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I'm Yours - CH.17 Birds of a Feather

Y/N POV

The morning sunlight was lazy, unhurried as it filtered through the tall windows of Toto’s home, stretching across the wooden floors in golden streaks that danced against the grain. The light caught the edges of the linen sheets tangled around my legs, sheets that still held the scent of cedarwood, roasted espresso beans, and him—Toto. It was a smell I didn’t even realize had become a comfort until I woke to it, soft and grounding.

I lingered longer than I should have, cocooned in the bed, watching the dust motes catch the light like floating stars. The house was quiet but not still. Somewhere down the hall, I could hear the faint clink of ceramic and glass, followed by the low murmur of music—smooth, jazzy, old. Something effortless and elegant. The kind of music that matched how Toto existed in the world: intentional, fluid, precise without feeling rehearsed.

Pushing off the warmth of the sheets, I sat up slowly, still heavy with sleep, stretching just enough for the cool air to kiss the bare skin above my waistband. I hadn’t reached for one of his shirts last night. Instead, I’d gone to bed in my own clothes—plaid pajama pants that were cinched and rolled at the waist to sit just right on my hips, and a ribbed black tank top that hugged my body in a way that made me hyperaware of the softness of my curves. The fabric clung lightly to my chest, and the neckline dipped just enough to feel like a quiet sort of invitation. Bare arms. Bare collarbones. Bare shoulders, still kissed with the faint humidity from last night’s shower and the lingering scent of lavender lotion I’d worked into my skin.

My curls were a little wild but softened by leave-in cream, air-dried just enough to fall in loose coils around my face. Not styled, not intentional—just the way they dried when I didn’t bother trying. And for once, I didn’t feel the urge to change. To fix. To present. I let the comfort of it all wrap around me like armor I didn’t need to take off.

And everything in me reacted to the morning. To the softness of the light. To the stillness of his house. To the low hum of jazz from down the hall and the quiet ache of being near someone who made the ordinary feel holy.

This wasn’t a morning for performances. It was one to simply exist in. One to move slowly, with intention. With ease. There was no need to pull myself together, no pressure to present some curated version of myself. The house, the moment—it welcomed me as I was. Still sleepy-eyed and unguarded, wrapped in cotton softness and carrying the scent of dreams that hadn’t yet faded. The kind of morning where your body remembers how to breathe before your mind remembers why it ever forgot.

I padded barefoot down the hallway, the grain of the wooden floor cool beneath my feet, each step a gentle reminder that I was here—really here. With him. The contrast between the lingering warmth in my skin and the brisk kiss of the floor was grounding. Comforting. The kind of detail you don’t notice unless you're present. Unless the world slows down enough to let you feel it.

As I moved, the music grew louder—a soft, jazzy murmur curling through the air like a sigh. Something with horns and an easy swing, the kind of song you’d dance to barefoot in the kitchen, arms around someone’s neck, your cheek pressed to theirs. It made the house feel alive. Or maybe it was already alive, simply breathing differently with him in it.

And then there was the smell. That deep, rich scent of coffee that Toto brewed with the same intention he brought to every part of his life. Bold and slightly bitter, with that velvety espresso warmth that clung to the air like incense. There was something sacred about it—the way it always arrived before he did, announcing his presence before he even stepped into the room.I turned the corner, and there he was.

Toto stood at the kitchen island, barefoot and beautiful in the kind of quiet, unthinking way that made it hard to look away. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing strong, veined arms dusted with flour. He had a whisk in one hand and his phone in the other, reading a recipe with that same laser-focus I’d seen when he was reviewing strategy notes or negotiating something behind the scenes. But this was domestic. Intimate. Softened by the morning light pooling around him.

There was a smear of flour near his wrist, a faint shadow of it on his temple, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything more tender than the way he squinted at the screen, as if trying to memorize each line. I stood still, hidden just enough by the doorway to watch him without being seen. And watching him like that—so focused, so casual, so at home—did something to me.

Something that made my chest ache in the gentlest way.I leaned against the frame, heart full in my throat.

“Morning,” I murmured, my voice thick with sleep and something more fragile.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t flinch. Just turned slowly, his expression shifting instantly into something warm. His eyes—those deep, unreadable eyes—lit up in a way that wasn’t flashy or dramatic. Just real. Familiar. Like I was the thing he was hoping to see.

“Guten Morgen, Schatzi,” he said, and the sound of it—the slight roughness in his voice, still heavy from sleep—wrapped around me like arms.

Before I even registered the impulse, I was moving forward. Stepping into the room, into him, like gravity had stopped pretending and decided to act on its own. My body fit against his like it had always known where to go. My cheek pressed to the center of his chest, where I could feel the steady, grounding beat of his heart.

He smelled like cinnamon and linen and sleep. Like skin warmed by sunlight and the faintest trace of his cologne that clung to the folds of his shirt. I breathed him in, deeper than I meant to, and he folded around me without hesitation. One hand on the back of my head, the other at the curve of my spine. Holding me without demand.

We stood like that, still and swaying slightly. The world narrowed to the circle of his arms and the jazz playing in the background. There was no rush. No need to speak. Just the unspoken comfort of bodies knowing each other by feel.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, voice a whisper into my hair.

“Mm-hmm,” I hummed, not moving. “Better than I have in days.”

He pulled back just enough to see my face, his hand sliding to cradle my jaw. His eyes searched mine like they were looking for proof of something he already knew but needed to see again. “You always look like this in the morning?”

I huffed a soft laugh. “Messy curls, wrinkled pajamas, and half-asleep? Yeah. Sorry to disappoint.”

His thumb brushed under my chin. “Nein,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

It didn’t land like a line. It wasn’t a compliment thrown into the air for effect. It landed in my bones. In the parts of me that usually braced for rejection. And suddenly, I didn’t feel bare anymore—I felt seen.

He moved back to the counter, reaching for a second mug. “Hungry?”

I leaned into the island, the cool marble pressing against my forearms. “Only if you’re making something.”

He gave me a sideways smile. “Well, lucky you. I am.” He passed me the mug, his fingers brushing mine as he did. “Sit. Let me spoil you a little.”

And I did. I climbed onto the stool, tucking my legs under me, the coffee warm in my hands. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease—fluid, quiet, almost meditative. And all I could do was watch him, trying to memorize the way his body curved around every corner of this life. Every drawer he opened. Every soft exhale. Every second that passed in peace.

Because here, in this golden, slow morning, in plaid pajama pants and a tank top that still carried the scent of lavender, with jazz humming in the air and his hand occasionally resting at the small of my back—this felt like something close to peace.

Something close to home. Something close to love. We eventually drifted into the sunroom, plates in hand, pulled by the promise of morning light and the hush of a house that felt like it was built for moments exactly like this. The table was already set—casual but intentional, like he’d done it without thinking and yet had thought of everything. Soft linen napkins. Thick ceramic plates still warm to the touch. A carafe of espresso that smelled like it had been poured from some quiet, holy place.

I slid into one of the chairs, the cushion giving under me just enough to sigh. Across from me, Toto moved with that same fluidity—present, but never hurried. He plated the food with the kind of care you don’t often see in men like him—men with empires to run, reputations to uphold. But here, in this moment, he was just a man serving breakfast to someone he wanted to stay.

Scrambled eggs, perfectly soft. Avocado slices fanned across toast like something out of a café window. A dusting of sea salt and pepper, a drizzle of olive oil that caught the sunlight as he handed me the plate. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave me—quiet and expectant, like he wanted me to feel the care behind the gesture—was enough.

We ate slowly, the pace unhurried. Between bites, the occasional hum of satisfaction or the clink of cutlery against ceramic filled the space between us. The window in the corner was cracked just enough for the breeze to drift through, bringing with it the smell of autumn—damp leaves, distant woodsmoke, something faintly sweet and earthy. It tugged gently at the hem of my pants, wrapped around my ankles, teased the strands of my hair still slightly damp from my morning shower.

We didn’t speak much. We didn’t have to. The kind of silence that sat between us wasn’t uncomfortable—it was the kind you grow into, the kind built through trust and softness. Our glances said enough. The way our knees bumped under the table, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. The way his foot found mine, toes nudging just to remind me he was there, that I was here, that this was real.

And for a while, I let myself believe I could stay in that quiet forever. But habit dies hard. Halfway through my espresso, I reached toward the edge of the table where I had placed my phone earlier, fingers grazing the screen out of instinct more than intention. I wasn’t even thinking about it—just the pull of unread emails, the mounting to-do lists, the responsibility that lived in my bones.

Before I could even touch it, his hand closed around mine. Firm. Warm.

“No.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “No?”

His fingers didn’t tighten, but he didn’t let go either. He looked at me—really looked at me—and for a second, I saw it. The glimmer of command beneath all that morning softness. The part of him that didn’t ask twice.

“You get a few days,” he said, his voice quiet but immovable. “Just a few. Before the fellowship starts. You’re not going to spend them buried in work.”

I opened my mouth to protest, some weak justification already forming on my tongue—just a quick check, just one email, just something small to stay ahead—but he didn’t let me speak. Instead, he leaned in, slow and deliberate, and pressed his lips to my temple. Not rushed. Not persuasive. Just there. Present. Warm and final.

“And today,” he added, murmured against my skin, “you’re mine.”

And that was it. No dramatic pause. No challenge in his voice. Just truth. Steady and certain, like he’d already decided, like I didn’t need to agree because he already knew I would. And I did. Not because he demanded it. But because, for once, I wanted to let go. Let someone else hold the line. Let him.

We lingered in the sunroom long after the plates were scraped clean and the last sip of espresso had gone lukewarm. The light had shifted slightly, softer now, stretching shadows along the tiled floor. I could’ve stayed there all morning, letting the breeze nudge the hem of my leggings and the smell of toast and coffee settle into the fabric of my clothes. But Toto moved first, rising with the kind of deliberate ease he seemed to do everything with—unhurried but entirely sure of himself.

He took our dishes without asking, stacking them effortlessly before disappearing into the kitchen. I heard the gentle clink of ceramic, the soft rush of water, and then—his voice, light and casual, floating over his shoulder like it was just part of the morning.

“Go get dressed.”

I looked up from where I’d been watching a bird hop along the edge of the windowsill. “Dressed for…?”

He didn’t answer right away. I could see the faintest smirk in the reflection of the glass cabinet as he rinsed a plate and set it in the rack. “Nothing too complicated. Just a little outdoors.”

I narrowed my eyes and leaned back in the chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Only if you hate fresh air,” he said, glancing at me with a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “Comfortable. Moveable. Something you can layer.”

“You’re being very cryptic.”

“I’m being intentionally ambiguous. There’s a difference.”

I let out a long, theatrical sigh but pushed up from the chair, muttering as I passed him, “This better not end with me freezing in a field or getting chased by geese.”

He laughed—really laughed, not just a breathy chuckle, but that deep, chesty sound that vibrated through the air and followed me up the stairs.

Back in the guest room, I stared at my half-unpacked suitcase, hands on my hips, mulling over what exactly counted as “a little outdoors.” Not a hike, clearly. Not a city stroll either, based on the emphasis on layers. It was just vague enough to cover everything from a lakeside walk to a mountain overlook. Eventually, I stopped trying to decipher his intentions and just chose what felt right.

Black leggings—comfortable, high-waisted, secure without being restrictive. I tugged on a pair of tall, thick white socks, letting them reach mid-calf, folding them once to keep them in place. My sports bra was navy, simple and fitted, doubling as a top beneath a charcoal athletic quarter-zip that hugged my arms but left room to breathe. Just in case, I stuffed my oversized sweater into my daybag, the one I always carried on long university days. It was soft and worn, a comforting fallback if the weather turned or if I just needed something to wrap around myself.

I pulled my curls into a high ponytail, smoothing the front and tying them off with a thick black scrunchie. A few pieces framed my face—undone, effortless, but intentional. I tucked my sunglasses onto the top of my head, letting them hold back a few stray strands. No makeup, just lip balm and a swipe of sunscreen. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a quick once-over. Functional. Presentable. Still me.

When I made it back downstairs, he was waiting near the entryway, adjusting the zipper on his vest. His back was to me at first, but he turned at the sound of my footsteps, and something about the moment stilled. He was dressed in black joggers and a fitted hoodie that clung to the shape of his shoulders. Over it, a deep navy vest. His hair had dried slightly, curling faintly at the ends, and he wore it pushed back, a little tousled. Sunglasses hung from his collar.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister, and took him in.

And then I looked at myself.

And blinked.

We… matched. Not identically. But the vibe was uncanny. The same palette—black and navy, white details, layers built for movement. If someone had seen us walking down the street, they’d assume we’d planned it. Maybe not in a “couple goals” sort of way, but definitely in a “they’ve been doing this a while” kind of way.

A surprised laugh slipped out of me. Not mocking. Just soft and amused.

He tilted his head, brow lifting slightly. “What?”

I gestured vaguely between us. “We kind of… coordinate.”

His gaze flicked down to his outfit, then back to mine, and his lips quirked. “Do we?”

“Not on purpose,” I said quickly, suddenly aware of how easy it was to sound like I was reading into it. “Just… interesting.”

He stepped closer, handing me a stainless steel water bottle. Our fingers brushed as I took it from him, and the touch lingered just a second longer than it had to. Not enough to startle, just enough to notice.

“I like it,” he said, his voice low and warm.

I looked up at him, trying not to smile too much. “Of course you do. You’re the one who told me to dress ‘comfortably vague.’”

He smirked. “And look how well you listened.”

I rolled my eyes, but the heat in my chest was undeniable. I hadn’t even done it for him. I hadn’t even thought about him when I pulled the pieces from my suitcase. But now, standing here, both of us dressed in similar tones, hair slightly messy, faces clean and relaxed—it felt… right.

Like we belonged to the same morning.

“Ready?” he asked, sliding his sunglasses into place.

I nodded, slinging my bag over one shoulder. “As I’ll ever be.”

He held the door open for me, sunlight pouring in from the front walk, and for a moment, I thought maybe—just maybe—I didn’t need to know exactly where we were going.

Just that we were going there together.

He locked the front door behind us, and without a word, led me around the side of the house toward the garage. I expected something sleek and modern, maybe the electric car he mentioned once in passing. But when the matte black G-Wagon came into view—angular, glossy in the filtered light, every edge intentional—I paused.

“Oh,” I said, stopping in my tracks.

Toto glanced over his shoulder, clearly catching the way I blinked at the car like it had just roared to life on its own. “What?”

“You drive that?” I asked, half awed, half accusing.

He smirked, clicking the fob. The locks responded with a deep, mechanical thud. “Why do you sound personally betrayed?”

“I just—” I circled the vehicle slowly. The matte finish was gorgeous, every surface smooth and purposeful. The black-on-black aesthetic was aggressive but elegant, like everything about him. Even the windows were tinted almost jet. No one could see in. Of course. “I thought you’d be, I don’t know, less… Bond villain about it.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, already opening the passenger door for me.

I stepped up into the cabin, half-laughing. “Unfortunately? Yes. Of course I do. I feel like I’m about to be driven to a private airstrip.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Inside, the car smelled like clean leather and something warmer—cologne, maybe, or just the filtered scent of him, embedded into the seats. The interior was just as sleek: black stitching, chrome trim, ambient lighting that hummed even in daylight. He climbed in beside me, sunglasses on, adjusting the mirrors with familiar ease.

We pulled out of the driveway and headed for the highway. The hum of the engine was low and powerful, like it didn’t need to try to prove anything.

The drive was over an hour, but it passed quickly.

He kept one hand on the wheel and the other on me—his palm resting firmly on my thigh, fingers curling around the fabric of my leggings like he wasn’t even aware of it, like his body just knew mine needed to be tethered to his.

My legs were folded beneath me, one foot tucked up on the seat, my body turned slightly toward him as I flipped through his phone. “You made a playlist for this?”

“Always good to be prepared.”

“‘Driving Into Trouble’?” I read aloud. “That’s what you named it?”

He shrugged, eyes on the road. “Felt accurate.”

The playlist was everything I didn’t expect it to be—mostly low-tempo, vibey tracks, the kind that you could dance to with the windows down or slow sway to barefoot on a patio. We skipped a few, sang along to others. I teased him mercilessly when a dramatic acoustic ballad came on, and he retaliated by raising the volume slightly when he caught me humming under my breath.

“You have a type,” I said eventually.

“I do,” he agreed, voice low. “And she’s in my passenger seat.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t look away.

We talked about everything and nothing—the kind of conversation that wasn’t about filling time, just existing in it together. He told me a ridiculous story about his first failed camping trip as a teenager, and I admitted I once tried to light a candle with spaghetti because I was too afraid to use a lighter.

We laughed the whole ride.

An hour later, we were driving out of the city—his hand still on my thigh, my legs still curled under me as I flipped through the playlist again, letting the songs wrap around us. He still wouldn’t tell me where we were going, only that I should “wear something I wouldn’t mind getting dirty in.”

That could mean anything with him.

The buildings fell away, replaced by rolling hills and dense patches of trees. The road narrowed, turning from asphalt to gravel, then to a winding dirt path edged by forest. It was quiet, secluded, the kind of place that didn’t exist on Google Maps. The tires crunched slowly over leaves and twigs, and just when I was about to ask if he was sure we weren’t lost, he slowed.

That’s when he smiled—slow, smug, deeply satisfied.

“Treetop trekking,” he announced, parking beneath a canopy of swaying branches.

I blinked at him. “You booked out an entire forest for us?”

He shrugged, like that was a completely normal thing to do. “I like privacy.”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to. Because what he really meant, what sat between those few words, was simple.

He liked having me to himself.

And I liked that, too.

We stepped out into the clearing, and I took a slow look around. The forest was quiet—peaceful, really—just the rustle of leaves overhead and the creak of ropes shifting in the wind. A series of wooden platforms, ladders, and tightropes wove between the trees high above us, zigzagging through the canopy like a playground built for adrenaline. I stared up, taking in the harness lines and the wooden planks suspended on nothing but steel cable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, squinting at a swaying rope bridge thirty feet in the air.

“Nope,” Toto said behind me, clipping his gloves onto his belt like he did this sort of thing all the time. “You said you liked a challenge.”

“I meant academic ones,” I said, but the smile already tugging at my mouth betrayed me.

He gave me a look as he pulled the harness from the gear rack and unbuckled it with one hand. “Feet in.”

I stepped in, obedient but eyeing him skeptically as he crouched to adjust the straps. His hands were efficient, practiced—but not detached. They moved with quiet intent, fingers brushing over the waistband of my leggings as he cinched the harness snug around my waist. I shifted slightly for balance, and that’s when I felt it—his pause.

It lasted just a second too long.

His hands slowed at the base of my back, adjusting the webbing that now cradled and extenuated the curve of my ass a little too well. The tension in his shoulders gave him away before I even looked down. When I did, I caught the flicker in his eyes—the exact place they’d landed. He blinked, jaw tightening slightly, clearly trying to mask it. Trying, and failing.

“You good?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

He rose slowly, hands skimming along the sides of my thighs as he stood. “Perfect,” he said, voice a bit lower than before. “Fits… very well.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That an observation or a compliment?”

He met my gaze evenly, the hint of a smirk curving one corner of his mouth. “Both.”

The air between us tightened—not tense, but charged, full of something playful and unspoken. Still, he didn’t linger. Just grabbed his own harness and pulled it on, rolling his shoulders back with practiced ease.

“Try to keep up, Schatzi,” he called over his shoulder as he headed toward the first platform.

But the way his eyes skimmed over me again, subtle but deliberate, told me exactly who was watching who.

We made our way to the beginner course first—a winding stretch of platforms, wooden planks, and low-hanging rope elements meant to ease you in before the higher climbs. The trees shaded us from the direct sun, but patches of golden light flickered through the canopy, dancing along the cables as they gently swayed in the breeze. Birds chirped somewhere above, and the occasional creak of the ropes echoed softly with every step we took.

I paused at the first platform, staring at the rope bridge ahead of us—planks spaced just far enough to make you question your stride, each one moving independently when the wind or gravity pulled against it. It didn’t look hard, but it didn’t exactly look stable either.

Toto stepped in close behind me, his voice smooth and a little too amused. “You’ve got this,” he said, the edge of a grin in his tone. “Unless, of course, you want me to catch you.”

I smirked without turning. “You’re clipped to a cable. You can’t catch me.”

“Don’t let logic ruin the moment,” he replied, as if romance could defy physics. And somehow, coming from him, it almost made sense.

With a breath, I stepped out. My foot landed solidly on the first plank, and it only dipped slightly beneath my weight. I adjusted quickly, shifting my center of balance, and moved to the next, arms slightly outstretched for stability. It wasn’t as hard as it looked. With each plank, my confidence built, my body moving with more assurance. I could feel him behind me—close but never crowding, his presence like a tether of calm energy that stayed just far enough to let me lead.

The rope elements got trickier after that—narrow wire paths with handholds overhead, small swinging disks to step on, beams that required you to cross sideways. But I found my rhythm. My steps were sure, my breath even. I was stronger than I remembered. And surprisingly—graceful. My ponytail swayed with every shift of my body, and I could feel the sweat prickling behind my knees, the cool breeze licking at the back of my neck.

“You’re natural at this,” he called ahead, watching me clear a two-rope traverse like it was nothing. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

“Pretty sure,” I answered, not turning around. “But I do climb shelves in my apartment when I can’t reach the top cabinets.”

“Remind me to install you a ladder when you move in.”

“When?” I teased.

A beat. And then, quieter: “When.”

His voice dipped when he said it, and for a split second, I missed a step—not enough to fall, but enough to feel it.

From then on, his commentary never stopped.

“Nice balance,” he murmured as I crossed a taut wire, arms stretched to my sides, hips moving in subtle sway. I didn’t need to turn around to feel his eyes on me.

I threw the words over my shoulder without missing a step. “Stop staring at my ass.”

“Impossible.”

It should’ve annoyed me, but it didn’t. Not when it was him. Not when it was laced with that kind of affection—part pride, part hunger, all admiration. If anything, I stood a little taller after that. Stepped with a little more certainty.

Eventually, we came to a section made of swinging logs—each one suspended by two ropes, free-floating, shifting under your weight with each movement. I hesitated only slightly, then launched forward, finding a rhythm as I moved quickly from one to the next. The logs dipped and rolled underfoot, but I kept my balance, adjusting instinctively.

By the time I stepped onto the final platform, heart pounding but grin wide, I felt it—that familiar flush of victory, the way my body buzzed when I pushed past hesitation and just moved.

I turned around, breath short but light, expecting him to be right behind me.

He wasn’t.

He was still on the starting side, leaning one arm against a line post, one leg crossed casually over the other. Watching.

Just watching.

His expression was lazy and amused, but his eyes were sharp—tracking every movement I’d made like he hadn’t missed a single one. He looked way too smug for someone who hadn’t lifted a finger to help.

“You could’ve helped,” I called, breathless but teasing.

“You didn’t need it,” he said, voice low and satisfied.

Then he stepped out onto the first log like it was nothing, gliding over the course with a natural ease that was somehow both infuriating and hot. And when he reached me, he didn’t speak. He just came close, reached up to adjust a stray curl that had fallen loose against my cheek, and let his fingers trail down the line of my jaw—just once—before turning toward the next course.

“Lead the way,” he said, like I hadn’t just made his day. Like he hadn’t just made mine.

Around noon, just as the sun had begun to stretch its full weight over the canopy and the filtered light turned sharp through the branches, he tugged gently on the strap of my harness and nodded toward a clearing just off the course. “Break time.”

We veered slightly off-trail, ducking beneath a thick curve of foliage until the trees opened up into a small sun-dappled space. There, nestled between two old trunks, were two logs fashioned into a makeshift bench, worn smooth by time and sun. It felt like a secret space—untouched, protected, tucked away just enough from the rest of the course that you could pretend the world had narrowed to just this patch of woods.

Toto dropped his backpack onto the ground with a soft thud. Black, structured, naturally—everything about it screamed him. He unzipped it, knelt down, and began pulling out items with an ease that made it clear he had thought about this more than once.

Out came my favorite energy drink—still cool, condensation beading along the sides like it had just come from a fridge. A pouch of sour gummies, already torn open as if he’d known I’d want them first. A container of crisp apple slices, perfectly cut, and still cold thanks to a tiny freezer pack tucked beneath them. A protein bar I recognized from my kitchen back home, one I loved but always felt vaguely judged for because of its aggressively healthy branding—even though it tasted like dessert.

“You packed these?” I asked, already reaching for the gummies, the tart scent making my mouth water.

“I don’t forget details,” he said simply, wiping a speck of dirt from the top of the can before handing it to me. “Especially not yours.”

I stared at him, trying not to let the weight of that line sit too hard in my chest. But it did. Of course it did. I didn’t say anything—just nudged my knee into his gently as I cracked open the drink and took a sip. It fizzed across my tongue, cold and sharp and perfect.

We sat like that for a while, thighs brushing, passing snacks back and forth, letting the silence stretch in the most natural way. Occasionally, I caught him watching me—not staring, just observing. Like he was still memorizing this version of me. This sweaty, slightly disheveled, completely unfiltered version. And the quiet appreciation in his eyes made it hard to look away.

Once we’d refueled and hydrated, we clipped back in and returned to the course—this time, a bit more advanced. The obstacles were longer, higher, and required a kind of coordination that made my arms ache just looking at them. But I was in it now. Fully. And so was he.

We scaled rope walls that stretched higher into the trees, traversed narrow planks suspended between massive trunks, and tackled a vertical cargo net that had me swearing softly under my breath. Every time I faltered, I heard him behind me, calm and steady.

“Almost there, Schatzi,” he murmured once, as I reached for a high handhold, my muscles trembling from effort. “Keep going. You’re doing better than half my team would.”

“Do not start comparing this to F1,” I shot back, clinging to the next rope rung.

He just laughed. That low, rolling sound that wrapped around me like warmth.

And then, as we hit the final leg of the trail—the most challenging portion of the day—he surprised me.

“You lead,” he said, gesturing to the next course. It was taller, sharper in its angles, with suspension points that curved dramatically across the forest in wide arcs. “That way I can keep an eye on you.”

“Eye, huh?” I asked, arching a brow as I clipped into the next section.

He smiled, the kind of slow, lazy grin that made my stomach tighten. “Just one.”

The higher we went, the more intense it became. The wind tugged more aggressively the further we rose, and the platforms became smaller, the spaces between them longer. The climb was tiring in a new way—my arms burning, my balance more reliant on instinct now than strategy. But it felt good. All of it. Every stretch, every pulse of adrenaline. And every time I reached for the next segment, I could feel him behind me, just there. Not crowding. Just steady.

At one point, halfway across a rolling bridge that rocked with every step, I miscalculated the sway and let out a quiet, “Shit—” as I slipped slightly, one foot missing its mark.

I didn’t fall. The harness caught me. But it tilted me just enough to swing awkwardly into the next rope.

And then—his hand.

He reached forward without hesitation, one strong arm curling gently around my waist from behind, anchoring me against the movement as I found my footing again. His chest pressed briefly to my back, steady and warm, his voice low near my ear.

“Got you.”

I swallowed hard, gripping the ropes again. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said, his hand still there. “Doesn’t mean I won’t help.”

I turned just enough to glance at him over my shoulder. His sunglasses were pushed up onto his head now, his gaze open and a little too soft for the kind of teasing we’d been doing all day.

“I don’t mind watching you do hard things,” he added, tone lightening just enough. “Especially when you make it look that good.”

I rolled my eyes and pressed forward, heat blooming under my skin in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

We made it to the final zipline—a long, sweeping descent that curved through the trees and ended just beyond the edge of the course. I launched first, wind tearing through my hair, the scream that ripped from me half-laugh, half-thrill. The trees blurred beside me, the golden light glowing through every green leaf like the forest had decided to bloom just for us.

I landed hard but laughing, tumbling slightly on the mulch before finding my balance again.

Seconds later, he landed with perfect form, his boots crunching softly as he walked straight toward me.

His hand found my hip. His other brushed a curl from my cheek, fingers pausing there like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“You good?” he asked, voice lower now, intimate in a way that cracked something wide open in me.

“Yeah,” I whispered, my breath catching. “More than good.”

And then he leaned down, slow and sure, pressing his lips to the top of my head with a kind of quiet reverence.

Soft. Steady. Like we still had all the time in the world.

The drive home was slow, unhurried. The trees gradually thinned as we left the forest behind, replaced by long stretches of road bathed in soft golden hour light. I watched the sun flicker through the windows in flashes, casting long shadows over Toto’s arms as he drove—one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting, always, on my thigh.

I was quiet, but not withdrawn. Just full—in that physical, sensory way that only comes after hours of movement and air and laughter. I leaned into the seat, curling one leg beneath me, my head tilted slightly toward the window. Somewhere around the third song on the playlist, my eyes began to flutter closed.

I didn’t fight it.

Toto didn’t say a word. He just adjusted the volume, let his hand drift higher up my leg, his thumb moving in slow, idle circles near the hem of my quarter-zip. It was grounding. Reassuring. I felt held, even as I slipped in and out of a light doze, lulled by the hum of the road and the subtle vibrations of the car.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, the sun had dipped behind the horizon. The sky was smeared in deep lavender and burnt orange, the first stars just beginning to emerge overhead. I blinked awake at the shift in motion as the G-Wagon rolled to a stop.

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles against my arm. “We’re home.”

I stretched slowly, limbs heavy and sore in that deeply satisfying way. “I feel like I got hit by a very scenic truck.”

He chuckled. “That truck would’ve been me, hauling you through trees all day.”

“You were behind me the whole time,” I murmured, stifling a yawn. “Don’t act like you carried me.”

He raised a brow as he stepped out of the car. “Emotionally, maybe.”

That earned a quiet laugh as I followed him up the path to the house. The front door creaked open, releasing a puff of cooler air. Before I could make it two steps inside, he turned, already sliding the backpack from his shoulder.

“Go shower. You’ll feel better.”

“You shower,” I countered, kicking off my shoes with a groan. “I’m just going to lie here on the floor and disintegrate.”

He didn’t budge. Just smiled with that same calm authority that always somehow made me move.

“Shower, Schatzi.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Fine. But only because I actually want to feel my legs tomorrow.”

He bent to press a kiss to my temple. “Trust me. This is part of the plan.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I didn’t question it. The hot water hit like a dream. I stayed there longer than I needed to, letting the steam work through every ache. I washed twice, letting the scent of lavender soap and eucalyptus drift through the bathroom, soaking into my skin. By the time I toweled off and pulled on a soft robe, my muscles had softened into something close to contentment.

Downstairs, the lights were dimmed. A few candles flickered on the dining table, their golden glow dancing off plates that had most definitely not been there when we left. I stepped onto the hardwood, barefoot and still slightly damp, and froze.

The table was set. Not in a fancy way, but with care. Two place settings. Small porcelain dishes arranged with intention. Steam curling up from miso soup bowls. A spread of sushi rolls, nigiri, and delicate slices of sashimi were arranged like a curated tasting—salmon, tuna, eel, all resting on beds of rice or nestled beside bright green wasabi and paper-thin slices of ginger.

And at the center, the crown jewel: my favorite spicy tuna roll, dressed just the way I liked it.

I shifted slightly, adjusting the hem of the tank top I’d thrown on upstairs—black, ribbed, a bit more fitted than I remembered. It dipped a little lower than the one from earlier that morning, skimming over the top of my chest and showing just a hint more cleavage than I’d expected. I hadn’t thought much of it—until I saw the way Toto stilled in the kitchen doorway.

He looked up just as I reached for the back of my neck, unconsciously tugging a curl away from my collarbone.

His eyes dragged slowly from my feet to my face—and yeah, maybe they lingered a beat too long at the curve of my neckline.

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Just blinked—slow, controlled—then cleared his throat as if it had caught somewhere halfway up.

“Sushi,” I said, like it was a greeting, pretending not to notice the slight short circuit happening behind his eyes.

“You remembered.”

“I always remember,” he said, voice a touch rougher than usual, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck. “Figured you’d be too tired to cook. You mentioned it once.”

“I figured you wouldn’t want to cook,” he said with a shrug. “And you mentioned sushi once. I remember things.”

“I mentioned it in passing.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘All I want is sushi, a cold drink, and no one talking to me for ten minutes.’” He grinned. “So I figured, let’s aim for two out of three.”

I stepped closer, the smell of sesame and ginger making my mouth water. “You plated this?”

He feigned offense. “What, you think I’d leave it in plastic containers?”

I raised a brow. “You plated it with chopsticks fanned out and individual dipping bowls?”

He handed me a glass of cold sparkling water, no lemon, just the way I liked it. “Don’t look so surprised.”

We sat down, and for a few minutes, we didn’t talk. Just passed plates between us, swapped bites, and let the comfort of good food settle into our bones. I groaned a little after the first mouthful of salmon sashimi.

“This is unreal,” I mumbled, already reaching for more.

He watched me with a lazy kind of fondness, resting his cheek against one hand. “You’re fun to feed.”

“That’s such a weird thing to say.”

“It’s not weird,” he countered. “You light up when you like something. Your whole face softens. Your eyes go a little unfocused.”

“So I black out while eating,” I said, deadpan.

He laughed, nudging a plate toward me. “Black out beautifully.”

I gave him a look, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to insult you creatively right now.”

He held up a piece of unagi. “This might change your mind.”

We ate slowly, comfortably. The kind of dinner that didn’t require conversation to fill the air. But when we did talk, it was soft and slow and easy—about everything and nothing. I asked him what his worst team meeting had ever been. He told me a story that had me snorting miso through my nose. He asked about my first college apartment and I told him about the time my roommate tried to microwave a metal bowl and nearly started a fire.

He leaned back in his chair, sipping sake. “You’re funnier when you’re exhausted.”

“I’m always funny,” I said.

He lifted a brow. “You’re especially funny when you can barely lift your chopsticks.”

I gave him a mock glare, reaching for the last piece of tamago before he could steal it. “You’re only getting away with this because of sushi.”

“Noted,” he said, raising his sake in a mock toast. “Will weaponize sushi again when necessary.”

I smiled into my glass, letting the warmth spread from my chest out toward my fingertips. The food. The quiet. The flicker of candlelight catching in his eyes. It wasn’t just thoughtful. It was intimate in that particular way—uncomplicated, grounding.

Like we’d done this a hundred times before. Like we could do it a hundred times more.

Cleaning up was easy. Not because there wasn’t much to do, but because we did it together—moving around each other with a rhythm that was beginning to feel instinctive. He rinsed, I dried. He stacked the containers, I tucked the leftovers away. Occasionally, our hands bumped, and he’d glance over with a little smirk, like he enjoyed the domesticity just as much as the obstacle courses.

“You’ve got a very tactical approach to dish organization,” I noted, watching him angle the soy sauce bowls precisely into the dishwasher.

He didn’t even look up. “Years of training.”

“In elite dining logistics?”

“In surviving with German efficiency and very little kitchen space in Monaco.”

I snorted, nudging him with my elbow. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, flicking a droplet of water in my direction, “you keep showing up.”

I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth as I swiped at the water spot on my tank top.

Once the last towel was draped over the edge of the sink, he dried his hands slowly and turned to me with that familiar softness in his eyes. The kind of softness that didn’t need words to make you feel it.

“Come upstairs with me,” he said quietly.

I looked at him, a little surprised by the tenderness in his voice. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “The couch. Upstairs. Just us. No agenda. Just… that.”

I felt it then—that pull. The kind that didn’t come from obligation or expectation, but something deeper. A thread woven between trust and comfort.

So I said, simply, “Okay.”

The upstairs living room welcomed us with soft light and silence. Toto dropped onto the oversized couch first, stretching out, legs long and body relaxed like he’d been waiting to exhale all day. He reached an arm toward me, open and sure.

“Come here.”

I climbed in without hesitation this time, crawling into his lap and curling against his chest until every inch of me was cradled by him. My legs folded beneath his, tangled between his thighs. His arms wrapped around my waist, one hand resting on the small of my back, the other gently smoothing down my spine in slow, rhythmic passes.

It wasn’t just cuddling. It was… enveloping. A full-body exhale into someone else’s warmth. I pressed my cheek to his chest, where I could hear the steady beat of his heart—slow and strong and reliable. His shirt was soft beneath my face, and his scent, that mix of clean soap and something deeply him, filled every inhale.

“You’re not squished?” I murmured after a while, my voice barely audible.

“Not even close,” he said, tightening his hold slightly. “You’re like… perfectly shaped to fit here.”

“Okay, calm down,” I said, smiling despite myself. “That’s dangerously close to a cheesy line.”

“It’s not cheesy if it’s true.”

“Hmm,” I hummed. “You’re just happy I’m not running away from physical affection anymore.”

He laughed softly, the vibration echoing through his chest. “I’d call this progress.”

“Shut up,” I said, nuzzling closer.

We stayed like that, cocooned in soft limbs and softer conversation. We talked about nothing and everything—music we loved, childhood stories, his strange obsession with perfectly folded laundry. I told him about the time I fell off a treadmill in high school and pretended it was on purpose.

He called it “tactical retreat.” I told him he was a menace.

But eventually, my words started to slur together. My muscles melted further into his frame. And the next time he ran his hand along my back, I barely felt it—I was that far gone into exhaustion and contentment.

I didn’t remember when he stood. Only that I felt the shift—the gentle press of his arms under my legs and shoulders, the way he lifted me effortlessly against his chest. I made a soft noise of protest, half-asleep.

“Shh,” he whispered into my hair. “Just sleep.”

I let my head fall against his neck, catching the steady rhythm of his breathing as he carried me down the hall. His steps were slow, careful. By the time we reached his bedroom, I was floating somewhere between consciousness and the warmth of being taken care of.

He laid me down with the kind of reverence that made my throat tighten. The sheets were cool against my skin, but his body heat followed immediately—he slid in beside me, pulled me gently into his arms, and settled us into that same position as the night before.

My head on his chest. His arms wrapped around me. Legs tangled under the blanket.

“G’night,” I whispered, barely able to form the word.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and held me tighter. “Sleep, Schatzi.”

And I did.

Wrapped in him. Completely, peacefully his.

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