#danny sharp x reader

[charliehoennam]

danny, the devil

A/N: dedicated to @juniebugg. thank you so much for all the support and the wonderful ideas. keep them coming! *wink wink*

Pairing: Dark!Danny Sharp x f!reader

Warnings: language, degradation, dub-con/non-con, cumplay, unprotected sex, choking, oral, drugging (this is pure filth. minors, do not read and do not interact!)

Word count: 3,459

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

As you opened your eyes, you struggled to adjust to the hazy vision. The sleep weighted heavy in your eyes as you tried to understand where you were. There was too much to process at once. One minute, you were having a glass of wine with Danny in his kitchen after your shift. And the next, you wake to a burning warmth was building up from inside.

“His room?” you thought to yourself.

Your skin felt the breeze all over. It took a while to process. You realized you were fully naked on his bed. A panic began to flood your chest. You wanted to crawl away and hide, but as you moved around a bit to get yourself, you realized your wrists were tied behind your back, began to numb as you laid on them.

“I knew that would wake you up” Danny chuckled with a dark mischievous grin.

Hearing his voice, you looked down between your legs and found his piercing blue orbs from between your legs.

“Just in time too. Party’s getting started and I like to play with my food. Means you gotta be awake!”

He laughed darkly and slapped your puffy folds, enjoying the way your flesh jiggled. It sent a shock of pain through you, fully waking up all your sense.

“I waited a long time for this. Wouldn’t have drugged you if you hadn’t fucking cockblocked all my moves.”

A tinge of anger, you detected. Having deflected all his cheesy pick-up lines throughout the years you worked for him as his personal assistant really did a number to his ego.

“That’s ok, though. I got you all to myself now” he smiled darkly as he slid his middle finger between your folds, using his index and ring fingers to soothe the delicate skin. “And I’m gonna have some fun with you.”

His low tone of voice concerned you. You were already in shock and could no longer fight back the tears. You knew fighting back would be useless. He was 3 times your size. What chance did you think you had?

“Aw, honey. It’s okay. You’d better get used to crying” he feigned, pouting at your tears.

Your body shook as his hand struck your cunt again and again.

He laughed and hissed watching your breasts bounced, standing on his knees between your legs.

“Look at your tits” he growled, gathering them in his large hands and painfully squeezing and kneading. “So fucking beautiful for me.”

He excruciatingly latched onto your nipples, biting and sucking on them as if his life depended on it. It hurt and made you sob as you realized how helpless you were. You tried your best to stay silent as he continued with his agonizing attention to your tits until he moved to hover over you with his knees on either side of your hips. As he mounted you, his balls dangled and grazed over your stomach. He was already naked and hard. How long had he been eating you out?

“That’s right, baby. Cry for me” he ordered sternly as his hand balled into a fist with your hair to force you to look at him. The other hand struck you again. His dark eyes locked onto yours as he repeatedly slapped your breasts hard enough to leave them red. Then he focused on your face, slapping your cheeks over and over.

You felt humiliated and mortified, but you could feel your body’s betrayal as the slick began coating your pussy lips.

“Cry for me, baby. I wanna hear you crying” he demanded. “Look at that pretty little mouth. Fuck, I gotta get my cock in it.”

With a groan, he balled his fist into your hair to drag you off the bed. You could barely move your legs as he forced you down to your knees. The pain burned on your scalp, but you couldn’t resist him.

He ordered you to open your mouth and at first, you hesitated. Another slap across your cheek was convincing enough.

“You like that, don’t you? You’re a little filthy fucking slut, baby. Just the way I like ‘em” he stated holding your chin to keep your teary gaze on him. “You gonna open that mouth for me or do you want it harder?”

You responded by opening your mouth, much to his delight. He loved the newfound power he had over you. Gathering his saliva, he spit into your mouth. Before you could even blink, he was shoving his cock into the back of your throat. You gagged around him, but he didn’t lighten up.

“Don’t you dare fucking throw up. You take it all like the whore you are.”

His stern words were enough to make you obey. You feared what he would do to you. You didn’t want to let him down, so you did your best to take him as he started to thrust his cock. You didn’t know exactly what he did for a living, but you knew that he had some sketchy ass friends. And whatever he did, he got paid really well to own such a modern and luxurious home.

“Breathe through your nose” you reminded yourself as you gurgled.

You looked up and found it easier if you kept your eyes on him. He moaned as he fucked your mouth ruthlessly, making you drool down your chin. Tears were streaming from your eyes, staining your cheeks with mascara and eyeliner.

“God, baby. Really know how to suck a cock, don’tcha? Look so fucking pretty with my dick in your mouth” he moaned forcing it down your throat.

You shook your head, trying to escape for air but he refused.

“Take it. Take it.” He repeated watching you with a stern look.

Squeezing his grip on your hair, he suddenly pulled himself out of your mouth just as your vision had begun to darken. You gasped for air, closing your eyes in relief as you tried to regain your fleeting conscious. He chuckled noticing how dizzy you were from the lack of oxygen.

“You fucking love this. All cockdrunk on me already?” he laughed slapping his hard member against your face as you struggled to keep your eyes open and mumbled incoherently. “What’s that? You want more? Yeah, you can have more.”

He lifted himself a bit to force your mouth on his balls.

“Suck on them” he demanded.

You did as you instructed. Sucking them allowed you time to finally fucking breathe, so you gave it your all hoping he’d enjoy more than the blowjob. You took them in, one at a time and sucked on them like your life depended on it. As far as you knew, that might’ve been just the case.

He growled as he pulled your head back only to shove his cock down your throat again. He fucked your mouth until he could feel himself getting closer and closer to cumming. You hoped he would, thinking it might end everything. But when he pushed you off, letting you fall against the side of the bed, you knew you were in for a long night.

“That was fucking close. Shouldn’t be surprised that whore mouth you got on ya.”

Pulling your hair to get you up enough, he threw you on the bed. He pulled your hip and forced you onto your back again. Your thighs burned as he shoved them back against your chest, pulling you widely apart.

Pushing his face into your cunt, he devoured you like a man starved for weeks. He hungrily lapped his tongue over and over your folds, smirking proudly to himself.

“I see I’m not the only one enjoying myself here” he mumbled.

Fuck.

You yelped as his hand slapped your cunt again, far more sensitive than before. That’s how he wanted you. He buried his face again to ravage your pussy. Poking the tip of his nose against your sensitive numb, he quickly flicked his tongue repeatedly into your hole to savor all your juices. The swaying of his head pushed his nose deeper and glided over your clit as he deeply inhaled your scent. His tongue didn’t cease at all, delving its way into you. Hooking his arms around your hips, he lifted them up off the mattress in his rage of hunger.

You couldn’t deny the pleasure he was stirring in you. You didn’t want to feel it, but your body had betrayed you.

As he set you back down, he shoved two fingers in your wet cunt and buried them to the hilt. He wasted no time to pump them into you. The squelching wet sounds from your pussy made your cheeks burn red, but made his cock twitch with anxiety to fuck you. You could hear it echoing in the room, bouncing off the wall as you wormed and wriggled under him.

The pressure in your core built even more when he added another two more fingers, brutally fucking you as he stretched your cunt on his large hand.

"Goddamn, baby. You're fucking soaked" he teased through gritted teeth.

Tears streamed down your temples as you clenched your teeth, doing your best to take him. You weren't sure if it was due to the pain of his fingers stretching your swelling cunt or the white-hot pleasure that he had succeeded in infecting you with. The pressure in your depths snapped repeatedly, especially after his thumb found its way to your clit. He worked you until you came over and over again.

"Fuck. I gotta get my cock in you" he hissed ripping his fingers out of you with a soft wet slop.

You tried to take advantage of the pause to catch your breath and close your legs to let them rest a bit. You closed your eyes and rolled onto your side tiredly. Your hips were burning from being pried and probed. But your break didn't last for too long.

Danny pushed you back open to splay you all out for him again. He aligned himself and glided the head of his dick up and down through your folds.

"Pretty little pussy you got here" he groaned. "So fucking wet for me too. Don't even need lube with ya.  Like a fucking invitation."

You winced at the burn of your hips, but he didn't seem to care. He was too busy watching his cock slowly penetrate past your folds. You wish he had been going slowly out of consideration, but you knew he was only fascinated by your puffy swollen lips engulfing his every inch.

The stretch around his cock was just as painful as his fingers. You couldn’t relax as your muscles tensed, only encouraging him further with the tight squeeze of your pussy on his dick. He moved slowly in and out to watch your labias hug his member almost as if hypnotized. You were nothing more than a toy in his disposal.

He smirked to himself, wanting to have his cock as deep as he possibly could in you. That was when he had the bright idea to pull himself out of you and used his fingers to pry your pussy open into a gaping hole. He slowly let his spit dribble down into your womb, smirking as he watched your muscles contract at the pain.

"Gonna have me in ya for days, baby."

He was quickly to get his dick back into you but this time, he wasn't as gentle as the first. He shoved his cock into your cunt and began his thrusting. It was rough and rocked the whole bed.  He leaned down to prop himself up with a hand beside your head.

Raising the hand that he had probed you with beforehand, he forces his fingers into your mouth and ordered you to suck them.

You gagged on them and hadn't been able to comprehend his command. He slapped you across the cheek and squeezed your cheeks, making you look up at him as his hips relentlessly pounded against yours. The room was filled with the sticky slaps of his steady rhythm.

"You fucking stupid, baby? Did you not hear me? I said to suck."

You nodded quickly as you did your best to stay focused. You wrapped your lips around his fingers and sucked them as he wanted. All you think about was how sore you were already, but he felt so good. You knew he wasn't supposed to and that you were supposed to hate every second. But his cock had you seeing stars by this point.

You realized your breathing had become restricted as you held your breath. You hadn't noticed his hand slipping out of your mouth and gripping it's wet fingers around your throat. You stared at the ceiling hoping you'd pass out so you wouldn't have to live through this internal conflict any longer. You never should've trusted Danny.

He let go just before you could pass out and you gasped for air. His hand was quickly replaced by his mouth. As he mauled your neck, his beard scraped against the sweaty hot skin. He groaned as he bit you, making marks all over your neck and shoulders. He didn't just want to fuck you. He wanted to claim you.

As he felt himself growing close to his climax, he stopped suddenly to prolong his edging. He didn't want the fun to end just yet. You fell to your side like a rag doll with hardly any energy left in you.

He pulled his cock back out and pushed you hard onto your front. You laid there helpless and spent as he climbed off the bed. You took advantage of the moment to wipe away the stinging mascara and the messy drool as you withered in his bed, so defenseless. No doubt you looked like a mess. There was a rustling through a drawer and then, buzzing. He moved back to the bed and tugged your ankle forcefully towards him as he climbed back onto the bed.

You were too tired to look at him. You tried to avoid it because you knew he was just too fucking hot and you might end up enjoying the night. Lying on your front, you were just relieved to your hands and arms could have a little more circulation.

You felt him tuck something between your legs and immediately you knew what it was. A vibrating wand. Your hips arched instantly into the toy.

You begged Danny to stop. You couldn't take any more orgasms. You pleaded through tears and promised you wouldn't tell anyone.

"Honey, you think I wanna hide our lovemaking? I want the world to know about it. I want everyone to know who you belong to. I'm not gonna stop. I'm just getting started."

He sat on the backs of your thighs to hold your legs and the toy in place. You could feel building up again. The sweet intoxicating pleasure that corrupted your body. You thought you were gonna go blind.

Danny smiled as he slowly let his palms caress your ass cheeks. He squeezed the flesh and slid his thumb down your crack to tease your hole there.

"Pretty pussy. Pretty tits. Only makes sense to have such a pretty tight ass."

His hands continued to knead your flesh until he lifted one of them to slap you hard. As you withered in a mixture of pain and pleasure, he chuckled to himself and relished in the jiggling of your ass. The stinging pain combined with the vibrations from the wand stuck between your thighs only drove you wild. You didn’t want to enjoy it, but your body seemed to welcome it. You could feel the pressure winding up to snap with every smack.

“You like this, dirty girl. You like getting punished” he grinned darkly as he noticed you grinding your pussy against the toy.

“I wanna hear how much you like it.”

You stayed silent and shook your head, trying to resist your undeniable lechery blooming from your core. The vibrations against your sensitive clit were pushing you over the edge, threatening to throw you into that sweet blinding bliss again. How could you resist it? How could you resist him? It didn’t help that he was shaped like a god, muscles threaded from gold and molded by the Gods themselves.

Your legs tried to part as you spasmed and shook from the orgasms. Danny could feel your muscles flexing underneath him when you tried to lift your hips for relief. He smirked to himself and chuckled grimly as he soothingly palmed your red-hot cheeks. Despite his delicate caresses, he tensed his body to add more weight to the back of your legs.

“No, no, no. You gotta take it, like a good little slut.”

By the time he had finally gotten up to remove the toy, your pussy was drenched in your own juices. You could feel the bedsheet soaked underneath you. You pretty sure you’d squirted from the overwhelming orgasms Danny had forced onto you.

Forcing your hips up into the air with rough hand, you fell onto your face as you were unable to prop yourself up while Danny positioned you; his own personal fuck doll. He shoved his cock into your drenched cunt with such an ease that made you embarrassed.

“Jesus fucking Christ. So fucking wet, I bet I could fit my whole fist in there” he groaned. He probably would’ve tried if hadn’t felt so euphoric with his cock in your pussy.

You were certain you’d be bruised inside and out by the brutal grip on your hip and the ruthless thrusts into your walls. The closer he felt himself to his orgasm, the rougher he got. Tears spilled from your eyes as you struggled to breathe, panting from his merciless rhythm. You buried your mascara-stained face into the mattress. His balls pounded against your overly tender nub, slick adhering the sticky sore folds of your cunt to his balls.

“I’m gonna cum so fucking hard in your filthy whore cunt” he panted with a growl.

With a sudden strong tug on your hair, he forced your head up to stand you up on your knees. He climbed onto the bed on his knees as well and pushed you up the bed. Every part of you ached enough to lock you in a trance. It became worse when he slammed your head against the headboard.

Thrusting his cock back into your aching pussy, his greedy hands reached around you to violently grope your breasts. Your neck burned with his beard scratching your skin as he mauled you hungrily. He sucked and bit outrageously as he chased his long-awaited high.

“S-so fucking good” he moaned. “Fuck, baby. Can’t get enough” he panted through gritted teeth.

One hand pulled your hair and contorted you into an excruciating position, fiercely latching his lips onto yours in a violent kiss. You winced and yelped, crying softly as you kissed him back. The warmth of your kiss, the hot slick of your pussy, the fullness of your breast squeezed tight in his hand. That was all he needed to burst.

“G-God, fuck!” he growled.

He coated your walls with his pearly white seed, filling your sore cunt with its deliciously sweet heat. His hips slowed as he pushed his cum deeper and deeper.

“Attagirl. Take it all.” He breathed nibbling on your shoulder.

It was finally over.

He pulled himself out and let you collapse lifelessly on the bed. Relief washed over you, although you couldn’t deny that hollowness you felt in your pussy without his cock. As his cum trickled down your inner thighs, you felt his heavy figure shift and felt him removing the restraints on your wrists. You wanted to rub the feeling back into them, but you were too tired to move. Until you hear a drawer open.

You peered over your shoulder and watched in shock. He held a massive black dildo in one hand and a metal bar in the other. It clinked against the restraints on both sides of it. Leather cuffs and metal links connected to the metal bar.

Pulling your ankles, he forced you to the edge of the bed and fastened the cuffs around your shins. It forced your legs to stay wide apart. With a dark grin, he ran his hand over your exposed pussy and gathered his white cum. He lifted his hand to press your cheeks and forcibly open your mouth. Hovering his coated fingers over your mouth, he let it drip down and onto your tongue.

“Swallow it, my little whore princess. We’re just getting started.”

[charliehoennam]

Omg I love the reader's sass in this! Putting Danny in his place 😂🫶🏽 how could anyone be calm in such a situation?!

꧁✩❂✩꧂

Warnings: a lot of swearing, mentions of injury and police, mentions of guns, no name reader.

Charge

Working as a paramedic had its ups and downs. Until today you thought your least favourite person was the old lady who had threaded to sue you after you wouldn’t give her morphine for a scratch.

You were wrong.

Fucking Danny Sharp had been in the ambulance a grand total of an hour and had earned the title pretty fast.

This wasn’t even your ambulance, you weren’t meant to be here, but Cam’s partner was god knows where and there was a dying cop, so you, out of the kindness of your heart decided to help.

Now if we wanted to talk facts you had a gun pointed to your head and were told to get in.

Three fucking times had this cop coded and you were running out of time to get to a hospital. You and cam were trying your hardest but when she had gone to the front to get blood from the other man, he coded again.

With gritted teeth you had to ask Danny to help you, he tried, but the fucker could hardly read.

“Charge Danny! The only fucking button that says charge!” You screamed at him holding the defibrillator to the man’s chest.

“There’s a lot of fucking buttons here! Never mind found it,”

“And..press it!”

As he pressed the button the cop jolted but made no improvement.

“Again! Cam what the fuck are you doing up there?!”

The woman swiftly made her way to the back and took over from Danny.

The two of you had managed to stable the officer, for now. Slightly calmer, you turned around.

“Who the fuck taught you how to read,” in the post panic you couldn’t help notice he was quite attractive.

“You swear a lot,” as if he wasn’t the reason, cocky bastard. “You dragged me into a police chase am i supposed to stay calm?”

“No, no i suppose not then,”

[mistressbloodcountess]

𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝐼'𝑚 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑆𝑚𝑢𝑡/𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓/𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 ��𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔⚠ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑠𝑜 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑.

𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑎.

𝐴𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 .

𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 Please feel free to request a character or characters

𝐷𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑜 𝑀𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑜𝑦

𝐿𝑜𝑘𝑖 𝐿𝑎𝑢𝑓𝑒𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛/𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝𝑒

𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑦𝑃ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑚. 𝐸𝑥𝑒

𝐾𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑠 𝑀𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑜𝑛

𝑃𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑃𝑎𝑛 𝑂𝐴𝑈𝑇

[danysdaughter]

After Hours

pairing | au!bucky x teacher!reader

word count | 7.8k words

summary | when bucky barnes keeps showing up early to pick up his nephew from school, it’s definitely not just about being a good uncle—it’s about the sharp, no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who won’t give him the time of day. one desperate club night and a locked bathroom later, you finally do.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), dominant!bucky, flirty!bucky, modern au, cocky!bucky, no-nonsense!reader, slow burn to smut, mutual pining, enemies to lovers-ish, no description of reader, BUT reader does have surname (racially ambiguous as always), ABBOTT ELEMENTARY CROSSOVER (this is fanfiction so I can do whatever I want)

a/n | this is filthy you guys, based on this request, and after reading this if you haven't I beg you to watch abbott elementary, literally rewatching for the fourth time, it's everything and changed my entire personality

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

“You do realize we’re ten minutes late, right?”

The voice came from the backseat—small, unimpressed, and filled with the kind of quiet disappointment usually reserved for tax season and slow Wi-Fi.

Bucky glanced at his rearview mirror and caught sight of his nephew, Danny, hair flattened oddly on one side from sleep, Superman backpack twice the size of his torso, and the most judgmental frown a five-year-old could possibly muster.

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you���ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”

[foxtrology]

bette davis eyes (2)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 9.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry Castillo still didn’t know her name.

And it was driving him insane.

It had been three days.

Three days since he sat on the steps of The Met, seething over Lucy’s engagement only to stumble into a conversation with the most aggravating woman he had ever met.

Three days since she stepped out of his car.

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

He had taken it as a challenge.

Of course he did.

He had spent years making impossible things happen. He had turned himself into one of the richest hedge fund managers in the country. He dictated the movement of money on Wall Street with a flick of his wrist. People waited months to get a meeting with him.

When he wanted something, he got it.

But he still didn’t know her goddamn name.

He had spent hours.

Hours, going through his friends’ Instagram followings, convinced that she had to be in there somewhere. She had been outside that party on those steps. That meant she knew someone.

Right?

Wrong.

Instead, all he got was accidentally following half a dozen people he didn’t even like and no clue how to unfollow them.

"You could just Google it," Danny had suggested, watching as Harry scrolled through Instagram with the confusion of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I shouldn’t have to Google basic fucking technology," Harry snapped.

Danny had just laughed. "This is why Lucy did everything for you."

Lucy.

Right.

Harry shut his phone off and tossed it onto the table like it had personally offended him.

He needed to let this go.

She was just a stranger.

A nobody.

But...

She wasn’t.

She was somebody, at least to him. Someone who had looked at him like he wasn’t some billionaire hedge fund manager but just a man sitting on the steps of The Met, sulking about his ex.

And that was risky.

Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know more.

She was balancing a tray when she spotted him.

Harry Castillo.

Sitting at the corner of the high end Manhattan restaurant she was currently serving at, looking like he would rather die than be here.

Her grip on the tray tightened. No fucking way.

She had spent the last three days assuming she would never see him again.

Rich men didn’t go looking for strangers they met outside of parties. Not unless they had some weird obsession or a savior complex. And he didn’t seem like the type.

Yet, here he was.

Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Brooding like the miserable, wealthy asshole she suspected he was.

And worst of all—he didn’t see her.

Not yet.

She had to get out of here before he did.

Her name tag was visible.

If he saw it, if he recognized her—

"Table six, go," her manager barked, pointing toward the very table Harry was sitting at.

Fuck.

She briefly considered quitting her job on the spot. Just throwing her apron at the nearest wall and storming out.

But unfortunately, she had rent to pay.

So with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the tray tighter, and walked straight toward him.

Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the menu. Not to his surroundings.

His mind was still back in his office, replaying every attempt he had made to find her.

And failing.

His phone buzzed. Another news notification. Probably some article about the market or a New York Times op-ed about billionaires ruining the economy. He didn’t care.

Then—

A shadow passed over him.

Someone setting a drink down.

And before he even looked up—before his brain even processed it—he heard her voice.

“Whiskey neat.”

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And there she was.

Standing right in front of him.

His breath hitched.

Her.

Her.

His eyes flicked to her name tag, sharp and laser focused.

Finally.

She saw where he was looking and immediately reached for it, ripping the tag off with a sharp tug before shoving it into her pocket.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head.

His lips twitched.

“Afraid?”

“Of you?” She snorted, shifting the tray in her hands. “Not even a little.”

He exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“You work here.”

She raised a brow. “Clearly.”

“You were at the Met party.”

“I was working the Met party.”

Realization dawned.

She wasn’t a guest. She wasn’t friends with anyone there.

She was a server.

A server.

Harry’s fingers tapped against the edge of his glass.

He didn’t know why that made something settle inside him. Maybe because it explained why she hadn’t given a shit about who he was. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t part of his world, wasn’t another socialite or heiress looking for an investment banker to marry.

Maybe because it meant that night was real.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes lifted to hers.

She was smirking.

She was amused.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Well. Now you found me.”

He studied her.

The restaurant bustled around them. The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the scent of expensive wine and seared steak filling the air.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, watching him like he was the one on display.

He reached for his drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip.

Then—

“Have dinner with me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed.

Again.

Like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

Again.

“You really don’t like being told no, huh?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not an answer.”

She tilted her head. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Take off my apron and sit down at your table? I’m working, Castillo.”

The way she said his name made something tighten in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then when do you get off?”

Her lips twitched.

“You gonna wait here all night?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the restaurant wall before settling back on him.

“I’m off in an hour.” She turned, already walking away. “Let’s see if you’re still here by then.”

He watched her go.

Watched as she weaved through tables, balancing drinks, chatting with customers, completely at ease.

And for the first time in three days—

He felt at ease.

Because this time, she wasn’t getting away.

Harry wasn’t a patient man.

He had built an empire on control, on precision, on the ability to anticipate movements before they happened. That was how he stayed ahead, how he won.

Yet here he was, sitting at a table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant waiting for a woman who barely spared him a second glance.

A woman whose name he still didn’t know.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching as she moved effortlessly through the restaurant.

She was good at her job.

Efficient, quick on her feet, balancing trays with ease.

And she smiled at customers.

Not the way she had smirked at him earlier. Not with that sharp edged amusement that made something itch beneath his skin.

No, these smiles were polite. Professional. A little forced, maybe, but nothing that suggested she was even remotely bothered by his presence.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

Because he was bothered.

She had been stuck in his head for three days.

And here she was, acting like their encounter meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

It was infuriating.

And intriguing.

And maybe—just maybe—exactly what he needed.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass.

An hour.

He could wait an hour.

Hell, he had waited longer for board meetings that didn’t even matter.

So he settled in.

And watched.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze followed her everywhere.

She ignored it.

Or at least, she pretended��to.

Because if she acknowledged it, if she met his gaze, if she let herself wonder why he was still sitting there—then she would have to admit that she cared.

And she didn’t.

Not really.

Not about Harry Castillo.

Not about his perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark eyes followed her every movement like she was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

Not about the way her heart had kicked up just a little when she realized he had actually been looking for her.

Nope.

Didn’t care.

Not at all.

She refilled a wine glass at table twelve, smiled at a group of finance bros who didn’t deserve it, dodged her coworker carrying a tray of desserts, and did not look at the man still sitting at table six.

But she could feel him.

And it was driving her crazy.

Harry was losing his mind.

Every time she passed his table without sparing him a glance, something inside him tightened.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t wait for people.

People waited for him.

He could leave right now. Get up, walk out, and be done with this whole thing.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she had said one hour.

And he was going to make sure she kept her word.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Danny.

Danny: Why are you ignoring my texts?

Danny: Did you figure out how to unfollow people yet or are you still stuck?

Danny: Are you seriously still looking for that girl?

Danny: …You are, aren’t you?

Danny: I hate you.

Danny: Text me when you’re done being pathetic.

Harry rolled his eyes and slid his phone facedown on the table.

The hour crawled by.

And then—

Finally—

She walked back toward his table.

Apron off. Jacket on. Bag slung over one shoulder.

Her shift was over.

And Harry sat up a little straighter.

“You actually waited.”

She didn’t sound surprised.

More amused.

Like she had expected him to wait but still found it funny.

He lifted a brow. “You said an hour.”

“And you’re a man who listens?”

“I can be.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Dangerous skill.”

Harry smirked. “You have no idea.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a no.

Wasn’t a go home, Castillo.

It was something else.

Something better.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So?”

“So.”

“What now?”

Harry exhaled, watching her carefully.

She was testing him.

Waiting to see if he was serious.

If he was worth the trouble.

And Harry Castillo never backed down from a challenge.

“Dinner,” he said simply.

She arched a brow. “You just ate.”

“You were working. I don’t eat alone.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s a dumb rule.”

He shrugged. “It’s my rule.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then—

“Fine.”

A single word.

But it sent something sharp and victorious rushing through his chest.

He stood, pulling a few crisp hundreds from his wallet and tossing them onto the table without a second glance.

She eyed the money but didn’t say anything.

Just turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Harry followed.

The wind cut sharp against his skin as they stepped out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the world around them alive with the hum of the city at night. A taxi honked a block away, a couple laughed as they passed, and the crisp scent of winter curled into the air.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

Harry didn’t shiver.

He barely felt the cold.

His eyes flicked toward her, noting the way she huddled into herself slightly, as if suddenly self conscious. She had been confident inside the restaurant sharp, unbothered, teasing—but now, beneath the glow of the streetlights, something in her had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna tell you that?”

His jaw twitched.

She was impossible.

And yet, somehow, he found himself waiting for her answer anyway.

She sighed, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just…I just got off a shift. I’m not exactly dressed for whatever expensive place you’re about to drag me to.”

Harry blinked.

Then looked her over.

Dark jeans. A fitted black sweater. Scuffed up ballet flats.

She looked fine.

Better than fine.

She looked real.

She looked like her.

And that, he realized, was the problem.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Didn’t fit into the mold of women he was usually seen with.

She wasn’t draped in designer. She didn’t have a last name people recognized. She didn’t float through life with the quiet, effortless privilege of someone born into money.

But she was still the most interesting person he had met in years.

And that was dangerous.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t care.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes searched his, looking for—what? Lies? Pity? Some hidden agenda?

She wouldn’t find any of those.

He had none to give.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Are you hungry or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just worked a ten hour shift. What do you think?”

His lips twitched.

Without another word, he turned and started walking.

And after a beat—she followed.

To her surprise, Harry didn’t take her somewhere suffocatingly high end.

No pretentious Michelin starred establishment. No reservations only steakhouse with white tablecloths and chandeliers worth more than her apartment.

God, her roommate was in for a treat when she gets home.

Instead, they ended up at a cozy, tucked away bistro on a quiet side street. The kind of place that didn’t have a dress code. The kind of place where people actually talked instead of posing for Instagram photos.

She narrowed her eyes as she followed him inside. “How do you even know about a place like this?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for her like some old fashioned gentleman and waited for her to sit.

She hesitated, lips twitching in amusement. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He ignored that too.

She sat.

He took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost instantly.

Harry ordered whiskey.

She ordered a glass of wine.

She knew her wine, he'll give her that.

And then—for the first time since they met—there was silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

But silence nonetheless.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Harry was hard to read.

Brooding. Intense. Reserved.

The kind of man who looked like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head but no intention of saying any of them out loud.

The kind of man who could crush someone with a single, well calculated decision in his office during the day and then sit across from her in a dimly lit restaurant at night like none of it mattered.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “So, are you gonna ask me anything? Or are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other?”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t care about the answers to.”

She blinked.

Then huffed out a small laugh. “Jesus. You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass, studying the way she moved.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

She started talking first.

Not because he asked.

But because she wanted to.

“So, what do you think I do?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

Harry took a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re a server.”

She smirked. “Wow. Good job, detective.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not a real question.”

“Fine. How long have I been doing it?”

He studied her.

Noticed the way she held herself, the way she had moved through the restaurant earlier, the way she hadn’t hesitated when her manager snapped at her.

“Years,” he said simply.

Her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Since I was nineteen.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Something he didn’t understand.

Didn’t push.

But still—he noticed.

She exhaled, rolling her wine glass between her fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Harry’s fingers drummed against the table. “It never is.”

She lifted a brow. “You say that like you know.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

But he didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the nights he spent as a kid listening to his mother cry in the next room because she didn’t have the money for rent.

Didn’t talk about how she had worked three jobs just to keep food on the table.

Didn’t talk about how she got sick.

How the bills stacked up.

How money would have saved her.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He never did.

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure him out.

Then she leaned back in her chair, lips curling slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Harry exhaled. “Not if I can help it.”

She grinned. “Well, lucky for you, I talk enough for the both of us.”

And she did.

She told him about the worst customers she’d ever had. The ridiculous things people asked for at restaurants. The way rich men treated servers like they were invisible.

She didn’t include him in that category.

And for some reason, that mattered.

She laughed at her own stories.

Harry didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

More than he should have.

More than he ever did.

She didn’t push him to share.

Didn’t ask him about his life, his money, his past.

She just talked.

And it was the first time in a long time that Harry didn’t mind someone filling the silence.

When their food came, she didn’t pick at it like the women he usually dined with.

She ate.

Finished her entire burger.

Made a satisfied noise as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry’s lips twitched. He wanted to smile. But he didn't.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was late.

The air was even colder now, the city quieter.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Alright, big shot. Where’s your driver?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the street.

James was waiting, parked at the curb.

But for some reason—

For some stupid reason—

He didn’t want the night to end yet.

So instead of answering, he met her gaze.

And said, “Let’s walk.”

She blinked.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

And just like that—

Harry Castillo found himself walking through the city with a woman he barely knew.

And, for once, he didn’t hate it.

The streets of Manhattan were quieter at this hour.

The usual chaos—the honking taxis, the chatter of impatient pedestrians, the ever present hum of a city that never slept had settled into something softer. The streetlights cast golden pools of light on the pavement and every now and then, a stray gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

She walked beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her unhurried.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

She was talking again, the words flowing effortlessly, her voice filling the quiet space between them like it belonged there.

“I don’t know how people live alone in this city,” she mused, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, sure if you’re a billionaire hedge fund guy, then yeah, easy. But for the rest of us mortals? Forget it.”

Harry glanced at her. “So you have a roommate.”

She huffed out a small laugh. “More like a personal angel disguised as a roommate.”

His brow lifted slightly.

She kicked a small pebble across the pavement as they walked. “Her name’s Maya and she’s the only reason I can even afford to be in New York. She’s an artist—one of those ridiculously talented people who’s always sketching on napkins or leaving paint stains on everything.”

Harry hummed, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “And she sells her work?”

“Oh, yeah. To people like you,” she teased, smirking up at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Like me?”

She shrugged. “Rich. Intimidating. Definitely the type to spend five grand on a painting because some gallery curator convinced you it was ‘evocative of the human condition.’”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something just short of a laugh. “I don’t buy art.”

She gave him a pointed look. “So you just have blank walls in your penthouse?”

He hesitated.

She gasped, dramatic. “Oh my God, you do!”

His jaw twitched. “I don’t see the point.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “That is actually the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Maya sounds lucky to have you as her publicist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not her publicist. Just her number one fan. And her unpaid assistant, apparently, because every time she has a gallery showing, I end up playing bartender.”

“You work events for her?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, I mean... I don’t want to be useless.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “You’re not useless.”

She blinked up at him, something flickering behind her expression like maybe she wasn’t used to hearing that.

She recovered quickly, exhaling through her nose. “Try telling that to the people who snap their fingers at me when they want a refill.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that, about the idea of her being treated like she was nothing, about people looking past her like she didn’t matter.

That irritated him more than it should have.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he glanced over at her, taking her in.

Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind, strands curling around her face. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, casting a warm hue against her skin. She looked…

Gorgeous.

Pretty.

She caught him staring and arched a brow. “What?”

Harry looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”

She huffed a small laugh, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “You’re weird.”

“Good to know.”

She grinned but didn’t push it.

They kept walking.

They hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere, but when she spotted a small, hole in the wall coffee shop still open, she made a beeline for it.

Harry watched as she pressed her hands against the glass, peering inside like a kid outside a toy store.

She turned back to him, eyes bright. “I need something warm.”

Harry exhaled. “You could’ve just said that.”

She grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He sighed but followed her inside anyway.

The shop was small, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and fresh pastries. A tired looking barista was wiping down the counter, clearly ready to close up for the night but she bounced up to the register without hesitation.

“One hot chocolate, please.”

Harry stared. “Hot chocolate?”

She flashed him a look. “What?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Wow, ageism?” she gasped. “How very hedge fund of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hot chocolate is for children.”

She smirked. “And yet, I bet I’m gonna enjoy my drink way more than whatever depressing black coffee you’re about to order.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then turned to the barista.

“…Make it two.”

She lit up.

Not a smirk, not a teasing quip...just a genuine, unfiltered grin. “See? You’re not completely soulless after all.”

Harry huffed but said nothing.

They sat by the window, watching the street outside as their drinks cooled.

She took the first sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God."

Harry lifted a brow but took a sip of his own.

It was…warm. Smooth. A little too sweet.

Not terrible.

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup. “You love it.”

He set his cup down. “I tolerate it.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head.

He was lying.

But he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

By the time they finally made it to her place, it was late.

The entrance to her building was old but well kept, tucked into a quieter side street. The kind of place that probably had thin walls and a temperamental landlord.

She stopped at the door, turning to face him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You gonna be weird about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Weird about what?”

She smirked. “You look like the kind of guy who doesn’t walk a woman home unless he’s expecting to come up.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t—”

She grinned, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hilarious.”

She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “But hey…thanks. For dinner. And the hot chocolate.”

Harry held her gaze.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.

Like she hadn’t quite figured him out.

And that, somehow, made him want to see her again.

Before he could say anything, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

“You gonna try to find me again?”

His jaw tightened.

But his lips twitched.

“I already did once.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Then maybe next time, I’ll let you find out something about me.”

Harry exhaled.

He should have left.

Should have walked away.

But instead, he lingered just long enough to watch her disappear into the building, just long enough to hear her footsteps fade.

And then, finally—

He turned.

And walked away.

He still didn't get her name.

But he knew where to find her.

Harry had gone back to the restaurant.

But she wasn’t there.

Two days.

Two entire days of walking into that overpriced Manhattan restaurant, sitting at the same damn table, ordering the same damn whiskey neat, only for some random server—not her—to take his order.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t have her number.

Didn’t know anything except where she lived.

And that made something settle in his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.

Danny noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re sulking,” he said, lazily swirling his cocktail at their usual bar.

Harry scowled. “I don’t sulk.”

Danny smirked. “Right. You just glare at your drink like it owes you money.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then exhaled sharply. “She’s not at work.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Oh my God, you are sulking.”

Harry resisted the urge to throw his whiskey at him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and stared at her building’s address for the fiftieth time.

Danny sighed, tilting his head. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could—”

“I’m not hiring a private investigator,” Harry muttered.

Danny huffed. “I was gonna say Google it. Jesus, man.”

Harry scowled.

But he did Google it.

Or rather, he, Danny, and James—his driver, the only person in his life with more patience than a saint—spent two hours tracking down any lead they could.

It was a long, painful process.

But finally—Maya.

Maya Klein.

Her roommate.

Her best friend.

Her very online best friend.

It wasn’t hard to find her art portfolio.

Okay, maybe it was a little hard.

But after squinting through three different Instagram accounts, a Tumblr page, and a very outdated LinkedIn profile, they found it.

And in bold, clean font on her website—

GALLERY SHOWING TOMORROW.

TRIBECA

8PM-11PM

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his desk.

“She bartends for her friend’s events,” he murmured.

Danny’s brows lifted. “And you’re planning on showing up.”

Harry exhaled. “I want to see her again.”

Danny smirked. “Wow. You’re down bad.”

Harry ignored him.

He stuck out like a sore thumb the moment he stepped inside.

Danny, of course, fit right in. Already drifting off into the crowd, chatting up a woman in a fringed leather jacket holding a glass of something overpriced.

James had stayed outside, leaning against the Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers, avoiding any part of this ridiculous endeavor.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by people who clearly hated him.

The walls were filled with abstract pieces. Raw depictions of capitalism and greed, of money and power and the corruption that came with it.

A statement.

A big fuck you to billionaires.

A big fuck you to him.

And here he was—one of the richest men in the country—standing in the middle of it.

He definitely stuck out.

Eyes flickered toward him.

Some curious. Some amused.

But most?

Judgmental.

Harry sighed.

Danny was gonna love this.

He scanned the room.

And then—

He saw her.

Behind the bar.

Her hair pulled back in a clip, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly balancing bottles and glasses, moving like she had done this a million times.

His jaw unclenched.

Something settled inside him.

Something he didn’t have the time—or patience—to name.

He walked over.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until he was standing right in front of her.

Then—

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

Her fingers stilled over the cocktail shaker, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Then, slow and deliberate...

She smirked.

“You again.”

Harry exhaled. “Me again.”

She hummed, setting the shaker down. “Didn’t peg you for an art guy.”

“I’m not.”

Her smirk widened. “So you’re here for the free drinks?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

Her lips pressed together, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Then why are you here?”

Harry held her gaze.

And then—

She sighed, shaking her head.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?”

He exhaled. “You weren’t at work.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his hands against the bar. “I noticed.”

Her expression softened just for a second.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. “My legs gave out.”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It happens. I overworked myself too much. I needed a break.”

His fingers curled against the bar.

Harry didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the idea of her pushing herself until she physically collapsed.

Didn’t like the fact that she was still working tonight.

Didn’t like any of it.

She noticed.

“You’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

Harry exhaled sharply.

She smirked.

Then casually, she grabbed a napkin, scribbled something on it, and slid it across the bar.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

She smiled.

“My name.”

His fingers brushed the paper.

His jaw flexed.

Finally.

Finally.

Then—

Across the room, a conversation caught his ear.

Loud. Purposeful. Like it was meant for him to hear.

It definitely was meant for him to hear.

“I don’t understand how these people live with themselves.”

Harry’s fingers stilled.

He turned slightly, gaze narrowing at a group gathered near one of the paintings.

“They show up, throw their money around, act like they’re saving the industry when they’re the ones who ruined it in the first place.”

Another voice chimed in. “It’s capitalism at its finest.”

Harry exhaled through his nose.

Same conversation. Different setting.

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

He should have ignored it.

But then—

Then, he heard her.

Her voice.

Sharp. Defiant.

“You do realize the only reason these paintings are selling at all is because of the people you hate, right?”

Silence.

Harry blinked.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was facing them, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

The guy—some twenty-something in a turtleneck—sputtered. “That’s not the—”

“No, go ahead,” she said, tilting her head. “Explain to me how you think art survives without the rich. Who do you think is buying these paintings? Who do you think is keeping galleries open? I’ll wait.”

The group shifted uncomfortably.

Harry smirked.

The guy scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point?”

More silence.

She exhaled. “Look, I get it. The system’s fucked. But if you really hate capitalism so much then maybe don’t take a paycheck from a company that thrives on it.”

The guy’s face turned red.

Then, huffing, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Harry exhaled through his nose.

And when she turned back to him—

He was looking at her.

Really looking at her.

She raised a brow. “What?”

Harry’s jaw ticked.

Then, slow—steady—

He reached for the napkin with her name.

Folded it.

Slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

And, for the first time in months—

Harry Castillo smiled.

Actually let out a smile.

It was a rare thing. Unpracticed. A little uneven.

And it caught her off guard so much she forgot to breathe for a second.

That smile.

The real kind, not the smirk, not the polite billionaire press photo kind. It was all quiet softness and amusement, like a secret between the two of them. It was the kind of smile you could fall into if you weren’t careful.

“Wow,” she murmured, recovering. “You do know how to do that.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but he said nothing.

Typical.

The gallery began to thin out as the night wore on. Coats were retrieved from racks, the sound of shoes echoed across the polished concrete floor, and people began floating toward the exit in clumps, cheeks flushed from wine and conversations.

Harry stayed.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

He could’ve left after thirty minutes like most of the other well dressed nuts in the room. But something about the way she moved behind the bar—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, laughing quietly when Maya came over to whisper something in her ear—held him in place.

She kept sneaking glances at him too.

Never long. Never obvious.

But enough.

He stayed perched in a corner, away from the art critics and the performative intellectuals with their wine sick grins and disdain for everything they secretly wanted. He watched her wipe down glasses and stack them methodically, her body moving slower than usual now, more deliberate. Her energy was dwindling down.

She was tired.

Exhausted, actually.

He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was watching.

Around midnight, the final few stragglers filtered out. Maya was surrounded by compliments, champagne, and laughter as she waved people goodbye. She was magnetic.

But Harry’s focus was only on one person.

Her.

She was drying a wine glass with a rag that had seen better days when he approached the bar again.

“You’re still here?” she asked without looking up.

“I tend to see things through.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t sound exhausting at all.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the bar. A lemon ginger lozenge.

She stared at it. “What is this?”

“You’ve been clearing your throat for the last hour. Thought you might be getting sick.”

She blinked.

And then quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “You ready to go?”

She furrowed her brows. “Go?”

“You were going to walk home, weren’t you?”

“I—” She hesitated. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry—”

“Maya said she’s having people over.”

Her mouth opened. “She what?”

As if on cue, Maya bounced over, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “There you are! Just wanted to let you know we’re having a tiny get together back at the apartment. You’re coming, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah…totally.”

Maya beamed. “Perfect! I’ll see you there!” And just like that, she twirled away in her silk pants and heeled boots like a whirlwind of chaos and charm.

Harry looked at her, quiet.

“You don’t want to go,” he said plainly.

She paused. “No, I mean—I don’t mind—”

“You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It was. You’ve been on your feet all night and still managed to argue with an entire table of art anarchists without flinching.”

She blinked. “You were listening?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m observant.”

Something warm crept up her neck. “That’s actually…kind of sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Still is.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the door. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”

She looked at him carefully. "Okay." She nodded.

Harry smiled. “Come on.”

As they walked toward the exit, a low whistle echoed across the room.

“Ooooh, look who’s leaving together,” Danny called out, arm slung lazily around a girl wearing metallic eyeshadow and an alarming amount of lip gloss.

Harry cringed visibly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I planned on it,” she muttered, quickening her step.

Outside, James was leaning against the Maybach, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He straightened when he saw them. “Evening,” he said coolly, holding the door open without a single question.

Once inside the car, she leaned her head against the window, legs tucked beneath her. The car purred beneath them as it slid through the streets like a shadow.

“You always have a driver?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re just, like…getting groceries?”

Harry looked at her. “Do I look like I get groceries?”

She snorted. “Fair.”

He glanced at her again. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She paused. Her apartment would be loud. Crowded. Too many people, too much laughter, and she was tired.

Bone tired.

“I…wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t reply. Just gave James a nod. And James didn’t need to be told twice.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights flickered through the windows as they sped through Manhattan, the hum of the engine steady beneath them.

She was curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the cool glass, eyes flickering between exhaustion and quiet thought.

Harry didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He liked the silence with her.

When they finally pulled up to his building, James barely looked surprised. He simply put the car in park, gave Harry a knowing look and muttered, “Have a good night, sir.”

Harry ignored him.

She hesitated when the elevator doors opened, glancing up at him.

“You sure about this?” she murmured.

Harry met her gaze. “You need rest.”

She exhaled. “You’re really committed to this whole taking care of me thing, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just stepped into the elevator.

After a beat—she followed.

The penthouse was quiet when they entered.

It was huge.

Dimly lit, the skyline of Manhattan stretching out before them through the floor to ceiling windows. She looked around, taking in the sleek design, the impossibly neat kitchen, the pristine furniture.

Then—

“You really don’t have anything on the walls.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ve been over this.”

She smirked. “Still depressing.”

Harry ignored her, shrugging off his coat before turning to her.

“Go take a bath.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffed. “You need to relax.”

She scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been on your feet for how many hours straight. Worked so long your legs gave out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, pointedly, he turned and started walking toward the bathroom.

“What are you—”

“Follow me.”

Against her better judgment—she did.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious.

A massive tub sat beneath a soft glowing light, marble countertops lining the space. The air smelled faintly of something expensive, probably whatever soap billionaires used.

Harry turned on the water, letting the tub fill, steam curling into the air.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really think I’m about to take a bath?”

Harry gave her a look. “Yes.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

“Because you deserve to rest.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Soft. Unreadable.

Harry stepped back, nodding toward the tub. “Take your time.”

She hesitated.

Then—finally—sighed. “Fine.”

Harry nodded once before leaving the room.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the tub, at the ridiculous luxury of it all.

Then—she caught sight of the robe hanging by the sink.

A man’s robe.

His.

She swallowed.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the warm water letting the heat soak into her muscles, melting the exhaustion from her bones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

And then—

She caught the scent of something in the air.

His shampoo.

His body wash.

Without thinking, she reached for the bottle, pouring a small amount into her palm before lathering it into her hair.

She didn’t know why she did it.

Didn’t know why the idea of smelling like him made something tighten in her chest.

But she didn’t stop.

Not until the scent of Harry Castillo was wrapped around her.

The warmth from the bath had seeped into her bones, leaving her skin flushed, her limbs loose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt good.

Not just better—good.

Rested.

Weightless.

And wrapped in the scent of him.

She exhaled slowly, fingers dragging through her damp hair as she stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from her skin, soaking into the thick, plush bath mat beneath her feet.

She reached for the robe hanging by the door.

His robe.

It was heavy, rich, expensive fabric, meant for a man built like Harry.

She pulled it on anyway, wrapping herself in it, feeling swallowed whole by the warmth of something that belonged to him.

Something about that made her stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a way she could name.

She let her fingers toy with the fabric as she padded quietly out of the bathroom, stepping into the dim glow of his penthouse.

Harry was waiting.

Not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that was distinctly him.

His posture was casual, leaning against the back of his couch, one hand resting lightly on the armrest. He had changed, too—no longer in his suit jacket, just his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms, the carefully restrained tension in his body.

His gaze flickered over her, slow like he was taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

She knew what he saw.

Bare legs peeking out from beneath his robe. Damp hair curling against her collarbone. The softened edges of her normally sharp expression.

And for once—

For once, she let him look.

She watched his throat bob slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Come here.”

Her lips twitched. “Bossy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just waited.

She crossed the room, bare feet pressing against the smooth floor, stopping when she was just a few inches away.

Harry’s hands curled into fists against the couch for a second, like he was fighting the urge to touch her.

Then without a word he turned, disappearing into his bedroom.

She blinked, startled.

Then—

He came back.

With clothes.

A pair of sweatpants.

A plain black T-shirt.

Things that were clearly his, judging by the size of them.

He handed them to her, jaw tight. “Put these on.”

She took them, amused. “You actually own sweatpants?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in a tux.”

She grinned. “Shocking.”

He said nothing.

Just watched as she took the bundle of clothing and walked back toward the bathroom to change.

His sweatpants hung low on her hips, the waistband tied in a loose knot to keep them from slipping. The shirt was too big, drowning her frame, the fabric worn in and soft against her skin.

It felt like being wrapped in him.

Warmth lingered in the cotton, in the faint scent of his cologne. Something expensive.

She padded barefoot through the penthouse, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. The city glittered outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Everything about this place was so immaculate. So clean. So structured. It screamed of control—of a man who ruled his world with precision.

But the moment she entered it some of that control seemed to slip.

She could feel it in the way Harry watched her, the way his fingers twitched when she walked past him, as if resisting the urge to reach out and keep her close.

She stopped in front of the window, arms crossing over her chest, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “You can see everything from here.”

Harry was behind her, watching her quietly. “You like it?”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the skyline. “Yeah. But…”

His brow lifted slightly. “But?”

She hesitated. Then with a small teasing smirk, she turned to face him. “It’s kinda depressing that you live up here all alone.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

She huffed. “That’s what all lonely people say.”

His lips curved just slightly, something almost amused flickering behind his sharp gaze. “And you’re an expert on loneliness?”

She shrugged, moving closer, the fabric of his shirt swaying against her thighs. “I know what it looks like.”

Harry watched her approach, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And what do I look like?”

She tilted her head, scanning him playfully. “Like a very, very rich man who doesn’t know what to do with himself outside of work.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Accurate.”

She grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

For a moment they just stood there.

Him watching her.

Her watching him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was heavy. Charged.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her legs, to the way his sweatpants hung off her frame, the fabric pooling at her ankles. Then to the curve of her hip, the way his T-shirt stretched over her body, swallowing her whole.

Something deep and dangerous stirred in his chest.

She looked good like this.

Too good.

Her chin tilted up, eyes meeting his. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

His hand lifted, brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. His touch was light, barely there, but it made her breath catch.

His fingers trailed lower, down her jaw, grazing the edge of her throat.

She swallowed.

His voice was deep when he finally spoke. “I say what matters.”

Her lips parted slightly, something unspoken hanging between them.

She felt it before she realized what she was doing.

The way her body leaned into his.

The way his fingers skimmed over the fabric of his shirt against her skin, so close, yet still too far.

His touch was careful.

Like he was memorizing her.

She exhaled shakily. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over her hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

“I am.”

She blinked. “What?”

Harry’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing along the edge of his sweatpants on her frame. His voice was softer this time, almost dangerous.

“If I can control myself.”

Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her.

But suddenly—

They weren’t talking anymore.

His lips crashed against hers, urgent and deep, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of his dress shirt as he devoured her.

The world blurred.

She barely registered the way he picked her up, his hands firm around her thighs as he hoisted her up, murmuring quietly against her ear, “Jump.”

And she did.

Wrapped her legs around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He carried her through the penthouse with effortless strength, like she weighed nothing, like holding her close was something he’d done a thousand times before.

And then—

He walked her backward towards his bed, his mouth never leaving her skin, breath warm against her jaw.

The mattress hit the backs of her knees, sending her falling onto it in a slow, melting sprawl of limbs and want.

The soft silk duvet caught her, cool against the fever of her skin, her hair spilling across his impossibly expensive sheets. The room was dim but warm, the city humming just beyond the glass windows, the skyline glittering like a thousand secrets no one else would ever know.

Harry stood above her, his breathing deeper now, his eyes locked onto her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like she was a painting he hadn’t expected to fall in love with.

She propped herself up on her elbows, staring back. Waiting. Wanting.

Harry’s fingers moved to his collar first. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of warm, lived in skin beneath it. He wasn’t carved like marble—wasn’t the chiseled fantasy that Hollywood sold in glossy posters.

He was real.

His chest was broad, his arms strong but not perfect. Age spots dotted his skin like constellations, a faint scar ran along the side of his ribs, and when his shirt slipped off his shoulders, she saw the slight softness of his belly.

A pouch.

Honest. Natural. Human.

And when her eyes lingered there—he froze.

She could tell.

The way his breath caught. The flicker of hesitation in his brow.

He was used to being looked at like a power figure. A man in suits. Behind desks. Holding titles and leverage.

But being seen like this?

Like a man—just a man—baring everything? That was different.

She sat up slowly, still watching him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t fill the space with false comfort.

She just reached for him.

Her fingers skimmed across the skin of his abdomen, soft and warm beneath her touch, and she whispered, “Come here.”

Something in him shifted.

Like maybe he believed her.

That she wanted all of him.

He slid out of his slacks, slow and deliberate, leaving him in nothing but his briefs for a moment before they, too, joined the pile of fabric on the floor.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hands were careful when they peeled off her borrowed T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it aside. Then her body lifted instinctively as he slid the sweatpants down her hips, revealing soft skin, flushed and ready beneath him.

Now they were skin to skin.

Warm and real.

Harry hovered over her, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he held himself above her, his gaze moving slowly down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just like that.

No flourish. No performance.

Just a truth that had been sitting in his chest since the moment he first saw her.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath his lip. “So are you.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not greedy.

Deep.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that says I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

His hands roamed her body like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first—her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm.

And then—

He began to slide lower.

Kissing down her neck.

Dragging his lips across her collarbone.

Sinking further and further until he was kneeling between her thighs, the backs of his hands brushing gently along the insides of her legs, coaxing them apart like he was opening something sacred.

She was already breathing heavy, already undone just from the look in his eyes.

He settled between her legs like he belonged there.

And maybe—he did.

He didn’t dive in like a man with something to prove. He took his time.

Let her feel his breath first.

The heat of his mouth pressing gentle, almost shy kisses to her thighs.

Then—

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, groaning low when he tasted her.

Like she was the answer to a hunger he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Her hips jerked. Her fingers scrambled for the sheets.

He pressed his palms to her hips, grounding her, murmuring something too quiet to make out.

Then his mouth opened on her again.

Tongue.

Lips.

Heat.

Every part of him focused on unraveling her.

She moaned, soft and choked, as his tongue circled her clit, slow at first, then faster with just the right amount of pressure.

He adjusted when she squirmed.

Groaned when she whimpered.

Moved with her, not against her.

Like this was a language only he spoke.

She looked down once—just once—and saw him watching her.

Eyes locked to hers.

Dark. Hungry. But more than that...captivated.

Like he could spend the rest of his life right here, on his knees tasting her like he needed her to survive.

His mustache scraped lightly against the tender skin of her thighs, a delicious burn. His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth worked in steady rhythm, not relenting even when she gasped, Harry, please—

Especially then.

He moaned against her like her begging was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And then—

She broke.

She came with a soft, shattered gasp, her body buckling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her hands found his hair, her legs trembled, her hips rolled up into his mouth.

He held her through all of it.

Licked her through it.

Didn’t stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation, her fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

Only then—only then—did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick, his jaw tense, his chest heaving.

He crawled back up the bed, lips brushing her cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her slowly.

Didn’t try to speak.

He just laid beside her, naked and warm and quiet.

Letting her curl into him.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting himself feel.

And when she finally caught her breath, when she looked up at him and whispered, “You okay?”

Harry gave her a look so full of tenderness it nearly undid her all over again.

“I am now,” he said.

And she believed him.

They laid there, skin to skin, her fingers tracing slow, thoughtless shapes against his chest while his hand rested on the curve of her hip not wanting to let go, grounding them both in something quiet and real.

For the first time in months, Harry hadn’t thought about Lucy.

Not once.

Not her laugh, not the space she left behind.

He only thought about the girl breathing softly in his arms, asleep against his chest like she belonged there.

And when his eyes finally closed, he felt safe.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

[mercvry-glow]

staying is harder than leaving

parings. jack abbot x reader

summary. you'll never understand what brings you back to jack abbot, all you know is that you want to stay.

warnings. age gap (jake late 40s reader early 30s), bitter sweet, reader and jack are really bad at feelings, mention/illusions of sex, mentions of smoking and cigarettes, overall just a bit angsty with a soft fulfilling ending, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I'm so sorry this was all I could get out, but I'm pretty happy with it. I'm like the danny mcbride of angst, everything has closure in one way or another and it's always a good feeling at the end. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 3200+

You didn’t know how you got here.

Lying in the bed of a man you had no business being with. Not really. Not ever.

Jack Abbot wasn’t the kind of man people fell into by accident—he was deliberate, sharp-edged, the type you saw coming and still couldn’t avoid. Older. Hardened by the Army and the ER and everything they took from him. Gruff in the way only someone who’s cared too much and been burned for it could be.

And your boss.

He was supposed to be off-limits. But lines blurred late at night—between empty hospital corridors and frantic hands, between the quiet moments when he looked at you like you were the only thing holding him together.

Maybe it was the sex. Maybe it was the way he let his guard down in fragments only you got to see. Maybe it was the ache in your chest that whispered this was more than just bodies colliding.

But whatever it was, it was getting harder to breathe in his space without losing a part of yourself.

The room was dark, swallowed whole by the blackout curtains. Still, you could feel the hour—it was too early for anything but regret.

Jack was asleep, sprawled on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the blanket barely covering his hips. His back was turned to you, freckled and scarred, every mark a map of a life lived hard.

You’d spent too many nights like this. Drawing constellations across his skin with your fingers, trying to make sense of something that never really did. Pretending he was yours. Pretending you weren’t drowning in the quiet.

But now, with your heart thudding too loud in your ears and the stillness pressing in, reality came creeping.

Your skin prickled with the kind of unease that settled deep—shame curling tight in your throat, dread rising like smoke.

You didn’t belong here. Not in his bed. Not in his life.

And deep down, you knew—he was never going to stop you from leaving. Not because he didn’t care.

But because he didn’t know how to ask you to stay.

It was overwhelming how much you felt for him. How much more you wanted to feel. And the worst part was having nowhere productive to put it.

You were just as much a workaholic as he was—another lifer in the ER, made of pure grit and sleepless nights, proud of the scars you earned under fluorescent lights.

The golden R4 of night shift. Jack’s prodigy, the way Frank had been Robby’s. People used to joke that you were cut from the same cloth as Jack—sarcastic, unflinching, impossible to impress. You’d hated how right they were.

Because somewhere along the way, he stopped being just your mentor.

 And you stopped pretending you didn’t want more.

What you had wasn’t exactly a secret, but it sure as hell wasn’t something, either. At least, not in the daylight.

You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t his anything, besides a damn good doctor. Just someone who knew what to say when he couldn’t talk. Someone who understood the blood-soaked language of trauma. Someone who stayed long after her shift ended because she didn’t want to go home alone.

And it was killing you.

Piece by piece.

Because in the quiet moments like this—before the rest of the world stirred, before the next shift started—you wanted to reach for him. Say something stupid like Don’t let me leave again… Or I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t love you.

But you couldn’t. Because you already knew how Jack operated.

He let you in just far enough and then he shut the door, quiet and clean. Like it had never opened in the first place.

Your eyes burned, your chest heavy with unsaid things.

The same weight it always carried. 

You shifted under the covers, moving slowly, carefully—like if you breathed too loudly, this entire illusion might crack open. Jack didn’t stir. His breathing was steady, slow.

You watched him for a moment longer, memorizing the way his jaw slackened in sleep, the faint scar above his left shoulder blade you never had the nerve to ask about.

He looked peaceful like this. Human.

And that only made it harder.

You slipped out of bed as quietly as you could, bare feet hitting the cold floor, limbs stiff and aching. Every inch of your body protested—tired, sore, reluctant to leave him. 

But your heart was louder.

You bent to collect your clothes off the floor, holding your breath, hoping he wouldn’t wake up. Because if he did—if he so much as whispered your name—

You didn’t trust yourself not to stay.

All you slipped on was a loose t-shirt—his, you realized halfway through pulling it over your head. It hung off one shoulder, collar stretched from too many late nights and maybe a few desperate hands.

You didn’t have it in you to put on the rest.

Just the pair of panties you’d had on hours ago, still faintly wrinkled from where they’d been discarded in the dark.

You needed a cigarette. God, you needed a cigarette.

You weren’t even a regular smoker, not really. But nights like this—mornings like this—you craved one. Not for the nicotine. For the ritual. For something slow and quiet and burning between your fingers to focus on instead of the way your chest felt like it was caving in.

You padded out of the room silently, careful not to step on the floorboard near the dresser that always creaked. The hallway was cold. Sparse. A stark contrast to the warmth of the bed you just left.

Jack’s apartment was neat, lived-in but impersonal. A few books shoved onto the built-in shelf. Stacks of old med journals. A photo of him and Michael on some fishing trip ages ago, both of them sunburnt and squinting and younger than you’d ever seen Jack look.

You bypassed the kitchen, went straight for the balcony. Slid the door open just enough to squeeze through.

The city was still asleep. Pittsburgh before sunrise had a strange, almost sacred hush to it—still full of steel and ghosts.

You leaned your elbows on the railing, the hem of Jack’s shirt fluttering around your thighs in the early morning breeze.

You didn’t even have a cigarette. Just the craving.

The silence. The ache.

You let your eyes slip shut for a second, trying to slow your breathing.

Tried not to think about how badly you wanted this to be something it wasn’t. How stupidly, hopelessly in love you might be with him. And how deeply you hated yourself for it.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, bare legs prickling against the morning chill, teeth gently worrying your bottom lip. The city stretched out below—silent, gray, and endless.

It was terrifying how much you wanted him.

Not just his hands, not just the way he whispered your name when he was too tired to keep up the act. You wanted all the messy, sharp-edged parts of him. The things he buried beneath sarcasm and coffee and barking orders in trauma bay one.

You wanted the man who rolled his eyes at residents but stayed a few hours after his harder shifts ended to check on critical but recovering patients. The man who never flinched in chaos but looked like he might unravel every time you brushed your fingers through his curly hair.

And you hated that he had no idea. Or worse—he did, and chose to ignore it.

Because you weren’t asking for everything. You would’ve settled for something.

Something real. Something honest.

Even just a reason to stay.

You let out a shaky breath and rubbed at your arms, suddenly aware of just how little you were wearing—and how much that shirt still smelled like him. Soap and antiseptic. Jack Abbot in every thread.

You were so lost in your head you didn’t hear the door slide open.

“Thought you were gone.”

His voice was low. Rough with sleep. And somehow still managed to scrape down your spine like he meant it to.

You didn’t turn around right away. Just stared out at the skyline, eyes burning. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Silence stretched for a beat. Two. You could feel him behind you, the weight of his presence like gravity.

“You didn’t.” He sounded closer now. “You cold?”

You shrugged, not trusting your voice.

Jack stepped beside you, his hand brushing your elbow, the warmth of his skin startling after the chill. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there.

Looking at you like he wasn’t sure what you were doing out here. Like maybe he was afraid to ask.

Like maybe he already knew.

And it would’ve been so easy to say nothing. To go back inside. To pretend.

But pretending was starting to feel like slow suffocation.

The silence stretched, long and taut, like the few inches between your bodies were holding back something massive—unspoken, unbearable.

Your arms stayed crossed over your chest, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like it might anchor you. The wind picked up slightly, brushing your hair across your face, but you didn’t move to fix it.

You blinked hard. Once. Twice. But it didn’t stop the way your throat tightened or how your eyes blurred at the edges.

You weren’t even sure why you were crying.

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was standing next to someone who could make you feel so much and give you so little in return.

Maybe it was the way he was looking at you now—concern buried beneath the usual guarded expression, like he knew something was wrong and didn’t know how to fix it.

Your chin wobbled, just barely, and you tried to suck in a breath. Swallow it down. Pretend it wasn’t happening. But then your shoulders hitched, and the first quiet sob slipped out before you could stop it.

“Shit,” you muttered, brushing at your face, willing yourself to hold it together. “God, I’m sorry—just—ignore me. It’s fine.”

But Jack didn’t move. Didn’t walk away.

He was still as stone beside you, until he suddenly wasn’t.

You felt it before you saw it—the weight of his arm slipping around your shoulders, pulling you into the warmth of his chest like he didn’t even think about it. Like it was instinct.

You froze at first, breath caught mid-sob, body stiff. But he didn’t let go.

His other hand came up slowly to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, cradling you gently—like you might shatter if he held you any other way.

“You’re not fine,” he murmured against your temple. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me, not here.”

You let yourself fold into him then, tears soaking into his shirt—his damn shirt—your hands fisting into the fabric like it might hold you together.

And for a minute, he just held you.

No tension. No boundaries. No pretending.

Just Jack. Warm and quiet and there.

You didn’t know how long he held you.

Long enough for the sobs to taper off into something softer—just a tremble in your chest, the occasional sniff as your face pressed against his collarbone.

Jack hadn’t said anything else. He didn’t need to. His hands had found their way to your back, slow and steady, like he was grounding you the way you’d done for him more times than you could count.

You were the one who finally pulled back. Not far—just enough to see his face.

The early morning light caught the edge of his jaw, the tired lines under his eyes, the hint of wariness there. Always. You could practically hear his thoughts spinning—calculating, retreating.

You could see him closing the door already.

So you asked quietly, breaking the hush between you both: “Do you ever think about what we’re doing?”

It wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t dramatic.

Just honest.

His brow furrowed slightly. His hands didn’t move from your back. “You mean... right now?”

You gave a small, tired laugh. “No. I mean this. Us. What this is.”

Jack was quiet again. But his jaw tightened. That always came first with him—before the words, before the honesty. His body braced like he was expecting a blow.

“I try not to,” he said finally, voice low. Raw. “Because if I do, it scares the hell out of me.”

Your heart stuttered at that.

He looked away, gaze fixed on some point out across the balcony railing. “I’m not good at this,” he added. “I’ve never been. And with you…” His throat bobbed, the muscles in his neck tensing. “It’s not casual. Not for me.”

You stared at him, not sure if you’d heard him right.

“It hasn’t been for a long time,” he said, softer now. “I just didn’t know how to tell you without ruining it.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Like something in your chest had split open, but not in the way that hurt.

“Jack…” you whispered.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And for the first time, he wasn’t guarded.

Wasn’t hiding.

Just a man, standing barefoot on a balcony at five in the morning, holding the only person who had ever made him want to try again.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “But I don’t know how to keep you either.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just watched him.

Jack Abbot—brilliant, maddening, insufferably closed-off Jack—was finally cracking open, right in front of you. And not because you pried him apart. Not because you caught him in a weak moment.

Because he chose to.

And God, that scared you. Maybe even more than the silence had.

You swallowed, voice still hoarse from crying. “I wasn’t going to come back after last time.”

Jack blinked. “What?”

You gave a small, sad smile. “After that shift where I got pulled to peds… You didn’t say a word to me for almost 48 hours. Didn’t even look at me unless someone else was around. I told myself I was done.”

Jack ran a hand over his face, guilt flashing across it like a burn. “I remember.”

“I thought maybe I imagined all of it,” you whispered. “Everything between us. That maybe I made it into something it wasn’t just because I wanted it to be.”

His hazel eyes met yours, sharp and searching. “You didn’t imagine it.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“Every time I shut down, every time I pulled away—” He shook his head, jaw clenching. “It wasn’t because I didn’t feel it. It was because I did. Too much.”

That silence came again, but this time it wasn’t as heavy.

You leaned your hip against the railing, arms still folded loosely, the edge of his shirt catching in the breeze. “Then why push me away?”

“Because if I let myself want this…” He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “If I let myself want you—then it’s real. And if it’s real, it’s not just sex or more shared shifts… Or a warm body in my bed when the world’s too loud. It’s something I could fuck up.”

You stared at him, something raw blooming beneath your ribs.

“You’re not fucking it up,” you said quietly. “But you will if you keep treating me like I’m  something to be afraid of.”

Jack didn’t answer at first. Just looked at you with something unspoken in his eyes—hope or regret or maybe both.

“I don’t know how to be what you deserve,” he said finally. “But I want to try.”

You let the words hang there. Let yourself feel them.

Then, slowly, you reached out—your hand finding his, fingers curling around the calloused warmth of it. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He looked down at your joined hands like it was the first time he’d been touched. Then back at you.

“Then stay,” he said, voice rough. Barely a whisper. “Just… stay.”

He didn’t say another word.

Just looked at you—eyes tired, earnest, open in a way you’d almost forgotten he could be. And then he laced his fingers fully with yours, squeezing gently like a silent promise.

Then, without fanfare, he turned and led you back inside.

The balcony door slid shut behind you, sealing out the cool morning air and the hum of the waking city. Everything inside was still—soft shadows spilling across the floor, quiet warmth clinging to the apartment walls like it had soaked into the bones of the place.

Jack didn’t let go of your hand. Not even when you passed through the living room. Not when your bare feet padded across the hardwood. Not when the bedroom door came into view.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak.

He just brought you to the bed—unmade, sheets rumpled, still heavy with the weight of what had happened between you hours before.

But this time, he didn’t pull you down onto it like he usually would.

This time, he turned to face you fully, and with the same careful touch he used when someone flatlined under his hands, he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m not good at a lot of things,” he murmured, voice so low it barely carried in the stillness. “But I’ll be better. If you let me.”

You nodded, throat thick, and he bent to press a kiss to your forehead—tender, reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything. That just was.

Then he gently guided you down with him, one arm curled around your waist as he pulled the covers over both of you.

There was no urgency. No edge. Just the press of his body behind yours, solid and warm and present.

His hand rested at your hip, not possessive, just there. His breathing evened out slowly, and after a while, so did yours.

You didn’t say anything else.

You didn’t have to.

Jack’s breath was warm against the back of your neck, steady now, like the storm had passed through him and left something quieter in its wake.

You shifted just enough to turn toward him, your nose brushing his chest. He looked down at you through half-lidded eyes, sleep tugging at the edges of both of you, but neither quite ready to let go.

You watched each other in that stillness. No shields. No walls. Just two people, bruised in all the same places, finally giving in.

His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, as if to wipe away what your tears had left behind. You leaned into the touch without thinking, heart slow and aching.

Then, slowly—like he was asking permission with every breath—he kissed you.

Soft at first. Barely there. A whisper of a promise pressed to your lips.

Then deeper. Warmer. Like he was pouring every word he hadn’t said into the shape of your mouth. It wasn’t hungry or hurried. It didn’t ask for anything more.

It just was.

When he finally pulled back, you were still close enough to feel the words rumble against his chest.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, and you aren’t either.”

The last thing you saw before your eyes fluttered closed was the faintest trace of sunrise creeping through the edge of the blackout curtains—soft, golden light spilling into the room like forgiveness.

And with his arms around you, breath synced with yours, you let it pull you under.

For once, you didn’t fight it.

You just stayed.

mercvry-glow 2025

[dameronspector]

Pretty

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary: You tell Joaquin that he’s pretty.

Warnings: literally nothing. Plain old cotton candy fluff. Lots of kisses.

AN: had to write this because I need to talk about how gorgeous Danny is omg. This is how Joaquin smiles when you tell him he’s pretty btw:

It was an off day for the both of you. Currently you were lounging on the sofa in that post-lunch drowsy mood. He was sitting with your feet in his lap, slouched with his head resting on the back of the couch. He was scrolling through his phone and massaging your feet at the same time. He must be reading something because he’s got that furrow between his eyebrows that he has everytime he’s thinking about something or is focused.

You were lying down with a book that you’ve been meaning to finish for a long time. The problem was that you just couldn’t help but get distracted every now and then because the light was hitting Joaquin’s face just perfectly, making his sharp features appear even more pronounced, his hair was curlier than usual as he had not used too many hair products today and he was wearing one of his goddamn muscle tees again, which made his toned arms stand out even more.

This boy was out there to destroy your peace, because how can someone be so breathtakingly gorgeous?

You didn’t even realise when you put your book down on your chest and just looked at him. It was making your heart burst and stomach erupt in butterflies because how did you get so lucky with this pretty boy? Yeah. That’s what he was. A pretty boy. Isaiah was so right.

You were thinking so deeply about him that at one point you muttered, “You’re so pretty”, with a dazed expression on your face.

It must be too quiet in the room because he immediately snapped his neck to you. “Wha’ was that?”, he asked with his eyes wide.

You snapped out of your daze and you swore you must’ve heard some romantic music play around you because suddenly it was too quiet. Had you said that out loud?

You just blinked your eyes at him and gaped your mouth like a fish.

“Uh…what?”, you asked nervously.

Joaquin looked at you and flashed you a dopey smile. “Baby…what did you say?”, he asked teasingly and rubbed your calves.

You tried averting your gaze and picked up your book to hide your blush behind it. It was of no use as Joaquin took your book away (he made sure to put his thumb in the pages you read to mark it first) and held it in his lap.

“Give me my book-”

“Nope. You first tell me what did you just say”, he said cheekily.

You covered your face with your hands and mumbled in them, “I said, you’re pretty.”

You didn’t see the way Joaquin’s face burst into one of his million dollar smiles.

He let out a giggle, put your book on the coffee table and removed your hands from your face. “C’mere, angel”, he said while gently pulling you up to straddle his lap.

You reluctantly let yourself get pulled into his lap. Once you were settled, he held both of your hands in his and gently caressed the backs of them with his thumbs. You looked at him from behind your lashes and saw how his shiny brown eyes were adoringly looking at you.

He saw the way you were shyly averting your eyes so he gently held your chin in one of his hands and brought your eyes to his face.

“You think I’m pretty? Not just pretty, you think I’m so pretty?”, he said while smiling at you and caressing your cheek to soothe the redness appearing on it.

You blushed once again, (which is your default mode around him) but now that you were closer to him, you looked at all the details on his face that you couldn’t see before. The way his eyes are so brown, like coffee or smooth chocolate, and how they seem to be always shining with love, affection and passion—for everything he holds near and dear to him. Especially for you.

Then your focus shifted to the gorgeous, tiny moles scattered across his face. Your favourites were the ones in a triangle on his chin and the one above his upper lip.

You couldn’t resist the urge to lean down and press soft kisses to the moles on his chin and the one above his lip. He closed his eyes when your lips touched his skin and he let out a sigh. You leaned back and pulled your hands out of his to put them on his cheeks, while his went around your waist and below your shirt to caress your back.

You caressed his cheeks with your thumbs and murmured lovingly, “Yeah, you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen, ‘Quino.”

Now, it was his turn to blush as you saw how his cheeks turned redder than usual and he let out a little giggle. His eyes crinkled with joy and he kissed your palm while leaning his head on it.

“Shut uuuup”, he murmured shyly, dragging out the ‘up’.

Looking at him behave like a shy teenager made you giggle and you squished his cheeks between your hands.

“Whaaat? It’s true. Even Isaiah agrees. You’re a pretty boy. So pretty. So beautiful. I’m so lucky you’re mine and I’m so jealous that others get to see you as well”, you said while pinching his cheeks, making him blush and giggle harder.

“Alright! alright! that’s enough”, he replied while pressing your hands to his cheeks and biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

“Why? You wanted to hear what I said. I’m just repeating it for you!”, you said while smirking and staring deeply into his eyes, taking advantage of his sudden shyness.

“Or are you not satisfied? I could go on and on…I love your little lunares so much that I could kiss and trace them all day long”, you whispered while taking your hands off his cheeks and using your fingers to trace his moles.

“Or…how much I love when you don’t use much product in your hair…you’ve got the most beautiful curls, baby”, you ran your hands through his hair and saw him close his eyes in content.

You know he was secretly enjoying this.

“Or…your arms- my god. They look so scrumptious right now-” you didn’t get to finish your sentence as he gently put his hand on the back of your neck and pulled you closer to kiss you passionately.

You tangled your hands in his curls and brought him closer to deepen the kiss. You scratched his scalp with your hands and he put his hands up your shirt to caress your back.

You pulled away to take a breath and touched your forehead to his. You leaned back and rubbed your nose against the slope of his and he flashed his breathtaking smile at you again, looking at you like you hung the moon and stars in the sky.

“You’re going to be the death of me, baby.”

You just smile at him and flutter kisses all over his face.

AN: i really, REALLY wanna kiss danny’s moles.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Beyond Misconceptions

summary: joaquin is usually the poster child for positivity, but sometimes the doubt creeps in.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: angst, jealous/insecure!joaquin, arguing, depictions of anxiety

wc: 1,675

an: based on this requested concept! it went a bit different than expected but i hope yall still enjoy <3 (and also hope it will hold yall over until vuelve pt. v is done!!!)

danny ramirez characters masterlist

Most of the time, Joaquin loves his job. He loves the brother he’s found in Sam, the tangible way he sees himself helping people day in and day out. The feeling of soaring through the sky, the invincibility that he seems to find in the wind.

But, what Joaquin doesn’t love about the job is the rift that it can sometimes create between you. One could say he’s being dramatic by using the word rift— you have never once complained, never made him feel guilty for the unpredictability of his schedule.

You always tell him that you know what you signed up for when you fell in love with him. And you do.

Joaquin is certainly grateful for your love and understanding, but it’s days like today that make him want to find some 9-5 to nurse.

When he steps into the party you two were meant to attend together an hour and a half late, he’s eager to see you. That eagerness twists into something ugly when he sees you. You, standing in a group, but primarily talking to some guy he doesn’t recognize.

You look…happy. Happy to be talking with a guy who showed up on time. With a guy who doesn’t put his life on the line, and your relationship on hold at the drop of a hat.

He can’t decide what he wants to do more— leave and let you be happy or put himself between you and this mystery guy.

As if you can feel him, you glance over in his direction, lighting up at the sight of him. That restless mix of jealousy and guilt fades a little with you so excited to see him.

“Quino,” You call to him, waving him over. When he makes it to you, you reach for his hand immediately, drawing him so that you can place a kiss on his cheek. “Made in one piece, I see, cariño.”

“Siempre lo hago,” he murmurs, snaking an arm around your waist. “So who’s this?”

You introduce Joaquin to the guy easily, slipping him into the conversation without missing a beat. Paul. Joaquin nods along, lets you pull him closer, listens as you chat, and laughs like nothing is wrong. Like he wasn’t late. Like you weren’t having a perfectly good time without him.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust you. He does. It’s just that tonight feels like a reminder of everything he isn’t—someone who shows up on time, someone whose job doesn’t put you second. And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it doesn’t matter, but it still twists something sharp in his chest.

His grip tightens just slightly on your waist. You glance up at him, brows furrowing in quiet question, but he just shakes his head, forcing a small smile. You don’t push, but something in your gaze lingers. You know him too well. You always do.

You’re driving the two of you home, music spilling softly out of the speaker when you decide to break the tension that’s been building.

“So what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You were being…possessive?” The word comes out of your mouth like a question because you’re not entirely sure. Nothing like this has ever happened with Joaquin— it’s unfamiliar territory.

“Claro que no,” he insists.

You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes. “Yeah, because that wasn’t defensive at all.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your eyes flicker over at him momentarily, and you soften at his visible tension. You’re gentler when you speak again, “Soy yo, Quino. We don’t lie to each other, we don’t do this… jealous thing that you did tonight. I don’t know that guy, I probably won’t ever see him again and I’m fine with that.”

“It wasn’t about that.”

“Oh, but it was about something? What could I have possibly done when I hadn’t seen you in days?”

“Querida— you didn’t do anything— it’s not… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You purse your lips, feeling a little frustrated. “I want you to tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. And if you can’t now, then think about it and we’ll talk about it before bed. Deal?”

The silence stretches between you, the music sounding much louder in the wake of your breaths.

Eventually, Joaquin says begrudgingly, “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“What do you want?”

“You,” He says softly, and nothing more.

—

Once you and Joaquin get home, you don’t push. You refuse to when he’s being so elusive, so guarded in a way he’s never been. You aren’t really sure what to do with it and it makes your stomach churn. You make your way straight to the shower without so much of a glance in his direction.

Joaquin wants to call after you, but can’t find his voice. Not a surprise when he feels his mind is completely scrambled.

All of this has tilted you off your axis. You make sure the water is scalding hot, hoping that the steam will steep out your thoughts of insecurity and unease. By the time you make it out, it just feels like they’ve grown louder, rooting deeper into your brain stem.

You make your way into the kitchen, walking past Joaquin where he’s sat on the couch. He watches you quietly as you make tea, unsure if you still want to talk or if he’s created the catalyst for his worst fear; losing you.

“So are we gonna talk about it or are you gonna keep staring at me?”

“Mi amor—“

You huff as you sit the chair across from him, “No, don’t mi amor me when you won’t even tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s not that I won’t, it’s that—“

“If you say you can’t, Joaquin, te juro por Dios.”

“I was gonna say that I’m struggling to figure out how. There’s too much up here, you know that. Usually, it’s just cheery.”

“I’m not asking you to be cheery, I’m asking you to be honest.”

Joaquin sighs, leaning forward to place his face in his hands. “When I saw you with him, I just— it made me wonder if you deserve better than me.”

Your brow furrows. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You’re in a relationship with a man you’re going to outlive. I’m never home, I’m always late as hell. Every day I force you to wait— for me or for a call that’ll break your heart. Don’t you think you deserve somebody that can be there for you? Someone, you aren’t afraid of losing every damn day?”

“I knew what I was getting into when I chose to start this with you. I know that you want to be around and be more consistent, but Quino, you’re out there saving the world. I can’t ask you to put down your dreams because you missed the first hour of a party.”

“I‘ve missed more than just an hour of a party. What happens when it’s our wedding? Or if you get sick? What if you need me and I miss something big? That guy, he could give you that.”

You lean forward, reaching across the coffee table to place your hand over his. “Then we’ll reschedule. Or my parents will take care of me. Or I’ll need you and I’ll be really sad that you’re not there but eventually, you will be. I don’t give a fuck about that guy. I don’t even remember his name. What I do remember, is how much I love you and how long it took me to have the courage to tell you that.”

Joaquin looks down at your hands before interlacing your fingers together. Your words soothe him even as he wrestles with the fact that he wants to give you more. He’ll try to give you more— you deserve it and so does the health of your relationship.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you?” you challenge, wanting him to truly think about it.

There are things about your relationship with Joaquin that are less than ideal and certainly compromise but that’s part of love. Compromising and making things work with the people that you love. Joaquin is loyal, loving, and tender; he always makes you laugh and takes your feelings seriously. He just happens to be a superhero, one you have to share with the world.

How selfish would it be to take him away from people that need him?

He squeezes your hand reassuringly, “I’m sure. ¿Me dirás si algo cambia?”

“Lo prometo.”

Joaquin leans back into the couch, patting his lap, “Ven.”

You quickly make your way to sit in his lap, wrapping both your arms around his neck as you let your legs dangle across the couch.

“Te amo, princesa.”

“I know, I love you too,” you murmur, running a hand affectionately through his hair.

Joaquin’s eyes fall to your lips, and when he finally leans in, his mouth brushes yours softly, a quiet promise that everything will be okay. His thumb traces your cheek, and it feels like all the unsaid words are finally spoken in the wax and wane of this gentle kiss. You close your eyes, grounding yourself in the feeling of him, of home. As he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath shaky, and you both linger there, knowing that in this moment, everything is enough.

After several moments of silence, Joaquin’s lips find your ear, “Paul.”

You lean away from where you’d gotten comfortable on his chest to look at him quizzically. “What?”

“The guy’s name— fucking Paul.”

You laugh, shaking the both of you. “I’ve already forgotten again. I’m more focused on this marriage you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m thinking under the cherry blossoms.”

“You should think about the blow your bank account is gonna take getting me a ring.”

Joaquin raises a brow at you, “Who says I don’t already have it, hermosa?”

You squint at him— usually, you’re pretty good at telling if he’s bluffing but his features are smoothed into the perfect poker face. “You lying?”

“Guess you’ll just have to find out, baby.”

lmk if you'd like to be on the sfw (or nsfw for 18+) joaquin taglist!

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[phantomvegetable]

Ghostface x Deaf!Reader

you had a heartbeat like no other tw’s: like one bad word, stalking, danny being danny

Danny would never get tired of the thrilling thrum of his prey’s heart whenever he closed in on them.

The Entity allowed him—and all other killers—the enticing privilege of hearing a survivor’s quickening pulse the moment he came within striking range of his targets. It was like the low hum of a bass that reverberated in his own sternum, lighting every cell on fire with a tingling sensation. It was addicting.

And it never got old.

Here you were, his new obsession: sweating profusely, grimy with dirt and grease, working tirelessly—or was that anxiety Danny smelled? probably both—to repair a generator he sunk his boot in minutes before to aggravate the progress of his puny victims. And, like a moth to the flame, you flew right into his trap. If Danny could purr, he would be doing so right now.

Covered by the shadows, you suspected nothing, until the costume-clad predator took one, tiny step forward, and immediately the air shifted.

Electricity shot up inside of Danny as your head and heart jolted, your chin swiveling left and right to find the source of impending doom within the rubble. Like a drug, your heartbeat had Danny’s brain doing somersaults and his body shivering in anticipation, and instinctively he flexed his fingers around the concrete he hid behind. He wanted to get closer.

Stealthily, he used the broken building to his advantage; creeping around corners and blending with the shadows until he was a ghost away from your presence. Upon closer review, Danny observed the round, flesh-colored objects obstructing your ears, causing his head to tilt. Were you hard of hearing?

A terrible, crude grin stretched behind his mask. Even better.

Like a cat, Danny wordlessly crept behind you until he could reach out and barely scrape the back of your nape with the tips of his leather fingers, earning a sharp gasp and full-body shudder from you. The goosebumps were hard to miss. Danny chortled.

You immediately whipped around, giving Danny full view of your face. Wide, petrified eyes and a gaping mouth pulled taut in fear; hair disheveled from the quick movement, strands sticking to your forehead from perspiration. Delicious pheromones wafted through the mask into Danny’s nostrils, and he inhaled deeply the scent of terror like it was oxygen. It almost gave him a buzz, but that’s not what he came closer for.

Knife withdrawn, Danny traced it along the floor towards you, making sure you felt the vibrations as much as he heard the scratching. He trailed it up your arm and across your clavicle until the blade was right against your throat, making sure to press just hard enough so that when you had to swallow, you would feel the promise of death.

“Ah,” Danny all but sighed as he took in your horrified state, loving how still you were forced to be. Drastically, his mood shifted to one of seriousness, which you somehow picked up on as he felt your pulse spike. “You,” Danny spoke as he pointed an index finger in your face, fluidly shifting his hand until his thumb and pinky were extended in an upside down y-shape, “stay still. Understand?”

Careful not to aggravate the knife biting into your skin, you curtly nodded, blinking owlishly up at the killer. Pleased, Danny smirked before leaning his head down, placing an ear over your chest, and—ah. There it was.

Dump, da dump, da dump dump dump.

Like music to his ears.

At a loss for, well, anything, you remained rigid, fearing for what might happen if you moved even an inch. Sweat continued to build on your temple until it ran down your face, sliding off of your cheek and onto your pants. Ghostface didn’t seem to mind this. If anything, he cuddled even closer, the movement causing your heart rate to spike.

Ghostface groaned, a noise you felt bubble from his throat and ripple through your chest until it popped into a hot flush in your face, making you extremely uncomfortable. Was he going to kill you or smother you to death?

The pressure at your throat increased, and you decided he would do both.

Taking a few more minutes to relish in your rapid heartbeat, Danny sighed, knowing this precious little moment would come to an end.

But that meant killing you. So, it was a win-win, really.

As he pulled away, Danny made eye contact with your wild gaze, something that he knew he shouldn’t do. The pleading, teary-eyed look you had had his heart cartwheeling all over again—possibly even moreso than the enriching thrum of your heart. The next time he had his camera, Danny would make sure to snap a relic of it. Sighing, he sat back on his haunches.

“Fine,” He hissed, huffy and dramatic, “you get three minutes to run. Capeesh?”

When you didn’t reply, Danny rolled his eyes from beneath the scream he wore and raised both hands (knife tucked beneath his thumb), striking a finger down for every second you had remaining to get your ass up and run.

Acknowledgement flashed in your eyes, and quickly you scrambled to your feet, knocking your ribs into the generator on your way out. The hiss you made makes Danny chuckle, and slowly he gets up without finishing the countdown. How naive of you to trust him; he was a killer, after all.

The sound of your terrified heartbeat follows you out the door just as Danny does, ears tuned to the enthralling thumping that had him closing his eyes. He would never get tired of this.

[writer-freak]

Michael Myers x Ghostface x Fem reader

Kinktober week 5 - Threesome, double penetration and primal

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: NSFW, female reader, fingering, unprotected sex, anal penetration (reader receiving), p in v, no proper prep, nipple play (reader and Michael receiving), biting, petnames, english isn't my first language, probably forgot something

A/n: So life got in the way so this took longer than expected but better late then never. I'm planning on writing a male and probably also gender neutral version of this which shouldn't take too long but I finished this first and wanted to post. I'm really not used to writing two characters actually engaging with each other so I hope this turned out fine.

The night was cool, the sound of rain overwhelming you while the fog moved around the realm. You ran, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you maneuvered between the trees, your heart pounding in your chest.

Every rustle, every shadow seemed to come alive as you sprinted deeper between the trees. You knew this was a game, a sick, thrilling game that had been crafted just for you by the two predators on your trail. Michael and Danny had already wiped out the other survivors, but they kept you alive. And you knew why.

They loved the chase, the adrenaline, the hunt. And you couldn’t deny that some twisted part of you loved it too. The feeling of being prey, of being stalked by not one, but two deadly killers, had heat pooling in your belly. Your relationship with them was… complicated, to say the least.

You weren’t just some faceless survivor to be eliminated. No, with them, it was different. The three of you had a connection that went beyond the usual hunt, a dark and exciting bond that kept you coming back for more. And tonight was no different. Your breath hitched as you glanced over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of movement in the shadows.

Michael’s figure loomed in the distance, his expressionless mask a stark contrast in the darkness, moving silently through the trees. You could almost feel his gaze on you, like a physical weight pressing against your skin.

And then there was Danny just out of sight, but you knew he was there. He always was, lurking, waiting to strike when you least expected it. A thrill shot through you as you pushed yourself harder, your legs burning as you darted between the trees, your heart hammering in your chest.

You had to keep running, had to stay ahead. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before they caught you. They always did. And part of you couldn’t wait for it.

The sound of footsteps grew louder behind you, the rustle of leaves and the snap of twigs signaling their approach.

You could hear Danny’s familiar voice, taunting, teasing. “You can run, sweetheart, but you know we’ll catch you. It’s only a matter of time.” His words were filled with amusement, like a cat playing with its prey.

A sharp breath escaped you as you stumbled, your body hitting the ground hard. For a moment, everything went still—the forest, the air, even your heartbeat seemed to pause. And then, you felt it. The presence of your hunters closing in.

Before you could scramble to your feet, a shadow fell over you, and a strong hand gripped your arm, pulling you up. Michael. His mask was blank, unreadable, but you could feel the power radiating off of him as he loomed over you, holding you in place with ease.

Danny appeared at your other side, his knife glinting in the low light as he crouched down, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Caught you,” he purred, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Your heart raced, but it wasn’t fear that made your pulse spike it was something far darker, something more primal. You could feel heat pooling between your legs as they both loomed over you, the rush of being caught setting your nerves alight.

“What do we do with you now, huh?” Danny’s voice was teasing, but the hunger in his voice was obvious as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You look like you enjoyed the chase, didn’t you?” You couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped your lips as his words sent a shiver down your spine. Michael’s grip tightened on your arm, pulling you even closer to him, his body solid and unmovable against your back.

Danny chuckled, his breath hot against your skin. “I think it’s time for your reward.” By the time they had dragged you to a place better suited for your reward, the tension between the three of you was nearly unbearable.

Michael’s grip on you hadn’t loosened, his hands possessive as they roamed your body, Danny removed his mask his sharp gaze following Michael's every movement, his smirk never fading.

They didn’t speak much, not that Michael ever did, but you could feel the silent understanding between them. Danny was the talker for both of them, his taunts and teases filling the air as they slowly, stripped you down to nothing, their hands roaming over every inch of your skin with a reverence that sent sparks through your body.

“Look at you, all worked up,” Danny muttered, his lips trailing down your neck as he pressed you back against Michael’s chest. “You love this, don’t you? Being the prey. Being hunted.” His voice was thick with amusement, but you could hear the heat beneath it, the barely contained hunger in his words.

You whimpered softly, your body trembling as Michael’s hands slid over your waist, his grip firm, holding you in place as Danny’s mouth moved lower. “You’re gonna look so good between us,” Danny murmured, his teeth grazing your collarbone as his hands wandered lower, his fingers brushing against your thighs in a featherlight caress. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Michael’s grip on your hips stayed strong feeling him holding onto you as Danny took his time savoring every inch of your exposed skin. He let his hands roam over you, leaving trails of heat wherever he touched, teasing you with feather-light caresses that left you squirming between the two of them.

Danny’s fingers brushed over your cheek as he leaned in, voice a low, tantalizing whisper. “You know he’s watching you,” he murmured, letting his thumb graze your lower lip. “Watching every little reaction, just like I am.”

His gaze darted to Michael, who stood like a shadow behind you, unmoving but you could feel him watching everything.

Danny’s eyes shone with a playful light as he shifted, moving close enough to press his lips against Michael’s mask, planting a slow, deliberate kiss against the blank face. The motion was almost mocking, yet oddly tender, as if daring Michael to break his silence.

You could almost see the tension crackling between them, and Michael’s hand slid down to grip Danny’s wrist, forceful but not resisting. You watched, breathless, as Danny chuckled, peeling the mask up just enough to reveal Michael’s mouth.

For a moment, Michael was exposed, his lips parting as Danny leaned in again, capturing them in a hard, possessive kiss. You felt heat coil inside you as they moved against each other, Michael’s hand tightening around Danny’s arm with an unmistakable intensity.

After a few moments, Danny pulled back, his lips curling into a wicked grin. “See, he’s hungry too,” he said, his voice low, almost taunting. “And it looks like you’re the prize for both of us.”

Danny’s mouth returned to you, hot and insistent as he worked his way down your neck, leaving a path of bruises and bites in his wake. His teeth grazed your skin, sharp enough to sting but not break, his tongue following each nip with soothing warmth.

Behind you, Michael’s large hands slid possessively over your waist and hips, his rough fingertips gripping with a force that left you trembling.

Michael’s breath fanned against your neck as his hands moved upward, skimming along your ribs and finally cupping your breasts. His touch was firm, possessive, his fingers brushing your nipples in rough circles that made you gasp.

Without a word, he leaned down, brushing his lips against the nape of your neck. Each kiss he left lingered hotly on your skin, his mouth branding you as his.

Danny’s hands slipped lower, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His mouth curved into a wicked smile as you whimpered under his teasing touch. “Look at you, already trembling,” he murmured against your collarbone.

“Can’t decide if it’s from fear or excitement, can you?” His voice was mocking yet dripping with desire as he knelt before you, pulling your legs wider to make room for him.

Michael’s hands slid back down to your hips, steadying you against his broad frame as Danny settled between your thighs. Michael’s height left you caught perfectly between them, his powerful body supporting you from behind while Danny’s lips and hands worked their way lower.

You felt Michael’s hardness pressing against the curve of your backside, a silent reminder of what awaited you, as Danny’s fingers teased and tested you.

Danny’s lips trailed down your body, leaving a burning path across your stomach. His fingers splayed across your thighs, thumbs brushing just close enough to your core to make you ache. “So ready for us,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction as he spread you open.

His eyes flicked up to yours, watching your every reaction as his tongue darted out to tease you. A soft gasp escaped your lips as his fingers pressed against your slick folds, spreading you further.

“You’re already dripping,” Danny teased, his voice dark and mocking. “So desperate for us to ruin you.” His thumb pressed against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, testing how much you could take.

He circled the sensitive bud with agonizing patience, his fingers slick with your arousal as he finally slid one inside, the stretch making you moan.

Michael’s hands gripped your hips tightly as Danny worked. The firm press of Michael’s chest against your back left you grounded, his presence overwhelming even in silence.

One of his hands moved upward again, fingers brushing your neck before sliding into your hair and gripping it firmly. The tug forced your head back, exposing your throat to him. He leaned down, lips brushing over your pulse before nipping at the skin.

Danny’s smirk widened as he pushed another finger inside you, the stretch exquisite as he began to curl them in slow, deliberate strokes. His free hand gripped your thigh, keeping you in place as he worked you open. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice low and dark as his fingers thrust into you with increasing intensity. “You’re taking me so well.”

His eyes darted upward, meeting Michael’s over your shoulder. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?” Danny said, his tone laced with smug satisfaction. His pace quickened, fingers plunging deeper as his thumb pressed harder against your clit. The combined sensations left you trembling, your body arching into him as he continued his unrelenting rhythm.

Michael’s grip on your hair tightened, pulling you back against him as he let out a low, approving growl. His free hand slid down to your chest, cupping your breast roughly as his thumb brushed over your hardened nipple.

Danny leaned in closer, his breath hot against your inner thigh. His tongue darted out, flicking against your clit in time with his fingers. You cried out at the sudden burst of sensation, your legs shaking as he pressed deeper. “That’s it,” Danny whispered, his lips brushing against your skin. “Let us hear you.”

Michael’s hand joined Danny’s, his larger fingers brushing against Danny’s as they both worked to stretch you further. The contrast in their touches was maddening, Danny’s quick and teasing, Michael’s deliberate and firm. Together, they pushed you higher, their coordination leaving you helpless between them.

Danny pulled back slightly, his lips wet and glistening as he smirked up at you. “You like that, don’t you?” he taunted, sliding his fingers out just enough to leave you feeling empty before plunging them back in. His pace was relentless, his free hand now gripping your hip to steady you as he curled his fingers just right, hitting a spot that made your breath hitch.

Michael leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear hearing his heavy breathing. His fingers pressed harder against your clit, circling with calculated precision.

Danny’s mouth quickly replaced Michael's fingers, his tongue flicking over your sensitive nub before sucking it between his lips. The combination of their touches left you gasping, your body arching into them as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

“Come on,” Danny coaxed, his voice low and commanding as he added another finger. “Let go for us. We’re not even close to done with you.”

You cried out, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Michael’s grip on your hair softened, his hand sliding down to your waist to steady you as Danny slowed his pace, letting you ride out your climax.

When Danny finally pulled his fingers away, he brought them to his mouth, his eyes locking with yours as he licked them clean, savoring every drop.

Michael released his hold on you just enough to guide you down, his hands firm as they moved you to straddle Danny.

Danny exchanged a smirk with Michael, their unspoken understanding clear in the intensity of their gazes.

Michael’s silence spoke volumes as he gripped your hips, his strong hands cold against your heated skin. The warmth of his breath against the back of your neck made your stomach twist with anticipation, a stark contrast to Danny’s bold teasing. The quiet exchange between the two men only intensified the heat pooling in your belly, leaving you trembling with desire.

Danny’s smirk never faltered as he took the lead, his mouth finding yours in a bruising kiss that left you gasping for air. His tongue teased and tangled with yours, possessive and challenging, as his hands roamed over your body.

Behind you, Michael shifted slightly, the hard press of his cock against your ass making your breath hitch. His quiet authority paired perfectly with Danny’s unrestrained hunger, the two of them overwhelming you with their opposing but somehow matching energies.

“You’re ours,” Danny murmured against your lips, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Let’s see how well you can handle us.”

Michael’s hands tightened on your hips as Danny’s slid lower, gripping your thighs as he positioned you over him. His cock pressed hot and firm against your entrance, the sensation enough to make you whimper.

Danny’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he guided you down onto him, the head of his cock slipping inside slowly, teasingly. The stretch was exquisite, his cock thick as he pushed deeper, filling you inch by inch. “That’s it,” Danny groaned, his hands gripping your thighs as he watched your face contort with pleasure. “Take me… every fucking inch.”

Behind you, Michael moved closer, the heat of his body warming your back as he pressed you down onto Danny’s cock. The contrast of their touches, had you trembling between them, completely at their mercy.

“You feel so fucking good,” Danny muttered, his voice thick with lust as he thrust up into you, slow and deliberate. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you steady as he began to move, each thrust driving deeper, testing your limits. “So tight, so perfect. God, I could fuck you all day.”

Michael’s deep grunt behind you sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins. Danny paused for a moment, letting you catch your breath. Just as you began to relax, you felt one of Michael’s thick fingers trailing lower, brushing lightly over the tight ring of muscle there.

The sensation made you tense, your breath hitching at the unexpected touch.

“Relax,” Danny murmured, his hands gripping your hips reassuringly as he leaned up to press a soft kiss to your lips. “Let him take care of you.”

Behind you, Michael’s large hands splayed over your ass, steadying you as his finger pressed more insistently against your unprepared entrance. The intrusion was slow, deliberate, and you couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped your lips as the tip of his finger slipped inside. The sensation was strange, new, and your body tensed instinctively against the unfamiliar pressure.

“It’s your first time, isn’t it?” Danny’s voice was a low, teasing purr against your ear, his fingers brushing lightly over your thighs. “Don’t worry. He’ll make sure you’re enjoying it.”

Michael’s finger pushed deeper, the thick digit stretching you inch by inch. The burn was sharp at first, but it was impossible to ignore the way your body responded, the slight twinge of discomfort giving way to an unfamiliar pleasure.

You squirmed beneath him, torn between nervous anticipation and the growing heat building low in your belly.

“You’re so tight here,” Danny murmured, his gaze dark and hungry as he watched your face. “Fuck, I can already tell how good you’re going to feel for him.”

Michael didn’t speak, but the way his finger moved—slowly curling, testing, coaxing you to relax—said everything. Another finger joined the first, the stretch making you whimper softly as your hands gripped Danny’s chest for support.

Your breaths came in short gasps, a mixture of nerves and arousal as your body adjusted to the unfamiliar sensation.

“You’re doing so well,” Danny praised, his fingers sliding up to tease your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure through you. “Just let him open you up… you’ll love it.”

Michael’s fingers worked deeper, the steady, relentless pressure making your body shudder as he prepared you for what was to come. Despite the initial apprehension, you found yourself relaxing into his touch, the heat pooling between your legs overwhelming your hesitation.

The stretch was intense, but the raw, almost primal pleasure that accompanied it had you trembling in his grasp.

When Michael finally withdrew his fingers, you couldn’t suppress the whimper that escaped your lips, your body clenching at the loss. But there was no time to dwell on the emptiness. The blunt head of his cock pressed firmly against your entrance, the sheer size of him making you gasp. The pressure mounted as he pushed forward, inch by inch, the stretch, unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

Danny’s hands gripped your hips tighter, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered, “Breathe, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for us.”

The thick head of Michael’s cock finally breached you, the sensation sharp and overwhelming as your body struggled to accommodate him. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but the low, guttural groan that rumbled from Michael’s chest sent a thrill through you, the sound of his pleasure drowning out the lingering discomfort.

“Fuck, she’s perfect,” Danny murmured, his hands sliding over your thighs as he guided you down onto his cock, filling you completely once again. “Taking us both so well.”

Michael’s deep, steady thrusts began slowly, the purposeful pace giving you time to adjust to the stretch. The burn eased with each movement, replaced by a growing, heady pleasure that made your body tremble. You could feel every inch of him, the thick length of his cock driving into you with an intensity that left you gasping for air.

The feeling of them both inside you at once was almost too much to bear. Danny’s cock filled you completely, his pace quickening as Michael stretched you even more, the two of them moving together with a rhythm that left you utterly wrecked. Michael’s hands gripped your hips with bruising force, his silent dominance a stark contrast to Danny’s teasing words and frantic movements.

“Look at you,” Danny groaned, his voice thick with arousal as he watched your every reaction. “Taking us both like you were made for this.” His hips bucked up to meet Michael’s thrusts, the combined sensation sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

Michael leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he drove into you with unrelenting force. The sheer power of his movements left you trembling, your body stretched and filled completely, every nerve ending alive with pleasure.

“You’re ours now,” Danny murmured, his voice a dark, possessive growl. “And we’re not letting you go.”

Michael’s silence only made his movements more commanding, his cock driving into you with precision, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. His grip on your hips never faltered, his strong hands keeping you exactly where he wanted you as he pushed you closer to the edge.

Danny leaned up, his lips finding your neck as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, leaving marks in his wake. “You’re gonna come for us, aren’t you?” he whispered against your ear, his voice a low purr. “I can feel it… you’re so fucking close.”

Your moans filled the air as they both fucked you, their cocks stretching and filling you in perfect unison. The pressure inside you built with every thrust, your body trembling as they drove you higher and higher, their movements relentless.

Michael’s hands slid up your body, one of them tangling in your hair as he pulled your head back, exposing your neck to him. His breath was hot against your skin as he pressed his lips to your throat, the faintest growl escaping him as he marked you with a sharp bite.

Danny’s wicked grin widened as he watched Michael’s rare display of possessiveness. “Even he can’t resist you,” Danny teased, his voice full of amusement as he thrust up into you harder, drawing a loud moan from your lips. “You’ve got us both completely fucking hooked.”

Danny’s cock slammed into you with unrelenting force, his fingers digging into your thighs as he chased his own release, while Michael’s powerful thrusts sent shockwaves of pleasure through you with each movement.

Your body was trembling, the pressure building inside you, threatening to spill over as they both pushed you closer to the edge. Michael’s thrusts grew harder, his grip on your hips bruising as he drove into you with monstrous intensity, while Danny’s teasing fingers played with your nipples, heightening every sensation.

And then, without warning, Danny’s hand slid up to Michael’s chest, his fingers brushing lightly over his nipples, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he toyed with the silent killer. Michael didn’t react at first, but the way his hips faltered for a split second told you everything you needed to know.

Danny chuckled low, his fingers twisting Michael’s nipples, drawing a low, barely audible grunt from the man behind you.

“So even Michael’s sensitive here,” Danny teased, his voice laced with amusement as he continued to play with Michael’s chest, his fingers flicking and pinching the sensitive nubs. “I knew it… even the big guy has his weak spots.”

Michael’s thrusts grew more erratic, his breath coming in heavier pants as Danny continued to tease him, his hips slamming into you harder as he tried to maintain control. But Danny’s playful touch was relentless, his fingers working Michael’s nipples in time with his own thrusts, making you both shudder with pleasure.

The sight of Danny teasing Michael sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body trembling as the tension built to an unbearable level. You were so close—right on the edge—and you could feel Danny grinning beneath you, sensing how close you were to falling apart.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Danny murmured, his voice low and rough as his hand slid back down to your hips, gripping you tightly. “Let go. Let us hear you scream.”

The pressure inside you finally snapped, and you came hard, your body trembling violently between them as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Your walls clenched around their cocks, drawing low groans from both of them as they continued to fuck you through your orgasm, their combined thrusts driving you to heights you didn’t think were possible.

Michael’s grip on your hips tightened as he followed you over the edge, a deep, guttural grunt escaping him as he buried himself deep inside you, his release spilling into you in hot, thick pulses. Danny wasn’t far behind, his hips bucking up into you one final time as he came with a low, drawn-out moan, his cock twitching inside you as he filled you completely.

For a moment, the three of you were still, your bodies tangled together in a heated, breathless mess. The only sound was your ragged breathing the intensity of your orgasm leaving you entirely spent.

Danny was the first to break the silence, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he brushed his hand against the bitemark on your neck. “You look so fucking good like this,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “Completely wrecked and perfect.”

Michael didn’t say anything, but the way his hands remained firmly on your hips, holding you in place even as he softened inside you, spoke volumes.

Danny chuckled softly, his hands sliding over your waist as he shifted beneath you, his cock still buried inside you. “Think she can handle another round?” he asked, his voice full of mischief as he glanced up at Michael.

Michael’s grip tightened slightly, his silent response enough to make Danny laugh. “Guess that’s a yes,” Danny said, his lips finding yours in a heated kiss. “Better get ready, sweetheart. We’re not done with you yet.”

18+ Divider by: @cafekitsune

[bernardsbendystraws]

Fresh Air

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Check out my pinned post for more of my writing.

00 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 FINAL

Summary: One night at a party seems to change everything. A strange man with a friendly smile and a sleeve of patchwork tattoos seems to make you feel at home for a change. You're finally happy to have made a good friend to lean on - especially when it comes to your not-so-great relationship with your boyfriend. But what happens if you lean too much...what happens if you fall?

Warnings: 18+. This series contains mature themes, read at your own risk. (SMUT, angst, parental troubles, financial hardships, and more. Don't like, don't read.) This warning is made for all parts.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

09: Cum and go.

wc: 1500+

I could feel his eyes on me. The hot flashes of the camera didn’t feel as electric as his stare. It was pitiful, really. I found myself losing focus, constantly looking around to find his shadow walking around. And it always seemed to be so close. 

He didn’t have to be here. Matt had no obligation to stay for anything, but he did. It was because he wanted to be there for his brother and I knew that, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I played a part too. 

“Do you need a break?” Danny asks from behind the camera. Her management voice seems to soften with the question - the same question she had asked me at least four times now, but I just couldn’t seem to be just a puppet for once. My smile kept falling, my eyes kept trailing wondrously. 

Shaking my head, I bite on my inner cheek, trying to peel my attention away from the racing thoughts and back to the shoot. 

I wish he didn’t affect me so much. Even freshly out of a relationship, I didn’t even think about Hayden this much. In fact, I had rarely thought about Hayden at all. Just a taste of bitter regret when his name floated into my mind. 

A couple more snapshots and the photographer finally calls it good. I walk over to my stuff, gathering everything back into my bag before flinging it over my shoulder. My body just feels sore. Random aches and pains were multiplying, a lack of sleep starting to catch up to me both physically and mentally. 

The hiss leaving my mouth from the sharp sting is barely audible, I look around to take one last look, my eyes landing on him, Matt. And he’s staring right back at me. 

Concern is plastered on his face. I don’t bother trying to look anymore, brushing past a small crowd of people and trying to get to the door. It’s a morning shoot, it’s barely noon and I’m exhausted. 

Grabbing the handle to the door, my heart drops as I hear fast footsteps run up from behind me. 

“Wait -,” 

Turning around, I come face to face with Matt. A reeling weight of guilt pummels down as I feel the urge to launch myself into his arms. 

Why do I still feel like this? 

Shouldn’t it be… different? 

“Are you,” he pants, rubbing his hand over his face, “-are you okay?” 

Am I okay?

No, but telling him would only make things worse. 

“I’m okay.” I state shortly. 

Matt’s eyebrows furrow, his hand reaching up and scratching behind his neck. “I, um - do you wanna…can we maybe -,” 

“Not today. Sorry,” I spit out, rushing my words painfully as I turn and walk out the door. 

Waves of air fill my lungs. My chest gets heavier, each step feeling more forced as I further the distance between myself and Matt. 

I want to be with him. Today, tomorrow, and everyday. But, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t want to be with the person who I cheated on someone with. That would only end in disaster - a disaster bigger than the one already in place. 

My feet stumble to a stop on the pavement. Should I turn around? Manon was a good friend, I loved her, but she didn’t give me the feeling he did. Nobody did. 

Maybe no one ever would. 

“Hey,” I feel his hand on my shoulder, Matt’s hand. I don’t have to turn around or look over my shoulder to know it’s him, the wave of comfort from the heat of his touch lets me know, something relaxing deep inside of me tells me it’s him. 

“We shouldn’t be talking, Matt-,” 

“Then let’s not talk. But I’m your friend. I know when you’re not okay, we don’t have to talk, but I’m not gonna let you be alone while you’re going through something.” 

His words slip through every crack of the wall I had been mentally building. I just can’t stay away, I can’t resist him. The feeling I get while being around him is something irreplaceable. I was addicted to the heat of his touch, the comfort of his words, and the way he made everything feel so… light. 

No words. I simply nod, letting him guide me by pulling my elbow, opening the passenger door of his car. 

Sitting down, I stare up at him. “Don’t you wanna stay for Nick?” I ask. 

Matt shakes his head. “I didn’t come for Nick.”

He buckles my seatbelt across my body, his hand lingering on my knee for a brief moment before he stands up and softly shuts the door. 

He didn’t come for Nick. 

He came for me. 

___

Silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Not even in the slightest. Matt had given me a change of clothes, one of his baggy T-shirts and a pair of our matching pj pants, the pj pants. 

The ones that had led to this disaster. 

What really happened? 

We lay on his bed, a foot of empty room between us as we stare at the TV mounted on his wall, playing reruns of shows. My body seems to ache, trying to maneuver closer to him each time I shift myself in the bed. I don’t even realize it until I feel our knees touch. 

“Do you…can…” He stutters over his words. I let myself curl under his arm, laying on his chest and nuzzling my cheek against his soft shirt. Matt stiffens. His body slowly falls back limp, his hand hesitantly starting to rub my shoulder as he pulls me in closer. 

It feels so peaceful, so calming. The lack of sleep seems to catch up with me quickly, my eyes feeling heavy as I let my lips start to speak the words balancing on the tip of my tongue for what felt like ages. 

“What happened that night?” I question. 

Matt goes rigid. He clears his throat, taking a deep breath. I can hear his heartbeat quicken. 

“I, uh, I -,”

“I won’t be mad,” I cut off. “I just want to know.” 

The drum of his heart seems to calm slightly. His hand starts to tangle with the ends of my hair, nervously fidgeting with it as he clears his throat once again.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I had a dream and I never meant to make you uncomfortable - all I know is that I woke up with um…I just - I changed pants and I hoped you didn’t notice. I’m so sorry, I never meant to make you uncomfortable -,” 

“You didn’t.” 

The interruption makes his ramble of words come to a halt. His fingers stop fiddling with my hair. I feel him move, looking down at me as I stare back up at him from the uncomfortable position. 

I lay back down on his chest comfortably, my hand gliding over his chest, feeling the soft material of his shirt. “I woke up. It…it wasn’t very long, but…I didn’t want you to stop.” 

Silence. Matt seems to process the information slowly, his heart returning to a normal beat. “You…you didn’t?” 

“No.” I say simply, sighing before peeling myself out of his embrace, laying on my back as I cover my face with my hands. “I went to talk with Hayden. I…I knew I couldn’t do it anymore, but when I went to his place, some girl answered his door.” 

Ugh. The same rush of emotions waves in like a hurricane. 

“I’m so sorr-”

“For what? That my ex boyfriend was cheating on me? I cheated on him. I don’t even have the right to be upset. I…I’m more upset with myself than him. I mean, I…I really like you and I just…I don’t think we could ever be together, it’s so… wrong.” 

Time seems to freeze. I hear his breath hitch, finally uncovering my face to see him sitting up, staring into his lap with glossy eyes. 

“...Matt?” I ask, sitting up and placing a hand on his shoulder. 

And that’s when I feel it. The slight shake of his body before a harsh cry purses through his lips. I’ve never seen Matt cry. At least not like this, it’s always been tears of laughter. I could feel every wall I had built up crumbling down, the stamina for holding some sort of restraint disappearing as I wrap my arms around him and hug him in towards my chest. 

“I - ‘m sorry. I didn’t - didn’t mean to and I -” He hiccups, grasping onto my waist for stability as he sobs into my chest, soaking the material of the shirt. 

Before I know it, a tear glides down my cheek, falling into his hair. Matt freezes, pulling himself up before staring at me sadly. “Can I just…can I just hold you? Pretend that none of this ever happened? Just…just us. Please.” 

An offer I can’t refuse. I nod, laying back down, my eyes feeling wet and heavy as Matt pulls me into his chest, his hold impossibly tight. And I know why. 

He knows he’ll have to let go. 

[dannyriccsystem]

SOOOOO ABOUT THAT ONE K SPECIAL

perhaps daniel ric with soft make out session and virginity loss? #virginsunite😞✅

TAKE ME ONE MORE TIME.

1K SPECIAL - DR3

Soft make out session + Virginity loss

SUMMARY: Danny makes sure to be extra gentle with you after finding out it’s your first time. Ever.

WORD COUNT: 1.1K

WARNINGS: Virginity loss, smut, P in V, cunnilingus, gentle dom Daniel

FEATURING: Daniel Ricciardo x Reader

NOTE: I miss him so bad

YOU AWOKE TO KISSES ON YOUR SHOULDER. They were tender and light, like the man giving them was scared of hurting you. His lips were searing on your skin, every brush felt hot. You blinked away the sleep, peering over your shoulder at Danny, who was holding your waist tight and peppering you in his love.

“Mmm, good morning.” You muttered. His gaze drifted up towards you, and soon after his lips were on yours. It wasn’t a harsh attack, but a soft acceptance of your consciousness. You grinned against him, your eyes fluttering shut. You nearly succumbed to sleep, feeling utterly relaxed.

“Mornin’.” His voice was deep and groggy—it came as a deep rumble from deep within his chest. You licked your lips, tasting him on you still.

You turned back around, shifting your weight back against his hold—then it got serious. You could feel something hard pressing against your thighs, rubbing up against the curve of your ass. You swallowed thickly, unsure of how to feel.

Danny didn’t know, but you were still a virgin. It was just a personal thing about not wanting to have sex until you were close with someone. You had done other acts, but legitimate sex had yet to happen. It was somewhat embarrassing, which is why you avoided letting him know.

You knew it would come up eventually, though. Your boyfriend was very sexually active. He never forced you into anything, but you found yourself frequently pretending you couldn’t hear him jerking off in the shower, or how he’d occasionally get hard when watching movies together. This was unavoidable.

“Danny?” Your voice cracked as you called his name.

“Sweetheart,” He replied, slyly kissing your neck.

“I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to judge.” He jokingly scoffed, because he had seen nearly everything. He had seen you naked, he had seen you cry, he had seen your genuine laugh instead of the cute one you used on first dates.

You were serious, though. He froze, and then nodded. “Okay, go on.”

“I’m a virgin-” You blurted out, your back still to him. He didn’t say anything at first, and then the silence started to get uncomfortable. You looked at him again, and he was just staring at you with a dorky smile. “What?”

“I’m just kinda honored. I mean, I’m not expecting anything, but if you want to have sex, I promise to be gentle and considerate.” He looked genuinely giddy, like a child on christmas morning. It helped ease your worries by a lot.

“I don’t know,” He traced little circles into your stomach. “I want to, but I’m a little scared.” Would it hurt? Would he fit? What if you were too loose? Ugh, so many worries.

“Don’t be scared.” Danny stated firmly. “I promise to take good care of you.” You visibly relaxed, the tension flowing from your body.

You sucked in a sharp breath, holding it while nodding. “Yes,” You breathed out. “I really do want to have sex with you.”

Daniel nodded as well, kissing your lips. “Good, because I want to, also.” When he pulled away, he gently pushed your head to face forward again. You let him move you around a bit, your breath hitched when he started to pull down your pajama shorts. It all started to feel too real.

You shut your eyes tight, listening to the sound of shuffling clothes. When you felt something warm and slightly wet press to your folds, you flinched. Danny, with his arms around your waist, whispered into your ear, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah…” You appreciated him checking in constantly. Asking for consent like that somehow made him so much hotter. With your final confirmation, he slowly pushed his cock into your hole, groaning into your ear.

“Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Shit-” You stuttered out, legs twitching as he breached your hole. He paused, letting your poor pussy adjust to his size before he continued to push himself all the way in. You seethed, your body melted into his hold.

“You’re doing so good,” He whispered sweet praises into your ear, his arms wrapped around your midsection. “Does it hurt? I can pull out,” He kissed the spot behind your ear.

“No!” You quickly blurted out, whining under your breath. “I… I don’t want you to.”

“Can I start moving then?”

“Yes.”

With your permission, Danny began to thrust his hips. He was slow, making sure he listened for any signs of pain. He listened for pleasure, too, taking note of everything that made you feel good. Your little whimpers were music to his ear.

You turned your head over your shoulder, looking down at where he was penetrating you with a dazed expression. He chuckled and leaned in to kiss you. His tongue gave your lips little kitten licks before you opened your mouth, enough for him to move forth. You were both moaning into the kiss while he sped up. His hips slammed against yours, your cunt fluttering and your legs twitching.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart, I’m about to come,” He grunted. Your stomach churned with excitement. You weren’t quite there yet, but you trusted him to take good care of you.

He pulled out, his cock releasing. Some of it landed on you, but most of his cum was shot onto the mattress. You were worried you’d go without coming, but your worries were subsided when he rolled you onto your back and pushed himself onto his knees between your legs.

Your hands found his curls, helping guide him towards your wet cunt. You could feel him smirk against you. Daniel darted his tongue out to lap at your wet, greedy folds. He looked like he was thoroughly enjoying this.

Danny slipped two fingers inside slowly, curling them to brush against your spongy walls. He repeatedly teased the spot that make you whine, his confident smirk growing. You threw your head back with every lick and every thrust.

“Danny, I think I’m coming-!” You squealed, both hands now gripping his soft curls. His tongue flicked against your clit.

“Come.” He commanded in a low murmur against your vagina, his tongue licking confident stripes through your folds. You shuddered, your orgasm washing over you.

He helped you ride through the waves of it, continuously licking and thrusting his fingers into you. When your body relaxed, releasing all the tension, he pulled away.

“Feel good?” Daniel checked in with that smug grin of his. You nodded rather bashfully, pulling him down for another kiss, and then grimacing at the taste on his lips.

“Ew-uh, I forgot you were just eating me.” He laughed at your reaction, licking his own lips.

“I thought it tasted good.”

[andy-15-07]

Sabor a Ti

PAIRING: Danny Ramirez x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1299 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

You weren’t supposed to fall for him.

It was just a music video , three minutes of heat, rhythm, and camera-perfect chemistry. Your latest single, “Sabor a Ti,” needed a visual that oozed sensual tension. And when your team sent over Danny Ramírez’s name as a potential co-star, you laughed. Out loud.

“He’s too hot,” you’d said.

“He’s perfect,” your director replied.

“He’s trouble,” you muttered.

“Exactly.”

Now here you were: in a mirrored studio in downtown Havana , sweat slicked down your spine, hands pressed to Danny’s chest, and his thigh slotted between your legs as the music throbbed around you.

“Again from the top,” the choreographer called, and you both reset.

You caught your breath, rolled your shoulders, then turned to face Danny.

“You ready, trouble?” you teased.

He smirked, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “Been ready since you walked in wearing those damn leggings.”

You arched a brow. “Focus, actor boy.”

“Hard not to focus,” he said under his breath as the beat kicked in.

The choreography wasn’t just close. It was intimate. Slow wine of the hips, chest to chest, his hand gripping your waist while your fingers danced up his neck. There was a part, halfway through, where he dipped you so low your lips nearly brushed , then brought you back up in a sharp twist, hands sliding down your sides.

Every move made it harder to pretend this was just work.

Every time your eyes locked, it lingered longer.

Every time he pulled you in, your breath hitched.

Every time his hand grazed your ass, it felt less like acting.

“Good,” the choreographer shouted. “Again. Let it build , the tension, the want. You’re not just dancing. You’re flirting with your bodies.”

Danny’s mouth twitched as he leaned close.

“Oh, I’ve been flirting. You just haven’t kept up.”

“Please,” you whispered, smiling. “I’m two steps ahead.”

“Then kiss me already,” he murmured low, out of earshot.

You faltered,just slightly,but masked it with a roll of your hips that dragged against his.

“Save it for the camera,” you breathed, lips inches from his. “Or maybe after.”

His jaw tightened. “You keep teasing like that and I will make you beg.”

The heat between you now wasn’t just part of the routine.

The choreographer called for a five-minute break, and you stepped away, heart pounding, chest rising and falling fast. You grabbed your water bottle, but even from across the room, you could feel Danny’s gaze on you.

“Still trouble?” he asked, sauntering over.

You smirked. “Oh, baby. You don’t even know.”

The Havana sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but the heat never left. It lingered in the heavy air, in the curve of your hips, in the rhythm that clung to your skin even after the music stopped.

You were still sweating when you saw Danny again that night,this time not under stage lights, not in front of a camera, but in the dim flicker of your hotel suite. You hadn’t even planned it. One second, you were texting him “still wired, can’t sleep,” and the next, there was a soft knock at your door.

When you opened it, he leaned on the frame with that infuriating smirk.

“You always text like that after making me hard on set, or is tonight special?”

You scoffed, walking backward and letting him in. “Cocky.”

“Not cocky,” he said, closing the door behind him and sliding the lock into place with a satisfying click. “Hard.”

His eyes raked over you,barefoot, tank top damp with sweat, tiny black shorts that clung to your thighs.

“Fuck, you look like trouble,” he murmured.

“Then come get in it,” you said.

He was on you in two strides.

The kiss was filth and fire, mouths already open, teeth grazing lips, hands grabbing at skin like you were both starved. You wrapped a leg around his waist, and he lifted you like you weighed nothing, pushing you against the wall with a groan that made your pulse throb.

“You know how long I’ve wanted this?” he said against your throat, kissing and nipping down to your collarbone. “Every time we danced… every time you rolled your hips on me like that…”

His hands slid up your tank top, palming your breasts through your bra before tugging the straps down and sucking a nipple into his mouth with no warning.

“Danny,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulder.

“Say it again,” he growled, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud. “Say my name while I ruin you.”

You whined, arching into his mouth. His hand was already in your shorts, fingers sliding into the damp heat of your panties.

“Jesus,” he breathed, feeling how wet you were. “All this from dancing with me?”

“All this from wanting you,” you shot back, breathless.

He dropped to his knees, pulling your shorts and panties down in one swift motion. You leaned back against the wall, bracing yourself, and he gripped your thighs and buried his face between your legs like a man who’d been dreaming of this moment for months.

His tongue was pure sin,broad licks up your slit, then focused pressure on your clit, slow and steady, until you were trembling and grinding against his face. When he slipped two fingers inside you, curling just right, you almost collapsed.

“Fuck, Danny,don’t stop,please,”

He moaned into you, the vibration making your vision blur. He sucked your clit, fingers pumping deeper, faster, then slowed down just before you tipped over.

“Not yet,” he smirked, licking his lips as he stood. “Wanna feel you come around my cock first.”

He carried you to the bed, ripped off his shirt, and shoved down his pants and boxers in one move. His cock slapped against his stomach,thick, flushed, already leaking.

You licked your lips and pushed him back onto the mattress.

“My turn.”

You crawled between his legs, kissed up his thigh, and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue and tasting the salt of him. His groan was guttural, fingers tangling in your hair as you took him deeper, slow and teasing.

“You’re fucking evil,” he gasped. “Those eyes,fuck,your mouth…”

You pulled off with a pop. “Wanna hear you beg.”

He growled, flipping you onto your back with a laugh. “You want begging? You’ll get it.”

He lined himself up and slid in slow, inch by inch, watching your face the entire time.

“Look at you,” he whispered, bottoming out. “So tight. So wet. Made for me.”

You whimpered, legs wrapping around him. “Move, Danny,please.”

He didn’t hold back.

He fucked you deep and rhythmic, hips rolling with dancer’s precision, finding your sweet spot over and over again until your moans were high-pitched and desperate. Sweat slicked your bodies, skin slapping against skin.

“Touch yourself,” he growled, and you did,fingers finding your clit while he fucked you harder. “Good girl. Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

He pulled out, flipped you over, and pushed back in from behind, his hand tangled in your hair while the other reached around to stroke your clit.

“Danny,Danny,I’m,!”

You came screaming his name, legs shaking, walls fluttering around him. He wasn’t far behind,slamming in once, twice more before he spilled inside you with a deep groan, grinding his hips as he emptied himself.

He collapsed beside you, both of you gasping, chests heaving.

You turned your head, met his eyes, saw something softer there than just lust.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing your hair back.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He grinned. “That was the best cardio I’ve had all week.”

You snorted, then rolled onto his chest, tracing lazy patterns over his abs.

“I guess the chemistry was real, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, kissing the top of your head, “we’re just getting started.”

[sunnypopoki]

— MUZZLE : P.7

(Yandere Mafia Husband x Female Reader)

SYNOPSIS: Your husband has been suspicious lately. Going out for days on end, answering suspicious phone calls, being extra clingy when he can... is he cheating on you? Little do you know, it's nothing like that. The world of the mafia is unforgiving.

TW: INSECURE REALISTIC FEMALE READER, FOUL LANGUAGE, MARRIED RELATIONSHIP, YANDERE CONTENT, MATURE THEMES, OVERTHINKING READER, AFAB READER, ETC.

THIS STORY HAS YANDERE CONTENT. THAT MEANS THERE WILL BE MORE MATURE CONTENT. THIS IS IN NO WAY A STORY MEANT TO ROMANTICIZE YANDERES, SO PLEASE DO NOT DO SO EITHER. PLEASE DO NOT COPY THIS STORY. ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED TO POPOKI ON WATTPAD, QUOTEV, AND TUMBLR.

P.6 / P.8

Promises were said to be sacred, but after the following days, you gave up on thinking on such a childish claim. You were walking on a tightrope and before you knew it, you finally started to hear it withering below.

Kieran did his best to stay true to his word but in the end, it was nothing more than a fruitless dream said in the heat of the moment. He ended up picking up his phone calls and you ended up sleeping alone. You were losing the energy to care even if your heart throbbed at the thought.

Stepping off the bus, you pulled your bag up your shoulder and sighed. Kieran took the car that morning to work and so you were forced to take the bus to get to college. If he knew, he'd most likely apologize over and over again, and then never let you ride the bus again. He was always finicky about public transport.

You hopped around the puddles left from the early morning rain.

Ever since the breakdown in the car with Kieran, even to go as far as snapping at Danny, you've done a lot of self-reflection. And you mean a lot. While you were going to school for psychiatry to become a therapist, you weren't the best at regulating your own emotions. It was easier to point out other people's issues rather than pointing out your own.

Maybe I do need to look into seeing a therapist, you thought. It would be better than snapping at people.

Because in truth, you felt guilty. Very guilty. Not about everything else that's going on—but because of how you treated Danny. Everyone knows that it's easier to look back on your mistakes after they pass, and now that you were looking back on that lunch, you saw a lot of things that you could have done differently.

Like the fact he actually did care. Sure, you didn't realize it then, but now you could. How he tried to comfort you when you were spacing out, how he asked how you were doing, telling you that he trusted you enough to want you to work with him.

"He probably wouldn't have told me about my dad if he was working for him," you mumbled under your breath. "He wouldn't have even brought him up. If he wanted to manipulate me, there was no reason to bring up my father."

You assumed the worst. You assumed Danny was just like your dad, just because he happened to be a businessman too. How sad, right? You were so stuck in the past that it was hard to appreciate the love you had now.

Danny wasn't a bad man but you were so quick to assume he was even though you hadn't seen him in half a year. You acted just like how your father treated you; cruel, judgmental, selfish. You didn't take into account what Danny felt. Maybe he was just as anxious as you, he always did have social anxiety in school, even with his good grades.

For someone who wants to become a therapist, you were pretty quick to judge an old friend just because they talked about a topic that made you uncomfortable. How would Danny know it made you uncomfortable? It wasn't like he could read your mind. He hadn't seen you in six months and you expected him to still know everything about you?

You bit your lip. Damn it. Why did a throw a tantrum like that? I even yelled at Kieran.

Guilt was like a sword doused with poison. The moment you realized what you did after some self reflection, there was a sharp pain in your chest like a blade plunging into your heart. Then there was the creeping sensation of nausea each time you thought about what you did, getting worse and worse with each day that passed.

You hopped over a pothole on the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding pedestrians walking down the street. "...Should I message Danny and apologize? What if he doesn't want to hear it though?"

It was hard not to run away. It would be easier to pretend it never happened, to act like he was in the wrong, but in truth—both of you said things that weren't nice. Both of you hurt each other. It wasn't black and white and you realized that, but in that moment, you were selfish enough to think that you were the good guy and he was the bad guy.

"If I don't apologize, I'll continue to feel bad... but he might hate me now. What if he hates me? What if he'll hate me either way?"

Oh yeah. You needed a therapist.

Sorting out your brain was like an impossible puzzle. It was hard to see all the pieces when you didn't have a full view of the table, but with a therapist, they could help sort it out. And maybe they could help sort your thoughts about Kieran too. You slowly wrapped your arms around yourself and frowned.

Each time you had a bad thought and you tried to push it away, it came back ten times more forceful. It was hard to stop thinking. Maybe you had OCD... or just extreme anxiety... or some other undiagnosed mental illness?

I don't want to think about this.

But here you were, continuing to think about it.

You looked over when a dog caught your eye. It rolled over in a patch of grass on the side of the road in front of a storefront. Its hair was soaked with damp grass and dirt, speckled with crunched leaves and twigs. It was having the time of its life. Tailing wagging and panting loudly, you smiled softly when it started rolling over again.

You know what? Maybe a pet would help you sort out some of your issues. Going to bed in a cold bed would be impossible with a puppy cuddled up next to you. Taking care of something would help you distract yourself from all your thoughts too. Like an emotional support animal.

What type of dog would Kieran like?

Your jaw clenched up. Danny made you feel bad, but how you acted with Kieran made you feel sick to your stomach. You yelled at him. You yelled at him like your dad used to yell at your mom. Did he get scared? Is he hurt? You didn't know, since you avoided him ever since then.

You weren't a good friend and you weren't a good wife either. You yelled at him just because you were emotional, fuck, there was no reason to raise your voice but you did. So what if Kieran was distracted at that moment? That didn't give you the right to scream at him.

Maybe I'm turning into my dad? The thought made your blood turn cold. What if I picked up some of his traits with how he treated Mom?

Your father was an abuser. Not only towards you, but his wife as well. You were a child she didn't want, but he forced her to have one nonetheless; being a child of rape didn't help the family bond at all. The moment you were born was the moment everything went downhill. Your father wanted a boy but you weren't one, so he blamed and hit your mother for it, taking his frustrations and cruelty on you when he wanted to.

Your mom didn't love you. Over time, even if it was hard, you realized that you didn't blame her.

Imagine how hard it would be to bond with someone knowing that they shared the same blood as the man who abused you.

You stomped down the streets. The world was spinning, your throat closed up. What if you were abusing Kieran and didn't realize it? What if you were neglecting him? There was the possibility you weren't doing everything subconsciously, right? You yelled at him. You doubt him. You sneaked to look at his computer when he wasn't home.

You were the walking, breathing, sighing incarnation of your father.

No, no, no. Don't spiral, (Y/N). You know that you're spiraling so stop it! You mentally scolded yourself, clutching your bag tighter to you. I need to find a therapist, someone who can help me.

The city was blaring and it was hard to hear your own thoughts. Therapists were always hard to find; either it's because they were too expensive, or too booked, or too far away. You personally weren't a big fan of doing therapy through video. You were more of an "in-person" type of person, if that made sense.

Maybe if you were lucky, you'll find—

"Shit!"

You had only a split second to look up and realize someone turned around the corner you were walking past. Only a split second to dodge. But that was impossible, you weren't Superman. Your nose slammed into his chest and your feet stumbled back, barely managing to catch yourself so you didn't fall to the ground.

The man's hands were full and he struggled to balance himself. Your arm shot out to catch him, or maybe just grab something out of instinct, but it was too late—he crashed. His coffee splattered all over and his sunglasses skidded across the cement.

Realization hit you like a truck.

"Fuck! I'm so sorry!" you fretted, quickly helping the man up from the sidewalk. Cold sweat made your palms damp and your cheeks were burning hot. "I wasn't looking where I was going, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Just as quickly as he fell, the man hopped back up with ease. He grumbled curses under his breath in another language, fixing his orange and red sweater, while he put his sunglasses back on. Luckily those weren't cracked, they looked expensive. No way would you have been able to pay those off.

You bent down to grab the empty coffee off the ground. Talk about guilt, you felt extremely guilty now. How did you not see him?! You should have been paying attention, not absentmindedly walking down the streets like a doofus! Now look at what you did; knocked down an innocent bystander because of your stupidity!

"I'm so sorry! Uhm, I can—I can buy you a new coffee," you stammered.

He whipped back around. You could barely see the heated glare behind the tinted lenses, his Italian accent harsh. "Bitch, fucking watch—"

He froze when he saw your face. For whatever reason, he looked like he had a scary realization of impending doom right when he saw you. Like the music for Jaws just started playing and he was looking down the mouth of a great white shark. The blood on his face drained to his feet and he licked his chapped lips.

You, on the other hand, took his expression as unbridled anger. He had every right to be angry. You'd also be pissed if someone knocked into you and made you spill your coffee and all your belongings. Especially since he looked all out together nicely, you probably just ruined his cool 'vibes'.

His dreadlocks were pulled into a pretty bun. You noticed the silver charms in his hair, matching the designer watch on his wrist. Even his orange-tinted sunglasses matched his orange and red sweater. He looked like he took an hour to organize his outfit for the day. Thank god the coffee didn't get all over the front of him. You hadn't a clue how much his sweater and pants cost, but based on that watch, you didn't want to look at the price tag.

If only you had a hole that you could jump and hide in forever. "I'm so sorry! Wait, here, let me..."

You turned out your wallet and pulled out twenty dollars. That had to be enough for coffee and a little something extra from the cafe nearby, right? You'd be fine. Ten dollars being left in your wallet was enough to buy a small sandwich on campus for lunch. It was your fault for forgetting your debit card back at home.

"Here, sir! Uhm, please take this. You can get yourself another coffee and something extra from the cafe nearby. I am so sorry."

The man rubbed the back of his neck, not reaching for the money. He didn't even glance at it. "Oh—uhm—It's okay. I don't need it."

"No, please, take it. I won't be able to forgive myself if I just ruined your morning like this," you confessed. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I'm sorry."

He was hesitant. You weren't dumb, you could tell he looked uncomfortable around you. There was the possibility that he was so angry that he was trying to hold it all back, making his movements almost robotically evasive. With muscles like his, he could easily hurt you if he wanted, but instead, he was acting like he'd get seared if he looked at you.

You prayed to god that he didn't explode and scream at you. You didn't think you'd be able to handle that this morning.

"I don't need the money. Ah... it's just—uhm, it's just a mistake. We all make mistakes."

But I'll feel like shit if you don't take it.

His complete 180° attitude was jarring. One moment he was glaring at you and calling you a bitch, now he was saying it was a mistake. Was he just trying to keep face?

You caught a glimpse of something black in the corner of your eye. Turning around, your face drained when you noticed his phone on the ground. His phone was cracked. Your mouth opened in horror and you choked, noticing that it was a newer brand.

How much were those phones? 2,000 dollars? You'd have to sell your soul to get him that type of money.

"Oh my god! I'm so fucking sorry! I didn't realize I broke your phone!"

He blinked. "Huh?"

Looking down to where you were staring, he finally noticed that his phone was on the ground, the screen destroyed. It stared back at him with cracked glass and a chipped case. It was just a small tumble! Why did it look like it went through the Himalayas?!

There was a long pause. The man cleared his throat, rubbed his face, bent down, and grabbed his phone. He tapped at the screen but it didn't come on. Again, it didn't turn on. And again, nothing. He didn't look as angry as you thought he'd be, but that didn't smooth your nerves.

"...uh, It's okay. I can—"

"It's not okay! I'll—I'll pay for it. Uhm, I don't have the money with me now, but uhhhh..." you pulled out a notebook from your bag and tore a piece of paper, "please email me here, since your phone is decimated. Fuck, I am so sorry. I'll pay you back I swear. Promise."

He didn't take the note or say anything. He stood there awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something under his breath. He looked fed up. Oh no. You screwed up big time. You made him fall, lose his coffee, and crack his super duper expensive phone.

"...do—do you not have an email? I can uh, I can give you my phone number if you have another phone to reach me," you asked, clutching the paper tight in your hands. "I—I don't have the money now but I swear I'll get it! How much was it? 1,500? 2,000?"

The man cleared his throat. There was another long pause before he hesitantly glanced at me. "I'm not upset. I just have a question. Are you... uh, (Y/N)?"

If there was a magic word to put all your defenses up in a heartbeat, it would be your name. It wasn't like a lot of people knew it. You didn't flaunt it on social media and you weren't famous, you didn't have a lot of friends either, so it wasn't like it was normal for a random person to know your name on the street. Your muscles wound up. Maybe this man worked for your father? It wouldn't have surprised you if he sent someone to stalk you.

You glanced around. There were no suspicious fancy cars on the street, or suspicious people that looked like they were watching you.

Repaying the phone didn't seem to matter all that much anymore.

"...yes? How do you know my name?"

He bit his lip and glanced around as if he was scared some monster would come out of the shadows and attack him. He looked more paranoid than you did. "Uh... sorry for randomly asking that. However, I'm a friend of your husband, Kieran."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You've never heard of him or even seen this guy before. Maybe he was a client of Kieran's? A writer or journalist? A fellow editor? If you had to put it nicely, the man in front of you didn't look like he had the patience to sit down and edit written work. With bulky muscles like that, you'd expect him to be a wrestler or full-time bodybuilder.

The man cleared his throat and pushed back the money you gave him, along with the torn paper. "As Kieran's friend, I can't take his wife's money. I can buy some coffee and a new phone easily." 

Seriously? Easily?

"But if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you about something," he straightened his back up and there was a spark of confidence in his eyes, along with some determination as if he made up his mind about something. "Could you sit with me at the coffee shop now? I have concerns about Kieran."

This was weird. This entire ordeal was so weird that it almost didn't feel real. Let's put it into perspective; you bump into a man and he calls you a bitch, then changes and starts saying you made a mistake, asks for your name, claims to be your husband's friend, and then asks to talk to you over coffee? So yeah, weird.

You were about to say no, but then stopped yourself when you remembered you were in his debt. You just broke his phone and made him spill his coffee, the least you could do was pay for his coffee while he talked to you about something.

Even if it was weird, it wasn't like you were going somewhere where it was just you and him alone. He couldn't possibly kidnap you inside a coffee shop next to a busy street in the city. You examined him head to toe. He didn't look like he had any weapons, and if he was a friend of Kieran's, you doubted he'd harm you.

Your college class could wait. Luckily your professor was kind enough to know you weren't the type to ditch class willy-nilly.

"Okay, but I'll pay for your coffee. It's the least I can do," you stuck your hand out for a polite shake, "what's your name?"

The man took your hand. "Mathew."

"Nice to meet you then."

It was awkward, so you didn't say a thing as he started to blabber and lead you to the coffee shop that was close by. You didn't know what to say. Should you compliment his clothes? Ask how he knew Kieran? He'd most likely elaborate over coffee.

You had so many questions you wanted to ask him. Just why was he wanting to talk to you was the big question. It wasn't like you were a super genius and you didn't know a lot about Kieran's schedule, so he could ask about that. You doubted this man knew anything at all about you except your name.

The walk to the coffee shop was a long one. Well, it was realistically only two minutes of walking, but the mental time there was forever. The man blabbered about random things to pass the awkward wall there; the time, the weather, the news. He didn't mention anything about the most recent murder case which you were grateful for. You already had so many things on your mind, you didn't want to think about that.

The door to the coffee shop chimed when the both of you walked in. A young waitress perked up from where she slumped against the counter and quickly rushed to give us a booth.

Finally, things are moving along.

Mathew slipped inside his seat. Unlike the restaurant you ate at with Danny and Kieran, this place was cozy and right up your alley. The smell of coffee beans filled the room and the rays from outside poured through the window, warming up the table. He ordered a black coffee and you ordered an iced caramel latte. You didn't even like lattes all that much, but it was the best thing on the menu.

Mathew smiled. "This coffee shop is very cozy, don't you think?"

"It is."

"It's perfect for a date. Have you taken Kieran here before?"

"No, I have not."

He didn't seem bothered by your robotic responses. It was like he already knew how you'd react to him. He didn't push for any more questions, instead, he waited for you to ask the question you've been dying to ask ever since he told you he was Kieran's friend.

"...So, Mathew, how come has Kieran never told me about you before?"

Mathew tapped his fingers against the table. He had horrible posture, leaning back with a nonchalant air surrounding him. He didn't seem angry or nervous anymore. Maybe it was just possible that he had mood swings. That made more sense than whatever weird explanation you could come up with inside your head.

"I helped raise him, I met the kid back in Russia," he stated and your eyes widened. So he's a very old friend of Kieran's.

"Wait. So you know his family? His parents as well?"

"Yes. Mr and Mrs Morosov helped me back before when I lived in Italy. I became a close friend to them and grew up with Kieran, even though me and him aren't close in age at all."

You squinted. "But you look his age?"

Mathew blinked. His lips curled into a charming smile, his eyes crinkling around the edges when he laughed. "Oh really? It's always flattering to hear a pretty woman compliment my youthful appearance. Thank you, but I'm twenty-nine."

Your cheeks warmed up. He really did look young, as if he drank from the fountain of youth itself. His face was incredibly smooth (more so than yours) and you wouldn't be surprised if he suddenly told you he was an actor forced to play younger roles in movies. It was always heartwarming to see someone smile so genuinely. It was a good thing that he took that comment as a compliment, you didn't want him calling you a bitch again.

"I think that's why he hasn't told you about me," he confessed and shrugged his shoulders. "We aren't close in age, our interests are different, and he's a married man. I'm too much of a partygoer for him to hang out with me."

That made sense. Kieran has never been a party man of any sort, especially not when he was younger. Sure, he was reckless and a troublemaker, but his trouble wasn't extroverted. He'd much rather sing to himself in the shower than go to karaoke and drink with buddies. He was a risk taker who avoided risks that meant talking to others.

"I see... and I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I'll be blunt, why do you want to talk to me?" You asked, crossing your hands on the table. For some reason, you felt anxious.

Mathew's slowly smile fell. He cleared his throat and fixed up his posture. "Well, it's about Kieran.”

"Oh."

This could be one of many things. Mathew could be here to snitch on Kieran about all the things he has been up to behind your back. He could tell you about a secret mistress, he could tell you about being in a gang, he could tell you about any secret that you didn't know of.

The dread you've felt this entire time trampled over you. Was it finally time? Were you finally going to get all the answers you wanted? Did you even want to hear it now? Bile rose in your throat.

"I need for you to talk to Kieran about something. He's been acting weird lately, and he trusts you more than me, so—" Mathew cut himself off when he saw your blanched-out expression. His lips pursed into a thin line. "Spit it out. You're thinking about something already."

Perceptive people always unnerved you. Swallowing down your thoughts, you wondered if he was trustworthy enough to share your worries with.

The waitress came back with the drinks. A mug was pushed in front of Mathew and he took a greedy gulp, while you nervously played with the rim of your cup. You watched the ice tilt in the coffee.

"Well?" he raised an eyebrow, "If you're thinking about Kieran, we might have the same concerns."

That was true. This man was a friend of Kieran's, and you trusted that without a doubt. He even knew his parents. Maybe this was the leap of faith that you were waiting for. Even if you were nervous, you had to be at least a little brave. It wasn't like you were speaking to Kieran right now.

"...you promise you won't share any of this with Kieran?" you asked.

"Swear on my heart."

"Okay, good," you ignored the trembles in your fingers and quickly took a sip of your coffee. It wasn't that good. "Uhm, well... my concerns are—uh how do I say this?"

Mathew deadpanned as he took a huge swig of his drink. "Bluntly. Always works for me."

I hesitated. "Well then, okay, uhm—I think he might be cheating on me with someone named Sam."

He coughed. "What?"

It was like magic. The moment the words left your lips, you were spilling out your guts to him. Laying out every worry, every secret, every insecurity for him to see. Screw a therapist, now a stranger could see all the puzzle pieces on the table. You couldn't stop yourself.

"I know! I saw on his computer that he was talking to someone called Sam. Like, it could be a boy, but it could also be a woman. I know, it's bad and a shitty thing to do as a wife, I feel bad for snooping but he kept being weird and so—"

Mathew raised his hand and you buffered, but before you could blabber some more, he said, "Slow down. What are you saying?"

"I—uh.. well, I think Kieran is cheating on me with someone named Sam, and I feel bad because I snooped through his laptop—"

"You don't have to feel bad. I'd do the same if my partner or spouse was acting weird and not sharing things."

Your jaw dropped. "...you would?"

Mathew wasn't as judgmental or disgusted as you thought you would. He looked normal, like you didn't do anything wrong. He shrugged.

"Yeah? It's normal. I mean, it's not like you're suspecting him without evidence," he shrugged. "Have you asked him about it? Bluntly? You know, communication is key, or whatever the fuck therapists say."

He was right. Communication was key, that was how so many healthy relationships prospered, but in this situation—communication was scary. You didn't want to think about all the times when not communicating led to toxic situations. You running from the store out of spite, you yelling at Kieran, and you avoiding him. God, there were so many things.

You swallowed the bile in the back of your throat. You felt like vomiting. Why did you have to think about this right now? All you wanted to do was go to your lecture peacefully and come home.

"I'll take your silence as a no. Why haven't you?"

His words felt like a slap. "...I mean... like, what if he... is?"

Mathew was silent for a bit. He stared at you, examining your expression, doing his best to read what you were thinking. Finally, he let out a long sigh and motioned at you. "Then he is. It's shitty, it's fucked up, and he's a douchebag."

Damn, he wasn't lying about being blunt. You held back your excuses. You weren't sure why you immediately wanted to make defenses for yourself and Kieran. If Kieran was cheating then yeah, he was a douchebag, so there was no reason to form up a defense for him. So why did you want to?

"Well..."

"Listen to me, kid. Whether you ask him or not, nothing is going to change unless you confront him about it. If he's cheating, and I'm saying if, then he's gonna cheat whether or not you ask him. That's how cheaters are. Wouldn't you want to know either way?"

"I..." you were at a loss for words.

You didn't like the fact that he was right. He was staring at the most obvious things, but they felt so new and fresh compared to what you normally thought. Like he was shoving a cold drink in front of you and forcing you to chug it down, it was numbing to the brain.

Mathew rubbed his face and waved his hand around, trying to get his point through your thick skull. "I don't think he is, if you're going to ask for my opinion on the matter. It's just, that he has had some... issues lately. To put it lightly."

You frowned. Concern shoved the negative thoughts out of the way.

"Issues? Is he in danger? Or trouble?"

He shook his head. "Family issues. Papa Morosov has been gunning for his ass."

That didn't explain the constant disappearances from the house in the middle of the night. Especially for those long multiple-day trips he always took. But maybe it explained the cuts and busted knuckles? You hadn't a clue. Mr. Morosov wasn't in the States, was he? Mrs. Morosov would most likely want to see you if he was since the two of them always traveled together no matter what.

But you were confused. Mr. Morosov was a kind man, so why was he gunning after Kieran? And what for?

You didn't know much about Kieran's family life. He didn't talk about his experiences in Russia all that much, or London, and you now had a gut feeling it was because of his parents. You just prayed they weren't using him. They didn't seem like the type, but now the thought was there, and that meant it would go away.

"I see..." you drawled, looking down at your hands. Your nails picked together. This day started weirdly and you weren't sure what to feel about it.

There was some closure knowing that Mathew didn't think Kieran was cheating on you. If it was about his father like Mathew mentioned, would that make you feel better? You wanted Kieran to feel better, to pay attention to you, and to be happy. If his father was getting in the way of that, what would you be able to do to keep him safe? What would you be able to do to keep him sheltered from all that?

You couldn't make decisions for Kieran. That was impossible.

But, but, if he was truly getting targeted by his father for things out of his control, you'd have to do something. Use your influence as his wife to help him in some way. Then there was the other option of him cheating on you... you'd rather think about the other.

"Can I give you a piece of raw unfiltered advice?" Mathew blurted.

You looked up. "Go ahead."

"Avoidance isn't a cure to hard situations. Whether or not you're there, it's happening. The world doesn't stop just because someone pretends it is," he pointed at you and you felt your body run with chills. "It's time for you to stop avoiding, (Y/N). Time doesn't stop for you and Kieran just because you want to stay in a time when things were easier."

Your body locked up. He stared deep into your eyes, harsh and unsettling, but you supposed the truth always looked like that no matter what form it took.

A small bell went off in your head. So that was what you were trying to do. You were trying to stay in the past when things were easier, when you were a kid. You did it with Danny too. You compared Danny to his past self, but how many times have you compared Kieran to his past self as well?

"You just need to realize that relationships don't stay the same. You aren't teenagers anymore, you're adults, you're married, you have your own house. Understand?"

"...yes," you nodded slowly, ignoring the burn in your eyes. "Thank you. But let's say I do confront Kieran about... everything. I don't know—where should I—well, what I'm trying to say is, how should I talk to him?"

Mathew looked at you like you had three heads. "Just talk? Don't beat around the bush for his feelings."

You scratched at your head. "Well, I know that, but I mean—how should I bring up with him? Without hurting his—"

"What did I just say?" Mathew huffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. You flinched. "He's been neglecting your marriage, leaving at night, and you're worried about him being hurt about the consequences of his actions? If he gets his feelings hurt, then boo-hoo. He's a grown man neglecting his wife, he can fucking handle it."

Your lips zipped shut. "But—"

"Ask him, 'Are you cheating on me?' That's it. Five little words that form a little sentence."

It was easy when he put it like that, but each time you tried to say those 'five little words' in the past, you always clamped up. Every. Single. Time. You were starting to believe that you couldn't say that at all, maybe you were cursed and you weren't allowed to say that sentence at all.

Mathew watched your expression and his lips quirked into a goofy smile. "You rambled to me after you bumped into me, you can ramble to him. Just don't break his phone."

Your face turned hot. "I'm still so sorry—"

"Geez woman. It was a joke," he snorted and stretched his arms behind him on the booth, his smile growing. His orange sunglasses lowered on his nose and you watched his dark eyes spark with mischief. "I'd suggest joking with him when you confront him. He won't be able to lie when he hears how uptight you are."

You gaped. Did he just call me uptight?!

"Well excuse me! I'm just responsible."

"Oh? You are?" he grinned, "responsible enough to walk in a straight line without bumping into someone?"

He was quick-witted. He shot out comebacks without thinking, teasing you without a care in the world. He reminded you a lot of Kieran in that sense, only Kieran was a lot softer when it came down to teasing you. Mathew was a lump of coal, Kieran was a lump of charcoal; similar but not the same at all.

"Oh shush! I said I was sorry," I crossed my arms. "Plus you called me a bitch at first so I have every right to be uptight."

"Well, you are one."

"What?!"

He burst out laughing. His head flew back and he cackled like a madman, slapping his leg under the table. People in the coffee shop glanced at him, but he seemed to ignore all the attention, wheezing between words. "I'm kidding! My god kid, your face was glorious. Swore a fly almost flew into your mouth with how fast that jaw dropped."

Your face was burning. People always said that older brothers teased their sisters like this, and it honestly felt like it. It made sense. He was like an older brother to Kieran in a way, and now he was meeting someone who was technically like his sister-in-law. Your lips twitched up into a smile.

"Shut it. People are staring at you, I hope you know," you rolled your eyes.

"Let them. They all want me anyway."

You snorted. Mathew finished the rest of his coffee and glanced at his clock, smiling ear to ear. There was a sense of smugness around him.

"Ah. It seems I have to go. I don't want my boss beating the shit out of me for being late," he snorted. It looked like he actually believed his boss would beat the shit out of him. "Don't worry about the money, kid. I'll handle it. I'll pay for your coffee as well."

"Oh no, I can pay for my own stuff!"

"Nope!" he popped the 'p' and slid out of his booth, jumped on the balls of his feet, and rolled his shoulders back. "Now what do you say to people after they make you feel better after a depressive episode?"

So that was his goal for teasing you. It worked, you didn't feel as glum and beaten down as before. There was this sense of relief hanging over your head; with all your worries laid out, and some advice that helped you realize your own thought processes, and his abusive teasing, you felt a little better.

Not perfect; but lighter.

"I—thank you," you smiled softly. "Truly. You've helped a lot."

Mathew snickered. He said nothing before waving nonchalantly and skipping away as if talking to you made his day ten times better. How did we get from him calling you a bitch to him skipping away with a smile? It was like he came out of an old cartoon and he was the trouble-maker coyote.

You looked down at your cup. The ice was melted and the table was still warm. You failed to realize that Mathew never had a chance to share what he originally wanted to talk about. Your smile slowly fell and you took a deep breath, steadying your thoughts.

Maybe you'd talk to Kieran later.

Just maybe.

Check out my new story, DEAD & DONE!! It’s a yandere reverse harem x female reader. If you like this story, you might like this other one. It also has organized crime, gangs, and shady stuff.

Links: Wattpad, Quotev, Buy Me A Coffee, Discord Server.

I’ve thought about opening writing commissions; what do yall think? Tell me in the comments.

[chaoticsolsworld]

Hii I saw you were requesting fics for Danny Ramirez and omg can you pls write smth following the last scene im brave new world where Joaquin is in the hospital with Sam and then reader just barges in (as their gf I hope you do fem reader if not gender neutral is okay to!) all worried for him and how she takes care of Joaquin post surgery? TYY 🫶🫶🫶

“You’re still my Wings”| Joaquin Torres x Reader

Author’s Note: Just a soft post-Brave New World hurt/comfort moment with our favorite winged boy. Includes hospital scenes, injury recovery, and lots of care from fem!reader. CW for surgery aftermath, emotional distress, and medical setting—but mostly fluff, healing, and love. Hope you enjoy, and reblogs are always appreciated!

The chaos was over….but your world hadn’t settled.

The sharp white light of the hospital corridor made everything feel surreal as you sprinted past orderlies and nurses, heart pounding like a drum. The battle, the explosion, the broadcasted footage of Sam and Red Hulk’s rampage, it was all still playing in your mind. The reports said he’d been injured….That Joaquin had been hurt bad. But no one had said how bad. No one had told you anything that mattered.

Until now.

You turned a corner and spotted the room number.

A nurse tried to stop you. “Ma’am, you can’t go in there yet—”

You didn’t even slow down. “Try me.”

The door hissed open, and there he was.

Joaquin lay on the hospital bed, bandages wrapping his abdomen and shoulder, his skin pale and marked with bruises, IV lines feeding into his arm. His wings, His suit…what was left of them were folded and damaged on a table near the wall. Sam sat nearby, elbows on his knees, like he was carrying the weight of the world. Again.

You felt your chest tighten.

“Joaquin,” you gasped.

He turned at the sound of your voice. His lips curled weakly into a smile. “Hey, amor…”

You were at his side in an instant, falling into the chair beside him, hands searching, checking. Fingers brushed over his cheek, his arm, his chest—avoiding the gauze but needing to feel him, to make sure he was real.

“What did they do to you?” you whispered. “Why didn’t anyone call me sooner? You—God, Joaquin, you look like—like they pulled you out of hell.”

“I think they did,” he joked, voice rough. “Twice.”

You laughed, but it broke halfway out of your throat. Your vision blurred with tears as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his temple.

“I thought I lost you,” you said quietly.

He turned his head just enough to brush his nose against yours. “Nah. You don’t get rid of me that easy.”

Sam stood, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s stable now. Needs rest. And someone to stop him from flying outta here tomorrow.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, barely glancing at him. “I’ve got this.”

Sam gave a small nod. “Alright. He’s in good hands.” He clapped Joaquin’s leg gently and walked out.

As the door closed, you finally let yourself feel it—the ache, the fear, the sheer rage of almost losing him. Joaquin watched you with soft, tired eyes.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You want to yell at me. Say I was reckless.”

“You were,” you snapped, wiping your cheeks. “But I’ll save the yelling until you’re not high on pain meds.”

He gave a low chuckle, which turned into a wince. “Deal.”

You got to work right away. You adjusted his blanket because the nurse had left it bunched up near his hips and helped him sip some water. You ran your fingers through his sweat-damp curls to calm him. You asked if he was cold. You threatened to unplug the monitors if they beeped one more time.

And when he got quiet, you sat back down and just… held his hand.

“I saw the wreckage,” you said softly, watching your thumb rub slow circles on his skin. “I saw what it did to your wings.”

He turned his head, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Yeah. They’re kinda totaled.”

You hesitated. “Does it… hurt?”

He nodded slowly. “Everywhere.”

You leaned over him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re still my wings. Metal or not. I don’t care if you never fly again.”

“I will,” he said, and you could tell he believed it, even if he was afraid. “But I’m not rushing back in. Not without you in my corner.”

You smiled, and finally, finally, it reached your eyes. “I’m always in your corner. Just don’t make me wait in another ER like this again.”

He squeezed your hand, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re the only reason I fought to stay awake.”

You rested your head gently against his shoulder, letting the quiet settle between you. His heart monitor beeped steadily, and you matched your breathing to it. One breath at a time. One heartbeat at a time. He was here. He was alive.

And he was yours.

You didn’t leave that night. Not even when the nurses gently suggested visiting hours were over. Not when Joaquin finally drifted off to sleep, hand still curled loosely in yours.

The next morning, you were still there, hair messy, hoodie borrowed from his go-bag, eyes heavy but alert.

He blinked awake groggily, disoriented until his gaze landed on you.

“You stayed.”

“Of course I did.”

Joaquin winced as he tried to shift up in bed, groaning. You were by his side in a flash, pressing the call button and gently adjusting his pillows.

“Hey, hey, easy,” you murmured. “You had surgery. You’re not going anywhere unless it’s in a wheelchair and I’m the one pushing it.”

He smirked despite himself. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

(Two Days Later – At Your Home)

He hated needing help. Joaquin Torres was used to flying, soaring above the chaos, always in control. But now, everything ached. His body felt like it had been stitched together with gravel and bad luck.

You were the only one he let see him like this.

You’d set up his apartment like a recovery ward. Extra pillows. Soft blankets. Pain meds on a timer. You even downloaded a Spanish audiobook because he said English ones made him feel like he was being lectured by Sam.

“Alright,” you said one morning, carefully crouching beside the couch where he was propped up. “I need to change the bandages.”

He groaned. “You sure a nurse shouldn’t be doing that?”

“You want a stranger touching you while you’re shirtless and half-asleep?”

“…Good point.”

He winced as you peeled back the gauze. You worked slowly, careful not to tug, your fingers gentle. The wound on his shoulder was still angry red, the stitches tight and healing.

You met his eyes. “You okay?”

He nodded, biting back a hiss. “Hurts less than yesterday. You’re getting good at this.”

“I YouTubed a few videos.”

He blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

You shrugged. “Had to learn fast. They don’t exactly cover ‘how to care for your Falcon superhero boyfriend’ in school.”

He laughed, a real one this time and you smiled, pressing fresh bandages into place, smoothing the tape down with practiced fingers. When you were done, you leaned in and kissed the top of his shoulder.

“There,” you whispered. “All patched up.”

“You always make me feel human,” he said quietly. “Even when I feel broken.”

You sat beside him, pulling the blanket over his legs. “You’re not broken, Joaquin. You’re healing. And I’m here for every second of it. The pain, the mood swings, the ugly scars, you’re not facing it alone.”

He turned his head toward you, his dark eyes soft. “I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted. “Of what comes next. Of not flying again. Of not being… enough.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you said, threading your fingers through his. “You just have to be mine.”

He squeezed your hand. “Always.”

And for the first time since the battlefield, since the blood and chaos and fire, Joaquin allowed himself to rest. Not just sleep but rest. Because you were there. Because home wasn’t just a place anymore.

It was you…

[foxtrology]

unchained melody (7)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 14.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut, mentions of suicide.

Harry woke up without an alarm. No noise. Just instinct.

His eyes opened to the slow hum of night, the villa wrapped in silence except for the rhythmic pulse of her breath against his ribs. She was still asleep—curled around him like always, one leg slung over his hip, hand resting on his stomach like they’d grown roots there.

He blinked once. Then looked over to the clock.

11:32 PM.

The article had dropped. Thirty-two minutes ago. Or so he thought.

What he didn’t know—what no one had told him—was that Carrie Roth had gone rogue. That the article had been published early. That he had already lost the fight. That her face, her body, the weight of mystery surrounding her name and all the blanks the internet was now trying to fill had been dissected and distributed and devoured long before Harry ever opened his eyes.

But none of that existed in this room. Not yet.

For now, there was just the weight of her sleeping on his chest. Her skin warm. Her hair curled like ink along his collarbone. He hadn’t moved in hours. Hadn’t needed to.

She made stillness feel like something sacred.

Harry slid his hand gently down her spine. Stopped at her waist. Let it rest there. Then, careful not to wake her, he reached over and grabbed her phone and his—both forgotten on the floor, one tangled in the strap of her tote.

He didn’t read the article. Didn’t read the comments. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t need to. Whatever was written didn’t matter.

He knew what came next—lawsuits, statements, narrative control. Danny would have already started calling the legal team and would be on the phone with every editor he had dirt on.

Harry simply slipped both phones into her bag. Out of sight. Away from them. Just for the night.

Then, quietly, he grabbed the landline off the nightstand and called down to the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he murmured, voice low enough not to disturb her. “For two. Whatever’s ready. Wine too.”

He hung up. Laid back. Wrapped his arm around her again.

And let the weight of the day start to bleed in—slow, like dusk.

The knock was too loud. Too sharp. Too sudden. It startled her awake. She gasped softly against his chest, eyes blinking open with a confused sound in her throat. Harry moved instantly—lifting his head, tightening his hold on her like instinct.

The knock came again. He exhaled, already annoyed.

“Stay,” he whispered, brushing his lips over her hair.

He got up in one motion, pulling on the first shirt he found—still rumpled from the afternoon. When he opened the door, the poor villa staff member barely got a word out before Harry’s expression did the talking.

The tray was delivered. The door shut behind him. No thank you. No smile.

When he turned back, she was sitting up in bed, sheets pulled over her chest, hair wild, lips parted.

She blinked slowly. “Was that—?”

“Dinner,” he said. “For us.”

“What time is it?” she mumbled, voice thick.

He checked his watch. “Almost midnight.”

Her brows lifted. “You ordered dinner at midnight?”

“You were asleep. I figured we might want something. Or wine.”

Her lips curled. “You’re not real.”

“I am,” he said, already walking the tray over. “Unfortunately.”

She scooted up against the headboard as he set the tray down on the edge of the bed. There were two covered plates, a bottle of wine already uncorked, and two small glasses.

She reached for one. “You're mad at the poor guy who brought this?”

“He knocked like it was urgent.”

She smirked. “You’re an asshole.”

“You like it.”

She didn’t deny it. They ate in bed. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee.

There was pasta—still warm, tossed in olive oil, garlic, and shaved parmesan. A bowl of roasted vegetables. Bread they didn’t ask for but devoured. The wine was deep red, smooth and heady, and the glasses were barely half-full before she started to feel it.

For a while, they didn’t talk. Just passed bites back and forth. Shared a fork. Ate slowly, deliberately. Letting the quiet sit between them like something earned.

Eventually, she glanced at him.

“You okay?”

Harry looked over. “I am now.”

She didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, she reached for the wine again. Poured them both another splash. Then turned her body to face him more fully—her bare legs tucked under her, his t-shirt hanging off one shoulder like it was made for it.

She studied him.

“You are quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

He looked down at his glass. Then set it aside. She didn’t speak. Just waited.

And finally—he let it out. Slowly. Like a confession. Since Lucy.

“My mother died when I was seventeen.”

She blinked. Sat straighter. “Harry…”

He shook his head once, like it wasn’t something he wanted sympathy for.

“She was young.”

The room held still.

“She used to sing while she cooked,” he continued. “Even if it was just eggs. She never remembered the words, always made them up. My sister would be right by her side too.”

She stayed silent.

He glanced at her. “I didn’t go back to the house after the funeral. Not once. Haven’t been in it in thirty-five years.”

“Why not?”

He took a breath. “Because she was the only thing in it that made it feel like home. After that…it was just walls.”

She reached out. Touched his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“She would’ve liked you,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “I would’ve liked her.”

Harry looked at her. Really looked.

Then reached for her hand. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed her knuckles once. Gently.

“You never talk about your family,” he said quietly.

And just like that—the air shifted. She pulled her hand back, slowly. And for a moment, he thought she wouldn’t say anything.

But then—

“My brother died too,” she said softly.

Harry froze.

Her voice didn’t waver. But her eyes did.

“He killed himself when we were twenty.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, looking down at her lap.

“I haven’t told anyone in years.”

He didn’t interrupt.

She looked up at him. “I know you saw the tattoo. The T.”

He nodded once.

Her voice was steadier now. “It’s for Teddy. He was my twin.”

That stopped him. Cold.

He stared at her. “Twin?”

She nodded. Harry sat back slightly, absorbing it.

“You never told me.”

“I don’t talk about him.”

She didn’t elaborate. And Harry didn’t ask. But it lingered between them now—something heavy and sacred.

She tucked her legs under her. “We were born five minutes apart. He was the loud one. The reckless one.”

Harry watched her. Waited.

“He died on a Tuesday,” she added, voice quieter now. “I still hate Tuesdays.”

Harry reached for her hand again. This time, she let him take it.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“I’m glad I do now.”

She didn’t smile. But her fingers curled around his. And that said more than anything else.

They finished eating slowly. The plates were pushed to the side. The wine was nearly gone. The night curled in around them—quiet and forgiving.

She laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers still tangled with his. He pressed a kiss to her temple. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was for more than just dinner.

It was for still being here. For not asking more than she could give. For holding the truth gently, like it was something delicate and worth keeping. Harry squeezed her hand once. And they stayed like that—

Long into the night. Not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

But knowing this—

For now, they still had each other. And sometimes, that was enough. But only for the night.

Because the morning arrived with a fist. A very loud, very manicured fist.

It slammed against the villa door just after eight, shattering the silence with a rhythm more fitting for the police than a houseguest.

“Harry! Open this fucking door right now—what the hell did you do?!”

They both jolted upright in bed.

She blinked, disoriented, Harry’s arm still around her waist, breath still warm on her neck. His face was unreadable, but his grip on her tightened instinctively.

Outside the door, Livia screamed again.

“Do you think you can just kill the Wi-Fi like this is a monastery? I have work! I have a fucking following!”

Harry didn’t move.

She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself, hair mussed, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Did she say...Wi-Fi?”

Harry ran a hand down his face. “I had it cut last night.”

She stared. “You what?”

“Just for today.”

“For what reason?”

His jaw ticked.

She blinked. “Wait—is this about the article?”

Before he could answer, Livia banged again, full dramatic rage now.

“I was filming a sponsored review for a blush that melts! I’ve been trying to upload it for hours! I already sent the invoice! This is fucking sabotage.”

Harry swung his legs off the bed. Didn’t bother replying. Didn’t bother dressing either—just pulled on yesterday’s slacks and stalked across the room with the terrifying calm of a man who had throttled Wall Street brokers for fun and been thanked for it.

She wrapped the sheet tighter, following him with her eyes as he opened the door with one swift pull.

Livia stood there, barefoot in kitten heels, her white robe slipping dramatically off one shoulder, a silk headscarf tied haphazardly atop her head like a fashionable war widow, phone clutched in her hands.

Her face fell the second she saw who else was in the room. “Oh,” she said flatly, eyes cutting to her.

She offered a tight smile from the bed, tugging the sheet higher. She knew this open fucking bedroom would cause her problems. 

Harry didn’t react. “You’ve had Wi-Fi your entire life. You’ll survive twelve hours.”

Livia’s voice dropped to a hiss. “We are not in the Hamptons, Harry. We’re in the Tuscan countryside. It takes six weeks to get high-speed here. And I have deliverables.”

He didn’t blink. “Cry about it.”

Livia blinked. “You—did you seriously just say that to me?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “Do you want me to say it again slower?”

She took a half-step forward, daring. “I swear to God, if this is about Lucy—”

The air changed. She stopped. His expression darkened—not with anger, but with something colder. More lethal.

“I’d choose your next sentence very, very carefully.”

The hallway went still. Livia blinked.

Then, like any decent survivor, turned on her heel and muttered, “Fucking tyrant.”

Harry closed the door slowly. Locked it. Turned.

She was staring at him from the bed, wide-eyed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly more human again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was...horrifyingly hot.”

That got a tiny smile out of him.

He didn’t leave the room that morning. Not for breakfast. Not for emails. Not even for the 10:00 a.m. meeting Danny had arranged with three investors who had flown in from Zurich.

Danny called twice. Harry didn’t answer. She watched him from the armchair in the corner—barefoot, hair pulled into a bun, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, a mug of lemon tea balanced on her knee.

“You’re skipping the meeting?” she asked eventually.

“Yes.”

“Won’t they be mad?”

“They’ll get over it.”

“Will Danny?”

Harry sipped his espresso. “Danny’s already got a lot of shit on his plate.”

That made her laugh.

Harry sat at the edge of the bed, one ankle propped over his knee, flipping through a leather notebook, pen tucked behind his ear like he was sketching out the next version of the world.

He looked completely at ease. Except for the muscle in his jaw.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

He looked up. “Do I not look okay?”

“You look like you’re playing chess with people’s lives in your head.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Do you know what was in the article?” she asked quietly.

“I didn’t read it.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Not interested in anyones narrative.”

He paused. She nodded slowly. But something still itched at the edge of her ribs.

“Will everything be okay?” she asked, barely audible.

Harry looked at her. And for the first time, the cool, coiled stillness broke.

“Yes. Don't worry,” he said. “Danny’s already got people watching the blogs. The subreddits. The gossip accounts. If anything comes up, we kill it before it spreads.”

She swallowed. “But what if it's not?”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped in front of her and knelt, one hand resting on her knee.

“Then I'll burn them down.”

She searched his face. And found something terrifying there. Not fear. Not hesitation. Conviction. The kind that doesn’t flinch.

“You’d burn them down?” she whispered.

His voice didn’t change.

“I’d do anything for you.”

She believed him. And that terrified her more than the article ever could.

Meanwhile, in the converted office across the villa, Danny was having the worst morning of his career. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t moved from his desk in hours.

The Wi-Fi Harry cut had taken down two printers, a backup router, and a $15,000 digital projector that Lorenzo was now threatening to return to France in protest.

He was fielding calls from six continents. Allegra was ghosting him. And two junior employees had locked themselves in a bathroom over rumors that “Castillo was spiraling.”

He’d already flown out three more team members overnight—Sadie from PR, Robyn from legal, and a fixer named Ben who used to work for Russian oligarchs and didn’t blink.

When Lorenzo asked if Harry was canceling the investor lunch, Danny responded by slamming a folder down and saying, “If Harry wants to picnic in hell today, we’re all going with him.” Nobody asked again.

Back in the villa suite, her and Harry were still in bed. It was noon.

She was braiding a section of her hair absentmindedly, the balcony doors cracked open behind her. The breeze drifted in soft and slow, carrying the scent of rosemary, dust, and something vaguely citrus.

Harry laid beside her. Watching her like he was memorizing every movement.

She looked at him. “You really didn’t read it?”

He shook his head. “The only story that matters is the one we write.”

“That’s a nice line.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a decision.”

She chewed her lip. Then shifted closer.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then laid her head on his chest.

“If you ever find out something about me…something I couldn’t say out loud yet… would you still look at me the way you do now?”

His hand moved through her hair.

Slow. Gentle.

“I already know I don’t deserve you.”

She looked up, startled. But he wasn’t finished.

“So whatever it is—whatever you’re afraid of—it doesn’t change what I feel.”

She stared at him. Long and quiet.

Then whispered,

“I believe you.”

And she did.

Even if her chest still burned. Even if the truth still lived behind her ribs like a locked room. Even if the wolves were circling. Because right now? He was here. And the rest of the world could wait.

The hours bled. Through stone. Through linen. Through the brush of her fingers along the lip of a ceramic mug.

She had stayed curled beside him as long as she could bear it. Skin warm. Sheet tangled around her hips like an afterthought. There was honey in the air. And rosemary. And something sour just beneath it—the scent of stillness going stale.

She needed to move.

She didn’t say it out loud at first. Just sat up. Pulled her hair away from her neck. Walked barefoot across the room to where the windows overlooked the orchard, the gravel path, the ache of quiet that clung to the hills like fog.

He was still in bed. Watching her.

She didn’t turn around. Just said, softly, “I can’t stay in here all day.”

A beat passed.

“You said we’d stay in,” he murmured, voice frayed by sleep.

“I know,” she said. “But I feel like I’m losing track of time.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “Please.”

She turned. And found him already watching her. It was the please that did it. The shower was brief. Not for lack of effort.

Harry, as always, was a saboteur in disguise. She caught the glint in his eye the moment the water hit her collarbone. The slow, deliberate way he pressed her against the tile. His mouth dragged along her shoulder like he was writing something. His hand ghosted down her stomach.

“Don’t,” she whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t what?” he asked, too innocent.

“You’re going to distract me.”

He kissed her ribs.

“You always say that.”

“And you always prove me right.”

His tongue moved lower. She grabbed his face with both hands.

“Harry,” she said, laughing now. “Stop trying to ruin the day.”

“I’m improving it.”

She stepped out of the water.

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re wet.”

“I’m leaving you in here.”

He sighed like a man deprived of oxygen. “Fine.”

They dressed quietly.

She wore a cotton sundress with tiny pearl buttons down the front and a pair of old sandals. Her hair was damp and half-tucked into a scarf she found in her bag. He wore black again—short-sleeved linen, slacks rolled slightly at the ankle, sunglasses tucked into his collar like punctuation.

She didn’t ask if he was nervous about being seen. He didn’t ask if she still felt like running. They didn’t have to.

The car into town was old. Beige leather, sticky in the heat. The driver didn’t speak except to nod once when Harry gave him the name of the town. Not the one they had went to the other day with Francesca and Luca. Not the one with influencers and Aperol spritzes and rented designer bags.

The one past it. Where the hills stopped being curated and the people stopped pretending. She leaned her head on the window.

Harry laced their fingers together without looking. She exhaled.

“I need something stupid today,” she said.

He turned to her. “Like what?”

“A book I’ll never finish. A dress I can’t afford. A bag of lemon candy that hurts my teeth.”

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The village was empty in the way only real places are—half-shuttered shops with peeling signs, a church bell that rang too loud for no one in particular, a woman sweeping her doorway like she’d been doing it for decades.

No one looked at them. Not once.

They slipped into a bookstore that smelled like thyme and printer ink.

The owner didn’t speak English, but smiled kindly when she held up a copy of La Noia and asked, brokenly, if he had it in English. He did. He pulled it from a low shelf, dusted it off with the sleeve of his cardigan, and handed it over like it was a secret.

Harry watched her leaf through it with that quiet reverence she saved for real things. Books. Cats. Tiny ceramic bowls that held nothing but dust and memory.

They left with three books. One for her. One Harry picked out without telling her. One she grabbed last-minute because the cover reminded her of her brother. He paid for all of them in cash.

The next stop was a boutique tucked into a stone alleyway—no name, no mannequins, just a beaded curtain and the smell of vanilla. Inside, it was chaos.

Lace and linen and buttons made of bone. Dresses that looked like they’d belonged to Italian actresses in the seventies. Shelves lined with scarves dyed the color of bruises and citrus rinds. Jewelry tangled in bowls.

She held up a pair of vintage sunglasses. “Do I look like I sell weed to college students?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“I like that for me.”

“You’d ruin them in a week.”

She handed them to him anyway. “Good. Then they’ll have character.”

She tried on two dresses. Bought neither. Harry bought her both when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed only when they were halfway down the street and he handed her a wrapped bundle.

She paused. “I said I didn’t want them.”

“You lied.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t say anything else. But he was smiling.

They passed a café with blue umbrellas and tiny espresso cups. He bought her a lemon granita and a slice of almond cake.

She ate both with her feet up on his lap, a paperback open across her knees, his hand resting low on her thigh like it had always belonged there.

No one took a photo. No one whispered. No one called her anything at all. He felt invisible. And for the first time in days, that was a relief.

They walked back to the car slowly. No rush. No panic. She had a bag of marzipan in one hand. His fingers in the other.

The afternoon had turned amber. The kind of light that only exists when you’re not trying to capture it.

Back at the villa, the gravel was still warm underfoot. They slipped inside without speaking. Up the stairs. Down the hall. The quiet was golden.

Until—

“Harry.”

They both stopped.

Lorenzo.

Standing in the corridor like a painting. Hair too perfect. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he spent more time in mirrors than the markets.

Harry’s hand clenched slightly. Lorenzo smiled.

“We’re having a farewell dinner tonight,” he said. “My yacht. Final celebration before your flight.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Lorenzo’s gaze flicked to her. Then back to Harry.

“Should be intimate,” he added. “Just the core group. Paolo. Francesca. Luca. Livia. Me.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’ll pass,” Harry said flatly.

Lorenzo didn’t blink. “That wasn’t a question.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. Her stomach turned.

She could feel it happening—the shift. The slow, deliberate slide toward something ancient. Pride. Power. That edge of violence that lived in quiet men who had too much to lose.

She stepped forward. Touched Harry’s hand. Took it in hers. Looked up at Lorenzo with a smile so practiced it hurt.

“We’ll be there,” she said softly.

Lorenzo tilted his head. “Wonderful.”

He turned. Walked away.

Harry didn’t move. She didn’t let go. He looked down at her, the edge still sharp behind his eyes.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s just dinner.”

“It’s a performance.”

“So perform.”

A pause. Then he exhaled through his nose.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured.

She tilted her head. “Do what?”

“I should be the one protecting you.”

She smiled. “Harry, I can protect you and thats okay.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then pulled her in. Pressed his forehead to hers.

And in that breathless second between silence and surrender, she knew—

He would do anything for her. Even smile at men he hated. Even go to dinner with ghosts. Even pretend. If it meant she stayed.

They walked the rest of the hallway in silence. Her hand still in his. His body still braced for a fight that had not yet arrived.

But by the time they reached the room, it was already beginning to dissolve. The heat of it. The tension. The echo of Lorenzo’s voice. All of it started to fade the second he opened the door for her, and she stepped back into the space that had briefly felt like a sanctuary.

She let go of his hand only to set her bags down gently on the bed. A scarf slipped out—burnt orange with blue stitching at the edge. Harry caught it before it hit the floor and folded it over the back of the chair.

She toed off her sandals. Turned to him.

“Help me unpack?”

He nodded. Wordless. Of course.

It took longer than it needed to. She did it slowly—like if she stretched each act out long enough, the rest of the evening might somehow never arrive.

She took each thing out of the bags one at a time, smoothing the tissue paper between her fingers, holding things up to the fading light like they might tell her something.

Harry stood behind her, occasionally reaching for the things she handed him—books, scarves, a delicate linen blouse she’d claimed was “too sheer to wear in public,” which of course meant she’d already imagined wearing it the next morning.

He folded everything with surprising precision. Sharp creases. Quiet attention.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured.

“Military school,” he said, without looking up. “You learn fast when your roommate’s a sadist.”

She laughed softly. Set a small paper-wrapped box on the dresser.

He glanced over.

“What’s that?”

She shrugged. “Jewelry. Kind of. I think it was meant to be a choker but it’s made of beads and string and I just liked how it felt in my hands.”

Harry said nothing. Just watched her unwrap it—slowly, delicately, like the beads might break if she breathed too hard.

She held it out.

“Put it on me?”

He took it. Stepped behind her. Lifted her hair. Fastened the string with a quiet gentleness that made her chest ache.

His hands lingered at the base of her neck afterward. Then dropped.

She didn’t turn around. But she reached for his hand. Held it for a second. Then let go.

They sat together on the edge of the bed for a while after that.

Just the long slope of light across the stone floor, the breeze curling through the half-open windows, the sound of forks clinking faintly downstairs where staff had begun prepping for the night.

She rested her head on his shoulder. And for a little while, they didn’t talk. Eventually, he kissed the top of her hair.

And said, “We should get ready.”

The getting ready was not hurried. It was careful. Quiet.

Intimate in a way that had everything to do with knowing someone’s rhythm well enough to match it.

She went first—starting with her hair, standing at the small vanity table with a round mirror and a glass tray filled with little hotel bottles that all smelled faintly of lemon and woodsmoke. She brushed slowly. Methodically. Let her hair fall naturally, then twisted it up in a loose, soft knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with two pins and one of the new scarves.

Harry sat behind her on the bed, silently buttoning his shirt—black again, always, the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, the collar slightly open. No jacket tonight. No tie. Just quiet confidence and careful rage tucked beneath the surface.

She glanced at him in the mirror. He looked at her reflection. Neither of them smiled. But something passed between them. Something warm. Unspoken.

She turned back to the vanity and touched her fingers to the edge of her mouth. Then leaned forward and pressed on a little lip color—nothing bold. Just enough to look like she’d been kissed recently.

She stood. Slipped into the dress she’d picked out that morning in town. The one she told him was “too much” for a dinner but bought anyway. A pale mauve silk that fell low at the back and clung just enough to make her feel like a poem instead of a person. She hadn’t worn a bra. Didn’t need to.

Harry looked up. His hands stilled. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He stood. Crossed the room. Touched the strap of the dress like it might fall off if he didn’t anchor it.

“You’re not real,” he said under his breath.

She smiled. “Neither are you.”

He kissed her shoulder. Then stepped back.

She helped him with his cuffs. Folded each one slowly, smoothing the fabric. Buttoned them without looking up.

“You hate him, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

“Lorenzo?”

She nodded.

“I don’t hate him,” Harry said. “I hate what he represents.”

“Which is?”

“Everything I thought I had to become.”

She met his eyes. Didn’t speak. But she squeezed his wrist, gently. He kissed her forehead. They finished dressing in silence.

He found her shoes under the bed. Slid them on for her, one by one. Then stood and straightened his collar, checking her once more.

“You ready?”

He exhaled.

“No.”

He knew it would be sort of a long drive. The closest Marina to them was about an hour away.

All because Lorenzo wanted to throw a send off dinner for him on a yacht. He knew the man did it on purpose. 

“Too late.”

The villa was quiet when they opened the door. The hallway still. The lights warm and low.

Their steps echoed softly against the stone floors as they made their way down toward the main entrance.

Neither of them spoke. She adjusted the strap of her dress once. Harry reached over and fixed it for her before she could.

They were both beautiful. Both calm. Both armed. And neither of them had any idea what they were walking into.

The car Lorenzo sent them was sleek. Black. Clean in that sterilized, soulless way that suggested it was used for too many things—contract signings, last-minute getaways, discreet apologies to mistresses and board members alike.

The driver didn’t speak at first. Just nodded.

They pulled away from the villa in silence. Gravel cracking under the tires. A distant bird scattering somewhere behind the orchard. The roads twisted softly, curling through dusk. Golden hour was gone now.

Everything outside the window had turned that particular shade of blue that felt like the bottom of a swimming pool—hollow, glassy, waiting to hold something heavy.

She had one hand resting on her thigh. Harry’s was on top of it. Not moving. Just there. Like a claim.

She was staring out the window, watching vineyards fall away like memory, when the driver suddenly said—

“You’re her, huh?”

She turned. Harry did not.

The man cleared his throat. “I mean. Sorry. I just—uh. I saw your face earlier. On—on Twitter. Or X. Or—what is it now? Is it still Twitter? I feel like I should call it Twitter but everyone keeps saying X, but that just feels like a fake porn site—”

Harry looked up slowly.

The driver swallowed. “I mean, it’s none of my business, obviously. Just—my cousin in Palermo sent me a screenshot. You’re all over it. Every social media platform actually.”

He was talking too fast now. Trying to recover. Mumbling something about hashtags and name-blind profiles and how “the internet doesn’t sleep” before trailing off entirely.

She had gone still beside Harry. But he hadn’t moved his hand.

She turned her head. Met his eyes. Worried. Quiet. Not panicked. Just quietly terrified.

He looked at her for a long second.

Then, calm as ever, murmured, “You’re safe.”

She nodded once. Didn’t believe it. But needed to hear it.

What she didn’t know—what Harry hadn’t told her, at least not yet—was that while she was in the dressing room two hours ago, trying on a second dress she’d claimed she hated but couldn’t stop looking at, his phone had buzzed in his lap with a call from Danny.

Harry had stepped outside. Shut the boutique's door behind him. And listened.

Danny had been quick.

“Legal’s drafting the suit. We’re going after Carrie for invasion, misrepresentation, defamation—if we can tie in Lorenzo and Livia, we will.”

Harry didn’t interrupt.

Danny continued, “I also pulled Sofia, Ben, and Claudine. Had them flown in early this morning. Sofia’s already doing back-end wipe work. Scrubbing keywords. Dox block protocols. She’s working with two Reddit mods who owe her favors.”

Harry had only said two words,

“Make it clean.”

And Danny had replied,

“We’re trying.”

They reached the marina about an hour later. 

It was quieter than expected. The kind of quiet that made your skin feel too thin.

The sky was dark now. Bruised purple bleeding into navy. The water held the moonlight like a mirror with fingerprints.

Lorenzo’s yacht was docked at the far end. Lit up. Grand. Excessive in a way only old money could justify. The kind of boat people threw parties on just to get photographed walking off of it.

The driver parked. Didn’t say anything this time.

Harry got out first. Opened her door before she could reach for the handle. Offered his hand. She took it.

And the moment their fingers locked, she felt something strange—something subtle and electric and undeniable.

Like the gravity around him had shifted. Protective. Sharp. She didn’t let go.

They walked the length of the dock in silence.

The water lapped softly at the pylons. Distant music drifted from the yacht—something ambient, expensive, designed not to offend or invite too much thought.

They climbed the short flight of stairs onto the deck. And were immediately surprised. They weren’t late. For once.

Livia and Paolo weren't here yet.

Francesca was the first to spot them. She broke into a grin so genuine it made something loosen in her chest.

“There she is,” she said, crossing the deck in sandals and linen like a dream. “I’ve missed you. Were you avoiding me?”

The girl smiles. “Only because you’re too pretty.”

Francesca laughed. Pulled her in for a hug. Held her longer than expected. She let herself sink into it.

When they pulled apart, Francesca smiled again—gentler now. “You look... really good.”

She opened her mouth to thank her.

But then—

“Harry.”

Luca.

Crossing the deck with a glass of scotch in one hand and a suspiciously sincere expression on his face.

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded once.

Luca grinned. “Still the friendliest man I know.”

Harry said nothing. But his hand stayed on the small of her back.

Francesca looks at her. Her voice softened, slightly. “The way he looks at you, you know.”

Harry’s jaw flexed.

She smiled anyway. “Trust me I know.”

The two girls giggle making their men smile.

Then came Lorenzo. And Marcella. The hosts. Gilded. Chilled. Radiating civility like a fog.

Lorenzo offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You made it.”

Harry’s silence was a weapon. Marcella kissed both their cheeks with an efficiency that felt like surgery.

“So lovely,” she said, air-light, to no one in particular.

Then turned to Harry. “You’re glowing.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Marcella laughed. He didn’t.

They drifted away. Two ghosts in designer linen. The moment they were gone, she turned to Harry.

“Are we...in a play?”

He smirked. “You’re the lead.”

“And you?”

“Supporting role. Best in show.”

“Villain?”

“Obviously.”

She laced their fingers again.

And even in the low light, in the quiet tension of the yacht deck, in the heat of eyes that watched them like they were both flame and fuel—

Harry looked only at her. Like she was the anchor. Like she was the point. And if the world decided to burn that night—

He’d burn it back. With both hands. And her name on his lips.

They didn’t know what was coming. But they were ready for each other. And sometimes, that was enough. Even when it wouldn’t be.

The deck had been transformed.

Somehow, beneath the twilight and the soft groan of waves brushing the yacht’s hull, it looked almost… charming. Tables set in a crescent curve beneath low-strung lights. Linens crisp. Napkins folded like something ceremonial. A long, slender floral arrangement that looked like someone had plucked it from the edge of a dream and fastened it into a centerpiece with gold wire. The chairs were padded, heavy, far too luxurious for sea air.

And the food—

Well, the food hadn’t even arrived yet, but already, the air smelled like butter and salt and whatever it was rich people paid chefs to do with fish and patience.

She sat beside Harry, as always. Not across. Always beside. His hand rested on his thigh, and hers found it without thinking.

There were only eight seats. They were six. So far. And by some small miracle—some twist of fate or calculation—they had not been the last to arrive.

Francesca was already sipping from a wine glass like it was part of her anatomy. Luca had leaned back already annoyed at something Lorenzo had said. Marcella looked like a woman who had never let her face register inconvenience, and Lorenzo had adopted that particular brand of smirk worn only by men whose mistakes were always cleaned up by assistants.

But everyone was…calm.

The tension Harry had expected—the whispers, the glances, the brittle edge of politeness laced with too much curiosity—had not arrived.

Not yet.

The table hummed with that early-dinner politeness. Low voices. Faint laughter. The clink of a fork against an appetizer plate. Her glass was full of something pale and gold that she couldn’t pronounce, and Harry’s was untouched.

He looked around the table with slow, calculated precision.

Nobody mentioned the article. Nobody even looked at her like her face had been on social media all morning.

He leaned closer, voice low. “See? I told you.”

She nodded once. Still unsure. But grateful.

The chef emerged as the sun dipped fully below the waterline. French. Forty, maybe. Hair too perfect to be accidental.

He spoke with his hands. Described the first course like it was a poem about inheritance and garlic.

“Tonight, we begin with a courgette blossom stuffed with a delicate lemon-infused ricotta, resting on a green garlic velouté and finished with a saffron oil.”

The table applauded. Softly.

Francesca clapped once and said, “God, I missed food that tastes like money.”

Harry didn’t react. She just smiled around her wineglass.

The course arrived. Delicate. Precise. The kind of dish that made her feel like she should sit up straighter just to deserve it.

The fork was cold in her hand. But Harry’s hand stayed warm against her thigh.

And for a moment—a full, uninterrupted moment—it felt like maybe it would be fine. Maybe they could laugh. Maybe the wine would dull the edge. Maybe the wolves had gone quiet.

And then—

Footsteps. Hushed talking. A door opening somewhere on the upper deck.

Francesca glanced up.

“Ah,” she said. “The devils arrive.”

Livia. And Paolo. Late. By design.

Livia was wearing red. Her heels were high enough to be violent. Her makeup was severe in the way only expensive things could be. She looked like a warning.

Paolo, by contrast, looked like he’d been woken up from a nap and handed a blazer. They descended onto the deck like they owned the ship.

And immediately—

She felt it. That thing.nThat look. Livia’s eyes found her like it had been practiced.

A flick up and down. A tilt of the head. A curl of the mouth that wasn’t a smile—it was a warning.

Harry’s posture changed immediately. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But something about his silence sharpened. Like he was measuring windspeed.

Paolo clapped Luca's shoulder. Made a joke in Italian that only Lorenzo laughed at. Livia kissed both of Marcella’s cheeks, air only.

Francesca sipped her wine harder.

And then—

Livia made her way around the table. Slow. Like a lion circling the last guest at a garden party.

When she reached them, she didn’t greet Harry first. She turned to her.

Smiled. And said,

“Well. You clean up nice.”

She blinked.

Managed a polite, “Thanks.”

Livia’s gaze lingered a beat too long.

Then turned to Harry.

“Harry,” she said, like she was tasting the name.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

Livia smiled wider. And sat across from them. Just far enough to seem unbothered. Just close enough to catch her eye every time she looked down at her fork.

The second course hadn’t even been served yet. And already, she felt her stomach shrink.

The chef returned. Oblivious. Radiating joy.

“The second course,” he said proudly, “is a handmade crab agnolotti in a shellfish bisque, garnished with fennel pollen and a whisper of citrus zest.”

She tried to listen. Tried to be polite. Tried to breathe.

But across the table—

Livia was watching her. Not speaking. Not smirking. Just watching. Like she knew something. Like she was waiting.

Harry noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t move. But he reached under the table. Took her hand. Squeezed.

She looked at him. He didn’t look back. His jaw was tight. His mouth set. But he held her hand like a promise.

And even though Livia was still staring still. Still.

Still sitting there in her red dress like a warning wrapped in perfume—

Harry made sure her hand never left his. Not once. Because she was the only reason he’d shown up tonight.

And he’d burn this yacht to the waterline if anyone touched her. Even with a look. Especially then.

As dinner dragged on beneath the strings of warm light and the low hum of the sea, Livia’s silence began to thicken. Not the kind that suggested grace or boredom. The kind that held heat. Calculated. Manufactured. Edging toward combustion.

She didn’t speak. She barely touched her food. But her eyes—

They stayed fixed. Not on the conversation. Not on Lorenzo’s inane commentary about French vintners or Marcella's Cannes Festival experiences.

On her.

Livia watched her like she was decoding something. Studying a painting she didn’t understand but deeply hated. Her gaze moved over her bare shoulders, the scarf tucked into her hair, the way Harry’s hand stayed anchored on her thigh like it lived there.

She felt it. The scrutiny.

The weight of being seen not as a person, but a project. A theory. A problem.

Harry felt it too.

His hand never left hers. But she noticed the change—his fingers tightening slightly. The occasional glance across the table like a warning. The way he reached for his wine glass only to set it back down, untouched.

He was bracing. And she didn’t know for what.

Until Livia finally spoke.

“We almost didn’t make it back in time,” she said breezily, adjusting the strap of her dress like she hadn’t just been sitting in loaded silence for an hour.

The table went still.

Francesca lifted a brow. “Where were you?”

“Portofino,” Livia answered. “Had to post something. You know how it is. Deadlines.”

Marcella made a sound that might’ve been agreement.

“I had to get the posts up somehow,” Livia continued, sipping her wine like it didn’t taste like venom. “Someone decided to turn his villa into a monastery.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’ll survive.”

Livia smiled at him. “Will I? Because I had to drive three hours just to get a connection. It’s barbaric, really. The Tuscan countryside is beautiful, but I’m not trying to be digitally off-grid in the middle of a media cycle.”

Francesca cut in lightly. “What media cycle?”

Livia turned. Too quickly. Too eagerly.

She smiled. Not kindly.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?”

Her voice was honeyed and fake.

“I passed a newsstand in Portofino.”

Her fingers tapped the base of her wine glass.

“And imagine my surprise when I saw Harry’s face staring back at me.”

Livia's eyes flicked to her.

“And hers.”

The table went quiet.

Francesca’s smile dimmed. Luca stopped mid-cut into his steak. Paolo looked like he was pretending not to listen.

Harry didn’t move. But she felt his hand flex against her thigh.

Livia leaned forward slightly.

“You know it's crazy,”

Harry’s voice was ice. “Drop it.”

“But I mean—” she continued, sweet and sharp, “it’s a stunning photo. Really. I see why you wanted it buried. You look…” Her eyes scanned the girl again. “Domestic.”

Francesca shifted in her seat. “Livia.”

Livia waved her off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just…interesting.”

She sipped her wine again.

“Especially when the article says no one knows her last name. No one can find where she’s from. Or what she does. Or what she’s done.”

Harry set his wine glass down. Hard. The sound echoed.

“I said,” he repeated, voice steady, lethal, “drop it.”

Livia smiled again. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughing faintly, “you’ve always been so dramatic when you’re hiding something.”

And then—

She reached into her purse. Pulled out her phone. Her thumb moved with practiced ease. And she held it up. Face lit up by the screen.

“This,” she said, turning it so the whole table could see, “is why I’m curious.”

The screen showed a headline. Grainy. Dated. But clear.

Daughter & Wife of Convicted Fraudster Vanishes After Twin Brother’s Suicide.

It felt like the world dropped out from under the table. She went still.

Francesca inhaled sharply.

Harry’s hand froze.

Livia swiped. Another image. A courtroom.

Two women seated together—her and her mother.

Her expression was blank in the photo. Empty-eyed. Holding herself together in a dress that didn’t quite fit. A ghost caught on film.

Swipe. A photo of a memorial. Flowers. A framed picture of a boy who looked like her. Same eyes. Same mouth. A candle burned in front of it.

Swipe. The article open again.

Livia’s voice was quiet now. Laced with acid.

“She’s not just a nobody. She’s a disgrace.”

Her words cut through the air like glass.

“She’s not mysterious. She’s a cover story. Her family bankrupted entire counties. North Carolina, South Carolina—ring a bell? Her dad’s in prison for life. Her brother couldn’t handle the fallout, so he fucking shot himself. Her mother? Oh, she left to Europe, leaving behind her only living child. And now she’s here, dressed like an Italian heiress, trying to what? Reclaim the crown?”

She turned the phone back around. Smiled cruelly.

“She’s a gold digger. She doesn’t want you, Harry. She wants her old life back.”

And just like that—

The room detonated.

Harry stood. Fast. Violent. Chair screeching back.

She flinched.

The table went dead quiet.

Livia blinked. Harry didn’t say a word. He reached across the table. Snatched the phone from her hand.

And, without a breath—

Threw it. Hard. Over the railing.

It sailed clean into the dark water. A distant splash. Livia gasped.

Harry turned to her—his.

Took her hand. Didn’t look at anyone else. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. He just pulled her up from the table and walked.

Fast. Sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back.

Francesca and Luca called after them. But Harry didn’t stop.

He held her hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. They reached the stairs. The dock. The cool night air hit them like a slap.

She tried to speak once—tried to say his name. But he didn’t respond. Not yet. He was moving too fast. Like if he slowed down, something would shatter.

At the end of the dock, a row of cars idled quietly. Drivers waiting, smoking, checking their phones. Harry found theirs in seconds. The driver startled when he saw him.

Harry opened the door. She slipped inside without a word. He followed. The doors shut. The silence hit like a bell.

The driver turned, cautious. “Would you like…music?”

Harry nodded once.

“Low.”

The man reached for the dial. Turned the volume up just enough to mask the breathless tension. Soft classical music filled the space.

But it didn’t help. Because inside the car, she wasn’t breathing right.

And Harry? Harry hadn’t said a word since the table.

She stared straight ahead, fingers clenched in her lap, the scar from her past bleeding through the fabric of her dress, visible now in ways it never had been.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. But her throat burned. And Harry still hadn’t looked at her.

Still hadn’t said anything. Still hadn’t touched her. She tried again. Quiet.

“Harry.”

Nothing.

She turned her head. He was staring out the window. Jaw clenched. Eyes distant. Like he was trying to kill something in his mind.

She shrank back against the seat. The hour felt like ten. The mountains passed them in slow shadows. The vineyard fences blurred. The stars outside sparkled like they didn’t know what had happened.

When they reached the villa, the driver pulled into the gravel driveway and didn’t speak.

Harry got out first. Came around to her door. Opened it like he always did. But he didn’t meet her eyes. He just offered his hand.

She hesitated. Then took it.

Because it was habit now. Because it was muscle memory. Because it still meant something.

But her chest was splintering. Because Harry hadn’t looked at her. Not really. And she didn’t know if it was because he was protecting her—

Or because now he saw her the way the world did. Like a headline. A scandal. A past that couldn’t be washed away.

They walked into the villa without a word. The door shut behind them.

And the silence returned. Worse now. Thicker. Unspoken.

And she—

She stood in the middle of the room like she didn’t know where to go. Like she didn’t know if she still belonged.

Harry stood at the window. Hands on the sill. Looking out. Like he needed to calm the storm in his chest before he came near her.

She watched his back rise and fall. Once. Twice.

Then whispered.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

So she said it again. Stronger. More desperate.

“Harry. I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

Still, no response. And it broke something in her.

She turned. Walked to the bed. Sat down slowly. Face in her hands.

The shame crawled up her spine like fire. She didn’t know if he hated her now. Didn’t know if he regretted everything. Didn’t know if the silence was grief or fury or both.

But she couldn’t take it anymore.

So she whispered, “Say something.”

And finally—

Finally—

He turned. Crossed the room in three strides. Knelt in front of her. Hands on her knees.

Eyes searching hers like a lifeline.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said hoarsely, “because I didn’t know how to say I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Tears down her cheeks.

“What?”

He reached up. Touched her face.

“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve burned that story to the ground before it ever saw print. I should’ve never let you walk into that dinner.”

Her lip trembled. He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to hers.

Breathed in like she was oxygen.

“I don’t care about your past,” he said. “I care that you had to live it alone.”

She broke. Right there. In his hands. Tears slid down her cheeks silently. No sobs. Just a collapse.

He wrapped his arms around her. Pulled her onto his lap. Held her like something sacred.

Like she wasn’t broken. Like she was his. And when he kissed her hair, he whispered it again.

“I’m sorry.”

Over. And over. And over.

Until the silence softened. Until her hands clutched his shirt and wouldn’t let go. Until her breath steadied. Until he knew—

She still believed him. Even now. Especially now

Harry didn’t know how long she cried in his arms. But eventually—inevitably—she wore herself out.

Her breath slowed. Her grip on his shirt loosened. The weight of everything—the article, the shame, the dinner, the past she never asked for—tugged her under like sleep was the only mercy the night had left to give.

She fell asleep in his lap. Her face still pressed to his shoulder, lashes damp, fingers curled like a child’s against his ribs. He didn’t move for a long time. Just held her. Let the room breathe again. Let the storm pass through him too.

Then, as gently as possible, he shifted. Lifted her carefully—arms beneath her knees and shoulders like she weighed nothing. She stirred for a second, murmured something against his chest, then went quiet again.

Harry laid her softly on the bed.

Paused. Looked at her for a long moment.

Then he reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. Unfastened it slowly.

Pulled the silk down her body with reverence, like it was something holy. Like she was something holy. And she was. Even now, even like this—her hair clinging to her cheek, her eyes red from crying, her chest still heaving with the remnants of grief—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He dressed her in one of his shirts. The soft black one with sleeves too long for her arms. And a pair of drawstring sweats she always claimed were too big but wore anyway when she was cold.

Then he tucked her in. Folded the blankets up to her chin. Brushed her hair off her face. Kissed her cheek.

And when he pulled back, his throat ached. Because you could still tell she’d been crying. Even in sleep. Even with the room quiet again. Even with her tucked safe beneath layers and love and silence.

He stood there for a long time. Staring at her. Hands on his hips. Head bowed. Then he turned. Slipped out of the room.

The hallway was still. The air sharp with Tuscan night.

He didn’t knock on Danny’s door. Just opened it.

Danny was still awake. Still at the desk. Still surrounded by printouts and screens and glowing things that wouldn’t stop blinking. He looked up the second Harry walked in, eyes bloodshot, tie loosened, jaw tight.

“I was about to come find you,” Danny said. “Livia’s phone is at the bottom of the sea and Lorenzo’s been calling since they docked.”

Harry didn’t respond. He stepped inside. Shut the door behind him. Then stood there. For a beat. Two.

And finally, quietly—

“She’s not who they say she is.”

Danny blinked. “Okay.”

Harry stepped closer. Ran a hand down his face. Exhaled.

“She’s not a gold digger. She’s not after anything. She’s…she’s not trying to be anything other than someone who survived.”

Danny leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

Harry stared at the floor. “Her father was a fraud. The worst kind. Bankrupted counties. Destroyed families. Her brother—” he stopped, jaw clenched, then shook his head. “Her brother didn’t make it.”

Danny didn’t speak.

“And her mother?” Harry added. “Vanished. Moved to Europe. Left her with nothing. Not even a phone call.”

Danny’s face softened.

“She was twenty,” Harry said. “Barely twenty. All that chaos, all that press—people stalking her, blaming her, speculating. She left the country. Changed her name. Disappeared. She’s been rebuilding ever since.”

He paused. Looked up.

“I didn’t know until tonight.”

Danny nodded once. Still silent.

Harry walked to the desk. Put his hands flat on the surface.

“I’m canceling the deal.”

Danny blinked. “What—?”

“All of them,” Harry said. “Lorenzo. Paolo. Anyone else tied to this. Anyone who sat at that table and let her be humiliated.”

Danny exhaled.

“You sure?”

Harry looked at him. “They don’t respect me. And they sure as hell don’t respect her.”

Danny leaned back in his chair. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll shut it down. Pull the paperwork. Call legal.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’ll handle everything,” Danny added, voice quieter now.

Harry looked at him. Grateful.

Then he stepped back. One hand on the doorknob.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “As soon as she wakes up.”

Danny blinked. “New York?”

Harry nodded. “She needs to be home. Somewhere she can breathe.”

Danny was already typing. “I’ll have the jet ready.”

Harry lingered in the doorway for a second longer. Then left.

Back in the suite, the room was still dim. She hadn’t moved. The covers hadn’t shifted. Her hand was curled near her face, one wrist poking out from the sleeve of his shirt.

He moved slowly. Quietly. Started to pack. Not for the first time. But with a different kind of focus now.

He folded her things one at a time. Smoothed the fabric. Laid them in her suitcase with more care than he’d shown in any boardroom or billion-dollar negotiation. Every scarf. Every book. The dresses he bought her. The choker made of beads and string. Her sandals. Her sunglasses. Her hair pins.

He packed it all. Because she wouldn’t have thought to do it. Because she was still bleeding somewhere inside. Because she was asleep and exhausted and hurting and he loved her so much it ached.

He zipped the suitcase shut gently. Set it by the door.

Then packed his. Less carefully. More rough. He didn't care about his things as much as he cared about hers. He didn’t need much. Just whatever he needed to get her back safely.

When both suitcases were lined up by the door, he paused. Stared at them. His and hers. Side by side. Like they belonged to people who’d been married for ten years. Like this was just another business trip. Another morning. Another moment.

But it wasn’t. This was something else. This was a line in the sand. And he was choosing her. He was choosing her past. Her future. Her name. The shame she had to manage alone. Her silence. All of it.

Harry turned. Looked back at her. Still asleep. Still soft. Still his. And in that moment, something settled inside him. Something final.

She could’ve told him she was a storm. A wreck. A ruin. He still would’ve chosen her. Every time.

Her shame was his shame. He would defend her. Even if she killed somebody. No matter what the world said.

He crossed the room. Turned off the last lamp. Slipped into bed beside her. Didn’t wake her. Just slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close again.

She shifted slightly. Exhaled. Settled against his chest like gravity knew him.

And Harry—

Harry closed his eyes. Held her. And waited for morning. Because soon, they were going home.

It was still dark when she stirred.

No sunlight yet—just the blue of early morning crawling through the windows, brushing the stone floor like a whisper. Outside, the hills slept. The air was thick with silence, the kind that only exists just before dawn, when even the birds hesitate to speak.

Harry hadn’t slept much. He’d laid there, holding her, counting her breaths, his thumb brushing slowly over her ribs like the motion alone might protect her. He’d watched the hours crawl past on the little travel clock near the bed.

3:17. 4:09. 5:01.

He didn’t mind. So when her body tensed in his arms—barely a flinch, just the subtle stiffening of shoulders and the catch of breath—he noticed instantly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pressed his lips to her hair and held her tighter. Not enough to trap. Just enough to anchor.

She didn’t open her eyes. But he felt it—the dread blooming beneath her ribs, the way her breathing changed. Not panic. Not fear exactly.

Just pain. Old. Familiar. Worn thin like a favorite shirt.

And then, softly—his voice still rough with sleep, or maybe something gentler—

“Hey.”

She didn’t answer. So he tried again, this time brushing his thumb along her arm, soothing.

“It’s just me.”

A pause.

Then, “You’re safe.”

She shifted slightly. Tucked her face into his chest.

Her voice, when it came, was hoarse. Small. “What time is it?”

He glanced toward the window. “Still early.”

Another pause.

Then—barely audible—

“Did it really happen?”

Harry exhaled.

And nodded against her temple. “Yeah.”

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

She just curled tighter into him, like the confirmation settled something—like she’d needed someone to say it out loud, to mark it real. To make it something they could move past.

He pulled the blankets higher over her shoulder.

Pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“We’re leaving,” he said softly. “In a little bit.”

She didn’t ask where. Didn’t ask why. But he told her anyway.

“Back to New York. Jet’s ready. Packed your things.”

That got a tiny flicker of something—a shift in her body. A breath caught between resistance and relief.

“I don’t want you doing all of this,” she said quietly.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You don’t get a say.”

Her brows knit.

“I’m taking care of you,” he said. “Because I want to. Because I love you. And because you deserve someone who does it without being asked.”

He loves her. He said he fucking loves her.

She blinked. Soft. Unsure.

He ran a hand down her side, slow. Reassuring. Then he said it—what had been pressing into the base of his throat since last night.

“I don’t care about your past.”

She looked up at him then. Really looked.

Harry’s expression didn’t waver.

“I care that you had to go through it alone,” he said. “I care that no one protected you. That no one stood up for you. That people looked at you and saw the story instead of the person.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him, heart cracking open again—but slower this time. Less violent. Just a soft, slow unraveling in the face of something so rare it felt sacred.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix me,” she whispered.

Harry’s hand moved up to her cheek. “I’m not fixing you. I’m loving you.”

She swallowed hard. And that—somehow—hurt more than anything else.

“People don’t usually stay once they know.”

“I’m not people.”

He said it simply.

Firmly.

Like it was fact.

She blinked, lips parting slightly.

He tilted his head.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom.”

A beat passed. She blinked slowly.

Shrugged once. “She’s… she was traditional.”

Harry waited.

“She believed in casseroles and church and southern charm. Makeup on before eight. Hair done for the grocery store.”

He smirked faintly. “A real debutante?”

“Almost.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “She loved my dad. In the old way. Cooked for him. Stayed small so he could feel big. When he went down, she didn’t know how to stand on her own. So she left. Said she had nothing left to give.”

Harry didn’t speak. Just watched her.

“She wasn’t cruel,” she added softly. “She just didn’t know how to stay.”

He brushed her cheekbone with his knuckle.

“You stayed,” he said.

She looked up.

“And that’s why I’m here.”

That silenced her. For a long, quiet second.

Then—

She whispered, “I’m scared.”

Harry shook his head once.

“You don't have to be.” he said.

Then he leaned in.

Pressed his lips to her forehead.

And added, “I got you.”

They laid there a little longer.

Curled together in that fragile pre-dawn quiet, the world outside just beginning to stretch awake. When she finally pulled back and sat up, Harry was already moving—grabbing the hoodie he’d left out for her, slipping it over her shoulders before she could protest.

“I can dress myself,” she mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. “I know. I just like doing it.”

She rolled her eyes. But let him. Because she could tell. He needed to.

They didn’t talk much as they got ready.

She brushed her teeth slowly. Tied her hair up. Didn’t look in the mirror for too long. Harry moved around the room quietly, efficiently—double checking their bags then zipping them back up, folding a scarf he had forgotten she’d draped over a chair, making sure everything was in place.

He wouldn’t let her carry anything. Not even her tote.

When she reached for it, he shook his head. “No.”

“I can handle a tote.”

He didn’t respond. Just took it gently from her hands, added it to his shoulder. She didn’t argue after that.

Because the look in his eyes wasn’t about control. It was about care. He was holding the weight for both of them because he could. Because he wanted to.

Because after everything, she was still the only thing that mattered.

They left before the sun crested the horizon.

The villa was still half-asleep. Staff lights dimmed. The air thick with rosemary and earth and silence. Gravel crunched under their feet as they walked to the car, her sandals quiet, his steps deliberate.

Danny was already outside. Waiting in a hoodie and slacks, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

He looked up when he saw them. Gave Harry a nod.

“You’re set,” he said. “Jet’s prepped. Flight plan filed. Pilot’s already on deck.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

Danny looked at her then. Something gentler in his expression.

“If you ever need someone to scream into a void with,” he said, “I’ve got access to a few very satisfying voids.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks, Danny.”

“I’ll stay back,” he added. “Wrap things up. Pull the plug on the deal. Handle any fallout.”

“You sure?” Harry asked.

Danny nodded once. “They don’t deserve the win. And you’ve got more important things to do.”

Harry clapped him once on the shoulder. Then opened the car door for her. She slid in slowly.

Looked out the window as Harry said a few more words to Danny—quiet, brief. Then he grabbed the suitcases. Loaded them into the back without fanfare. Climbed in beside her.

The driver pulled away without a word. The hills fell behind them. And the world turned pale. The sun hadn’t risen yet. But the sky was warming. That soft, tender blue that lives only between night and day.

She reached for Harry’s hand. Found it already waiting. Their fingers laced. She closed her eyes. And breathed.

Because they were going home. Together.

The word felt heavier now. Heavier than suitcases. Heavier than shame. Heavier than every whisper that tried to reduce her to headlines.

They boarded the jet without a word.

Harry helped her up the narrow staircase, his hand at the small of her back, quiet and unwavering. The stewardess greeted them softly—eyes down, voice respectful—as if she could feel the exhaustion radiating off their bodies like heat.

“We’ll be taking off in fifteen,” The stewardess said. “Can I get you anything before we do?”

“Breakfast,” Harry said, without looking away from her. “For two. And something sweet.”

The woman nodded. “Of course.”

They moved down the corridor, past the leather seats and polished wood and too-perfect lighting. The hum of money was everywhere—but quieter here. Like the jet knew not to interrupt.

When they reached the back, Harry paused.

His hand curled around the gold handle of the last door.

“I’ve never used this room,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “This room. Never had a reason.”

Then he opened the door. The bedroom was dimly lit. Soft grey walls. A wide bed draped in dark linen. A window near the headboard framed the sky like a painting still in progress.

He let her walk in first. And when she turned to face him— hair messy, still wearing his hoodie and sweats, no bra underneath, eyes red-rimmed but defiant—he saw her.

All of her. Everything she’d tried to bury under silence and shame.

And he wanted her. Not to distract. Not to possess. But to worship. To remind her she was still flesh and hunger and fire—not just a story someone else tried to write.

Harry shut the door. Locked it. Then crossed the room like gravity had lost its patience.

“Take it off,” he said, voice low, rough.

She looked up, breath catching. “What?”

He stepped closer. Fingers already curling beneath the hem of the hoodie. “I want to see you.”

Her heart thudded. Loud. Chaotic. But she lifted her arms.

Let him pull the sweatshirt up, over her head, exposing her bare chest beneath—soft and real and vulnerable in a way that made his throat ache.

He let the hoodie drop to the floor. Ran his hands down her arms slowly. Palms flat. Reverent.

Then he kissed her. Not gently. Not sweetly. He kissed her like he had something to prove. Like he was starving. Like if he didn’t taste her right now he might never breathe again.

She moaned into his mouth. Clutched his shirt. Dragged him closer.

His hands were everywhere. On her back. Her hips. Her ass. Gripping. Claiming.

He walked her back toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Without breaking anything at all except the air between them.

She hit the mattress with a gasp, and he followed—hovering over her, already pushing the sweats down her hips.

“Harry—”

“Lift.”

She did.

He peeled them off, slow and brutal, along with her underwear. Just skin and heat and the ache between her thighs that had been building for days.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

She spread her legs a little. Just enough. His gaze darkened.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, pulled her to the edge, and buried his face between her thighs like he was trying to erase everything the world had ever said about her.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

She gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting.

His tongue was filthy. Obsessive. He licked her like he owned her. Like he could solve her. Deep, slow drags that had her legs shaking, her mouth falling open, her body arching off the bed.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please don’t fucking stop.”

He didn’t. He kept going until she came. Hard. Loud. Her thighs trembling around his face, her hands clawing the sheets, her voice breaking on his name like a prayer turned pornographic.

He didn’t even pull away. Licked her through it. Tasted her like he’d waited his whole life for this exact moment.

And when she finally collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, sweat on her lip—he stood.

Unbuckled his belt. Undid his pants. And pulled his cock out—already hard, already leaking, already furious.

He stroked it once. Twice. Then climbed over her.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want it.”

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He pushed in hard.

One thrust. Deep. All the way. She cried out. Clutched his back. He didn’t stop.

Fucked her deep and slow. Then harder. Faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the cabin, obscene and beautiful and raw. She wrapped her legs around him, dragged him in deeper, begged for more.

“Fuck me, Harry. Please.”

“I am, baby,” he panted. “I fucking am.”

He kissed her like he couldn’t stand to be separate. Fucked her like she was his salvation. Every thrust was a promise. Every groan a declaration.

She came again. This time around his cock. Tight. Shaking. Screaming. And he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over. Fucked her from behind. One hand in her hair. The other gripping her hip like a threat. She gasped. Moaned. Took it all.

“Yours,” she kept saying. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

Harry lost it. Pulled out. Turned her back over.

Finished between her legs. On her stomach. Chest. Neck. Painted her in it. Marked her. Owned her.

Then collapsed beside her, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She smiled. Pulled his hand to her mouth. Kissed each finger.

“I love you too.”

The plane hadn’t even taken off yet. But they were already flying.

She laid sprawled against the sheets, hair wild, skin flushed, his breath still soft against her shoulder. The air was thick with them—salt, sweat, sex. That slow, sacred stillness that only came after being devoured and loved in the same breath.

She was half-asleep, cheek turned toward him, lips parted in that way that made his chest ache.

Harry didn’t move at first. Just looked at her. Let himself have the moment. Then, slowly, he sat up.

The room was dim, still gently humming with the lull of ascent. The window behind them glowed faintly with dawn—high above the clouds now, the sky soft and endless and blue.

He reached for the towel folded on the bench at the end of the bed. Not hotel standard—his own. Cashmere. Embroidered. Unused.

He wet it under the small sink in the en-suite, came back, and carefully cleaned her up. She barely stirred, just hummed faintly when the cool cloth passed over her thighs.

“There we go,” he murmured, brushing hair off her cheek. “All clean.”

She blinked once. A lazy, satisfied kind of blink.

He kissed her temple. Then stood, walking to the small built-in drawer beneath the bed. There was a sweater in there he’d forgotten about. Still neatly folded. Still faintly smelling of lavender and something long buried.

He paused. Fingers hovering. Then pulled it out.

A dark navy pullover. Soft. French. Lucy had bought it for him in Marseille—one of the last things she’d given him before the end. They’d fought on the flight home, he remembered. Screaming match over something stupid. She’d told him he was incapable of love. He’d thrown the sweater into this drawer the same night, not even bothering to take it out of the packaging.

He stared at it now. Then exhaled. And walked it back to the bed.

She’s not Lucy, he murmured to himself.

He gently slipped it over her arms. Over her head. Let the soft wool fall around her thighs like armor. Then found his boxers on the floor and tugged them gently up her legs, dressing her like she was a painting he needed to protect from the world.

She stirred faintly.

Eyes half-lidded. “You dressing me again?”

Harry smirked. “Better than leaving you cold.”

She smiled, drowsy and soft.

Then—knock knock. Sharp. Delicate.

Harry turned. The stewardess.

He moved quickly to the door, opening it just enough to keep the bedroom’s warmth from escaping.

“Breakfast,” she said politely, balancing a tray.

Harry nodded, took it from her silently, then shut the door with a finality that left no room for conversation.

He carried the tray to the bed and set it down gently. She was already sitting up, hair a mess, legs tucked beneath the sweater, blinking like she wasn’t quite sure where she was.

Harry handed her a fork.

“French toast,” he said. “Fruit. Coffee. Some kind of lemon tart.”

She blinked. “You ordered sweets?”

“I figured you deserved something sweet.”

That made her smile. They ate on the bed. Quiet. Close.

The toast was still warm, and the butter melted into the corners just right. She made a small sound when she took a bite of the lemon tart, the kind of sound that made his blood stir again.

He just watched her. Coffee in hand. Silent. Soft.

Her head eventually dropped to his shoulder. She sighed once. And passed out. Harry didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just sat there while her weight settled against him again, her breath even and deep, the hem of his sweater rising and falling with every exhale.

She was exhausted. Of course she was. She’d cried herself sick. Been exposed. Stripped bare in front of people who didn’t deserve her name in their mouths. Then fucked like a fever broke loose inside her.

He carefully slid her down onto the pillows, adjusted the blankets around her, then sat on the edge of the bed again—watching the sky change outside the window.

Halfway back to New York, his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then again.

Danny.

He declined the call. Not interested.

She was still asleep. Still curled in the sweater he’d forgotten he ever owned. One hand beneath her cheek. One leg tangled in the blankets.

Then—buzz. Text.

Danny: Call me. Urgent.

Harry frowned. Another buzz.

Danny: Her mother is here.

Danny: Screaming at staff. Security is trying to calm her down.

His body went still. Another buzz.

Danny: She showed up at the villa screaming. Wants to see her daughter. She said she saw the article.

Harry stared at the screen. Another text.

Danny: I told them not to let her in. She’s calling your name now. Saying she “just wants to talk.”

Another.

Danny: Harry, what do I do?

Harry stood. Carefully. Walked across the cabin. Set the phone down. Ran a hand through his hair.

Her mother. Her fucking mother.

He’d just listened to her talk about that woman like a ghost—someone who left. Someone who couldn’t love her out loud. And now she wanted to show up like it was convenient? Like her daughter hadn’t built a life from nothing?

Harry clenched his fists.

Everyone always came crawling back when there was something to gain. Exposure. Fame.

A second chance to rewrite their name into someone else's headline.

He walked back to the bed. Looked at her. Still sleeping. Still unaware. Still wrapped in a sweater she didn’t know the history of.

His chest burned. He grabbed his phone again. Typed.

Harry: Keep her out. I don’t care how loud she gets. She doesn’t go near the villa. She doesn’t see staff. She doesn’t speak to anyone.

Another buzz.

Danny: Understood.

Harry stood at the window. Watched the sky darken slightly as they shifted time zones. His jaw set. Because there was no version of this where he let that woman hurt her again. Not now. Not ever.

He turned. Looked back at the bed. She stirred again. Brow furrowed faintly. The way people do when dreams start to turn.

He walked back over.nSat down beside her. Smoothed a hand through her hair.

And whispered, just barely—

“I’ve got you.”

Because she was his now. And anyone who wanted to get to her—

Would have to go through him first.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, it was early morning in Cape Cod.

The light outside was muted, soft and winter-pale, filtering through the gauzy kitchen curtains with the kind of stillness that came before the wind. The house smelled faintly of salt and last night’s red wine, a half-empty bottle still perched on the edge of the farmhouse table like a leftover guest overstaying its welcome.

Lucy had been awake for hours. Not out of restlessness—but purpose.

Her phone had started buzzing at 5:42 AM. Her friend Chloe, the kind who always found drama before the tabloids did, had sent her a flood of texts with screenshots and breathless voice notes. Chloe didn’t even say good morning.

Chloe: Is this his girl? The one from the article? Because HOLY SHIT...Lucy! Her dad BANKRUPTED SO MANY PEOPLE.

Lucy sat upright in bed before the last text came through.

By six, she was in a robe and socks, laptop open, tea gone cold, eyes bloodshot. The article was everywhere.

Carrie Roth’s expose had detonated overnight. Comments flooded in faster than anyone could moderate. Twitter. Reddit. Instagram. Facebook mom groups. Even Pinterest threads had gotten hold of it. People were sharing old court documents. Yearbook photos. Deep-cut gossip from towns Lucy didn’t even know existed. But one name kept being repeated.

Harry Castillo’s new girlfriend.

And beneath it—

Lucy’s name. Because of course. Because people loved a narrative. Because somehow, Lucy had become the woman he left. The one who "couldn’t hold his attention."

And the new girl? The one with a scandalous past and a messy family? She’d become a headline. A warning. A fascination.

But what made Lucy’s stomach turn was the girl’s past. It was everywhere. Lucy scrolled. And kept scrolling. Until the comments began to turn.

The hate wasn’t just about her anymore. People were dragging Harry now. For being with her. For keeping her hidden. For falling in love with the kind of story that made people feel better about their own.

Lucy leaned back in her chair. Eyes heavy. Jaw tight.

The ocean outside was calm. The wind hadn’t picked up yet. The sky was still a pale bruise.

And then—

John stirred.

From the other room, Lucy heard the soft creak of floorboards as he walked into the kitchen. The sound of the cabinet door opening. The click of the kettle.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. John yawned, scratched his chest, and reached for a chipped ceramic mug. Still shirtless, still half-asleep, still painfully unaware.

Lucy stood. “I left my sweater in the bedroom.”

He nodded absently, watching the water start to boil.

When she disappeared down the hall, he looked around—glancing at her laptop only to check the time.

And that’s when he saw it. The image on the screen. The girl. The lobby. The headline.

He froze. Brows furrowing. Not at Harry. Not at the headline.

At her. The girl in the photo. The girl now being dragged by the entire internet.

When Lucy came back, sweater in hand, John didn’t look at her right away. Just pointed toward the screen with a slow, distracted gesture.

“I know her.”

Lucy blinked. “What?”

He finally turned to face her. “The girl. In the photo.”

Lucy frowned. Repeated herself again. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I actually know her.”

Lucy’s spine straightened. “From where?”

John set the mug down.

“I used to work her family’s events.”

Lucy blinked. “What events?”

“Down in South Carolina,” John said, pulling out a chair. “Back when I was just starting out. You know I picked up catering gigs before I moved to Brooklyn.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You served food at parties.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And her family, they threw a lot of them. Fundraisers. Galas. Birthday parties that probably cost more than our rent. She was always there, running around barefoot with a lemonade or hiding from the cameras. She hated being the center of attention.”

Lucy stared at him.

“I didn’t recognize her at first,” he admitted. “But seeing this photo again… yeah. That’s her. I used to help her sneak leftovers into her room because her mom was obsessed with diets. Sweet girl.”

Lucy’s mouth tightened.

“And after everything happened?” he went on. “She disappeared. Everyone thought she left the country. But she didn’t. She showed up in New York. Looking for work.”

He looked at Lucy then. “She reached out to me. Found me through a friend. Said she remembered I was working in restaurants. Needed a job. I helped her get hired at the same spot I was serving at.”

Lucy’s face went cold.

“She was a wreck, Luce. Quiet. Barely ate. Flinched when people raised their voices. But she worked harder than anyone.”

Lucy didn’t speak. Just crossed her arms slowly.

“And when she started getting noticed—when people started looking at her again—it wasn’t because she was chasing it,” John said. “It was because she couldn’t hide anymore.”

Lucy’s lips parted. Then closed again. John turned back to the kettle.

“I hope she makes it to the wedding,” he said simply.

The words struck her like a slap. Lucy blinked.

“I hope she’s okay,” John added. “I hope he takes care of her.”

Lucy didn’t answer. Just stood there, frozen in the doorway, holding onto the sleeves of her sweater like they were reins. She stared at his back.

Then said, flatly—

“You’ve always had a soft spot for stray dogs.”

John paused. Then turned around. His face wasn’t kind anymore. It was steady. And disappointed.

“She was just a kid,” he said. “A kid who lost everything.”

Lucy flinched. And John didn’t soften.

“She didn’t choose what happened to her family. She survived it. There’s a difference.”

Lucy turned away.

John exhaled, voice quieter now.

“Not everyone has parents who can pay half their mortgage, Luce.”

Silence. Lucy walked to the window. Stared out. She didn’t say anything else. Because what could she say?

That the girl Harry had chosen was someone John used to pity? That she couldn’t stand the idea of her being loved by a man who’d once called Lucy his home? That somewhere—buried beneath all the rage and insecurity—she was afraid Harry had found someone real?

Someone soft and haunted and full of the kind of truth Lucy had never had to carry? She didn’t say it.

She just stared out the window. While John sipped his coffee.

And the world, outside, kept burning.

─────

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