She was fussy, they were screaming, and this was all well beyond your pay grade.
You heard glass shatter somewhere in the suite. The toddler on the blanket in front of you immediately burst into a full-bodied scream. Doing your best, you tried to soothe the little girl as she squirmed. Tiny fists flailed in the air, and her throat strained for her mother.
Oh yes. Dangerously above your pay grade. The weight of it burned behind your eyes.
You tuned into the shouting from the other room. Whatever broke would be added to the bill. Unnoticed by either woman, you were sure. Noise complaints from downstairs would be logged in the guest's file. They wouldn’t be kicked out—too rich, too influential. But they wouldn’t be welcomed back either. It had become bone-deep exhausting, booking hotel rooms where the first question wasn’t “One bed or two?” but “Are both wives staying?” Every reservation, you felt tension coil tighter in your gut, everyone bracing for inevitable chaos. You hadn't seen anyone go in or out of the surrounding room, and to the hotel's credit, they made the right choice. This time, you’d booked a suite with separate rooms, hoping Iris could have some peace. Hearing her cry, you remembered she could hear the arguing as clearly as you. She had less understanding and no rationalization. You didn’t understand it fully either. But at least you knew what the fight was about tonight.
You lifted the little girl onto your hip. She quieted for a moment, soothed by contact… then immediately wailed again before you took two steps. You sighed, scanning the room. You couldn’t take her outside. Rhea preferred to have as little of her daughters face photographed as she could manage. Aubrey would have your head for her having red cheeks.
Your eyes landed on the balcony. The evening sun poured through the glass, warm and golden. You crossed the room quickly, sliding aside the curtain—soft as silk, nicer than any bedding you owned. You hadn’t felt like you belonged here when you arrived.
Aubrey fits into luxury easily. Rhea, seeing her satiated, had simply followed. Though you suspected Rhea would have been just as content in her paint-splattered studio at home. But international exhibitions required travel. And so here you all were. Even Iris.
The little girl quieted as soon as the sunset caught her eye. You exhaled in shaky relief at the hush, anxiety still tight in your chest, and glanced down.
“Hi, baby,” you whispered.
“Beb beb,” she murmured into you. Once she started babbling, she began repeating nearly every sound you made, and your nickname for her hand became a nickname for you. She rested against your chest, warm and heavy. You gently rocked her, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. A breeze swept across the balcony and ruffled the loose hair around your face. Normally, you would fix it at once, tucking it behind your ear. Tonight, you were too fucking tired to care, and the only one seeing you was Iris, who was much too busy staring at seagulls to notice.
“Buh!,” she whispered wetly, pointing up. You smiled. Barely a word, more a spit-filled sound—but at least she wasn’t crying. At least you were giving her a moment of peace.
Every time exhaustion or frustration clawed at you, threatening to rip a scream from your chest or force you out the door, you stared at the printed resignation letter on your coffee table. Its blank signature line mocked you. You could sign it any day. You were good enough to walk away now. Sleepless nights left you aching, torn apart by the decision. Then you looked at Iris—her bright eyes searching yours, her toothless, overwhelming smile—and your heart, the one you pretended was stone, melted helplessly. So here you stood on a balcony in Barcelona, holding a toddler who wasn’t yours but sometimes felt like she might as well be, soaking in the sinking sun. She shifted to look up at you. Young, but not too young to know you. Besides her parents and the Claire her actual Nanny, she saw you more than anyone, reaching out, you gently brushed a fingertip across her forehead, drawing soft shapes for comfort. It brought you back to a night years ago. The memory slipped over you, drawing you away from the Barcelona balcony as you remembered when nothing seemed to calm her.
-
Aubrey had given up and stormed off into the far reaches of the mansion. Rhea had abandoned an enormous half-finished canvas meant for her New York gallery opening. You had abandoned any hope of completing your work. You’d been typing notes as Iris screamed, the sounds rattling the walls.
You glanced at your email’s date—your five-year anniversary working for them. Well at least on a company book, far different when you both were fresh out of university and she repaid you for your time in Chinese food and sangria.
Five years.
You’d promised yourself at that art-industry party, where you’d been underdressed and overwhelmed, that you would never get personally involved.
“Hush, little one,” Rhea murmured from across the room, but Iris’s cries drowned everything out. She had never been a quiet baby. Aubrey hated that. From the moment Iris screamed in the delivery room, Aubrey resented it. Rhea, ever the soft-hearted storm, had adored her anyway. Despite the rocking, the bouncing, the soft shushing, nothing helped. You tried. God, you tried. But your email blurred through your exhaustion.
“Rhea,” you said, forcing yourself to stay neutral. Comforting Iris crossed a line. You were an assistant, not a babysitter. But then you sighed. “If I may… I don’t think I can make it any worse.”
Rhea looked at you. Her eyes were tired but grateful as she carefully placed the baby into your arms. It felt unusual. Motherhood was never something you imagined for yourself. But you knew Iris wouldn’t tolerate stiffness. So you relaxed. You let her rest against the curve of your body. She quieted, just for a moment, before wailing again. You shifted your weight, rocking her instinctively. One arm was enough; she was so tiny then. You remembered your sister at Christmas dinner, tracing shapes on her newborn’s forehead.
You tried it.
Slow, gentle figure-eights.
Iris hiccuped. Then quieted. Then stared up at you in wonder. It was the first time you’d ever held her. Rhea and Aubrey had both offered before, and you’d always refused. Too personal. Too intimate. Too gut wrenching with Aubreys eyes staring you down. But then, with Iris sleeping softly in your arms, you were tangled in a web you wouldn’t escape.
-
Iris drooled on your suit jacket. You didn’t move. You traced shapes as you watched the sunset disappear behind the ocean.
“Works every time,” a deep voice rumbled behind you.
You turned carefully. Rhea Ripley stood in the balcony doorway—rumpled shirt, jacket missing, a damp stain on her shoulder where Iris had cried earlier. Aubrey’s expression probably matched that stain right now.
“Sorry to bring her out here, but—” You didn’t need to finish. She understood. “She left?” you asked.
Rhea sighed, leaning against the railing. “Lord only knows.”
But you knew. Aubrey liked a drink—or many—after a fight. Nothing about this should have been familiar. Holding your employer’s daughter. Listening to their arguments. Standing between them and the fallout. This should not be your life.
But it was.
A warm breeze brushed past you again, reminding you: Just because something shouldn’t happen… doesn’t mean it won’t.
“Are you alright?” you asked. The words tasted strange. You two didn’t talk about emotions. Not like you used to. Rhea didn’t respond immediately. She stared down at the beach, the silence more telling than any answer.
“I feel lost,” she finally whispered. “I’ve given her everything I promised she deserved… and it’s not enough.” Your knees nearly buckled at the wrench in her voice. Rhea was unbreakable—except for this. She never showed the cracks anymore. Not to anyone. But now, for a heartbeat, she let you see. “I miss the days when she was content with just Iris and me,” Rhea murmured. “They were rare. But they were real.” She stepped closer, brushing her hand over Iris’s sleeping head. You stayed quiet. Rhea rarely gave herself these moments.
“She’s everything to me,” Rhea whispered. “I just wish she were enough for Aubrey.”
“Rhea…” you began, tightening your hold on the child. Iris was the reason you stayed. At least that’s what you told yourself. You ignored the pounding of your heart.
“I’m sure Mrs. R will come around eventually,” you lied. Rhea looked at you the same way she had that nights you didn’t allow yourself to remember.
“Sometimes I think you love her more than she does,” Rhea murmured. You froze, panicked, and a strange ache bloomed inside. The words felt like a live wire through your chest.
“There’s not much I wouldn’t do for her,” you said softly. “I’ll always be there when she needs me. But I don’t know if that counts as love.”
Rhea smiled, small and tired.
“Well then, … I suppose my idea of love is wrong,” she whispered, glancing at you, “maybe that's why I don't understand her anymore,” She added before turning inside, leaving Iris with you. Some might judge her, but both of you knew she was still too rigid. You looked down at the toddler as she stirred, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
“I do love you,” you whispered before checking to make sure Rhea wasn’t listening. Iris snuggled closer to your blazer. You needed to clean it. You had a party later. The moment slipped by—but there would be more. “I just don’t want anyone to use it against me,”
–
It was a beautiful dress. Truly.
But more than anything, you wanted it off. Badly. Pajamas would be better. Sleep would have been best. And the red wine you’d had at the event earlier was starting to make your eyelids heavy—not enough to be tipsy, but enough to make every thought feel soft around the edges. You reached behind you, trying to tug the zipper down from the back of your nape. The halter wasn't something you'd normally wear, but Rhea told you to dress up. Your bracelet caught in the chain and twisted around it like a steel trap.
You tried for far too long to wriggle yourself free.
Nothing.
You were stuck and bent like a pretzel.
And irritated.
Grabbing your key card, you left your room and headed to the elevator. You never booked a room on the same floor as your employers—not because you didn’t qualify for the luxury, but because quiet was the only perk of your job you still clung to.
Please, let the elevator be empty.
Blessedly, it was. When you reached the suite, you glanced at the two doors. You already knew they weren’t sharing a room tonight. They rarely did anymore. You approached the smaller room—the one with the balcony where you and Iris had been earlier—and knocked softly.
“Yeah?” The confusion of answering the door fell from her face seeing you. She looked… out of place for a painter who’d just argued with her wife if the glass of dark liquor said anything. Soft, almost. Relaxed. Her jacket gone, top button undone, collar wrinkled like she’d been tugging at it.
“Sorry to disturb you,” you murmured. She gave you a look like you hadn’t disturbed her at all, but you missed it. “I’m having a wardrobe issue,” you said, cheeks burning. She raised a brow. “My bracelet… is stuck in the zipper, and so is my arm.”
Rhea stared at you for a long second. Then she chuckled—low, warm—and stepped aside to let you in. The overhead lights were off. Only the lamps glowed, golden and soft. The balcony doors were open, warm night air drifting through the room. It felt… peaceful—nothing like Aubrey’s preference for icy, sterile coolness. You’d forgotten that when Rhea was alone, she liked warmth, open windows, and fresh air. You walked across the plush carpet and winced...your shoes. You’d forgotten to put them back on.
“You gonna tell me how this happened?” she said, shutting the door behind you.
“I tried to undo the zipper and… now I’m caught.” She moved behind you, her presence looming warm and steady. A gentle touch on your wrist made your breath catch, but you blamed the heat, not her fingers.
“The whole chain’s twisted. It’ll take a minute.”
Her voice came from close—too close.
“Can you stand still, darling?”
You nodded, unable to trust your voice. She pulled up a chair behind you. Metal scraped carpet. You tried to distract yourself. Tried to think about tomorrow’s schedule.
“Tomorrow we have breakfast with the investors at nine, then a shoot at ten for the—”
Her hand brushed your waist. You inhaled sharply.
“Turn a little to your left, love.”
Her tone was patient. Focused. Not teasing—not yet. You turned. Her hand left your waist. You exhaled slowly, unaware you’d been holding your breath. Heat crept up your neck, your ears, your chest. You wanted to rip the damn dress off yourself. Anything to make this less intense?
“Good girl,” Her voice was softer now. “I almost got it…” And then, freedom. Your arm slid away from the fabric. You checked your bracelet, miraculously, intact.
“Thank you, Rhea,” you breathed.
She stepped around to face you. You fidgeted with your bracelet until her fingers closed around your hand—warm, calloused, pencil smudged in the way only hers could be.
“I ask a lot of you,” she murmured, eyes on your hand as she toyed with your fingers. “But tolerate me just once more tonight, yeah?”
She didn’t wait for your answer. She lifted your hand gently to her shoulder, the other sliding to your waist in the exact place she’d touched moments ago. She pulled you forward, just enough to feel her breath.
“What are we doing?” you whispered.
“Dancing.” You let her rock you slowly across the carpet. You didn’t dare look at her face. You focused on a frayed thread on her shirt, heart pounding so loudly you were sure she could hear it.
“Aubrey could walk in at any moment,” you muttered.
“We aren’t doing anything wrong, are we?”
Her voice was low. Serious.
“We're not doing anything right.” You stopped moving. She didn’t release you. Her hands stayed firm, one at your waist, one holding yours. She lowered her forehead to yours and sighed, eyes fluttering shut.
“I miss affection,” she confessed. It startled you. Rhea Ripley was many things: brilliant, intimidating, sharp-edged, fiercely loyal, but vulnerable? Rarely.
“Says New York’s eradicator,” you murmured, trying to lighten the heavy air between you.
She chuckled—a short, breathy sound. “Should’ve never named that painting that it'll follow me forever,”
“You reject closeness,” you said quietly, confused, off balance.
“Not from everyone.”
Her grip on your waist tightened.
“Not from Iris.”
A beat.
“Not from you.”
Your heart stuttered painfully. Affection was rare for you. You guarded it as if it could be used against you. You kept the professional boundaries strong. But it wasn’t always like this. Long before the marriage. Before the daughter. Before the gallery fame and the chaos and the broken glass and the loneliness…
There had been just you and Rhea.
-
“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, your voice bright and unrestrained in the little studio apartment. The curtains billow from the cracked window, the lights overhead buzz softly, and your laughter fills every corner of the room.
Rhea glances over her shoulder at you—sprawled across the couch, feet pressed into the plush cushions, back arched over the velvet blanket she absolutely despises.
She hates that blanket with a passion. Says it ruins the room's aesthetic.
But you love it.
So it stays.
“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had,” she calls back, and your laughter deepens. You shake your head, meeting her gaze—your eyes warm, tired, a little glassy with exhaustion, but glowing in that way she’s always noticed.
She turns back to her easel, dragging her brush in a long, controlled stroke across the massive canvas. Layers of color overlap in gradients only she can create—deep violets, dusty creams, a wash of moody blue.
“A completely hand-painted oil realism wedding portrait? That's almost 6 feet tall?” you tease, finally sitting up. “Maybe not the worst idea you’ve had, but definitely the craziest.”
She snorts but doesn’t disagree. You pull off your glasses and drop them onto the coffee table. Rhea calls this her “studio,” but really, it used to be an apartment. A run-down, paint-stained, tiny apartment you helped her buy when you were both broke and stubborn and entirely too hopeful.
She didn’t want you to chip in.
You did anyway.
You told her it was to support her art. She knew it was also because you needed a place where you felt welcome—and she never made you feel unwelcome.
“This is my biggest client yet,” she murmurs. “If she likes it… this could open every door.” You nod. You already know that. You’ve always known what Rhea’s capable of long before she knows it herself. You stand and walk toward her. The hardwood floor is cool beneath your bare feet. You gently move her jars of brushes aside and sit on the old piano bench next to her, watching the way her wrist moves—steady, precise, intuitive. Your head drops softly onto her shoulder. The soft cotton of her shirt cradles your cheek. Rhea huffs a low laugh and continues painting without missing a beat.
“Hello there, love,” she murmurs, voice low and husky—her late-night voice you’ve heard a thousand times. You hum in response, mind drifting as the repetitive movements of her brush soothe you. The rhythm of her painting is something like a heartbeat, steady and comforting. “You don’t have to stay, you know,” she whispers.
“I want to be here, Rhea,” you say, quieter now but no less true. “Plus someone has to sort your inbox.”
A year of friendship live between you. a year of knowing each other’s habits, flaws, talents, irritations. You always told her she typed too loudly. She always told you your logic could be suffocating.
“You’re falling asleep,” she says. And she’s right. The weight of your head grows heavier on her shoulder. She should be annoyed, but she isn’t. She’s used to this. She’s used to you. You try to protest, making little noises and waving your hand halfheartedly, but sleep takes you anyway. Your hair falls forward, obscuring your face. Rhea flicks off her brushstroke, sets her palette down, and breathes out a quiet sigh. She reaches over, brushing your hair back behind your ear, fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary. You’ll wake in a minute. You never stay asleep for long in this position. She leans back, staring at you—your soft expression, your peaceful breathing, the way you always look gentler in sleep. Her voice drops, barely louder than the rustle of the curtains.
“…I wish I were painting you right now.”
She drags a hand through her hair. It’s not the first time she’s thought about it, but saying it aloud, whispering it into the quiet air of the studio, makes something tighten in her chest. She could paint you from memory. She does, sometimes. Small studies in her sketchbook, she pretends you’ll never see. She knows the exact shape your mouth takes when you’re amused.
The variations of your smile.
The curve of your cheek.
The way your lashes rest when you sleep.
She could paint you forever.
And that terrifies her.
You keep your eyes closed, breathing steady, pretending sleep while your mind replays her words:
I wish I were painting you right now…
-
“We can’t tell her,” you said quietly, the sharp echo of your heels filling the tense silence Rhea left hanging in the air by not responding. It didn’t take long to reach the studio and slip through the door. Not that your hushed entrance mattered—music blasted through the space, pounding in your skull. Fans blew dramatically, lifting Aubrey’s glossy golden hair as she posed.
“Yes, darling! Beautiful!” AJ's booming voice filled the room, each shutter click vibrating straight through your ribs. The chaos, the lights, the layered noise—your already-tired mind felt even heavier.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Rhea murmured, following you in.
She believed that. Fully.
Mostly.
When she woke that morning and saw you sleeping in her bed, she whispered it under her breath—like a confession or a prayer. You stepped away from her, moving toward Iris and the intern who was currently trying (and failing) to entertain her. The toddler perked up instantly at the sight of you, arms opening, and you scooped her onto your hip without hesitation. Rhea took a seat beside the producer, an old friend of hers. Not as long-standing a friendship as yours with Rhea, but long enough that they could share a quiet nod, a comfortable familiarity.
“How was the meeting?” the producer asked. Rhea nodded, watching Aubrey pose.
“The deal went through. The exhibition will premiere here three days after Paris and Los Angeles."
“Congratulations, friend,” the producer said. Rhea flashed him a quick grin before turning her gaze back toward her wife. She looked beautiful under the studio lights—everyone in the room agreed. But Rhea’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. The same way she did when a painting wasn't quite finished and she couldn't figure out why. She looked toward the corner where you stood with Iris on your hip, the intern now taking notes nearby. You stayed tucked in the shadows, believing no one saw you pulling ridiculous faces at the toddler to make her squeal in laughter. Rhea couldn’t hear Iris laughing, not over the music and Jacques’ shouting—but she could see it. Bright smile, eyes glowing up at you like you held the whole sky. Rhea’s gaze drifted between you and Aubrey.
The photographer shouted praise at her wife.
But Rhea heard those words landing on you instead.
Her mind made that substitution without asking her permission.
Her thoughts slid back to the morning. Her back had been sore from the couch—luxurious or not. She’d stretched with a soft groan, eyes drifting to the bed. Your raven hair was a wild halo across the pillow. You had rolled all the way to the opposite side of the bed in your sleep.
She would’ve rolled onto you, her mind hissed.
She never intended to sleep beside you. But she’d placed you on the opposite side purely by habit. You stirred groggily, and Rhea sat at the edge of the bed. You blinked up at her, confusion spreading across your features like dawn.
-
“Rhea—what? Why am I—?” Your voice broke into slow, incoherent pieces. She handed you your glasses carefully.
“You fell asleep in the armchair while we were talking.” After the dance, you’d both sat in the balcony chairs, discussing schedules until your words slurred into silence and your head listed forward.
“Did we—?” You looked around the room, panic rising.
“No,” she said sharply. “You were worried my wife would think we were within four feet of each other. I wasn’t about to climb into bed with you.”
You swallowed hard.
“We weren’t working, or in public, or four feet apart,” you pointed out, voice small. “How would you explain this if she walked in right now?” you added, softer.
“I’d tell her the truth,” Rhea said. “Your bracelet got stuck, you fell asleep talking about work, and you slept in the bed while I slept on the couch.”
You nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the comforter.
“Rhea,” you asked carefully, “do you consider leaving things out to be different than lying?”
She didn’t answer. Her gaze slid toward the balcony.
“I consider lying malicious. Which makes what she did last night worse than anything we’ve done.”
Her voice cracked, only slightly, before she slipped into the bathroom.
Two wrongs don't make a right.
You were gone before she came out.
-
When the trip ended, you forced yourself not to think about any of it. You managed to scrub it from your mind almost completely—like sanding down a sharp edge—but some memories refuse to stay buried. And now, sitting in the garden with Iris while arguments raged inside, they flooded back all at once.
“Why are Mama and Mommy yelling?” Iris asked softly. Your heart broke. Her hair had grown longer, brushing her shoulders. She looked impossibly small sitting beside you, feet dangling off the bench.
“I’m not sure,” you said honestly.
And you truly didn't know what started it this time—though it always circled back to the same old wounds.
“Can I go see the flowers?” she asked.
You nodded, watching her dart toward the flowerbeds. The sun warmed your face. Not relaxing—but grounding. A reminder of something gentle in a household filled with storms.
Rhea watched from the doorway.
Iris, bright blue shirt and white shorts—Aubrey’s choice. Her smile was radiant, her curiosity endless. You, on the other hand…
You looked weighed down.
Your shoulders are tight.
Your posture is rigid.
The faint blue of your blouse peeking beneath your navy suit jacket—a reminder of how differently you used to dress, long before strict professionalism became armor.
-
You remembered the day she asked you to change.
It had been a good day—until tensions spiked.
Rhea had gone to put Iris down for a nap. Aubrey wandered into the office.
“Evening, Ma'am,” you said, looking up briefly before returning to the canvas you were cutting for one of Rhea’s pieces. Aubrey insisted you keep things formal; Rhea asked you to drop the titles. Impossible to do both.
“Hi,” Aubrey said sweetly—too sweetly. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes.” Aubrey stepped closer, her heels clicking softly. “Your outfit.”
You paused, looking up.
Her green eyes bore into yours—calculating, sharp, jealous.
“My outfit?” you repeated. It was nothing special. A pair of black jeans, tailored and modest; a blue blouse fitted enough to be flattering, far from inappropriate. A small bit of your shoulder tattoo peeked out. Nothing scandalous.
“Yes,” Aubrey said. “You’ve known my wife for a long time. Longer than I have.”
That comment alone told you everything.
“I just think the way you dress is not the most… appropriate.”
You knew what she meant, what she was implying. It made your stomach twist that your feelings sometimes made her right.
“Is it me,” you asked softly, “or your wife that you don’t trust?”
Aubrey stiffened.
“A pantsuit would be more appropriate,” she repeated, reaching out to twirl a loose strand of your hair around her finger. The diamond of her wedding ring glinted in the light. “And a bun, I think.”
You swallowed hard.
“And when she asks about it," You inched back from her, "because we both know the artist in her will, what do I say?”
“As your company grows, the press will expect a unified front,” Aubrey said sweetly. “That starts with me.”
She smiled, poisonous and light, and left the room. You stood frozen, staring at your reflection in the window before reaching into your bag, fishing for a hair elastic. Then you walked into Rhea’s studio, jaw tight, heart pounding.
She looked up at you, brow furrowing. Aubrey sat prettily on the chaise lounge, Iris in her arms, pretending innocence. You said nothing—only took your seat at your desk, spine straight, mouth set.
-
Rhea had always suspected there was more to your sudden change than you let on.
The first time she asked about it, you gave her a neat, perfectly reasonable explanation of professionalism, optics, and the press's desire for a “unified front.”
So she left it alone.
She didn’t push when your hair stopped falling around your shoulders and stayed knotted in a bun. She didn’t comment when you went from contacts to glasses permanently. She didn’t ask why she hadn’t seen your tattoo in years, when once it had peeked out of necklines and wide collars like a secret only she and a few others knew. She tried to ignore how, sometimes, she caught you looking at certain dresses or suits with a flicker of longing in your eyes—an appreciation of line and structure and beauty—and then watched you clamp it down and pick the safest option. She pretended not to notice the way you glanced at other assistants at industry events, freer in their clothing, their hair, their skin.
She told herself it wasn’t her place to pry.
But she couldn’t ignore you now. From the upstairs window, she watched the two of you on the garden bench. The sun picked out threads of shine in your raven hair, pulled tight into its usual bun. For a moment, with your eyes closed and your face turned to the warmth, you looked almost at peace.
She hadn’t seen that in you in years.
Then Iris ran back toward you, little legs pumping, blond hair flopping into her face. Rhea couldn’t hear what her daughter was saying, but she watched Iris thrust a messy pile of flowers into your hands. You looked down, inspected them seriously, then smiled.
It was a crown.
Iris took your hands and guided them to your own head, insisting silently that you put it on. You placed it carefully on top of your bun. It immediately slipped off and landed in your lap. Rhea watched you glance around—your gaze skimming past the window where she stood without seeing her. You turned back to Iris, pressed the flower crown back into her little hands, then reached up. For the first time in a long time, you pulled the pins from your hair. It tumbled down your back and around your shoulders, looser, softer, younger. You let Iris place the crown on your head again. This time, it stayed. She stared at you like you’d just pulled the sun out of the sky and handed it to her. Then she threw herself into your arms, burying her face against your neck.
Rhea never told you she’d seen that moment. It felt like something sacred between you and Iris—something she had no right to intrude upon. But every time she saw you afterwards with your hair pinned up and your suit on, she thought of that afternoon, and of how different you looked with flowers in your hair and a child in your arms.
-
Singapore was beautiful.
The city lights, the late trains, the soft hum of neon signs. Rhea had a small exhibition in a gallery there—just enough to make the trip worthwhile, plus a few meetings with potential collectors and a fashion house that wanted to license some of her paintings as prints. You both had a few hours of downtime at the hotel before their next appointment. You’d claimed the small desk and submerged yourself in emails on your tablet.
Rhea couldn’t stop staring at you.
“So,” she said at last, breaking the silence. “If I asked you to dress up for this dinner,” You didn’t look up immediately. “Would you?”
“Is it my job asking me, or is it you?” you said, finally meeting her gaze.
Her mouth curved. “Bit of both.”
You blinked, wary. “Why?”
“You used to wear whatever you wanted,” Rhea said lightly. “You used to wear things that made your eyes light up. I miss that.” Your chest tightened. Memory pressed at the edges of your composure—old nights in her studio, borrowed shirts, tops you wore just because she liked the color on you. “No one will see us,” she continued. “We’re across the world. No press. No Aubrey. Just us and a bunch of strangers we’ll never see again.”
The logic was there. You hated that it was.
“I guess,” you said slowly, “I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.”
You said it quietly, almost hoping she wouldn’t hear.
She did.
Her eyes brightened. “Come on then, love. There must be a boutique around here somewhere. I need something for tonight anyway.” You tried not to smile as she grabbed her keys because she absolutely did not need something new. You could see the trim slacks she packed for it in her suitcase across the room. You left the hotel together and found a small but expensive boutique not far from the gallery district.
“We’re shopping for you first,” you insisted, standing in front of a rack of blazers she was ignoring.
“We’re shopping for both of us,” she corrected. “I’ve seen enough black suits to last a lifetime. You’re not wearing another one if I can help it.”
“Rhea—”
“Priority number one,” She ignored your protest, plucking hangers from racks and holding fabrics up in front of you, one after the other. Too bright. Too stiff. Too much. Too bare. Too you.
Your mouth formed a thin line as she eventually picked a blouse—deep violet, soft fabric, open back, with two sections that tied behind your neck and dipped low along your spine.
“Absolutely not,” you said immediately.
“Try it,” she said.
“Rhea—”
“Please,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “Trust me.”
That traitorous heat pooled in your stomach. You rolled your eyes and took the blouse from her, muttering under your breath as you went into the changing room. When you stepped out again, you felt exposed. The blouse covered your front fully, but the back… the back was almost entirely open, the fabric's drape revealing the curve of your spine and the ink that traced along it. You folded your arms, wishing for your suit jacket like a shield.
Rhea stared.
“So?” you said tightly. “Work inappropriate?”
“You work for me,” she replied. “So I get to decide what’s appropriate. And I say this is perfect.”
She said nothing more about it, only paid for both your blouse and her own outfit, and ushered you back toward the hotel. You left for the photoshoot later that afternoon with your jacket slung over your arm, not on your shoulders. Rhea had given you a look when you tried to put it on in the hallway. You walked quickly through busy Singapore streets, both of you heading to oversee the shoot for the fashion house using her paintings as inspiration for their new line.
“Are you sure this is okay?” you asked, fingers catching the edge of the blouse, feeling the air on your bare back.
“Yes,” Rhea said. “You’re representing me. I like how it looks. End of discussion.” The room went briefly quiet when the two of you walked into the studio. Then the energy picked up again—stylists calling out instructions, photographers checking light, models heading in and out of makeup. You stood side by side, watching, well, you were. Rhea seemed more interested in something across the room. You followed her gaze to see a woman in the same blouse as you, a different colour and far more dressed up than you, but undeniably the same.
“You bought me the blouse she’s wearing,”
“Yes,” Rhea answered. The door opened, the contact for the shoot coming in with his headset against his neck.
“Rhea!” he called, grinning. He motioned her closer, and before she stepped away from you, Rhea’s hand slipped to the small of your back, guiding you forward. You shivered. Her fingers were firm, secure, aware of exactly how much space there wasn’t between you.
“It looks better on you,” she murmured against your ear before she moved away to greet her friend.
You pretended your heartbeat wasn’t slamming against your ribs.
-
“I miss you too lovebug,” Rhea said softly, smiling at her phone screen days later in another hotel room. She loved to travel. Had always loved it. New cities, new galleries, new walls to hang her work on. But ever since Iris was born, every trip came with an ache.
“I’ll be home soon,” she promised.
“Beb too?” Iris’s high little voice asked, The question punched a strange feeling into Rhea’s chest. Not when, but Beb too? As if the two of you were a pair, a package deal.
“Yes, of course,” Rhea said. “Beb will be home soon, too.” You weren’t even in the room, but she lowered her voice anyway.
“Mommy says I have to say goodnight now,” Iris whispered. “I love you.”
“I love you more,” Rhea replied. At that moment, you stepped back into the room, ending your own call. You crossed to your suitcase, rummaging around for your tablet charger. “Goodnight, Iris,” Rhea added and ended the call. You nodded absently, half-listening but focused on untangling a cord.
“Tell Beb to mama!” you barely heard Iris shout before the phone shuffled in someone else’s hand.
“Goodnight, Rhea,” came Aubrey’s cool voice—and then the line went dead. Rhea slipped her phone into her pocket. Your footsteps padded softly on the floor.
“Iris?” you asked although you knew the answer.
“Yes,” she said. “As usual.”
“She always does around this time,” you said, trying to sound casual.
“She said goodnight,” Rhea added.
“As she usually does,” you replied lightly.
“To both of us,” she said.
You froze mid-movement.
“To… both… of us?” you repeated, turning.
“She told me to tell you goodnight,” Rhea confirmed. “I would have put her on so you could hear it yourself, but Aubrey grabbed the phone.”
You stiffened, eyes dropping back down to the folder in your hands.
“Well,” you said softly, “it’s probably better that way.”
“Why?” Rhea asked. You didn’t answer immediately. You perched on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheet in your fist to keep your hands from shaking.
“I wouldn’t be upset with you,” Rhea said gently. “I’m not upset that you love Iris.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” you admitted and then turned quickly, "I have a call,"
-
That night Rhea had gone to the gym and you'd slipped into bed before she got back, thankful for the absence of tension and deep down you knew she did it on purpose for you. You were still bussing with thoughts when she got into the queen bed parallel to yours silently. That was an hour ago and since then you'd heard nothing hut the static of the room and both, of your breathing .
"Your tattoo," rhea rasped into the open, almost like her lungs had forced in out without permission.
“Yes?” you said, thrown by the sudden shift.
“Why don't you show it anymore?” she asked. You rolled onto your back and looked at her. She wasn’t watching you. She was staring out the window, face washed in the red and blue glow of Singapore’s electronic billboards outside.
“I don't know,” you threw out, hoping it might land right. You’d gotten it the day you turned eighteen, before your last semester at university. It was an act of rebellion—small, impulsive. The only design on the shop wall that wasn’t a skull or a naked woman. “Unprofessional,” you said flatly.
She hated that tone in your voice. Over the years, you’d dulled yourself down to fit roles and expectations. She would never ask you to cover something beautiful. She was a painter; she believed in showing art, not hiding it.
“Is that your opinion?” she asked quietly. “Or mine?”
“Neither,” you replied, too quickly. Something in her snapped then—not in anger, but in clarity.
Who told you to tuck yourself away?
Who told you to stop dressing like yourself?
Who told you to stop calling her by her name and replace it with “Ma'am”?
And when the fuck did it start sounding anything less than awful to her?
-
“I just don’t like the way you two always hang out,” Aubrey had said years ago at an after-party. The music was loud, but Rhea heard her clearly.
“We’ve known each other for years,” she’d replied. “Do you not trust me?”
Aubrey sighed dramatically and looked toward the dance floor.
You were there—laughing freely, hair bouncing as you danced with Penny, your best friend, smile brighter than any of the club lights.
“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Aubrey had murmured.
-
“My wife,” Rhea said now, the word rough in her mouth. You didn’t answer. For once, you had no clever reply, no quick deflection, no carefully structured boundary.
“Let me see,” she said softly. “Please?”
You were quiet for a long moment. Then she heard the rustle of sheets. She turned her head to see you sitting on the edge of her bed, back to her. You took a deep breath and lifted your sweater up over your head. Her breath caught. Your back was bare except for your bralette and the ink that trailed from your right shoulder down the length of your spine— Black and white florals, soft and detailed, lovingly etched years ago. Rhea rarely got to see you like this. Her hand moved almost on its own, fingers brushing your shoulder.
You didn’t flinch. If anything, it felt as though you had expected it. Maybe even wanted it. Rhea wasn’t a detached, purely visual artist. She was tactile. Emotional. She liked to touch and feel and experience what she painted, what she loved, what she wanted to remember. Up close, she could see the tattoo’s age, some softened lines, some fading greys, but it was still beautiful. The flowers still looked like they held scent. She leaned forward, resting her forehead gently between your shoulder blades. You inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. You couldn't. Something inside you told you she needed this. Contact. Warmth. Something that wasn’t an obligation, a performance, or staged affection.
“It’s as beautiful as I remembered,” she murmured against your skin. “You should show it more often.”
You nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.
“Although…” she started.
You waited, grateful to let her fill the silence for once.
“Although?” you prompted. She huffed a quiet laugh. You could feel the warm brush of her breath on your shoulder.
“I feel special,” she admitted. “Being one of the few who get to see it. I’m not sure I want to share that with the world.” Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You blinked them away, but one slipped free, trailing silently down your cheek. “I feel like I regained a privilege,” you treid not to think too hard about that one, “But that’s not my choice,” Rhea continued, lifting her head. The spot where her forehead had been resting suddenly felt cold. “Nor my wife’s.” Her fingers traced slowly down your spine, following the path of ink, a gentle, reverent touch before falling away.
“Our secret,” you whispered before slipping your sweater back on and moving back to your bed, before you couldn't find the will to, lying back down and rolling away so she wouldn’t see your face.
“Our secret,” she echoed in the dark.
-
“Mama! Beb!”
Rhea barely had time to drop her bag before Iris barreled into her legs at full speed. She laughed and scooped her up, lifting her effortlessly.
“Hello, my love,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s temple. “How are you?”
Iris launched into a rapid-fire stream of updates in that way only small children can—school, the garden, what she ate, what the nanny did, what Maman said. Rhea’s smile spread to match Iris’s, the tension in her shoulders easing with every word. You glanced over at the driver, who was also watching. For a second, the sight warmed you enough to make you forget everything else. You slipped inside ahead of them and made your way to the studio.
Aubrey was already there.
She was leaning against your desk, a magazine in her hand, eyes locked onto the cover. When she looked up at you, it was the way someone might look at a stain, something intrusive, something unwelcome.
“Hello, Ma'am,” you greeted, forcing your tone neutral as you approached your desk. Aubrey didn’t answer. She slapped the magazine down on the surface between you, cover facing up.
Your stomach dropped. There it was—the picture you had desperately hoped no one had taken. The one that exposed that secret barely 24 hours of having it. You and Rhea, walking side by side in Singapore. That damn blouse. The open back. You mid-conversation, looking up at her with an expression you didn’t even want to analyze. Her face turned slightly toward you, eyes soft.
“What are you wearing?” Aubrey asked.
Her voice was coated in venom. You opened your mouth, mind blank. A blouse. A show-a-lot-of-skin blouse. A blouse Rhea had picked. None of those answers would help.
“Something I picked to represent us at a dinner for my work,” came a low voice from behind you. Both of you turned. Rhea stood in the doorway to her studio, Iris perched comfortably on her hip, the little girl’s head resting against her shirt. Her expression was cool, but her eyes were locked on Aubrey. “Why are you so concerned with my assistant’s clothing, Aubrey?” she asked.
The tension in the room doubled. Rhea rarely called her wife by her full name. It was usually pet names, soft and affectionate—at least in public. But this?
This was a line being drawn.
“I just love it so much,” Aubrey said, smiling thinly. “I wanted to know where she got it.”
All three of you knew that was a lie. None of you said it.
“Welcome home, Rhea,” Aubrey added quickly, crossing the room to pluck Iris out of her arms. She pivoted and walked out, the door shutting with a sharp click behind her.
You stared at the wood for a second, heat clawing at your chest.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said quietly, turning to face Rhea. She met your gaze, and for a heartbeat, you were back in that Singapore hotel room—her forehead pressed to your shoulder blade, her fingers tracing your tattoo. “But… thank you,” you added.
“No one should speak to you like that,” she replied simply.
Then she left too, following the path her wife and daughter had taken.
You sighed, sinking into your chair.
You already missed Singapore. The spot on your back where the tattoo lay felt hot, like the memory of Rhea’s forehead still lingered there. Your shoulder blade felt heavy, weighed down by something invisible.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.
-
Later that week, Rhea sat on the loveseat in the living room, hand pressed over her eyes. Her head throbbed. She was exhausted. She hadn’t even been home a full week and already felt wrung out. Aubrey had worn that blouse—the one from the magazine—three times since Rhea returned. Each time, she made a point of wearing it where you would see. Smiling. Laughing. Owning it.
Rhea had only caught you looking once.
Your eyes had flicked from Aubrey in the doorway to your own reflection in the window. You’d scanned yourself up and down, hair in its bun, neutral suit, glasses, everything properly buttoned and pinned, then turned and walked briskly to the office. Rhea’s mind swarmed. The fight earlier still buzzed through her skull, her wife’s words echoing—accusations, bitterness, jealousy. A hand slides her shoulder from behind. She dropped her hand in surprise. For half a second, she expected to see golden hair and manicured fingers.
Instead, she saw you.
The sight startled her.
The feeling comforted her.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said. “I mean it,”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“I meant what I said yknow”
“I still want to say sorry,” you insisted.
“Not about that,” Rhea interrupted, voice low. You went still, not understanding. You probably should have let go. You were in the foyer. Aubrey could come down the stairs at any moment. The pattern would repeat: shouting, accusations, you scrambling to protect Iris from the fallout. You didn’t move.
“It looks better on you,” Rhea said finally.
Her hand lifted, settling gently on your forearm, squeezing. She couldn’t feel your skin the way she had in Singapore, not through the fabric of your blazer, but the closeness still soothed something in her. The emotions rushed in like a storm. Aubrey’s smiling face in that blouse, twisted in your direction. The same face, contorted with rage, a shrill voice echoing through the hallways. The look she wore when she brushed Iris aside because she wasn’t “in the mood” for parenting.
And then—calmer images.
Your hand on Iris’s hair. You are in the garden with the little girl. Your sleepy laugh.
“I loved it,” you admitted quietly. “The colour. The back.” Your forehead came to rest against her shoulder. “It might have almost been worth her throwing that vase at you,” you added, a tired laugh slipping out.
“You heard that?” she asked.
You nodded against her.
“Remind me to have them all removed from the house,” she said dryly. You lifted your head to look at her, brows drawing together.
“You're not planning to instigate target practice, are you?”
Rhea didn’t answer immediately. She squeezed your forearm again, thumb rubbing a small, absent-minded circle into the fabric. She knew something you didn’t. Or rather, she’d admitted something to herself that she hadn’t dared say to you yet. You stayed like that for several quiet minutes before you stepped back. Then you went to help Iris with her schoolwork, noting on your phone to move anything breakable into the china cabinet.
-
Two weeks later, Rhea’s new art collection was released.
The morning of the opening, you and Iris worked in the garden at the little picnic table. Your laptop struggled with the weak Wi-Fi signal; the company intranet page kept reloading and timing out. After the third failure, you closed the device and turned your attention fully to the girl beside you. There was nothing you could do but wait for I.t to sort it out. Iris frowned over a math worksheet, her fingers smudged with pencil.
“What’s wrong?” you asked gently.
She sighed and pointed at the page. “It’s confusing.”
You recognized the problem immediately. The numbers had been written, erased, and rewritten several times already.
“You can ask me for help, you know,” you said. She bit the end of her pencil but nodded. You stood and walked around to sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “Here,” you said. “Let me show you my trick.”
Really, this was your fault.
Yours and Iris’s.
You were the ones sitting at the picnic table in full view of the upstairs window. You were the ones laughing over math and shading little boxes in the margin. You were the ones who turned this quiet moment into something Rhea couldn’t bear to ignore.
Rhea had come upstairs to cool down. To breathe. To watch the garden and let the anger bleed out of her. Her wife was in the other room, simmering, no doubt ready with another set of insults once she came back. Without fragile décor within arm’s reach, words had become the new projectiles. She should have anticipated that you’d get Iris out of the house the second voices were raised. Of course you would. You’d been protecting that little girl from the fallout for years.
She toyed with the idea of saying it out loud—that you, not Aubrey, had been Iris’s real parent half the time. That you were the one who signed school forms and kissed bruised knees and went to bed exhausted because you’d spent all day juggling the needs of two teetering women and one small hurricane of a child.
She didn’t say any of that.
It would only make things worse.
“Oh, look,” Iris said suddenly, glancing up from her page.
Your eyes followed her gaze to the tall upstairs window.
“It’s Mama!” she grinned, lifting her arm to wave enthusiastically at the figure behind the glass. Rhea smiled. Small but genuine. She lifted her hand in return, waving back. Her posture gave her away to you—defeated, heavy, tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix.
Your eyes met hers.
You raised a brow, silently asking. You alright?
Rhea nodded once. A poor attempt at reassurance, but it was all she had. Your gaze didn’t soften. You looked at her steadily, steadily, steadily—until the faint echo of Aubrey’s shrill voice drifted from the house. Your expression hardened, and you gently pulled Iris’s attention back down to her worksheet.
“Beb?” Iris said after a few more minutes, settling back into her seat, crossing her legs as she picked up her pencil again.
“Yes?” you said. You expected another question about division.
“Why does Mama’s new art have your real name?”
Your pen slipped from your fingers and hit the table with a soft clatter.
-
“It's a different spelling,” Rhea corrected quietly, not looking up from the prints she was signing spread across her desk.
“Yes, because they’re so different, Rhea,” you said dryly. She lifted her head, and there was a flicker in her expression, something sharp, something intentional.
“As I told Aubrey,” she said, stepping out from behind her desk. She leaned back against it, crossing her arms. The white dress shirt strained slightly at the shoulders when she did. “I’m not apologizing for the name.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Then why bring it up?” she asked.
You opened your mouth... then stopped. Because you already knew this question wasn’t safe territory. You had crossed far too many lines with this woman.
“I just want to know—”
“What?” she prompted, tilting her head, eyes fixed on you. Her blue eyes were full of curiosity and something else that made your chest tighten, something you hadn’t felt in a very long time.
-
“Just tell me!”
“That’s not how this works!” Rhea groaned dramatically, draping herself across the counter of the bar like she’d fainted dead on the spot. “No follow-up questions. You have to wait until your next turn, love.”
“Rhea!” you glared at her.
“Fine, ask your question, you monster,” you sighed, she grabbed her drink and taking a slow sip just to annoy you. The ice clinked gently against the glass.
“What do you want most in life?” she asked suddenly.
You snorted.
“Well. That’s a very normal, very casual question. Not loaded at all.”
“I’m serious,” Rhea said, voice low. “What is it?”
You stirred your gin and tonic with the little plastic stick, leaned back, ready to give her some rehearsed line about career stability or ambition—
But then you looked up.
Her eyes were on you.
Focused.
Sincere.
Uncomfortably perceptive.
“What?” she asked softly.
-
“Why are you so hell-bent on destroying your marriage, Rhea?”
Silence slammed between you—thick and heavy. She stiffened. You hadn’t called her by her name like that in years. Not in a soft tone. Not in a way that acknowledged the person beneath the fame. She hated how right it sounded coming from you. She hated how much she’d missed it. She also knew you were right. The second she named the new art collection, she knew what the fallout would be. She had known Aubrey would explode. She had known the press would speculate. She had known it would end in screaming, accusations, broken plates, and locked doors.
She did it anyway.
“I…”
For the same reason, people lie about water damage in their phones.
The same reason kids say, “I found it like that!”
The same reason anyone twists the truth when they can’t face reality...
Because it’s easier to shift blame onto someone else.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
The truth was simple:
She was unhappy.
Deeply, quietly, chronically unhappy. And she blamed it on the one person who had tried—always—to make things easier. You.
“Are you sure?” you asked gently. Her jaw tightened. She gripped her sleeve until her knuckles whitened.
“Yes,” she said. She could have told you everything. The truth hovered on her tongue so easily that it frightened her. But you didn’t deserve that burden. “I’m sure.”
It was that conversation, that moment, that sealed off whatever bridge had been left between you.
The nights you’d spent drinking in her old studio.
The parties where you danced together.
The quiet mornings.
The late-night confessions.
The comfort you used to find in one another.
All of it collapsed.
For the next two years, you became the perfect employee.
Technically, you always had been. But now you put deliberate distance between yourself and Rhea.
Aubrey loved it.
The person you remained closest to was Iris—because you managed her schooling and her routines. But Rhea felt the shift every single day.
You no longer laughed with her.
You no longer softened around her.
You no longer slipped and said her name in that warm way that once made her feel seen.
You pretended you didn’t notice the disappointment in her face when you refused her small invitations—coffee in the garden, a gallery walk, a moment of stillness where she wasn’t just your employer. You pretended it didn’t sting you, too.
The past two years were hell for Rhea.
With you gone from their dynamic, Aubrey found new targets. New reasons to fight. New hurts to inflict. Rhea realized quickly: you had never been the problem. Not even close. With Iris growing more independent each day, and you emotionally retreating further from her, Rhea felt suffocated by a house filled with people she loved and couldn’t reach.
Couples therapy lasted a few months...
until one of Aubrey’s stilettos almost became a projectile at you.
You cancelled all future appointments after that. It wasn’t until you and Rhea had to travel for work—just the two of you, for the first time in years—that either of you dared to let the past stir again.
-
“We have a three-hour layover. After arrival, we’ll be at the hotel hours before the meeting, and then the shoot you asked to oversee,” you said calmly, eyes on your tablet.
Your voice was monotone.
Professional.
Impenetrable.
You had organized every second of this trip. And you were determined not to let spare time become an opportunity for closeness.
“Thank you,” Rhea said, staring out the window. She was absolutely thinking about the seating arrangements—the way your arms brushed when either of you shifted, the shared armrest, the too-close proximity.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has activated the seat belt sign as we begin our descent into Singapore.”
Rhea pretended not to notice how you flinched.
-
Why were you even considering this? You let the piece of fabric fall from your hands and onto the bed. Why had you even packed it? It seemed foolish, bringing back memories you worked so hard to bury. You turned away from your suitcase, standing in your bra, still fixating on the fabric as though it were an unspoken question.
A knock came from the connecting door.
“Oi?” Rhea called. “Are you alright? We need to leave for the meeting.”
You had spent so long staring at the blouse that you had nearly made yourself late.
You were never late.
“Yeah. Just reviewing an email,” you called back. You exhaled sharply and pulled the blouse over your head, tying the strings quickly. You grabbed your laptop and opened the door—
Rhea was still standing there.
“Love,” she breathed.
Her eyes drifted down your figure, slow and deliberate.
“We should go,” you said briskly, waiting for her to step aside so you could lead the way. The meeting was inside the hotel—you knew exactly where to go.
“The blouse,” she said.
You froze.
Her eyes lifted to yours again.
“That blouse.”
“We're going to be late.”
“Why?” she asked. You turned to grab your suit jacket, eager for armor, but her hand wrapped around your wrist, warm, steady, stopping you.
“Love,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”
“Because I packed it,” you snapped, avoiding her eyes, looking anywhere, floor, ceiling, hallway... anything but her. You cleared your throat.
“The meeting,” you said firmly, attempting to redirect. Rhea held your gaze for one long, unblinking heartbeat.
“Yes,” she murmured. “The meeting.”
-
Hi lovelies! so this fic is originally 22k words but I'm hitting some sort of limit so unfortunately its going up in two parts!
That said the second part should be up shortly!
As always likes, reblogs, follows and comments are always super awesome but i appreciate you all for reading in general!
This is a little bit of a new style for me and this is definitely not a very original headcannon I feel but whatever it’s literally fics😌
Much love💜🌞
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Inspired by the song good graces. Reader is a world renowned pop star and they had recently broken up with Chris.
⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿
The paparazzi lights flickered like fireworks, popping in your peripheral as you stepped out of the black SUV, dressed in something couture and dangerous. A sold-out arena behind you, screams of fans still echoing off the walls of the stadium. You’d just wrapped your world tour’s final night, but all you could think about was the one person who wasn’t there.
Chris.
The football-loving, banter-filled YouTuber who somehow saw you clearer than anyone else ever had—even through the glitter and the spotlight. You hadn’t spoken in weeks. Not since that night.
You turned the corner backstage, heels clicking against the concrete floor until you reached your dressing room. The door was already open. Your heart stopped.
Chris was leaning against the vanity, arms crossed, that usual cocky smile tugging at his lips—but his eyes were tired. Familiar.
“Thought you were too famous to text back,” he said, trying to keep it light, but the hurt laced through every word.
You didn’t play dumb. “I wanted to give you space.”
He scoffed. “Yeah, well… you gave me a whole galaxy.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was loaded. Like both of you were holding onto things you hadn’t said.
You stepped closer, the air between you electric, your voice softer now. “You really think I could write a whole album about heartbreak and not mean half of it?”
Chris arched a brow. “You wrote Good Graces about me?”
You gave him that smirk—the one your fans would kill to see off-camera. “You think I write any breakup songs that aren’t about you?”
His eyes locked on yours, the tension thick and sweet. “You put me through hell, Y/N.”
You closed the space between you, barely an inch away. “And yet you’re here.”
Chris’s voice dropped. “Yeah, well. I’ve got a thing for chaos in heels.”
And just like that, he kissed you—like he was trying to memorize every lyric of you. Like he wanted to prove the good graces were worth fighting for.
Inspired by the song “Applause” by Lady Gaga. You lived for the way the crowd reacted to you but Rhea doesn’t care about all the noise she lives for you.
⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Every scream, every chant, every flash of the arena lights pulsed through your veins like adrenaline. You stood backstage, seconds away from your entrance, the LED screens glowing with your name.
But your eyes weren’t on the crowd.
They were on her.
Rhea Ripley stood across from you, arms crossed, leather jacket hanging off her shoulders like a challenge. Her eyes locked onto yours—steel grey, fire lit behind them.
“You ready for this, superstar?” she smirked, that signature growl in her voice. “Or is your ego too busy soaking in the applause?”
You laughed, biting your bottom lip. “Jealous you’re not the one they’re screaming for?”
Rhea stepped closer, her breath hot against your cheek. “I don’t need the applause, babe. I’ve already got you.”
Your pulse quickened. This wasn’t just a match. This was a collision—of fame, pride, and everything unspoken between you two. You were the pop phenomenon who took the WWE world by storm. She was the dominant force who’d ruled the ring long before you ever stepped into it.
And somehow, against every warning, you two had fallen for each other.
But tonight, there was no room for softness. Only heat. Only spectacle.
You turned away first, grinning. “Try to keep up in the ring, Ripley. I don’t want to embarrass my girlfriend on national television.”
Her low laugh followed you as your music hit, and you stepped into the blinding lights, the crowd chanting your name like a hymn.
The fight that followed was fierce. Ruthless. You gave the audience everything—your pain, your pride, your fire. Every kick, every slam, every defiant stare into the camera was for them.
But in between the chaos, there were moments.
Moments where Rhea’s hand lingered too long on your waist after a slam. Where she leaned in, whispering, “You look hot when you’re pissed,” just before clotheslining you to the mat.
By the end, both of you were breathless, the crowd eating out of your palms.
You didn’t need a title.
You didn’t need the win.
You had her, staring at you across the ring, chest rising, bruised lips curved into that smirk.
Later, when the lights faded and the arena emptied, she found you backstage again.
“You live for the applause,” Rhea murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “but I live for you.”
And then she kissed you like you were the main event.
About: Damian get a street named after him in the Bronx hall of fame, and you’re there to support him.
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The Bronx was buzzing louder than usual.
News vans lined the block, music blasted from open car doors, and a sea of fans in black leather, chains, and “Judgment Day” merch crowded the corner of 149th Street and Morris Avenue. You stood off to the side, your arms crossed, rocking his signature vest he let you “borrow” — even though you both knew it was yours now.
A podium sat in front of a velvet-draped sign, and behind it, the man himself—Damien Priest—stood tall, arms folded, shades covering those dangerous eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips.
The Bronx councilman stepped up and raised the mic. “Today, we rename this corner Damien Priest Way—in honor of a man who never forgot where he came from, who represents the strength, grit, and fire of our streets on a global stage.”
Applause exploded, but Priest hadn’t said a damn word yet. When he finally did, his voice was slow, deep, and dripping with that Brooklyn-to-Bronx swagger.
“You know, growing up around here, the streets didn’t give you nothing. You had to take what you wanted… fight for every damn inch. I didn’t always walk the right path—but I walked it with fire. And now? That fire’s lit this whole damn street up.”
He turned, yanked the cloth off the new street sign—“Damien Priest Way”—and held it up for everyone to see. Cameras flashed. People screamed. You just bit your lip, watching him soak it all in like a god damn king.
When it was over, he found you in the crowd, striding toward you like the city owed him rent. The second he was close enough, his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you in like the whole Bronx could watch and he still wouldn’t care.
“You proud of me, mami?” he murmured against your ear, breath hot and teasing.
You smiled, dragging your fingers down his chest. “Always. But I’m even prouder of the way you make the Bronx look this damn good.”
He chuckled, low and cocky. “Damn right. But let’s make one thing clear—this street may have my name on it, but I only want you walking it with me.”
Then, without warning, he dipped you right there in the street like a scene outta a gritty, sexy love story—pressing a kiss to your lips so hard the crowd whooped and hollered like you were both part of the show.
And maybe you were.
Because to Damien Priest, you weren’t just his muse—you were his fire
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AHHHH okok im literally so happy for Damian!!
But I hope you guys enjoy PLEASEE SEND REQUESTS!!🙏🙏
I was wondering if you could write where George and his friend group go on holiday and reader really likes him but also readers friend does too. But George likes reader and readers friends try’s GETING to him and try to do stuff but George’s eyes are only on reader and readers friends and him have really cute moments and readers friends is jealous. Ok you get me something along the lines like that and reader and him have a cute moment then realise that they feeling for each other and it’s just cute angst and fluff and also do u think u could add some smut in there thank you
Eyes on me₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊
George Clarkey x reader
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It was one of those rare, golden weeks where everything was perfect—sun-kissed beaches, late-night swims, cocktails that tasted like freedom, and a massive villa split between a group of close friends and a few new faces.
George was one of them.
I’d followed his YouTube for a while, sure, but nothing prepared me for what he was like in person—funny, warm, quick-witted. And then there were his eyes. Brown and mischievous, like he knew exactly what effect he had on people.
My stomach twisted every time he smiled at me. And I hated how obvious it felt.
Even worse? My friend—let’s call her Bella—definitely noticed. She’d been flirting with him since the plane ride over. Laughing too hard at his jokes, draping herself over the sun loungers near him, playfully splashing him in the pool like we were in a romcom. And George… well, he was polite. But his eyes never lingered on her the way they did with me.
Not that Bella saw it.
The turning point came one night after dinner, when we all headed back to the villa’s massive balcony, the sky still painted in streaks of lavender and peach. Someone put on music, and everyone danced, tipsy and careless under fairy lights.
Bella grabbed George’s hand and pulled him toward the makeshift dance floor. I pretended not to notice, sipping my drink, trying not to look jealous. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see her leaning in, whispering something against his ear, her hand brushing his chest.
That’s when I left.
I ended up by the pool, feet dangling in the water, the music faint in the distance. I hated how I felt—petty, dramatic. It’s not like I had any claim on him.
“You always disappear when things get fun?”
I turned. George was behind me, hands shoved in the pockets of his linen trousers, hair a little messy from the wind.
I blinked. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”
“I did.” He sat beside me, our shoulders almost touching. “You okay?”
I nodded, but he gave me that look—the one where he was trying to read my mind.
“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said gently. “I’m not stupid. I know Bella’s been trying to make a move.”
I snorted before I could stop myself. “That obvious, huh?”
“Painfully.” He tilted his head. “But I’m not interested in Bella.”
My breath caught. “No?”
He turned toward me fully, and my heart thudded in my ears.
“Why would I be, when you’re right here?”
The words knocked the air out of me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
George laughed softly, shaking his head. “You have no idea, do you? Every time you smile at me, I feel like an idiot. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to say something for days, but you’ve been so quiet.”
“I thought you liked her,” I whispered.
“Not even close.”
He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his hand lingering a second too long.
“You’re the one I want.”
Then he kissed me.
It was soft at first—hesitant, like he wasn’t sure I’d kiss him back. But I did. God, I did. My hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer as weeks of built-up tension melted into that single moment.
When we finally pulled away, I rested my forehead against his, smiling like a total idiot.
“George?”
“Yeah?”
“I really like you.”
He grinned, that lazy, heart-melting grin. “Good. Because I’m absolutely crazy about you.”
We stayed by the pool for hours, wrapped up in each other, the stars above and the sound of the waves in the distance. No drama, no games. Just us.
And for once, everything felt exactly how it was meant to be.
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Hope you enjoy pls feel free to send a request!! PLEASE I need more inspo. 🙂↕️
About: based on the song if I could fly by one direction.
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Sometimes I think Roman Reigns forgets he’s human.
In the ring, he’s a god—untouchable. Eyes sharp, shoulders squared, voice like thunder. But when the lights go out and the world stops watching, I see him for who he really is: a man who carries too much, too quietly.
I found him on the hotel balcony tonight, shirtless, the night air brushing against his skin like a whisper. He didn’t look at me when I stepped outside. Just kept staring into the distance, elbows resting on the railing, jaw tight with whatever was weighing him down.
“You ever get tired of pretending?” he asked, voice low.
I blinked. “Pretending?”
“That it doesn’t hurt.” He finally turned, eyes meeting mine. “Me being away for so long. Acting like you don’t see how I’m hurting myself by letting everyone think I’m just… invincible.”
My heart twisted.
“Roman—”
He cut me off, stepping closer. “When I’m out there, I’m who they need me to be. But when I’m with you…” His hand lifted, fingers tracing the side of my face. “I don’t have to be anything. Just me.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. He rarely let himself be like this—bare, open. It broke my heart a little every time he did, knowing how long he spent carrying the weight of the world without asking for help.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I said softly. “You never have.”
He leaned his forehead against mine, eyes closed like he was trying to memorize this moment. The night wrapped around us like a secret.
“If I could fly,” he whispered, “I’d be coming right back to you. Every night. No cameras. No miles. Just us.”
I felt the tears sting behind my eyes. “You don’t need wings, Roman. You already come back to me. Every time.”
He kissed me then. Slow. Gentle. Like I was the only real thing in his world. And in that kiss, I felt everything he never said—the longing, the love, the ache of distance, the relief of coming home.
When we pulled apart, I held his face in my hands and smiled. “You don’t have to be strong for me. You just have to be you.”
He looked at me, something fierce and beautiful in his gaze. “Then you’re the only place I ever want to land.”
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AHHHHH stop im actually really proud of this one i love it so muchhh!!! This has been in my drafts for a minute and I completely forgot about it 😭
loved ur grayson waller fic! could u plz write another where he celebrates with the reader after she wins a singles title on the main roster? it can be sfw and/or nsfw, up to u
Championship celebration ⊱✿⊰
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Grayson Waller x Y/N
The second your hand was raised and the championship belt was draped over your shoulder, your legs nearly gave out. The rush was electric. You had done it. You were the new Women’s Champion—and nothing in the world could touch you.
Except, maybe, him.
Backstage, the energy was chaos—cheers, high-fives, camera flashes. But all of that blurred the moment you locked eyes with Grayson Waller leaning coolly against the wall, arms folded, watching you like you were the only damn thing worth looking at.
“Well, well, look who just made history,” he drawled, his voice low and dangerously smooth. “Didn’t I say you were gonna own that ring?”
You barely had a chance to speak before he was in front of you, eyes dark and hungry. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you against him, the gold between your bodies the only thing separating his heat from yours.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear, “seeing you with that belt… it’s doing things to me.”
You shivered.
“Oh yeah?” you teased, breath hitching. “And what exactly is it doing?”
His fingers curled around the back of your neck, drawing you close enough for your noses to touch. “Making it real hard to behave,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep it together… until we get to the hotel.”
He kissed you then—deep, possessive, like the match had been his win too. Like he’d waited his whole life for this exact version of you: wild, powerful, victorious.
As he pulled back, his hand slid teasingly down to the belt on your hip. “Hope you’re planning on keeping this on tonight,” he smirked. “Because that’s all you’ll need.”
You laughed, heat curling low in your belly. “Guess you’re feeling lucky.”
He winked. “No, champ. I’m feeling hungry.”
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Lowkey this one kinda sucked but ohh well 😭 also sorry it took so long I’ve been really busy
About: George’s chat lives the two of you together
George was already live, rambling to his chat in that effortlessly charming way of his when you crept into the frame behind him. You leaned over his shoulder, chin nearly resting on it, and whispered just loud enough for chat to hear:
“Miss me, Clarkey?”
His eyes widened and he let out a nervous laugh, pulling his headset off one ear. “Oi! Warn a guy next time, yeah?” he said, though he didn’t move an inch. “Y/N’s here to distract me, obviously.”
Chat exploded:
“THE TENSION??”
“Y/N’S GOT HIM SWEATING”
“Someone tell them to kiss already.”
You smirked and slid onto the chair beside him, dramatically fixing your hair like you were about to do a Vogue cover shoot. “Just thought the stream could use a little… spice.”
George nearly choked on his water.
“Stop that,” he laughed, shaking his head, but his eyes didn’t leave yours for a beat too long. “They’re gonna start writing fanfics at this rate.”
“Good,” you said, winking at the camera. “Give the people what they want.”
He bit his lip to hide a grin, completely failing. You leaned closer, your knees brushing.
“Tell the truth,” you murmured just off-mic, “you’re loving this.”
George glanced at chat, then back at you. “I’ll deny it publicly,” he said, voice low, “but yeah… I am.”
The rest of the stream was filled with teasing glances, inside jokes, and playful bickering that had everyone watching convinced you two were so not just friends. At one point, a donation came through:
“100 quid if you two admit you fancy each other.
George laughed, running a hand through his hair. “What do you think, Y/N? Want to make ‘em pay?”
You leaned into his mic, voice honey-sweet. “I think they’re just catching on to something we already knew.”
He turned to look at you — really look — and for a second, the stream faded into the background.
And then he smirked. “Well… hope they’ve got their wallets ready.”
Stream: Ended.
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THANKS FIR READINGG😋
Also requests are open also sorry if they take a while I’ve been really busy with school 😭
Can you please write Grayson Waller x fem! reader where Grayson is feeling homesick and the reader comforts him? Thanks!
Home away from home
Grayson Waller x f!reader
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The arena buzzed with excitement, the sound of fans cheering and music blaring, but for Grayson Waller, the thrill felt muted. He paced backstage, his usual confidence replaced with a weight of nostalgia. The bright lights and roaring crowd couldn't drown out the homesickness that clung to him like a shadow.
As he leaned against a wall, staring off into the distance, you noticed the change in his demeanor. You had seen him in high spirits, cracking jokes and engaging with fans, but tonight was different. You approached him cautiously, sensing that something was bothering him.
“Hey, Grayson,” you said softly, trying to draw him out of his thoughts. “You okay?”
He turned to you, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, just... missing home a bit, I guess.”
Your heart ached for him. You knew how hard it was to be on the road, away from familiar faces and places. You stepped closer, your voice gentle. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Grayson sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just... I’ve been away for so long. I miss my family, my friends. It feels like everything’s changing back home, and I’m just... here.”
You nodded, understanding the feeling of being disconnected. “I get it. It’s tough being away, especially when you’re used to having everyone around. But remember, you’ve got a whole new family here too.”
He looked at you, his expression softening. “Yeah, but it’s not the same. I miss the little things, you know? The Sunday barbecues, just hanging out without a care in the world.”
You reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “What if we recreate some of those little things? We can have a barbecue night, invite the team, make it feel a bit more like home. I can even try to make your favorite dish.”
Grayson chuckled, the warmth of your suggestion bringing a genuine smile to his face. “You’d really do that? You’re not scared of my cooking disasters?”
“Hey, I’m a brave soul,” you teased, nudging him playfully. “And I’m sure we can figure it out together. Plus, it’ll be fun!”
He seemed to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned into your comfort. “You always know how to make me feel better.”
“That's what friends are for,” you replied, your voice softening as you gazed into his eyes. “But I want to be more than just a friend to you, Grayson.”
He paused, the air thick with unspoken words. “What do you mean?”
You took a deep breath, your heart racing. “I mean, I care about you. A lot. And I want to be here for you, not just as a friend, but as someone who can help fill that emptiness when you’re feeling homesick.”
Grayson stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. “I care about you too. More than I’ve let on.”
The distance between you shrank, your hearts beating in sync. “Then let’s create our own little home together, even if it’s just for tonight,” you suggested, your voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across his face. “I’d like that.”
With a spark of electricity in the air, he reached out, intertwining his fingers with yours. The simple touch sent a wave of comfort and excitement through you both. “You make everything feel better,” he said, his voice low and sincere.
“Only because you’re worth it,” you replied, feeling a blush creep to your cheeks.
As you walked together, planning the barbecue, the weight of homesickness began to lift, replaced by the warmth of newfound affection. In that moment, Grayson realized that even when far from home, he had found a little piece of it right beside him—and it was you.
About: WrestleMania 41, a grand arena filled with thousands of fans, the atmosphere electric with excitement. The main event just concluded, and the spotlight is on Dominik Mysterio, who has just won the Intercontinental Championship.
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As the final bell rang and the referee handed Dominik the Intercontinental Championship belt, the arena erupted into thunderous applause. The moment was surreal, a culmination of years of hard work, dedication, and the legacy of his father, Rey Mysterio. Dominik stood in the center of the ring, the championship belt glistening under the bright lights, a proud smile etched across his face.
In the audience, you cheered louder than anyone, your heart racing with pride. You had been by Dominik's side through every match, every training session, and every moment of doubt. The two of you had formed a bond that transcended friendship, a connection that felt electric and undeniable.
Once the match ended, Dominik made his way to the edge of the ring to soak in the adoration of the fans. As he looked out into the crowd, his eyes locked onto yours. In that instant, the world outside faded away, and it was just the two of you. You raised your hands in celebration, and he responded with a confident grin that made your heart skip a beat.
After the show, backstage was a whirlwind of activity. Dominik was being congratulated by fellow wrestlers, media personnel, and staff. Yet, amidst the chaos, he managed to find you, his eyes lighting up as he approached.
"There you are!" he exclaimed, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I did it! I really did it!"
You laughed, feeling the warmth of his excitement. "Of course you did! I knew you would. You were amazing out there!"
Pulling back slightly, he looked into your eyes, and for a moment, the cheers and voices around you faded. “I couldn’t have done it without your support,” he said, sincerity radiating from his voice. “You’ve always been there for me.”
You felt your cheeks flush, knowing just how much his words meant. “You earned it, Dominik. You’re a champion!”
As the adrenaline began to wear off, Dominik’s expression softened. “Can we get out of here? I want to celebrate, just the two of us.”
Your heart raced at the thought of spending a private moment with him after such a monumental night. “Absolutely. Where to?”
“Follow me,” he said, taking your hand in his. You both slipped through the chaos of the backstage area, finally exiting into the cool night air.
Dominik led you to a quiet rooftop terrace overlooking the stadium, the glow of the lights illuminating the sky. The crowd’s cheers still echoed in the distance, but here, it was just you and him, the stars above twinkling like diamonds.
He turned to face you, holding the championship belt proudly over his shoulder. “This moment feels perfect,” he said, taking a step closer. “But it would be even better if I shared it with you.”
Your heart fluttered as he leaned in, and without thinking, you reached up to cup his face. “You’ve worked so hard for this. I’m so proud of you, Dominik.”
In that moment, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the emotions of the night—joy, relief, and a hint of something deeper. When he pulled away, his eyes sparkled with mischief. “So, what do you say? Champion and his biggest fan?”
You laughed, feeling lighter than air. “I’d say that sounds like a perfect team.”
As the night unfolded, you both shared stories of the journey that brought you to this moment, dreams for the future, and laughter that echoed into the night. With each passing second, the bond between you deepened, solidifying that this night would be one you would cherish forever.
And as Dominik held you close, the championship belt glinting under the stars, you knew that this was just the beginning of a remarkable journey together, filled with dreams, victories, and a love that would only grow stronger.
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Authors note:
Heyyy guys please if you guys have any requests please don’t be afraid to leave them
About: you are a video person for the sidemen charity match and you catch a certain player eye.
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The energy at the Wembley was electric. The fans roared in anticipation, their voices blending into a deafening chorus of cheers, chants, and the occasional scream of excitement. The Sidemen Charity Match was about to begin, and among the many internet personalities on the pitch, there stood George Clarkey.
You stood at the sidelines, with your official staff jacket, camera slung around your neck. You had been given media access to the event, assigned to capture behind-the-scenes moments for a YouTube documentary. Though you were there for work, you couldn’t ignore the way your eyes drifted to George more often than not.
The two of you had known each other for a while—mutual friends, casual interactions, the occasional Twitter banter. But recently, your conversations had taken on a different edge. A flirt here, a lingering glance there. You weren’t sure what it was, but something about today felt different.
As the match began you found yourself cheering for him, even when you were supposed to remain neutral. Every time he had the ball, your camera lens found him. Every time he tripped or stumbled—because let’s face it, George wasn’t exactly prime Ronaldo—you couldn’t help but laugh. Midway through the match, he caught your gaze from the field, a smirk playing on his lips. Then, as if to impress you, he attempted a skillful pass… only to completely miss the ball and trip over his own feet.
After getting up, red-faced but still grinning, George jogged toward the sidelines where you stood. “Enjoying the show?” he panted, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of his face.
You bit your lip, suppressing a giggle. “Oh, absolutely. I think that was the most athletic thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You wound me, Y/N,” he said, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Stick around after the match—I’ll prove to you I can actually score.”
The double meaning wasn’t lost on you, and the blush on your face had nothing to do with the sun.
The match ended in a thrilling 9-9 victory, with the YouTube All-Stars barely edging out the Sidemen FC during the penalties. As the players cooled down and fans trickled out of the stadium, the real fun was about to begin: the afterparty.
The venue was packed with influencers, music thumping through the air as drinks flowed freely. You sat at the bar, nursing a cocktail, when George appeared beside you, still slightly sweaty but cleaned up, his jersey swapped for a sleek button-down.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he teased, nudging your shoulder.
“I could say the same,” you shot back, tilting your glass toward him. “How’s the ego holding up after that little… incident on the pitch?”
He groaned, rubbing his face. “Don’t remind me. I swear, I was trying to impress you.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “Oh? And here I thought you were just naturally that graceful.”
He chuckled, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re killing me, Y/N.”
You turned to face him fully, the tension between you crackling like the final moments of a penalty shootout. “Maybe you should try scoring off the pitch, then.”
For a second, he looked stunned—like he wasn’t sure if he actually heard you right. Then, a slow smirk spread across his face.
“Oh, Y/N,” he murmured, eyes locked onto yours. “I thought you’d never ask.”
And just like that, George Clarkey—content creator, and now, quite possibly, the man who would ruin you for anyone else—pulled you into a kiss that tasted like adrenaline, laughter, and just a hint of something more.
