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i plan on being very transparent with you all about updates on series & when one shots will be released. you all deserve that respect instead of being in the dark! if you ever want an update, please feel free to ask me and i will provide you with my best estimate! you can also checkout the series' masterlist because i will be putting eta's on there as well!
i do not consent to stealing or modifying my works.
Finding Peterfelicia fans who actually like them both as their own respective characters and aren't only drawn to them for their sexual relationship/Felicia being this hot trophy that Peter wins is so so hard but it's not impossible. And they do exist.. and I love and care for you all
so sorry about the disappearing act! i've been busy with my new job but am planning to pick up on my stories again soon!
i have some new ideas ive been cooking up including a BIIIIIIIIG au for the lads boys that will be interconnected with each other and belongs to a fandom that is near & dear to my heart. that story will kick off with sylus as the first boy up!!
i also made another blog for another creative pursuit that i love doing! i hope to get that up and running again soon as well!
historical fiction writers scare me because they’ll casually say things like "this takes place in 1741" and then proceed to write with the confidence of someone who’s lived there. how. did u time travel.
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
hi grace!! I love all your works💗💗 thank u for hard work! are you planning on updating duty’s cruel embrace soon? I can’t wait to read more💗
aw hi my love 🥹🩵 thank for for reading my works! it means the world to me 🩵 and i was actually just writing for duty’s cruel embrace today!! here’s a lil snippet of the next chapter just for you!!! (don’t mind the grammar n spelling errors … tis a first draft!!!!)
we love possessive prince xavier on this blog!!!!!!!
telling the lads men you didn’t finish during night time activities!
tags: nsfw, slightly silly
!MDNI!
[Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus and Caleb]
Xavier
you're both still tangled in sheets, morning light slanting through the blinds, his arm slung heavy over your waist. he's half asleep, hair a mess, lashes fluttering like he's about to drift off again. you stretch lazily, yawn, then mumble into the pillow,
“xavie, please don’t feel bad but i didn’t finish last night.”
silence follows.
his eyes snap open. blue so bright it's almost glowing. he doesn't move at first, simply stares at the back of your head like he can laser vision the words out of existence. then slow. so slow. he props himself up on one elbow, hair falling into his face, voice all soft sleepy danger.
“...what did you just say?”
you shrug. keep facing away. “nothing. just saying. last night was nice but... y'know. didn't quite get there.”
he makes this tiny wounded noise, like a kitten getting stepped on. then he's rolling you over in one fluid motion, pinning you under him, thighs bracketing yours. sleepy bunny gone. “you’re telling me,” he says, low, lips brushing your ear, “that i had you moaning my name, clenching around me like you were trying to keep me forever, and you didn’t come?”
you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “maybe i faked it a little-”
his hand slides down, cups you through your panties. thumb pressing right where you're already getting wet from the shift in his tone.
“faked it?” he repeats, almost offended. voice cracking just a little. “my love. i felt you. i tasted you. i know what you sound like when you're close.” he rocks his hips once, hard enough you feel how fast he's getting hard again. “so either you're lying... or i need to fix it. right now.”
he doesn't wait for a response. mouth on your neck. fingers slipping under fabric. slow circles over your clit while he grinds against your thigh.
“so tell me,” he murmurs, breath hot. “do you really think you didn’t finish last night?”
you manage a shaky laugh. “xav- wait it was a prank-”
too late. he's already sliding down, shoving your thighs apart, tongue flat and insistent.
“prank's over when you come. twice. maybe three times. until i believe you.”
he doesn't stop until you're shaking, crying his name for real, legs locked around his head. when he finally crawls back up, chin glistening, eyes heavy lidded and smug.
“better?”
you nod. boneless.
“good. next time you wanna play games... just ask me to ruin you properly.”
Zayne
you walk into the kitchen, it’s early morning. he's in his work clothes already, making tea like the responsible adult he is. you shuffle in, wearing a(his) oversized hoodie, hair wild, and lean against the counter next to him. casual. too casual.
“morning. about last night… i didn’t finish.”
his hand freezes mid-pour. tea splashes. just a drop. but it's zayne. he doesn't spill. ever. unless something catastrophic happens. like this.
he sets the pot down. turns. slowly. glasses catching the light so you can't quite see his eyes at first. then he removes them. deliberate. folds them. places them on the counter like evidence.
“explain.”
voice calm. neutral. the tone he uses when he has to ask his patients something.
you pick at your sleeve. “just... y'know. sex was good. really good. but i didn't... y'know. finish.”
his jaw ticks. once. twice. then he steps into your space. towers. one hand plants on the counter beside your hip. the other tips your chin up. thumb brushing your bottom lip.
“you came multiple times,” he says flatly. “i counted. your pulse was 142 at the peak. you soaked my fingers, my tongue, the sheets. your thighs shook for a full minute after the last one.”
you try not to grin. “i was faking it-”
his eyes narrow. dangerously
“you think i can't tell?”
next thing you know your ass is on the counter, legs spread around his hips. his hand between you, pressing firm over your mound through the hoodie.
“tell me again,” he murmurs, lips at your throat. “tell me i failed to satisfy my girlfriend.”
“zayne-”
“no.” he rocks once. slow grind. you gasp. “you don't get to lie about this.”
fingers slip under the hem. find you already slick. he groans low. circles your clit with that precise, maddening pressure only he has.
“i'll make you come until you can't form sentences. until every time you think about last night, you throb.” his free hand pins your wrist to the counter. “apologise.”
you laugh breathlessly. “it was a prank- oh god-”
he curls two fingers inside. hits that spot. he’s relentless.
you come hard. fast. shaking on his hand while he watches carefully. then he licks his fingers clean. kisses you deep. tastes like tea and smug victory.
“next time,” he says against your mouth, “say it to my face while i'm inside you. see how long the lie lasts.”
Rafayel
the two of you are in his studio. paint everywhere. he's shirtless, jeans low, hair tied back in a tiny ponytail, brush in hand. you're perched on the stool watching him work. he glances over. grins that sly grin.
you sip your drink. then deadpan:
“hey. i didn’t finish last night.”
brush clatters. paint splatters the floor like blood. he whips around so fast the easel wobbles. eyes wide. betrayed..
“excuse me?” hand to chest. “what did you just say?”
you shrug. “yeah. it was fun. but... no big climax.”
his mouth opens. closes. opens again. then he's stalking over, paint on his cheek, abs flexing, looking at you like you just told him you don’t love him.
“it was fun?” he echoes. voice cracking. “fun. i worshipped you. i had my tongue so deep-”
he grabs your thighs. yanks you to the edge of the stool. wedges between your legs. hands gripping hard enough to bruise.
“you’re telling me the sea god didn’t make his bride come?”
he's already hard. grinding against you shameless.
“liar,” he hisses. but his eyes are glassy. needy.
you try to laugh. he kisses you stupid instead. its messy and desperate. hands shoving your shirt up. mouth on your tits. sucking hard like he's trying to leave hickeys visible from space.
“gonna paint you coming,” he mutters against your skin. “gonna make you squirt all over my canvas. then frame it. title it 'proof rafayel always finishes the job.'”
fingers between your legs. rubbing frantic.
“say it again. say i didn't make you come.”
“raf- prank-”
“too late to back out now.”
he drops to his knees. shoves your legs over his shoulders. devours. tongue flicking. sucking. fingers curling. moaning into you like he's the one getting off.
you come screaming. he doesn't stop. keeps going until you're pushing at his head, oversensitive.
he pulls back. lips swollen. glistening. grins feral.
“finished now?”
you nod. wrecked.
“well i'm not done. not even close.”
Sylus
you’re in his penthouse. it’s late afternoon. he's lounging on the couch, reading something on his tablet, one arm behind his head, sleeves rolled up(as always). you walk in from the kitchen, glass of water in hand, sit down next to him.
sip. then:
“please don’t get mad sy but i didn’t finish last night.”
his tablet lowers. slowly. then red eyes flick to you. unreadable. then one brow arches. he’s amused.
“...come again?”
“no that's the problem,” you say sweetly. “i didn't.”
he sets the tablet aside now. next, he stands. towers. then drops to one knee in front of you. hand on your thigh. squeezing.
“kitten.” his voice is velvet. “repeat that. slower.”
you hold his gaze. “last night was hot. but i didn't come.”
his laugh is low. his thumb strokes higher.
“you did. four times. i counted. you begged. you cried. you scratched my back raw. liar.”
he leans in. nose brushing yours.
“but if my girl thinks she needs more...” hand slides between your legs. cups. possessive. “i'll gladly give more.”
you're on your back before you blink. couch leather cool. him between your thighs. pants shoved down just enough. thick cock rubbing against you through your underwear.
“say it,” he growls. “tell me i left you wanting.”
“sylus- wait- i was just kidding-“
he rips the fabric aside. slides in. one slow deep thrust. fills you completely.
“kidding,” he echoes. mocking. hips rolling. “cute.”
he fucks you slow. punishing. every drag deliberate. thumb on your clit.
“you come when i say. not before. not after. when i decide you've learned.”
once you come, you come hard. shaking. he doesn't stop. keeps going. over and over. until you're babbling apologies.
finally he pulls out. comes on your stomach. marks you.
leans down. kisses your forehead. soft now.
“next time you wanna play... be ready to lose.”
Caleb
he’s over at your place. he's cooking breakfast with his apron on. humming. you lean in the doorway. arms crossed.
“caleb, i didn’t finish last night.”
his hand freezes mid stir. he turns. brows up. then down. processing.
“...you serious?”
you nod. solemn.
he sets the spatula down. walks over. gentle. cups your face. thumbs stroking cheeks.
“pips...” voice soft. worried. “why didn't you tell me? i would've-”
the guilt trip starts. you almost crack.
“i just... didn't get there. s'okay.”
his eyes darken. not angry. he’s just determined.
“not okay.” he lifts you onto the counter. steps between your legs. hands on your hips.
“i take care of you. always.” kisses your forehead. nose. lips. soft. then deeper.
“let me fix it.”
hand slips under your sleep shorts. fingers gentle. exploring. finding you wet. he groans.
“you’re soaked already...” circles slow. teasing. “tell me what you need.”
“caleb- wait it was a-”
he kisses you quiet. fingers sliding inside, curling. his thumb on your clit.
“shhh. let me make it right.”
slow build up. he’s patient. whispering praise. “so good for me. always so pretty when you fall apart.”
you come trembling. clinging. he holds you through it. kisses every tear.
then pulls back. grins sheepish.
“better?”
you laugh. breathless. “prank. it was a prank.”
he blinks. then laughs, bright, boyish. he pulls you into a hug.
“you little menace.” kisses your hair. “next time warn me. my heart almost stopped thinking i failed you.”
then softer. against your ear.
“but... if you ever really don't finish? tell me. i'll spend all day making it up. promise.”
what happens when he convinces himself you’re pregnant?
Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x AFAB!Reader
Xavier
The apartment smells like burnt toast and coffee because Xavier tried to “make breakfast in bed” and forgot to time the toaster correctly. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress now, knees bouncing like he’s about to launch into orbit, staring at the pregnancy test on the nightstand like it’s going to start talking to him.
Two lines?
No. wait- one line.
Wait- two?
He squints. Tilts his head. Picks it up. Holds it to the window light. Turns it sideways like maybe the angle will change the answer.
You’re in the bathroom brushing your teeth, completely unaware that your boyfriend is currently experiencing a full mental breakdown over a stick you peed on five minutes ago because you felt bloated after too much food last night.
Xavier’s already three steps ahead.
He’s mentally redecorating the spare room. Pastel yellow walls? No- soft lavender. Better for naps. Crib in the corner by the window so the baby gets morning light. He’s calculating how many stuffed animals is too many (answer: there is no such thing). He’s wondering if he can convince Jeremiah to be the godfather or if that’s too much pressure.
He’s vibrating.
When you finally walk out wiping toothpaste from your lip, he’s standing in the middle of the bedroom holding the test like it’s a holy relic.
“Babe,” he says, voice cracking on the single syllable. “We’re having a baby.”
You blink.
“Xavier… it’s negative.”
He freezes.
Looks at the test again.
Squints harder.
Turns it upside down.
“…It’s negative?”
“Yeah,” you say gently. “I’m not pregnant. Just ate too much spicy food and my period’s late. False alarm.”
His face does this thing where it goes from euphoric to devastated to embarrassed in 0.8 seconds flat. The test drops from his fingers. He stares at it on the carpet like it personally betrayed him.
“Oh,” he says very small.
Then he just… deflates.
Shoulders slump. Eyes get big and shiny. He looks like a golden retriever who was told walkies are canceled forever.
You step closer. “Hey-“
“I already picked names,” he mumbles. “And paint colors. And I was gonna ask Jeremiah to build a crib. I had a whole plan. I was gonna be good at this.”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
He looks up at you with those big, wounded puppy eyes.
“I was excited,” he says quietly. “Like… really excited.”
You pull him into a hug. He wraps both arms around you immediately, face buried in your shoulder like he’s trying to hide.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, rubbing his back.
He shakes his head against you. “Don’t be. I just… got ahead of myself.
A beat.
Then- muffled into your shirt:
“…maybe this is a sign to start trying,”
Your eyes widen and you start laughing.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, still a little shiny-eyed, but smiling now.
“I mean with the house now,” he adds hopefully. “There’s nothing holding us back, right?”
You kiss his cheek.
“We can talk about pets,” you say. “But maybe let’s wait until the food digests before we commit to anything.”
He nods solemnly.
Then he picks up the test again, stares at it for a second longer, and sighs like a man who’s accepted his tragic fate.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m getting the paint swatches. Just in case.
You snort.
He grins, it’s small, sheepish and hopeful.
Zayne
The living room is dead quiet except for the hum of the fridge omitting from the kitchen and the occasional beep from Zayne’s phone. He’s sitting at the small table, white coat hanging over the arm rest, his sleeves rolled up, staring at his notes app like it holds the secrets of the universe.
He’s been compiling evidence for three days.
Exhibit A: You’ve been napping every afternoon. Not just dozing, full-on, drooling-on-the-couch, “wake me in an hour” naps.
Exhibit B: You cried at a dog adoption ad on his phone last night. Actual tears. You don’t even like dogs that much.
Exhibit C: You ate an entire jar of pickles in one sitting. With peanut butter. He walked in on you double-dipping and nearly dropped his coffee.
Exhibit D: Your breasts hurt. You winced when you hugged him yesterday. He noticed immediately (he’s a doctor, he notices everything).
Conclusion: You’re pregnant.
He’s already mentally rearranged his schedule. Reduced OR hours starting next month. Found three different prenatal vitamin brands and cross-referenced their reviews. Bookmarked a crib he likes in matte white oak. Even googled “best changing tables” at 2 a.m. last night. He has a color-coded spreadsheet open on his laptop right now titled “First Trimester Checklist - Preliminary.”
When you finally walk in, yawning, hair messy, still in his hoodie, you freeze at the sight of him hunched over his phone, looking like he’s planning a military campaign.
“…Zayne?”
He looks up. Eyes bright. Almost manic.
“You’re pregnant,” he says. Not a question. A statement of fact delivered with the calm certainty of a man who’s already bought the baby shoes.
You blink.
“What?”
“The symptoms line up perfectly.” He turns the phone toward you. “Fatigue, emotional lability, unusual cravings, breast tenderness. I’ve tracked it. Statistically significant.”
You stare at the screen. Then at him.
Then you start giggling. Softly at first, you try to cover your mouth with your hand.
Zayne’s face falls. The excitement drains out of him like someone pulled a plug.
“…You’re not?”
You shake your head, still giggling. “No, baby. I’m not pregnant. My period’s just late because I’ve been stressed about that upcoming mission. And I always eat weird food combos, you know this.”
He looks down at his meticulously organized spreadsheet. Then back at you.
“Oh.”
You step closer. Take the phone from his hand. Close the app gently.
“You were really excited,” you say softly.
He exhales. Rubs the back of his neck, ears pink.
“I… may have gotten ahead of myself.”
You wrap your arms around his waist. Rest your cheek on his chest.
“I thought it was sweet. A little terrifying, but sweet.”
He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. Wraps his arms around you. Presses his lips to the top of your head.
“I already ordered prenatal vitamins,” he admits quietly. “Express shipping.”
You laugh again, muffled against his shirt.
“Cancel them?”
“…Maybe I’ll keep one bottle. Just in case.
You pull back just enough to look up at him.
“Zayne.”
He sighs, grin still on his face.
“Fine. I’ll cancel them.”
A beat.
Then, smaller, almost shy:
“…But if it ever does happen… I already know which crib we should get.”
You smile. Kiss the underside of his jaw.
“One day,” you promise.
He nods. Holds you tighter.
Rafayel
Rafayel had been rifling through your bag for that tube of lip balm you always "lost" (he knew you hid it just to make him look), when his fingers brushed something unfamiliar. He pulled it out: prenatal vitamins. The label stared back at him like a prophecy from the previous sea gods themselves.
His heart stopped. Then exploded.
"Oh my god," he whispered, clutching the bottle like it was a sacred relic. "She's… we're… I'm gonna be a dad."
He didn't waste a second, he bolted to the studio, grabbing his sketchpad and flipping to a blank page. "Okay, first: nursery. Underwater theme? No, too on-the-nose. Pastel corals and stars. And a mobile with glowing fish!"
He started doodling furiously, tiny crib, little onesies with flame motifs, a high chair shaped like a seashell. "Names! If it's a girl, Artemisia. Boy? Something strong, like… Rafayel Jr. Wait, no, that's narcissistic. Fine, Chaim. Perfect."
By the time you got home, the place was a whirlwind. Mood boards pinned to the walls, fabric samples scattered on the couch, and Rafayel on the phone ordering "organic seaweed supplements for expecting mothers" in bulk.
You walked in, blinking. "What… is all this?"
He spun around, eyes wide and manic, bottle of vitamins thrust at you like evidence. "You're pregnant! I found these! We're having a baby! I already planned the nursery. And names! Artemisia for a girl, Chaim for a boy. And I ordered a stroller that floats. Okay, it doesn't float, but it could if I mod it-“
You stared. Then burst out laughing.
Rafayel's excitement deflated like a popped balloon. "What? What's so funny? This is serious! We're parents now!"
You wiped tears from your eyes, still giggling. "Rafayel… those vitamins are for my iron deficiency. Dr. Zayne prescribed them last week. I'm not pregnant."
He froze. Blinked once. Twice.
Then he collapsed onto the couch, face in his hands. "Oh gods. I just spent three hours designing a floating high chair."
You sat beside him, still chuckling. "A floating high chair?"
He peeked through his fingers, cheeks pink. "It seemed practical at the time."
You ruffled his hair. "Well, save the sketches. Maybe one day."
He groaned, but pulled you into his lap, burying his face in your neck. "One day. But next time, warn a guy before you stock up on vitamins that look like baby prep."
You kissed his temple. "Deal. But the names are cute."
He huffed. "Of course they are. I came up with them."
Sylus
Sylus had been keeping mental notes for weeks.
You were late. Not just a day or two- five, going on six.
You’d been napping more, falling asleep on the couch mid-conversation, waking up groggy and confused.
You’d snapped at him over nothing yesterday (he’d asked if you wanted tea and you’d said “why are you always hovering?” before immediately looking guilty and hugging him).
You’d eaten an entire jar of spicy pickled radishes straight from the fridge at 2 a.m. while glaring at him like he’d personally offended the jar.
And this morning you’d gagged at the smell of his coffee, his coffee, the one you usually steal sips from.
He hadn’t said anything. Just watched. Tracked and hoped.
By the time you came home that evening he’d already mentally renovated the east wing of the penthouse into a nursery.
Soft gray walls (calming but not boring).
A crib with black wood and silver accents (elegant, not tacky).
A rocking chair upholstered in velvet (making sure it would offer utmost comfort for you).
He’d even looked up“non-toxic baby-safe paint” and ordered three different brands “just in case.”
When you walked in he was on the couch, legs crossed, looking far too casual for a man who’d spent the day mentally planning his child’s future.
You dropped your bag.
Kicked off your shoes.
Looked at him suspiciously.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
He tilted his head. Voice smooth. Too smooth.
“You’re late.”
You blink. “Late for what?”
“Your cycle.” He says it like he’s reading a weather report. “Six days. You’ve been fatigued. Moody. Craving strange things. Gagging at coffee you usually like.”
Your mouth opens. Closes.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes gleaming.
“I’ve already ordered the crib. And paint. And a changing table that doubles as a dresser. Black walnut. Modern. You’ll like it.”
You stare at him for a solid five seconds.
Then you avoid his gaze, eyes looking everywhere but at him.
Sylus’s face falls like someone cut the strings.
“…You’re not?”
You shake your head, exhaling a laugh. “No, you absolute lunatic. I’m not pregnant. My period’s late because I’ve been stressed about work and I skipped a few pills last month. The gagging? I’m pretty sure I ate expired yogurt yesterday. And the moodiness? That’s just me dealing with you.”
He blinks once. Slowly.
Then he drops his head into his hands.
“…my mistake,” he mutters into his palms. “I got ahead of myself.”
You shake your head, laughing, the overexcitement he showcased was endearing.
He peeks through his fingers.
Looks wounded.
Pathetic.
Adorable.
“I was even thinking of names.” he says mournfully.
You crawl onto the couch. Straddle his lap. Cup his face.
“You’re so stupid,” you say fondly. “And I love you for it.”
He groans. Drops his head back against your shoulder. Arms wrap around your waist automatically.
“I’m canceling the cribs,” he grumbles. “But I’m making the twins pick up paint buckets.
You kiss his cheek.
His nose.
His pouty mouth.
“I wouldn’t mind having kids,” you whisper against his lips.
He opens his eyes. Looks at you, soft, hopeful, right eye glowing.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales. Pulls you closer.
Buries his face in your neck.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he mutters. “we can start planning.”
You laugh into his hair.
“We could start trying right now...”
And somewhere in a warehouse, three very expensive cribs are already en route, needed maybe sooner rather than later.
Caleb
Caleb was in the kitchen making protein shakes when your phone lit up on the counter.
He wasn’t snooping.
He just glanced.
Reflex.
The preview text from Tara popped up like a neon sign:
Tara: “Cribs aren’t even that expensive! I guess now is a pretty good time to get knocked up. Luckyyy”
Caleb froze mid-scoop.
The protein powder container slipped from his hand and exploded across the floor in a cloud of chocolate dust.
Knocked up?
You.
Him.
A baby.
His brain immediately blue-screened, then rebooted into overdrive.
He pictured it instantly:
You waddling around the apartment in his hoodies with his baby.
Him building a crib at 3 a.m. because he couldn’t sleep thinking about tiny socks.
A little girl with your eyes and his stupid cowlick.
Or a boy who’d inherit his outgoing nature.
Names already formingx something strong but soft-
He didn’t even finish the thought before he was sprinting to the living room, phone clutched like evidence in a murder trial.
You were on the couch, eyes glued to the TV when he burst in, wild-eyed, covered in protein powder like he’d been in a cocoa explosion.
“Baby.”
You looked up. “Yeah?”
“Are you-“ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “Are you… pregnant?”
You blinked.
Brows furrowing, visibly looking taken aback.
Caleb’s face went from hopeful to devastated in record time.
“…No?”
Your mouth curled up into a grin “No, Caleb. I’m not pregnant. My period’s literally due tomorrow.”
He stared at you.
Then at the floor.
Then back at you.
“Oh.”
You could see the exact moment all his mental Pinterest boards of baby onesies and nursery inspo imploded.
He sat down hard on the coffee table. Looked like a kicked puppy.
“I… was mentally preparing,” he said quietly. “And I was thinking about how we’d need to baby-proof the balcony. And I was gonna look into knitting classes to attend.”
You crawled over and climbed into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He buried his face in your shoulder like he was hiding.
“I got excited,” he mumbled into your shirt. “Really excited.”
You kissed the top of his head. “I know.”
A pause.
Then- small, hopeful:
“…it’s not off the table though, right?”
You laughed against his hair.
“I’d love to start a family with you. Eventually.”
He exhaled, long and dramatic.
“Okay. How do 5 sound?”
He looked up at you, sheepish.
You kissed him hard, laughing into his mouth.
He kissed back, arms locking around you like he was never letting go.
