Title: DAY 8
Pairing: Alex Hughes x Fem!Reader || Snow Cake
Categories: smut
Kinktober: Webcam
Word count: 1.7k
PS: Never wrote him before, so I apologize it's terrible.
Alex Hughes was a lonely man.
A terribly lonely man who had been through far too much. He was cranky, tired, and so done with so many things. But what could he do other than take a breath and move on? He didn't have anyone to go to for comfort. No one he could turn to for company. He had been by himself ever since he could remember, and wherever he went, tragedy struck. Alex thought it was for the best to keep to himself for a while.
He was alone with his thoughts, fears, and prospects.
Alex tried to return to his life after going through two losses. He moved on, gradually, little by little, even though some things still tormented him. But now he had the will to try and make a transformation, but change did not come overnight; it was never this easy.
And Alex assumed small actions towards it, little by little, step by step.
First, he found a place to stay, somewhere to work. And bit by bit, Alex rebuilt a figment of what someone's life should look like. From the exterior, Alex appeared to be a changed man who had found a path to follow, but things were not quite as good as they looked on the surface.
Deep down, there was something Alex Hughes still lacked and did not manage to gain, and that was a girlfriend.
Yes, a girlfriend.
He had moved on, he straightened his ways, and still he could not talk to girls. Well, he could, but most did not talk back, nor did they want anything serious. Alex thought himself old. He reached an age when he had to get a family of his own. He was no longer young enough to fool around with trivial encounters; he had done that, but now he had to settle down.
After working on himself, Alex grew tired of being alone, and his attempts to flirt only left him embarrassed and cucked, or he was just refused right away. Which would be fine, had it not been a constant he could not break. The only time one or two girls talked back to him was because he was older and they thought he had to be rich or some 'daddy', which he had to disappoint them by ruining that fantasy.
And so, one evening, having had enough of keeping himself chaste, he remembered he was a man. If no woman were to come along, he could always prolong his waiting patience by giving himself a relief. A quick, secret one that would not mean much.
Alex was ashamed at first.
That kind of thing was what schoolboys did, not grown men, but this was a dire situation, and very few options sounded better than this. He could always pay someone, but he felt that would be humiliating. Well, he knew he would feel terribly embarrassed about it, so the next best thing he could think of was... a cam girl. He heard of them in passing at work, some other men discussed it, and he ignored it.
Now, it appeared like his best bet.
Alex could be anonymous this way, jerk off, and then pretend it never happened. He wins, the girl wins, and everyone is happy.
It took him a little to figure out how things worked, how to set it up, and pick someone to his liking, and that person happened to be you. Alex chose to remain anonymous for the most part.
Although he did name himself A-Huge.
He tried to make a pun, which... well, he tried. Alex felt like a massive fool about 5 seconds later when he realised how much he acted like some dumb teenage boy in heat. Disgraceful, he wanted to leave; this was too much even for him. No man was ever desperate enough at his age to behave this way, but it was too late.
His money went through, and you were there..
He saw you, and his second-guessing ceased at once. It won't hurt to give this thing a try. At least one time, how bad could it be?
You were waiting for him to type something, and he was waiting for you to do something. Already, the situation was getting awkward, but it was not the first time you had to deal with men like him, who were on the more shy side.
You waited for about a minute for him to say something. When no text popped up, you sighed, got a little more comfortable, and smiled, trying to put him at ease a little.
Easier said than done.
"You must be quite new to this; that's completely fine." You assured him, slipping your shirt off your shoulders, leaving your chest in sight for him, although you did have a bra on, so he could not see everything yet. Alex was a bit taken aback, looking at his keyboard.
What should he say? He could not just tell you what he wanted; that would be vulgar.
"I am not here to pry, so don't worry about it. But I will ask... You know, sometimes people pay for other things. Commonly, it's sexual stuff, but not always; sometimes, men need to talk. I could do that too, whatever it is you feel you need more right now."
Alex stared at his keyboard...
Maybe a little talk first would ease him in, with this whole cam thing.
It did, you were surprisingly insightful despite his prejudices, which he threw away immediately after you started talking. You were a bright girl, but unfortunately, this kind of work was the one that paid best, and your body was a tool you had to use currently to have a better living later on; he could understand that.
Although his saviour complex made him wonder if maybe he could do something about that. He was not rich, but he could get in contact with you. He could help with money, but not for sexual services. Perhaps after you talked, you would even want to get to know him.
No.
He was getting attached, and he shouldn't.
You were working, doing your job, but he hoped. After talking about life for a while, both of you relaxed. You acted interested in him. It could be your job alone, but maybe deep down, you found him a little interesting? No matter... that could wait. Because he came for something else, which, now, after some talking, you were finally going to give him.
A little more courageous than before, Alex began requesting different things, one by one. At first, he wanted the bra gone as you "Dared to tease him during your chat by keeping it on." You obliged, quite amused, and he smiled behind the screen too, feeling a soft blush in his eyes when your breasts were revealed to him.
His hand had drifted down, his trousers lowered... He began stroking himself as soon as your breasts were bare for him. After that, he got bolder, he made you knead them since that was something he would have done, then he made you undress completely, asked you to bend over and show him everything...
His hand worked restlessly on his erection, and the more you showed him, the more he became eager. If only you could see him, you'd like him, he was sure of it - and he could make you feel good too. It was not fair that only he got to feel good; you should enjoy it too. So many men, all paying for their own enjoyment, but what about your own?
Alex requested you to touch yourself for him... and once again, you obliged. Despite doing it, he was not satisfied, because he knew you would feel so much better with him if only you were there with him.
Alex was close already, and that made him feel meek.
He had been refraining for a long time, so it was no wonder his first orgasm would take little to hit him, but he... did not want to tell you, he wanted to keep watching you, to insist on his requests until you came too. He knew girls had a habit of faking, but not you. You were going to really show him you felt good, so after his own climax, he focused on you, kept giving you directions, told you not what to do, but what he would do to you had he the chance.
You noticed that bold shift in his texting, and it was rather pleasant. It was a nice change from your usual clients. It was good to be spoiled occasionally, so you did not mention it. Alex told you where your hand should go, what pace you should adopt, but he also told you in detail what he would do. You figured he must have already finished because his messages were far too close together and descriptive.
He would tell you how he wanted to be eating you out, how you would be on your fours for him while he spread you out and made you cum on his mouth countless times, or how he would want to have you on top of him, riding him. Alex continued, told you how he would take you from every imaginable position, like the starved man he was, and... you would be hypocritical not to admit you liked it.
If not for the safety boundaries you had to keep, you would have surely liked to check if he kept up to his promises. Because of his first promise, he surely kept. At the start, he swore he wouldn't be the only one to cum, and he was right. Alex did not stop until you really came; in fact, he told you:
"Fake it, and you'll have to stay here until you cum twice, don't try me, princess. It's been a while, but I am old enough to tell the difference."
All credits to the photographer and the original instagram source. Shared here for archival and appreciation purposes.
“Ten years … it seems so much longer. An eternity since we last heard Alan’s gorgeous laugh boom out. I first saw him in Les Liaisons Dangereuses on Broadway; so convincing in his wickedness I assumed it was the real him … yes, and I’m an actor.
Years later we met for real on the film Galaxy Quest. Here was this sublimely playful man who surrendered utterly to portraying a washed up TV hack, seething with petty jealousy and clawing at his giant shell-cap. His character grounded us all. Tim Allen made us laugh so hard all day long, and no one more so than Alan. Our stomachs ached at the end of every day.
Shortly afterwards, Alan asked me to do Snow Cake with him: a romantic lead for him and for me the challenge of playing an autistic woman called Linda. I was so astonished that he could imagine me as Linda, I researched it for a full year so I wouldn’t let him down. We shot it way up in Wawa, Canada, gobbling blueberry pie and cheering each other on. When Linda would veer out of her lane, Alan would say firmly: “I do not improvise.”
I made the idiot mistake of thinking this brilliant friend would be with us for ever. At Mike Nichols’ memorial in November 2015, he came up to me with his wife, Rima. I threw my arms around him and said: “Hey, we’re going to do another Galaxy Quest!” He looked at me quietly and said: “We’ll see.” I said: “What do you mean? It’s gonna be so much fun.” He squeezed my shoulders, looked down and said very gently: “We’ll see.” He was gone two months later, for ever to be missed.”
Sigourney Weaver on Alan Rickman (The Guardian, 14 January 2026)
Hi! I wonder if you could write Alex Hughes has a crush on reader but too shy to make a move because she’s a lot younger than him and he’s man with the past.🥺
hope you have a good day🫶🏻💘💖
Title: Trouble Next Door
Summary: She was a walking temptation, and Alex was trying very hard to resist—but she made it damn near impossible.
Pairing: Alex Hughes × Fem! Reader
Warnings: improper language.
Author's Notes: Thanks for your request! I hope you like it. 🫶
Also read on Ao3
Alex took the glass from your hand, his fingers brushing yours briefly before he pulled away, lifting the lemonade to his lips. His hazel eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet gratitude in them that he didn’t voice. He never did.
You smiled at him, leaning against the counter as he stood to his full height, rolling his shoulders slightly after being cramped under your sink for the past half-hour. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back up absently, his hooked nose crinkling slightly as he did.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” you said, tilting your head as you sipped your own drink. “I would’ve called a plumber.”
Alex exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s fine,” he muttered, his baritone voice low, rough at the edges. “Didn’t want you getting ripped off.”
That was true enough. But it wasn’t the whole reason.
The real reason was standing right in front of him, all bright eyes and easy warmth, and he was helpless against it. Against you.
It had been months now since you moved in next door, and in that time, you had made it infuriatingly difficult for him to keep his walls up. You were too kind, too welcoming, too damn beautiful. He’d learned quickly that you had an effortless way of making people feel at ease, of making even someone like him—someone with a past, someone who should know better—feel like he could belong somewhere again.
And maybe that was why he kept offering to help. Fixing your sink, carrying your groceries, checking in when you were sick. It was an excuse, really. A reason to be near you.
But it didn't mean anything, not really. Because what was he to you? Just a neighbor, a friend maybe, but nothing more.
You were young, with a whole future ahead of you, and Alex—Alex was a man with a past. A past that clung to him like smoke, no matter how far he tried to step away from it.
Alex turned his attention back to the sink, his hazel eyes flicking over his handiwork as he grabbed a cloth and wiped his hands clean. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if buying himself a moment before speaking.
“It’s fixed,” he muttered, setting the cloth aside and picking up his glass again. “Shouldn’t give you any more trouble, but if it leaks again, you know where to find me.”
You smiled, warmth filling your gaze as you leaned against the counter. “Thank you, Alex. Really.” Then, tilting your head slightly, you added, “So… how much do I owe you?”
Alex exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
You frowned. “Come on. You spent half an hour under my sink—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his baritone voice firm but quiet. “I didn’t do it for money.”
You crossed your arms, challenging him. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t pay you.”
Alex looked at you then, really looked at you, and there was something in his eyes—something unreadable, something restrained. “You don’t owe me anything,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He was stubborn.
And unfortunately for Alex, so were you.
“Fine,” you conceded, a playful glint in your eyes. “Then let me pay you another way.”
Alex stilled.
His fingers curled around his glass, his knuckles white as his mind immediately went straight to the gutter. Christ. His jaw clenched as he tried—tried—not to picture exactly what you might mean by that. What he wanted you to mean by that.
His pulse kicked up, the memory of your fingers brushing against his earlier suddenly feeling much more significant. You were younger, vibrant, untouched by the kind of past that weighed him down. You deserved someone clean, someone without blood on his hands. Not a man who had seen the inside of a prison cell.
And yet, the way you looked at him—like he wasn’t just a man with a past, but a man who could still have a future—made something hot coil low in his stomach.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he forced himself to meet your eyes. “What… exactly do you mean by that?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended.
You blinked at him, then laughed—soft and teasing, completely unaware of the direction his mind had gone. “Relax, Hughes,” you grinned. “I just meant I’ll buy you some drinks.”
Alex felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Fucking hell. He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to exhale slowly.
“There’s a beer festival in town this weekend,” you continued, oblivious to the inappropriate thoughts currently running rampant in his head. “I was already planning to go, but I don’t have any company. At least, not until now—if you say yes.”
Alex hesitated.
It wasn’t a bad idea. It wasn’t dangerous. And yet, the thought of spending an entire evening with you, drinking, laughing, being close—it was dangerous for him. Because he was already toeing a line he had no business crossing.
He swallowed, gripping the counter as if it could anchor him. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “It wouldn’t be good for a girl like you to go to a festival like that. There’ll be too many drunks.”
You scoffed, tilting your head at him. “I can handle myself.”
Alex arched a brow. “Is that right?”
You grinned, stepping just a little closer—enough that he could smell the faint traces of your perfume, enough that his breath hitched slightly before he forced himself to stay still. “If you don’t trust that,” you said, your voice dropping just enough to be dangerous, “then that’s all the more reason for you to come with me.”
Alex inhaled sharply. God, you were testing him, and you didn't even know it.
He shouldn't go; he shouldn't. But the idea of you being there alone, surrounded by men who would look at you the way he already did in secret—the thought sent something dark and possessive curling through his veins.
He shouldn’t go.
And yet, before he could stop himself, he found himself saying—
“…Fine.”
Your face lit up. “Really?”
Alex sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah. But only to keep an eye on you.”
You smirked, stepping back, that knowing look in your eyes again. “Whatever you say, Hughes.”
Alex groaned internally, already regretting it.
He was in so much trouble.
The weekend came quickly—too quickly, in Alex’s opinion. He spent the better part of the day questioning why he had agreed to this in the first place. A beer festival. With you. Alone.
Dangerous.
And yet, here he was, standing outside his house, waiting for you.
When he heard the low, rumbling growl of an engine, he frowned. Then, as you pulled up, straddling that thing, his frown deepened into something closer to horror.
A motorcycle.
He’d seen you riding it before, always shaking his head at how ridiculously dangerous it was. Every time he caught sight of you zipping through the streets, reckless and infuriatingly confident, he’d mutter under his breath about how young people had no self-preservation. And now, here you were, parking the damn thing right in front of him, swinging one leg over smoothly as you pulled off your helmet with a smug little smile.
“Hey, Hughes,” you greeted, your voice carrying that infuriatingly amused lilt.
Alex exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re not serious.”
You grinned, dangling the spare helmet toward him. “Dead serious. Get on.”
Alex stared at you. Then at the helmet. Then back at you. “No.”
Your grin widened. “Oh, come on. It’s not like I’m asking you to jump out of a plane.”
Alex folded his arms across his chest, his baritone voice flat. “Who’s going to drive that thing if you get too drunk for it?”
You rolled your eyes. “If I get too drunk, I’ll take a taxi.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Alex?” You tilted your head, teasing. “Scared?”
His jaw clenched, hazel eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He wasn’t scared. He was… concerned. There was a difference. “This is a death trap,” he muttered, eyeing the bike like it had personally offended him.
“Oh, come on.” You patted the seat behind you. “Live a little.”
“No.”
“Alex—”
“No.”
You let out a dramatic sigh. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m alive. That’s fun enough.”
You gave him an exaggerated look—all amusement and mischief and barely concealed challenge—but when it became clear that he wasn’t budging, you huffed in defeat. “Fine. Then I guess we’re taking your car.”
Alex exhaled in relief. “Much safer.”
“Much more boring.”
He ignored that, turning toward his car. “Come on.”
You followed, but not without one last glance at your bike, shaking your head. “Old man.”
Alex shot you a warning look. “I heard that.”
You grinned. “I wanted you to.”
He muttered something under his breath, opening the passenger door for you, trying very hard to ignore the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him before slipping inside.
This was already dangerous, and the festival hadn't even started yet.
The festival was exactly what Alex had expected—loud, chaotic, and filled with the kind of people who didn’t know their limits when it came to alcohol. And you? You were having the time of your life.
He watched you, his hazel eyes narrowed behind his glasses as you flitted from stall to stall, sampling different beers, laughing at something a vendor said, and throwing yourself into the crowd with an ease he could never muster. You were light, uninhibited, adventurous. And he was the man standing on the sidelines, making sure you didn’t get yourself into trouble.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Alex had barely taken a sip of his beer when you spotted something that made your eyes light up—a beer-drinking competition. His stomach tightened with foreboding the second you turned to him with that devilish grin.
“Oh, no,” he muttered, shaking his head before you even said a word.
“Oh, yes,” you countered, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the crowd gathering around a long wooden table. “Come on, Hughes. Live a little.”
“You said that about the death trap on wheels,” he reminded you flatly. “I said no to that, too.”
“And yet, here you are. At a beer festival. With me,” you teased, waggling your brows.
Before he could argue, you were already signing up, tossing a bill onto the growing pile of money in the center of the table. The crowd whooped as the competitors took their seats, and Alex sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You were absolutely going to get yourself into trouble.
He didn’t even have time to figure out how he was going to stop it before the competition started. Huge men with beer bellies and cocky grins began chugging down massive steins of beer while the crowd hollered, cheering on their favorites. Alex stood back, arms crossed, watching in quiet amusement as you, easily the smallest competitor, downed your drink with a confidence that made the men around you nervous.
By the second round, you had bested two competitors. By the third, you were a crowd favorite. Money changed hands, shouts grew louder, and Alex, despite himself, felt a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
You were something else.
By the time you made it to the final round, facing off against a burly man with a Viking beard and arms like tree trunks, the entire festival seemed to be watching. The final steins were slammed onto the table, the countdown began, and Alex could see the sheer determination in your eyes.
You were going to win.
And you did.
With a triumphant gasp, you slammed your empty stein down before your opponent, tilting your head back as the crowd erupted into cheers. Alex shook his head, smiling despite himself as you wobbled slightly when you stood up, clearly feeling the effects of the alcohol. He stepped forward instinctively, steadying you with a hand on your arm.
“You are trouble,” he muttered, voice low.
You beamed up at him, your cheeks flushed with victory (and maybe a little too much beer). “But I won,” you slurred playfully.
“You’re lucky you can still stand,” Alex countered.
Before he could make you sit down and drink some water, a group of men approached, clapping you on the back, handing you money, congratulating you. It was all good fun until one of them, a tall, greasy-looking bastard, got too close.
Alex saw it before you even reacted. The man's hand, bold and presumptuous, slid over your hip. Your body tensed, a frown tugging at your lips, but before you could step away, Alex was already there. His grip on the man's wrist was tight, controlled.
Barely.
“Back off,” Alex growled, his baritone voice dangerously low.
The man scoffed, yanking his hand back, clearly irritated. “Relax, grandpa. Just congratulating the lady.”
Alex’s nostrils flared, his pulse hammering. The world around him blurred for a second, memories from years ago slamming into him like a fist. The bar. The idiot with the leering grin. The way his blood had felt, warm and slick, on Alex’s knuckles.
He could still hear the sound of that fatal hit; he could still hear the judge sentencing him. Alex’s fists clenched, his body coiled with restraint. One wrong move, one punch thrown, and he’d be right back where he started.
But the bastard was smirking now, emboldened by Alex’s hesitation. “What’s the matter, old man?” he taunted. “Not man enough to fight?”
Alex saw red; he took a step forward, his fists tightening—but before he could throw a punch, your hand grabbed his.
“Alex,” you whispered, voice urgent.
His breath hitched.
You weren’t afraid. You weren’t pleading. But there was something in your eyes, something steady, something knowing. You shook your head once.
Not like this.
And just like that, Alex forced himself to breathe, to unclench his fists, to step back.
But you weren’t done.
Before the bastard could gloat, you grinned, pointed dramatically to something behind the crowd, and gasped, “Oh my God, is that the mayor?”
Every head turned, including bastard’s. And that's when you grabbed Alex's hand and yanked him into a sprint. For a moment, Alex was too stunned to react. His feet stumbled before falling into step with yours, and then—then he was laughing.
The two of you ran through the festival like children playing hooky, weaving between booths and drunken festival-goers, ducking under banners, dodging confused security guards. You kept glancing back at him, your laughter ringing through the night, and Alex—Alex couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this light.
When you finally ducked into a quiet alley, panting and breathless, you collapsed against a wall, giggling. “That,” you wheezed, “was possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
Alex leaned beside you, shaking his head, still catching his breath. “I don’t doubt that.”
You turned your head to look at him, mischief still dancing in your eyes. “But admit it,” you teased. “That was fun.”
Alex exhaled a laugh, hazel eyes crinkling slightly behind his glasses. “You’re impossible.”
You grinned, nudging his shoulder. “And yet, you keep coming back.”
Alex barely managed to keep the car on the road as you belted out the words to some song that had absolutely no business being sung with that much passion. Your voice, a little off-key and exaggerated in your drunken enthusiasm, filled the small space of his car as you leaned against his shoulder, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was currently trying to drive.
“I waaaant it thaaaaaat way!” you wailed dramatically, gripping his sleeve like your very soul depended on it.
Alex exhaled through his nose, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, his baritone voice edged with strained patience. “Christ, love. That’s the fifth time you’ve sung that chorus.”
You gasped, clutching your chest as if he’d just insulted your entire existence. “Are you saying you don’t appreciate the lyrical genius of the Backstreet Boys?”
“I’m saying,” he muttered as he pulled into your driveway, “that if I hear one more note of that bloody song, I’ll walk into the sea.”
You let out a snort of laughter, slumping further against his shoulder as he shifted the car into park. “M’kay, fine. No more singing.” A beat passed. “Unless you wanna duet—”
“No.”
You pouted dramatically. “You’re so boring.”
Alex sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before unbuckling his seatbelt. “And yet, here I am, ensuring you get home safely instead of leaving you passed out under some beer stall.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite,” you slurred with an affectionate nuzzle against his sleeve.
Alex froze.
His whole body went rigid, his pulse doing a strange little flip in his chest at the unexpected affection. He cleared his throat, very, very pointedly not reacting. “Come on, trouble. Let’s get you inside before you pass out in my car.”
You whined but let him coax you out of the car, though you immediately latched onto him like a limpet, making it nearly impossible for him to do anything remotely useful. “Hughes,” you mumbled, arms wrapped around his middle as he tried to balance your weight and fish your keys out of his pocket at the same time.
“Yes?” he muttered, struggling to keep you upright.
“You’re warm.”
He rolled his eyes, muttering, “Brilliant observation.”
“I like that about you.”
Alex inhaled sharply, fingers fumbling with your key as he tried very, very hard not to dwell on the way you said it—so soft, so unguarded. It made his throat go tight.
He managed—miraculously—to unlock your door without dropping you or, worse, succumbing to the ridiculous heat rising in his face. Pushing the door open, he helped you inside, steadying you as you wobbled into the living room.
“Alright, bed,” he instructed, trying to steer you toward the hallway.
But before he could take a step back, your fingers suddenly curled into the front of his jacket, yanking him forward with surprising strength. Before he could even register what was happening, your lips were on his.
Alex froze again.
For a moment, his brain completely short-circuited.
Your lips were soft. Warm. A little bit desperate. And God help him, for one insane second, he wanted to melt into it—to give in, to pull you closer, to let himself have this.
But he couldn’t.
With a sharp inhale, Alex forced himself to pull away, gripping your shoulders gently but firmly as he put space between you. “No,” he rasped, his baritone voice rough with restraint.
Your brow furrowed, eyes hazy with alcohol and confusion. “Why not?”
Alex let out a shuddering breath, his grip tightening just a little before he let go entirely. He stepped back, running a hand over his face. “Because,” he muttered, “you’re drunk.”
You huffed, crossing your arms in an adorably uncoordinated pout. “So?”
“So,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not about to take advantage of that.”
You blinked up at him, considering this, before your lips curved into a lazy, teasing grin. “Hughes,” you drawled, “are you saying you want to kiss me? But only when I’m sober?”
Alex regretted everything.
“Bed,” he ordered gruffly, refusing to engage.
You giggled, but thankfully let him guide you toward your room without further attempts at seduction. He pulled the covers over you, tucking you in with a sigh. Just as he turned to leave, your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Alex tensed.
You peeked up at him through heavy lids, voice softer now. “You don’t have to be scared, y’know.”
Alex swallowed hard. “I’m not scared.”
You hummed sleepily. “Liar.”
Alex sighed, shaking his head. “Sleep, trouble.”
You yawned, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Fine. But only if you promise to think about kissing me tomorrow.”
He groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.” But as he closed the door behind him, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
