphony of pleasure and surrender.
There was the ritual of the praise. He would praise her, his voice a low, soothing balm. "Good girl." "You're so good for me." "You're takin' it so well." And she would preen under his words, her body arching, her eyes shining with a pleasure that was more than just physical. It was a pleasure of the soul.
But it was the aftercare that meant the most. After the intensity, they would lie tangled in the sheets. He would hold her, his arms wrapped around her, his lips pressed against her hair. He would whisper words of love, of gratitude, of a devotion so deep it scared him. And she would hold him back, her body a warm, trusting weight against his, her hands stroking his back, her voice a low, soothing hum that calmed the storm raging inside him.
It was in those moments, in the quiet aftermath, that Donnie became emotionally alive. He felt things he hadn't felt in years. Joy. Laughter. Tenderness. A love so pure, so profound, it felt like a revelation.
He became more confident, more assertive, not just in the bedroom, but in the boardroom, in his life. He started setting boundaries, not just with Kyri, but with everyone. He started saying no. He started taking up space. He started being the man he was always meant to be.
And people started noticing.
Especially Kyri.
The first time she noticed was at a family dinner. A loud, chaotic affair at her parents' house, with too much food, too much drink, and too many relatives asking too many questions. Donnie was there, a quiet, solid presence at her side. But he was different. He was more present. More engaged. He laughed more easily. He spoke with a quiet authority that commanded attention.
And then Stevie walked in.
She was Kyri's cousin Stella's plus-one. A fact that Kyri had conveniently forgotten to mention. Stevie looked incredible. A short, tight red dress that showed off her curves to perfection. Her blonde pixie was a mess of artful spikes. Her eyes were sharp, her smile wicked.
She made a beeline for them, her hips swaying, her confidence a palpable force. "Donnie," she said, her voice a low, seductive purr. "Good to see you."
"Stevie," he replied, his voice a low, calm rumble. But his eyes, when they met hers, were burning with a fire that was impossible to miss.
Kyri saw it. She saw the way he looked at Stevie, the way his body leaned toward her, the way his eyes darkened with a desire that was both possessive and profound. She saw the subtle, almost imperceptible touch of his hand on the small of Stevie's back, a gesture that was both intimate and proprietary.
And she knew.
She didn't know how, she didn't know when, but she knew. Something had changed. Something had shifted. And she was no longer the center of his universe.
Later that night, as they were getting ready for bed, Kyri turned to him, her eyes sharp, her voice tight with accusation. "What's goin' on with you and Stevie?"
Donnie looked at her, his expression calm, unreadable. "What you mean?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Donnie," she snapped. "I saw the way you looked at her."
Donnie sighed, a sound of weary resignation. He was tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. "She's my friend, Kyri."
"Friend?" Kyri scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Is that what we're callin' it these days?"
Donnie didn't answer. He just looked at her, his eyes cold, his expression distant. He continued unbuttoning his shirt, his movements slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned. And in that moment, Kyri knew. The game had changed. And she was no longer the one making the rules.
Her face, already tight with suspicion, flushed with a hot, angry red. "Don't you dare look at me like that," she seethed, her voice rising. "Like I'm being unreasonable. Like I'm the one who's out of line."
Donnie paused, his shirt hanging open, revealing the plain white t-shirt beneath. He turned his head, his gaze finally landing on her, and it was like looking at a stranger. "I'm not lookin' at you any way at all, Kyri. I'm gettin' ready for bed."
"You're getting ready for bed? After that? After that little… display at my parents' house?" She was pacing now, a frantic, caged animal in designer silk pajamas. "She was all over you! And you just let her! You stood there and let that… low budget, fake ass K Michelle put her hands on you like she owned you!"
Donnie’s jaw tightened, a flicker of the old anger, the old hurt, sparking in his chest before being extinguished by a wave of profound weariness. He finished with the buttons and pulled the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it neatly onto a chair. "Her name is Stevie. And she didn't put her hands on me. She said hello."
"Don't lie to me, Adonis!" she shrieked, his full name a weapon she only used when she wanted to inflict maximum damage. "I saw your face! I saw the way you looked at her! The way you leaned in. You haven't looked at me like that in years!"
He finally turned to face her fully, his bare chest rising and falling with a calm, steady breath that was an insult to her raging fury. "You wanna talk about how people look at each other, Kyri? Really?"
The question hung in the air, a quiet, deadly challenge. Kyri faltered for a second, her righteous indignation momentarily derailed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Donnie said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerously quiet tone, "that you're the one who wanted the 'don't ask, don't tell' arrangement. You're the one who said we needed space. You're the one who's been comin' home smellin' like other men's cologne for months."
"This is different!" she yelled, her voice cracking with desperation.
"How?" he asked, his voice utterly flat, devoid of all emotion. "How is it different? Because you're the one doin' it? Because you thought I'd just sit here and wait? Like a good little dog?"
"Fuck you," she spat, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of fury. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to turn this around on me. I'm trying to save our relationship!"
Donnie actually laughed then, a short, sharp, utterly humorless sound that was more devastating than any scream. "Save it? By goin' on dates? By fuckin' other men? By tellin' me it's for my own good?" He took a step closer, his presence a sudden, solid weight in the room. "You didn't want to save it, Kyri. You wanted to have your cake and eat it too. You wanted the comfort and the status of this life, but you wanted the freedom to fuck whoever you wanted without consequence. You wanted a roommate, not a partner."
"That's not true!" she cried, but her voice was weaker now, the conviction bleeding out of it.
"Isn't it?" he pressed, his voice still low, still calm, but with an edge of steel that was new and terrifying. "I haven't done anything. I haven't been with anyone. I've been sittin' here, in this house, livin' by your rules. And I made a friend. One friend. A person who actually talks to me. A person who actually sees me. And suddenly that's a problem?"
"It's the way you look at her!" Kyri shot back, latching onto her last, desperate thread of outrage. "It's not just friendly!"
Donnie just stared at her, his expression unreadable. He didn't confirm it. He didn't deny it. He just let her accusation hang there, exposed and pathetic. He let her see the hypocrisy, the sheer, unmitigated gall of her standing there, judging him for the very thing she had permitted herself to do.
"So what's the real issue, Kyri?" he asked, his voice quiet, cutting through her hysteria like a knife. "What's really botherin' you? That I might be happy? That I might have found someone who makes me feel something other than like a goddamn accessory in your life? Or is it that for the first time, I'm not waitin' for you to come home?"
Kyri stared at him, her mouth opening and closing, like a fish gasping for air on the dock. She had no answer. Because he was right. All of it was right. And the truth of it was a bitter, poison pill she couldn't swallow.
Donnie watched her, a strange sense of clarity settling over him. The anger was gone. The hurt was still there, a dull, chronic ache, but it no longer controlled him. He saw her clearly then, not as the girl he'd loved for half his life, but as a woman who was terrified of losing the one thing she'd taken for granted: his unwavering devotion.
He turned away, his back to her, and walked into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch was the final word. The end of the conversation. The end of an era. And as he stared at his own reflection in the mirror, at the man he was becoming, he felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of peace. He was done apologizing. Done shrinking. Done waiting.
The cookout was in full swing, a chaotic symphony of Southern tradition. Loud, bass-heavy music boomed from a portable speaker on the patio, mixing with the sizzle of barbecue on the grill and the raucous laughter of a dozen relatives Kyri barely knew. Her parents’ backyard was a sea of folding chairs, coolers, and red plastic cups. A game of dominoes was in full swing at a card table, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of tiles and the occasional triumphant shout. Near the house, someone was butchering a classic R&B song at a karaoke machine, their off-key wail a testament to the power of tequila and good intentions.
Kyri stood by the grill, a forced smile plastered on her face, a plate of untouched potato salad in her hand. She was scanning the crowd, her eyes sharp, searching. Donnie was gone. Again. He’d shown up, looking infuriatingly handsome in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, had spoken to her father for exactly ninety seconds, and then disappeared. That was ten minutes ago.
Her mother, June, materialized at her side, a vision in linen and pearls. "Honey, have you seen Donnie? Charles wanted his opinion on that new smoker."
"He's around," Kyri said, her voice tight. "Probably taking a business call." It was the lie she’d been telling everyone for the last three weeks. The lie she’d been telling herself. Since that night in their bedroom, the house had been a mausoleum. They moved around each other like ghosts, their interactions reduced to clipped, functional exchanges about logistics and schedules. The silence was a living, breathing thing, a constant, oppressive reminder of the chasm that had opened between them.
But Kyri had eyes. She saw the changes. The way he carried himself now was with a new, easy confidence that was both attractive and infuriating. The way he smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes, a smile she hadn’t been able to coax out of him in years. She saw it at the office when she’d stopped by unannounced. She saw it in the way his staff, his athletes, even his rivals, responded to him. He was… lighter. Unburdened. And she knew, with a certainty that curdled in her gut, that it had something to do with Stevie.
Around the corner of the house, tucked away in the shade of an old oak tree, sat Donnie's black Escalade. It was parked on the grass, a silent, hulking monument to his success. And inside, the world of the cookout had ceased to exist.
The windows were tinted, but if anyone had been close enough, they would have seen a scene that was a million miles from family fun and games.
Stevie was bent over the center console, her upper body sprawled across the passenger seat, her jeans and panties pooled around her ankles. Her bare ass was upturned, a perfect, heart-shaped canvas of smooth, brown skin. And Donnie’s hand was a blur of motion, rising and falling in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
Smack.
The sound was a sharp, wet crack that was swallowed by the truck's soundproofing. Stevie whimpered, a small, breathy sound of pain and pleasure, her fingers digging into the leather of the passenger seat.
"You gonna act like a brat all day, baby girl?" Donnie’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble, a stark contrast to the calm, controlled tone he used with everyone else. This was the voice of Sinners. The voice of the man who had discovered his own power.
Smack.
Another sharp slap, this one on her other cheek, leaving a matching handprint. "Answer me," he commanded, his hand stilling on her heated flesh.
"No, Daddy," she breathed, her voice muffled by the seat. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" he asked, his hand tracing the curve of her ass, his touch a gentle, teasing contrast to the stinging blows.
"For bein' a brat," she whimpered, pushing her hips back against his hand, a silent plea for more.
Smack. Smack. Smack. Three quick, sharp smacks in succession, each one making her cry out, her body trembling with a mixture of pain and arousal. Her skin was flushed now, and that made his dick ache.
"That's my girl," he murmured, his voice softening, shifting from punishment to praise. His fingers dipped between her thighs, finding her slick, wet heat. "Look at you. So fuckin' wet for me. You like this, don't you? Like bein' put in your place."
"Yes," she moaned, her voice a ragged, desperate sound. "God, yes."
"Good," he said, his voice a low, possessive growl. He slid one finger inside her, then two, his thumb circling her clit in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had her writhing against the console. "This is what happens when you misbehave. You get punished. And then you get rewarded."
He worked her slowly, methodically, his other hand stroking her heated, tender skin, his touch a soothing balm. He was in complete control. The man who had spent years being controlled was now the one pulling the strings. And it was the most intoxicating feeling in the world.
"Who do you belong to?" he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear.
"You, Daddy," she gasped, her body tightening around his fingers. "Only you."
"That's right," he said, his voice a low, triumphant purr. "Now cum for me, baby girl. Cum all over my fingers like a good girl."
And she did. With a strangled cry, she came, her pussy clamping down on his fingers in a series of deep, rhythmic spasms. He held her through it, his arm wrapped around her waist, his body a solid, comforting presence, his lips pressed against her hair, whispering words of praise and love.
When it was over, he helped her up, his hands gentle, tender. He pulled her onto his lap, her jeans and panties still tangled around her ankles, and held her close, his arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on her head. They sat there for a long moment, just breathing, the world outside the truck a distant, irrelevant hum.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble.
Stevie nodded, her head nestled against his chest. "Yeah," she whispered, her voice soft, content. "I'm good."
He kissed the top of her head. "Good."
They sat there for a few more minutes, a quiet, intimate bubble in the middle of a chaotic day. Then, with a sigh, Donnie spoke. "Guess we should go back out there."
Stevie groaned, a sound of pure, theatrical protest. "Do we have to? I'd rather stay in here and let you spank me again."
Donnie laughed, a real, genuine laugh that was full of warmth and affection. "Later," he promised. "Right now, we gotta go face the music."
They straightened themselves up, Stevie pulling up her jeans, Donnie adjusting his shirt. He looked at her, his eyes soft, his expression full of a love so deep it still scared him a little. "You're beautiful," he said, his voice a low, sincere whisper.
Stevie smiled, a slow, wicked smile that made his heart skip a beat. "I know," she said, her voice a confident, playful purr.
They got out of the truck, and as they rounded the corner of the house, the noise and chaos of the cookout washed over them again. Donnie’s hand found the small of Stevie’s back, a subtle, proprietary gesture. And Kyri, who had been watching the corner of the house with a hawk-like intensity, saw it.
She saw the way they looked at each other, the way Donnie’s eyes softened when he looked at Stevie, the way Stevie’s smile was just for him. She saw the lingering eye contact, the subtle touch, the easy, comfortable intimacy that was a slap in the face to every lie she’d ever told herself.
She watched as Stevie said something to Donnie, something that made him laugh, a real, genuine laugh that was full of joy. And in that moment, something inside Kyri snapped. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't pretend anymore.
She walked over to them, her face a mask of cold, hard fury, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, jealous light. "Can I talk to you for a second?" she asked, her voice tight, her eyes fixed on Donnie.
Donnie looked at Stevie, a silent question in his eyes. Stevie just nodded, a small, reassuring gesture. "I'll be at the karaoke machine," she said, her voice a low, confident purr. "Try not to get into any trouble."
She walked away, her hips swaying, leaving Kyri and Donnie standing there, the air between them thick with unspoken hostility.
"What's up?" Donnie asked, his voice calm, unreadable.
Kyri looked at him, her eyes burning with rage. "Are you fucking Stevie?"
The question was a direct, brutal blow. A slap in the face. A declaration of war.
Donnie didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just looked at her, his eyes calm, his expression unreadable. And in the long, heavy silence that followed, Kyri saw her entire world start to crack.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice quiet, but clear. "Yes, I am."
And just like that, it was over. The lie she'd been telling herself, the fragile illusion of control she'd been clinging to, shattered into a million pieces.
The word hung in the humid air between them, a single, brutal syllable that seemed to suck all the sound out of the backyard. For a moment, the karaoke, the laughter, the clatter of dominoes—it all faded into a distant, irrelevant hum. All Kyri could hear was the roaring in her own ears, the sound of her world imploding.
Donnie didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just stood there, his expression calm, his posture relaxed, a man who had finally laid his cards on the table and was waiting to see what happened next. The quiet confidence in his stance was more infuriating than any explosion of anger could have been.
"You… you can't," she finally managed to stammer, her voice a thin, reedy thing. "You can't do this."
"I just did," he said, his voice low, even. "Now, why is it a problem?"
"Why is it a problem?" she repeated, her voice rising, cracking with disbelief. "Are you serious? You're sleeping with my cousin's best friend! Someone I have to see! Someone who's been in my family's house!"
Donnie raised an eyebrow, a gesture of calm, deliberate inquiry. "And I'm supposed to care about the logistics? After you let some stranger fuck you in the men's room of a bar I had to walk past to get to my truck?"
The crude directness of his words made her flinch, a physical recoil. "That's different!"
"How?" he pressed, his voice still dangerously quiet. "Because you didn't know I was watching? Because you thought I was at home, waiting for you like a good little puppy? Explain it to me, Kyri. I'm genuinely curious."
"It's different because… because it was just sex!" she sputtered, grasping at straws. "It didn't mean anything! This," she said, her eyes darting toward Stevie, who was now laughing with Kyri's cousin Stella by the karaoke machine, "this looks like something. You look at her like… like you love her."
The word "love" hung in the air, a raw, exposed nerve. Donnie’s jaw tightened, just for a second. "And the men you were with? Did you love them?"
"That's not the point!"
"No, it's exactly the point," he countered, his voice losing its soft edge, gaining a sliver of steel. "You wanted an open relationship. You wanted freedom. You got it. You've been 'free' for months. I find one person. One. A person who actually makes me feel something other than like a goddamn checkbook. And suddenly, the rules aren't so fun anymore, are they?"
Kyri’s face was a contortion of fury and panic. "Don't you dare turn this around on me! This is about you disrespecting me! Humiliating me!"
"Disrespecting you?" Donnie let out a short, sharp laugh that was devoid of all humor. "Kyri, you have been shitting on my heart for months. You've been parading your freedom in my face while I've been living by the rules you set. I have been the picture of discretion. I haven't brought her to our home. I haven't flaunted it. I have kept my private life private, which is more than I can say for you."
He took a step closer, his presence a sudden, solid weight that made her feel small. "So I'll ask you again. Why is it a problem? Be honest. Is it that I'm with Stevie? Or is it that I'm happy without you?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. Because he was right. It wasn't just about Stevie. It was about him. It was about the fact that he was smiling again. It was about the fact that he was standing up to her. It was about the fact that he had found a piece of himself that she hadn't been able to destroy.
Her face twisted, a mask of pure, unadulterated spite. "I see how you look at her. I see how you touch her. Like you own her. Like you're some kind of… king and she's your little subject." Her voice dripped with a venomous, mocking sarcasm. "What's next, Donnie? You gonna start spankin' her when she gets outta line? Gonna teach her who's boss?"
The irony was so thick, so potent, it was almost suffocating. Donnie felt a strange, disconnected urge to laugh. Twenty minutes ago, he had Stevie's bare ass flushed a perfect shade of purple under his hand, her breathless whimpers of "Yes, Daddy" a symphony in the quiet of his truck. And here was Kyri, throwing his newfound proclivities in his face like an insult, completely unaware that she was describing his reality with an accuracy that was both terrifying and absurd.
He didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He just looked at her, his eyes cold, his expression unreadable. He let her see nothing. Let her hear nothing. Let her twist in the wind of her own bitter, ignorant mockery.
"Is that what you think this is?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Some kind of power trip?"
"I know you," she shot back, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and desperation. "I know you need to be in control. It's why you're so good at your job. It's why you're so… you. You can't stand it when someone doesn't bend to your will. And she does, doesn't she? Little Stevie, all tough and independent on the outside, but just another girl who wants to be dominated by a rich, powerful man."
Donnie just stared at her, his face a mask of stone. He was done. Done with her projections, done with her hypocrisy, done with her. He saw her for what she was: a woman who was terrified of losing her position, her status, her hold over him. She wasn't angry because he'd betrayed her. She was angry because he was no longer hers to betray.
"You don't know me at all," he said, his voice quiet, but heavy with a finality that was more devastating than any scream. "You haven't for a long time."
He turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, alone, her words echoing in the empty space between them. He didn't look back. He didn't hesitate. He just walked toward the karaoke machine, toward the music, toward the laughter, toward Stevie. And as Kyri watched him go, a single, hot tear traced a path down her cheek. The crack in her world was no longer a hairline fracture. It was a chasm. And she was standing on the wrong side of it.
The only light in Stevie’s bedroom came from the moon, a sliver of silver that sliced through the blinds and painted stripes across the rumpled sheets. The air was thick with the scent of her skin, his cologne, and the lingering, sweet musk of their lovemaking. Donnie lay on his side, his head propped on his hand, watching her sleep. He hadn’t been back to the ranch since the cookout. Three weeks. Three weeks of living out of a suitcase, of waking up in her bed, of falling asleep to the sound of her breathing. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like the first real day of his life.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate line of her shoulder, the curve of her hip. She stirred, a soft, sleepy murmur, her body instinctively arching into his touch. He smiled, a small, private smile that was just for him. He felt… whole. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the pieces of himself that had been scattered, fractured, and suppressed were clicking back into place. And it was because of her.
Her eyes fluttered open, dark and soft in the dim light. "Hey," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep.
"Hey, baby girl," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her temple.
She snuggled closer, her back pressing against his chest, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. It was their position. Their default. A configuration of limbs and bodies that felt more natural than breathing. "What's on your mind?" she asked, her fingers lacing with his where they rested on her stomach.
"You," he said, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against her back. "Just… you."
He was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts, trying to find the words to express the tsunami of emotion that was crashing through him. "I don't think I ever told you," he began, his voice hesitant, "how much I appreciate you. What you did for me."
Stevie turned in his arms, her eyes searching his in the darkness. "Donnie, I didn't do anything."
"You did everything," he countered, his voice thick with an almost painful sincerity. "You saw me. When I was a ghost, you saw me. You gave me permission to stop shrinking. You… you brought me back to life."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. "I love having you as my baby girl," he whispered, the words a raw, vulnerable confession. "I love takin' care of you. I love… this. Us."
Stevie’s breath hitched, a flicker of something deep and unreadable in her eyes. She’d never let a sub into her home. Never. Her space was her sanctuary, her fortress. But Donnie wasn't just a sub. He was… more. He was the man who saw the Domme in her and wasn't afraid. He was the man who could handle her. He was the man who made her want to kneel.
She tried to laugh, to deflect with her usual sharp wit, but the sound came out shaky, thin. "You know," she said, her voice a forced, playful tease, "we're startin' to sound like one of those 60s relationships. You're gonna have two families in this town. You and Kyri, with your big house and your 2.5 kids. And then me and you, and our little secret life, sneakin' around in motels and art galleries."
Donnie’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. He pulled back, just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze intense, unwavering. "Don't joke about that," he said, his voice low, serious.
Stevie’s smile faltered. "Donnie, I was just—"
"No," he interrupted, his voice firm, but gentle. "I need you to hear me. This," he said, gesturing between them, "isn't a secret life. This is my life. You are my life."
He took a deep breath, the words he'd been holding back for weeks finally breaking free. "I'm not goin' anywhere. I'm not goin' back to her. I'm not… I'm not playin' this game anymore. I'm your boyfriend, Stevie. And you're my girl. And that's it. That's the end of it. Forever."
The word "forever" hung in the air, a heavy, sacred promise. Stevie stared at him, her heart pounding a frantic, frantic rhythm against her ribs. She saw the truth in his eyes, the unwavering conviction. And she felt something inside her, something she'd been fighting, denying, and suppressing for months, finally break free.
She loved him.
It was a simple, terrifying, undeniable truth. She loved the way he took care of her, the way his big, strong hands could be so gentle, so tender. She loved the way their bodies spoke to each other without words, a silent, fluid conversation of need and desire. She loved the way he saw her, all of her, the Domme and the woman, the strong and the vulnerable. They were soulmates, not just in the shadowed world of BDSM, but in the harsh, unforgiving light of the real world.
But she was scared. So scared. Scared of saying the words, of putting a name to this feeling, of ruining the perfect, fragile thing they had built. She didn't want to be the woman who fell for the man who had a girlfriend for almost 20 years. She didn't want to be the one who scared him away with the weight of her emotions.
So she just looked at him, her eyes shining with a love she couldn't bring herself to speak, and she nodded. "Okay," she whispered, her voice a hoarse, choked whisper. "Okay."
He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, deep, tender kiss that was full of promises and a love so profound it felt like a homecoming. And as she kissed him back, she let herself believe, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, forever was possible.
The bell above the door of The Gilded Cage chimed, a delicate, crystalline sound that was immediately at odds with the storm walking in. Stevie was behind the counter, meticulously cataloging a new series of erotic charcoal sketches, her focus absolute. She didn't look up at first, assuming it was a curious browser or one of her regular clients.
"Well, well, well."
The voice was pure poison, a syrupy, condescending drawl that Stevie would have recognized anywhere. She slowly lifted her head, her expression remaining carefully neutral as she took in the sight of Kyri standing in the middle of her gallery, looking like a wrathful goddess in a designer pantsuit.
Kyri’s eyes swept over the space, her lip curled in a sneer of disgust. "So this is it. This little… hole in the wall. This is where you seduced my boyfriend."
Stevie leaned against the counter, crossing her arms, her posture a study in casual defiance. "Kyri. To what do I owe the pleasure? Lost on your way to a luncheon?"
"Don't you play cute with me," Kyri snapped, stalking closer, her heels clicking menacingly on the polished concrete floors. "I know what you're doing. I know exactly what kind of game you're playing."
Stevie raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Do you? 'Cause from where I'm standing, it looks like I'm minding my business and running my establishment. Something you might try sometime."
Kyri laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Oh, I see. You're the 'strong, independent businesswoman' now. Is that the role you're playing? Let me guess, you're also the 'soulful artist' who sees the 'real man' underneath all that money and power?"
She stepped closer, invading Stevie's personal space, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Let me tell you something about that 'real man.' He's mine. He's been mine since he was seventeen years old. He was wearing hand-me-down sweats and fighting in dusty gyms when you were probably still figuring out how to work a curling iron. You are nothing but a temporary distraction. A cheap, trashy thrill."
Stevie didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just looked at Kyri, her eyes dark, unreadable. "Are you done?"
"I'm not even close to done," Kyri seethed, her face flushed with rage. "You're a gold digger. A tramp. You saw an opportunity, and you spread your legs, hoping to lock down a billionaire. But it's not gonna work. He'll get bored with you. He always comes back to me."
Stevie finally pushed off the counter, her movements slow, deliberate, like a panther uncoiling. "You know what's funny, Kyri? You keep talkin' about what he was, what he is. But you don't know shit about who he is now."
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "You see a billionaire. A provider. A status symbol. You see a man you can control, a man you can manipulate with tears and tantrums and the weight of all your years together. You see a prize."
Stevie’s eyes flashed with a cold, hard fire. "I see a man who was suffocating. A man who was so busy tryin' to make you happy that he forgot how to be himself. I see a man who was so starved for real affection, for a real connection, that he was practically a ghost in his own life. You didn't love him, Kyri. You loved the idea of him. You loved the arm candy. You loved the lifestyle. You loved the control."
"You don't know anything about our relationship!" Kyri shrieked, her composure finally shattering.
"I know enough to know you're a spoiled, selfish little girl who's never been told 'no' in her life," Stevie shot back, her voice rising, laced with a righteous fury that was years in the making. "I know enough to see a woman who took a good man's devotion for granted, who treated his heart like it was a disposable accessory. I know enough to recognize a woman who had a king, a real king, a man who built an empire with his bare hands, and was so unimpressed, so entitled, that she got bored and decided to go slummin' for a little 'attention'."
The words were a series of precise, brutal jabs, each one landing with devastating accuracy.
"You call me trash?" Stevie continued, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Honey, I'm a self-made woman. I own this space. I built this world with my own two hands. I answer to no one. You? You're a professional girlfriend. A leech. A pretty parasite who's been feedin' off a man's soul for over a decade. You have the audacity to come in here and threaten me? You should be on your knees thanking me for reminding him what it feels like to be alive."
Kyri stared at her, her mouth agape, her face a mask of disbelief and fury. She had been prepared for a fight, for a denial, for a catty exchange of insults. She had not been prepared for this. For this raw, unfiltered truth.
"He deserves better than you," Stevie said, her voice softening, losing its edge, becoming something more profound, more sorrowful. "He deserves a woman who sees him. All of him. The fighter and the businessman. The dominant and the gentle. The man and the little boy who just wants to be loved for who he is. He deserves a partner. An equal. Not a pretty little bird in a cage who's forgotten how to fly."
She looked Kyri up and down, a final, dismissive glance. "So you can stand here and threaten me. You can call me all the names you want. But it won't change anything. It won't change the fact that he's done. It won't change the fact that he chose me. And it damn sure won't change the fact that you, Kyri Davis, are the biggest mistake he ever made."
"Now," Stevie said, her voice returning to its cool, professional tone, "I think you should get the fuck out of my gallery. Before I call security and have your entitled, delusional ass dragged out of here."
Kyri stood there for a long moment, trembling with a rage that had nowhere to go. She had been stripped bare, her insecurities and her failures laid out for all to see. And in the end, there was nothing left to say. She turned and walked away, her shoulders slumped in defeat, the bell above the door chiming her exit.
And Stevie stood there, in the quiet, sacred space of her gallery, a queen in her castle, knowing that she had won. Not just for herself, but for him.
The ranch house was quiet, a sprawling, modern monument to a life that no longer existed. Donnie stood in the middle of the great room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over the space he hadn't inhabited in weeks. It was beautiful, expensive, and soulless. A museum of a relationship that had died on its feet.
Stevie was perched on the edge of a ridiculously expensive cream-colored sofa, her posture relaxed, but her eyes sharp, taking everything in. This was the first time he’d brought her here. To his home. To the heart of the beast. It felt like a final, necessary step. An exorcism.
"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice a low, gentle hum.
"I've been tryin' to talk to her for a week," he said, his voice a low, frustrated rumble. "She won't answer my calls. She won't text me back. She's been blowin' me off, actin' like I'm the one who's in the wrong."
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a familiar, irritating chime. He pulled it out, his jaw tightening. Another notification. A purchase. Gucci. Then another. Tiffany & Co. He’d given her that black card years ago, a symbol of his trust, his devotion. Now, it was a weapon she was using against him, a frantic, desperate attempt to punish him, to hurt him, to assert a control she no longer had.
"That's her," he said, his voice flat, cold. "Rackin' up charges like it's goin' out of style. She thinks if she spends enough of my money, it'll make me… what? Jealous? Regretful?"
He shook his head, a small, humorless smile playing on his lips. "She has no idea."
He looked at Stevie, his eyes softening. "I'm done waitin'. If she won't come to me to talk, I'll bring the talk to her. Here. In our house. On my terms."
Stevie just nodded, her expression unreadable. "Okay."
They waited. Two hours. Two long, tense hours filled with the heavy silence of the house. Donnie paced, a caged animal. Stevie watched him, her presence a calming, grounding force.
Finally, they heard it. The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. The distant hum of an engine. The sound of a car door closing.
Donnie stopped pacing, his body going still. He looked at Stevie, a silent, shared glance passing between them. This was it.
A moment later, the front door opened, and Kyri walked in, her arms laden with designer shopping bags, a smug, triumphant smile on her face. "Donnie, you would not believe the sale they were having at—" she started, her voice bright, cheerful, a performance for an audience of one.
And then she saw them.
Her smile faltered, her face freezing in a mask of shock. Her eyes widened, first at Donnie, then at Stevie, who was sitting on her sofa, looking completely at home, as if she belonged there.
"What," Kyri breathed, her voice a thin, reedy whisper, "is she doing here?"
Donnie didn't answer. He just stood there, his expression calm, his eyes cold. He let her take in the scene. Him. Stevie. The house. The final, undeniable reality of her situation.
"Get out," Kyri roared. She dropped her bags, the expensive merchandise spilling onto the floor like a sacrifice. "Get out of my house, you whore!"
Stevie didn't move. She didn't even flinch. She just looked at Kyri, her eyes dark, unreadable. "It's not your house, Kyri. It's his."
"Don't you talk to me!" Kyri screamed, her face a contortion of fury. She rounded on Donnie, her finger pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. "How could you? How could you bring her here? To our home? After everything I've done for you? After all the years I've supported you?"
"Supported me?" Donnie finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You mean supported yourself? Supported the lifestyle you felt entitled to? Supported the image you were so desperate to project?"
He took a step closer, his presence a sudden, solid weight that made the air in the room feel thick, heavy. "I've been tryin' to talk to you for a week, Kyri. A week. You've been ignorin' me, blowin' me off, while you're out there runnin' up my credit card like a spoiled little brat who's about to lose her allowance."
"I'm not a brat!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with desperation. "I'm your partner! I'm the one who's been here for you! Through everything!"
"No," he said, his voice quiet, but laced with a steel that was more devastating than any scream. "You haven't. You haven't been here for me in years. You've been here for the perks. For the status. For the control. You've been here for the idea of me, not the man."
"I love you!" she cried, her voice a desperate, broken plea. "Donnie, I love you!"
And that was it. The final, desperate lie. The last, pathetic attempt to manipulate him, to guilt him, to pull him back into the web of her own making.
And Donnie finally snapped.
It wasn't an explosion. It wasn't a fit of rage. It was a quiet, terrifying implosion. A calm, certain declaration that was more final than any scream, more devastating than any tantrum.
He looked at Kyri, his eyes cold, his expression unreadable. Then he turned, his gaze finding Stevie's. And in that moment, everything else in the room faded away. The anger, the accusations, the years of shared history. All that mattered was her.
"I love her," he said.
His voice was calm. Certain. A simple, profound statement of fact.
And it hurt Kyri more than the cheating ever could. More than the betrayal. More than the humiliation. Because it wasn't an accusation. It wasn't a defense. It was a declaration. A choice. He wasn't just leaving her. He was choosing someone else. He was choosing a different life. A different love.
Kyri stared at him, her face a mask of disbelief and despair. "No," she whispered, shaking her head, a frantic denial. "No, you don't. You're just saying that to hurt me."
"I'm not sayin' it to hurt you," Donnie said, his voice still quiet, still calm. "I'm sayin' it because it's true. I love her. I'm in love with her."
He turned back to Kyri, his expression hardening, his eyes cold. "And I'm done. I'm done with this. I'm done with you. This is over. It's been over. And I'm not comin' back."
"You can't do this!" she shrieked, her composure finally, completely shattering. She lunged at him, her hands flailing, a desperate, wild attempt to physically stop him, to hold on to the last vestiges of her control. "You can't just throw away seventeen years!"
Donnie caught her wrists, his grip firm, but not rough. He held her, a final, physical restraint. "I'm not throwin' it away, Kyri. I'm lettin' it go. There's a difference."
He let her go, stepping back, creating a space between them that was permanent, unbridgeable. "I want you out of this house by the end of the week. My lawyer will be in touch with yours."
He turned to Stevie, his expression softening, his eyes full of a love so deep it was almost tangible. "Let's go."
He took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, and he led her out of the room, out of the house, leaving Kyri standing there, alone, in the ruins of her own making, the sound of her own sobs the only sound in the vast, empty house. It was messy. It was painful. It was long overdue. And it was, finally, over.
One year later, the Texas sun was a warm, benevolent blessing, shining down on a landscape that had been reborn. The old ranch house, the mausoleum of a dead relationship, was gone. In its place stood a new home, a sprawling, modern masterpiece of glass, steel, and warm wood that Donnie had designed and built for them. It sat on more land, hundreds of acres of rolling green hills and ancient oaks that he’d bought, a kingdom for his queen.
Today, that kingdom was celebrating.
The ceremony was small. Private. Intimate. Just a handful of their closest friends and family gathered under a flower-draped arbor overlooking the valley. Stella was there, crying happy tears into a linen handkerchief. Terrance, Stevie’s sub from Sinners, was there, looking uncharacteristically soft in a tailored suit, his eyes full of a quiet, respectful joy.
Donnie stood at the end of the aisle, his hands clasped in front of him, his heart a frantic, wild thing against his ribs. He wore a simple black tux, but his eyes, when he saw her, were the most expensive thing in the world. And then Stevie appeared, and the world tilted on its axis.
She was a vision. A goddess in a simple, elegant white dress that clung to her curves like a lover’s touch. Her blonde hair was a soft, romantic cascade of curls. And peeking out from under the hem of her dress were a pair of white cowboy boots, a flash of rebellious, unapologetic spirit that was so perfectly her it made his heart ache.
As she walked toward him, a slow, confident smile on her face, Donnie felt a wave of emotion so powerful it almost brought him to his knees. He saw the last year flash before his eyes: the fights, the tears, the lawyers, the quiet mornings in her bed, the late-night talks, the rediscovery of self, the slow, steady blooming of a love that was more real, more powerful, than anything he had ever known.
He was emotional as hell. A mess. A beautiful, blubbering mess. And he didn't care. He let the tears fall, hot and free, as he took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, a connection that was as natural as breathing.
The vows were a blur of whispered words and choked-back sobs. But the finality of it, the sacred, binding power of it, was a force of nature. When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, Donnie didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a deep, desperate, soul-searing kiss that was a promise, a possession, a homecoming.
Six months later, the sun was setting over their kingdom, painting the sky in shades of orange, pink, and purple. They were on the porch of their new home, the house that was a testament to their love, a sanctuary they had built together. Stevie was sitting in his lap, her head resting on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, his big, strong hands resting on the gentle, swelling curve of her belly.
She was pregnant. Glowing. A testament to their love, a new life, a new beginning.
Donnie was kissing her stomach, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against the fabric of her sundress. He was a man possessed. A man obsessed. He talked to the baby all the time, his voice a low, gentle rumble, telling stories about boxing and art galleries and the woman who had saved his life.
"You're gonna be the most overprotective father in the history of the world," Stevie laughed, her fingers stroking his hair, her heart so full it felt like it might burst.
"Damn right," he murmured, his eyes dark with a fierce, protective love. "Nobody's gonna touch my baby girl. Or my baby boy. Or my wife. Nobody."
She laughed again, a sound that was like music to his ears. He looked up at her, his eyes shining with a love so deep, so profound, it still scared him a little. He had spent years surviving love, treating it like a burden, a responsibility, a performance. With Stevie, he had finally learned how to live inside it, how to breathe it, how to be it.
They had heard about Kyri, of course. The gossip was unavoidable. She’d had a complete mental breakdown after the breakup, a public spectacle of shame and despair. She’d been in and out of institutions for a few months, a cautionary tale whispered about at country clubs and charity events. The last they heard, she was in New York, "dating" a young, hot-headed soccer player, a pale imitation of the life she had lost. Donnie felt a flicker of pity for her, a distant, abstract sadness. But it was a fleeting emotion, a ghost from a life that was no longer his.
His life was here. In his arms. In the woman who was laughing at him, in the child who was growing inside her, in the home they had built on the ashes of his past. He was no longer a survivor. He was a man. A husband. A father. A king. And he was finally, truly, home.
theodore spencer is known for many things. well, depending on who you ask at least. some would say the mayor’s delinquent son, all snark and trouble with nothing good to show for it.
others might be a little nicer, simply referring to him as number five: the hotheaded captain of your university’s hockey team. the insanely talented defenseman whose led them through several winning seasons, and never finishes a game without battering something—or more likely someone—in his path.
what never occurred to you, though, was that beneath the cockiness, the iron fists, and the layers of gear he wears like impenetrable armor, there was actually something of substance at his core. a heart.
because if you hadn’t been so eager to get out of training early that afternoon, you might have never discovered that it’s teddy who’s responsible for all of the beautifully crafted, anonymous handwritten letters being tucked into the sliver of space between your car window.
dividers by @cursed-carmine
𑣲a/n lmk if you’d like to be tagged! can’t wait for yall to readdd 🤭 we finna get into some thangs. ciao for now! <3
Teddy stood in the driveway staring at the empty street long after your jeep disappeared.
His chest ached.
The sound of your tires peeling off still echoed in his ears along with the last thing you said to him.
"I wish you would've just left me alone."
Fuck.
He dragged both hands down his face hard before turning around abruptly, pacing a few steps before stopping again.
This wasn't how this was supposed to go.
None of this was.
"You just gonna stand out here all day?" your best friend voice cut through the silence.
Teddy looked up.
She was still standing in the doorway with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The look on her face already told him this conversation wasn't about to be pleasant.
“y/bf/n, not right now.”
"No," she said sharply stepping outside. "Actually right now because what the hell is wrong with you?"
Teddy frowns. “It’s not what she thinks”
"And whose fault is that?" she shot back.
He sucked his teeth, already frustrated. "Can you let me explain?"
"You had plenty of chances to explain to her!"
"That's not-"
"She tried talking to you!" your best friend cut him off.
"Multiple times."
Teddy started pacing again, hands on his hips now. "I know that."
"No, clearly you don't because every single time she tried to talk to you, you shut down."
"I didn't shut down."
"Yes the hell you did!" she snapped. "You went from being all over her to barely looking at her."
Teddy clenched his jaw.
Your best friend laughed humorlessly shaking her head. "You know what's crazy? She was actually trying to understand you."
That made him stop pacing.
"She kept making excuses for you," she continued. "Even after you started acting weird."
"I wasn't acting weird," he muttered weakly.
Your best friend stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "You ignored her for weeks after sleeping with her."
"I did not ignore her."
"Teddy you're actually killing me, please stop acting dense right now because you know exactly what you were doing."
He rubbed his hand over his mouth roughly before looking away. "She thinks I regret her," he muttered quietly.
"Well what else was she supposed to think?" your best friend asked. "From her perspective you finally got what you wanted and then switched up after."
"That's not what happened," he said quickly.
"Then what did happen?"
Teddy shook his head frustrated, fingers tugging at the back of his neck. "I don't know, alright?" he snapped. "Everything got too serious too fast and I-"
"And you panicked," your best friend finished for him.
He looked away not knowing what to say.
"She trusted you," she continued, voice calmer but it didn't hurt any less. "Like genuinely trusted you."
His throat tightened.
"And instead of talking to her like a normal person you pushed her away until she started questioning everything."
"I was trying not to hurt her."
Your best friend blinked at him in disbelief. "Well congratulations because you did exactly that."
The words hit him so hard he physically looked away from her.
"I've never seen her like that." Teddy says, shaking his head at the memory of how angry you looked.
"Me either," your best friend agreed.
The panic in his chest got worse.
He grabbed his keys off the hood of his truck.
"I gotta go talk to her."
Your best friend stepped directly in front of him. "No you don't."
"Move."
"No."
"She's upset, I need to explain what actually happened."
"And then what?" she snapped. "You think showing up at her house five minutes later is magically gonna fix this?"
"She won't even listen to me!"
"Because you gave her no reason to!"
Silence crashed between them.
Teddy's breathing was heavier, frustration and panic all over his face.
"I can fix this," he muttered more to himself than her.
Your best friend shake her head. "No. What you're gonna do is give her some space because if you go over there right now acting frantic you're only gonna make things worse."
He looked at her like she was crazy. "So l'm just supposed to leave her alone?"
"Yes!" she yelled. "For once in your life stop trying to control the situation and let her breathe."
He ran a hand down his face again, pacing away before turning back around. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
"I know that," she said. "But intentions don't matter when the damage is already done."
A heavy feeling settled in his stomach.
Teddy looked down at the keys in his hand, gripping them so tight his knuckles turned pale.
Home
The drive home felt like a blur.
You barely remembered half the turns you made.
Your hands stayed locked around the steering wheel the entire time, gripping it so tight your fingers hurt, but you welcomed the feeling. It kept your mind focused on something other than the mess currently sitting in your chest.
You didn't cry.
You couldn't.
You felt like you had no more tears left in you.
When you pulled into your driveway the sun was barely starting to come up, the neighborhood still quiet and asleep. You stared ahead for a long moment after turning the car off, your breathing slow, empty almost.
Everything felt empty.
Your eyes burned from exhaustion, your head pounding from crying, alcohol, and lack of sleep all mixed together.
You didn't even wanna think anymore.
About Teddy.
About the girl.
About the beach conversation.
About any of it.
You were tired, and thank God your mom wasn't home.
You didn't think you could handle somebody asking if you were okay right now because the truth was...you didn't know.
You grabbed your bags from the backseat before dragging yourself inside the house quietly.
As soon as the front door shut behind you, the silence settled in.
Usually home made you feel better.
Safer.
Right now it just felt quiet.
You kicked your shoes off carelessly near the stairs and headed straight upstairs without bothering to turn any lights on. Your reflection briefly caught in the hallway mirror and you immediately looked away.
Mascara smudged.
Eyes swollen.
Hair a mess.
You looked exactly how you felt.
Your bedroom door shut softly behind you and suddenly the weight of everything hit all over again.
You dropped your bags near the door and climbed into bed still wearing the oversized hoodie you threw on hours ago. You didn't even bother getting under the covers completely, too exhausted to care.
You squeezed your eyes shut, pulling the blanket closer around yourself, the exhaustion and heartbreak putting you straight to sleep.
-
When you finally woke up, sunlight was spilling through the small gap in your curtains.
You blinked slowly, squinting against the brightness before turning over slightly with a groan.
Your whole body felt heavy.
You just laid there staring at the ceiling trying to figure out what even woke you up in the first place.
Then everything came rushing back.
Your eyes squeezed shut briefly.
God.
You pushed yourself up slowly until your back rested against the headboard, the blanket falling into your lap. Apparently you had slept most of the day away because the sun sat lower casting a warm orange glow across your room.
Your head didn't hurt as bad anymore but your chest still ached.
A quiet growl came from your stomach making you realize you hadn't eaten since yesterday.
You glanced toward your phone laying abandoned on the nightstand before reaching for it sluggishly. The screen stayed black when you pressed the button. You tossed it right back onto the nightstand without bothering to charge it.
You stared blankly ahead rubbing your hand slowly up and down your leg while your thoughts drifted somewhere you didn't want them to.
A soft knock suddenly sounded at your bedroom door.
You didn't answer.
The door opened anyway and your mom stepped inside.
The second her eyes landed on you, her entire expression softened.
"Baby girl..." she said quietly.
You looked away.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
You slowly shook your head.
Your mom nodded once like she expected that answer already.
"Okay," she said gently. "Well how about a shower?"
You groaned instantly, falling backwards dramatically against the mattress. "Moooom," you dragged out miserably.
"Come onnn," she mocked right back with a small smile as she walked further into the room, she grabbed your arm and gently tugged until you sat back up with another dramatic groan.
"I'm serious," she said. "Up."
You let her pull you out of bed reluctantly, still half asleep and emotionally drained.
"I'll go get you a towel," your mom says guiding you toward the bathroom connected to your room.
You sighed heavily, leaning against the doorway.
"Just take a shower and wash that sadness off you," she added softly before pressing a kiss against your forehead.
Then she disappeared down the hallway to grab your towel.
You cut the shower on and waited until the bathroom slowly filled with steam before stepping in.
Hot water poured over your skin and your eyes slid shut automatically, a heavy sigh leaving your lips as you rolled your head back beneath the spray. Some of the tension sitting in your body slowly eased under the heat. You stood there taking in the slight sting you felt from the water until your mind betrayed you.
Teddy.
Your eyes flew open and you shook your head quickly like that alone could get rid of the thought of him, but it was useless. Every time things got quiet your thoughts drifted right back to him anyway.
The beach.
His voice.
The look on his face when you drove away.
Another tired sigh slipped from your lips. You were too emotionally exhausted to even fight the thoughts anymore, so instead you finished your shower as quickly as you could.
When you stepped out, the towel your mom brought sat folded neatly on the counter waiting for you.
You wrapped the towel around yourself before heading back to your room to get dressed. After throwing on a pair of shorts and one of your old oversized t-shirts, you slowly made your way downstairs.
The smell of food reached you first.
Then you spotted your mom stretched comfortably across the couch flipping through channels on the tv.
She waved you over once she noticed you walking in.
You plopped down beside her with a tired sigh, pulling your legs up onto the couch while she reached over grabbing the blanket draped across the armrest and tossed it over you.
"Thank you," you mumbled quietly.
"Mhm," she hummed eyes still on the tv for a moment before glancing over at you. "You hungry?"
You shrugged weakly. "Kinda."
That answer alone made her frown."You didn't eat today."
You gave her a small guilty look.
"Sweetie..." she sighed shaking her head before grabbing the plate sitting on the coffee table and handing it to you.
"Eat."
You looked down at the food before taking the plate from her carefully.
The two of you sat there quietly for a minute, the low volume from the tv filling the silence while you slowly picked at your food.
Your mom looked over at you again eventually. "That boy got you in here looking pitiful."
A breathy laugh escaped you despite yourself. "How you know this is about a boy?" you asked, finally looking over at her.
Your mom gave you a look like the answer was obvious. "Oh baby," she laughed softly. "I know a heartbreak when I see one."
You shook your head trying not to smile.
"There she go," your mom pointed. "That little attitude. I was waiting on it."
You rolled your eyes taking another bite of food. "It's not funny."
"I know it's not," she said softer. "But sitting in your room all day staring at walls ain't helping either."
Your shoulders dropped a little at that.
Silence settled between you again before your mom spoke up carefully.
"You still care about him."
You stared down at your plate.
A part of you wanted to deny it out of pride alone.
Lying felt pointless.
"I think a part of me is always gonna care about him..." you admitted. "I don't think that just goes away."
Your mom nodded slowly like she understood exactly what you meant."That's the hard part about loving people," she murmured. "Even when they hurt you... the feelings don't disappear overnight."
You hated how true that felt.
"He really hurt my feelings," you confessed your voice smaller this time.
"I know, baby."
"And I'm trying to be angry," you continued shaking your head a little. "But I just feel sad."
Your mom's expression softened all over again.
"You know what I think?" she asked gently.
You looked over at her.
"I think you're more hurt than done."
You looked back down at your food, blinking slowly while your thoughts drifted back to Teddy.
His face in the driveway.
The panic in his voice.
The way he looked standing outside your jeep.
Your mom watched your expression carefully before speaking again."Whatever happened between y'all... don't let it make you forget who you are."
You swallowed thickly. "He's not a bad person," you found yourself saying.
Your mom hummed knowingly. "But he handled something important badly," she replied. "And sometimes people do that when they're scared."
You sighed heavily leaning your head back against the couch. "I don't even know what to do."
"You don't have to figure everything out tonight," your mom assured softly. "Your feelings are still fresh."
You sat there thinking about that while your mom reached over smoothing your hair back from your face gently.
"And another thing," she added.
You looked over lazily.
"Don't let one boy run you away from your summer."
Your brows furrowed slightly.
Your mom gave you a pointed look. "I know that look," she said. "You're thinking about staying here."
You didn't answer which was answer enough.
"Mama... don't isolate yourself over a boy." she said softly.
"Especially one you still care about."
You sighed dramatically, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. "I'll isolate myself for now," you muttered.
Your mom snorted. "That's okay," she said reaching over to squeeze your leg gently. "Just don't stay in isolation."
A small smirk tugged at your lips despite yourself. "I'll think about it."
"Mhm," your mom hummed knowingly like she already knew you were hard headed.
You rolled your eyes lightly while she laughed under her breath, grabbing the remote again and turning her attention back toward the tv.
For the rest of the evening the two of you stayed curled up on the couch together watching reruns and pretending your heart didn't still ache every time you thought about Teddy.
Teddy POV
The beach house had never felt this quiet before. Not real quiet anyway. There was still noise drifting through the house - the tv downstairs, music playing faintly from somebody's speaker outside, random laughter echoing from one of the bedrooms down the hall - but none of it seemed to reach Teddy. Everything sounded distant now, muffled by the thoughts constantly running through his head.
He sat on the edge of his bed staring down at his phone, checking it every few minutes even though he already knew there was nothing there. No calls from you. No texts. Nothing. Just silence.
He rubbed a hand over his face with a frustrated sigh before tossing the phone beside him on the mattress.
Sleep had barely touched him since you left. Every time he closed his eyes he saw your face again - the hurt sitting in your expression, the way your hands shook while throwing your clothes into your suitcase, the disappointment in your voice when you called him a liar.
That part kept replaying the most.
The disappointment.
Teddy leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees while his hands clasped together in front of his mouth. He didn't know how things had spiraled this badly. One minute he'd been trying to protect whatever existed between the two of you and the next you were driving away looking at him like you barely recognized him anymore.
A frustrated groan left his mouth as he stood from the bed.
Sitting still wasn't helping. Nothing was helping.
He wandered downstairs toward the kitchen hoping a distraction would settle the restless feeling sitting heavy in his body, but another reminder of you waited there anyway.
Your hoodie still hung over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Teddy stopped walking.
You always complained about how cold the house got at night, and somehow that hoodie ended up wrapped around you almost every evening. Sometimes you'd steal it and disappear to the balcony with it. Sometimes you'd wear it while making late night snacks with his sister. Sometimes you'd fall asleep on the couch with the sleeves covering half your hands.
Now it just sat there.
Abandoned.
Teddy grabbed it slowly, his fingers tightening around the material as he lifted it closer. Your perfume still lingered faintly on it and it nearly knocked the air out of him.
God.
He missed you.
"You look terrible."
Your best friend voice broke through his thoughts causing him to glance toward the kitchen entrance where she stood leaning against the wall watching him carefully.
Teddy rolled his eyes tiredly. "I'm not doing this with you today."
"I wasn't gonna say nothing crazy this time," she muttered walking into the kitchen.
He looked away again, tossing the hoodie over his shoulder like holding it too long would make him spiral even worse than he already was.
"You heard from her?" she asked after a minute.
Teddy shook his head once before letting out a humorless laugh. "Want to call her so bad," he admitted. "But I already know she's not gonna answer."
Your best friend crossed her arms tighter across her chest. "Keep giving her a minute to breathe."
Teddy laughed again, frustration laced all through it as he started pacing away from her. "You think I don't know that?" he muttered running a hand over the back of his neck. "But sitting around waiting is driving me crazy."
Your best friend stayed quiet while he paced the kitchen restlessly.
"You didn't see her face when she left," he admitted after a minute, his voice quieter this time.
"I did see it."
Teddy shook his head slowly. "No... you didn't."
If she had really seen the look in your eyes then she would understand why panic had been eating him alive ever since you drove away. You looked hurt and worst of all, you looked done.
That thought alone made something twist painfully in his stomach. Teddy leaned forward against the counter, both hands gripping the edge while he dropped his head.
"I fucked this up so bad," he muttered.
The kitchen fell quiet again while Teddy stared blankly at the floor trying to figure out how he managed to hurt the one person he cared about most.
Despite already knowing you probably wouldn't answer...that still didn't stop him from eventually giving in.
One text turned into another.
Then came the calls.
Voicemails.
Long nights spent staring at his phone waiting for your name to finally pop up across the screen.
But just like he expected...nothing ever came back.
-
The silence was starting to get to him.
Bad.
At first Teddy kept trying to convince himself you just needed time. A day maybe. Two at most. He understood why you were upset, why you needed space after everything that happened. One day turned into three, three turned into almost a week and you still haven't returned any of his calls or texts.
It was driving him insane.
By the fourth day Teddy had practically memorized your voicemail greeting from how many times he'd called just to hear your voice for a few seconds before the beep cut him off again.
His messages started off normal enough.
can we talk?
please answer me
i miss you
But as the days passed and the silence continued, the messages slowly became more desperate.
you can yell at me if you want
please stop ignoring me
just tell me you hate me or something
That one sat in the chat unanswered for almost twelve hours before Teddy finally deleted it out of embarrassment.
Sleep barely existed for him anymore.
Every night looked the same - pacing around his room, laying down for five minutes before getting back up again, checking his phone constantly like somehow your name would magically appear if he stared hard enough.
Nothing around the beach house felt right without you there either.
Your laugh was missing.
Your random comments during movies.
Your arguments with his sister over music.
Even your sandals by the front door were gone now.
"You look like shit."
Teddy glanced over from his spot on the balcony finding one of his friends leaning against the doorway holding a beer.
"Thanks," Teddy muttered dryly.
"I'm serious." His friend frowned slightly. "You good?"
No.
Teddy just shrugged instead because explaining any of this out loud somehow made it feel worse. Everybody noticed the difference in him now. He barely went out with them anymore. Barely talked. Half the time he looked irritated just from somebody saying his name.
Your best friend especially kept watching him with this look on her face like she knew he was one ignored text away from completely losing it.
She wasn't wrong.
That night Teddy laid in bed staring up at the ceiling while your contact sat open on his phone again.
His thumb hovered over the call button before dropping away.
Then hovered again.
Dropped again.
A frustrated groan left him as he sat up running both hands over his face.
This was pointless.
You obviously didn't wanna talk to him.
You were done.
That thought sat heavy in his chest, making it harder to breathe the longer he thought about it.
What if you really were done?
What if while he sat here trying to give you space, you were slowly moving on from him completely?
Teddy looked back down at his phone again.
Then toward the door.
Then back at your contact.
Fuck it.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Teddy grabbed his keys off the nightstand and shoved his feet into his shoes.
If you wanted him gone after seeing him in person then fine.
At least he'd know he tried.
But sitting around waiting for you to answer clearly wasn't working anymore, and Teddy honestly didn't think he could take another night of this.
1:17 AM
The house had gone quiet hours ago.
Your mom had gone upstairs for the night while you stayed downstairs curled up on the couch pretending to pay attention to whatever random movie played across the tv.
Pretending being the key word.
Your thoughts had been drifting all night, back to everything you were trying very hard not to think about.
Eventually your stomach started growling loud enough to pull you from your thoughts, causing you to push yourself off the couch with a tired sigh before heading toward the kitchen.
You moved around quietly making yourself a sandwich, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the silence while you spread jelly across the bread absentmindedly.
Knock knock.
Your movements paused. Your brows pulled together as you glanced toward the front of the house.
You reached for your phone sitting on the counter, mostly checking the time, but the moment the screen lit up all the missed calls and unread texts sitting underneath Teddy's name stared back at you again.
Your stomach dropped a little.
1:17 AM.
Another knock echoed through the house.
Harder this time.
"Okay, okay," you muttered under your breath, setting your phone back down before walking toward the front door cautiously.
You pulled the door open expecting literally anybody else.
Your breath caught.
Teddy stood there looking exhausted.
His hoodie hung loose over his frame, curls messy like he'd been dragging his hands through them all night, eyes tired in a way you'd never really seen before.
The sight of him standing on your doorstep at one in the morning almost didn't feel real.
Your hand tightened around the door. "What are you doing here?" you asked.
Teddy swallowed hard before answering. "I just needed to see you."
You blinked at him for a moment before shaking your head softly in disbelief. "Teddy..."
"I know," he cut in quickly. "I know it's late. I know you probably don't even wanna look at me right now but I couldn't do this anymore."
Your jaw tightened. "You drove two hours here?"
"I didn't know what else to do," he admitted honestly.
Silence settled between the two of you again and it felt painfully familiar.
Your eyes drifted over his face again taking in how tired he looked. "You look exhausted," you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Teddy eyebrows furrowed after hearing that and you look away instantly.
Dangerous.
This was dangerous territory already.
"Teddy..." you sighed tiredly. "You can't just show up here in the middle of the night."
"I know." His voice came out quieter this time. "I just needed you to hear me out."
Your grip tightened against the door again. "I heard enough that night."
Teddy's face fell immediately. "That's not fair."
A humorless laugh escaped you. "Not fair?" you repeated. "Teddy you stood there and let me look stupid."
"I never wanted to make you look stupid."
"But you did."
He goes quiet. You could practically see him searching for the right thing to say next, but nothing was fixing this and both of you knew it.
"I swear to you nothing happened with that girl," he said finally stepping a little closer. "Nothing."
You shook your head. "That's not even the point anymore."
Teddy frowned. "Then what is?"
"The lying," you answered, your voice cracking before you steadied it again. "The avoiding me. Acting weird for days and then making me feel crazy for noticing it."
"I wasn't trying to make you feel crazy."
"Welp you did that too." you say blinking at him.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. You hated how seeing him hurt still affected you. Hated how a part of you still wanted to comfort him even now.
"I care about you so much," Teddy admitted, his eyes locked on yours. "You know that right?"
"That's why this hurts so bad," you whispered.
Teddy looked like the words physically hit him.
You swallowed hard trying to keep yourself together. "I still care about you, Teddy," you admitted honestly. "But you don't get to hurt me and then decide when I should be okay again."
His face twisted with heartbreak. "I know," he said quietly. "I know and I'm trying-"
"I can't do this right now."
That stopped him cold and you can see the panic all over his face. The fear that maybe this really was slipping out of his hands.
"Teddy..." your voice softened. "Please go home."
He just stood there staring at you like he wanted to say a thousand more things. Instead he decided to respect your boundaries even though it hurts.
Teddy nodded slowly, swallowing hard before taking a small step backwards.
"Okay," he said quietly.
That hurt worse than if he argued with you.
_
You closed the door slowly before leaning back against it, your hand pressing flat against the wood while a shaky breath slipped from your lips.
What the hell was that?
Your heart refused to calm down, still pounding hard from seeing Teddy standing there on your doorstep at one in the morning looking like he'd barely held himself together long enough to make the drive.
The house had gone quiet again, but somehow it didn't feel the same kind of quiet as before. Teddy's presence still lingered around you, sitting heavy in the air and making your thoughts spiral all over again.
He looked terrible.
Not in an overdramatic way either. Real exhaustion. The kind that settled underneath somebody's eyes after too many sleepless nights and too many thoughts keeping them awake.
Hearing the hurt in his voice almost cracked your resolve completely. You squeezed your eyes shut before dropping your head back against the door harder this time.
This was exactly why you had been ignoring him. No matter how upset you were with Teddy, no matter how hurt your feelings still were, loving him had never actually been the issue.
That was the problem.
You still loved him.
Still missed him.
That scared you a little.
A huge part of you wanted to run after him right now. Wanted to pull him back inside and forget the entire thing ever happened. Wanted to let him wrap his arms around you until none of this hurt anymore. But another part of you remembered exactly how you felt standing in that driveway.
Embarrassed.
Hurt.
Blindsided.
You remembered the disappointment sitting heavy in your chest while he stood there struggling to explain himself. You remembered how stupid you felt realizing everybody else could probably see something was wrong before you could.
No matter how much you missed him...you couldn't let yourself forget that just because Teddy showed up looking sad and apologetic.
Love didn't magically erase hurt. Your eyes drifted toward the window unconsciously, wondering if he had left yet. You hated this. Hated missing him this much. Hated how hard it was to stand your ground when it came to him.
Most of all...you hated that even after everything...a part of you still wanted him back anyway.
-
You barely slept after Teddy left. Every time you closed your eyes you kept replaying the look on his face standing outside your door, exhausted and desperate in a way you'd never seen from him before.
It was messing with you.
You sat at the kitchen island stirring cream into your coffee while your mom moved around the kitchen making breakfast.
"You didn't sleep good," she observed without even looking at you.
You took a sip of coffee instead of answering.
Your mom glanced over at you knowingly.
Silence settled for a minute before she casually asked, "So who was knocking at my door at one in the morning?"
Your hand paused around your mug. "Nobody."
Your mom snorted. "Girl."
You tried focusing on your coffee again. "It was probably one of the neighbors or something."
"At one in the morning?" she asked dryly.
You shrugged weakly.
Your mom turned around fully this time, crossing her arms while giving you a look that said she wasn't buying any of it. "That boy drove all the way over here didn't he?"
You sighed dramatically already knowing there was no point lying anymore. "How do you even know it was Teddy?"
"Because," your mom said simply, "you walked back in this house looking like somebody shook your entire spirit up."
A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"And this morning you look even worse," she added.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome, baby."
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head while staring down into your coffee again.
Your mom's expression softened after a moment though. "He looked upset?"
Your heartbeat turned uneven remembering the look on Teddy's face.
"Yeah," you admitted.
"And how'd that make you feel?"
You frown. "I don't know." you lied.
You knew exactly how it made you feel. It made standing your ground ten times harder.
Your mom watches you carefully before speaking again. "You miss it over there."
You look up quickly. "I miss being away from home," you corrected.
"Mhm," she hummed unconvinced. "and your best friend?"
Maybe that part was true because you missed her bad actually. The late nights - the beach, the chaos in the house even the stupid arguments over music.
Everything felt weirdly empty here now.
Your mom leaned against the counter watching you think. "You can't avoid Teddy forever."
Your eyes dropped back down to your coffee. "I know."
"And hiding in this house isn't gonna make your feelings disappear either."
You sighed heavily. "I just don't wanna be around him right now."
"Then don't be around him," your mom replied simply. "But don't you think you've been here long enough?." she asked.
You huff a laugh. "That's what you think."
"I think," your mom started walking over and grabbing your empty plate from in front of you, "that one bad moment shouldn't ruin your whole summer."
You sat thinking about that while your mom rinsed dishes off in the sink.
"And honestly?" she added glancing over her shoulder at you. "That boy already looks miserable enough."
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips before you quickly hid it behind your coffee cup.
Your mom noticed anyway.
-
As the next couple of days passed things still felt different.
You still caught yourself thinking about Teddy more than you wanted to, especially late at night when everything slowed, but the heaviness from that first night had eased some. Your feelings were still hurt, but at least now you could think about everything without feeling like your chest was caving in.
And your mom was right, you did miss it over there.
So after staring at your suitcase sitting in the corner of your room for almost ten minutes straight, you finally gave in and started packing again.
Clothes were folded back into your duffle bag while your thoughts wandered quietly. Teddy crossed your mind more than once during it all, but instead of letting yourself spiral, you just pushed the thought aside.
You'd deal with him when you got there.
Eventually your bag was zipped shut and dragged downstairs toward the front door. Your mom stood nearby watching while you loaded everything into the back of your jeep, that same knowing look sitting on her face like she'd expected this decision all along.
You walked back toward the house brushing your hands against your shorts.
"I want to hear good news when you get back," your mom said.
A scoff escaped you while your eyes rolled playfully. "No promises."
Your mom laughed softly shaking her head while you stepped closer wrapping your arms around her tightly.
The hug was long enough for her to silently understand that despite feeling better, you still weren't completely okay yet.
When you finally pulled away, your fingers wrapped gently around her hand giving it a squeeze. "Thank you... for everything."
"Anything for my sweet girl."
Emotion tugged at you hearing that.
You leaned in for one last hug before finally making your way back toward your jeep. After settling into the driver's seat, you clicked your seatbelt into place and started the car.
"Text me when you make it!" your mom called from the front door.
A small laugh escaped you. "I will!"
Your mom pointed at you warningly like she already knew you'd forget, making you shake your head with a smile.
Then your eyes drifted toward the road ahead.
Your stomach fluttered a little thinking about what waited for you back at the beach house. You inhaled deeply before pulling out the driveway.
-
You finally made it back a little after sunset.
The entire drive there, your nerves had slowly built the closer you got. When you pulled into the driveway your heart was pounding hard enough to annoy you. You sat in the parked jeep gathering yourself before finally climbing out and grabbing your bags from the backseat.
The walk toward the front door dragged.
You adjusted your grip on your duffle bag before quietly stepping inside the house bracing yourself for anything, but when you walked in the house was silent. Relief washed through you so fast it almost made you laugh.
You pushed the door shut behind you with a sigh.
"She has returned."
You flinched so hard your bag nearly slipped off your shoulder.
"Oh my God!" you gasped clutching your chest while your best friend stood near the hallway trying and failing not to laugh.
"I was convinced nobody was here."
She shrugged casually while walking toward you. "I saw you the moment you pulled in the driveway."
"You are absolutely insane," you muttered shaking your head before pulling her into a hug. "And I missed you so much."
Your best friend squeezed you tightly. "I missed you too."
Something about hearing that while standing back in the beach house finally made everything feel normal again.
Almost normal.
When she pulled back, her expression softened into something more sincere. "You feeling okay?"
You tilted your hand back and forth in a so-so motion.
Your best friend nodded like she understood. "Well I'm glad you're back anyway."
A small smile tugged at your lips while she looped her arm through yours leading you further into the house.
You glanced over at her. "I have so much to tell you."
Your best friend squealed loudly making you roll your eyes while trying not to laugh. "Oh I KNOW you do."
She practically dragged you upstairs the two of you ended up sitting across from each other on the bed while she stared at you expectantly.
"So..." she started slowly. "Are we emotionally stable again orrrr?"
You snorted. "Relax."
"No seriously," she laughed. "The last time I saw you, you were crashing out."
You groaned dramatically before falling backwards against the bed. "I did didn't I?"
"You did."
You covered your face with your hands while your best friend laughed beside you.
Silence settled between you before she looked over at you again. "Teddy has been miserable."
Your hands slowly dropped from your face.
"He looks terrible," she continued. "Like terrible. He barely leaves his room half the time and when he does come around everybody he just sits there looking irritated."
You tried fighting the smile threatening to appear but failed miserably.
Your best friend pointed. "There go that smile."
"Oh my God," you muttered rolling your eyes.
"I'm serious!" she laughed. "That man is DOWN bad."
You shook your head trying to ignore how good hearing that made you feel. "He drove to my house."
Her mouth dropped open. "WHAT?"
"At one in the morning," you added.
Your best friend scooted closer. "No the hell he did not."
"He did."
"And?"
You sighed leaning your head back against the wall behind the bed. "He just... wanted to see me."
The sincerity in Teddy's voice replayed in your head making your chest ache a little.
Your best friend stared at you narrowing her eyes. "You miss him."
"Yeah," you admitted with no reason to lie. "I do."
"Aw." your best friend poked her lip out and batted her eyes playfully.
"Don't do that," you warned pointing at her.
"I'm not doing nothing!"
"Yes you are."
She laughed while grabbing one of your pillows before hugging it against her chest. "So are you gonna take him back?"
You didn't answer, but the smirk slowly pulling at your lips answered enough on its own.
Your best friend sucked her teeth loudly. "Girl, that is your man."
You rolled your eyes laughing. "That is my man," you admitted matter-of-factly. "I'm just beefing with him right now."
Your best friend fell backwards onto the bed laughing loudly.
"I cannot stand you."
A smile lingered on your face before slowly fading some. "But..." you added quieter. "I'm not ready to forgive me yet."
"And that's okay," your best friend said honestly. "He gotta earn that back."
You hummed quietly in agreement before letting out a long breath and shaking your head. "Enough of that though," you muttered sitting up straighter. "Is there any festivities coming up or something?"
Your best friend's entire face lit up. "Actuallyyyy," she dragged out excitedly. "Tomorrow night."
You raised a brow. "What?"
"It's nothing too crazy," she explained quickly. "Just a small gathering. Everybody's been bored around here."
You nodded slowly. "Okay," you said pushing yourself off the bed. "Well I'm gonna go grab the rest of my stuff out the car."
Your best friend looked entirely too amused suddenly. "Did you want Teddy's help?" she teased.
"Please don't speak him up."
That only made her laugh harder.
-
The next afternoon consisted of you and your best friend doing what you apparently did best together - spending unnecessary amounts of money. The two of you made it back to the beach house, your arms were full of shopping bags and your bladder was on the verge of exploding.
"I swear if somebody in this house is in the bathroom-"
"You should've went at the store," your best friend laughed while struggling with her own bags.
"Girl move," you rushed out jogging toward the house.
The second the front door opened you dropped half your bags near the couch before hurrying toward the downstairs bathroom.
"I gotta pee so bad."
Your best friend burst out laughing behind you while you disappeared down the hallway.
A few seconds later Teddy wandered downstairs, his phone still in his hand while he headed toward the kitchen.
His eyes landed on the pile of shopping bags near the couch. "Running up mom and dad credit cards again?" he called out dryly.
Your best friend made a face. "The visit to y/n's house must not've gone as planned."
Teddy's head snapped toward her so fast it almost made her laugh. "How do you know about that?"
She shrugged. "Word gets around."
Teddy stared at her for a second before asking the question he actually cared about. "You talked to her?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Like... two minutes ago."
Teddy squinted his eyes slowly scanning across the living room. Then he noticed the extra shopping bags sitting near the couch. Not your best friend's style, his gazed drifted again right toward the sandals sitting by the entrance.
Your sandals.
Everything in his expression changed.
Teddy looked back at your best friend. "Is she here?"
Your best friend didn't answer.
Teddy moved toward the front window instead, pulling the curtain back just enough to spot your jeep parked outside.
You came back.
Teddy turned and stalked toward your best friend. "When did she come back?"
She took two quick steps backwards immediately holding her hand up. "Back up, you lunatic."
Teddy ignored that completely. "When?"
"She came back last night," your best friend answered quickly before narrowing her eyes at him. "And before you say anything else, she's in the bathroom."
Teddy's eyes instantly shifted toward the hallway.
"Absolutely not," she whisper-yelled. "You are not about to bum her."
Teddy sucked his teeth. "I wasn't even about to do anything."
"Oh please," she scoffed. "It's written all over your face."
Teddy glanced toward the hallway again anyway.
Your best friend pointed aggressively. "Do you wanna run her away again?"
The frustration slowly faded from his face while he looked back at her silently. "No," he admitted.
"Exactly."
Your best friend jerked her head toward the stairs. "Go upstairs."
Teddy looked at her like she lost her mind. "Seriously?"
"Yes seriously," she whispered harshly. "Just trust me. You'll get your girl back."
Something about hearing that made the tension in Teddy's shoulders ease a little.
After one last glance toward the hallway, Teddy finally turned and headed back upstairs.
Right as the bathroom door opened.
Your best friend turned around abruptly as if she got caught doing something she had absolutely no business doing.
Your brows pull together. "Everything okay."
"Yeah," she answered way too cheerful.
Your eyes narrow, she cleared her throat awkwardly before trying again.
"Yeah," she repeated, this time sounding far more normal.
You shake your head. "I'm not even gonna ask," you muttered while bending down to grab your shopping bags from the floor.
Your best friend tried way too hard to look innocent while standing there.
"I'm gonna take a nap," you told her tiredly adjusting the bags in your hands.
"I am right behind you," she said entirely too excited.
You paused mid-step just long enough to side eye her suspiciously.
"Okay..."
Your best friend pressed her lips together trying not to smile too hard while you turned around continuing toward your room.
-
The nap did exactly what it was supposed to do.
When you woke up you actually felt rested for the first time in days. The heaviness sitting on you earlier had eases enough for you to finally feel like yourself again.
Mostly.
No matter how hard you tried distracting yourself while getting ready for the night, you kept thinking about Teddy. You still haven't seen him since getting back to the beach house and the anticipation was starting to eat at you.
You stood in your bathroom staring at yourself in the mirror while tugging at the bottom of your outfit for the fifth time in two minutes.
Your best friend wandered into the bathroom a second later looking through drawers like she forgot where she put something.
Then she glanced up at you. "Okay babe," she said slowly. "You've been anxious ever since you woke up. What's up?"
You sighed leaning back against the counter. "I guess I'm just anxious to see Teddy," you admitted honestly. "Like... I don't know what to expect. The last time we saw each other it wasn't exactly good and-"
"You're rambling," your best friend interrupted quickly.
You closed your mouth.
"Let's reel it in."
A laugh escaped you while you nodded, taking a deep breath trying to calm yourself down.
"Teddy will be there tonight," your best friend reassured while finally finding whatever she came in there for.
You nodded again more for yourself than her. "Okay."
"And you," she pointed at you, "are gonna walk in there and be cool."
You rolled your eyes. "I am cool."
"No you not," she laughed. "Because I already know Teddy gonna be over there trying to keep his composure the second he sees you."
Your stomach fluttered hearing that.
You grabbed your lip gloss off the counter pretending to focus on that instead. "I think I need a shot or something," you muttered.
Your best friend gasped. "Now THAT sounds like a good idea."
You laughed while grabbing your purse off the counter.
"You done getting ready?"
"Yes."
"Perfect." She grabbed your wrist instantly. "Downstairs we go."
You barely had time to protest before she dragged you out the bathroom and downstairs toward the kitchen. The both of you stood near the counter taking shots while trying not to laugh at each other's reactions.
"Okay," you coughed grabbing your chest. "That was bad."
"Lightweight," your best friend teased while setting the bottle down.
You shook your head laughing before grabbing your purse again. Then together, the two of you headed out the door.
Teddy POV
Teddy had been standing in the same corner of the backyard for almost twenty minutes pretending to listen to his friend talk. His thoughts had been somewhere else the entire night.
On you.
Ever since finding out you came back, his mind had been a complete mess. One minute he found himself getting hopeful because... you came back. Out of everywhere you could've gone, you still chose to come back here. Back around him.
Then the other half of his brain would remind him how your last real conversation ended. With you asking him to leave.
Teddy still remembered the look on your face standing in that doorway. Hurt. Guarded. Trying so hard not to fold in front of him. That memory alone was enough to keep him from getting too ahead of himself.
He still couldn't stop thinking about you being back under the same roof again though. Couldn't stop wondering if you were purposely avoiding him. Couldn't stop wondering if you missed him too.
"You even listening to me?"
Teddy blinked slowly, finally dragging himself out of his thoughts long enough to look over at his friend standing beside him.
"Hm?"
His friend snorted. “Yeah aight."
Teddy rubbed a hand down his jaw distractedly before glancing around the backyard again. The gathering had gotten bigger over the last hour. Music floated through the speakers while conversations mixed together around him, but none of it really held his attention tonight.
Not when every few seconds his eyes kept drifting back toward the house.
Then the back door slid open.
You walked outside beside your best friend laughing softly at something she whispered in your ear and Teddy had to look twice to make sure you were real.
You looked good.
The outfit. Your hair. The glow sitting over your face now that you finally looked rested again. It almost pissed him off a little how naturally beautiful you were and you probably didn't even realize what your presence did to a room.
The second you stepped outside, Teddy's attention locked onto you. Conversations around him blurred together into background noise while his eyes followed you moving across the patio greeting people.
You lit up every room you walked into without even trying.
God he missed so you.
Teddy's stare lingered shamelessly while you smiled at somebody near the patio railing, and honestly he didn't even care anymore if somebody noticed.
His friend followed his line of sight before groaning loudly.
"Oh brother."
Teddy ignored him.
After spending weeks wondering if you even wanted to be around him anymore...seeing you standing there now, close enough again felt unreal.
-
As the night went on, Teddy tried very hard to stop watching you. Tried being the key word because somehow no matter where he stood in the backyard, his attention kept drifting back toward you like it had a mind of its own.
He was starting to notice that you kept looking at him too.
Not long enough to fully get caught, but enough. Little glances across the backyard whenever you thought he wasn't paying attention. Teddy noticed every single one.
The first time your eyes met across the patio, you looked away almost immediately. Still, that tiny interaction alone was enough to spark something dangerous inside him.
Hope.
Later on, while everybody crowded around the coolers grabbing drinks, Teddy heard your voice drift through the noise.
"Can somebody hand me a water?"
He had already reach into the cooler grabbing on for you.
Your eyes landed on him the moment he stepped closer handing it over. Your fingers brushed against his while taking the bottle from him and after spending days without touching you at all, the contact nearly knocked the air out of him.
"Thank you," you said softly.
Then you smiled at him.
He nodded once trying way to keep his composure. "No problem."
You walked away after that like nothing happened while Teddy stood there staring after you like a complete idiot. His friend passed by him snorting under his breath.
Teddy ignored him once again because now the hope sitting inside him was growing way too fast for his own good.
A little while later everybody slowly started gathering around one of the patio tables while drinks and card games got thrown across the surface. Somebody yelled "UNO!" while another person accused them of cheating before the game even started.
Teddy ended up sitting directly across from and that alone distracted him the entire game.
You looked more relaxed tonight. Lighter almost. Every now and then he'd catch you glancing at him again before looking back down at your cards pretending to focus.
Teddy had already lost track of whose turn it was when one of the girls sitting farther down the table started talking. At first it wasn't anything serious. Just little slick comments aimed toward him every few minutes. Teddy ignored most of it, barely paying attention.
Then she laughed shaking her head dramatically. "I'm sorry but Teddy really be acting like an asshole sometimes."
The comment blended into the noise around the table at first but your voice cut through it.
"Watch your mouth talking about him."
Everything went quiet.
Teddy's head lifted instantly while his eyes locked onto you.
You sat there calmly holding your cards while giving the girl a sarcastically sweet smile, batting your lashes like your tone hadn't just carried a warning underneath it.
"You don't know Teddy," you added simply.
The silence around the table only lasted a couple seconds, but to Teddy it felt way longer than that because he couldn't stop staring at you. Couldn't stop replaying the fact that after everything you still defended him publicly.
Like loving him still came naturally to you.
Before the silence could turn awkward, your best friend suddenly slammed a draw four card onto the table. "BOW!" she yelled.
The entire table erupted into chaos after that. People started yelling, laughing, arguing over cards, but Teddy barely heard any of it. Not when his entire focus stayed on you.
Almost like you could feel him staring, your eyes lifted again meeting his across the table.
You looked away quickly after that trying to suppress the smile pulling at your lips.
-
After the last round of UNO, people slowly started getting up from the table and splitting off into little groups again. Some stayed talking around the patio while others started heading home altogether now that the night was getting later.
All your best friend had to do was give you one look from across the backyard and within two minutes both of you were already walking back toward the beach house together.
When you made it upstairs you kicked your sandals off near the bed before falling backwards onto the mattress.
Your best friend walked out of your bathroom wiping moisturizer across her face while already looking entirely too amused. "No because I was really about to say something to that girl," she said. "And you beat me to it."
A laugh escaped you while you rolled your eyes at the memory of the girl's constant comments toward Teddy throughout the night. "Somebody had to shut her up."
"I know Teddy probably busted in his pants hearing that come out your mouth."
Your eyes widened. "Why do you have to be so vulgar?" you asked laughing.
She ignored the question. "He was looking at you all night."
You dropped your head into your hands smiling. "I know."
"He looked pathetic," your best friend added.
You peeked up at her through your fingers. "I like pathetic."
Your best friend groaned loudly throwing her head back. "Ughhhh just get back together already."
You laughed while she pointed aggressively at you. "It was nauseating watching y'all make goggly eyes at each other all night."
"I was not-"
Your best friend held her hand up immediately cutting you off. "You were."
You opened your mouth.
Then closed it again.
A laugh escaped you while you shook your head. "Whatever."
Your best friend grinned proudly before finally grabbing her phone off your nightstand.
"Okay babe," she sighed dramatically. "I'm going to bed.
I'll see you in the morning."
You nodded while she leaned down kissing the top of your forehead quickly before heading toward the door.
The room fell quiet after she left but you weren't tired. Your mind kept replaying little moments between you and Teddy from tonight over and over again. With a quiet sigh, you pushed yourself off the bed before slipping back into your sandals and heading downstairs.
About ten minutes later you sat alone on the beach listening to the waves crash softly against the shore while the cool night air brushed against your skin.
It felt peaceful out here.
Your thoughts had finally started settling some when movement caught your attention from farther down the beach.
You looked over.
And there Teddy was.
Walking slowly toward you with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets, every step cautious like he wasn't completely sure if approaching you was a good idea or not.
You watched him carefully while he walked closer, his steps slowing the nearer he got to you.
The closer he got, the more your heart pounded.
Teddy stopped a few feet away from where you sat in the sand, his eyes briefly searching your face like he was trying to figure out what type of mood you were in tonight.
"You mind if I sit?"
The question alone almost made you smile.
Weeks ago Teddy probably would've just sat down beside you without asking. Now he looked cautious around you.
You glanced beside you before shrugging one shoulder. "I guess."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he lowered himself beside you, leaving enough space between the two of you to not feel pushy but close enough for you to feel his presence.
The waves crashed softly against the shore while the breeze drifted between you both, and somehow sitting next to Teddy again felt way more natural than it probably should've after everything.
"You defended me tonight."
You snorted softly already knowing that was coming. "Somebody had to humble her."
Teddy laughed beside you, shaking his head. "Nah," he said glancing over at you. "You ain't have to do all that."
You looked over at him finally. "Do all what? I should've kept my mouth closed then."
A smile pulled at Teddy's mouth hearing that. "You telling people to watch their mouth about me now?"
You roll your eyes. "Don't make it weird."
He laughed. "That was the cherry on top for me."
Your lips pressed together trying to fight your own smile. The sound of Teddy laughing again made something warm settle in your stomach.
You missed this.
Missed how easy things usually felt with him.
Teddy leaned back against his hands in the sand beside you before glancing toward the water again. "I really thought you wasn't coming back."
Your expression soften. "I almost didn't."
Teddy looked over at you.
Your eyes stayed focused ahead while your fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of your sleeve. "But I missed it here," you admitted. "Missed everybody."
Teddy nodded slowly like he understood what you weren't fully saying out loud. "And your best friend?" he asked carefully.
A small smile tugged at your mouth. "Obviously."
Teddy bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. "And?"
You looked over at him suspiciously already knowing where he was trying to go with that. "And what?"
"And was that it?"
A laugh escaped you while Teddy grinned beside you. "You're annoying."
"But was it?"
You shook your head smiling. "Teddy..."
"Nah answer the question."
You stared at him before looking back toward the ocean again trying to ignore the smile still pulling at your lips. "I missed you too," you admitted finally.
When you glanced back over at Teddy, the look on his face almost caught you off guard completely. Like hearing you say that meant more to him than you realized.
"I missed you so much," he admitted. His eyes stayed locked on yours, the look in them softer than you were used to seeing from him.
More open.
"I really thought I lost you," he said after a moment.
You swallowed before looking away first. "You still got work to do," you muttered.
"I know." it came out with no hesitation.
That made your heart beat a little faster. Sitting here beside Teddy, listening to the ocean while his presence settled around you felt like everything was back to normal. No matter how hard you tried protecting your feelings loving Teddy still came naturally to you.
Music Festival
Music blasted through the beach house while everybody scrambled around upstairs getting ready for the festival.
Your best friend had been talking nonstop for the last twenty minutes while bouncing back and forth between your room and hers holding different tops up every five seconds.
"I cannot believe this is the last big thing before summer ends," she groaned while standing in your doorway.
You sat in front of your mirror fixing your hair before laughing softly. "You act like summer ending means the world is ending."
"It kind of does," she argued. "Do you know how long l've been waiting for this festival?"
You snorted. "Since June."
"EXACTLY."
A laugh escaped you while she disappeared back into her room only to come rushing back in again not even thirty seconds later.
"And now I'm sad."
You turned around in your chair looking at her amused. "You're exhausting."
She whined dramatically falling across the edge of your bed. "Summer flew by way too fast."
You couldn't really disagree with that.
It felt weird thinking about how different everything looked now compared to the beginning of summer. Back then everything felt easy. Simple. Now emotions sat underneath almost every interaction in this house.
Still..for the first time in a while, things actually felt lighter again.
Your best friend stared at you suddenly narrowing her eyes.
You glanced at her reflection in the mirror. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
A slow grin spread across her face. "Oh nothing," she sang. "You just look happy again."
Your best friend caught the tiny shift in your expression. "There she go," she teased.
You laughed under your breath shaking your head while reaching for your earrings. "Please leave me alone."
"I'm just saying," she shrugged. "The energy in this room was VERY different three days ago."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't fully hide your smile this time either.
Your best friend gasped loudly. "Oh yeah. Teddy definitely getting his girl back."
"You are so annoying," you muttered laughing.
"You know he's probably losing his mind trying to figure out what you're wearing tonight."
"He'll survive."
"Mhm," she hummed knowingly. "Barely."
You put your earrings on while trying not to smile too hard.
Outside your bedroom window, music drifted up from downstairs mixed with people laughing somewhere near the beach.
The festival energy had already started settling around the house, and you were so excited.
-
When you and your group finally made it to the festival, the sun had already started setting over the beach.
The entire place glowed underneath streaks of orange and pink stretching across the sky while music vibrated through the air loud enough to feel in your chest. String lights hung across vendor tents, people crowded every direction laughing with drinks in their hands, and somewhere farther ahead you could hear the bass from the main stage echoing through the night.
The atmosphere felt alive.
Like one of those nights you already knew you'd think about long after summer ended.
Your best friend practically bounced beside you the second everyone stepped through the entrance.
"Oh yeah," she said looking around.
You laughed while your eyes wandered across the crowd taking everything in. Everybody seemed lighter tonight. Excited. The energy around the group felt effortless.
A little farther down the beach, Teddy already stood near one of the setup areas with a couple of his friends. His white button up hung open exposing the chain resting against his chest while the sleeves sat rolled up to his forearms.
Unfortunately for you he looked really good.
Almost like he felt your stare because Teddy looked up almost immediately, his eyes finding yours through the crowd. That dumb little smirk spread across his face
Your stomach fluttered.
Teddy said something quickly to his friend before making his way toward you.
The closer he got, the more your composure started slipping for absolutely no reason.
You tilted your head slightly to meet his gaze once he finally stopped in front of you.
"You look good," he said simply.
The sincerity in his voice made your stomach do something ridiculous.
"Thank you," you answered trying to sound way more casual than you felt.
Then your eyes drifted down briefly. Right toward the very open shirt displaying entirely too much of his chest.
"You don't look bad yourself."
Teddy's smirk widened. "Compliment not accepted."
"You didn't need it anyway."
"Oh my bad," he mocked. "I forgot my ego insane."
The memory hit both of you at the same time — the argument from the beginning of summer when you first accused him of being arrogant.
You shook your head smiling while Teddy looked at you knowingly from across the small space between you both. Then both of you started laughing almost at the exact same time.
When the laughter finally died down, you looked back at him. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything you tell me." The way he said it quieter this time while looking directly at you made your entire stomach flip violently.
Flutters.
Before you could even think of a response, your best friend suddenly shoved herself between the two of you holding shot cups in both hands.
"Okay enough, lovebirds," she announced loudly. "Time for a toast."
You laughed while Teddy shook his head beside her.
The rest of the group slowly gathered around holding their shots up while music blasted behind all of you.
Your best friend lifted hers high in the air. "Cheers to a good night!"
Everybody echoed her excitement.
Then she grinned wider.
"And here's to the nights we won't remember with the friends we'll never forget."
A chorus of cheers erupted around the group before everyone threw their shots back at the same time.
Your best friend instantly grabbed your wrist excitedly.
"Are you ready?" she beamed.
You laughed matching her energy. "So ready."
She squealed loudly before dragging you toward the crowd while music exploded through the speakers ahead.
Teddy POV
Teddy nodded along to whatever story his friend was telling beside him, but his focus kept slipping elsewhere.
Back to you.
Every time he looked up, somehow his eyes found you again through the crowd like second nature.
He was done fighting it.
The festival had only gotten more crowded since the sun fully disappeared. Music blasted through the speakers while lights flashed across the beach in streaks of color, people danced everywhere, and the warm night air carried the smell of food, alcohol, and the ocean all at once.
You moved through the crowd beside your best friend laughing so hard at something that your whole body folded into yourself for a second, and Teddy genuinely felt his chest cave in a little watching it.
He missed seeing you happy.
Actually happy.
His eyes followed you shamelessly while you danced with your friends near the stage, the lights from the festival catching against your skin every couple seconds.
You looked lighter tonight too. Like maybe the sadness sitting on both of you these last couple weeks had finally started easing.
Teddy leaned back against the table behind him nursing the same drink he'd been holding for the last thirty minutes while one of his friends talked beside him.
"I'm talking to myself at this point," his friend muttered.
Teddy barely reacted because you had just looked over at him again. Your eyes met his through the crowd and a low smile pulled at your lips.
His friend looked between the two of you, "That's actually embarrassing," he laughed beside him.
Teddy ignored him because right now all he could think about was how natural this felt. Like no matter how messy things got between the two of you somehow you always drifted back toward each other anyway.
Almost like neither of you really knew how not to.
A little while later the group pushed closer toward the stage once another artist came out performing. The energy around everybody shifted louder and more chaotic while people started singing along around them.
Teddy ended up beside you somewhere in the middle of all the movement.
Your shoulder bumped his lightly when somebody shoved past the crowd and Teddy instinctively reached a hand out steadying you against him.
"You good?" he asked leaning closer so you could hear him over the music.
You nodded looking up at him. "I'm good."
Teddy noticed the smile still sitting on your face afterward, and that dangerous hope started growing inside him again.
The music pounded through the crowd while everybody jumped and yelled around the two of you, but Teddy barely noticed any of it anymore.
Not when you were standing this close to him again. Not when your perfume kept mixing into the ocean air around him. Not when every time you laughed it felt like something inside him came back to life.
Teddy looked down at you again while the lights from the stage flashed across your face and he knew he wasn't done fighting for you.
-
The festival only got louder as the night went on.
Music pounded through the beach while lights flashed across the crowd in every direction. People danced shoulder to shoulder near the stage with drinks spilling and laughter mixing into the warm night air.
At some point Teddy stopped even pretending he wasn't attached to your side anymore.
Your shoulder brushed his every couple seconds while everybody danced around you. Sometimes he'd lean down close just so you could hear whatever joke he was making over the music and every single time you laugh it hit him right in the chest.
It was getting bad again, it actually never stopped being bad.
Teddy looked over at you while you sang loudly with your best friend near the stage completely off beat and smiling harder than he'd seen you smile in weeks.
There you go again.
Lighting up everything around you without even trying.
At one point your hand grabbed his wrist while laughing at something your best friend yelled before pulling him farther through the crowd. The contact barely lasted a few seconds and it nearly sent Teddy into cardiac arrest.
His friend looked over at him. "You smiling hard as hell."
Teddy shoved him lightly without looking away from you. "Shut up."
"No seriously," his friend laughed. "You look gone."
It was painfully true, because standing here with you tonight somehow felt like slipping right back into place again. Like the distance between the two of you these last couple weeks finally started disappearing.
Then the music suddenly lowered.
The crowd erupted loudly near the stage while the artist laughed into the microphone.
"Aye hold onnnn," he yelled hyping the crowd up. "Y'all alive tonight or what?"
Cheers exploded everywhere.
The bass vibrated through the sand underneath everybody's feet while lights flashed wildly across the beach.
"Nah I said is y'all alive tonight?!"
The crowd screamed even louder this time.
Teddy laughed shaking his head while you yelled beside him with your hands in the air.
Then the artist grinned into the mic again looking out across the crowd.
"Anybody got something they wanna say tonight?"
People instantly started yelling nonsense from every direction.
"PLAY THAT ONE SONG!"
"I LOVE YOUUU!"
"FREE MY COUSIN!"
The crowd burst into laughter.
Then suddenly somebody behind Teddy yelled loudly:
"TEDDY GOT SOMETHING TO SAY!"
Teddy's head snapped around. "Oh gosh," he muttered already knowing exactly which friend sold him out.
The people around your group started reacting.
"ОНННННН."
"WAIT A MINUTE."
"GET HIM UP THERE."
Teddy laughed awkwardly shaking his head. "Nah chill."
Then he looked at you, and you were already staring at him.
Your eyes wide.
Half amused.
Half nervous.
Like you were trying to figure out if he was actually crazy enough to do whatever your friends were currently trying to push him into.
Up until this exact moment Teddy didn't think he was either, but then you smiled at him. The same smile that had been ruining his entire life all summer.
Suddenly every feeling Teddy had been trying to keep under control these last few weeks hit him all at once. The late nights thinking about you. The silence after you left. The relief of seeing your sandals back by the door. You defending him that night. You admitting you missed him on the beach. The way being around you still felt like home.
His pulse started pounding hard in his ears.
One of his friends shoved his shoulder laughing.
"DO IT!"
Teddy looked back at the stage.
Then back at you, and something inside him finally snapped. Teddy handed his drink to his friend and started moving toward the stage while the people around your group lost their minds
-
Your entire body went still the second Teddy started walking toward the stage. At first you thought he was joking, that he'd get halfway there, laugh, and turn back around once everybody started yelling louder.
He didn't.
"Oh my God," you whispered staring after him.
Your best friend grabbed your arm it almost hurt. "OH MY GOD?" she screamed directly in your ear.
The people around your section completely lost their minds while Teddy kept moving through the crowd toward the side of the stage.
"Ayeeee," the artist laughed into the microphone pointing toward Teddy. "Hold on. My boy really got something to say?"
The crowd erupted.
Your stomach dropped somewhere near your feet.
No.
No way.
You stared at Teddy in complete disbelief while he rubbed a hand down his face already laughing nervously at the attention suddenly on him.
Your best friend turned toward you grabbing both of your shoulders violently. "BREATHE."
"I am breathing!"
"You look sick!"
"Because HE'S sick!" you whisper yelled back while motioning toward Teddy.
The crowd around you laughed loudly while Teddy finally climbed onto the side of the stage. The festival lights flashed across him every couple seconds while thousands of people screamed beneath him.
His eyes immediately find yours.
The artist handed Teddy the microphone while laughing. "Oh yeah he nervous."
The crowd started chanting.
"SPEECH."
"SPEECH."
"SPEECH."
Your hands flew over your face. "Oh my God..."
Your best friend was quite literally jumping beside you at this point. "I HAVE CHILLS."
You barely heard her, not when your entire focus stayed locked on Teddy standing underneath all those lights staring directly at you like nobody else in the crowd existed.
Your heart started pounding impossibly harder watching him grip the microphone while the crowd slowly settled down around him.
Teddy looked out at the crowd for a second before laughing nervously again, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck while everybody continued screaming at him.
"Nah cause now I'm sweating," he admitted making the crowd laugh.
Your hand stayed clamped over your mouth while your best friend gripped your arm so tightly you were pretty sure circulation was gone completely.
"Okay," he exhaled into the mic. "So boom... this girl right here-"
The crowd instantly erupted.
You squeezed your eyes shut. "Oh my GOD."
Your best friend screamed directly beside you. "I KNEW IT."
Teddy laughed shaking his head while the crowd slowly settled again.
"Nah let me talk," he grinned. "Cause y'all making me lose my train of thought."
His eyes found yours again. "This summer..." Teddy started slower this time. "Lowkey changed my life a little."
You softened.
"And honestly? I wasn't even expecting none of it."
The crowd had gone surprisingly quiet.
Teddy looked down briefly gathering his thoughts before laughing softly again. "She also think I'm arrogant by the way."
The crowd burst into laughter.
"Teddy!" you yelled while laughing through your embarrassment.
He pointed toward you. "You said it!"
"I did NOT say it like that!"
"Yes you did!" Teddy shook his head smiling before his expression softened again.
"But nah..." he continued quieter this time. "I know I messed up."
Teddy looked directly at you while speaking now like the rest of the crowd disappeared completely. "I know that I hurt her." You can hear the honesty in his voice. "And I know I still got work to do."
The entire crowd went completely silent again.
"But..." Teddy paused briefly shaking his head like he was trying to get the words out correctly. "I'm not done fighting for her either."
Your eyes started burning.
"Oh my God," your best friend whispered beside you already emotional.
Teddy laughed nervously again glancing around at the crowd. "Damn y'all making this way more serious than I planned."
The crowd laughed softly.
Then his eyes found yours again. "But she needa know something."
Your breathing stopped, Teddy stepped a little closer toward the edge of the stage, gripping the mic tighter. "She makes everything better."
Your knees were about to give out.
"She walk into a room and somehow everything feel lighter. Even when she was beefing with me..." Teddy laughed softly shaking his head. "I still wanted her around."
Your chest physically ached hearing him talk.
"And these last couple weeks without her?" Teddy exhaled laughing once under his breath. "Yeah nah. That was terrible for me."
The crowd laughed again but Teddy never looked away from you. "She came back though."
Your breath caught.
"And I don't think she understand how much that meant to me."
The festival lights flashed across him while the ocean crashed behind the stage and somehow the entire moment felt unreal.
Like time slowed down around you both.
Teddy smiled softly into the microphone. "So yeah..." he said. "I know we not fully there yet."
He understood your hurt, understood this wasn't magically fixed overnight.
"But I do know," Teddy continued, "that I love her."
The crowd LOST IT.
Screaming.
Yelling.
Your best friend quite literally folded beside you.
Meanwhile you just stood there staring at him like your brain stopped working.
Teddy shook his head laughing nervously through the noise before looking directly at you one last time.
"And I'm gonna spend however long it takes proving that."
People screamed so loudly your ears started ringing while somebody near the front of the stage yelled:
"KISS HER!"
"Oh my God," you laughed covering your face.
Your best friend beside you had completely lost her mind at this point. "I TOLD YOU," she screamed shaking your shoulders aggressively. "I TOLD YOU THAT WAS YOUR MAN."
You could barely even process what just happened.
Your heart was pounding so hard it felt ridiculous while Teddy stood on stage laughing nervously into the microphone like he couldn't believe he actually just did all that either.
The artist walked back over grabbing Teddy by the shoulder. "Nah my boy in LOVE."
The crowd got even louder somehow.
Teddy shook his head laughing while rubbing his hand over his face again, but even through all the chaos his eyes kept finding yours.
Only yours.
Eventually the music started back up again and the crowd slowly shifted their attention toward the stage once more, but the people around your group still looked entertained.
"You gotta marry him now," somebody joked loudly.
"Leave me alone!" you yelled back laughing through your embarrassment.
Your best friend still looked seconds away from tears. "That was the most romantic thing I ever seen in my life."
"You are so dramatic."
"No," she said completely serious this time. "That man love you so much"
Your stomach fluttered all over again hearing it out loud.
You knew, you'd known for a while now.
The second his feet hit the sand, his friends immediately crowded around him yelling and shoving him dramatically while he laughed through it.
Teddy started walking toward you while the crowd still screamed behind him.
You were already shaking your head before he even made it all the way over, a smile pulling at your lips. "You are such an idiot."
Teddy brushed his hands over his shoulders arrogantly like he was the man right now and it only made you laugh.
Then he ruined the act. "I actually blacked out up there," he admitted rubbing the back of his neck.
You laughed again shaking your head at him in disbelief. "You really got on stage in front of all these people."
Teddy shrugged trying way too hard to act casual about it. "I had something to say."
The noise around you slowly faded into background sound while Teddy stepped closer this time, gently taking both your hands into his.
"I meant every word." His voice dropped.
"And I'm so sorry for putting you through all that," he continued. "You didn't deserve it."
Your brows furrowed slightly hearing the sincerity in his voice.
Teddy squeezed your hands gently. "If I have to spend the rest of my days on this earth proving that to you, I will." His eyes stayed locked on yours completely unwavering. "You mean everything to me."
You opened your mouth wanting to say something back but emotion caught up to you first.
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Then another.
He lifted one hand gently cupping your face while wiping your tears away carefully with his thumb. You grabbed his wrist instinctively leaning into his touch.
"I love you, y/n."
Those words went straight to your heart.
Your lips trembled slightly before finally smiling through the tears. "I love you too Teddy."
The smile that spread across his face looked almost relieved. "Now can I please kiss you?" he asked immediately.
A laugh broke through your tears while you nodded against his hand. "Yes."
"Thank God."
Teddy barely even finished the sentence before leaning down closing the space between you both.
His arms wrapped tightly around your waist while yours slid around his neck. The force of the kiss actually lifted you off your feet making you laugh softly against his lips while Teddy pulled you even closer.
Every emotion from the last couple weeks poured into the kiss all at once.
The hurt.
The longing.
The missing each other.
The love still sitting underneath everything the entire time.
When the kiss finally broke, both of you stayed close with your foreheads pressed together while catching your breath.
You smiled first. "I guess I do have good news to tell my mom."
Teddy smirked. "Good news?"
You laughed softly shaking your head. "Long story."
He hummed knowingly before stealing another quick kiss from you and finally setting you back down.
For the rest of the night, you stayed wrapped up in Teddy's arms with your back pressed against his chest while music echoed across the beach and festival lights painted the sky around you.
The summer started with stolen glances, arguments, and feelings neither of you planned on catching.
And somehow it ended with your fingers intertwined beneath festival lights, Teddy's arms around you, and the realization that loving him had never really been the hard part.
THE END 🌺🌅
okay NOW can we all breathe again??? 😭😭😭 i know i put ya'll through it last chapter and my apology was weak so i had to come back and fix my mess 😭
i really wanted this ending to feel soft, earned, emotional, and very much them. no dramatic perfect fairytale fix... just two people who loved each other enough to work through the hard parts.
thank ya'll for reading, screaming, threatening me and stressing with me through this series 😭🫶🏾 i loved every second of it.
: ̗̀➛ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: cameron cade x best friend black!reader
: ̗̀➛ 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆: M 18+, NSFW
: ̗̀➛ 𝐖.𝐂: 2.03K
: ̗̀➛ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: best friends who finally do the do.
: ̗̀➛ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: ROUGHLY EDITED, explicit sexual content, porn with no/minor plot, unprotected sex, rough sex: manhandling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, slight breeding kink [he has you in a mating press], slight toxic!cameron, slight aftercare, abrupt ending [i didn’t know how to end it gang 😭]
: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: my official first tyriq[and characters project] I do have many more coming! I am trying to raise £200 to help with a short fall. I’ve had some shifts cancelled on me so I’m behind on bills! If any of you can donate I would appreciate it PayPal. 💕
Regardless, please reblog, comment and like 💕
“Damn baby, why didn’t you tell me you had all this good pussy?”
Cameron mumbled against your bare leg that were currently hiked over his broad shoulder, his voice dripping with admiration a lot sweeter than the way he was fucking you.
The question was rhetorical but emphasised just how much he was enjoying being inside of you.
Goosebumps broke all over the surface of your flushed and damp skin, choking on a whiny moan as your cunt tightly squeezed and pulsated around him. The throbbing sent a shiver down the length of his spine and settled in his bones. A flurry of chopped sobs poured from your mouth as your climax began to climb. You were so close. And he could feel it all.
You would have tried to answer his question but in truth - you didn’t know how to.
The two of you met during freshman in college - sharing the same physiotherapy classes and the two of you instantly clicked. When he first approached you - you couldn’t believe that he’d even talk to you. When you first arrived on campus, his name was uttered in every corner. He was the person to know because of his projected career. You had wanted to keep away from him - you didn’t like attention being drawn to you at all but Cameron just had to be enrolled on your course.
Even worse, he came to sit next to you.
You stilled at just making eye contact with him. Low sitting blue eyes, dimples deep as he smiled, rosy lips begging for attention and from his seated position alone you could tell that he was tall. He made sure that you couldn’t ignore him and you hated that fell for his charm, hook, line and sinker.
The attraction was shared and the chemistry intensified with each interaction but nothing ever came off it.
Football. Girlfriends. Endorsements. A great rookie career - all of it got in the way.
So friendship is what you settled for and you were grateful just to be a part of his journey.
Unfortunately for you, he was relentless. The friendship status did not matter to him at all and Cameron steadily flirted with you like the devil of temptation resided in his flesh. Always hanging around, giving you his undivided attention when you were close. Treating you just on the edges of a girlfriend, yet always teasing the word ‘friend’ in front of you. You always let it wash over you because being close to him in any capacity was worth it.
That attraction however, could not be denied and could not be hidden. And he’d picked up on it and he played with it - he played with you. He enjoyed teasing you. Kissing you on the neck, hands on your lower waist as he moved past you, hugs that lingered. Girlfriends be damned - you were the apple of his eye even if you denied what you were to him.
So that was how you found yourself in his penthouse - on a supposed regular night in with your best friend on his days off. So how you ended up in your current predicament was unbeknownst to you.
A movie, typical gossip, a game of tease.
From there all it took was a kiss.
A soft brush of your lips when he leaned down above you, whispering teasingly against your lips, fingers underneath your chin before gripping your jaw so that you couldn’t shift your eye contact away from him. So that he could see all of that want dripping out of your eyes.
“Do it.” You dared him.
And it was no surprise that he listened.
You had been so determined not to fall into his orbit and now you were on your back, sweating out your hairstyle, tank top ripped and panties pulled to the side as he manhandled you in every way. Your pussy stretched out and creaming around the thickest dick you’ve ever had in your life as you moaned in bliss. Fuck, you loved every second of it.
Cameron’s thrusts were deliciously brutal, his hips snapped into yours as your legs hang over his shoulders. He fucked you like you were a bitch in heat and you sounded just like one. Your mouth dropped open as your cries and whines could not be contained, sounding real pretty for him.
He breathed heavily through his nose at the sight your cream coating the length of his dick. Cam wedged his hands underneath the arch at the base of your back and gripped tight. He used your body as leverage to fuck into you even deeper.
The heat of the bedroom was making you delirious as much as the way his fat mushroom tip was pushing against your softest spots. You were so loud and Cameron drank all of your sounds by shushing you with rough kisses.
The wet clapping emitting from where your bodies connected was getting so loud, Cameron had to look down. His loud moan barely registered through the fog clouding your senses.
“You’re sooo fucking wet baby. Gushing all that good shit all over me, fuuuccckkk.”
You were looking up at him, doe eyed, a soft crease pinching in-between your eyebrows with your teeth biting onto your bottom lip as you tried to control it. He was hitting all of your good spots and it was so intense, it sat like a weight on your chest.
Then, Cameron pushed your legs back so that your knees were touching your ears and he moved to hover directly above you. He used his upper body to contort you into the perfect position for him - ready for his taking and you were in awe with how it left you feeling. The weight of pleasure sinking into your bones, deeper and deeper.
“O-oooh!” You gasped as you pulled on the sheets underneath your fingertips.
His beautiful, blue eyes never left your face as he watched your pretty face surrender into the pleasure he was delivering. Your eyebrows drew together tighter, as if you were about to cry, your lips forming into an ‘o’ form as he slowed down his strokes, letting you enjoy the feel of him. Inch by inch.
Soft curves and hard muscles colliding into each other. Naked,skin on skin - still, felt like there was a barrier between the two of you. The thought slamming into you, nothing will ever be enough, you will always want more. Cameron groaned as he felt the pain of your nails breaking into the skin of his back as you unintentionally brought him closer.
You were begging for him without words and that caused him to smirk in satisfaction. Cameron couldn’t believe you had been keeping this type of connection away from him. The type of connection that quenched your thirst but left you famished for more.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the feel of your trembling fingers tracing his bottom lip, tugging it free from his teeth. He placed a tender kiss on the inside pad of your thumb before his eyes drew back to where your bodies connected. The sight of it caused all of his blood to soar down to his aching dick.
Slathered all over his base was milky white. It built up generously and it accumulated so much the flapping wetness caused his eyes to roll to the back of his head. He couldn’t believe you’d ever get this wet.
“Yeahhh mamas, I can’t believe she’s this wet for me …”
Cameron doesn’t take his eyes off your cunt as he slammed back in, the wetness drawing a delicious drag with drag. He threw his head back as a deep groan left him. The sound was so primal it sent nasty shivers down your spine and settled in your pelvis.
But you didn’t move your hand away from his pelvis as he was folding you even deeper. In fact, Cameron, lowered his upper body until he was completely folded over yours. His pelvis ground against your clit, his trimmed hair brushing your clit - hard.
Cameron was wild in his lust.
He sucked bruising kisses into your neck, his tongue trailed hotly up to your mouth to claim it in a deep kiss. It was all consuming, overwhelming. His long tongue flattened against yours in maddening swipes, sucking the muscle sloppily into his own mouth which made you lightheaded.
Blood rushed to your ears as he ground his hips up again, hammering away at that spot inside you but not enough to make you cross eyed and your hand pressed on his abdomen.
Cameron kept his eyes on as you gasped desperately. Your eyes closed as he nipped at your bottom lip which caused you to sigh softly. His tongue darted out and soothed the sting of your bite before whispering inside your mouth- eyes glazed, “Move that hand, baby.”
You didn’t move your hand but he did it for you. He grabbed your wrist and trapped it above your head as he drilled into you. Your mind was mush the more he thrusted into you so you didn’t even try to think straight. Cameron was so caught up in the moment - not just from the heat of your pussy but how tight and how creamy you were.
Letting out a string of swears, Cameron captured them by bringing your mouth into another overwhelming kiss. His cock aching whilst he swallowed your wails as you twitched and ached around him.
Until you couldn’t take it anymore. Cam gave another harsh yet hard roll of his hips into your swollen opening while he was battering at that tender spot inside of you and then … you were coming.
And fuck! You were coming, hard. Your nails clawed at Cam’s rigged muscles as a swarm of stars completely eclipsed your vision whilst your body went into shock with wave after wave of vicious pleasure.
Your wails were so loud, you struggled to recognise your voice. But Cameron had a clear view to the ecstasy flooding your face he pumped his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into your body. Filthy words of praise and encouragement directly in your ear, prolonging your orgasm.
“That’s it, babygirl … I love the way you’re cumming all over me…”
Tears spilled from your eyes and you were close to passing out when Cam dropped his head into your chest and took one of your swollen nipples into his mouth, his thrusts slowing down in tempo as he shot his cum deep inside of your heat with a muffled groan.
He filled you up to the brim and then popped out your nipple out of his mouth with a satisfied sigh.
The both of you were riddled with tiredness, thighs were killing you, and your body was trembling like a leaf but a grin had etched onto your lips regardless as Cameron placed calming kisses everywhere his lips could touch.
He slowly pulled out, warm yet concerned eyes checking over you for any sign of discomfort as you basked in the glow of the aftermath. Your eyes closed as you sank into the softness of the blankets beneath you. You left his kisses on your cheeks in the tender way that you’d grown accustomed to.
“You okay sweet girl? I didn’t hurt you did I?”
“No, baby. I’m good.” You shook your head as you hummed in satisfaction. You felt him shift away from the bed, leaving you in your peaceful lonesome until you felt him wipe you down gently with a wet towel. You heard a thud as he tossed to rag onto on the floor when he was done.
You felt the bed dip beside you before Cameron slipped up behind you. Your hands reached behind you and brought him closer with a soft hum. You had crossed that line in your friendship and you couldn’t process what it meant for the future for the both of you. But you’d bask in whatever this moment meant for you.
Cameron nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “We’ll never just be friends after this.” He mumbled.
He was right about that. Nothing would ever be the same.
After crashing out for a few days about loosing the original draft of this story and all my ideas, I finally rewrote this 😩! I somehow got inspired to write this whilst rewatching the second part of waves, just the idea of innocent love (ugh i need that) and I lowk freeballed the ending cs I deadass couldn’t remember how I originally wanted to end this imagine 🥲 anywayss get comfy and grab a snack cs this is lowk long asf and I hope y’all enjoy this! Mwah x
Coffee & stadium lights
Cameron Cade x F!reader
Starting college was supposed to be simple, until one random seat in class puts you next to Cameron Cade, the quiet star quarterback everyone seems obsessed with. Starts off with coffee after class and small conversations that slowly turns into late night calls, stadium lights, and feelings neither of them expected. But somewhere between football games, crowded bleachers, and Cameron’s calm smile, college starts feeling a lot more like home.
The campus didn’t just feel big, It felt like it was swallowing you whole. Every path stretched too far, every building looked unfamiliar no matter how many times you passed it, and everyone around you seemed… settled. Like they belonged here already. But you felt like you didn’t, at least not yet.
You adjusted your grip on your notebook, fingers pressing into the edge a little tighter than needed as you stood outside your next class. You could hear voices through the door, the easy laughter, casual conversations, people who clearly weren’t overthinking whether they were about to walk into the wrong room.
After a while you exhaled slowly through your nose.. “Just go in, can't be that bad..” You thought. Still, your shoulders stayed slightly tense as you pushed the door open as the noise hit you first.. Then the warmth.. Then the feeling of walking into something already in motion. People barely glanced up as conversations continued, chairs scraping lightly against the floor as someone laughed a little too loudly in the back.
You paused just inside the doorway, your eyes moved across the room, scanning.. Seat, seat, seat... Taken, taken, taken... You shifted your weight, your grip tightening slightly on your notebook again. Of course you’re late. Then you look over to the back and find one empty seat, relief flickered in your chest until you saw who it was next to..
Cameron Cade.
You stilled.. You didn’t know him, but his name had been said enough times around you that it felt like you did. Mostly by Jayda, your bubbly roommate, who had a habit of talking about people like she was narrating a reality show. “Cameron? Oh my god, don’t even get me started on him girl, he’s Star quarterback, watches everything, Mysterious, doesnt talk much, but when he does? Yeah… people listen” she had said one night, brushing out her hair in the mirror before flopping dramatically onto her bed.
You had rolled your eyes then but now standing here? You kind of understood.. He wasn’t doing anything, and that was the thing. No loud conversations, no trying to get attention, just sitting there slightly leaned over his notebook, pen moving steadily across the page… Calm, focused, like the room existed but didn’t demand anything from him.
You hesitated, long enough for doubt to creep in.. “You could find another seat…” you thought, but there wasn’t one. So you walked over, each step felt a little too noticeable, even though no one was paying attention, and sat down carefully. Placing your notebook on the desk and slid your bag down by your feet.. Your movements were quiet, intentional, as if you were careful enough you wouldn’t disrupt anything. For a moment… nothing happened. He didn’t look up nor react… Your shoulders loosened just a fraction, maybe he hadn’t even noticed.. Then his pen stopped, not abruptly, just… paused.
His head slowly tilted slightly… His gaze shifted, from the corner of his eye at first, then a little more… Until you felt it… That quiet, steady attention.. You kept your eyes on your notebook, pretending to straighten the edge of the page, but your awareness sharpened. You could feel the space between you, his presence beside you.. Then you looked up and met his eyes.. It wasn’t a quick glance… He was already looking at you, Fully. Not intense in a way that made you want to look away, but not casual either, almost intently… Like he was actually seeing you.
Your breath caught slightly, for a second, neither of you spoke. Then Cameron’s expression softened, just a little, giving you a small polite smile. His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he didn’t talk just to fill space. “Hope you’re enjoying college so far.”
It caught you off guard more than it should have as you blinked, your thoughts scrambling to catch up as your voice came out softer than you intended, slightly clearing your throat. “Oh, thank you… I’m still getting used to everything.”
He nodded slowly, like he understood exactly what you meant, even the parts you didn’t say. “Yeah, It’s a lot at first.”
Something about the way he said it made your shoulders drop just a little, like you didn’t have to pretend you had it all together. “I got lost this morning.. Twice.”
A faint shift in Cameron’s expression, almost a smile. “Only twice?”
You let out a small breath of a laugh. “That’s not as impressive as you’re making it sound.”
“It kind of is.. First week, I walked into the wrong class and stayed there for half the lecture before I realized.” he admitted casually.
You blinked. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you leave?” you say slightly amused with confusion.
He shrugged slightly, one shoulder lifting. “I thought maybe I was the one who was wrong.”
That made you laugh properly this time, soft, but real. “Okay, maybe that’s worse.”
“Yeah.” he agreed quietly.
The moment lingered… Not awkward. Just still… Then Cameron spoke again. “I’ve seen you around.”
You tilted your head slightly, surprised. “You have..?”
He nodded, leaning back just a little in his chair, his arm resting loosely against the desk. “Yeah.. Past couple weeks.”
Your brows pulled together faintly. “Really?”
“Yeah.. Your usually with Jayda, right?”
Your lips parted slightly. “You noticed that?”
His mouth tilted just barely at the corner. “She’s hard to miss.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s true.”
“She talks a lot.. Very loud.” he added
That earned you a small, shared smile as you then asked “You know her?”
“Yeah, we grew up together.” Cameron nods softly.
That caught you off guard. “Oh… she didn’t mention that.”
“She probably meant to… Just got distracted.” he softly chuckled.
“That sounds like her…” you murmured.
You both then paused, softer this time, then You felt it again.. That look… You turned your head slightly and there it was, his gaze, back on you, more direct and focused now. Your brows knit together faintly, a small, self conscious smile tugging at your lips and you softly ask. “What..?”
For a second Cameron didn’t answer, like he was deciding whether to say it before speaking up. “Your eyes… they got a little green in them.” He then glanced briefly toward the window, sunlight filtering through at an angle, then back to you.“They change.”
You frowned slightly. “Change?”
Cameron softly explained, his voice still low, steady. “They look brown, but when the light hits them… They turn to a pretty shade of green.”
The words sat between you, soft and unexpected. You felt heat creep up your neck as you looked away, your fingers brushing lightly over the edge of your notebook with a weak chuckle. “Oh.. It’s just the lighting, they’re nothing special.”
There was a pause, long enough for you to feel it as Cameron then replied “I didn’t say they were nothing.”
Your breath caught slightly, you didn’t know what to say to that… So you didn’t say anything, and somehow… he didn’t push you to.
The class started, but everything felt different, not louder, not more distracting, just more aware. You noticed the small things now. The way Cameron’s arm shifted when he wrote, the way his shoulder brushed yours once, light and accidental, but neither of you moved away immediately. The way he leaned slightly toward you when he made a quiet comment under his breath, at one point, the professor said something confusing, and before you could stop yourself, you whispered “What does that even mean…”
Beside you, almost at the same time, “I have no idea.”
You turned to him, Cameron was already looking at you. And that small shared confusion turned into a quiet smile. It felt easy… Like you weren’t trying, like you didn’t have to… A little later, you noticed him shift again. A folded piece of paper slid across your desk, your eyes dropped to it immediately… Then lifted to him… Cameron didn’t look at you, just gave a small nod toward it.
Your fingers hovered over the paper as you could feel your heart picking up slightly… You didn’t open it, not yet at least. You weren’t sure why, maybe because opening it made it real, so instead… you left it there. Aware of it… Thinking about it… Every few minutes, your eyes flickered down to it, then away again.
By the time class ended your thoughts were louder than the room, so you decided to pick it up slowly… Carefully unfolding it. Your breath caught just slightly as you read the note.
Coffee sometime? Ain’t a joke.
—Cameron
Your eyes lingered on the words… ‘Ain’t a joke.’ Like he knew, as if he already understood what you’d think. You folded the note again, slower this time and slipped it into your notebook. However when you stood up, you didn’t look at him… Not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure what he’d see if you did.
You didn’t text him after leaving the classroom… Even after walking halfway across campus… Even after pulling the folded note out of your notebook more than once, just to read the same three lines over again.
Coffee sometime? Ain’t a joke.
—Cameron
Your thumb hovered over your phone screen as you walked, Cameron’s number already typed in… All you had to do was press call… Or even just send a simple hey… But something in you hesitated, It didn’t feel real. Not in a bad way, just in a way your brain kept trying to make sense of. A guy like Cameron? Someone everyone noticed, someone who had girls practically lining up for his attention, Why would he ask you?
Your steps slowed as you reached the sidewalk leading off campus, the late afternoon sun warming your skin. ‘Maybe Jayda’s right…’ you thought, but then another thought slipped in ‘Or maybe this is exactly the kind of thing she would hype up.’
You exhaled, locking your phone and slipping it back into your bag as you mutter to yourself under your breath. “I’ll think about it later…” But even as you said it, you knew you were avoiding it.
By the time you reached your shared dorm house, where you lived with Jayda, the familiar sound of her music playing faintly from inside met you at the door. You pushed it open, stepping into the shared living space.
“Hellooo!?” Jayda’s voice called out from somewhere inside.
“In here!” you replied, slipping your shoes off.
A second later, she appeared around the corner, bright and energetic, like she hadn’t had a single tired thought all day. Jayda then grinned whilst walking toward you. “There you are! How was class? Did you survive?”
You let out a small breath of a laugh. “Barely.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “That bad?”
“No… just a lot.” you shook your head.
“Mhm..” Jayda hummed, clearly not fully convinced. Her gaze lingered on you for a second longer than usual before asking “…So why do you look like you’re thinking about something?”
You froze for half a second but then reply a bit too quickly “I’m not.”
Jayda raised a brow at you before slowly crossed her arms. “Uh.. Okay, try that again.”
You sighed softly, already knowing she wasn’t going to let it go as you muttered softly, pulling your bag off your shoulder and setting it down. “It’s nothing..”
“Nothing?” she repeated. “You’re acting like you just got proposed to and said no.”
You let out a small, incredulous laugh. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
You hesitated for a moment, then reached into your bag and pulled out the folded note. You didn’t say anything, just handed it to her.
Jayda took it, still watching your face as she unfolded it. The second her eyes scanned the words her entire expression changed. “…Oh my god.”
You winced slightly. “Don’t-”
“Cameron?” she cut in, looking up at you. “As in Cameron Cade??”
“Yeah..” you said, a little more quietly.
“And you’re just standing here?… Like this is normal?” she gestured vaguely between you and the note.
“I didn’t say it was normal-” you muttered.
“Did you text him?”
You hesitated. “…No.”
Jayda stared at you, fully unblinking. “You’re joking.”
“I thought it was a joke, isn’t that the whole point..?” you said as your voice tightening slightly.
“He literally wrote ‘ain’t a joke’.” she said, holding the note up.
“I know what he wrote,” you replied a little defensively than you meant to.
“Then why wouldn’t you-”
You slight shook you head as you cut in, your brows pulling together. “Because it doesn’t make sense! Why would he ask me? Out of all people?”
Jayda’s expression shifted. Not annoyed or judgmental… Just serious. “Why wouldn’t he?” she asked.
You opened your mouth but then closed it again before admitting quietly. “I don’t know, It just feels like one of those things where I’m missing something.” You slightly look away.
“You’re not..” she said firmly.
You shook your head slightly. “Jayda, he’s Cameron. You’ve seen how girls act around him.”
“And he ignores most of them” she shot back immediately with a soft chuckle.
You frowned. “You don’t know that.”
“Uh actually I do, Because I’ve known him since we were kids.” Jayda playfully sassed before softening her tone just a little. “He’s not like that.. He doesn’t waste time on people he’s not actually interested in.”
You crossed your arms loosely, leaning back against the counter. “That doesn’t mean anything…”
Then Jayda stepped a little closer, her voice quieter now. “Well It does when it’s him… Did he talk to you in class?”
You hesitated before nodding. “…Yeah.”
“And?”
You shrugged, trying to play it off. “It was normal.”
“Normal how?”
“We just talked… About classes, About you… Nothing crazy.”
“Did it feel forced?” Jayda asked, softly tilting her head.
“No.”
“Awkward?”
“…No.” You shook your head slightly.
“So… Did you want to keep talking to him?” Jayda asks with a slight smile.
You hesitated longer this time as you fiddled with the rings on your fingers. “…Yeah.”
Jayda’s brows lifted slightly, like she already knew that answer as she asked you gently with a smile. “Then what are you doing?”
You exhaled, running a hand lightly over your arm.“I don’t know, I just… don’t want to look stupid if it turns out I read it wrong.”
“You’re not reading it wrong.” Jayda softly chuckled.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” she insisted.
You let out a small breath, some of your patience thinning, not because she was wrong, but because she was so sure. “You can’t just decide that for me… It’s easy for you to say because you’re used to this kind of thing.”
Jayda looked at you slightly confused. “What kind of thing?”
“People liking you… Talking to you, being obvious about it, That’s normal for you… It’s not for me.” Your voice quieter but still edged.
The words hung there for a second, neither of you spoke. Then Jayda’s expression softened. “Okay, i guess that’s fair… I’m not saying you’re wrong for being careful you know, I just don’t want you to talk yourself out of something before it even starts.”
You didn’t respond right away because part of you knew she had a point… But another part of you still held back. “I don’t know, just need to think about it.” you said after a moment.
Jayda nodded slowly as she handed the note back to you. “Okay... But don’t take too long, he’s not exactly the type to wait forever.” She tries to joke lightly.
You gave her a small look. “You’re not helping.”
She grinned. “I’m trying.”
A little while later you made your way upstairs, your room felt quieter… Safer. You set your bag down on your desk and pulled out your laptop, your notebook… then the folded note slipping out along with it.
You paused, staring at it… Then picked it up again, slowly unfolding it as you read the same words for what felt like the tenth time. ‘Ain’t a joke.’ Your fingers traced lightly over the ink before you folded it again and set it beside your laptop. “Okay… Focus” you murmured to yourself, opening your laptop to begin your work.
You tried concentrating on your homework, you really did… But your mind kept drifting back to the way Cameron looked at you. The way he noticed your eyes, the way he said things like he meant them. You sighed, leaning back slightly in your chair, pressing your lips together before muttering to yourself “This is ridiculous..”
About twenty minutes later your phone rang beside you. You froze. Then slowly, you reached for it.
Unknown number.
Your heart started beating just a little faster as you stared at the screen for a second too long before answering. “…Hello?”
There was a brief pause before a voice spoke. “Hey.”
Your breath caught instantly, you knew that voice.
“It’s Cameron.” They spoke after a beat.
And just like that everything you had been overthinking suddenly felt very, very real. Your grip on your phone tightened just slightly. “Oh, hey..” you said, and even to your own ears your voice sounded softer than usual as if you weren’t sure how steady it would be if you spoke any louder.
There was a small pause on the other end. It wasn’t awkward, just measured. Like Cameron was making sure you actually answered.
“You good?” Cameron asked, his tone low and a little careful now.
“Yeah.. Yeah, I’m good… you?” You sounded a bit too nervous as you mentally curse at yourself.
“ yeah I’m alright… I wasn’t sure if you were gonna pick up.” he admitted.
You swallowed lightly, shifting in your chair, your gaze dropping to the folded note still sitting beside your laptop. “I almost didn’t…” you said with a weak chuckle, the honesty slipping out before you could filter it.
Silence. Not heavy, but noticeable. Then Cameron spoke up. “…Why not?” The question wasn’t defensive, or as if he was annoyed… Just genuine.
You hesitated, your fingers tracing the edge of your desk. “I don’t know, I just… didn’t think you’d actually want me to call.”
A soft exhale came through the phone, almost like a quiet huff of amusement. “I wrote my number down, figured that was clear.”
“I-It was, I just…” You stopped yourself, pressing your lips together. ‘Say it or don’t.’ You thought before sighing softly, finishing off your sentence “…I thought it might’ve been a joke.”
The call went quiet, slightly longer this time. But when Cameron spoke again, his voice was softer.“You really thought that?”
You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling for a second before answering. “…Yeah.”
“Why?” The way he asked it wasn’t pushy, just steady… Like he actually wanted to understand.
You let out a quiet breath. “Because you don’t really know me and… I don’t know you. People don’t just…” you trailed off, searching for the right words. “Sorry, It just didn’t make sense to me.”
There was a faint shift on the other end, like Cameron adjusted his position. “I’ve seen you.” he said.
Your brows pulled together slightly. “…You said that in class.”
“I meant it… I just didn’t say anything before.” Cameron replied softly.
“Why not?”
There was a small pause before he spoke up again “Didn’t think you’d want me to.”
That caught you off guard. “…Why would you think that?”
“You don’t really look at people… Not for long at least.” he said simply.
Your breath stilled for a second before asking quietly “You notice that?”
“Yeah.” There was no hesitation in his answer.
Something about that made your chest feel tight… Not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. “I wasn’t ignoring you, I just… keep to myself.”
“I figured… That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you.” Cameron admits softly.
You frowned slightly. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me.”
You let out a small breath of a laugh, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. “You’re not making this any easier.”
“I’m not trying to, just being honest.” Cameron replied as you could hear the faint hint of a smile in his voice now.
That made something in you soften… Just a little. Another quiet pause settled between you, but this one felt different… Less uncertain, More steady. You then spoke up after a moment, your fingers lightly tapping against your desk. “So… how did you get my number?”
“I uh, looked up your housing dorm for your contact” He admitted
You blinked, surprised by how easily he admitted it.“You’re not even gonna pretend that’s not a little weird?”
“I could, but that’d be a lie.”
You couldn’t help it as you laughed. A quiet, surprised laugh that slipped out before you could stop it. “That’s… actually kind of insane.”
“Yeah, but then I realised you lived with jayda so I just asked her.. can’t blame me, you didn’t text me.” Cameron casually admitted.
There it was again. Simple and direct, not accusing, Just true. You shook your head slightly, smiling to yourself now. “I was thinking about it texting you…”
“For how long?”
“…Too long.” You softly admit.
He huffed a soft breath. “That sounds about right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly even though he couldn’t see you.
“It means, you seem like someone who overthinks.” his tone sounded calm.
You froze for half a second. “…I don’t overthink.”
“You didn’t text me for hours.” He reminded you slightly amused.
You tried to defend yourself “That doesn’t mean-”
“You thought it was a joke.”
You opened your mouth but then didn’t bother lying to him so you muttered honestly. “…Okay, maybe a little.”
There was no judgment in it, If anything it sounded like he understood. Your shoulders relaxed slightly into your chair. “So what made you call?” you asked.
“I wanted to hear you say no.”
Your brows shot up. “What?”
“Or yes… Either one.” Cameron added.
You blinked, caught off guard again. “You couldn’t just wait?”
“I could’ve, but I didn’t want to.” He said casually.
Something about that, the simplicity of it, the certainty. It made your chest feel warm in a way you didn’t expect. “You’re pretty straightforward,” you said, trying to joke a little to mask the nervousness you felt.
“I try to be.”
“That’s… new.” you admitted.
“How so?”
You hesitated, then said honestly, “Most people don’t say what they actually mean.”
A small pause before Cameron spoke up “I do, it saves time.”
You smiled faintly at that as your gaze drifting back to the note on your desk, your fingers reached for it again, unfolding it slowly ‘Coffee sometime?’ Your heart beat just a little faster. “…So you’re serious about this?” you asked quietly.
“Yeah.” No hesitation… No second guessing… Just that one word.
You swallowed smiled to yourself before agreeing,“…Okay.”
There was a shift on the other end, subtle, but there. “Okay?” he repeated.
“Yeah, Coffee sounds nice.” you said, a smile forming now.
A quiet exhale, almost like relief came through the phone. “Alright... so tomorrow?” he asked.
“After my last class, maybe around four?” You nodded instinctively before realizing he couldn’t see you.
“Three works.”
Silence settled in the call but this one felt lighter as you spoke up “So, are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Persistent.”
A faint hint of amusement slipped into Cameron’s voice. “Only when I think something’s worth it.”
Your breath caught just slightly. “…And this is worth it?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“Yeah.”
Your fingers tightened just a little around the edge of the note, you didn’t respond right away as if you didn’t trust your own voice to come out steady if you did. “Alright, Uhm… I’ll see you tomorrow, Cameron.”
“Yeah, uh, take care.” he replied.
But the call didn’t end just there, like neither of you were in a rush to hang up. Then Cameron spoke one last time. “I’m glad you picked up.”
Your lips curved slightly at his confession before replying softly. “…Me too.”
When the call finally ended, you sat in your chair for a moment longer than necessary, your phone still in your hand, note still open on your desk, but your heart… not as unsure as it was before the call.
———
The next day approached quicker than you expected, classes flying by as you already finished your last class. The café came into view a little after four as you slowed your steps slightly when you reached the door. Not because you were second guessing yourself exactly, but because there was always that small moment before stepping into something new where your mind caught up to your body.
You exhaled once, quiet, then pushed the door open. The bell above it chimed softly. Warm air, coffee, faint sweetness, it all hit you at once. The café wasn’t crowded, just comfortably busy. Low conversations, the soft sound of cups being placed down, someone laughing quietly near the counter.
Your eyes moved slowly through the space, then you saw him. Cameron was already here. Sitting in a booth near the window, one arm resting along the back of the seat, the other holding his phone loosely. Relaxed posture, but not distracted. Like he was waiting without making it obvious he was waiting.
For a second you just paused, then his head lifted. Cameron’s eyes found you immediately. No searching… No hesitation… Just straight to you. He set his phone down and straightened slightly. “Hey… You made it.”
You walked over, your steps steady even if your mind was a little more aware than usual. “I said I would,” you replied with a soft smile, sliding into the seat across from him.
There was a short pause after that, not awkward, just new. You placed your bag beside you, then rested your hands lightly on the table before pulling one back into your lap as you asked cameron “You been here long?”
“Not really, only for a few minutes.”
You glanced at the empty cup on the table. “You didn’t order yet?”
“I wanted to wait.” he replied.
“Why did you?” you asked, slightly curious.
“For you.” Cameron admitted softly.
You blinked once, then smiled softly. “Really..?thanks.”
He gave a faint shrug like it wasn’t a big deal. “Besides, I didn’t know what you wanted.”
“You could’ve guessed.” you joke lightly.
“That’s dangerous.” he replied with a soft smile.
That made you huff a small laugh before you could stop it. “I guess it is...”
Standing in line together felt slightly different from sitting across from each other, not uncomfortable, just more aware of proximity. The small shifts of space, the quiet rhythm of the café around you. You glanced at the menu. “I think I’ll get an iced latte.”
“Me too.” Cameron agreed without hesitation.
You looked at him in slight amusement. “You didn’t even check.”
“I’ve had it before.” he said.
“So, you’re predictable.” You joke.
“I’m consistent.” he corrected.
“That sounds nicer.”
“It is nicer.” He kept up with your banter.
you smiled faintly at that. “You always this serious about coffee?” you asked.
“Nah, I just don’t like wasting money on bad decisions.” Cameron admits as he placed his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.
“Hm, sounds like you’ve been personally betrayed by coffee before.”
He glanced at you. “Multiple times.”
That earned a quiet laugh from you again.“Okay, valid.” When you went to pay, Cameron was already tapping his card as you paused.“You didn’t have to do that…”
“It’s coffee.” Cameron replied with a slight shrug.
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?” he asked.
You hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “I don’t know. It just feels like I should argue with you about it.”
That made him pause for a second before smiling at you. “You’re welcome to try.”
You let out a soft breath of amusement. “Not worth the battle.”
“Smart choice.” Cameron nods.
Back at the booth, the drinks sat in front of you. For a moment, you just settled in. You took a sip of your ice latte first, then set it down before making small talk. “So, do you always show up early like this?”
Cameron nods “Usually, I don’t like rushing.”
“Fair enough… Or do you just like sitting in cafés judging people’s drink choices before they arrive.” You joked slightly.
His eyes flicked up to you after taking a sip of his iced coffee “…That too.”
You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
He leaned back slightly. “You’d be surprised how many people order the same three things.”
“That’s because they work” you softly chuckled.
“That’s what they all say.” Cameron shrugged slightly.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “And what does my order say about me?”
He studied you for a second before replying “…That you’re careful.”
You tilted your head. “Careful how?”
“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just like… you think before you decide, you know.”
You thought about it before nodding slightly. “You’re not wrong...”
He took a sip of his drink. “I’m observant, It’s what I do.”
“That sounds like something a detective would say.” You tease gently.
“I think I’d be good at that.” he said completely serious.
That made you laugh a little more openly this time.“you know what, I believe that.”
The conversation eased after that as you started with classes. “Which one do you hate the most so far?” you asked.
“Depends on the day.” he said.
“That sounds like avoidance.”
“It’s accuracy.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” You raised a brow slightly.
He gave you a look. “You argue a lot for someone who said they were ‘careful.’”
You paused before smiling slightly. “That was about decisions, not opinions.”
“That’s a loophole.”
You tried defending yourself. “It’s a distinction.”
“Still a loophole.”
You leaned back slightly. “You always this annoying or am I special?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Cameron subtly teases with a soft smile.
That made you laugh softly again. “I feel honored.”
“You should.”
The conversation kept going like that, Small back and forths layered into the conversation more naturally now. At one point you mentioned one of your professors. “I swear he just enjoys hearing himself talk,” you said.
Cameron nodded once. “That’s most professors.”
“That’s depressing.”
“That’s reality.”
You looked at him. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m being honest.” Cameron chuckled.
“Stop that.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and eventually, the conversation shifted slightly. Not heavier, just more personal. “What were you doing before school?” he asked.
You rested your elbow lightly on the table. “Sports.” you nodded slightly.
His expression changed just slightly. “Realy?”
You nodded. “Used to play competitively but uhm… i had to stop after a knee injury.”
Cameron didn’t interrupt as he listened. “Dang, that must’ve suck…”
You softly nodded and admitted. “Yeah, especially when you realize how much free time you suddenly have.”
That got a faint exhale from him. “Too much free time is worse than none.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“I do.”
That made you smile slightly as there was a pause after that but it wasn’t heavy, just more like settling. Then cameron asked “You miss it?”
“Sometimes, yeah… Mostly the adrenaline of it, not the pressure.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that.”
“You do?” you asked.
“Football’s basically everything right now, If that stopped, I’d be lost for a bit.” Cameron admits.
You looked at him. “But you’d figure it out.”
Cameron met your gaze. “…Yeah, eventually.”
The conversation drifted again. Music came up, then campus life, then random preferences that somehow turned into opinions you both didn’t realize you had until you were defending them. At one point, you said, “If you tell me you actually like early morning classes, I’m leaving.”
He shook his head immediately. “I don’t.”
“Good answer.” You chuckle gently.
“I value survival.”
“Okay, that’s dramatic.” You playfully side eye him.
“Nah, I’m just being honest.”
You smiled. “You say that a lot.”
“It’s important.”
By the time you both finished your drinks, the café had started to quiet slightly, light softening through the window as you stood together outside. The air felt cooler than inside, but not uncomfortable, just real. For a moment neither of you moved, then Cameron glanced at you. “You heading back?”
“Yeah… Got a few things to do.” You nod.
“Want me to walk you back?” Cameron asked softly as he sipped on his coffee.
This time it didn’t feel like a question you had to weigh, just something that made sense as you smiled at Cameron. “That would be nice.”
You started walking side by side. The campus stretched out ahead of you, voices and movement slowly returning around you. After a moment you spoke up. “You know, I think you lied earlier.”
He glanced at you. “About what?”
“You’re not just observant… You’re kind of opinionated too.” You said.
He thought about that for a second. “…Maybe I am.”
That made you smile. “See? Progress.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I already am.” You smiled at Cameron.
Cameron gave you a look but there was something softer in it now. Something that made the space between you feel easier than it had any right to be this soon. And for once, you didn’t feel like you needed to figure it out.
It had just become the natural rhythm between you now, no hesitation, no awkward adjustment, just the two of you moving through campus as the late afternoon light softened everything it touched. The air felt a little cooler than earlier, and the campus was slowly shifting into that in between hour where people were either heading out or settling in for the evening.
It should’ve felt busy but somehow, with Cameron, it didn’t. Cameron then glanced ahead as you walked, hands relaxed at his sides, his pace matching yours without effort. “You free Wednesday?” Cameron asked quietly.
You looked over at him slightly. “Wednesday?”
“Game day… It’s a home game.”
That got you thinking for a second before it clicked into place properly as you nodded. “Oh, that Wednesday… yeah I am, why?”
There was a short pause as you both kept walking, the sound of footsteps and distant chatter filling in the space around you. Then Cameron added, a little more straightforward but still calm, “You should come.”
You glanced at him properly now. Not startled, just slightly amused at how easily he said it, like it was already decided in his head. “Are you inviting me?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“Yeah.” he said simply.
That made you shift your bag strap slightly, considering it, but not in any serious way. “I was already going to,” you admitted.
He looked at you. “Really?”
You nodded. “Jayda’s involved.”
There was a beat of silence before Cameron let out a quiet exhale through his nose, like he already knew exactly what that meant. “…Of course she is.”
You smiled. “She doesn’t believe in optional attendance. Especially not for anything remotely social.”
“She hasn’t changed,” he said.
“You say that like it’s history.” You slightly chuckle.
“It is.” he replied.
That made you glance at him. “You two go way back, huh?”
Cameron nodded. “Yeah… She used to drag me into things I didn’t even understand I was agreeing to.”
You couldn’t help but smile “That sounds like a problem waiting to happen.”
Cameron gave a small, almost resigned exhale. “It felt like one.”
That made you laugh softly, shaking your head a little as you walked. “What kind of things are we talking about here?”
“School events… Random assemblies, charity stuff... Once she made me stand in line for face paint and I didn’t even know what it was for.”
You looked at him slightly. “Face paint?”
“I still don’t know what the event was.”
That made your laugh a little more open this time. “I kind of love her for that,” you admitted.
“Jayda thrives on chaos.” he said.
“I’ve noticed… She tried to reorganize my entire weekly schedule yesterday like it was a public service.” You softly smile.
“That’s her” He stopped himself, then shook his head slightly like he didn’t even need to finish the thought. “That’s just her.”
You let out a quiet laugh, adjusting your bag strap as you walked. “Honestly, I think I’d be more shocked if she wasn’t like that.”
That got a faint look from him. “She’d like hearing that.”
“She already thinks she’s the main character of campus life.” you added lightly.
“I mean… She kind of is if you think about it” he said.
You glanced at him. “That sounded like experience talking.”
He huffed a quiet breath. “Unfortunately.”
That made you smile. “So she hasn’t changed at all?”
“Not even a little. She used to decide what everyone was doing before anyone agreed to it.”
You blinked. “That’s… impressive confidence.”
“She called it ‘efficiency’.” Cameron said.
You laughed under your breath. “Of course she did.”
The campus had started to thin out as you reached the residential side, the sound of other students fading behind you into something softer. The pace between you naturally slowed, not because either of you said anything, but because the conversation was starting to settle into that quieter rhythm where neither person was trying to rush it forward. A pause settled between you, not uncomfortable, just familiar in that way where neither of you immediately filled it. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “So you two actually still talk sometimes, then?”
“Not really… Just cross paths here and there.” Cameron nods slightly.
“Sounds very formal…” you said lightly.
“It kind of is.” he replied.
That made you smile a little. “That’s weird... I feel like Jayda doesn’t do ‘formal interactions’.”
“She doesn’t, she just ignores the formality.” Cameron chuckled slightly.
That got a quiet laugh out of you. “Yeah, that sounds more accurate.”
You walked a few more steps, then added, “She told me once you were ‘emotionally distant but reliable.’”
Cameron looked at you immediately. “She said that?”
“Yeah.” You nodded.
“That’s not even a sentence.”
“It is in Jayda language.” You softly chuckle.
He shook his head slightly. “She says things just to say them.”
“You’re not denying it though…” you pointed out.
“I’m not confirming it either.” Cameron shrugged.
“That feels like confirmation.”
“It’s not.” He defends.
You smiled before adding, “She also said you’re basically a walking highlight reel on the field.”
That got a small pause from him. “…She’s exaggerating.”
“Maybe… But she was very confident about it.”
He exhaled quietly, almost amused now. “She’s been watching too many games.”
The conversation didn’t rush to end though, it just softened naturally. The path ahead split closer now, your building just a short walk away as you moved a strand of hair out of your face. “So Wednesday…” you start.
“Yeah?” he replied.
You tilted your head slightly. “Is it always that serious for you guys, or does Jayda just make it sound like a national event?”
That got the faintest hint of a smile from Cameron. “It’s just a game… She makes everything sound bigger than it is.”
“She’d argue that you’re downplaying it.” you said.
“She would.” he agreed.
You smiled a little. “I’ll probably just end up watching her more than the game anyway.”
“Probably safer.” he said.
That made you laugh softly. “Is that your advice?”
“It’s practical advice.” he corrected.
“Right.” You slowed your steps now as you reached the point where your paths would split. “Okay… this is me.”
Cameron nodded once before adding “You’ll find it fine.”
You looked at him. “You sound too confident about this game thing.”
“I’ve played enough of them to know.” he slightly smiled.
“That’s not the same thing.” you said lightly.
“It kind of is.” he said.
That made you smile again. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see…”
“Yeah…” he replied.
You stepped back slightly toward your path. “Thank you for the coffee again.. this was really nice.”
“ Of course… See you Wednesday.”
“Yeah… See you.” You softly smile back at him as you turned first, walking toward your shared house. A few steps in, the evening air felt a little cooler, quieter, like campus was starting to settle for the day.
When you glanced back briefly, Cameron was still there, not doing anything dramatic, just standing where you’d left him, hands in his pockets, watching for a moment longer before finally turning away himself and heading toward his dorm at an easy pace. No rush… No hesitation… Just the day slowly letting go on both sides.
———
The days leading up to Wednesday passed in that strange, quiet way new routines sometimes did. Nothing huge happened. But somehow, you and Cameron kept finding each other anyway. A seat beside each other before class started, conversations that lasted a little longer than intended outside the library. A random text at midnight after one of your professors uploaded an assignment nobody understood.
Cameron:
Tell me you understand question 4.
You:
I was literally about to ask you the same thing.
Cameron:
So we’re both failing.
You:
Spiritually? Yes.
You had smiled at your phone for a stupid amount of time after that. And slowly, without either of you really acknowledging it outright, things became easier… Comfortable… The kind that sneaks up on you before you realize it’s happening
By the time game day arrived, it didn’t feel like something new anymore. It just felt like something that was happening. The evening had already started to shift when you and Jayda made your way toward the stadium.
“Okay, tonight is important. Like, spiritually important.” Jayda said as you walked, adjusting her ponytail, already in full cheer mode energy even before the uniform really needed to say it.
You glanced at her. “It’s a football game.”
“It’s our football game,” she corrected.
You sighed lightly. “That’s not better.”
“It is, Cameron is starting! The team is locked in. The crowd is going to be insane.” Jayda insists.
“Why do you know this much?”
“I have sources.” she said with a grin.
“You mean Cameron?”
She paused. “…I said sources.”
You smiled slightly despite yourself. By the time you reached the stands, the stadium was already filling fast. The air felt charged in that way only live games could manage, noise building in layers, music echoing across the field, the smell of food stands drifting through the crowd. You ended up near the front of the bleachers with Jayda who immediately started waving at people she knew.
“Okay, sit here… no, here- wait no, I want to see the field clearly.” Jayda muttered, pulling you into position.
“You’re worse than the players.” you playfully rolled your eyes.
“Duh, obviously.” she replied.
A group of Jayda’s friends joined soon after two girls she introduced quickly. “This is her! She’s new but she’s being converted into a functional campus member.”
“I feel like I should be offended…” you said.
“You’re welcome.” Jayda teased as one of the girls replied instantly, shaking your hand like it was an official introduction ceremony as you introduced yourself.
Jayda leaned in slightly. “Don’t worry, they’re loud but harmless.”
“I can hear you! ” one of the girls said immediately.
Jayda rolled her eyes playfully. “See? Loud.”
That earned a laugh from the group, and before you could even properly respond, music blasted through the stadium speakers again, the entire crowd reacting instantly. The atmosphere shifted all at once, students started standing, people yelling across rows, the football team beginning to run out onto the field as cheers rolled through the stadium in waves… And somehow even if you hadn’t wanted to get caught up in it, you still felt it. That energy… That adrenaline… You leaned forward slightly as the players spread across the field, helmets catching the last gold light of sunset.
Then your eyes found him almost immediately, Cameron. Even surrounded by everyone else, you recognized him without effort now. The way he moved, the way he carried himself, calm and focused, steady compared to the chaos around him.
Jayda noticed your attention immediately, she turns to you to say loudly over the crowd. “There he is! Quarterback boy!”
You glanced at her. “You say that like you’re introducing a celebrity!”
“He kind of is here!” one of her friends added.
“That’s insane.” you muttered with a slight smile.
Jayda grinned.“You’ll understand by halftime!”
The game started hard and fast, the second the whistle blew, the entire stadium seemed to erupt into motion. People yelling, music blasting between plays, the crowd reacting to every movement on the field like the outcome personally affected their lives. At first, you mostly watched the atmosphere, the students, the cheerleaders. Jayda somehow yelling choreography instructions and football commentary at the same time from the sidelines.
But eventually… Your attention kept drifting back to Cameron. Not because everyone else was watching him, because you were. The focus in his posture was different now, Sharper. More intense than the version of him you’d gotten coffee with. Though weirdly It suited him, every time he ran onto the field, the crowd seemed to rise with him. Every throw… Every close play… Every near miss. .. The stadium reacted like one giant living thing.
“Oh my God.. GO GO GO!” Jayda yelled from below, nearly losing her mind as the team pushed down the field.
You laughed despite yourself, gripping the railing slightly as the energy around you built. “I thought you said you were a cheerleader, not assistant coach!”
“I’m both!” she yelled back with a big grin.
That got another laugh out of you just as the crowd suddenly exploded into screams, home team had scored. The stadium shook with noise, people jumping up around you, music blaring again, and down on the field, Cameron pulled his helmet off briefly, breathing hard as teammates slammed into him in celebration.
For half a second, his eyes lifted toward the stands… But somehow, They found you. Your breath caught just slightly, not dramatically, just enough to feel it. Then someone grabbed him again, pulling him back into the chaos of the game.
By halftime, the sky had darkened into deep blue, the stadium lights had taken over completely now, bright against the night as the energy somehow only grew stronger. You sat back for a second, finally exhaling. “I get it now..” you admitted with a smile.
Jayda turned immediately. “RIGHT?”
You laughed softly. “Okay, this is actually kind of insane.”
“Told you.”
“No, seriously, I thought it was just… ego and people screaming at each other.” you said, glancing back toward the field.
One of Jayda’s friends gasped dramatically. “That is so offensive.”
“I said thought!” you defended yourself before chuckling.
Jayda pointed at you accusingly. “You’re emotionally invested now.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You just stood up and yelled during that last play.”
You paused. “…That’s not important.”
“It’s extremely important.”
You shook your head laughing under your breath, But honestly? You kind of understood now. Not the toxic side people always talked about online, not the stereotypes.. But this, this felt different. The adrenaline, the excitement, Thousands of people reacting together not out of hate, but because they were caught in the same moment.
It felt alive, the second half was even more intense. The score stayed close enough that nobody relaxed for a second, every play mattered now, every near interception had the crowd groaning, every successful pass sent people into screaming fits again. But through all of it, Cameron stayed calm… Focused… Even when the pressure built and when the clock started running low.
“You good!?” one of Jayda’s friends asked as you leaned forward again during the final quarter, fingers curled around the cold metal railing in front of you.
You blinked, eyes still fixed on the field. “Yeah!” you answered automatically.
Jayda looked over from where she’d jogged back toward the sidelines briefly between routines, breathing slightly heavier now.
“She’s locked in! Jayda grinned and announced dramatically.
“I’m literally just watching the game” you rolled ur eyes playfully.
Jayda then said immediately. “Oh no, You’ve entered football spirit territory!”
“I have not.”
“You yelled at a referee ten minutes ago.” She teased.
“That was different.”
“What was different about it?” She raised a brow at you.
“He was wrong.”
That made the girls around you burst into laughter. Jayda pointed at you triumphantly. “See? Emotionally invested!”
You opened your mouth to argue again but then the crowd suddenly erupted around you. The game had shifted again, Fast, everyone shot to their feet almost instantly as the team broke into a run down the field.
The stadium lights reflected against helmets and rushing bodies, the noise becoming almost deafening as people screamed over one another.
“GO GO GO!”
“Oh my God-”
Your pulse jumped before you could stop it, the clock on the screen was running low now, too low.
The score was tied, then suddenly the entire stadium felt like it was holding its breath at once. On the field, Cameron moved quickly, calling plays, focused in a way that made everything else around him blur slightly into the background.
You could see the pressure now. But somehow Cameron didn’t look nervous… Just locked in. The ball snapped, everything moved at once. The crowd screamed as players collided, the play breaking open faster than you could properly process it.
Then Cameron ran, fast, dodging past one player, then another as the entire stadium practically lost its mind.
“OH MY GOSH!-” Jayda screamed from below.
You were already standing fully now without realizing it, your heart hammering as he pushed forward, then crossed the line… The stadium exploded, like actually exploded. Sound crashed around you instantly, screaming, music, people jumping, students nearly falling over each other in excitement as the final whistle blew seconds later.
They won, they actually won.
You laughed in disbelief as the people around you completely lost control, strangers hugging each other, drinks spilling, everyone shouting over the noise. Beside you, Jayda looked like she was about to ascend spiritually. “I TOLD YOU!” she yelled.
You were laughing now, shaking your head. “Okay okay, I get it now!”
“THIS IS COLLEGE FOOTBALL!” She exclaimed enthusiastically.
“You’re terrifying!”
“And you love it!” She grinned at you.
You tried to argue but honestly, you couldn’t. Because the feeling rushing through the stadium was impossible not to get caught up in. Pure adrenaline… Pure excitement… Not toxic… Not ugly, just joy. Everyone pouring onto the field at once, students climbing down from the stands, screaming and celebrating like they’d all won something together.
For a second, you stayed where you were, just taking it in. The lights… The noise… The energy still buzzing through your chest.
Then Jayda grabbed your arm suddenly. “Come on!”
“What! where are we going?”
“The field!”
Before you could properly protest, you were already being pulled down with the crowd flooding forward. The second your shoes hit the grass, the atmosphere somehow became even more unreal. People running everywhere, teammates yelling, music blasting through the speakers. The air thick with sweat, cold night air, excitement.
You almost lost Jayda twice in the chaos. “THIS WAY!” she yelled from somewhere ahead before Jayda disappeared again immediately after.
You laughed breathlessly under your breath, slowing slightly as the chaos moved around you. And then, you saw him… Cameron… Across the field… Still surrounded by teammates at first, helmet gone now, hair slightly damp from sweat, breathing hard as people clapped him on the back from every direction.
But then his head turned. His eyes landed on you, instantly. Like they’d been looking for you, something shifted across his face almost immediately… Relief… Happiness… Something warmer than either.
Without really thinking about it, you started moving toward him at the same time he started moving toward you. The noise around you blurred, not fully but just enough. By the time you reached each other, both of you were still slightly breathless from completely different reasons.
“You made it onto the field,” he said first, a little incredulous, smiling harder now than you’d seen before.
“Barely, Jayda nearly killed me getting down here.” You softly laughed.
“That sounds right.”
You smiled, still catching your breath slightly. “You were insane out there.”
That made him shake his head once, laughing quietly under his breath. “Nah, the crowd was insane.”
“No way! You literally ran half the field in the last seconds!” you said immediately with excitement.
“I had motivation.”
You softly smiled at him, teasingly “Oh, so now you’re humble?”
“Sometimes.”
You laughed softly again and before you could really think about it properly, Cameron stepped closer. He then pulled you into a hug… It happened naturally… Quickly… But the second his arms wrapped around you, the noise around you seemed to disappear for half a second.
Warmth… Adrenaline… His chest still rising slightly from the game… Your hands instinctively catching against him as the reality of how close he suddenly was hit all at once. And for a moment, neither of you pulled away immediately.
You could actually feel how happy he was, not just because they won… Because you were there. When you finally leaned back slightly, there was still barely any space between you. Cameron looked down at you, still smiling a little, eyes softer now despite all the noise and chaos around you.
“Told you you’d like it..” he said quietly.
You laughed softly, still a little breathless yourself before admitting. “Okay, i guess you were right.”
“I know.”
“That was cocky.” You playfully raised a brow.
“A little.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. Around you, students were still screaming and celebrating, but somehow the moment between you felt strangely calmer than everything else surrounding it.
Then Cameron glanced around briefly at the crowd pushing tighter across the field. “Come here” he said.
Before you could ask what he meant, his hand lightly found your hand, intertwining your fingers as he guided you carefully away from the center of the chaos and noise toward the quieter edge of the field.. Not rushing.. Just keeping you close beside him, and for some reason.. You let him.
UGHH I need me a man with simple innocent love 😪 Anyways THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READINGGG! I got a trip coming up soon to a lodge since it’s almost lake house season and I can’t waittt! Hopefully I’ll get inspired to continue part four of my Ledger ward fic since I’m not gonna be stressed about other things and will finally be away from the city chaos lol but other than that, I hope you all have a lovely day! (sending virtual hugs xx)
SUMMARY: inspired by this post + this Twitter post + this edit + this second edit + this third edit + this TikTok + in which you and Tyriq sneak off to the bathroom amidst the Met Gala for a little screen time, but instead of a taking a picture, you end up taking something else. 🩷
AUTHOR’S NOTE: the minute i saw this man at the Met Gala, i knew i had to write something about how GOOD he looked 😩 then my Tumblr algorithm did its thing & i saw the post tagged above, SO ENJOY THIS WHILE I FINISH OTHER DRAFTS 🤭🤭🤭💐
“open up a lil’ wider for me, bae… uh-huh, there you go, pretty girl.”
your mouth opened wider on command as you pushed forward a bit more, slowly taking as much more of Tyriq’s dick as you could handle down your throat until you eventually gagged around him. you fisted the rest of his inches that couldn’t fit in your mouth and you stroked him with the same rhythm you sucked at, your mouth and hand moving in unison as soft gagging and the sound of spit filled the air.
“fuck, look at you. so damn beautiful with this dick in your mouth, baby.” Tyriq groaned, cradling the back of your head in his unoccupied hand, as his fingers lightly threaded through your hair and he gently guided you up and down, not wanting to take over your movements but wanting to help you out with them instead.
you moaned against him in response and you pulled back from his dick until only his tip was in your mouth as your other hand wrapped around him and you started jerking him off while paying special attention to the sensitive head of his long inches, earning a deep moan from him while his grip in your hair slightly tightened.
“look at me, bae.” when your eyes lifted to Tyriq, you weren’t expecting to see his phone angled down at you and recording the lewd act you were engaged in, but you weren’t put off by it. in fact, it made you determined to make him cum quicker, and your hands sped up on his dick before either of you even realized it.
you pulled your mouth off of his tip and stuck out your tongue instead as you slapped and rubbed the throbbing tip against your tongue, keeping your hands steady and maintaining your rhythm while your tongue swirled around the head and slid across the slit in it.
“shiiiit… damn, mama,” Tyriq gutturally moaned, his hand sliding down from the back of your head to the nape of your neck, as he lifted the phone and angled it towards the mirror, recording at a different angle and perspective, “keep goin’, baby, fuck… you doin’ so good f’me.”
the change in perspective showed more than his point of view did — it revealed his unbuttoned shirt, his tensed abdomen, and your slightly messy hair. it also displayed the color of your gown in a different lighting, the front of it tucked underneath your knees to soften the floor beneath you.
however, the mirror perspective really emphasized the movements in your hands and head, a soft hum falling from your parted lips before you took him back inside your mouth again.
Tyriq watched you in the mirror for a moment before looking down at you, watching you remove both of your hands this time and bob your head quicker than you initially did. your eyes flickered up to his and the two of you made eye contact as you held your hands behind your back and took him in deeper, soft gagging noises filling the room again for each time he hit the back of your throat.
Tyriq’s jaw slightly dropped and his lips fell ajar as groans and moans erupted from his vocals, the sound of them echoing inside the bathroom and harmonizing with the sound of slurping from you. a furrow formed between his eyebrows and his lashes fluttered as his hand moved from your neck to your jaw, cradling it in his hand and pressing his thumb against your cheek while he watched his dick disappear and reappear inside your warm mouth.
“mmh, fuck, i’m ‘bout to nut, mama… ‘bout to nut all in this good ass mouth,” Tyriq moaned, the furrow between his eyebrows increasing, as his grip slightly tightened on your jaw and his phone and he lowered the camera back to you, wanting to record the moment he painted the inside of your mouth with his cum, “don’t stop, baby, keep goin’. just l-like that, beautiful…”
and you didn’t stop. you wouldn’t stop — not until your boyfriend was satisfied and completely drained of his seed.
Hey, idk if you take requests but if you do can you do one where tyriq’s girlfriend meets his family?!
P.Y.T. | TYRIQ WITHERS
Pairing: Tyriq Withers x Black!OC Selah Andrews
Summary: In which Selah attends her boyfriend's family get-together and awakens something within him.
WC: 2.4k
Warnings: 18+, flirtation, sexual activity, breeding kink.
Note: finally finished itttt
PYT
She didn’t have a family of her own. No sister (though Judah made an appearance once every five years) to converse with about her love life as it moved through ebbs and flows she was unfamiliar with. No mother to dry the tears that fell every night. No father to pour love into her like a river overflowing.
Summer had been boring in her adult years and often spent her time alone after the grueling shifts, crunching numbers until her fingers cramped, and reading reports until the words blurred. Vacations were numerous, but solo flights and self-guided exploration only brought fulfillment for so long, when she realized that piggybacking on his family’s affairs would bring more…joy.
So, she accepted it. The invite sent early on Tuesday morning with an iced coffee and a bouquet of tulips on the side, his unique handwriting scribbled across a white card with a time, location, and heart beside the Have a good day, pretty message he’d left at the bottom.
He’d known she’d be late. It’s the end of the quarter, she said over the phone the following Saturday morning, papers rustling and pens clattering in the background. He heard the tension suffocating her words, but she swallowed it with pride and reassured him: I’ll be there, I promise. That’d been nearly seven hours ago. When the sun sat comfortably in the sky at nine in the morning, stretching its wings across the expanse of the sky.
The function started at two, but he knew his people. The clock ran past four, and it had only just begun. A sea of bodies tumbled through the doors, carrying laughter and memories from before his time. And he enjoyed it the same—laughing with his grandfather, nudging younger cousins who once swore they’d be taller than him, and shooing off aunties who had too many questions to ask.
“You sure she ain’t a figment of your imagination, or something?”
Tyriq glanced at his aunt over the edge of his glasses, lip turned upward, and eyes narrowed like he’d been offended. “That’s a stretch.” He brought a half-full Solo cup to his lips and took a sip. “Meetings.”
“Meetings?” His aunt replied, narrowing her eyes. She was a beautiful woman, his great-aunt. She had one of those faces that caused trouble back in the day. Hazel eyes that left boys’ heads spiraling and an aura that welcomed more frenemies than she’d like to admit. And she was a jokester; she always had something in her arsenal and told it to you straight every time. Today was no different, and Tyriq was no exception. “On a Saturday? Boy— “
“I like my women with a life,” he cut her off. “Ain’ that what you say? That women should be able to hold their own without a man. That’s all she doin’.”
The buzz of his phone snagged his attention.
Selah <3
I’m parking.
“Alright.” Tyriq took another sip from his cup, then stood, tucking his phone in the pocket of his white pants. “I’ll be back.”
The grass crunched beneath his shoes as he strode across the yard and around the side of the house, nodding at a relative he hadn’t seen since he was in middle school. He turned the corner of old brick wrapped in vines.
Her car was parked behind his. A stark contrast—his black and hers white. It looked as good as it smelled on the inside—clean and well cared for. The smile on his lips came naturally, without force or persuasion.
“Hey.” He exhaled, fingers wrapping around the top of the door. She leaned over to grab her purse, then raised her eyes, covered by rimmed sunglasses, but the twinkle behind them shone through. The corner of her mouth raised slightly.
She placed her hand in his awaiting palm and stepped out of her car, the door shouting closed. “Hi.” She smoothed her dress—a white sundress with a defined corset and spaghetti straps that accentuated her figure—and lifted on her toes to place a kiss against his cheek. “Hope I’m not too late.”
“Right on time.”
They spoke quietly as he led her to the backyard. He asked about the early morning report she had to review, to which she revealed she had to fuss at the junior accountant for using thinking an iPhone calculator could handle value creation ratio calculations. He hummed and nodded once, his thumb circling the zipper on her back as she stepped over a bag of unopened mulch.
Tyriq reached over her, pushing the door open enough for the smell of seasoned meat and bunches of greens to hit her nose.
Her stomach rumbled.
When they reached the backyard, time stood still. It was picture-perfect. A reflection of what she’d seen on television and read about in books. Not three-bedroom, two-bathroom home in the suburbs with a white picket fence, two children, and a dog—no.
This was different.
Children splashed in a plastic pool in the corner; skin kissed by the sun and laughs of splendor coming from their small bodies. Oldhead uncles clipped the ends of Cuban cigars in the corner and laughed gravelly about their antics thirty years ago that kept them united when time pulled them apart. Aunties, cousins, and grandmothers mingled around, checking if anyone need anything—typical.
It was different. But it felt familiar.
“You’ve got a big family,” Selah whispered, the smile on her lips small as she watched a little boy dug his sister through a sprinkler. They toppled over in a fit of giggles. Her shoulders lowered and the corners of her eyes softened.
Tyriq followed her gaze, then shifted closer—not crowding, just present.
“If it’s too much,” he said quietly, already thinking ahead of her, “we can step back. Or bounce early. Ain’t no pressure.”
She turned to him, surprised. Nodded once. Blinked behind her sunglasses and fought like hell to maintain composure as his hand settled against her hip—heavy and sure. He lowered a fraction, his nose brushing against the line of her jaw. She shuddered.
“You look pretty.”
Selah pushed her glasses on her forehead, revealing the roots of earth that’d been searching for calm waters. The corner of her mouth twisted and her chin dropped, her hands smoothing the skirt of her dress.
“Thank you.”
She met his eyes through his glasses and lifted her hand, running her manicured fingers through his sandy brown hair that relaxed once time was permitted to do its thing.
“I like the grown-out look.”
His lips found her mouth then. The corner of it. Careful, calculated. Purposeful enough to show affection, intentional enough to know she’d fuss at him for messing up her lip combo. Selah’s fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, her head turning over her left shoulder; she giggled softly.
It was then they noticed.
A pause at the grill.
A voice trailing off mid-sentence.
Someone’s eyes tracking them just a second too long before flicking away.
Tyriq didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand stayed where it was, steady at her waist, thumb pressing once like punctuation. Selah settled against him without thinking, composure reclaimed easily, her smile lingering as she slid her fingers through his.
His aunt hummed low, amused.
A cousin raised their eyebrows and let out a quiet, oh.
A recalibration in real time.
It was then they knew. This wasn’t some fling. Some little girl he’d chosen to bed and bring to the family gathering to prove his loyalty—no.
This was integration.
She’d barely gotten her name out before someone pressed a plate in her hand. “Try these,” an aunt said, already turning away. “And don’t let him eat all the greens.”
She blinked once, then laughed softly, nodding. “Okay.”
Tyriq didn’t move. Didn’t hover. Just watched as another cousin slid out a chair with their foot, like it was already decided where she’d sit.
“You good right there,” they said.
And she was.
Questions came fast, easy—where she was from, whether she’d eaten, if she drank sweet or unsweet tea. Someone yelled over from the grill asking Tyriq is his “fine girlfriend” was picky, and Selah shook her head, calling back before he could answer.
“No. I eat.”
A collective approval rippled through the yard. He smiled smugly behind the rim of his cup.
Laughter washed over her. Plates clinked. Silverware clattered against the table. His grandmother reached out and adjusted the strap of Selah’s dress without asking, smoothing it like muscle memory. Steady hands brushed loose hair away from Selah’s face.
“Good fabric,” she murmured. “Pretty face.”
Selah smiled. “Thank you.”
Time moved different after that.
She found herself on her knees, dress tucked beneath her thighs beside the kids near the pool. A nephew tugged at her dress asking if he could swim again. An uncle quizzed her about work, nodding like he understood more than he let on.
“Yes it’s—”
A baby girl, her buddy of the afternoon, came out of the pool sputtering and indignant, tiny fingers clutching at Selah’s shoulders as she lifted her without hesitation. The child’s legs trembled, lips quivering, damp curls plastered to her forehead, water dripping onto Selah’s neck and chest.
Selah tucked the child, who couldn’t have been older than three, closer instinctively, one hand smoothing wet skin, the other gathering the towel someone tossed her mid-stride.
“Okay,” she said softly, voice dropping into a register she hadn’t meant to reveal. “Let’s get you inside, baby doll.” She grunted lowly as she wrapped the towel snug around the little body and rose, pressing the child to her chest. “I know. I know—it’s cold. I’m sorry, baby.”
The baby quieted almost instantly, hiccups melting into soft sniffles. Selah adjusted her hold, rocking one, twice, her thumb tracing slow circles against the child’s back like muscle memory.
She hadn’t noticed him watching. Was unaware that his words slowed to a standstill, the bottleneck nearly slipping from his hand as he watched.
Someone asked if he saw.
Of course he did.
Saw the desire buried beneath hardness.
The resignation leaking at the seams.
The instinct.
He nodded once, still staring.
“Yeah,” he said. Because anything else would’ve given him away.
Selah glanced up then—just once—meeting his eyes across the yard. She smiled, small and unassuming, like this isn’t a thing. Like this was just what needed doing. She returned her attention to the child, running her fingers through her dark hair, and following the baby’s mother into the house.
Tyriq felt it land in his chest anyway.
Fuck.
They didn’t say much on the drive.
The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Dense in a way Selah hadn’t experienced in a long time, like something shifted and neither of them wanting to be the first to name it.
She kicked her shoes off by the door and leaned her forehead against it for a moment longer than necessary, breathing. Tyriq stayed put, shoulder pressed against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Waiting.
“You good?”
She nodded once. “Yeah.” A pause. “Just…full.”
He hummed. Pressed off the wall and joined her against the kitchen counter, back pressed against sturdy porcelain. Selah turned toward him, pressing her face in his collarbone.
She inhaled. Grass. He smelled like grass, Hennessy, and seduction draped over sun-kissed flesh. Her lips met his neck once.
“You always wanted kids?” Curiosity drove his words into the atmosphere. Curiosity. Desire. Want.
She shrugged and pulled back, her fingers lacing together at his waist. “Haven’t thought about it in a long time.” Because thinking about a permanent decision with impermeant people was dangerous.
Tyriq’s blue eyes fell on her face. Darker than they were earlier in the day. No longer clear as the sky, but dark like ravenous waves crashing against the shore. Selah lifted her chin and moved to step away, but he kept her close, hands fondling with the zipper at the back of her dress.
Selah raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that unless you ready.”
Ready.
Of course he was.
“I been ready.”
“Careful,” she warned, though her tone remained teasing. Her ring—the gold solitaire on her middle finger, a gift—kisses the buttons of his shirt as she undid them slowly. “You may have to follow through that.”
“You keep playin’ with me like that,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “like you don’t know what you doin’…” His thumb pressed once, firm, a promise without words. “…and I’m gon’ have to show you how serious I can be.”
Her breath caught.
“Go ahead.”
There weren’t many times where she regretted her words. When she wished the hands of time would reverse themselves for her benefit.
Until now.
“Take it.”
Rough. Gravely. Sharp around the edges. The sweetness was long gone. The care and affection in his touch had morphed into something dangerous—dominant, possessive, intense.
It brought tears to her eyes. Hot, prickling tears. And it burned deliciously. Hurt so good. Pierced her deeply until her hips suffered, her fingertips plucking meticulously sewed threads out of place.
She tried to run. She did. Fought like hell to stop him, to slow down the pace, to keep him from digging deep and rearranging her nerve endings.
Her palms pressed weakly against his abdomen: her fingers curled around skin and he tsk’d quietly.
“Nah,” he murmured, wrapping his hand around her wrist loosely. His lips slid up her arm, sucking at her pulse point. “Thought you was ready, baby. What happened?”
The words bobbed in her throat, suppressed by low moans and breathless pants. “B-baby…” her jaw fell slack and the crown of her head dug into the pillow.
He was pleased. Devastatingly so. His tongue circled the vein pulsing under skin; she call for him. Roughly. Desperately, hips sore from the tension that built inside like cinder blocks—heavy and unmistakable.
“You got it,” he whispered against her jaws. He moved to her mouth, sucking on her bottom lip like it was the sweetest treat. He groaned lowly into her mouth, eyes rolling as she tugged on his damp roots. “Could put a baby in you. Have you full of me.”
She made a sound then. Heavy and breathless. Tyriq smiled, rolling his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah?” He murmured, the pace of his strokes slowing enough to pull a loud mewl from her chest. “Where you want it, mama?”
Mama.
Selah met his eyes.
He nearly exploded.
Then: “Inside. Please.”
His pace stuttered.
Breath got shallow.
Eyelids fluttered.
Selah whined, her chin bobbing against the damp hair caught beneath it. “No…look at me.” Her hand, trembling and weak, cupped his jaw, tugging him lower, his breath fanning her mouth heavily. His eyes sat low, but she saw everything. She smiled lazily. “Please, baby?”
That was all it took.
“So,” Tyriq trailed off, running his hands through her damp hair. “You gon’ have my babies for real?”
Selah shrugged. “Gotta marry me first.”
“You talkin’ my language now, baby. Matter fact, we can go to the store tomorrow—”
She scoffed and poked his side. “Boy—”
He grinned, boyish and giddy. “I love you.”
Her eyes twinkled like stars. “I love you.”
-
Tags: @darkseidex @amirawrah @ga33y3 @ariesthesun @simplementemeencantafutbol @szalipcombo @sheinaskirt @melaninhawtie @unicoo @imperfectlyperfect78 @ariesthesun @blckblossom @fifi-asco @youreadthatright @mauvecherie-writes @imperfectlyperfect78 @uniqueoutlierblog + let me know if you want to be added or removed.
Summary: After a devastating betrayal fractures the fragile bond between mother and daughter, Monroe is forced to confront the life she’s spent shrinking herself to survive. What begins as a scandalous, whispered affair with Elijah Moore, a powerful older man her mother once desired for herself, slowly becomes something far more dangerous: freedom.
Warnings: Age gap relationship, emotionally toxic mother/daughter dynamics, manipulation, verbal abuse, jealousy, family conflict, explicit sexual content, possessive behavior, small-town gossip and harassment, emotional dependency themes, public humiliation, complex morality, emotional trauma, mature language, controlling parental behavior, intimacy-heavy romance, and themes of identity, healing, and self-worth.
Wc: 21k
Something You Shouldn’t Touch
The silence that followed Elijah's confession was a living thing, coiled tight in the space between the three of them, thick enough to choke on. Then Rose shattered it, her voice a raw, ragged thing that tore through the quiet woods. "You fucking slut!" The words were a physical assault, spittle flying from her lips as her face, contorted with a rage so pure it was almost beautiful, fixed on Monroe. The firelight cast her in a demonic orange glow, her eyes wide and wild. "After everything I've done for you! I brought you out here to have a good time, to meet a good man, and you're whoring it up behind my back like some back-alley tramp? In the woods? Like a goddamn animal?"
Monroe flinched, her whole body jerking back as if struck. Her shoulders hiking up toward her ears, she opened her mouth, a desperate plea forming on her lips. "Mom, it's not—" was all she managed before Rose's hand, heavy with cheap rings, cracked across her cheek. The force of it was brutal, snapping her head to the side with an audible thwack that echoed in the sudden stillness. The sharp sting bloomed instantly, a hot, throbbing shame that brought immediate, stinging tears to her eyes and made the world tilt on its axis. The metallic taste of blood bloomed where her teeth had cut her inner cheek.
Before Rose could rear back for another swing, her claws already balled into fists, Elijah was moving. He didn't rush, but his presence filled the space, a wall of muscle and cold fury stepping between Monroe and her mother. He was a human shield, broad-shouldered, jaw set like granite. "Don't you dare touch her again," he said, his voice low and dangerous, the kind of quiet that promised violence, a stark contrast to Rose's hysterics.
Rose stared up at him, her chest heaving, her disbelief warring with her fury. She looked small suddenly, almost pathetic, next to his solid frame. "You," she seethed, poking a sharp, acrylic nail into his chest, aiming for his heart. "You did this. You came into my life, looked at me with those eyes, and all along you were planning to fuck my daughter? Was that your plan all along? Get me out here, fuck me, then fuck her? You sick son of a bitch."
Elijah laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that grated in the air, full of contempt. "Planning? Rose, don't flatter yourself. I only came on this trip to shut you up. Every text, every call, it was all noise I was trying to get to stop." He looked down at her, his expression utterly devoid of warmth, his dark eyes flat and dead. "I was never yours. Not for a second. You could wrap your lips around my dick every night for a year, and you still wouldn't be the one I want. You'd never even come close."
The raw honesty of it, the brutal dismissal, hit Rose harder than any physical blow. Her face crumpled, the rage giving way to a wounded, desperate malice that was somehow even uglier. "I brought you into this world!" she cried, turning her venom back on Monroe, who was still cradling her stinging cheek, the skin already puffing up. "I clothed you, I fed you, and you betray me like this? With him? With a man old enough to be your father?" She pointed a trembling finger at Elijah, her voice dropping into a venomous promise that was laced with desperation. "I'll ruin you both. Everyone in this town will know what kind of people you are. He's a predator, and you're a desperate little girl who spreads her legs for the first man who looks at her twice."
The threats hung in the air, ugly and sharp, a tangible poison. Monroe finally straightened up, her movements slow and deliberate. She wiped at the tear that had escaped with the back of her hand, smearing a bit of blood across her cheek. She looked at her mother, at the woman who had chipped away at her spirit for twenty-two years, and something inside her finally settled, a cold, hard stone in the pit of her stomach. "I'm sorry you're hurt," she said, her voice quiet but steady, clear as a bell in the sudden stillness. "But I'm not sorry for this."
Three months later, the air in Monroe’s apartment smelled of vanilla and old books, a scent that was entirely hers, a scent she chose. The morning light, soft and hazy, filtered through the sheer curtains she’d picked out herself, spilling across the hardwood floors and the colorful, mismatched throw rugs that warmed the space. This place was his gift, a key turned over without conditions just two weeks after they’d driven away from the woods, leaving Rose and her rage shrinking in the rearview mirror. He’d bought it outright, signing the papers without a second thought, but made it clear it wasn't a transaction; it was an anchor, a place for her to breathe. They had made it official that same night, over takeout and cheap wine, agreeing to take it slow, to let this thing between them grow without the pressure of expectation. But the slowness didn't apply to everything. They had fucked on this very floor the first night she saw it, against the bare wall where her bookshelf now stood, a frantic, desperate claiming that left her back sore and her heart pounding. And they had made love, slow and sweet, in the big bed he’d helped her assemble, his hands tracing every new curve of her body as if learning a language he’d been waiting his whole life to speak. The walls were no longer the sterile white of her childhood bedroom but a deep, calming sage green, hung with framed prints of book covers and her own amateur photography of tree bark and lake water. Her books, once hidden away like contraband, were now proudly displayed on floating shelves, their spines a rainbow of worn paper and bold type, a silent testament to the worlds she’d always lived in, now openly, defiantly, on display.
She moved through her small kitchen with a quiet confidence that hadn't existed three months ago. Her body, once a thing she tried to make smaller, to hide, now took up space with an easy grace. She wore only a pair of soft cotton shorts and a simple sports bra, her dark brown skin glowing in the morning light. The faded red mark on her cheek was long gone, but the memory of it, and the day it appeared, was etched into her new posture. Her shoulders were back. Her chin was level. She hummed a tuneless melody as she poured cereal into a bowl, the simple act a small ritual of ownership. This was her life. Her space. Her morning. Rose would hate this, Monroe thought, a small, sharp smile touching her lips as she reached for the almond milk. She'd walk in here and immediately start criticizing. The curtains are too sheer. The walls are too dark. Why are you showing off your books like you're some kind of intellectual? Her mother's voice, a familiar, toxic drone, used to live in her head, a constant narrator pointing out every flaw. Now, it was just an echo, a ghost she could observe without letting it touch her. You think you're so grown now, living in this man's apartment? the ghost-Rose would sneer. You're still just a little girl playing house. Monroe's smile widened as she poured the milk, the sound a gentle splash in the quiet kitchen. But that was the thing her mother would never understand. This wasn't playing. This was the realest thing she had ever felt. For the first time, she wasn't performing. She wasn't hiding. She was just Monroe, in her kitchen, making her breakfast, and the silence in her head, where her mother's judgment used to be, was the most peaceful sound she had ever known.
The click of the key in the lock was as familiar as her own breathing now. The door opened and closed with a soft thud, and then Elijah was there, filling her entryway with his solid presence. He held two cups of coffee from the shop downtown, the one that made it just the way she liked. His gaze found her immediately, a slow, warm sweep from her bare feet up her legs to the curve of her spine, lingering on the nape of her neck. He didn't speak, just watched her for a moment, a look in his eyes that was still hungry, still possessive, but now layered with something so deep and tender it made her chest ache.
"Morning," he said, his voice a low rumble that settled in her bones.
"Morning," she replied, turning to lean against the counter, a small smile playing on her lips. She didn't rush to cover herself. She let him look, let him have the view she was no longer ashamed to offer. He crossed the room to her, moving with the same deliberate grace she’d noticed that first day in the woods, but it was softer now, domesticated. He handed her a coffee, his fingers brushing hers, a touch that still sent a jolt through her, a current that ran hot and electric.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her lips, a slow, deep good morning that tasted of coffee and him. "You sleep okay?" he murmured against her mouth.
"Better," she said. It was the truth. The nightmares of her mother's screaming had faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of Elijah breathing beside her, even on the nights he went back to his own place. "The festival is this weekend," she said, changing the subject, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "People are already talking about it."
Elijah leaned his hip against the counter beside her, his body close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. "Let them talk." He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving hers. "Their small minds can't comprehend what we have."
Monroe let out a small, humorless laugh. "According to Mrs. Henderson at the salon, I'm your 'kept woman' and you're using my apartment as some kind of love nest on the side." She recited the words with a practiced detachment, but a flicker of hurt showed in her eyes. "She said you're probably married with six kids somewhere and I'm just the dumb young girl who believes anything an old man tells her."
The muscle in Elijah’s jaw tightened, a flicker of the cold fury she’d seen that day in the woods. "And what did you say to Mrs. Henderson?"
"I didn't," Monroe admitted quietly. "I just paid for my deep conditioner and left." She looked up at him then, her dark eyes clear and steady. "It doesn't matter what she says. I know who I am when I'm with you. I know what this is." She reached out, her hand finding his, her fingers lacing through his. "She's just mad because her husband left her for a twenty-year-old. Projection."
A slow smile spread across Elijah's face, a genuine, rare thing that made him look years younger. "That's my girl," he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "Let them whisper. Let them stare. It just means they see us. They see you, standing next to me, not hiding behind anyone. They see a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to take it." He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles softly, his gaze intense. "Let them talk about that."
The intensity in his eyes shifted, the fire banked but never extinguished, now burning with a different kind of heat. He set his coffee mug down with a soft click, the sound deliberate in the quiet kitchen. His free hand came up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the soft coils of her hair at the nape. He tilted her head back, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was nothing like the gentle good morning from before. This was the kiss from the woods, deep and possessive, a claiming that tasted of coffee and a promise. His tongue swept against hers, slow and deliberate, and Monroe's body responded instantly, a low hum starting in her chest as her hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath her palms.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a low murmur against her lips. "You know, I was thinking this morning about this kitchen counter." His eyes danced with a dark amusement. "Thinking about all the ways I could have you right here."
A shiver traced its way down Monroe's spine, and she felt herself growing wet, her body already anticipating his. "Yeah?" she breathed, her own voice dropping to a husky whisper. "What ways were you thinking?"
He chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated through her. "So many ways, Roe." But then his expression shifted, the playfulness giving way to that raw, focused hunger she knew so well. He turned her around gently but firmly, his hands on her hips guiding her until she was facing the counter, her palms flat against the cool granite. "But right now," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear, sending a jolt through her, "I want you bent over this counter for me."
Monroe's breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping her lips. She didn't hesitate, arching her back slightly, presenting herself to him, a silent invitation that was both an offering and a demand. She felt his hands slide down her sides, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts, tugging them down over the curve of her ass and down her thighs until they pooled around her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside, her body trembling with anticipation.
"Look at you," he growled, his voice thick with appreciation. "So fucking beautiful. All mine." His hands roamed over her bare skin, squeezing the soft flesh of her ass, his touch both reverent and possessive. "You've gotten so good at this, Love. So good at taking what I give you."
Monroe moaned, pushing back against his hand, silently begging for more. "Please, Elijah," she whimpered, her voice ragged with need.
"Please what, Love?" he prompted, his fingers tracing the line of her slit, feeling her slickness. "Tell me what you want."
"You," she gasped. "I want you inside me."
He didn't make her wait any longer. She heard the soft rustle of his jeans, the metallic slide of his zipper, and then he was there, the thick, hot head of his dick teasing her entrance, sliding through her wetness. "You're so fucking wet for me," he groaned, his voice strained. "Always so ready."
He pushed into her slowly, inch by agonizing inch, as Monroe cried out, her fingers clenching against the counter as he stretched her. He paused, letting her adjust, his hands gripping her hips, holding her steady. "That's it, Love," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Take all of me. Just like that."
He began to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, a steady, punishing rhythm that had her seeing stars. Each thrust pushed her forward against the counter, the hard edge digging into her thighs, a sweet, sharp pain that only heightened the pleasure. "You feel so fucking good," he grunted, his hips snapping forward, a little harder this time.
Monroe moaned, her head falling back, her eyes squeezed shut. "Elijah," she cried out, his name a prayer on her lips. "Harder."
He obliged, his thrusts becoming faster, more erratic, the sound of their bodies slapping together filling the small kitchen. "You like that, Love?" he panted, his voice rough with exertion. "You like me fucking you like this? In your kitchen? Where anyone could hear what a dirty girl you are for me?"
"Yes," she sobbed, her body trembling. "Yes, I love it."
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles that sent her hurtling towards the edge. "Come for me, Love," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Come all over my dick. Let me feel you."
But her body didn't respond to the command; it responded to the feeling. It wasn't a switch he could flip, but a wave he was building inside her, cresting higher and higher with every deep, deliberate stroke. The pressure was immense; she could feel it creeping up from her toes to her heart, tightening every muscle until she thought she might break. Then, with a quiet, shuddering cry that was more air than sound, she broke. A deep, seismic release, a tremor that started deep in her womb and radiated outwards. Her body convulsed around him; she felt herself give way, a warm rush of her own slickness coating him as he thrust into her, a creamy, undeniable proof of her pleasure.
As the first wave of her orgasm washed over her, Elijah's arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his mouth finding hers in a desperate, hungry kiss that swallowed her soft cries. His tongue swept against hers, a possessive, tender dance that mirrored the rhythm of his hips. He could feel her trembling against him. The feeling of her, hot and wet and coming apart in his arms, was too much.
With a muffled moan against her lips, he pulled out, his dick sliding out of her with a wet, slick sound. As he did, Monroe's hand reached back, her fingers finding his heavy, drawn-up balls, cupping them gently, rolling them in her palm. It was a gesture of instinctual intimacy, a desire to feel the evidence of his pleasure. He came with a shudder, a hot, thick release that spilled onto her lower back, a warm, possessive marking that made her moan softly. His whole body tensed before he collapsed against her, his weight a welcome anchor in the aftermath of their shared storm.
They stayed like that for a long moment, their bodies on top of each other, their breathing ragged, the only sound the quiet hum of the refrigerator. Then he slowly turned her around to face him, his hands framing her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. He looked at her, his dark eyes soft and full of an emotion that went far beyond lust, something that made her heart ache with a joy so intense it was almost painful. "You're everything, Roe," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Everything."
The afternoon of the town festival, the air in Monroe’s bathroom was thick with steam, the small space filled with the sound of water cascading from the showerhead and the low, rhythmic hum of Elijah's voice as he washed her back. Monroe stood with her hands pressed against the tiled wall, her head bowed, letting the hot water and his sure hands chase away the last of her nerves. His fingers, slick with soap, traced the elegant curve of her spine, dipping into the dimples above her ass, a touch that was both soothing and possessive.
"You nervous, Roe?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her.
"A little," she admitted, her voice soft. "It's one thing to know they're talking. It's another to have to stand there and watch them do it."
He turned her around gently, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her wet cheeks. "We don't have to go. We can stay right here, order pizza, and I can fuck you on the couch."
A genuine smile broke through her anxiety. "Tempting," she said, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. "But I want to go. I want to walk in there with you and show them I'm not hiding."
"That's my girl," he said, leaning in to kiss her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of mint and promise.
Later, as they dressed in her bedroom, the easy domesticity of their movements was a stark contrast to the intensity of their shower. Monroe sat at her vanity, dabbing moisturizer onto her dark brown skin, the scent of cocoa butter filling the air. Elijah was behind her, buttoning up a black linen shirt, his movements unhurried. He watched her in the mirror, his gaze soft and appreciative as she applied a subtle layer of mascara, her dark eyes looking back at him with a newfound confidence.
She stood up, slipping into a simple black dress that hugged her curves, the fabric soft and forgiving. Then she reached for her jewelry, a delicate gold necklace with a small, gold pendant that rested in the hollow of her throat. She added a pair of gold hoop earrings, the warm metal glinting against her skin. As she was slipping on a pair of black strappy sandals, she glanced over at Elijah and had to laugh.
He stood by the door, pulling on a pair of black jeans, and on his wrist was a gold watch, the only piece of jewelry he ever wore. He'd also thrown on a black chain, the gold links a stark, beautiful contrast against the dark fabric of his shirt.
"Look at us," she said, her laughter light and airy. "We're matching."
He looked down at his watch, then at her necklace, a slow smile spreading across his face. "So we are," he said, his voice a low, pleased rumble. "Like we planned it."
"We didn't," she said, but she liked it. She liked the idea of them being so in sync, their choices aligning without conscious thought. It felt like a sign, a small, subtle confirmation that they were on the right path, that they were becoming one.
"Black and gold," he said, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "My colors."
"Our colors," she corrected, her voice soft but firm.
He crossed the room to her, his hands finding her waist, pulling her close. "Our colors," he agreed, his lips brushing against hers. "Let's go show them."
The town square was a riot of color and sound, a cacophony of laughter, music, and the sizzle of food stalls that did little to soothe the knot tightening in Monroe's stomach. As soon as they stepped onto the main thoroughfare, it began. Not overtly, not at first. It was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a ripple of awareness that spread from the entrance to the far end of the festival. Heads turned. Conversations dipped to a whisper. Eyes, some curious, some judgmental, some outright hostile, followed them as they walked. Monroe felt it like a physical touch, a prickle of unease on her skin that made her want to shrink back, to hide behind Elijah's solid frame. But she didn't. She kept her head up, her hand finding his, her fingers lacing through his in a silent declaration.
Elijah's grip was firm, a grounding anchor in the sea of small-town judgment. He didn't look at the people staring, his focus straight ahead, but she could feel the tension in his body, the coiled readiness of a man prepared for a fight. "You okay?" he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"I'm fine," she said, and to her surprise, she almost meant it. It was a lie, but it was a lie she was telling herself, a rehearsal for the truth she wanted to live.
They made their way to a booth selling homemade lemonade, the sweet, tangy scent a welcome distraction. As they waited in line, a voice, sharp and syrupy with false sweetness, cut through the noise. "Well, look what the cat dragged in."
Monroe turned to see two of her mother's oldest friends, Brenda and Sheila, standing there with their plastic cups of lemonade, their smiles stretched thin and tight over their malice. Brenda, a woman whose face was a roadmap of bad decisions and bitter gossip, looked Monroe up and down, her eyes lingering on her dress, on her hand in Elijah's.
"Monroe, honey," Brenda said, her voice dripping with condescension. "It's so good to see you out and about. We were just talking about you."
"I bet you were," Monroe replied, her voice even, her expression unreadable. It was a response she'd practiced in the mirror, a calm, cool indifference she hoped would pass for confidence.
Sheila, the quieter of the two, chimed in, her eyes flicking to Elijah. "And Elijah, it's... a surprise to see you here. With Monroe." The implication was clear, a subtle, venomous jab that hung in the air between them.
Monroe felt the old urge to flee, to apologize for her existence, but then she felt Elijah's thumb stroke the back of her hand, a small, silent gesture of encouragement. He wasn't going to fight this battle for her. This was hers to win.
"It's a surprise to be here," Monroe said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "But it's a nice day for a festival." She turned to Elijah, her eyes softening. "Right, baby?"
The endearment, casual and intimate, caught them off guard. Brenda's smile faltered, and Sheila's eyes widened slightly. They had expected a flustered, defensive girl, not a woman who was calmly, confidently claiming her place beside her man.
"Right," Elijah agreed, his voice a low, warm rumble. He looked at Monroe, his gaze full of a pride that was both fierce and tender. "A very nice day."
Brenda, clearly flustered, rallied. "Well, we should let you two get to your... date," she said, the word "date" dripping with scorn. "Don't want to keep you from your... fun."
Monroe just smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips. "You too," she said, her voice sweet as poison. "Enjoy your lemonade."
As they walked away, Monroe let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "I did it," she whispered, a thrill of triumph running through her.
Elijah stopped, turning to face her, his hands coming up to cup her face. "You did more than that, Roe," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You were incredible."
He leaned in to kiss her, a soft, sweet kiss that was a public declaration, a silent "fuck you" to anyone who dared to judge them. And as he kissed her, Monroe's eyes drifted over his shoulder, and she saw her.
Rose was standing across the square, a lone, dark figure in a sea of cheerful people. She wasn't with anyone. She was just standing there, watching them, her face a mask of hatred. Her eyes, cold and hard, were locked on them, on their kiss, on their happiness, and in that moment, Monroe knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Rose stood there, the cheerful festival music a grating soundtrack to her personal hell. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, her hands clenched into fists so hard her perfectly manicured nails dug into her palms. "Fucking slut," she seethed under her breath, the words a venomous hiss lost in the crowd's noise. "Goddamn tramp. Parading around here like she won the fucking lottery." Her eyes, burning with a hatred so intense it felt like a physical fever, were glued to Monroe's back, to the way she leaned into Elijah, to the easy intimacy of their joined hands. "And him," she spat, her voice a low, guttural growl. "That motherfucker. Look at him, playing the doting boyfriend. He was supposed to be mine. I sucked his dick in that fucking tent, and he was thinking about her. The whole goddamn time." The humiliation of it, the raw, public rejection, was a sour taste in her mouth, a bile that rose up and burned her throat.
A rustle of cheap fabric and the cloying scent of floral perfume announced their arrival before they even spoke. "Well, that was... something," Brenda said, coming to stand beside Rose, her arms crossed over her chest. Sheila flanked her other side, her expression a mixture of morbid curiosity and barely concealed glee.
Rose didn't look at them, her gaze still fixed on the happy couple, who were now sharing a funnel cake, laughing about something. "Did you see her?" Rose hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. "The way she was looking at him? Like she's some kind of prize he won? That little bitch has been dreaming of this since she was old enough to read her nasty little books."
"She certainly seems... comfortable," Sheila said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "You know, I always thought Monroe was such a shy girl. It's surprising to see her so... assertive."
"Assertive?" Rose scoffed, finally turning to look at them, her eyes wild. "She's a whore. She's always been a whore, just a quiet one. Hiding it behind her books and her 'shy' act. She saw something she wanted, and she spread her legs to get it. Just like her father."
Brenda's eyes widened, a flicker of malicious delight in their depths. "Rose, you don't mean that."
"Don't I?" Rose shot back, her voice sharp. "She's no better. And him... that old bastard. He's a predator. Plain and simple. He saw a young, impressionable girl and he took advantage. He's probably got a whole harem of them stashed somewhere."
"You know," Brenda said, leaning in conspiratorially, "I heard from Carol at the bank that he bought her that apartment. The one over on Maple. Paid for it in cash."
Rose's face tightened, a fresh wave of jealousy and anger washing over her. "Of course he did," she snarled. "That's how they do it. Buy them. Keep them. Like pets. He's not her boyfriend. He's her fucking pimp."
Sheila gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in a gesture of mock horror. "Oh, Rose, that's... that's a terrible thing to say."
"Is it?" Rose demanded, her eyes flashing. "Or is it the truth? He's twice her age. What else could it be? It's not love. It's a business transaction. And when he gets tired of her, and he will, he'll just move on to the next young piece of ass he can buy."
Brenda nodded, a thoughtful, calculating look on her face. "She does seem... different. More confident. It's not a good look on her. Makes her look cheap."
"She was always cheap," Rose said, her voice flat, cold. "She just hid it better. Now she's just wearing it like a cheap dress." She looked back at Monroe, who was now wiping a bit of powdered sugar from Elijah's lip, her smile bright and untroubled. A fresh wave of hatred, sharp and painful, washed over Rose. "But don't you worry," she said, her voice low and full of a chilling promise. "This won't last. Nothing good ever does for people like them. I'll make sure of it."
The community college library was Monroe's sanctuary, a quiet, hallowed space filled with the scent of old paper and the soft, rhythmic hum of the ventilation system. She was reshelving a cart of books in the history section, her movements methodical and calm, the familiar task a balm to her frayed nerves. The festival had been a victory, but it had also been exhausting, the constant weight of judgment a heavy cloak she was still learning to wear. Here, among the towering shelves and the silent, studious patrons, she could breathe.
She was just sliding a copy of "Beloved" into its rightful place when she felt it, a shift in the atmosphere, a disturbance in the quiet that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. She didn't have to turn around to know who it was. She could feel her mother's presence like a change in barometric pressure, a low-grade storm rolling in.
Rose didn't say anything at first, just stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, her presence a loud, obnoxious intrusion in the sacred silence. Monroe continued her work, her movements deliberate, her back straight. She wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
"You're still playing house with that old man?" Rose finally said, her voice a low, accusatory hiss that was loud enough to carry in the quiet library.
Monroe slowly turned around, her expression calm, her eyes clear. "Hello, Rose," she said, her voice even. "Is there something I can help you with? Are you looking for a book?"
Rose let out a short, humorless laugh. "A book? Honey, the only book you've been reading is the one he wrote for you. 'How to Be a Kept Woman for Dummies'." She took a step closer, her eyes raking over Monroe's simple work uniform, a black polo and khakis, with a disdainful curl of her lip. "I saw you two at the festival. Putting on a little show for everyone. It was pathetic. All that black and gold, like you were going to some kind of ball. You're not a princess, Monroe. You're a side piece. A young, dumb piece of ass he'll get tired of as soon as the next little thing with a tight pussy comes along."
Monroe felt a flash of the old hurt, the familiar sting of her mother's words, but it was quickly extinguished by a cold, hard anger. "He's not old," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "And I'm not playing house. I'm happy. I'm happier than I've ever been."
Rose's face tightened, her eyes narrowing. "Happy? You call this happy? Working in this dusty old library, living in an apartment he bought you, waiting for him to come by and fuck you? That's not happiness, baby. That's a prison. A gilded cage, and you're too stupid to see the bars."
"I see the bars," Monroe said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous level. "I just don't live in them anymore."
Rose's threat escalated, her voice rising, her words a venomous spray. "I'll make sure everyone knows he's taking advantage of you. I'll call the college. I'll call his job. I'll stand on a street corner with a megaphone and tell everyone what a predator he is. I'll ruin him. And I'll ruin you."
Monroe laughed, a short, sharp sound that was full of a bitter, heartbreaking wisdom. "You can't ruin me, Rose. You already did your best. For twenty-two years, you did your best to break me, to make me feel small, to make me believe I was nothing without you. But you failed. The only one taking advantage was you, all those years, taking advantage of my silence, my fear, my love. You're the one who's been taking advantage, not him."
Rose's face crumpled, the rage giving way to a wounded, desperate fury. "How dare you," she seethed, her voice trembling with emotion. "After everything I've done for you!"
"What you've done for me?" Monroe shot back, her voice rising, the dam of her silence finally breaking. "You mean the constant criticism? The backhanded compliments? The way you paraded me in front of your men like a prize pony? You want to talk about what you've done for me? Let's talk about Dad. Let's talk about why he really left."
The mention of Monroe's father, a ghost who haunted the edges of their lives, a man Rose rarely spoke of, hit Rose like a physical blow. "Don't you dare," she whispered, her face pale.
"No, let's talk about it," Monroe pressed, her voice sharp and unforgiving. "Is that why he left? Because he couldn't stand your miserable, bitter ass anymore? Is that why you've been so determined to make me as unhappy as you are? Because you're all alone and you can't stand to see anyone else, especially me, find a little bit of joy?"
The words hung in the air between them, a raw, ugly truth that Rose couldn't deny. Her face, a mask of fury and pain, crumpled, and for a moment, Monroe saw a flicker of the woman her mother used to be, a woman she barely remembered. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, hard hatred.
"You're a fucking bitch," Rose spat, her voice a low, venomous hiss.
"And you're a miserable, lonely woman who's lost the only daughter who ever gave a damn about you," Monroe replied, her voice quiet but steady. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
She turned her back on her mother, a final, definitive act of rebellion, and began reshelving her books, her hands steady, her heart a heavy, complicated mix of triumph and sorrow. She had won. But the victory felt hollow, the price of her freedom a relationship she could never get back.
The scent of garlic and herbs filled Monroe's small kitchen, a comforting aroma that did little to soothe the tension thrumming just beneath her skin. She pushed a piece of chicken around her plate, her appetite gone, the events of the afternoon replaying in her mind like a broken record. Elijah watched her from across the small table, his dark eyes observant, his own meal barely touched. He didn't press her, just waited, his quiet patience a familiar, comforting presence.
"She came to the library today," Monroe finally said, her voice quiet, the words heavy in the warm, intimate space of her apartment. She didn't have to say who. Elijah knew.
He put his fork down, his full attention on her. "What did she say?"
"The usual," Monroe said, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. "Called me a whore, said you were a predator, that this was all just a game to you." She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a fear she couldn't hide. "She threatened to call your job, Elijah. To ruin you. I'm scared. I'm scared she's going to ruin this before we even have a chance to... to take the next step."
Elijah reached across the table, his hand covering hers, his touch warm and grounding. "Let her," he said, his voice low and steady. "There's nothing she can do to ruin this. There's nothing she can say that matters. The only thing that matters is what's right here. Between us."
He stood up, holding out his hand. "Come with me."
She took it, letting him pull her from her chair and lead her to the bedroom. The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the bedside lamp, a warm, inviting space that smelled of her vanilla perfume and his clean, masculine scent. He stood her in front of the full-length mirror, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, reverent hum. "Look at how strong you are."
He slowly unbuttoned her work shirt, his fingers brushing against her skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He kissed each new inch of exposed skin, his lips soft and warm against her collarbone, her shoulder, the sensitive curve of her neck. He wasn't just undressing her; he was worshipping her, his touch a silent prayer against her skin, a healing balm for the wounds her mother's words had left behind.
He eased her back onto the bed slowly, carefully, like he understood the weight of touching her this way. The sheets beneath her were warm and tangled from where they’d been moving together all evening, but the moment he settled between her thighs, everything else faded into the background. His large hands spread her open with quiet patience, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her shiver. Not hunger alone. Reverence. Like he was looking at something he’d wanted for a long time and still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have.
When his mouth finally found her, Monroe’s breath caught hard in her throat.
It wasn’t rushed. He tasted her slowly, deliberately, tongue dragging through her folds in long strokes that felt almost cruel in how thorough they were. Like he wanted to memorize her. Learn every twitch of her body, every sound she made when he touched the right spot. The first moan that escaped her was broken and helpless, her back arching instantly off the mattress as pleasure rippled through her in hot waves.
“Elijah—”
His name barely left her mouth before he was kissing her there again, softer this time, slower, letting his tongue flatten against her clit in a wet, patient stroke that made her thighs shake around his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he murmured against her, voice roughened by want. “There she is.”
He worshipped her with his mouth like he had something to prove. Not greedy. Not careless. Devoted. Every flick of his tongue, every slow suck of his lips carried a kind of intimacy that made her feel exposed in ways deeper than nakedness. He held her hips firmly when she started to squirm, grounding her while he kept eating her like he could stay there all night.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his mouth brushing her clit between words. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”
The praise hit her almost harder than the pleasure. Her fingers tangled into his hair, thighs trembling uncontrollably as he groaned low against her, the sound vibrating straight through her body.
“You know what kills me?” he muttered, dragging his tongue deeper before looking up at her through hooded eyes. “You don’t even know what you do to people. Walk around all soft, all quiet… meanwhile you got me down here losing my fuckin’ mind.”
A sob caught in her throat when he sucked her clit gently into his mouth, tongue circling with maddening precision. Her hips jerked instinctively, chasing more, and Elijah gave it to her without hesitation. Slow at first. Then harder. Hungrier.
His hands slid up her stomach, spreading over her ribs like he wanted to hold her together while he unraveled her.
“You’re the strongest thing about her,” he said softly, almost to himself. “The part that survived.”
Monroe whimpered, overwhelmed by the tenderness buried beneath the filth of it all. Beneath the way he ate her like she was sacred.
His tongue pushed deeper again, drawing another helpless cry from her lips. The rhythm he found was relentless now, steady, practiced, devastating. Every stroke pulled her tighter, wound her nerves thinner and thinner until she was shaking beneath him.
“I knew you’d taste sweet,” he groaned, eyes closing briefly as if savoring her. “Knew it the second I saw you.”
The words sent heat rushing through her body. Her legs tried to close around him, but he held them apart, keeping her open for him.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he coaxed, kissing her clit once before dragging his tongue over it again. “Come for me. Don’t hold back. I wanna feel it.”
And when she finally broke, she broke hard.
Her body arched off the bed with a sharp cry, fingers tightening painfully in his hair as pleasure crashed through her all at once. Wave after wave. Hot, overwhelming, endless. Elijah stayed there through all of it, mouth still on her, drinking in every tremble and gasp like he needed it as badly as air.
By the time she collapsed back against the sheets, shaking and breathless, he was still kissing the inside of her thighs softly, reverently, like he hadn’t just ruined her with his mouth. Like he was grateful for her.
When he finally slid into her, Monroe felt it everywhere.
Not just the stretch, not just the heat, but the overwhelming rightness of him. The way his body settled over hers like he already knew exactly how to hold her. Elijah pushed into her slowly, deliberately, his forehead resting against hers while her breath caught in shallow little gasps between them.
“There you go,” he murmured. “That’s my girl.”
The praise melted through her instantly.
He moved with a deep, steady rhythm, every thrust unhurried but impossibly intimate, like he was trying to speak through touch alone. His body pressed her into the mattress, chest against chest, mouths brushing between breaths. Monroe wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him deeper, needing more of him than her body even knew how to take.
And Elijah gave it to her.
Slow strokes. Deep ones. The kind that left her shaking afterward, eyes glossy and unfocused while he watched every reaction like it mattered.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She did.
And the way he looked back nearly ruined her.
Not pride. Not conquest. Something warmer. Hungrier. Like seeing her come alive was doing something irreversible to him too.
A new feeling unfurled inside Monroe then — not submission, not insecurity, not the timid softness her mother had spent years mocking out of her. This was confidence. Ownership. A quiet, burning understanding that she was allowed to take up space. Allowed to want.
Without breaking eye contact, she pushed lightly against his chest.
Elijah blinked in surprise but let her move him.
The shift made the sheets twist beneath them as Monroe climbed over him slowly, settling on top of him with trembling thighs and flushed cheeks. For a second, she hesitated, looking down at him spread beneath her — older, bigger, still devastatingly composed despite the way his hands instantly gripped her hips.
Then she moved.
Slow at first.
Her hips rolled experimentally, drawing a low groan from his chest that made heat rush all the way through her body. Monroe straightened a little, hands planted against his chest, while she found a rhythm that belonged entirely to her. The confidence was growing in her with every breath, every gasp he failed to hold back.
And Monroe realized something dangerous in that moment: she liked being watched by him. Loved it. Loved the way he looked at her like she was unfolding into something beautiful right in front of him.
She rode him slower, deeper, savoring the drag of him inside her while Elijah’s hands slid over her thighs, her waist, her stomach, like he couldn’t stop touching her now that he had permission.
“This body belongs to me now,” he groaned, fingers digging into her hips as she rolled against him harder. “But your soul?” He looked up at her, eyes dark and honest. “That was always yours, Monroe. Nobody gets to take that from you.”
The words cracked something open inside her.
She came with a soft cry, body trembling as the pleasure rolled through her in slow, overwhelming waves. Elijah sat up enough to catch her against his chest while she shook through it, his mouth pressing against her shoulder, her throat, her jaw.
“Good girl,” he breathed, wrecked by the sight of her. “That’s it.”
He followed soon after, holding her close through the release, his forehead pressed against her collarbone while they both tried to catch their breath.
Afterward, they stayed tangled together beneath the sheets, skin warm and damp, the room heavy with the quiet intimacy that only came after honesty stripped you bare.
Elijah’s hand moved lazily along her back, fingertips tracing slow circles over her skin.
“You should write,” he said eventually, voice low and sleep-rough in the dark.
Monroe lifted her head slightly. “What?”
“Your stories.” He glanced down at her. “The way you think. The stuff you carry around in that head.” His thumb brushed her shoulder gently. “You’ve got a voice, Roe. A real one. Don’t let anybody convince you to stay quiet just because silence makes them comfortable.”
Her chest tightened painfully.
Because no one had ever said things like that to her before.
No one had ever looked at her and seen possibility instead of disappointment.
She curled closer into him, resting her head against his chest while his heartbeat thudded steadily beneath her ear.
Monroe realized love might not be loud. Maybe it was this. Being seen clearly. And staying anyway.
The first rumor Monroe heard came from a cashier at the grocery store, a woman whose name tag read 'Brenda' and whose smile was as thin and brittle as old wax. Monroe was standing in the checkout line on a humid Thursday afternoon, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant and rotting produce, flipping absentmindedly through a tabloid with a headline about a three-headed baby while the cashier scanned her things, the organic almond milk, the fresh basil, the good dark chocolate she only bought when she felt brave. Then the older woman leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried in the quiet of the lane, her breath smelling of spearmint gum and stale coffee.
"You be careful with that older man, honey. Heard he's got a temper."
Monroe looked up slowly, the tabloid crinkling in her hand. "Excuse me?"
The cashier shrugged, her eyes darting nervously toward the manager's office before landing back on Monroe. "People talk. That's all. Just saying, a man his age... there's usually a reason he's with someone so young. And it ain't always pretty." She went back to scanning the groceries, the beep of the machine a sharp, accusatory rhythm in the sudden silence.
People talk.
The phrase followed Monroe everywhere after that, a shadow she couldn't shake, a low, persistent hum of judgment that seemed to emanate from the very pavement of the town.
At the nail salon, where she went to get her nails done in a deep, glossy gold, a color that made her feel bold. The technician, a woman named Sheila who had done Rose's nails for years, clucked her tongue as she filed Monroe's cuticles. "That's a real pretty color, Monroe. Real grown-up. You must be trying to impress somebody." She paused, her eyes meeting Monroe's in the mirror. "Just be careful, honey. A man like that... he's used to getting his way. And when he's done... he's done."
At the library, her sanctuary, her safe space, she overheard two of her colleagues whispering in the breakroom as she made a cup of tea. "I'm just saying, it's a little... convenient, isn't it?" one of them, a mousy woman named Carol, was saying. "She gets this great apartment, this new car... all of a sudden she's living the high life. And for what? A few months with a man who's old enough to be her father?" The other one, a stern, judgmental woman named Agnes, sniffed. "It's a classic case. He's grooming her. Mark my words. By the time he's done with her, she won't have anything left."
At the coffee shop downtown, where Elijah bought her drinks every Saturday morning, a place she used to love, now felt like a minefield. The barista, a young woman with a nose ring and a perpetually bored expression, would hand Monroe her vanilla latte with a look that was a mixture of pity and contempt. "Here you go," she'd say, her voice flat. "On him." And then, as Monroe turned to leave, she'd hear her mutter to her coworker, "Seriously? She's like, twelve. It's so gross."
People talk.
Apparently, Elijah had slept with half the county, a long, sordid history of broken hearts and bitter women who were all too eager to share their stories with anyone who would listen. Apparently, he'd been sued before, a messy business deal gone south, a testament to his volatile temper and his inability to play by the rules. Apparently, he liked "young girls," a preference that was common knowledge among certain circles, a dark, dirty secret that was whispered about in hushed tones behind closed doors. Apparently, Monroe was just the newest one, the latest in a long line of naive, impressionable girls who had fallen for his charm and his money, a temporary distraction who would soon be discarded like all the others.
By the second week, the rumors had sharpened teeth, growing more specific, more vicious, more believable.
One woman, a neighbor of Rose's, whispered to another over a fence as Monroe walked to her car, that Elijah had bought Monroe's apartment because she was pregnant. "She's already starting to show, did you see? That's why he's keeping her so close. He's trying to lock her down." Another, a woman who worked at the bank, said Monroe had been messing with him while Rose was still seeing him, a betrayal of the highest order. "She was always a sneaky one," she'd said, her voice dripping with self-righteous indignation. "Playing the innocent act while she was stabbing her own mother in the back. It's just disgusting." Someone else, a man who worked at the lumber yard next to Elijah's office, claimed Elijah had anger issues and had been fired from a previous job for threatening a client, a violent outburst that had been hushed up but was well-known in certain circles. "He's a loose cannon," he'd said, his eyes wide with feigned concern. "I wouldn't want to be in her shoes when he finally snaps."
None of it was true.
But truth had never mattered much in towns like this.
Especially not when people smelled blood.
Elijah's construction company sat on the edge of town in a renovated brick building beside a lumber yard, the sign out front, MOORE CONTRACTING & DEVELOPMENT, a stark, bold statement in black and gold lettering. The parking lot was filled with heavy-duty trucks and vans, the air thick with the smell of sawdust and concrete dust and the bitter, rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the pot in the breakroom.
Monroe loved being there.
Loved the smell of sawdust and concrete dust and coffee, a scent that was uniquely his, a scent that made her feel safe, grounded. Loved the deep sound of Elijah's voice carrying through the office while crews moved in and out all morning, a low, steady rumble that was a comforting, constant presence in the chaos of the busy office. Loved the way everyone straightened up a little when he walked through the room, a subtle, almost unconscious sign of respect that was a testament to the kind of man he was.
He wasn't just respected.
He was solid.
The kind of man people trusted to build things that lasted.
Which was why seeing him angry unsettled her so badly.
Monroe arrived one afternoon to find him sitting behind his desk in complete silence, one thick forearm resting against the dark, polished wood while paperwork sat scattered in front of him, a chaotic mess of contracts, invoices, and blueprints. He was staring at the wall, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and distant, a storm cloud gathering in the otherwise bright, sun-drenched office.
He looked up when she entered, his gaze slowly shifting from the wall to her, a movement that was slow, deliberate, and filled with a cold, simmering rage.
That alone told her something was wrong.
Usually, his face softened the second he saw her, a slow, sweet smile spreading across his lips, his eyes warming with a love that was so intense it was almost overwhelming.
Not today.
"What happened?" she asked quietly, her voice barely a whisper in the tense silence.
Elijah leaned back in his chair slowly, the leather creaking in protest, his jaw tight. "Your mother called the licensing board."
Monroe froze, her heart stopping, the air suddenly thick and heavy, hard to breathe.
"She told them I was sleeping with employees. Told them I was using company money to keep you in that apartment." He laughed once, a cold, humorless sound that was sharp and brittle. "Even implied I coerced you into the relationship."
Heat rushed to Monroe's face instantly, a hot, suffocating wave of humiliation, rage, disbelief all crashing together, a toxic cocktail that made her feel sick to her stomach. "She what?"
"She also called two of my clients." His eyes met hers directly, his gaze a cold, hard steel. "Told them I was unstable. That I had a history of violence. That I was a danger to be around."
Monroe stared at him, her mind reeling, the words a jumbled mess of incomprehensible horror.
For a second, she couldn't even breathe, her lungs burning, her chest tight with a pain that was sharp and suffocating.
Then came the guilt.
Heavy. Crushing. A weight that settled in her stomach like a stone, a cold, hard knot of responsibility that made her want to curl into a ball and disappear.
"This is my fault."
Elijah's expression hardened immediately, his eyes flashing with a cold, dangerous fire. "Don't you dare."
"But if she wasn't mad at me—"
"She's not doing this because of you." His voice was sharp enough to cut through her spiral instantly, a blade of pure, unadulterated truth. "She's doing this because she lost control."
The words settled heavily between them, a cold, hard truth that was both a comfort and a curse.
Lost control.
Not lost Elijah.
Not lost the fantasy she'd built around him.
Lost Monroe.
And somehow, realizing that hurt worse, a sharp, piercing pain that was more intense than any of the rumors, any of the gossip.
Monroe sank into the chair across from him slowly, her body feeling heavy, her movements stiff and awkward. She rubbed her hands together nervously, the friction a small, futile attempt to ward off the chill that had settled deep in her bones. "Are you gonna sue her?"
"I could."
The way he said it made it clear he already had lawyers willing to move, a team of legal sharks ready to tear her mother apart, piece by piece.
"She's making false accusations against my business. Harassment. Defamation." His jaw flexed, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Wouldn't be hard."
Monroe looked down at the floor, at the scuffed linoleum, at the dust motes dancing in the sliver of sunlight that cut through the blinds.
Then quietly:
"Don't."
Elijah watched her carefully, his expression unreadable, his eyes searching hers. "Roe—"
"I know she deserves it." Her voice cracked softly, a fragile, broken sound. "I know she's being awful. But if you destroy her…" She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat a painful, stubborn obstruction. "There'll be nothing left."
Something shifted in Elijah's face then.
Not frustration.
Not anger.
Understanding.
A deep, profound understanding that made her heart ache with a love so intense it was almost painful.
He leaned forward, elbows braced against the desk, his body a solid, reassuring presence in the midst of the chaos. "You still love her."
Monroe laughed bitterly, a short, sharp sound that was devoid of any humor. "Unfortunately."
A long silence stretched between them, a heavy, contemplative quiet that was filled with unspoken words and shared understanding.
Then Elijah sighed through his nose and leaned back again, his body relaxing slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Alright."
"Alright?"
"I'll take the high road." He looked at her pointedly, his gaze a warm, steady anchor in the storm of her emotions. "For you."
Emotion tightened painfully in Monroe's chest, a warm, overwhelming rush of love and gratitude for this man who saw her, truly saw her, who loved her enough to fight for her, but also enough to let her fight her own battles.
Because that was the thing about Elijah:
When he loved, he did it deliberately.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
But completely.
She stood from the chair and crossed the office slowly, her movements fluid, graceful, with a newfound confidence in her stride. She stood between his knees, her body a warm, comforting presence in his space. His hands settled automatically on her hips, his touch a familiar, possessive caress.
"You shouldn't have to deal with this," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
His gaze lifted to hers calmly, his eyes a deep, dark pool of unwavering devotion. "Neither should you."
For a moment, Monroe just stood there in the quiet office, surrounded by blueprints and paperwork and the low hum of construction crews outside, the world outside a distant, irrelevant buzz.
Then something inside her settled.
Not fear.
Decision.
A cold, hard resolve that was as solid and unyielding as the man in front of her.
She pulled back slightly, her eyes steady now, her gaze clear and focused.
"No," she said quietly, her voice a low, determined hum. "I'm done letting her do this."
Elijah's brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise, and maybe a little pride, in his dark eyes. "What are you thinking?"
Monroe looked toward the office window, toward the town outside, a place that had once felt like a prison, but now felt like a battlefield.
Then back at him.
"I'm going to talk to her."
And from the look on Elijah's face—
He knew this wouldn't end quietly.
Rose's house looked smaller than Monroe remembered, a dollhouse version of a home, its once-imposing stature diminished by the simple act of distance. Maybe it always had been. Maybe Monroe had just spent too many years shrinking herself inside it, folding herself into corners and closets, mistaking the walls for something bigger than they were, mistaking the ceiling for the sky. The porch light was on even though the sun hadn't fully gone down, casting a yellow, tired glow that spilled over the front steps, catching the chipped paint along the railing like a confession, highlighting the hanging flower basket Rose always forgot to water, its once-vibrant petals now brown and brittle, and the old welcome mat that had turned gray from years of being stepped on, its faded 'Welcome' a hollow, ironic greeting.
Monroe stood at the bottom of the steps for a long moment, the evening air thick and heavy, the sound of distant traffic a low, mournful hum. She took a deep breath, the scent of cut grass and car exhaust filling her lungs, a smell that was once the smell of home, but now smelled only of the past. Then she climbed them, her movements slow, deliberate, each step a small act of defiance.
She didn't knock softly. Three firm hits rattled against the wood, a sharp, insistent rhythm that was a stark contrast to the hesitant, apologetic knocks of her past.
Rose opened the door almost immediately, like she'd been waiting behind it the entire time, her hand already on the knob, her body tense with nervous energy. Her eyes swept Monroe from head to toe, quick and cutting, a surgeon's gaze, looking for weakness, for flaws, for something to exploit.
"Well," she said coldly, her voice a sharp, brittle thing. "Look who remembered where she came from."
Monroe stepped inside without being invited, her movements fluid, confident, a silent claim to the space she had once been so afraid to occupy.
Rose's mouth tightened, a thin, hard line of disapproval. "Excuse you."
"I'm giving you one chance to stop this."
The words landed hard between them, a heavy, undeniable truth that hung in the air like the smell of stale cigarette smoke.
Rose let out a sharp, ugly laugh and shut the door behind her, the sound a final, definitive thud. "Stop what? Telling the truth?"
"No," Monroe replied, turning to face her fully, her gaze a steady, unwavering flame. "Lying because you're embarrassed."
Something flickered across Rose's face, a brief, almost imperceptible crack in her armor, a flicker of the wounded woman hiding beneath the rage.
The living room looked the same. The same glass coffee table, its surface pristine, untouched. The same too-white couch nobody was allowed to sit on unless company came over, its stiff, unwelcoming form a testament to a life lived for others. The same framed pictures of Monroe as a child lined neatly across the mantel like evidence Rose wanted displayed, a curated collection of a childhood that never really existed.
Monroe's eyes landed on one photograph in particular. She couldn't have been older than eight, standing in a yellow sundress with a gap-toothed smile stretched across her face, a look of pure, unadulterated joy that was almost painful to see now.
Rose followed her gaze and scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound. "You used to be sweet."
"I used to be scared."
The silence that followed was brief but heavy, a thick, suffocating blanket of unspoken words and shared history.
Then Rose folded her arms across her chest, a defensive, protective gesture. "Don't come into my house acting grown because some man is paying your rent."
A humorless smile touched Monroe's mouth, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips. "There it is."
"What?"
"That thing you do. You can't talk about me without trying to make me feel bought."
Rose tilted her head, a predator assessing its prey. "Aren't you?"
Monroe's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek.
Rose stepped closer, her voice rising, a sharp, escalating crescendo of anger. "He bought you an apartment. He buys you food. Clothes. Takes you around town like some shiny little toy. What exactly would you call that?"
"Support."
"I call it stupid."
"No," Monroe said quietly, her voice a low, steady hum of defiance. "You call it stupid because no man ever supported you unless he wanted something between your legs."
Rose's eyes flashed instantly, a dangerous, predatory light.
"There she is," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. "That mouth. You think because you've been laying up under Elijah you can talk to me however you want?"
"I think because I'm grown, I can finally talk to you honestly."
Rose laughed again, but this time it cracked at the edges, a brittle, broken sound. "Grown. You keep saying that like it magically makes it true. You're twenty-two, Monroe. Twenty-two. You don't know anything about men like him."
"And you do?"
Rose's face hardened, a mask of cold, impenetrable fury.
Monroe tilted her head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible movement, a gesture of quiet confidence. "Because he rejected you?"
For a split second, Rose looked like she might slap her again, her hand raising slightly, a phantom limb remembering a past violence.
"Careful," Rose warned quietly, her voice a low, dangerous hum.
"No," Monroe shot back, her voice sharp, clear, a blade of pure, unadulterated truth. "I've been careful my whole life. I'm tired."
Rose's breath hitched sharply, a small, almost imperceptible sound of pain. "You think you won something? You think him choosing you means you're better than me?"
Monroe blinked slowly, her gaze a calm, steady pool of understanding.
And there it was.
The real wound.
Not morality. Not concern. Not motherhood.
Jealousy.
Plain, ugly jealousy.
"Mama…"
"Don't." Rose pointed at her immediately, her finger a sharp, accusatory jab. "Don't you 'Mama' me now."
Monroe's voice softened despite herself, a small, involuntary crack in her armor. "I don't want to hate you."
Rose's expression changed for just a second, a flicker of something vulnerable, something exhausted, something lonely.
Monroe took a careful step closer, her movements slow, deliberate, a peace offering. "I mean that. I don't want this. I don't want to keep fighting you. I don't want to carry around every awful thing you've said to me for the rest of my life."
Rose blinked rapidly, eyes suddenly shining, a sheen of unshed tears. "You humiliated me."
Monroe swallowed hard, the lump in her throat a painful, stubborn obstruction. "I know."
"No, you don't." Rose's voice cracked open, a raw, wounded sound. "You don't know what it feels like to sit beside a man and know he's somewhere else. To touch him and feel him thinking about somebody else."
Monroe went still, her breath catching in her throat.
Rose gave a bitter laugh through her tears, a harsh, broken sound. "Yeah. I know exactly what he told you. He probably made it sound beautiful too, didn't he? Like you were some dream he couldn't resist."
Monroe didn't answer, her silence a quiet acknowledgment of the truth in her mother's words.
"I was right there," Rose whispered, voice shaking harder now, a fragile, broken thing. "I was right there, Monroe. And he wanted you."
The words came out small.
Broken.
For one painful moment, Monroe finally saw her mother clearly, not as some untouchable villain, but as a woman who had spent so much of her life being unwanted that she'd learned how to make everyone else feel small before they could do it to her first.
"I'm sorry that hurt you," Monroe said quietly, her voice a soft, gentle murmur.
Rose's eyes snapped up immediately, a flash of the old anger returning. "Don't patronize me."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are." Rose wiped furiously at her cheeks, her movements sharp, agitated. "Standing there with your calm little voice and your therapy-speak bullshit like you're better than me now."
"I'm trying not to be cruel."
"Well, try harder," Rose spat, her voice a venomous hiss. "Because you're bad at it."
Monroe's chest tightened painfully, a sharp, piercing ache.
Rose stepped forward again, eyes wet and vicious, a cornered animal lashing out. "You think he loves you? He loves that you're young. He loves that you still look at him like he hung the moon. Give it a few years. Give it stretch marks, bills, bad moods, and real life. Then see if he still calls you his sweet girl."
Monroe flinched, a small, almost imperceptible movement, a crack in her composure.
Rose saw it immediately and smiled, a small, triumphant curve of her lips.
There she was again.
The mother who knew exactly where to cut.
"He'll get tired," Rose whispered cruelly, her voice a low, venomous hum. "They always do."
Monroe looked down at the floor for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the worn, faded pattern of the carpet.
Then she looked back up, her eyes clear, her gaze steady.
"Maybe."
Rose blinked, surprised by her response.
"Maybe he will," Monroe continued softly, her voice a quiet, steady hum of acceptance. "Maybe I'll get my heart broken. Maybe I'll look stupid. Maybe this whole thing blows up in my face."
Her voice steadied, a quiet, unwavering strength.
"But it'll be mine. My love. My mistake. My life. Not yours."
Rose's face twisted instantly, a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "You ungrateful little—"
"I came here to give you a chance," Monroe cut in firmly, her voice a sharp, clear blade of truth. "To stop calling people. Stop spreading lies. Stop trying to turn everyone against me because you can't handle being alone with yourself."
Rose stared at her in stunned silence, her mouth slightly agape, a rare moment of speechlessness.
Monroe's voice dropped lower. Quieter. More dangerous.
"I don't want to hate you," she said, her voice a low, steady hum of warning. "But I will stop loving you close-up."
That one landed.
Rose's mouth opened slightly before snapping shut again, a fish out of water, gasping for air.
"You can be my mother from a distance," Monroe continued, tears finally burning behind her eyes, a hot, stinging blur, "or you can be nothing from up close. That's your choice."
Rose's face went cold all over again, a mask of icy, impenetrable fury. "You really think you're something now, don't you?"
Monroe let out a tired laugh, a small, weary sound. "No. That's the sad part." She shook her head slowly, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "I'm just now realizing I always was."
The hatred that filled Rose's eyes then looked almost helpless, a desperate, flailing thing.
"Get out of my house."
Monroe nodded once, a small, definitive gesture.
No screaming.
No begging.
No dramatic collapse.
Just exhaustion.
She turned and walked toward the front door, her movements slow, deliberate, a final, quiet act of defiance.
Behind her, Rose's voice shook, a last, desperate attempt to wound.
"When he leaves you, don't come crying back to me."
Monroe paused with her hand resting on the doorknob, the cool metal a grounding, solid presence.
For one brief second, the little girl inside her wanted to turn around. Wanted to ask why love had always sounded like a threat coming from her mother. Wanted to ask why being wanted had made Rose hate her so much.
Instead, Monroe looked back only once, her gaze a calm, steady pool of acceptance.
"I won't."
Then she opened the door and stepped out into the evening air.
The heat outside wrapped around her instantly, thick with the sound of cicadas and distant traffic humming through town, a symphony of life that was a stark contrast to the suffocating silence of the house she had just left.
Monroe walked down the porch steps slowly, her hands shaking hard enough to hurt, a physical manifestation of the emotional storm she had just weathered.
But her back stayed straight.
And for the first time in her life, leaving that house didn't feel like running.
It felt like closure.
Two months later, Monroe barely recognized the woman staring back at her in the mirror, her reflection a stranger who was somehow also more herself than she had ever been. Not because she looked dramatically different. She still wore her curls soft and natural, a dark, voluminous halo that framed her face. Still loved oversized sweaters that felt like a hug and dark romance novels with spines cracked from use and vanilla perfume that smelled like warmth and comfort. Still spoke gently when she wanted to, her voice a soft, low murmur that could soothe or command. But there was something steadier in her now, a quiet, unshakeable confidence that settled deep in her bones, a foundation that had been built, stone by stone, in the crucible of the last few months. Something settled. The woman looking back at her no longer seemed apologetic for existing, her gaze a calm, steady pool of self-acceptance, her shoulders back, her chin level, a quiet, unspoken defiance in the set of her jaw.
The change had happened slowly, almost quietly, in the way real transformations usually did, a slow, steady erosion of the old self, a gradual emergence of the new. Not overnight. Not all at once. But through dozens of small choices that slowly became a life, a thousand tiny rebellions, a million quiet affirmations, each one a step away from the girl she used to be and toward the woman she was always meant to be.
Elijah's house no longer felt like somewhere she was visiting, a place she was borrowing, a temporary haven. It felt like home. A deep, soul-deep belonging that settled in her heart like a warm, comforting presence. Her books had taken over entire sections of his shelves, their colorful spines a vibrant, chaotic splash against the orderly, monochrome world of his architecture magazines and old vinyl records. Her skin-care products, a collection of bottles and jars in various shades of pastel and white, crowded his bathroom counter beside his beard trimmer and cologne, a small, domestic invasion that he seemed to welcome, a quiet acceptance of her presence in his space. Her satin bonnet, a black, silky thing, hung from the bedpost almost permanently now, a small, intimate detail that was a testament to their shared nights, and her soft laughter had become part of the rhythm of the place, settling naturally into the deep quiet the house used to carry, a melody that filled the once-still spaces with warmth and life.
The first night she officially moved in, Elijah stood in the doorway of his bedroom, which was now their bedroom, watching her unpack with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, amusement softening his face, his gaze a warm, appreciative caress. "You own a ridiculous amount of books," he'd said, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.
Monroe sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, surrounded by a chaotic sea of paperbacks, her movements fluid, graceful, and she smiled without looking up, her focus on the task at hand. "You knew that already."
"Didn't know it was this bad."
"It's not bad," she argued, her voice a playful, indignant hum. "It's intellectual."
He snorted quietly and walked over, crouching beside her, his large frame a comforting, solid presence. He picked up one of her heavily annotated romance novels, its pages filled with highlighted passages and handwritten notes in the margins. "This one got more tabs than a law textbook."
"That's because it's good," she said, her voice a firm, unwavering declaration.
His eyes skimmed a highlighted passage, a particularly steamy scene about a dominant, possessive hero, before he looked at her knowingly, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "This the kind of shit that had you looking at me crazy at the lake?"
Monroe nearly choked laughing, a bright, pealing sound that was full of joy and a little bit of embarrassment. "Elijah!"
"What?" His grin spread slowly, a slow, confident curve of his lips. "You thought I didn't notice?"
She grabbed the book from him, her cheeks warm, a blush that was a mix of pleasure and shyness, while he leaned forward and kissed her smiling mouth, a soft, sweet kiss that was a promise, a declaration, a homecoming.
Moments like that had become their normal now. Easy. Intimate. Real. A quiet, domestic bliss that was more profound, more meaningful, than any grand, passionate declaration. And somehow, those quiet moments meant as much to Monroe as the sex did. Maybe more.
Elijah's house sat just outside town, tucked behind a line of tall, whispering trees with enough land around it to feel private, a sanctuary from the prying eyes and judgmental whispers of the town. Peaceful. Safe. Most mornings, Monroe woke before him, the early morning light a soft, gentle glow that filtered through the blinds, painting stripes of gold and shadow across the floor. She'd slip from bed wrapped in one of his T-shirts, the soft, worn cotton a comforting, familiar scent, and wander barefoot into the kitchen while the sunrise spilled gold across the dark, granite countertops, a silent, beautiful spectacle that she now had the luxury to witness.
Sometimes she wrote in the mornings now, curled up at the island with a steaming mug of coffee beside her laptop, the rhythmic clatter of the keys a quiet, steady hum, while Elijah slept upstairs, his deep, even breathing a comforting, distant presence. At first, the writing had terrified her, a deep, paralyzing fear that had its roots in years of being told her dreams were silly, her voice was unimportant, her stories were a waste of time. Not because she couldn't do it. Because she could. The words flowed from her, a torrent of stories and characters and emotions that she had kept locked away for so long, a dam that had finally broken.
Creative writing classes at the community college had started as a nervous impulse, something she'd signed up for at two in the morning before she could talk herself out of it, a reckless, brave act of self-belief. The first day of class, she'd nearly turned around in the parking lot, her heart pounding, her hands shaking, a wave of self-doubt so strong it was almost a physical force. But then she walked in. And nobody laughed at her. Nobody rolled their eyes when she spoke, her voice a quiet, hesitant murmur that grew stronger with each passing week. Nobody made her feel stupid for loving words too much, for seeing the world in stories, for finding beauty in the broken, the messy, the complicated.
Her professor, a sharp-eyed Black woman named Dr. Bennett, with a halo of natural gray hair and a no-nonsense attitude, had stopped Monroe after class during the second week. "You write like somebody who's spent a long time observing people quietly," she'd said, her voice a low, thoughtful hum.
Monroe had blinked nervously, her hands clutching her notebook, a familiar, old fear creeping in. "Is that bad?"
"No," Dr. Bennett replied, her gaze a steady, encouraging force. "It's dangerous. In the best way."
Monroe thought about that sentence for days afterward, turning it over and over in her mind, a small, precious gem of validation. Dangerous. In the best way. Nobody had ever described her like that before.
The friendships came slowly, too, like wildflowers pushing through concrete, fragile but resilient. A girl from class named Kiara, with a bright, infectious laugh and a fearless, unapologetic energy, started sitting beside her regularly, her presence a warm, welcome addition to Monroe's quiet, solitary world. Then came study sessions at coffee shops, the air thick with the scent of roasted beans and the low, steady hum of conversation. Group chats. Late-night memes. Inside jokes. A slow, steady accumulation of shared moments and experiences that wove a tapestry of belonging.
And eventually questions.
"So," Kiara asked one afternoon over iced coffees, the condensation dripping down the sides of the plastic cups, "are you ever gonna tell me why your man picks you up looking like a fine-ass R&B album cover every day?"
Monroe nearly spit out her drink laughing, a bright, unexpected sound that turned a few heads. "What?"
"That man is fine," Kiara said shamelessly, her eyes wide with appreciation. "Intimidating as hell, but fine. Like, he could be on the cover of a romance novel. You know, the ones you're always reading."
Monroe shook her head, smiling into her cup, a small, secret smile that was just for her.
The old Monroe would've hidden. Would've downplayed. Would've apologized for the relationship before anyone could judge her for it, a knee-jerk reaction to a lifetime of being made to feel small. But this version of Monroe simply smiled and said, "Yeah. He is."
And that was that. No shame. No shrinking. Just a quiet, confident statement of fact.
Of course, the town still talked. Small towns always did, their memories long, their judgments unforgiving. But Monroe had stopped letting whispers crawl beneath her skin, their poison no longer able to penetrate the armor of her self-worth. One afternoon at the beauty supply store, an older woman Monroe vaguely recognized from church, a woman with a tight, pinched face and a perpetual air of disapproval, gave her a long once-over before muttering loudly enough for everyone in the aisle to hear: "Must be nice getting spoiled by somebody's daddy."
The old Monroe would've pretended not to hear it, would've shrunk, would've let the words sink in, a slow, corrosive poison. This Monroe turned around calmly, her gaze a steady, unflinching force. "It is nice," she replied pleasantly, her voice a sweet, calm poison of her own. "You should try dating somebody who likes you."
The woman's mouth fell open, a silent, gaping O of shock.
Monroe simply smiled and kept walking, a small, triumphant spring in her step.
Later that night, she told Elijah what happened while sitting on the bathroom counter watching him shave, the rhythmic scrape of the razor against his skin a familiar, comforting sound. He laughed so hard he had to stop halfway through, a deep, booming sound that filled the small space with warmth and joy. "That's evil," he said, wiping shaving cream from his face, his eyes sparkling with amusement and pride.
"She started it."
"I know." His eyes met hers in the mirror, pride warming his expression, a deep, appreciative glow. "Still evil though."
Monroe grinned, her heart swelling with a love so intense it was almost painful. And God, she loved making him laugh.
Their relationship deepened in ways Monroe hadn't expected, a slow, steady unfolding of intimacy and trust that was more profound, more meaningful, than any grand, passionate declaration. Not through grand gestures or dramatic pronouncements. But through consistency. Through the small, quiet, everyday moments that were the building blocks of a life together. Elijah bringing her coffee before class without asking her order anymore, a small, thoughtful gesture that said "I see you" more than any words could. Monroe rubbing his shoulders after long days at work while he vented about contractors and budgets, her hands a soothing, steady presence that eased the tension from his muscles. Late-night grocery store runs, their cart filled with a random assortment of their favorite things, was a quiet, domestic ritual that was a testament to their shared life. Falling asleep tangled together on the couch while movies played forgotten in the background, their bodies a comfortable, familiar tangle of limbs. Arguments that ended in conversation instead of cruelty, a willingness to listen, to understand, to compromise. Real things. Adult things.
One rainy evening, Monroe found Elijah sitting alone on the back porch after work, nursing a glass of whiskey while thunder rolled softly in the distance, the sound a low, steady rumble that matched the mood. She stepped outside, wrapped in one of his hoodies, the soft, worn fabric a comforting, familiar scent, and slid into the chair beside him, her presence a quiet, supportive force.
"You okay?"
Elijah looked out into the rain for a long moment, his gaze distant, his thoughts a million miles away, before answering. "Just tired."
Monroe rested her head against his shoulder quietly, a silent offering of comfort, a willingness to share his burden, whatever it was.
After a minute, he spoke again, his voice a low, hesitant murmur, a rare vulnerability that made her heart ache. "You know what scares me?"
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his, a silent question.
"You trusting me this much."
The honesty in his voice caught her off guard, a raw, open admission of fear from a man who was usually so strong, so sure, so in control. Elijah rarely sounded afraid of anything, his confidence a steady, unwavering force.
"You've given me a lot of power over you," he continued quietly, his gaze fixed on the rain, a distant, unfocused look in his eyes. "And I know what kind of man people think I am because of that."
Monroe frowned slightly, a small, worried crease forming between her brows. "What kind of man do you think you are?"
He looked down at the whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid a dark, swirling vortex of his thoughts. "Still figuring that out."
Monroe took the glass gently from his hand and set it aside on the small table beside them, a quiet, decisive act. Then she climbed into his lap sideways, her arms looping around his neck, her body a warm, comforting weight against his. "I don't trust you because you're older," she whispered, her voice a soft, steady hum of reassurance. "Or because you take care of me."
His eyes lifted to hers slowly, a flicker of hope, of understanding, in their dark depths.
"I trust you because you see me correctly."
Something vulnerable flickered across Elijah's face then, a raw, open wound that she had the power to heal. His hands settled against her thighs carefully, almost reverently, a touch that was both possessive and tender.
And Monroe realized something important in that moment: Elijah wasn't teaching her how to become someone else. He was teaching her how to stop abandoning herself.
By the end of the second month, Monroe's voice no longer trembled when she used it. Not in class, where she now spoke with a quiet, confident authority. Not in public, where she could hold her own in a conversation, her gaze a steady, unwavering force. Not even with Rose, a thought that once would have sent a wave of fear through her, but now was just a fact, a part of her past that she had faced and overcome. Especially not with Rose.
The calls had slowed eventually, the angry, vitriolic tirades giving way to a few, last-ditch attempts at manipulation, then stopped almost entirely, a silence that was both a relief and a strange, hollow kind of grief. Sometimes Monroe still missed her mother. Or maybe she missed the idea of who she wished Rose could've been, a ghost of a possibility that would never be. But grief no longer controlled her, a sharp, piercing pain that had once dictated her every move. It simply existed beside everything else now, a quiet, manageable ache, a scar that had faded from angry red to a pale, silvery white.
One evening, Monroe sat at Elijah's dining room table, surrounded by notebooks, her laptop open, a story taking shape on the screen, while he worked nearby on blueprints for a new housing project, his focus a testament to his dedication, his passion. Music played softly through the house, a low, warm, soulful melody that filled the space with a sense of peace and contentment. Elijah glanced up eventually, his gaze a warm, appreciative caress. "What're you writing?"
Monroe looked down at the page, smiling to herself, a small, secret smile that was just for her. "A story."
"Yeah?" His mouth curved slightly, a slow, affectionate smile. "About what?"
She met his eyes across the room, her gaze a clear, steady pool of love and gratitude. "About a girl learning she was never hard to love in the first place."
The look Elijah gave her then felt almost unbearably tender, a wave of emotion so strong it was almost overwhelming, a love so deep it was a physical ache. "Sounds like a good story," he said quietly, his voice a low, heartfelt murmur.
Rose's world had begun to shrink, not with the sudden, catastrophic collapse of a detonated building, but with the slow, inexorable creep of a tide, eroding the shores of her life grain by grain, until the land she once stood on was a small, isolated island in a vast, indifferent sea. Not all at once. Not dramatically. No big scene. No public downfall. Just little things. Phone calls that stopped getting returned, the ringing a hollow, unanswered echo in the silence of her house. Invitations that mysteriously stopped coming, her name absent from group chats and event plans, her absence a quiet, unspoken fact. Conversations that ended quicker than they used to, a sudden, awkward shift in topic, a glance away, a polite but firm disengagement that left her standing alone, a party of one in a room full of people.
At first, she blamed Monroe, her anger a hot, sharp, focused thing, a target she could point to, a reason for the slow, creeping isolation. Then Elijah, her resentment a cold, hard knot of bitterness, a man who had stolen her daughter, her life, her future. Then the town, her paranoia a low, constant hum, a conspiracy of silent judgment and cold shoulders. Anybody but herself. But bitterness had a way of souring everything it touched, a slow-acting poison that corrupted the source, and eventually even the people who enjoyed gossip, who fed on the drama of other people's lives, grew tired of carrying someone else's anger for them, the weight of it too heavy, the taste of it too acrid.
Brenda still called occasionally, but mostly just to fish for new information, her voice a syrupy, insincere concern that was a thin veil for her morbid curiosity. Sheila had quietly distanced herself after Rose spent nearly forty minutes during lunch ranting about Monroe and Elijah, her voice a relentless, monotonous drone of complaint, instead of asking a single question about Sheila's recent surgery, a small, selfish act that had spoken volumes. Even the women at church, her supposed sisters in faith, had started looking uncomfortable around her, their smiles strained, their greetings brief, a subtle but unmistakable withdrawal. Because there was a difference between heartbreak and obsession. And Rose had crossed it months ago, a line she hadn't even seen until she was miles on the other side, lost in a wilderness of her own making.
She spent more time alone now, wandering the too-quiet house with the television running just to fill the silence, the canned laughter and dramatic music a poor substitute for the living, breathing presence of a daughter. The rooms felt larger these days. Colder. Every creak in the floorboards, every groan of the settling house, reminded her that Monroe no longer lived there, her absence a palpable, aching void. No more books abandoned on the couch, their spines cracked, their pages dog-eared, a silent testament to a world she had once been lost in. No music playing softly behind a closed bedroom door, a muffled, melodic escape. No sleepy morning voice calling out, "Mama, have you seen my charger?" a small, everyday request that she had once found annoying but now missed with a sharp, piercing pain. Just emptiness. And her own thoughts echoing back at her, a relentless, repetitive loop of regret and resentment.
Sometimes Rose caught herself standing outside Monroe's old room without realizing how long she'd been there, her hand hovering over the doorknob, a ghost drawn to a place it once inhabited. The room was still mostly untouched, a shrine to a childhood that was now over. At first, out of anger, a stubborn refusal to acknowledge her daughter's absence, a silent, passive-aggressive protest. Then out of avoidance, a fear of confronting the memories, the ghosts of a past that was too painful to face. Now, because changing it would make everything final, a concrete admission that her daughter was gone, and she wasn't coming back.
One evening, she finally pushed the door open and stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of dust and memories. Dust floated lazily through the late afternoon sunlight spilling across the carpet, the golden light illuminating the tiny, dancing particles like a galaxy of forgotten stars. The walls still held faint square-shaped shadows where Monroe's posters used to hang, the faded outlines a ghost of a life once lived. Rose's eyes drifted toward the bookshelf Monroe hadn't bothered taking, the books she had left behind, a collection of well-worn favorites that Elijah had since replaced with new ones for his house.
His house.
The thought still made her jaw tighten, a familiar, reflexive clench of resentment, a small, hard knot of bitterness.
But the anger didn't burn as hot anymore. Mostly, it just exhausted her, a heavy, suffocating weight that was too tiring to carry.
Rose sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, and picked up one of Monroe's old notebooks from the nightstand, the cover a simple, spiral-bound thing. Inside were pages and pages of messy handwriting, a frantic, passionate scrawl that was a testament to a mind that was always working, always creating. Story ideas. Quotes. Half-finished scenes. A world of words and emotions that Rose had never known existed.
Rose frowned slightly as she flipped through them, her brow furrowed in concentration. She'd never realized Monroe wrote this much. Then again, she'd never really asked. The realization settled ugly in her chest, a cold, heavy weight of regret. Not because she didn't love Monroe. But because somewhere along the way, she'd stopped seeing her clearly. Stopped seeing her as a daughter and started seeing her as competition. As judgment. As a mirror reflecting every insecurity, Rose tried not to look at it too closely, every fear, every failure, every regret.
And God, Monroe had looked so much like her father lately. Not physically. In spirit. Quiet. Patient. Hard to shake once they finally made up their minds. A quiet, unshakeable strength that Rose had always admired, and always resented.
The memory hit Rose unexpectedly one night while she sat alone at her kitchen table drinking wine she no longer even enjoyed, the taste a bitter, sour reminder of a life that was no longer fulfilling. Monroe was twelve years old again, standing nervously in the living room, her hands clutching a crumpled piece of paper, her eyes bright with a fragile, hopeful excitement. "Mama, wanna hear it?"
Rose had barely looked up from her phone, her attention focused on a text, a meaningless distraction that had seemed more important at the time. "Maybe later."
Later never came.
Rose closed her eyes hard against the memory, a sharp, piercing pain that was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. For the first time in months, the guilt managed to creep past the anger, a slow, insidious poison that seeped into the cracks of her resentment, a quiet, persistent ache. And it stayed there.
A week later, Rose saw them by accident. She'd stopped at the farmer's market on the edge of town late Saturday morning, hoping to avoid people she knew, a baseball cap pulled low over her face despite the heat, a flimsy disguise that was more for her own peace of mind than for anyone else's benefit. She was reaching for tomatoes, her fingers brushing against the firm, red skin, when she heard Monroe laugh. Not the small, polite laugh she used to give around Rose, a quiet, hesitant sound that was always tinged with a hint of apology. This one was fuller. Open. Alive. A bright, pealing sound that was full of joy and an unmistakable confidence.
Rose turned before she could stop herself, her body a traitor, drawn to the sound of her daughter's happiness. And there they were. Elijah stood beside Monroe holding two paper bags, his presence a solid, comforting force, while Monroe argued animatedly with an older vendor about peaches, her hands on her hips, her eyes bright with passion. She wore one of Elijah's oversized black T-shirts tucked into denim shorts, the casual, intimate display of his clothes a quiet, unspoken claim. Gold hoops glinted in the sunlight, catching the light, and her curls were pulled into a messy puff on top of her head, a style that was both effortless and beautiful.
She looked beautiful. Not because of Elijah. Not because of the clothes or the confidence or the glow in her skin. But because she looked comfortable in herself, a quiet, unshakeable self-possession that was a stark contrast to the girl she used to be, a girl who was always trying to make herself smaller, to disappear.
Rose watched Elijah lean down slightly to murmur something into Monroe's ear, a small, intimate gesture that was full of a quiet, easy affection. Monroe rolled her eyes, laughing while lightly shoving his chest, a playful, familiar exchange. He caught her wrist before she could pull away fully, bringing her hand to his mouth absentmindedly, a small, unconscious gesture of love and possession. Easy intimacy. The kind built over time, a quiet, unspoken language of touch and trust.
Rose's stomach twisted violently. Not with jealousy this time. With grief. A sharp, piercing pain that was a physical ache. Because Monroe looked happy. Actually happy. And deep down, beneath all the bitterness and rage and humiliation, Rose realized something unbearable: She had spent so long trying to keep Monroe close that she'd almost guaranteed she would lose her completely.
Elijah looked up suddenly, his gaze a sharp, intuitive sweep of the crowd. Their eyes met across the market, a sudden, unexpected connection. Rose stiffened instantly, her body a rigid, uncomfortable line of tension. His expression didn't change much, a cool, unreadable mask, but she saw the recognition immediately, a flicker of something in his eyes, a quiet, knowing acknowledgment.
Then Monroe followed his gaze, her curiosity piqued. The smile fell from her face slowly, a gradual, dawning realization. For one awful second, none of them moved, a tableau of frozen emotion, a moment suspended in time. The crowd blurred around them, a chaotic swirl of color and sound. Music played somewhere nearby, a cheerful, upbeat tune that was a stark contrast to the heavy, tense silence between them. People laughed, their voices a distant, irrelevant hum. But the silence between the three of them stretched painfully thin, a fragile thread that was about to snap.
Rose expected Monroe to turn away first, to shrink, to retreat into the familiar shell of her past. Instead, Monroe gave a small nod. Not warm. Not cold. Just… acknowledgment. Adult. Measured. It somehow hurt worse than hatred would've, a quiet, dismissive acceptance that was a testament to her growth, a sign that she was no longer a player in her mother's drama.
Rose looked down quickly and walked away before either of them could say anything, her retreat a quiet, hasty escape.
That night, she stared at Monroe's contact photo on her phone for nearly an hour, a picture of a younger Monroe, smiling, her eyes bright with a hope that Rose had once tried to extinguish, before finally pressing call. The ringing nearly made her hang up, a loud, insistent sound that was a testament to her fear, her hesitation. But then Monroe answered quietly, her voice a calm, steady hum. "Hello?"
Rose swallowed hard, the lump in her throat a painful, stubborn obstruction. For a second, neither of them spoke, the silence a heavy, charged thing.
Then finally: "I saw you today."
A pause. "Okay."
Rose gripped the phone tighter, her knuckles white. "You looked…" Her voice faltered unexpectedly, a crack in her carefully constructed armor. "You looked happy."
Another silence, a long, thoughtful pause.
Then Monroe answered softly, cautiously: "I am."
The honesty in it nearly broke her, a raw, open wound that was too painful to touch.
Rose looked around her empty kitchen, eyes burning suddenly, a hot, stinging blur of unshed tears. "I just…" She stopped herself, the words catching in her throat. What was she even calling to say? Sorry? I miss you? I don't know how to stop being angry? I don't know how to love people without trying to control them? None of the words came out correctly, a jumbled mess of regret and desperation.
Instead, she said quietly, "I made your favorite casserole tonight."
Monroe went silent for so long that Rose thought the call had dropped, the silence a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then finally: "That's nice, Mama."
Mama. Not Mom. Not Rose. Mama. The word hit her straight in the chest, a sharp, piercing pain that was both a comfort and a curse.
Rose closed her eyes tightly, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. "You could… stop by sometime," she said hesitantly, her voice a small, hopeful plea. "If you wanted."
Monroe exhaled softly on the other end, a quiet, thoughtful sound. Not rejecting her. Not accepting either. Just thinking. "I'll think about it," she said eventually.
And somehow, that tiny sliver of possibility felt more merciful than Rose deserved.
The idea came quietly, a seed planted in the fertile soil of their shared life, not during one of their late-night conversations in bed, their bodies tangled in the warm, intimate darkness, nor after sex, when the world was a hazy, blissful fog of sensation and emotion. Not during some dramatic fight or emotional breakdown, the kind that left them raw and vulnerable, stripped down to their most essential selves. It happened on an ordinary Tuesday evening while Monroe stood barefoot in Elijah’s kitchen, the cool tiles a welcome relief against her tired feet, rinsing rice in the sink, the water a steady, rhythmic stream that was a comforting, domestic sound.
Rain tapped softly against the windows, a gentle, persistent rhythm that was a soothing backdrop to the quiet evening. Music played low through the house, a soulful, melancholic melody that filled the space with a warm, contemplative mood. Elijah sat at the island reviewing contracts on his laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration, his reading glasses perched low on his nose in a way Monroe secretly found unbearably attractive, a small, intimate detail that made him seem more approachable, more real.
"You know," he said casually without looking up, his voice a low, thoughtful hum, "I got offered a project in Charlotte."
Monroe glanced over her shoulder, her hands still moving under the cool, running water. "Yeah?"
"Mhm." He clicked something on the screen, his focus still on the glowing monitor. "Big commercial development. Sixteen-month contract."
"That sounds good."
"It is."
She waited for him to continue, her senses on high alert, a quiet, intuitive understanding that there was more to this than a simple work update.
When he didn't, Monroe turned the water off slowly, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the steady rush of the faucet. "Okay… why do you sound weird about it?"
Elijah finally looked up at her, his gaze a steady, serious weight that was a stark contrast to his casual tone. And there it was. That look. The one that meant he'd already thought ten steps ahead emotionally before saying anything out loud, a look that was both reassuring and a little intimidating, a testament to his quiet, deliberate nature.
"It'd mean relocating for a while."
Monroe blinked, the words a sudden, unexpected jolt. Charlotte. A bigger city. Different people. No whispers. No Rose sightings in grocery stores. No small-town eyes constantly watching them exist, a constant, oppressive weight she had grown so accustomed to she had almost forgotten what it felt like to breathe freely.
Her stomach tightened unexpectedly. Not with fear. With possibility. A thrilling, terrifying, exhilarating possibility that was a door opening to a future she had only dared to dream of.
Elijah studied her carefully, his gaze a soft, concerned caress. "I'm not bringing it up to pressure you."
"I know."
"I'd only take it if you wanted to."
Monroe leaned back against the sink quietly, the cool metal a solid, grounding presence against her back. Two months ago, a conversation like this would've terrified her, the thought of leaving the familiar, the known, a reckless, unrealistic leap that was too big for someone like her, a girl who had always been taught to be small, to be quiet, to be content with her limited corner of the world. But someone like her didn't exist anymore. That girl was gone. Or maybe she'd never truly existed at all outside of Rose's fears, a carefully constructed illusion of weakness that had been shattered by the sheer force of her own resilience.
"What would it look like?" Monroe asked softly, her voice a quiet, curious hum.
Elijah closed the laptop fully then, a deliberate, final gesture, giving her his complete attention. And that mattered to her. It always mattered. The way he put her first, the way he made her feel seen, heard, valued.
"Well," he said slowly, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble, "it'd mean a new start. Bigger place. Better opportunities for you too." He leaned back in the chair slightly, his body a relaxed, confident line. "Charlotte's got good writing programs. Publishing connections. Hell, probably better libraries too."
Monroe smiled faintly, a small, private smile that was just for her. "You already researched this?"
"Maybe."
She laughed quietly, a bright, pealing sound that was full of warmth and affection. Then the smile faded into something more thoughtful, a quiet, introspective mood that settled over her like a soft, comfortable blanket.
"You really see me doing something with writing?"
Elijah looked almost offended by the question, a flicker of indignation in his dark eyes. "Monroe." His voice dropped lower. Firmer. "You think I sit there reading your stuff pretending to be impressed?"
Her cheeks warmed instantly, a blush that was a mix of pleasure and shyness, a familiar reaction to his unwavering, unshakeable faith in her. Sometimes he read her work while she cooked dinner or studied beside him on the couch, his focus a steady, intense weight that was both intimidating and exhilarating. Sometimes he’d stop halfway through just to stare at her with this strange mixture of pride and disbelief, a look that made her heart ache with a love so intense it was almost painful. Like he still couldn’t fully understand how someone so quiet held so much inside herself, a universe of stories and emotions and dreams that she was only just beginning to share with the world.
"I don't know," Monroe admitted softly, her voice a quiet, vulnerable murmur. "Sometimes I still feel like I'm pretending."
Elijah stood then, crossing the kitchen toward her slowly, his movements deliberate, graceful. "You know what your problem is?" he asked gently, his voice a low, soothing hum.
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his, a silent question in their depths.
"You spent so long being told who you were that now you don’t know what to do with freedom."
The words settled deep. Painfully deep. Because they were true. A raw, open truth that was a key turning in a lock she hadn't even known was there.
Elijah stepped closer until his hands settled against her waist, a warm, steady weight that was a comforting, grounding presence. His thumbs brushed softly against her hips, a small, intimate caress that sent a shiver of awareness through her. "You wanna know what I see when I look at you?"
Monroe nodded slightly, her breath catching in her throat, a knot of emotion forming there.
"I see a woman who survived being underestimated." His voice was a low, steady rumble, a quiet, unwavering declaration. "I see somebody smart enough to observe people without becoming cruel like them." He paused, his gaze a deep, searching weight. "And I see somebody finally becoming herself without apologizing for it."
Monroe felt emotion rise thick in her throat instantly, a hot, stinging blur of unshed tears. Not because he was complimenting her. Because he meant it. Every word. His belief in her was a solid, unshakeable foundation, a rock she could build a life on.
"I love you," she whispered suddenly, the words slipping out so naturally she didn't even realize she'd said them until Elijah went completely still. Not shocked. Just affected. A quiet, profound stillness that was a testament to the weight of her words, the power of her declaration.
His eyes searched hers quietly, a deep, searching gaze that seemed to see straight into her soul. Then one corner of his mouth pulled upward, a slow, sweet smile that was a rare, beautiful thing. "Took you long enough," he murmured, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.
Monroe laughed through the tears suddenly gathering in her eyes, a bright, watery sound that was full of joy and relief. "Shut up."
"No," he said softly, pulling her closer, his body a warm, solid weight against hers. "Say it again."
Her arms slid around his neck slowly, a natural, instinctual movement. "I love you."
This time, his eyes closed briefly, a flicker of vulnerability, of raw, open emotion. Like hearing it cost him something, a precious, fragile gift that he was afraid to break.
When he looked at her again, there was no guardedness left in him at all, just a raw, open love that was so intense it was almost overwhelming. "I love you too, Roe."
The kiss that followed wasn't desperate. Wasn't consuming. It was deep and familiar and certain. The kind of kiss that came from choosing someone completely, a quiet, unshakeable commitment that was a testament to the life they had built together, a love that was as solid and enduring as the houses he built.
Over the next few weeks, the idea of leaving stopped feeling imaginary. It became plans. A tangible, exciting reality that was a testament to their shared future. Applications for writing programs, a bold, brave step that was a declaration of her dreams. Apartment listings, a collection of possibilities that were a map of their new life. Budget conversations over takeout containers spread across the dining room table, a quiet, domestic ritual that was a testament to their partnership. Late-night talks about neighborhoods and bookstores and whether Elijah could survive city traffic without cussing somebody out, a playful, intimate banter that was a testament to their easy, comfortable chemistry.
Monroe started walking through town differently after that. Not with superiority. Not bitterness. But closure. The town no longer felt like the center of her universe, a small, suffocating world that had dictated her every move. It felt small now. Familiar. A chapter instead of a cage. A place she had outgrown, a skin she had shed.
Even Rose seemed to sense the shift, a subtle, almost imperceptible change in the dynamic between them. Their conversations remained fragile but calmer now. Short phone calls every few days. Cautious check-ins. The kind of relationship rebuilt carefully from splinters, a slow, painstaking process of healing and forgiveness.
One evening, Monroe stopped by the house alone, a quiet, spontaneous visit that was a testament to the fragile, new peace between them. Rose opened the door and immediately frowned, her brow furrowed in a familiar, suspicious line. "Why are you smiling like that?"
Monroe laughed softly before answering, a bright, genuine sound that was full of a quiet, confident joy. "We're moving."
The silence that followed was complicated, a tangled mess of emotions that was a testament to their difficult, painful history. Rose looked past Monroe instinctively, like she expected Elijah to be standing nearby, a puppet master pulling the strings.
"He got you leaving town too now?" The old accusation still lingered beneath the words, but weaker somehow. Tired. A reflex, a habit she couldn't break.
Monroe shook her head gently, her gaze a calm, steady force. "No. I chose this."
Rose studied her face for a long moment, her eyes a searching, uncertain weight. And for once, she seemed to believe her, a flicker of understanding, of acceptance, in their depths.
"When?"
"End of summer."
Rose looked down briefly, arms crossing over herself, a defensive, protective gesture. "Charlotte's far."
"Not that far."
Another silence settled between them, a quiet, contemplative pause.
Then quietly: "You happy?"
Monroe thought about the question seriously before answering. Not performatively. Not defensively. Honestly. "Yeah," she said softly, her voice a quiet, confident hum. "I really am."
Something unreadable passed across Rose's face then. Sadness. Regret. Maybe even acceptance. A quiet, painful acknowledgment of a truth she could no longer deny.
"Well," she muttered finally, stepping aside to let Monroe enter the house, a small, reluctant gesture of welcome. "Don't just stand out there. I made tea."
It wasn't forgiveness. But it was the closest thing they'd had in a long time. And Monroe had finally learned that healing didn't always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it looked like surviving the conversation without bleeding afterward.
The last night before the move, Monroe stood barefoot on Elijah's back porch watching the sunset melt gold across the trees, a breathtaking display of nature's artistry. The moving boxes were stacked inside already, a silent testament to the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Most of her books were packed away, and a collection of her old life was packed away too.
Elijah stepped outside behind her, carrying two glasses of wine, a thoughtful, intimate gesture that was a testament to his quiet, caring nature. "You nervous?" he asked, handing her one, his voice a low, gentle hum.
Monroe took it carefully, the cool glass a solid, grounding presence in her hand. "A little."
He leaned against the railing beside her, his body a warm, familiar weight. "Good."
She looked over, a small, questioning frown creasing her brow. "Good?"
"Means it matters."
Monroe smiled faintly before resting her head against his shoulder, a small, intimate gesture of trust and affection. The cicadas buzzed loudly in the warm evening air, a steady, rhythmic hum that was a soundtrack to their quiet moment. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled softly across the horizon, a low, ominous rumble that was a promise of a storm to come. Everything felt suspended between ending and beginning, a quiet, magical moment that was a testament to the fragile, beautiful nature of life.
"Elijah?"
"Mhm?"
"Do you ever regret this?"
He turned toward her immediately, his gaze a sharp, intense weight. "Not once."
The certainty in his voice hit her hard, a solid, unshakeable force that was a testament to his love, his commitment, his unwavering belief in them.
Monroe looked down into her wine glass quietly, the deep, red liquid a swirl of color and light. "Even with all the drama?"
"That drama gave me you."
Simple. Direct. True. A quiet, profound declaration that was a testament to the beauty that could be found in the midst of chaos, the love that could bloom in the most unexpected of places.
Her chest tightened painfully with love, a sharp, piercing ache that was a testament to the depth of her feelings for him.
Elijah reached over, tilting her chin upward gently until she met his eyes, a small, intimate gesture that was a testament to his quiet, commanding presence. And God, the way he still looked at her. Not like a possession. Not like a fantasy. Like a woman he respected. Like an equal.
"You know what the best part of all this is?" he asked quietly, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble.
"What?"
"You finally see yourself the way I saw you from the beginning."
Monroe swallowed hard, the lump in her throat a painful, stubborn obstruction. Because he was right. The shy girl hiding behind books and silence still existed somewhere inside her, a quiet, fragile part of her that would always be there. But now she stood taller. Spoke louder. Wanted openly. Loved honestly. She no longer apologized for taking up space.
And as the sun dipped lower behind the trees, Monroe realized something beautiful: She hadn't been saved. She had simply been seen clearly long enough to save herself.
Elijah kissed her softly then, one hand warm against her jaw while the last light of evening wrapped around them both, a gentle, intimate caress. And Monroe kissed him back like the woman she had finally become: Strong. Certain. Loved.
One year later, Monroe still caught herself bracing for a version of happiness that never arrived, a phantom limb of a past life where joy was a temporary, fragile thing, a visitor that overstayed its welcome and then vanished without a trace. Not because she was unhappy. Because she’d spent so much of her life believing peace had to be temporary, a delicate, fleeting state of being that was destined to be shattered. That eventually someone would ruin it. Leave it. Take it back. A quiet, persistent fear that was a background hum to her happiness, a small, anxious voice that whispered, "Enjoy it while it lasts."
But this life—this new life she’d built with Elijah—had stayed. A solid, unshakeable foundation that was a testament to their shared commitment, their unwavering belief in each other. And that still surprised her sometimes, a quiet, breathless wonder that this was her life, a reality that was more beautiful, more fulfilling, than anything she had ever dared to imagine.
Charlotte fit them better than the small town ever had, a vibrant, sprawling metropolis that was a perfect backdrop for their love story. The city moved too fast to care about age gaps and gossip and old family scandals, a relentless, indifferent rhythm that was a welcome relief from the suffocating scrutiny of their hometown. People minded their business here, a quiet, unspoken agreement that was a testament to the anonymity of the city. Nobody stared when Monroe slipped her hand into Elijah’s while they walked downtown, their intertwined fingers a natural, comfortable gesture. Nobody whispered when he kissed her forehead while she read beside him in coffee shops, a small, intimate display of affection that was a quiet, unspoken declaration of their love. Nobody treated their relationship like a spectacle, a source of gossip and judgment. Out here, they were just another couple. And somehow, that normalcy healed something inside her, a quiet, steady balm on the wounds of her past.
Their apartment overlooked a busy street lined with bookstores, bars, and little restaurants glowing warmly at night, a constant, vibrant hum of life that was a stark contrast to the quiet, suffocating stillness of her old life. Monroe loved the noise of the city now—the distant sirens, a mournful, thrilling sound that was a reminder of the world outside their door; the traffic humming below the windows, a steady, rhythmic pulse that was a lullaby of urban life; the constant movement that reminded her life was bigger than the tiny world she came from, a vast, sprawling universe of possibilities.
Their place looked lived in. Not staged. Not perfect. Real. Books stacked on nearly every surface, a colorful, chaotic testament to her passion for stories. Elijah’s blueprints spread across the dining table beside Monroe’s notebooks, a quiet, domestic collision of their two worlds. Half-dead plants Monroe kept promising to revive, a small, hopeful testament to her desire to nurture, to care for something, to watch it grow. Framed photographs from weekend trips, a collection of memories that were a testament to their shared adventures. Coffee mugs abandoned in sinks, a small, intimate detail that was a sign of a life lived fully, without pretense. Laundry draped over chairs, a familiar, comforting mess that was a testament to their shared existence. Evidence of a shared life. Evidence that they had stayed.
Monroe sat cross-legged at the kitchen island one rainy evening, laptop open in front of her while thunder rolled softly outside the windows, a low, steady rumble that was a soothing, dramatic backdrop to her quiet moment of triumph. She stared at the email on the screen for what had to be the hundredth time, the words a surreal, unbelievable dream that she was afraid to wake from.
We are pleased to inform you that your short story, "Quiet Things," has been accepted for publication…
Her hands still shook while reading it, a small tremor of excitement and disbelief that was a physical manifestation of her joy. Published. Actually published. The first person she’d called was Elijah, her heart a frantic, excited drum against her ribs. He’d answered on the second ring with, "What’s wrong?" his voice a low, concerned rumble, a testament to his protective nature, his immediate assumption that something was wrong, a reflection of the life they had left behind.
Monroe laughed every time she thought about it, a bright, pealing sound that was full of affection and amusement. Nothing was wrong. Everything was right.
Now, Elijah stood across the kitchen opening a bottle of wine, his movements a familiar, comforting rhythm, while Monroe reread the email again like it might disappear if she looked away too long, a fragile, precious dream that she was afraid to lose.
"You know," Elijah said casually, his voice a low, amused hum, "normal people celebrate things instead of staring at them like they’re court summons."
Monroe looked up, grinning helplessly, a wide, uncontainable smile that was a testament to her joy. "I can’t help it."
"You can." He poured wine into two glasses, the deep, red liquid a rich, vibrant color, before walking toward her, his movements a slow, deliberate grace. "You’re just dramatic."
She gasped, a playful, indignant sound. "Excuse me?"
"Writer behavior."
Monroe rolled her eyes while accepting the glass from him, a familiar, playful gesture, but her smile softened as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head, a small, intimate gesture that was a quiet, unspoken declaration of his love.
"I’m proud of you," he murmured quietly, his voice a low, sincere rumble that was a warm, comforting weight.
The words still affected her every single time. Not because she needed validation anymore. But because she knew he meant it completely, his belief in her was a solid, unshakeable foundation that was a testament to his love, his respect, his unwavering faith in her dreams.
Elijah had read every draft of that story sprawled across the couch late at night while Monroe anxiously paced the living room, waiting for feedback, her nervous energy a palpable, restless force. He’d listened to her second-guess herself, her voice a quiet, uncertain murmur of self-doubt. Watched her almost delete entire pages out of insecurity, her fingers hovering over the keys, a small, hesitant movement that was a testament to her fear. And every single time, he’d pushed the laptop gently back toward her and said: "Try again." Not because she was failing. Because he knew she could go deeper, that she had more to give, that her voice was worth hearing.
Their relationship had changed over the past year. Not less passionate. If anything, the intimacy between them had become more dangerous in its own way, less frantic, more knowing. The kind of closeness built slowly through trust instead of obsession alone, a deep, abiding connection that was a testament to their shared journey. They still touched constantly. Still kissed in kitchens, their mouths a familiar, comforting taste. Still ruined sheets, their bodies a tangled, passionate mess. Still lost entire Sundays tangled together in bed, a lazy, indulgent exploration of each other that was a testament to their insatiable desire.
But now there was structure beneath the heat. Routine. Partnership. Safety. Love had settled into the spaces lust once filled by itself, a deep, abiding presence that was a testament to their shared life. And Monroe understood now that real intimacy wasn’t always explosive. Sometimes it was Elijah silently charging her laptop because he noticed it was dying, a small, thoughtful gesture that was a testament to his quiet, caring nature. Or Monroe rubbing his temples after twelve-hour workdays, her touch was a soothing, gentle presence that eased his tension. Or arguing over takeout before ending up laughing halfway through, a playful, familiar banter that was a testament to their easy, comfortable chemistry. The passion remained. But now it had roots.
Rose’s name came up less these days. Sometimes months passed without Monroe thinking about her mother at all, a quiet, gradual healing that was a testament to her growth, her resilience. And when she did notice that fact, guilt still pricked at her chest occasionally, a small, sharp pain that was a reminder of the complicated, painful history they shared. They hadn’t spoken in almost six months. Not after the last awkward phone call where neither of them knew how to bridge the distance between who they were and who they’d become, a conversation that was a quiet, painful acknowledgment of the chasm that had grown between them.
Monroe had stopped trying to force healing after that, a quiet, reluctant acceptance that some things were beyond her control. Some relationships survived damage. Others survived distance. And maybe this one could only survive quietly. From afar. There were still moments Monroe missed her fiercely, though, a sharp, piercing pain that was a testament to the enduring, complicated bond between a mother and a daughter. When she got published, a moment she desperately wanted to share, a joy that was incomplete without her mother's voice. When she learned new recipes, a small, domestic pleasure that was tinged with the memory of her mother's kitchen. When she found herself wanting to call somebody after particularly hard days, a familiar, instinctual need for a mother's comfort. But grief no longer consumed her. It simply existed alongside everything else. A scar instead of an open wound.
Later that night, after dinner and wine and soft music drifting through the apartment, a warm, intimate atmosphere that was a testament to their shared life, Monroe stood alone in the bathroom brushing her teeth while Elijah showered down the hall, the sound of the water a steady, rhythmic hum. Steam curled softly against the mirror, a hazy, dreamlike fog that blurred her reflection. For a moment, she simply stared at herself. At the woman reflected back. Older now somehow. Not physically. But internally. Her posture had changed, a quiet, confident straightening of her spine that was a testament to her newfound self-worth. Her eyes had changed, a clear, steady gaze that was a testament to her inner strength, her quiet resilience.
The nervous uncertainty that used to live inside her expression was gone, a quiet, subtle transformation that was a testament to her journey. In its place stood someone grounded. Someone who no longer looked like she was asking permission to exist.
Monroe leaned closer to the mirror slowly, her face a soft, hazy blur in the steam. And for the first time in her entire life, she saw herself clearly. Not through Rose’s bitterness, a distorted, funhouse mirror reflection that had warped her self-perception for years. Not through fear, a paralyzing force that had kept her small, silent. Not through shame, a heavy, suffocating cloak that had weighed her down. Just herself. A writer. A woman. Someone worthy of being loved gently and honestly. Someone worthy of taking up space.
Behind her, Elijah appeared quietly in the doorway wearing sweatpants and nothing else, his chest a solid, familiar landscape of muscle and skin, his damp curls pushed back from his forehead, a soft, casual look that was unbearably attractive.
"You been staring at yourself for five minutes," he said amusedly, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.
Monroe smiled faintly at her reflection, a small, private smile that was just for her. "I know."
He walked up behind her, his movements a slow, deliberate grace, his hands settling naturally against her hips, a warm, steady weight that was a comforting, grounding presence. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder as their eyes met together in the mirror, a quiet, intimate moment that was a testament to their shared life, their deep, abiding love.
And this time—when Monroe looked at herself—she didn’t see someone unfinished anymore.
Summary: Monroe never expected a quiet family camping trip to become the setting for her undoing. At 22, she’s shy, soft-spoken, and still finding her voice, buried beneath her mother’s sharp tongue and desperate flirtations. Elijah Moore is her mother’s potential new lover: 42, quiet, unreadable, and uninterested in Rose. But from the moment Monroe steps out of the car, he only has eyes for her.
Set deep in the woods where tents replace walls, and lake water hides secrets, this is the slow, breathless unraveling of a forbidden want neither of them should act on… but do. And once touched, nothing stays the same.
Warnings: This story contains explicit sexual content (18+ only), an age gap romance (22/42), themes of obsession, power imbalance, sneaking around, oral sex, fingering, and possessive dominance.
The dynamic includes taboo-adjacent tension (mother’s love interest/OC) but no blood relation, coercion, or non-consent. If any of that makes you uncomfortable, this story isn’t for you.
Wc:12k
PROLOGUE – "She Said They Needed This"
Rose said they needed this. A reset. A little family time away from the noise, away from Monroe’s books, screens, and habits Rose didn’t understand.
"Fresh air. Bonding. You spend too much time in your head," she'd said, tossing it off like a half-hearted suggestion. A casual fix to a daughter she didn’t know how to love gently. Monroe didn’t have the energy to resist. Not anymore.
But what Rose really meant was Monroe needed it. She always said “we” when she meant “you.” That quiet correction lived in the space between each motherly nudge and passive dig, folded like a note into every decision Monroe was too tired to push back against. It was always Monroe’s softness that needed to be hardened. Her quiet that needed volume. Her stillness needed breaking.
So Monroe packed her canvas bag with paperbacks, soft clothes, and silence. She didn’t complain. She didn’t ask questions. She just nodded and stared out the window while her mother played music too loud and talked like they were going somewhere good, somewhere that mattered.
A weekend in the woods. No outlets. No Wi-Fi. No distractions. Just tents and firewood and the kind of forced smiles that always cracked by the end of day two. Monroe had seen the pattern before — her mother’s energy burning hot on day one, teetering into agitation by day three. It felt like a test she hadn’t studied for. Monroe already knew she would fail.
Rose had said it would be the three of them.
“My friend Elijah’s coming,” she’d mentioned with a coy smile. “You’ll like him. He’s calm. Handsome. Real grown man energy.”
Monroe didn’t expect anything when her mother said that. Rose was always trying to parade her around like a final project with rough edges. Sometimes she built Monroe up with fake praise, sometimes she picked her apart in front of strangers. But she always wanted eyes on her daughter. Especially a man’s eyes. It made Monroe feel like a mirror instead of a person, always reflecting someone else’s pride or disappointment.
But the first time Monroe saw Elijah Moore, she stopped breathing.
Not because he looked at her.
But because he didn’t.
Not at first.
He stood near the truck with his arms crossed, face unreadable, a man carved from silence. There was something measured in the way he moved, like every motion was considered, never wasted. And when his gaze finally did find her, it wasn’t a casual glance. It was slow, precise. Like he was mapping something, like her presence wasn’t surprising, but her softness was.
There was something about him that reminded Monroe of a lit match balanced on the edge of a gasoline trail. That kind of tension. Quiet. Controlled. Lethal if it tipped. The kind of man who never raised his voice but somehow silenced a room.
He didn’t talk much. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile to make others comfortable. He moved with the weight of a man who didn’t need attention to hold it. His presence was full. Anchored. Heavy in a way that made the world bend slightly around him.
Rose filled the silence with too-loud laughter, the kind Monroe had heard on every first date she was dragged into. She leaned into Elijah, touched his arm, smiled too wide like she was auditioning for a role she’d already convinced herself she’d earned. She dropped Monroe’s name casually, like bait. Like a prompt, she expected him to respond with polite interest.
But he didn’t see her. Not really.
Because when Elijah finally turned, really turned, and looked at Monroe
He didn’t look at her like she was a child. He didn’t look at her like she was Rose’s daughter. He looked at her like she was a secret he hadn’t touched yet. A slow unravel, he hadn’t permitted himself to want.
And something in Monroe’s chest responded. Tightened. Softened. Caught fire.
They hadn’t even left the driveway.
And already, something didn’t feel safe.
Not the kind of danger that made her want to run.
The other kind.
The kind that curled deep in her chest, low and warm, and waited for her to name it.
She didn’t.
Not yet.
The tires crunched over the gravel with a sound that snapped through the stillness of the woods. Monroe sat in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes on the trees. The world looked untouched out here, too green, too wide. Like it didn’t care who came or left. She liked that about it already.
Rose hummed beside her, tapping the steering wheel with two freshly manicured fingers. Her sunglasses were too large for her face, her smile too white. She wore effort like perfume, obvious, sharp, and meant to linger.
"You could at least pretend to be excited," Rose said, glancing sideways. "You brought ten damn books. You really gonna read the whole trip?"
Monroe didn’t answer. She only shifted slightly, tightening the strap of the canvas backpack between her feet. Her books were packed carefully, titles she’d never let her mother read. Her mother liked her romances with laughs and tidy endings. Monroe didn’t. She liked the ache. The obsession. The men who broke things just to see if they could fix them afterward.
The car pulled into the small clearing that passed for a campground, just grass, trees, and a dirt path leading down toward the lake. There were no cabins, no electricity, just three tent sites marked by stakes and caution tape. A single figure stood at the far end, bent over what looked like a tent frame.
Elijah Moore.
Monroe recognized him immediately, even though she hadn’t seen him in person before. Her mother had shown her a photo weeks ago, something taken from across a bar table, his expression unreadable even then.
In person, he was sharper. Still. Built like quiet violence in a black t-shirt and low-slung jeans. His movements were efficient and precise, like he’d done this a thousand times. He didn’t look up as they parked.
Rose’s voice lifted, practiced and bright. “Elijah!”
That made him glance up.
Monroe watched the shift happen in his face. Slow. Measured. His eyes, dark, heavy-lidded, touched Rose first, then moved past her.
To her.
He didn’t smile. But something behind his eyes clicked. Registered. Stayed.
Monroe looked down quickly.
They got out of the car. Rose was already walking toward him like she owned the space between them.
“You didn’t tell me you’d get started so early,” she said, tilting her sunglasses up onto her head. “Look at you. Already playing mountain man.”
Elijah’s mouth moved. A small smile. Not real.
“Just figured I’d get ahead of the heat.”
His voice was lower than Monroe expected. Like smoke and gravel.
Rose laughed too loudly. “That’s what I always say.”
Monroe followed at a slower pace, her steps light on the grass. Her hoodie sleeves hung past her wrists, and her shorts were soft cotton, the kind that brushed against her legs with every quiet step. She kept her head down, eyes trained on the tent poles, on the trees, on anything but him.
When she got close enough, she stopped, her voice soft but sure.
“Mr. Moore.”
That made him look at her again. Slower this time.
“Monroe,” he said. Just that. No smile. Just the weight of her name in his mouth like something he wasn’t sure he should be tasting.
She nodded, clutching her backpack tighter. “Do you need help?”
Rose cut in before he could answer. “Baby, go put your things in the other tent. Let Elijah finish setting up ours.”
Monroe’s eyes didn’t leave his.
“I don’t mind,” she said quietly.
Elijah looked at her for a beat too long.
Then he nodded once. “Pass me the center pole.”
She stepped closer. He didn’t move away.
Rose rolled her eyes and walked off toward the picnic table.
The pole was cold in Monroe’s hands. He took it from her slowly, fingers grazing hers just enough to spark. Just enough to know it wasn’t an accident.
She looked up.
He was already watching her.
And he didn’t stop.
Monroe didn’t wander far.
Once the tents were up and Rose had declared the site “rustic but workable,” she gave Elijah a long, theatrical sigh and announced she was going to lie down, already tired from the drive, the sun, and the sheer effort of existing without air conditioning.
Monroe had nodded quietly and stepped away, her backpack slung over one shoulder, fingers curled around the strap. She didn’t run. She never did. She just drifted, calm and invisible, down the path that curved toward the lake.
The air near the water was cooler. Still. Bugs hovered in slow spirals above the shallows, and the surface rippled gently like it was breathing.
She settled onto a flat rock a few feet from the edge, legs folded beneath her, backpack resting beside her thigh. Her book came out like a reflex. Opened to the middle. Dog-eared. Worn soft at the spine.
Elijah watched her from the campsite.
He was crouched beside the fire pit, stacking wood with deliberate movements. His body moved automatically. But his eyes weren’t on the kindling.
They were on Monroe.
The sunlight hit her in pieces, catching her skin, her bare legs, the curve of her neck as she tilted her head forward to read. Her hair moved when the wind stirred, loose and low like she hadn’t bothered trying to impress anyone.
She was barefoot.
He hadn’t noticed that before. Her shoes were beside her pack, kicked off with the kind of carelessness that didn’t match the rest of her. She looked soft. Neat. Controlled. But her toes curled against the stone like she needed to feel something grounding.
Elijah swallowed. Looked back down at the firewood. Then looked again.
The book in her hands wasn’t fluff. He could tell from the cover, dark, cracked spine, one of those titles that whispered promises and dared you to open them. Not the kind of romance with pastel pages and feel-good endings. No, this one had weight. And bite. The kind of story that smelled like danger before you even turned the first page. The kind of book where the men didn’t ask permission, where desire was a knife sharpened against the soft curve of trust. Where the women didn’t run, even when they should have. Where surrender was a choice, but it never felt like one.
He could see the edges of the pages, thumb-worn and soft, dog-eared in places that probably meant something to her. Scenes she’d reread. Words she wasn’t ready to let go of. He wondered if she read them slowly or fast. If she paused after the dark parts or let them rush through her like they were meant to bruise. He imagined her curled up like this at home, in a corner or a quiet room, reading by lamplight while the rest of the house forgot she was there. He imagined her swallowing those words in silence, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed together, not even knowing why.
Did she underline sentences? Whisper them? Did she reread the parts that made her heart race and pretend they didn’t? He wondered if she understood what the book was really doing to her. If she felt the pulse in her throat when dominance was written like seduction, or if she just thought it was good writing. He wondered if she liked the tension more than the release. If she wanted to be ruined gently, or if she didn’t want gentle at all. If she wanted to be taken, not asked. Held down, not coaxed. Not because she was weak but because some part of her wanted to know what it felt like to come undone in someone else's hands.
He recognized the author. He’d seen the name in passing before. He’d watched a woman read one of those books on a plane, once watched her cross and uncross her legs three times in two chapters.
He wondered what Monroe thought about when she read things like that. If she understood the kind of hunger those stories stirred. If she felt it, low and quiet, and just didn’t know what to name it yet.
She turned a page slowly.
Elijah exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet in his chest. He set another log down. Picked up a small branch and broke it with his hands. The snap was too loud. Sharp. She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even look up.
God, she was immersed. Gone.
He hated how much he wanted to know what sentence had stolen her like that.
When she finally did lift her eyes, it was slow. Like surfacing.
And then she saw him.
Their eyes met across the clearing, maybe twenty yards of open air and filtered sunlight. Her gaze snagged on his like a thread on a nail.
Monroe blinked.
And then looked away quickly. Not startled. Not afraid.
Something else.
Heat bloomed in Elijah’s chest, low and steady.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t look away.
He just watched her as she turned the page and tried to act like her hands weren’t suddenly trembling on the paper.
The sun dropped slowly behind the tree line, casting the campground in hues of warm orange and soft violet. Smoke curled from the fire pit in lazy spirals, rising through the quiet that had settled over their little triangle of tents. The air smelled like pine needles, woodsmoke, and faintly, the spice from whatever Rose had dumped into the aluminum pan now sizzling over the open flame.
Monroe sat cross-legged on a log near the fire, her book closed but resting on her thigh, fingers still curled around the edges like she didn’t quite want to let it go. She hadn’t read a single page since she looked up and saw Elijah watching her. Now the words felt too loud in her head, her body too aware of itself in the lingering heat of the evening.
Elijah sat opposite her now, one knee up, forearm draped over it, eyes on the fire. But Monroe could feel it in his attention. Even when he wasn’t looking directly at her, it was there. Weighted. Pulling. Every so often, his gaze would flick in her direction, slow, unhurried, like he was taking inventory.
She tried not to squirm.
Rose finally joined them, carrying two paper plates stacked with food she barely cooked and over-seasoned like always. She handed one to Elijah with a too-bright smile, the other to Monroe with a faint sniff and no eye contact.
“Don’t say I never feed you,” she said with a wink, sitting down between them, far too close to Elijah.
Monroe murmured a thank you and picked at the food. The sausage was too salty. The potatoes were burnt on the bottom. She chewed anyway, just to have something to do with her mouth.
Rose was already talking again. Loud. Comfortable. Performing, like always. She draped herself closer to Elijah as she spoke, leaning toward him as if gravity bent differently for her.
“So,” she started, gesturing between Monroe and Elijah with her fork, “this one reads like it’s her full-time job. Swear she’s got more books than clothes in her closet.”
Monroe’s shoulders twitched. She didn’t look up.
“She’s always been like that,” Rose continued, laughing lightly. “So sensitive. I caught her crying over a book once and thought someone died.”
Elijah didn’t laugh.
His jaw ticked, just once. A small flex of muscle near his temple. He still hadn’t looked at Monroe, but the weight of his attention shifted. Sharpened. He saw the way her fingers tensed around the fork, the way she shrank in on herself without moving much at all.
Monroe’s cheeks went hot. She stirred her food without eating. Her voice barely lifted. “It was a sad chapter.”
“A fictional chapter,” Rose said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve gotta toughen up, baby. It’s just fantasy. That stuff’s not real.”
Elijah’s fork paused midway to his mouth. He glanced at Monroe.
Finally.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said quietly.
Rose blinked. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged one shoulder, the motion smooth. “Some books tell the truth better than people do.”
Rose laughed awkwardly. “I don’t know about all that.”
Elijah didn’t respond to her. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, eyes still on Monroe. "What are you reading now?" he asked, voice low and steady.
Monroe blinked. It took her a second to realize he was talking to her directly, not just making conversation.
She hesitated, then glanced down at the book in her lap. "It's... a romance," she said, quietly. "Dark. Kind of intense."
Elijah nodded once, slowly. "The kind with more truth in the tension than in the happy ending?"
Her lips parted. A breath caught somewhere between a smile and a confession. "Yeah. That kind."
Rose shifted beside him, clearly displeased by being sidelined. "I don’t know why she reads that stuff. It’s always so... toxic. Men being obsessive, all that possessive nonsense."
Elijah’s gaze didn’t leave Monroe. "Or maybe it’s about understanding how power feels when it’s given, not taken."
That made Monroe freeze. Her breath stalled.
He watched her closely, the fire casting gold across her face. "Do you read for escape or for recognition?"
Monroe's eyes lifted to his. Slowly. "Sometimes I’m not sure. Maybe both."
The corners of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something approving lived there. Something knowing.
And for the first time that evening, Monroe felt seen.
Monroe looked up at that. Just for a second. But he was already looking at her. Like the words were meant only for her. His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes held something heavier, something unspoken. A tether.
She swallowed and dropped her gaze again, her fingers brushing the edge of the book still resting on her leg.
Rose didn’t seem to notice. She kept talking, filling the silence with idle chatter and sideways jokes Monroe had heard her make a hundred times. Complaints about the campsite, commentary on Elijah’s arms, fake laughter that strained too wide. She sipped from a plastic cup filled with boxed wine and made another joke Monroe didn’t catch.
Elijah didn’t speak again. He just listened.
And watched.
And learned Monroe with every breath she took.
He watched how she stirred her food more than she ate it. How she wiped her palms against her thighs after each mouthful, like her skin was too tight. He saw the way she flinched when Rose laughed too loudly, how her eyes drifted to the fire and stayed there as if she could disappear into it.
When Monroe stood to rinse her plate, Elijah’s gaze followed her all the way to the small bucket of water near the edge of the site. She bent to dip the plate and sponge, and he noticed again how quiet she was, how even her movements tried not to take up space.
Rose said something else, something teasing about Monroe being “fragile,” but he didn’t respond.
Because Monroe wasn’t fragile.
She was contained.
And he was starting to understand just how badly he wanted to see what happened when she stopped holding everything in.
It was Rose who made the decision, of course. Loudly. Casually. Like it had already been discussed and agreed upon.
“Well, Elijah and I will take the bigger tent. Monroe, baby, you’re fine in the smaller one, right? You like your space.”
Monroe nodded before the question had even finished forming. Her voice stayed tucked behind her lips, her agreement silent. She didn’t need to be told twice. She was used to being placed elsewhere. She was always the afterthought, the quiet one, the obedient one. It didn’t surprise her.
Elijah didn’t say anything either. He only gave a tight nod, his jaw set as he took the rolled sleeping bag Rose handed him and turned toward the tent. The choice wasn’t his to fight. Not without making it something. And he wasn’t going to make it something.
But it wasn’t what he wanted.
Night crept in slowly after that, soft and black and full of crickets and wind. The campfire had burned down to low coals, casting the tent walls in a quiet orange glow before the last light finally died out.
Monroe curled into her sleeping bag with her book still beside her, pages dog-eared and spine open. But she didn’t read. Her eyes stayed wide in the dark, trained on the canvas ceiling above her as the forest hummed around her. She heard every branch creak, every owl cry, every rustle of grass. Her mind wouldn’t quiet. Her skin still buzzed faintly from the way Elijah had looked at her earlier from the weight of that shared glance.
Then she heard the zipper.
Sharp. Distinct. The tent flap opens and then closes again, followed by a hush of motion. Then voices. Low. Close.
Rose’s voice was soft, syrupy. Intentional. “Let me take care of you,” she purred, too pleased with herself. “You’ve been tense all day.”
Elijah closed his eyes.
From the inside, the tent felt too small, air thick, canvas breathing with every shift of her body. He focused on the rhythm of his own breathing, on keeping his hands still, on not giving her anything that sounded like want. Tense wasn’t the word. Coiled was. Wired tight around a single image he wouldn’t let surface.
He nodded once, noncommittal, a sound trapped in his chest. Let it happen. Don’t engage. Don’t reach.
But his body betrayed him anyway, reacting on instinct while his mind slid elsewhere, away from Rose’s mouth, away from her practiced confidence toward a softer picture he shouldn’t have had ready. He kept his jaw locked, eyes shut, and let the moment pass through him without letting it touch the truth of what he wanted.
Monroe froze.
There was silence. Then shifting. The thud of knees on fabric. A breath, drawn and held. Then came the sounds slow, intimate, unmistakable. Lips, tongue, motion. Flesh against flesh. The wet drag of Rose’s mouth filled the cramped space, along with the subtle suck of pressure building, releasing, building again. Her hand moved along his length in tandem, greedy and assured, like she was sculpting the outcome she wanted with the insistence of muscle and spit.
Elijah’s voice came low. Rough. A single, guttural breath pushed through his teeth a sound born more of strain than surrender. His hands clenched at his sides, fingers biting into nylon. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. His hips stayed locked, breath shallow and clipped. Every flick of her tongue pushed him further out of his own body.
He wasn’t with her.
He was in another tent.
With someone softer. Quieter. Someone who wouldn’t know what to do with him but would try. Trembling hands, parted lips, wide dark eyes full of questions she couldn’t voice. That was where he went. That’s what made his breath hitch and his jaw tighten, the way it did now, as Rose’s mouth quickened and the tension in his gut twisted sharp and deep.
Monroe’s body locked. Her arms pulled her tighter into her sleeping bag, but it was useless. The sounds crept in like fog, unavoidable and thick.
She didn’t want to hear it.
She couldn’t stop listening.
Rose’s movements were rhythmic, audible. The wet suck of her mouth, the occasional shift of fabric, the faint moan she made when Elijah’s muscles jumped beneath her hands. She was performing; there was a hunger in her effort, but not a tenderness. Like she was proving a point. Marking territory.
But Elijah was quiet. Too quiet.
Monroe could hear how controlled he was. The way his pleasure came in tight, choked-off grunts. No praise. No encouragement. Just the occasional hitch in his breath, like he was clenching his jaw against something else.
And Monroe felt it. The heat rising inside her. Sharp and confusing and low, pooling in her belly, seeping between her legs in slow, traitorous warmth. Her thighs pressed together beneath the covers, her toes curling without permission. Her breath came short, her skin hypersensitive to every brush of fabric, every stray thought she couldn’t control. The tension didn't just build, it bloomed, stretching through her like something alive and aching.
She shifted, barely, as if the small motion might extinguish it, but it only made the friction worse. Her fingers twitched against her hip, fighting the urge to press down where the ache throbbed fiercest. Each sound from Elijah’s tent stoked the fire higher, until even the air felt humid with want.
It was unbearable.
And yet she clung to it, because it was the closest she’d ever been to feeling anything like this. To be noticed, wanted even if only in silence, even if only through imagined touches she would never dare ask for.
She hated herself for reacting. For wondering what he was seeing when his eyes closed.
A sharp thump, his arm maybe, or a knee jerking against the tent wall. Then Rose let out a soft laugh, breathless, encouraged.
Monroe’s heart pounded in her throat.
She could imagine it now, his face, strained and beautiful, head tilted back, lips parted, breath stuttering between clenched teeth. Sweat slicked his chest, muscles flexed tight as he tried to hold himself still. But not for Rose. Never for Rose.
No.
His head would be full of someone else's softer sounds, slower movements, the fumbling kind of curiosity that made you ache. Someone new. Someone he shouldn’t want.
He was picturing someone else.
Her.
Monroe could see it without seeing. Could feel it in every breath he let go of, in every suppressed sound he didn’t mean to make. She felt like she was in the tent with him, kneeling, close, learning him inch by inch while he watched her unravel with awe and hunger. The image clung to her like heat. And it didn’t let go.
She could feel it, absurd as it was. Could feel him imagining her mouth on him instead of her lips, her tongue, her quiet, unsure hands. She could feel the fantasy from across the camp like it had been pulled tight between them like a wire.
Elijah lay back in the tent, eyes closed, fists clenched in the sleeping bag. Rose worked faster now, her mouth moving with purpose, sloppy and eager. But his mind wasn’t on her. Not for a second.
He saw Monroe’s hair spread across his thigh, her fingers trembling as she held him, unsure but desperate to please. He imagined the look on her face the first time she took him in, wide-eyed, nervous, flushed. Her innocence made his gut twist. Made his spine lock.
His breath hitched. He let out a low, shaking growl, barely restrained. Rose hummed like it was for her.
It wasn’t.
And in her tent, Monroe whimpered.
Her hand gripped the edge of her sleeping bag as her knees pulled up, the ache growing unbearable. Her body was trembling. It was shameful. She wanted it to stop. She didn’t. Every sound Elijah made fed the heat inside her until it felt like it was dripping from her skin.
She didn’t even have to see him. She could feel his weight, his restraint, his hunger bleeding through the dark like static.
A rough sound tore from Elijah’s throat, half moan, half exhale, but it didn’t stop there. It thickened, deepened, broke open into something raw and uncontainable. His breath caught on a groan, dragged from the pit of his stomach, and then he came with a guttural noise, stifled only barely by his clenched jaw and the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. The sound was low, wrecked, intimate. The kind that made Monroe’s breath vanish, her entire body flushed and still.
She gasped like she’d been struck, heat rushing to her face, her chest, lower. That sound wasn’t anonymous. It wasn’t distant. It was too exposed, too honest, and it cracked something wide open inside her.
Because in that moment, she knew.
He was thinking about her.
And a terrible, thrilling part of her wanted him to keep going.
The fire had burned down to ash by dawn.
Monroe stirred in her sleeping bag before the sun had fully risen. Her eyes opened to the soft gray light of early morning, and everything in her body ached not from the ground beneath her, but from the memory of sound.
Elijah’s sound.
It lingered in her chest like a second heartbeat. She pressed her fingers into her sternum as if she could rub it away. Her legs still felt shaky. Her throat was dry. Every part of her still felt tethered to that muffled groan that had broken through the canvas wall and unraveled something inside her.
When she finally unzipped the tent and stepped into the chill morning air, she didn’t look at the larger tent. She couldn’t. The sky was pale with early light, dew still clinging to the grass. The woods around them were heavy with silence except for the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.
Rose was already bustling at the fire pit, talking to herself, humming like she hadn’t spent the night moaning around a man who hadn’t once said her name. Her smile was bright. Fake. Practiced. She moved like nothing had happened, like Monroe hadn’t heard every second of it.
Elijah was seated on a log, drinking from a metal camping mug, watching the steam rise with a stillness that unnerved her. He didn’t say anything when Monroe emerged. But he looked.
She felt it immediately, the way his gaze landed on her like a touch. It made her pause mid-step, before she forced herself to keep moving.
Monroe’s gaze dropped. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then another. Her face burned hot despite the cool air, and her voice stayed locked behind her lips. She moved slowly, silently retrieving her own mug, keeping her eyes on her hands, her feet, anything but him.
He saw everything. The shift in her shoulders. The guarded curve of her spine. The way she stood was like someone who’d been overheard and hadn’t forgiven herself for it. Like the echo of what she’d heard was still clinging to her skin.
Rose chattered on. “We’ll go down to the lake later, get some sun. You brought your swimsuit, right, Monroe?”
Monroe nodded. Her voice barely carried. “Yeah.”
She didn’t wear it.
By midday, the sky had warmed to a hazy blue and the forest buzzed with cicadas. The air was thick with summer heat, heavy with the scent of smoke, pine, water. Monroe wandered toward the lake alone, towel in hand, a book tucked under one arm. Instead of the suit, she wore a white shirt and thin cotton shorts. She hadn’t thought much about it, hadn’t considered the way the material would change once it met the water, hadn’t thought about eyes that might follow.
The woods were quiet when she slipped beneath the surface. The lake, cool and glassy, wrapped around her like a balm. She swam out farther than she meant to, arms slicing through it in slow strokes. It was quiet out there. Peaceful. She floated on her back, staring up at the canopy above, feeling the weight of the world drift away from her skin.
Until she felt eyes on her.
Elijah stood at the edge of the trees like some brooding Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th, just beyond the line of shade, half-hidden, arms crossed, watching with the intensity of a man who wasn't holding a machete only because he'd forgotten to bring one. All he needed was the mask. And maybe a moral excuse.
He hadn’t meant to follow. That was the lie he told himself. But when he saw her slip into the water, alone, something in him pulled. He told Rose he was going to collect firewood. His hands were empty.
And now he stood, watching Monroe’s body move through the lake, the water clinging to the thin cotton like a second skin. Her shirt floated at the edges, translucent at the center. Her breasts moved with the water’s current, nipples hard and visible beneath the fabric. Her thighs flashed just beneath the surface. Her movements were innocent, unguarded, unaware of the tension she was steeping into the air with every soft arc of her arm.
She didn’t know. That much was obvious.
He took a step closer without thinking. A single twig cracked beneath his boot.
She turned toward him and saw him.
Her breath caught. Her eyes widened, just slightly. Her lips parted like she meant to say something, but didn’t.
She didn’t swim away.
Elijah didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, slow and deep, his eyes locked to hers. No words. No explanation. Just a silent, thrumming understanding. The air between them thickened, became a current all its own.
The first crack in Monroe’s innocence had formed the night before.
Now it was spreading.
And this time, she wasn’t turning away from it.
Monroe didn’t move when she saw him at the tree line. The water lapped softly against her body, the only sound between them for a beat too long. Her fingers idly skimmed the surface, creating lazy ripples that stretched toward him.
Then her voice floated across the lake, quiet, careful, tinged with something that might have been teasing. “What are you doing?”
Elijah blinked, like he’d been pulled from somewhere deep. He straightened, shifting his stance but not stepping forward. His voice carried with deliberate calm. “Collecting firewood,” he said. “Just thought I’d stop by… check on you.”
Her lips curved in amused, almost. Not quite a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze dipping briefly to where the lake water kissed the hem of her translucent shirt. “I can see that.”
She didn’t blush. Didn’t hide. She turned in the water instead, slow and unhurried, arms gliding with practiced ease. Her strokes were confident, her chin tilted just slightly as if she sensed the weight of his gaze and welcomed it. The surface rippled in delicate waves as she moved, sunlight flickering over her shoulders and back.
When she reached the shallows, she rose with languid grace, water cascading down her limbs in silver ribbons, her shirt plastered to every curve. The soaked fabric clung to her skin like a second layer, translucent in the sun, outlining the soft swell of her breasts and the dip of her waist. Her nipples, peaked from the cold, pressed against the cotton like punctuation marks.
Elijah looked away, but it was too late. The image was already burned behind his eyes. It seared into him, slow and molten, a quiet torment he carried with every breath.
She wrung out her hair with both hands, towel slung over one shoulder but unused. Her body was defined, luminous in the wet cling of cotton. He caught something else in her expression, a flicker of daring, like a thread pulled loose in her chest, unraveling the last of her hesitations.
“I can help with the firewood,” she said, voice easy.
He raised an eyebrow, slower to respond. “You sure?”
She toweled off her arms, barely glancing at him. “It’s just wood.”
But nothing felt simple in that moment. Not her offer. Not the weight in the air.
He nodded, finally. And they set off.
The forest swallowed them quickly, damp and golden with afternoon light filtering through the trees. The underbrush was soft beneath their feet, and the deeper they walked, the quieter it got. Birds called in the distance, and somewhere nearby, a breeze rustled the ferns.
They didn’t speak. But the silence was alive.
Monroe walked beside him, her towel looped over one shoulder, her hair still damp and curling at the edges. Her legs moved with quiet confidence, her breath steady. Every so often, her eyes slid to the side, catching him watching her. Neither of them looked away fast enough to pretend otherwise.
Elijah’s hands flexed around the handle of the hatchet clipped to his belt, his jaw tense. His restraint, the cold, practiced kind, was beginning to feel more like a fracture line waiting for pressure.
They stopped at a fallen tree, its bark flaking away in dry curls. He crouched to snap a limb clean. She knelt beside him without prompting. Their hands reached for the same piece, brushing in the middle.
She didn’t pull away.
The back of her fingers stayed against his longer than necessary, warm and soft. His thumb twitched before he pulled it back. Her breath caught, he heard it, and she turned to lift another branch like it hadn’t happened. But her posture had changed. Slightly more aware. More in control.
They gathered in silence, but the air between them had shifted. It felt heavier. Slower.
When Monroe stumbled on a root, her foot twisted awkwardly, and she pitched forward with a small gasp. Elijah reacted before he could think. His arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand catching her wrist, pulling her to him.
Her chest hit his with a thud softened by breath. Her palm rested against his sternum, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. His grip was firm. Protective. Possessive.
Neither of them moved.
Her eyes met his wide, startled, but not afraid. They held for a moment too long, the tension between them thick and unblinking. His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering, tracing the delicate bow of her lips and the way her breath shivered across them. Her lips were parted, breath shallow and expectant, as if she, too, was picturing the same thing.
For a second, no longer than that, he imagined what would happen if he leaned in. If he pressed his mouth to hers, tasted the heat behind her hesitation, buried his fingers in her damp hair, and tugged her closer. If he let go completely, if he stopped pretending that this wasn’t already happening in the spaces between their words, their silences, their restraint.
His pulse thundered at the thought, thick with danger and need.
His voice came rough, dangerous in its honesty. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
Her voice trembled, but it was steady. “I’m not playing.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
His thumb slid beneath the hem of her shirt, brushing the warm skin at her lower back. Just one stroke, barely a touch.
But her breath hitched.
He pulled away like the contact scalded him, stepping back before the thought could become a move. She adjusted herself slowly, eyes still on him as she smoothed the fabric back into place.
Neither of them apologized.
They gathered the remaining wood without a word. But the silence now was different, richer, more charged. A thread pulled too tight between them, humming with anticipation.
As they walked back, Monroe stayed close.
And Elijah kept glancing sideways, as if expecting her to reach for him again.
Something had caught flame.
And it wasn’t going out.
The walk back to camp was quieter, but not in the way it had been earlier.
Now, there was something charged beneath the surface of every step. Their hands brushed once as they adjusted the bundle of firewood between them, and neither flinched. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t have to. The silence had changed shap it was no longer about what wasn’t said, but about everything that was understood. Every shared glance felt like a held breath, every footstep thick with tension.
When they emerged from the woods, Rose was perched on a camp chair, sunglasses on, legs crossed, a bright-red lipstick freshly reapplied, tapping on her phone like she hadn’t noticed how long they’d been gone.
“Oh, good,” she chirped. “You two finally made it back. Was starting to think you’d gotten lost and started a new settlement out there.”
Elijah said nothing. Monroe kept her eyes on the fire pit as she dropped the wood with a quiet thud. Her face remained carefully neutral.
Rose stood, brushing off her shorts and stretching like a cat who needed an audience. “I’m gonna run to the gas station up the road. We’re out of drinks and snacks—and I need something cold that doesn’t taste like dirt.”
Monroe blinked. “Do you want me to come—?”
“Nope.” Rose cut her off with a sing-song lilt, already grabbing her bag and car keys. “You two can hold down the fort. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
Her laugh trailed behind her like perfume, and within minutes, the sound of the engine faded into the distance, swallowed by the trees. The sudden stillness it left behind felt louder than the car itself.
Silence returned, fuller than before.
Monroe stood near the fire pit, twisting a twig between her fingers, the tension making her arms tight, her posture alert. Elijah hadn’t moved from where he stood across the clearing, watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asked finally, his voice low, meant only for her.
She nodded, but her eyes lifted slowly. There was something new in their vulnerability, yes, but curiosity too. "Is there somewhere… quieter?"
He watched her for a beat longer than he should have. The twig snapped in her hand.
Then, he set down the remaining firewood and tilted his head. “Come on.”
The trail he led her down was narrow, barely a trail at all. It twisted deeper into the forest than they'd gone before, where the trees grew close, and the canopy dimmed the sunlight. Branches brushed Monroe’s arms as they walked single file, her breath quickening with each step, anticipation rising in her chest like a tide.
They reached it without warning.
A hidden pocket of stone and water where the stream carved into the land and spilled in a small, clear cascade into a deep basin below. The rocks were smooth, dark with moisture, and streaked with moss. Ferns curled around the edges like a curtain, enclosing the space. It was quiet except for the rushing water, loud enough to drown out the rest of the world.
Private. Untouched. A secret waiting to be shared.
He turned to look at her. She was already looking at him, her eyes wide with wonder, and something else, something softer. Braver.
“Take off your shoes,” he said, his voice almost gentle.
She did.
They stepped onto the slick, wet rock, careful, barefoot. The mist from the falls kissed her skin, cool and light, like breath. Her damp clothes clung tighter, but she didn’t care. Every inch of her felt aware of his nearness, of how alone they were, how far they'd wandered.
His hand lifted. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But his gaze did.
“Monroe.”
Her breath hitched. “Yes?”
“Tell me something,” he said, voice low. “Has anyone ever touched you?”
Monroe hesitated. Her breath stilled. Then slowly, she nodded, just once. “Just one guy. A while ago… before he moved.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Your mom doesn’t know?”
She shook her head. “No. It didn’t last. We weren’t really anything.”
Elijah’s jaw tightened just enough to be visible. “So not like this,” he murmured, stepping closer.
She swallowed, lips parting as her breath turned unsteady.
Then he touched her.
But not just with his hands.
Elijah stepped into her space, crowding her gently back beneath the waterfall’s cascade. Mist soaked her further, but the heat in his eyes burned through the cold. He brushed her soaked shirt up with deliberate slowness, revealing inches of skin as he went. The material clung, and he took his time peeling it away, watching her shiver under the pressure of being seen, really seen.
“Arms up,” he murmured.
She obeyed.
He pulled the shirt over her head, tossing it behind him. Her chest was bare now, nipples taut from the cool spray and his attention. His eyes dropped to them like gravity, and his mouth followed. He took one between his lips, sucked gently, then bit.
She gasped.
He didn’t stop. He wrapped an arm around her waist and turned them until her back met the slick rock. One hand traced the waistband of her shorts, then hooked in.
“Wet already,” he said, voice filth-soft. “And not just from the falls.”
His fingers slipped beneath, palms flattening over her hips as he slowly pulled them down. The fabric clung resistant but he took his time. Down past her thighs. Knees. Ankles.
Then he was on his knees, hand sliding between her legs, fingers spreading her open.
She whimpered, hips stuttering forward, but he held her steady, teasing her folds with slow circles before sliding two fingers inside her. She cried out, loud and unfiltered.
He twisted his fingers just right, curling them until her knees buckled. Her hips jerked forward, instinctive and needy, grinding against his palm. “God, you’re so tight around me, baby. So fucking greedy for it.”
He pumped into her deeper, fingers slick with how much she was giving him, dragging across that sweet, sensitive spot that made her sob. Her walls clutched him again and again, her thighs twitching around his hand. “You love this, don’t you?” he rasped, fucking her with his fingers like he meant it. “Stuffed full with nothing but my hand, and you’re already falling apart. You were made for this. Made for me.”
Monroe gasped, mouth open, one hand scrambling for the rock behind her, the other fisting in his hair. He angled his wrist, grinding harder against her clit with every thrust, and then he lowered his mouth.
His lips replaced his fingers in a single fluid move, tongue flattening against her with a slow, firm drag. She cried out, the sound echoing off the rock walls. He didn’t rush. He licked her like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to memorize every twitch, every gasp, every desperate roll of her hips.
He groaned against her, like her taste alone was enough to wreck him. His fingers slid back inside while his tongue circled her clit, teasing and relentless. Her thighs trembled around his head, breath coming in ragged moans.
“Elijah,” she whimpered, overwhelmed. “Please—don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He doubled down, sucking her swollen clit into his mouth just as his fingers curled again inside her, stroking deep.
“Such a filthy girl,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ good for me.”
She was already close, the rhythm of his thrusts ruthless now, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit. Her mouth dropped open, breath ragged, and she whimpered, desperate.
Elijah rose to his feet, towering over her, water cascading down his shoulders as he stared at her flushed face. He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her bottom lip.
"Say it again," he demanded, voice low and dark.
Her eyes fluttered open to meet his. “Please,” she whispered, broken and breathless. “I need it. I need you.”
He leaned in until their foreheads touched, his voice a gravel-drag against the roar of the falls. “She never begged like this. Rose never made these sounds. She could scream, but she never sang for me like you do.”
Her breath caught, mouth parted, trembling under the weight of his words. "You don’t even know what you're doing to me, Monroe. Look at you—so fucking wrecked. And I’ve barely started."
"Please," she gasped. "Elijah, please—I need—"
"Yeah? You need it?" he rasped, his voice a growl."
His words hit her like heat. She moaned, hips jerking—and then he pulled his fingers free, slow and wet, making her gasp at the loss.
"Turn around," he said, voice rough.
She did, palms pressed to the wet rock, chest rising fast. Behind her, he gripped her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he leaned in close, the tip of him dragging through her slick folds, teasing her entrance.
“Feel that?” he murmured, his breath hot against her spine. “That’s yours. Every inch of me. This dick belongs to you now.”
He paused, letting the head of his dick nudge her open slowly, savoring the way her body shook for him. His mouth brushed her ear, words filthy and sharp. “You know I never wanted her, right? Not really. Your mom was just noise. Nothing. But you…”
He pushed forward just enough to make her gasp, letting her feel how badly he wanted her. “The second she showed me that picture of you—smiling, soft, sweet—I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn't sleep. Couldn’t touch her without wishing it was you.”
He growled against her skin, teeth grazing her shoulder. “And now look at you. Mine. Dripping for me. Making sounds she never could. Never even came close.”
He pressed in slowly, groaning deep as the tight heat of her wrapped around him. Inch by inch, he filled her, one hand slipping up to cup her breast, the other steadying her hips as she arched back into him.
Monroe cried out, her nails scraping across the rock, her body straining to take more. “Elijah—”
He sank deeper, all the way to the hilt, and stilled there, breathing hard. His hands gripped her hips like anchors, grounding himself in the unbearable pleasure of being buried inside her. “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl,” he growled, voice shaking with restraint. “You take me so fuckin’ good. So tight, so wet—like you were made just to take my dick.”
He rolled his hips forward, slow but heavy, dragging himself out halfway only to thrust back in, making her cry out again. The rock beneath her scraped her palms, but she didn’t care. Every motion he made lit something inside her raw, aching, burning. He leaned in, chest to her back, mouth at her ear.
“Fuck,” he breathed, nipping at her earlobe. “I’ve never felt anything like this. Never wanted to lose control so bad.”
Monroe’s head fell forward, breath ragged. “Don’t hold back,” she whispered, voice shaking with want.
He growled, dark and guttural. “Careful what you ask for.”
And then he moved.
No more slow, teasing thrusts. Elijah drew back and slammed forward, a full-bodied stroke that echoed off the wet stone, making her cry out loud, raw and open. He gripped her hips tighter, pulling her back into him with each thrust. Again. And again. Harder. Deeper.
“You wanted this?” he rasped, his breath hot against her spine. “This what you read in those filthy little books?”
She nodded desperately, gasping, “Yes—yes, Elijah—please—”
His hand snaked up to wrap in her hair, pulling her head back just enough for him to whisper in her ear. “No one’s ever going to fuck you like this, Monroe. No one else even gets the chance.”
She keened at his words, her body jerking with every brutal, perfect snap of his hips. The slap of skin against skin was drowned only by the roar of the falls and the ragged moans spilling from her mouth.
“I dreamed about this,” he groaned, voice ragged, hips snapping hard into her. “Every damn time I had to fuck your mother, I closed my eyes and imagined it was you. Bent over. Shaking. Crying out like you are now.”
His thrusts deepened, harder, sharper. “She never begged. Never gave me this. But you—you’re fuckin’ perfect. So tight, so hungry for me. You were the one I wanted the whole damn time.”
Monroe sobbed his name, her body trembling, wrecked from the inside out.
“You remember that photo she showed me?” he rasped against her ear, slamming into her again. “You in that little sundress, smile so goddamn sweet—had me jerking off in the shower for days after. I knew then. You were gonna be mine. And now you are.”
She cried out, loud and broken. “Elijah—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“You’re gonna come,” he growled, voice rough with ownership. “And I want you loud. Let this whole fuckin’ forest know who ruins you—who splits you open and makes you forget your own damn name.”
He slammed into her again, dragging another broken moan from her throat. “Say it. Say it’s mine. Say this sweet little pussy only belongs to me.”
She choked out his name, barely coherent, and he didn’t slow. “That’s it, baby. Fuckin’ scream it. Let every tree hear you come all over me. Let the dirt remember the way I wrecked you.”
She shattered around him, body locking tight as the orgasm ripped through her, wild and unrelenting. Her scream echoed off the rocks, raw and guttural, and he held her firm as she convulsed around him. Her walls pulsed in rapid waves, milking him, drawing every thrust deeper.
“Elijah!” she cried out, eyes squeezed shut, fingers white-knuckling against the stone. Her legs trembled violently, barely able to hold her upright, but he didn’t stop. His strokes slowed, deepened, dragging out every last jolt of pleasure from her spent body.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” he murmured, teeth grazing her neck. “That’s mine. Every sound, every tremble. All of you.”
The air was thick with steam and afterglow as Monroe leaned into him, their bare skin slick with sweat and mist from the waterfall. Her breath still hitched in soft aftershocks, her chest rising and falling against his. Elijah held her close, his hands never straying too far from her body, as if afraid she might disappear if he let her go too soon.
She laughed under her breath, a quiet, dazed sound, as he kissed her shoulder, then her jaw. He was still hard, still greedy for her, but for now, he settled for the slow drag of his lips against hers.
“You’re insatiable,” she murmured, arms winding around his neck.
He smiled against her mouth. “So are you.”
They dressed in slow pieces, her limbs heavy, his hands lingering. Elijah helped her into her shorts, pulled her shirt down over her still-sensitive chest, brushing the damp fabric into place with a palm that lingered just a second too long. When she turned to slip her shoes back on, he caught her by the waist, pulling her back in for another kiss.
This one was different.
Softer. Possessive. A brand.
When they finally emerged from the trees, the sun had begun its descent, streaking the sky in amber and soft pink. Camp was quiet. The fire pit was cold and untouched. No sign of Rose yet. The car was still gone.
Monroe’s heart skipped.
Elijah’s hand brushed hers as they crossed the clearing. A subtle touch. Nothing anyone would notice. But she felt it everywhere.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. But their silence now was heavy with things left unspoken, dirty, desperate things whispered under the spray of the falls. The memory of his voice, his body, the sound of her name wrecked between his teeth.
At camp, they sat a polite distance apart. Monroe fidgeted with her water bottle. Elijah busied himself restacking logs. But when no one was looking, his eyes were on her.
The heat in them hadn’t cooled.
When Rose finally returned, arms full of bags and sunglasses sliding down her nose, she paused. Just for a second. Her gaze flicked between them, Monroe’s flushed cheeks, Elijah’s too-calm expression, and something in her brow furrowed.
“Everything alright here?” she asked, too casually.
Monroe looked up. “Yeah. All good.”
Elijah nodded once. “Fine.”
Rose didn’t press, but she watched them a little too long as she unpacked snacks.
Later that evening, Monroe slipped away from the fire under the pretense of stretching her legs. She didn’t expect Elijah to follow, but when she heard the soft crunch of his boots on the trail behind her, her stomach twisted.
They didn’t speak until the trees swallowed them again.
She stopped near the edge of the lake, the moonlight painting soft streaks across her skin. He came up behind her, close but not touching.
“Why me?” she asked, voice barely more than a breath. "You could’ve had anyone. You had my mom.”
He moved in front of her, taking her chin between his fingers. His gaze burned.
“Because I see you,” he said. “Because you don’t know how dangerous you are. Because you walk around all soft and sweet like you’re not fire underneath. And because you’re mine.”
Monroe’s lips parted, her breath catching.
“I’m yours?”
His mouth brushed hers. “Forever.”
Later that night, as the stars thickened above the treetops, Rose suggested a walk. Casual, like it didn’t mean anything. “Come on, Monroe,” she said, dusting off her shorts. “Let’s stretch our legs. Get some air.”
Monroe hesitated but nodded. The weight of Elijah’s gaze followed her as she stood, but neither of them said a word.
They wandered a winding trail lit only by moonlight and the occasional flicker of fireflies. Rose was quiet at first, but Monroe could feel it building in her the itch of a question she couldn’t quite sit on.
“So,” Rose finally said, her voice light and probing, “what do you think of Elijah?”
Monroe blinked, caught off guard. “He’s… quiet.”
“Mm,” Rose hummed, amused. “Quiet, but fine as hell. You notice that?”
Monroe swallowed, cheeks heating. “I guess.”
Rose side-eyed her, but there was a flicker of uncertainty behind the smirk. “You don’t think he’s a little... intense?” she asked, half-laughing, half-defensive. “I mean, yeah, he’s good-looking, tall, got that whole brooding thing going, but he’s kinda quiet, don’t you think?”
Monroe shrugged, trying not to seem too eager. “He seems... thoughtful.”
Rose gave a little scoff, brushing her fingers through her curls. “Thoughtful, huh? You always were the poetic one.” Her tone bordered on teasing, but something in it stung, like she was trying to convince herself more than Monroe. “Anyway, I don’t think he’s really your type.”
Monroe said nothing, lips pressed together. She could still feel the weight of Elijah’s stare from earlier, could still taste his kiss like it was stitched into her skin.
Rose, oblivious to the silence blooming with meaning between them, moved on, chattering about snack preferences and how cold it might get tonight.
Monroe just nodded, eyes down, heart hammering.
Back at camp, Elijah waited until he was sure they were deep into their walk before he moved. His expression unreadable, his pace slow but deliberate, he bent down and began shifting the smaller tent Monroe’s, dragging it several feet away from where it had sat beside his and Rose’s. Not far. Just far enough.
Far enough to sneak in the dark.
He resecured the stakes, adjusted the flap, and stood back, satisfied. His jaw flexed, and he rubbed the back of his neck, staring out into the trees.
Tonight, he thought. Tonight, he’d touch her again. Make her beg quieter. Mark her deeper.
He could still taste her on his tongue.
And he wasn’t done yet.
When Rose and Monroe returned to camp, the first thing Rose noticed was the tent.
“Was your tent always that far back?” she asked, pausing mid-step, a wrinkle forming between her brows.
Monroe followed her gaze. Her tent was now several feet away from where it had been before, nestled closer to the trees, partially in shadow. It stood alone, separate.
Before she could answer, Elijah straightened from where he’d been stirring the firepit. “I moved it,” he said simply, tone clipped.
Rose blinked. “Why?” Her voice held a thread of suspicion, but she tried to sound casual.
“She’s a grown woman,” Elijah replied, not bothering to look up. “Didn’t seem like she needed to sleep right beside her mother.”
Rose let out a short laugh, clearly thrown off. “Right. Okay. Just seems... unnecessary. But sure.”
There was a pause, a thick silence stretching just a second too long.
Monroe tilted her head slightly, a slow smile forming. The edges of her lips curled with something sly, almost smug. “Thanks, Mr. Moore,” she said, her voice soft but unmistakably laced with something deeper. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
Rose gave her daughter a side glance, eyes narrowing for a beat before brushing past them with a scoff. “So dramatic. It’s not like I snore.”
Monroe’s smile only deepened. Her gaze caught Elijah’s across the firepit, just long enough to make something unspoken pass between them, a current.
And he didn’t look away.
Later, the fire burned low. Rose retired first, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t stay up too late.”
Elijah grunted something noncommittal, eyes on the flames. Monroe lingered a little longer, but when she rose to head toward her tent, he didn’t stop her. Didn’t touch her. Just watched.
Inside the larger tent, Rose unrolled her sleeping bag and tugged off her hoodie, already in her camisole and shorts. She crawled in beside Elijah, who lay flat on his back, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the nylon ceiling.
She turned toward him, fingers grazing his thigh. “You tired?” she asked, her voice suggestive.
He didn’t respond right away.
Her hand wandered higher, slow and deliberate. “We haven’t had any time alone, you know…”
“Rose,” he said, low and flat.
She blinked. “What?”
“I’m tired.”
She frowned, pulling her hand back. “You weren’t tired last time.”
“Things change.”
Her scoff was sharp. She rolled over without another word, facing the tent wall, muttering something under her breath.
Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He waited.
Twenty minutes passed before her breathing slowed, deepened, softened. When he was completely sure, he eased himself from the sleeping bag, silent as a shadow.
He stepped out into the dark.
The camp was still, fire now reduced to glowing coals. He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space to Monroe’s tent with calculated steps, every movement controlled.
When he slipped inside, she was already awake.
Waiting.
Their eyes met in the dim light. No words.
Elijah stripped in silence, every motion deliberate. Shirt off. Pants shoved down. He stepped out of them slowly, eyes fixed on hers like he was daring her to blink. His skin gleamed in the faint moonlight that filtered through the fabric walls, every defined line of him shadowed and sharp. Monroe's eyes didn’t leave him; he was bare, hard, and heavy with intent. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched the kind of hunger that could devour her take form right in front of her.
She lay beneath the covers, her chest rising fast, pupils blown wide with anticipation. Her thighs already ached for him. When he slid under the blanket, heat rushed over her again. His hands didn’t hesitate, gripping her waist like he owned it, dragging her flush against him. She could feel him, thick and hot between them, and her body trembled under his hold.
Their mouths met in a kiss that burned low and deep, hungry but muted, all teeth, tongue, and breathless urgency. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask, it was consumed. Her legs parted without hesitation, instinct taking over, wrapping tight around his hips like she needed to keep him there forever.
And when he moved over her, it was with a promise: he wasn’t going to be gentle. Not tonight.
And when he sank into her, it was slow and punishing.
She gasped into his mouth, body arching, fingers digging into his shoulders. He filled her with one hard, wet thrust, deep enough to knock the air out of her. She clenched around him, already too tight, too slick.
The sound that slipped from him was guttural, barely restrained, a raw, animalistic noise torn straight from his chest. He didn’t pull back right away, just held there, buried deep inside her, jaw clenched and breath shallow, letting her feel every inch of what he gave her. His hands dug into her hips, holding her in place, claiming her with his stillness. Every muscle in his body tensed against the flood of sensation, his control on the edge of snapping. The heat of her wrapped around him was too much, too perfect; he could’ve sworn he felt her pulse right through him. And still, he waited, savored, made her hold every thick, twitching inch of him until she writhed underneath, needing him to move, to ruin, to take. It was possession disguised as restraint, and Monroe, helpless beneath him, surrendered to it all.
The silence was heavy. Everything had to be quiet.
But the way he moved spoke for him, grinding deep, slow thrusts, her hands tangled in his hair, her lips pressed against his throat to smother the sounds.
Her body arched into him, hips rising to meet every push, each motion more desperate than the last. The air between them was humid with sweat and heat, their rhythm grinding with an ache that bordered on savage need. The deeper he drove, the harder it was for either of them to stay quiet. Monroe clung to him, nails dragging across his back, her breath catching with each thrust that came faster, rougher, pounding into her with a raw kind of precision that only obsession could fuel.
Elijah gritted his teeth, jaw tight as he worked into her harder, his thrusts losing that slow rhythm, replaced with a pounding urgency. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the tent, wet and relentless, echoing beneath every breath she tried to stifle. It was overwhelming being taken like this, like he was trying to put something permanent inside her, leave a part of himself behind.
The wet slide of their bodies echoed faintly in the tent’s hush, every thrust pushing deeper, keeping her pinned beneath the weight of his body and the tension in his grip. Missionary, yes, but nothing gentle. He kissed her between the gasps, his breath hot and urgent on her lips, as if he couldn’t get enough of her sounds, her skin, her surrender. It was tender only in the way obsession sometimes is, consuming and without mercy.
His name slipped from her lips like a prayer, broken and barely audible.
He groaned, low in his throat, burying his face in her neck. “You feel too good,” he breathed, his voice rough, broken at the edges. “Dripping down my dick like that—so fucking wet for me I can feel it every time I slide in. Soaking me, marking me.” His breath hit her ear, and he dragged his mouth down her jaw with a possessive hunger that made her shiver. “I could stay buried in you all night, Monroe. Just like this.”
Monroe bit her bottom lip, holding back the cry building inside her as the tension coiled tighter. Her fingers clawed down Elijah’s back, nails dragging long and desperate lines over sweat-slicked skin as she struggled to keep quiet. Every hard thrust threatened to break her, and she buried her face into the crook of his neck, muffling the gasp that nearly escaped. She was coming apart around him, her body betraying her silence, shaking under the pressure of not getting caught.
When she came, it was with a shuddering tremble, body jerking beneath him as she clamped around him, back arching off the sleeping pad, mouth parted in a soundless cry. Her entire body tensed and shook, overwhelmed by the force of it. Elijah barely held himself together, breath catching as he pulled out just in time, groaning deep in his chest. His release came fast and hard, thick, hot ropes spilling across her stomach, marking her skin as his own. He kept his eyes on her the entire time, watching the way she twitched beneath him, her thighs still trembling from the aftershocks, her skin glistening with sweat and something filthy between them.
They both breathed hard.
Elijah looked down at the mess he’d made of her, the streaks of his release smeared across the softness of her belly, and reached for her shirt beside the pillow. He dragged the fabric slowly over her skin, wiping her clean in lazy strokes, but his touch lingered almost reverent, more caress than cleanup. The way her skin twitched under his fingers made something primal in him tighten again.
She caught his hand before he pulled away, her fingers slipping over his, holding him there like she wasn't ready to let go of the moment either.
He looked into her eyes, dark, dazed, and still trembling from what they'd just shared.
And stayed. With his hand on her skin, his body still warm over hers, and something unspoken heavy in the air like the hush between thunder and lightning. He was a man twice her age, carved by years and experience, and she was the spark he never expected to need. What passed between them was louder than lust, thicker than heat. It was a claim sealed in silence, where age didn’t separate them, but made the collision all the more inevitable.
The night outside was silent. But inside her tent, it was anything but.
The air was still blue with early morning. Cool, damp, and hushed. The forest breathed quietly all around them, wrapped in mist, birds not yet stirring in the trees. Inside Monroe’s tent, everything was still except for the warmth of two bodies tangled beneath the thin sleeping bag.
Elijah woke first.
His arm was draped over her waist, hand resting against her bare hip. Her back was curved into him, and for a moment, he let himself do nothing but watch the slow, sleepy rise and fall of her breath. The afterglow still clung to them on her skin, on his. In the way their legs stayed twined.
He dipped his face into her neck, placing a slow kiss just below her ear.
She stirred with a soft breath, her body pushing back into his. "Mr. Moore…"
"Morning, sweet girl," he murmured against her shoulder.
They stayed like that for a long, quiet moment. His fingers traced the soft stretch of her thigh. Her hand slid up his forearm. Another kiss found her shoulder. Then her jaw. Then her lips. Kisses turned slow and deep, not urgent like the night before, but filled with something else. Something that held weight.
She rolled over to face him fully. Eyes still heavy. Lips parted. Their legs tangled again, and they sank into each other differently this time, hushed laughter, slow touches, gentle exploration that didn’t ask for more. Just... stayed.
Time didn’t exist for a while.
Eventually, Monroe sighed and reached for the edge of the blanket. “We should probably get dressed… before someone notices.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “Yeah. Probably.”
They sat up slowly. Elijah pulled on his shirt, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She moved like the night had changed something in her shoulders a little looser, gaze a little bolder.
He liked it.
Monroe had just pulled her shorts back on when a voice cut through the quiet morning air.
“Monroe?”
They both froze.
It was Rose.
Monroe’s eyes widened. Elijah moved with practiced calm, zipping the tent flap and rising to stand. Just outside, Rose’s footsteps crunched closer.
“What are you doing in there?”
Monroe cleared her throat. “Just… getting dressed.”
Rose’s shadow darkened the tent wall. “Dressed for what?”
Elijah stepped out first.
Rose’s brows lifted. She looked between them, Monroe still inside the tent, Elijah smoothing down his shirt, tension thick in the air. Her lips pressed into a line.
“What’s going on between you two?”
The question hung heavy, still as the trees.
Monroe stepped out slowly, her expression unreadable. She didn’t answer.
And Elijah?
He looked straight at Rose, unflinching. "You already know the answer. And I’m not going to lie to you to make it easier."
The fire pit crackled behind them.
And the silence stretched long enough to feel like the beginning of something else.
ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ actor! tyriq withers x personal trainer! black fem
ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ synopsis: Kyndal, an elite celebrity trainer, is hired to transform actor Tyriq Withers in just twelve weeks. What starts as a strictly professional routine—intense workouts and meal preps—slowly unravels into something deeper, as discipline blurs into desire and neither of them can seem to regain control.
{authors note: surprise shawtyyy! a new mini-series, i’m thinking maybe 4 parts? 🙂 i’m still working on In Your Mentions III, it should be up by tonight. If you have any other series or imagine ideas, lmk!!! and if you want to be on my taglist for this one or my other series, just comment! <3 K 🥰 }
ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ word count: 3.7k-ish, sorry for any errors! — gifs made by me!
ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ warnings: none, … yet. just slight tension for now. :)
Kyndal finishes her set before she checks her phone. She always does. “Nasty Girl/On Camera” by Gunna is blasting in her brown Beats.
The barbell settles back into the rack with a controlled clink, her breath steady despite the heavy weight she just pushed. There’s a thin sheen of sweat across her skin—not dripping, but just enough to make her rich melanated skin glow under the overhead lights.
She rolls her shoulders once, slow, loosening the tension before stepping back.
In the mirror, she catches a glimpse of herself without really trying. Defined.
Not in a forced way—nothing about her looks overdone or unnatural, like she’s on steroids. Her body looks like discipline, like routine, like consistency stacked over time—this physique took Kyndal years to build and maintain. Her waist pulls in tight, her core cut very clean, but it’s her lower body that holds the most weight visually—thick, muscular thighs, strong, not curvy in the hips. Built.
And still… very well balanced.
She grabs her iPhone 17 from the bench, her thumb swiping across the screen as her short acrylic nails clack lightly against it.
———
Gmail - Dymond Agency
From: Tyriq Withers Management Team
Subject: 12 Week Transformation Inquiry
———
Her expression doesn’t change much—but her thumb pauses. Just for a second, then she opens it.
She almost says no. Almost.
Her schedule is already full. Not packed in a chaotic way—but structured. Her clients are long-term, consistent, people who trust her process and don’t need convincing to follow it.
Twelve weeks is different. It means no wasted time.
She leans back slightly against the bench, rereading the details—film role, physique requirements, timeline.
Then she scrolls down.
His name again.
Tyriq Withers.
There’s a link attached. She taps it.
A quick profile. Clips. Interviews. Then—a picture.
Kyndal exhales lightly through her nose. “hm…okay.”
Not impressed. Not unimpressed either.
Just… assessing. She could admit that he was a little attractive.
He’s already in shape. That’s obvious immediately.
Broad shoulders. Solid frame. Legs that don’t look neglected.
Former athlete, probably. She scrolls, confirming it.
Football. FSU quarterback a few years back. Well, that explains it.
He’s not starting from zero. Which means she won’t have to build him from scratch—just refine him.
Lean him out. Sharpen everything. That, she can do.
Her thumb taps once against the screen. Then she exits the page and drafts an email, responding with a yes.
⸻
The meeting is set two days later.
Kyndal arrives early—not out of nervousness, just habit. She likes being settled before anything starts.
The room is clean, minimal, quiet.
She takes a seat at the table, setting her tablet down in front of her, legs crossing as she leans back slightly in her chair.
Her outfit is simple but fitted—a dark athletic set, a cropped top that reveals just enough of her midsection, her abs defined without her needing to flex. Her thighs press against the seat slightly when she shifts, her feet in chunky New Balance 9060s.
There’s nothing about her that feels small. Even sitting down, she holds space. The door opens, pulling her out of her thoughts.
She hears them before she looks up.
“…yeah, timeline’s tight but doable—”
Footsteps.
She lifts her eyes, and there he is.
Tyriq Withers looks exactly like someone who used to play football.
Tall—like extremely tall. 6’5 feels exaggerated when he’s standing in front of her 5’8 frame. His build is solid, natural mass sitting on his frame in a way that doesn’t look forced.
He’s not shredded. Not yet. But he’s far from out of shape.
His shoulders are broad, arms thick, chest filled out under his shirt. And his long legs in those Essential FEAR OF GOD sweats—yeah.
Kyndal notices them immediately, because that’s what she does. He was just a large man.
But what she wasn’t expecting—is his eyes. Green.
Not light, not bright—just enough contrast against everything else to stand out when he looks directly at her.
Which he does.
Immediately.
And doesn’t look away.
Kyndal holds his gaze for exactly one second.
Then she stands. Professional.
The manager opens the door, revealing Kyndal sitting there like a sight to see. Her legs are toned and muscular, her arms defined. He swallows hard. “Kyndal, this is Tyriq Withers.” His voice is deeper than intended.
They exchange quick introductions.
Then Tyriq steps in. “Nice to meet you, Tyriq,” he says, reaching for her hand.
His grip is firm, warm, but not lingering. Tyriq takes her hand, his grip firm as he notices the muscles in her forearms.
He’s used to women being smaller than him, but Kyndal is tall and built like a fucking goddess. His eyes linger over her body for a moment before meeting her gaze.
He looks at her like he’s taking note of more than just her name.
Kyndal lets go first.
“Nice to meet you too, both of you. Kyndal.” Her tone is neutral, but not super bubbly, as she holds a nice smile.
His eyes can’t help but wander to her thick, muscular legs and how her ass sits, it’s damn near defying gravity. He’s never seen a woman built like her before. It’s… unreal, actually.
He quickly looks away, trying to focus on the meeting, but his mind is already wandering to what those legs could do wrapped around him.. or pinned behind her head.
The meeting starts.
And Kyndal takes control of it without making it obvious.
Tablet open, stylus in hand, she leans forward slightly, posture relaxed but engaged.
“So you’re at 220 right now?” she asks, glancing between the screen and him through her black glasses and her short cat-eye mink lashes.
“Yeah,” Tyriq says.
“Around there.” Tyriq replies, shifting in his seat slightly. He’s aware of her eyes on him, checking out his physique. He’s used to women checking him out, but this is different. She’s not drooling over him—she’s assessing him like a piece of meat.
“Height’s 6’5.”
“Mmhm.”
She nods once.
“Okay. Not too bad.”
Her eyes move over him again—quick, calculated.
“You’ve got a good base,” she continues. “We’re not building from nothing. We’re refining. Leaning you out, increasing definition—especially upper body, core, and tightening your conditioning.”
Tyriq leans forward slightly, elbows resting against the table.
“Say that again but make it sound less painful.”
Kyndal pauses.
Then—
a small smile.
Quick. Gone just as fast. “Oh, it’s gonna be painful,” she says.
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I figured. I seen videos on your page.”
“Those workouts look crazy as hell,” Tyriq says with a small chuckle, trying to gauge her personality through the professional facade. She’s intense, but there’s something almost… playful about her. He’s used to trainers who are either too aggressive or too gentle.
One of the managers jumps in, asking about schedule, frequency.
“Five to six days a week,” Kyndal says. “Strength training, hypertrophy, and conditioning. We’ll rotate splits depending on recovery.”
She taps the tablet lightly.
“Nutrition is non-negotiable. High protein, controlled carbs, no guessing. Everything’s planned.”
Tyriq nods slowly.
“Aight.”
Then, after a beat—
“So no cheat days?”
“No,” she says simply.
He leans back slightly.
“Damn. There go my ten-piece hot honey lemon pepper wings,” Tyriq says, shaking his head dramatically as he holds his heart.
That pulls another small reaction out of her.
Not a laugh this time—but close.
The room laughs. Even Kyndal’s face twitches into a small smile before she catches herself. Tyriq likes how she doesn’t coddle him or make excuses. She’s straight to business, which he respects, but there’s something almost… cute about how stern she is. He really likes that.
She clears her throat lightly, refocusing.
“And Sundays,” she adds, “I’ll come by to plan your meals for the week. Your chef will follow what I map out.”
Tyriq’s brows lift slightly.
“You coming over every Sunday?”
Kyndal blinks once.
Realizing how that sounded.
“Yes… for work,” she clarifies.
He nods slowly.
“Right. For work.”
There’s something in his tone that makes her pause, but she ignores it.
His manager clears his throat. “So we’re clear—twelve weeks, right? We on the same page?”
Kyndal nods. “Twelve weeks. We’ll have check-ins every three, plus daily logs from him and weekly photo updates.”
“And one more thing,” the manager says. “We’d like to vlog the process. Training sessions, Sundays, the transformation—content for his page and the film.”
Kyndal considers it briefly, then nods. “That’s fine. As long as it doesn’t interfere.”
Tyriq glances at her.
“You camera shy?”
She looks at him directly. “No.”
She smirks lightly.
“I just don’t perform for others.”
His lips twitch slightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I can tell.”
And for some reason—that sits with her longer than it should.
The meeting ends about twenty minutes later with schedules and expectations set. Everyone starts gathering their things, standing up.
⸻
Two days later.
First session is at 6:30 a.m. Gunna is playing from the overhead speakers. She walks in, her hair in layered, silky 30-inch jet black bundles. Her Oner Active green workout set clings to her body like a second skin.
“Good morning,” she says, walking in as she finishes her pre-workout shake.
“’morning…” Tyriq says lowly. He’s wearing black compression shorts under his black gym shorts and a white t-shirt that clings to his broad chest. He notices her as she walks in, his gaze lingering on her hair for a moment before drifting down to her body.
Kyndal notices it immediately, but doesn’t acknowledge it.
She drops her bag, running her short acrylic french tipped nails through her hair slightly, adjusting the strap of her Oner Active green romper before turning to him.
“Okay, so start with your warm-up,” she says. “Incline walk to a stride pace jog. Five minutes.”
Tyriq nods, stepping onto the treadmill. No hesitation. Good.
She watches his form as he moves—arms, stride, posture. He’s still in athletic shape. That makes her job easier.
He nods and starts jogging on the incline, keeping his eyes focused forward. But every time he glances down, he catches a glimpse of her standing there, arms crossed, looking like a goddess in that green outfit. He shakes his head slightly, trying to refocus and push those distracting thoughts away.
When he steps off, she motions him over.
“Alright. We’re starting with assessments.”
He walks over, grabbing a towel, wiping his face as sweat starts to form as he smiles playfully. “Be gentle with me.”
Kyndal glances at him. “You’ll be fine, Tyriq.”
Barbell squats first. Light weight today, then a heavy progressive overload so his muscles can start hypertrophying quicker.
He walks over to the squat rack, loading a reasonable weight onto the barbell. He steps underneath, gripping the bar tightly and lifting it off the rack.
“Go.”
He drops down, beginning to squat, his form almost perfect—legs caving in just slightly, back straight, chest up. Comes back up.
She circles him slowly, eyes focused.
“Knees out,” she says, placing a light hand against his thigh. “Don’t let them cave.”
He adjusts.
“Like that?” Tyriq says with a straight voice.
“Yeah. Again,” Kyndal says, watching his form… and definitely not checking him out.
He repeats the movement, smoother this time.
“Okay,” she nods. “That’s better.”
He comes up, glancing down at her. She continues to watch him through the set, making minor adjustments with her hands when necessary—a light touch on his lower back to keep it straight, a guiding pressure on his shoulders to maintain position.
Each touch is clinical, professional, but Tyriq can’t help but feel the heat of her skin against his.
“Oh, so you can be nice, or you just pretending right now?” He teases.
She pauses. “I’m nice,” she says, looking up at him, noticing the sweat beading at his low buzz-cut hairline.
“Just not when people don’t listen to me.”
He says, “Oh yes ma’am, I’ll behave,” with a smirk, doing another rep. He can feel her eyes on him again, but this time it feels different. She’s not just assessing him now—she’s enjoying this. The dynamic between them is… different. There’s an energy there.
They move through:
Push-ups.
Pull-ups.
Dumbbell presses.
Walking lunges.
Everything intentional. But the energy in the space?
It’s lighter now. However, the tension is most definitely still there.
Because of him.
“Damn,” he mutters during lunges. “They don’t call me Thigh-riq for nothing.”
Kyndal pauses mid-step “…what?”
He looks at her, dead serious.
“They call me Thigh-riq.”
There’s a beat. She glances down at his thighs under the black gym shorts.
Hm… she could see why… they look very rideable — no. no. she thought to herself.
Then—she laughs. Actually laughs. Her eyes nearly closed. Her laugh is throaty, genuine, and it hits Tyriq in a way he doesn’t expect. He watches as her entire face lights up, those serious features softening. His chest tightens slightly.
She’s beautiful when she laughs.
He files that thought away immediately.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks, stepping into another lunge.
The cameraman definitely catches that.
Kyndal shakes her head, composure snapping back into place.
“Keep going,” she says, but her tone is softer now.
Less rigid. And Tyriq notices. Of course he does.
⸻
By the end of the session, he’s worked.
Not exhausted—but pushed.
Kyndal stands in front of him, tablet in hand.
“You did good,” she says.
He looks up at her.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“But we’ve got work to do.” She says.
He nods.
“Good thing you here then.”
And the way he says it—easy, certain—makes something in her chest shift slightly.
Later that night, the clips go up.
Quick edits, nothing too bad.
But the comments?
They clock it immediately.
⸻
“oh they got chemistry BAD 😭”
“the way she laughed??? yeah it’s over”
“i’m starting a rumor idc”
“can i join the sessions… just to watch tho”
“i NEED to be a fly on the wall”
“oh he wants that BADLYYYYY 😭 ion blame him bc 🫦 look at her!”
“i need to get smushed in between both of them. asap.”
⸻
Sunday feels different. No gym. Just his townhouse… for work, of course. Tyriq opens the door in a white wifebeater tank top and gray sweats, white nike socks on his feet.
Kyndal steps inside, taking in the space—clean, modern, quiet. She has on black leggings and a simple old college t-shirt with black socks and her crocs.
“Kitchen?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says, already heading that way.
She follows, setting her bag down on the island.
Pulling out her tablet.
“Sit.”
He does, leaning in slightly, watching her.
Again.
Kyndal exhales softly.
Focuses.
“Your calories are here,” she says, turning the screen. “We’re putting you in a slight deficit. High protein, moderate carbs.”
She starts scrolling through nutrition plans, typing notes—one hand tucking a loose strand behind her ear.
“Meal prep instructions. Protein intake. Carbs to avoid.” She lists them off efficiently.
But then she pauses, noticing he’s not paying attention to the tablet at all.
He’s watching her.
Watching her face when she’s concentrating. Watching her lips when she speaks.
Tyriq doesn’t look away.
Kyndal glances up, meeting his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, breaking eye contact only to glance at the screen briefly before returning his gaze to her face. He leans in a little closer, resting his elbows on the counter, completely unfazed by the close proximity.
Meanwhile, Kyndal is internally trying not to pass out from the heat of his gaze. “Yeah…”
The air shifts.
Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft clicking of her pen against the tablet.
And his eyes. God, those green eyes that haven’t left her face.
She clears her throat, forcing herself to focus back on the tablet. “So, um—”
Everything feels a little too… close.
“Any questions?”
Turning back to her tablet.
Tyriq doesn’t say anything—distracted. He’s suddenly very aware of how small she is, even though she’s not a short girl. How easy she would fit against him. How easy he could throw her around.
His jaw tightens slightly, realizing the direction his thoughts are going. She’s his trainer, and he’s basically undressing her with his eyes. He shifts in his stance, trying to regain some composure.
He clears his throat. “Um nah, I’m—I’m good…”
“Okay… well I should head out before traffic gets bad.”
Her voice is not as firm as it was before.
And she notices that. He does too.
Immediately.
She gathers her stuff and heads behind Tyriq as he opens the front door for her. His eyes damn near burning a hole in her back as he eyes her body down.
This might’ve been a bad idea, because she doesn’t slip. Ever.
