I'm Yours - CH.18 What I Want
Toto POV
I woke before dawn—my body still sharpened by years of race weekends, strategy meetings, and alarms I could never resist. But this morning was different. No briefings, no pressure—but a sense of purpose that settled deep in my bones. She lay beside me, curled against my chest, one arm draped across me; her breath was steady and slow, a lullaby I could sink into without effort.
I didn’t move. I watched her instead, taking in the soft curve of her cheek, the way her curls caught the early light, and how even in sleep, she looked utterly at ease. Yesterday in the forest, the way she pushed heights and fear aside—Confident, fearless. And last night, when she let herself relax with me, her body pressed to mine: I hadn’t just slept. I’d rested. For the first time in a long time, I felt at home.
I slid out from under her carefully, adjusting pillows so the bed didn’t miss me. She shifted, murmured something like my name, and exhaled deeper—still dreaming. I paused at the door a moment, holding the image of her in tender focus, then headed down the hall.
In the kitchen, the silence held its own weight. No music. No noise to distract from intention. I measured ice into a tall glass, sleek and cool in my hand. The espresso machine hissed to life: a command as familiar as any engine rev. I filled the glass halfway with strong coffee, then added just a whisper of caramel syrup—sweet enough to make her sigh, not enough to push her palate. I topped it with lactose-free milk, slowly swirling it in until the dark coffee softened to creamy gold.
It felt like painting a quiet sunrise—not performance. Just purpose.
Glass in hand, I moved back up the stairs, the chill of the condensation on my fingertips grounding me in the moment. The house was still, its silence stretching wide and soft. Every surface gleamed under the faint lavender blush of morning light. But none of that mattered. What mattered was behind the bedroom door—the girl in my bed, the quiet weight of her stillness, the way she made even the air feel softer.
She hadn’t moved. Her curls were a halo, wild and perfect against my pillow. The duvet had shifted just low enough to reveal her bare shoulder, the strap of her black tank top slipping a little like it belonged there. There was something almost reverent about the way the light kissed her skin—dim, cold morning giving way to the golden hue clinging to her cheeks. I stood at the threshold for a moment longer, unwilling to disturb it. Because that stillness? It didn’t scare me anymore.
It felt earned.
I stepped forward slowly, like I was approaching something sacred. Not fragile—precious. She was never fragile. She was fire wrapped in velvet, steel inside softness. And when I knelt beside the bed, setting the coffee gently on the nightstand, I didn’t speak right away. I just looked at her. Memorized her.
Then I reached out, brushed a curl from her brow, and let my fingers linger for a second too long.
“Baby,” I murmured. Just enough gravity in my voice to anchor her, but not pull too hard.
Her lashes fluttered like a page being turned. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then locked on mine.
“Hmm?”
“Coffee’s ready,” I said, quiet but clear. “I made your iced caramel.”
A soft smile crept across her lips, lazy and beautiful. She stretched, her hand reaching for mine—or the glass, I wasn’t sure—and her voice came out coated in sleep and sweetness.
“Do you know how to ruin me?”
I smiled, leaned in close, my thumb sweeping the curve of her cheek. “Only if you let me.”
She sat up slowly, hair falling around her shoulders like it was choreographed. Her tank top clung in places that made my brain stutter for a second—cut a little lower than yesterday’s, drawing the eye exactly where it wasn’t safe for me to linger. But linger I did. Because I couldn’t help it.
Her eyes caught mine, and I knew she saw it—that flicker. That pause. The unmistakable shift when you look at someone and realize, all over again, just how dangerous their smile is.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked, her fingers wrapping around the glass like she already knew whatever came next was designed with her in mind.
I handed it over gently, watching the condensation slide along her knuckles. She took one long sip, eyes fluttering shut for just a beat. When she exhaled, it was slow, content, and stupidly intimate. Like I’d handed her something more than just coffee.
“Breakfast,” I said. “But with a little exclusivity.”
She perked up instantly, curiosity cutting through the haze of sleep like a spark. “What, like your idea of private dining is just a castle somewhere I don’t know about?”
“Maybe not a castle,” I replied, lowering myself to sit beside her, “but I wouldn’t rule out waterfront views. And a chef who already knows your allergy chart by heart.”
She laughed—low and caught between sleepy and impressed. “You’re so subtle with your flexes.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised.” Her lips twisted into something sly. “Just impressed.”
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing with a playful edge. “So, do I need to dress like a billionaire’s plus-one?”
I shook my head, my grin deepening. “Dress like yesterday. But more athletic. Indoors today.”
Her sip this time was slower, her eyes never leaving mine. “Athletic how?”
I let my gaze dip for a beat, to the flush still blooming up her neck, the way her tank dipped just enough to tempt every ounce of my restraint. “Think movement. Easy to climb in. Still in your style.”
She arched a brow, lips parting in what I knew was a calculated pause. “You planning to make me sweat before breakfast?”
My grin turned lazy, loaded. “Only if you’re lucky.”
Her laugh broke free—bright, unfiltered, and better than caffeine. She nudged my knee with hers, a casual touch that still made something under my skin flicker.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you,” I said, brushing the back of my knuckles along her arm, slow and deliberate, “are radiant.”
That made her breath hitch—just slightly. But enough for me to notice. Enough for me to tuck it away, to mark it like a checkpoint. We were both playing, but neither of us was bluffing anymore.
Saturday was coming. And I’d be ready.
But this—this ease, this tension dressed in silk—was just as important.
I stayed where I was for a beat longer, tracing the slow rise and fall of her chest as she leaned back on her elbows. Morning light slipped across her curls, catching the stray ones that haloed her face like something cinematic. She sipped again, then set the glass on the nightstand with a content sigh.
“Seriously,” she said, voice laced with amusement, “you keep doing this ‘secret luxury’ thing. I’m running out of places I can one-up you at.”
I grinned. “It’s not a contest.”
She bumped my arm lightly. “Isn’t it? Because I can surprise you.”
I leaned into the elbow nudge, my voice dropping. “Then surprise me. But today… just show up.”
Her smirk softened. “Fine. I’ll try my best.”
I reached for her hand, let my fingers trail across her forearm. “That’s all I ask.”
She sat up then, duvet wrapped around her shoulders like a throne. “So… move, boss man.”
I chuckled. “Oh, I move.” I stood and gestured toward the hallway. “But I can’t make you.”
“Point taken.” She stretched long and slow, curls falling around her like a crown. “Alright. Time to adult.”
I offered a hand. “Want help?”
She took it easily. “One day I’m teaching you how to fold fitted sheets.”
I laughed. “I can barely fold my own clothes. But I’m learning.”
We smiled at each other, something unspoken settling between us. I slipped an arm briefly around her waist. “Go get dressed.”
She rolled her eyes—glowing, smirking. “Yes, sir.”
Those two words did something to me. Lit a fuse I hadn’t realized she’d been holding the match to.
I stood still, blinking, as she walked off. The plaid pajama bottoms swaying just enough to test my patience. Her socks slipping a little, her silhouette disappearing around the corner.
I waited until the door clicked shut, then exhaled like I’d been holding my breath through a slow burn.
Game on.
Upstairs, I changed with practiced ease—comfort traded for function, laced with intent. Black shorts, fitted and cut to frame. A compression tee, tight across my chest and shoulders, layered beneath a hoodie. Not for warmth—for contrast. For precision. And then the vest: matte, sharp, sleek as the car I already knew I’d take. All black. Understated. Deliberate.
I caught my reflection in the mirror, adjusted the hem of the shirt, watched how it hugged just enough to catch her attention. It wasn’t vanity. It was anticipation. She’d notice. And for once, I didn’t mind being noticed.
By the time I returned to the kitchen, the snack bag was nearly full. Energy drinks—two this time—because she was my little caffeine addict and I’d be damned if I tried to change that. More sour gummies; she’d devoured them yesterday like she was trying to prove a point. Granola, trail mix, protein bars. And this time, a container of chilled cherries. She’d mentioned them once—offhand, barely a sentence. But I’d remembered. She’d smile when she saw them, and I’d pretend I wasn’t watching just to see that smile bloom.
I was sealing the bag when I heard her steps—soft, measured, deliberate. And then she appeared.
And my grip on the counter faltered.
She wore a matching set—black leggings hugging her like they were sewn onto her skin, a sports bra of the same shade, and a zip-up, worn unzipped just enough to tease the curve of her chest. New, likely. She didn’t seem to realize what she looked like. Or maybe she did, and that’s what killed me. Sunglasses tucked into the top of her ponytail. Those white socks climbing up her calves like a prayer.
My mouth went dry.
She tilted her head. “You okay there, boss?”
My voice came out slower than I meant. “Barely.”
She smirked, reaching for the snack bag.
I shrugged, letting my gaze linger. “Thought I’d even the playing field.”
Her eyes dropped—once. Then snapped away, too quick. “If you say so.”
I stepped closer, the distance between us all but gone. Our arms brushed. “You trying to distract me already?”
She reached past me for a water bottle, her lips curving with that quiet confidence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar,” I said, eyes dropping to her mouth.
She faltered—a breath caught—but then, like her, she recovered. “You’re the one who picked the outfit. You don’t get to act surprised.”
“Then I won’t act surprised.” I let the corner of my mouth lift. “I’ll act impressed.”
She bumped her shoulder into mine as she passed. “Try to keep up, old man.”
And God help me, I was in love with that damn matching set.
I let her lead us out the door, heat humming just beneath my skin. The way her zip-up swayed as she walked, the faint bounce of her ponytail, the way the morning light caught the curve of her calf—every detail burned into me.
My hand found the fob. One click and the roadster came alive in the drive.
Not the G-Wagon.
Today? The Mercedes AMG SL. Matte black. Sleek, low, unapologetically beautiful. The kind of car that whispered indulgence instead of shouting it.
She stopped short at the sight of it. Her steps slowed, her eyes going wide—not for drama, but because she genuinely wasn’t expecting it. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag as she took it in, eyes tracing the lines of the body, the chrome glint on the rims, the way it practically glowed under the morning sun.
“Wait... that’s the SL, isn’t it?”
I bit back the grin. “You like it?”
“Like it?” She walked up to it slowly, running her hand along the edge of the hood like it was some museum piece. “I think I’m in love. This color? The finish? It looks like a Bond villain’s getaway car.”
I opened her door for her, watching how she moved—slow, reverent, like she was getting into something sacred. “Figured you’d appreciate the aesthetics.”
She didn’t even pretend to play it cool. “Oh, I do. I don’t care how fast it goes—this thing is stunning.”
That made me grin. She was a car girl in disguise—she wouldn’t quote horsepower specs or ask about handling ratios, but give her clean lines, a matte finish, and custom leather stitching? She lit up like I’d handed her a diamond.
She settled in, buckled herself without looking at me, and muttered, almost too softly, “You spoil me.”
I walked around to my side, slid in, and started the engine. “Good. That’s the point.”
The car eased out onto the road, smooth as silk. She was already leaning back, sunglasses on, one leg pulled up beneath her, sipping her drink like this was her natural habitat.
And God, it suited her. She made passenger princess look like royalty. No fuss, no chatter—just a quiet, indulgent ease. The way her hand rested on the edge of the console, her fingers brushing the leather, like even that touch was part of the experience.
She adjusted the air vent toward herself, sighed like it was luxury she hadn’t realized she needed. “Okay. I get it now. I used to think people who bought cars like this were compensating, but... this? This is art.”
I glanced over, jaw tightening for a second—because I’d buy her five of these if she asked.
She caught me looking, smirked. “Let me guess—you like that I appreciate the paint job more than the engine?”
“I like that you see it,” I said, voice low. “Most people think they know what they’re looking at. You actually look.”
That shut her up for a second. She shifted, her leg brushing mine, and we drove in silence—her soaking in the interior, me watching her reflection in the windshield.
The drive wasn’t long, but I made it feel like it was.
The road curled through old neighborhoods, then opened up into wide, wooded bends. I didn’t rush. The AMG purred beneath us, never straining, never loud. Like it understood the vibe. Like it was complicit.
She hummed along to the soft music playing low through the speakers—some mellow jazz playlist I’d queued up more for her than me. She moved with the rhythm, fingers tapping the drink bottle in her lap.
And I just… drove.
Every once in a while, she’d glance at me—not speaking, just looking. Like she was memorizing the profile, the wheel in my hand, the way I adjusted my grip every time the road curved.
“You really do this a lot?” she asked eventually. “Just… drive?”
“When I want to think,” I said. “Or not think.”
Her gaze lingered. “And when you want to show off?”
I smiled, didn’t deny it.
When we pulled up to the restaurant—a hidden gem built into a slope, all black steel and sharp edges—she leaned forward in her seat like a kid at an amusement park.
“There’s not even a sign,” she whispered. “It’s like a secret base.”
I stepped out first, rounded the front, and opened her door like it was nothing. The valet nodded to me. “Mr. Wolff.”
She didn’t move right away. Just sat there, looking up at me like I’d hung the moon and parked it out front for her.
I held out a hand. She took it. Warm. Certain.
And I knew right then—I’d put her in every car she liked, every seat she wanted, every space that made her feel like this.
Because this?
This was what it looked like when she let herself enjoy being cared for.
And I’d never get tired of watching that happen. She stepped out slowly, adjusting her sunglasses as her gaze swept the grounds. “Okay,” she murmured, taking in the serene layout. “You really don’t do casual, do you?”
I grinned as I joined her on the walkway. “This is casual. Just curated.”
Inside, everything was calm: pale wood, greenery climbing up minimalist wall panels, the quiet hush of fountains just outside the windows. The hostess didn’t ask for a name. She simply nodded and led us to a sunlit table in the far corner, tucked just beside an open glass panel looking out over a private koi pond. The table was already set—white linen, matte black cutlery, glass carafe of infused water beading with condensation.
She sat down slowly, still taking it in. “You sure this isn’t a spa?”
“They do massage therapy in the back garden,” I said, pouring her a glass of water. “But I thought food first.”
The server approached wordlessly and placed two plates in front of us—both light, but purposeful. Herb scrambled eggs folded like silk, grilled salmon with a citrus glaze, a small bowl of cottage cheese dotted with fresh raspberries and figs, and a chilled protein smoothie with almond milk and oats.
She blinked once at the spread, then looked at me over the rim of her glass. “And let me guess… the chef already knows I’m lactose intolerant?”
“Not the first time I’ve made a special request.”
She picked up her spoon, swirling it through the bowl. “You flirted your way into customized menus?”
“Not flirted,” I corrected. “Negotiated.”
“Mmm.” She took a bite of egg, paused, then nodded slowly. “Okay, that’s stupidly good.”
“They raise their own chickens.”
She glanced up sharply. “You’re not joking.”
I shook my head and took a sip of the smoothie. “Free range, fed on rosemary and thyme. You should hear the sommelier talk about their eggs. It’s practically poetry.”
She laughed, full and bright, leaning back in her chair. “This is the most absurd breakfast I’ve ever had.”
“You haven’t had the tea service.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Comes with honey harvested from the rooftop hives.”
She pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
I smiled over my glass. “That’s the idea.”
We took our time. There was no rush. Between bites, we talked—light things, teasing things. She told me about the first time she’d ever gone climbing, how she’d nearly cried on the wall but pretended it was sweat. I shared a story about a team meeting that went off the rails because someone brought in a cat. She snorted into her berries.
By the time the plates were empty and the glasses refilled twice, she leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. You win. This was perfect.”
“It’s not a contest,” I said, echoing myself from earlier, but there was something warmer in the words now. “But I’ll accept the win.”
She eyed me, one brow arched. “So what happens after this? We scale the walls of some secret underground gym?”
I laughed. “Not quite. Private facility. Ten minutes out. Fully equipped. Controlled temp. No crowd. Just you and me.”
“Competitive climbing?” she teased. “Should I stretch now?”
“I’m counting on it.”
We lingered just a little longer, sipping the last of the smoothies, the space between us quiet but charged. Then, with a soft hum of motion, we stood. I helped her into her vest, her shoulder brushing mine as she whispered, “Bet I can still beat you up the wall.”
“We’ll see,” I murmured.
We stepped back out into the sunlight—quiet, full, entirely at ease—and slipped into the roadster once again. She was already scrolling through a playlist, her knee brushing mine.
It was barely eleven.
And the best part of the day hadn’t even started yet.
The roadster’s doors clicked shut with that quiet luxury you couldn’t fake. She leaned back, sunglasses in place, stretching her legs out in front of her like she had all the time in the world.
“Alright,” I said, gesturing toward the console. “Full passenger princess privileges. Your pick.”
She lit up, immediately thumbing through her phone until she found what she wanted. A low beat kicked in, smooth but playful—something upbeat with just enough bass to make my rearview mirror shimmy.
“Solid choice,” I murmured as I pulled onto the road.
“I figured we needed a shift in vibe. Something high energy. But, like, with taste.”
“Clearly.”
She glanced sideways at me, lips twitching. “So, how nervous are you that I’m going to smoke you up the wall?”
I tilted my head, playing it slow. “I’m not nervous. I’m prepared.”
“For what? The humiliation?”
“For the distraction.” I let the sentence hang in the air. “Because I’ve seen you in action, remember?”
She laughed, tipping her head back against the seat. “You mean yesterday? That was nothing.”
“I have a feeling you say that about everything you’re secretly amazing at.”
She smirked. “I don’t believe in peaking early.”
“Good,” I said, shifting gears as we merged into a quieter street, the turnoff to the gym just ahead. “Because I don’t plan on this being our last adventure.”
She looked at me, not just the flirtatious glance this time, but something that lingered. “You planning a whole itinerary or something?”
I shot her a sideways glance. “You’ll see.”
The GPS blinked once, then announced our arrival. Private parking, tinted windows, and the bold, minimal architecture of the rock climbing facility loomed ahead—black on steel, tucked behind a row of evergreens like it had been hiding just for us.
“You ready to climb?” I asked, turning off the engine.
She unbuckled and shot me a grin. “Race you to the top.”
And with that, she was out the door, ponytail bouncing, the challenge set.
I smiled to myself, lingering a moment longer before I followed.
This was going to be fun.
The roadster’s doors clicked shut with that quiet luxury you couldn’t fake. She leaned back, sunglasses in place, stretching her legs out in front of her like she had all the time in the world.
“Alright,” I said, gesturing toward the console. “Full passenger princess privileges. Your pick.”
She lit up, immediately thumbing through her phone until she found what she wanted. A low beat kicked in, smooth but playful—something upbeat with just enough bass to make my rearview mirror shimmy.
“Solid choice,” I murmured as I pulled onto the road.
“I figured we needed a shift in vibe. Something high energy. But, like, with taste.”
“Clearly.”
She glanced sideways at me, lips twitching. “So, how nervous are you that I’m going to smoke you up the wall?”
I tilted my head, playing it slow. “I’m not nervous. I’m prepared.”
“For what? The humiliation?”
“For the distraction.” I let the sentence hang in the air. “Because I’ve seen you in action, remember?”
She laughed, tipping her head back against the seat. “You mean yesterday? That was nothing.”
“I have a feeling you say that about everything you’re secretly amazing at.”
She smirked. “I don’t believe in peaking early.”
“Good,” I said, shifting gears as we merged into a quieter street, the turnoff to the gym just ahead. “Because I don’t plan on this being our last adventure.”
She looked at me, not just the flirtatious glance this time, but something that lingered. “You planning a whole itinerary or something?”
I shot her a sideways glance. “You’ll see.”
The drive stretched longer than it needed to, and I let it.
Not because of traffic. Not because of distance.
Because of her.
She’d settled into the seat like it was made for her, one leg tucked beneath her, arm resting against the window. Her sunglasses were still perched on her nose, but every few minutes, she’d glance over them at me—half-mocking, half-curious.
“So what happens if I beat you to the top?” she asked, tilting her head.
I kept my eyes on the road. “Is this your way of negotiating for a reward before we’ve even started?”
“It’s not a negotiation if I’m already winning.”
I smirked. “Cocky today.”
She sipped from her drink and shrugged, a small smile curving her lips. “Just honest.”
I didn’t look at her, but I didn’t need to. I could feel her watching me.
“So?” she asked again. “What do I get?”
“If you win,” I said, voice low, “you get bragging rights. For exactly forty-eight hours.”
She made a face. “That’s it?”
“And if I win,” I continued, ignoring the protest, “I get to pick dinner. No complaints.”
She leaned closer, her voice soft and close to my ear. “Even if it’s sushi?”
“Even if it’s sushi.”
She groaned and leaned back. “You play dirty.”
“You’re the one who started with threats.”
We kept up the rhythm—gentle jabs, quiet laughter, the soft click of her nails against her bottle and the smooth turns of the wheel. I turned the music down eventually, just to hear her better.
She hummed something quietly, a song I didn’t recognize but wanted to memorize just because it came from her. And I knew—if the drive had been twice as long, I still wouldn’t have rushed it.
The GPS blinked once, then announced our arrival.
Private parking, tinted windows, and the bold, minimal architecture of the rock climbing facility loomed ahead—black on steel, tucked behind a row of evergreens like it had been hiding just for us.
“You ready to climb?” I asked, turning off the engine.
She unbuckled, that glint in her eye already shining. “Race you to the top.”
And with that, she was out the door, ponytail bouncing, the challenge set.
I lingered a beat longer, smiling to myself, then followed.
Inside, the facility was quiet—open but intimate, ceilings high and walls traced with routes of every level. The air was cool, chalk-dusted. The attendant greeted me by name and waved us in, no waiver needed.
We stowed our things in a corner, and I reached for the hem of my sweater, pulling it over my head in one smooth motion. Underneath, the compression tee clung to every line of my chest and shoulders. I’d picked it for support. And—if I was being honest—for effect.
I caught her watching.
Not directly—never that obvious. But her gaze lingered half a second too long. It dropped, then flicked away, like maybe she hadn’t meant to look that closely. Like maybe she thought I hadn’t noticed.
I didn’t say anything.
Just let the corner of my mouth twitch and turned toward the gear rack.
She unzipped her own jacket a moment later, arms lifting as she slipped it off, revealing the black sports bra beneath. Smooth. Minimal. Deadly. She moved like she didn’t realize she was putting on a show—except I knew she did. At least a little.
I looked.
Openly. Shamelessly.
She caught me.
And instead of calling me out, she just raised one brow in challenge and turned away with a small smirk.
Yeah. This was going to be fun.
The day stretched, each climb becoming its own little rhythm—movement, pause, movement again. Her body glided up one wall, mine scaling the next. We alternated routes: steep technical ones with tiny grips that tested control, and wide ascents that made you fight gravity the whole way.
She was faster. I was steadier.
But that wasn’t the game.
The game was in the way she stood below me, arms crossed, watching every step like she was studying a live blueprint.
“Left foot, boss man,” she’d call out. “Or are you just showing off now?”
I reached higher. “I’m multi-tasking—climbing and distracting you.”
She rolled her eyes, but her laugh gave her away.
When she climbed, I watched. Not just to spot her. Not just to keep her safe. To admire.
Her legs moved with confidence, strength in every stretch, every shift in her hips as she reached for a hold. Her focus was fierce—jaw tight, eyes locked upward. She wasn’t trying to look good. Which made her look devastating.
She took on a tricky overhang, slipped just enough to make my grip tense on the belay.
Her breath hitched.
She found her grip again, fingers re-securing.
Then she looked down. “Worried?”
“Every time you’re more than six feet off the ground,” I said, honest without hesitation.
Her grin softened. She didn’t answer.
But the smile? That stayed for the next few climbs.
And yeah—this wasn’t about winning.
This was about watching her glow.
They called a break after an hour—though it wasn’t really announced. It was more of a silent agreement between heavy breaths and shared glances. The kind of pause that said, Yeah, we earned this.
We wandered toward the lounge corner of the facility, a quieter area with padded benches and a couple of low tables scattered with climbing magazines and forgotten water bottles. She pulled her ponytail a little tighter as she walked, cheeks flushed and glowing, still in her sports bra, and looking like trouble wrapped in a bow.
I grabbed the snack bag I’d packed earlier and set it down on the bench beside her.
“Here,” I said, crouching slightly as I unzipped the top. “Fuel.”
She leaned forward, eyes lighting up the second she spotted what was inside.
“Oh my god, are those the sour ones?” She reached in, holding up the gummies like they were rare treasure. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered,” I said, taking a seat beside her. “You nearly inhaled the last batch.”
She gave me a mock gasp. “I did not inhale them.”
I just looked at her. Slowly.
She laughed, popping one into her mouth. “Okay, maybe I blacked out a little. They’re really good.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, grabbing a water bottle and cracking the cap. “There’s more. Energy drinks, cherries, trail mix, protein bars—take your pick.”
She rifled through the bag like a kid on Christmas morning, pulling out the chilled container of cherries with a victorious little sound. “Yes. These are so underrated. Seriously, cherries are elite.”
“Elite, huh?” I raised an eyebrow, watching her with quiet amusement.
She nodded, legs crossed, the container open on her lap. “Juicy. Sweet. Aesthetic.”
I smiled, slow and teasing. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
She blinked, caught between chewing and blushing. “You did not just call me juicy.”
I leaned back against the bench, arms draped across the top, completely unbothered. “I said what I said.”
She threw a cherry at me. It bounced harmlessly off my chest, and I caught it midair before it hit the floor.
“Wow,” she muttered, clearly trying not to smile. “You’re actually proud of that one.”
“I stand by it,” I said, tossing the cherry into my mouth. “Besides, you started the flattery. I’m just returning the energy.”
She shook her head, trying to hide her grin behind the rim of her energy drink. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m charming,” I corrected. “Big difference.”
We sat like that for a while—her curled up on the bench, legs tucked, alternating between snacks and slow sips of her drink. I watched her more than I watched the room. The way she savored things—food, silence, the feel of the air on her skin after exertion—was almost meditative.
“You’re staring,” she said softly, not looking up.
“Am I?” I asked, unapologetic.
She glanced at me then, lips pursed like she wanted to say something else—but didn’t.
Instead, she reached for a protein bar and unwrapped it carefully. “This whole setup,” she said after a minute, “the snacks, the drinks, the cherries... you always go this far?”
I shrugged. “Only for people I like.”
That made her pause.
“Is this your way of saying I’m special?”
“I thought the cherries made that obvious.”
She looked at me. Really looked.
And in that moment, it wasn’t just the flirting or the food or the cool-down between climbs. It was the softness in her eyes, the unspoken thank you laced into every smile.
“Guess I’ll have to earn my cherries more often,” she said, quieter this time.
I leaned in slightly, close enough that her knee brushed mine. “You don’t have to earn anything.”
She didn’t answer that. Just stared down at the cherries again, a small smile ghosting her lips.
Eventually, she leaned back, drink in hand, her head tipping toward my shoulder. Not resting, just... hovering.
Close.
And we stayed like that, not in a rush. Not needing to be anywhere but here.
A break.
Earned.
Shared.
And exactly the kind of moment I’d pack into the snack bag if I could—just to pull it out and feel it again later.
“Alright,” she said, standing and brushing a few cherry stems off her leggings, “break time’s over. You ready, old man?”
I stood too, slinging the bag over my shoulder and raising an eyebrow. “Old man?”
She gave me a look that was pure challenge. “You’re the one who groaned sitting down.”
“That was a strategic groan.”
“Oh sure,” she smirked, already walking toward the wall. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I watched her move ahead—those leggings, that ponytail, the way she carried herself like the wall had already lost the round—and something primal sparked. Not competitive exactly. Something more... possessive. Admiring.
We clipped back in.
She picked a route—tougher than the last. Longer holds, some angled movement near the top that would take both balance and flexibility. I watched her scan it, brow furrowed in concentration. She had a hand on her hip, that signature smirk already forming.
“You spotting or just enjoying the view?” she asked without looking at me.
I stepped in behind her, tugging the line with practiced ease. “Multitasking, remember?”
She laughed, adjusted her grip, and started climbing.
And I let myself watch.
Her movement was clean—fluid, like dance more than sport. She didn’t power through; she calculated every hold. When she reached the overhang, her foot slipped just a little, and I saw her body tense, muscles flexing, recalibrating.
She found her footing. Looked down. Caught me watching. Again.
“Still multitasking?”
I didn’t even pretend to be sheepish. “Not even trying to hide it.”
She rolled her eyes, but her grin didn’t waver.
When it was my turn, I didn’t just climb—I moved.
Smooth. Intentional. Every shift a deliberate show of strength and ease. I didn’t rush, didn’t grunt or strain, just flowed up the wall with quiet confidence.
Halfway up, I paused on a slanted hold, looked down at her.
“You’re awfully quiet down there,” I called.
She had her arms crossed, bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes narrowed just enough to give herself away.
“Just trying to figure out how many pull-ups you practiced before this,” she shot back.
I reached higher, slow enough to flex as I did it. “I don’t practice.”
“Oh, so we’re lying now?”
I grinned, hooked my leg, and swung up to the next ledge in a controlled arc. From the floor, I could hear her faint exhale. A breath she didn’t mean to let out.
Yeah. She was looking.
When I dropped back down, unhooking from the line, she handed me a towel with mock nonchalance.
“You good?” she asked.
“Better than good,” I said, catching her gaze. “You were impressed.”
She blinked, tried to smother the smile tugging at her mouth. “I was observing.”
“Same thing.”
She stepped in close, towel still in her hand. “Keep showing off like that and I might have to race you again.”
“Deal,” I said, voice low. “Winner gets to name dessert.”
“Winner gets dessert,” she corrected, already turning back to the wall.
And just like that, we were back in it—teasing, climbing, brushing hands as we swapped routes and shared quick glances mid-ascent. But beneath it all, something electric simmered.
Not just chemistry. Not just challenge.
Admiration.
And the quiet, dangerous thrill of knowing neither of us really wanted to win.
We just wanted to keep playing.
Her final climb was slow—not from fatigue, but from intention. Every step was deliberate, measured. I stood below, arms folded, watching her silhouette move against the wall, lit by the soft overhead beams. She didn’t rush it. Just moved with that same grace she always had, like the wall was a conversation and she was fluent in its language.
She reached the top, tapped the final hold, and looked down.
“Was that elegant enough for you?” she called, winded but grinning.
“Poetic,” I called back. “You want to go again?”
She made a show of checking her watchless wrist. “Only if you promise snacks after.”
That settled it.
As she descended, I already had the rest of the night forming in my head. We’d earned a slow evening. Something warm and stupid and comforting.
The gym had fallen into a kind of hushed silence. Our session technically over, the last of the chalk settled in the air, and the only sounds were the low hum of the vents and the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat still winding down.
She was stretched out on the padded bench, arms behind her, head tilted back, chest rising slow and steady. Legs bent at the knee, one foot still pressed flat against the ground. Every bit of her looked flushed and raw in the best way—like the kind of glow you couldn’t fake.
And she was still watching me.
Her eyes flicked to my chest, lingered for a beat too long on the way the compression tee clung after the workout, damp in a few places, stretched tight over my sternum. She didn’t try to hide it now—not the way she bit her lower lip just slightly, or how her eyes narrowed like she was reading something off my skin.
I grabbed a towel and leaned back against the wall near her, letting the air cool my arms. I could feel her gaze even without looking. So I glanced over, slow, deliberate.
“You good?” I asked, voice just above the hush.
She didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small nod, her fingers reaching up absentmindedly to adjust her ponytail.
“You keep staring,” I added, smirking.
“You wore that shirt on purpose,” she said, not bothering to deny it.
I raised a brow. “And?”
She tilted her head, eyes scanning me again. “And I think I should be annoyed.”
“But you’re not.”
She didn’t smile, not fully, but her eyes gave her away. She shifted slightly, stretching out her legs, toes brushing the floor, gaze dragging down my body then back up. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you’re still looking,” I said, stepping a little closer.
She sat up slowly, knees drawn in, hands resting on either side of her. “What can I say? I have taste.”
I let out a quiet laugh, reaching for her hand, brushing her knuckles with my thumb. “Do you always flirt this hard after cardio?”
She looked at our hands, then back up. “Only when I’m allowed.”
The air shifted.
We were still in public. Technically. But the place had been privately booked for the afternoon. No one else in sight. Just a few cameras—security, not surveillance. And even those felt a hundred miles away in this quiet pocket of space we’d carved for ourselves.
I stepped between her legs, not touching—just close. Her hands moved instinctively to my waist, fingers ghosting over the hem of my shirt like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch, or just couldn’t help it.
I looked down at her, every part of me heating.
“You know you’re dangerous like this,” I said softly.
Her hands stilled. “Like how?”
I leaned just enough for my forehead to brush hers. Not a kiss. Not quite. “Like this. Flushed. Smiling. Wearing next to nothing and looking like you don’t know it.”
She swallowed. “And what do you look like?”
I smiled, barely. “Like I’d ruin the rest of the afternoon if I wasn’t trying to be good.”
That got her. I saw the breath catch in her throat.
And then her hand slid beneath the hem of my shirt, just for a second. Just enough for her fingers to trace the edge of my hipbone. My muscles twitched under her touch, and I had to grip the edge of the bench to ground myself.
“You’re not good,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “But I’m trying to be.”
We stayed like that—breaths tangled, heartbeats loud—for another moment.
Eventually, she pulled back slightly, exhaled. “Movie night, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, voice rough. “Let’s get out of here before I forget how to be decent.”
She smirked, reaching for her water bottle as she stood. “You say that like you’ve ever been decent.”
I didn’t reply.
Didn’t need to.
Not when she looked like that—hair a mess, cheeks pink, still tasting of laughter and teasing and every kind of temptation.
And she was mine.
At least for tonight.
And that was enough to keep me in check.
Barely.
We left the gym in that easy silence that follows a good kind of exhaustion. The kind that softens your limbs and sharpens your appetite. She was a little flushed, cheeks still pink, her hoodie now tied around her waist again, ponytail slightly loosened from the climbs. Every time I glanced over at her, I caught her rubbing chalk from her palms onto her leggings, like she didn’t want to let the day go just yet.
She climbed into the passenger seat and sank into the leather like she belonged there. Like this was her seat and she knew it. I reached for my seatbelt, paused for just a beat longer, and then glanced over at her.
“Movie night,” I said casually, letting the words fall between us like they’d been waiting all day to be spoken. “Your pick.”
Her head turned slowly, eyes narrowing with that suspicious-but-intrigued look I’d come to adore. “Wait. Like… actual movie night? Snacks and everything?”
“Snacks and everything,” I confirmed, turning the key and letting the car purr to life. “We’re stopping on the way home.”
Her expression shifted into something brighter, less guarded. “You’re serious?”
I didn’t answer. Just smiled and pulled out of the lot.
The car ride was quiet, but the good kind of quiet—windows cracked just enough to let in the early evening breeze, the scent of pine and pavement thick in the air. She adjusted the air vents, kicked off her shoes, and pulled one leg up under her. We didn’t need to talk much. The climb had worn out the need for filler.
“Okay,” she said suddenly, turning toward me. “But real question—how seriously do you take movie nights?”
I glanced at her, brow lifting. “Define ‘seriously.’”
She smirked. “Like, are we talking just popcorn and a blanket? Or do you go full spread? Candles, coordinated snacks, post-movie discussion panels?”
I laughed, easing into a right turn. “Depends who it’s for.”
She didn’t respond right away, just looked out the window with a small, secret smile. Like maybe that answer was more than enough.
We pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the place tucked into a sleepy corner of the city—no bright signs, no traffic. Just quiet, a little forgotten, and perfect.
I put the car in park and handed her my black card.
She blinked down at it. “You’re not coming in?”
“Better not,” I said, voice low, but not unkind. “Someone might recognize me.”
Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, her mouth twitching. “You know, you’re making this way too easy.”
“That’s the point.”
She opened the door but hesitated, one leg still in. “You sure you’re not gonna come in there and try to micromanage my snack choices?”
I tilted my head. “I trust your chaos.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but don’t freak out if I come back with, like, four kinds of ice cream.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
She shut the door and disappeared into the store, and I stayed where I was—one hand resting on the wheel, the other pulling my phone from my pocket. I opened my inbox more out of habit than necessity.
Unread emails stared back at me—sponsorship logistics, circuit updates, something from my press team with the word urgent in the subject line. I tapped it open, skimmed half the first paragraph, and then closed it again.
I wasn’t really reading.
I was just… killing time. Filling space.
Because my head?
It was still in there with her.
I pictured her in the frozen aisle—standing in front of the glass doors, weighing the pros and cons of two different ice cream flavors like it was a life-altering decision. I imagined the way she’d push the cart even though she didn’t need one, just to have something to lean on. The way her brows would scrunch together in exaggerated focus over sour gummies. How she’d probably make a joke to herself in the candy aisle, something stupid and smug, and laugh out loud like no one was watching.
She didn’t overthink those things. That was what I admired most.
She just lived.
Lived in her cravings. In her curiosity. In the joy of picking between fizzy pop flavors and off-brand chip names.
And the thing that gutted me—the thing that knocked the air from my chest every time—was how rare it felt to see someone move through the world like that. Like it was still something worth enjoying.
I wasn’t used to that.
I’d been living on precision and strategy for so long—plans, percentages, performance—that I forgot how beautiful it was to just... be.
And she? She just was.
Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Flushed from the climb, smudged with chalk, hoodie knotted at her waist, and still walking into that store like she belonged in the center of it.
And yeah, okay—I’d spoil her a thousand times over if it meant seeing her that free.
Because there was something unshakable in how she existed.
She didn’t try to impress. She didn’t adjust her volume or smooth out her rough edges.
She showed up.
Messy, opinionated, hungry for both snacks and connection, and wholly, entirely herself.
And she let me see it.
She let me be near it.
That wasn’t small.
That was trust, whether she realized it or not.
I glanced at the time—barely fifteen minutes had passed. I didn’t care. I could wait. I’d wait all day if she wanted.
The playlist kept looping softly through the speakers, and I scrolled half-heartedly through another email. Something about team photos for the next race. My eyes flicked over the words without meaning.
Because I wasn’t thinking about the photos.
I was thinking about her walking back out, bags in hand, smile ready.
And how I could make tonight feel like something hers.
Not polished. Not curated.
Just good.
Just us.
Just... enough.
The passenger door popped open, pulling me out of whatever soft-focus daydream I’d drifted into. She slid in, a little breathless, arms full of victory. Three bags of snacks hit the backseat with a satisfying thud.
She looked over at me, eyes bright. “Okay, so hypothetically, if someone were to get two different kinds of chips, three drinks, a family-sized pack of cookies, and every sour gummy variety known to man... would you judge?”
I blinked once, still catching up. “Not at all,” I said, sliding my phone into the console. “I’d just question how we’re supposed to finish dinner after that.”
She buckled her seatbelt, smug and satisfied. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t finish dinner,” she said, winking. “I said I’d make it interesting.”
We pulled out of the lot and into the quiet hum of the early evening. She dug into one of the bags and immediately opened a pack of gummies, tossing a few into her mouth and offering me one like it was a peace treaty. I took it, not because I needed it—but because she offered.
The drive home was easy. She alternated between narrating her grocery trip like it had been a high-stakes heist and making up weird names for each snack. She turned up the music once, only to skip through half a dozen songs before settling on something mellow that filled the car like warm light.
When we pulled into the driveway, she stretched, arms overhead, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
I opened my door and said, “Go shower. Take your time.”
She paused. “You sure you don’t want the first one?”
“I’ll be quick,” I said, already grabbing a few bags. “You take your time.”
She raised a brow like she didn’t quite believe me, but didn’t argue. “Alright. But if I come out and you’ve eaten all the shrimp, I’m calling it betrayal.”
“I’d never.”
She smirked, turned, and disappeared down the hall, leaving the faint scent of sugar and sweat in her wake.
I took the bags upstairs, started setting up the living room. The upstairs space was quiet, rarely touched, but perfect for this. A big couch, blackout curtains, a low coffee table that was suddenly the command center for all things gummy, fizzy, salty, and sweet.
I dimmed the lights, pulled out the softest throw blanket, and flipped through the streaming apps until I found it—Clueless. I’d remembered. Not because she’d made a big deal about it, but because of the way she’d said it in passing. The kind of detail most people miss.
I queued it up, volume low, just enough to play the opening chords and let the vibe start sinking in.
Then I slipped back down the stairs and into the kitchen.
She was still in the shower—true to her word, taking her time—and I was glad for it. Gave me space to work.
Shrimp pasta. Nothing complicated. Just something warm and good. Butter, garlic, a splash of white wine, chili flakes, a little lemon at the end. I moved quietly, methodically. Not because I was trying to impress her with my cooking skills, but because I wanted the night to feel effortless for her.
Something that tasted like comfort.
Smelled like home.
And if she noticed the timing—that dinner would be ready just about when Clueless hit its first act—well, that was the point.
Because tonight? Tonight was hers.
And I was just lucky enough to be the one she came home with.
The pasta was just about done—shrimp curled to the perfect pink, plump and barely kissed by heat. The sauce had thickened just enough to coat the noodles without drowning them, glossy with butter and that sharp kick of garlic and chili. I gave it one last stir, watching the steam curl up like a slow exhale, then turned the burner down to low.
Let it breathe.
Let me breathe.
I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and paused for a second, eyes skimming the counter like I’d forgotten something. I hadn’t. The drinks were chilling. The snacks were waiting upstairs. The movie was queued, already teasing the opening frame behind the sleep screen.
It was all ready.
Except me.
So I climbed the stairs and hit the shower. Fast. Focused. Efficient.
Not because I was trying to impress her—not anymore. We were well past that stage. There was no point in pretending I didn’t want her to see me, really see me. Not just the version in tailored shirts and press conferences, but this one. Raw. Quiet. Intentional.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to look at her the way she’d looked at me earlier—like the sight of me had pulled the breath right out of her. Like she was torn between teasing me and memorizing me. I wanted to return that favor.
Ten minutes later, I padded barefoot back into the kitchen. Clean. Warm from the water. Dressed down in black joggers and a worn, soft tee that clung in all the right places without trying to. I liked the simplicity of it. No distractions.
Except the one that was about to walk in.
I plated the pasta—two bowls, heaping but not overwhelming—and shaved parmesan over the top. The scent hit the air and I could already imagine the sound she’d make when she took the first bite.
Then I heard it.
Soft footfalls against hardwood. Bare. Measured.
I didn’t have to look. I could feel her presence shift the atmosphere before she even stepped fully into view.
But when I did look…
The serving spoon nearly slipped from my hand.
She walked into the kitchen like the start of a problem I wanted to fail solving.
Baggy plaid pajama pants, rolled low at the hips—slouchy and too long, dragging slightly over the floor with each step. And the tank top. Jesus. White, worn thin, low cut in the front, just loose enough to drape without clinging, but snug enough that the curve of her chest rose and fell with every breath like punctuation.
Her hair was still damp from the shower, a few pieces sticking to her collarbone, neck flushed from the heat. She wasn’t trying to be anything. Not sexy. Not composed. Not on.
And that was what made it lethal.
My eyes dipped, caught the way the light skimmed her skin, the soft slope of her shoulder, the hint of cleavage that peeked out with every step closer.
She smirked. Caught me staring.
“You keep looking at me like that,” she said, reaching lazily for a fork, “I’m going to think you’ve got an agenda.”
I passed her a napkin, let my gaze drop one more time—just to be sure. “I absolutely have an agenda. It’s mostly shrimp-focused. The rest is… situational.”
She laughed, low and warm, and slid onto one of the stools at the island. As she shifted, the tank top dipped even lower. She didn’t fix it. Just propped her elbow on the counter, leaned in, and looked at me like I was the one in danger.
I took the seat beside her.
We started eating, and the silence settled in comfortably. Soft clinks of forks against ceramic. The occasional sigh—hers, every time the sauce hit just right. Her mouth curved around the pasta like it was the first thing she’d eaten in days, like the garlic and butter were some kind of sin she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying.
She made a soft noise. I froze. She didn’t notice.
Or maybe she did.
Her foot brushed mine under the bar. Once, then again. She didn’t move it.
I glanced up. She was licking sauce off her bottom lip, slow and unthinking.
I didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to say anything.
The tension wasn’t just in the silence anymore.
It was in the closeness. The way we leaned in just slightly with each laugh. The glances that lingered a fraction longer than polite. The way her thigh nudged mine once when she shifted her seat—and she didn’t pull away.
And it was in the way I wanted it to keep building.
Because dinner was just dinner.
But the way she looked right now?
It was dessert before the movie even started.
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
She helped me rinse the dishes, sleeves rolled, hands warm and slick from the soap. We moved like a practiced routine—shoulders brushing, passing plates without needing to speak. Like we’d done this a hundred times before. Like this kitchen had seen us live here, together.
She leaned forward slightly to place a plate in the drying rack, and her tank top slid up in the back. Just a sliver. Just enough to show the curve of her spine and a delicate glimpse of bare skin above the waistband of her pajama bottoms.
And something in me snapped.
I didn’t even think. I just acted.
Grinning, I grabbed her waist, and before she could say a word, I’d hoisted her clean off the ground and tossed her over my shoulder.
She shrieked, breath catching halfway between a squeal and a laugh. “Toto!”
“Too late now,” I said, gripping her securely.
“Put me down!” She smacked my back lightly, not really trying to get free. Her laughter vibrated down my spine.
“Not a chance.”
“You’re going to drop me.”
“I would never.”
“You’re ridiculous!”
“And yet,” I said, giving her thigh a teasing pat, “here you are—complaining from the best seat in the house.”
Her legs kicked lightly as I carried her up the stairs, her hands braced against my lower back, tugging at my shirt just enough to make the trip harder than it needed to be.
She was still breathless when I set her down in the upstairs living room, cheeks flushed, hair slightly wild from being upside down. Her lips parted like she wanted to yell at me again, but the words never came.
“You’re the worst,” she said, mock-glowering.
“You like it,” I murmured, voice low.
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
Instead, she brushed past me slowly, hips swaying with extra intention now—performing for me, and knowing I’d watch. She dropped onto the couch, limbs loose and comfortable, pulling a blanket over her lap like a throne being claimed. She gave me a look. One of those eyebrow-raised, you-better-get-this-right kind of looks.
“You better have picked the right movie.”
I clicked the remote. Clueless filled the screen, the opening chords spilling soft, golden light across the room.
Her face lit up immediately. She didn’t hide it.
She looked back at me, eyes softer now, darker at the edges. “You really do listen.”
“I do,” I said, settling beside her. Close. Not touching. Yet.
But that gap didn’t last long.
Because once the movie started, she leaned in. Not all at once—just slowly. Gradual. Her leg tucked under her, shoulder pressing into mine. Her bare arm brushed mine, and she didn’t pull back. She just settled, like she belonged there. Like I was the armrest she’d always meant to fall into.
She reached for a gummy from the snack spread I’d laid out earlier, bit into it, then passed me one with her fingers still sticky from sugar.
And from there, the shift was inevitable.
Her head dropped to my shoulder sometime during Cher’s opening monologue. Her hand landed lightly on my thigh. Innocent. At first. But then it lingered.
My arm wrapped behind her. Natural. Protective. But the way my fingers slid slowly against her waist wasn’t exactly casual. I was tracing the edge of that tank top, the rise and fall of her ribs beneath it, just skimming the border of what was polite and what wasn’t.
She turned to me during a commercial break, one hand still on my leg, her thumb drawing lazy circles through the fabric of my joggers.
“I could’ve picked something steamier,” she teased.
I looked at her, not smiling. Not blinking. “You’re doing a fine job of making this one feel that way.”
She shifted, pulling her legs up onto the couch, pressing herself even closer. Her chest pressed into my side, the neckline of her tank slipping just a little lower. She didn’t fix it.
Neither did I.
“You’re staring,” she said softly.
“So are you.”
She tilted her head up toward me, lips parted slightly, breath brushing my jaw.
“Timing,” I whispered, leaning in, mouth barely grazing her ear. “That’s everything.”
She shivered. I felt it.
And still—I didn’t rush it.
Because I could.
I could kiss her, slide my hand beneath that shirt, let this whole night spiral into something hotter, heavier. And God, I wanted to.
But I also wanted her to beg for it.
To tease me the way I’d been teasing her. To press back. Push forward. Play.
And she did.
Every shift of her body, every flick of her gaze down to my mouth and back up again—she leaned into the chaos. Into us.
So I let the movie play.
Timed every lean, every touch, every near-kiss to the beat of it.
Because if there was one thing I was built for—it was patience.
And she?
She was going to learn just how slow I could go.
The movie rolled on, but I barely heard the dialogue. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it—Clueless had its charm. But right now, the story I cared about wasn’t on the screen.
It was unfolding right next to me.
She was curled into my side, knees tucked close, tank top clinging a little tighter now with each shift she made. The blanket she’d pulled over us had slid down to her hips, exposing just enough skin that my hand had found a home on the curve of her waist, fingers draped lightly, occasionally brushing against bare heat.
And every time I moved—just the subtlest shift, a flex of my thumb along her ribs—she twitched.
Not away.
Toward.
I knew what I was doing.
I also knew she knew.
She glanced up at me, trying to play it cool, eyes a little too wide, breath catching every so often on nothing at all.
“Something wrong?” I asked softly, not taking my eyes off the screen.
“No,” she said, a touch too fast.
I smirked.
Let my hand drift a little higher, thumb grazing the bottom edge of her tank. Barely a touch. Barely skin. But enough that I felt the way her breath hitched. She squirmed slightly, adjusting her position, but it only brought her closer. Her thigh brushed mine, her shoulder nudged higher against my chest.
“You’re watching the movie, right?” she asked.
“I can multitask,” I murmured.
She scoffed. “You’re not even pretending to watch it.”
I leaned in, my mouth close to her ear. “I’ve already seen it.”
Her head snapped to face me, just enough for our mouths to be dangerously close. The look in her eyes was almost annoyed—almost—but underneath it, she was flushed.
“You’re doing it on purpose,” she whispered.
I raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know.”
I dragged the back of my knuckles up along her spine. “Do I?”
She bit her bottom lip. Not in that exaggerated, staged way. In the kind of way you do when you’re trying not to make a sound. Her hands were still tucked against her knees, but I could feel her starting to fidget, like the tension was building just under her skin.
Then, in a moment of boldness, she reached out and shoved at my chest—not hard, just enough to push me back a few inches on the couch. “You’re a menace.”
“You look good when you’re flustered,” I said plainly.
She gave a breathless laugh, hiding her face for half a second. “You’re ridiculous.”
I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I reached forward slowly and plucked a gummy from the snack bowl, held it between my fingers, and offered it to her—silent, deliberate.
She hesitated for half a second too long.
Then she leaned in and took it directly from my hand, her lips brushing my fingertips, her eyes never leaving mine.
We froze there for a second, just breathing.
Her cheeks were pink now, her pupils dilated, and the room felt smaller. Dimmer. Warmer.
The movie carried on—Alicia Silverstone chirping about fashion emergencies and high school boys—but we were barely listening.
My hand found her thigh, light at first, then firmer as I let my fingers trail in slow, aimless circles. Not wandering. Just lingering.
She adjusted again, letting her legs stretch across mine, bare feet curling around my calves.
“You’re going to drive me insane,” she murmured.
“That’s the idea,” I said, smiling softly. “But I’m pacing myself.”
“You’re going to lose the game if you keep pushing.”
“Who said I’m trying to win?”
Her mouth opened—then closed. No comeback. Just that look. That bright, glowing look that told me she was halfway between irritated and completely hooked.
And that was exactly where I wanted her.
Right on the edge.
Because this wasn’t just about teasing.
It was about making her feel every second of it.
And I wasn’t done yet.
Her mouth was back on mine before I could think—hot, insistent, desperate in a way that made something primal snap inside me. She rolled her hips once, slow and deliberate, and I felt it everywhere.
The way she kissed me now—hands fisting in my shirt, nails dragging slightly down my chest—wasn’t soft. It was needy. She was chasing friction, chasing something deeper, and I gave it to her—kissing her harder, teeth grazing her bottom lip as I pulled her tighter against me.
My hands roamed—her back, her thighs, the dip of her waist. I gripped her hips like I didn’t know how to let go. And maybe I didn’t.
She arched into me, her breath catching on a whimper that I swallowed with my mouth, and I could feel her trembling—barely, but it was there.
God, she felt good. She tasted good.
And I wanted her.
Right here, right now.
But I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
Not like this. Not when I planned to ask her tomorrow if she’d be mine for real—my girlfriend. My partner. Not when I wanted it to be more than heat, more than a moment we fell into. Not when I knew I could have her heart, not just her body, if I gave her the space to let it happen.
So I pulled back—slow, reluctant, my lips trailing down to her jaw, her neck, the space behind her ear. I let myself breathe her in one last time, let my hands memorize every curve they could reach through her clothes.
And then I stopped.
Held her in place.
Kissed her once more—slow and deep and final.
She blinked down at me, dazed, her lips pink and kiss-bitten. “Why’d you stop?” she asked, breathless, her voice cracking in the middle like it didn’t know whether to tease or beg.
I pressed my forehead to hers, still breathing hard. “Because I’m going to ask you something tomorrow.”
Her brows pulled together slightly. “Ask me what?”
I kissed the tip of her nose. “Not tonight.”
She sighed, her fingers trailing over my chest, but there was no frustration in it. Just… longing. A quiet ache neither of us wanted to push too far.
Instead, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her fully into my lap, both of us tucked under the blanket now, hearts still racing as the high slowly faded.
We sat like that for a while.
Her head on my shoulder. My fingers tracing soft circles on her back. The movie screen dark, the room dim, the storm between us finally quiet.
And when her breathing slowed, when her body melted into mine like it belonged there, I knew it was time.
I stood with her still in my arms, and she squealed again, half-hearted now, more sleep than protest.
“Toto,” she mumbled, clinging to me.
“I’ve got you.”
“Again?”
“Always.”
She didn’t argue.
Just tucked her face into my neck, arms around my shoulders as I carried her down the hall, steps slow, deliberate.
I set her on the bed gently, tugging the blanket over her and brushing a few strands of hair from her face. Her eyes were barely open now, lashes heavy against her cheeks.
I slipped in beside her, pulling her close, letting her settle with her back to my chest. My arm looped around her waist, anchoring her to me like I was afraid she might drift away in the night.
I kissed her shoulder once, soft. Final.
And as her breathing evened out, as her body relaxed completely in my hold, I whispered it into the space between us.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “I’ll ask you to stay.”
She didn’t hear it.
But that was okay.
Because when the sun came up?
She’d know.