hi! can i request “We are not just friends and you fucking know it" for kit connor?
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I slammed the door a little harder than I intended, the echo bouncing off the narrow hallway and somehow, miraculously, making everything worse. Kit stood there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable at first, like he was trying to figure out if he should laugh, sigh, or yell. Knowing him, probably all three.
“You can’t just...” I started, my voice trembling, “decide things like that for me!”
He shook his head slowly, his green eyes sharp, accusing. “I’m not deciding anything for you, Y/N. I’m just telling you the truth. Something you’ve been ignoring for far too long.”
I ran a hand through my hair, exasperated. “The truth? Oh, let me guess your version of the truth, where you’re always right, and I’m just…” I gestured wildly, “I’m just whatever fits into your dramatic narrative!”
He stepped closer, his jaw tight, the kind of anger that didn’t make him shout, but made the air tense enough to choke on. “You think this is dramatic? You think it’s all in my head?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous, and I could feel it resonate in my chest. “We are not just friends, and you fucking know it.”
The words hit me like a slap I didn’t see coming. I staggered back a step, blinking. “Kit… what...”
“I’m not asking you to admit it,” he interrupted, voice softer now but still burning. “I’m not asking for anything except for you to stop pretending. Stop pretending like we’re… I don’t know, some casual nothing. We’re not nothing, Y/N. Not to me. And I don’t think we ever were.”
I stared at him, chest heaving, my brain trying to catch up with the words my heart had already known for months. I hated how he could do this stand there, calm, infuriatingly composed, and unravel me in one sentence.
“You always make it sound so easy,” I whispered, voice barely audible. “You make it sound like I’m the one overcomplicating everything.”
He shook his head, stepping closer until I could feel the heat from his body, the tension in his muscles, the raw honesty in his gaze. “Y/N,” he said, soft now, almost pleading, “I’m not trying to make it easy. I’m just… done pretending we’re just… whatever we tell everyone we are. Because we’re more. We’re so much more, and it’s driving me mad that you can’t see it, or you won’t see it, or...”
I cut him off, voice trembling now, frustration and something else swirling together. “And what, Kit? You want me to just say it? To admit it?”
He let out a bitter laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, I want you to stop hiding. Stop pushing me away. We’re real, Y/N. And if we keep pretending… we’re going to lose it. Lose us. And I can’t...”
“I don’t want to lose us,” I admitted, voice breaking.
“Then stop pretending we’re nothing,” he said, stepping so close I could feel his breath. “Because we’re everything. At least to me. And it’s about bloody time you admit it too.”
I swallowed, heart hammering, feeling both terrified and relieved. Because for once, Kit Connor wasn’t hiding anything. And somehow, against all odds, neither was I.
hey! i wondering if you could write kit connor x reader where reader has to study flashcards for an exam and each time reader gets an answer right kit removes an item of clothing! TIA!
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Warfare cast masterlist
18+
"I can't believe I agreed to this," I muttered, staring at the stack of flashcards with growing trepidation. The biology terms swam before my eyes, a sea of scientific jargon that I needed to memorise before tomorrow's exam.
Kit sat across from me on the bed, his lips curved into that infuriating smirk I both loved and hated. "You're the one who said you couldn't focus," he reminded me, shuffling the flashcards with nimble fingers. "I'm just providing... motivation."
I felt my cheeks warm as I recalled our conversation earlier. I'd been complaining about how boring the material was, how I couldn't keep my mind on my studies. And then Kit had proposed this ridiculous game.
"Fine," I said, smoothing my textbook nervously. "But if my professor somehow psychically knows we turned exam prep into... whatever this is, I'm blaming you entirely."
"Fair enough." Kit's eyes sparkled with mischief. He was wearing a lot of layers today, I noticed. Suspiciously many layers. "Ready to begin?"
I took a deep breath and nodded. Kit held up the first card.
"Define homeostasis," he read.
My mind raced. I knew this one. "The tendency of a system to maintain internal stability," I answered, the definition coming to me automatically after hours of studying.
"Correct." Kit's fingers moved to the bottom of his t-shirt. He pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, revealing another shirt underneath. "See? Motivation works."
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help letting my gaze linger on the newly revealed shirt, which fit him more snugly than the outer layer had. "You're wearing extra clothes, aren't you?"
"Next question," Kit said, ignoring my accusation. "What's the difference between mitosis and meiosis?"
I bit my lip, concentrating. "Mitosis is cell division that results in two identical daughter cells, while meiosis results in four genetically different haploid cells and is used for sexual reproduction."
Kit nodded approvingly and removed one sock.
"A sock? Really?" I protested.
"Hey, I'm setting the pace here," Kit laughed. "You want me to skip ahead, you'll need to get more answers right."
I straightened my shoulders. "Fine. Next card."
As we continued, I found myself focusing intensely on each question. My competitive nature kicked in, and I was determined to get every answer right. Kit removed his second sock, then a bracelet I hadn't even noticed he was wearing.
"That doesn't count!" I objected.
"All items of clothing count," Kit insisted, already holding up the next card. "Name the stages of mitosis in order."
I narrowed my eyes in concentration. "Prophase, metaphase, anaphase, telophase."
"Very good." This time, Kit removed his outer shirt, leaving him in a fitted tank top. My mouth went dry at the sight of his arms, toned from years of swimming.
"I think I'm starting to see the educational value in this method," I admitted, my voice slightly hoarse.
"I told you," Kit said smugly. "Nothing motivates like positive reinforcement."
The pile of correctly answered flashcards grew, along with the small heap of Kit's discarded clothing. I found myself recalling information with surprising ease, my mind sharper than it had been during hours of conventional studying.
"Last card," Kit announced eventually, holding it up. He was down to his jeans and tank top now. "Explain the electron transport chain."
I took a deep breath. This was one of the more complex concepts, but I visualised my notes, seeing the diagrams in my mind. I began explaining the process in detail, gaining confidence as I spoke.
When I finished, Kit's expression was impressed. "That was perfect," he said, standing up to remove his tank top.
My breath caught as I watched him, biology terms still swirling in my head alongside much less academic thoughts.
"You know," I said, setting the flashcards aside, "I think I might need to study for my chemistry exam too..."
"I think we've made excellent progress.Maybe we should take a break," Kit suggested "I think chemistry can wait."
My pulse quickened.
The textbook slid from my lap as I instinctively backed up against the headboard. My breath caught in my throat as he moved closer, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You've earned a reward for getting so many right," he whispered, his hand sliding along my thigh. "Don't you think?"
I could only nod, words failing me completely as his fingers traced patterns on my skin, moving higher with deliberate slowness. When his fingers finally slipped beneath the fabric of my shorts, a soft gasp escaped my lips.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice husky against my ear.
"Yes," I breathed, letting my head fall back as his fingers worked their magic, making me forget all about mitochondria and cellular functions and everything else except the sensation of his touch.
Biology could wait. This was the only lesson that mattered right now.
Kit's fingers teased along the edge of my underwear, making me shiver with anticipation. When he finally slipped inside, I couldn't help the moan that escaped my lips. His touch was gentle at first, exploring, finding that perfect spot that made my back arch involuntarily.
"Is this what you wanted?" he whispered against my neck, his breath hot on my skin.
"Yes," I gasped, clutching at his shoulders as his movements became more purposeful, more rhythmic.
My mind went completely blank—no biology terms, no exam anxiety, nothing but the sensations Kit was creating with those talented fingers. The pressure built inside me as he worked, his eyes watching my face intently, gauging my reactions to adjust his pace.
"You've been so good," he murmured, pressing his lips to my collarbone. "Getting all those answers right. You deserve this."
I couldn't form coherent words anymore, just breathless sounds of pleasure as he brought me closer to the edge. My fingers dug into his bare skin, holding on as if I might float away without his anchor.
When release finally came, it washed over me in waves that left me trembling and breathless in his arms. Kit held me through it, whispering praise against my skin until I gradually floated back to reality.
"Still think studying is boring?" he asked with a smile, brushing my hair from my flushed face.
I laughed softly, feeling more relaxed than I had in weeks of exam preparation. "I think I've found my new favorite study method."
Even when both boys are supposedly occupied one with Lego spread like a minefield across the living room floor, the other “reading” in his bedroom (which actually means balancing upside down on the bed and shouting facts about sharks down the stairs) there is always noise. Always movement. Always the sense that if I blink for too long, something will break. Or catch fire. Or both.
“MUM,” Noah yells, his voice echoing from upstairs. “Theo put glue in my hair!”
“I didn’t mean to!” Theo protests immediately. He’s seven, all elbows and dramatic sincerity, his curls bouncing as he gestures wildly. “I thought it was gel!”
I close my eyes for half a second. Just half.
“Okay,” I say calmly, stepping carefully over Lego bricks like I’m navigating a war zone. “Nobody move. Nobody touch their head. I’m coming.”
Kit would laugh if he saw this.
That thought lands softly, then twists.
It’s only been eight days since he left for LA, but the absence of him already feels like a missing limb. The house still smells like his cologne in the mornings. His mug still sits in the sink, because I can’t bring myself to move it. His side of the bed is still slightly rumpled.
But the boys don’t stop for that.
They don’t pause for longing.
They need snacks and school lunches and help with homework and someone to referee arguments about who started what and why.
They need me.
And I love them more than anything in the world.
But I am tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
By the time I’ve cut glue out of Noah’s hair, mediated a shouting match over whose turn it is on the Xbox, answered an email from Theo’s teacher about “excessive enthusiasm during assembly”, and burnt dinner just enough to feel personally offended by it, it’s nearly bedtime.
Which means FaceTime.
The boys launch themselves onto the sofa like it’s a competitive sport.
“Dad!” Theo yells as soon as Kit’s face appears on the screen, already sun-kissed, already looking unfairly good in a hoodie that definitely isn’t his.
Kit laughs, that familiar sound that settles something in my chest. “One at a time, yeah?”
They talk over each other for ten minutes straight, showing him drawings, bruises, Lego creations, and Theo’s newly gappy grin. Kit listens like it’s the most important thing in the world. Like he isn’t working fourteen-hour days. Like he isn’t exhausted.
When it’s finally my turn, I sit beside them, smoothing my face into something light.
“Hey,” he says softly, eyes flicking to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I reply easily. “All good. Same chaos, different day.”
He smiles, but his eyes linger.
Later, once the boys are in bed after three stories, two glasses of water, and one emotional crisis about dinosaurs being extinct I crawl into our bed alone and call him back.
This time, it’s quieter.
More dangerous.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asks again, gentler now.
“Kit,” I say, forcing a small laugh. “You’re in LA. You’re shooting a film. This is huge. I’m fine.”
And I am.
Mostly.
So I don’t tell him about the way I cried in the pantry this afternoon because I dropped a jar of pasta sauce and it felt like the final straw.
I don’t tell him how the nights stretch too long.
I don’t tell him how heavy it feels to be everything for everyone all the time.
I smile until the call ends.
And then I stare at the ceiling and count the days until he comes home.
It’s on day twelve that everything cracks.
It’s nothing dramatic. No emergency. No disaster. Just too much.
Theo refuses to get dressed. Noah forgets his homework. Someone spills cereal everywhere. The dog vomits on the rug. The washing machine breaks mid-cycle. And when Kit calls that night, I answer with a smile already plastered on.
But he knows.
I can see it in the way his expression changes. In the way his brows knit together just slightly.
“You’re lying,” he says gently.
I laugh, too quickly. “I’m really not.”
“Y/N,” he murmurs. “Love. Look at me.”
I do.
And something about the way he’s looking at me so far away and still so there undoes me completely.
“I’m tired,” I admit, my voice wobbling. “I’m just… really tired.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I know this is an amazing opportunity,” I rush on. “And I’m so proud of you, and I don’t want you to worry, because I can handle it, I am handling it”
“Hey,” he says firmly but kindly. “You don’t have to earn this.”
My throat tightens.
“I miss you,” I whisper, tears slipping free despite my best efforts. “And I feel stupid for struggling when this is literally our life. We chose this.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s easy,” he says instantly. “Or that you have to be okay all the time.”
I press my hand to my mouth, crying properly now.
“I hate that you’re doing this alone,” he adds, guilt lacing his voice.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” I insist quickly. “Please don’t feel bad.”
“I feel bad because I love you,” he replies simply.
We stay like that for a while. Me crying. Him grounding me through a screen.
When we hang up, I feel lighter.
Still exhausted.
But seen.
Two weeks later, there’s a knock at the door. It’s early. Too early.
I open it in leggings and an oversized jumper, hair piled messily on my head.
And there he is.
Kit. In the flesh. Smiling like he’s been keeping a secret.
I stare at him, stunned. “What? What are you doing here?”
He drops his bag and pulls me into his arms before I can think, before I can speak. I breathe him in, solid and warm and real.
“You flew all this way for one day?” I ask incredulously when I finally pull back.
He grins. “No.”
Then he reaches past me and grabs something behind him.
Two small suitcases.
My heart skips.
“I flew all this way,” he says softly, “to take you and the boys back with me.”
I blink. “Kit”
“I knew putting you and two kids on a flight alone would be a lot,” he continues. “And after that FaceTime… I didn’t want you doing it by yourself.”
Emotion crashes over me.
“So I told production I needed time,” he finishes. “And I came home.”
I don’t even try to hold it together. I throw myself at him, arms around his neck, crying into his shoulder as he laughs quietly and holds me tighter.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”
For the first time in weeks, I believe it fully. Because he showed up. Because he saw me.
I should have known better than to think the airport would be calm.
That was my first mistake.
The second was trusting Theo with his own backpack.
By the time we reach check-in, Noah is arguing with a self-service machine, Theo is dramatically announcing to anyone within earshot that he is starving to death, and I am already overwhelmed in a way that makes my chest feel tight and my thoughts fuzzy.
Kit, meanwhile, looks maddeningly composed.
He crouches beside Theo, eye-level, calm voice steady. “Mate. We literally just ate.”
“That was ages ago,” Theo insists.
“It was forty minutes,” Noah mutters.
Kit reaches into his coat pocket like a magician and produces a snack bar. Theo gasps like it’s divine intervention.
I watch Kit my husband, my anchor as he navigates the chaos without breaking stride. He takes passports from my shaking hands without comment, loops Noah’s hoodie properly over his shoulders, ties Theo’s shoelace that’s somehow already come undone.
At one point, I realise I’m just standing there, frozen, watching him handle everything.
He glances up and catches me.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod, even though my eyes burn. “Yeah. Just… thank you.”
He smiles at me in that quiet way he does when he knows I mean more than I’m saying. Then he presses a kiss to my temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’ve got it,” he murmurs.
Security is, predictably, a nightmare.
Theo sets off the metal detector. Twice.
Noah forgets his ipad in his bag. The boys argue about who gets to go first through the scanner. Someone spills water everywhere.
I feel it creeping in, that rising panic, the urge to apologise to everyone around me for existing.
Before it can take hold, Kit steps in front of me, one hand reaching back to hold mine.
“Breathe,” he says quietly. “You’re doing great.”
I swallow. Nod.
He takes control without ever making it feel like I’ve failed.
On the plane, the chaos continues.
Theo wants the window seat. Noah wants the aisle. Neither will accept the middle.
Kit solves it by swapping seats mid-boarding, lifting bags overhead, handing out headphones, downloading games, adjusting seatbelts.
At one point, Theo kicks the seat in front of him repeatedly.
“Buddy,” Kit says calmly, leaning closer. “Feet down. Last warning.”
Theo freezes.
I stare at him. “Why does he listen to you like that?”
Kit smirks. “Fear.”
I snort despite myself.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, exhaustion finally catches up to me.
The adrenaline wears off, the boys are absorbed in screens, and my body suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
Kit notices instantly.
He pulls the blanket over me, tucks it around my shoulders, presses a kiss to my hair.
“Sleep,” he whispers. “I’ve got them.”
I want to argue.
Instead, I rest my head against his shoulder and fall asleep almost immediately.
I wake to Theo whisper-shouting.
“Dad. Dad. DAD.”
Kit sighs softly. “What is it, mate?”
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
Everything snaps into action.
Kit has a sick bag in Theo’s hands before I’m fully awake, rubbing his back, murmuring reassurances. Noah watches, wide-eyed.
The fairy lights, the cold air, the way everything seems to hum with possibility. But mostly I love Christmas Eve because it means Kit is sleeping in the room across the hall.
It’s been our tradition since we were four his parents and mine pile into the house, their laughter echoing through every corner, the kitchen overflowing with mince pies and mulled wine. The adults stay up drinking and singing, and Kit and I… we do what we always do.
We wrap presents and talk until dawn.
This year was no different, except for one tiny thing: I was desperately in love with him.
Okay, maybe not tiny. Maybe enormous or Catastrophic.
And tonight of all nights, hiding it felt impossible.
The house was warm and loud, music playing softly through the speakers as snow tapped against the windowpanes. Our parents were downstairs, playing cards and arguing over who cheated last year.
Midnight crept closer.
Kit lay sprawled out across my bedroom floor, legs stretched long in grey joggers, hair a mess of soft curls falling into his eyes. He held a roll of tape between his teeth, frowning at a poorly shaped present in his lap.
“This is impossible,” he mumbled. “I swear this paper is alive and trying to kill me.”
I snorted. “You’ve said that every Christmas for the last thirteen years.”
“It gets truer every year!” he insisted, dramatically slapping the wrapping paper.
I leaned back on my hands, just watching him. The wrapping paper glittered gold beneath fairy lights. Kit, tongue tucked between his teeth in concentration, looked stupidly beautiful.
He noticed me staring.
“What?” he asked, smiling lazily.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, attention dropping to my own half-wrapped present.
“Liar.”
“I just... you look ridiculous,” I lied.
His grin widened. “I look incredible and you know it.”
I threw a bow at him. He gasped. “Violence? On Christmas Eve?”
“You deserved it.”
He rolled onto his stomach, chin propped on his hands like he belonged on a teenage magazine cover. “I’ve missed this,” he said softly.
“We saw each other last week.”
“You know what I mean.”
And I did.
Kit had been everywhere this year filming, interviews, travelling and every time he went, the space he left behind felt bigger.
Now he was here, and the room seemed full again.
He sat up suddenly. “Right. Time for the question.”
I groaned. “Kit.”
“It’s tradition!” he said. “Every Christmas Eve since we were sixteen one brutally honest question we have to answer.”
I sighed. “Fine. Go on.”
He shifted closer, eyes sparkling. “When did you stop loving Dean?”
My breath caught. “That’s not…” I swallowed. “That’s a big question.”
Kit shrugged. “It’s nearly midnight. Go big or go home.”
The memory came easy. “The day he told me I was too much,” I whispered. “He made me feel like I took up too much space with him.”
Kit’s expression sharpened. “You never take up too much space.”
My throat tightened. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Positive.”
We wrapped in silence for a moment, comfortable, peaceful.
Midnight was close.
Downstairs, our parents burst into laughter someone had clearly lost a bet.
Kit leaned back against my bed. His voice went lower.
“Do you ever think about…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Kit.”
He hesitated. “Do you ever think about what life would be like if we weren’t just best friends?”
I froze. Blood roaring in my ears.
“I...”
He waved it off immediately, cheeks flushing.
“Forget I said that.”
But I couldn’t. Not when I’d thought about it every day since I was fifteen.
“It’d be different,” I said carefully.
“Good different?”
“I think so.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, wide, hopeful. “We’re twenty-one, Y/N. We’re adults. We don’t have to pretend nothing has changed.”
My heart hammered. “It has changed?”
He exhaled through a nervous laugh. “God, yes.”
The clock downstairs chimed. Once.
Midnight.
Kit swallowed. Then spoke.
“I fell in love with you." he murmured. “And I fell harder than I was prepared for.”
Everything inside me went still.
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I fought it for ages. You were my best friend. You were safe. And then one day, I realised I was comparing every person I dated to you.”
My voice barely worked. “When?”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“You remember last year?” he said.
“When we stayed up until sunrise, and you fell asleep on my shoulder? I looked at you and thought: please don’t ever love anyone else more than you love me.”
My heart cracked open.
“I know it’s selfish,” he added quickly. “But watching you outgrow boys who didn’t deserve you… hurt. And when you cried over Dean, I wanted to fix everything. I wanted to shake him and say, ‘Don’t you see her?’”
I blinked away tears. “I thought you’d never look at me like that.”
Kit stared. “When did you fall?”
“Fifteen." I admitted.
His breath caught.
“But I was too scared to ruin us. Too scared you didn’t feel the same. So I pretended it was a crush. I dated other people. I tried so hard to move on.”
He laughed, but there was pain in it. “And here I was thinking I was dramatic.”
“You are dramatic.”
We both laughed, breathless.
Kit scooted closer, knees touching mine. “Tell me it isn’t too late.”
I shook my head. “It’s not.”
“Tell me I’m not imagining this.”
“You’re not.”
He let out a shaky breath.
“You know what’s killing me?”
“What?”
“I’ve liked you more than a best friend for three years.” He swallowed. “But I have been in love with you for one.”
My fingers trembled as I cupped his jaw. Kit brushed his nose against mine. “May I?” he whispered.
I didn’t speak I just closed the distance.
The kiss was slow tentative at first, then deeper, warmer, years of unspoken love rushing to the surface.
Kit kissed like he’d been waiting a lifetime, hands sliding to my waist, pulling me closer until I was practically in his lap.
When we broke apart, foreheads touching, he laughed into my mouth.
“Well,” he whispered, voice shaking, “that was terrifying.”
“That was perfect.”
He tucked a curl behind my ear, eyes soft.
“Promise me something?”
“What?”
“No matter what happens, we stay us.”
I kissed him again. “That’s not a promise. That’s a guarantee.”
When he finally pulled back from the kiss, we both sat there grinning like idiots, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. My heart was hammering so loudly I was honestly shocked nobody upstairs stirred.
Kit brushed his thumb along my jaw again, staring at me like he could memorise every freckle, every eyelash, every piece of me he’d missed all these years.
Silence settled warm and perfect until a thought suddenly burst out of me.
“Hang on” I pulled back slightly, narrowing my eyes.
Kit blinked, amused. “What?”
“You asked me two questions,” I said, trying to sound offended, even though my lips kept twitching. “And I never got to ask you anything.”
He smirked, leaning his weight on his hands behind him, pretending to be casual though his cheeks were still flushed. “Alright then,” he whispered, voice low and deep. “Ask me anything.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek, pretending to think it over very seriously, then shrugged. “Okay… can I kiss you again?”
His reaction was instant a soft exhale, a stupidly gorgeous smile, and then he shook his head lightly.
“You never have to ask me that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dropping low enough to melt bones.
My breath hitched. “Oh.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“That was unfairly attractive.”
Kit laughed, then grabbed my waist, pulled me back in, and kissed me again deeper this time, certain, hungry, the kind of kiss that made every Christmas we’d spent together suddenly make sense.
We crawled beneath my blanket exhausted and glowing.
His arm curled instinctively around me, nose nuzzling my hair.
“Hey, Y/N?” he whispered.
“Mm?”
“I don’t want to just be your Christmas Eve thing.”
My heart squeezed.
“You’re not.”
“I want…” He paused, nervous breath against my cheek. “I want all of it with you.”
I smiled into his chest.
“You already have it.”
Downstairs, our parents were probably well asleep on sofas with empty wine glasses beside them, unaware their carefully planned sleepover tradition had finally tipped into destiny.
AN: I'm gonna be so for real lol nobody asked for this...this is purely just for me and @hopeworldsupremacy and I hope you enjoy the absolute filth that this is....
18+
I woke to warmth.
Not sunlight, not morning heat but the kind that radiates from another body. A slow, steady burn. My cheek was resting on something solid and warm, one of my legs tangled with his, and a wide, heavy hand rested on my hip like it had always belonged there.
I blinked awake to the sight of a very bare, very bearded Kit. His face was half-buried in the pillow, hair a complete mess, stubble darker than last night. He looked older like this. More grown. More… mine.
My fingers were already on his jaw before I even realised I’d moved.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice deepened by sleep and something we both knew. “That’s how you’re waking me up? Touching my beard?”
“Can’t help it,” I whispered, tracing my thumb along his jaw. “It’s basically criminal.”
His beard tickled my cheek, and he smiled against my skin.
“Funny,” he breathed, “you didn’t call it criminal when it was in a much lower and much needier place last night.”
I choked on a laugh. “Kit.”
“Just saying,” he murmured. “You seemed like a big fan.”
He smirked, then added, “If I’d known facial hair would make you like this, I would’ve grown it two years ago.”
“Don’t remind me,” I muttered. “We wasted time.”
He lifted his head slightly, eyes soft but hungry. “We didn’t waste it. We were… careful. Professional.”
“But we don’t have to be anymore.”
The words slipped out of me, raw and unplanned. Kit swallowed hard, and his hand tightened at my hip.
“No,” he said. “We don’t.”
And that was our confession quiet, simple, honest. Spoken not just in words, but in the way his thumb slid under the hem of my T-shirt, in the way my mouth brushed his beard again, like a promise.
“So what do we do now?” I asked softly, lips ghosting across his jaw.
He didn’t hesitate.
“We date. Properly. I’m not pretending I haven’t liked you for two years.”
My breath left me in one ridiculous, audible exhale. His head dipped, nose brushing my neck.
“Two years,” I whispered. “You liked me when I had that awful fringe?”
“I liked you when you threw M&Ms at the director,” he said. “And when you cried eating that chilli that wasn’t even spicy. And when you told me my character’s haircut made him look like a sad lettuce.”
“That was accurate,” I argued.
He smiled against my skin, beard scraping lightly distracting and delicious. “I liked you anyway.”
I could’ve kissed him then, but he beat me to it. His mouth met mine, unhurried but deep, like he planned to memorise the taste of every second. His beard scratched lightly along my upper lip, intoxicating. His tongue brushed mine, slow and deliberate.
That was the moment butterflies bloomed low in my stomach and refused to leave.
When we finally pulled apart, barely breathing, he murmured:
“You realise this beard is never coming off again.”
“I’ll protest personally if you shave it.”
“See? Worth it already,” he teased, thumb tracing my lower lip.
He kissed me once more, then pulled back with that stupid, beautiful grin.
“But we have to be somewhat normal today.”
“We have a press junket,” I groaned.
“With cameras,” he confirmed.
“And microphones.”
“And interviewers who will absolutely notice you staring at my face like you’re planning to eat it.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Fair. True.
He rolled out of bed first, and I took a full moment to admire his back the same one I definitely had my nails on last night. He stretched, muscles shifting, beard-and-bedhead combo outrageously attractive.
“How am I supposed to work like a normal actor today?” I demanded.
“Just pretend you’re not obsessed with me,” he said, tossing me a hoodie.
“That’s impossible,” I shot back. “You grew a beard.”
He paused, clearly delighted. “I know.”
We hadn’t even sat down for the first interview before the interviewer smiled at us suspiciously.
“You two seem… close! Reunited after a year apart. What was that like?”
I opened my mouth, ready with a diplomatic answer.
Kit didn’t even try.
“Brilliant. Missed her. Terribly.”
My head snapped toward him. He didn’t even look at me just sipped his iced coffee like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb.
“And Y/N,” the interviewer pressed, “how are you handling Kit’s beard?”
“Badly,” I blurted. “Very badly.”
Kit snorted into his straw. I elbowed him; he raised his eyebrows as if to say you said it, not me.
“You like it, then?” the interviewer teased.
“It’s…” I struggled to find a word that wasn’t indecent. “Distracting.”
“Distracting in a good way?” they pushed.
Kit leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice smooth.
“The best way.”
I kicked his foot. He didn’t flinch. Smug menace.
During the first break, he pulled me behind a backdrop like we were teenagers sneaking off in school. His hands slid around my waist, guiding me back against the wall. His beard brushed my ear when he whispered:
“You’re doing terribly at pretending.”
“You’re sabotaging me,” I whispered.
“I’m just telling the truth.”
“Stop talking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to make me blush on live television.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
My breath hitched. He heard it and smirked.
“We are in public,” I hissed.
“So behave,” he teased.
“Kit.”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“And you’re insufferable when you know I want to kiss you.”
His eyes darkened. “Do you?”
“Obviously.”
His smile faltered into something deeper. Hungrier.
“If we weren’t working right now…”
“I’d be dragging you into a broom cupboard,” I finished.
He exhaled, soft and wrecked. “You’re killing me.”
“Good,” I whispered.
Somehow, we survived the afternoon green rooms, hallway moments, too many coffee cups, a thousand near-touches that shouldn’t have mattered but did.
He kept finding excuses to reach for me: a palm on my lower back, fingers brushing my wrist, the subtle press of his chest as we passed too close.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
After the final interview, as soon as the elevator doors closed in his apartment building, Kit laughed breathlessly and pressed me to the mirrored wall.
Twelve floors of tension. Twelve floors of his thumb sliding under the hem of my shirt. Twelve floors of restraint snapping thread by thread.
He didn’t wait for the apartment door to close before he kissed me hands on my face, my hips, everywhere at once, stealing whatever breath I had left. I barely registered the sound of the lock clicking shut.
I grabbed at his jumper, yanking him closer, greedy for the heat of him and the way he shivered when I scraped my nails along his jawline. His tongue flicked hot against my throat, and I heard myself make a sound, embarrassingly needy.
He liked it. I could feel the smile against my skin, smug and satisfied.
I ran my thumb along the edge of his beard, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw and He walked me backwards until my thighs hit something soft. His sofa.
I sat down, heart ricocheting between my ribs, and he followed, kneeling on the floor between my knees, hands on my thighs, looking up at me with the kind of focus that had driven casting directors wild but had never, not once, been directed at me like this.
“You look wrecked,” he said, voice dark with delight.
“You did this,” I managed, breathless, and thread one hand into his hair.
His beard was softer than velvet, thicker at the chin, and when I scraped my nails along the line of it he shuddered like I’d electrocuted him.
“Yeah,” he said, pressing his hot kisses on the inside of my knee, then letting the scratch of his beard drag against the most sensitive spot up my thigh. “You like that?”
I nodded, unable to form a word.
The heat in his eyes was almost too much.
He bit my inner thigh, gentle but firm, and his hands slid up, pushing my skirt higher, folding it over my hips without ever breaking eye contact. The drag of his beard over my bare thigh sent a shock up my spine.
“Kit” My voice came out as a gasp.
He kissed one side of my pussy then trailed his hot breath across to the other, his hands guiding my legs apart so he could fit himself between them, right at the edge of the sofa.
He pressed his forehead to my thigh, hair soft against my skin, and looked up at me. Waiting for a sign.
“Please,” I whispered. I didn’t care how desperate I sounded.
He grinned, cocky and reverent all at once, and lowered his mouth.
My head snapped back against the cushions as his tongue flicked over my skin, slow and warm, his hands wide and sure on my thighs.
He was gentle at first a soft sweep, then firmer, deliberate, tongue working in slow, steady strokes that made my vision grainy at the edges.
I could feel him smiling against me when I arched, hips lifting off the sofa, fingers digging into his hair like I could anchor myself there and not drift out of my own body.
His beard...God, the beard. Each pass of his mouth was dragged through with the rough edge of it, and it lit up every exposed inch of my skin.
He pressed his tongue inside me deep, shifting my legs apart with his shoulders, holding me open, and when I shivered he made a noise so low I felt it in my sternum.
“Kit” His name was nothing, just air. I didn’t even know what I was asking for.
He continued to fuck me with his tongue hard and deep and the sensation of his spiky beard on my clit was immediate and pleasure washed over me like whiskey poured directly into my veins.
The room fuzzed out, edges swimming. His hands, big and hot, cupped the backs of my thighs, kneading like he needed to memorise every part of me.
He went back to sucking and licking, slow and obscene, circling my wet needy clit with his tongue, then let the friction of his beard do the rest. I’d never known anything could feel like that sharp and soft, just enough to tip me from one edge to the next with no warning, no way to catch myself.
I tried to say his name again, but all that came out was a sound half gasp, half plea. Kit pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, mouth slick, beard glistening, eyes gone wild with the taste of me. He grinned like a thief caught mid-crime, then ducked right back in, unrelenting. He was eating me like I was his last meal, never hurrying, savoring every movement, humming into me with low moans of his own.
Something broke loose in me, sudden and all-consuming. The sound that ripped free from my throat was nothing like me. It was high, raw, a punch of noise in the charged silence of his apartment.
Kit’s hands clamped down, pinning my hips with reverence, holding me in place as I thrashed and came against his mouth, while he ate every noise, every shudder, every desperate fuck of my hips into his mouth, and met it with the kind of filthy, greedy rumbles that said he’d been starved for me.
My lungs didn’t know how to work. I gasped, desperate, and heard him moan into me, drinking in every second of it.
He didn’t stop, not until I was shivering and twitching.
Until I had to shove at his hair with clumsy, trembling fingers.
Kit pulled back, beard wet, lips slick and swollen, and he looked up at me with an expression that was pure, unfiltered adoration. Like he’d just watched the sunrise from the top of the world.
“Fucking hell, you look fucking incredible like this,” he rasped, and the words almost undid me again.
He didn’t even give me time to recover, just surged up, bracketing my face in his hands and kissing me, beard scratchy and mouth warm, the taste of me all over his lips.
I grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him onto the couch he didn’t resist, just let himself be pulled so his weight pressed me into the cushions, every inch of him hard and shaking.
He mouthed at my neck, jaw scraping, one thigh wedging between mine like he owned the space. His hand slid up, under my shirt, fingers splaying over my ribs and then cupping my breast, thumb circling slow. My nerves were already blown open and it all felt like too much.
I arched into him, desperate, and he made a sound so hungry it was almost a growl. I felt him, thick and hot through his jeans.
“I want you,” I managed, guttural, broken. “Now.”
He fumbled for his waistband one-handed, the other still glued to my thigh, and barely got himself out before he was on top of me, jeans shoved down just enough, his cock hot and hard and already leaking against my thigh.
He fumbled, cursing, then lined himself up and pushed in with one thick, slow stroke.
I was still spasming, so tight around him I was half-worried he wouldn’t fit, sparks flaring up my spine as he bottomed out.
The stretch was sharper than I remembered, the aftershocks of orgasm making everything fever-bright and raw. I made a wounded sound and he stopped, eyes wide.
“Too much?”
I shook my head and couldn’t manage words, just a desperate noise. He eased back, then in again, slower this time, careful, but even careful made my vision water. It was too much. It was exactly right.
My body was still humming, every nerve ending raw and primed.
My head dropped back, spine arching off the couch. I could feel myself pulsing around him, fluttering and wet, and he gave a broken, desperate sound.
“God, you feel...” he started, but didn’t finish. He gripped my thigh, hitching it up over his hip, and started to move.
Each stroke was a shock, slick and hot, his beard brushing along my neck and chin, the scratch and drag of it making everything sharper, brighter.
I clung to his shoulders, nails digging deep.
"Fuck. You're so tight" The words dropped out of him, ragged, as if they’d been pressed out by force. Every pulse of my body around him made him jerk, lose rhythm, clutch at me like he’d fall if he let go.
His cock dragged along every hypersensitive inch, and I couldn’t stop shaking,from too much wanting, too much of him. My legs locked around his waist because if I didn’t I’d come apart completely. Every thrust sent another shock through the core of me, like he was splitting me open, making space that hadn’t existed before.
"Christ, you feel so good," he groaned, low, hoarse, mouth scraping my jaw, my ear, my throat. "I can’t… You’re going to make me…" The rest dissolved into a sound that wasn't even word, just a shudder in the space between my ear and jaw.
I wanted him to break. I wanted to see it on his face, wild and ruined. I wanted to feel him come apart inside me and know it was because of me, because I’d made him lose all that legendary control.
I dug my heels into the small of his back, and he thrust harder, deeper, all the carefulness gone, just pure fucking need.
The slap of skin and the wet, filthy sounds of our bodies filled the flat, louder than my ragged moans, than his choked curses.
Every muscle in my body pulled tight, and when he set his teeth in my shoulder and drilled up, I tipped over again, second orgasm hitting so hard my vision whited out.
I clamped around him, whole body seizing, and he bucked into me with a ragged, “Fuck, Y/N” and he froze cock throbbing.
I felt him spilling inside me, the way his arm trembled around my thigh, the clench of his jaw as he tried to hold back.
I reached down, scraping my nails along his jaw, grinding myself up into his cock, through the aftershocks and he groaned long, low, desperate.
His fingers digging bruises into my ass as he rode out every last pulse. I’d never been so full. Never been so completely wrecked by another person by Kit.
When he finally stilled, he collapsed on top of me, head buried in my neck, beard rough against my skin. The only sounds were our breathing,shallow and wild.
I couldn’t remember how to breathe or speak. My skin was glass, shot through with heat and starlight, my brain just a single word echoing over and over: Mine.
Kit stayed pressed to me, stupid, lovely weight, and when his breathing finally slowed, he lifted his head just enough to look at me. His pupils were huge, mouth split by a grin so dopey and unguarded I almost cried. I’d done that. I’d wrecked him and he had well and truly wrecked me.
His thumb brushed my cheekbone, clumsy and lingering, and for a long moment neither of us said a word. The only sound was our lungs, greedy for oxygen. The rest of the world could have fallen away. Maybe it had.
He ducked his head, buried his nose against my jaw, and whispered in the most idiotic voice: “Hi.”
Something in my chest twisted, sharp and soft at once, and I laughed because if I didn’t I’d probably burst into tears.
I felt his hand find the curve of my waist, palm splayed wide, claiming ground he already owned. His thumb ran lazy circles along my ribs. Like he already knew I’d agree to anything he’d ever want, right here, in this moment.
We lay there, limbs tangled, neither of us rushing to move. Kit’s breathing slowed and evened, and with each exhale, I felt the shape of what was next not just sex, not just a new and thrilling permission, but something with edges so sharp and terrifying I barely dared touch it.
He was still inside me, softening but stubborn, and it felt like an anchor. I stared at the ceiling, at the shifting pattern of sunlight against plaster, and tried to memorise it.
Eventually, Kit blinked slowly, lifted his face, and kissed my mouth again. Not the frenzied, desperate kind; this kiss was slow, almost silly with how gentle he could be after what he’d just done to me.
“Don’t ever shave,” I managed. My voice sounded high, startled by its own honesty.
He laughed, mouth swollen “I’ll die with it on, just for you.”
“Good,” I said, and in the glowing stillness that followed, I couldn’t stop touching his face. The cut of his jaw, the heat of his cheek, the wild, soft hair at the back of his neck. He didn’t flinch or tease or say anything at all, just let me learn him with my hands, slow and greedy.
I could feel the way he waited for my next move, my next word.
I wanted to say it. The I love you. The words perched on the tip of my tongue, bright and trembling, but I didn’t know if it would detonate us or make us more real than before. Maybe both.
I was not brave, but I was greedy, and his face was too close, and maybe I’d die if I never said it.
He shifted to the side, arm curling under my neck, pulling me flush. I could still feel the sticky, sweet aftermath of us, the scratch of his beard at my temple, the restless circles his thumb traced along my ribs. My brain was nothing but static.
My mouth wouldn’t stay shut. “Kit?”
He kissed my hair, a distracted noise in his throat. “Yeah?”
“Don’t freak out.” Pause. “Can I say something absolutely humiliating?”
“Please do,” he said, instantly grinning. “I crave your humiliation.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “No, you don’t. I mean it. You’re going to mock me for the rest of my life if I say this first.”
He was silent, his hand pausing on my ribs, waiting.
I closed my eyes and said it, fast, before I could stop myself. “I love you, you idiot.”
It was like firing a flare into the dark a moment of blank silence, followed by the world coming back into focus, everything sharper and brighter.
He froze. Then his face cracked, the whole thing, like it couldn’t hold that much joy at once.
He made a sound, a high, startled laugh, then pressed his forehead into the side of my head, beard scratchy and perfect.
His voice was muffled, but there was nothing soft about the words. “I am hopelessly, absolutely fucking in love with you, too, baby.”
AN: Saw this photo and Immediately ran to write about how hot he looks with a beard... And my god Im obsessed with this. 🫠
Smut in Part 2
Twelve months.
Twelve months without seeing Kit in person.
Twelve months since we wrapped Maybe, Possibly, Us, the rom-com that had us kissing underneath fake snowfall and falling asleep on each other between takes.
We’d promised ourselves we’d stay professional.
We had careers, reputations, boundaries.
We didn’t want to be those actors who blurred reality with fiction.
So when filming ended, we hugged, exchanged numbers, texted a few times…
And then our schedules swallowed us whole.
I’d convinced myself I’d moved on.
That the feelings were just remnants of playing two people who fell in love.
That was before I saw him today.
We were both called to a studio for press.
I stepped out of my car, smoothing my coat, taking a deep breath.
And Kit turned around.
And he had a beard.
Not stubble.
Not scruff.
A beard.
Full, soft-looking, golden-red in the light, making him look older and broader and...
My knees genuinely wobbled.
“Y/N?” he said, smiling slowly. “Hi.”
Dear God.
“Your...your face,” I blurted.
He laughed, low and warm. “Still got one. Good sign.”
“No, I mean...” I walked straight up to him without thinking, eyes glued to his jaw. “You have a beard.”
Kit’s cheeks went faintly pink. “Oh. Yeah. For the show I just finished.”
I didn’t hear a word past yeah.
“Kit,” I said, staring. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Warn you?” He grinned, stepping closer. “Would it have helped?”
No.
Not even slightly.
I reached out, without thinking and brushed my knuckles lightly along his jaw.
The hair was soft, thicker than it looked, warm under my fingers.
Kit inhaled sharply.
“Oh,” he whispered. “So that’s the reaction.”
I snatched my hand back, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, that was unprofessional.”
Our publicist cleared her throat loudly.
Right. Interviews. Cameras. Work.
But I was already gone.
We were sat side by side on a sofa, lights hot, cameras rolling.
Kit answered the question first, voice smooth as honey.
And I stared at him.
Not the polite kind of co-star admiration.
No I stared at his mouth.
His jaw.
The way he scratched at his beard thoughtfully.
The interviewer laughed. “Y/N, you’re very focused. Anything you want to add?”
Kit looked at me, lips twisting knowingly.
I blinked. “Um. Yes. Sorry. Distracted.”
Kit’s knee bumped mine intentionally.
“You ok?” he murmured, just for me.
“You look good,” I whispered back. Too honest. Too fast.
His breath hitched almost silently.
In the next interview, when someone asked about working together, I said “Kit’s even more handsome now than when we filmed.”
The camera crew actually laughed.
Kit turned bright red.
Between clips, he leaned in, voice low enough to tickle my jaw.
“If I’d known you’d react like this…” he murmured, “I would’ve convinced the director to let me grow a beard for the film.”
My heart just about burst out of my chest.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I whispered.
“Maybe I missed you,” he whispered back. “Maybe this is me making up for lost time.”
I almost forgot we were still on camera.
We finally got a break.
I flopped onto the backstage sofa, fanning myself.
Kit stood over me, smirking.
“You’re really affected, aren’t you?”
“I am not,” I lied pathetically.
“You touched my beard within ten seconds of seeing me.”
“Scientific curiosity.”
“You sighed.”
“I did not”
“You also stared at my mouth for forty minutes.”
“…allegedly.”
He laughed, completely delighted, and sat beside me close enough that our thighs pressed together.
I was staring again.
His beard.
His jaw.
His lips.
Kit tipped my chin up with one finger.
“You can touch it again,” he murmured, “if you want.”
My breath caught.
“Kit”
“It’s just between us. No cameras.”
That was all the permission I needed.
My hand slid along his jaw again, slower this time.
He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch as if starved for it.
“You look older,” I whispered. “In the best way.”
“How much older?” he murmured.
“Mmm… dangerously.”
He chuckled, breath warm against my cheek.
“You’re going to kill me,” he said.
“Likewise.”
Our noses brushed just barely.
Then the publicist shouted that we were needed again.
We both exhaled shakily.
At the London premiere the venue buzzed with photographers and fans.
I stepped out of the car first, waving and smiling
Then Kit stepped out behind me.
In a fitted black suit.
With the beard.
The crowd screamed.
I nearly did too.
He walked to my side, slipping his hand around my waist like he’d been doing it for years.
“Hi,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Being” I gestured at him helplessly. “This.”
He grinned.
We posed for photos.
Except… we weren’t really posing.
Kit’s hand stayed firmly on my waist.
Sometimes he slid it to the small of my back, guiding me gently.
Sometimes he leaned close to whisper jokes so he could feel my laugh against him.
At one point, when the crowd shouted for a photo of “just the two of you,” he rested his forehead briefly against my temple.
My eyes fluttered shut.
Flashbulbs went insane.
When the photographers asked us to look at each other, we did.
And instantly regretted it.
Because nothing about it was acting.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered so quietly only I could hear.
“Kit”
He squeezed my waist. “Let me say it.”
My heart practically disintegrated.
We were ushered inside to our seats.
Kit sat beside me.
The lights dimmed.
Our movie started.
Five minutes in, he leaned closer.
“You keep touching me,” he murmured. “And I keep thinking about how you never did that while filming.”
“We were being professional.”
“We’re not filming now.”
My pulse jumped.
His fingers brushed mine on the armrest tentative at first, then firmer when I didn’t pull away.
Halfway through the film our big on-screen heated kiss scene I felt Kit’s gaze.
I turned.
He was already looking at me.
“Kit…” I breathed.
His voice was low. “You have no idea how much I wanted that scene to keep going.”
The tension snapped like a pulled wire.
“Why didn’t you say any of this a year ago?” I whispered.
“I thought you wanted space.”
“I thought you did.”
He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
Then so incredibly gently he brushed his thumb over my cheek.
Not a kiss but just enough contact that I felt my entire body light up.
“If we weren’t surrounded by five hundred people…” he whispered.
I swallowed. “What would you do?”
He leaned close enough that his beard scraped lightly along my jaw.
“I’d show you exactly what your little beard obsession is doing to me.”
I went dizzy.
The after party was crowded and loud, but Kit stuck to me like gravity.
Every time someone dragged me away for conversation, he found me again.
Hand on my back.
Fingers brushing mine.
Knee bumping my knee when we sat.
He was warm and soft-spoken and devastatingly gorgeous.
At one point, he tugged me into a quiet corner behind a curtain.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hi,” he murmured back.
We both laughed softly.
“This feels ridiculous,” I said. “We’re adults.”
“We’re idiots,” he corrected. “Twelve months wasted.”
I stepped closer until our shoes touched.
“You look too good with the beard,” I said, voice low. “It’s not fair.”
He smiled, breath catching.
“And you,” he murmured, “keep looking at me like you want to climb me.”
I choked on a laugh. “You can’t say things like that in public.”
“No?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “Then take me somewhere private.”
My heart lurched.
“Kit…”
He cupped my jaw again, thumb brushing the edge of my mouth.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he whispered. “And I’ll stop.”
I stared up at him.
At the beard.
At the eyes that had looked at me like I hung the moon all evening.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
His forehead touched mine.
“Good.”
He didn’t kiss me.
Instead, he let his thumb drag gently across my bottom lip.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Enough to unravel me.
I swallowed hard “You’re killing me,” I whispered.
His smile was soft and wicked all at once.
“Right back at you.”
When the night finally ended, our cars pulled up.
Mine first.
His second.
We stood in the cold air, the sounds of the party fading behind us.
“I don’t want this to be the end of it again,” he said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
His relief was palpable.
Then he stepped close, hand sliding around my waist again, pulling me gently into him.
I pressed my palms to his chest.
Warm.
Solid.
So familiar despite the time apart.
“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.
“Anything.”
“Would it ruin things if I’d kissed you tonight?”
I exhaled shakily.
“No,” I whispered. “It would ruin me if you didn’t.”
His breath caught.
He dipped his head his nose brushed mine and his beard grazed my cheek and he stopped.
Not because he didn’t want to.
But because he was being careful.
Respectful.
Kit.
“I want to do this right,” he whispered. “Not rushed. Not half-hidden.”
I nodded, heart pounding. “Then ask me properly.”
He smiled, eyes warm and bright.
“Y/N,” he said softly. “Can I take you out? A real date. Tomorrow. Just us.”
I grinned, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.”
He leaned in, forehead resting against mine, voice a low rumble.
“Good. Because I’ve waited a year to kiss you properly. And when I finally do…”
His hand tightened on my waist.
“…I’m not stopping at one.”
My knees genuinely buckled.
He caught me.
Smirking.
Kit texted me the next morning at 8:12am.
KIT: Breakfast or dinner?
KIT: Actually… both?
KIT: I’m making up for a year, remember.
My stomach flipped so dramatically I had to sit down.
ME: Dinner. Somewhere quiet.
KIT: Quiet gives me ideas.
ME: Kit.
KIT: I’ll be good.
KIT: …ish.
I genuinely had to close the chat before I said something that would make me combust on the spot.
By the time 7pm came around, I’d changed outfits six times and cursed the universe for making my heart behave like a teenager's.
His message came when he was close.
KIT: Two minutes.
My pulse kicked up.
And then a knock.
I opened the door.
And folded.
He’d shaved the beard down just a fraction.
Still thick.
Still warm and golden.
Still unbelievably unfair.
But neater.
Sharper.
Somehow even more devastating.
He was in a dark green jumper and a coat that made his shoulders look sinful.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
I leaned against the doorframe because my knees were apparently not on my side today.
“You trimmed it,” I whispered.
“I did.” His lips lifted. “Thought you might want to touch it without looking like you’d lose consciousness.”
“I’m not that bad.”
Kit stepped inside, closing the door behind him, his chest brushing mine as he moved past.
“You are,” he murmured. “It’s adorable.”
I shoved him lightly. “I’m not adorable.”
“You’re adorable,” he said again, voice lower. “And you’re staring at my mouth again.”
“I am not.”
He raised a brow. “Sweetheart. You haven't looked away once.”
I absolutely hadn’t.
He was too close.
Too warm.
Too smug.
I swallowed. “Are we… going?”
He smiled soft, teasing, fond. “We are. But just so you know if you keep looking at me like that, we’re going to be late.”
The restaurant was small, dim, candlelit the kind of place where whispers carried and tables were close enough that his knee touched mine every time he shifted.
He didn’t move away.
Not once.
We ordered food neither of us paid much attention to. We were too busy watching each other.
I caught him staring at me over his drink. He didn’t look away.
“What?” I asked, heat creeping up my neck.
He tapped the edge of his glass thoughtfully, beard brushing his thumb. “You’re different tonight.”
“How?”
“More open,” he said slowly. “More… aware.”
“Of you?”
His smile deepened. “Yeah.”
I exhaled. “Well… you look like this now. With that beard. It’s distracting.”
His eyes darkened. “Distracting how?”
“Kit.”
“No, really.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Tell me.”
I stared at him helplessly. “It makes you look older. Confident. Not the boyish charm you had during filming. More like…”
I paused “Like someone who knows exactly what he wants.”
His breath caught just slightly.
“And what do you think I want?”
The question snapped straight through me.
“Me,” I whispered.
His knee pressed harder into mine under the table.
“Correct,” he murmured.
Heat coiled low in my stomach.
Then his hand slid across the table. He held it out not demanding, just offering.
I placed mine in his.
Warm. Big. Gentle.
His thumb stroked over my knuckles like he’d been waiting years to do it.
“I keep thinking about....” he said quietly. “The way you touched me.”
My cheeks burned. “You told me I could.”
“And you listened,” he said with a soft smile. “I liked that.”
His thumb brushed higher, slow and warm.
“And then,” he continued, “you said it would ruin you if I didn’t kiss you.”
“I meant it.”
“Good,” he breathed. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about.”
My throat tightened. “Kit…”
“If we weren’t in public,” he said barely above a whisper, “I would already have you against that wall.”
My breath stuttered.
He smiled at my reaction not cocky, not arrogant, just pleased. Like he was finally giving a name to something that had lived between us for over a year.
Dinner passed in a blur of touches his fingers brushing my wrist as he poured water, his knee sliding against mine every time he shifted, his hand finding my lower back when he leaned close to tell a joke.
He didn’t stop touching me.
I didn’t want him to.
Outside, the night air was cold.
Kit stepped close, rubbing his hands together once before resting them on my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Cold?” he asked softly.
“You’re wearing a coat. I’m not.”
He shrugged his off instantly, draping it over my shoulders without hesitation.
I swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
His beard brushed my cheek as he adjusted the collar, fingers lingering at the back of my neck.
Warmth shot straight through me.
“Kit,” I whispered.
He froze but not because he wanted distance.
Because he wanted the opposite.
“Come here,” he murmured.
I didn’t even think. I stepped into him, hands sliding up his chest, gathering the front of his jumper in my fingers.
He inhaled sharply.
“This alright?” he breathed.
“Yes.”
His hands found my hips.
Not tentative.
Not hesitant.
Possessive.
Slowly, he walked me backwards until my shoulders brushed against the wall of the restaurant building shadowed, tucked away, quiet.
His forehead touched mine.
“If I kiss you,” he whispered, “I’m not stopping”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He exhaled, a soft, shaky sound that did something shamefully satisfying to my insides.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”
He cupped my jaw with both hands, beard brushing my skin in soft, warm strokes as he tilted my face up.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
I did.
And then he kissed me.
Slow at first.
Careful.
Like he wanted to memorise the shape of my mouth before taking anything more.
His lips moved against mine in soft, deliberate pulls that made my knees threaten mutiny.
Then he deepened it.
Kit’s hand slid to the back of my neck, guiding me closer, while his other hand tightened on my waist, pulling me into him completely.
Heat rolled through me in a wave.
I fisted the fabric of his jumper, fingers brushing the ridge of his collarbone, and he groaned a quiet, low, rough sound into my mouth.
That sound went straight to my spine.
His beard grazed my jaw as he angled his head, kissing me deeper still slow but hungry, like he’d been waiting a year to do it properly.
“God,” he breathed against my lips. “You taste…”
He cut himself off with another kiss, harder this time. His thumb stroked my cheek as our mouths moved in perfect, desperate sync.
I slid one hand up into his hair. The second I tugged he made a sound I will absolutely think about on my deathbed.
“Careful,” he whispered, forehead pressing to mine for a moment. “I’m trying to behave.”
“Why?” I whispered back.
He laughed once breathless, soft, delighted and lifted my chin to kiss me again, slower but no less intense.
This one felt like sinking.
His nose brushed mine, his beard scraping gently against my skin in a way that made my entire body tingle. I couldn’t stop touching it the soft hair brushing my fingertips, warm against his jaw.
Kit shivered.
“You really like it, don’t you?” he murmured against my mouth.
“Obsessed,” I breathed, kissing him again. “Completely obsessed.”
His grip tightened on my waist. “Good.”
He kissed me like he wanted to devour the last twelve months one second at a time.
Like he was making up for every moment we’d pretended our chemistry wasn’t real.
I kissed him back just as fiercely.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches both of us breathing hard, foreheads touching, his thumb brushing my lower lip like he wasn’t done, not even close.
“You alright?” he whispered.
“No,” I whispered. “Absolutely not.”
He laughed, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“Same.”
We stood there for a long moment, bodies close, breath mingling, neither of us wanting to break the spell.
Finally, he murmured, “Come home with me.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest.
“Okay,” I said softly.
His smile was slow and content and utterly beautiful.
He laced his fingers through mine.
“Good,” he said, kissing my temple. “Because I’m not done kissing you tonight.”
I exhaled shakily. “Good.”
He grinned, beard brushing my cheek as he leaned in one more time.
The candlelight flickered against the high-ceilinged walls of the set, casting long shadows that gave the room an authentic, Regency-era gloom. I sat rigid on the chaise, corset laced too tightly for comfort, my skirts pooling in a river of silk at my feet. Across from me, Kit stood by the window, his broad shoulders outlined by the golden glow streaming through the panes. He was in full costume waistcoat, tailcoat, cravat the very picture of a brooding lord.
We’d been filming this series for three months now, a lavish new drama that critics were already dubbing the next Bridgerton. Kit and I were co-stars, sworn enemies on screen whose constant sparring masked a simmering desire neither character dared name. Off screen, we were… something else entirely. Friends, of course, but there was an undercurrent. Something I tried hard to ignore whenever his green eyes lingered on me too long, or when his laugh carried across the set and tugged at something low in my chest.
Today’s scene was the pivotal one the moment our characters finally confronted the truth behind their animosity. We’d rehearsed the lines countless times. I thought I knew exactly how it would play.
The director clapped the slate shut. “Action.”
Kit turned from the window and crossed the room with purposeful strides. His boots thudded against the wooden floor, echoing in the charged silence between us.
“You think me cruel,” he began, voice low, measured, “but you do not know the half of it.”
I lifted my chin, every inch the defiant heroine. “You wound me with your words, my lord, yet it is your silence that strikes the deepest blow.”
His jaw clenched. I saw it the flicker of something raw beneath the character, something that felt more like him than the role he was playing.
Then came the moment. He was meant to deliver a line about pride, about how he could never forgive me for the imagined slight our characters danced around. Instead, he stepped closer, eyes locking with mine, and said
“I ache for your touch, but I fear what it would do to my heart if I gave in.”
Time stopped.
Those words… they weren’t in the script. My breath caught, chest tightening beneath the corset. He hadn’t broken character, not exactly his tone was perfect for the scene, his posture unflinching but the way he said it, the intensity in his gaze, was unmistakably Kit.
My mind whirred. He meant it.
Before I could think better of it, instinct drove my reply. My voice came softer, trembling but true. “Then let us not speak of fear, for my heart is already yours, whether you claim it or not.”
The words weren’t scripted either. They tumbled out, pure and unplanned, but they fit. God, they fit.
We stood there, locked in a stare that stretched beyond the scene, beyond the cameras. The air between us thickened with everything unsaid.
“Cut!” the director’s voice shattered the silence.
I blinked, the spell breaking. Kit stepped back, clearing his throat, running a hand through his perfectly styled curls as though he could brush away what had just happened.
The director bounded over, excitement radiating off him. “That was… that was incredible improvisation. The chemistry, the longing, the restraint my God, I could feel it in my bones. Writers! Make a note of that. We must work it in.”
The crew bustled with sudden energy, whispers of “Did you see that?” floating around us. My cheeks burned hot, my palms damp against the silk of my skirts.
Kit didn’t look at me. Not yet.
When the director finally strode off to confer with the writers, the set emptied a little, crew dispersing to reset lights and props. The buzz of chatter filled the space, but between Kit and me, there was only silence.
He exhaled and finally turned. His eyes found mine, searching, as though trying to decide whether to speak or to pretend it hadn’t happened.
I beat him to it. “So that wasn’t in the script.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “No. It wasn’t.”
I crossed my arms, trying for composure, though my heart was still racing. “So… what was it, then? Just… improv?”
His gaze held mine steadily. Too steadily. “Not exactly.”
The weight of his honesty knocked the breath from me. “Kit…”
He stepped closer, not in character now, not for anyone else’s benefit. Just him. “I don’t know what came over me. It just… slipped out.”
I swallowed hard. “Slipped out?” My laugh was thin, nervous. “That’s quite the confession to ‘slip out’.”
“I know.” He raked a hand through his hair again, his telltale sign of nerves. “But it wasn’t untrue.”
My throat tightened. “You’re saying…”
He glanced around the crew was busy, no one watching us. His voice dropped, rough and quiet. “I meant it. Every word.”
Heat rushed through me, mingling with disbelief. For months I’d buried the possibility, told myself the lingering stares and subtle touches were figments of my imagination. And now, here he was, baring it without warning, in front of half the production team no less.
I whispered, “Why now?”
“Because I couldn’t keep pretending,” he admitted, a hint of desperation breaking through his calm. “Not with you right there, looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel it too.”
The air seemed to crackle. I searched his face, every line, every flicker of sincerity, and I realised I couldn’t deny it. I did feel it too. Had for longer than I dared admit.
But fear held me still. “This is dangerous, Kit. We’re colleagues. This is our job. If this goes wrong”
“Then it goes wrong,” he interrupted, softly but firmly. “But if we ignore it, if we keep pretending it’s not there… I think that might be worse.”
I bit my lip, pulse hammering. He was right, and I hated that he was right.
From across the set, the director shouted for us to reset. We jumped, stepping apart instinctively, masks of professionalism sliding back into place.
Kit’s eyes lingered on me one moment longer. Quiet, pleading. “Later. We’ll talk. Just… later.”
I nodded, barely.
The rest of the day blurred. We filmed, we bantered in character, we did our jobs as though nothing had changed. But everything had. Every brush of his hand, every look across the room carried new weight.
By the time we wrapped, my nerves were shredded.
I was gathering my things when Kit appeared, still in costume, hair slightly mussed, eyes darker than usual.
“Walk with me?” he asked.
I hesitated, then nodded.
We slipped out the side exit into the cool evening air. London hummed around us, distant traffic and the glow of streetlamps grounding us in reality after hours of make-believe.
For a while, we just walked. No words. My heart pounded loud enough I was sure he could hear it.
Finally, he stopped beneath a streetlamp and turned to me.
“Y/n,” he began, voice rough, “I don’t want to hide behind scripts anymore. That line what I said It’s how I’ve felt for months.”
I froze, staring at him.
He stepped closer, careful but steady. “I ache for your touch, because every day I’m near you and I can’t have you, it tears me apart. And I’m afraid because if I let myself have you, there’s no going back. I don’t think I could bear to lose you.”
Tears pricked my eyes, stupidly. “Kit…”
His hand hovered near mine, not touching, just there. “If this is too much, if you don’t want this, say the word. I’ll stop. I’ll swallow it down and carry on like nothing happened.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You think I don’t feel it? That I haven’t been going mad trying to convince myself it’s nothing?”
Hope flickered across his face.
I took a breath, the words spilling before I could stop them. “Then let's try.”
His breath caught. “You mean that?”
I nodded, finally letting the truth settle. “Yes. I do.”
The space between us disappeared. His hands framed my face, tentative at first, then surer as I leaned into him. His lips found mine, soft, desperate, everything we’d both been holding back.
It wasn’t part of a script. It wasn’t for the cameras. It was us.
