Summary: One of the Secret Intelligence Service's most gifted operatives returns from lunch to find every member of his office murdered. Hunted by his own agency and branded the prime suspect, he has no one he can trust except the handler assigned to him. He's in a race against time to uncover the conspiracy before they find him.
Word Count: 2.4K
A/N: I know some of my older projects never reached the finish line, so I'm doing this one differently. This is a complete three part story, and I can't wait to share all of it with you.
Burn Notice is a conspiracy thriller inspired by Three Days of the Condor.
Secret Intelligence Service, MI6 Headquarters
85 Albert Embankment, Vauxhall
"I need analysis plans from you all by the end of the week." The section chief reached for the remote, and the last satellite image faded from the wall of monitors.
Half-empty mugs of coffee sat between classified briefing binders as officers gathered their tablets and notebooks.
Aaron closed his laptop, slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, and rose from his chair.
He glanced down at his phone while gathering his laptop and a classified folder. Beyond the glass, rain blurred the Thames.
"Think Southgate believes any of us actually read the seventy-page appendix?" Murray Mercer asked, stepping beside Aaron.
"I did."
"You're the reason the rest of us look bad."
Aaron picked up his things and headed toward the exit.
"You heading out?"
"Trying to."
"You and that Tuesday lunch. One day you'll miss it."
"Maybe.”
Aaron headed toward his desk, weaving around colleagues crossing between cubicles. He slowed as another officer pushed a trolley stacked with archive boxes across the aisle.
Conversations overlapped across the operations floor as analysts drifted between glass meeting rooms carrying classified folders and coffee.
“Aaron.”
“Novak.”
A tall, ginger-haired man strode down the carpeted aisle, tapping the tops of cubicles as he crossed toward Aaron, a blue lanyard dangling against the stack of folders in his hand.
"Catch the match last night?"
“Caught the highlights. Tons of work to do.”
“You must come out to the pub next time.”
Aaron grinned. "Peter, you lot party harder than anyone I know."
He dropped the briefing folder beside his keyboard and set his laptop on a stack of papers.
“A Scot in my blood through and through,” Peter called out as he continued down the hall.
Aaron pulled his rain jacket from the back of his chair, straightened the framed photograph of his family in Curaçao tucked beside his monitor, and checked the time once more.
"Curaçao?"
Aaron glanced up. A blonde woman stood beside his desk holding a stack of papers and a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, family vacation.”
“God, don’t we all need one of those,” she groaned.
"I mean, a vacation. Not the family part." She laughed. "Sorry."
Aaron reached for his wire-rimmed glasses and slipped them back on before zipping his jacket.
"Olivia." He smiled. "I understand."
Olivia opened her mouth, stopped, then laughed instead. "Right. Of course you do."
Aaron gave her a quick pat on the shoulder and headed toward the elevator.
He scrolled through his messages as he passed screens cycling through international headlines while analysts compared satellite imagery beneath the fluorescent lights.
He flashed his access card against the reader beside the glass security door leading to the sixth-floor corridor.
"Pierre."
Aaron looked up as a colleague caught up beside him.
"Leaving already?"
"Harry, it's twelve-thirty."
Harry fell into step beside him.
"You know, one day I'd like to beat you to the food trucks.”
Aaron smiled and pressed the down button.
"You'd have to skip the meeting before lunch."
Harry laughed.
“About that—”
He glanced down at his watch, then back up at Aaron.
"Are you free after lunch?"
"For what?"
"Martin wants another pair of eyes on the Baltic report."
"I'll come by."
DING.
The elevator doors slid open, already half full. Another dozen officers shifted just enough to make room as Aaron stepped inside.
“What floor?”
"The lobby, please. Thank you."
He checked his watch as the elevator stopped floor after floor, filling with officers who barely looked up from their phones.
DING.
Officers filed out of the elevator, splitting left and right as they headed toward the security gates.
"Arsenal this weekend?"
Aaron sighed dramatically as he flashed his security pass against the reader and waited for the steel barrier to slide open.
"Lester, my man,” Aaron grinned. “I thought we were pretending that match didn't happen."
“Okay, okay,” Lester laughed, waving him off.
"Same time tomorrow?”
"Am I really that predictable?" Aaron smiled as he slipped his access badge into his jacket pocket.
"For an intelligence officer? Yes," Lester replied. "But I won't hold it against you."
"Thank you." Aaron nodded and continued toward the glass doors. Beyond them, gulls circled above the Thames before disappearing into the low gray clouds.
A cool breeze rolled off the Thames the moment the glass doors opened. Aaron descended the entrance steps, pulled up his hood, and stepped beneath the tiered green glass and limestone façade of SIS headquarters.
Beyond the security poles and concrete barriers, office workers spilled across Albert Embankment in every direction, brown paper bags and umbrellas in hand.
Double decker buses hissed to the curb, their doors folding open and sliding closed as tourists climbed on and off speaking French, German, and Spanish.
"Excuse me, is that Big Ben?" A girl in a yellow rain jacket asked as Aaron strolled past a group of tourists taking photos across the river.
“That way.”
“Thanks.”
He turned left along the Thames, passing benches overlooking the river. Across the water, the Palace of Westminster disappeared behind fog and rain as people hurried beneath umbrellas toward Vauxhall Bridge.
A City Cruises boat sounded its horn somewhere along the river. Aaron glanced over just as a cyclist rang their bell, narrowly avoiding a tourist, before continuing toward the line of food trucks serving civil servants from nearby government offices.
"Gyro, white sauce, bottle of water today?"
An older man with a long salt and pepper beard called out, flipping the last of a row of meat on a sizzling stovetop grill.
Aaron grinned and stepped closer.
"You've been keeping track?"
"You've ordered the same lunch every Tuesday for six months."
Aaron smiled as he took the paper bag through the serving window, sliding exact change into the man's hand.
"I should probably branch out."
The older man snorted as he reached for another pita.
"You won't."
Aaron thanked him, bottle of water in one hand, paper bag in the other, and stepped away from the truck.
“I might surprise you one of these weeks, Mr. Omar.”
"I'll believe it when I see it."
The older man shook his head, already reaching for the next order.
"See you next Tuesday."
Aaron raised the bottle of water and stepped back into the flow of pedestrians.
The lunchtime crowds had only grown thicker.
Civil servants clutched umbrellas and hurried back toward nearby government offices as the rain poured.
"Dad, is that Parliament?"
"No, that's the... I actually don't know."
Aaron smiled as he watched the man studying a damp, upside down map of London beneath an umbrella while the little boy pointed excitedly toward a building disappearing into the fog.
"Can you see Big Ben from here?"
"I think so? Wait, let me check."
Aaron slowed near the river wall, taking another bite of his lunch as a City Cruises boat pushed through the gray water below.
Across the Thames, the clock tower at the Palace of Westminster rang out across the river.
He finished the last bite of his gyro, crumpled the wrapper into a nearby trash can, and kept walking.
Buzz.
Harry: Still good for after lunch?
Aaron typed a quick reply as he walked.
Aaron: On my way. Give me ten.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket as a gust of wind swept along the embankment. Aaron pulled his hood a little tighter and crossed back toward the familiar green glass exterior rising above Albert Embankment.
A pair of tourists stopped just outside the security perimeter, angling their phones toward the green glass façade.
"Is this really MI6?" one of them asked.
Aaron smiled to himself as he passed.
He climbed the steps toward the entrance, crossed beneath the green glass canopy, and stepped inside.
He lowered his hood, reached into his jacket for his access card, and joined the steady stream of officers returning from lunch, umbrellas dripping onto the marble floor as the security barriers admitted them one by one.
Aaron held his card against the reader until a green light flashed and the barrier slid open.
A few officers crossed toward the elevators with coffees in hand while another hurried through the revolving doors, rain still dripping from his coat. Aaron tucked his phone into his pocket and stepped into the first elevator that opened.
“What floor?”
“Six.”
The doors slid shut and the elevator climbed in silence as Aaron watched the numbers tick up in red.
DING.
When the doors opened, Aaron stepped into the sixth-floor elevator lobby. He held his access card against the scanner beside the glass security door and stepped inside when the light turned green and the lock clicked.
To the left of the main aisle, the briefing room door still stood open. Southgate's handwriting was scrawled across the whiteboard near the front of the room.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and continued down the main aisle. The secure conference rooms lining the back wall remained closed, their red OCCUPIED lights glowing above each door.
The television screens hanging above the analyst desks cycled through international headlines.
He passed analyst desks where half-finished coffees sat beside glowing monitors.
RING.
Michael Oliver remained at his workstation, back to the aisle, shoulders slightly hunched toward the glow of his monitor.
A stack of classified folders lay open on Shanice's desk beneath a pair of reading glasses, her monitor still unlocked.
A Teams message chimed from Marty's workstation in the records section. Aaron gave him a quick nod as he passed.
RING.
He passed Southgate's closed office door and rounded the cluster of desks leading toward his workstation.
"Harry?"
He moved to his desk, unzipped his jacket, and draped it over the back of his chair.
He reached for the Baltic report beside his keyboard.
"You still wanted another pair of eyes?"
RING.
A nearby printer whirred steadily, feeding page after page into an already overflowing tray.
"You ducking out on me already?"
Harry didn't answer.
"Mate..."
Aaron picked up the Baltic report and started toward Harry’s desk.
His chair was turned away from the aisle.
One hand hung limply over the arm of the chair.
His H is for Harry coffee mug lay on its side beneath the desk.
Coffee had spread across the carpet beneath the overturned mug. A dark red stain pooled through the middle of it.
Aaron dropped the report.
"Harry?"
He rounded the desk in two quick strides and caught the back of the chair. Harry's head lolled with it.
Aaron stumbled back a step.
His eyes snapped toward the aisle.
"Marty."
He crossed the aisle so quickly he tripped on the corner of a desk. Marty's chair faced the monitors exactly as it had a minute earlier. When Aaron turned it, Marty folded sideways before the chair settled again.
The printer spat out another page.
"Southgate."
He raced to Southgate’s office, passing desks where monitors still glowed beneath abandoned mugs and open folders.
Station Chief Southgate lay sprawled across the floor, classified files scattered around him. Blood had spread beneath his suit jacket, one arm twisted beneath his body.
Aaron backed out and let the door drift shut.
He glanced toward the open HR office and ran over.
Judy from HR lay slumped across her desk, blood soaking through the papers beneath her and dripping onto the carpet.
"Shit," Aaron muttered, lifting Judy's head before gently lowering it again.
Aaron swallowed hard.
He reached his desk in three strides, yanked open the bottom drawer, and pulled out a black duffel bag. He dropped the duffel onto the desk and unbuttoned his shirt.
He stripped off the dress shirt in one motion and reached for the folded t-shirt inside the duffel. His tie landed in the chair behind him.
He pulled a charcoal t-shirt over his head. It stretched across his broad caramel shoulders before settling over the tattoo sleeve winding from his left shoulder to his forearm.
He stepped out of his trousers and into a pair of gray sweats, traded polished Oxfords for worn running shoes, tugged on a black baseball cap, and swapped his wire-frame glasses for a pair of dark sunglasses.
He grabbed a burner phone from a drawer to his right and slid it into his pocket, tossing his current phone into the duffel.
He slid his chair back and dragged the safe from beneath the desk. He spun the dial and yanked the door open.
Inside waited a row of passports, each bearing a different name, photograph, and nationality, tucked alongside stacks of foreign currency, replacement credentials, and burner phones still sealed in plastic.
Aaron swept everything into the duffel before stopping, his eyes landing on the monitor.
"Encrypted drive."
He entered his password, and the monitor sprang to life.
He inserted a key-shaped flash drive, tapped a few keys, waited for the confirmation, then pulled it free.
When he turned back toward the desks, the office looked different.
"Olivia?"
Every monitor glowed.
“Peter?”
Every coffee sat half-finished.
“Murray?”
He turned toward the exit.
Rain soaked through his jacket before he realized where his feet had carried him.
He stopped beside the Thames, unzipped the duffel just enough to reach inside and pulled out his own phone.
Harry's last message still glowed across the screen.
Harry: Still good for after lunch?
Aaron stared at it for a second.
He held the power button until the display went black. He removed the SIM card, dropped it into a storm drain, and tossed the phone into the gray water of the Thames before zipping the duffel shut.
A payphone stood outside a shuttered corner shop.
He dug through his pockets until his fingers closed around a handful of coins, shoving them one by one into the slot.
A few slipped from his fingers and clinked against the pavement.
He shoved the final coin into the slot.
RING.
RING.
RING.
"...Hello?”
Aaron opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Rain hissed against the receiver for a few seconds as his shallow breaths filled the silence.
Summary: Terry takes on his first therapy session.
Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)
Word Count: 2,612
Warnings: Mentions of behavioral health, pregnancy, and therapy.
Previous: Searching
Dr. Gaines was a Duke fan.
The signed Blue Devils basketball in the background slowed Terry down like a fender bender pauses highway traffic. Had he known his first foray into therapy included a virtual session with someone bold enough to pledge allegiance to the school on the wrong end of Tobacco Rd., he would’ve spent less time picking individual seeds off the strawberries Patrice left him as a snack to quell his uneven breathing and more of his energy selecting another doctor.
When he glanced down at his bright blue Tar Heels t-shirt, Dr. Gaines’ laugh rolled through the laptop speakers.
“Say, man, I thought I had a section for any additional notes you had for me in the intake paperwork. You forgot a piece of the puzzle! We’re starting this off all wrong.”
Terry’s ears twitched, catching a hint of something pleasant, before his shoulders relaxed. The doctor’s accent, accompanying his cheerful tone, carried northern sensibilities out of place in the Southern bubble Terry had created for himself in Fayetteville. A smile softened every muscle in his face before he could make a different decision.
“I thought anybody around here picked the right side,” Terry said, chuckling. “Especially with you being a doctor and all.”
Dr. Gaines lifted his hands in surrender. “Look, I’m from D.C.! Quinn Cook went to Duke, and that’s my mans, so I had to support. I promise not to let that drive a wedge between us if you promise, too. Cool?”
“Yeah, that works for me. There’s a first time for everything.”
The two men shared easygoing laughter to seal their truce in the sanctity of Patrice’s makeshift library. Terry’s stilted breathing relaxed into even pulls in through his nose and out through his mouth as he settled into the creaking leather desk chair. He reached for a strawberry in the bowl beside him.
“Is it cool if I eat while we talk? Kinda need something to do with my hands.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dr. Gaines answered as he scribbled a note onto his pad. “Do what you need to do, man. Get loose. You're always this prepared?”
Terry shook his head as he swallowed a bite. “No, that’s my wife’s contribution.” He smiled and nodded toward the door on his left. “She’s nesting and testing out her mom skills on me. Packed me a snack like I’m in kindergarten.”
Thoughts of Patrice waddling around the kitchen, singing to herself as she picked through ripe strawberries for the best of the bunch, unleashed warmth in Terry’s stomach. He blushed before he could stop himself. Dr. Gaines took note as he wrote without looking down.
“We’ll come back to that,” he said, nodding to himself. “But nesting! Congratulations! How much time left before the new addition?”
“We’ve got a month starting tomorrow. I don’t even want to think about what her nursery looks like right now.”
Dr. Gaines flashed a pure white smile that contrasted with his cool, dark skin. “Ah, man, it all comes together. This is the part you look back on later when they’re throwing those same strawberries back at you from the high chair.” Terry considered a future version of his daughter giggling as she tossed food onto the kitchen floor, then grinned. “Would you say that’s what has you wanting to try therapy or something else?”
“A little of that. A little stress overall. Maybe some…fear?” Terry shook his head as soon as the words tumbled from his lips. “Nah, that’s not it. Just stress. Family stuff. Upbringing.”
“If it were fear, would that be a problem for you?”
Terry mulled over the question. “Guess I’ve never considered what it might mean. I’ve only thought about not being afraid.”
Pen striking paper on the other side of the screen came through the speakers like a taunt. Terry leaned forward in his chair and frowned, desperate to know what was so important in his few words that required ten seconds of uninterrupted writing. Dr. Gaines looked up and offered a nonchalant shrug.
“Just a few notes to help me determine where we go next,” he said. “Take me back to what you said about your upbringing. What was that like?”
“Are you sure you have enough time for that?” Terry asked, scoffing as he sat back. “What is this, an hour session?”
Dr. Gaines nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry about that. Lay it on me.”
The rickety ceiling fan overhead, circulating cool air to combat summer’s cruel assault, suddenly felt inadequate. The heat licking at Terry’s skin was more a memory than a fact. It was the heat of his father’s anger in the backseat of his pickup truck, while citrus coated his tongue to ease the pain of loss. A botched play during the first game of his pee-wee league season had resulted in a defeat that most other parents accepted with high-fives before levying affirmations and well-wishes on their children. Cold water and orange slices were like comfort blankets. Adults walked around saying variations of “You’ll get ‘em next time!” and “Who wants pizza?” Marvin, however, said nothing. Instead, he pointed at the old Chevy across the parking lot and set off on foot before Terry could pull a fresh drink from the team cooler.
Terry sat behind the driver’s seat to avoid his father’s icy glare in the rearview mirror. That didn’t stop Marvin from lowering the volume on his favorite oldies station to address his son.
“If you’re planning to waste my money, let me know right now. I can spend that on golf clubs instead.”
He knew better than to answer. Anything he said risked being reframed as defiance or an excuse if he wasn’t careful. But he couldn’t help but respond. “Dad, I got the next one, though. We almost won!”
“Almost,” Marvin said, the word sounding vile on his tongue. “Nobody gets credit for an almost, boy. You either did or you didn’t. This time you didn’t. If it happens again, consider yourself a pianist. I’m sure Miss Regina would be happy to have you twice a week.”
The hot vinyl seat stuck to his legs as the air thickened with his father’s disappointment. He looked out the window at the passing landscape, counting utility poles, desperately trying to shrink until he was invisible. He didn’t cry. Crying would have been another expense. That day, he internalized a lesson: perfection was the only currency accepted for peace. If he performed with no errors, his father’s temper would remain dormant, locked away like a gun in a safe. Maybe he’d get a hug or a pat on the back as a reward. He considered the possibilities while Marvin drove the rest of the way in silence.
Dr. Gaines looked at the screen, his expression unreadable. “So, you learned to become invisible?”
“I learned how to get it right the first time,” Terry corrected, his stare into the camera unwavering as his flat tone settled over the conversation.
He learned other things that day, too. Like how to minimize his feelings to avoid his father’s wrath. How to channel anger into fuel. How to cry in secret. Each lesson fit into a messy emotional toolbox he still had trouble sorting through well into adulthood.
“Would you consider that your introduction to manhood? Always needing to get it right? No mistakes?”
Terry opened his mouth to speak, but paused to glare at Dr. Gaines prepared to capture another record of his wrongdoings. Another shortcoming. Another reason to hide.
Dr. Gaines’ eyes flickered up, then down at his hands. He sighed and sat back in his chair, abandoning the pen and pad just beyond his reach to get his first full look at the piercing set of eyes searching for answers beneath his steely exterior.
“I’m Kevin. You can call me Dr. Gaines if you want, if it feels more appropriate for you, but I’m just Kevin.” He drew a cross over his chest and pointed to the sky. “Hand to the man. We’re good.”
The pensive frown flattening Terry’s lips into a straight line curled into a small smile as Kevin lifted his right hand to the sky. He reached for another strawberry. “That easy?”
“That easy. You don’t gotta read me, man. Let’s talk. You and me for the next 45 minutes.”
Tension pinching his shoulder blades together loosened until Terry settled into a slump, weighed down by heavy mental and physical exhaustion. He looked up at the ceiling for comfort. “We won the Pee-wee Championship that year. Beat the shit out of the Seahawks. And I think that’s the first time my dad smiled at me that season. Damn near threw a party if my mama would’ve let him call enough people.”
Terry’s lips contorted into deep frown, contrasting he thin sheen shimmering over his pupils. He still remembered the way hot charcoal created grey, billowing smoke clouds in their backyard as his father detailed every catch his only son hauled in to save the team from a near-certain loss. Exaggerating. Marvin and his tall tales had commanded a small collection of willing listeners, nursing ice-cold beers around the grill, as he recounted a children’s football game as if it were the last seconds of the Super Bowl.
“He kept calling me James,” Terry said, finally meeting Dr. Gaines’s soft eyes. “We share a middle name. He was using my middle name — our middle name — because he was…proud of me.”
A charged silence sat between them for a moment. Introspection tickled Terry’s spine like sweat droplets under heavy football pads, touching the parts of his heart and mind he kept out of commission for good reason. Emotion strained his eyes, looking for permission to call a timeout and rest in the pain. He denied it.
“What’s that feel like for eight-year-old Terry?” Dr. Gaines asked.
“Euphoric,” Terry answered.
For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Kevin showed an emotion other than his professional neutrality. His eyebrows lifted, mirroring the slight twitch in his fingers before he remembered his promise to leave his pen at rest.
“That’s heavy,” he conceded. “Would you say you’re still chasing that feeling? That high?”
As quickly as he’d opened up, Terry let his eyes go blank. “Nah,” he said, his tone rough and defiant. “I’m grown now. I don’t need that anymore.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Time to move on.”
Dr. Gaines leaned forward, prepared to test the hinges of the emotional door Terry had bolted shut. “You don’t have to be good in here. It’s normal to want your dad’s approval, and the shit is messy. Trust me. But being honest about it helps us get to the important work.”
Terry considered unlocking his heart for a beat, chewing his bottom lip. But when the bowl turned up empty, so did his desire to offer more than required. He reached up to rub the top of his head and shrugged away his vulnerabilities.
“There’s nothing else to say. We’re past that now. What else do you wanna know, my account and routing number?”
“Nah, man. That’s yours to keep.” Kevin leaned back in his chair, a cheeky grin on his face to match Terry’s light laughter. “We can move on. I want to get back to what you said about your wife earlier. The strawberries. What’s your home life look like right now?”
Finally, something Terry could talk about for hours.
They discussed the Richmond household’s dynamics in great detail, from domestic labor to the mundane inner workings of their weeknight dinners. His favorite? Grocery store trips every Saturday morning, waving to their crew of regulars and arguing over brands of jelly for the hell of it — to giggle at their secret language and make every one jealous of their love.
“I don’t know how she does it, man,” Terry explained, pride lacing his smile. “But she knows where everything is and everybody by name! I mean we get in there and they damn near roll out a red carptet for us. Am I allowed to cuss in here?”
He recounted as much as he could until his jaw ached from talking and he throat ran dry. Pure joy took over his being and inspired enough animation in his body to catch Dr. Gaines off guard. He sat there with a faint smile, noting every inflection and excited gesture for a future conversation.
“I can’t help but notice the way you perked up when it was time to talk about your wife.” Kevin laughed once Terry rubbed the back of his neck and presented a sheepish grin. “That’s perfectly normal, Terry. Refreshing, even. Sounds like you have a great support system.”
Terry looked toward the wedding photo on Patrice’s desk and nodded. “I wouldn’t be here if not for her, if I’m honest. I owe her my best.”
“And yourself. Don’t forget yourself in all this. Be a little selfish.”
Terry paused. “Yeah,” he said, the word trailing into the silence like vapor. “Maybe we can talk about that next time. Or over the next couple of weeks. However this works.”
Kevin nodded slowly, making no move for his pen. “Oh, so you’re sticking with me!” he laughed, glancing at the digital clock in the corner of his screen. “I can dig that. How you feelin’?”
Pink and orange hues peeking through the linen curtains across the room reminded him of the world outside. Terry shrugged without looking at Dr. Gaines. “Not too bad. I could use some time outside to think, I guess.” He turned back to the doctor. “I guess Duke ain’t so bad.”
Kevin let out a surprised yelp of laughter, the sound distorted through Patrice’s laptop speakers. “You know what? I’ll take it. Same time next week for you and your snack? Seems like they help you out.”
“Same time next week.”
Even after the line went quiet and the screen cleared, Terry kept his gaze steady, wondering if he’d made the best decision of his life or signed himself up for another bill he’d regret. He didn’t stew in contemplation for long. Instead, he pushed back from the desk, collected his dish, and set off on his favorite mission.
Patrice stood at the kitchen counter, humming to herself as she arranged flowers in her favorite vase. He paused in the living room for a moment, watching sunrays highlight the flecks of honey in her brown eyes. Her round belly sat low, promising a new arrival in only a few weeks. Cookie crumbs she hastily swiped away to hide evidence of her snacking detour still clung to parts of her dress she couldn’t see. No matter, though. Still the prettiest girl he’d ever encountered.
Terry slowly crossed the room, intent on wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. His hands found the bottom of her baby bump to carry her burden. Patrice sighed and leaned against him with her eyes closed.
“How’d it go, Pooh Bear?” she whispered, the question gentle, lacking any pressure for a full report.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, lingering to inhale the peach and musk on her skin. “Not too bad,” he said, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He’s a Duke fan.”
“Ew,” Patrice giggled. “And you stuck around? He must be great.”
“I think so. I’m gonna stick it out and see. For you and Ny.” He glanced at the empty porcelain bowl stained red from strawberry juice and let the words echoing in his mind bubble to the surface.
vaporwave
gracieabrams
germansingergirl
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
2087
ellievsbear
izzy806
