Summary: It seems like you were born to rile Mayor Tom Loftis. Whether it was at work, or home, or...anywhere, really.
Warning: light smut - petting, rubbing, and overall teasing in public
Tom Loftis Masterlist
You were trying to kill Tom, he was sure of it. When you two were at work, you two kept things more lowkey, no overt affection. It was for the best, to remain professional. And yet, you still found ways to drive Tom insane.
Like the way you'd glance at him during meetings. You'd just have this look in your eyes that he knew you wanted him, you'd bite your lip, only for a moment, before going back to a neutral expression. How the hell was he supposed to listen to the rest of the meeting after that?
Or when you'd come over to his home. Evan was out with friends, you and Tom ate takeout from The Salty Whale for dinner. Now the two of you were cuddled up on the couch watching Die Hard. You were laid out on the couch, Tom sitting up at the end, your feet on his lap.
You mindlessly started moving your feet along his crotch. He glanced at you and you were completely focused on the tv. Tom didn't think you were aware of what you were really doing. He lightly cleared his throat and tried to focus on the movie. But the more your feet moved, the harder he got.
He fidgeted in his spot and looked at you, you were already looking at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.
"You're fucking with me."
You giggled, sat up and crawled over to him, "Well this is a new development, isn't Tommy Boy? You got a thing for feet?"
He scoffed, "No, but when someone is rubbing their feet all over your dick, a man can only do so much to keep from getting hard."
You cackled and climbed onto his lap then. You definitely did something about his hard-on at that moment.
Now you and Tom are at dinner with Dale and Patricia. He's sitting beside you, Dale and Patricia sitting across from you. Your food has been served and all four of you were stuffed, now sipping on beer and wine to ease the night.
You're listening intently to Patricia's story, your hand on Tom's knee. But as the story progresses, your hand slowly travels further up his thigh. He keeps glancing at your way and his employees at the table. They don't notice what you're doing obviously.
Tom starts getting a little warm and red. He's anxious at the idea of getting caught with your hand on him like this. Yes, everyone knows you two are together, but to be found in such a compromising way, well, it's scandalous. And Tom doesn't need that. But why doesn't he stop you?
He lets out a shaky breath as your hand grazes over his slow hardening crotch. He's really trying to mentally tell himself to ignore it, to think of cold showers, naked grandma, dead animals-anything to not get hard.
Yet here you are, caressing his clothed dick all the while his colleague is regaling about a time she broke her arm in elementary school.
"Oh wow, Patty! That must've been scary for ten year old you. I've never broken a bone, but I did pull a muscle from playing soccer in middle school," you turn to him, smirking at the beads of sweat now forming on his head, "What about you, Tom? Ever break a bone?"
He stammers a bit, hoping Dale and Patricia don't realize how off he's being now, "Oh, uh, I, um, I sprained an ankle in high school. Played baseball, slid tow-towards a base. Went at a weird angle and sprained my ankle."
You hum, "Was it third base?" you give him a light squeeze and he coughs a little.
"No, uh, second. Was second base."
"Did you all make it all the way in the that game?"
He shakes his head, "Nope. We lost."
You pout at him, "Oh, that sucks."
"It's fi-fine," he clears his throat and gestures to Dale, "Break any bones, Dale?"
The man sighs, "No, almost full-on died once though," he drops that statement so casually, but it catches the attention of you and Patricia.
But not all of your attention, no. You were still being a menace, rubbing Tom off in the middle of dinner with your shared colleagues.
In the middle of his story, Dale stops, "Tom, you're starting to look really red, are you okay?"
You immediately move your hand from Tom's crotch and he lets out a strangled breath, "Jesus Christ," he mumbled, wiping at his forehead with his napkin.
You feign concern, "You're not looking great, honey. Should we go home?"
"Yes," he rasps out and you excuse yourself to settle the check. The moment away, Tom is able to get some reprieve. He was definitely close to coming, but you stopped. But fuck, does he really want to come.
He tunes out whatever conversation Dale and Patricia are having, rather focusing on deep breaths to keep himself together. A few minutes pass and you come back, bill all paid for.
"Take all the time you guys want, it's on me. I'm getting this fella back home," you point to Tom and he gives a nod.
You help him up and you stay in front of him, hiding his prominent boner showing through his khakis, "Good night, guys!" Patricia and Dale wave at you and you and Tom are quick to exit.
Tom's Jeep is parked further away from the restaurant more in the dark, so he has no issue, pushing you up against his car, lips on you.
You lowly chuckle into the kiss and he groans in frustration and agitation. You feel him grind himself against you and you push away from him, "Desperate, aren't you?"
"No fucking thanks to you," he replies breathlessly.
You smirk at him, "Let me take care of that at home," you run your hand down his chest and to his hard-on. You give him a light tap and he groans. You giggle, "Best drive quickly, Mayor Loftis."
You move around to hop into the passenger seat and he's quick to get into the driver's seat. He peals off, heading towards the road, a cloud of dust being left in its wake.
John Shen x Florist!Cafe Owner!Reader, The Pitt x Reader
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
Sunflower: symbolises adoration, longevity, happiness, resilience and strength.
Who knew?
That all it would take for you and John to come together, would be a closed Dunkin Donuts and an unusual Macchiato flavouring...
Something you wouldn't change for a single moment.
With a demeanour as endearing and friendly as the Sunny yellow flowers painted on your store front.
He couldn't help but fall in love. And you couldn't help but do the same...
Notes: strong language. sweetness. Meet cutes. John has a total sweet tooth. Parker totally grilling you for some dirt on John.
Word Count: ~4.3k
Running a cafe wasn’t exactly in your plans.
Wasn’t exactly what you had pictured.
But when an opportunity came along for you to open your own floral shop.
Your own boutique to specialise in crafting beautiful floral arrangements, selling potted plants as well as flowers for people to simply buy.
In the form of a long vacant cafe with a large adjoining space…
You had simply jumped at the chance.
The rent was cheap, the landlord was reasonable, and it was in a perfect spot in town.
The absolute ideal.
But getting rid of the fixtures put in place for the previous cafe was going to be expensive.
It was going to be a lot more than you bargained for.
And the contractor you had hired, well he offered up the brilliant idea for you to simply refurbish it, and use it to your advantage.
So in your efforts to start up your own flower shop. You had incidentally managed to start a cafe too.
It had taken tireless weeks, late nights and lots of running around.
Until finally you had opened the doors.
Allowing in a steady stream of customers for both the cafe and flower shop–both helping to sustain each other.
The spaces’ initial industrial look, now softened by creamy almost butter yellow paint, accented by sage greens and powdery blues, helps make the blooming flowers pop and brighten.
Oak table tops and beams up above line the ceiling. With little brass accents here and there.
The sweet smell of fresh flowers complemented by the aroma of coffee as it brews fills the air.
And atop each table, a tiny little vase of flowers sits upon them.
And at the entrance, delicately painted flowers from daisies to sunflowers bloom across the surfaces.
It might not have been what you had planned. It might not have been what you imagined. Or pictured in your mind.
But it fulfilled your dream all the same.
But it had in fact given you the opportunity to branch out and delve into more unique styles and offerings of coffee, alongside the usual offerings.
From ube to lavender lattes.
To peanut butter cappuccinos and to be a little more on theme you even added a rose latte to the menu.
You had a little something for everyone to explore and try.
And late one afternoon. Almost on the brink of dusk.
As the cafe would welcome an influx of students attempting to pull an all-nighter, to the workers getting ready to start their ‘day’, and the rare patron simply wanting a coffee late in the day.
As the sun lowers in the sky, a few of your more rarer, more unique flowers would perk up.
Its petals would gently begin to peel open to bloom at night. Such as the growing moonflowers.
Trellis’ leant against your store front, has the intertwining vines of night-blooming jasmine crawl up and spread across your store as though it were painting the side. Decorating it in beautiful lush greens and sprinkles of dusty white flowers.
The bushes of gardenias you have planted out front allows its perfume to strengthen as the temperatures drop. Acting as a little way to enthral passersby and to delight their day.
That’s when the store feels its most alive–it truly transforms.
Alluring and mysterious.
Perhaps it was that very energy that had drawn John to the store.
Had caused him to walk through the doors as the little bell sounded above him.
His usual Dunkin store had unexpectedly closed due to maintenance.
So rather than driving out of his way to the next closest Dunkin…
He stumbled into this little cafe.
The warm glow emanating from the store, the gentle blooms, and the welcoming aura seemingly inviting him in.
It was rare to find an independent cafe still open so late in the day.
But he was grateful for it.
Eyes tracing the items on the menu, intrigued by all the different styles of coffee.
“Hey there! Afternoon–I mean evening,” you grinned from behind the counter, a bright smile upon your face.
“Oh, uh. Hey,” John offered a small smile in return, stepping up to order.
“What can I get for you?”
His mouth opened only to clamp shut…Out of instinct, he was about to ask for a double shot macchiato with a drizzle of caramel and a hint of vanilla…
Taking in the thoughtful look on his face as his eyes train onto the menu.
You nod in understanding, asking, “First time here?”
“How’d you guess?” John laughs lightly, with a small scratch at the back of his head.
You smile, leaning against the counter, “Guess you could say I’m good at my job–what do you normally order?”
“Well–usually I’m at Dunkin this time of night,” he explains, “Normally something with a lot of coffee and caramel if I’m being totally honest”
You nod, mouth forming a small oh in understanding, “Well, I’d like to think we’re a little better than Dunkin, but I know habit is a hard thing to beat,” you twist to look at the menu, trying to figure out what to offer him.
Giving him a once over, you try your best to figure out what he’d possibly prefer…
From his scrubs, you assumed he worked in the hospital a few blocks down.
A nightshift worker, likely.
And in your experience that could either mean simple straight black coffee–keep ‘em coming sort of order.
Or he likes a very sugary sweet coffee. To let the coffee and sugar fuel him.
Considering he admitted to liking a caramel macchiato…You’re thinking he had a sweet tooth.
“We could probably make you your usual order–” you bite your lip before adding, “Or, you might like our banana banoffee macchiato. We’re sort of trialing it to see if it should be added to our permanent menu. I promise it’s not too banana-ny, sort of creamy and has a buttery caramel-like edge to it. We can make it iced if you’d prefer?”
He blinks for a moment, eyes darting to meet yours.
Mouth twisted in thought.
Before you note the smallest of shrugs.
The smallest quirk of his lip, before it shifts into a slight smile, “Ok–Might as well try something new, can’t say I’ve had an iced Banana Banoffee Macchiato before”
Your lips widen, eyes crinkling at the corners. Keying in his order, “Great! I’m guessing it’s a takeaway order?”
He nods in response, whilst you grasp a cup, a cardboard sleeve around it with a printed floral design. The signature of your store.
“Sorry–What was your name?” you ask, pen poised and ready to write.
“John”
Writing the name upon the cup delicately, “Ok, John,” you nod in satisfaction, handing the cup over to your barista, before turning back to him, “If you want to just take a seat over there, they’ll call your name out when it’s ready”
“Thanks, uh–”
“Y/N, could you help us out, we’re just trying to sort out the Stevenson’s order of peonies, Steph insists they said pink but I’m pretty sure they wanted buttercream,” a voice interrupts from behind.
Sending John an apologetic glance, “Duty calls, if I don’t see you. Have a good night”
He offers the smallest wave, “Yeah, you too”
He couldn’t quite explain why, but seeing you leave, made his stomach drop. Letting out a small sigh, he chalked it up to exhaustion.
The strange hours messing with his thoughts.
While he waited, he couldn’t help but hope to see you once more.
Even if just for a second.
Even if just for a moment.
There was something magnetizing about you, drawing him in.
His eyes would flicker over to the door you had disappeared through, would be hopeful when he saw it swing open, only to reveal anyone else but you….
“John!” His name is called out.
A beautifully made macchiato is placed in his hand. The gentle swirls of coffee, drizzled with caramel, and top with a creamy foam, the slightest crumble atop it.
It looked like a dream.
And from that first sip as he walked out of the store.
The flavours melded upon his tongue. He couldn’t help but let his eyes drift close for a moment. Truly soaking in that first taste.
The blend of the rich coffee, balanced with the buttery sweetness of the caramel. You would think the banana flavour would be overpowering–or too rich, but it instead added a lightness to the drink. A gentle cut to the sweetness.
It was far better than he had expected it to be.
Unlike anything he had thought it would be.
…It just so happened to make him come back the very next day. Despite his usual Dunkin being back in business…
John trailed into the intriguing cafe once more.
Sadly he didn’t see you that evening. Or the evening after that. He had chalked it up to the idea you didn’t work those days, or something akin to that.
But that didn’t diminish the way his smile dropped slightly when he realised you weren’t there…
But on his fourth visit.
After many evenings of coming in, ordering a new drink, trying out the other specialties.
He was greeted by you once more, chatting idly with a customer, a friendly smile spread across your lips.
Your eyes flicker up briefly at the sound of the bell, softening as they meet his.
Ending your conversation, your attention turns to John.
“Is Dunkin still closed?” you asked, hand propped on your waist with a small tilt of your head.
He lets out a soft chuckle and shake of his head, “You guys might just be a little better than Dunkin”
Grinning with pride, “I knew we’d win you over–So what’d you think of the Banana Banoffee Macchiato? We’re still not sure if we should add it permanently to the menu or not–that’s why we haven’t really given it a name yet”
The look on his face seemed to melt into one of bliss at the memory, “It was one of the best coffees I’ve ever had–Such a good balance of sweetness, not too robust or syrupy–and just so creamy. I’ve been trying a few of the other drinks too, and they’ve all been great,” he rambled on, before adding, “Could you tell the owner they did a good job”
The twinkle in your eyes, warms his heart.
The brightness of your smile makes his breath get caught.
“I am so glad to hear you enjoyed it,” you said, leaning against the counter, before adding with a cheeky smile, “Because I’m the owner”
He’s a little caught off guard by your statement.
Surprised.
Not because he doesn’t think you could be the owner, but more so for the fact that he assumed the owner wouldn’t spend most of their time working in the shop in such a customer facing position.
As though sensing his surprise. Perhaps it was because his mouth fell agape.
You answered the silent question upon his tongue, “I opened this up almost a year ago now–and I simply love it. So I’m here,” you shrugged lightly.
“What made you open a cafe?” he finally asked, simply more intrigued by you.
“I’ve always wanted to run a flower store–but ended up taking over this space which used to be an old cafe. Turned out it would’ve been more expensive to remove it all than to refurbish it. So with a bit of paint, and a few long hours, it turned into this,” Passion sparkling in your eyes, you gesture to the space around you both.
“That’s really cool,” John nodded taking in your words, “And thank you for the late open hours”
You don’t quite know what it was. But there was this look in John’s eyes that truly made you feel heard.
Listened to.
“Personally I love a little late afternoon cafe stop and besides the chain stores I’ve always struggled to find anywhere–So I decided to become one, and I managed to find some amazing baristas who are always making up unique drinks for the menu,” you explained, before asking, “So what are you going to be trying out today?”
And it was through these small exchanges.
These little rituals.
Somewhere between it all, you and John had developed a friendship.
One that soon shifted and morphed into something more–as John had finally willed the courage to ask you out, trying his luck.
Spending hours simply talking and laughing together.
His dry wit was something you had grown to adore.
And the way you lit up when falling into a ramble about the flowers you loved and the meanings they embodied.
He’d never forget the moment you had first brought him to the flower wholesale market early one morning, your hand intertwined with his.
He watched with such care in the way you were meticulous in choosing the flowers, connecting with other vendors and sourcing new places to order your flowers.
The way you exclaimed with vague annoyance at how with its popularity baby blossoms had become overly saturated in the market. Every wedding, baby shower and birthday order had longed to include the flowery blooms.
He chuckled slightly when at the end of the whole rant you admitted a little bashfully that you still find them to be pretty–you just wish they weren’t so expensive solely because of its demand.
A whole morning spent with you, arms filled with flowers, bags hanging off both of your arms, as you made your way back to your shop.
He simply fell in love with you.
As you took the time to share with him your life, your passions, your hopes and dreams.
The way you’d use flowers to express what words sometimes failed to convey.
Standing in your flower shop then and there.
He had decided.
He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.
Soon, months later, he’s down on one knee, saying that he loves you so entirely, so purely, he only hopes that you would say yes. Fairy lights strung up around your flower store, as the delicate blooms fill the room.
Tears welling up in your eyes at the sight.
Until your hands are clasping his cheeks, stammering out a hundred yes’, with the very same bright smile he had fallen in love with all those years ago.
Your life now intertwined with the coffee addicted man whose sweet tooth and a closed Dunkin Donut brought him into your life.
There through the good and the bad times.
The highs and the lows.
A big bouquet of sunflowers greeted him the very first morning he came home after finally becoming an attending.
“A symbol of happiness and my adoration of you,” you smiled, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, “I’m so proud of you, love”
John had felt incredibly lucky to share his life with you.
…
In all the time you had known John.
Throughout your entire relationship.
You had rarely gone into his work–he’d stop by your cafe for a quick kiss and a coffee before parting ways until you’d see each other in the morning.
It was simply the way he preferred it.
John had been adamant from the beginning, "Work stays at work."
Not because he was embarrassed of you.
Quite the opposite.
The emergency department was loud. Chaotic. Unpredictable.
The sort of place where ambulances rolled in without warning, where lunch breaks became myths, and where the only certainty was that something would eventually go wrong.
He wanted your cafe to remain exactly what it was.
A sanctuary.
Somewhere warm.
Somewhere that smelled of fresh coffee and butter instead of antiseptic and adrenaline.
So aside from dropping by the front entrance every now and then to steal a kiss before his shift, you'd never actually ventured into the Pitt.
Until tonight.
The cardboard drink carrier dug lightly into your fingers as your shoulder nudged open the entrance.
Far removed from the familiar warmth of your cafe, now you find yourself in a room with fluorescent lights overhead and controlled chaos, grumbling people spread across the waiting room.
You frown for a moment, before making your way up to the counter. Letting a soft smile upon your face, greeting them kindly, "...Excuse me?"
“Sorry, you’ll need to go into that queue so that we can collect your details–”
“Yes, of course. It’s just, I’m just here to drop off a coffee and some snacks for my husband,” you explained.
She lifts her eyes to meet yours, “A patient?”
Shaking your head you, “No–he works here, Dr John Shen”
Now Lupe had seen a lot in her time at patient reception. Had seen enough to make her unfazed by most things.
But seeing you, and hearing the words coming from you.
She couldn’t help but be a little taken aback.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” she regained her composure, “You can make your way through, if you head to the nurses station inside they should be able to help you out”
“Thank you,” you nod gratefully.
Phones ringing.
Monitors beeping.
Someone calling for respiratory.
Another person laughing despite it all.
You walk through the ER. You had seen chaos before–the morning rush at your cafe to be an onslaught of people. But this wasn't unlike anything you’d known.
Watching as people rush around you. You couldn’t help but be a little amused at the idea of John.
Cool.
Calm.
Collected.
Generally unbothered John, in the midst of the chaos.
You stop short, finding yourself at the nurses station, eyes glancing around you trying to see if you could spot him. But to no avail you turn your attention to the two women before you.
"Hi," you smiled apologetically, "I'm looking for my husband? John"
The sentence had barely left your mouth before three different heads looked up. Ears perking up.
“John?” The woman whose clipped on badge read the name Dana had asked, sharing a quizzical look with the woman beside her called Lena.
You shifted the drink tray slightly, before elaborating, “Dr Shen”
For a moment the looks upon their face don’t change.
As Lena’s mouth opens to answer.
A voice interrupts from behind, "JOHN HAS A WIFE? And she’s here!"
The shout echoed through almost the entire emergency department. Several people physically stopped what they were doing.
Someone leaned out from behind a curtain.
"What?"
"Shen?" someone questioned, "Our Shen?"
"The guy who drinks six coffees a shift?" Another asked.
You couldn't stop yourself from laughing, "...Yes?"
One resident squinted, "And you’re definitely sure it's our Shen?”
"I've been married to him for almost two years."
Now they looked offended, "Two years?! Shut the fuck up, no way"
Another woman strides up beside you, “It’s about time–honestly he talks about you all the time, I was beginning to wonder if you were even real”
“You must be Parker?” you asked, trying to recall the names from John’s stories.
She grins with a nod, "So,” Parker gently hooked her arm through yours as though the two of you had known each other for years, "We're going to be best friends."
"Oh?" You arched a brow.
"Mhm."
She leaned closer conspiratorially, "I need secrets."
You laughed, "What kind of secrets?"
"Anything."
She counted on her fingers.
"Embarrassing childhood stories. Favourite foods. What annoys him. If he snores. If he cries during movies."
You pretended to consider it seriously, placing a hand on your chin in thought, "Hmm..."
"I'll even settle for whether he had braces.
"I don't actually know."
"Oh that's disappointing."
"But..." Your grin became positively mischievous, "He absolutely sings while doing the dishes."
If you thought Parker’s grin couldn’t widen any further.
You’d have been wrong.
The laughter became infectious amongst those who worked alongside John. Picturing their normally so nonchalant colleague to be singing in the midst of cleaning dirty dishes.
John's voice finally entered the conversation, "...What's happening?"
Every head swivelled.
There he stood.
Hair slightly messier than normal.
Stethoscope around his neck.
Looking between you, Parker, and the crowd gathering around the nurses' station with the expression of a man who had walked into his own intervention.
Parker pointed dramatically, "Your wife is giving us leverage."
John immediately looked at you, a flicker of amusement settling in his eyes, "Are you?"
You smiled innocently, "I may have mentioned the dishwashing."
He sighed, "You said you liked my singing."
"I do."
"You said it was charming."
"It is."
"You compared me to Michael Bublé."
"I lied,” a cheeky smile morphed upon your lips.
The department erupted into laughter. Even John couldn't stop the corner of his mouth twitching.
Your arm slipped from Parker’s grasp. Walking over to him, giving him a quick peck on the lips before handing him his coffee.
“You brought coffee,” he said with a soft smile.
You shrugged, as though it were nothing, “I couldn’t leave you high and dry without a decent cup of coffee for your shift–especially when I got your message about not being able to stop by”
He accepted the cup like it contained liquid gold, "You didn't have to."
"I know."
He took one sip.
Immediately closed his eyes. A small sigh of delight escapes him, "Banoffee?"
"And an extra shot,” you nodded.
He looked at you with something so soft it almost made everyone nearby awkwardly look away, "Thank you."
"And..." You lifted the large pastry boxes onto the counter, "We had leftovers."
Instantly–the counter was swarmed.
"You brought pastries?"
"No way."
"Oh my God."
"Call dibs!"
Within seconds the boxes were surrounded.
Croissants.
Cinnamon scrolls.
Lemon slices.
Brownies.
Mini fruit danishes.
Someone actually applauded.
Parker opened one box., "I think I love your wife."
"Join the queue," Lena laughed.
As John’s colleagues gather, you can’t help but explain each little pastry with enthusiasm. Endless compliments and thank yous pouring out muttered in between full mouths.
For the next twenty minutes you were unofficially adopted into the department.
Finally able to place names to faces.
Meeting the people that filled John’s stories of work. Meeting the people that occupied his nights.
Finally meeting Jack Abbot–who might have snuck himself an extra snickerdoodle cookie from the box.
To meeting Crus Henderson–Mr Crus Control, himself.
And of course Parker, who was essentially John’s tag team when it came to teasing Abbot.
Eventually a trauma call echoed overhead.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Conversations stopped.
People moved.
Everyone seemed to know exactly where they needed to be.
John looked towards the ambulance bay before glancing back at you.
Duty called.
Always.
And that was something you understood. Had spent many years understanding.
He stepped closer to you, "Sorry."
You simply smiled, with the smallest shake of your head, "No need."
He reached for your hand without thinking. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, "I'm glad you came."
"So am I."
His colleagues were definitely pretending not to watch, in the midst of preparing for the incoming trauma, their eyes lingered back over to you both, trying not to be obvious.
Failing miserably.
Parker was shamelessly staring. Grinning whilst she elbowed Crus, “You know this means you owe me $20 bucks cause you said she wasn’t real”
He only huffed with a roll of his eyes.
The little murmurs and whispers of nurses as they watched from afar.
John ignored every single one of them.
Leaning down, he pressed a slow, gentle kiss against your forehead.
Not rushed.
Not embarrassed.
Simply...home.
"I'll see you in the morning."
"You'll have breakfast waiting."
He asked softly, barely parting from you, "And coffee?"
“Like you even need to ask"
A rare smile spread properly across his face.
You squeezed his hand one last time before beginning to walk backwards towards the exit, "Don't work too hard."
"No promises."
"And John?"
He looked up, "I love you too."
It was almost amusing watching half the department collectively hold its breath. John never made grand declarations.
Never made a show of affection.
It simply wasn’t in his nature to do so. Opting to reserve his affections solely for you and only for you.
He simply looked at you with the same warmth he'd worn the day you'd handed him that very first Banana Banoffee Macchiato.
"I love you too."
Simple.
Certain.
Completely effortless.
The doors slid shut behind you.
Silence lingered for approximately two seconds.
Then Parker slowly turned towards him, with a teasing glint in her eyes"...You sing while washing dishes?"
John took another sip of his coffee, "I'm transferring."
Despite his colleagues teasing him. He truly didn’t mind.
Not when it meant that after the shift was over–he’d be going home to you.
You, who had made him fall for you from the moment you convinced him to order an Iced Banana Banoffee Macchiato…
A specialty drink that eventually made it onto the permanent menu.
Called.
BB’s Kiss.
A Banana Banoffee Kiss.
Or as John liked to think, a kiss from his Baby.
His sweetheart.
A kiss from you.
And that simply made you love him even more.
To his colleagues, he could be quite deadpanned, could be quite unserious. And that never failed to make you laugh to see him say a joke with a completely stone faced expression without a single crack.
But your heart warmed ever more, whenever he softened around you.
Whenever he let you in, behind his deadpanned exterior.
Early on in the stages of your romance, you had come to associate John with the bright yellow blooms of sunflowers.
Just like those flowers.
Whenever you saw him, it would bring a smile to your face.
And If John were a Sunflower, then you would be his Sun.
Never failing to turn his gaze to you whenever you entered the room. Full of love and admiration for you.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this fic, a little strayed from my initial florist idea and leaning a little more into a cafe owner!reader. I just couldn't shake the idea of strange unique coffee drinks making John gravitate back to you. I was tossing up with ideas for what flower to make this fic centre around (and yes I even looked into night blooming varieties, so you'll notice those threaded in a lil bit) but I couldn't shake the idea of sunflowers from my mind and soooo, that's what happened. Parker has totally also wrangled your phone number from John and now has a chain of texts with you, also sending you funny photos she manages to catch of John...just know you send her funny photos in return 😂 and now you definitely come and visit a little more often when you can. Let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be tagged in this collection of stories ✨
Read the next instalment of the Bouquet of Love Stories 💐
-> Read Next...currently in the works! contemplating between starting on Dr Robby or Mateo
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
Feel free to check out my other John Shen fic: Nocturnal, ft. Reader being Park the Shark's sister
Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!
Also this is sort of the vibe I'm imagining for the cafe if anyone was interested ☺️
Also, here's the vision for a Banana Banoffee Macchiato (A drink that I have no idea if it exists or not but would likely look like any of these below)
݈݇—Pairings: Ser Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Princess!Reader.
݈݇—Themes/Warning: This is a love story with a tragic ending. Slow burn-ish?? Swoon-worthy. Eventual Smut. MUTUAL PINING. YEARNING. LONGING. Courtly romance. Strangers to lovers to forced-enemies. In denial reader. S1–S3 HOTD canon divergence. Inspired by "DAYLIGHT" by Taylor Swift & "PROVIDER" by Sleep Token.
Masterlist - Prologue
Author’s Note: For the sake of the plot, reader is of legal age. Pretend she and Rhaenyra are Irish twins or somethin 💀 This part is during Season 1, around the time of Rhaenyra's wedding to Laenor.
PAST
You had always been plagued with visions, just as your father was. Dragon dreams, Viserys called them. It comes in your sleep, though they are always half-formed things that never quite made sense until long after the moment had passed.
Though you knew with certainty, that your future husband was of nobility. You had seen the same images again and again: a single flame burning bright, the smell of salt and southern wind, the weight of a signet ring pressed into your palm. The visions never showed his face clearly. Still, you carried the unshakable feeling that when the time came, you would know him.
The night of Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding had been loud with music. The great hall of the Red Keep brimmed with the forced merriment that always followed when two people were bound for duty rather than love. You sat at one of the long tables near the high dais, a goblet of wine in hand, watching your sister dance with her new husband.
Rhaenyra moved with her usual fire, Laenor matching her step for step, their smiles bright enough to fool most of the room. But your gaze kept drifting again and again to Alicent.
Alicent sat beside you, dressed head to toe in deep, unmistakable green. The color of her father’s house. The color of challenge. It was a statement, and every soul in the hall knew it.
You took a slow sip of wine, then leaned slightly toward her with a smile that was all teeth and innocence.
“The young lords are rather handsome tonight, are they not?” you mused. “It is a pity how quickly some ladies are expected to surrender such sights. One day they are maidens, and the next... wives to men old enough to have watched those young lords be born.”
Alicent’s spine straightened so subtly most would never have noticed. You did. Her smile remained perfectly composed but her eyes flashed colder.
“Some girls are fortunate enough to choose,” she replied. “Others understand that duty asks more of them.”
You laughed, the sound bright and unbothered, and waved a hand as though brushing the entire exchange aside.
“Oh...Alicen—” You blinked as though only just realizing your mistake. “Your Grace.”
A small laugh escaped you, light as birdsong.
“You must forgive me. I forget that not everyone enjoys a jest.” You lowered your gaze to your goblet, swirling the wine lazily before looking back at her through your lashes. “Perhaps it is the wine. It has an unfortunate habit of loosening my tongue.” You smiled, all sweetness. “I shall endeavor to be more... dutiful.”
You lifted your cup in a delicate toast. “To duty.”
Before she could retort, King Viserys turned from his conversation nearby, his voice carrying that familiar note of paternal expectation.
“Why don’t you join the dance, my dear?” he asked, gesturing toward the floor with a genial smile. “The night is young, and there are plenty of fine young lords who would be honored to partner with you.”
You scoffed and said in High Valyrian, “You know I can’t dance, Father. Unless it is a swordfight.”
Viserys chuckled, though the sound held little true mirth. He was not deterred. “Cannot or will not?” he returned gently, still in the old tongue. “You are of an age where these things matter. You will be wedded soon enough. There are alliances to consider, matches to be made. You cannot hide behind your sister’s shadow forever.”
He continued on, listing names and houses in a well-intentioned flood. You rolled your eyes and let your gaze wander across the hall with deliberate disinterest.
“I don’t want a dance with any of these men,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.
Alicent spoke pointedly, the jab landing with perfect timing. “A second ago you were gushing about how handsome they are.”
You turned your head slowly, one brow arched. “I take it you do not speak sarcasm, Your Grace?”
Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Oh! And who is this fine young lad with you, Otto?” Viserys’ voice carried over the music.
“Your Grace, if you would allow me to introduce my eldest son, Ser Gwayne Hightower.” The name barely registered before you turned at the sound of Otto’s voice and laid eyes on the so-called ‘son’.
Gwayne stood beside his father in dark green, torchlight catching the strong line of his jaw and the quiet confidence in his dark blue eyes. He was handsome, obscenely so—handsome in a way that made thoughts scatter like startled birds.
You straightened so sharply your goblet rocked. Suddenly you were aware of every inch of yourself—the drape of your gown, the loose strand of hair that had escaped its pins, the heat rising along the back of your neck. You lifted your chin the way Rhaenyra did when she wished to appear unmoved, and offered a silent prayer to the gods.
Do not let Father take ideas from this. Otto Hightower is a cunning little rat.
But Viserys was already leaning forward, eyes bright with that well-meaning enthusiasm that so often spelled trouble for you.
“Come now,” he urged, waving a hand toward the dancers. “You’ve sat there all evening. Go on—let someone spin you about before the night is done—Why not… young Ser Gwayne then? You might as well since he is here. Otto’s son has a fine step, I’m told.”
Otto inclined his head. Before you could form a proper protest, Gwayne stepped forward and offered an opened hand. His smile was small and genuine, free of the calculation his father wore so easily.
“Princess,” he said, “would you do me the honour?”
Your gaze dropped to his hand, then sideways to Alicent. The look you gave her was clear enough: A dance with your brother?
You caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Whether irritation or reluctant amusement, you could not tell.
You looked back at Gwayne. Then, after a breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours. When he helped you rise, the simple contact sent a clean spark straight up your arm.
As he led you toward the floor, you glanced back once more. Alicent was still watching. You gave her the smallest, most wicked smirk you could manage.
The dancing itself was simple enough. Your feet knew the steps; your body followed the music without demand. It was the rest that proved the true trial—the weight of Gwayne’s hand at your waist and that gaze of his that refuses to wander was another matter.
From the first turn he had studied you openly, eyes tracing the line of your cheek, the downward sweep of your lashes each time you tried to look elsewhere. Every time your eyes lifted they met his, and each time your stomach gave an unwelcome, traitorous lurch.
Does the man not know it is rude to stare? you thought, irritation sharpening. And of all the men in this hall, must it be a Hightower who makes my blood behave so poorly?
Gwayne, either oblivious or deliberately cruel, tilted his head. That small, charming smile still curved his mouth.
“I must confess,” he said quietly, “I have noticed you seem most eager not to look upon your partner. Should I be insulted… or flattered that I make the princess so unsettled?”
Your gaze snapped to his. “How bold of you. You do not provoke such emotions in me,” you answered too quickly, the words tasting of denial. “I simply find it rude to stare.”
His smile deepened. “Is that so? Then you have my apologies. It is… remarkably difficult not to look at you.”
You gave a short, thin laugh. “Oh, please. Why don’t you admire the tapestries instead? Your sister is so very fond of them.”
“The tapestries,” he repeated, glancing toward one with clear amusement as he guided you through a turn so smooth your skirts brushed his legs. “An interesting choice, considering they have not moved in a hundred years… and are, if I am honest, rather obscene.”
Your eyes drifted almost against your will to the great Hightower banner hanging along the wall. You looked back at him, one brow arched in deliberate disdain.
“We Light the Way,” you murmured. “How very modest. One might think the rest of the realm stumbles about in darkness without the shining beacon of your house to guide our poor, lost feet.”
For a moment Gwayne only stared. Then, to your surprise, an unrestrained laugh burst from him. It startled the dancers nearest to you, and odd satisfaction unfurled in your chest. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time the polished mask slipped.
You hated that you noticed.
“Better than ‘Fire and Blood,’ I should think,” he countered, still smiling. “Though perhaps your house prefers to keep its blood… within the family.”
Your mouth fell open in mock outrage, but the laugh that escaped you was real. You recovered quickly, narrowing your eyes even as your lips threatened to curve.
“Careful, Ser Gwayne,” you warned. “Some might take such words as offensive.”
His hand shifted at your waist as he turned you again, the pressure light yet impossible to ignore. “Only if they lack a sense of humour, Princess. And from what I have seen this evening, you seem to possess one in abundance.”
“As do you,” you conceded, forcing the words past the tight coil in your chest. “Though I confess… I misjudged you, Ser. I thought the son of the Lord Hand would be as rigid and humourless as his father. It is… disarming. And I do not know what to do with that.”
Nor do I wish to know, you added silently, furious at the way your pulse answered him.
Gwayne chuckled.
“You could keep dancing with me for a while,” he suggested simply. “And perhaps… decide for yourself who I am. Not who you expected me to be.”
The final notes of the song faded into silence.
You stepped back first, a teasing smile curving your mouth even as your pulse thundered like war drums in your veins.
“Tell me, Ser Gwayne,” you said lightly and edged, “where exactly does your family find the audacity? It seems like an endless well.”
His eyes lit with amusement. “We keep it stored in the same vault as our humility, Princess. Next to the family tapestries.”
You almost laughed. Instead you tipped your chin, all cool composure, and delivered the rest like a royal decree.
“You may dance with me next time, if you insist. But do not look forward to it, for it will not happen again.”
Gwayne’s smile didn’t falter. He only inclined his head, the picture of perfect, infuriating compliance.
“As you say.”
You curtsied gracefully. His eyes followed the movement, burning with open fascination, but you turned before that look could root you in place.
Three steps.
That was all you managed before your traitorous gaze flicked back. He remained watching you, openly and without shame. Your mind was so consumed you nearly missed a step. You forced your eyes forward again, cheeks burning hotter than the nearest torches, and walked on as though your knees were not currently made of water.
By the time you reached the high table and slid into your seat beside Viserys, you seized your goblet, took a sip you did not taste, and ordered yourself to stop being ridiculous. You lasted all of ten seconds before your eyes drifted across the hall in search of him.
The corner of his mouth lifted the moment your gazes met again, as though he had been waiting for you to look. You looked away first, scowling and thoroughly inconvenienced by the entire affair.
—
From then on, you kept seeing Gwayne around.
You did not know what business had brought him to court, nor how long he meant to stay. Yet whenever you found yourselves in the same room, he greeted you with the same propriety. Sometimes he took your hand, pressed his lips to your knuckles, and held your gaze a moment longer than was proper. You answered with the barest politeness—a cool smile, a murmured “Ser Gwayne”—and told yourself the quickening of your pulse was only irritation at his presumption.
It was likely some scheme of his father’s. Another careful thread in the web Otto Hightower was weaving. So you kept your expression neutral and your answers brief, unwilling to give anyone—least of all yourself—reason to read more into it than there was.
Yet the telling did little good.
Your gaze sought him of its own accord. Across the training yard at dawn you would catch the flash of his sword and scowl at the strength in his form. In the throne room, through the press of courtiers, you would sense him before you saw him—and hate that you had sensed him at all. Even in the silence of the godswood, when he walked alone beneath the red leaves, your steps would slow without permission.
The rest of the world had grown strangely dull beside him. Conversations drifted past half-heard. Even the sight of your own dragon circling the bay could not hold you the way the mere turn of his head could. And every time you realised it you wanted to scream.
The thoughts were worse. They came unbidden, and persistent. You would be reading some dry account of the Conquest and find yourself wondering whether he preferred the yard or the library—then slam the book shut for the folly of it. At supper you would lose entire courses imagining the shape of his smile when no one watched. You could not help the brief, unwelcome relief that flickered through you when he laughed easily with the other knights. Relief that he was settling among them. And the moment the feeling registered, irritation followed hard upon its heels.
Why should you care whether Ser Gwayne found favour?
Why should the way he spoke with the other men leave you both soothed and strangely bereft?
You had no answer that did not shame you.
This time, you found him near the godswood.
The hour was late enough that the corridors had emptied, and the red leaves beyond the archway whispered in a thin evening wind.
Gwayne stood alone before a long tapestry set into the stone wall, head tilted slightly as though studying some great mystery. The torchlight caught the pale strands at his nape and the line of his shoulders, and for that unguarded moment your treacherous gaze lingered.
Again? you thought, irritation flaring sharp and familiar. Must every empty hall contain him?
You drew closer than you meant to. “What are you doing?”
He straightened and greeted you properly. Then one hand lifted in a lazy gesture toward the woven scene.
“Well,” he said mildly, “someone once told me to look at the tapestries.”
A startled, incredulous laugh escaped you and immediately you clapped a hand over your mouth a moment too late, eyes wide with the sheer gall of him.
Gwayne’s mouth curved, but he did not turn fully. Instead he tilted his head farther, studying the tapestry with the solemn air of a scholar confronted with an especially baffling text. The woven figures were impossible to misinterpret.
“I cannot imagine my sister taking any particular joy in this sort of work,” he murmured, almost to himself. “What, precisely, am I even looking at?”
You looked as well.
Your face twisted at once in pure, undiluted disgust. For a heartbeat you could only stare, appalled that anyone had ever thought to hang such a thing so near the godswood.
You looked back at Gwayne, who was still regarding the scene.
“Your sister’s favourite tapestries,” you said, voice dry as dust, “are in another gallery.”
“Ah,” he murmured. “That would explain a great deal.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes with open disdain, and turned on your heel. Let him stand there staring at filth if it pleased him. You had better things to do than linger in empty corridors with Otto Hightower’s son.
“Would the princess mind showing me where that is?”
The question stopped you mid-step.
You turned back, incredulous. “You have been at court for months, Ser Gwayne. And you still do not know the way to the eastern gallery?”
He considered this with exaggerated thoughtfulness, one brow lifting just enough to be insolent. “I am a rather busy man…”
Busy.
As though that single word could excuse a Hightower wandering the Red Keep like a lost pageboy. You glanced about—half hoping some dutiful servant or idle knight might appear and spare you the task. The gallery remained empty save for the two of you and the godswood’s distant whisper.
A long, suffering sigh left you.
“Very well.” You turned away again, setting a brisk pace. “Follow me.”
—
You led him into the gallery without ceremony, then found yourself trailing a few steps behind as Gwayne moved along the line of tapestries. He paused before each one with the attention he had shown the indecent piece outside, but his gaze never truly settled. He looked without seeing—eyes gliding over hunts and battles and long-dead kings as though the woven scenes were little more than an excuse to keep walking.
You walked.
And walked.
And grew thoroughly bored.
The scenes blurred into one another while Gwayne studied each with unfocused attention, hands folded behind his back. He glanced over his shoulder matched with a small, knowing smirk that touched his mouth.
“Oh,” he said mildly. “You’re still here, princess?”
You blinked and felt heat climbing your throat. “What do you mean? You asked me to show you where the gallery is.”
“Indeed and you are right, you have.” His gaze returned to the nearest tapestry—a rather dull depiction of a stag at bay. “However I hadn’t expected you to continue to walk at my heels as though the boring sight of these walls somehow holds you captive.”
You stopped walking as the realisation settled. You had followed him. Mindlessly. From one tapestry to the next. You lifted your chin, grasping for dignity that felt suddenly thin.
“If you find them so dull, Ser,” you said, “why do you linger before them at all?”
Gwayne turned fully then.
The smirk softened as he regarded you instead. When he spoke, his voice had dropped, low enough that it seemed meant for no one but you.
“I have not been looking at the tapestries for some time now, Princess.”
Your brows furrowed deeply. “Then what are you looking at?”
He said nothing and only held your gaze with those blue eyes soft in the low light—softer than you had ever seen them. The silence stretched, thick and humming, until you felt the weight of it against your skin.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked on.
You stood frozen before your feet betrayed you once more. You followed him. Again. “I asked you a question, Ser Gwayne.”
“The hour grows late, Princess. These corridors are poorly lit after dark. I would not see you lose your way returning to your chambers.”
“I should be the one saying that to you,” you retorted, lengthening your stride just enough to keep pace. “I have walked these halls since I could stand. You have been here mere months. If anyone is in danger of losing their way, Ser, it is not I.”
A low, genuine chuckle came from him.
“Right again,” he said, the amusement warm in his voice. He glanced sideways at you. “Tell me, Princess… Do you enjoy arguing with me this much? Or is it simply that you cannot help yourself?”
“I do not!” you said too quickly, the words sharp with denial. “I find you insufferable. And presumptuous. And far too fond of your own cleverness.”
He only hummed softly, as though your protests were little more than confirmation.
That was enough. So you stopped walking.
“Good night, Ser Gwayne,” you said cool and final. You turned on your heel. “I hope you get thoroughly lost.”
“If I do,” he called after you, the faintest thread of humour still woven through the words, “I shall take comfort knowing the princess of the realm cares enough to hope for my misfortune—and I shall endeavour to lose myself somewhere you might find me again, Princess.”
You kept walking, chin high, heart beating far too hard against your ribs. And gods help you—you were smiling before you even realised it.
—
Where once you had kept to your chambers with a book or taken to the sky on Vaelys for hours at a stretch, you now found yourself inventing errands that led you through the corridors and gardens at the hours when Gwayne might be about. A forgotten book. A message for the master-at-arms. A sudden need to feel the sun upon your face. Each excuse felt flimsy even to your own ears, yet you offered them without shame for the chance of a glimpse—the turn of his head, the flash of his blue eyes across a crowded space, the way the light caught in the strands of his hair when he moved.
Rhaenyra was not so easily deceived.
One afternoon she caught you returning from yet another circuit, with a smile from ear to ear, skirts still dusted with the fine grit of the yard path. She arched her brow, looking sharp with sisterly suspicion.
“You have grown fond of walking of late,” she said, falling into step beside you. “Strange. I cannot recall the last time you left your rooms without either a book or a saddle. And yet here you are, out again. Has the Keep suddenly become so fascinating, or is there some other attraction drawing you from your usual haunts?”
You dropped your smile in an instant, though heat crept up the back of your neck. “The air grows close indoors. I find I prefer the open walkways.”
Rhaenyra’s smile was small and thoroughly unconvinced. “Of course. The open walkways. How fortunate that they seem to lead so often past a certain knight of the Reach.”
Your smile returned at once, bright and deliberately foolish.
“A knight?” you echoed, tipping your head in wide-eyed wonder. “And which knight might that be, sister? There are rather a great many of them about these days.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes glittered with pure mischief. She let the silence stretch before answering, soft and oh-so-innocent, “Why, Criston Cole, of course. Who else could so thoroughly capture a princess’s interest?”
You recoiled as disgust flashed across your face, unable to school it. Your lip curled. You turned on her with a full scowl, the expression so pure in its revulsion that Rhaenyra nearly laughed aloud.
“Do not be vile.” you hissed.
But before either of you could speak another word, a familiar voice carried from the far end of the gallery. You felt your chest clench when Gwayne rounded the corner a moment later, walking beside a dark-haired knight of the Kingsguard. The afternoon light caught in the auburn of his hair and turned it briefly to copper.
Panic flared hot beneath your ribs.
You forced a laugh and reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You are so terribly funny, sister,” you declared, still laughing, the sound bright enough to ring off the stone. “Truly. I shall never recover.”
The laugh did its work. Gwayne’s head turned at the sound. His gaze found yours across the short distance, softness lighting up in his eyes.
Then both men inclined their heads in polite acknowledgement as they passed before continuing on their way down the gallery. You kept the smile fixed on your face until their footsteps faded. Only then did you risk a glance at Rhaenyra, who was no longer looking at you. She had turned her head and followed Gwayne’s retreating figure with a thoughtful gaze that held far more than simple curiosity.
—
At dinner one evening, Viserys turned to you between courses, wine cup in hand.
“How do you find Lord Matthos Tyrell?” he asked, the question light but not without intent. “He seems to have made a favorable impression in court.”
Your knife paused against the meat on your plate. For a moment you simply stared at your father, then your eyes flicked first to Alicent, then to Rhaenyra. Both women watched you with carefully neutral expressions, though you caught the faintest tightening around Alicent’s mouth.
You set your knife down with deliberate care.
“Why do you ask?” you said.
Viserys smiled across the table with that slightly vague smile he wore when he believed himself to be doing a kindness.
“It is nothing, my daughter,” he said, his voice gentle, as though the matter were already settled in his mind. “Only that your nameday draws near, and a match is important. These things cannot be left to chance in times such as these...”
He spoke of it so lightly, as though your life were a thread to be woven into some greater tapestry of his design. Rhaenyra had scarcely been bound to Laenor before the court’s eyes had turned to you, and already he spoke of matches and alliances as though the stability of the Seven Kingdoms rested upon nothing more than the rings upon his daughters’ fingers.
You felt the spark of irritation flare in your chest, hot and bright.
“You seem in a great hurry to marry off your daughters, Father,” you asked, and hated how vulnerable you sounded. “One might think the realm would fall to ruin should we remain unwed a moment longer than necessary.”
Viserys blinked, the smile faltering for the briefest instant, as though your words had caught him off guard. Before he could answer, Rhaenyra leaned forward from her place a little farther down the table, her eyes bright with that familiar glint of mischief and loyalty.
“What of young Lord Blackwood?” she suggested thoughtfully. “Samwell of Raventree Hall. He is near our age, and the Blackwoods have ever been stout friends to our house. A match there would bind the riverlands more closely to the crown, and he is said to be a fine young man—brave in the lists, true to his word. It would be a solid alliance, sister.”
A grimace flickered across your face at the thought of being sent to Raventree Hall, bound to some earnest young lord whose face you could not even picture, stirred nothing in you but instinctive recoil. Not when your mind kept drifting to the memory of another man.
Rhaenyra’s lips curved in a small, knowing smile, though she said nothing more. Alicent’s gaze flicked between you and your father, cool and assessing, while Viserys looked faintly disappointed, as if he had expected more enthusiasm for his well-meant meddling.
You reached for your wine, the taste of it suddenly too rich, too cloying on your tongue. Your thoughts were a tangle you had no desire to unravel here, beneath the weight of so many watching eyes, so you forced a small smile, though it did not reach your eyes.
“A generous thought, Rhaenyra,” you said, your voice light. “But I find I have little taste for being matched like a broodmare at present.”
You pushed your chair back with a soft scrape of wood against stone. “Father,” you said, rising with a graceful incline of your head, “I find I have lost my appetite this evening. The wine sits ill with me. If you will excuse me.”
Viserys looked up, concerned flickering across his face, but you did not linger for his reply. You felt Rhaenyra’s eyes on your back as you slipped from the hall, and you did not look toward Alicent at all.
Your father’s haste to see you matched and wed still prickled beneath your skin. Rhaenyra’s suggestion of young Lord Blackwood had been kindly meant, yet the thought of it had made your mouth twist. And beneath it all, Daemon’s dry, mocking voice lingered ever present in your mind since he had taken it upon himself to whisper truths and warnings into your ear whenever the opportunity arose.
Do not be a fool, niece. The Hightowers play the long game. Otto sends his son to smile and charm and bind you with pretty words while his father counts the dragons on the other side of the Narrow Sea.
You pressed your lips together, fingers tightening briefly on the fabric at your side. You weren’t some girl to be led by flattery or a handsome face. You had seen the way Gwayne looked at you, felt the spark that had passed between you like lightning before a storm. And that was precisely why you could not afford to trust it.
You rounded a corner too quickly near the entrance to the godswood and nearly walked straight into the solid wall of his chest. A startled sound escaped you as you stumbled back a step. Strong hands caught your elbows, stabilising your feet before you could fall.
Gwayne stood before you, close enough that you could see the faint sheen of exertion on his brow, the way a few dark strands of hair had escaped to cling to his temple. He wore a simple dark tunic and breeches, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, as though he had come straight from the training yard. Then he released you at once, as if the brief contact had burned him as much as it had you.
You jerked back as soon as he let go, your cheeks heating up. “Ser Gwayne.”
“Princess. My apologies. I…I did not see you.”
“Don’t fret, I am fine.” For a moment you were going to turn on your heel and walk away but your suspicions made you stop and turn right back around, “Ser Gwayne, may I ask the true reason you were brought to court?”
Gwayne blinked, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his face. He studied you and you saw the moment he registered the edge in your voice. Then he straightened and met your eyes without evasion.
“My father asked that I remain at court a while longer,” he said plainly, carrying that same warm timbre you remembered from the dance. “To represent Oldtown’s interests in certain matters, and to learn what I may of the realm’s workings. Nothing more than duty, my princess. I am to be of service where I can.”
The suspicion that had coiled in your chest like a serpent loosened its grip. He studied you again, head tilting slightly, that perceptive gaze seeing more than you wished him to. The torchlight gilded the strong planes of his face, and when he spoke again there was a thread of gentle curiosity.
“Why do you ask?”
You swallowed, the words coming too quickly, “Nothing. Good night, Ser Gwayne.”
“Good night, Princess—”
You turned and walked away quickly, heart fluttering against your ribs like a caged bird. You did not look back, though you felt his gaze on you until the corridor curved and took you from his sight.
Only then did you allow yourself to breathe. You pressed a hand to your sternum as you walked, willing your pulse to slow.
× × × ×
The dreams have been coming more often lately. Always the same man, always turned away from you toward the daylight. And the more you saw Gwayne, the more he began to resemble the man in your dreams. Or perhaps it was only your own wishful thinking that stitched the two together.
The nameday feast had spilled from the Great Hall into the torchlit courtyard of the Red Keep, where the night air carried the scent of roasting meat and spiced wine. Banners of red and black stirred in the breeze. Music drifted from a gallery above, and a singer had spun tales of old Valyria, but the crowd’s attention had turned to the cleared circle marked in the center of the yard. A ring of honor had been defended through the evening with blunted steel and friendly contest, the current holder a young Reach knight whose boasts had grown louder with each victory.
You sat upon the raised dais with Rhaenyra at your side, gifts of silk and silver and dragon-carved trinkets piled at your feet. The weight of eyes upon you was familiar, yet tonight it felt heavier.
Gwayne stood among the knights and courtiers near the edge of the ring, his posture easy yet alert. As if he felt the weight of your attention, his head turned. Your gazes locked a moment too long. The same pull that had stolen your breath in the corridor after you had collided with him, stirred again in your chest.
You looked away first.
Rhaenyra’s shoulder brushed yours. Her voice was low, threaded with amusement. “You fancy him.”
“Who?” You kept your eyes on the ring, where the young knight was boasting again.
A soft laugh. “Do not play the fool with me, sister. I have eyes.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted pointedly across the yard. Gwayne had turned back to the contest, but even as you watched, he stole another glance toward the dais. To you specifically. It was quick, almost careless, but it landed all the same.
You hit Rhaenyra’s arm with the back of your hand, but enough to make her stifle another laugh. “Stop looking at him,” you hissed under your breath.
“Then do not act so obvious,” she murmured, still smiling. “Or so blind. You have been dancing around each other for months.”
“I do not fancy him.”
Rhaenyra turned her head just enough to give you a long, knowing look, the kind only an elder sister could manage. “You invent errands that somehow always lead you past him. You linger in galleries and yards and corridors the moment he appears, then act as though the walls themselves have suddenly become fascinating.…yet your eyes seek him out the instant he is gone. I have watched you lose entire conversations simply because he is across the hall. And I have heard you sigh more times than a lovelorn maid when he smiles at another lady or takes his leave. Do not tell me you ‘do not’ fancy Ser Gwayne. Your body has been telling the truth even when your tongue will not.”
You opened your mouth to deny it again but the words died on your tongue as cheers rose from the yard. The current ring holder had been challenged. Gwayne caught the top rail with one hand and vaulted over it, landing lightly within the circle. He accepted a blunted sword from a squire, tested its weight once, and turned to face the ring holder. The yard silenced in anticipation.
Before the bout could begin, Gwayne addressed the gathered spectators, his voice carrying clear and strong across the courtyard.
“I claim the right to be the last challenger for the ring tonight.” He paused while his gaze lifted unerringly, to the dais where you sat. “And should I prove victorious, I shall place the victor’s token in the hands of the Princess, in honor of her nameday, as the occasion deserves.”
Rhaenyra made a small, delighted sound beside you as her fingers found yours and squeezed triumphantly.
The Reach knight laughed, too confident to be troubled by the announcement, and the fight began.
Steel rang against steel again in the night. Gwayne did not waste movement. He let the other man press, let him tire himself with showy swings, then answered with precise, economical strikes that forced the knight back step by step. There was no brutality in it, only skill and patience and intensity that made the crowd fall hushed.
You found yourself leaning forward without meaning to when he took a hit, your fingers tightening around Rhaenyra’s. Each clash of blades sent a jolt through you. The way he moved, the line of his body, the focus in his dark eyes.
The Reach knight overextended. Gwayne pivoted, hooked the man’s blade with his own, and sent it spinning into the dirt. A clean disarm. The yard erupted in cheers and applause.
Gwayne stood in the center of the ring, chest rising and falling, the blunted sword still in his hand. The herald stepped forward, but Gwayne did not wait. He turned, lifted the blade in a brief salute to the dais, and for one suspended second his eyes found yours across the torchlit space.
He accepted the token of the ring—a simple wreath of laurel and ribbon—from the herald. Then he crossed the yard toward the dais with unhurried steps, the crowd parting before him. When he reached the edge of the platform, he stopped, lifted the token, and offered it to you with a small, formal bow.
“For the Princess,” he presented, “on the day of her nameday.” Your fingers brushed his as you took the wreath. The contact was brief, but it burned.
“Thank you Ser Gwayne.” You said breathlessly. Your fingers were still curled tight around the laurel wreath. Gwayne inclined his head once more, the small smile lingering at the corner of his mouth, and stepped back into the press of the crowd.
—
Most of the lords and ladies had drifted back inside the Great Hall for more wine and music, the sound of it drifting faintly through the open doors like a distant tide. The courtyard was quieter now, the torches burning lower, their light softer and more golden. A cool night breeze stirred the banners.
You had slipped away without drawing notice, the laurel wreath still cradled in your hands. You turned it slowly between your fingers, tracing the curve of the leaves, the smooth ribbon that bound it.
You felt the weight of a gaze before you saw him.
Gwayne leaned against one of the pillars a little distance away, half in shadows, arms loosely crossed. He had removed the practice armor he had worn; only a clean dark tunic and breeches in their place. He straightened but did not move when your eyes met his. He simply watched patiently, waiting to see what you would do.
When you remained unmoving, he took it as permission. He pushed off the pillar and came toward you, stopping a careful distance away. His gaze dropped to the laurel wreath still held in your hands.
“I hope it does not displease you, Princess,” he said quietly. “The ring was only ever meant to be offered to you.”
You wanted to ask why. Why he had claimed the challenge before the entire court. Why he had looked at you the way he had when he raised the blade in salute. The questions tangled behind your teeth.
“It is… very fine, Ser Gwayne.”
His eyes flicked to your mouth when you said his name. Something shifted in them—subtle, but unmistakable. Heat unfurled low in your chest and began spreading.
You looked away first, clearing your throat.
“Did your father ask you to do this?”
You searched his face for the calculation you had been bracing for. Part of you wanted the answer to be yes, so you could step back behind the safety of suspicion. Part of you dreaded it.
Gwayne exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh, but gentler.
“No, Princess,” he said plainly. Without flourish. “He did not.”
You nodded. The wreath felt heavier in your hands.
“And my father?”
He took a single step closer as he answered. The respectful distance narrowed.
“No.”
You drew a breath while the courtyard seemed to shrink around you. The music from the hall had grown distant, as if the night itself had drawn a curtain between you and the rest of the world.
You opened your mouth again, but he spoke first—soft, certain, as though he had already seen the next question forming.
“Nor your sister.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any of the words. A loose strand of hair slipped free and brushed your cheek. His gaze followed it. His hand lifted, fingers hovering for the briefest heartbeat as though he meant to tuck it back… then curled into a fist at his side instead.
You felt the denial of that touch like a physical thing.
You lifted your chin anyway, forcing stilness into your voice even as your pulse raced.
“And I am meant to believe a Hightower knight would single out a Targaryen princess before the entire court for no reason but his own?”
Gwayne’s mouth curved, soft and almost rueful. He closed the last of the distance between you until you had to tilt your head back to hold his eyes and you could feel the warmth of him now.
“You may believe whatever you wish,” he said. “But if this were only my father’s game, I would have pressed my advantage long before tonight. I would not have contented myself with stolen glances across crowded halls. I should have been far more persistent… and far less patient.”
His eyes searched yours intently.
“I see,” you whispered. “I think I have decided who you are, Ser Gwayne.”
His head tilted slightly. The curve of his mouth deepened, though his gaze remained serious—hungry, almost, for the truth of whatever you would say next.
“Who am I, then?” his voice dropped an octave as he murmured. “Who have you decided that I am, my Princess?”
He did not move. The choice remained entirely yours—to step back into safety, or to close what little space still remained.
The silence stretched thickly. Your gaze dropped to his mouth for the briefest moment before lifting again. Still he waited, utterly still, even as every line of him seemed drawn tight with the effort of restraint. You were royalty. Until you chose—or until the king gave leave—he would not presume.
Your fingers loosened on the laurel wreath. It slipped lower in your grasp. You leaned in, just slightly, the movement small and trembling with a courage you had not known you possessed. Your breath caught. The space between you was nothing now—a single heartbeat from vanishing entirely.
His expression softened further. His own breath hitched, but he remained motionless, giving you every chance to pull away.
You were going to kiss him.
The realization hit you at the same moment your body began to act on it. Your chin tilted higher, your lips parting on a shaky inhale—
“Oh—am I interrupting something?”
You and Gwayne stepped apart so quickly it felt ungraceful. The laurel wreath nearly slipped from your fingers before you caught it. Heat flooded your face. Gwayne’s expression closed at once, though the faint flush at the base of his throat and the tight line of his jaw betrayed him.
“Your Grace—”
Viserys stood a few paces away, blinking at the two of you with the vague, slightly glazed confusion of a man who had walked into a moment he had not meant to find. His gaze moved from your flustered face to Gwayne’s rigid posture and back again. Something like belated understanding flickered across his features.
“Ah,” he said, already beginning to retreat toward the archway, tipsy. “I was only… seeking a bit of air. The hall grows rather warm. But I see you are… otherwise engaged. Carry on. Or do not. Whichever you prefer.”
He gave a small, drunken wave of his hand, already turning as though he could outpace the embarrassment of the moment.
“Ser Gwayne. Daughter.”
And with that, the king all but fled back toward the light and music of the Great Hall, leaving the two of you alone in a courtyard that suddenly felt far colder than it had a moment before.
The careful distance between you had returned, as if the nearness of the almost-kiss had never existed. Yet the air still felt charged with it.
Gwayne was the one to break the silence. His voice was polite again—achingly so.
“Would you have me escort you back inside, Princess?”
Part of you wanted to refuse. Part of you wanted to remain in the cooling dark and see whether the courage that had nearly brought your mouth to his would return. The rest of you was still burning with the knowledge that your own father had nearly witnessed you close the space between yourself and a Hightower knight.
You lifted your eyes to him at last.
“Of course.”
He inclined his head. You walked in silence at first. The music from the hall grew louder as you approached, yet it felt distant, muffled beneath the quiet roar of your own thoughts.
“I am to return to Oldtown within the fortnight, Princess.”
The knowledge that he would soon be gone pulled taut in your chest. “So soon?”
Gwayne glanced at you, his step never faltering. “You think it is so soon?”
You forced your spine straighter, gripping the wreath a little tighter as you tried to gather the threads of nonchalance that had slipped through your fingers. You lifted one shoulder in what you hoped looked like a careless shrug.
“I suppose your stay here has already extended beyond what was intended,” you said, aiming for light and missing by a noticeable margin. Your voice sounded thin even to your own ears. “Oldtown will no doubt be glad to have their knight returned.”
The words tasted false on your tongue. You were dying inside, the almost-kiss still burning at the edges of your thoughts. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look at him again, as though that might keep the truth from showing on your face.
You felt rather than saw the small nod he gave, “As you say, Princess.”
—
The hour of the wolf found you at the window of your chambers, heavy curtains drawn aside so the cool night air could wash over your face. Blackwater Bay stretched dark and endless below, the water catching faint glimmers of starlight and the pale moon. In the distance Seasmoke wheeled and dove, his silver-white form cutting slow arcs against the black sky.
You watched him for a long time, and the sighs came unbidden.
Every time you closed your eyes you saw the courtyard again—the way Gwayne’s gaze had followed the loose strand of hair across your cheek, the way his hand had risen and then curled away as though the act of not touching you had cost him something.
He was everything a true knight was meant to be. Honourable. Measured. Courteous even when the air between you had grown dangerous. And yet the shadows of his house clung to him whether he wished it or not. Otto’s ambition. Alicent’s green. The long game the Hightowers played so well. You knew better than to ignore those things. You had been raised to know better.
Still.
An unwilling smile touched your mouth as an older memory surfaced. Weeks ago in the training yard you had overheard him speaking to a young knight who had been boasting loudly of his own skill, swinging at a straw dummy as though it were a living foe. Gwayne had watched in silence for a time before offering, “A fine display, ser. The dummy is most certainly impressed. Perhaps next time you might try striking something that can strike back.”
The memory should have made you laugh. Instead it only made the ache sharper.
You pressed your forehead to the cool stone of the window ledge and closed your eyes. Within a fortnight he would be gone. Returned to Oldtown. And whatever had nearly happened in the dark of the courtyard would remain unfinished—an almost that would linger long after the sound of his footsteps had faded from the Red Keep.
Seasmoke cried out once more over the black water. You watched him until the sky began to pale, and the sighs still would not leave you.
—
The next day you woke in better spirits. A long flight atop Vaelys had done much to clear your head. She had carried you high over the bay until the wind stole every thought from your mind, and you returned to the Red Keep with peace settling in your chest.
That peace shattered the moment you were summoned to the small council chamber.
You entered expecting another discussion of duties or appearances. Instead, a young lord waited near the table. He bowed when you stepped inside—handsome enough in the way of well-bred sons, but his smile did not reach his eyes, and his posture carried the stiff certainty of a man who already believed the matter settled.
Your gaze moved across the chamber.
Gwayne stood near the wall, expression perfectly neutral. Yet his attention was fixed on you the moment you entered.
Your father sat at the head of the table, looking more weary than pleased.
“Daughter,” Viserys began gently, “House Tyrell has come to put forward a suit for your hand.”
“A suit?” you chuckled as if it were a joke.
The young lord stepped forward and began the practiced words of a man who had rehearsed them many times. You barely heard him. Your attention remained half-caught on the silent figure near the wall.
“No.” you shook your head.
A ripple moved through the chamber. The lord’s father smiled indulgently at first, the expression faltering when he looked to the king for support. Viserys opened his mouth, but you spoke before he could.
“How is it that you gave Rhaenyra the right to choose her own match, yet I am to be handed one like a bone tossed to a hound?” Your gaze swept over the young lord from head to toe, cool and unimpressed. “I do not even know this man’s name.”
Viserys shifted in his seat, discomfort plain. “You have made it clear, daughter, that you would not choose. Time and again you have turned away every proposal—”
You met his eyes without flinching.
“But what if I have chosen?” Your voice carried clearly. “Is the right of choice only for one daughter and not the other? May I speak the name now, before this council, and have it heard?”
A startled sound left Viscerys, edged with the irritation of a king who had not expected open challenge before his lords.
“You grow bold,” he said. The faint smile faded. His gaze moved across the chamber, lingering on the assembled men as though weighing the cost of what he was about to allow. “Very well. Who among those present—or any other you might name—do you desire to be matched with? Speak plainly, if you are so certain.”
Your eyes found Gwayne again, unbidden. Across the chamber, Otto turned his head slowly, gaze narrowing as it settled on his son. Gwayne met his father’s look with the same neutrality he had worn all morning, though a muscle tightened once along his jaw.
You drew a breath and spoke the words before fear could take them from you.
“Ser Gwayne Hightower.”
Silence held for a moment…then the chamber erupted.
You did not remain to hear it. You turned and walked out while the first shocked murmurs rose into outrage, while Otto’s voice cut sharply through the noise demanding order, while your father called your name. The heavy doors closed behind you with a resounding clank, shutting away the rising chaos—the careful web of alliances and expectations tearing at the seams because you had refused, at last, to play the part they had written for you.
Summary: Andy has worked hard to clean up his family's name and reputation from the damage inflicted by his father. He's currently at the stage where he needs a wife if he's to maintain his image of perfection.
A/N: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.
Warnings: Abusive parents, Family stress, Loss of virginity, Restrictive diet, Smut. Please let me know if I missed any!
Word Count: ~3.1k words
Previous -- Next
Part of the Royal Vows AU.
"And with all of that, I would like to request permission to marry your daughter," Andy smiles thinly at the Marquis.
"Oh of course!" the other man exclaims. "Franklin, go tell the ladies of the house to prepare a celebratory meal while work out the details."
The butler bows and leaves the two men in the Marquis' office.
"Shall we start with a drink, Your Grace?"
"We'll be family soon, please call me Andy."
The Marquis' eyes widen even as his smile turns greedy.
"Of course, Andy. Now, about that drink?"
"Please," Andy nods, smile growing slightly.
During the dinner, Andy stands and beams at you.
"I'm certain you have already guessed the purpose of my visit," he starts, a hint of pink in his cheeks. "But the formalities should be observed."
Your eyes practically sparkle at him as he walks towards you, pulling a small box of out of his pocket. When he kneels, your smile is genuine, as are the tears that start forming in the corners of your eyes. He opens the box and you see the most beautiful sapphire ring you've ever seen. Shaped just like the stars you and Andy held hands under.
"Will you marry me?" he asks.
"Of course she will!" Mother cheers behind you. "Quickly now, dear, put the ring on! Oh we simply must get photos of it!"
Andy's smile drops a smidge but yours doesn't, giving him a silent reassurance that you would have said yes if you hadn't been interrupted.
Holding out your hand, he gently takes yours in his and place the exquisite ring on your finger before kissing the back of your hand.
You're barely able to utter out a "thank you" before Mother swings you towards the table and pulls your arm to where she and Father can examine the ring. It's a painful stretch but you smile and bear it. For Andy, if nothing else.
Andy coughs to get your parents' attention and they let go of your hand.
"Now, I know I can be a stickler for tradition, but I would like to request that we speed up the engagement period?" he starts shyly. "My mother's health is fading and I would like to make sure she sees me married before she passes."
"Oh, of course!" Father declares.
"You are truly a good son," Mother adds. "Oh, but we must get to the designers quickly! Do you have a place in mind where you'd like the wedding to be?"
As the discussion continues, you keep yourself quiet, aware your input isn't wanted. But you continue to look back and forth between the ring and Andy with the brightest smile you've ever given anyone.
By the time he needs to head home for the night, all of the major details have been worked out. You're allowed to accompany Andy to his car for a moment alone together.
"Are you sure you want this, my Star?" Andy whispers. "You weren't really given an opportunity to say 'no'."
"I wouldn't have taken it," you reassure. "You are a good man who looks out for me. I would be happy to marry you."
Gently cupping your face, Andy leans in and kisses your lips. There is a tenderness you'd never expect. From what you'd been taught, a man's kisses and touches were always rough, uncomfortable, something you had to simply get used to. But the way Andy kisses you is making you want more.
"Thank you," he whispers before getting into his car.
The next month is a whirl of activity, especially for fittings. Your diet becomes as restrictive as it was before your courtship with Andy. Mother and Father are insistent that you look acceptable for the wedding photos and that means losing weight. Your stomach growls more than it used to, clearly upset at the change. But you do your best to hide it. Thankfully the assistants taking your measurements don't mention anything if they hear it.
As the wedding approaches you do feel nervous, uncertain of what to expect on the wedding night. You've had the education, but that is often very different from the experience. Or so you've heard.
It isn't until the night before the wedding that Mother talks to you about it.
"It will hurt, don't fool yourself on that," she starts. "But it only hurts bad the first time and won't be quite so bad in the future. Make sure to hide your pain well because your husband will not care for it. He needs to think he's pleasuring you. So whenever you feel the need to wince or complain, simply say 'thank you' instead. It'll do wonders for him and, quite frankly, will help him...finish quickly."
"Yes, Mother."
"And it is essential that the marriage be consummated tonight. I don't care how tired you are, how scared you are, whatever. The marriage isn't complete until he's had you. Then we will be safe. Understood?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Oh do smile more, dear," she scolds. "You're finally fulfilling your purpose and getting us a higher social status! You act like I'm the bad guy when all I've ever done is make you marriageable."
"I'm sorry, Mother."
"Ugh. Just promise me you won't be so morose in the wedding photos."
"I promise, Mother."
The wedding itself is a small ceremony. Understandable given that Andy has only a few people to attend on his side, including Earl Solo of Estetor. Though that hasn't stopped Mother and Father from making it about as gaudy as they can get away with. Even your wedding dress was a bit more showy than you'd like, but Mother insisted the blue flowers would complement the ring you now wore. You didn't correct her to tell her stars would be more apt. It was your precious secret with Andy.
The vows are recited and while Mother and Father told you not to expect him to follow through on his vows, your heart soars at the thought that he might. That when he promises to protect you, honor you, look after you, he means it as much as you do when you say your vows.
It truly warms your heart to see how happy your new Mother-in-Law is with the wedding. The woman was run ragged by life and you sympathize with Andy wanting to take care of the woman who did her best to protect him from his father. She is very loving towards you, even though you are of a lower status than her.
For his part, Andy's heart skips a beat when he first sees you in your wedding dress. He puts as much sincerity into his vows as he can muster. He's even able to keep his smile genuine through the family photoshoots, especially with you and his mother hugging.
That doesn't stop him from rushing the reception a bit, though. Thankfully Napoleon is playing his part well and minds that your parents aren't suspicious about the quick departure. It'll likely be played off as a new husband eager to enjoy his new bride. In truth, he wants to get you to your new home where you'll never be hurt by those cruel people ever again.
As Andy walks you into your new home you're stomach is fluttering. You're nervous, scared even, but you're eager to be with someone who makes you feel in ways you had never dared hope.
"I know that...there are...expectations," Andy hesitates as he leads you to what you assume is the bedroom. "But this was also a very...rushed courtship. I never want to make you uncomfortable so, if you're not yet ready to share a bed, I understand and I can use a guestroom in the meantime."
"What?" you gasp, heart dropping. "But...but that would mean...No, Andy, we have to...to do...to consummate. Otherwise the marriage isn't..."
"Isn't what, Star?" he gently encourages as he caresses your cheek. "Isn't real? The vows and paperwork did that. Sex is not a requirement."
"But...it is! I can't...I have to. We have to." The panic rising in your chest is making it difficult to find the words.
Carefully Andy holds your face so you have to keep looking at him. His sapphire eyes are soft, worried and calming.
"Breathe, please. What were you told about tonight? About what you were...obligated to do?"
Though your cheeks are on fire as you tell Andy what was conveyed to you, the concern in his eyes never fades. Even as the tears start forming in your eyes out of desperation to appease, he never looks at you with disdain like others do. He carefully brushes the tears away and his eyes never stop looking worried for you.
"And in spite of the promises of pain and discomfort, you still want to go through with it?" he comments.
"I have to," you say, though the shakiness in your voice says otherwise.
"You don't," he replies, gently shaking his head. "But I see you're not going to be able to rest, are you?"
"I'm sorry," you whimper.
"Don't be," he pleads. "It isn't your fault. I truly am willing to wait until you feel you are ready, that you're not just doing this out of obligation."
"I want to be with you, Andy. I can promise you that."
His breath hitches at the declaration and he starts stroking your hair.
"Can you also promise me that you will tell me if I'm hurting you?" he responds. "I never want to hurt you, Star. In any way. So please, please promise me you will tell me if you're hurting, especially if I'm the one doing it?"
His pleas are at odds with what Mother told you and your brain needs to buffer for a few moments. But you can trust Andy, right? In less than a year he's already shown you more care than your parents have in your entire life.
"I promise," you whisper.
Andy's lips find yours and his kiss is full of need, hunger. It's almost overwhelming but he pulls back when he feels your body start to go rigid.
"Will you do me the honor of joining me?" he breathes, gesturing to the door to the bedroom.
"Yes."
When you cross the threshold, Andy quickly gets to work helping you take off your clothing. As your clothes get removed, Andy covers your skin with kisses. It tickles in a way you can't describe, but it's the kind of tickle you don't want to stop. Despite your nakedness, he's making you feel warm all over, especially as his hands carefully caress you.
"Please sit?" he gestures to the bed.
It feels odd, like you should be embarrassed, but you do as he asks. He kneels at your feet and removes your shoes, his eyes taking in every inch of your beauty. Feeling shy, you cross your arms to hide your chest but he gently tugs at one arm with a "please?" and you lower them.
When you are completely naked, Andy, still on his knees, moves as close to you as he can get. He starts kissing your lips as his hands fondle your breasts. Your breathing becomes shallow as you feel your body reacting to him. As he makes you feel good.
He goes to break the kiss but your hands instinctively shoot out to bring him back to you. He groans as you return his kisses with fervor and his hands lower to your hips.
"I'm sorry," you gasp, letting go of him. "I didn't mean to overstep."
"You didn't," he promises, as his hands start kneading. "You can touch me however you want or need."
"Okay," you whimper before running your fingers through his hair. His eyes close and he groans in pleasure, leaning into your touch. You feel giddy for having such an effect on him.
"Will you spread your legs for me?" he moans.
"Y-yes."
Following his request, you part your knees, exposing your core. Again, you know you should be shy, but Andy's kisses and touches are making you feel so good.
He starts kissing down your front. You squeak in surprise, but it quickly turns into a moan when his mouth latches onto one of your nipples. One of his hands moves from your hips to your inner thigh and your moans turn shaky. His mouth moves to your other nipple as his hand moves to cup your pussy.
"So warm," he moans. He sticks a finger inside you, making you gasp. "So wet," he groans.
"Is...is that good?"
"So good," he moans as he starts kissing down your belly.
His face moves between your legs and your cheeks burn as Andy hums and starts licking at your pearl. But it also feels so good. Especially when he starts moving his finger in and out of you.
"Oh!" you breathe.
Andy freezes. "Are you okay? Is this too much? Am I hurting you?"
"No, no, no," you shake your head. "Please, it felt good! Please do that again!"
His features soften even as his eyes seem to darken. You don't have time to think about it before he resumes and your brain can't think beyond the new pleasures you're feeling. He remains gentle, even as he feels more enthusiastic.
Andy yearns to do more but he knows you need him to be gentle. He needs you to know that you can expect pleasure, not pain. That you don't have to suffer for him. He's so hard he's hurting, but he needs to worship at your altar before he can be allowed to relieve his own pain.
You find yourself leaning back on your elbows, opening yourself up even more to him. You feel a pressure building and only his touch can bring you relief. He starts alternating licking and sucking on your pearl and you can't help the noises that escape you. Part of you feels ashamed to be making such unladylike noises but most of your brain is distracted by Andy.
Andy's hand picks up speed and you keen as he adds a second finger. Mentally he begs for you to let go for him. To give him what he needs.
"Please, please, please," you chant as you feel the pressure inside you reaching a precipice. His other hand starts fondling your breast. Kneading, pinching, adding to the pleasure.
Your orgasm hits you like a shockwave and spreads throughout your body. Your toes curl as your fingers grip the blankets and your hips move of their own accord. Your pussy squeezes Andy's fingers so tight he groans and the vibrations prolong your pleasure.
He wants to keep going but he doesn't want to overwhelm you. Instead he slows down, eventually stopping as you come down from your high.
"Are you okay?" he rasps. "Do you need to stop here?"
"B-but you..."
"I told you before, I'm willing to wait until you're ready."
"I am ready," you insist. "Please?"
"Okay," Andy nods, steadying himself. "Just remember your promise."
He stands up and starts undressing, eyes roaming your body. With how hungry he looks, part of you is grateful for the near starvation rations. Surely he wouldn't be as interested if you'd kept the weight. But that's all the more reason to make sure he doesn't have to wait for you. The marriage needs to be consummated so he'll be sure to keep you.
Your breathing is shallow when Andy is fully naked in front of you. As good as he's making you feel, you're still on edge, waiting for the pain. Sure, he told he doesn't want to hurt you, but given that he's still willing to do this, you're not sure how much of that you can believe.
Carefully he starts rubbing his erection along your slit, lubing himself as much as he can before lining himself up with your entrance.
As he starts pushing in, you brace yourself for the searing pain you were warned about. Andy can see it in the way your jaw is set. One of his hands moves to your pearl and you gasp, eyes opening wide. He keeps his fingers moving as he pushes in further. He needs this to be good for you. He needs you to feel only pleasure.
And pleasure is definitely taking over your mind. The penetration feels strange, and there is a stretch that could turn painful, but it's not the promised torture. It's practically heavenly, especially as Andy's hands keep kneading and playing your body.
When he's fully sheathed, he wraps your legs around his waist and leans over you, kissing everywhere his lip can reach.
"Are you doing okay?" he breathes.
"Y-y-yeah," you stutter out, brain struggling to solve the puzzle of the lack of pain while delighting in the ecstasy you're feeling.
Andy starts moving his hips and his mouth latches on to your nipple. He groans when the walls of your pussy clench around him in response. He knows he won't last long with how good you're making him feel. He can't hold back as much as he wants to for your sake.
But you're not complaining, and not just because you were taught not to. Seeing Andy, normally so buttoned up and restrained, come apart is thrilling, intoxicating even. Your hands reach out and start running your fingers through his hair, making him speed up. You could swear he even whimpered at your touch but you're too distracted by rapidly building pressure you feel.
"Andy," you moan again and again until another orgasm hits you.
His hips stutter as he cries out in pleasure.
For a minute, the two of you just lay there, limbs wrapped around each other. You're not sure what's expected of you now. You've heard so many stories of the man rolling over and falling asleep. But they also promised pain that you never received. All you can think to do is continue running your fingers through his hair until he tells you otherwise.
"Are you okay?" Andy asks, coming to his senses. "Are you hurting? Do you need me to get off of you? Do you need a bath? Anything?"
His obvious concern paired with the highs you've just experienced leave you in tears. Andy is scared he did something wrong, but you're smiling.
I Think, I Know | Cameron Cassmore x Reader | Drabble
Tova asks you to keep an eye on Cameron while she's taking a day for herself, Cameron can't keep his eyes off you.
Content: fluffffff, internal love confessions, Cameron's thoughts going crazy.
For @fluffyjuly day 25 - Spa Day | “I think I love you”
And @juniebjonesin Picnic Blanket Prompts “You always give me the sweeter ones.”
Masterlist | Book Characters | Cameron Cassmore
Tova was taking a holiday, just a day or two, just up the coast a little, just for a small break, she'd said, mostly convincing herself she was definitely allowed to take time away from home, from Cameron.
You'd reassured her that Cameron, her adult grandson, would be absolutely fine but she was nervous none the less and had arranged for you to work alongside him while she was away.
You normally did his off shifts, spending most of your time on the front desk and doing tours for visiting school children. It was, despite your parents complaints, your dream job. You spent the entire day looking at fish, reading your book when it was quiet and, most importantly, helping Cameron when it was busy.
After a full day of sticky fingered second graders taking a trip round the tanks, he'd surely need help.
You closed the store room door behind you, wheeling the mop and bucket out into the main aquarium. You said hi to the new octopus, Pippa the Grippa, and began arranging the cleaning supplies for the evening.
"Hey," Cameron came through the door backwards, turning to reveal two large takeaway cups. "Got you a coffee." Cameron said.
Please take this offer of my friendship
His mind shouted.
Please say you like me
"Oh my gosh thank you." You made grabby hands at him and taking a sip. Chocolate chip, whipped cream, vanilla syrup.
"New flavours Ethan's trying out, what do you think?"
"Do you always give me the super sweet ones?" You took another sip, your molars sparking at the sugar level. "Too much syrup, but the flavour is nice, what did you get?"
Cameron handed his cup over and you slipped at the hazelnut and chocolate latte.
"That's much nicer."
"Keep it."
"You sure?"
So sure, I'd give you everything if you liked it
"Of course." Cameron smiled at you through the mop of his hair, leaning over to check the bucket and sponges you'd brought out. "I'm sorry Tova made you come all the way out here to babysit me, I don't think she fully trusts me with everything."
My grandmother is the most embarrassing person on the entire planet
"No, I'm sorry she sent me! I know you can do the job."
"Well, maybe with two of us we can finish a bit faster. Maybe give Pippa's tank a little spa day." He smiled over at the new octopus occupying Marcellus' old haunt.
"When's my spa day?" You sighed dramatically and Cameron laughed as you both got to work.
The evening passed quickly with both of you, and you soon found yourself sat on the end of the dock, dangling your feet over the water watching the sun go down together.
"Thanks for coming to hang out with me tonight, I know Tova still worries about me and…well, I'm grateful you did it for her too."
And I'm grateful I get to look at you and be near you
You nudged Cameron's shoulder, "you know I'm always here for you, right?"
"I know." When you went to move away, Cameron leaned back, letting his arm rest behind you.
"You're staring."
"You make it hard not to." He said, earnestly.
I can't drag my eyes away
"Cam, you can't just say stuff like that!"
I want to say worse
"Yeah, I can." His eyes continued to linger on you. "Dinner ?"
"Sure."
His smile was soft in the golden sunlight of the sunset, and you allowed yourself to lean into him, basking in the glow of being exactly where you needed to be.
No thoughts just ghost who never judges the way you eat food.
How could he when the web of scar tissue spanning the lower half if his face makes it nearly impossible to eat normally? He's used to just eating in private and having to clean up any spilled food around his plate.
Which means he doesn't care how you decide to eat either, if anything he likes the little...ritual... you have.
All your food portioned separately in a lunch tin, some cute cartoon character plastered on the side. You make a routine of setting out your matching placemat, sectioned plate with pretty designs, a lidded-cup to match. You even have a cutlery set for each meal of the day.
"I know it's childish, or I guess weird...but I really like it." You had told him one day, little set-up all made with you meal on top. No two items or textures mixing.
"Why do you do it?" Ghost grunts between onr bite of steak and the next. His own plate with food just tossed on, the only effort nothing too liquid so he doesn't look like a complete fool.
"Oh, I guess it just helps me eat," you hum, swirling your straw in your newest cup "I don't really feel hungry and if I don't have a fun routine...I just don't eat."
Ghost...he never considered it like that. Meals have always been a strict necessity in his mind, something you push through to keep living another day unless you want to spend money on fancy food from a restaurant.
He looks down at bus chipped plate he stole from prices home, old and boring, then to yours. "Could i....could I try that too?"
Turns out, ghost loves it.
Which is how you both end up happily coordinating plates and meals and everything together. Suddenly dinner isn't something ghost has to push through, it's a fun way to connect with you, to make something pretty in a way he never could as a kid.
Hiiii!! 💗 Can I request a Brendon Park where it’s the day he’s going to propose, but he’s so nervous that he accidentally acts really quiet and distant all day. Then, just a few minutes before he’s about to propose, reader asks if he’s mad at her because she thinks she did something wrong. He brushes it off, tells her everything’s fine, and then goes through with the proposal a few minutes later please!! 🥹
Brendon stares at his reflection as he gets ready.
His mind is thinking of the engagement ring he has hidden deep in your shared closet.
The one you'll hopefully be wearing by the end of the night.
He’s nervous as he runs through how he wants it to go in his head.
You and him.
The location he spent weeks deciding on.
Your (hopefully good) reaction
Probably some tears from himself.
And the apartment being set up for when you guys get back tonight.
Logically things were going to be fine but he couldn’t shake the nervousness that had been sitting since yesterday.
You were his world.
The love of his life
This was going to mean everything.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You prop your head on your hand as you watch Brendon from the nurses station.
Something’s up with him.
This morning he barely said a word to you besides ‘good morning’ and a brief ‘see you later’ before you both parted ways for your shifts earlier.
He’s usually decently chatty with you and checking in throughout the day either by text or coming down to the pitt to find you.
But today? He’s kept his distance. There’s been a smile or two if you happened to catch his gaze but otherwise he’s been pretty reserved.
Is he mad at me?
Did I do something wrong?
Maybe it's a bad day?
You let out a breath as you pick up another chart.
Tonight you were having a surprise date night and while you were excited for what he had planned, you still worried about him.
—--
Later after work you had gotten ready for the date.
You had picked out a dress you had reserved for nicer dates and paired it with wedged heels. Your hair was in a new style you had seen online and you were very proud of how it turned out.
Lastly you had put in some medium sized hoops that had gorgeous crystals lining the outside of them. They matched your bracelet along with a few rings you slid on at the last minute.
They shine in the golden rays of the sunset that’s beginning as you walk hand in hand with Brendon.
The restaurant he chose was a beautiful steakhouse along the waterfront where you both ate to your heart’s content.
His demeanor was a drastic change from earlier today as he was very affectionate tonight and looked happy as he talked all through dinner.
You had been glad for the change since you hate to see him upset.
Then things reverted back after dinner.
He got quiet again but still held your hand as you both walked along the path beside the river, overlooking the city.
“Bren?” you tug on his hand gently
He turns his head to look at you and mumbles a ‘Hmm”.
“Is everything okay? What’s bothering you? Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at m–”
“No, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.” he says with a half smile.
He leads you over to a part of the path that has a great view near the river.
“Are you sure?”
Your question is met with silence as he stares across the water.
“Bren?”
He looks up and rocks back and forth on his heels a bit.
“Baby,” you grab his hand.
“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
You see his eyes start to water as he grabs your other hand.
“I’m so nervous. I uh,” He cracks a smile as a tear falls.
“I never thought in a million years I’d be lucky enough to find someone who would not only love me so fully but also accept me for me. Loving me despite my flaws.”
He pulls your hands against his chest and you feel how fast his heart is racing.
“Then I met you, my gorgeous, funny, and perfect girl. You’re everything I didn’t think I deserved or think I would find. And I’m grateful every day that when I choose you, you choose me too. When I think of my future, all I see is you in every part of it. I want you there for every part of it.”
Brendon wipes a tear from your face as it falls.
You hadn’t even realized you started crying.
“I love you so damn much. I love you in a way words will never fully convey.”
He takes a deep breath and falls to one knee, pulling a small black box from his pocket.
“I don’t want to do this life without you, sweetheart. Not a single day. So…. will you make my life complete and marry me?”
Brendon opens the box and you see the most beautiful ring nestled inside.
No way no way no way.
“Y-Yes. Of course I’ll marry you Bren.” Your voice trembles as tears fall but an unshakeable smile never leaves your face.
“Thank god” He mumbles as he gets up and kisses you like it’s the last time he ever will.
When he pulls away he leans his forehead against yours.
Gently, he slips the ring on your finger and kisses your hand as he holds it.
You attempt to wipe tears from your eyes as you stare at the ring.
“Is this why you were so off today, Bren?” you ask
His face turns a little red as he nods.
“I just wanted everything to go right and I… I know you love me but some small part of me was scared of you saying no.”
Your hand cradles his face, the stubble grazing your fingers.
“Brendon Park, I love you more than life itself. I’d say yes to you in every lifetime. Especially this one. And this was perfect, everything about it. It was so you, very thoughtful and special. It was everything.”
He kisses the palm of your hand.
“You deserve it all and more. Now let’s go celebrate at home.” he smirks.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Neither of you can wipe the smiles of your faces on the drive back to the apartment.
Brendon lets you in the door first and as he follows behind you he flips the lights on.
Your eyes are wide as you take in the scene.
There’s streamers and balloons everywhere.
The floor, the counters, the ceiling, etc.
Some of the ones near the ceiling have photos of you both over the years attached to the strings.
You hold one gently and can’t help but smile at the words written at the bottom.
‘ The night I fell in love with you ♡ ‘
Then you look up and see the big sign hanging across the room
‘𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘚 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘡𝘠 𝘒𝘐𝘋𝘚’
You turn to Brendon “Who’d you get to do all of this?”
“Garcia and Santos” he says with a smile as he looks around at everything.
You walk up behind him and hug his waist.
“I love it, Bren.”
His arms hold on yours “Well, there’s one more thing.”
He gently untangles himself from you and makes his way to the fridge.
There’s a white box that he pulls out and sets on the island counter in front of you.
He opens it and your jaw drops.
It’s a heart cake that says ‘engaged’ in gorgeous black cursive.
“Bren this is so cute, oh my god! Wait? So your friend’s birthday, that isn’t this week?”
To keep you from opening the cake box the last 2 days he had convinced you it was a surprise cake for a friend so that you would lose interest in it .
“No baby,” he chuckles “just had to make sure you didn’t sneak a peek.”
You grab forks and hand him one.
“You were that sure I’d say yes, huh? What would you have done if I said no?” you grin teasingly
Brendon looks at you with a smile and raised eyebrow.
Author's Note:
Hi! This is my very first fanfiction, so yeah it's trash.
English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes.
This story is my own interpretation of the characters, so some of them may be a little out of character (OOC).
Also... there's a chance I might delete this later if I end up cringing at it.
But enjoy!
Well, what can you say? You're gonna be late. First day at your new job. Great.
But it's not your fault. Your car gave up on you, so you barely made it to the hospital on foot. You changed into your scrubs and headed toward the Emergency Department.
You never thought Emergency medicine would be for you. Psychiatry had always fascinated you, but every time you stood in an operating room during medical school, a part of you wondered if surgery was where you belonged.
Apparently not.
You stepped into the elevator and pressed the button, hoping it was the right one. The doors opened, and the first thing you saw was a tall man, probably in his 50s. He had salt-pepper hair, and the look on his face told you he wasn't in the right mood.
"You are Dr. Y/N Y/L/N?!"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you just say?" he asked.
You looked at him, confused.
"Um... yes, sir?"
"I'm no 'sir' to you. I'm Doctor, and I am your attending."
Oh, fuck.
Great.
He looked down at his watch and sighed.
"You're 23 seconds late."
He shook his head and walked away.
You, on the other hand, stood there totally dumbfounded, trying to process why he was being such an ass. As you watched him walk away, he turned back to you.
"Are you coming?"
You jogged a little to catch up with him and followed him.
As you walked, he showed you around the department with little interest, pointing out the nurses' station, his office, the trauma rooms, and everything else.
You told yourself that maybe he wasn't that bad after all. Maybe he just hated when people were late. I mean, not every attending takes the time to show you around the department, right?
But that excuse for him died faster than you expected.
"You remember all of it?" he asked.
As you were about to answer, he continued.
"Although I don't know why I'm even asking. Some girl like you isn't going to survive in a department like this - nor in any department, for that matter."
You had absolutely no idea what to say.
You just stared at him, with your mouth open like fish.
He smirked.
"Exactly. Just like I thought. Dumb as every other."
What the fuck is this?
"Come with me to my office. I need you to sign some paperwork."
You followed him to his office, wondering what kind of human being could be this rude.
How are you gonna survive this? With this person? No, this can't be true. It's just a bad dream.
But it wasn't.
The office was large, with a big window at the end of the room. The walls were white, and so was all the furniture. There were two desks, one by the window and the other by the door.
At the desk by the door sat a big beefy man with dark brown hair slicked back. As you stepped into the room, he looked up at you and your attending.
"This is Dr. Brandon Park. He's one of our senior residents. You'll be working with him from time to time."
Park looked at you and nodded, and continued with his paperwork.
Another ass, you thought.
What did I just sign up for? Why didn't I choose that damn psychiatry?
Your attending sat down at his desk and pulled out the paperwork. You stood in front of him with your back to Dr. Park.
He handed you the papers and expected you to sign them.
Oh no.
You had forgotten your pen.
It was in your bag. In changing room.
"Um... sorry, Doctor. Can I - can I borrow your pen?" you asked.
He looked at you as if you had asked him for his car.
"Tell me, Doctor... did you earn your place here, or were they just trying to fill a quota?"
Park was uninterested in the conversation between you and his colleague, but that sentence caught his attention.
As he looked up, he didn't see your face, but he saw your attending smiling and shaking his head. As he was about to hand you the pen, before you could even take it, he dropped it onto the desk. The pen fell onto the floor.
You hurried to catch it and pick it up, but it started rolling toward Park.
You took a step and crouched down to pick up the pen. As you stood up, you locked eyes with Park, and he saw the unshed tears in your eyes.
He looked at his colleague, who was sitting in his chair, laughing his heart out at you.
Park wasn't a man of many emotions, but this was a bit too much. Even though he could be mean and cocky toward students, he would never humiliate someone this way, especially a woman.
You turned back to your attending and stepped up to the desk once again. With shaky hands and tears in your eyes, you signed the papers assigning your attending as your supervisor. When you were done, you straightened up, placed the pen on the desk, and thanked the man opposite you for lending it to you.
"Well, don't thank me. We'll see just how long you survive in this department. But I don't think you'll be here for long. Most women don't make it through their first year."
"Especially the ones like you."
And that was the wake-up call for Park.
He rose from his chair, enraged, and walked straight toward you.
You turned to him as he approached, becoming even more frightened. He gently moved you aside before walking over to the other man and yelling at him.
"What the hell did you just say? Who the hell do you think you are?”
"Brandon, just chill. Look at her. She's just some rookie. She doesn't even have half the knowledge we have."
"That, or anything else you just said, doesn't give you any right to humiliate anyone in this department, especially a woman."
"Oh, don't be such a fool, Park. Just because she has nice eyes and a good pair of tits doesn't make her anything special, so chill out."
And that line was the last drop for Park.
He grabbed his colleague and dragged him through the door and across the entire department toward HR.
Everyone was looking at them as the other doctor begged Park to let him go, saying it wasn't such a big deal. But Park was furious. He let go of his so-called colleague, pointing a finger at him.
"If I ever hear that you've said things like that to anyone in this department or anywhere else in this hospital, I guarantee you'll never work here. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes," he said quietly.
"What?" Park yelled.
"I said yes."
"Good. Now make your way to HR, tell them exactly what you did, and then come back to apologize to the young doctor you just humiliated."
The man ran faster than anyone in the ER.
When Park snapped back to reality, he realized that absolutely everyone was watching him. Even some patients had come out of their rooms.
Then he looked toward his office.
You were standing there on shaky legs, silently crying while covering your mouth to not make a sound.
He started walking toward you.
The closer he got, the more you backed away.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
As he approached, he held out his hand.
No.
You were not okay.
"Hey, it's going to be okay."
The nurses, the doctors—everyone who knew Park personally—couldn't believe what they had just witnessed.
Brandon led you back to his office and closed the door to avoid the stares of the others.
He sat you down in his chair and brought you a glass of water.
Then he crouched down to your eye level.
There was silence.
You didn't know what to say.
You were shocked.
You were scared.
"I'm so sorry for what happened. I should have done something sooner. I just... I'm sorry." he said.
"No, no. It's not your fault. I-I don't know how to thank you for everything you did. I—"
"Why did even you do that?" you asked suddenly.
He fell silent.
He didn't want to answer.
"My dad... he was almost the same as that idiot. He treated my mum horribly, and there was nothing I could do because I was just a little boy. And I will never, ever let something like that happen here in my department, at this hospital."
You were stunned.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Park—"
"Don't call me Dr. Park. Not after all of this."
He looked you in the eyes and held out his hand for you to shake.
About: When Brendon Park's mother takes him to her favourite farmers market on his day off, he meets a beloved local coffee vendor and suddenly his life falls into place. Now he has to make you his.
A/n: First fic kinda nervous! I was at my local farmers market the other day and suddenly got hit with the inspiration for this fic. Its going to be multiple chapters (idk how many but i have a basic fic outline) and i hope everyone thinks this is as cute as I do! I wish i could say the title was an Elvis reference bc that would be really cool but actually it's a reference to the Maneskin cover of the same song.
Warnings: 10 yr age gap (reader late 20's, Park late 30's), ooc but like he has 30 seconds of screen time so what do you expect, mention of parental death, some angst later (reader has a bad relationship with parents), eventual smut, im sure there will be more but i can't think of any right now!!
Chapter one - The first market
Word count - 1.3k
Brendon Park was a dedicated man.
Dedicated to his work, dedicated to going to the gym everyday, dedicated to his protein intake. But the thing he was most dedicated to was his relationship with his mother.
As Brendon’s father had died when he was 13, Brendon had felt from that point onwards that he must care for his mother and cultivate a close and trusting relationship with her.
Therefore, he found himself spending every Saturday morning out in Pittsburgh spending time with his mother.
Their activity of choice varied every week from brunch, museum visits, art galleries and sometimes even aquariums. Any place that you would never expect to see orthopedic surgeon Park the Shark, that was where he ended up.
This Saturday was different, however. Instead of the usual brunch spot that they had practically become regulars at, Brendon found himself walking towards the entrance of a local farmers market. He could immediately tell why his mother had been so excited to visit, though it pained him to admit it,this truly was a beautiful place.
There were around 30 stalls running down the street, all filled with an abundance of produce and colour. Brendon was wearing his usual fitted black t - shirt with a pair of well tailored black jeans and couldn’t help but feel out of place amongst all the beautiful bright colours that surrounded him.
To his left he saw a stall run by a mother and her son, who could not be more than 12 years old, selling colourfully labelled homemade chutneys in mason jars.
To his right he saw a middle aged man running a massive stall of home grown produce. The array of fresh vegetables actually gave Brendon some semblance of excitement.
He was busy thinking about which of the vegetables he could incorporate into his meal prep for the week when his mother appeared at his side telling him all about the local honey vendor she had just met. He chuckled slightly at her enthusiasm before they started to walk further into the farmers market.
They passed stalls filled with enormous bouquets of flowers, local farmers selling many different types of cheese and families selling food from their respective cultures that even Brendon (who sticks to a strict diet) had to admit smelt heavenly.
He followed his mother around as she picked up anything she wanted from each vendor. She had long since accepted that he was going to insist on paying for everything when they were together so she had stopped arguing with him every time he tried.
Once they were laden down with local produce - everything from home grown carrots to a beautiful bouquet of lilies with snapdragons and baby's breath - his mother insisted on one final stop. She gestured towards a coffee cart painted in a deep blue situated next to a stall selling authentic greek food.
There was an impressive line running outside the cart and once they reached the front Brendon immediately knew why.
When you turned around to take their order he was taken aback by the bubbly energy radiating from you. It was clear that you loved your job and you loved the community created by the farmers market. It seemed to Brendon that you were willing to enthusiastically chat to anyone and everyone that had the pleasure of coming across your cart.
God, he thought, if you worked at the hospital you’d probably have the highest patient satisfaction score out of anyone.
He began to examine your features with the precise nature that only comes with being a surgeon. He revelled in the incredible colour of your eyes and became particularly focused on the glittery lip gloss you had painted over your lips.
You were dressed in a plain white top and dark blue jeans with a blue and white striped apron over the top. The apron had your name etched in a blue cursive in the top left hand side. Even in such basic clothes, Brendon was struck by your beauty.
While he stood, almost in awe, he felt his mothers hand on his arm bringing him back down to earth.
‘Brendon, honey, what do you want to order?’ she asked, having already ordered her cappuccino leaving you both awkwardly stood waiting for his order.
He was so absorbed in you that he had completely forgotten that he had intended to get a coffee.
His eyes began to scan the coffee cart. You had a blackboard behind you that was filled with every type of coffee under the sun. Around the outside of the board you had drawn delicate chalk flowers alongside a little note about your special this week (raspberry and white chocolate muffins). On the front mantel of the cart you had set out trays of the most perfect cake, cookies, brownies. Any baked good you could think of, it was there.
He began to realise that this was his favourite stall he had discovered at the market yet.
Finally, he spoke up, meeting your eye as he ordered.
‘I’ll just take a black americano. Please.’
He watched your eyebrow quirk as you added his order to the bill.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to be more adventurous? We have about 25 different flavoured syrups! My personal favourite is vanilla which I know is quite basic but you strike me as being more of a gingerbread or maple kind of man!'
Brendon couldn’t help but form a disgusted expression on his face at that. The idea of a sugary, syrupy drink - the type that some of the students at the hospital would have - was horrifying to him.
‘Okay… not a syrup guy. No worries!’ you chirped as you started to prepare their order.
‘No, no. It’s not like that.’ Brendon blanched. He was desperate to redeem this interaction. He didn’t know why he had been so taken in by you but he needed you to know that he wasn’t an awful man who refused any and all types of sugar - especially as so many of your products relied on it.
‘Look, I’ll take a brownie as well!’ he hastily said.
He watched the corners of your lips lift in a small smile. God he would order every brownie you were selling just to see you smile again.
‘Perfect! I’ll sort these coffees then I'll package that for you!’ you said with a slightly surprised but satisfied lilt in your voice.
He felt his mothers piercing gaze on him, attempting to assess why his personality had changed so much in the past 30 seconds. The Brendon she had known his whole life would never have ordered a brownie.
Never.
Not until he met this beautiful young woman running a coffee cart.
Brendon paid and took their coffees. You thanked them for their purchase and sent them off with a wave and a smile directed specifically towards Brendon. He immediately regretted leaving without attempting to ask for your number but your line was only growing and he didn't want to impact the perfect flow of business.
As his mother began to fire questions towards him about the interaction, he glanced back once more.. To his surprise your eyes met as they followed his large frame slowly walking away from your cart.
Of course, in his stupor he had failed to notice the small heart you had drawn on the side of his takeaway cup until his mother pointed it out to him.
Brendon, ever the cynic, began to attempt to justify it: 'She probably puts them on every cup. I mean come on she is basically sunshine and rainbows personified...'
His sentence trailed off as his mother gestured to her cup. There was no heart on it. No drawing at all. He felt a slight heat rise up his cheeks in a manner that was totally unexpected of the scariest surgeon at the PTMC.
At that moment he decided. He was coming back to the farmers market at any chance he could get.
Mean shark, kinda soft if you squint really hard. Reader is a bit quiet, cries once. Power imbalance, age gap, pet names, dom-sub undertones, secret relationship.
The day started way earlier than it should have, Doctor Park called you at 4am sharp, his voice low as usual. "OR 3 in 25 minutes" he said, no good morning, no sorry for waking you or this will go to your pay check. Nothing, Brendon was known for being overbearing with his "pups" he had to be, he didn't allow space for slacking or anything that isn’t above perfect, after all he takes pride in being the department that fixes the mess that comes up from the pitt.
Everyone said the second year of residency was the worst, you have heard that one girl at the pitt complain about it, you have heard a few doctors talk about it when you were on your first year. You didn't want to believe it, even when you started to pick up on how Brendon worked and how he teaches, you thought everything was just a big coincidence and year two is just year two. But it wasn’t, at least not for you.
From the moment the "new bait" set foot into the shark’s den, the rest of the department whispered about who was going to leave first, most said you wouldn't last a week. You kept quiet, standing close between your peers, making notes and leaning from every case. Until Brendon zeroes on you. "What would you do?" you felt like a deer in headlights, the conversation revolved around if the leg had to be amputated or not, your eyes look back at the screen with the pictures of an old case. "The leg shows signs of infections; it would be best not to..."
Shark nods, the next picture on the slide shows the patient in recovery, his leg was amputated. "Good to know there is one smart person in this group" he said harshly, it wasn’t meant as a compliment, it was meant to make the other want to do better. but it landed like a praise in your ears and brain. As most of the doctors there guessed, a lot of the new “bait” changed departments, others changed hospitals, leaving you and other 2 of the large group. You never thought Brendon liked you, at best you thought he tolerated you, that was until you heard him talking with Robby once, after a small trip down to the pitt, you and the other two remaining of the group saw a patient with a fractured femur, not so cleanly broken in half, easy fix (said Dr. Park).
“Brought your pups down to learn, how many quit?”
“I brought my pup, the other two are just here”
“Harsh as always”
And that is how you learned that Park the shark didn’t like calling his doctors pups, he didn’t say anything when other people did, but no one was smart or good enough to claim as his, until you. That is how you started to get called for every trip down to the pitt, how your surgery schedule got filled up and how your work load increased from 100% to 200%, it was all Brendon, his stern eyes on your face as you are wrist deep fixing up a pelvis or talking to Robby about how it is possible to save an arm, and even when you talk to the staff and other residents, he is watching, lurking, waiting to take the bite.
“Are you tired?” he asks, a cup of hot coffee on his hand as he looks down at you, you can still smell the blood, the operation was long, 5 hours at least, double amputation, bot legs lost at different heights.
“Not every day I wake up to rush into the OR” your voice is quiet, you need breakfast and coffee, maybe a nap in the supply room or the lounge are if you are lucky enough to find it empty.
“Not every day you get to perform in surgery with an amputation that high, pup. Grab something to eat, you look dead” he says, his hand extending to hand you the cup of coffee “Next time I’ll let you sleep and lose knowledge”
“No, I’d rather learn… thank you” you grab the cup, your hands brushing his slightly, Brendon leaves before you can say anything else. On the way to the cafeteria, you recall the first time he called you pup to your face. There had been a mistake, a mix up with files upstairs in radiology, shark was angry, bare teeth out as he barked orders here and there. Fix this, how the fuck are they even working here? Idiots, can’t even check files. Pup, run upstairs. Everyone was silent, everyone moving around him on command, Brendon glares at you when you stood still. Did I fucking stutter? I said, pup, run. Your eyes widen, you can even nod back when your legs are already answering, rushing to the staircase to fix up whatever happened upstairs.
Gladly it was an easy fix, nothing that a few please and thank yous couldn’t fix, in fact, it made the process go faster since, everyone was glad that shark wasn’t the one there. Instead, there you were, waiting for the files after giving everyone a soft smile. You run downstairs too, handing over the papers to an R4 who was the main doctor in the upcoming operation, between the rushing doctors and the sharks faint stern voice down the hall a door swings open and you get punched in the face, a small scream leaving your lips as you drop to the ground. Hand to your face as tears pool in your eyes. “Fucking pup” someone mumbles as you feel your ass leave the ground, strong hands getting you on your feet, lifting you below your arms like you weighted nothing. “with me, walk” Brendon pushes past everyone making way for you as you follow behind him to his office. The door slams shut, everyone stays quiet for a second, still, looking at the door before going back to whatever they were doing.
“Do you even know how to walk? I leave you for a few minutes and your ass is on the ground” he says as he points at his small couch, a few tears rolling down your eyes as he rolls his chair in front of you, sitting there with no clear expression. “Okay, enough, look at me, pup” his hand grabs your jaw, strong fingers squishing your cheeks slightly as he makes you look at him. A small flashlight shinning in your eyes, one at a time, he puts it to the side, his fingers gently feeling your nose and under your eyes for any serious injury.
“Ouch”
“Such a crybaby” he whispers, letting go of your face. “Your nose is red, but you are fine, does your head hurt?” you shake your head, lowering your face again, cleaning up your tears. “Words, pup, and I said look at me” you gulp before looking back at him, a small shiver running down your spine.
“Why do you call me that?”
“Call you what?” he raises a brow, leaning back on his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his biceps look bigger that way, legs slightly parted, yours between them, he was just being mean at this point.
“Pup” you whisper, fidgeting with your own hands, your nose still stinging, eyes still watery.
“Because everyone calls all of the doctors here that” he replies “Oh, are you asking why I call everyone by name and you pup?” he says, a condescending tone, you feel something rush down your body and into between your legs. “Because you are my pup”
“I-”
“What? You don’t like it? I can call you crybaby if you’d prefer, or puppy, close enough to home, huh?” you feel your eyes widen, you shake your head.
“Pup is fine”
“Good, I wasn’t really asking. Take 20, drink water, help yourself to any snacks you find here” he says standing up, one of his hands fall on your head and ruffle up your hair. “And next time you stick besides me, got it?”
“Yes sir” Brendon hums, turning around, not wanting to admit to himself how much that affected him.
A notification in your phone takes your mind out of breakfast, a message from Brendon.
I'm in a period where it's hard to think of fanfic ideas, so I wrote this so it wouldn't seem like I did nothing all weekend:
Warnings: vomiting; pregnancy; broken bones; cuts; fear of blood; fear of vomiting; fear of broken bones; fluff; me trying to be funny (it's a warning, I have no idea how to be funny)
"Robby… Robby, I'm dying," she said, hugging the toilet bowl before having another bout of nausea. "Robby! I'm dying!" she said in between heaves. "I'm seeing the light, Robby! I'M SEEING THE LIGHT!"
"It's the bathroom light, honey," he said, crouching beside her and helping her wipe her mouth.
"I hate this. I hate throwing up."
"I know, darling. I'm sorry… I brought the medicine, but you need to wait a little before taking it. To make sure you don't throw up again," he spoke so softly and so kindly. She wanted to punch him.
"You did this to me, Michael. You made me throw up—" in the middle of her sentence, another wave of nausea took over her body. At least she managed to turn back to the toilet.
"Well… Takes two to tango," he replied with a smile.
"I hate you," she replied, her head still inside the toilet bowl.
-/-
"JACK!" he opened his eyes so fast that before he knew it, he was already running down the hallway after her. He didn't even remember putting on his prosthetic. He just heard her, and ran in her direction.
"Sweetheart?!"
"JACK!" she was holding her own hand with the purest look of panic on her face. Her skin was pale. Drops of sweat were already running down her skin. She was already trembling like a green branch and he knew it would be a short time before she passed out. The reason: a small cut on her finger.
"Oh honey…" he said, taking her hands and placing them under the cold tap water. The problem with cuts on the hand was that they always bled a lot, even if the cut wasn't deep. And the biggest problem with that? Well, she had a phobia of blood.
"JACK! Jack I… I—" she barely managed to say before her eyes closed and her body collapsed in her husband's arms.
A few minutes later, she woke up on the sofa. Her legs were propped up on a cushion and a dinosaur band-aid was on her finger. And Jack? He decided to finish making lunch… Just to be safe.
-/-
"BRENDON!"
He had just gotten home, and of course the first thing he heard was his wife falling in the shower.
"I'm going to die! Brendon, I'm going to die!" she screamed, looking at her own arm twisted in the opposite direction. "Oh God," she had a wave of nausea.
"I told you not to look!" Of course, the greatest irony in Brendon's life was marrying someone who had a phobia of broken bones.
"Oh God! I'M GOING TO DIE!"
"DON'T LOOK!" he shouted, helping her put on some clothes. After all, he had to take her to the hospital.
"BRENDON!" she had another wave of nausea.
"Love, look at me." She did, even with tears in her eyes and panic in her body. "At the hospital, they're going to put you on painkillers and then I need to align your bones."
"Align my bones?!"
"I'm going to put your arm back in place," he said, expecting another wave of nausea or more screams of despair. Instead, he got a fit of laughter followed by a fainting spell.
It doesn't need to be said how much the hospital found it hilarious that the great shark orthopedic surgeon's wife had a phobia of bones.
nashira, (γ) Capricorni, "the fortunate one, or the bringer of good tidings."
synopsis: Your friends want to meet your "mysterious" guy, but you aren't sure you're ready yet... and neither is Dex.
word count: 17.7k+
pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader
notes: i edited this last night and literally right before posting this, so if there are any mistakes or awkward sentences... my bad. i was playing gta v and marvel rivals yesterday because i have a new computer (i say "new" but it's my brother's hand me down that's like 6+ years old)
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader is implied to be matt's sister (not bio), dual pov, stalking, fake persona, dates, matt is overprotective, dex is a little awkward, slight angst
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You almost turn around twice before you reach the café door, once because you convince yourself this is unnecessary and another time because you tell yourself you have grading to do and that grading is a better use of time than sitting across from a man who was basically a stranger. The sidewalk is crowded with late-morning traffic, strollers and dogs and people pretending they aren’t hungover, and you pause just outside the window long enough to see that he’s not inside yet.
You push the door open and step into the warm noise of the place, the hiss of the espresso machine and the low hum of overlapping conversations. You choose a small table near the window without overthinking it, set your bag down carefully at your feet, and check the time on your phone even though you know you’re early. You tell yourself you’re just being punctual and not anxious.
The bell over the door rings again a minute later, and you look up automatically. Benjamin steps inside, scanning the room without making it obvious, and his eyes find you quickly. He’s dressed the same way he always is—nothing flashy, nothing that stands out—but in daylight he looks slightly different, less shadowed, more tangible. He spots you and walks over at an even pace. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply, and you immediately hate how formal that sounds.
“You’ve been here long?” he asks.
“Like three minutes,” you answer. “I didn’t want to be late.”
He nods once. “Me neither.”
There’s a half-second pause where you both look at the counter like you’re unsure who’s supposed to move first. You gesture toward it. “Do you want to order?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “What’re you getting?”
“Probably something I don’t need,” you reply. “And something with too much caffeine.”
He almost smiles. “That tracks.”
You stand together in line, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the awareness of it. The menu board hangs overhead like it’s judging you for indecision, and when it’s your turn, you order quickly because you hate holding up lines. “Large latte,” you say, then add, “extra shot.”
The barista raises an eyebrow. “Bold choice,” she says.
“Long week,” you reply.
Dex steps up next. “Black coffee,” he says.
The barista glances between you two. “Balance,” she declares.
You snort and step aside to wait. “You could at least pretend to get something interesting,” you tell him.
“It’s coffee,” he says again.
“That’s not an answer,” you reply.
“It’s the only answer,” he says, and his tone is flat enough that you can’t tell if he’s joking.
You collect your drinks and head back to the table. He pulls the chair out slightly before sitting, not in a showy way, just a small movement that you notice because most people don’t bother anymore. You wrap your hands around the cup like you need the warmth to anchor you. “So,” you say, because someone has to start. “This is technically a date.”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
There’s another pause, but it’s not as sharp as before. You blow across the top of your latte, then take a careful sip and wince because it’s still too hot. “I haven’t done this in a while,” you admit.
“Me neither,” he says immediately.
You glance at him. “How long is ‘a while’?” you ask.
He considers that for a second. “A few years,” he replies. “You?”
You look down at your cup like the foam might answer for you. “Long enough that my friends were suspicious,” you say. “I think they thought I’d given up.”
“On dating?” he asks.
“On everything,” you reply, then shake your head like you don’t want to make it heavy. “It’s not dramatic. I was just… busy.”
“With work,” he says.
“With work,” you confirm. “And other things.”
He nods like he’s not going to push further, and you appreciate that more than you expected to. He doesn’t ask about overseas or about nightmares, and he doesn’t tilt his head and give you that concerned look people give when they think you’re about to confess something tragic. “You don’t seem like someone who gives up,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve known me for what, a month?” you reply.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I’ve observed,” he says.
“That sounds ominous,” you say lightly.
“It’s not,” he answers. “You’re consistent.”
You lean back in your chair slightly. “That’s your big compliment?” you ask. “Consistent?”
“It’s not a bad thing,” he says.
You consider that, then shrug. “I like structure,” you admit. “I don’t do well when things are… chaotic.”
He nods once. “Same.”
You look at him more closely then, noticing how still he is even with all the noise around you. People are moving constantly, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly near the counter, and he seems steady in the middle of it like he’s built to filter out distraction.
“You’re very calm,” you say.
He tilts his head slightly. “You’ve said that before,” he replies.
“I know,” you say. “I’m still evaluating whether it’s a good thing.”
He almost smiles again. “What’s the verdict?”
“Undecided,” you answer.
A group squeezes past your table and one of them bumps your chair. You shift automatically, re-centering yourself without spilling your drink. Dex’s hand moves a fraction like he’s ready to steady the table, then stops when he sees you’ve already handled it.
“You always sit where you can see the door?” you ask, because you’ve noticed it twice now.
He doesn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he says. “Habit.”
“Military?” you ask, half-joking.
“No,” he replies evenly.
You watch him for a second, then nod like that’s enough. “Okay,” you say. “I do that too sometimes.”
He looks at you then, more directly. “Overseas,” he says.
“Yeah,” you reply, and you don’t elaborate. “Old habits stick.”
He doesn’t press. He just nods once like he understands the concept of habits that don’t go away just because you want them to. “So what do you do when you’re not terrorizing students?” he asks.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t terrorize them,” you say. “I correct them.”
“That sounds worse,” he replies.
You laugh, real this time. “I read,” you say. “I reorganize my apartment. I make color-coded lists I pretend I don’t need.”
He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “You pretend?”
“I absolutely need them,” you admit. “If I don’t write something down, I will think about it until it’s resolved.”
“That sounds exhausting,” he says.
“It is,” you reply.
He nods once, thoughtful. “I don’t like idle time,” he says. “If I don’t have something to focus on, I get restless.”
“Restless how?” you ask.
He pauses just long enough that you notice. “Just… restless,” he says. “Like I need to be moving.”
You study him, then nod. “That makes sense,” you reply, even though you’re not sure why it does.
There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It feels like a gap you’re both testing to see if it breaks, and luckily it doesn’t.
“Do your friends know about me?” he asks finally.
You blink. “Unfortunately,” you say. “Yes.”
He doesn’t look alarmed. “And?”
“And they’re nosy,” you reply. “Foggy wants to interrogate you. Karen wants to analyze you. Matt wants to decide if you’re a threat.”
He absorbs that without reacting outwardly. “Which one are you?” he asks.
You tilt your head. “About you?”
“Yeah.”
You consider it honestly. “I’m undecided,” you say. “But not in a bad way.”
He nods once. “That’s fair.”
You glance at your cup, then at him. “You’re not what I expected,” you admit.
“What did you expect?” he asks.
“More…” you search for the word. “Confident.”
He looks almost amused at that. “I am confident,” he says.
“In what?” you ask.
“In routine,” he replies.
You laugh softly. “That’s the least intimidating answer you could’ve given.”
He shrugs. “It’s true.”
You take another sip of your latte and realize you’ve been sitting here nearly an hour. You check your phone out of reflex, then catch yourself and set it back down. “I should probably go,” you say reluctantly. “I have a stack of exams that aren’t going to grade themselves.”
He nods immediately. “Okay.”
Neither of you stands right away. You both linger just a second too long like you’re recalibrating. “This was good,” you say, because you don’t want him to misread your leaving as disinterest.
“Yeah,” he replies. “It was.”
You gather your bag and stand, and he stands too, keeping enough space that it doesn’t feel crowded. When you reach the door, he opens it again without making a show of it, and you step out into the cooler air.
“Same time next week?” you ask, before you can overthink it.
He looks at you carefully, like he’s confirming you mean it. “Yeah,” he says. “Same time.”
You nod once. “Okay.”
There’s a half-second where you wonder if this is the part where someone leans in or reaches out, but neither of you does. It’s not that kind of date. It’s steadier than that, more cautious. “Bye, Benjamin,” you say.
“Bye,” he replies.
You walk down the block toward home with your tote bumping against your hip and your mind louder than you’d like, but not in a bad way. Behind you, Dex stays still for a moment, watching the space you just left, and then he turns and walks in the opposite direction at an even pace, already calculating the next overlap without letting it look like calculation at all.
Dinner happens the next week on a Tuesday because your Saturdays fill up faster than you like admitting, and Tuesday is the kind of day you can justify as “not a big deal.” You pick a quiet place with a small menu and low lighting, mostly because you don’t want to shout over music and you don’t want to do the awkward thing where you’re elbow-to-elbow with strangers. Dex shows up a few minutes early again, and when you walk in and spot him, he stands like he’s not sure if standing is too formal but sitting feels wrong.
“You’re on time,” you say as you shrug off your coat.
He nods once. “So are you,” he replies.
You slide into the booth across from him and glance around. “This is… calm,” you say, and you sound more relieved than you meant to.
“It’s quieter,” he agrees. “I figured you’d like that.”
You pause, then look at him. “You figured,” you repeat.
He doesn’t flinch. “You don’t like loud places,” he says, simple.
You huff a laugh. “I like loud places,” you argue. “I just don’t like being trapped in loud places.”
He looks at you steadily. “That’s what I meant,” he replies.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying,” you tell him.
“I’ve been told,” he says, deadpan.
When the waiter comes, you order without overthinking it, and he orders without asking a single question about the menu like he already decided. You watch him for a second and can’t help yourself. “You don’t read menus,” you accuse.
He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “I read them,” he says.
“You do not,” you insist. “You choose a thing immediately like it’s a test.”
“It’s food,” he replies.
“That’s not an answer,” you say automatically, and the fact you say it the same way you say it to students makes you laugh at yourself.
Dex’s mouth twitches. “It is an answer,” he replies, and his tone is dry enough that you recognize it as a joke even if he doesn’t smile.
Dinner is easy, which is the part that makes you suspicious at first, because easy usually means you’re missing something. He doesn’t ask you questions that feel like traps and he doesn’t over-share. He listens, and when you start talking about your day, you realize you’re not performing the way you do with everyone else, turning it into anecdotes and humor so no one notices how exhausted you are.
“So,” he says once your food arrives, “what’s the worst email you got this week?”
You blink, then laugh. “That’s a loaded question,” you reply. He takes a bite, chews, and waits like he’s not in a rush. You exhale. “Okay,” you say. “Someone asked me if they could redo the entire semester.”
Dex pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Redo,” he repeats.
“Redo,” you confirm. “Like the semester is a video game.”
He nods once like he’s filing it away. “What did you say?” he asks.
“I said no,” you reply, and you sound pleased with yourself. “I said a lot of other words too, but the important one was no.”
Dex takes another bite and says, “Good.”
You watch him for a second. “That’s it?” you ask. “No follow-up? No ‘you should be nicer’?”
He looks up. “Why would you be nicer?” he asks.
You freeze for half a second because most people do want you to be nicer, and you’re used to explaining that strict doesn’t mean cruel. “I don’t know,” you admit. “People like to act like I’m personally trying to ruin their lives.”
He shrugs. “They’re adults,” he says. “They can handle being told no.”
You stare at him, then laugh softly. “You’re either very reasonable or you’re going to end up on a watch list,” you tell him.
“I’m reasonable,” he replies, perfectly calm.
You lean back in the booth, studying him. “That’s exactly what someone on a watch list would say,” you respond.
His mouth shifts again, almost a smile. “Probably,” he says.
When you leave the restaurant, the night air hits your face and makes you feel more awake. You’re walking side by side down a quieter street, not rushing, and Dex keeps the same half-step position that gives you space without leaving you exposed to the flow of people. You notice it without wanting to, the way he angles himself when a group passes, the way he never bumps into anyone. You hate how much you notice it because noticing means you’re paying attention in a way you told yourself you wouldn’t.
“You walk like you’re trying not to touch the world,” you say, and you immediately regret saying it because it sounds too personal.
Dex doesn’t get weird about it. “I don’t like crowds,” he answers.
“That’s funny,” you say. “I thought you liked routine.”
“I do,” he replies. “Crowds aren’t routine.”
You make a sound like that’s fair, then you bump your shoulder lightly into his as you walk, a small gesture you don’t think about until after you do it. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, he keeps walking like it’s normal, and that makes your chest feel oddly tight.
The bookstore date happens because you mention, offhand, that you haven’t had time to wander a bookstore in years, and Dex says, “then we can,” like it’s the simplest solution in the world. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the place smells like paper and coffee and dust, and you feel your body relax as soon as you step inside because you’ve always trusted books more than people.
Dex trails a few steps behind you at first, quiet, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning shelves and corners like he’s watching for something. You stop in front of a biology section out of habit and make a face at a textbook you recognize. “I hate that book,” you mutter.
Dex leans slightly closer to read the spine. “Why?” he asks.
“Because it’s wrong,” you reply immediately.
He pauses. “It’s wrong?” he repeats.
You glance at him, then point at the shelf. “It simplifies things so much it becomes misinformation,” you say. “And then it makes students confident in the wrong things.”
He nods once. “That’s annoying,” he says.
“It’s infuriating,” you correct.
Dex doesn’t argue. “Okay,” he replies, like he accepts the distinction.
You move down the aisle and pull a paperback off a shelf without thinking. Dex’s hand brushes yours at the same time because he reached for the same book, and the contact is so light you could pretend it didn’t happen, but you don’t; you look at him.
He looks at the book, then at you. “You can have it,” he says.
You lift an eyebrow. “That’s not how it works,” you reply.
He holds his hand out, offering it anyway. “I don’t need it,” he says.
“You don’t even know what it is,” you point out.
He glances at the cover. “You want it,” he replies.
Your mouth opens, then closes, because he’s right and you don’t like that he’s right. You take the book and tuck it under your arm. “I do want it,” you admit, then add, “thank you.”
He nods once like that settles it, and he follows you into another aisle without trying to crowd you. When you stop to browse, he stops too, not hovering, just existing close enough that it feels like company rather than pressure.
At one point you catch him in the true crime section, staring at a row of titles like he’s deciding something. “Oh no,” you say, stepping up beside him. “You’re not allowed to read those.”
He turns his head toward you. “Why?” he asks.
“Because you’re already weirdly calm,” you reply. “If you start reading about serial killers, you’ll get ideas.”
Dex’s mouth twitches. “That’s not how ideas work,” he says.
“It is for you,” you insist.
He looks at you for a long beat, then says, “you’re mean.”
“I’m honest,” you correct, and you grin at him so he knows you’re joking.
He gives you that almost-smile again and says, “okay.”
The museum date is your idea, and it surprises you when you hear yourself suggest it. You blame it on the fact you’re tired of restaurants and coffee shops and you want to do something where you can walk without feeling like you have to perform conversation the whole time. Dex says yes immediately, no questions, and when you meet him outside the museum he’s wearing the same neutral clothes, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the steps and the crowd like the building itself might lunge.
Inside, he’s quieter than he normally is, and you expect that to feel awkward, but it doesn’t. He reads plaques like he actually reads them, he stands in front of a painting for longer than seems normal and doesn’t look bored. You end up lingering beside him, letting the silence stretch, because silence in a museum feels permitted.
You stop in front of an exhibit with medical artifacts—old tools behind glass—and you stare a little too long before you realize you’re doing it. Dex doesn’t comment on your face and doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He shifts slightly so his shoulder is closer to yours without touching, like he’s offering space without making it obvious.
A kid runs past too fast and nearly bumps you, and Dex’s hand catches your elbow lightly, steadying you without gripping. The touch lasts less than a second, but you can still feel it after he drops his hand.
You glance up at him. “Thanks,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah,” he replies.
You keep walking, and the small touches happen in ways that don’t feel forced. His fingers brush yours when you both reach for the same map, your shoulder brushes his when you squeeze past a group, and he steps a little closer on the sidewalk outside, not enough to trap you, just enough that you don’t feel like you’re walking alone.
On the walk back to the subway you find yourself talking more than you usually do, filling the air with stupid observations and jokes and complaints about museum gift shop prices. Dex responds with short, dry comments that make you laugh, and when you tease him, he doesn’t retreat. He just looks at you like he’s deciding how to respond and then says something understated that lands harder than it should. “You’re not as scary as you act,” he tells you at one point, like it’s a simple observation.
You scoff. “I don’t act scary,” you reply.
He glances at you. “You do,” he says. “It works.”
You look at him, then shake your head. “You’re weird,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
He answers, “Yeah,” like he’s agreeing with you.
By the time you’re on your fifth date, the routine of it has settled in without you noticing. Coffee turns into dinner. Dinner turns into walking. Walking turns into you standing outside your building with your keys in your hand and your shoulders relaxed enough that you don’t immediately rush inside. You don’t invite him up, but you don’t snap goodbye either. You linger, and he lingers, and both of you pretend you’re not doing it.
One night, as you’re about to turn away, you look up at him and say, “you know you can talk more, right?”
He blinks once, then replies, “I am talking.”
“You’re giving me bullet points,” you tell him.
He looks almost amused. “Bullet points are efficient,” he says.
You laugh, and you shake your head like you can’t believe him. “God,” you mutter. “You’re impossible.”
He steps a fraction closer, still not crowding you, and says, “You asked me out.”
“I did,” you admit, and your voice is lighter than it’s been in a long time. “I don’t know what that says about me.”
Dex’s gaze stays steady on your face. “It says you wanted coffee,” he replies.
You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling. “Goodnight, Benjamin,” you say.
“Goodnight,” he answers, and he waits long enough that you get inside safely, but not so long that it feels like a guard posted outside your door. You don’t realize until later that you’ve started expecting that balance from him, the closeness without pressure, the attention without demands, and that expectation is its own kind of dangerous.
Foggy makes spaghetti again, which is his way of pretending he’s low-maintenance even though he’s absolutely not. His apartment is warm and loud and crowded in the way it always is when he’s decided it’s a “group dinner,” and Karen is already on her second glass of wine because she has better instincts than you do. You drop your tote bag by the door and kick your shoes off, and Matt is on the couch with his cane leaned against the armrest like he’s off-duty, but you know he’s never really off-duty.
Foggy points his fork at you the second you step into the living room. “Okay,” he announces, like he’s been waiting. “We’re doing this now.”
Karen sighs without looking up from her glass. “Foggy,” she warns.
“No,” Foggy insists, undeterred. “We are not glossing over the fact that she has been on, like, three dates.”
You groan and drop onto the edge of the armchair. “It’s been five and a half,” you argue.
Foggy’s eyes widen. “Five and a half?” he repeats, delighted. “What the hell is a half date?”
“You can’t call coffee a full date if it ends before noon,” you say, dead serious.
Karen snorts. “That’s not how dating works,” she tells you.
“It is for me,” you reply, and you steal a piece of bread off the tray before Foggy can smack your hand away.
Foggy leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So,” he says, drawing it out dramatically, “Benjamin.”
You roll your eyes. “What about Benjamin?” you ask.
“What’s he like?” Foggy demands, like he’s interviewing you for a documentary.
Karen sets her glass down and looks at you properly. “Yeah,” she says, more measured than Foggy. “What’s he like?”
Matt stays quiet, which is how you know he’s listening harder than either of them. His face is neutral, but his posture is still, and you can feel his attention on you in a way that makes you want to be stubborn on principle.
“He’s quiet,” you say.
Foggy makes a face like you just told him you bought plain oatmeal for fun. “Quiet,” he repeats. “Like… quiet quiet?”
“Quiet quiet,” you confirm. “He talks, he just doesn’t… fill space. He’s not dramatic.”
Karen nods slowly, like she’s measuring that against what she knows about you. “Do you like that?” she asks.
You shrug, then realize shrugging makes it seem like you don’t care, and you do care. “Yeah,” you admit. “It’s nice.”
Foggy grins like he’s about to say something obnoxious, but Karen cuts in first. “Is he kind?” she asks.
You blink at her. “Yeah,” you say. “In his way.”
Foggy immediately pounces. “In his way,” he repeats. “What does that mean?”
“It means he doesn’t do performative,” you reply. “He doesn’t make a big show about it. He just… does things. Like opening doors, walking me halfway home, that kind of stuff.”
Matt’s jaw tightens just enough that you notice, but he doesn’t speak.
Foggy points his fork again. “Is he hot?” he asks, shameless.
Karen kicks Foggy’s foot under the table. “Jesus,” she mutters.
You stare at Foggy, unimpressed. “I’m not answering that,” you tell him.
Foggy leans back, arms wide. “Okay, so yes,” he declares.
You shake your head. “Shut up.”
Karen’s mouth curves, but her eyes stay focused on you. “You seem…” she pauses like she’s choosing a word. “Lighter,” she says.
You hesitate, then nod once because you’re not going to deny it. “I guess,” you admit. “It’s not like I’m in love or anything. It’s just nice to talk to someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m stupid.”
Matt’s head tilts slightly. “Who treats you like you’re stupid?” he asks, quiet.
You wave a hand. “People,” you reply. “Guys at work. The type who hear ‘biology’ and immediately start explaining biology to me like I’m hearing it for the first time.”
Karen makes a face. “Oh my God,” she says.
“It’s constant,” you continue, and the irritation in your voice is real now. “Or they do that thing where they talk over me in meetings and then act like they’re surprised when I push back. Benjamin doesn’t do any of that. He just… listens. And he doesn’t get weird when I’m blunt.”
Foggy nods like he understands despite the fact he’s never been a woman in a room full of men. “Okay,” he says. “So he’s respectful.”
“Yes,” you reply. “He’s respectful.”
“And cute,” Foggy adds, because he can’t help himself.
You glare at him. “A little,” you admit anyway, mostly because you want to spite him by not being embarrassed.
Foggy makes a triumphant noise. “I knew it,” he says.
Karen smiles, and it’s the warm kind, not the cautious one. “A little weird too?” she asks, like she already knows your type.
You laugh softly. “Yeah,” you admit. “A little weird. A little awkward. It’s not bad awkward, it’s… normal awkward, like he doesn’t pretend.”
Matt stays quiet through all of it, and that makes your skin prickle because you don’t like when he goes silent like this. Foggy finally notices too, because even Foggy can’t miss a tension you can practically taste. Foggy glances at Matt, then back to you. “Okay,” he says, tone shifting into something more careful. “Have you told him about… us?”
You know what he means immediately—you know he means the complicated part of your life, the part you don’t explain to strangers, the part that involves blood and rooftops and secrets you’ve carried since you were a kid.
You hesitate, and the hesitation is small, but Matt hears it. You can tell by the way his posture shifts, like he’s filed it away already. “Not much,” you say.
Karen’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Not much like… you haven’t told him you grew up with Matt?” she asks.
“I told him that Matt’s protective,” you reply. “I told him I have friends. I didn’t… dump my whole life story on him.”
Matt keeps his focus on you, and you can feel that older-brother energy coming off him like a warning. “I’m just saying to be careful,” Matt says.
You stare at him. “I am being careful,” you reply. “I’m not bringing him here. I’m not taking him to the office. I’m not telling him things he shouldn’t know.”
Matt’s mouth tightens. “You don’t know what he should or shouldn’t know,” he says, quieter.
You lean forward, elbows on your knees, voice steady because you’re not letting this turn into an argument in Foggy’s apartment. “I know he’s been nothing but nice to me,” you say. “I know he doesn’t push. I know he doesn’t treat me like a problem to solve. That’s what I know.”
Foggy clears his throat loudly like he’s trying to reset the vibe. “Okay,” he says, forcing cheer. “So, hypothetically, if Benjamin is nice and quiet and respectful and cute, the obvious solution is that we all meet him and decide he’s acceptable.”
Karen gives him a look. “That’s not the obvious solution,” she says.
“It is for me,” Foggy insists.
You point at Foggy with your fork. “That’s not happening,” you tell him.
Foggy groans. “Why not?” he asks. “Come on. A casual dinner. We can be normal. I can be charming. Matt can be… whatever Matt is.”
Matt doesn’t laugh, and Foggy’s enthusiasm dims slightly when he realizes that whatever is going on in Matt’s head is not going away just because Foggy made a joke.
Karen reaches for her glass again and watches you over the rim. “Do you want us to meet him?” she asks, quietly.
You open your mouth, then close it, because the honest answer is complicated. You don’t want them to meet him yet because you don’t want to turn this into a trial, and you also don’t want Matt deciding he gets veto power over your life. You also, annoyingly, don’t want Benjamin in a room with them because you don’t know what that would change.
“I don’t know,” you admit, and the words come out more honest than you planned. “Not right now.”
Matt nods once, like he’s heard enough, and you can tell he’s already decided he’s going to learn more about Benjamin whether you want him to or not. Foggy, of course, misses the whole tension and keeps barreling forward. “Fine,” Foggy says, waving his fork. “But I’m calling it now. If this becomes a thing, he’s coming to dinner.”
“Eat your spaghetti,” you order.
Foggy grins and shovels a bite into his mouth, and Karen laughs softly, and the room tries to go back to normal. Matt stays quiet, listening, and you know you’re going to have to deal with him later, because he doesn’t let things go when he thinks you might get hurt.
Dex is already on the roof when you step out of your building, because roofs are quieter and cleaner and because he can see the whole street without having to be in it. The night is cold and dry, the kind that makes sound carry sharper than it should, and the city below keeps moving like it always does, headlights sliding through intersections, people spilling out of doors and into the dark. Dex stays low behind a chimney stack, elbows on the gritty tar, watching the front entrance of your building like it’s a stage.
You come out alone, coat buttoned up, tote bag on your shoulder, and phone in hand. You pause at the curb like you’re checking your route, then start walking with your keys already threaded between your fingers. Dex watches your pace settle quickly, purposeful but not rushed, and he tracks you by the rhythm of your steps and the way your head turns slightly at corners, not scared, just aware.
Two blocks away, something shifts in the air.
Dex doesn’t need to see it to know what it is. He hears the change first, the small absence of ordinary noise that happens when someone disciplined is moving above the street. The rooftops have their own cadence, and Daredevil’s is one Dex knows better than he wants to admit. It’s not the heavy stomp of a drunk kid trying to climb a fire escape, it’s controlled, measured, quiet, and it hits Dex’s nerves like a warning bell.
He raises his head slightly and angles his gaze down the row of buildings, letting the darkness do its job. On the next roofline, a shape moves between shadows, red against the night, disappearing and reappearing with the kind of precision that isn’t human unless you’ve built it into yourself.
Daredevil.
Matt is tailing you.
Dex’s jaw tightens, not because he’s surprised, but because he’s annoyed at how predictable Matt is and how much it still matters. He stays still, flattening his profile against the roof the way he’s done a thousand times, and watches without moving too much. If he shifts wrong, Matt will hear it. If he moves too quickly, Matt will see motion even if he can’t see faces. If he does anything sloppy, the whole thing collapses.
You keep walking, oblivious, and that’s the part Dex hates. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t invite this. You don’t even know it’s happening.
Dex tracks you forward by blocks, keeping to the rooftops above your route. He moves when the traffic below is loudest, when a bus roars past or a horn blares or a cluster of people shouts at each other outside a bar. He uses those moments the way he always does, slipping from cover to cover while the city provides noise for free.
Matt moves too, but Matt doesn’t move like someone wandering. Matt moves like someone on a string, keeping you centered, keeping a constant distance, choosing positions that give him sightlines and exits. Dex can see the logic in it because Dex does the same thing and he hates that they do the same thing.
You stop at a crosswalk, and a group of tourists bunches up around you, laughing too loud, taking photos of nothing and Dex watches you shift slightly to keep your shoulder off the crowd. Across the intersection, Benjamin is supposed to meet you at a small place a few blocks ahead, a quiet restaurant you chose because you like quiet and because you don’t want to fight the city for conversation.
Dex can’t go down there as Benjamin tonight, and not with Matt above you, watching you and the street. Dex can’t let Matt see him; he stays on the roofline, eyes flicking between you and Matt. Matt is closer now, using a fire escape as a ladder, perched near a rooftop ledge where he can listen down into the street. Dex can see the way Matt’s head angles slightly, like he’s tracking your footsteps, your breathing, and your heartbeat. Dex stays behind a low brick wall and keeps his own breathing slow and even, because he knows Matt listens for everything that doesn’t fit.
Your phone lights up in your hand, and you glance at it while you wait for the light. You type something quick, then tuck it away. Dex doesn’t need to see the message; he already knows the shape of it, he knows you’re telling Benjamin you’re close.
When the light changes, you cross, and Dex moves at the same time, shifting to the next roof. Matt moves too, and for a second Dex is aware of how close they are, how easily one mistake would put them in the same patch of shadow.
Dex drops to a crouch behind a rooftop vent and stays there as Matt lands on the next building over, the impact soft but present. Matt doesn’t look toward Dex’s position, he looks down toward you, still tracking.
Dex keeps his hands still, fingers spread on the gritty roof, and watches Matt’s movements the way he watches everything. Matt’s posture is tense, ready, and protective in a way that looks noble from a distance and feels suffocating up close.
You turn onto the quieter street that leads toward the restaurant, and Dex sees Matt tense slightly, because quieter streets are where things happen. Dex knows that too, and he also knows that if something happens right now, Matt will act, and Dex will have to decide whether to act too, and that decision will expose him in one direction or another.
You reach the restaurant entrance and stop under the light, glancing at the door like you’re checking if you’re early. You shift your weight and pull your phone out again. A minute passes, then two, and Benjamin isn’t there.
But Dex is there, on the roof, watching you, and he knows can’t go down without risking Matt hearing him move to the building, or without Matt catching the exact timing of him appearing and connecting it to the man you’ve been seeing.
Matt’s head turns slightly, like he’s listening for the approach of someone else, and Dex hates how effective Matt is. Matt is tracking for Benjamin, Matt is waiting for a stranger to step into your space so he can decide if he’s a problem.
Dex stays frozen behind the vent and lets the seconds pass, because he has to.
Below, you check your phone and frown. You don’t look scared, but you do look irritated, like you’re already tired and now you’re being inconvenienced. You text again and glance down the street. You step slightly closer to the restaurant door to get out of the wind.
Matt shifts on the rooftop, and Dex sees it, the way he repositions to keep you in view while also keeping the entrance in view. Dex keeps his own body low and still and waits for the moment he can move without giving himself away.
A car roars past, bass rattling the windows, and Dex uses the sound like a cover. He slides backward, slow and controlled, then pivots to a lower section of roof where he can disappear into a deeper shadow. He moves like water, because sudden movement is what gets you caught by a man like Matt.
Matt remains on the roof, focused on you, and Dex realizes he can’t go down tonight at all. He can’t risk the face-to-face encounter in front of Matt’s senses or being forced into a confrontation on a street where you’re standing three feet away.
Dex pulls his phone out and types quickly, one-handed, keeping his eyes on the roofline where Matt stands. He doesn’t have to look at the screen long, he already knows what he’s sending.
Below, your phone buzzes. You look down and read, and your shoulders drop in immediate annoyance, and you type back fast enough that Dex can imagine the tone. Then you shove your phone into your pocket and exhale, long and sharp. You don’t go inside or wait, you turn away from the restaurant door and start walking back the way you came, steps quicker now, irritation making you move faster.
Matt’s head snaps slightly as you pivot, and Dex watches him shift, recalculating in real time. Matt’s going to follow you home now, because that’s what Matt does when he’s suspicious and protective and convinced he’s right.
Dex stays above you both, moving along a parallel route, using the noise of the city to cover him. You cut across a busier street and blend into a small crowd, and Matt stays high, tracking the flow like a predator that refuses to lose its mark.
Dex keeps distance and his body aligned to the roofline so Matt won’t catch the shape of him as a separate presence. The whole thing is a tightrope, and Dex hates it, because he hates being in a position where he has to choose between staying hidden and staying close to you.
You reach your block and slow down, breath puffing out as you dig your keys out properly now. Dex watches you glance down the street once, then shake your head like you’re scolding yourself for even looking.
Matt pauses on the rooftop above your building, and Dex sees the tension in his posture, like he’s waiting for someone to appear behind you, someone to approach you, someone to prove him right.
But no one does.
You punch in the code and slip inside as the door locks behind you. The lobby light frames you for a second and then swallows you as you disappear down the hall.
Matt stays on the roof, still as stone.
Dex watches him from three buildings away, hidden behind a raised ledge, and he keeps his own breathing slow as he waits for Matt to move on. But Matt doesn’t—Matt stays, listening and guarding, and Dex feels a flicker of something ugly in his chest, because Matt is doing exactly what Dex has been doing for weeks and acting like he has the right to it.
A siren wails in the distance, and the sound breaks the moment just enough that Matt shifts. He turns his head, listening somewhere else, recalculating, and then he finally moves, stepping back from the ledge and disappearing into the night like a shadow with a mission.
Dex stays where he is for another minute, then two, then he stands and moves away from the roofline without looking back. He doesn’t go to your building or wait to see your silhouette in a window. He leaves, because he has to, because the night just proved something he didn’t want proven, and because if he stays any longer he’ll do something impulsive and loud and stupid.
He walks the rooftops in the opposite direction until the street below doesn’t smell like your block anymore, and the only thing he can hear clearly is his own breathing and the faint echo of Matt’s presence that he couldn’t shake.
You and Matt end up at the same little corner place you used to hit after church when you were younger, back when you both pretended a warm drink could fix anything. It’s not church now, and it’s not Sunday, but the routine of it still feels familiar enough that you didn’t question it when he asked if you wanted to walk. You’re halfway through a tea you didn’t even want when Matt says the thing that makes your stomach drop. “Did he at least text you?” Matt says, voice casual, “or did he just leave you standing there?”
You stare at him over the rim of your cup. “What?” you ask, flat.
Matt doesn’t react like he realizes he slipped. “The other night,” he says, still too calm. “When he didn’t show.”
You set the cup down carefully because you don’t trust your hands not to slam it. “How do you know about that?” you ask.
Matt’s mouth tightens, and he doesn’t answer immediately, which is an answer all on its own. You feel the heat crawl up your neck, not embarrassment, but anger—the kind that makes your whole body want to go sharp.
“Matt,” you say, slow, “how do you know I got stood up?”
He exhales like he already knows you’re going to be furious. “I didn’t say you got stood up,” he replies.
You lean forward slightly. “You just did,” you say. “You literally just said he didn’t show.”
Matt keeps his expression neutral, but his posture is too still. “I heard you talking about it,” he says.
“With who?” you ask immediately. “Foggy? Karen? Because I didn’t tell them he didn’t show, I told them it was fine and I didn’t even talk about it. So try again.”
Matt’s jaw works once, and you can see him deciding whether to lie. He doesn’t, and that almost makes it worse because it means he thinks he’s justified. “I followed you,” he says.
The words sit there between you like a slap. You don’t raise your voice or make a scene, you just stare at him until your eyes sting from not blinking. “You were following me?” you ask, and you make it a question even though your tone isn’t really asking.
Matt answers immediately. “Yes.”
You feel your pulse in your throat. You look away for a second, toward the window, toward the street outside, because if you keep looking at him you’re going to do something loud, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of calling you dramatic later. You take a slow breath and force your voice to stay even. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you ask.
Matt’s voice stays calm, too calm, like he’s trying to keep you from escalating. “Nothing,” he says.
You laugh once, short and humorless. “Oh my God,” you mutter. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you. You just followed me like I’m a teenager sneaking out.”
Matt’s mouth tightens. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he says.
“Then tell me what you meant,” you reply, and your tone is flat enough that you can hear the anger underneath it. “Because I told you where I was going. I told you I was meeting him. I did everything you asked, and you still decided you needed to follow me.”
Matt leans back slightly, hands relaxed on the table like he’s trying to look harmless. “I wanted to make sure you were safe,” he says.
You stare at him like you can’t believe he said that with a straight face. “I’m safe,” you reply. “You don’t get to decide I’m not safe just because I’m doing something you don’t like.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like it,” Matt says, and you can hear him choosing words carefully. “I said I don’t trust him.”
You shake your head slowly. “You don’t trust him,” you repeat. “You haven’t even met him!”
Matt’s voice hardens a fraction. “I don’t need to meet him to know it’s not right,” he says.
“That’s not fair,” you say immediately.
Matt’s gaze stays on you, steady and stubborn. “I don’t care if it’s fair,” he replies. “I care if you get hurt.”
You inhale sharply, then force yourself to exhale slowly because if you start snapping, you’ll lose the thread. “You’re the one who told me to stop living like I’m still overseas,” you say, voice tight. “You’re the one who told me I can’t stay frozen. You practically begged me to go out, to see people, to be normal.”
Matt doesn’t flinch. “I want you to be normal,” he says.
“And now I’m trying,” you shoot back, and the anger finally breaks through the calm in your voice. “I go on a few dates with a guy who has been nothing but polite to me, and you’re acting like I’ve lost my mind.”
Matt shakes his head once, restrained frustration. “It’s not about you,” he says.
“It is about me,” you reply, sharper now. “You followed me, you didn’t follow him. You followed me.”
“I stayed back,” Matt replies, like that makes it better. “I didn’t interfere.”
You lean forward again, eyes locked on him. “You were there,” you say, slow, incredulous. “You were watching me stand outside a restaurant like an idiot, checking my phone and pretending I wasn’t annoyed, and you just—what—sat on a roof congratulating yourself for being protective?”
Matt’s voice stays low. “I wanted to see what he’d do,” he says.
You laugh again, harsher this time. “You wanted to test him,” you say. “Like he’s a stray dog and you’re deciding whether he gets to come near your stuff.”
Matt’s expression flashes, irritation slipping out. “That’s not what I’m doing,” he says.
“That is exactly what you’re doing,” you reply, and now you don’t bother lowering your voice as much because the café is loud enough that no one is listening anyway. “You don’t get to vet every person I talk to. You don’t get to stalk me and call it love.”
Matt’s face tightens at that, and he looks genuinely hurt for a second, which only makes you angrier because you didn’t make him follow you, he chose that. “I’m not stalking you,” he says.
“You followed me,” you correct. “On a date. Like I couldn’t handle it.”
Matt’s voice sharpens slightly. “I know you can handle a lot,” he says, and the emphasis is almost angry, like he hates having to admit it. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop caring.”
“I’m not asking you to stop caring,” you say. “I’m asking you to stop trying to control me.”
Matt’s hands flex once on the table, then relax. “I’m not controlling you,” he insists.
You point at him. “You are,” you say. “You’re controlling. You’re hovering. You’re deciding that your anxiety gets to run my life.”
Matt leans in a little, and when he speaks, it’s quieter. “Something about him is wrong,” he says.
You stare at him. “What?” you ask, clipped. “Is it his vibe? Is it the fact he’s quiet? Is it that he doesn’t act like a loud idiot the way Foggy does? What is wrong, Matt?”
Matt’s jaw clenches, and you can tell he wants to say something he can’t prove. “He’s careful,” Matt says finally. “Too careful.”
You blink at him, then let out a slow breath. “So are you,” you say. “That’s literally you.”
Matt’s mouth opens, then closes, because you’re right and he hates it.
“You don’t know him,” you say again, quieter but no less firm. “You don’t get to decide he’s dangerous just because he reminds you of you.”
Matt’s expression hardens, stubborn and protective and infuriating. “I don’t need to know him,” he says.
You stare at him for a long beat, then you pick up your cup and take a sip even though it’s gone cold, because you need something to do with your hands. “You promised me,” you say, and your voice is steady again because you refuse to let him see how much it stings. “You promised you wanted me to have a life.”
“I do,” Matt replies immediately.
“Then act like it,” you say, and you set the cup down. “Because if you follow me again, I’m not going to be nice about it.”
Matt’s face tightens. “You think I want to do this?” he asks.
You stand, pushing your chair back just enough that it scrapes lightly. “I don’t care what you want,” you tell him. “I care what you did.”
Matt stands too, slower, like he’s trying not to escalate. “Just—” he starts.
You cut him off. “No,” you say. “You don’t get to ‘just’ anything. You already made your choice, now I’m making mine.”
You grab your coat, sling your tote bag onto your shoulder, and walk out before the conversation can loop into old history and guilt and Matt’s stubborn insistence that caring gives him permission. The cold air outside hits your face, and you keep walking, not looking back, because you know if you look back you’ll see him standing there with that expression he gets when he’s convinced he’s right and you’re the one being unreasonable.
You refuse to carry that tonight.
You don’t go straight home after you leave Matt, mostly because you don’t trust yourself to walk into your apartment with that much anger still sitting in your chest. You take the long way instead, hands shoved into your coat pockets with your head down, letting the cold burn some of it off. By the time you reach the corner where the coffee cart sets up in the mornings, it’s closed and dark, and the street looks different without the little pocket of warmth and noise.
You’re halfway past it when you hear your name. Not shouted, just said clearly enough to make you stop.
You turn and see Benjamin a few steps back, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looks like he’s been walking for a while, and his hair is a little messier than you’ve seen it during daylight. He doesn’t move closer too fast, like he’s giving you room to decide whether you want to talk. “Hey,” he says.
Your first instinct is irritation, because the night has been nothing but men deciding things for you, and you’re tired of it. You keep your voice steady anyway. “Hey,” you reply. “You’re out.”
He nods once. “Yeah,” he says, then pauses like he’s choosing what to say. “I owe you an apology.”
You blink. “For what?” you ask, even though you know.
“For the other night,” he answers. “I couldn’t make it.”
You exhale through your nose and look away for a second, because the word couldn’t is vague enough to be annoying. “It’s fine,” you say automatically.
Dex’s gaze stays on you, and he doesn’t let you brush it off. “It wasn’t,” he says, calm. “You were waiting.”
You look back at him. “It was annoying,” you admit. “But it’s not like you kidnapped my dog. I just went home.”
He nods like he’s heard the annoyance and isn’t trying to talk you out of it. “I should’ve told you sooner,” he says. “I didn’t handle it right.”
You study him for a second, trying to decide whether you’re in the mood to accept an apology tonight. He looks… uncomfortable, which is strange, because he’s usually so controlled. He isn’t fidgeting, but his posture is tighter than normal, like he’s bracing for you to snap.
“What happened?” you ask, not because you think you’re owed details, but because you’re curious and because you can’t stand vague apologies.
He hesitates, then says, “work.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That vague consulting job again?” you reply.
His mouth twitches slightly. “Yeah,” he says.
You let out a quiet laugh that isn’t really amused. “Okay,” you say. “You could’ve just texted ‘work emergency’ and I would’ve rolled my eyes and gone home.”
“I did text,” he replies.
“After I’d already been standing there for a while,” you point out.
He nods once. “I know,” he says, and he doesn’t argue with you. “I’m sorry.”
You stare at him for a beat, then you shake your head slightly. “You’re apologizing like you think I’m going to file a formal complaint,” you tell him.
He looks at you. “Are you?” he asks, deadpan.
That catches you off guard enough that you laugh, real this time, short and sharp. “No,” you reply. “I’m not.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing just slightly. “Okay,” he says.
You glance up and down the street, not because you’re scared, but because you’ve been on edge all night and your brain still wants to scan. Dex doesn’t comment on it, he just stands there with you like he’s willing to let you choose the pace of the conversation.
“What’re you doing out here?” you ask.
He answers simply. “I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says.
You blink. “That sounds a little creepy when you say it like that,” you reply.
He nods, as if he agrees. “Yeah,” he admits. “It does.”
You tilt your head. “So why say it like that?” you ask.
“I don’t know,” he says, honest in a way that surprises you. “I’m not good at this.”
“This,” you repeat.
He gestures vaguely between the two of you, then lets his hand drop back into his pocket. “Dating,” he says. “Talking… whatever this is.”
You stare at him for a second, then shrug. “Me neither,” you admit.
He looks at you again, and his voice stays steady. “Are you mad?” he asks.
You think about Matt, about the café, about the fact that you’re standing on a street corner in the cold talking about feelings like a normal person, and it makes you want to laugh and scream at the same time. “Not at you,” you say, then add, “not really.”
Dex nods, and he doesn’t ask who you’re mad at, which you appreciate. He asks instead, “can I make it up to you?”
You lift an eyebrow. “How?” you ask.
“Dinner,” he says, then pauses, and you can tell he’s calculating whether that sounds like too much. “Or coffee. Something. Whenever you want.”
You consider it for a moment; you don’t want to punish him for missing one date., but you also don’t want to reward men for doing basic things like apologizing. Mostly, you’re just tired, and you’re not in the mood to make this complicated. “Coffee,” you decide. “Tomorrow morning. If you’re going to bail, do it before I leave my apartment.”
He nods immediately. “Tomorrow,” he says. “And I won’t bail.”
You point at him. “That’s a promise,” you reply.
Dex’s expression stays neutral, but his voice is firm. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a promise.”
You breathe out, then realize you’re still standing there like you don’t know how to end a conversation. “Okay,” you say. “Goodnight, Benjamin.”
He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t try to touch you. He just nods. “Goodnight,” he replies.
You turn and start walking again, and he doesn’t follow you all the way to your building. He keeps pace for half a block, then slows and peels off toward the brighter avenue, leaving you to finish the walk alone. You don’t look back, but you can feel his presence disappear the way you always can when someone stops matching your rhythm.
When you reach your door and punch in the code, your phone buzzes once with a text from Benjamin.
Benjamin: I’m sorry again. Coffee tomorrow. 8:30?
You stare at it for a second, then type back:
You: 8:30. Don’t be late.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Benjamin: I won’t.
The coffee cart is already set up when you get there, steam rising off the metal like the whole corner is breathing. You’re five minutes early and irritated about it, because being early means you’ve had time to think, and thinking is what gets you in trouble. The vendor spots you and points at you like he’s ready to start a lecture. “Doc,” he calls, loud enough that two people in line glance over. “You eatin’ today?”
“Good morning to you too,” you reply, and you keep walking toward the cart with your tote strap tight in your hand. “And yes, I’m eating.”
He squints like he doesn’t believe you for a second, then shrugs. “We’ll see,” he says, already reaching for a cup. “Same thing?”
“Same thing,” you confirm.
You’re reaching for your wallet when you notice Dex, because he’s not in line this time. He’s off to the side near the pole by the corner, back half-turned toward the street like he’s giving you space without actually leaving. He’s got his hands low, close to his jacket, and he’s doing something small and precise with his fingers that catches your attention immediately.
A coin is moving across his knuckles like it belongs there. It rolls from finger to finger in a smooth loop, not flashy, not meant for anyone, just steady and practiced, like he’s doing it to keep his hands busy and his brain quiet. You watch it for a second longer than you mean to, because it looks hypnotic in a way you don’t want to admit.
Dex looks up and notices you watching, and the coin stops mid-motion like he just decided he shouldn’t have been doing it at all. He closes his fingers around it and shifts his weight slightly, as if he’s bracing for you to make fun of him.
“You’re early,” you say as you step closer, and you keep your tone light because you’re not interested in embarrassing him.
“I didn’t want to be late,” he replies.
You lift an eyebrow. “That sounds like you remembered my threat,” you say.
He doesn’t smile fully, but the corner of his mouth shifts. “Yeah,” he answers. “I remembered.”
You nod toward his hand. “Was that you trying to look mysterious,” you ask, “or do you just carry coins around like an eighty-year-old man?”
Dex glances down at his fist, then opens it so the coin sits flat on his palm. “It’s a habit,” he says.
“A habit like biting your nails,” you reply, “or a habit like ‘I’m about to rob a bank’?”
He looks at you for a second, then says, “more like biting my nails,” in the same calm voice he uses for everything.
You make a quiet sound of approval. “Okay,” you say. “It’s kind of impressive.”
He blinks once, and you can tell he didn’t expect that. “It’s nothing,” he replies.
“It’s not nothing,” you insist. “I can barely get my keys out of my pocket without stabbing myself.”
The vendor interrupts by shoving your cup toward you. “Extra shot,” he says, then adds, “and don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Sandwich.”
“I did hear you,” you reply, and you take the cup. “I’m just choosing to ignore you.”
“You can’t ignore me,” he says, smug. “I’m a public service.”
Dex’s gaze flicks to the vendor, then back to you. “He always talks to you like that?” he asks.
“He talks to everyone like that,” you say. “He just cares about me more because I look like I’m going to collapse at any moment.”
The vendor points at Dex with the tongs like he’s decided he’s part of the conversation now. “You,” he says. “Black coffee guy.”
Dex’s face stays neutral. “Yeah,” he replies.
“Are you feeding her?” the vendor demands, dead serious.
Dex pauses half a second, then says, “I’m trying.”
You choke on a laugh, and you turn away to cover it with a sip of coffee, which is still too hot and makes you regret your choices immediately. “Oh my God,” you mutter, and you look back at Dex. “You’re not supposed to agree with him.”
Dex shrugs slightly. “He’s right,” he replies.
The vendor makes a pleased noise and hands Dex his coffee. “See?” he says. “Smart guy.”
“Stop,” you tell the vendor, pointing at him. “You’re going to scare him off.”
Dex takes his cup and looks at you. “I’m not scared,” he says.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t lie,” you reply.
He holds your gaze for a beat, then says, “okay, I’m a little scared,” and it’s so flat and honest that you laugh again.
You step away from the cart and angle toward the quieter side street, and Dex falls into step beside you without pushing into your space. The morning is cold but bright, and you feel more awake than you did yesterday, mostly because you got to be angry at Matt and then walk it off instead of swallowing it.
You take a slow sip, then glance at Dex. “Thanks for apologizing,” you say, simple. “The other night.”
Dex’s jaw tightens slightly, like he doesn’t like being reminded. “Yeah,” he replies. “I should’ve handled it better.”
You nod once. “I wasn’t devastated,” you say. “I was just annoyed.”
“I know,” he answers.
“Alright,” you reply, then you add, because you can’t help yourself, “and the text was on time today, so you’re improving.”
Dex’s mouth shifts again, and this time it actually looks like a smile. “I’m learning,” he says.
You walk in silence for a minute, and it’s easy silence, the kind that doesn’t demand anything. A woman with a dog passes, the dog straining toward a discarded bagel on the sidewalk like it’s a miracle, and Dex steps slightly to the side to give them room. You notice the movement and file it away, because you’re starting to notice all the small things he does without thinking. “You’re really good at that,” you say, nodding toward his hand. “The coin thing.”
Dex glances at his cup, then at you. “Do you want me to show you?” he asks.
You laugh. “No,” you reply immediately. “I will launch it into traffic and then I’ll get mad.”
He watches you for a second. “You get mad a lot,” he says, not accusing, just observing.
“I’m not mad,” you argue.
Dex doesn’t even blink. “Sure,” he replies.
You glare at him, then you can’t keep it up and you end up smiling instead, which is annoying but also kind of nice. “You’re getting brave,” you tell him.
“I’m calibrating,” he says.
“That’s a weird word to use,” you reply.
“It’s accurate,” he answers.
You reach the corner where you’d normally split off toward the subway, and you slow down. Dex slows with you, stopping a step back so he isn’t blocking your path. You turn to face him properly, coffee warm in your hands, breath visible in the air. “So,” you say, “this was good. You didn’t bail.”
“I didn’t bail,” he confirms.
You nod. “Good,” you say again, then you hesitate, because you’ve been wound tight for days and you want to do something that feels like your choice, not Matt’s approval or Foggy’s teasing or Karen’s careful questions.
Dex watches you like he’s waiting for you to decide what you’re going to do, and he doesn’t move closer first. You step in and kiss his cheek, quick and deliberate, the kind of contact that lasts half a second but still counts as a decision. His skin is cold from the morning air, and you feel him go perfectly still, like his whole body is pausing to process it.
When you pull back, you keep your face calm, because you refuse to act embarrassed. “There,” you say, voice dry. “Now you know I’m not secretly plotting to report you to the deli cashier for being weird.”
Dex blinks once, then twice, and the coin in his pocket shifts faintly like his fingers moved without him thinking. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is steadier than his eyes.
You lift an eyebrow. “Okay?” you repeat.
He clears his throat like he’s annoyed at himself for needing to. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
You smile a little, then point at him with your cup. “Don’t get cocky,” you warn.
Dex’s mouth finally curves into a real, small smile. “I won’t,” he replies.
You step back, adjust your tote strap, and start walking toward the subway. You don’t look over your shoulder immediately because you don’t want to see him standing there frozen, and you don’t want to see him walking away like it didn’t matter. You count three steps, then four, then you glance back anyway.
Dex is still there at the corner, watching you go, coffee in hand, posture controlled, but his expression looks slightly stunned in a way you didn’t expect. When he notices you looking, he doesn’t wave, he just lifts his cup a fraction in a quiet little gesture, like he’s trying to keep up with you.
You turn forward again, smiling to yourself despite your best efforts, and you head underground before you can overthink it into something you regret.
You don’t plan to invite him up when you meet him for dinner again, and you’re annoyed at yourself for even thinking about it on the train ride home. You tell yourself you’re going to do the normal thing, the safe thing, the polite goodnight at the door, and then you’ll go inside and do your routine and try to sleep like a functional adult. That’s the plan.
The plan lasts until it’s cold and you’re standing outside your building and Dex is looking up at the dark windows like he’s trying not to look like he’s looking up at the dark windows. The street is quieter than it was earlier, and the wind keeps pushing at your coat, and you’re tired in that heavy way that makes every decision feel like effort.
“You’re shivering,” you say, because you can’t help noticing.
“I’m fine,” Dex replies.
You give him a look. “Yeah,” you say. “Sure.”
He doesn’t argue, he just stands there with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s waiting for you to say goodnight so he can leave without doing something awkward.
You dig your keys out and stare at them for a second, then you look up at him again. “Do you want to come up for a minute?” you ask, and you keep your voice casual so you don’t scare yourself out of it. “Just… tea. Or whatever. It’s cold.”
Dex goes very still, like you’ve put a spotlight on him. “Up?” he repeats.
“Up,” you confirm. “My apartment. You’re not getting murdered, relax.”
He blinks, then says, “okay,” in the same calm voice he always uses, but his posture is too tight for it to be fully convincing.
You punch in the code and hold the door open, and he waits for you to step in first before following. The lobby light is too bright after the street, and you feel your shoulders tense automatically the second you’re inside, that weird shift where home should feel safe but your body still insists on scanning anyway.
Dex doesn’t comment on anything. He just looks around once, quick and quiet, then keeps his eyes on you like you’re the only landmark he trusts.
The elevator is out, which isn’t surprising, and you gesture toward the stairs. “It’s only three flights,” you say.
Dex nods like stairs don’t bother him at all. “Okay,” he replies.
You start up first, and he stays one step behind you, not crowding or rushing ahead. You unlock your door and step inside, and you flip the light on with your elbow because your hands are full. Your apartment looks exactly the way it always looks, clean but lived in, everything in the place you put it because if it isn’t in the place you put it you’ll think about it until you fix it.
Dex stops just inside the doorway like he’s unsure where to stand. You kick your shoes off and point toward the small coat hook by the wall. “You can hang your jacket there,” you tell him. “If you want.”
He hesitates, then slips his jacket off and hangs it neatly, more neatly than you expected. He keeps his hands at his sides after that, still, like he’s waiting for instructions.
“You’re allowed to move,” you say, and your tone is dry enough that it’s a joke.
Dex looks at you. “I don’t want to touch anything,” he replies.
You blink at him, then soften without meaning to. “It’s fine,” you say. “You can sit.”
You gesture toward the couch, and he sits on the edge of it like he’s afraid the cushions are going to accuse him of something. You head into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then pull out two mugs without thinking. You pause for a second, then glance over your shoulder. “Do you want tea?” you ask.
Dex nods once. “Sure,” he replies.
“Okay,” you say. “Do you care what kind?”
“No,” he answers.
“That’s an insane answer,” you tell him.
He looks faintly amused. “It’s tea,” he says.
You make a quiet sound of disapproval and grab the one you like anyway. “You’re getting peppermint,” you decide. “It’s not negotiable.”
Dex doesn’t argue, he watches you move around the kitchen like he’s studying how you exist when you’re not outside, or when you’re not in professor mode or walking-fast mode. You can feel his attention without him making it weird, which is both comforting and unsettling.
When you carry the mugs over, you set his down on the coffee table and sit on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between you like it’s automatic. You take a sip and immediately relax a fraction because hot tea in your own apartment is one of the only things that consistently convinces your body you’re not in danger.
Dex picks his mug up and holds it like he’s warming his hands rather than drinking.
“So,” you say, because if you don’t talk you’ll start thinking about Matt again. “Welcome to my terrifying apartment.”
He looks around again, slower this time. “It’s… organized,” he says.
“That’s a polite way to say I’m controlling,” you reply.
Dex’s gaze returns to you. “It’s a good thing,” he says.
You blink. “You like it?” you ask.
He nods once. “Yeah,” he replies. “It makes sense.”
You huff a small laugh. “Most people make jokes,” you say. “Foggy calls it ‘serial killer tidy.’”
Dex’s expression doesn’t change much, but his eyes sharpen slightly. “Foggy,” he repeats.
You immediately regret mentioning a name, even though you already told him your friends exist. “He’s my friend,” you say, quickly. “He’s dramatic.”
Dex nods, accepting it. “Okay,” he says.
You take another sip and let the silence sit for a second because it doesn’t feel awkward. Dex’s eyes flick briefly toward your bookshelf, then back to you, like he’s asking permission without speaking. You gesture with your mug. “You can look,” you say. “If you want.”
He stands slowly and moves to the shelf, scanning spines without pulling anything out at first. When he does take a book, he holds it like he’s checking the weight. “You read all of these?” he asks.
“Not all,” you reply. “Some of them are aspirational.”
He glances back at you. “Aspirational?” he repeats.
“You know,” you say. “Books you buy because you think one day you’ll have time to become the kind of person who casually reads a thousand pages about cellular signaling for fun.”
Dex’s mouth twitches. “You do read cellular signaling for fun,” he says.
“I do not,” you argue immediately.
He turns slightly, book still in hand. “You do,” he replies, perfectly calm.
You glare at him. “Okay,” you admit. “Sometimes. But I don’t enjoy it.”
Dex looks unconvinced, and you can’t help smiling.
He sets the book back exactly where he found it, then returns to the couch and sits again, still leaving space, still not pushing into your bubble. You like that about him more than you want to. “You’re very… careful,” you say, and you keep your tone light so it doesn’t feel like an accusation.
Dex’s eyes meet yours. “Yeah,” he replies.
You tilt your head. “Is that just how you are?” you ask.
He pauses, then says, “Mostly.”
You accept that because you don’t want to pry. You don’t want to turn this into a therapy session on your couch with peppermint tea as a prop. You just want a quiet hour where you don’t feel like you’re being watched by Matt’s worry or your own brain.
“Thanks for coming up,” you say after a moment, because the silence has stretched and you want to make it clear you’re not regretting it.
Dex nods once. “Thanks for inviting me,” he replies.
You take another sip, then you glance at him over the rim of your mug. “Don’t get used to it,” you warn, because you can’t just be sincere without cushioning it.
His mouth shifts into that small, real smile again. “I won’t,” he says, and his voice stays steady, but his eyes soften just a little.
You talk for a while after that, about nothing important and a few things that are, about how your students are incompetent and how the city never sleeps and how coffee is a scam. When he finally stands to leave, you walk him to the door, and he puts his jacket on without rushing. “I’ll text you when I get home,” he says.
You blink at him. “You don’t have to do that,” you reply.
“I want to,” he says, and it’s simple enough that you don’t argue.
“Okay,” you concede. “Fine.”
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, then turns back toward you. You don’t know what you expect him to do, but he doesn’t go for your mouth and you’re grateful for it, because you’re not ready for that and you’d rather not have to explain why. Instead, he leans in just enough to kiss your cheek, the same quick kind you did to him, and he pulls back immediately like he’s making sure you’re okay with it.
You don’t flinch. You don’t step away. You just look at him and say, “goodnight,” in a voice that’s softer than you meant it to be.
“Goodnight,” he replies, and then he leaves, letting the door click shut behind him.
You lock it, check it twice, and you stand there for a second longer than necessary, listening to his footsteps fade down the stairs. When you finally turn away and head back toward the couch, you realize your shoulders are lower than they’ve been in days, and you don’t let yourself overthink what that means.
Foggy calls it a “quick dinner” like that means anything coming out of his mouth, and you show up anyway even though you’re still mad at Matt but you refuse to let that turn into you avoiding the people you love. Karen is already there when you arrive, sitting at the table with her coat draped over the back of her chair and her phone face down like she’s trying to prove she’s present. Matt is across from her, posture quiet, hands wrapped around a glass of water he hasn’t touched, and the fact he’s drinking water at all makes you want to be annoyed and grateful at the same time.
Foggy slides into the booth a minute after you do, breathing like he sprinted the whole way, and he immediately starts talking like the universe is paying him by the word. “Okay,” he says, grinning at you. “You look… less homicidal than you did the other day.”
Karen gives him a look. “Foggy,” she warns.
“It’s an observation,” Foggy insists, then he points his menu at you. “You’re smiling. That’s new.”
“I am not smiling,” you argue.
Karen lifts her eyebrows. “You are a little,” she says, and the way she says it makes you feel exposed.
You roll your eyes and reach for the breadbasket like it’s a shield. “Can we not do this?” you ask. “I came here to eat, not be analyzed.”
Foggy claps his hands once, too loud. “Great,” he says. “Perfect segue. Because I’m about to analyze you.”
Karen sighs and takes a sip of her drink. “Jesus,” she mutters.
Foggy leans forward, eyes bright. “Bring him to dinner,” he announces.
You stop mid-reach for the bread. “No,” you say immediately.
Foggy points at you like he anticipated that. “Yes,” he replies. “Let’s meet him. Let’s normalize it. Like adults.”
“You don’t even own plates that match,” you tell him. “You cannot say like adults.”
Foggy waves a hand. “That’s not relevant,” he says. “This is relevant. You’re dating a man and that man has a name. That man is in your apartment now, apparently, which I am still processing.”
Your cheeks warm slightly. “How do you know that?” you demand.
Karen doesn’t look guilty at all. “You told me,” she says. “You said, ‘I had him up for tea.’”
You open your mouth, then close it, because you do remember saying it, and you hate that you said it out loud. “Okay,” you admit, “I forgot.”
Foggy slaps the table lightly. “Tea,” he repeats, delighted. “That’s domestic. That’s relationship behavior.”
“It was cold,” you say, defensive.
Foggy leans back, smug. “Sure,” he replies. “So bring him to dinner. I want to meet the man who drinks black coffee and apparently doesn’t run away when you threaten him.”
Karen nods slowly, and her voice is softer when she says it. “It’s not a bad idea,” she tells you.
You look at her, surprised. “You too?” you ask.
Karen shrugs. “I’m not saying it has to be a big thing,” she says. “But it might be nice. If he’s going to be in your life, even a little, we’ll end up meeting him eventually.”
Foggy points his menu at Karen like she’s his best friend now. “Thank you,” he says. “Exactly. Eventually is now.”
You glance at Matt, because Matt has been too quiet the entire time. He hasn’t made a joke or asked a question, and he hasn’t challenged Foggy, and that silence is its own kind of pressure. Matt’s face is neutral, but he’s listening, and you can tell he’s holding himself back from saying something that would turn this into a fight.
“Matt,” you say, because you’re not letting him hide behind quiet. “Thoughts?”
Matt’s jaw shifts slightly. “If you want to,” he says, and it’s the most non-answer answer he could give.
Foggy makes a disbelieving noise. “If you want to,” he repeats, then looks at you. “That means he wants to.”
Matt’s mouth tightens. “Foggy,” he warns.
Foggy holds both hands up. “Okay, okay,” he says, lowering his voice just a little. “I’m being normal.”
You stare at all three of them, then look down at the table because you can feel your irritation starting to climb. “Why,” you ask slowly, “does everyone suddenly need to meet him?”
Karen answers first, careful but honest. “Because you’ve been gone for a long time,” she says. “And you came back, and it’s been… hard. Seeing you go out and talk to someone and not shut down is good. It’s not just about him, it’s about you.”
Foggy nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s about you being back.”
You swallow and pick at the edge of the napkin because you don’t like being handled, even when it’s love. “I am back,” you say, a little sharper than you meant to.
Karen’s expression stays steady. “I know,” she replies. “Let us be part of it.”
You glance at Matt again, and he still isn’t giving you much, but you can see the tension in his posture like a cord pulled tight. You know he wants to meet Benjamin because he wants control. You know Karen wants to meet Benjamin because she wants information. And you know Foggy wants to meet Benjamin because Foggy wants everything to be loud and communal and safe.
You take a breath and decide to keep it simple. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll ask him.”
Foggy lights up immediately. “Yes,” he says, triumphant. “Thank you!”
Karen looks relieved. “Only if you want to,” she adds quickly, like she doesn’t want you to feel cornered.
You nod once. “I’ll ask,” you repeat, and you look directly at Matt when you say it. “That doesn’t mean you get to interrogate him.”
Matt’s voice stays calm. “I’m not going to interrogate him,” he says.
You lift your eyebrows. “You literally interrogate everyone,” you reply.
Matt exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to argue. “I’ll be polite,” he says.
Foggy cackles. “That’s the best promise you’re gonna get,” he tells you.
You sigh and reach for the bread again, because you need something to do with your hands. “Fine,” you say. “I’ll ask him. One dinner. If you’re weird, I’m never doing it again.”
Foggy leans forward, grinning. “We’re always weird,” he says.
Karen murmurs, “he’s right,” and she sips her drink.
Matt stays quiet again, and you can feel his attention on you, steady and stubborn. You don’t look away from him first, because you’re still mad about the tailing, and you’re not letting him think he can sit there silently and win.
“Don’t make me regret this,” you tell them all, and you mean it.
You bring it up on a walk because a walk feels safer than saying it in your apartment and safer than saying it over text, and because you can pretend it’s casual if you say it while you’re both moving. The air is cold enough that you keep your hands in your pockets, and the street is busy but not crowded, a steady stream of people heading home with grocery bags and tired faces. Dex is beside you, close but not crowding, matching your pace like he always does.
You don’t start with the invitation right away. You talk about nothing for two blocks first, about a student who tried to argue for extra credit by sending you a meme, about the fact that your department chair is apparently allergic to staffing, and about how the city smells like damp pavement and exhaust when it gets cold. Dex listens, gives short answers, makes one dry comment that gets a laugh out of you, and you let yourself relax enough to actually say the thing you came to say.
“My friends want to meet you,” you say, keeping your voice neutral like you’re mentioning the weather.
Dex’s step doesn’t stop, but his body tightens for a fraction of a second in a way you catch more than you see. You assume it’s nerves because meeting your friends is always weird even when you like someone.
“It’s nothing intense,” you add quickly. “They’re just… loud.”
Dex’s gaze stays forward. “Loud,” he repeats.
You snort. “Loud,” you confirm. “Foggy is incapable of being quiet. Karen is quieter but she’ll be watching you like you’re a science experiment. Matt will be… Matt.”
Dex doesn’t ask what Matt will be Matt means, which makes you want to smile because most people would. He keeps walking, posture steady, and asks the obvious question.
“Who would be there?” he says.
You answer easily because you’ve said their names out loud to him before in passing, and because you’re trying not to make this feel like a big deal. “All three of them.”
Dex’s face doesn’t change, but there’s a stillness in him that wasn’t there a second ago, like something has snapped into place behind his eyes. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t look startled, he just goes quiet in that controlled way you’ve come to recognize as him trying to keep his reactions from showing.
You glance at him. “Hey,” you say, lightly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m not trying to pressure you.”
Dex blinks once, then nods. “Okay,” he replies.
You slow just a fraction because you want to read him, and you’re not great at reading him yet. “It’s just dinner,” you say. “Foggy will probably interrogate you about your ‘consulting,’ and Karen will pretend she’s not interrogating you, and Matt will sit there silently judging you. It’ll be a good time.”
Dex’s mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile. “Sounds great,” he says, so dry you snort.
“See?” you reply. “You’ll survive.”
He keeps walking, then asks, “When?”
You shrug. “Whenever,” you say. “Foggy acts like dinner is a weekly holiday. He’ll cook, which is a threat, but we’ll eat anyway.”
Dex nods once like he’s hearing the timeline and not committing to it. You can tell he’s not answering yet, and that’s fine, you don’t need an immediate yes.
“You can think about it,” you offer, because you don’t want him to feel cornered.
Dex’s eyes flick to you, then forward again. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll think about it.”
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, the way you do when you’re trying to keep the mood normal. “Good,” you say. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Dex stays quiet for a minute after that, and you let him, because you know what it’s like to have your brain get loud. You walk another block together, and when you reach the corner where you normally split off, he slows. “I’ll let you know,” he says, simple.
You nod once. “Okay,” you reply. “No rush.”
He looks at you for a second like he wants to say something else, then doesn’t. He just says, “goodnight,” and keeps his voice steady.
“Goodnight,” you answer, and you watch him walk away down the street with that controlled pace he always has, hands in his pockets, shoulders set like he never wants anyone to know what he’s thinking.
You turn toward home, already rehearsing how you’re going to tell Foggy “maybe” without Foggy acting like “maybe” is a personal insult, and you don’t notice the way your stomach tightens until you’re halfway up the stairs to your apartment.
Dex doesn’t go home after he leaves you. He walks until the streets change, until the storefronts stop looking familiar and the air smells more like wet concrete than your block. He cuts through an alley, hops a low fence without breaking stride, and ends up on a roof where the wind hits harder and there’s enough space to think without anyone bumping into him.
He pulls his phone out and stares at the screen like it’s going to give him a better answer than his own brain. There’s a message thread with you, normal words in normal bubbles, the kind of thing that should feel harmless.
A door on the roof across from him bangs open, and a guy steps out with a cigarette and a hoodie, muttering to himself as he lights it. Dex stays still behind a low vent, letting the shadow hide his face. The guy exhales smoke and talks into his phone. “Yeah, I’m outside,” he says. “No, I said I’m outside. I’m not coming back in, you’re yelling.”
Dex waits until the guy turns away, then shifts to a darker pocket of roof, silent and controlled. When he’s sure the guy is distracted, Dex finally moves, dropping down to a service stairwell and taking it to street level. He doesn’t want to be on a roof right now, he wants walls.
He ends up in a late-night laundromat three blocks away, the kind that’s open because nobody wants to admit they have no other options at one in the morning. A woman sits near the back with earbuds in, scrolling, and she doesn’t look up when Dex walks in and sits on the bench like he belongs there.
Dex pulls a coin from his pocket and rolls it across his knuckles once, then stops and closes his hand around it hard enough that the edge bites his skin. He stares down at his fist like he’s trying to crush the whole idea into silence.
His phone buzzes; a new message from you.
You: Let me know when you decide. No pressure.
Dex reads it once, then again, then locks the screen like the words might crawl out.
He stays in the laundromat long enough that the woman behind him finishes a load, folds shirts with aggressive precision, and leaves without ever looking his way. When she’s gone, the space feels emptier, and emptier feels louder. Dex stands and walks back out, cutting toward a quieter street where he can move without being watched.
He stops under a streetlight that’s half out, shadows breaking his face into pieces, and he finally types.
Dex: I’ll think about it.
He stares at the words and doesn’t send them, because he already told you he’d think about it, and repeating it is how you start sounding like you’re stalling.
He deletes the message and tries again.
Dex: When is it?
He deletes that too. Asking for details buys time, but it also pulls him deeper in.
He puts the phone away, jaw tight, and heads toward the river where the streets open up and there’s less chance of running into anyone who knows what his face means. The cold wind off the water keeps his head clear enough that he can outline the options without spiraling.
He says them under his breath like he’s reciting a checklist. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the wind. “Say I’m busy.”
He imagines your face when he says no. Not anger, but the way your eyes sharpen when something doesn’t add up. You don’t get clingy, you get observant and file things away.
He says the next one anyway, because he has to. “Go,” Dex mutters, and the word feels like glass in his mouth.
He imagines Foggy opening the door, Karen’s eyes snapping to him immediately, and the exact moment recognition hits, and he imagines your expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. He imagines Matt going still in that quiet way he does when violence is about to happen.
Dex doesn’t need imagination for that part, he already knows how that room ends.
He exhales slowly, then says the next one. “Wait,” he murmurs. “Stall.”
He can already hear you calling him out with that blunt steadiness you use when you’re not trying to be polite. He can already hear you say, “just tell me you don’t want to.” He can already see you deciding that if he won’t answer a simple question, then he isn’t as honest as he pretends to be.
He shifts his weight, fingers flexing. The coin rolls once across his knuckles again, smoother this time, then disappears back into his pocket.
“Change,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t mean his mind, he means his face.
A hat, glasses, different hair, different jacket, but none of it matters. Foggy and Karen will know the face. Matt won’t need the face, he’ll know the breathing and the posture and the way Dex moves through space like it’s measured in inches.
Dex stops walking and looks out over the river, lights shaking on the water. His mouth pulls tight, and he forces the words out like admitting them will make the next step easier.
“There’s no clean option,” he says, low.
He takes his phone out again and stares at your last message until his eyes sting. He doesn’t want to lose the version of you who invited him inside and made tea and kissed his cheek like it meant something but didn’t demand anything… but he also doesn’t want to step into a room and have you look at him like he’s a monster.
He unlocks the phone and finally types something that isn’t an answer and isn’t a refusal, because he can’t do either yet.
Dex: Can I let you know tomorrow?
He hits send before he can rethink it. Dex stares at the screen for a second longer, then shoves the phone back into his pocket and walks away from the river, not toward your building and not toward Matt’s, but toward the part of the city where he can disappear into motion and noise. He keeps moving because standing still makes the problem feel bigger, and the problem is already big enough.
Dex texts you the next afternoon while you’re in the middle of pretending your inbox doesn’t exist. You’re standing in your office with the door half closed, staring at a sticky note that says “CALL CHAIR (?)” like it’s a threat, when your phone buzzes on the corner of your desk.
Benjamin: I can do dinner.
Benjamin: Can we do it at your place?
You read it twice, then frown, not suspicious exactly, just surprised. Your first instinct is that it’s an anxiety thing, people are weird about meeting “the friends.” You’re weird about meeting “the friends.” The idea of Foggy’s loud apartment and Karen’s sharp eyes and Matt’s silent intensity would make anyone want a controlled environment.
You type back,
You: My place? Why?
The reply comes a minute later.
Benjamin: It’s quieter.
Benjamin: I’d rather be somewhere familiar.
You stare at the screen and make a face because you’re not sure you love the idea of your apartment becoming a dinner party site. You also know it would stop Foggy from turning it into a production, and it would keep Matt from having home-field advantage in the way he always does when he’s in his own territory.
You: Okay. But if it’s my place, you’re helping. Deal?
There’s a pause long enough that you picture him reading it with that still, careful expression he always has, like he’s deciding whether agreeing is safe. Then your phone buzzes again.
Benjamin: Deal.
Benjamin: What do you want me to do?
You exhale and feel your shoulders drop just a little, because that was easier than you expected.
You: Chop things, carry things, be useful.
You: Also, you don’t get to be quiet and mysterious in my kitchen. You’re going to talk.
His response comes back almost immediately.
Benjamin: I can chop.
Benjamin: I can talk.
You snort quietly and type,
You: We’ll see about the second one.
You set your phone down, stare at your desk for a second, then immediately pick it up again, because now you have to tell your friends and you already know Foggy is going to act like you just stabbed him.
You group text them before you can talk yourself out of it.
You: Ok, Benjamin said yes.
You: But can we do it at my place instead of Foggy’s?
Foggy replies first, of course.
Foggy: your place????? rude
Foggy: i cooked for you
Foggy: i even have a dinner table
Karen’s message comes right after.
Karen: Your place is fine. Are you sure you want that?
Then Matt’s.
Matthew: When?
Foggy immediately sends another.
Foggy: the betrayal, i am a hospitality god
Foggy: he can come to my home and be judged like everyone else
You type back while trying not to laugh.
You: Foggy, you cook like it’s a hate crime.
You: Also yes, my place. It’s calmer.
Foggy replies,
Foggy: i am calm
Foggy: i am the calmest person you know!!!!!!!!!
Karen: That’s not true
You: Thursday? At 7?
You: I’ll cook and Benjamin is helping. You all show up hungry and on your best behavior.
Foggy: he’s helping you cook?????
Foggy: who is this man??
Karen: Thursday works. I’ll bring wine
Matthew: I’ll be there
Foggy: i’ll bring dessert
Foggy: and my feelings
You: Bring dessert. Leave the feelings at home.
Foggy: impossible
You set your phone down and rub your forehead, then pick it back up to text Benjamin again because you realize you should probably confirm details like a normal adult.
You: Thursday at 7. It’ll be Matt, Foggy, Karen. I’m cooking and you’re helping.
He replies a moment later.
Benjamin: Okay.
Benjamin: What should I wear?
You stare at that for a second, then type,
You: Clothes.
You: No murder outfits.
His response is just,
Benjamin: Noted.
You laugh under your breath, then shove the phone into your pocket and go back to your desk like you didn’t just agree to host a dinner that has the potential to blow up your life.
Dex shows up at 6:15, which is early enough that you briefly wonder if he’s been standing on the sidewalk outside your building for ten minutes trying to decide whether early is worse than late. You open the door after the first knock, and he’s there in a plain dark sweater and jeans, hair neat in that way that looks like effort even when it’s trying not to.
“You’re early,” you say, stepping back to let him in.
“I said I’d help,” he replies, and he hangs his jacket on the hook with the same careful neatness he used last time. “I figured earlier is better.”
“It is,” you admit, then you gesture toward the kitchen. “Okay, wash your hands. You’re on chopping duty.”
Dex nods once like he’s been assigned a mission. “What am I chopping?” he asks.
“You’re chopping vegetables,” you say, then pause and add, “and if you chop your fingers off, I’m not taking you to the hospital.”
“I won’t,” he answers, deadpan, and you already know you’re going to end up laughing at him again no matter how much you try not to.
You move around the kitchen with that fast, familiar rhythm you get when you’re nervous but pretending you aren’t. The oven is preheating, the water is boiling, and the cutting board thunks onto the counter. Dex stands where you point him, sleeves pushed up, hands steady as he starts slicing onions into clean, even pieces like he’s done it a hundred times.
“You’re good at that,” you say, glancing over.
He doesn’t look up. “It’s simple,” he replies.
“Everything is simple to you,” you tell him.
Dex pauses long enough to glance at you. “Not everything,” he says, then goes right back to chopping like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach flip a little.
You don’t lean into that, because leaning into that is dangerous and you already agreed to tonight being dangerous enough. You keep the conversation in the safe lane, tossing him instructions and complaining about Foggy’s cooking and warning him that Karen will try to read him like an article she’s halfway through writing.
Dex’s knife keeps moving. “What about Matt?” he asks.
You hesitate, then decide honesty is easier than pretending. “Matt is protective,” you say. “He’s… intense. But don’t take it personally.”
Dex’s expression doesn’t change much. “Okay,” he replies.
You glance at him again, because “okay” is a weirdly calm response to meeting the kind of people you described, but you let it go. You have garlic to mince and sauce to stir, and you don’t want to spiral over his tone when you’re already hosting a dinner party you never wanted to host.
By 6:50, the apartment smells like actual food, which feels like a miracle, though you have a feeling Foggy is going to complain about there being no meat. You set plates out, wipe the counter, and tell Benjamin to stop trying to line up the utensils like he’s about to be graded. He doesn’t argue; he just shifts them anyway, quietly, as if you won’t notice.
Your phone buzzes on the counter while you’re tasting the sauce; Foggy’s name flashes on the screen.
Foggy: we’re here !
Foggy: i brought dessert and a personality
You roll your eyes and type back with one finger.
You: Come up. And behave please.
You set the phone down and exhale slowly. “Okay,” you say, mostly to yourself, then you look at Dex. “They’re here.”
Dex’s shoulders lift slightly as he inhales, then settle. “Okay,” he says.
You wipe your hands, then point at him. “You’re staying in the kitchen,” you decide. “Not hiding. Just… not standing in the doorway like a target.”
He nods, and you can tell he understands what you mean even if you didn’t explain it well. He shifts back a step, leaning lightly against the counter, hands loosely clasped like he’s making himself smaller without crouching.
You walk to the door, buzz them in, and hear the building’s downstairs latch click open through the intercom. You leave your apartment door unlocked because you’re not going to make your friends knock like strangers, and you head back to the kitchen to pretend you aren’t nervous.
Foggy’s voice hits the hallway first, loud enough that you know he’s already performing. “I swear to God, if your elevator is broken again, I’m suing the building,” he declares.
Karen answers him with tired amusement. “Foggy, you can’t sue a building.”
“I can sue anything,” Foggy insists. “I’m a lawyer!”
Matt’s voice is quieter. “You’re not that kind of lawyer,” he says.
Foggy huffs. “You’re ruining my brand,” he complains, and you can hear them getting closer.
You step toward the entryway, smoothing a hand over your shirt like it matters. The lock clicks as your door opens, and Foggy barrels in first with a bakery box balanced precariously in his arms like he wants it to be dramatic. “Hi!” Foggy announces, too loud. “Your apartment is cute. It looks like a catalog. I’m offended.”
“Hi,” you reply, and you take the box from him before he drops it. “Shoes off.”
Foggy freezes mid-step. “You make people take their shoes off?” he asks, scandalized.
Karen slips in behind him with a bottle of wine in her hand, already smiling like she’s trying to keep the energy normal. “Of course she does,” Karen says. “She’s not a barbarian.”
Matt steps in last, quiet as always, cane in hand because he uses it when he wants the world to assume one thing about him. His face is neutral, but his head tilts slightly as he takes in the apartment, and you know he’s listening to everything at once because that’s what he does.
“You’re all here,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Good. Don’t touch anything. Sit—or don’t—I don’t care, just don’t hover in my entryway.”
Foggy kicks his shoes off with a dramatic flourish and points at your bookshelf. “I’m touching that,” he declares.
“No,” you say immediately.
Karen laughs, then lifts the wine slightly. “Where do you want this?” she asks.
“Kitchen counter,” you reply, then you step to the side to let them actually come in instead of blocking the doorway like a bouncer.
Foggy moves first, still talking. “I can’t believe you made me carry dessert up three flights of stairs,” he complains. “My arms are fragile. I’m a delicate flower.”
Karen follows, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable,” she mutters, and she steps around him—
Then she sees Benjamin.
It happens in the space of a breath, the moment her eyes clear the entryway and land on the man behind you near the kitchen. Her face changes so fast you almost don’t understand it at first, like her brain has hit a wall. The wine bottle slips out of her fingers, and the sound of glass hitting your floor is sharp enough to cut through Foggy’s talking.
Karen makes a noise that is half gasp, half choke. “Oh my God,” she breathes.
Foggy’s head snaps toward the sound, and his mouth falls open as he follows Karen’s stare. “No,” he says, voice dropping into something stunned and small. “No, no, no. No.”
Matt doesn’t ask what happened. Matt doesn’t wait for an explanation. His body shifts instantly, the cane forgotten, his head snapping toward the direction of their reactions like a switch has flipped.
You turn, confused, and you see Dex’s face go still in a way you’ve never seen before. He doesn’t move toward you, and he doesn’t speak. He just stands there, controlled and quiet, like he’s bracing for impact.
“Wait,” you start, because nothing about this makes sense yet, “what—”
Matt is already moving. He crosses the distance so fast you barely register it as motion, and before you can step between them or even fully process what’s happening, his hand is on Benjamin’s shirt, hauling him forward and slamming him back against your wall hard enough that the framed print near the entryway rattles.
“Dex,” Matt says, low and dangerous, as his forearm pins Benjamin in place.
note: ummmmmmmm.................. sorry for the cliffhanger??? i'm just- i'm gonna go and you can scream at the void
Like a cat, Dex liked having the underside of his jaw scratched. Not that he would ever admit that out loud.
It happened by accident in a safehouse somewhere outside Amsterdam, the two of you trapped inside while Charles arranged new passports. The place was barely furnished, just one narrow bed (not that either you or Dex minded. He was quite clingy, after all), a television that only played three local channels, and a sofa so small that Dex’s knees nearly touched the coffee table when he sat down.
At this point, he had been restless for hours.
You could always tell when his senses started becoming sensory problems. Pipes knocking inside the walls bothered him, footsteps in the apartment above you agitated him. The refrigerator clicking on made his shoulders tighten beneath his shirt.
Dex sat on the bed with his elbows braced against his knees, staring at the curtained window with a blank stare.
“The building’s secure,” you reminded him, because the last time someone broke into your apartment to try to kill you, Dex stayed up all night for the next three days with a gun in his hand while you slept (or at least tried to).
He frowned, tapping his foot restlessly on the wooden floor. “The bathroom window doesn’t latch properly.”
“You wedged a chair beneath it,” you climbed onto his lap, peppering gentle kisses on his collarbone.
“Someone could still—”
You curled two fingers beneath his chin. You had only meant to tilt his face towards you, to properly make him look at you instead of the window, but your nails dragged lightly against the skin beneath his jaw, and his shoulders dropped by half an inch.
You stared at him with a sly smile.
Because you were curious and because he looked unfairly adorable when confused, you did it again. Your fingertips travelled from the point of his chin towards his throat, scratching gently through the faint evening stubble there.
His eyes fluttered.
You couldn’t help the tiny giggle that escaped your lips.
Dex’s eyes opened immediately. “What?”
“You like that.”
“I don’t.”
You scratched beneath his chin again, and his head tipped back before he could stop it.
The movement was almost imperceptible, but you caught it; you had spent enough time loving him to notice the tiny betrayals of his own body.
A smile spread across your face. “You’re like a cat.”
Dex narrowed his eyes at you (not helping his case), but he didn’t move away. In fact, when your fingers paused, his chin followed them slightly.
You shifted closer, and this time you used all four fingers, lightly scratching while your thumb rested against the scar on his cheek.
Dex exhaled through his nose and leaned into your hand.
It made sense once you thought about it. He spent every waking moment sorting through too much information, his mind cataloguing every sound, every movement, every possible threat. The kind, repetitive drag of your nails gave him a singular comfort to concentrate on.
His knees have since stopped tapping the floor, and Dex’s hands settled around your hips automatically, holding you there while you continued scratching as his eyes closed again, bearing witness the frankly adorable collapse of Benjamin Poindexter.
His grip remained firm, but it was no longer vigilant. He was simply anchoring himself.
“You’re melting,” you murmured.
“No,” he insisted. “I’m watching the window.”
“Your eyes are closed.”
“I can still hear it.”
You smiled and scratched a little closer to the hinge of his jaw.
Dex made a tiny sound, but not a purr, no matter how much you wanted to call it one. It was a vibration in his throat, an involuntary noise of approval that made his eyes snap open in surprise.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
You laughed, and Dex tried to glare at you, but you were still touching him, so the effect was ruined by the way his head remained tilted obediently into your hand.
Eventually, when the footsteps upstairs stopped bothering him, he pulled you into bed, throwing you on the mattress and clambering over you, putting his ears to your stomach. A car door slammed outside, but Dex only pulled you closer.
This time, you scratched gently through the short hair at the base of his skull before returning beneath his chin, maintaining the same rhythm.
His breathing followed it.
In. Out. In. Out.
By the time Charles texted to say your extraction would arrive in three hours, Dex’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his thumb tucked beneath the hem of your shirt in slow circles, while you traced your nails on his skin.
I wasn’t asleep, he would insist later.
But his eyes were closed, his breathing was calm, and every so often, when your hand slowed down, Dex nudged his chin insistently against your fingers until you started again.
—
Note: this is a queued post! I might not have time to immediately reply to messages or comments, but I am still active from time to time during this little break and will respond in due time lovelies!
𖤓 Ruled by the SUN, Leo is intense and shines too brightly to be ignored. His charm is difficult to resist, and once you’ve been seduced, there really is no going back.
𖤓 An element of FIRE, Leo is warmhearted and never backs down from a challenge - easily taking initiative in resolving complicated situations.
𖤓 Represented by a LION, Leo has a radiant spirit that thrives on admiration and celebration of their accomplishments.
This August, we’re bringing you three stories that feature Leo Reilly, who just so happens to be played by our favorite Leo actor. A character as spirited and bright as he is deserves a chance in the spotlight.
「 puppy love 」
♌︎ August 3rd | by @buckytakethewheel
The first time you and Leo met was as seven year olds on a playground. His first words to you? “You’re gonna be my wife”. Almost two decades later, you’ve heard that phrase leave his mouth more times than you can count. But is there a chance it will ever mean something real?
「 take a chance on me 」
♌︎ August 7th | by @phoenix-in-writing
It was with great reluctance you showed up to the country club, put on the practiced smile that had sold millions of records worldwide, and braced for the latest celebrity gossip to catch up with you OR The five times Leo Reilly tries to impress a popstar that already has everything money could buy, and the one time he actually does.
「 aye aye, captain 」
♌︎ August 10th | by @sheriff-bodecker
After proudly showing off his 200k investment, you and Leo decide to christen his new boat in your own way.
Summary: During your holidays, you are the spectatrice of a wet tee-shirt contest. Truth get unravalled when your best friend pushed to much on your nerves.
Pairing: best friend Ari Levinson x Small-Plus size Female Reader
Word Count: 2120
Warnings: none except maybe women lusting over men
A/N: The poll for the wet tee-shirt contest gave me this idea. I hope you will like it. Another will come asap with Jake.
You were waiting for your best friend to show up on stage. You were excited. It was not every day that you were seeing him in a wet tee-shirt. No, you were used to seeing him shirtless, some drop of water running down from his hair to his torso as he was coming out of his showers in your apartment several times a week but a tee-shirt? Rarely. You tried to find a place where you could look at him without him realising that you were looking unappropriately and drooling. You did not really think that he would see you. There were too many women and potential targets for him to look for you.
You felt a tap on your shoulder. You jumped, not waiting for anybody. You turned your head, seeing your tall friend in front of you. You were surprised about this. Ari didn't stop talking about the fact that he would do the contest to show how many women would want to sleep with him. He had been saying it since the beginning of the week, which was breaking your heart. You were used to Ari and his conquests or girlfriends. You had met so many of them that you wondered if he would ever find the one. Was the bigger the number, the easiest he would find someone? You never understood it. You knew that despite his big stature and his shananigans; he was a big softie dreaming of having a family. You just got used to him trying to find the love of his life in his sheets.
"Why are you not on stage?"
"They wanted me to wear a tee shirt."
You looked at him strangely.
"It's called a wet tee-shirt contest, not a wet torso contest."
"True, true, but did you see this." He gestures to his abdomen. "This should not be hidden."
"Of course not. You would have no chance if women had to talk to you."
He pushes softly your shoulder.
"Hey, that's mean."
"That's literally what you are saying."
"No, it's not."
"Then a tee-shirt should not bother you."
"No, but that means less women."
"You are improbable."
He kisses the top of your head.
"But you still love me."
"Unfortunately."
You took his hand, trying to go closer to the stage.
"Come on, I want to watch."
Ari followed you, gripping your hand bit tighter, which you did not realise.
All the contestants were finally in front of you. None of them would ever be as sexy as Ari, but some had big potential. You doubt that any of them needed a contest to find someone, especially if it was for a night.
"Who do you think is going to win?"
You looked again, and all of them could win, but you thought that one would appeal more to the majority of women.
"The third one."
Ari looked at the men. He huffed.
"Mister blondie with no hair? Come on, I could beat him. He looks like a baby with too many muscles."
You looked at your best friend, the new image in your head.
"Thank you for the visual. And you are not participating. Who knows if you would have beat him."
"I could."
Always according to you, but you would not give him the satisfaction tonight.
"Maybe."
Ari looked at your profile.
"You think he is hotter than me?"
You kept your eyes on the contestants.
"I think the women population is very interested in him."
"Come on."
You were now looking at him.
"You asked me who I think will win, not who will be my future husband. I don't understand why you get offended. We both know someone like him would never be interested in someone like me."
Something in Ari's heart got rid open. How could you even think that someone like this blond wannaby would not be interested in you?
"Why not?"
"Because he looks like he is the reincarnation of a Greek God, and I am me."
"You are going to have to explain it to me like if I am a kid."
You were starting to get annoyed.
"Ari..."
"What? No, I am sorry, I don't understand why he would not want you of all people."
You were the best friend he never had, the woman who kept him awake so many nights; the goddess that he thinks you are. Why would someone not want you?
You fully turned towards Ari. You were not even annoyed anymore. You were furious that you had to explain to him when he was one of the reasons that you would think like this. Ari and you had been friends since you were four years old. You did everything together. Even in high school, when he became popular, he stayed your friend. If you were not here with him, if someone was mean to you or was saying something depreciative, he was there to protect you. It was the same at university. You decided to go in the one that had the best of both of what you wanted to do in life. Ari insisted on it. He could never be far away from you, but has he ever wanted to date you? No, you were his friend. You would never be more than that for him.
"Because I look like this, I hate doing sports. He probably has as many women as you throwing themselves at him, so he would never pick an interest in me. And he would think that my job is boring or that I am boring for that matter."
Ari looked at you, really look at you. For the first time, something clicked. He would have never thought that you could see yourself with those eyes. You always seemed so strong, not letting what society think be a bother to you or so, he thought. No, you were not a fitness model or in the "normal" size. You had curves, and that's true that you were the heavier side of curvy, but he still thought that you looked beautiful. When you were laughing, your eyes had sparkles of happiness, but it's when you were vulnerable to him that he felt the luckiest in the world because you were trusting him with your secrets.
"He would be the luckiest man on Earth to be with you."
"Ari, don't. You don't believe that."
"Of course I do."
"And that's why all your hookups and girlfriends look like me? I don't think so."
For the first time, he understood you. You were always telling him that you thought that he had too much biceps and that you were interested in the more regular body type, not the one that woman would lust for, not that you thought that regular man could not be lust for but not like most women were turning their head or looking at him when he was in a room or walking in the street. The truth was that you never thought someone like him could love someone like you.
Without thinking, he touches your cheeks, leaning towards you. You can see it coming, but you don't understand what he is doing. His lips touch yours, and without thinking, you open your mouth to let him enter. You feel him, taste him, and you can't believe that it's him. You let yourself get lost in the kiss. Finally, received what you always wanted.
When you finally stop, you get angry.
"Why would you ever do that? I... you..., do you hate me?"
Ari stepped back at your fury.
"I love you. God, I have loved you for like forever, but you always made me think that you wouldn't want me, so I settled for being your best friend, but now, I don't know. Maybe you actually like me, or maybe I just misread things."
"My heart is not a game, Ari. You... you can't do that."
You leave, making a difficult exit in the sea of women, not wanting to make a scene and hurt that he would play with your emotions. Even if Ari was taller, it was difficult for him to follow you, women trying to get their simingly innocent touch and telling him that they could be there for him if he wanted you.
Ari looked for you for a slipt second before seeing you walking on the beach, your rainbow dress being unmistakabl ometimes, you could walk really fast when you wanted to. He stops you. The noise from the bar and the contest had faded. It was just the two of you. When he turns you to look at him, he sees that you cried. He knew how easy it could be sometimes as you always have been sensitive. He dries your cheeks with his fingers. You try to stop him by taking his wrists, but he does not.
He bores his eyes into yours, lifting your chin so you can not look away from him.
"If I thought your heart was a game, I would have played with it a long time ago. I never said anything about the fact that every time that I see you, my heart beats faster. Every time that I see you, I feel the happiest that I ever be. Everytime that I think about you, I think of your generosity, of your laugh, of the way your eyes gets bigger when you are engrossed in something you love, Everytime I think of you, I think of how much I wish you could be mine so I could shower you with gifts, words of affirmation, hugs but mostly love. I have been in love with you since we were fifteen. I never thought you could see me that way. I always thought you wanted someone more "regular," not the attraction type, because this is what you always told me. You told me that you did not want the attention. I am realising just now that it was the way of protecting yourself from the rejection. But how could I ever reject you? I should have made you understand what you meant to me a long time ago. I am sorry. I am so sorry that I didn't understand that I was hurting you. I am sorry that I did not understand that you thought you were not good enough. I should have shown you that you were good enough for whoever you want to be with. You are more than enough for me."
He carresses your cheek, tears rolling again on them.
"And for the record, all these women that I have been with, I wanted them to make me forget about you and help me move on. How could I have done that with someone looking or being like you? Not that it helped."
"Ari... I..."
"I would never lie to you about something like this. Not when you are the one who always had my heart."
You do not know what to say. It was unexpected. You had been friends since you were children. You always felt safe with him, but you never thought he could love you this way. All the words do not sink yet into you. You still have trouble believing that it was true. He was about to say something when you finally decided to tell him the truth. If he was telling his, you could tell him. If he lied to you, your friendship would be over soon enough.
"I love you too."
You look at him, tears still in your eyes. You tried to blink them away, but your emotions would not let you.
"I always had, I always will."
He leans again towards you. His index brushes your lips before asking with his eyes for permission to kiss you. You nod. He does not wait to kiss you again. His hands find your hips to push you against him before they circle you. He would not let you get away from him. After a long time, he puts his forehead against yours.
"I will always will too. Always have, always will."
Ari almost asked you if you were still thinking of a country wedding in a barn next to a pond full of frogs but decided that it might be a bit too soon to talk about your wedding. He knew that he would ask you very soon. He knew that he would not be able to wait to call you his wife. You always had been his soulmate. There was a reason he was more in your apartment than his. He was always more comfortable next to you. You always joked that maybe he should move in, and that would avoid a lot of costs. He always wanted to say yes.
Now imagine [low presentation wolf!reader] trying to get closer to wolf!ghost...
Ever since that initial meeting, ghost growling over you, all you can think about is his fur.
Maybe it's silly, obsessing over your superiors personal hygiene simply because he's a wolf. You remember being a small pup in your mothers lap, begging her to brush your fur just like your brothers and sisters. How your inner wolf loved the feeling of claws against your scalp.
You stare at ghost across the mess hall, where he's tucked into the corner and hunched over a plate of meat, and wonder if he feels that desire whenever his pack touches him.
"Don't mind him, he's not very social." Gaz blocks your line of site, tray loaded with his own food and a concerning amount of spinach to sandwich ratio. "Prefers to do stuff alone."
"....really." you hum, knowing well enough that no wolf hybrid likes to be alone. You're pack animals, after all. You stumble for the right words, humans and their sensitivity to the concept of hybrid dynamics, "So you don't like...bond...with him?"
"Nah," shrugging, gaz leads you to a table not far from ghosts, nodding to soap as he sits "he does his own thing, we learned fast he doesn't do bonding."
You frown more. Ghosts ears pin back, and you wish you had the ears of your sisters to hear whatever sound he made.
It goes on like that for days. Talking to ghosts pack while he stays far away, learning just how little they know his needs.
Ghost still refuses to talk to you. Though you can smell his scent outside your door in the early mornings, like he came to linger outside and left before you could catch him.
His eyes are always on you. Your inner wolf is happy to have so much attention, already planning how to make him a packmate.
The slightly more aware you knows all the precursors to a threat display. To a fight.
You don't know how your new team will react when it happens. You don't know if you'll win or if you'll lose your throat in a spatter on the grass.
All you know is how horrible it feels to be alone and without your pack. You and ghost are alike in that sense.
Ooo can I please request a Lloyd Hansen x fem!reader that goes undercover in Hansen Government Services to get information to shut down Lloyd’s mercenary business and to put him in jail, like she gets into a relationship with him to do this and stays over at his mansion most days now but she actually ends up falling in love so she can’t go through with it anymore and calls her handler to tell her him that she wants out, that she has fallen in love with Lloyd. Lloyd overhears her on the phone with her handler and is immediately be very angry, and while at first his instinct is to react how he usually does, he just can’t get himself to do it because he genuinely loves her🥺 He’d tell his men to be gentle but bring her to the basement and tie her up without hurting her, and he’d sit down and confront her. He’d tell her how disappointed and betrayed he feels but he can’t get himself to torture her, he asks that she be honest with him with the questions he asks🥺 She’d be profusely apologizing to Lloyd and would promise that their relationship was real, that it may have started as an investigation but it’s not an investigation for her anymore, she was planning to get out because she genuinely fell in love with him 🥺 He wouldn’t know what to believe 🥺 He’d bring her back up to her room and lock her in there while he goes after her handler and interrogates him and threatens him to drop the investigation. Y/n would even hand over the hard drive she has. She’d do anything to gain back his trust and would prove to him that she really does love him🥺
Mistakes, Trust, and Forgiveness -> Lloyd Hansen
Pairings-> Lloyd Hansen x Undercover Agent!Female Reader
Summary-> You were originally sent on an undercover mission to shut down Lloyd’s mercenary, but you end up falling in love with him and he finds out what you were originally going to do and questions his trust in you and he isn’t sure if he can forgive you for what you were originally going to do.
Warnings-> Fluff, Angst, language, fake dating that turns into real love, betrayal, crying, kissing, pet names
A/N-> @kpopgirlbtssvt thank you for the beautiful request🩵
Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes
Header made by my friend / divider made by me
GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator
As an undercover agent, your handler always comes up with a job for you. The job you just got assigned is you getting into a fake relationship with Lloyd Hansen and take his mercenary down in the process. You have to collect information in order to do that. You need to be careful too. You don’t want to get caught and suffer the consequences from him.
Right now, you’re at a local and popular restaurant Lloyd goes to often. As part of your undercover job, you had to appear like your date stood you up. So, you’re sitting at a table with a drink and acting like you’re upset that your date stood you up, which is what Lloyd saw when he walked into the restaurant. He walks over to you.
“Ma’am, are you ok?” Lloyd asks.
Now is when your undercover job starts.
“No. My date stood me up.” You made up.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He says softly.
You gave him a soft smile and took another sip of your drink.
“May I?” He asks, gesturing to the chair across from you.
“Only if you buy me a drink.” You say.
Lloyd smiles and sits down across from you. He motions for a waiter to come over to the table and orders both of you drinks. Then you two started talking like you two are getting to know each other.
“You look like a wonderful woman. It’s stupid of that guy to stand you up.” Lloyd says.
“At least someone cares about me.” You say.
Even though you and Lloyd just met, he can feel a real connection between you and him.
“I know we just met, but of course I care about you. You’re a wonderful woman and I would like to keep getting to know you better if that’s ok with you.” He says.
“I’m more than ok with that.” You smiled.
Lloyd smiles and you two exchanged numbers. You two said goodnight to each other before leaving the restaurant and then you went to your handler’s office.
“Well?” Your handler says as soon as you walked into his office.
“I’m in.” You say.
“Good.” He replies. “Do you know what to do?” He asks.
“Get information while I pretend to date Lloyd, be careful not to get caught, and discreetly update you.” You say.
“That’s right. You know what to do.” He says.
You nodded and left his offices. Next is the next part of your job, which is get into Lloyd’s mansion and get information while you’re fake dating him.
Now that you’re dating Lloyd, you’re also inside of his mansion. You’ve been getting information from Lloyd little by little so you don’t get caught. You were in the main room where Lloyd works getting information to send to your handler to take Lloyd down.
“What’re you doing?” Lloyd asks as he walks into the main room.
You yelped, jumped, and turned around.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He says.
“It’s ok. I was just checking out where you do your work is all.” You made up.
You walked over to Lloyd and wrapped your arms around him. You stood on your tippy toes on to kiss him.
“I like that you work from home, because that means I get to see you all the time and get more time with you.” You say.
“I like that too.” He says.
Over the next few weeks, you still continue getting information you need to take down Lloyd, but you’re slow and hesitant about it and not updating your handler as you do it. There’s a reason behind why you’re barely doing your job and it’s because you’re falling in love with Lloyd. You know you shouldn’t be falling in love with the man you’re supposed to take down, but you can’t help it. You love him. The more you fall in love with him, you eventually stop gathering information to take him down. You love him too much to take him down and put him in jail. You would never forgive yourself if you did that. Taking this undercover job was a mistake. Question is, how are you going to explain all of this to your handler? Till you can come up with what you’re going to say to your handler, you’re going to ignore all forms of communication from him.
“Your phone has been going off all day.” Lloyd points out.
“It’s just a wrong number.” You say.
“Are you sure? I can answer your phone the next time the number calls you and tell the person to leave you alone.” He says.
“You’re sweet for offering to do that, but it’s ok.” You say.
You gave Lloyd a kiss before he went back to work. While he was working, you went into a different room to call your handler.
“Finally. What took you so long to call me back?” Your handler asks.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this job anymore.” You say.
“What do you mean you can’t do this job anymore?” He asks.
“The weeks I’ve been doing this job, I actually began to fall in love with Lloyd.” You say.
“You can’t be serious.” He says.
“I am.” You say.
“You can’t fall in love with a man like Lloyd. He’s dangerous.” He says.
“I know that, but I can’t help how I feel.” You say.
“You’re making a huge mistake.” He says.
“No. The mistake I made is taking this job. I don’t want to take Lloyd down and put him in jail. I would never forgive myself for doing that.” You say.
Little did you know that Lloyd overheard your phone call with your handler. He heard everything you said to him. He felt his heart break. He really thought you loved him, not trying to take him down and put him in jail. He knows what he has to do now. He doesn’t want to do it, but it looks like he doesn’t have a choice.
“I want you two to take Y/N to the basement and tie her up. Do it gently.” Lloyd says to two of his men.
“Yes, sir.” They replied.
You hung up your phone and walked out of the room you were in, only to be met by two of Lloyd’s men in the hallway. You frowned in confusion when they gently grabbed you and took you to the basement. You didn’t fight them. You were just confused.
“What’s going on, guys?” You asked confused.
“Boss told us to bring you down here and tie you up.” One of his men says.
“Did he say why?” You asked.
“No.” He says.
His men left the basement and let Lloyd know that you’re tied up in the basement. Lloyd went down to the basement a few minutes later.
“Lloyd, honey, what’s going on?” You asked.
Lloyd didn’t say anything. He pulled a chair up in front of you and sat down.
“How could you?” Lloyd says.
“How could I what?” You asked confused.
“Stop playing stupid and tell me the truth!” He raises his voice.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, baby!” You say.
“Then why did I overhear a phone call of you saying you were gathering information to take me down in put me in jail?” He says.
Your eyes went wide. You couldn’t form a coherent sentence. You stammered with your words.
“I am so sorry, sweetie! I didn’t mean for you to find out about any of that!” You say.
“You’ve been using me this whole time!” Lloyd says.
“No! No, I wasn’t. I mean, I did in the beginning, but I haven’t been using you in a while. I swear! Please! You have to believe me!” You exclaimed.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore! I thought you loved me!” He says.
“I do love you, Lloyd!” You say.
“I would believe that if you weren’t trying to gather information on me to take me down and put me in jail!” He says.
“I made a mistake, baby! I told my handler that I quit my job! I promise I’m not gathering information on you to take you down and put you in jail anymore!” You say.
“I don’t believe you!” He says.
“You have to!” You say.
Lloyd stands up and goes over to the table where he has weapons to torture people. He looks at them. He goes to grab one of them, but just lets his hand hover over them. He can’t do it. Even though you betrayed him, he can’t torture you. He loves you too much to do that. He sighs and walks back over to you. He unties you.
“Stand up.” Lloyd says.
You stand up. Lloyd gently grabs your arm and leads you upstairs. He takes you to one of the spare bedrooms.
“I love you, Y/N. I really do, but you hurt me and betrayed me. Now, I can’t trust you or forgive you.” Lloyd says.
Lloyd left the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. You ran over to the door and yanked on the doorknob to open it, only to find out that it’s locked.
“Lloyd, baby, I made a mistake! I’m sorry!” You shouted, your eyes tearing up.
Little did you know that Lloyd was standing outside of the door when you said that. He was tempted to unlock the door and let you out, but he’s not going to do that. You betrayed him and now he can’t trust you or forgive you. You could hear his footsteps descending the opposite direction of the bedroom as he walks away.
“Lloyd!” You shouted, pounding the sides of your fists against the door.
Lloyd could hear you calling for him and pounding your fists against the door from the main room downstairs. He took a moment to himself and sat down. When you realized that Lloyd wasn’t coming back to unlock the door and let you out of the bedroom, your eyes filled with a new wave of tears. You walked over to the bed and sat down edge of the mattress, staring at the wall in front of you as you thought about what you did to Lloyd and your relationship with him.
“What have I done?” You asked yourself, your voice cracking.
Tears began to stream down your face as you let out a loud sob. Lloyd could hear it from downstairs. It sent chills down his spine. After Lloyd took a moment to himself, he tracked down your handler.
“When want you guys to go get this guy, bring him back here, and tie him up in the basement.” Lloyd tells two of his men.
“Yes, sir.” They replied.
While they did that, Lloyd kept thinking about your betrayal. It hurts him to think about. He knows he shouldn’t do that, but that’s all he can think about right now. Meanwhile, you’re in the bedroom crying your eyes out. You hate yourself for what you did to Lloyd and your relationship with him. If you could go back in time and change things, you would, but you can’t. When Lloyd’s men found your handler, they brought him back to Lloyd’s mansion, took him to the basement, and tied him up like they were told to do. Lloyd thanked them before going downstairs to the basement.
“Where’s Y/N?” Your handler asks.
“That’s none of your business. What I want to know is why you sent her on an undercover mission to take me down and send me to jail.” Lloyd says.
“Like you don’t know.” Your handler says.
“I do know. I just want to know why you would keep making her betray me. Her and I had a great thing going and then I overheard her phone call with you. I know everything now.” Lloyd says.
“If you know everything now, then why am I here?” Your handler asks.
Lloyd chuckles softly as he walks over to his weapons table. He looks at each and every torture weapon on the table. Then he came up with a different idea. He walks back over to your handler, standing in front of him. Your handler looks up at him.
“What? You’re not going to torture me like you have done to other people?” Your handler says.
Lloyd didn’t say a word. He threw a punch at him, giving him a bloody nose.
“Ow! Fuck!” Your handler cries out in pain.
Lloyd throws another punch at your handler before grabbing the collar of his shirt and getting in his face.
“This is what you get for ruining the only good thing I had going on in my life.” Lloyd says, his voice sounding low, dangerous, and threatening.
“You don’t deserve anything good in your stupid and pathetic life.” Your handler says.
Lloyd stares at your handler murderously before throwing another punch at him.
“Drop the investigation.” Lloyd says.
“Or what?” Your handler says in a mocking tone.
“Do you like living?” Lloyd asks in a threatening voice.
Your handler laughs at first and then realizes that he’s not joking around.
“Drop the investigation or I’ll kill you right here and right now.” Lloyd threatens.
“Ok! Fine!” Your handler grumbles.
Lloyd punches your handler one more time, knocking him out. He goes back upstairs and goes up to the bedroom you’re in. He could hear you crying through the door before he unlocked it. He stood outside of the door for a few seconds before unlocking it. You sat up immediately. You scrambled to get off of the bed when you saw Lloyd and ran over to him. You hugged him tightly. He didn’t hug you back. His arms just stayed at his sides.
“I am so sorry, baby! I never meant to hurt and betray you. I’ll do anything to get you to trust me again and to earn your forgiveness! Just please! I’m sorry!” You apologized profusely.
Lloyd gently pushes you away enough to get you to let go of him. You looked up at him with teary eyes. Your face is wet with tears.
“You hurt me.” Lloyd says softly.
“I know I did and I am truly sorry!” You apologized again. “Please! I’ll do anything!” You say.
Lloyd stares at you for a few seconds. It broke his heart to see you crying.
“You’ll do anything to earn my trust and forgiveness?” He asks.
“Yes! Anything!” You say.
“Give me the hard drive of all of the information you collected on me.” He says.
“Of course!” You say.
You went over to your work bag and got the hard drive out of the front pocket and gave it to Lloyd.
“You can destroy it. I’m not doing that job anymore.” You say.
Lloyd looks at the hard drive for a second before looking back at you.
“Thank you.” He says.
“You’re welcome.” You say.
Lloyd leaves the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. A new wave of tears filled your eyes and you whimpered. Lloyd spent the rest of the day looking at what you put on the hard drive so far. He read every single thing word for word. When he got to the end of the hard drive, he destroyed it without any hesitation whatsoever. Then he thought about yours and his relationship. He’s not sure if there’s any coming back from this. He’s not going to break up with you though. He loves you too much to do that. Even though you betrayed him, he still loves you and he still wants to be with you. He’s just going to make you earn his trust and forgiveness, which you intend on doing, even if it takes the rest of your life to do.
->->->
It’s been weeks since Lloyd found out what your original intentions were. You weren’t locked in the bedroom for weeks. It was only for that day and that night. He let you out of the bedroom the next day. Ever since that day, you’ve been trying to figure out ways to get Lloyd to trust and forgive you. You’re still apologizing profusely, but that’s not getting you anywhere. So, you decided to try something else. Baking. Everyone loves baked goods. You’re going to used baked goods a form of apology. If it doesn’t work, you’re not going to stop trying. You’re going to do everything you can think of to get the man you love to trust and forgive you.
You woke up early to go to the store to get the baking supplies you needed to bake the baked goods you’re going to make today. You couldn’t make up your mind one which baked good you wanted to make. So, you made a few different kinds. Is it a little excessive? Yes, but you’re willing to do anything to get Lloyd to trust and forgive you and this is where you’re starting. When you were done baking, you put one of each of the few baked goods you made on a plate and took them to Lloyd in his home office.
“Lloyd?” You say softly.
“I’m busy.” Lloyd says, not bothering to look up at you.
“I know, but I brought you a snack if you’re hungry.” You say sweetly.
Lloyd didn’t respond. He just continued working. You walked over to his desk and set the plate of baked goods in front of him. You stayed for a few seconds just in case he was going to say something, but he didn’t. Then you left his office and went back to the kitchen to clean up the small mess you made while baking. You were sad as you cleaned up the kitchen. Afterwards, you sat down at the table. You let out a small sob. Little did you know that Lloyd was in the entryway of the kitchen when you started crying sobbing softly.
“I’m doing everything I can to get him to trust and forgive me, but nothing is working.” You say to yourself.
Lloyd’s heart broke for you. He hates seeing you upset and crying. Even though he still feels betrayed, he couldn’t help himself. He walks further into the kitchen towards the table. You looked up at him as he gently pulls you up from the chair. He wraps his arms around you.
“What’re you doing?” You asked.
“Comforting you.” Lloyd says.
“I thought you didn’t trust me and forgive me?” You say.
“Even though you betrayed me, I don’t like seeing you upset and crying.” He says softly.
You leaned your head against his chest. At least, he still cares about you. That’s a plus.
“I’m sorry.” You apologized yet again.
“I know you are.” Lloyd says.
“Then what am I doing wrong? I’m doing everything I can think of to get you trust and forgive me.” You say.
“You’re not doing anything wrong, sunshine.” He says.
Sunshine. He hasn’t called you that nickname in a while. That’s another plus.
“Tell me what I can do to earn your trust and forgiveness.” You say.
“I don’t need to, because you’re slowly earning both of them.” He says.
You sniffled and looked up at him with teary eyes.
“I am?” You asked.
“Yes.” He says.
Lloyd brings his hand up to your cheek, gently caressing it and looking deeply into your eyes. Then he kisses you softly and passionately. The way Lloyd kisses you always takes your breath away.
“I’m so sorry.” You say again.
“I know you are, sugar.” Lloyd says softly.
“Do you still love me?” You asked.
“Of course I do.” He smiles softly.
You smiled and pecked his lips softly.
“I love you too, honey.” You almost whispered.
You’re not going to keep trying to earn Lloyd’s trust and forgiveness. You’re going to keep earning it till you fully have both of them again. You love Lloyd and you’ll do anything to get him to trust and forgive you. You know to never make that mistake ever again. You love Lloyd too much to hurt him and you don’t want to do that again.
