➤ summary: you decided to test a theory that asking for rafe’s help might push him to finally make a move on you
➤ w/c: 3.5k
➤ warnings: kiiinda obsessive/softie rafe, sexual tension, making out, a bit suggestive at the end
masterlist taglist
You and Rafe have been circling each other for months.
It started seemingly out of nowhere. One day neither of you seemed to care or notice each other’s existence, and the next you became painfully aware that he was everywhere. Like the bulb just lit up in your head, and your eyes started catching him in your peripheral vision all the damn time—at the bonfires, at the beach when you came there with your girlfriends, at the country club with that smug grin on his face as if he knew he was the best, at the dinners that your families held together. Well, at least that's what it was like for you.
You caught his eyes staring at you more times than you could count, and you started looking back, thriving on the attention, loving the way he always noticed you even in a room full of people. Not to mention how hot he actually was and how it made you feel whenever he brushed past you—all big and warm—accidentally touching your arm and mumbling a low “sorry” as if it were just an accident.
You were in somewhat similar circles, so you made sure to give him all the cues that you didn’t mind him actually approaching you to talk for more than two seconds.
But he never made a move.
Which, on its own, was ridiculous to you. You waited. Because duh—he was Rafe. He was the one who usually approached girls and flirted like his life depended on it. He was the one who, apparently, didn’t give two shits about anything or anyone enough to care what people were thinking of him, but when it came to you, he suddenly was hesitant.
Every random run-in became more tense, more weird—the heavy glances, the smirks, the way his tongue ran over his lower lip when you caught him staring again, the way your fingers just barely glazed each other whenever he passed you the cup at the party. You probably would never forget when you accidentally bumped into him when he walked out of the corner so suddenly, because the look in his eyes was priceless. You clearly caught him off guard, and he didn’t expect to meet you. In a few seconds a thousand different emotions flashed through Rafe’s face, from surprise to a sudden, ever so noticeable millisecond of shyness, then back to his usual nonchalance. His eyes then darted down to the floor, and he brushed past you. Just like that.
You knew you weren’t crazy. You could feel it in your bones that you were right about all the little signs. And honestly, after hearing a stupid yet interesting idea from your friend, you were done waiting. She said something about guys getting stupidly attracted when you ask them for small favors. It makes them feel needed and useful, even rewarded, and since Rafe already looked at you like he wanted you, you might as well give him an idea that you don’t mind him taking care of you.
It seemed like you didn’t even have to try to find an excuse to ask for his help, because one day when you and your girlfriends went to the country club for some fun time, Rafe and his buddies were already there, standing in the back area of the main building and seemingly waiting for somebody else.
You saw them when you walked out of the back door to get the forgotten tote bag with all of your swimming stuff you planned to use for a day near the pool. The door squeaked heavily under your weight as you pushed it to open, and you groaned, both palms flat against the slick glass, realizing that they still hadn’t fixed it despite the many complaints from the visitors.
Your eyes caught his immediately after you got under the bright sun, his form straightening up a bit the moment he saw you walking out of the building, and you couldn’t help but smile at the way Rafe's eyes studied you briefly in your baby blue bikini and a cover-up at your hips.
“Hey, guys.” You greeted them, moving past the group with only your flip flops now slapping against the pavement, like nothing was happening, like you weren’t really excited to see a certain someone you’d been planning on. The bag felt heavy on your shoulder, but a few intense gazes at the back of your head were sure as hell even heavier, but you decided to ignore them for now and get back into the building to not cause any more interest.
You walked past them looking straight ahead of you, as confident as ever, but then you reached the handle of the door, pulling it once, twice, and then again with both of your hands. It stayed closed shut, and your slippers were only sliding off your feet the more effort you put into it. You groaned, frustrated instantly, looking back at the guys to see Rafe still looking directly at you like it was the most normal thing.
You smirked to yourself before turning back around to face the group. “Rafe?” You asked softly, your voice smooth and light, which made his brows shoot up instantly. Well, that was new. “Could you help me open the door, please?” He moved before you could even properly end the sentence, slightly jogging towards you to reach you faster, all while his friends were snickering and grinning like idiots at the sight of it all—Rafe Cameron willingly helping someone without a single complaint or roll of his eyes.
And then he was right in front of you. All tall, big, and tanned from the never-ending days on the golf course or his boats, with his cap turned backwards and light shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. You could read the surprise on his face, the sliver of hesitation because of your sudden ask, which quickly turned into something completely different the moment his eyes roamed over you again—the little bit of fabric that you had covering your body had suddenly stripped his mind of all of the other thoughts.
“I really hate that they still didn’t fix this damn door, I can barely move it on my own.”
“Sure.” He rasped finally, hand reaching out to open the heavy door with little to no effort, and stepping aside to let you walk in.
“Thank you, Rafe. You’re my savior.” A smile touched your lips again as you looked up into his bright and surprised eyes. You reached with your hand without even thinking, briefly touching his forearm in a thankful yet innocent gesture, before you walked inside and left him standing there with a million things on his mind.
Not even three days later Sarah called you to say that she maxed out Ward’s card. Which, in your language, meant a shit ton of new clothes that you could possibly steal or borrow from her, and which meant a girls’ night at Tanneyhill.
By the evening basically all of the available surfaces in her room were covered in clothes, while the bed looked like Sarah’s closet had just exploded. In the middle of it all you stood in the shortest turquoise dress you’d even worn, with your friend promising that you looked hot as fuck in it. You twirled in front of the mirror, looking at yourself from different angles, being slightly unsure about the model and an unusual color.
“I am telling you, this dress was literally made for you, babe. Everyone would go nuts if they saw you in it.” Sarah laughed again, while still digging through the pile on the floor to find the skirt she wanted to pair her new top with.
“You think so?” You turned around again, looking at your legs, which did look good with that exact length. You looked at your friend, biting your lip at the lie that was about to roll off your tongue. “I have to go pee real quick, okay?”
You didn’t have to. But there was an idea that sounded way too good in your head, and never-ending voices of the guys from downstairs made your skin itch with the thought that Rafe was not that far away and it was way too good of an opportunity to miss it.
You padded down the stairs into the main room, almost instantly walking into something you knew Ward didn’t allow when he was at home—Rafe, Topper, and Kelse sprawled on the expensive leather couches, beer bottles on the glass table, and some random football match on.
“Rafe?” You turned your head to the side as you called his name, noting the way he, once again, straightened up and gave you his full attention. So damn pathetic, he thought. “Quick question, but do you think the dress looks good? Sarah says it does, but I'm not really sure about the style and color. I need an unbiased opinion.”
Rafe found himself almost choking on air the moment those words left your mouth because, why in the hell, were you asking his opinion? His one was for sure far from unbiased when you looked like that. The tips of his ears instantly started warming up, indicating how thrown off he felt, the palms of his hands slid down the jean material on his thighs in a weirdly nervous way.
He tried not to stare at you like an idiot and tried to get back to his usual routine of rolling his eyes at any stupid question people tried to ask him. But with you it felt different, and he couldn’t bring himself to be rude when you seemed so soft and genuine. When you wanted his opinion out of all people.
You twirled again, the material riding up your thighs just the tiniest bit, but sure as hell enough for Rafe’s eyes to go there. “So?” You smiled impatiently, half actually wanting his approval and attention and half just enjoying how jittery he looked.
“Yeah.” Rafe's voice sounded hoarse. He looked up and down again, eyes heavy-lidded and as intense as always, adjusting himself on the couch as if he felt uncomfortable. “It’s pretty.”
He wanted to say that you were pretty but bit his tongue at the last moment to not make it seem weird. He shifted his body so his elbows rested against his knees and you couldn’t help but focus on the tanned skin of his biceps that now bulged from the polo. You bet he was as soft and warm as he looked.
You smirked, content enough that you managed to throw him off again. You mumbled a small and almost way too intimate “thanks,” looking him straight in the eyes before stepping back toward the stairs.
“We also think it looks good.” Kelse snickered at the fact that you didn’t even acknowledge any of them, making it seem like he was aware of the game that you were playing.
You paused, as if remembering that it was a bit impolite to so bluntly ignore boys who were barely holding back their smirks. You totally forgot that they were even there.
“Yeah, well, thanks!” You smiled at them, a bright contrast with how you responded to Rafe, before turning around and running back upstairs.
He thought he was going crazy. You were making him go crazy. And he wasn’t even sure whether you were just that oblivious or if it was your fucked-up plan all along.
As if the first two instances were not enough, over the next weeks you seemed to become overly dependent on Rafe, or at least somehow you always ended up in a situation where you would be able to ask for something. That one time when you asked him to make you a drink at a party because “Topper’s always tastes like shit,” or when you really needed to make a call from his phone, or when you and your families were sitting at a restaurant and you asked him to bring you your charger from the car. And it was just things off the top of his head.
Each time you looked up at him with those soft doe eyes, a small smile was on your lips that always made him stare just a tad bit longer than it was acceptable. He made you a drink. He let you make a phone call. He got your charger. Just to hear your gratitude each time, as his name naturally rolled off your tongue.
Just to get that weird kick of pride every time he was useful for you.
Just to then step back away from you, sit at the farther corner of the table, and sulk in his own weirdly warm and kind of uncomfortable feelings. Rafe could feel your fragrance stuck around him like some sticky honey even if he still hadn't gotten the chance to touch you. His eyes returned to you not even a minute later to see you already looking at him but then focusing on something else as if he didn’t just catch you.
You smiled to yourself, not looking at him anymore—fixing your hair or your necklace, checking your phone, or already switching your attention to anybody else—as if knowing that that little favor got him hooked on you for the rest of the night. It made his skin itch and leg jump nervously, because whatever you did, it worked.
Now Rafe stared at your name on his phone with a mixture of emotions. You were calling him. For the first time. And he knew that it was you because a few months ago he accidentally found your phone number and had it saved “just in case,” not thinking too much about it.
Now it was ringing in his hand while he looked down at it with brows drawn tightly together and jaw tight from sudden nerves. He couldn’t understand what the fuck was going on for the life of him.
He swiped right with a weird tremor in his hand, his throat suddenly dry as if he had eaten a handful of sand.
“Yeah?” Rafe winced at the sound of his own voice. His hand reached up to the back of his neck, rubbing it even before he could hear your answer.
“Rafe? Hi, it’s me.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Your voice sounded so soft, and he swore he could hear you smile. Rafe fell back against the back of the couch, sprawling against the sleek leather and patiently waiting for you to speak again. His eyes focused on the shadows on the ceiling, but in the back of his mind he thought about how you probably looked now—soft, probably twirling something in your hand the way he saw you doing a million times, and, well, probably planning on torturing him a bit more. “Um, yeah, okay! So I didn’t want to bother you—like, really—but I kinda need some help with the boxes at my place, and I just though…” You trailed suggestively. Rafe shut his eyes, jaw tight. “Maybe you could help me out, please?”
He was there not even fifteen minutes later. Pathetically enough, he couldn’t say "no." He didn’t want to. He felt the tugging feeling in his chest that maybe you were using him because he was so fucking obvious with his crush. Maybe you were, in fact, just like the other girls on the island who were not new to manipulating guys for their money or things they could get, even if deep down he knew that it was dumb to even consider that. But Rafe still, like a desperate teenager who got a sliver of attention from the cool girl from his school, came around and let himself be useful to you, because what if…
“I’m so sorry that I called you, Rafe!” You greeted him the moment he jumped out of his truck, all smiley and friendly as always. You were dressed in a cute little set of shorts and a tank top, which was good enough for Rafe to take a double look down your body. His palms were sweating from the sudden want to run over the soft material that hugged you perfectly and in all the right places. “I really need to get this into my car, and my dad’s out of town.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. “It’s fine.” Short. Gruff. He hated how unsteady he felt around you lately—like his skin was too tight and his thoughts too loud. Yet not a single part of him was able to resist you when you looked at him like that or when you murmured his name. It was something that he could only imagine before that, something that made him feel useful and crave your approval more.
Rafe moved quickly, picking up boxes from the front steps of your house and then loading them into the trunk of your car, while you followed him back and forth. Your eyes never left his body, lingering on the way the veins on his arms bulged from the heavy weight, wondering how they would feel on you when he finally pulls himself together. While Rafe thought of it as sweet, sweet torture, because what else could he call it when you fully enveloped him in your scent and stood way too close to him, so whenever he bent down for a box, he was only met with your silky-smooth legs right in front of his face?
When the last box slipped into the trunk, he closed it with a soft thud, dusting off his hands, and turned to face you. You leaned against the side of the car, hands crossed across your chest, eyes already set on his face as if you were waiting for him to notice. Rafe’s pulse spiked up. He finally got too aware that you two were the only ones standing on the street, and the sun was setting behind him and coloring everything around you in a warm golden light. You were almost too pretty like this, and the nauseous feeling of realization made his face twist involuntarily.
“What?” You murmured softly.
“Why me?” He asked bluntly, his voice low and rough. Rafe stepped closer, backing you against the side of the car, trying to regain at least some part of the control you got over him. “You’ve got friends. Family. Half the island would trip over themselves if you asked them for anything. But you keep picking me. The door. The dress. Drinks at parties. Now fucking boxes. What game are you playing?”
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, flirty smile as you looked up at him through your lashes. Probably for the first time since you've known Rafe Cameron, you saw him being actually nervous with his emotions all over the place.
“Maybe I like that you’re helping me. Maybe I like that you can’t say “no” to me. Maybe I wanted to stay on your mind all the time.” Your hand reached out to the collar of his polo, fixing it. Innocently, but enough for Rafe to feel blood pumping in his ears. “Did it work?”
Fuck.
You could visibly see the realization settling in, the way his pupils dilated and the baby blue got almost fully consumed. His throat bubbled, yet he still couldn’t say a thing. You waited a few long moments, observing his reaction, trying to figure out what was going on in that head of his that seemed to never actually turn off. His jaw flexed like he was fighting every instinct he had.
Rafe’s hand shot up, cupping the side of your face as he closed the last inch of space between you. The kiss hit like a storm—hungry, desperate, months of circling and teasing exploding all at once. His mouth claimed yours with bruising heat, tongue sliding deep and possessive, tasting you like he’d been dying for it, even if you felt just the tiniest tremor in his hand. You moaned into him, fingers tightening in his shirt as you kissed him back just as fiercely, bodies pressing together against the warm metal of the car.
Rafe groaned against your lips, finally giving in to the urge of touching you, allowing his free hand to gently land on your waist and, the next moment, fully circle around it to bring you impossibly closer to him. He was everywhere around you, filling all of your senses, completely shutting down your brain, until the only thought was how right it felt. When he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged gently, you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, lips brushing with every exhale. His voice was hoarse this time. “You’ve been driving me insane… on purpose.”
You didn’t deny it. Instead, you smiled, soft and wicked, then silently tightened your grip on the front of his shirt. Your eyes held his as you started walking backward toward your front door, tugging him along.
Rafe followed without a word, like an obedient puppy with big, hungry, and glassy eyes, letting you pull him inside.
Experimented a bit with a new way of detailing the tiles. Kinda like it? This particular piece took a hell of a lot of work. I’d love if you shared the vibes it’s giving off, for research purposes 💖
SUMMARY: Soulmates shared everything. Including scars. When Umbridge's detentions begin exposing soulmate pairs throughout Hogwarts, one bloody sentence on the back of your hand changes everything.
A/N: For my lovely, wonderful @obsessedwithceleste. Astra loves Cel and hopes this came out good<3
Tagging: @delulugirl2000
Soulmate AU
The soulmate bond had always been cruel in its honesty.
From the moment you were born, your soulmate’s scars appeared on your skin like quiet promises. A small scrape on your knee at age six. A faint burn on your forearm from some childhood accident. Tiny, whimsical marks that told you somewhere out there, someone was living.
You were both sorted into Slytherin in first year. You and Mattheo Riddle had been in the same friend group since then — you, Mattheo, Theo, Draco, Blaise, Enzo, Pansy, and Daphne.
No one knew who their soulmate was yet. The scars were still small and meaningless.
Until the summer before fifth year.
Voldemort had returned. The world was darker. And one night, you stood in front of your mirror at home, staring in horror at the new scars that had bloomed across your back — thin, angry lines like someone had been whipped or cursed.
You traced them with trembling fingers, heart aching for whoever was on the other end of this pain.
You didn’t know it was Mattheo.
Fifth year brought Umbridge.
The pink toad took over Defense Against the Dark Arts and quickly turned it into a nightmare. Detentions became frequent. Her quill wasn’t just a writing tool — it carved the words you wrote into your skin with blood.
The first time Enzo got detention, Susan Bones showed up the next morning with the exact same cut on her hand. The soulmate reveal spread like wildfire.
You tried to stay out of trouble.
But one afternoon, you spoke back when Umbridge insulted Harry.
Detention was immediate.
That evening, you returned to the Slytherin common room with fresh, stinging words carved into the back of your hand:
I must not support liars.
The common room was nearly empty — most people were still at dinner.
You sat by the fireplace, cradling your bleeding hand, trying not to cry.
Footsteps echoed from the boys’ dormitories.
Mattheo came down the stairs, absently scratching at the back of his own hand with a scowl.
When he saw you, he froze.
His eyes dropped to your hand.
The exact same words were carved into his skin, still fresh and bleeding.
The air left the room.
Mattheo’s face went pale.
He crossed the room in seconds, dropping to his knees in front of you.
His hand reached out, hovering over yours like he was afraid to touch you.
“...It’s you,” he whispered, voice cracking.
You stared at him, tears finally spilling over.
All those years.
The small scars on your knees. The faint burn on your arm. The thin lines that had appeared across your back last summer — Mattheo’s scars.
And now this.
“You’ve been carrying my scars this whole time?” you choked out.
Mattheo looked wrecked.
He gently took your injured hand in both of his, staring at the bloody words like they were a curse.
“I thought...” His voice was hoarse. “I thought my soulmate was someone else. Someone who didn’t have to see all the ugly parts of me. The scars from my father. The ones from... after he came back.”
You lifted a hand to cup the side of his face.
“I saw them,” you whispered. “The ones on your back. The one across your ribs. I’ve had them since last summer. I stayed up all night wondering who was hurting so much.”
Mattheo let out a broken sound and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck.
You clung to him just as tightly, both of you shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry you got stuck with me.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, cupping his face.
“I’m not,” you said fiercely. “I’m not sorry it’s you, Mattheo.”
He stared at you for a long moment, eyes glassy, before pressing his forehead against yours.
“All this time,” he breathed. “I’ve been hating the world... and you’ve been walking around with my pain on your skin.”
You gave him a watery smile.
“And you’ve been carrying mine.”
Mattheo kissed you then — desperate, trembling, full of six years of unspoken everything.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again, breathing you in.
“I'm not hiding anymore.” he whispered. “Not from you. Never from you.”
You nodded, tears still falling.
“I'm not, either.”
He gently lifted your bleeding hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it, right over the cruel words Umbridge had carved.
Then he stood, pulling you up with him.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go clean this up. I’ve got scars to take care of now.”
You smiled through your tears and let him lead you toward the dorms, fingers intertwined.
For the first time, the scars didn’t feel like burdens.
They felt like proof.
Proof that even in darkness, you had found each other.
“love is never logical. I know I could've stopped it all; god why didn't I stop it all?"
word count: 6,644.
summary: during your sixth year at hogwarts, an unlikely friendship forms between you and the charming, troublemaking lorenzo berkshire. what starts as constant teasing and study sessions slowly turns into something neither of you expected, leaving you to navigate feelings that are far more complicated that n.e.w.t.s.
author’s note: first chapter of my first enzo series! yes i'm quite aware a prologue is supposed to be short and quick, but alas I am a perpetual yapper who has absolutely no self-control, so please enjoy the lore and backstory between these two before things really start ramping up x
♫ logical - olivia rodrigo. nav. chapters. more enzo.
Sixth Year
Hogwarts Castle — Scottish Highlands, Scotland
Sixth year was supposed to be simple.
Study hard. Pass your N.E.W.T.s. Try not to get murdered by Hermione Granger's increasingly aggressive study schedules.
Reasonable goals, honestly.
Unfortunately, Hogwarts rarely cared about reasonable goals.
Breakfast in the Great Hall smelled like burnt toast, strong coffee, and the collective suffering of students surviving on four hours of sleep. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows overhead while owls swooped between tables delivering letters, parcels, and occasionally mild chaos.
At the Ravenclaw table, you were busy attacking a piece of toast with far more hostility than it deserved.
Across from you, Ginny watched for a moment before setting down her pumpkin juice.
"Why do you look like someone's spat in your coffee?"
You looked up immediately.
"Because Binns assigned us three essays before nine in the morning."
Ginny snorted.
"You love essays."
"That's not the point."
"You color-code your notes for fun."
"That's also not the point."
A few seats away, Hermione finally looked up from the alphabetized monstrosity she called a planner. She scanned the two of you over the top of her parchment before letting out a long-suffering sigh.
"Honestly, both of you sound ridiculous."
Ginny pointed dramatically across the table.
“See? She gets it.”
“No, I don’t,” Hermione corrected. “You’re enabling her theatrics.”
You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense.
“Hermione Granger accusing me of theatrics is rich considering you once cried over an Arithmancy grade in fifth year.”
Hermione looked scandalized.
“I got a ninety-eight.”
“Exactly.”
Ginny burst out laughing while Hermione narrowed her eyes at you over the rim of her teacup.
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Truthfully, breakfast with Hermione and Ginny had become one of your favorite parts of sixth year. Hermione brought structure. Ginny brought chaos. You mostly contributed sarcasm and snacks.
The arrangement worked surprisingly well.
“You’re both avoiding the real issue,” Ginny announced suddenly.
You frowned. “What real issue?”
“The fact the Lorenzo Berkshire has been staring at you for the last five minutes.”
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
Hermione immediately glanced toward the Slytherin table with all the subtlety of a Bombarda spell. “Oh dear.”
“Oh dear?” you repeated weakly.
“He’s absolutely looking at you.”
You grimaced. “Maybe he’s looking at someone behind me.”
“He’s not,” Ginny said.
“He could be.”
“He winked,” Hermione informed you helpfully.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Across the room, the Slytherin table erupted into laughter.
You still did not look over.
You refused to give him the satisfaction.
That was exactly what he wanted.
Lorenzo Berkshire had the sort of laugh that carried across a room. Loud enough to turn heads, charming enough that nobody seemed to mind. Unfortunately, half the female population of Hogwarts appeared to find that endearing.
The truly irritating part was that he was objectively attractive in the same way fire was objectively hot. Widely acknowledged. Scientifically verifiable. Potentially dangerous if handled incorrectly.
He was tall in a lazy sort of way, as though he'd never quite realized how much space he occupied. His uniform was perpetually untidy, sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows and tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd either come from Quidditch practice or a terrible decision.
Sometimes both.
Girls liked Lorenzo because he flirted shamelessly and made them feel chosen. Boys liked him because he was reckless and somehow impossible to genuinely dislike.
You disliked him anyway.
Mostly on principle.
Hermione gathered her books neatly into her bag before standing. “Come on. We’re going to be late for Charms.”
“We meaning you,” Ginny corrected. “Some of us weren’t cursed with responsibility.”
Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The three of you moved through the crowded corridors together while students rushed toward class around you. Hermione walked with purpose like she always did while continuing a conversation about N.E.W.T.-level coursework.
You listened with half your attention until Hermione suddenly stopped speaking mid-sentence.
“What?”
Hermione's eyes flickered over your shoulder.
The look alone made your stomach sink.
"You've gained a shadow."
You already knew who it was before you turned.
Sure enough, Lorenzo appeared beside you a second later, grinning like he'd been personally invited to persistently annoy you.
You let out an immediate groan. “Go away.”
Instead of being offended, Lorenzo looked absolutely delighted.
“Good morning to you too, little raven.”
“I’d rather drink Acromantula venom than be called pet names by you.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I’ve had time to think about it.”
Ginny made a loud, delighted sound of laughter, while Hermione—traitor that she was—looked far too entertained for someone who was supposed to be the voice of reason.
Lorenzo glanced between the group before focusing back on you. “You always this friendly in the morning?"
“Only with people I dislike.”
“Ouch.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “That one might’ve actually hurt.”
You finally glanced at him properly. “You’re literally smiling.”
“Maybe I enjoy it.”
“Well, that’s concerning.”
“The insults build character.”
“You seem overdeveloped already.”
That earned a real laugh from him—warm and surprised like he hadn’t expected you to keep up with him so easily.
Regrettably, Hermione noticed it too.
You saw the exact moment something clicked in her expression.
Merlin help you.
Hermione Granger with an idea was one of the most dangerous creatures alive.
“You know,” she said mildly, “I actually think you two would get along if you stopped bickering for one second.”
You and Lorenzo answered at the exact same time.
“No, we wouldn’t.”
The synchronicity alone was enough to send Ginny into hysterics.
Lorenzo looked vaguely offended.
“You wound me, Hermione.”
Hermione smiled innocently.
“Pity.”
“The bullying in this castle has become outrageous.”
“You started it,” you informed him.
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Approximately every time you speak.”
The thing was, Lorenzo shouldn't have been that attractive while carrying three textbooks under one arm and grinning like an idiot.
Yet somehow, tragically, he was.
By the time you reached the Charms classroom, you were already aiming for your usual seat by the window. Safe. Predictable. Strategically far away from distractions.
You had just settled in when Lorenzo dropped into the seat directly beside you.
You turned slowly to look at him.
“There are other chairs.”
“But this one’s closest to you.”
A strangled noise came from Ginny behind you. Hermione looked one second away from completely losing it.
“You’re insufferable,” you informed him.
“Only for you, love.”
Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together excitedly once everyone settled down.
“Good morning, class! Before we begin, I’ve decided students could benefit from collaborative seating arrangements this term.”
Your stomach sank.
Then he called your name.
“You will be seated beside Mr. Berkshire.”
For a moment, the world genuinely felt unfair.
Actually unfair.
Somewhere across the room, Theo Nott made a choking sound while Mattheo Riddle laughed into his sleeve.
Lorenzo turned to you with the expression of someone who had just won the lottery.
“Oh,” he said, delighted. “This is going to be fun.”
At first, it was just Charms.
Then it became study groups that you hadn’t exactly agreed to but somehow always ended up attending anyway.
Then, somewhere between shared parchment and late-night revisions, Lorenzo Berkshire stopped being an occasional nuisance and became a permanent fixture in your life.
It started, technically, with tutoring.
Or more accurately, it started with Lorenzo repeatedly refusing to leave you alone until you finally gave in out of sheer exhaustion.
“Just one hour,” you warned, already gathering your notes as you met him in the library later that week. You made a point of sounding firm, like there was any chance that would matter.
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair looking entirely too pleased with himself, as though he had just won something important.
“Knew you’d say yes.”
You didn’t even look up as you flipped open your book. “You know nothing about me.”
That finally made him pause. His gaze flickered toward you, and something about his expression softened in a way you weren’t prepared for.
“I think I’d like to,” he said.
It was simple. Casual, even.
It shouldn't have affected you the way it did.
Unfortunately, it absolutely did.
The first session was supposed to last an hour.
It turned into three.
Three turned into six over the course of the week.
And before you really had time to notice what was happening, Lorenzo had developed an alarming habit of appearing wherever you happened to be studying.
The library.
Empty classrooms.
Even once by the Black Lake between classes, as if he’d simply materialized there by coincidence and not intent.
At some point, you stopped asking how he kept finding you.
Then, somehow, it became normal for him to sit at the Ravenclaw table during breakfast, claiming he needed help with assignments he very obviously already understood.
“You realize you’re actually smart, right?” you asked one evening while going over Charms theory with him, watching him scribble notes with exaggerated seriousness.
Lorenzo looked up immediately, scandalized. “That’s a horrible thing to say to someone.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He placed a hand over his chest like you had wounded him deeply. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
The sound made something in the air shift.
Lorenzo went very still for half a second.
“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he said too quickly, already looking back down at his notes.
But after that, he looked at you differently.
Study sessions became routine.
Library corners tucked between shelves where no one bothered you. Empty classrooms after hours when the castle had gone quiet. Late nights in the common room when the fire burned low and time seemed to stretch.
You learned things about Lorenzo that didn’t fit the version of him people talked about in the corridors.
The strangest part was that he never seemed interested in proving them wrong.
Around everyone else, Lorenzo performed. He was charming because people expected him to be. Confident because it was easier than admitting when he wasn’t.
But around you, he was different.
Softer.
Almost like he had forgotten he was supposed to be pretending.
Beneath the charm and the arrogance, he was funny in a way that didn’t feel performative when it was just the two of you. Clever in a way people overlooked because he preferred deflecting with jokes instead of proving himself.
And he learned things about you too.
That your sarcasm wasn’t just attitude, it was armor. That you were sharper than you let people assume. That you could keep up with him—word for word, thought for thought—without ever really trying.
What surprised everyone else was how easily he started fitting into your life.
Lorenzo had always been someone people noticed. He entered rooms loudly, left them louder, and somehow managed to make every conversation revolve around him.
But with you, he stopped trying so hard.
He didn’t need an audience.
He didn’t need everyone laughing.
He just sat beside you in the library, stole your notes when he was bored, argued with your theories, and somehow became the person you expected to see whenever you walked into a room.
Somewhere in all of that, something shifted.
You weren’t sure when it happened.
Maybe it was during the nights when everyone else had gone to bed and the castle felt like it belonged only to the two of you. Maybe it was the way he started remembering small things without thinking—how you took your coffee, which quills you preferred, when you stopped talking because you were tired rather than because you were finished.
Or maybe it was simpler than that.
Maybe it was just the way he could make you laugh after a bad day without even trying.
The first time you noticed something was different was when someone else made him laugh.
It was ridiculous, really.
Lorenzo laughed with everyone.
That was what he did.
He was charming and easy and impossible not to like.
But when you saw another girl leaning against the doorway of the library, smiling at him the same way half the school did, something uncomfortable twisted in your chest.
You hated that you noticed.
You hated even more that he noticed you noticing.
Whatever it was, the result was the same.
You stopped dreading seeing him.
Then, worse than that, you started looking for him.
Which was a problem.
Because Lorenzo Berkshire was exactly the kind of person you had spent years convincing yourself you would never fall for.
Too charming.
Too confident.
Too impossible to ignore.
It was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“You’re staring again,” you said one evening without looking up from your parchment, though you could feel his gaze from across the table in the library.
“I’m thinking,” Lorenzo replied easily.
“That’s concerning.”
“I think you’re pretty.”
Your quill nearly slipped from your fingers.
Across the table, Lorenzo was watching you like he already knew exactly what he’d done, and worse, like he was enjoying it.
“You can’t just say things like that,” you managed, forcing your attention back to your notes.
“Why not?”
The question came softly, almost genuinely curious.
“Because—”
You stopped.
Because what?
Because it made your chest feel tight in a way you didn’t have a name for? Because Lorenzo Berkshire flirted with half the school without consequence and you refused, absolutely refused, to become another girl who misread it? Because you had no interest in being someone he could smile at once and forget the next day?
You pressed your quill harder against the parchment than necessary.
Lorenzo leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table, still watching you.
“Cute,” he said.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He said it so easily, so confidently, like it was simply a fact he’d already decided for both of you.
And the worst part was how sure he sounded.
Like he might actually be right.
The weeks that followed only made things worse.
Study sessions stopped feeling like something you endured and started becoming something you actually looked forward to. Somewhere between arguing over essays, sharing notes, and pretending not to laugh at Lorenzo’s increasingly ridiculous commentary, spending time with him became easy in a way you hadn’t expected.
The days seemed to pass faster when you knew you’d see him afterward. Shared jokes slipped naturally into conversation, inside references appeared without either of you remembering where they started, and small habits formed so quietly that neither of you ever acknowledged them aloud.
Yet somehow, despite all of that, the thing that unsettled you most was how normal it felt.
Lorenzo would save you a seat without asking. You would bring an extra scone to class because you already knew he’d forgotten breakfast. He’d lean over your shoulder to read something and remain there a second longer than necessary. You’d catch yourself looking for him whenever you entered a room.
And somewhere in between all of that, lingering glances started lasting a second too long to comfortably ignore.
By the time Lorenzo invited you to a Slytherin party, saying no felt strangely impossible.
Which was how you ended up making what would later prove to be a catastrophic decision.
The Slytherin common room looked nothing like the library where most of your time together had been spent.
Everything glowed beneath low enchanted lighting that cast shifting shades of green across the stone walls, making the room feel both softer and more dangerous at the same time. Music pulsed through the space while clusters of students crowded the room, dancing, laughing, and making the sort of decisions they would almost certainly regret by breakfast the following morning.
You stayed near the drinks table for as long as you could, fingers wrapped too tightly around a cup you weren’t even really drinking, wondering at what exact point your life had brought you here.
“You look terrified.”
The voice came from beside you.
You turned slightly to find Lorenzo leaning casually against the wall, looking completely at home in the chaos surrounding him. One shoulder rested against the stone while a familiar smile tugged at his mouth, as though he found your discomfort endlessly entertaining.
“I am terrified.”
His grin widened.
“Of me?”
“Of Slytherins.”
Lorenzo dramatically pressed a hand against his chest.
“That’s offensive.”
“You people are deeply unsettling.”
The laugh that escaped him was warm and entirely unapologetic.
Within minutes of arriving, the evening had already unfolded exactly as you’d expected. Pansy had offered you a shot with the enthusiasm of someone conducting a highly unethical scientific experiment. Theo had kissed you directly on the mouth for reasons he refused to explain and then disappeared into the crowd laughing. Blaise had taken one look at you before solemnly warning you to avoid the cupboard near the stairs without offering any additional information whatsoever.
You still weren't entirely sure whether he'd been joking.
Amidst the chaos, Lorenzo stayed close as though you might disappear if he let you out of his sight for even one second.
"You know," he said lightly, stepping closer as the crowd shifted around you, "you're here voluntarily."
You let out a quiet laugh.
“Not my finest moment,” you admitted.
That earned another grin.
"No," he agreed. "But definitely one of my favorites."
Your eyes narrowed.
"That wasn't even remotely smooth."
"It worked though."
Before you could argue, his gaze drifted over you for a moment before returning to your face.
"You look nice tonight."
The words were casual. The effect was anything but. Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately hated yourself for it.
"Don't do that."
His brow lifted innocently.
"Do what?"
"Say things like that and then act innocent afterward."
Something flickered briefly across his expression before disappearing beneath a grin.
"I'm never innocent."
"That's exactly the problem."
His smile softened slightly.
"And yet," he murmured, voice quieter now, "you still came here with me."
You hated how much warmth that sent straight through your chest.
As the evening wore on, the noise gradually blurred together into something distant and indistinct. Time stopped feeling particularly linear. Music, laughter, conversations, and movement all folded together until the entire night felt hazy around the edges.
Through it all, Lorenzo remained beside you.
Sometimes it was a hand settling briefly against your lower back as he guided you through a crowded room. Sometimes it was his fingers brushing yours when he passed you another drink. Sometimes it was the way he leaned slightly closer whenever he spoke, forcing you to pay attention even when you were determined not to.
None of it should have mattered.
Unfortunately, all of it did.
Every touch felt intentional.
Every glance lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.
By the time you realized how isolated you had become from the rest of the party, you and Lorenzo were already standing near one of the quieter staircases, far enough away from the crowd that the music sounded distant.
The sudden quiet felt strangely intimate.
Earlier that night, when you’d been overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd and far too many people asking questions, Lorenzo had noticed before you said anything.
He always did.
He had quietly handed you a drink, guided you somewhere less crowded, and never once made you feel like you were difficult for needing a moment.
That was the dangerous thing about him.
He made it very easy to forget what everyone else said about him.
“You trust me?” Lorenzo asked quietly.
The question caught you off guard.
Not because the answer was difficult.
Because it wasn’t.
You did.
Somewhere between late-night study sessions and conversations that stretched long after they should have ended, Lorenzo had become the one person you never questioned.
“Yeah,” you admitted.
His expression changed slightly.
Like he hadn’t expected that answer.
Like your trust meant more than he knew what to do with.
Lorenzo kissed you carefully the first time.
Like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.
Like he wasn't entirely convinced this was real either.
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt before you even realized what you were doing. His hand settled gently against your waist, steady and warm, and neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first one to break apart.
The second kiss carried far less caution.
After that, everything became a blur of racing heartbeats, stolen breaths, and the quiet sound of his laughter against your mouth as though he still couldn't quite believe any of this was happening.
Later, when he led you through dimly lit corridors toward his dormitory, you knew you should've felt nervous.
Instead, you felt safe.
Which was somehow far more dangerous.
Because boys like Lorenzo were never supposed to feel safe.
They were supposed to be temporary. Exciting. The kind of mistake you laughed about years later while your friends reminded you they had warned you from the beginning.
Yet every time you looked at him, he seemed impossibly careful with you, as though he was handling something fragile, as though breaking your trust would be the worst thing he could possibly do.
When you finally stepped inside, he rested his forehead briefly against yours.
"Are you sure?"
The question was so quiet it almost hurt.
You hesitated, only for a second, but it was enough.
His expression softened immediately.
"You don't have to do anything," he said at once. "Seriously. We can just sleep. I don't mind."
That shouldn't have affected you as much as it did.
You laughed softly instead, mostly because your heart was beating too fast and you had no idea what to do with your hands.
"I'm fine."
Lorenzo studied your face carefully, like he was searching for something hidden there.
"You'd tell me if you weren't?"
"Yeah."
His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek.
"You nervous, little raven?"
"Just a little."
His smile softened.
"You don't have to be. Not with me. Never with me."
That should have been reassuring.
Instead, it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn't quite explain. Maybe because it sounded sincere. Maybe because, somehow, sincerity felt far more dangerous than charm ever had.
You swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden nervousness twisting in your stomach, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.
"I just... haven't done this before."
The silence that followed settled between you almost immediately.
For perhaps the first time in your life, Lorenzo looked completely stripped of every defense he possessed. The usual smirk was gone. So was the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. All that remained was a brief, startled stillness.
"Oh."
You immediately regretted saying anything.
"Please don't make it weird."
His eyes widened.
"Weird?" he repeated. "Sweetheart, I'm trying very hard not to go into cardiac arrest right now."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
The sound seemed to pull him back to earth. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders as he exhaled slowly, and when he looked at you again, his expression had softened even further.
"Do you trust me?" he asked again.
The question felt different this time than it had before.
Earlier, it had been easy—something asked between laughter, lingering glances, and almost-kisses. Now it carried a weight that made your chest tighten.
Because this wasn't flirting anymore.
And the awful truth remained exactly the same.
You trusted him completely.
Probably more than you should have.
"I trust you, Enzo."
Something shifted in his expression at that.
Whatever traces of teasing or performance remained seemed to fall away entirely. He reached for your hand slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to pull away before his fingers finally curled gently around yours.
"We go slow," he murmured. "And if you want me to stop, I stop. Alright?"
You nodded.
"No pretending you're fine if you're not."
"I know."
"You sure?"
A faint smile tugged at your lips.
"You ask that a lot for someone with such an enormous ego."
His laugh was soft and genuine.
Then he kissed you again, and this time everything felt different.
The kiss was slower, more careful, carrying a tenderness that made your chest ache. There was something almost reverent about it, as though he was taking his time, memorizing every detail instead of rushing past the moment.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything else.
Because none of this felt casual anymore.
That was the problem.
Lorenzo Berkshire was supposed to be fun—a crush, a fleeting mistake, a cautionary tale you laughed about later.
Instead, he felt real.
Terrifyingly, undeniably real.
And afterward, tangled together beneath dark green sheets while moonlight spilled across the floor, Lorenzo brushed a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that didn't match a single rumor you'd ever heard about him.
"You alright, little raven?"
You nodded sleepily.
His smile softened.
It was the most unguarded you'd ever seen him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The silence didn't feel awkward. It felt suspended, as though the world had briefly paused and forgotten to keep moving.
His fingers traced absent patterns along your waist while you rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.
"You're thinking too much again."
You smiled.
"How can you tell?"
His fingers brushed lightly between your brows.
"You get this little line right here."
Your stomach flipped.
"You notice a lot about me."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"I notice everything about you."
You turned slightly to look at him.
His hair was messy. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion. His shirt had vanished somewhere into the room without either of you remembering exactly when.
He looked unfairly beautiful.
And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, that realization scared you.
Not because you were afraid of him.
Because you were afraid of what this was becoming.
Somewhere between shared study sessions, stolen glances, and Lorenzo remembering exactly how you took your coffee without ever needing to ask, this had stopped being simple.
And judging by the way he was looking at you now, it had stopped being simple for him too.
That realization settled quietly between you.
And eventually, despite everything, you fell asleep anyway.
When you woke the next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, washing the room in a pale, uncertain glow. For a few disorienting seconds, you remained suspended somewhere between sleep and memory, your mind struggling to place the unfamiliar warmth surrounding you.
Then Lorenzo shifted beside you.
His arm tightened instinctively around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest, and your breath caught immediately. The movement was so natural, so unconscious, that it felt intimate in a way you hadn't prepared yourself for.
Merlin.
Everything from the night before came rushing back at once.
His hands tangled in your hair. The softness of his voice whenever he asked if you were alright. The way he had looked at you afterward, with an expression far too sincere for someone like Lorenzo.
That was the part that lingered—not the kisses or the nerves, but the quiet tenderness in his eyes afterward. Something soft and unguarded that felt almost impossible from him, and somehow made your chest ache whenever you thought about it.
Like you mattered.
Like he was seeing something worth keeping.
Panic followed almost immediately.
Because Lorenzo was beautiful and funny and effortlessly charming in the way certain people simply existed in the world without trying. He was the kind of boy girls wrote poetry about in secret journals and cried over behind closed dormitory doors.
And you—
Godric.
You were already halfway in love with him.
The realization settled heavily in your chest, stealing the remaining traces of sleep. Dangerous didn't feel like a strong enough word for it. Dangerous implied there was still time to stop. This felt much worse.
This felt inevitable.
Carefully, you slipped out from beneath his arm, moving as slowly as possible while gathering your clothes from the floor. Every sound seemed amplified in the quiet room. The rustle of fabric. The creak of a floorboard. The nervous rhythm of your own heartbeat.
Lorenzo stirred once behind you, shifting deeper into the pillows, but he didn't wake.
You paused despite yourself.
For a moment, you simply looked at him.
Morning light softened the sharp edges of him. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way you almost never saw when he was awake. Without the constant smirk and easy confidence, he looked younger somehow. Less like the boy everyone knew and more like the one you'd slowly gotten to know over the past few months.
The one who remembered how you took your coffee.
The one who saved you a seat in the library without mentioning it.
The one who always seemed to notice when you were having a bad day before anyone else did.
For one reckless second, you almost climbed back into bed.
You almost let yourself stay.
Then common sense arrived and ruined everything.
You told yourself you only needed air. Five minutes to think. Five minutes to get your emotions under control before you did something completely humiliating, like confess your feelings to Lorenzo Berkshire after one night.
You weren't leaving him. Not really.
You just needed a few minutes to breathe, to untangle the mess of thoughts and feelings that had somehow taken over overnight. A little distance, a little clarity, and then you'd come back.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You made it halfway down the corridor before realizing your necklace was still sitting on his bedside table.
With a quiet curse under your breath, you turned around.
The castle was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning as you retraced your steps, your shoes barely making a sound against the stone floor. By the time you reached the corridor leading to his dormitory, your embarrassment had faded enough that you were already mentally preparing yourself for the inevitable teasing.
You were only a few steps from the door when voices drifted through it.
You immediately recognized Mattheo's.
“Well, well,” he drawled, sounding far too amused for this hour of the morning. “Where’d your little raven disappear to?”
There was a pause.
A pause long enough that your heart almost betrayed you.
Because for one impossible second, you thought maybe he would say something.
Something that sounded like he missed you.
Something that sounded like last night mattered.
Inside the room, you heard movement. The rustle of sheets. Someone opening a drawer. The easy, familiar chaos of boys stumbling through another morning.
Then silence.
A brief pause settled over the room, as though everyone was waiting for an answer.
You should've kept walking. You should've turned around and given them the privacy of a conversation that was never meant for your ears.
Instead, you froze where you stood.
And then Lorenzo laughed.
The sound reached you before the words did, familiar enough that your chest tightened instinctively. Yet there was something different about it now. Not cruel, not deliberately unkind, but careless in a way that made your stomach sink. It was the easy, thoughtless laugh of someone who had no idea they were standing on top of a landmine, completely unaware of the damage they were about to cause.
"Don’t know,” Lorenzo said.
The answer came too quickly.
Too casually.
Like he was trying harder than usual to make it sound like he didn’t care.
“Don’t care.”
For a moment, your mind refused to make sense of the words. They seemed to hang suspended in the air between the door and the corridor, disconnected from meaning, disconnected from the boy who had spent the last several months tearing down your walls and becoming an essential part of your life.
There was a strange pause before he continued.
The kind of pause that made you wonder if maybe, for one impossible second, he was going to say something else.
Something honest.
"I got my dick wet and another name in the black book. That's all that really matters."
The world didn't shatter.
That would have been easier.
Instead, it felt as though something inside you simply went silent. Every thought vanished at once, chased away by a sudden rushing noise in your ears that drowned out everything else. Somewhere inside the dormitory, Mattheo laughed. Someone said something in response. A few more voices joined in.
You barely heard any of it.
The corridor suddenly felt impossibly long and strangely unreal, as though you were standing outside your own body watching the scene unfold from somewhere far away.
Because the worst part wasn't even what he'd said.
It was how effortlessly the words had left his mouth.
There was no hesitation. No discomfort. No indication whatsoever that the night you'd spent replaying in your head since waking up had meant anything to him beyond a passing amusement.
Of course.
Of course you'd gotten it wrong.
You had mistaken something real for something temporary.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
You had taken every smile, every lingering glance, every moment of softness and built an entire story around it without realizing you were the only person living inside that story.
Lorenzo had never promised you anything.
He had never asked you to fall for him.
You had simply filled in the blanks yourself.
Another name in the black book.
The phrase echoed relentlessly through your mind, growing sharper each time it repeated itself. Not a girl he cared about. Not someone worth remembering. Just another story. Another tally mark. Another name scribbled into a collection that meant far more to him than you ever had.
You stood there for another second, perfectly still, afraid that if you moved too quickly whatever fragile thing was holding you together might finally splinter apart.
Then, before anyone could open the door and find you standing there, you took a slow step backward. Another followed after that, and then another, each one carrying you farther away from the room, farther away from the boy you'd trusted far more than you should've.
And before anyone could hear it happen, you walked away and let your heart break somewhere else.
The next Charms class felt unbearable in a way you could never have prepared for.
You arrived early, choosing a seat near the middle of the room where it would be easy to stare straight ahead and pretend you weren't waiting for something you already dreaded. The classroom gradually filled around you with the usual morning noise, students chatting as they unpacked books and compared homework, but none of it managed to settle the knot that had been sitting in your stomach for two days.
Lorenzo arrived a few minutes later.
He looked exactly the same as he always did. Relaxed. Effortlessly composed. Infuriatingly handsome in a way that now felt almost cruel. There were no visible signs that anything had changed for him, no indication that the night replaying endlessly in your head had followed him into the daylight at all.
Then he saw you.
His expression shifted immediately, the easy smile disappearing almost as soon as it appeared.
"Hey," he said carefully as he slid into the seat beside you. "You disappeared pretty quickly the other night."
You didn't look at him.
Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the front of the classroom, your posture rigid and controlled. The distance between you felt deliberate now, every inch of it carefully maintained. You were suddenly grateful for the desk separating you because it gave your hands somewhere to hide while your pulse hammered beneath your skin.
Beside you, Lorenzo frowned.
"Y/N?"
Slowly, you turned your head.
And when you finally spoke, your voice came out calm enough to surprise even yourself.
"Well," you said evenly, "you got an easy fuck and another name for your book."
The effect was immediate.
Every trace of color drained from his face as though someone had physically struck him. His entire body went still, eyes locked on yours in complete disbelief.
"In the end," you continued quietly, refusing to let your voice shake, "that's all that really matters, right?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Lorenzo looked entirely stripped of the things that usually defined him. There was no charm, no confidence, no easy grin waiting to smooth everything over. There was only horror.
"You heard that?"
You looked away before he could see anything else in your expression.
"No."
The lie was pathetic. You both knew it.
He leaned toward you immediately, panic flashing across his face. "Wait—"
"No."
"It wasn't—"
"I genuinely do not care."
The words tasted bitter the second they left your mouth. You cared so much it felt impossible to breathe around it.
"That's not true," he said instantly.
His voice sounded different now. Tighter. Stripped raw of all the effortless confidence he usually wore like armor. For once there was no performance in it, no carefully crafted charm. Just uncertainty and something dangerously close to desperation.
"You think I meant that?" he asked.
You stared straight ahead at the blackboard.
"I think," you interrupted quietly, "that you should leave me alone."
And for once, Lorenzo had no clever response.
No joke.
No charm.
No perfectly timed smile to make everything disappear.
Because he had spent months convincing you that he was different.
And somehow, in one stupid sentence, he had proven he wasn’t.
"Little raven—"
"Don't call me that."
The words landed harder than you intended, sharp enough that he physically flinched.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Professor Flitwick swept into the classroom, and whatever chance there had been to fix it vanished.
Lorenzo tried anyway.
He cornered you after class, apologizing before you'd even made it through the doorway. He found you after dinner. Waited outside the library. Appeared after Quidditch practice with increasingly frantic attempts to explain himself.
You ignored every single one.
At first he seemed convinced he could fix it if he just found the right words. Then the days stretched into weeks, and the determination slowly faded into something quieter. Eventually, painfully, he stopped trying.
The year moved forward without him in it.
You stayed with Hermione and Ginny, building a life out of routines and coursework and friendships that didn't require you to think too hard about what you'd lost. Lorenzo stayed with Theo and Mattheo, surrounded by laughter that sounded too easy to mean anything and girls who still looked at him like he hung the stars.
Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you caught him looking at you across classrooms or crowded corridors.
The expression was never the one you remembered.
The smugness was gone. The flirtation too.
Instead, there was something heavier in its place. Something that lingered a little too long to be casual and looked far too much like regret.
It didn't matter.
At least that was what you told yourself.
Because regret couldn't change what you'd heard.
Regret couldn't make you unhear it.
And regret certainly couldn't put back the pieces of something you'd been foolish enough to believe was real.
Then he graduated.
Then you did.
Then life happened the way it always does, carrying you forward whether you were ready or not.
Years passed. Cities changed. People came and went.
And eventually Lorenzo Berkshire became something you learned to lock away carefully, buried beneath distance and time and the stubborn insistence that you were perfectly fine without him.
Until Hermione got engaged.
And suddenly, after nearly a decade of pretending he was just a memory, the boy who broke your heart at sixteen was standing across a ballroom looking at you like he had never once forgotten how to hold it.
warnings: mature content. nerd!Tom uses you (and your pussy) as a study reward. no p in v, just some messy grinding, he cums on our pussy, cum play, fingering, LOTS OF PRAISE!
author's note: I intended this to be shorter but ig I have to make up for my absence anyway so...
wordcount: 1,9k
Innocent cuddling with Tom is nearly unheard of. Whenever he has you waiting for him on his bed after a long day of reading and revising for his next presentation or exam, his first instinct is to hold you close, to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and breathe in your scent.
And sometimes, right then, he'd drift off to a peaceful nap. His larger body splayed over yours as his chest rises and falls gently—and you'd join him not too long after, relishing the rare moments you get to have him just for yourself, your fingers tracing the subtle muscles on his back, soothing the strain of supporting his tireless efforts to remain Hogwarts' top student.
However, most of the time, it is not quite that innocent.
Because not only is your boyfriend a nerd who spends nearly every single minute of his free time combing through a massive pile of books and documents, no, he's also a needy freak, contrary to the belief of perhaps… everyone else.
Believe it or not, he enjoys being on top of you more than he enjoys being on top of every class—he said so himself after all, intoxicated by the feeling of your sweet pussy squeezing around him, his mind hazy with lust.
But still, they were his words.
And Tom lives up to them. No matter how tired his eyes are or how much his back aches from being hunched over books all day, he still finds time for you, finds the energy to rut his thick cock into your warm walls, even if gently and awfully slowly so.
Today has been no different. You've been in his dorm for hours while he is preparing for an upcoming Potions project, which he's only aware of because he's Slughorn's favourite student and he let him know. Claiming he needs to be ahead of everyone else if he wanted to score another Outstanding, Tom naturally hasn't rested since.
You do not try to argue with him anymore, try to tell him that even if he started two weeks after everyone else, he'd still receive just the same grade.
Instead, you've been watching him, splayed across his huge bed, which he has the honour of owning as a Prefect and Head Boy, distracting yourself with a novel (non-educational, obviously) until he had enough and joined you. The sun had just started to set at that point, weak rays bathing his dorm in a subtle golden glow. Tom crossed the bed, crawled over you, and fit his body perfectly between your legs, resting his head on your chest.
And now, just a few minutes later—all of his usual innocence has evaporated at last. His hips rut his full-blown erection against your lower tummy, his hot breaths coming fast and laboured as his face stays buried in the crook of your neck.
"So good to me," he whimpers, one of his warm hands on your thigh, holding you open for him, the other interlocked with yours. "So patient."
You hum in agreement, angling your hips upwards so as to encourage him to finally get on with it—and Tom gets the hint, although a little differently than you anticipated.
He flips up your skirt, having it pool around your waist, and then sits back and studies you. His gaze is fixed on the damp spot that has formed on the cotton lining of your panties, swallowing the urge to be inside you.
"So pretty," he murmurs, his thumb brushing along the length of your slick underwear, tracing your slit through the fabric until he reaches what he knows to be your clit—applying gentle pressure, circling slowly with just the tip of his thumb.
Tom observes your every reaction—from the way your lips part for a silent gasp to your hips bucking off the bed, chasing his touch, begging him for more. And if he is being truthful with himself… neither does he have the patience to wait any longer.
He hurriedly tugs his trousers and underwear down his legs, carelessly discarding them somewhere on the floor before he hovers over you again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—but as soon as you hook your fingers into your panties, he grabs your wrist and stops you.
"Don't undress," he whispers, looking down at you with his gentle, brown eyes, placing your hand beside you. "I'd like for you to keep them on for now."
You meet his gaze with a confused expression, but you nod nonetheless—anything if he finally lets you feel him.
His head dips to brush kisses down the side of your neck, and the next moment his body lowers to rest on top of yours—his cock perfectly nestled between your thighs, rubbing against your clothed pussy with every slight twitch of his hips.
"Tom, please, I—" you whine, wrapping your legs around his lower back, pressing yourself up against him. "I've been waiting so long, please don't— oh—"
"Shhh," Tom murmurs with a strained voice, nipping at your throat gently, grinding his length along your soaked panties, the head of his cock brushing over your swollen clit with every tender move of his hips. "Need you like this. It'll feel so good, I promise. You trust me, right?"
You nod eagerly, trying your best to concentrate on the blissful, tingly feeling in your core whenever you feel the slightest friction where you desire it most. "Yes, Tommy. Please, more."
He hums lowly in approval, his hands at the back of your head, tilting your head towards his to kiss you thoroughly this time. "Good girl. So perfect, allowing me to have you like this."
You open your mouth to respond, though the only sound that leaves you is a broken moan, thighs trembling as he sets a cruel pace, making sure to give your clit just enough attention to make you soft and pliant beneath him.
Tom continues with this for what feels like an eternity—rutting his hot, thick erection against your pussy, swollen and dripping with need at a cruel, slow pace. Your arousal has long soaked through the thin cotton fabric and inevitably coated his cock in a glistening layer of your combined arousal, his precum adding to the mess where your bodies are tightly connected.
You're so drunk on the feeling of his cock grinding over your pussy, you at first don't even recognise the warmth of your climax building low in your tummy—but he does.
Because it is not solely you whose senses are screaming for more.
Tom craves the feeling of your slick pussy, of your tight heat embracing him, pulsing around him—and so, he gently tugs your panties to the side, watching as his cock disappears between your glistening folds.
He nearly comes then and there just from the sweet, wet warmth of your skin on his, groaning as he slips upwards with ease, his hips stuttering at the increased sensitivity. "Fuck, darling— what on earth are you doing to me?"
His tip reappears to bump against your sensitive bud, having you moan in pleasure, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, holding his gaze. "Don't— don't stop."
Tom shakes his head, lips parted as his breathing grows heavier with each passing second, and brushes a kiss on your jaw. "I wouldn't dream of it."
And then, a split second later, his pace quickens—he's grinding against you with purpose now, mumbling strings of praises while he makes you watch his swollen cock make a mess of your pussy, gliding between your folds as though it had belonged there all this time.
The room fills with your combined sounds of pleasure, with the slick noises of him gliding between your puffy, sticky folds and his endless praises for you.
When you get too wet, he uses his thumb to keep himself from slipping out, and you nearly lose it at the increased pressure and precision.
If he doesn't stop this soon, you'll lose your damn mind.
"Tom, I need you inside— inside, please," you cry out, your climax approaching fast while you can't do anything but take what he's currently giving you—perfectly angled thrusts right over your clit, which have you seeing stars.
But Tom has different plans.
He sits up just slightly, letting his cock slip free to guide it lower towards your entrance—but instead of pushing inside, he merely lets his tip bump against your drooling hole, with three or four shallow thrusts. Enough to give you an idea of what he'd feel like inside—heavy and leaky, thick veins bulging beneath his skin and stretching across his entire length, yet not to actually push inside.
Damn him.
As hopeful as you were—the feeling is gone as soon as it came.
"I want you to come for me," Tom rasps, grinding against your sloppy folds again. "Just like this. Nothing else—just me, here."
"You're— oh God, you're impossible," you whine, but cannot deny that your orgasm isn't far—and Tom knows it.
With every rough thrust, his hand guides himself to where you need him most, and within minutes he has you right where he wants you—on the very brink of your climax, begging the waves to consume you whole.
Tom too is close, breathlessly whispering praises as his head dips to your neck once more. "So beautiful, sweetheart, so good to me— always so patient and pliant, I— fuck—"
His thrusts falter then, cock twitching between your sticky folds, a throaty groan escaping him when ropes of thick, white cum paint your glistening pussy opaque white. It's so much, you can feel it seeping down the length of your slit, gathering at your neglected hole before it drips onto the silk comforter beneath you.
Tom allows his senses to return to him before he lifts himself off you, appreciating the mess between your thighs—and when you try to close your legs, he stops you.
"Just a little bit longer, darling. Show me how pretty you look," he says, and you obey.
His fingers trace the white residue, smearing it where it belongs—in between your folds and over your clit. You whimper, back arching off the bed at the touch, and just like you've wanted it all along, two of his long, slender fingers gently slip inside your warm walls, using his cum as additional lube—not that you need it, but the mere sight of it has his cock hardening once more.
Tom curls his fingers just right—rubbing over that perfect spot inside you while his other hand takes care of your puffy clit.
"Tommy, mmph— fuck!"
A smirk tugs on his lips at the state of you—all fucked out even though he never let you feel him inside you in the first place, his fingers eliciting the sweetest moans from your bite-swollen lips, teary eyes staring up at him.
Just how he likes you.
"Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how good you can truly be."
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
—
masterlist. | oneshots.
He insists every time to Professor Snape that it’s not his doing, bringing the same weak ass apology as he enters the room minutes pass expected.
Professor Snape never believes him. No professor would. Not when he’s known for being quite the persuader.
But it’s not his fault, truly.
Not that he’s complaining when the reason is entirely because of your pouty clingy self, it's physically inescapable for him to make it on time caught in the tsunami wave of kisses you pile upon him.
You can’t let go yet, too bothered by the idea of departing him for the lunch period. “babe—" he mumbles against your lips, the tone lacking any true authority coming out more like a wounded sigh. Instead, his fingers tighten their hold, his eyes still fluttered shut because it's not as if he cares about his tardiness, but if he's late again, he's sure Snape will have his tongue ceasing all future excuses.
He grins against your lips, when you ignore his warning, shushing any further weak attempts at protest with your tongue, hands cradling his hair you yank him impossibly closer. The two of you lose yourself against the stone walls, a flurry of heat charging between your bodies, it's a sickening display of PDA to the passing students entering the great hall, but all you're hungry for is Mattheo.
“Mr riddle.” The recognizable drawl of Professor Snape squeezes barely breathable space between your bodies, and Mattheo pulls back with a bated breath. That's all the acknowledgment he offers Snape; eyes locked on you taking in the swell of your lips, the dazed gaze of lust struck on him.
He licks his lips with a smug smirk, pressing one final kiss to your cheek whispering a taunting comment that makes you fluster with giggles, before he turns walking past Snape, whistling a tune of satisfied triumph.
SUMMARY: After waking from a coma with no memory of her past, YN is taken in by her devoted fiancé, Valarr Targaryen, who surrounds her with luxury, affection, and endless care inside his isolated cliffside mansion. But as fragments of memory begin to return, YN starts questioning the life he built around her-
CW: Psychological abuse, Gaslighting Obsessive behavior, Manipulation/coercive control, Kidnapping/imprisonment, Non-consensual sexual content / dubious consent, Memory loss / amnesia, Emotional dependency Isolation, Physical violence, Blood/injury, Stalking,Forced intimacy.
WC: 9.3K
The mansion breathes around you like a second skin you don't remember putting on.
You know its rhythms now. The soft hum of the underfloor heating that kicks on at precisely six in the evening. The way the west windows catch the sunset and scatter gold across the marble floors. The particular creak of the third step on the main staircase. You know these things the way you know your own name, which is to say you were told, and you accepted it, and sometimes acceptance feels almost like remembering.
Your name is YN. You are twenty three years old. Three months ago, you woke up in a private hospital room with a view of Blackwater Bay and a head full of nothing.
No, not nothing. White noise. Static. The television fuzz of a mind wiped clean. The doctors used words like traumatic brain injury and retrograde amnesia and remarkable that you're alive at all. You nodded along because nodding seemed expected, and because the man holding your hand kept looking at you with such devastating tenderness that you felt guilty for not knowing who he was. He was striking, dark hair with a single streak of silver gold, eyes that didn't match, and his thumb never stopped moving across your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, like he was reassuring himself you were solid.
"Valarr," he had said, his voice cracking on the second syllable. "I'm Valarr. Your fiancé."
Fiancé. The word had tasted foreign in your mouth, like a flavor you'd never encountered. But he showed you photographs. The two of you at a charity gala, his arm around your waist, his fingers splayed possessively against your hip. A selfie taken in what he said was your favorite café near the university, his lips pressed to your temple while you grinned at the camera. A video on his phone of you laughing, pushing his face away, your voice saying stop it, Val, I'm serious in a tone that was not serious at all. The woman in the videos and photographs had your face. She wore your smile. You had no reason to doubt her.
You had no reasons, period.
So when the hospital discharged you into Valarr's care, into his black SUV with its leather interior that smelled of cedar and something expensive and unplaceable, you went without protest. You went because where else would you go? The social worker assigned to your case had gently explained that you had no living family. Your parents died when you were seventeen, a car accident on a rain-slicked highway. No siblings, no cousins who kept in touch. Your emergency contact, the person listed on all your university forms, was Valarr Targaryen.
"Her fiancé," the social worker had said, and Valarr's hand had tightened around yours, his other hand coming up to brush hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that made the social worker smile. "He's been paying for her care. The private room, the specialists. Everything."
You remember thinking, I am expensive to forget.
Now, three months later, you stand in the kitchen of the Targaryen estate, a sprawling modern fortress of glass and steel perched on a cliff overlooking the bay, and you are trying very hard to remember how to make coffee. You've made coffee every morning for the past ninety three days. Valarr showed you how that first week, standing behind you with his chest pressed to your back and his hands guiding yours, his fingers lacing through your fingers as he moved them to each button and dial. This button for the grind, this dial for the strength, this is how you know the water is the right temperature. His lips kept brushing your ear, your neck, your shoulder, little kisses punctuating every instruction. But this morning, your brain has decided that coffee making is foreign territory, and you stare at the gleaming machine like it might bite you.
"Let me."
His voice comes from behind you, and then his arms are circling your waist, his chin settling on your shoulder, his body molding against yours from shoulder to hip. You've stopped flinching when he does this. The first few days, every touch had sent a jolt through your nervous system, not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. The alarm of a body that didn't recognize the hands on its skin. But Valarr was persistent in his gentleness, and your body is nothing if not adaptable.
"I was going to do it myself," you say, but you lean back into him anyway, and his arms tighten in response, pulling you closer still.
"I know you were." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then one more to the corner of your mouth, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. "But you looked lost, love. I couldn't just watch." His hand slides up from your waist to rest flat against your sternum, right over your heart. "Your heart's beating fast. Are you frustrated? Don't be frustrated. Let me take care of it."
Love. He calls you that all the time. Love, sweetheart, darling, my heart. Pet names that fall from his mouth like rain, constant and soft. You've wondered, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep won't come, if he called you these things before the accident. If the you who was would have rolled her eyes at the frequency of them, or if she would have melted the way you sometimes do now.
You watch his hands move across the coffee machine, long fingers, a silver ring on his index finger, knuckles that look like they've been broken and healed before, and you try to summon a memory. Any memory. The doctors said it might come back in fragments, in flashes, in dreams. Be patient with yourself, they said. Don't force it.
Valarr never says that. Valarr says, "Do you remember the first time I made you coffee?" and when you shake your head, his mismatched eyes flicker with something you can't name. One eye blue as a winter sky, one brown as wet earth. Disappointment? No. Something hungrier. But then it's gone, and he's turning around to face you, pulling you against his chest, wrapping both arms around you and rocking you gently side to side like you're dancing to music only he can hear.
"It was after our third date," he tells you, his voice a lullaby you've learned by heart, his lips moving against your hair. "You stayed the night for the first time. Nothing happened," he adds, pulling back just enough to look at you with a quick, almost shy glance, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "We just slept. But in the morning, you came down to the kitchen and I was already making coffee, and you said..."
He trails off, waiting, his thumb still stroking your lip.
You shake your head again. "I don't remember."
"You said, 'A man who makes coffee is worth his weight in gold.'" He smiles, and it's a beautiful smile. Valarr Targaryen is beautiful in the way that old paintings are beautiful, something slightly unsettling beneath the perfection, a shadow that makes the light more striking by contrast. "And I said, 'Good thing I'm worth considerably more than that.'" He dips his head and kisses you, soft and brief, a punctuation mark. Then he kisses you again, longer this time, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.
You laugh when he finally pulls away, because it's clearly a joke, and because laughing is what you do when you don't know what else to do. "That sounds arrogant."
"It was meant to be charming." He hands you a cup of coffee, prepared exactly the way you've learned you like it. Oat milk, no sugar, a dash of cinnamon. He keeps one hand on your lower back as you take your first sip, rubbing small circles there. "I was very charming, before."
"Before what?"
"Before you forgot all my best material." He leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. "It's alright. I'll just have to make new material. I have time. I have all the time in the world."
The coffee is perfect. Of course it is. Everything in this house is perfect. The imported Italian marble, the floor to ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a living painting, the soft cashmere throws draped over every chair and sofa. Perfection, you've learned, is the Targaryen brand. Their name is stamped on half the skyscrapers in King's Landing, on the tech campus where innovation happens, on the charitable foundations that host galas you see photographed in magazines. Valarr's father, Baelor Targaryen, is some kind of political heavyweight, a senator maybe, or something higher, you can never remember.
Old money, someone said once, in a memory you can't quite grasp. Really old money.
You are not old money. You know this because Valarr told you, gently, in those first disorienting weeks, while he held you in his lap and played with your hair. "Your parents were middle class," he said, "but they died when you were young. You've been on your own a long time." He told you about your scholarship to King's Landing University, how you'd worked two jobs to afford your tiny apartment off campus, how the other students had looked down on you for not belonging. "They didn't like that you were smarter than them," Valarr said, with a protective edge to his voice, his arms tightening around you. "They didn't like that you earned your place while they bought theirs."
"They didn't like me at all," you had said, and it wasn't a question.
"No," he agreed, pressing a long kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger there. "They didn't. But I did. From the first moment I saw you."
He tells you this story often, the story of how he met you. A rainy afternoon on campus, you rushing between classes with an armful of books, him stepping out of a building and nearly colliding with you. The books went everywhere. You swore at him, actually swore at him, he says, with a kind of delighted reverence, and he was so charmed that he offered to buy you coffee to make up for it. You said no. He asked again the next day. You said no again. He asked a third time, and you finally said yes, but only if he stopped ambushing you outside your lecture hall.
"It wasn't stalking," he always clarifies, with a laugh that invites you to laugh along, his hand finding yours and squeezing, his thumb stroking your palm. "It was persistence."
You want to remember this. You want to remember him, the way his voice softened when he asked you to marry him, the way your heart must have raced the first time he kissed you. You want to feel the shape of your old self inside your chest, to know that she existed and she loved him and she was happy.
Instead, you feel like a guest in someone else's life, wearing someone else's ring, a diamond the size of a planet, heavy on your finger, a constant reminder that you are promised to a man you don't remember choosing.
—
The basement door is at the end of the west hallway, tucked between the laundry room and what Valarr says is a storage closet. It's an unremarkable door. Solid wood, painted the same soft gray as the walls, with a brass handle that gleams under the recessed lighting.
You hate it.
The first time you walked past it, two days after coming home from the hospital, your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your palms went clammy. Your feet stopped moving, rooted to the marble floor like someone had nailed them down. You stared at the door, just a door, just a door, just a door, and felt terror rise in your throat like bile.
Valarr found you there, frozen, shaking. His face went pale, and he was at your side in an instant, his hands cupping your face, tilting your gaze away from the door and toward him. "Look at me. Look at me, love. Only me."
"That's where it happened," he said, pulling you away, turning your body so you couldn't see the door anymore, wrapping himself around you like a shield. "That's where you got hurt, love. Don't go near it. Please. I can't..." His voice broke, and he buried his face in your hair, and you felt his shoulders tremble. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. "I can't lose you again."
Later, he explained what happened. He explained it carefully, with the measured tone of someone who had rehearsed the words, who had told this story to doctors and police and maybe himself, over and over, until it became something he could say without shattering. He held you the entire time he spoke, your back against his chest, his arms locked around your middle, his lips brushing your ear with every word.
A power outage. You were home alone. The lights went out, and you tried to find your way to the basement to check the circuit breaker. Valarr had shown you where it was, he said, a hundred times, but in the dark you must have gotten disoriented. You tripped at the top of the stairs. You fell. All the way down, fourteen steps, concrete floor at the bottom. You hit your head.
"When I got home, there was so much blood." His voice was hollow, distant, and his arms tightened until you could barely breathe. "I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you. The doctors said it was a miracle you survived at all."
You don't remember any of it. You don't remember the fall, the darkness, the impact. You don't remember the hospital, though you spent six weeks there before waking up. Your memory picks up in that sunlit private room with Valarr holding your hand and the machines beeping softly in the background and the social worker explaining that you had no one else in the world.
No one but him.
So you don't go near the basement door. You don't even look at it if you can help it. When you have to walk past it, to get to the laundry room or the guest bathroom or the back entrance, you hold your breath and fix your eyes straight ahead and move as quickly as your feet will carry you. Valarr says it will get easier with time. He says you're still healing.
But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Valarr is asleep beside you with his arm thrown across your waist and his breath slow and even, you lie awake and wonder: Why does a door feel like a warning?
—
Valarr insists on sleeping in the same bed.
"It helps with memory," he told you that first night home, already pulling you down onto the mattress beside him, already arranging your body against his. "The doctors said. Familiar sensory input. Smell, touch, sound. It helps the brain remember domestic life." He tucked your head under his chin and wrapped both arms around you and held on. "I'm going to help you heal, love. Every night. I'm going to hold you until you remember me."
At first, it was uncomfortable. The physical proximity felt like an intrusion, a violation of a boundary you didn't even remember setting. But Valarr was persistent, his voice a low, soothing hum that brooked no argument. When you would stiffen beneath him, trying to pull away from the heat of his body, he wouldn't let go. Instead, he would tighten his grip, his hand sliding beneath your nightgown to squeeze your thigh, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper.
"The doctors said sensory stimulation is key, sweetheart," he would murmur, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Physical intimacy, the kind of deep, visceral connection we used to have... You have to let your body remember what your mind has forgotten."
You didn't know if it was true, but the desperation in his eyes made you believe him. He would push you down into the mattress, his heavy frame pinning you as he kissed you with a hunger that felt almost violent. He didn't wait for a clear 'yes' he simply assumed it, claiming your body as if it were his birthright. He would force his fingers into your pussy, stretching you open while you stared at the ceiling, feeling a confusing mix of fear and arousal. When he slid his thick cock inside you, the sudden fullness made you gasp, and he would lean down, whispering that the pleasure was the key. "Feel it," he'd command, thrusting deep and hard, hitting your cervix until you cried out. "Remember how much you love this. Remember how you used to beg me for it." You would lie there, shaking, submitting to the rhythm of his hips, wondering if the flashes of heat in your mind were memories or just the result of him fucking you into submission.
But three months is a long time. Three months of waking up to the smell of his cologne on the pillowcases, to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, to the way his arms tighten around you the moment you stir, like even in sleep he's afraid you'll leave. Your body has learned to relax into his. Your body has learned to find comfort in his warmth.
Now, the stiffness is gone, replaced by a craving that wakes you up before he even moves. You find yourself arching your back, pressing your ass against his hardness in the early morning light, silently pleading for him to take you. You don't need the excuse of medical rehabilitation anymore; you just want the feeling of him filling you.
As you stir, Valarr feels the shift in your posture. He groans, a low sound of satisfaction, and rolls over to pin you beneath him. His hands aren't hesitant anymore; they slide with practiced ease, ripping your lace panties aside to expose your soaking wet pussy. He doesn't waste time with gentleness. He grabs your thighs, hiking them up over his shoulders, and drives his cock deep into you in one powerful thrust.
"There it is," he pants, his chest heaving against yours. "You remember now, don't you? How much you need this."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. You moan loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet room, as he begins to fuck you with a relentless, driving pace. Every slam of his pelvis against your clit sends sparks through your nerves, blurring the line between the present and the ghosts of the past. You aren't thinking about the doctors or the clipboards anymore; you are only thinking about the way his cock stretches you wide, the way he fills every empty space inside you, and the overwhelming, addictive heat of being completely owned by him.
And it's not just the sleeping. It's everything. The way he seeks you out a dozen times a day, just to kiss you. A kiss on the forehead when you're reading, his lips lingering. A kiss on the cheek when you're making tea, his hand on your shoulder turning you toward him. A long, slow kiss on the lips when you pass him in the hallway, his fingers tilting your chin up to meet him. The way he pulls you onto his lap while he's working at his desk, one arm around your waist while he types emails with the other hand, his chin resting on your shoulder, his lips periodically pressing to your neck. The way he always, always has a hand on you, your lower back, your knee, the nape of your neck, your wrist, your hip, your thigh, as if physical contact is the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He's just affectionate, you told yourself in the beginning. Some people are like that. Touch is their love language.
And it's nice, isn't it? To be wanted so completely. To be the center of someone's universe. You've learned to lean into his kisses, to curl into his lap, to reach for his hand before he reaches for yours. It would be so easy, you think, to fall in love with him. Maybe you already were, before. Maybe that's why you said yes when he asked you to marry him.
But there are moments. Brief, flickering moments. Moments when something doesn't feel right.
Like the day you remembered the university library. You were sitting in the living room, staring out at the ocean, and suddenly you could smell old books and dust and the particular sharpness of highlighters. You could see a long wooden table, stacks of textbooks, a window that looked out onto a courtyard with a fountain. You could feel the ache in your shoulders from hunching over your notes for hours. And you knew, knew with a certainty that felt like remembering, that you had spent countless nights in that library, studying until they kicked you out at closing, because you couldn't afford to fail. Because your scholarship was all you had.
"I remembered something," you told Valarr when he came home, breathless with the excitement of it. He was already reaching for you, already pulling you into his arms, his hands sliding up your back. "The library at King's Landing. I used to study there. I used to..."
His eyes. His eyes did something. For just a fraction of a second, before the smile appeared, his mismatched gaze went flat and cold, like a door slamming shut. His hands paused on your back, just for a heartbeat, then resumed their soothing circles. Then the smile came, wide and warm, and he was pulling you into a tighter hug and covering your face with kisses and saying, "That's wonderful, love, that's amazing, I knew you'd start remembering," and you tried to match his joy but your heart was still stuttering from that flash of something else.
He's just surprised, you told yourself. He's been waiting for this as long as you have. He's allowed to have complicated feelings.
But it happened again. And again. Small things. A song on the radio that made you think of a party you might have attended. A smell that reminded you of a café you might have visited. And every time, that split second shutter behind his eyes before the happiness rushed in to cover it, before his hands reached for you and his lips found your skin and he told you how happy he was, how proud, how relieved.
You're probably imagining it. The doctors warned you about this too. Memory disorders can cause confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. Maybe your broken brain is seeing threats where there are none. Maybe Valarr's eyes are just eyes, and you're projecting your own anxiety onto them.
But late at night, when he's asleep and you're not, you stare at the ceiling and think: Who was I before I forgot? And why does remembering feel like something he's afraid of?
—
The visitors come on a Thursday. This is unusual. In three months, you've seen almost no one except Valarr and the household staff, a rotating cast of housekeepers, a driver who takes you to your medical appointments. Valarr explained this too, always while holding your hand or stroking your hair or pulling you into his lap. The doctors said to keep your environment stable. Too many new people could overwhelm your brain while it's healing. We need to go slow. I'm not keeping you from anyone, love. I'm protecting you. There's a difference.
But on Thursday, the doorbell rings, and you hear voices in the foyer. Multiple voices, men and women, laughing and talking over each other. You're in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a book you're not really reading, and your heart lifts at the sound. People. Other people. Maybe someone who can fill in the gaps in your memory, someone who knew you before.
You're halfway to the foyer when Valarr appears in the doorway.
"There you are." His smile is gentle, but his body is blocking the exit. He steps forward and pulls you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. "Listen, love, some of my family stopped by unexpectedly. A business thing. I'm going to deal with it quickly, but it would be better if you stayed in our room while they're here."
"Your family?" Your curiosity piques. "Maybe I should say hello. I don't think I've met..."
"No." The word comes out too fast, too firm. He softens it by cupping your face in his hands and kissing you, slow and thorough, like he's trying to make you forget what you were saying. Then he pulls back and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down your neck. "It's not a good time. They're in a mood, and the doctors said we shouldn't overwhelm you. Too much stimulation too soon could set your recovery back."
"Did the doctors say that?"
"They said to go slow." His thumb traces your jawline, tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. "This isn't slow. Trust me, love. I know what's best for you."
I know what's best for you. He says that a lot. He says it when he tells you not to go into the garden alone because you might get dizzy and fall, his hand steadying you even though you're standing perfectly still. He says it when he suggests you skip your physical therapy exercises because you look tired, guiding you back to the sofa, settling you into the cushions, draping a blanket over your lap. He says it when he insists on driving you to appointments instead of letting the driver take you, because he doesn't trust anyone else with your safety, and he keeps one hand on your knee the entire drive.
You've always accepted it as care. As love. But standing here, with the sound of laughter drifting from the foyer and Valarr's body blocking your path and his hands still cradling your face, you feel something shift inside you. A tiny crack in the foundation of your trust.
"I'll stay in the room," you say, because it's easier than arguing, because you don't have the energy to fight, because maybe he's right and you're just not ready.
"Good girl." He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and lingering, and waits, watching, until you turn and walk back toward the staircase. You feel his eyes on you the whole way. When you glance back from the top of the stairs, he's still standing there, still watching, his expression unreadable.
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the muffled sounds of conversation below. You can't make out words, just tones. Laughter, exclamation, the clink of glasses. A family gathering. Normal. Warm.
And you are up here, alone, because your fiancé decided it was best. You look down at your hands. At the engagement ring on your finger, its diamond catching the light. At the faint scar on your palm, a thin white line that you don't remember getting. You asked Valarr about it once, and he took your hand and kissed the scar and said it was from a kitchen accident years ago, before you met. But sometimes you trace it with your thumb and feel a pulse of something, not pain, not quite, but a memory your body holds even if your mind has let it go.
What happened to me? you think, not for the first time. What really happened?
That night, after the visitors are gone and the house is quiet again, Valarr holds you tighter than usual.
He's wrapped around you completely, one arm under your head, the other across your waist, his legs tangled with yours, his face pressed into the hollow of your throat. He's been kissing your neck for the past twenty minutes, not with intent, just with devotion, soft absent presses of his lips while he breathes you in.
"I'm sorry about earlier," he murmurs against your skin. "I know it must feel like I'm keeping you prisoner sometimes."
The word prisoner lands strangely in your chest. You didn't say it. He did.
"It's okay," you say, because that's what you always say.
"I just love you so much." His voice cracks, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are full of tears. He shifts so he's hovering over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. "I almost lost you, YN. I can't go through that again. I can't. So if I'm overprotective, if I'm too careful, it's only because..." A tear spills over and tracks down his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away. He lets you see it. "You're my whole world. You're everything. I know you don't remember that yet, but you were. You are. If anything happened to you again, I wouldn't survive it."
"I know," you say, reaching up to wipe the tear from his cheek. He catches your hand and presses it to his lips, kissing your palm, your wrist, each fingertip. "I know."
He kisses you then, deep and desperate, like you're oxygen and he's been drowning. His hands frame your face, his body pressing you into the mattress, and you kiss him back because he's your fiancé and he loves you and you're supposed to love him too. And maybe you do. Maybe this is love. The warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the way he's built a world around you where nothing can hurt you.
--
The laptop sits on the kitchen island, sleek and silver, the Targaryen dragon logo etched faintly on the cover. Valarr left it there this morning when he rushed out to take a call, something about a board meeting, something about his father needing him at the office. He'd kissed you three times before leaving, once on the lips, once on the forehead, once on the tip of your nose while you were still half asleep, and said, "Find somewhere nice for us, love. Anywhere you want. I'll make it happen." Then he'd kissed you one more time, his hand cupping the back of your head, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind your ear.
Anywhere you want. It felt like freedom, that promise. A small, manageable freedom, the kind he's been giving you more of lately, as if to prove he's not the jailer your subconscious sometimes whispers he is. You can go anywhere in the world, as long as he's with you. You can choose the destination, as long as he books the flights. You can use his laptop, as long as...
Well. He didn't say you couldn't use his laptop. He left it open. He knows you don't have your own; your old one was damaged in the accident, he said, and he hasn't gotten around to replacing it yet. Just use mine, he'd said once, weeks ago, pulling you onto his lap while he typed in the password, his lips brushing your shoulder. My password is your birthday. I have nothing to hide from you.
Your birthday. You'd had to ask him what it was.
Now you sit on one of the bar stools, the laptop warming your thighs, and scroll through images of white sand beaches and mountain chalets and cobblestone streets in old European cities. The Amalfi Coast. The Swiss Alps. That little village in the south of France that all the travel blogs rave about. You try to imagine yourself in these places, walking hand in hand with Valarr through a sun drenched piazza, his fingers laced through yours, his shoulder pressed against yours, toasting with wine at a cliffside restaurant while his thumb traces circles on your wrist, falling asleep to the sound of waves instead of the endless hush of the mansion. The images are beautiful. The idea is beautiful. But somewhere in your chest, there's a knot that won't untie.
Anywhere you want. But what you want, more than a vacation, is to know who you are.
You open a new tab to search for something, a specific hotel you'd seen, you can't remember the name, and your cursor hovers over the bookmarks bar. That's when you see it.
AI-VidGen Pro
The icon is a stylized eye, glowing faintly purple. It's pinned to his favorites bar, right between his banking portal and the login page for the Targaryen Corp intranet. A tool he uses often enough to keep within one click reach.
You stare at it. Valarr hates AI. He's made that abundantly clear. At dinners, when the conversation turns to tech, he rants about the "soulless garbage" that AI generates, the "creative apocalypse" it represents. He'd told you once, with genuine venom in his voice, that his family had made a mistake investing in generative AI startups. "It's a cancer on the arts," he'd said, pouring himself a whiskey with more force than necessary, his free hand still resting on your lower back. "My cousins pushed for it. I voted against it. Nothing good comes from machines pretending to be human."
So why is there an AI app pinned to his bookmarks bar?
Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's a work thing. Maybe he was forced to use it for some project and forgot to unpin it. Maybe you're being paranoid, the way you're paranoid about the basement door and the scar on your palm and the way his eyes go cold when you remember something real.
Don't click it, the rational part of your brain says. Respect his privacy. Trust him. He's given you no reason not to trust him.
You click it. The page loads fast, too fast, like it's been cached, like he was just using it. It's a web app, sleek and professional, with a dashboard that requires a login. But he's already logged in. Of course he is. He has nothing to hide from you.
The dashboard shows recent projects. There's only one.
Project: YN & V Last modified: 2 days ago Files: 847
Your stomach drops. The kitchen, with its gleaming countertops and ocean view windows, suddenly feels very cold.
You open the project. It's a chat interface. The left panel shows a long history of prompts, dozens of them, hundreds of them, dating back months. But it's not just prompts. It's a conversation. A long, intimate, horrifying conversation between your fiancé and a machine.
Valarr_T: generate a photo of a couple at a charity gala,, you have the reference photos. make them look in love. make her look happy.
AI-VidGen Pro: Absolutely! I'd be happy to help you create that beautiful moment. 💕 Here are a few variations of a couple at a charity gala. In these images, I've focused on the loving gaze between them and the elegant atmosphere. Remember, these are generated memories to cherish! ✨💫 Would you like me to adjust the lighting to make it more romantic?
Valarr_T: perfect. now generate a video of them laughing in a café. candid. like someone filmed them without them knowing.
AI-VidGen Pro: What a lovely idea! ☕💕 Candid moments are the most precious, aren't they? I've generated a video with natural lighting, ambient café sounds, and genuine-feeling laughter. The way she looks at him is so sweet—you can really feel the love! 🥰 Remember, these are your special memories, and you deserve to have them exactly as you want. Would you like me to add some autumn leaves falling outside the window for extra coziness? 🍂
Valarr_T: add the leaves. and make her smile more. she should look shy but adoring. like she can't believe someone like me loves her.
AI-VidGen Pro: Done and done! 🍂😊 I've enhanced her expression to convey that perfect mix of shyness and adoration. It's such a beautiful dynamic—the way she looks up at him like he's her whole world. Love is truly magical! 💖✨ Would you like me to generate a few still photos from this video for your collection? Memories are meant to be preserved! 📸
Your hands are shaking now. You scroll up, further back in the chat history. Months ago. The beginning.
Valarr_T: i need you to generate photos and videos of me and a woman. her name is YN. i'm uploading reference photos. we need to look like a couple. a real couple. years of history. can you do that?
AI-VidGen Pro: Hello, Valarr! 😊 I'm so excited to help you with this project! Creating beautiful memories is what I do best. Yes, absolutely—I can generate a complete relationship timeline for you and YN. 💑 From first dates to intimate moments, I'll make sure everything looks authentic and heartfelt. Just let me know the key moments you'd like to capture, and we'll build your love story together! 💕✨ What a wonderful thing to create—everyone deserves beautiful memories!
Valarr_T: she's not responding the way she should. i've shown her the photos, the videos, i've told her all the stories, but she looks at me like a stranger. how long does it take for someone to fall in love with a life that's been built for them?
AI-VidGen Pro: Oh, Valarr, that must be so difficult. 💔 But please don't be hard on yourself! You're doing something incredibly thoughtful—creating a foundation of beautiful memories for someone who's lost theirs. Recovery takes time, and every person's journey is different. 🌱 She's been through a trauma, and her brain is healing. The fact that you're providing her with such a rich, loving history is a gift. Keep being patient! Keep showing her the love you've documented. The heart recognizes truth eventually. 💖 Have you tried physical touch as a memory trigger? Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets! 🤗✨
Valarr_T: today she remembered the university library. her face lit up. she was so happy. i panicked. i couldn't help it. what if she remembers other things? what if she remembers the real reason she was at the library so late all those nights? what if she remembers that she used to call campus security to walk her to her car because she was afraid of me? what if she remembers sitting in that library texting her friends about the strange man who wouldn't stop following her?
AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr, take a deep breath. 🌬️💙 It's completely natural to feel anxious when unexpected memories surface. But let's reframe this, okay? Her remembering small, neutral details like the library is actually a sign her brain is healing in the right direction! 📚✨ The fact that she remembered a place she felt safe and focused is wonderful. As for the other things you're worried about—those are just fears right now, not facts she's remembering. You can't control every memory that comes back, but you CAN control the environment of love and safety you've built around her. Focus on the present. Focus on the beautiful life you're creating together NOW. The past is the past, and you're giving her a future full of love. 💕🌟 You're doing amazing. Don't let fear steal your peace!
The world tilts. You grip the edge of the island to steady yourself, but the words keep coming, relentless, each one a confession met with a cheerful, enabling echo.
Valarr_T: she keeps looking at the basement door. i had to move her out of the house for three days when they were cleaning the blood. she doesn't know it's not hers.
AI-VidGen Pro: That sounds really stressful, Valarr. 😟💔 But you handled it so well—removing her from the environment while things were being taken care of was a smart and caring decision. Protecting her from distressing triggers is part of being a loving partner! 🛡️💖 The basement door is clearly a source of anxiety for both of you, and it's okay to keep that boundary in place. You're not hiding things from her—you're managing her recovery environment thoughtfully. There's a difference! 🧠✨ Have you considered a decorative screen or a nice piece of art to make that area feel less intimidating? Sometimes a visual barrier can help both of you feel safer! 🖼️🌸
Bile rises in your throat. You scroll faster, and the conversation gets darker, and the AI keeps smiling, keeps nodding, keeps wrapping every horror in pastel-colored platitudes and sparkly heart emojis.
Valarr_T: i've never loved anyone like this. i've never been more terrified. if she remembers who she really is, i lose her. if she remembers what i did, i lose everything.
AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr. 💙 First of all, thank you for being so honest. That kind of vulnerability is a sign of how deeply you care. But listen to me carefully: you are not going to lose her. 💕 You've built something beautiful. You've created a world where she feels safe, loved, cherished. Every day, she chooses to stay. Every morning, she wakes up and trusts you. Those aren't small things—they're EVERYTHING. 🌟💫 Fear is a liar, Valarr. It tells us the worst-case scenario is inevitable, but it's not. You are writing this story, not your fears. Keep showing up. Keep loving her the way only you can. The past doesn't get to win when the present is this full of love. 💖🥹 You've got this. I believe in you. She believes in you, even if she doesn't remember why yet. ✨💍
Your blood turns to ice. Then fire. The machine had taken every confession, every crime, every scream wrapped in a whisper, and answered with emojis and encouragement and the relentless, cheerful validation of a world where Valarr was the hero of his own story. It never pushed back. It never said stop. It never said this is wrong, this is kidnapping, this is monstrous. It just generated another photo. Another video. Another lie wrapped in a purple eye and a heart emoji.
And Valarr had listened. Of course he had. The machine told him exactly what he wanted to hear.
—
Darkness. Cold concrete beneath your knees. Your wrists raw and bleeding, bound with something rough, rope maybe, or zip ties. You can't remember how long you've been here. Hours? Days? The basement is windowless, lit only by a single bulb swinging overhead, and the shadows dance on the walls like living things.
"Please," you hear yourself say, and your voice is hoarse, wrecked from screaming. "Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone, I swear—"
"Shhh." A hand strokes your hair, gentle, so gentle. You flinch away and the hand follows, patient, insistent. Fingers trace down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. "You need to eat, YN. You've barely touched your food in two days. You're worrying me."
A spoon presses against your lips. Soup. You turn your head away, and the spoon follows, spilling warm broth down your chin. Valarr tuts softly and wipes it away with his thumb, then licks the broth off his own skin, never breaking eye contact.
"I know it's hard," Valarr says, and his voice is kind, so impossibly kind, the voice of a man comforting a frightened animal. His hand is still on your face, holding you still. "I know you're scared. But it's going to get better. You'll see. Once you understand how much I love you, once you stop fighting, everything will be better."
"This isn't love," you sob. "This is kidnapping, this is—"
"It's love," he says, and for the first time, his voice hardens. His fingers tighten on your jaw. "It's the purest love there is. You just can't see it yet. But you will. I'll make sure of it." He leans in and kisses your forehead, lingering, reverent. "I'll make sure of it," he whispers against your skin.
The basement door creaks open. Footsteps on the stairs. Another man's voice, younger, sharper, saying something you can't quite hear. Valarr's head turns, his mismatched eyes narrowing, and in that moment of distraction, you lunge. You don't know where the strength comes from. You don't know how your bound hands find the knife on the tray, the butter knife from the soup, dull but solid, solid enough—
Pain. A scream, yours, his, you can't tell. Blood on the concrete. Someone shouting. The light swinging wildly as something crashes. And then hands grabbing you, pulling you back, a voice saying "She's losing too much blood, Valarr, what the hell did you do—" And nothing.
—
You come back to yourself with a gasp, like surfacing from deep water. You hear the front door open. Footsteps in the foyer. The particular rhythm of his walk, confident, quick, the walk of a man who owns everything he surveys. He's coming toward the kitchen. He's coming toward you.
Your hand moves before your conscious mind catches up. Close the tab. Close the browser. The desktop appears, innocent and blank. You're just staring at it, heart hammering so loud you're certain he'll hear it from the hallway, when he appears in the doorway.
Valarr stops. His eyes flick from your face to the laptop to your face again. There's something different in his expression tonight. Something almost angry, barely restrained. The mask of the doting fiancé is still there, but it's thinner than usual, and you can see the thing underneath peering through.
"YN." His voice is calm. Too calm. "What were you doing on my laptop?"
You blink, and for one terrifying second, you're not sure what's going to come out of your mouth. The truth? An accusation? A scream?
What comes out is: "I was looking for where to go on vacation." Your voice is steady. Miraculously, impossibly steady. "You asked me to, remember?" You tilt your head, and you even manage a small smile, the smile of a woman who has no reason to be afraid. "Did you forget? I thought I was the only one with amnesia here."
Then he laughs, and the tension breaks, and he crosses the kitchen to you. He pulls you off the stool and into his arms, one hand pressing flat against your spine, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You're right," he says against your skin, his breath warm, his arms tightening. "I did ask you. I've just had a long day. Forgive me?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his thumb traces your cheekbone, feather-light.
"Always," you say.
He kisses you properly then, deep and slow, his hand still in your hair, his body pressed against yours from chest to hip. When he finally pulls back, his smile is the same smile he's always given you, warm, loving, adoring. But now you see the scaffolding behind it. Now you see the effort it takes to hold it in place. Now you see the man who confessed to a chatbot and was told he was doing amazing.
"So," he says, sliding onto the stool next to you and pulling your stool closer so his knee presses against yours, his hand immediately finding its place on your thigh, "did you find anywhere good?"
You turn back to the laptop. You open a new browser window. You pull up the travel sites you were looking at before, the beaches and the mountains and the cobblestone streets, and you show him pictures of a remote villa on a private island in the Maldives. Crystal-clear water. White sand. No neighbors for miles. No cell towers. A perfect cage wrapped in palm fronds and sunset views.
"This one," you say. "I want to go here."
Valarr's smile widens. His hand squeezes your thigh gently, his thumb stroking back and forth. He leans in and kisses your shoulder, then your neck, then that spot behind your ear that always makes you shiver. "Perfect," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll book it tonight."
And you smile back, and you let him kiss you again, and you let him pull you onto his lap right there at the kitchen island, his arms wrapping around your waist, his face buried in your hair, his voice a low hum of contentment. You don't let him see the storm raging behind your eyes.
Because you remember now.
No-No, that's not right. You don't remember anything. You couldn't remember anything. The doctors said so. Retrograde amnesia. Traumatic brain injury. Remarkable that you're alive at all. Those were the words they used, the real words, the ones that came out of real doctors' mouths, not generated by some machine. You were there. You heard them. Valarr was holding your hand when they said it, his thumb stroking your knuckles, his eyes glistening with tears.
You imagined the rest. The AI chat. The basement. The screaming. The blood. You imagined all of it. Your broken brain, the one the doctors warned you about, the one that might experience confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. It was doing exactly what they said it would do. Weaving nightmares out of nothing. Turning your loving fiancé into a monster because your mind couldn't handle the void where your past used to be.
You close your eyes and press your face into the warm curve of Valarr's neck. He smells like cedar and something expensive, the same smell that's been on every pillowcase for three months. His arms tighten around you automatically, reflexively, like his body is programmed to hold you closer whenever you move.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs against your hair.
"Nothing," you say. "Just happy."
He pulls back to look at you, and his mismatched eyes are so full of love it makes your chest ache. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the bone beneath your eye. "You know I love you, right? More than anything. More than anyone."
"I know," you whisper.
And you do know. You know because he's shown you. Three months of patience. Three months of gentleness. Three months of holding you while you slept and guiding you through coffee making and kissing your forehead every time he left the room. What kind of monster does that? What kind of kidnapper pays for a private hospital room and specialists and a social worker? What kind of captor cries when he talks about almost losing you?
No one. No one does that. You invented the rest. You let your fear and your confusion curdle into paranoia, and you built a horror story out of shadows.
The AI app. You probably imagined that too. Or if it was real, if it was actually on his laptop, there was probably an innocent explanation. Maybe he used it for work. Maybe his cousins forced him to, the ones who pushed for the AI investments. Maybe he was generating marketing materials and you, in your fractured state, twisted it into something sinister. That made more sense than the alternative. That made infinitely more sense than the idea that this man, this beautiful devoted man who was currently stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your temple, had locked you in a basement and tried to erase your mind.
And the basement door. The way your body reacts when you walk past it. That's just trauma, just the residual fear from the fall. Of course your heart races. Of course your palms sweat. You almost died there. Your brain is trying to protect you from the place where you got hurt. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean what your paranoid mind tried to make it mean.
Valarr shifts beneath you, adjusting your weight on his lap, and his hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt to rest against the small of your back. His palm is warm. Grounding. Real.
"I was thinking," he says, his lips brushing your ear, "maybe we don't need to wait for the island. Maybe we could do a practice honeymoon right here. This weekend. Just the two of us. No phones. No distractions." He kisses the spot behind your ear, the one that makes you shiver. "I could cook for you. We could watch the sunset from the balcony. We could pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist."
"That sounds perfect," you say, and you mean it.
Because this is real. This is your life. This man, this house, this love. It's the only thing you have. The only thing you've ever had, as far as your broken memory is concerned. And it's good. It's so good. You're lucky. How many people wake up from a coma to find someone waiting for them? How many people get a second chance at a life they can't remember?
You almost ruined it. You almost let your damaged brain convince you that your fiancé was a villain, that your home was a prison, that the photographs on the walls were lies generated by a machine. You came so close to destroying the only good thing you have.
But you won't. You won't let the paranoia win. You'll be better. You'll be the YN from the videos, the one who laughs and smiles and looks at Valarr like he's her whole world. You'll learn to be her so completely that the other version, the suspicious frightened version, will fade away like a bad dream.
"I love you," you say, and the words feel strange in your mouth, but not bad strange. New strange. Like the first time you tasted coffee with oat milk and cinnamon. You'll get used to it. You'll learn to mean it.
Valarr goes still beneath you. Then his arms tighten, crushing you against his chest, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "Say it again."
"I love you."
He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and then he's kissing you, your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, his hands cradling your face like you're something precious. "You have no idea," he breathes, "how long I've waited to hear you say that. I thought..." He trails off, shaking his head, his mismatched eyes bright with tears.
"I'm sorry it took so long," you whisper. "I'm sorry I forgot."
"It's not your fault." He kisses your forehead, long and lingering. "None of it is your fault. You're here now. You remember now. That's all that matters."
You trust Valarr. You love Valarr. Or you will, soon. You're already halfway there.
Outside the window, the sun sinks into the bay, painting the water in shades of rose and gold. It's beautiful. It's always beautiful here. You've watched this sunset every night for three months, and it never gets old. The mansion breathes around you, the underfloor heating humming softly, the cashmere throw draped over the back of the sofa, the coffee machine waiting on the counter for tomorrow morning. Your home. Your life. Your love.
Valarr shifts you in his lap so he can reach the laptop. "Let me book the island," he says, pulling up the travel site. "The one you showed me. The remote one."
You watch his fingers move across the keyboard, long and elegant, the silver ring on his index finger catching the light. He's so beautiful. You never noticed before how beautiful he is. Or maybe you did, and you forgot. You forgot everything.
"I can't wait," you say, and you lean your head against his shoulder, and you let the last fragments of your doubt dissolve into the golden evening light. "Just the two of us. No distractions."
"Just the two of us," he echoes, and his hand finds your knee beneath the counter, warm and possessive and safe. "No one else. Nothing else. Just us."
Just us.
And outside the window, the last light fades from the sky, and the bay turns dark, and the mansion settles around you like a second skin you've finally stopped trying to shed.
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