#three days since i designed him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 2 months ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

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dialdrunk · 1 year ago

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might start journaling down oc thoughts idk

#the thought of physically writing them down appeals to me idk #i had a class second semester last year where were supposed to journal one paragraph a week #it was literal real life journaling which i do not feel mentally stable enough do rn but i did enjoy it #ocs thoughts of the day today have been about hayes and brina #i've been thinking about him visiting her on campus at rmu #and how she probably spends half of her summer with her mom in seattle and the other half in la with him #and how she's probably close with benji and reese too #and they meet all of her rmu friends (aka willa and milo LMAO)#which i mean milo and hayes have known each other for a while but he would find benji and reese sooooo cool #benji for designing some of his fave album covers (of all the sola bands his faves are prob in limbo and nolan)#and reese for being the king of the nerds #and he would be so amazed that the stoner kid from the apartment building a few streets over became so cool #tho he would find hayes' tiktoks cringey #and willa would just find hayes benji and reese hot LMAO #and tbf sabrina would think/thinks the same of jasper and jeremy #but wills would be so awkward with the three of them and hayes is awkward too it literally would be reese and benji carrying #and everyone would have to keep it lowkey since there are celebrities on campus #anyways if you've read this far ily i just wanted to share idk why #brainrot ig #might journal who knows #ellie chats

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t4kalcvr · 1 month ago

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MIRA CAN’T KNOW

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 4,576 ) genre :: forbidden romance, eroticism, && secret desire. content contains :: spicy read, acrobatic + designer reader, manipulation, temptation, infatuation, big sister mira. PART ONE !! PART THREE

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

ever since that rooftop, you’ve been meeting him in secret.

not always at the same place. not always at the same time.

but always late. always quiet. always when the rest of the world is sleeping.

it started with a single text — a message you should’ve deleted, a name you shouldn’t have saved.

then a shadow against your window. a knock you could recognize in your sleep.

and from there, it became routine. a habit. a hunger.

you’ve tasted him now.

and ever since that night, you can’t forget the way he kissed you like your lips were made of something holy.

can’t forget the way he said your name like it was the only word he wanted to remember.

you’re hooked.

on the way he smells.

on the way his breath catches when your hands slip under his jacket.

on the way his voice drops when he leans in to say, “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and god help you — you always have.

tonight, it’s your room.

the door locked. the lights dimmed. the window cracked open just enough to let the summer breeze creep in.

and he’s already got you against the wall.

his mouth is on yours, again and again, hot and desperate, like he’s making up for every second he’s had to pretend you don’t exist during the day. his hands are at your waist, then your hips, then pressing into the arch of your back to pull you flush against him.

you gasp softly when his teeth graze your bottom lip, and that sound — that sound drives him insane.

“you always taste like trouble,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing down the line of your jaw, “but I’ve never minded bleeding for it.”

your fingers tangle in his hair, guiding him back up to your mouth because god, the silence is too much — you need to feel him again, need to erase the guilt that always scratches at your chest when you’re apart.

the makeout turns messy fast.

heated. gasping. clothes shifting. his jacket already tossed to the floor. your shirt riding up with every movement.

his hands are everywhere — touching like he’s trying to memorize your shape, like he’s afraid he’ll forget if he stops.

your back hits the edge of the bed, and suddenly he’s pushing you down with a smirk that’s far too pleased, far too knowing.

and when he crawls over you, lips swollen from kissing, voice hoarse with need, he doesn’t ask permission.

he just says, “you’ve ruined me, you know that?”

his eyes dark and tender.

“i don’t even want to stop.”

and the worst part is — you don’t want him to.

not now. not here.

not when the space between you is nothing but heat and unspoken yeses.

and yet, there’s a fatal flaw.

you knew this couldn’t last forever.

no secret, no matter how sweet it tastes, can survive too long in silence.

not when it lives in stolen kisses and bruised lips, in locked doors and tangled limbs, in the way you’ve started looking for him even when he’s not there.

you should’ve stopped it.

the first night.

the second.

maybe even the tenth.

but you didn’t.

and now you’re here again — back pressed against the sheets, his mouth on yours, hot and relentless, like this might be the last time.

because it always feels like the last time.

you don’t even hear the door open.

you only hear the gasp — sharp, full of disbelief and heartbreak and betrayal — and when you break the kiss, your stomach drops so fast it nearly rips through you.

“what the hell.”

mira.

she’s standing in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide, expression frozen between shock and rage.

zoey is just behind her, blinking, speechless. rumi’s already stepped into a defensive stance, like she doesn’t know whether to fight or flee.

you scramble upright, heart in your throat, shirt half off your shoulder, baby still between your legs and too stunned to move.

fuck. you thought you locked the door.

you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

what do you even say?

this isn’t some petty secret. this is treason. this is betrayal. this is him. a demon. the enemy.

and you, Mira’s little sister — the one she’s spent her life trying to protect — are sitting in your bed, breathless and flushed, with the one person she would never trust near you.

you see the fury bloom in her eyes. the hurt blooming right behind it. she steps back once, then twice.

“you’ve been lying to me?” she says, voice cracking despite how sharp she tries to sound. “this whole time?”

you feel baby shift behind you, sitting up, silent. his presence doesn’t help. it makes it worse.

because no one in that room is asking if it was a mistake.

they saw.

and worse — they know it’s been more than once.

mira turns, muttering a curse under her breath, and storms down the hall.

zoey follows without a word.

rumi lingers at the door, gaze unreadable. she looks at baby. then at you.

then closes the door without saying anything.

the silence that follows is unbearable.

your chest rises and falls, too fast, too sharp.

you feel sick. dizzy. not just from the kiss, or the heat still lingering between your legs — but from the crash of reality that just hit.

you finally look at baby.

he’s staring at the closed door.

“…so,” he says after a long moment, “that went well.”

you don’t laugh.

but you almost do.

and then you move fast — faster than your mind can keep up with.

your hands fumble to straighten your clothes, cheeks flushed, limbs shaking. baby helps without saying a word, slipping back into his jacket like he already knows how this ends.

it’s quiet now. dangerously quiet.

you turn to him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“don’t move. don’t follow. just… just give me a second.”

his eyes flick to yours. unreadable, but not cold. never cold. not with you.

you step out of the room, closing the door behind you like it’ll keep the world from exploding.

but it doesn’t.

it’s already started.

mira’s at the end of the hallway. rumi and zoey flank her like shadows, but this time they aren’t in their oversized hoodies or casual fits.

they’re in full HUNTR/X gear.

thick boots. tactical belts. high-collar jackets fastened tight. every inch of them reads ready.

like they’re about to kill something.

your stomach drops. “what… what are you doing?”

no one answers.

your eyes scan their bodies again, panic crawling up your spine like a vine wrapping tighter and tighter.

then you see it — mira’s spear, glowing with faint light.

she only summons that for one thing.

your throat goes dry. “what are you doing in your full gear?”

rumi tilts her head, her voice cool, nearly clinical. “there’s a demon in your room.”

zoey adds, eyes sharp, “we’re here to kill it.”

and just like that — something inside you snaps.

you lurch forward, blocking the hallway like your body alone can stop three trained demon hunters from doing what they were raised to do.

“no—no, you don’t understand!” you yell, louder than you meant to, louder than you’ve ever yelled in your life. “you can’t—he hasn’t hurt me, he hasn’t—he’s not like that!”

mira steps forward. her tone is low, like she’s trying to hold herself back.

“he’s a demon, y/n.”

“and i’m not stupid!” you shoot back. “i know what he is! i know who he is! but you don’t get to come in here and decide—”

“he’s using you,” she cuts in, eyes burning. “he’s using your feelings against you—”

“maybe!” you shout, voice cracking. “maybe he is! but it’s mine to figure out! not yours to kill!”

rumi’s expression is unreadable, but zoey looks like she might be on the verge of speaking — until mira raises a hand, silencing everyone.

she stares at you. deep. searching. like she’s looking for the girl she used to protect. like she’s mourning someone who isn’t even dead yet.

“you’re not thinking clearly,” she says, voice low. “he’s manipulated you. that’s what they do. and we’re going in there. with or without your permission.”

you take a shaky breath. your voice softens, almost a plea now.

“mira, please… i’m your sister.”

mira’s jaw tightens.

“and i’m trying to keep you alive.”

she brushes past you.

and for the first time in your life, you shove her back.

hard.

she stumbles slightly, stunned. not hurt — just shocked.

the air between you turns electric.

and suddenly, you realize… if they take one more step, you might actually fight them.

for him.

for the demon behind that door.

and god help you — you don’t even know who that makes you anymore.

your breath catches when mira pushes past you again.

without thinking, your hand goes to your side — and your sickle glows blue in your grip before you even summon it aloud.

rumi and zoey both freeze.

“don’t,” you warn, voice tight.

zoey’s eyes widen, hands half-raised like she wants to stop all this before it begins. “y/n…”

“don’t,” you repeat. “don’t make me raise this at any of you.”

rumi glances at mira. “mira…”

but mira’s already summoning her spear — the shimmer of silver and violet illuminating her hardened face as it forms in her hand. she doesn’t hesitate.

“upstairs,” she says flatly to the others. “now.”

“mira, come on—” zoey starts, but rumi gently grabs her arm and pulls her back. her eyes meet yours one last time. there’s something apologetic in her gaze.

you don’t blame them. you wouldn’t fight your sister either.

as they disappear up the stairs, silence falls again.

then—

“baby, run!” you yell, backing up and keeping your sickle between you and the door. “go! please—just go!”

but there’s no reply. no footsteps. no blur of silver vanishing out the window.

you don’t know it yet, but he’s already gone.

mira twirls her spear once, steady and precise, eyes locked on you like you’re the demon now.

“he already got in your head.”

“he didn’t,” you snap, weapon raised. “you just never gave me the chance to show you who i really am.”

“i know who you are,” she says, voice sharp. “you’re my little sister.”

“then act like it!”

your sickle slashes first, slicing the air in a brilliant arc of blue light — she dodges, then lunges with a powerful thrust of her spear. you twist aside just in time, the tip grazing your shoulder. it stings. the pain is real. so is hers.

“you’re better than this,” she growls as your blades clash again, metal shrieking. “you were meant to lead, y/n. not fall.”

“fall?” you hiss, stepping back and spinning your sickle in your palm, sweat already dripping. “you think i fell just because i feel something? because for once, i chose something for myself?”

you duck as she swings again — this time harder. angrier.

your foot connects with her ribs in a clean side kick. she stumbles — not far, but enough.

“he’s not what you think,” you say, voice cracking as you go in for another strike. she blocks, barely. “and even if he is… he never lied to me. not once.”

“he didn’t have to!” mira shouts. “he used you!”

your blades clash again, sending sparks across the room.

you’re both breathing hard now, circling.

“no,” you whisper. “he saw me.”

she pauses.

and for a second, you think she might drop the spear.

but she doesn’t.

“then you’re already lost.”

she lunges again, and this time — you meet her halfway.

the next clash feels heavier. not in force — in emotion.

your sickle locks with the length of her spear, both weapons trembling between you as your arms strain, breaths sharp and fast. your eyes meet hers, and for the first time in this entire fight… she looks unsure.

not weak. not wavering. but tired.

you both push, and for a moment — neither of you gives in.

then—

“he’s gone,” rumi’s voice calls down from the stairwell. calm, certain.

you both freeze.

“we checked every corner,” zoey adds, appearing beside her. “no windows broken. no trace of a fight. no presence.”

your stomach drops, but not in fear. you already knew. you felt it the moment you stepped out of the room. that cold emptiness where his warmth had just been.

baby’s gone?

mira is the first to lower her weapon.

slowly, deliberately, like it’s costing her something.

you follow suit, releasing your sickle with a faint flicker of blue light as it vanishes from your palm. your hands are shaking.

“he left because of me,” you say softly, turning to mira. “because he didn’t want to make this worse.”

mira’s mouth presses into a line. her eyes scan you again, searching for something — guilt, maybe. clarity. regret. something that would make this feel easier. but you don’t give her any of it.

you step forward.

“i didn’t mean for it to happen like this. i didn’t even know how it was happening,” you admit. “but it was real. or at least… it felt real to me.”

silence.

then mira lifts her eyes.

“you don’t get to live in both worlds.”

the words hit harder than her spear ever could.

you blink. “what?”

“you can’t fight beside us with your heart somewhere else,” she says, voice firm. not cruel. not yelling. but final. “you want him? fine. that’s your choice. but don’t expect to come back and hold a blade next to mine if you’re still dreaming of kissing him.”

your chest tightens.

“mira…”

“choose,” she says. “the team. or him.”

you feel rumi shift at the stairwell, her fingers twitching slightly like she wants to intervene — but she doesn’t. zoey looks down, suddenly fascinated with the floorboards.

no one’s going to make it easier for you.

you’re standing on a knife’s edge. between what you know, and what you want. between your blood and your betrayal. and the worst part?

you still don’t know your answer. and you don’t say anything as you grab your shoes by the door.

not even when mira calls your name behind you — low, hurt, commanding in that older-sister way that used to make you freeze in place.

but not tonight.

tonight you just… walk.

barefoot at first, shoes dangling in your hand. the floor cool beneath your feet, your breaths still uneven from the fight — not just the physical one, but the one behind your ribs. the one you’re still losing.

you step outside and the air hits your skin like a slap.

it’s cold. humid. full of tension, like the world itself knows what you’ve done.

your eyes sting, but you blink fast. you don’t want to cry. not yet.

you walk for what feels like forever — no destination, just the need to move. to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like blood or regret.

you didn’t even realize where your feet were leading you until you looked up and saw the small stone archway, fog curling out like smoke from the cracks of the wooden door.

a bathhouse.

quiet. tucked away in the edge of the neighborhood. warm light glowing through the windows like an invitation to forget.

you slip inside without a word, barely nodding to the old woman behind the counter. she doesn’t ask questions.

thank god for that.

you strip down. wrap yourself in a towel. grab a robe and let the fabric cling to your damp skin as you make your way toward the steaming baths. the warmth is already seeping into your bones — gentle and forgiving in all the ways your world hasn’t been lately.

your muscles ache. your heart aches worse.

you find a corner tub, one of the smaller ones tucked away beneath a low-hanging lantern. the water bubbles quietly as you step in, slow and careful, the heat kissing your legs, your waist, your collarbones — until you sink into it fully, robe tossed nearby, steam curling up around your face like a veil.

you let your head fall back. close your eyes.

breathe.

just breathe.

and try — desperately — to forget the way mira’s voice shook.

the way rumi wouldn’t meet your eyes.

the way zoey stayed silent, like silence would save you.

two weeks ago, you would’ve chosen the team without question. would’ve stood at your sister’s side, sickle raised, swearing loyalty with no hesitation.

so why now?

why him?

why does your heart burn at the thought of his hands, his mouth, his voice — the way he always called you trouble with that soft grin like he hoped you’d never stop being it?

why does your body ache for someone you were trained to destroy?

you press a hand to your chest. it’s too much.

you just wanted a moment to breathe.

to forget.

to feel clean.

but nothing’s ever that easy anymore.

the steam curls around your shoulders like silk, heavy and soothing, your limbs loose and warm beneath the surface. your lashes flutter as your body begins to sink into that liminal place — not quite asleep, but somewhere distant. somewhere quiet.

the weight of the night drifts from your chest in slow exhales.

but then—

fingers.

light. familiar.

trailing through the steam, slipping against your collarbone like the start of a secret.

a palm ghosts over your chest, gentle and deliberate. not rushed. not mistaken.

and then — lips, just beneath your jaw.

soft. coaxing. too warm to be a dream.

you blink, barely breathing, and your eyes meet the impossible.

him.

baby’s face half-shrouded by mist, hair damp and falling near his brow, smirking like he never left.

“miss me already?” he murmurs, voice soaked in teasing, low and infuriatingly calm. “can’t seem to stay away from hot water, huh?”

you inhale sharply, but your body doesn’t flinch. it recognizes him.

every cell of you remembers.

your brain screams to say something — to tell him this is too much, too dangerous, that you’re barely holding your world together — but his hand doesn’t stop, gliding across your ribs with the kind of reverence that makes you shudder.

you close your eyes again for one stolen second.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“and yet…” his fingers brush your lips. “here i am.”

his mouth returns to your throat, slower now. like he’s daring you to push him away. to follow through on every rule and warning drilled into you since the day you joined HUNTR/X.

and maybe you should.

maybe you really should.

but the heat of his breath on your neck pulls you into a spiral.

and the way he says your name — soft, like a confession — makes your pulse skip.

you can’t keep doing this, you think.

but your hand finds its way to the nape of his neck anyway.

and suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re sinking into the bath — or into him.

his breath brushes your ear, hot and damp like the steam curling around your shoulders.

his touch is still feather-light on your skin, reverent in a way that drives you mad, even as your chest tightens with everything you can’t ignore.

“why did you disappear?”

the words come out like a crack — sharp, but soft. a break in your throat you can’t patch over.

he pauses.

his hand doesn’t move, but you feel him exhale against your neck, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw.

“gwi-ma called for us,” he says finally, voice low, unreadable.

“for what?” you ask, your tone firmer this time. trying to hold onto reality.

he pulls back just enough for your eyes to meet.

“don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. his fingers linger at your cheek, trailing down your jaw like he’s tracing something precious.

“but i am worried,” you breathe. “what was it for, baby?”

his eyes flick away for the briefest second.

“it’s part of the job. demon business.” he says it casually — too casually — like he wants to pretend it’s no more serious than a trip to the store.

but you know better.

you know what your sister’s files say about the gwi-ma. what their missions mean.

your hand presses gently against his chest — not pushing, but grounding.

you search his face.

“what kind of business?”

he doesn’t answer.

instead, his lips crash into yours — warm, full, silencing the question with something much heavier than truth.

and for a moment, your thoughts tumble. you fall into it.

his kiss is hunger disguised as comfort.

gentle pressure behind your neck, his other hand curling at your waist like he’s trying to erase the distance between what you are and what he can never be.

but you pull back — barely. your lips still touching his.

“you can’t keep doing that,” you murmur, forehead pressing to his. “i’m a hunter.”

his grip on your waist tightens.

“and i’m a demon,” he whispers back, “so what?”

his voice dips, deeper now — velvet and iron.

“that only matters on the battlefield. out there, it’s war. here, it’s just us.”

you shiver as his hand trails lower, not rushing — just being there. present. grounding. sinful.

you know this is wrong.

everything in your training says you should be running. or fighting. or calling your team.

but he’s looking at you like you’re the first thing he’s ever wanted.

and for once, you don’t feel like a soldier.

you feel like something worth wanting.

“relax,” he murmurs again, his voice softer now, lips brushing your shoulder like a prayer.

“cmon, for tonight. just… focus on me.”

and somehow —

you do.

you let yourself lean into the warmth of him, your worries floating in the steam, weightless for just a little while longer.

your back hits the edge of the tub, water lapping at your skin as baby leans in closer, chest brushing yours, fingers splayed across the curve of your thigh. it’s dizzying, the way heat blooms under every point he touches — like fire coaxed into a slow, steady burn.

“first time in a tub for me,” he says, breathless, with that teasing smirk that makes you want to curse and kiss him all at once.

you blink at him. deadpan. flushed.

“shut up.”

and then — you kiss him.

slow at first.

then deeper.

hungrier.

you move without thinking, legs wrapping around his waist, water sloshing with every shift between you. steam curls between your mouths as you breathe each other in, your hands threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. always closer. as you slowly sit down.

his lips find your collarbone. your shoulder. your pulse. soothing you.

his hands roam — careful but aching, like he’s been waiting. like he hasn’t been dominating you for two weeks. like you’re hidden in shadows, untouchable.

but now you’re here.

on him.

around him.

like you belong to no one but the heat between you.

the bathhouse echoes with your quiet gasps, the soft sounds of breath and longing ricocheting off tile walls like a hymn.

your head drops to his shoulder. his name on your lips, a whisper.

every movement feels like giving in. like letting go of every line you’ve drawn between right and wrong.

and for a moment — in the heat, in the water, in the hush of this stolen world — you do.

you give in.

completely.

the steam kisses your skin like a secret.

his hands move like they already know the map of you, like they’d memorized the terrain long before ever touching it.

fingers press like whispers against pages — each turn, each stroke, unlocking verses only your bodies understand.

you shift in his lap, water rippling around you like silk torn in slow motion.

his name hums beneath your breath, not a sound but a surrender, like the world was always meant to fall quiet beneath it.

his mouth finds your shoulder — then the hollow between your collarbones,

drinking you in like you’re something sacred, something forbidden,

and the taste alone might damn him.

you move together like waves — sometimes slow, sometimes desperate,

sometimes like two things trying not to drown each other.

his grip tightens at your waist.

you arch.

a temple built in motion.

you feel yourself unraveling in pieces,

like threads pulled by candlelight — careful at first, then all at once.

and every place his mouth finds becomes a question

you never want answered.

you’re not even sure where you begin and he ends.

not in this heat.

not in this moment.

all you know is that the line between hunter and demon is blurring.

and your pulse is singing hymns you were never taught to understand.

your breath is a rhythm now — stuttering, breathless, caught between disbelief and desire.

and you don’t know when the words start pressing against your chest — just that they’ve been living there, coiled beneath your ribs like something wild and caged, scratching to get out. every time his fingers dig into your hips, every time his lips brush your throat, that truth pulses louder beneath your skin. it builds with every movement, every breath, every aching push of your body against his, like the rhythm between you is conjuring something ancient and holy and completely terrifying.

you’re losing yourself in the way he watches you — like you’re both the sin and the salvation. your hands slide into his damp hair, tugging just slightly, grounding yourself in the texture of him. steam clings to your skin, to his chest, rising like incense around your joined bodies. everything feels slow, stretched thin — like time itself is caught in the heat of this tub, afraid to move forward and ruin the moment.

and then you say it.

you don’t mean to. not really. but it leaves you anyway, a soft and shaky breath against the shell of his ear, your voice trembling as much from the confession as the sensation curling in your stomach.

“i love you.”

everything stills.

his breath catches like he’s been struck. and then — he groans. deep and wrecked, as if the sound was torn from somewhere he never meant to show you. his fingers clutch at your waist harder than ever, like you’re slipping through his hands and he can’t bear it. his eyes flare — not dimly, not faintly, but bright and golden and undeniably demonic, the glow of something ancient and overwhelming rising just beneath his skin.

“say that again,” he growls.

his voice is low, broken, almost disbelieving. there’s something desperate in the way he looks at you now — like he’s starving, not just for your body, but for the truth of you. for the part of you no one else gets to see. the part you swore you’d never give to anyone like him.

your breath stutters, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the water sloshing around you. his hands don’t stop moving — gripping, stroking, urging — but it’s the look in his eyes that holds you still. not the yellow glow of a demon, not really. but something softer beneath it. something broken. something that hopes.

you could lie. you could laugh. you could change the subject and pretend it never happened.

but you don’t.

you only lean in closer, forehead pressed to his, your lips parted just enough to whisper the words again.

not because you should.

but because you mean them.

and somehow, that’s even more dangerous than everything else you’ve ever done.

💬, WAS THIS UP TO EVERYONES EXPECTATIONS ?? WAS THE ENDING OKAY ?? HELP PART TWO WAS REALLY REQUESTED SO I HOPE THIS SATISFIES YALL ??? i will SCREAM if yall ask for part three, atp just make it a series 😭 (i wont say no though, luv yall too much to deny yall) IMA START WORKING ON A TWIN SIN CONTINUATION !!!!

update : PART THREE HAS BEEN REQUESTED AGHHHG

🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique @aspensnowwalker @strawbeii @chiharuhashibira @ateezswonderland

ko-fi 🎧

next read recommendation :: the twin sin (jinu nsfw)

look here for other reads 📚 !!

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velvetwyrme · 9 months ago

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aHhh okay so the discussions of Titan!Megatron on @callsign-relic's blog have fully. FULLY taken over my brain and ive been drawing stuff for it for like the last few days nonstop

the tl;dr of this is AU is pretty much "what if Megatron got turned into a titan/cityformer as a form of penance/imprisonment and now roams the empty wasteland of Cybertron forever" plus "IDW Megatron has really fucked up internals so... what if that, but as a City?"

and of course since he's a Titan, that also means he has a cityspeaker... or three. One per sub-AU thing. Theres 3 options. 3 flavours of AU.

i have so much art to make. but in the meantime, for more info! check out the #titan au tag on Relic's blog :]!! (also uhh potential ns//fw warning for the link shfjbdkd)

Hi. My battery is running out once again so design and art notes get chucked here instead of an image.

The cuffs and collar are hardwired into Megatron, so I made the lights the same colour as his biolights!

I imagine that on the tops of his shoulders there are solar panels, even if you can't see them here lol.

I really wanted to keep the swirly bits on Megatron's chest from IDW

Other art notes:

The second picture with the seekers is (loosely) inspired by a discussion about whether or not Megatron gets visitors or not. I thought about who would visit him and well... I think this is as close as Starscream realistically gets to visiting him.

Extra detail about that piece is that Thundercracker and Skywarp are keeping watch from above! Also drawing Megatron took me like 8 hours because I was struggling with his legs really badly kshffkbfkdsbdk,, the background went much faster, funnily enough.

Optimus specifically isn't wearing his Autobot badge any more.

This isn't relevant in this series of images, but Ultra Magnus's eye markings are only on the Magnus armour. His other two forms do not have them :] (... until he begins to discard the armour, that is.)

Megatron is roughly 3200m/2 miles tall. Technically he could have clouds around his knees, but I thought this looked a little bit cooler lol.

Also, height chart! Him big. I didn't even attempt to put a human for scale because that'd be. near impossible with this scale.

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arolesbianism · 1 year ago

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Sier? I haven’t even met her! Laugh.

#keese draws #oc art #oc #ocs #eternal gales #today has been a shit day but Im feeling a bit better now that I’ve drawn sier #long story short one of my friends is being harassed by their ex #so I’ve been in a blinding rage all day and combined with me not getting enough sleep and cleaning all day today quite sucked #but hey. I drew sier and made them a new mini ref so that’s gotta count for something #but yeah sier my beloved I’ve been thinking abt them all day they’re just so cute and I love drawing them #I forgive them for being a human character they’re silly and have shapes #I now have only 4 eg refs to go I think? which is honestly a lot closer than I thought I was I thought this was gonna be another year of #last minute refs for artfight and some that don’t get remade but honestly this is super doable #rly the only big problem is going to be fydd since it’s been so long since I’ve drawn him properly #the other three are just dodie tali and bloom which shouldn’t be too bad at all #now idk if the icons are happening but it’s definitely feeling a lot more doable now so idk maybe I’ll get to some of them #key word maybe I make no promises #thankfully I don’t rly have any other ocs that I feel pressed to make new refs for so I can take it easy leading up to artfight this year #I’d like to get some of them icons but that’s not necessary #hopefully sier will get drawn this year she hasn’t been attacked since her old design from years ago lol #but sier is also a character I’ve gotten other pieces of art of over the years so I won’t be heartbroken if they keep getting ignored lol #I don’t rly know who I’d like to see attacked most tbh #obviously I’m always happy to see art of any of my ocs but usually I do have a preference #so Im excited to see who gets attacked even if it’s only a few of them #I’m willing to bet teke will get at least one attack I believe in him #hopefully teka gets drawn too I love her dearly as well #anyways shower time and then sleep time gn gamers

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moonlightwritingf1 · 4 months ago

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Just a Picture | LN4

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° summary ━━━━━━━ After four days of silence, Y/N was drowning in heartbreak, replaying the fight that started it all—a photo of Lando in a club, looking far too close to another girl. It triggered every insecurity she'd tried to bury, and when she confronted him, things spiraled—accusations, shouting, even a panicked flinch that neither of them could forget. Then he showed up at her apartment, looking just as wrecked as she felt, desperate to explain, desperate not to lose her.

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° word count ━━━━━━━ 10k

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f and m receiving), creampie?, slow sex, lots of 'I love you's

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° author's note ━━━━━━━ I guess this can be part 2 to The One He Couldn't Let Go if you squint a bit.

Based on this request.

It was late afternoon. Y/N was in her apartment, the dark clouds outside mirroring the storm brewing in her thoughts. She paced across the polished hardwood floor, arms folded tightly over her chest, her posture radiating tension. The living area—modern décor, a minimalist gray couch, glass coffee table, and tall bookshelves filled with novels—felt both too big and too small all at once.

Her phone lay face-down on the dining table, silent for the past three days. Not a single call from him since that explosive argument. She glanced at it again, half-hoping it would light up, but it remained still. She bit her lower lip, trying not to let the swirl of angst devour her. The image from that damned photo online had replayed in her head non-stop. Just a random snapshot—but enough to trigger months of tension that had been quietly building between them.

A year ago, when she first met Lando, she had never imagined she could be standing in this place—both physically, in her apartment, and emotionally, consumed by heartbreak so intense that it threatened to break her from the inside. And yet, she remembered how it all started. He had breezed into her life, courtesy of a mutual friend, with that mischievous grin and those unexpectedly soft, bright eyes that seemed to look right through her. At first, she’d tried to keep her distance. He was a playboy, or so all the rumors said. She had read the articles, seen the gossip, heard the stories from random acquaintances who claimed they knew him. She doubted he was the type to stay faithful. She doubted he was the type to take relationships seriously, given all that she’d heard about his partying, about the way he used to message random girls on Instagram. It was the exact opposite of everything she wanted or needed.

Yet he had pursued her relentlessly. Flowers would show up at her apartment every week—delicate bouquets of roses, peonies, lilies. Expensive gifts, random text messages in the middle of the day just to say he was thinking of her. He found out about her favorite authors and sent her limited-edition books. He discovered her love for certain designer bags and surprised her with them, even though she told him a hundred times that she didn’t want him to waste money on her. She had tried to play hard to get; she had shut him down over and over, telling him that she wasn’t convinced, that he’d break her heart. She had tried to remind herself that once upon a time he had been in a relationship, still rumored to be cheating, going to clubs, and partying with random women. All the gossip. All the pictures. She didn’t want that kind of heartbreak. She believed he would revert to his old ways at any moment.

But then, five months ago, she finally gave in. Five months that had begun the strangest, most wonderful, and most complicated relationship she had ever experienced. From that moment, everything between them had been intense, nearly suffocating in its passion, overshadowed by her lingering doubts and his determination to prove her wrong. Every kiss felt like a confession of how badly he wanted her to trust him. Every time he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, she glimpsed in his eyes a silent plea that she believed in him. And slowly, she had begun to let her guard down. She let him in further than she had let anyone before.

That is, until four days ago, when her phone blew up with messages and notifications from mutual friends, from acquaintances who had seen it on social media: a photograph of Lando in a club with an unknown girl pressed very close to him. The angle of the camera made it look suggestive, as if he were leaning down into her ear, or maybe even nuzzling her neck. The girl’s arm was around his shoulders, and it looked like she was whispering intimately to him. The moment Y/N saw it, her stomach dropped. She hadn’t known rage so pure, not since childhood memories that she tried to bury. And in that moment, every single doubt she’d ever had about him came roaring back. She confronted him that night in her apartment, the memory of that confrontation still burned into the walls.

–

Four Nights Ago – The Fight

The moment Lando stepped into her living room, Y/N’s hands were shaking from anger. She had texted him: We need to talk. Now. And he’d come over immediately, wearing an expression of anxiety mixed with confusion. He must have known the rumors were swirling online.

“What the hell is that?” she demanded, pointing her phone at him, screen displaying the offending photograph. She didn’t realize she was almost yelling from the get-go. “Care to explain, Lando?”

He swallowed hard. His cheeks reddened. She wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or guilt or both. “It’s… nothing,” he said, raising his palms defensively. “That picture—God, I didn’t even know someone snapped that. It’s not what it looks like.”

Her words came out in a hot rush, unfiltered. “Oh, it’s not? Because it looks like you’re cozying up to some random girl at a club—just like the old days, right?” She breathed in sharply, unable to stop the venom streaming out. “I knew it. I always knew you’d go back to your old ways sooner or later.”

He stepped closer, frustration written on his face. “I wasn’t cozying up to her. She was a friend of a friend. I was leaning down to hear what she was saying because the music was too loud. That’s it. It’s a stupid camera angle.”

“Camera angle,” she repeated mockingly. “Right. Always an excuse. You act like I don’t know you have this… this history. Messaging random girls. Sleeping around. Even when you were with someone, the rumors said—”

“Rumors!” he interjected, voice cracking with frustration. “They were just rumors! I told you a hundred times, I never cheated on anyone. If I had a reputation for partying, it was because I was young, going to clubs, sure, but I wasn’t hooking up with every girl who came near me. And I’m sure as hell not hooking up with them now!”

Her face twisted with anger she couldn’t contain. “Don’t you dare lie to me. You know how insecure I already feel. You know what I’ve been through, Lando!” Her eyes welled with tears, but she blinked them back, refusing to cry. “You should’ve been more careful. You should have thought about how that picture would look. How it would make me feel.”

He ran a hand through his curls, agitated. “For God’s sake, Y/N, I can’t control every photo or every rumor. I’m an F1 driver. People take pictures. I’m sorry that it happened, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure. Just like you never did anything wrong all those other times you got plastered with groups of girls, right? God, how am I supposed to believe you, Lando?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. She could see him holding back his own anger. “Because,” he replied in a voice that trembled with repressed fury, “I’ve been bending over backward for months trying to prove to you that I’m not that guy. Do you think I spend all this time showering you with gifts, messages, and time, just so I can go out and hook up with random girls? That’s not me anymore!”

he shook her head, her voice laced with contempt that came from the deepest pit of her insecurities. “We can never know for sure, can we? God, I can’t stand the idea that I let you in, and you do something like this.”

He took another step toward her, eyes flashing. “Don’t put this all on me. You came into this relationship—if we can call it that—assuming the worst about me. I’m always on trial with you, Y/N. You never truly trust me.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Well, if you want my trust, then don’t get photographed cuddling with random girls!”

He breathed heavily, exasperation rolling off him. “I told you, it wasn’t cuddling. And I can’t believe you’d think I would cheat on you. After everything we’ve shared.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other, hearts pounding, both of them caught in the throes of powerful, conflicting emotions. Then she lifted her chin, refusing to budge. “Get out,” she said quietly, but her tone was menacing in its finality.

He froze. “Y/N, please. Don’t do this.”

She shook her head. Her vision blurred as tears threatened to spill again. “Get. Out. Now.”

Lando’s expression turned furious and wounded. “Fine,” he spat. “If you won’t even listen to me, what the hell am I supposed to do?” In his frustration, he flung his arm up, wanting to run his hand through his hair, but in that split second, it looked like his hand was coming toward her in a fast, menacing way.

She recoiled instantly, a panicked flinch, arms defensively curling toward her face, eyes wide in fear. A rush of adrenaline spiked through her. It was so fast, so involuntary, as if a primal reflex told her that he was about to hit her.

His entire demeanor changed in an instant. The anger drained from his face, replaced by a haunting sorrow. “Y/N,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You think… you think I would—?”

She just stared at him, still trembling. She hated that her body had interpreted his movement as a threat. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, guilt mixing with the cocktail of fury and heartbreak in her chest. “I— I just… you moved so fast.”

He took a shaky step backward, heartbreak contorting his features. “I would never lay a hand on you,” he said, voice trembling. “How could you even think—?”

She pressed her lips together, her cheeks burning with shame. But the anger was still there, too, overshadowing everything. “Just get out,” she repeated.

He stared at her for a few long seconds, pain written on every line of his face. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel, storming out of the apartment. She heard the door slam behind him. It left her standing alone in the silent living room, her heart pounding loud enough that she thought it might burst through her chest. She sank onto the couch, tears finally spilling.

–

The Four Days of Silence

Now she was on day four without a call, text, or anything from Lando. At first, she’d been so angry she told herself she wouldn’t care if he never reached out again. But after the first 24 hours, the doubts crawled in. Had she overreacted? Was that truly just an innocent picture? She battled with herself over and over, replaying the confrontation in her head, fixating on the moment he raised his arm to push his hair back—how she flinched, how his eyes turned to raw agony.

Guilt ate away at her. Yet the betrayal—and the fear that he was still that same playboy—remained. She wasn’t sure she could handle being with someone who always had rumors swirling around. It was making her question everything.

But she also missed him. Terribly. She missed his laugh, that boyish grin in the morning when he’d wake up next to her, the way he’d wrap his arms around her waist from behind while she was doing something mundane like making coffee. She missed how he would gently brush his fingertips down her cheek while watching TV, how he was always so enthusiastic about introducing her to his friends—well, the few times she’d let herself be around his circle. She missed that warmth and attention, how being with him made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t felt in a long while.

Late into the nights, she lay awake in her bed, staring at the city lights, tears wet on her cheeks, imagining him in Monaco or at his family’s home, maybe even with that unknown girl. The worst part was that she realized, in her chest, that she truly loved him. A truth she had tried to ignore because acknowledging it made her feel so vulnerable.

She hated herself for flinching, for letting him see that she thought he could physically harm her. She knew enough about him by now to know he wasn’t violent. That flash of panic had come from a dark place in her mind, shaped by her insecurities. She didn’t know if he’d ever forgive her for that. Or if she could ever forgive him for being so careless in that photo.

Day three passed. Then day four. She was pushing through work, eyes rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep, snapping at her coworkers who asked too many questions, trying to bury herself in spreadsheets and emails.

–

The Afternoon of the Fourth Day

She had just gotten back to her apartment after another draining day at the office. She kicked off her heels by the front door, passing the large mirror in the entrance hallway. She lingered a moment, studying her reflection—searching for something she could never quite name. She tried to straighten her shoulders, to seem more composed than she felt, but the familiar ache of doubt had already settled in.

She always worried that Lando, with his flirty ways and well-known preference for a certain type, would eventually look at her and realize she wasn’t enough. It hurt that she cared so deeply about this. She hated that she cared. She wanted to be that fierce girl who didn’t need anyone’s validation. But with him, she felt so out of control sometimes—like all the confidence she’d tried to build kept slipping through her fingers the moment he smiled at someone else.

Letting out a shaky breath, she headed to her bedroom, planning to change into something more comfortable, maybe sweatpants and an oversized tee. She rounded the corner into her living room—and froze.

Lando was there, standing by the window, looking out across the glittering skyline of London. He had his luggage next to him, as if he had come straight from the airport or something. Her heart jumped to her throat. Anger, relief, love, and pain swirled inside her so violently that she couldn’t even speak for a moment.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps, eyes meeting hers. She saw the exhaustion on his face, the shadows under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days either. His hair was disheveled, the curls an unruly mess, and he wore a fitted black hoodie and gray joggers. Under normal circumstances, the sight of him might have made her breath catch with desire, but now, there was only tension.

They stared at each other in silence. Her eyes filled with tears again. She loathed that she cried so easily these days. “How did you get in?” she finally managed, her voice cold.

“I still have the key,” he replied quietly. “You didn’t ask for it back.”

She swallowed. Right. She hadn’t. Maybe that was a subconscious sign she wanted him to return. “You can’t just barge in here.”

“I didn’t know how else to see you,” he said, voice trembling with raw honesty. “You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. I kept sending messages the first two days, you never replied. I got scared you’d blocked me, or that you never wanted to see me again.”

She scoffed, though hearing he’d tried to call made her guilt spike. She had left her phone on silent, or face-down, ignoring the messages—convinced she had to remain strong. “And so you decided to ambush me at home?”

He clenched his jaw, taking a step forward. “I couldn’t stand the silence anymore, Y/N. It’s been killing me.” He paused, searching her face with a mixture of desperation and anger. “I’m sorry for everything. But you have to understand, that picture—it was nothing. And I hate that you believed otherwise. It feels like you don’t trust me at all.”

“Because you’ve given me reasons to doubt,” she snapped, tears threatening to spill once more. “I’ve seen the rumors, the pictures, the girls you used to be with. I can’t— I don’t know how to handle it. It hurts to even think about. I can’t stand the idea of being compared to those bikini-model types you used to party with.”

His eyes widened. “Compared to them? Y/N, I’ve never once compared you to anyone. I—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, I know I made mistakes in my past. I slept around. I partied. But that was before. This last year has changed me, especially these five months with you.” He paused, voice trembling, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

Her throat was tight. She exhaled slowly, all the anger and hurt rising again. “Then why did that picture look so—so intimate?”

He rubbed his face. “I was talking to that girl. She was leaning in because the music was loud. I wasn’t even there for long. I’d gone out with some mates, had a few drinks, and left early. I swear to you, I wasn’t flirting or anything close to that.”

She folded her arms protectively, glowering. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?”

He looked at her with a heartbreak so profound that her stomach twisted. “I wish you would,” he whispered. “Because it’s true.”

She stared at the floor, tension coursing through her. The silence pressed down on them. She recalled the image of his arm moving up four nights ago, the absolute terror she felt, that flicker of fear that he might hurt her physically. She forced her eyes up to his. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, voice catching. “For thinking you’d hit me.”

His face contorted with anguish. “That… that moment,” he said, voice shaking, “I can’t even describe how it felt to see you flinch like that. Like you believed I could do something so horrible.”

She sucked in a breath, her lips quivering. “I just—I don’t know what came over me. It was a reflex. But everything else I meant. I can’t stand the way you have these shady pictures circulating. The rumors. And I hate feeling like I’m one in a long line of random women in your life. It eats me alive.”

His eyes were red, and he seemed to hold himself back from crossing the room to comfort her. “You’re not just another woman,” he said, voice brimming with emotion. “I would never see you that way. I love you, damn it. Don’t you get it? You’re everything to me.”

She swallowed, her heart thumping so loud it filled her ears. “You say that,” she answered raggedly, “but it’s so easy to say. What if you get bored, or you find someone else, or you want someone who wears skimpier clothes—someone who has the perfect body or an easier attitude?”

He scoffed softly, a pained look crossing his face. “Skimpier clothes? You think I care about that? Y/N, I love you for you. You can wear a shapeless potato sack, and I’d still think you’re breathtaking.” He licked his lips, stepping closer, but still leaving a couple feet of space, as if cautious not to invade her bubble if she didn’t want it. “I don’t want any other woman. I want you. I hate that all these rumors, these illusions, keep driving a wedge between us.”

She turned away, crossing to the couch. She rested her palms on the back of it, trying to steady her breathing, trying not to let the tears fall. “I can’t… forget. When I see pictures like that, it’s like a knife to the chest.”

He came up behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. Very gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I wish I could erase my past. I wish I could protect you from seeing that photo. But I can’t. All I can do is promise you I wasn’t cheating, nor do I ever want to.”

Anger still simmered beneath her skin, but she also felt the longing, the deep ache to reconcile with him. She wanted to lash out, to blame him, but she was so damn tired of fighting herself and him. She turned around slowly, looking up at him. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” she asked hoarsely, tears pooling in her eyes. “Why didn’t you show up earlier?”

He inhaled sharply. “I tried calling. When you didn’t answer, I was worried you’d blocked me or that you needed space. I also needed to cool down. After how we yelled at each other, I— I was afraid you wouldn’t even look at me.” A trembling laugh escaped him. “I didn’t want to drive you further away. But last night, I realized I couldn’t handle another hour without trying to see you. So I packed my bag and flew here this morning.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fresh tears running down. “I hate you,” she whispered, though her tone was heartbreakingly vulnerable, betraying how she felt the exact opposite.

He grimaced, eyes moist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I’ll do anything to make this right.”

For a moment, she couldn’t respond. She just stared at him through the haze of tears. Something inside her cracked wide open—the dam that had been holding in all the emotion. In one swift motion, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. She felt his heart hammering beneath her cheek.

He hesitated only a split second before he crushed her against him, his arms wrapping around her waist so tightly as if he was afraid she’d slip away at any moment. The tears she’d been holding back poured out, and she felt his body shaking too. They stood there, locked in an embrace that trembled with raw anguish.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I hate that you made me doubt you,” she whispered, voice muffled by his shirt. “And I hate that I’m so insecure. But most of all, I hate that… I can’t let you go.” She let out a choked sob, closing her eyes. “I love you too. And it hurts so bad because I’m scared you’ll destroy me someday.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’d rather die than hurt you,” he said, voice cracking with sincerity. “I’d rather die than lose you.”

The tension and heartbreak in the air shifted palpably, turning into a different kind of electricity. They pulled back just enough to look at each other, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Their faces were inches apart, breath intermingling. Then, wordlessly, as if drawn by a magnetic force, their lips collided in a fierce, desperate kiss.

She tasted salt from her tears as he kissed her, but the urgency in the press of his mouth overwhelmed her senses. Her hands slid up around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls. He held her face between his palms as though she were something delicate—yet the kiss itself was anything but gentle. It was raw, intense, filled with the pent-up longing of four days of agony and an entire relationship’s worth of insecurities.

They broke apart for a brief moment, gasping for air, foreheads touching as they tried to form words. But no words came. Only that frantic hunger to feel close after so many days of pain and confusion. They resumed kissing, deeper this time, tongues and teeth clashing, breath ragged. She moaned softly against his mouth, her body igniting with the need to be consumed by him.

“Bedroom,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak. His eyes were dark with longing, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

She grabbed his hand and led him down the short hallway. The moment they entered her bedroom, the tension redoubled. Even the air felt charged. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in the golden glow of the late-afternoon sun. The duvet on her bed was slightly disheveled, and she had thrown some clothes on it earlier that morning. The entire room smelled like her faint vanilla perfume and the leftover anxiety of the last few days.

She turned to face him, breath quivering. He reached for her face, cupping her cheek. She looked up into his eyes, still rimmed with leftover hurt. She reached for his hoodie, and he helped yank it off, tossing it aside. The next second, he was kissing her again, guiding her toward the bed. He peeled off her blouse, his hands shaking with the intensity of the moment, exposing her skin to the cool air and his heated gaze.

His lips moved down her jaw, her neck, gently nipping at the sensitive flesh there, drawing out soft gasps. Her fingers fumbled with the waistband of his joggers, pulling them down. Every movement was frantic, desperate, as if they both knew that making up like this was both a healing and a reaffirmation of what they meant to each other.

She sank onto the bed, and he followed, settling above her. Their mouths found each other again in a searing kiss, tongues dancing as their bodies pressed together. She could feel his heart beating wildly. She let her hands roam over his torso, savoring the warmth of his skin, the muscle that flexed beneath her palms. He groaned into her mouth, his voice husky with need.

“God, I missed you,” he breathed. He lowered his head to kiss down her collarbone, his breath hot against her skin. “I was going crazy not hearing your voice.”

She arched against him, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by how much she had missed him too. Her nails lightly raked his shoulders. “Don’t ever disappear on me again,” she murmured, breath hitching. “Don’t leave me like that.”

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze. The raw emotion in his eyes almost made her dizzy. “Never,” he promised, and he sealed the vow with a slow, deep kiss.

Their hands explored every inch of exposed skin, reacquainting themselves with each other’s bodies as though it had been years rather than mere days. Slowly, carefully, they stripped away the barriers of clothes. Each article of clothing fell to the floor or was pushed aside on the bed, along with the tensions and fears that had weighed on them. He caressed her curves, pressing gentle kisses to her hip, her waist, then trailing his lips up to her neck. She whimpered softly, allowing herself to be lost in the sensations.

He loomed above her, completely naked, his body trembling with the intensity of the moment. His hands slid down her arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, before he moved up her body again. His lips found hers in a searing kiss, hot and desperate, as if he were trying to make up for every second of the four days they’d spent apart. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands tangling in his unruly curls, pulling him closer, as though she could fuse them together and never let him go again.

When he finally broke the kiss, his lips didn’t stray far. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her temples, each press of his mouth a silent apology, a promise, a plea. His breath was warm against her skin as he trailed kisses down her jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear. She shivered, a soft whimper escaping her lips as her head fell back against the pillows, her body arching instinctively toward him.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice trembling with need.

He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he kissed across her collarbone, his hands moving down to her shoulders to steady her. His lips moved lower, leaving a trail of fire across her chest. He lingered there, his tongue darting out to taste her skin, his breath hitching as if he were savoring her. She could feel his hunger, his desperation, and it mirrored her own. When his mouth finally closed around her nipple, she gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

He sucked gently at first, teasing her, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud until she was squirming beneath him. Then he sucked harder, drawing a sharp cry from her lips. She could feel the heat pooling low in her stomach, her body responding to him as it always did, as if it were wired to crave him and him alone. His fingers found her other breast, kneading and teasing, and she moaned, her back arching off the bed.

“Lando,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own ragged breathing.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with desire, his lips swollen from kissing her. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I can’t get enough of you.”

She reached up to touch his face, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the weight of everything that had happened between them hanging in the air. But then he leaned down, capturing her lips in another kiss, and all the tension, all the doubt, melted away, replaced by an all-consuming need.

This time, when he pulled back, his hands moved to her hips, lifting her slightly so he could slide further down the bed. His lips trailed down her stomach, leaving a path of fire in their wake, and she shuddered, her hands clutching at the sheets. He kissed her hips, her thighs, his breath warm against her skin, and then his mouth was on her again, sucking and teasing, his tongue darting out to taste her.

She cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily, and he groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her still as he continued to worship her with his mouth, his tongue flicking over her sensitive flesh until she was trembling, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Lando,” she moaned, her voice breaking. “Please.”

Lando didn’t lift his head, not yet. His hands tightened on her hips as he leaned in, his tongue flicking out to trace the slick, sensitive folds of her pussy. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her, and she whimpered, her thighs trembling on either side of his head. He could taste her, her arousal, her need, and it drove him wild. He loved her like this, so open, so vulnerable, so completely his. His tongue delved deeper, exploring her, savoring her, and she cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets.

“So fucking sweet,” he murmured against her, his breath hot. “I could taste you forever.” His voice was rough, dripping with desire, and it sent a shiver up her spine. He pulled back slightly, his lips closing around her clit, and he sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She arched off the bed, her moans echoing through the room, and he groaned, the sound muffled against her.

He lifted his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening with her. “You taste like heaven,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “I fucking love your pussy, Y/N. I love how you writhe for me, how you moan for me.” He kissed her again, his tongue slipping inside her, and she gasped, her hips bucking against his face. He held her steady, his hands firm on her hips, as he drank her in, every sound, every taste, every shudder of her body.

He loved this—he lived for this. The way she fell apart for him, the way her breath hitched and her cries grew louder, the way she trembled when he touched her just right. He loved the way she moaned his name, the way she clutched at the sheets, the way she surrendered to him completely. He loved knowing that he could make her feel this good, that he could bring her to the edge and push her over, that he could make her his in every possible way.

His tongue flicked over her clit again, faster this time, more insistent, and her moans turned into desperate cries. “Lando—please—I’m so close,” she gasped, her voice breaking. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. He sucked her clit into his mouth, his tongue working her relentlessly, and she came with a sharp cry, her body convulsing, her hands clawing at the sheets. He didn’t let up, drinking in every drop of her release, until she was panting, her body limp and trembling.

He finally lifted his head, his lips wet, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come,” he said, his voice rough. He crawled up her body, his hands framing her face as he kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips. “I love making you feel good,” he murmured against her mouth. “I love hearing you moan, feeling you shake, watching you fall apart for me.”

She reached for him, her hands trembling as she cupped his face. “You’re incredible,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I love it when you worship me like that, when you make me feel like I’m the only thing that matters.” Her eyes were soft, filled with adoration, and he kissed her again, gently this time, savoring the way she melted into him.

“You are the only thing that matters,” he said, his voice low and earnest. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “I love you, Y/N. I love everything about you—your body, your mind, your soul. I love making you feel good, I love hearing you moan, I love watching you come. I love you.”

She smiled, a slow, sweet smile that made his heart ache. “I love you too,” she whispered. She pulled him down, her lips finding his, and they kissed, slow and deep, their bodies pressed together, their hearts beating in sync. For the first time in days, the world felt right again.

He pulled away from her lips reluctantly, his chest heaving, his cock throbbing between them as he hovered above her. “I need to be inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with desire. “I can’t wait anymore.” His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he guided her closer to the edge of the bed, positioning himself between her legs.

But she shook her head, her eyes filled with need, her lips swollen from his kisses. “Not yet,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I need you in my mouth first. Please, Lando. Let me taste you.”

He groaned, his head falling back as he fought for control. “Fuck, Y/N—I want to be in you. I’ve been waiting for this for days.”

Her hands slid down his chest, her nails lightly scratching his skin as she moved lower, her fingers wrapping around his hard cock. He hissed at the touch, his hips jerking forward instinctively. “I know,” she said, her voice soft but insistent. “But I need this. I need to feel you in my mouth. Let me, please. I’ll make it good for you.”

He looked down at her, his eyes burning with desire and frustration. She was begging him, her voice dripping with need, and he couldn’t deny her. Not when she looked up at him like that—with those pleading eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, his resolve crumbling. “Just—just for a minute. Then I’m inside you.”

She didn’t waste another second. Lando lay back on the bed, his head resting on the pillows, his chest rising and falling rapidly as she positioned herself between his legs. His cock was already leaking precum, the tip glistening, and she could feel him twitch in her hand as she stroked him slowly. She licked her lips, her mouth watering at the sight of him, at the thought of tasting him, of feeling him on her tongue.

Without hesitation, without teasing, she took him into her mouth, her lips wrapping around his shaft, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head. He groaned loudly, his hands fisting in the sheets as she sucked him deep, her head bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm. One hand rested on his inner thigh, her fingers digging into his skin, while the other stroked the base of his cock in time with her movements.

She looked up at him, her eyes locked on his as she sucked him, her lips stretched around his length. The sight of her—her lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes filled with hunger—was almost too much for him. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, and she moaned around him, the sound vibrating through him, sending jolts of pleasure racing down his spine.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice rough with arousal. “Fuck, you’re so sexy like this. You love having my cock in your mouth, don’t you? You’re such a good girl for me, Y/N. Such a fucking slut for my dick.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t stop. She loved when he talked dirty to her, when he called her his slut, his good girl. It made her feel wanted, desired, and it only made her suck him harder, her movements becoming more desperate, more eager. Her hand moved from his inner thigh to his balls, her fingers gently massaging them as she continued to suck him, her lips and tongue working him relentlessly.

She could feel him throbbing in her mouth, could taste the saltiness of his precum on her tongue, and it only made her want him more. She loved the way he felt in her mouth, the way he filled her, the way he made her feel so alive, so connected to him. She loved the way he moaned her name, the way his hands tightened in the sheets as he tried to hold himself back. She loved the way he looked at her, his eyes filled with desire, his breath hitching as she sucked him.

For Lando, it was almost too much. The sight of her—her lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes filled with hunger, her hand stroking him, her fingers massaging his balls—was driving him wild. He loved seeing her like this, so turned on, so eager for him. It made him feel powerful, desired, and it made him want to give her everything she begged for. He loved the way she looked at him, her eyes locked on his as she sucked him, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. He loved the way she moaned around him, the way her body trembled with need. She was his, and he loved every fucking second of it.

But he couldn’t let himself come—not yet. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her tight, wet pussy around him as he spilled himself deep inside her. He gently pushed her away, his hands trembling as he gripped her shoulders. “Enough,” he said, his voice rough with need. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

She pulled back, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged, her eyes filled with longing. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling with desire. “Please. I need you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His hands moved with purpose, gripping her hips firmly as he manhandled her onto her back again, her body sinking into the mattress. She gasped, her hands instinctively reaching for him as he positioned himself above her, his weight pressing her into the bed. His eyes locked onto hers, intense, brimming with something deeper than desire—something raw, emotional, and unspoken. He hovered for a moment, his breath ragged, his chest heaving, before he shifted, guiding himself toward her entrance.

She felt the tip of him brush against her, hot and insistent, and a shiver of anticipation ran through her. He paused, his hands framing her face as he leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers. She could feel the tremble in his body, the way he was holding himself back, trying to control the primal urge to claim her. His breath mingled with hers, shaky and uneven, as he whispered, “I love you, Y/N. So fucking much.”

And then, slowly, achingly slow, he entered her. She felt every inch of him as he pushed inside, her body stretching to accommodate him, the sensation both overwhelming and electrifying. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to steady her breathing. It wasn’t just the physical sensation that made her head spin—it was the way he looked at her, his eyes never leaving hers, his expression a mix of reverence and desperation. It felt like he wasn’t just entering her body; he was reclaiming her heart, her soul, every piece of her that had been fractured by distance and doubt.

For Lando, the moment was equally intense. The warmth of her body enveloped him, tight and welcoming, and he groaned, his head falling forward as he fought to keep his movements slow, controlled. He could feel her trembling beneath him, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps, and it made him ache with a need that went far beyond physical. He wanted to lose himself in her, to drown in the way she felt around him, but more than that, he wanted her to know how much she meant to him. How much he loved her. How he’d do anything to keep her, to protect her, to make her feel cherished.

He stayed inside her, not moving, his body flush against hers, their breaths mingling as they stared into each other’s eyes. The stillness was charged, electric, as if the world had paused just for them. She could feel him twitching inside her, the way his body seemed to throb with the effort of holding back, and it made her ache with a need that was almost unbearable. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands clutching at his back. “Please… move. I need you.”

But he shook his head, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I want to take my time with you. I want to show you how much I love you, Y/N. How much you mean to me.” His words were soft, tender, but there was a fire behind them that made her heart race. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss, his tongue exploring hers as if he were trying to memorize every inch of her.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’m yours. Always.” His voice broke on the last word, and she could feel the sincerity in it, the weight of his promise. It was as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his love, his devotion, into that one moment.

She whimpered, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. “I love you,” she whispered back, her voice trembling with emotion. “I missed you so much. Please, Lando… don’t let go.”

He kissed her again, his movements slow and deliberate, his hands roaming her body with a reverence that made her heart ache. He worshiped her with his touch, his lips, his words, as if every inch of her were sacred. His hands slid down her sides, smoothing over her skin, before he cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow, teasing circles. She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips as her body responded to him instinctively.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and rough as he leaned down to kiss her neck, her collarbone, the sensitive spot just below her ear. His lips were warm, his breath hot against her skin, and she shivered, her hands tightening in his hair. He took his time, exploring every inch of her with a patience that made her ache.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice pleading, her hands tugging at his hair. “Please… I need you. I need you to move.”

But he shook his head again, his hands sliding down to her hips, gripping her firmly as he pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. “I’m not going to rush this,” he said, his voice steady despite the fire burning in his gaze. “I want to make this last. I want to make you feel how much I love you, Y/N. How much I’ve missed you.”

His words were a balm to her soul, soothing the raw edges of her heart, but they also made her ache with need. She could feel him inside her, hot and thick, twitching with every breath, and it was maddening to have him so close, so still. “Please,” she begged, her voice breaking, her hips lifting slightly in an attempt to get him to move. “Please, Lando… I need you to fuck me. I need you to make me feel good.”

He groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily at her words, but he held himself back, his hands tightening on her hips. “I will,” he promised, his voice rough with desire. “But not yet. I want to savor this. I want to savor you.”

She whimpered, her nails digging into his back as she tried to pull him closer, but he stayed still, his eyes locked on hers, his expression filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache. She loved this side of him—the way he could be so soft, so gentle, even in moments of intense passion. It made her feel cherished, adored, and it made her love him even more.

Finally, he began to move, his hips rocking against hers in slow, deliberate thrusts. The sensation was maddening, each movement drawing a soft cry from her lips as she writhed beneath him. He kept his pace slow, his eyes never leaving hers, his hands moving to cup her face as he leaned down to kiss her again. His lips were warm, his tongue exploring hers in a way that made her head spin, and she moaned into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shoulders.

For her, the slow, deliberate movements were both agonizing and intoxicating. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through her, the sensation building slowly, steadily, until she felt like she might explode. She could feel him inside her, hot and thick, filling her completely, and it made her ache with a need that was almost unbearable. She wanted more—needed more—but he held back, his movements controlled, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

For Lando, the slow pace was equally intense. He could feel her around him, tight and warm, and it took every ounce of his self-control to keep from losing himself in her. He wanted to savor this moment, to make it last, to show her how much she meant to him. He wanted to worship her, to make her feel loved, cherished, adored. And he knew that the only way to do that was to take his time, to draw out every second, to make her feel every ounce of his love.

He kissed her again, his lips moving against hers in a slow, deep rhythm that matched the pace of his thrusts. “I love you,” he whispered against her lips, his voice trembling with emotion. “I love you so much, Y/N. I’m never letting you go.”

She whimpered, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as she kissed him back with a desperation that mirrored his own. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, Lando… don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He kept his pace slow, deliberate, his thrusts deep and steady as he continued to worship her with his body, his touch, his words. He kept kissing her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders, his lips lingering on every inch of her skin as if he were trying to memorize her. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve, every dip, as if he were trying to commit her to memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire as he leaned down to kiss her again. “I can’t get enough of you, Y/N. I never will.”

She moaned, her hands clutching at his back as she arched into his touch, her body responding to him instinctively. The slow, steady rhythm of his thrusts was driving her wild, the sensation building slowly, steadily, until she felt like she might explode. “Lando,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need. “Please… I’m so close.”

He kissed her again, his movements never faltering as he held himself above her, his eyes locked on hers. “Let go, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

And with those words, she shattered, her body convulsing as she clung to him, her cries muffled against his chest. He held her through it, his thrusts never faltering as he continued to drive her over the edge, his own release building steadily until he could no longer hold back. With a low groan, he pressed his face into her neck, his body shaking as he spilled himself inside her, his breath hot against her skin.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, their bodies trembling, their breaths mingling as they held onto each other. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing, the air thick with the weight of everything they had shared, everything they had overcome.

Slowly, he pulled back, looking down at her with an aching tenderness she had never seen so plainly before. He brushed damp hair off her forehead, trailing a thumb across her cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice a low rasp in the hush of the room. “I love you so much. And I’m so sorry for everything.”

She exhaled shakily, caressing the side of his face. “I’m sorry, too,” she murmured. “I got so consumed by anger and jealousy. I should have let you explain calmly. And I… I should never have doubted that you’d raise a hand to me.”

He shook his head, kissing her temple. “You have nothing to apologize for. Your fears come from a real place. I just want to do better for you. I never want you to think I could hurt you.” He swallowed hard. “I’m terrified of losing you.”

She stared up into his eyes, seeing the layers of heartbreak there. “Don’t do anything that makes me doubt you again, Lando. Please,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “I can’t take this kind of fight again.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “I promise,” he said. “And if something comes up—pictures, rumors, anything—please talk to me before letting it build up in your head. I’ll tell you everything.”

She nodded, tears threatening once more, but they didn’t spill. “Okay,” she agreed softly.

They settled into a quiet embrace, his arm draped over her waist, her head on his chest. She could hear the steady rhythm of his heart, each beat reassuring her that he was here and that he wasn’t letting go. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in pink and orange hues that filtered into the room. For a time, neither of them spoke, letting the warmth of each other’s bodies and the lingering afterglow of their fierce coupling do the talking.

Eventually, their breathing evened out, and Lando shifted to lie on his side, propping his head on one hand so he could look at her fully. She blushed slightly, tugging the sheets up to cover herself, though he’d already seen every inch. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her lips felt tender from the rough kisses.

He reached out to tuck a stray strand behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he said quietly.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Don’t,” she mumbled. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he insisted. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Your body, your face, your heart… it’s all incredible to me.”

“Stop flattering me,” she murmured, but she couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. His genuine admiration always made her heart skip a beat.

He gave her a half-smile, though there was still a hint of sadness in his eyes. “We have to talk, you know,” he said softly. “We can’t just… pretend the argument didn’t happen.”

She nodded, the smile fading as she remembered the fiery fight. “I know.”

He took a deep breath, shifting closer so their foreheads nearly touched. “I hate that my past makes you feel insecure. But it’s my past. I can’t change it, no matter how badly I wish I could.” He placed a hand gently on her hip. “I need you to understand that I’m not that guy anymore. Maybe I was reckless before, a little shallow. But I’m not the same person I was a year or two years ago.”

She chewed her lip, eyes drifting to where her hand lay over his on the bed. “I guess a part of me thinks that once a player, always a player,” she admitted. “Like, if you’ve done it once, you’ll do it again. But I know that’s not fair. People can change.”

His fingers squeezed hers lightly. “I don’t want anyone else. I know you might find it hard to believe, but it’s true. I’m not going to ruin this for some random stranger in a club.” He paused, voice growing thick with emotion. “I love you, Y/N. I love your fierceness, your shy smiles, your sarcastic quips, how you refuse to let me pay for everything even though I want to spoil you. I love the way you get all excited about a new book or a new recipe you learned. I love your body, every curve, every inch, how it feels like you were made to fit in my arms.”

She drew in a shaky breath, tears gathering again. “Lando…”

He nodded, blinking back his own moisture. “So trust me, please. Talk to me if you feel suspicious. Don’t bottle it up until it explodes. Because I can’t go another four days like this. It was pure hell.”

She closed her eyes, exhaling. “I’m sorry I shut you out,” she whispered, voice trembling. “And I’ll… I’ll try. I don’t want to go through this either. I just need reassurance. Because my insecurities are… they’re crippling sometimes. Seeing that picture brought back every fear I had.”

He cupped her cheek gently. “I get it. And I’ll do my best to reassure you. Always.”

They shared a tender kiss, a silent pact to communicate better, to lean on each other instead of letting the fear linger. After a few more minutes of hushed conversation, she excused herself to use the bathroom, to freshen up.

Stepping into the attached en-suite, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair in wild mess. She splashed cool water on her face, trying to calm the roiling emotions. She felt lighter somehow, as if her chest wasn’t as constricted. He was here, in her home, in her bed, and they’d just poured out so many painful feelings. But they’d also reconnected intimately, forging a new bond in the midst of all the anguish.

Yet a small flicker of doubt still lingered. She wondered if she could truly accept the rumors that might come in the future—pictures of him with fans, random girls in clubs, or women who found him attractive. He was an F1 driver, he was famous, and she couldn’t shield him from the outside world. She swallowed hard, telling herself that if she truly loved him, and if he truly loved her, they would find a way through it.

When she returned, dressed in a fresh tee and shorts, she found him sitting on her bed, having pulled on his boxers. The bedside lamp was on, illuminating the curve of his shoulders, the slight slump as he stared at his phone. He looked up the moment she stepped in.

“Everything okay?” she asked softly, noticing his phone in his hand.

He grimaced. “Max and a couple of the other guys are freaking out because I went off the grid. I told them I needed time to sort this out.”

She nodded, crossing to the bed, settling beside him. “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble.”

He shook his head. “No, don’t apologize for that. They were worried, but now that I told them I’m with you, they’re pretty much leaving me alone.”

She reached for his phone, pressing the lock button so the screen went dark, then set it aside on the nightstand. “You’re here with me now,” she said quietly. “Focus on that.”

He exhaled, nodding. Then his eyes flickered to the faint bruise on her wrist, a small mark she’d gotten from accidentally knocking her hand against a table the day before. She saw him stare with concern. “What’s that?”

She glanced at it. “Oh, that’s nothing. I bumped into something at work. I’m clumsy.”

He lightly brushed his thumb over the bruise, then lifted her hand and kissed the spot gently. The tender gesture made her chest tighten. His gaze moved up to hers, intense. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “for scaring you the other night. I haven’t gotten that out of my head. The way you flinched…”

A wave of guilt crashed over her. “Lando, I said I’m sorry. It’s not you—it’s my own fear. I just reacted.”

“But the fact that you could even think I’d—” He exhaled unsteadily, closing his eyes. “I promise I’ll never move that way again. I’ll be mindful. I don’t want to trigger that reflex or make you think—”

She slid her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. “No. Don’t change how you move or exist in the world,” she whispered, voice thick with regret. “It was my own trauma or fear or something. But I know you’d never do that to me, logically. My body just panicked.”

He nodded, holding her close. “Okay,” he said softly. “But if you ever feel scared, tell me. I’ll do everything in my power to make you feel safe.”

They stayed like that for a long time, arms wrapped around each other on the bed, the soft glow of the lamp creating a cocoon of intimacy. She felt his heartbeat slow as he relaxed in her arms, his breathing growing calmer. She gently stroked the back of his neck, and he exhaled against her shoulder.

Finally, she drew back slightly, looking into his face. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

He shook his head, giving her a wry smile. “No. I came straight here from the airport, then… all this happened.”

She offered a small smile in return. “I’ll order us takeout. Thai or pizza?”

He shrugged. “Anything you like. Though I’m kind of craving noodles.”

She nodded, picking up her phone from the nightstand, scrolling through her food delivery apps. Within minutes, she placed an order for a selection of Thai dishes. Then she set her phone aside again.

Lando let out a soft chuckle. “I can’t believe we went from screaming at each other to ordering noodles. My head’s spinning.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, it’s been a rollercoaster.” Her features turned somber as she looked at him. “Do you regret coming here?”

He reached for her hand, entwining their fingers. “Not in the slightest. I want to fix things with you more than anything.”

A gentle silence fell over them, broken only by the hum of the city outside. She cuddled closer, resting her head against his shoulder. Despite the leftover ache, a sense of relief washed over her. He was here. They were together, speaking, touching, and trying to heal.

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