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Jun 29

Playing House

after class - part twenty-seven: “playing house”

synapse: on their extended cape cod vacation, henry and y/n settle into the quiet comforts of everyday life and discovering that the ordinary moments together are just as intimate as the extraordinary ones

pairing: professor!henry creel x reader

contains: fluff, penetrative sex, suggestive themes, food play, fingering, cunnilingus, age gap relationship dynamics

. . .

Henry came back balancing a tray in one hand and coffee in the other, nudging the door open with his shoulder.

Y/N, who had not moved from her nest of sheets and pillows except to roll halfway onto her stomach and groan once at the effort, lifted her head just enough to look at him.

He was wearing his glasses again, the stubble still there exactly as instructed, and there was something unfairly attractive about the sight of him returning with breakfast like this, hair still a little messy, sleeves rolled, sunlight at his back, carrying coffee as if he had always belonged in mornings with her.

Y/N smiled sleepily. “You came back.”

“I said I would.”

He shut the door with his foot and crossed to the little table by the window, setting the tray down with more care than the moment probably required. Coffee. Toast. Something with eggs for himself. Something sweeter for her, because apparently he had decided she was too sore and pathetic this morning to be trusted with respectable breakfast choices.

Y/N watched him through half-lidded eyes and said, “You look very domestic.”

Henry glanced at her as he picked up the ibuprofen bottle beside the tray. “You say that like it’s an accusation.”

“It’s definitely an observation.”

He came to the bed first with the water and ibuprofen, because he was, annoyingly, practical in the right order. Y/N pushed herself up onto one elbow with a grimace, took the pills from him, and swallowed them down.

Henry noticed the grimace immediately.

“That bad,” he said.

Y/N looked up at him over the rim of the water glass. “I’ve already told you I’ve been through something.”

“That is still an exaggeration.”

She handed him the glass back. “No, that’s memory.”

Henry’s mouth twitched. He set the glass down on the nightstand and then leaned over her just enough to brush his hand lightly down her side, like he couldn’t quite stop touching her even when doing something as ordinary as bringing her coffee.

Y/N caught his wrist and looked at him. “You’re not sorry at all.”

Henry considered that for one beat. “No.”

She laughed softly and let go of him.

He brought her coffee next, which improved the entire room instantly. Y/N took the mug with both hands and inhaled like it was medicinal, then sank back against the pillows while Henry moved to sit on the edge of the bed with his own cup.

For a while, they just stayed like that.

The room was warm with late morning light now, the curtains shifting faintly in the breeze from the cracked window. The ocean made itself known in soft sounds from outside, gulls, wind, the far hush of the water and neither of them seemed in any hurry to do anything about the day.

Y/N took a sip of coffee and sighed. “Okay. I can almost imagine standing.”

“Ambitious.”

“Don’t push it.”

Henry picked up a piece of toast from the tray and broke it absently in half. “Are you planning to move before noon?”

Y/N stared at her cup. “That feels personal.”

“It’s a practical question.”

“Then practically, yes.” She looked at him. “Emotionally, I’d like to stay here for the rest of my life.”

Henry glanced around the room once. “That would eventually become expensive.”

Y/N smiled. “See? There you go again. Ruining romance with math.”

“I’m not ruining anything.”

He handed her the plate he’d clearly meant for her, and Y/N shifted carefully enough to take it without making a fool of herself. The effort still showed on her face.

Henry noticed, because of course he did.

“This is why,” he said calmly, “you should have stretched.”

Y/N looked at him in open offense. “You cannot keep saying that like it was an available option.”

“It was.”

“It was not.”

“You lacked foresight.”

“I lacked functioning legs.”

That got a short, quiet laugh out of him, and Y/N smiled despite herself.

She took a bite, then another, and let the room settle around them. There was something almost shockingly nice about it, the tray between them, their coffee, the lazy silence, the fact that neither of them had to be anywhere. In Boston, even their mornings had always felt borrowed. Here, time just sat with them, open and unbothered.

Henry leaned back against the headboard after a minute, one leg stretched out, his coffee resting in his hand. Y/N watched him over her cup.

“What?” he said without looking at her.

“You know exactly what.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

Henry turned his head at that, brows lifting slightly over the tops of his glasses.

Y/N let her eyes drift pointedly over him. “You came back with coffee. You left the stubble. You look very husband-shaped right now.”

Henry stared at her.

Then, with complete seriousness, “That is a very strange phrase.”

Y/N smiled into her cup. “And yet you know what it means.”

He went quiet for just a second too long, which told her more than the answer would have.

So she changed the subject before either of them had to say something too real too early in the day.

“What are we doing today?”

Henry glanced toward the window. “Nothing quickly.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It is for the next hour in your condition.”

Y/N nodded, accepting that. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

She finished another few bites while Henry reached for one of the books from the chair beside the bed, one of the ones they’d bought the day before. He turned it over in his hand before opening it, and Y/N watched him settle more fully into the headboard.

“You’re reading already,” she said.

“I’m sitting here.”

“With a book.”

“Yes.”

“That’s reading behavior.”

“It is book-adjacent behavior.”

Y/N laughed softly and looked toward the stack on the chair herself. “Maybe later you can tell me what I should start first.”

“You know what you should start first.”

“Probably.” She smiled. “But I like hearing you say it.”

Henry glanced at her. “You’re exhausting.”

“And lovable.”

He didn’t answer that.

Which, as usual, was answer enough.

The room fell quiet again after that, the easy, domestic kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty. Y/N drank her coffee. Henry pretended to read and occasionally failed because she caught him looking at her over the page. Her legs were slowly becoming more trustworthy. The ibuprofen was beginning to do its job. Somewhere below them, a door shut and then laughter drifted up from outside.

After a while, Y/N set her empty cup aside and carefully stretched one leg out under the sheet. It still wasn’t elegant, but it was survivable.

Henry watched the movement. “Improving.”

“Barely.”

“But improving.”

She looked at him. “You sound proud.”

“I sound observational.”

“No, you sound proud that I’m recovering enough to do it all over again.”

His gaze stayed on her for one beat too long.

Then he turned a page. “You’re imagining things.”

Y/N smiled lazily and settled deeper into the pillows.

Maybe she was.

Or maybe the whole point of mornings like this, slow, soft, vacation-still, with breakfast on the bed and books waiting and nowhere to be, was that imagining things had become a lot easier now that they were finally allowed to live in the same hour together.

Henry lowered the book just enough to watch her move toward the open bag near the chair.

Y/N crouched, winced, then glared at the bag like it had personally betrayed her. She pawed through the clothes she’d packed, one dress, one casual top, one pair of shorts, the bikini, underthings, another dress she’d already worn—

Then she stopped.

“Oh no.”

Henry didn’t even pretend not to enjoy the drama in that. “What?”

Y/N straightened slowly, holding up one of the very few unworn things left like evidence in a trial. “I packed for a few days.”

Henry looked at her over the top of the book. “Yes.”

“We are here for two weeks.”

“Yes.”

She stared at him. “Do you hear the problem?”

“I do.”

Y/N looked down into the bag again, then around the room as if more clothes might materialize out of stress. “I have no choice.”

Henry’s brows lifted slightly. “No choice? For?”

She turned toward him with the full gravity of someone about to make a difficult but necessary wartime decision. “I’m going to have to steal one of your shirts.”

That got him.

Not enough to laugh. Enough to look pleased.

“Steal?”

“Yes.”

“They’re already in your possession half the time.”

“I’m trying to make a point.”

Henry shut the book and set it beside him. “What is the point?”

“That I was not emotionally prepared for practical vacation consequences.”

He watched her with quiet amusement while she crossed to the chair where he’d draped yesterday’s clean clothes, her fingers already reaching for one of his shirts.

Y/N pulled it free and held it up in front of herself.

Too big. Perfect.

She looked back at him. “This is mine now.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes. It is.”

“You have a flexible understanding of ownership.”

“I have a beautiful understanding of survival.”

Henry’s gaze moved over her where she stood in the middle of the room holding his shirt and very obviously planning her entire day around comfort and theft.

Then his eyes narrowed just slightly.

“You’re doing laundry.”

Y/N’s face fell.

“Oh, I hate that you’re right.”

“You packed badly.”

“You extended the trip in secret.”

“Yes.”

“So this is your fault too.”

“That’s not how cause and effect works.”

Y/N pulled the shirt over her head anyway, and the effect on Henry was immediate and exactly what she knew it would be. The cotton swallowed her up in all the right ways, too long in the hem, too broad in the shoulders, sleeves falling past where her arms naturally ended.

She pushed her hair out from under the collar and looked at him with a little false innocence.

“Well?”

Henry stared at her for one long second.

Then: “You’re still doing laundry.”

Y/N sighed deeply. “You have no poetry in you.”

“No, I have clean clothes.”

She made a face and looked back down into the suitcase, mentally counting what could still be worn and what absolutely could not.

The answer was not encouraging.

Then she frowned and glanced over at his things too, the shirt he’d just worn, the trousers draped over the chair, the steadily shrinking pile of clean options on his side of the room.

Y/N pointed at him. “You know you’re mostly out of clean clothes too.”

Henry looked mildly offended by the phrasing. “Mostly.”

“Yes, mostly.” She folded her arms. “So I’ll wash your clothes too, but you’re going to have to fold them yourself.”

That made his mouth twitch. “How generous.”

“I’m serious. I’ll wash. You fold.”

Henry leaned back against the headboard, far too calm. “You’ve assigned yourself labor and me the easier task.”

“Yes.”

“That seems unbalanced.”

“Folding is the physical labor. I just dump it in the machine and let it do the work.”

He gave her a long look and, annoyingly, seemed to accept that as fair.

Y/N looked from the clothes in her arms to him, then to the room around them. “And we need things.”

Henry’s brows lifted. “Things?”

“Yes. Practical things. If we’re actually going to be here for two weeks, we need to stop pretending we’re still just on a little romantic weekend.”

Henry was quiet for a beat.

Because he knew she was right.

She saw the exact moment he accepted it, the same way he accepted anything inconvenient but reasonable, with a kind of dry inward resignation.

Finally he said, “I’ll go into town.”

Y/N smiled immediately. “Look at you. Growth.”

“I’m not growing. I’m being practical.”

“That’s your version of growth.”

Henry ignored that. “What do we need?”

Y/N shifted the pile of laundry against her hip. “Detergent. Probably more toiletries. Snacks. Water. Anything else we realize we forgot because we packed like idiots.”

“You packed like an idiot.”

“We are a team.”

“That is not how blame works.”

“No, but it is how relationships work.”

That got him close to a laugh.

Y/N looked down at the shirt she was wearing, then at the armful of clothes. “I hate this.”

“Laundry.”

“Adulthood.”

Henry picked his book back up. “You’ll look very domestic.”

Y/N turned back to stare at him in open offense. “That is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It isn’t even close.”

She narrowed her eyes, but the smile kept trying to happen anyway.

Then she crossed back to the bed just long enough to grab the room key and shift the laundry more securely in her arms.

At the door, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“So it’s settled,” she said. “I’m washing clothes. You’re buying us things. Then you’re folding your own shirts like a grown man.”

Henry didn’t look up from the page for a second. “You make romance sound bleak.”

Y/N smiled. “You’re still taking me to bed later, so I think we’ll survive.”

That got his eyes up.

Immediately.

She grinned, victorious.

Henry looked at her, his shirt on her back, laundry in her arms, entirely too smug for someone about to spend part of the day in an inn laundry room and said, with quiet resignation, “Fine.”

Y/N’s smile brightened. “Good.”

Then she stepped out into the hall with his shirt on her back and a bundle of laundry in her arms, fully aware that there was absolutely no romance in what she was about to do, which, of course, was exactly why it would become romantic the second Henry Creel got involved.

. . .

The laundry room was quiet in the most boring possible way.

Not cozy. Not charming. Just clean tile, humming machines, a little folding table against the wall, and the faint chemical smell of detergent that made the whole place feel like a waiting room for chores.

Y/N stood there in Henry’s shirt, barefoot, with her arms folded and absolutely no patience left for domesticity.

The private washroom at the inn was small, two washers side by side, two dryers next to one of the washers, and enough room to pace if someone felt dramatic.

Which she did.

She had fed quarters into the machines, watched their clothes spin, read three pages of one of the books they’d bought, got distracted, reread the same paragraph twice, and now she was waiting for the wash cycle to finally end like it had personally insulted her.

When the washer buzzed, she looked up immediately.

“Finally.”

She crouched in front of it and started transferring the wet clothes over, one armful at a time, half-focused, half-drifting in the lazy annoyance of the moment. Henry’s shirt shifted against her thighs when she bent over, the hem riding up just enough that if anyone had walked in, they would have gotten far more of a show than the inn had paid for.

Luckily for her or unluckily, depending on perspective, the person who walked in was Henry.

She didn’t hear him at first.

She was still bent at the waist, reaching into the washer for the last few things, when two hands came to her ass, gripping without warning.

Y/N jolted so hard she nearly hit her head on the dryer door.

“Henry—”

He laughed quietly behind her, low and warm, and the sound ran straight down her spine. His hands stayed exactly where they were, gripping firmly before he pulled her back against him.

The front of his body fit solidly against hers.

His mouth found the top of her head, then her hair.

“I came to help,” he murmured.

Y/N exhaled, still half startle and half something much less innocent. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Henry’s hands moved once, slow and unashamed. “No, I didn’t.”

She tried to keep her voice level and failed slightly. “Did you get what we need?”

Henry kissed her hair again. “I did.”

Y/N turned her head just enough to glance up at him from where she was still half bent against the dryer door. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You remembered everything?”

Henry’s mouth brushed near her temple. “Of course.”

“What’d you get?”

“Detergent. More toothpaste. Water. Snacks. Pain reliever.” His hands slid from her hips to her waist and back again, not really helping his case that he had come here for practical reasons. “I am, as it turns out, husband material.”

That made her laugh softly.

Then Henry’s hand came to her jaw and tilted her face back just enough to kiss him.

Y/N kissed him back immediately, still twisted halfway against him, one wet shirt caught in her hand and forgotten. He tasted like coffee and the outside air and himself, and the sheer unfairness of him saying things like husband material in a laundry room while holding her like this made her knees go weak in a way that was deeply impractical.

When she finally pulled back, she turned fully to face him.

And only then did she notice the paper bag in one hand.

Y/N lifted a brow. “You really did the shopping.”

Henry set the bag down on the folding table beside them. “I said I would.”

She looked past him to the dryers. “You also showed up late.”

Henry glanced at the machines, now fully loaded and turning. “Did I?”

“Yes. The clothes are already in the dryer.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Y/N smiled, but there was a warning in it. “You missed your chance to look useful.”

Henry didn’t seem especially shaken by that.

He looked at the dryers. Then at her. Then at the empty room around them.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he said.

The way he said it made her pulse jump.

Y/N folded her arms. “For what?”

Henry stepped closer, one hand already coming to her hip. “There are some things we could do while we wait.”

That should not have worked on her as instantly as it did.

But then he was touching her like that, slow, sure, not hurried because he didn’t need to be and the laundry room, stupid and sterile a second ago, started feeling dangerously private.

“Henry,” she said, but it came out softer than intended.

His only answer was to pick her up.

Y/N let out a quiet, startled sound as he lifted her and set her down on top of the dryer, the metal warm beneath her thighs. He stepped in between her knees immediately, hands braced on either side of her, gaze moving over her in a way that made the cheap fluorescent room feel suddenly too small for both of them.

The shirt hem had already ridden higher from being picked up.

Henry noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His hands slid beneath the cotton and pushed it slowly higher, not taking it off, just revealing more and more skin as he went. His mouth followed the path downward, one kiss at her stomach, another lower, then another, unhurried and very aware of what each one did to her.

Y/N’s breath caught.

“Henry.”

He ignored the warning in her voice and kissed lower, hands steady at her thighs now. The scrape of stubble and the warmth of his mouth against the inside of her thigh made her inhale sharply enough that she had to grab his shoulders just to remember what room they were in.

When his mouth moved higher still, Y/N caught him by the shoulders and pulled him up with more force than delicacy.

Henry looked at her, calm and not calm at all.

“Anyone could walk in,” she whispered.

His eyes flicked once toward the door, then back to her. “No one’s here.”

“That is not the same thing.”

He leaned in, mouth near hers but not touching. “No one actually uses the laundry room.”

Y/N stared at him.

He was serious.

Which was somehow worse.

She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh and tightened her fingers at the back of his neck. “That is a horrific argument.”

“It’s still an argument.”

Y/N looked toward the door herself, then back at him, still perched on the dryer with his shirt pushed halfway up her thighs and Henry standing between them like he had every intention of testing just how private private really was.

The dryer hummed steadily beside them.

The room stayed empty.

And Henry, clearly encouraged by both of those facts, kissed her again before she could decide whether being sensible was worth the effort.

Henry kissed her with that slow, deliberate patience that made sensible thoughts dissolve before they could fully form. His mouth moved against hers, unhurried, while his hands slid from her hips down to her thighs, spreading them wider where she sat on the dryer.

When he pulled back, his eyes held hers as he lowered himself.

Not rushed. Not asking permission. Just sank to his knees on the linoleum floor like it was the most natural place in the world.

Y/N's breath stuttered.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher. The rough scrape of his unshaven jaw dragged against her sensitive skin, and she had to grip the edge of the dryer to keep from shuddering. His hands found the edge of her panties, simple cotton, nothing special and tugged.

Not off.

Just aside.

The cool air hit her wetness a second before his mouth did.

Henry kissed her like he was greeting something he'd missed. His lips pressed against her folds, soft and warm, and the first drag of his tongue was a slow, savoring lick that made her hips jerk forward. He hummed against her, the vibration sending a shock through her whole body, and did it again.

Slower this time.

Y/N's fingers found his hair, gripping without pulling. "Henry—"

He ignored her, mouthing at her clit with that same methodical attention he gave everything. His tongue circled, dipped lower, came back up with a slick, wet sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room. The dryer hummed. The fluorescent lights buzzed. And Henry Creel knelt between her thighs like a man at prayer, licking into her like he had all the time in the world.

She let him have two more passes of that tongue, long, flat strokes that made her thighs tremble before she caught his jaw and pulled him up.

"Henry."

He looked at her, mouth wet, eyes dark. Completely unbothered by being interrupted.

"There's a cleaning lady," Y/N said, voice lower than she meant it to be. "She comes in here. I'm pretty sure."

Henry blinked. "When?"

"I don't know when. Just at some point."

He considered this for a moment, still between her legs, still holding her panties aside. Then his hand moved, not away from her, but to his own waistband.

"That's not a real answer," she whispered.

"It's not a real concern," he replied, and the calm in his voice made her stomach flip.

He undid his pants one-handed. The button slipped free. The zipper rasped loud in the quiet room. Henry reached in, pulled himself out, already hard, already flushed and Y/N's mouth went dry.

He stepped closer, fitting himself against her entrance without pushing. Just let the head of his cock rest there, warm and insistent, while he looked at her.

"Still worried about the cleaning lady?"

"Yes," she hissed.

But she didn't close her legs.

Henry smiled, barely, just a twitch of his mouth and pushed inside.

The stretch was sudden and perfect, a single smooth thrust that seated him halfway. Y/N's head fell back against the dryer drum with a dull thud. He was hot inside her, thick in a way that made her forget what she'd been worried about for a second.

Then he drew back and pushed in again.

The dryer rattled beneath her. Henry's hands gripped her hips, steadying her, setting a rhythm that was quick and deep and absolutely silent except for the wet sounds of their bodies and the rough exhale of his breath against her throat.

Three thrusts.

Four.

Five.

And then—

A key turning in the lock.

Y/N's eyes flew open.

She shoved at his chest, hard. Henry pulled out in the same motion, tucking himself away with a speed that surprised her. She yanked her panties back into place, jumped off the dryer, and had her book in her hands by the time the door swung open.

The cleaning lady stepped in with a plastic laundry cart and stopped just long enough to take in the scene.

Y/N stood by the folding table with a book open in her hands she was very obviously not reading. Henry was near the dryers, one hand braced against the machine like he had definitely always been standing there thinking about fabric softener and nothing else.

The woman’s eyes landed on Henry first.

Of course they did.

Because even flustered, half out of breath, and not remotely where he was supposed to be, Henry still looked like a man who had walked into the wrong room and expected the room to apologize.

Y/N cleared her throat and forced herself not to look anywhere below his face.

The woman blinked once, then twice, then looked toward the shelf of folded linens at the back wall like she had decided, very wisely, that asking questions was not in her pay grade.

“Just need sheets,” she said.

Henry, to his credit, answered in the calmest voice Y/N had ever heard from a man who had been inside her five seconds ago. “Of course.”

Y/N almost choked.

The cleaning lady gave one short nod and crossed the room, pulling down a stack of clean white sheets with the weary professionalism of someone who had absolutely seen worse at an inn by the beach and intended to survive this shift by not acknowledging any of it.

Y/N kept the book open in front of her face and stared at the same sentence without comprehension.

Her heart was still hammering.

Her thighs still felt warm.

The dryer kept turning beside them like it had no idea it had nearly become the soundtrack to a public indecency charge.

Henry stood in impossible silence.

Not moving.

Not speaking.

Not looking at her.

Which was somehow worse than if he had.

The cleaning lady loaded the sheets into her cart, glanced once between them again with the tiniest flicker of suspicion or amusement, Y/N genuinely could not tell and then headed for the door.

Before leaving, she paused just long enough to say, “Dryer runs hot in this one.”

Then she stepped out and shut the door behind her.

Silence.

Heavy, immediate, humiliating silence.

Y/N lowered the book slowly.

Henry looked at the closed door for one second longer, then dragged a hand down his face.

Y/N stared at him.

Then, against her will, a laugh escaped.

It came out small at first. Sharp with nerves.

Then worse.

By the time Henry turned to look at her, she had one hand over her mouth and was trying very hard not to lose her mind entirely.

“You are laughing,” he said.

Y/N nodded helplessly. “She looked at you first.”

Henry’s expression flattened.

“That was so much worse,” she said.

He gave her a look that should have shut her up.

It didn’t.

“She probably thinks you’re some kind of—” Y/N had to stop and breathe because laughing was making it impossible to finish the sentence. “…perverted literature professor.”

Henry stared at her in silence.

Then: “Probably.”

That only made her laugh harder.

He came toward her then, slower now, more composed than she felt he had any right to be. Y/N straightened a little automatically, book still in one hand, the other holding the hem of his shirt down where it had betrayed her earlier.

Henry stopped in front of her and looked down with maddening calm.

“You shoved me.”

Y/N blinked. “A key turned in the lock.”

“Yes.”

“I panicked.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound offended?”

“Because you shoved me.”

Y/N stared at him for one beat.

Then she laughed again, softer this time. “Oh my God.”

Henry’s mouth twitched, finally betraying him.

There it was.

The faintest fracture in all that composure.

Y/N pointed at him. “You think this is funny.”

“I think,” he said, taking the book out of her hand and setting it aside on the table, “that next time you decide to seduce me in a laundry room, you should make sure we control the lock.”

Her mouth fell open. “I decided?”

Henry lifted a brow.

Y/N crossed her arms. “That is so unfair.”

“You were the one who invited me.”

“You picked me up.”

“Yes.”

She fought a smile and lost.

The dryer thumped steadily beside them.

The room stayed empty.

And now that the panic had passed, all that remained was the absurdity of it and the heat still lingering under her skin from what they hadn’t gotten to finish.

Henry glanced once toward the door, then back at her. “Do you still want to wait for the clothes?”

Y/N looked at him in disbelief. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“I’m asking.”

“After almost getting caught half-naked on top of a dryer?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him for another second, then shook her head with a laugh. “No. I do not want to be arrested for public indecency by a woman carrying fitted sheets.”

That got a real smile out of him.

Small. Brief. Worth it.

Y/N looked at him and felt herself soften all over again, despite the embarrassment, despite the still-racing pulse, despite the fact that her dignity had probably just been permanently laundered out of her body.

“You are ridiculous,” she said.

“And yet.”

“And yet,” she mimicked softly with a fond smile.

The dryer buzzed a minute later, saving both of them from whatever very poor decision might have followed.

Y/N pulled the clothes out first, warm and smelling like detergent and fresh heat. Henry took over folding without protest, which, honestly, was the least he could do after nearly ruining her ability to ever look a cleaning lady in the eye again.

He folded his own shirts neatly, as promised.

She held up a pair of underwear and looked at him. “I want you to know this is not what I imagined when I pictured vacation romance.”

Henry took the item from her hand with zero expression and folded it anyway. “You lack range.”

Y/N laughed softly and bumped her hip against his.

They finished gathering the laundry together, warm piles stacked into her arms and his.

At the door, Y/N looked back once at the dryers, the folding table, the innocent little room that had nearly become a crime scene.

Then she looked at Henry.

“We’re never doing that in here again.”

Henry opened the door for her. “That sounds definitive.”

“It is definitive.”

He followed her out into the hall with the rest of the folded clothes in his arms, gaze calm and just amused enough to make her suspicious.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re already thinking of somewhere worse?”

Henry looked down at her. “Because you know me.”

And unfortunately, she did.

. . .

Y/N lay stretched across the bed on her stomach, bare legs kicked up behind her, The Bloody Chamber open in front of her while Henry stood near the dresser putting away the last of the folded laundry.

The room had gone soft with late afternoon light again, all warm gold through the curtains and the faint salt breeze from the cracked window. Clean clothes were stacked in neat, proper piles on his side of the room because Henry apparently folded everything like he expected to be graded on it.

Y/N, on the other hand, had already shoved her share into drawers with far less dignity.

She turned a page and smiled to herself.

Henry glanced over while hanging up one of his shirts. “You’re enjoying it.”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Very much.”

He shut the drawer and looked at her over his shoulder. “That was quick.”

Y/N propped herself up on her elbows, book still open in front of her. “It’s so good. I knew it would be good, but it’s actually—” She searched for the word and gave up on precision. “It’s delicious.”

Henry’s mouth twitched faintly. “Delicious?”

“Yes.” She looked back down at the page. “The gothic reimagining of fairy tales, the writing, all of it. It’s weird and beautiful and kind of perverse in exactly the right way.”

“That sounds like your review copy.”

“It should be. I’m right.”

Henry slid another shirt onto a hanger, but she could tell from the slight shift in his attention that he was listening more closely now.

Y/N smiled and traced her thumb along the margin. “Listen to this.”

Henry glanced at her but said nothing.

Which was permission enough.

She read aloud, letting herself enjoy the shape of the words as much as the meaning.

“He lay on me; he and his skin of a man, his heavy skin that smelled of wet earth and ancient woods.”

Henry went still for half a second.

Y/N noticed immediately. “Hot,” she said referring to the line.

She smiled into the page and kept going, because now she was enjoying herself too much to stop.

A page later, she read, “He was the master of my destiny, the architect of my desire, and he knew it.”

She hummed to herself after reading it. “Accurate line. Truly relates to my real life.”

That got a reaction too.

Not a big one. Just enough.

Henry shut the drawer a little harder than necessary.

Y/N looked up over the book with far too much innocence. “You all right over there, architect of my desire?”

Henry gave her a look. “Continue.”

That only made her grin.

So she did.

She looked back down and read the next one even more carefully, because she already knew by the first few words that this would be the one to do him in.

“I know how the beast desires me; he wants to eat me, to possess me utterly, to swallow me up.”

Silence. Letting the line speak for its own.

Y/N looked up.

Henry was staring at her now, one hand still resting on the dresser, shirt half-folded and forgotten beside him. The look on his face was so immediate, so perfectly caught between annoyance and hunger, that she had to bite back a smile.

Then he crossed the room.

Not slowly.

Not hurried either.

Just with enough purpose that Y/N’s pulse jumped before he even reached the bed.

He stopped beside her and looked down.

“I’m gonna need you to say that one more time,” he said.

Y/N blinked up at him. “What?”

Henry’s gaze did not move from her face. “But naked.”

That made her laugh, helpless and delighted and not at all surprised.

“I knew one of them would get you.”

Henry took the book from her hands and set it face-down on the bed beside her.

“That was not fair.”

“You say that like I didn’t do it on purpose.”

His hand slid into her hair, fingers curving at the back of her neck as he leaned down and kissed her.

Y/N kissed him back immediately.

It was hot almost at once, no easing into it, no pretending they were going to keep discussing literature like adults. Henry’s mouth was already too intent, one hand braced on the bed beside her while the other found her waist and turned her onto her back with practiced certainty.

When they broke apart, it was only by inches.

Y/N looked up at him, smiling a little breathlessly. “Your libido at your age surprises me.”

Henry’s brows lowered. “At my age?”

“Yes.” She touched his jaw lightly. “You’re old.”

That got him.

His mouth moved against hers again, more punishing than the first kiss.

Y/N laughed softly into it. “See? Sensitive.”

Henry lifted his head just enough to look at her. “I’m not old.”

“You’re not young.”

He stared at her.

Then said, very calmly, “Dangerous line.”

Y/N smiled and touched his cheek again, softer this time. “I like it, though.”

That changed something in his face.

The sharper edge of him eased, just slightly.

She let her hand drift down his chest, then looked up at him more seriously.

“My muscles are still a little sore,” she admitted. “So be gentle.”

Henry’s expression shifted at once, not colder, not less hungry, just more attentive. More careful.

His hand moved to her thigh and stayed there, warm and grounding. “All right.”

Y/N searched his face for even a trace of complaint.

There wasn’t one.

Just that steady focus he always gave her when she said something real in the middle of teasing.

She smiled faintly. “You agree way too easily when I say things like that.”

Henry leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. “That’s because I’m listening.”

That warmed her all over again.

Her fingers slipped into his hair, and she drew him back down to her slowly this time, connecting their lips.

. . .

The room settled into silence again besides their breathless attempts to catch their breath.

Not an awkward silence.

It was a calm kind of silence necessary after ravaging each other like animals.

The ocean drifted through the cracked window in a steady hush, carrying the scent of salt and warm summer air.

Y/N lay comfortably against Henry’s shoulder, absently tracing circles across the back of his hand while The Bloody Chamber remained abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Henry looked toward it. “I think Angela Carter knew exactly what she was doing.”

Y/N smiled without opening her eyes. “Oh, absolutely.”

“You chose those passages deliberately.”

“I chose beautifully written passages.”

“You chose the ones most likely to derail my afternoon.”

She opened one eye.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Henry gave her the sort of look that said he knew exactly how full of it she was.

She grinned. “You really liked the book, though.”

“I like hearing you talk about books.”

That answer caught her off guard.

She turned her head enough to look at him.

“Really?”

“Obviously. You get excited.”

“I do.”

“You stop trying to sound clever.”

She frowned dramatically. “Don’t insult me. I always sound clever.”

“You certainly try.”

She nudged him with her shoulder.

“That was rude.”

“It was honest.”

“I liked my version better.”

Henry’s smile was small but genuine. “I know.”

She watched him for another moment before reaching over to grab the novel from the bed.

“I think it’s the language,” she said quietly, thumbing through the pages. “It isn’t trying to imitate fairy tales. It feels…older somehow.”

“Like folklore.”

“Exactly.” She brightened. “You get it.”

“I teach literature.”

“You also listen.”

“I try.”

She rested the book on her lap.

“I never really had anyone to talk about books with before.”

Henry looked at her.

“What about Nancy?”

“We recommend books to each other.”

She shrugged.

“But she reads differently than I do.”

“How so?”

“Nancy likes solving books.”

Henry tilted his head.

“And you?”

“I like getting lost.”

That made him smile again.

“I’ve noticed.”

She laughed softly.

“I’ll spend twenty minutes rereading one paragraph if it’s pretty enough.”

“I’ve noticed that too.”

She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m observing.”

“That’s what professors say when they’re judging people.”

“I’ll remember that.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Both of them looked up.

Y/N glanced at the clock.

“Oh.”

Henry frowned.

“What?”

“Our food.”

He stood and reached for the hotel robe hanging on the back of a chair before slipping it on.

Y/N watched him tie the belt.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you look annoyingly attractive in absolutely everything.”

Henry reached for his wallet.

“I appreciate your continued commitment to objectifying me.”

“I’ll never stop.”

“I’ve gathered.”

He opened the door.

A young employee stood outside balancing two paper bags.

“Dinner delivery.”

Henry thanked him, paid, and accepted the bags before returning inside.

The room immediately filled with the smell of fresh food.

Y/N sat up.

“Oh, that smells amazing.”

Henry unpacked everything onto the little table near the window.

“So,” she said, peering over his shoulder, “what did you order?”

“I took an educated guess.”

He opened the first container.

Her favorite sandwich.

No tomato.

Exactly the way she always ordered it in Boston.

Another container revealed a generous serving of fries.

She stared.

“You love me.”

Henry looked at her with mild amusement.

“I’ve seen you order it enough.”

“How do you know if I suddenly like tomato?”

His gaze lifted to her. “Do you?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

She looked down at the sandwich, then back at him.

“You really do know me.”

“I also bought an extra order of fries.”

She blinked.

“…Why?”

“Because you always steal mine after insisting yours are enough.”

Y/N laughed. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I ask politely.”

“You announce you’re ‘just taking one.’”

She smiled sheepishly.

“…Maybe.”

Henry handed her the basket.

“I decided to eliminate the negotiation.”

She accepted it with both hands, looking far more touched than she’d expected to be.

It wasn’t the sandwich.

Or the fries.

It was that he’d been paying attention all along.

She looked up at him.

“You know…” she said quietly, “…I spend a lot of time wondering what you notice.”

Henry met her eyes. “I’m an observer.”

She smiled to herself.

“I think that’s my favorite thing about you.”

He pulled out her chair for her before taking the seat opposite.

“And I think,” he said, “your food is getting cold.”

She picked up a fry and pointed it at him.

“That was almost romantic.”

“It was practical.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Y/N popped the fry into her mouth.

“No,” she said after swallowing. “It’s both.”

For once, Henry didn’t try to argue.

Instead, he simply reached across the table, found her hand resting beside her plate, and laced his fingers through hers while they ate, the evening settling around them with the easy comfort of two people discovering that the quiet moments were becoming just as memorable as the exciting ones.

. . .

It was sometime after two in the morning when the hotel room door clicked open as quietly as possible.

Y/N slipped inside, easing it shut behind her with practiced care.

She had almost made it to the little table by the window before she heard a sleepy voice from the bed.

“…Where’d you go?”

She turned.

Henry was awake, hair thoroughly mussed from sleep, glasses still on the nightstand, squinting toward her in the dim glow of the bedside lamp she’d forgotten to turn off.

“I was trying not to wake you.”

“I noticed.”

She held up a pint triumphantly.

“I wanted ice cream.”

Henry stared.

“You left the room…at two in the morning…for ice cream?”

“I couldn’t sleep and had a craving.”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“I understand Nancy now.”

Y/N laughed quietly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s a remarkably patient woman.”

“I am not that difficult.”

“You disappeared in the middle of the night.”

“For Cherry Garcia.”

She held up the pint again like it explained everything.

“I got the last one.”

Henry looked at the container.

Then at her.

Then back at the container.

“You sound proud.”

“I am proud.”

She crossed the room and sat in the chair by the window, already peeling the lid off. “I won.”

“There was competition?”

“…There could have been.”

Henry let out a tired sigh that wasn’t nearly as exasperated as he wanted it to sound.

“You should go back to sleep,” she said, digging her spoon into the first bite. “I just wanted something sweet.”

“I don’t have anything important tomorrow.”

“You have vacation.”

“Exactly.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “So I may as well be awake for it.”

Y/N smiled to herself.

A minute later he pulled the other chair beside hers and sat down.

She took another bite.

Henry watched.

Without a word, he reached over and took the spoon from her hand.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“I’d like to see what was worth waking the entire inn over.”

“I did not wake the entire inn.”

“You woke me.”

“Collateral damage.”

He sampled a spoonful.

Thought about it.

Then nodded once.

“…It’s good.”

“I know.”

She took the spoon back.

He took the next bite.

They passed it back and forth between them, talking quietly so they wouldn’t disturb the silence outside. The window was cracked open just enough for the sound of distant waves to drift into the room.

Y/N rested her chin in one hand.

“I like it here.”

“So do I.”

“It doesn’t feel…” She searched for the words. “…hidden.”

Henry was quiet for a moment.

“No.”

“It feels normal.”

“It does.”

She smiled softly. “I like normal.”

“So do I.”

She scooped up another bite but got distracted halfway through, launching into a story about something she’d noticed earlier that day on Main Street.

Henry listened, smiling faintly as she animatedly talked with the spoon in her hand.

Then, mid-sentence—

A small drop of melting ice cream slipped from the edge of the spoon.

It landed against the curve of her collarbone.

She stopped talking.

“…Damn, I was gonna eat that.”

Henry’s eyes followed the tiny streak without thinking.

Y/N looked down.

Then back up at him.

For a long second, neither of them spoke.

Finally, she reached for a napkin on the table.

Henry caught her wrist gently before she could.

She looked at him with a questioning smile.

“You missed a spot,” he murmured.

He leaned in slowly, his gaze never leaving hers as he released her wrist and brought his hand to her jaw instead, tilting her chin just slightly. His mouth hovered over the glistening trail of melted ice cream on her collarbone for a heartbeat before his tongue swept out, warm, deliberate, a single slow stroke from the hollow of her throat to the edge of her shoulder.

He caught the last of the sweetness against her skin, lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss where the drop had been, then drew back just enough to meet her eyes again, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

When he drew back, she was already smiling.

“I had a feeling this was going to stop being about the ice cream.”

“I tried to be civilized.”

“You lasted…” She glanced toward the half eaten pint. “…about six minutes.”

“I think that’s respectable.”

She laughed softly.

“It is.”

She laughed softly. “It is.”

Henry’s smile deepened, but his eyes had already grown darker, the easy humor bleeding into something hungrier. He reached for the spoon still sitting in the half-melted carton, his fingers wrapping around the handle with deliberate slowness.

Y/N’s breath caught as he scooped up a generous amount, soft, glossy, dripping at the edges and held it poised just above her collarbone.

“May I?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, pulse quickening, unbuttoning the buttons of her shirt.

He tilted the spoon, letting a thick ribbon of melted cherry-and-cream slide from the metal onto her skin, just above the hollow of her throat. It was cold enough to make her gasp, her body tensing as the stripe ran down her sternum, then slipped between the swell of her breasts in a slow, deliberate path. He followed the course with his eyes, watching it glisten against her skin in the dim lamplight.

Then he leaned in.

His tongue touched the start of the trail, just below her collarbone, and dragged upward in one firm, wet stroke, collecting the sweetness, tasting her beneath it. He pulled back just enough to breathe warm air across the damp skin, making her shiver before his mouth dipped lower, following the next stripe downward with slow, methodical laps. When he reached the valley between her breasts, his tongue curled, catching the last of the melt before it could drip further, and he pressed a kiss there, open-mouthed, lingering.

Y/N’s hand came up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

“Henry…” she breathed.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifted her from the chair as if she were weightless, one arm hooked beneath her knees, the other around her back. The ice cream carton sat forgotten on the table for a heartbeat before he paused, turned, and snagged it with his free hand without ever looking away from her face.

Y/N let out a soft, breathless laugh, but it died in her throat the moment her back met the cool sheets. The mattress dipped under her weight. The lamp beside the bed cast a honeyed glow across his features as he straightened, still holding the carton, and stood at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her like she was something he intended to take his time unwrapping.

She propped herself on her elbows, her nightshirt tangled around her hips. “You’re going to ruin the sheets.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was low, dark, stripped of the sleepy warmth from earlier. “They’re the hotel’s.”

He set the carton on the bedside table, then knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed, his knees pressing into the floor. The position put his face level with her thighs, and she felt a pulse flutter low in her belly as he reached for her ankles and tugged her forward until her hips rested flush against the edge of the mattress.

“Better,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, gripping her panties waistband and tugging them off.

He didn’t rush. He laid his palms flat on her inner thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin, and watched her through the fan of his lashes. The silence stretched, not awkward, but full. The distant crash of waves drifted through the open window. The curtains swayed.

Y/N’s breath came shallow.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

“I’m admiring.” His thumbs drew wider circles. “I’m deciding.”

“Deciding what?”

“Where to start.”

He let the question hang in the air, then leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the inside of her left knee, a soft, reverent kiss. Then another, an inch higher. And another, moving up the inside of her thigh with a slowness that made her skin prickle with anticipation. Each kiss was warm, deliberate, almost chaste, but his lips lingered, and by the time he reached the crease of her hip, she was already shifting her hips restlessly against the sheets.

He pulled back, looked at the faint sheen of moisture he’d left on her thigh, and smiled.

“Patience,” he said quietly.

Then he reached for the ice cream.

He dipped two fingers into the carton, coming up with a thick, glossy coating of melted cherry and cream. He didn’t spread it wildly. He drew a single, narrow line from the hollow of her knee up the inside of her left thigh, a line so precise it looked painted. The cold hit her skin and she gasped, her whole body jerking at the shock.

He held her thigh steady with his other hand, waiting until she settled before he repeated the line on her right thigh, mirroring the first exactly.

She lay there, legs open, two symmetrical stripes of cold sweetness gleaming in the lamplight, her pulse hammering in her throat.

“Henry…”

“Shh.” He licked his lips. “I’m not done yet.”

He dipped his fingers again, and this time he traced a slow, perfect ring around her clit, a circle of cold cream on the most sensitive part of her. She cried out, her hips bucking, but he kept his touch featherlight, painting the ring twice to make sure it was even, the chill spreading through her folds.

“There,” he said, satisfaction creeping into his voice. “Now I have a map.”

He lowered his head.

He started with her left thigh, pressing his tongue flat against the bottom of the stripe, just above her knee, and dragging it upward in one continuous, wet stroke. He moved with excruciating slowness, savoring every centimeter, the cold cream melting instantly on his warm tongue. He kept his eyes open, watching her face as he licked higher and higher, her breath hitching with every inch. When he reached the top of her thigh, just shy of her center, he paused, pressed his lips to the damp skin, and sucked gently, leaving a faint red mark.

Then he did the same to her right thigh.

The second time, he took even longer. He paused halfway up to swirl his tongue in a lazy circle over the crease of her hip. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin just below her panty line. He breathed warm air over the wet trail, making her shiver, before finally sweeping his tongue to the top and leaving another mark.

By the time he finished both thighs, she was trembling, her fingers twisted in the sheets, her hips unconsciously tilting toward his mouth.

He looked up at her, his lips glistening.

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

“You want more.”

It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, unable to form words.

He smiled slowly, then lowered his head to the one spot he had left: the ring of ice cream around her clit.

He didn’t lick it off immediately. He hovered, his breath hot and damp, letting her feel the warmth of his exhale against the cold cream. She whimpered, a raw, desperate sound that seemed to please him.

He let her wait another heartbeat, two, then opened his mouth and dragged the flat of his tongue across the circle in one slow, firm arc.

The sensation was overwhelming: the cold dissolving into heat, the roughness of his tongue against the slick, swollen flesh, the pressure that was just shy of too much. She bucked into his mouth, a broken cry escaping her lips. He didn’t pull back. He licked again, a full circuit this time, cleaning the entire ring, his tongue curving to follow her shape, tasting the mingled cherry and her own wetness that had begun to seep out.

He didn’t stop there.

He set his mouth against her properly, his lips sealing around her clit, and sucked, soft, then harder, pulling her into the warmth of his mouth. She gasped, her hands flying down to grip his hair.

He let her hold him there, let her feel the rhythm of his tongue: slow, methodical circles, alternating between flat and pointed, flicking and sucking, drawing out every trace of sweetness while drinking in her taste.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough against her skin. “You want to know something, sweetheart?”

She nod her head, barely capable of thought.

“You taste better than ice cream.” He licked her again, a long, slow stroke from her entrance to her clit. “I should’ve thought of this sooner.”

She managed to let out a breathless chuckle. “Horn dog—“

He slid two fingers into her without warning, cold from the ice cream, but quickly warming inside her and she arched off the bed, a sharp moan tearing from her throat. He crooked them, finding the spot that made her see stars, and thrust them slowly, deliberately, in time with the strokes of his tongue.

“I’m going to make you come,” he said against her, his breath hot and damp. “And I’m going to taste every second of it.”

He doubled his pace: fingers sliding in and out, curling, pressing, while his tongue worked her clit in tight, steady circles. He varied the speed, fast and light, then deep and slow, then a torturous pause where he simply held her with his mouth closed around her, sucking gently, making her feel the pulse of her own blood against his lips.

The room swam. The waves crashed louder. Her thighs tensed around his head, and she felt the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, spreading outward until her whole body was a taut wire waiting to snap.

“Henry…”

“Let go,” he whispered, his tongue flicking once, twice, three times in rapid succession. “I have you.”

She came.

It hit her like a wave, sudden and deep, rolling through her in long, pulsing surges. She cried out, his name, a broken word and her hips ground against his mouth as he stayed with her, never stopping, licking her through every contraction, drawing out the pleasure until she was gasping, oversensitive, collapsing into the sheets.

He gentled his touch, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing licks, pressing a final kiss to her clit before lifting his head.

His chin was slick. His eyes were dark and satisfied.

He crawled up the bed, bracing himself above her, and kissed her, slow, deep, letting her taste herself mixed with cherry.

When he broke away, she was still breathless.

He smiled, soft and possessive.

“Now,” he murmured, “do you want to finish the ice cream?”

She laughed weakly, pulling him down for another kiss.

“I think you already did.”

. . .

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big-poppa23

Jun 29

Playing House

after class - part twenty-seven: “playing house”

pairing: professor!henry creel x reader

contains: fluff, penetrative sex, suggestive themes, food play, fingering, cunnilingus, age gap relationship dynamics

. . .

Henry came back balancing a tray in one hand and coffee in the other, nudging the door open with his shoulder.

Y/N, who had not moved from her nest of sheets and pillows except to roll halfway onto her stomach and groan once at the effort, lifted her head just enough to look at him.

Y/N smiled sleepily. “You came back.”

“I said I would.”

Y/N watched him through half-lidded eyes and said, “You look very domestic.”

Henry glanced at her as he picked up the ibuprofen bottle beside the tray. “You say that like it’s an accusation.”

“It’s definitely an observation.”

Henry noticed the grimace immediately.

“That bad,” he said.

Y/N looked up at him over the rim of the water glass. “I’ve already told you I’ve been through something.”

“That is still an exaggeration.”

She handed him the glass back. “No, that’s memory.”

Y/N caught his wrist and looked at him. “You’re not sorry at all.”

Henry considered that for one beat. “No.”

She laughed softly and let go of him.

For a while, they just stayed like that.

Y/N took a sip of coffee and sighed. “Okay. I can almost imagine standing.”

“Ambitious.”

“Don’t push it.”

Henry picked up a piece of toast from the tray and broke it absently in half. “Are you planning to move before noon?”

Y/N stared at her cup. “That feels personal.”

“It’s a practical question.”

“Then practically, yes.” She looked at him. “Emotionally, I’d like to stay here for the rest of my life.”

Henry glanced around the room once. “That would eventually become expensive.”

Y/N smiled. “See? There you go again. Ruining romance with math.”

“I’m not ruining anything.”

He handed her the plate he’d clearly meant for her, and Y/N shifted carefully enough to take it without making a fool of herself. The effort still showed on her face.

Henry noticed, because of course he did.

“This is why,” he said calmly, “you should have stretched.”

Y/N looked at him in open offense. “You cannot keep saying that like it was an available option.”

“It was.”

“It was not.”

“You lacked foresight.”

“I lacked functioning legs.”

That got a short, quiet laugh out of him, and Y/N smiled despite herself.

Henry leaned back against the headboard after a minute, one leg stretched out, his coffee resting in his hand. Y/N watched him over her cup.

“What?” he said without looking at her.

“You know exactly what.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

Henry turned his head at that, brows lifting slightly over the tops of his glasses.

Y/N let her eyes drift pointedly over him. “You came back with coffee. You left the stubble. You look very husband-shaped right now.”

Henry stared at her.

Then, with complete seriousness, “That is a very strange phrase.”

Y/N smiled into her cup. “And yet you know what it means.”

He went quiet for just a second too long, which told her more than the answer would have.

So she changed the subject before either of them had to say something too real too early in the day.

“What are we doing today?”

Henry glanced toward the window. “Nothing quickly.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It is for the next hour in your condition.”

Y/N nodded, accepting that. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“You’re reading already,” she said.

“I’m sitting here.”

“With a book.”

“Yes.”

“That’s reading behavior.”

“It is book-adjacent behavior.”

Y/N laughed softly and looked toward the stack on the chair herself. “Maybe later you can tell me what I should start first.”

“You know what you should start first.”

“Probably.” She smiled. “But I like hearing you say it.”

Henry glanced at her. “You’re exhausting.”

“And lovable.”

He didn’t answer that.

Which, as usual, was answer enough.

After a while, Y/N set her empty cup aside and carefully stretched one leg out under the sheet. It still wasn’t elegant, but it was survivable.

Henry watched the movement. “Improving.”

“Barely.”

“But improving.”

She looked at him. “You sound proud.”

“I sound observational.”

“No, you sound proud that I’m recovering enough to do it all over again.”

His gaze stayed on her for one beat too long.

Then he turned a page. “You’re imagining things.”

Y/N smiled lazily and settled deeper into the pillows.

Maybe she was.

Henry lowered the book just enough to watch her move toward the open bag near the chair.

Then she stopped.

“Oh no.”

Henry didn’t even pretend not to enjoy the drama in that. “What?”

Y/N straightened slowly, holding up one of the very few unworn things left like evidence in a trial. “I packed for a few days.”

Henry looked at her over the top of the book. “Yes.”

“We are here for two weeks.”

“Yes.”

She stared at him. “Do you hear the problem?”

“I do.”

Y/N looked down into the bag again, then around the room as if more clothes might materialize out of stress. “I have no choice.”

Henry’s brows lifted slightly. “No choice? For?”

She turned toward him with the full gravity of someone about to make a difficult but necessary wartime decision. “I’m going to have to steal one of your shirts.”

That got him.

Not enough to laugh. Enough to look pleased.

“Steal?”

“Yes.”

“They’re already in your possession half the time.”

“I’m trying to make a point.”

Henry shut the book and set it beside him. “What is the point?”

“That I was not emotionally prepared for practical vacation consequences.”

He watched her with quiet amusement while she crossed to the chair where he’d draped yesterday’s clean clothes, her fingers already reaching for one of his shirts.

Y/N pulled it free and held it up in front of herself.

Too big. Perfect.

She looked back at him. “This is mine now.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes. It is.”

“You have a flexible understanding of ownership.”

“I have a beautiful understanding of survival.”

Henry’s gaze moved over her where she stood in the middle of the room holding his shirt and very obviously planning her entire day around comfort and theft.

Then his eyes narrowed just slightly.

“You’re doing laundry.”

Y/N’s face fell.

“Oh, I hate that you’re right.”

“You packed badly.”

“You extended the trip in secret.”

“Yes.”

“So this is your fault too.”

“That’s not how cause and effect works.”

She pushed her hair out from under the collar and looked at him with a little false innocence.

“Well?”

Henry stared at her for one long second.

Then: “You’re still doing laundry.”

Y/N sighed deeply. “You have no poetry in you.”

“No, I have clean clothes.”

She made a face and looked back down into the suitcase, mentally counting what could still be worn and what absolutely could not.

The answer was not encouraging.

Then she frowned and glanced over at his things too, the shirt he’d just worn, the trousers draped over the chair, the steadily shrinking pile of clean options on his side of the room.

Y/N pointed at him. “You know you’re mostly out of clean clothes too.”

Henry looked mildly offended by the phrasing. “Mostly.”

“Yes, mostly.” She folded her arms. “So I’ll wash your clothes too, but you’re going to have to fold them yourself.”

That made his mouth twitch. “How generous.”

“I’m serious. I’ll wash. You fold.”

Henry leaned back against the headboard, far too calm. “You’ve assigned yourself labor and me the easier task.”

“Yes.”

“That seems unbalanced.”

“Folding is the physical labor. I just dump it in the machine and let it do the work.”

He gave her a long look and, annoyingly, seemed to accept that as fair.

Y/N looked from the clothes in her arms to him, then to the room around them. “And we need things.”

Henry’s brows lifted. “Things?”

“Yes. Practical things. If we’re actually going to be here for two weeks, we need to stop pretending we’re still just on a little romantic weekend.”

Henry was quiet for a beat.

Because he knew she was right.

She saw the exact moment he accepted it, the same way he accepted anything inconvenient but reasonable, with a kind of dry inward resignation.

Finally he said, “I’ll go into town.”

Y/N smiled immediately. “Look at you. Growth.”

“I’m not growing. I’m being practical.”

“That’s your version of growth.”

Henry ignored that. “What do we need?”

Y/N shifted the pile of laundry against her hip. “Detergent. Probably more toiletries. Snacks. Water. Anything else we realize we forgot because we packed like idiots.”

“You packed like an idiot.”

“We are a team.”

“That is not how blame works.”

“No, but it is how relationships work.”

That got him close to a laugh.

Y/N looked down at the shirt she was wearing, then at the armful of clothes. “I hate this.”

“Laundry.”

“Adulthood.”

Henry picked his book back up. “You’ll look very domestic.”

Y/N turned back to stare at him in open offense. “That is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It isn’t even close.”

She narrowed her eyes, but the smile kept trying to happen anyway.

Then she crossed back to the bed just long enough to grab the room key and shift the laundry more securely in her arms.

At the door, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“So it’s settled,” she said. “I’m washing clothes. You’re buying us things. Then you’re folding your own shirts like a grown man.”

Henry didn’t look up from the page for a second. “You make romance sound bleak.”

Y/N smiled. “You’re still taking me to bed later, so I think we’ll survive.”

That got his eyes up.

Immediately.

She grinned, victorious.

Henry looked at her, his shirt on her back, laundry in her arms, entirely too smug for someone about to spend part of the day in an inn laundry room and said, with quiet resignation, “Fine.”

Y/N’s smile brightened. “Good.”

. . .

The laundry room was quiet in the most boring possible way.

Y/N stood there in Henry’s shirt, barefoot, with her arms folded and absolutely no patience left for domesticity.

The private washroom at the inn was small, two washers side by side, two dryers next to one of the washers, and enough room to pace if someone felt dramatic.

Which she did.

When the washer buzzed, she looked up immediately.

“Finally.”

Luckily for her or unluckily, depending on perspective, the person who walked in was Henry.

She didn’t hear him at first.

She was still bent at the waist, reaching into the washer for the last few things, when two hands came to her ass, gripping without warning.

Y/N jolted so hard she nearly hit her head on the dryer door.

“Henry—”

He laughed quietly behind her, low and warm, and the sound ran straight down her spine. His hands stayed exactly where they were, gripping firmly before he pulled her back against him.

The front of his body fit solidly against hers.

His mouth found the top of her head, then her hair.

“I came to help,” he murmured.

Y/N exhaled, still half startle and half something much less innocent. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Henry’s hands moved once, slow and unashamed. “No, I didn’t.”

She tried to keep her voice level and failed slightly. “Did you get what we need?”

Henry kissed her hair again. “I did.”

Y/N turned her head just enough to glance up at him from where she was still half bent against the dryer door. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You remembered everything?”

Henry’s mouth brushed near her temple. “Of course.”

“What’d you get?”

That made her laugh softly.

Then Henry’s hand came to her jaw and tilted her face back just enough to kiss him.

When she finally pulled back, she turned fully to face him.

And only then did she notice the paper bag in one hand.

Y/N lifted a brow. “You really did the shopping.”

Henry set the bag down on the folding table beside them. “I said I would.”

She looked past him to the dryers. “You also showed up late.”

Henry glanced at the machines, now fully loaded and turning. “Did I?”

“Yes. The clothes are already in the dryer.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Y/N smiled, but there was a warning in it. “You missed your chance to look useful.”

Henry didn’t seem especially shaken by that.

He looked at the dryers. Then at her. Then at the empty room around them.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he said.

The way he said it made her pulse jump.

Y/N folded her arms. “For what?”

Henry stepped closer, one hand already coming to her hip. “There are some things we could do while we wait.”

That should not have worked on her as instantly as it did.

But then he was touching her like that, slow, sure, not hurried because he didn’t need to be and the laundry room, stupid and sterile a second ago, started feeling dangerously private.

“Henry,” she said, but it came out softer than intended.

His only answer was to pick her up.

The shirt hem had already ridden higher from being picked up.

Henry noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Y/N’s breath caught.

“Henry.”

When his mouth moved higher still, Y/N caught him by the shoulders and pulled him up with more force than delicacy.

Henry looked at her, calm and not calm at all.

“Anyone could walk in,” she whispered.

His eyes flicked once toward the door, then back to her. “No one’s here.”

“That is not the same thing.”

He leaned in, mouth near hers but not touching. “No one actually uses the laundry room.”

Y/N stared at him.

He was serious.

Which was somehow worse.

She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh and tightened her fingers at the back of his neck. “That is a horrific argument.”

“It’s still an argument.”

The dryer hummed steadily beside them.

The room stayed empty.

And Henry, clearly encouraged by both of those facts, kissed her again before she could decide whether being sensible was worth the effort.

When he pulled back, his eyes held hers as he lowered himself.

Not rushed. Not asking permission. Just sank to his knees on the linoleum floor like it was the most natural place in the world.

Y/N's breath stuttered.

Not off.

Just aside.

The cool air hit her wetness a second before his mouth did.

Slower this time.

Y/N's fingers found his hair, gripping without pulling. "Henry—"

She let him have two more passes of that tongue, long, flat strokes that made her thighs tremble before she caught his jaw and pulled him up.

"Henry."

He looked at her, mouth wet, eyes dark. Completely unbothered by being interrupted.

"There's a cleaning lady," Y/N said, voice lower than she meant it to be. "She comes in here. I'm pretty sure."

Henry blinked. "When?"

"I don't know when. Just at some point."

He considered this for a moment, still between her legs, still holding her panties aside. Then his hand moved, not away from her, but to his own waistband.

"That's not a real answer," she whispered.

"It's not a real concern," he replied, and the calm in his voice made her stomach flip.

He undid his pants one-handed. The button slipped free. The zipper rasped loud in the quiet room. Henry reached in, pulled himself out, already hard, already flushed and Y/N's mouth went dry.

He stepped closer, fitting himself against her entrance without pushing. Just let the head of his cock rest there, warm and insistent, while he looked at her.

"Still worried about the cleaning lady?"

"Yes," she hissed.

But she didn't close her legs.

Henry smiled, barely, just a twitch of his mouth and pushed inside.

Then he drew back and pushed in again.

Three thrusts.

Four.

Five.

And then—

A key turning in the lock.

Y/N's eyes flew open.

The cleaning lady stepped in with a plastic laundry cart and stopped just long enough to take in the scene.

The woman’s eyes landed on Henry first.

Of course they did.

Because even flustered, half out of breath, and not remotely where he was supposed to be, Henry still looked like a man who had walked into the wrong room and expected the room to apologize.

Y/N cleared her throat and forced herself not to look anywhere below his face.

The woman blinked once, then twice, then looked toward the shelf of folded linens at the back wall like she had decided, very wisely, that asking questions was not in her pay grade.

“Just need sheets,” she said.

Henry, to his credit, answered in the calmest voice Y/N had ever heard from a man who had been inside her five seconds ago. “Of course.”

Y/N almost choked.

Y/N kept the book open in front of her face and stared at the same sentence without comprehension.

Her heart was still hammering.

Her thighs still felt warm.

The dryer kept turning beside them like it had no idea it had nearly become the soundtrack to a public indecency charge.

Henry stood in impossible silence.

Not moving.

Not speaking.

Not looking at her.

Which was somehow worse than if he had.

The cleaning lady loaded the sheets into her cart, glanced once between them again with the tiniest flicker of suspicion or amusement, Y/N genuinely could not tell and then headed for the door.

Before leaving, she paused just long enough to say, “Dryer runs hot in this one.”

Then she stepped out and shut the door behind her.

Silence.

Heavy, immediate, humiliating silence.

Y/N lowered the book slowly.

Henry looked at the closed door for one second longer, then dragged a hand down his face.

Y/N stared at him.

Then, against her will, a laugh escaped.

It came out small at first. Sharp with nerves.

Then worse.

By the time Henry turned to look at her, she had one hand over her mouth and was trying very hard not to lose her mind entirely.

“You are laughing,” he said.

Y/N nodded helplessly. “She looked at you first.”

Henry’s expression flattened.

“That was so much worse,” she said.

He gave her a look that should have shut her up.

It didn’t.

“She probably thinks you’re some kind of—” Y/N had to stop and breathe because laughing was making it impossible to finish the sentence. “…perverted literature professor.”

Henry stared at her in silence.

Then: “Probably.”

That only made her laugh harder.

Henry stopped in front of her and looked down with maddening calm.

“You shoved me.”

Y/N blinked. “A key turned in the lock.”

“Yes.”

“I panicked.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound offended?”

“Because you shoved me.”

Y/N stared at him for one beat.

Then she laughed again, softer this time. “Oh my God.”

Henry’s mouth twitched, finally betraying him.

There it was.

The faintest fracture in all that composure.

Y/N pointed at him. “You think this is funny.”

“I think,” he said, taking the book out of her hand and setting it aside on the table, “that next time you decide to seduce me in a laundry room, you should make sure we control the lock.”

Her mouth fell open. “I decided?”

Henry lifted a brow.

Y/N crossed her arms. “That is so unfair.”

“You were the one who invited me.”

“You picked me up.”

“Yes.”

She fought a smile and lost.

The dryer thumped steadily beside them.

The room stayed empty.

And now that the panic had passed, all that remained was the absurdity of it and the heat still lingering under her skin from what they hadn’t gotten to finish.

Henry glanced once toward the door, then back at her. “Do you still want to wait for the clothes?”

Y/N looked at him in disbelief. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“I’m asking.”

“After almost getting caught half-naked on top of a dryer?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him for another second, then shook her head with a laugh. “No. I do not want to be arrested for public indecency by a woman carrying fitted sheets.”

That got a real smile out of him.

Small. Brief. Worth it.

“You are ridiculous,” she said.

“And yet.”

“And yet,” she mimicked softly with a fond smile.

The dryer buzzed a minute later, saving both of them from whatever very poor decision might have followed.

He folded his own shirts neatly, as promised.

She held up a pair of underwear and looked at him. “I want you to know this is not what I imagined when I pictured vacation romance.”

Henry took the item from her hand with zero expression and folded it anyway. “You lack range.”

Y/N laughed softly and bumped her hip against his.

They finished gathering the laundry together, warm piles stacked into her arms and his.

At the door, Y/N looked back once at the dryers, the folding table, the innocent little room that had nearly become a crime scene.

Then she looked at Henry.

“We’re never doing that in here again.”

Henry opened the door for her. “That sounds definitive.”

“It is definitive.”

He followed her out into the hall with the rest of the folded clothes in his arms, gaze calm and just amused enough to make her suspicious.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re already thinking of somewhere worse?”

Henry looked down at her. “Because you know me.”

And unfortunately, she did.

. . .

Y/N, on the other hand, had already shoved her share into drawers with far less dignity.

She turned a page and smiled to herself.

Henry glanced over while hanging up one of his shirts. “You’re enjoying it.”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Very much.”

He shut the drawer and looked at her over his shoulder. “That was quick.”

Henry’s mouth twitched faintly. “Delicious?”

“Yes.” She looked back down at the page. “The gothic reimagining of fairy tales, the writing, all of it. It’s weird and beautiful and kind of perverse in exactly the right way.”

“That sounds like your review copy.”

“It should be. I’m right.”

Henry slid another shirt onto a hanger, but she could tell from the slight shift in his attention that he was listening more closely now.

Y/N smiled and traced her thumb along the margin. “Listen to this.”

Henry glanced at her but said nothing.

Which was permission enough.

She read aloud, letting herself enjoy the shape of the words as much as the meaning.

“He lay on me; he and his skin of a man, his heavy skin that smelled of wet earth and ancient woods.”

Henry went still for half a second.

Y/N noticed immediately. “Hot,” she said referring to the line.

She smiled into the page and kept going, because now she was enjoying herself too much to stop.

A page later, she read, “He was the master of my destiny, the architect of my desire, and he knew it.”

She hummed to herself after reading it. “Accurate line. Truly relates to my real life.”

That got a reaction too.

Not a big one. Just enough.

Henry shut the drawer a little harder than necessary.

Y/N looked up over the book with far too much innocence. “You all right over there, architect of my desire?”

Henry gave her a look. “Continue.”

That only made her grin.

So she did.

She looked back down and read the next one even more carefully, because she already knew by the first few words that this would be the one to do him in.

“I know how the beast desires me; he wants to eat me, to possess me utterly, to swallow me up.”

Silence. Letting the line speak for its own.

Y/N looked up.

Then he crossed the room.

Not slowly.

Not hurried either.

Just with enough purpose that Y/N’s pulse jumped before he even reached the bed.

He stopped beside her and looked down.

“I’m gonna need you to say that one more time,” he said.

Y/N blinked up at him. “What?”

Henry’s gaze did not move from her face. “But naked.”

That made her laugh, helpless and delighted and not at all surprised.

“I knew one of them would get you.”

Henry took the book from her hands and set it face-down on the bed beside her.

“That was not fair.”

“You say that like I didn’t do it on purpose.”

His hand slid into her hair, fingers curving at the back of her neck as he leaned down and kissed her.

Y/N kissed him back immediately.

When they broke apart, it was only by inches.

Y/N looked up at him, smiling a little breathlessly. “Your libido at your age surprises me.”

Henry’s brows lowered. “At my age?”

“Yes.” She touched his jaw lightly. “You’re old.”

That got him.

His mouth moved against hers again, more punishing than the first kiss.

Y/N laughed softly into it. “See? Sensitive.”

Henry lifted his head just enough to look at her. “I’m not old.”

“You’re not young.”

He stared at her.

Then said, very calmly, “Dangerous line.”

Y/N smiled and touched his cheek again, softer this time. “I like it, though.”

That changed something in his face.

The sharper edge of him eased, just slightly.

She let her hand drift down his chest, then looked up at him more seriously.

“My muscles are still a little sore,” she admitted. “So be gentle.”

Henry’s expression shifted at once, not colder, not less hungry, just more attentive. More careful.

His hand moved to her thigh and stayed there, warm and grounding. “All right.”

Y/N searched his face for even a trace of complaint.

There wasn’t one.

Just that steady focus he always gave her when she said something real in the middle of teasing.

She smiled faintly. “You agree way too easily when I say things like that.”

Henry leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. “That’s because I’m listening.”

That warmed her all over again.

Her fingers slipped into his hair, and she drew him back down to her slowly this time, connecting their lips.

. . .

The room settled into silence again besides their breathless attempts to catch their breath.

Not an awkward silence.

It was a calm kind of silence necessary after ravaging each other like animals.

The ocean drifted through the cracked window in a steady hush, carrying the scent of salt and warm summer air.

Y/N lay comfortably against Henry’s shoulder, absently tracing circles across the back of his hand while The Bloody Chamber remained abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Henry looked toward it. “I think Angela Carter knew exactly what she was doing.”

Y/N smiled without opening her eyes. “Oh, absolutely.”

“You chose those passages deliberately.”

“I chose beautifully written passages.”

“You chose the ones most likely to derail my afternoon.”

She opened one eye.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Henry gave her the sort of look that said he knew exactly how full of it she was.

She grinned. “You really liked the book, though.”

“I like hearing you talk about books.”

That answer caught her off guard.

She turned her head enough to look at him.

“Really?”

“Obviously. You get excited.”

“I do.”

“You stop trying to sound clever.”

She frowned dramatically. “Don’t insult me. I always sound clever.”

“You certainly try.”

She nudged him with her shoulder.

“That was rude.”

“It was honest.”

“I liked my version better.”

Henry’s smile was small but genuine. “I know.”

She watched him for another moment before reaching over to grab the novel from the bed.

“I think it’s the language,” she said quietly, thumbing through the pages. “It isn’t trying to imitate fairy tales. It feels…older somehow.”

“Like folklore.”

“Exactly.” She brightened. “You get it.”

“I teach literature.”

“You also listen.”

“I try.”

She rested the book on her lap.

“I never really had anyone to talk about books with before.”

Henry looked at her.

“What about Nancy?”

“We recommend books to each other.”

She shrugged.

“But she reads differently than I do.”

“How so?”

“Nancy likes solving books.”

Henry tilted his head.

“And you?”

“I like getting lost.”

That made him smile again.

“I’ve noticed.”

She laughed softly.

“I’ll spend twenty minutes rereading one paragraph if it’s pretty enough.”

“I’ve noticed that too.”

She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m observing.”

“That’s what professors say when they’re judging people.”

“I’ll remember that.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Both of them looked up.

Y/N glanced at the clock.

“Oh.”

Henry frowned.

“What?”

“Our food.”

He stood and reached for the hotel robe hanging on the back of a chair before slipping it on.

Y/N watched him tie the belt.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you look annoyingly attractive in absolutely everything.”

Henry reached for his wallet.

“I appreciate your continued commitment to objectifying me.”

“I’ll never stop.”

“I’ve gathered.”

He opened the door.

A young employee stood outside balancing two paper bags.

“Dinner delivery.”

Henry thanked him, paid, and accepted the bags before returning inside.

The room immediately filled with the smell of fresh food.

Y/N sat up.

“Oh, that smells amazing.”

Henry unpacked everything onto the little table near the window.

“So,” she said, peering over his shoulder, “what did you order?”

“I took an educated guess.”

He opened the first container.

Her favorite sandwich.

No tomato.

Exactly the way she always ordered it in Boston.

Another container revealed a generous serving of fries.

She stared.

“You love me.”

Henry looked at her with mild amusement.

“I’ve seen you order it enough.”

“How do you know if I suddenly like tomato?”

His gaze lifted to her. “Do you?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

She looked down at the sandwich, then back at him.

“You really do know me.”

“I also bought an extra order of fries.”

She blinked.

“…Why?”

“Because you always steal mine after insisting yours are enough.”

Y/N laughed. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I ask politely.”

“You announce you’re ‘just taking one.’”

She smiled sheepishly.

“…Maybe.”

Henry handed her the basket.

“I decided to eliminate the negotiation.”

She accepted it with both hands, looking far more touched than she’d expected to be.

It wasn’t the sandwich.

Or the fries.

It was that he’d been paying attention all along.

She looked up at him.

“You know…” she said quietly, “…I spend a lot of time wondering what you notice.”

Henry met her eyes. “I’m an observer.”

She smiled to herself.

“I think that’s my favorite thing about you.”

He pulled out her chair for her before taking the seat opposite.

“And I think,” he said, “your food is getting cold.”

She picked up a fry and pointed it at him.

“That was almost romantic.”

“It was practical.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Y/N popped the fry into her mouth.

“No,” she said after swallowing. “It’s both.”

For once, Henry didn’t try to argue.

. . .

It was sometime after two in the morning when the hotel room door clicked open as quietly as possible.

Y/N slipped inside, easing it shut behind her with practiced care.

She had almost made it to the little table by the window before she heard a sleepy voice from the bed.

“…Where’d you go?”

She turned.

Henry was awake, hair thoroughly mussed from sleep, glasses still on the nightstand, squinting toward her in the dim glow of the bedside lamp she’d forgotten to turn off.

“I was trying not to wake you.”

“I noticed.”

She held up a pint triumphantly.

“I wanted ice cream.”

Henry stared.

“You left the room…at two in the morning…for ice cream?”

“I couldn’t sleep and had a craving.”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“I understand Nancy now.”

Y/N laughed quietly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s a remarkably patient woman.”

“I am not that difficult.”

“You disappeared in the middle of the night.”

“For Cherry Garcia.”

She held up the pint again like it explained everything.

“I got the last one.”

Henry looked at the container.

Then at her.

Then back at the container.

“You sound proud.”

“I am proud.”

She crossed the room and sat in the chair by the window, already peeling the lid off. “I won.”

“There was competition?”

“…There could have been.”

Henry let out a tired sigh that wasn’t nearly as exasperated as he wanted it to sound.

“You should go back to sleep,” she said, digging her spoon into the first bite. “I just wanted something sweet.”

“I don’t have anything important tomorrow.”

“You have vacation.”

“Exactly.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “So I may as well be awake for it.”

Y/N smiled to herself.

A minute later he pulled the other chair beside hers and sat down.

She took another bite.

Henry watched.

Without a word, he reached over and took the spoon from her hand.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“I’d like to see what was worth waking the entire inn over.”

“I did not wake the entire inn.”

“You woke me.”

“Collateral damage.”

He sampled a spoonful.

Thought about it.

Then nodded once.

“…It’s good.”

“I know.”

She took the spoon back.

He took the next bite.

Y/N rested her chin in one hand.

“I like it here.”

“So do I.”

“It doesn’t feel…” She searched for the words. “…hidden.”

Henry was quiet for a moment.

“No.”

“It feels normal.”

“It does.”

She smiled softly. “I like normal.”

“So do I.”

She scooped up another bite but got distracted halfway through, launching into a story about something she’d noticed earlier that day on Main Street.

Henry listened, smiling faintly as she animatedly talked with the spoon in her hand.

Then, mid-sentence—

A small drop of melting ice cream slipped from the edge of the spoon.

It landed against the curve of her collarbone.

She stopped talking.

“…Damn, I was gonna eat that.”

Henry’s eyes followed the tiny streak without thinking.

Y/N looked down.

Then back up at him.

For a long second, neither of them spoke.

Finally, she reached for a napkin on the table.

Henry caught her wrist gently before she could.

She looked at him with a questioning smile.

“You missed a spot,” he murmured.

When he drew back, she was already smiling.

“I had a feeling this was going to stop being about the ice cream.”

“I tried to be civilized.”

“You lasted…” She glanced toward the half eaten pint. “…about six minutes.”

“I think that’s respectable.”

She laughed softly.

“It is.”

She laughed softly. “It is.”

Y/N’s breath caught as he scooped up a generous amount, soft, glossy, dripping at the edges and held it poised just above her collarbone.

“May I?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, pulse quickening, unbuttoning the buttons of her shirt.

Then he leaned in.

Y/N’s hand came up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

“Henry…” she breathed.

She propped herself on her elbows, her nightshirt tangled around her hips. “You’re going to ruin the sheets.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was low, dark, stripped of the sleepy warmth from earlier. “They’re the hotel’s.”

“Better,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, gripping her panties waistband and tugging them off.

Y/N’s breath came shallow.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

“I’m admiring.” His thumbs drew wider circles. “I’m deciding.”

“Deciding what?”

“Where to start.”

He pulled back, looked at the faint sheen of moisture he’d left on her thigh, and smiled.

“Patience,” he said quietly.

Then he reached for the ice cream.

He held her thigh steady with his other hand, waiting until she settled before he repeated the line on her right thigh, mirroring the first exactly.

She lay there, legs open, two symmetrical stripes of cold sweetness gleaming in the lamplight, her pulse hammering in her throat.

“Henry…”

“Shh.” He licked his lips. “I’m not done yet.”

“There,” he said, satisfaction creeping into his voice. “Now I have a map.”

He lowered his head.

Then he did the same to her right thigh.

By the time he finished both thighs, she was trembling, her fingers twisted in the sheets, her hips unconsciously tilting toward his mouth.

He looked up at her, his lips glistening.

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

“You want more.”

It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, unable to form words.

He smiled slowly, then lowered his head to the one spot he had left: the ring of ice cream around her clit.

He let her wait another heartbeat, two, then opened his mouth and dragged the flat of his tongue across the circle in one slow, firm arc.

He didn’t stop there.

He set his mouth against her properly, his lips sealing around her clit, and sucked, soft, then harder, pulling her into the warmth of his mouth. She gasped, her hands flying down to grip his hair.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough against her skin. “You want to know something, sweetheart?”

She nod her head, barely capable of thought.

“You taste better than ice cream.” He licked her again, a long, slow stroke from her entrance to her clit. “I should’ve thought of this sooner.”

She managed to let out a breathless chuckle. “Horn dog—“

“I’m going to make you come,” he said against her, his breath hot and damp. “And I’m going to taste every second of it.”

“Henry…”

“Let go,” he whispered, his tongue flicking once, twice, three times in rapid succession. “I have you.”

She came.

He gentled his touch, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing licks, pressing a final kiss to her clit before lifting his head.

His chin was slick. His eyes were dark and satisfied.

He crawled up the bed, bracing himself above her, and kissed her, slow, deep, letting her taste herself mixed with cherry.

When he broke away, she was still breathless.

He smiled, soft and possessive.

“Now,” he murmured, “do you want to finish the ice cream?”

She laughed weakly, pulling him down for another kiss.

“I think you already did.”

. . .

taglist, •o+*.

@dollyvuu, @onmymymyway, @edb954,

@maguibummi, @soapyeaton,

@sluttysnowangel666, @fixation-station, @abcdetg1234abc321, @munsonsquinn,

@posiebb, @littlefreak-14 , @thebrainrotjana , @bunnybaevivi , @gsamuelag

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