cthrnschumacher

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - CH.19 Heaven

Y/N POV

The house was still when I stirred awake. The kind of stillness that felt chosen—not empty, not cold. Serene. Like the entire townhouse had agreed to whisper this morning. The linen sheets were soft and tangled around my legs, still warm with sleep and the faint scent of him. Cedarwood, espresso, and that subtle something that wasn’t cologne, but Toto. A chemical memory that had already imprinted itself in my brain.

I stayed there a while, unmoving. Letting the moment stretch. There was no alarm blaring. No calendar alerts. No inbox screaming for attention. Just the light slowly unfurling across the hardwood floor and the distant, quiet movements that told me I wasn’t alone.

A floorboard creaked down the hall. A drawer opened. Then the low, reverent hum of the espresso machine. He was up. Of course he was.

I burrowed deeper into the duvet, grinning into the pillow like someone with a secret. And I did have one—him. This part of my life that felt too sacred to label, too new to announce. A quiet world carved out of all the noise. Ours.

I didn’t hear him come back in.

I only felt it—the soft give of the mattress beside me, the shift in air, the unmistakable warmth of him settling close. Then the faint clink of glass against the nightstand.

“Good morning, Schatzi.”

My eyes fluttered open.

Toto sat on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, the crisp white of his dress shirt hugging every line of muscle like it had been tailored to make me sweat. His slacks were dark crisp, his belt fastened with silent efficiency, and his hair—still damp from a shower—was swept back with barely any effort. Understated power. Refined chaos. Unbearably him.

And in his hand: a tall iced caramel coffee.

“God, you’re a menace,” I muttered, still half-asleep, as he offered it like a peace treaty.

“I’m the best part of your morning,” he corrected smoothly.

“You spoil me.”

“I like you spoiled.”

I sat up slowly, sheets slipping low across my chest, and took the glass from him. The condensation was cool against my fingers. The first sip was cold, rich, perfectly balanced—like he’d gotten it from the one café that never messed up orders, or like he just knew. Every detail.

“You didn’t make one for yourself?” I asked between sips.

“I already had mine. Black. No distractions.”

I raised a brow. “I’m a distraction?”

His mouth curled, sharp and deliberate. “The best kind.”

I sat up slowly, sheets slipping to my waist. The air was cool against my skin, but I didn’t rush. I was still wrapped in the soft cocoon of last night, and the slow light now painting the room in pale gold.

My tank top clung loosely, the thin strap slipping off one shoulder. The baggy plaid pajama bottoms pooled around my legs, wrinkled from sleep. Not exactly glamorous, but real. The kind of comfort I never let anyone see—until him.

Toto didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth watching.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered, tugging the strap back up.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a fantasy when I look like someone’s lazy Sunday.”

He leaned closer, eyes warm with something unreadable. “That’s exactly the point, Schatzi.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re dangerous in the morning.”

“I’m always dangerous,” he replied easily, brushing a knuckle along my jaw. “But only for you.”

We stayed like that for a while. Him perched at the edge of the bed, elbows resting casually on his thighs. Me curled under the duvet in one of his shirts, the fabric swallowing me whole, smelling like his laundry and something now mine. Soft jazz filtered through from the hallway speaker, the kind of music that made everything feel cinematic. I wasn’t sure if he picked it, or if the house just knew the mood.

He reached for the edge of the blanket and tugged once, just enough to make me glare at him over the rim of my glass.

“You’ll have to get up eventually.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” he replied, voice dipping just enough to make my stomach flutter. “I’ve got plans.”

“Oh no.” I groaned dramatically, sinking lower into the pillows. “That tone means you’ve already booked something. Haven’t you?”

He grinned—shameless, infuriating, and impossibly charming. “It’s all confirmed.”

“Do I get a hint?”

He stood, walking toward the closet like he owned the air in the room. Which, honestly, he did.

“You should dress comfortably. But with intention.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That could mean anything. Brunch on a yacht or a surprise audience with the Pope.” He didn’t even turn around.

“Exactly.”

Once I was alone, I lingered in bed longer than necessary, savoring the last few moments of warmth that still smelled like him. My coffee glass sat on the nightstand, waiting. I finally threw back the covers and padded barefoot across the floor, pajama pants dragging softly behind me, the faint chill of the hardwood making my skin prickle awake.

The bathroom mirror met me with a version of myself that felt… softer. My face was still flushed from sleep, lips full, lashes uncurled but heavy from rest. My curls had half-fallen out in every direction—wild, defiant waves that haloed my face like I was coming back from a dream I hadn’t quite left. And then, without thinking too much, I reached for the flat iron.

It wasn’t performative. I didn’t do it for him—not entirely. It wasn’t about being better or more polished. It was about shifting something inward. About the sensation of turning chaos into something clean. Controlled. Intentional. Each pass of the iron felt like pulling a thread straight through a labyrinth.

By the time I was done, my hair lay smooth and sharp around my shoulders, the ends brushing my collarbones like punctuation. I didn’t look older. Just aware. Like someone who had finally made peace with being looked at.

I stepped into the closet with the same quiet purpose. My eyes found him again in my memory—Toto, fully dressed, sleeves rolled up over his crisp white dress shirt, the fabric hugging his arms like it had been built for quiet dominance. His pants pressed, belt neat. The man could’ve walked into a boardroom or a black-tie gala without changing a thing.

So I matched him.

Wide-legged black trousers that hung with elegance but moved like water. A high waist that made my legs look impossibly long, cinched just right to make me stand taller. On top, a cream knit tank with a low square neckline—modest from the front, but with an open back that flirted with the idea of secrets.

I added a single gold chain and simple stud earrings. No clutter. Just intention.

For makeup, I kept it quiet. Skin dewy, lashes brushed just once. A hint of balm. A little color in my cheeks. It wasn’t about painting myself into something new. It was about catching the light just right when he looked at me. Because he would.

When I stepped out, I expected a glance. Maybe a soft smile. A half-compliment tossed over his shoulder like he always did when he was trying not to look too undone. But what I got was something else entirely.

Toto was near the kitchen island, glass of water in hand, leaning casually as he read something on his phone. One sleeve was still half-pushed up. His watch glinted faintly in the morning light.

He didn’t notice me right away. But when he did—when he looked up—the entire world stopped moving. His body stilled. Phone lowered. The silence stretched. His eyes dragged from the tips of my trousers all the way up to my eyes—slow, deliberate, hungry. Not in a way that made me want to hide. In a way that made me feel seen. Claimed, even.

“You straightened it,” he said finally, voice deeper than it had been all morning.

“I did,” I said, tucking a piece behind my ear with a casual shrug. “Felt like a change.”

He took a step toward me.

Then another.

No rush. Just intention. His gaze never broke from mine.

“You’ll undo me before we even leave the house,” he murmured.

I let out a soft laugh, trying not to blush. “You said that yesterday.”

“I meant it then. I mean it more now.”

He reached out, fingertips brushing the curve of my jaw, his thumb grazing just beneath my bottom lip as if to confirm I was real. That this was real.

“You don’t know what you do to me when you look like that,” he said, so quietly it barely registered as sound.

“And what’s that?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled—slow, reverent.

“Make me forget everything I was supposed to do today.”

I leaned into the touch just enough to let him know I felt it too—that low, charged current between us that never needed to shout to be heard.

“I thought you had plans,” I said, voice lighter, teasing.

His hand dropped from my jaw, sliding down my arm instead. “I do. But apparently I have to survive you first.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

He tilted his head, still so close I could smell his cologne—dark wood, heat, and subtle control.

“No, Schatzi. I’m just being honest.”

 Toto’s phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, thumbed it off without reading, then looked back at me—eyes steady, unreadable.

“You ready?” he asked finally, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

I took one more sip of my coffee, then set it down carefully on the counter, as if delaying would give me more time to breathe.

“I think so.” I cleared my throat, adjusting the waistband of my trousers. Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of how closely my top hugged my skin, of how smooth my hair felt against the nape of my neck, of how he was still watching me like I was the event.

He extended his hand—not rushed, not performative. Just… offered. Like we were stepping onto a stage. And maybe we were. Not for the world. Just for each other.

I took it.

The door clicked shut behind us with a muted finality, the kind that felt less like leaving and more like crossing into something planned. The front terrace of his house stretched out before us—stone steps flanked by boxwood hedges, the kind of symmetry that didn’t try too hard because it didn’t have to.

The property was quiet, private in that particular way wealth allowed. Not tucked away. Not hidden. Just confidently untouchable. The morning air was brisk, still holding onto the last chill of dawn. Everything smelled clean. Crisp. Like the world hadn’t quite woken up yet.

Waiting in the driveway was a car so sleek it barely looked real. Polished black, lines so sharp they looked like they’d been drawn with a scalpel. It didn’t shout. It whispered. Quiet power. Effortless control. The driver stepped forward and opened the door with a subtle nod.

Toto guided me down the steps with a hand at the small of my back—firm, warm, but unhurried. The leather of his glove brushed briefly against my blouse, and I swore I could still feel it long after.

I slid into the backseat, the interior humming to life around me—temperature adjusting, the air softly perfumed, everything designed to make you forget the outside world existed. By the time he joined me, closing the door with that same precision he brought to everything, I already felt the day shift. Not a beginning. An unveiling.

Just leaned back, legs spreading slightly in that way he always did when he wasn’t trying to dominate a room—but did anyway. Then he reached over, slow, deliberate, and rested his hand on my thigh.

Not possessive. Not absentminded.

Intentional.

Fingers spreading warmth through the fabric, his thumb drawing lazy circles like he had all the time in the world to remind my skin of his presence. It was grounding—but it was also a promise.

I glanced sideways. The morning light poured through the tinted windows, casting him in that filtered gold that made his profile look impossibly sharp—cheekbone, jaw, the slope of his nose. He didn’t look at me, not at first. Just watched the city blur past.

But he knew I was watching him.

“This isn’t fair,” I said finally, voice low.

“What isn’t?” he asked, tone innocent but eyes flicking to mine.

“This,” I gestured between us. “You. Making my brain go offline before we’ve even had a meal.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and quiet, the kind that curled between my ribs and stayed there.

“Good,” he said, finally turning his full attention to me. “You shouldn’t have to think today.”

I raised a brow.

“You just have to feel.”

The car glided forward, taking a turn so smooth I barely noticed we’d left the main road. The streets narrowed, trees rising tall on either side in quiet symmetry. I looked out the window, expecting another boutique café, a tucked-away gallery, maybe even a designer showroom.

But then I saw the building. Tall. Unmarked. Sleek in a way that felt intentional. A monolith of black steel and glass, utterly reflective, like it was trying to disappear while daring you to notice.

It didn’t look like anything. Which, with him, meant it was everything.

The car rolled to a stop at a private side entrance, shielded by a low row of hedges and a discreet black awning. Toto opened his door first. But instead of waiting, he came around to mine, always that quiet gentleman without the pomp. He opened it and extended a hand. I took it again.

The air was cooler here. Still. Like we’d stepped into some untouched pocket of the city no one else knew existed. My heels clicked softly against the pavement.

“Where are we?” I asked, my voice dropping without meaning to.

He turned to me, eyes calm, fingers tightening slightly around mine.

“Trust me.”

He didn’t offer more.

Just led me forward—like the answer wasn’t in the words. It was in what he was about to show me. A private elevator awaited us in a minimalist lobby—no concierge, no check-in desk, not even music. Just the sound of our breathing as we stepped into the lift. As the doors closed behind us, I realized there were no buttons to press.

Toto placed his palm against a scanner. The elevator responded instantly.

“Okay, now you’re scaring me,” I joked.

“Good,” he said, not smiling. “I want you slightly off-balance. It makes the landing better.”

The doors opened.

And I forgot how to breathe. We stepped into a space that didn’t feel real. The entire top floor of the building was ours. Floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded us, the city spread out in panoramic splendor. Soft morning light spilled across a space that had been transformed into something romantic and intimate—part fine dining room, part dreamscape.

A live acoustic duo sat in one corner, playing soft jazz so smooth it felt like honey on tile. The table for two was set in the center of the room—white linen, crystal glasses, cutlery that shimmered like rose gold under the light.

“This is breakfast?” I whispered, barely able to get the words out. Toto turned to me, his expression completely unreadable—somewhere between reverent and smug.

“Only the best,” he said, “for my almost-girlfriend.”

I choked on absolutely nothing, blinking up at him. “Bold of you.”

He stepped closer, brushing a loose strand of straightened hair from my cheek, his fingers skimming my jaw as he leaned in.

“Bold of me?” he repeated, voice barely a murmur. “Schatzi, I don’t do bold. I do certain.”

I tried to summon sarcasm. Tried to cling to my composure. But all I could do was follow him to the table, heart thudding so loudly I was sure the musicians could hear it too.

If the elevator ride had felt like an entrance to another world, the moment we sat down felt like stepping into the center of it. Everything was soft. Intentional. From the muted jazz floating like silk through the air to the candle flickering low in a glass vessel between us, casting flickers of light across his watch face, his knuckles, the clean lines of his shirt. Time seemed to fold inward—no city noises, no chaos. Just us.

A server in black silk gloves approached, speaking so gently it felt like a shared secret. He poured sparkling water into thin, flute-like glasses, then vanished without a sound.

“I feel like I should whisper,” I said quietly, fingertips brushing the hem of the napkin draped across my lap.

Toto leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. “You should. It adds to the drama.”

The first course arrived moments later.

Sliced fruit arranged like abstract art—papaya carved into perfect spheres, dragonfruit in delicate fans, strawberries sliced so thin they were nearly translucent. There was edible gold leaf. A drizzle of lavender honey on the side.

I hesitated.

“You’re allowed to eat it,” Toto said, catching my expression.

“I feel like I’d be ruining someone’s sculpture.”

“You’d be honoring it.”

I gave him a look, but the first bite silenced all protest. Fresh didn’t even begin to cover it. Everything tasted impossibly ripe, like it had been picked from a private orchard moments before it landed on the plate.

He watched me chew, eyes dark with amusement.

“You stare,” I said, licking a drop of honey from my thumb.

“I study,” he corrected.

The second course was truffled scrambled eggs. Light, airy, folds of yellow and cream with microgreens scattered like confetti. A server offered toast points on a silver platter, but Toto waved them off.

“Just the eggs,” he said. “They’re better without distraction.”

I took a small bite—and melted.

“How are they this fluffy?”

“The chef beats them by hand for ten minutes,” he replied casually. “In a copper bowl.”

I blinked. “How do you even know that?”

“I asked.”

“Of course you did.”

Between courses, conversation ebbed and flowed. Sometimes quiet, sometimes filled with wicked, dry humor that only he could deliver with that much restraint. He let me talk, asked about my current research, even remembered the name of the last case study I’d mentioned weeks ago in passing. I tried not to show how much that meant.

Pastries arrived on a three-tiered tray next, warm and golden, with steam still curling from the edges. A lemon-glazed croissant nearly fell apart in my hand—the layers so thin, so buttery, they practically sighed when touched. I licked the glaze from the corner of my mouth, barely aware of how quiet I’d gone until I looked up. Toto was watching me. Chin resting on his knuckles, elbow propped on the table, lips curled in the ghost of a smile.

“This is insane,” I murmured.

He tilted his head. “No. This is curated.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Insane,” he continued, “would be me asking you to move in after a week.”

I froze, croissant halfway to my mouth.

“Are you?” I asked carefully.

He grinned—wolfish but boyish at the same time.

“No. Not yet.”

“Yet,” I echoed, blinking.

“I want to romance you first,” he said. “Properly. Like a scandal in slow motion.”

The last course was coffee. Not just coffee—ritual.

Rich, pressed dark roast with a tiny gold tin of cardamom sugar on the side. He stirred mine for me without asking, and the act was so intimate, so quietly practiced, it made something flutter behind my ribs.

He handed it to me like it was something sacred.

“I could get used to this,” I said, voice light.

“I’m counting on it.”

When we finally stood to leave, he helped me into my coat like it was part of a ceremony. His fingers brushed my shoulders, then lingered just long enough to make my spine shiver.

Back in the private elevator, I turned to him.

“So where are we going next?”

“You’ll see.”

“I hate surprises.”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss over my cheek—so close to the corner of my mouth I felt it all the way down my spine.

“You’ll like this one,” he said, his voice low. “It’s going to make you cry.”

We left the glass tower in silence—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hums with weight. With aftertaste. The kind that settles in your chest and doesn’t demand conversation, just presence. I curled into the corner of the backseat, legs tucked beneath me, a silk wrap coat cocooning my frame. The city passed outside the tinted windows in slow motion, all glass and motion blur and golden streaks of late-morning sun.

Toto didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. His hand found its way to my thigh again, the same way it had earlier—firm but gentle, his thumb tracing slow, languid circles through the fabric of my trousers. It was grounding. Wordless reassurance. A touch that said: You’re still in this. I’ve got you. And I let myself be held in that stillness. Let the quiet stretch. I wasn’t used to that—silence that felt like care instead of absence. Eventually, the car turned down a quieter street, one lined with stark, modern buildings—clean lines, sharp edges, matte-black windows. Nothing that screamed attention. If anything, it looked like the sort of place that refused to be noticed.

We came to a smooth stop in front of a building that looked more like a research facility than anything remotely cultural.

“This doesn’t look like a gallery,” I said, peering up at the minimalist structure.

“It’s not,” Toto replied, already stepping out.

He circled around the car and opened my door himself—again. Not like a man performing. But like a man who didn’t believe in letting anyone else touch me if he was present.

His hand extended toward mine.

“It’s the part of the gallery no one gets to see,” he added, voice low and intimate.

Inside, the temperature dipped immediately. Controlled. Preserved. Like the air itself had been trained not to disturb what lived here.

The lobby was spare, almost clinical—gray stone floors, recessed lighting, a single orchid blooming on a reception desk with no receptionist. It was silent but not cold. More like... sacred. A woman emerged from a hidden door—a study in precision. Tailored navy suit, white gloves, sleek ponytail. She greeted Toto with a deferential nod and a quiet, “Mr. Wolff.” He nodded in return, not offering any explanation to me. Just a small smirk and the gentle press of his palm against the small of my back. She led us down a long, narrow hallway with soft lighting underfoot, guiding us like a runway into somewhere deeper, quieter, more hidden.

We stopped in front of a heavy steel door that hissed slightly when it unlocked—biometric pad glowing green under her gloved hand. Then we stepped inside. It felt like walking into a vault of time itself. No signage. No glass walls. Just floating panels of light illuminating what mattered: the pieces. Sculptures cast in shadow and gold. Oil paintings that pulsed with centuries of touch. Manuscripts laid in long glass boxes like they were still breathing. And then there it was.

I stopped walking. My body moved without permission, pulled by something quiet but undeniable.

A textile—large and regal, suspended in perfect light. Deep blue velvet aged to dusk. Threadwork so fine it shimmered like a river in moonlight.

“No way,” I breathed. My voice barely registered in the room.

But Toto heard.

“You recognize it?”

“I wrote my thesis on this,” I said, numb. “This panel—it’s one of the oldest surviving examples of scenic embroidery from the late 1400s. It wasn’t even supposed to exist in full. Only fragments were documented.”

Toto was quiet beside me.

I stepped closer, eyes drinking in the gilded details: a river winding between trees, stitched with silver. A small figure in the distance—hooded, walking through the landscape like a ghost. A stitched sun that glowed with copper thread.

“It’s a prayer in silk,” I whispered.

The curator murmured behind us, “She’s crying.”

I hadn’t realized I was.

A warm hand found mine—fingers lacing through mine like he was anchoring me.

“You—how did you even know?” I asked, voice unsteady.

Toto’s gaze stayed on the embroidery as he answered, low and slow.

“I read your work,” he said. “And I asked the right people to find the right pieces.”

The lump in my throat was immediate. And deep.

“You made me cry over fifteenth-century embroidery,” I murmured, laughing softly through it, even as my voice wobbled.

He leaned in, brushing his lips close to my temple.

“If I can’t make you cry with luxury,” he whispered, “how will I make you fall in love with me?”

I turned into him without thinking, pressing my forehead against his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just held me there—in the middle of a vault filled with priceless history—as if I were the only thing worth preserving.

Back in the car, the mood had changed again—but not in the way things usually fade after something emotional. No, this was something settled. Like a quiet exhale. Like the soft hum of being known in a way that felt too rare to name.

Toto didn’t say a word as the driver pulled into traffic. He simply reached for my hand and brought it to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles. The gesture was so gentle, so undeservedly reverent, it sent a ripple through my chest.

I didn’t let go.

The city passed by in a blur of old stone and glass reflections, and I caught my own face in the window—eyes a little glassy, lips still parted, like I’d walked through a dream and hadn’t woken up yet.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Toto murmured beside me.

I turned my head. “How would you know?”

“Because I can feel it.” He didn’t open his eyes. Just kept my hand in his. “When you go quiet like that, it means you’re cataloging.”

I laughed softly. “I do not catalog.”

He opened one eye, smirk curling lazily. “Schatzi, you analyze beauty like it might vanish if you don’t memorize it. That’s what makes watching you so dangerous.”

I didn’t have a response for that—just a warm flush crawling down my throat.

We pulled onto a quieter street a few minutes later—Mayfair, I thought—but not the flashy part. This was the version made for whispers, not spectacle. The kind of wealth that had no need for logos or validation. And nestled between two limestone storefronts was a door so ordinary, I nearly missed it.

Until Toto reached for the handle himself.

The moment it opened, the world shifted.

Gone were the cool city shadows. In their place: warmth, velvet, a kind of luxury that hushed you just by existing. The air inside smelled faintly of rose water and sandalwood, like old French perfume. Music played softly, something classical, though not orchestral—just a single piano, unhurried, echoing in corners made for indulgence.

I froze just inside the doorway.

Velvet-lined walls. Mirrors so tall they distorted reality. Racks—not racks, but curated moments—of gowns that didn’t look like they were meant to be worn, but worshiped.

My throat tightened.

“You brought me to a fairy tale,” I whispered.

“Fairy tales don’t have price tags,” Toto replied, coming up behind me. His hand found the curve of my waist, thumb dragging along my lower back. “This is just indulgence. Focused.”

I turned toward him, brows raised. “You’ve either kidnapped me for a surprise fitting or this is your new definition of foreplay.”

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“What if it’s both?”

Before I could fire back, a woman appeared from behind one of the velvet partitions. All sharp elegance and poise, gloved hands and a knowing smile.

“Mr. Wolff,” she greeted softly, accent laced with something unmistakably French. “Everything is prepared.”

She turned to me, eyes warm but entirely focused.

“You favor clean silhouettes with romantic elements,” she said, already holding a gown draped delicately across her arms. “We’ve selected pieces with those lines in mind, if you’d like to begin.”

I blinked. “How do you know what I—”

“Toto,” she said simply, gesturing toward him.

I turned to him slowly.

“You know my fashion preferences?”

He shrugged with quiet arrogance. “You wear thought like fabric. I’ve been paying attention.”

What followed felt more like theater than shopping.

The first gown was ice-blue silk, soft and reflective, with a fitted bodice and a train that pooled behind me like liquid. I stepped out slowly, half-shy, half-curious.

Toto didn’t speak. He just watched. Eyes dark, hungry, unmoving.

The second was black velvet—structured, seductive. A high slit that bared one leg to the hip, a low back that dipped scandalously.

Each time I emerged, his eyes were the same: consuming, reverent, quiet like prayer.

“Too much?” I asked at one point, running my hands over a pleated champagne skirt.

“Not enough,” he said, still sitting. Still watching.

By the time I tried on the fourth gown, something inside me had shifted. I was smiling without meaning to. Spinning slowly in the center of the room, just to feel the fabric move around my legs.

And he was still watching me like I was the main event.

Not the gown. Not the setting.

Me.

The last dress was burgundy. Deep, moody, kissed with delicate beading across the neckline and a plunge in the back that made me feel like a secret being whispered.

When I stepped out, the air between us changed.

Toto stood slowly. Not like he’d been startled. Like he’d been waiting.

He walked toward me with a pace that should’ve frightened me—but didn’t. Not with him. Never with him.

I could feel his eyes moving over every inch of me. Not leering. Just... claiming.

“What?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat.

He stopped a breath away.

“You look like you already belong to me.”

The air between us pulsed.

I swallowed hard. “You think this is the proposal?”

He smiled, small and devastating. “No, Schatzi. This is just the preview.”

I was still buzzing from the burgundy gown when we stepped back into the car. Not from the glamour of it, though there had been plenty of that. It was what came after. The way Toto’s hand lingered at the small of my back as we left the atelier. The quiet way he’d helped me into the car, fingers brushing my jaw like he was anchoring himself, too.

I thought this would be the unwind. The descent.

The sun was already low on the horizon, dipping into golds and rose-pinks that made the glass of the windows glow. I stretched my legs across the seat, my silk wrap coat drawn lightly over my shoulders, one heel slipped off and resting beside me.

“This was a day,” I said softly, tilting my head toward him. “You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

Toto didn’t respond right away. Just reached for my hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed the back of it with reverence that still made my pulse stumble.

Then his fingers laced through mine.

“You think I’m finished?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t play with me. You’ve dragged me through couture heaven and an art vault designed to emotionally assassinate me.”

He only smiled—dangerous and quiet.

“I wouldn’t dare play,” he murmured. “I’m just building.”

We turned off the main road minutes later.

Gone was the hum of city life. In its place: gravel beneath the tires, towering trees flanking either side like silent sentinels. The world turned rural in a blink. The air changed. Everything smelled more like autumn now—wet leaves, distant firewood, that cool, crisp bite of nature the city never quite replicated.

Then the gates appeared. Wrought iron, discreet, elegant in a way that whispered rather than announced. And beyond them: estate land. Massive, untouched. The kind of property with history etched into every brick and hedge.

“Toto…” I breathed, heart stuttering a little. “Where are we?”

He didn’t answer.

Just squeezed my hand once—firm, deliberate—and didn’t let go.

The car stopped along a quiet garden path. No fanfare. No lights blazing. Just low, hidden garden fixtures casting a soft, golden glow along the cobblestones. I stepped out carefully, heels clicking once before they found silence in the moss-soft stone.

Ahead of us, nestled beyond a row of perfectly manicured hedges and rust-colored rose bushes, stood a structure that made me forget how to breathe.

A glasshouse.

It rose from the garden like something out of a dream—entirely made of steel and glass, lit from within by soft candlelight that flickered like a heartbeat. Vines climbed the outer frame, and the evening light kissed its edges like it was something divine.

I couldn’t move.

“It’s like a cathedral made of light,” I whispered.

Toto came to stand beside me, his hand still holding mine.

“It's for you,” he said simply.

Inside, the magic deepened.

The entire space was warm, glowing from hundreds of tapers set into antique holders. Tables were draped in linen so fine it looked like cloud. Rose gold cutlery gleamed in the candlelight. Crystal glasses sparkled in the flicker of flames.

At the far corner, a lone pianist played something low and familiar—Debussy, maybe. Or something softer. Something that sounded like love that didn’t need to say its name yet.

The air smelled like white lilies and warm cedarwood, like someone had bottled calm and poured it into the atmosphere just for this.

I turned to Toto, barely whispering, “This is…”

“Private,” he said. “Ours. Just for tonight.”

He guided me to the center table with one hand at the small of my back. Every move he made was quiet power—control without pressure, care without suffocation. I couldn’t stop looking at him. Like somehow he was the art now.

Dinner came in waves.

Not just food—experiences. A citrus-dressed salad with edible flowers. A hand-rolled pasta that melted the moment it hit my tongue. A filet so perfectly cooked I forgot to chew for a moment.

But none of it—not a bite—mattered more than him.

The way he watched me over his glass. The way he didn’t rush. The way he didn’t speak unless it mattered.

It wasn’t a dinner. It was a declaration in disguise.

When the server brought dessert—something lavender and dark chocolate, sculpted into a shape too pretty to eat—I realized I hadn’t spoken in minutes.

Because I was holding my breath.

Not out of nerves. But out of knowing. Like something inevitable was in the room now, just out of frame.

Then Toto stood.

Slowly. Deliberately. His chair pushed back in that silent, velvet way.

He walked to my side, his silhouette painted in flickering light.

And when he extended his hand toward me, his voice was low. Steady. Dangerous in a way that didn’t threaten—it promised.

“Dance with me.”

The pianist began again, each note drifting into the space like a confession waiting for the right moment to be said aloud. The melody wasn’t bold. It wasn’t meant to impress. It was gentle—private. Like the music knew it wasn’t the center of attention, but it was still part of something sacred.

Toto reached for my hand.

His palm was warm, steady, enveloping mine like he already knew I wouldn’t say no. Without a word, he led me to the center of the glasshouse. Candles flickered around us, casting golden patterns across the floor that moved when we did.

Above us, the stars had begun to emerge—soft and scattered, blinking through the glass ceiling like they’d been invited to bear witness.

He didn’t pull me close right away.

He just held my hand, his other resting at my waist, fingers splayed lightly over the silk of my wrap coat. We swayed with almost no rhythm. There was no choreography. No pressure. Just a tether between us. A slow inhale stretched into time.

I pressed my cheek to his chest and heard it: his heartbeat. Steady, grounded, utterly unfazed by the chaos of the world outside. And I wanted to live there—in that sound—for just a little longer.

“You’ve done all this,” I whispered, voice breaking a little around the edges, “and you’re still looking at me like I might disappear.”

His hand tightened, fingers pressing gently at my back, anchoring me.

“That’s because I know what it took for you to trust this,” he said, voice rough with something raw. “And I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t mean everything.”

He stopped moving.

I pulled back slightly to look at him, only to find his gaze already locked on mine. There was no teasing left in it. No mask. Just him.

The man beneath everything else.

“I know what people would say if they found out,” he said, the words slow, heavy. “The age gap. The job. The rumors. They’d spin it into something transactional. Something predatory. They always do.”

He took a half-step back—just enough distance to look at me fully. His hands were still holding mine, thumbs brushing across my skin like punctuation.

“And I don’t care.”

My breath hitched.

“I want to be with you,” he continued. “Not hidden. Not exposed. But ours. In privacy, by choice. Until we’re solid. Until nothing they say could shake it.”

He reached into his pocket then—slowly, deliberately—and pulled out a small velvet box.

My heart stopped.

He opened it without ceremony. Inside was a bracelet—thin, understated, gorgeous. A platinum chain, delicate and gleaming, with a single charm shaped like a tiny compass. Etched onto it, almost imperceptibly, was one word: True North.

I blinked at it, stunned.

“You said once,” he murmured, “in that way you say things when you think no one’s paying attention... that you’ve spent so much of your life learning how to survive, you weren’t sure you’d ever learn how to choose peace.”

He held the bracelet gently between his fingers.

“And that maybe you’d never find a true north. Something that didn’t move just because the world did.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I remembered.”

He looked up at me, eyes unwavering.

“This isn’t about ownership. It’s not a claim. It’s a promise. A private one. That you have that now. Not because I gave it to you. But because you finally let yourself want it.”

He took my wrist and fastened the bracelet slowly. With reverence. As though he was sealing a vow.

“I know what you’re risking,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “You’re brilliant. You earned your fellowship. You don’t need me. You’ve never needed anyone. And I would never let this—us—dim that.”

He brought my hand to his chest, right over his heart.

“But I’d be lying,” he said, “if I said I didn’t want to be yours. Publicly. Officially.”

His voice dropped again, now something closer to reverence than suggestion. Something stripped bare.

“Be my girlfriend, Schatzi. Let’s build something they don’t get to touch.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Not properly. Not with everything crashing into me at once—the day, the tenderness, the truth of what he was offering. This wasn’t just a man asking for a title. This was Toto, standing there like the world could burn down behind him, and he’d still be holding out his hands for me.

I didn’t remember saying yes.

I just moved.

I surged forward, my body making the decision my mouth couldn’t form, and kissed him—hard, trembling, desperate like I’d been underwater and only now remembered how to surface. My arms wrapped around his shoulders, fists curling in his shirt, like I couldn’t get close enough fast enough.

His hands caught me instantly—possessive, yes, but only in the way that people hold onto the most breakable, most sacred thing they’ve ever wanted.

He held me like I might shatter. Or disappear.

He kissed me back like he’d been waiting his entire life to be sure.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was falling.

I felt like I’d landed. Right where I was supposed to.

With him.

When the kiss finally broke, we didn’t speak right away.

He just held my face in both hands, thumbs brushing beneath my eyes like he couldn’t quite believe I was real. Like I might vanish if he blinked too long.

“I meant every word,” he whispered. “This isn’t just for tonight. I’m not asking for a moment, Schatzi. I’m asking for a beginning.”

I nodded, something in my throat thick and impossible.

“I don’t need a spotlight,” I said quietly. “Just this. You. Real.”

He smiled then—soft, full of everything he couldn’t say out loud. Then he lifted my wrist again, letting the bracelet catch the candlelight.

“Then this,” he said, “is our secret crown.”

And I let him hold me there, slow dancing beneath the stars, while the rest of the world stayed exactly where it belonged.

Outside.

They blew out the candles one by one after we left, like they were erasing a spell made only for us.

Toto helped me into the car again, his hands lingering at my waist like he wasn’t ready to stop touching me. And maybe I wasn’t ready to stop being held. The glasshouse disappeared behind us, but its warmth stayed in my chest.

The car ride was nearly silent.

But not the kind of silence that aches. This one wrapped around us, soft as cashmere. I tucked myself into the corner of the seat, my legs drawn beneath me, my body pulled naturally toward his.

He held my hand the entire way.

At one point, I laid my head on his shoulder. His cheek brushed the crown of my head once, and his arm curled around me tighter.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “All of it.”

“I know,” I whispered.

And I did.

By the time we reached home, the city had gone to sleep. The windows of the townhouse glowed low, familiar now. Safe. I didn’t realize how tired I was until we stepped inside and the quiet settled in deeper.

I slipped off my shoes and headed upstairs while he locked the door behind us. I didn’t turn on any bright lights. Just the bedroom lamp, casting soft gold across the walls.

I stood by the bed for a moment, not quite ready to peel off the night. The bracelet gleamed on my wrist still—True North—and I let my fingers brush it before finally, slowly, removing it and setting it down on the nightstand like something sacred.

Then I turned to his dresser.

I didn’t ask.

I pulled open the drawer I knew held his older shirts—the soft, worn ones, stretched out from years of use. I found a charcoal gray one with a faint team logo and pulled it over my head. It smelled like him—clean and a little smoky. Like laundry and late nights.

I didn’t bother with pajamas.

Just one of his T-shirts and a pair of his black boxer shorts, rolled slightly at the waist to keep from slipping down. The cotton hung loose around my thighs. The sleeves swallowed my arms. But it was perfect.

It was his.

When I padded back to the bed, he was already there—sitting against the headboard, shirtless now, eyes flicking to me the moment I entered.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stared.

And I knew that look wasn’t about lust.

It was awe. It was quiet possession. It was the quiet joy of seeing someone in your space and realizing they’ve made it theirs without even trying.

“You’re staring again,” I said softly, sliding under the covers.

“You steal everything,” he murmured, pulling me closer. “My clothes. My bed. My breath.”

“I’m only borrowing.”

“You’re keeping.”

He lay down fully and pulled me against him, my back tucked to his chest. One arm slid around my waist, the other under my pillow, fingers finding mine beneath the sheets. He buried his face in my hair, exhaling slowly, like the day was finally over and I was the only thing left that mattered.

“You still nervous?” he asked after a while.

“No,” I whispered. “I think I’m just… full.”

“Good,” he murmured. “You should be.”

The room went quiet again, but the silence between us pulsed with warmth. With belonging.

“Tell me again,” I asked, voice smaller in the dark. “That it’s not just tonight.”

He kissed the back of my neck—slow, warm, steady.

“It’s not just tonight,” he said into my skin.

Sleep came gently.

With the scent of him on my borrowed clothes. His touch steady across my ribs. And the deep, aching knowing that I wasn’t just his now—I was home.

And in the hush of that space, somewhere between his heartbeat and mine, I let go of everything I used to hold back.

Because this wasn’t just love.

This was ours.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - CH.18 What I Want

Toto POV

I woke before dawn—my body still sharpened by years of race weekends, strategy meetings, and alarms I could never resist. But this morning was different. No briefings, no pressure—but a sense of purpose that settled deep in my bones. She lay beside me, curled against my chest, one arm draped across me; her breath was steady and slow, a lullaby I could sink into without effort.

I didn’t move. I watched her instead, taking in the soft curve of her cheek, the way her curls caught the early light, and how even in sleep, she looked utterly at ease. Yesterday in the forest, the way she pushed heights and fear aside—Confident, fearless. And last night, when she let herself relax with me, her body pressed to mine: I hadn’t just slept. I’d rested. For the first time in a long time, I felt at home.

I slid out from under her carefully, adjusting pillows so the bed didn’t miss me. She shifted, murmured something like my name, and exhaled deeper—still dreaming. I paused at the door a moment, holding the image of her in tender focus, then headed down the hall.

In the kitchen, the silence held its own weight. No music. No noise to distract from intention. I measured ice into a tall glass, sleek and cool in my hand. The espresso machine hissed to life: a command as familiar as any engine rev. I filled the glass halfway with strong coffee, then added just a whisper of caramel syrup—sweet enough to make her sigh, not enough to push her palate. I topped it with lactose-free milk, slowly swirling it in until the dark coffee softened to creamy gold.

It felt like painting a quiet sunrise—not performance. Just purpose.

Glass in hand, I moved back up the stairs, the chill of the condensation on my fingertips grounding me in the moment. The house was still, its silence stretching wide and soft. Every surface gleamed under the faint lavender blush of morning light. But none of that mattered. What mattered was behind the bedroom door—the girl in my bed, the quiet weight of her stillness, the way she made even the air feel softer.

She hadn’t moved. Her curls were a halo, wild and perfect against my pillow. The duvet had shifted just low enough to reveal her bare shoulder, the strap of her black tank top slipping a little like it belonged there. There was something almost reverent about the way the light kissed her skin—dim, cold morning giving way to the golden hue clinging to her cheeks. I stood at the threshold for a moment longer, unwilling to disturb it. Because that stillness? It didn’t scare me anymore.

It felt earned.

I stepped forward slowly, like I was approaching something sacred. Not fragile—precious. She was never fragile. She was fire wrapped in velvet, steel inside softness. And when I knelt beside the bed, setting the coffee gently on the nightstand, I didn’t speak right away. I just looked at her. Memorized her.

Then I reached out, brushed a curl from her brow, and let my fingers linger for a second too long.

“Baby,” I murmured. Just enough gravity in my voice to anchor her, but not pull too hard.

Her lashes fluttered like a page being turned. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then locked on mine.

“Hmm?”

“Coffee’s ready,” I said, quiet but clear. “I made your iced caramel.”

A soft smile crept across her lips, lazy and beautiful. She stretched, her hand reaching for mine—or the glass, I wasn’t sure—and her voice came out coated in sleep and sweetness.

“Do you know how to ruin me?”

I smiled, leaned in close, my thumb sweeping the curve of her cheek. “Only if you let me.”

She sat up slowly, hair falling around her shoulders like it was choreographed. Her tank top clung in places that made my brain stutter for a second—cut a little lower than yesterday’s, drawing the eye exactly where it wasn’t safe for me to linger. But linger I did. Because I couldn’t help it.

Her eyes caught mine, and I knew she saw it—that flicker. That pause. The unmistakable shift when you look at someone and realize, all over again, just how dangerous their smile is.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked, her fingers wrapping around the glass like she already knew whatever came next was designed with her in mind.

I handed it over gently, watching the condensation slide along her knuckles. She took one long sip, eyes fluttering shut for just a beat. When she exhaled, it was slow, content, and stupidly intimate. Like I’d handed her something more than just coffee.

“Breakfast,” I said. “But with a little exclusivity.”

She perked up instantly, curiosity cutting through the haze of sleep like a spark. “What, like your idea of private dining is just a castle somewhere I don’t know about?”

“Maybe not a castle,” I replied, lowering myself to sit beside her, “but I wouldn’t rule out waterfront views. And a chef who already knows your allergy chart by heart.”

She laughed—low and caught between sleepy and impressed. “You’re so subtle with your flexes.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised.” Her lips twisted into something sly. “Just impressed.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing with a playful edge. “So, do I need to dress like a billionaire’s plus-one?”

I shook my head, my grin deepening. “Dress like yesterday. But more athletic. Indoors today.”

Her sip this time was slower, her eyes never leaving mine. “Athletic how?”

I let my gaze dip for a beat, to the flush still blooming up her neck, the way her tank dipped just enough to tempt every ounce of my restraint. “Think movement. Easy to climb in. Still in your style.”

She arched a brow, lips parting in what I knew was a calculated pause. “You planning to make me sweat before breakfast?”

My grin turned lazy, loaded. “Only if you’re lucky.”

Her laugh broke free—bright, unfiltered, and better than caffeine. She nudged my knee with hers, a casual touch that still made something under my skin flicker.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” I said, brushing the back of my knuckles along her arm, slow and deliberate, “are radiant.”

That made her breath hitch—just slightly. But enough for me to notice. Enough for me to tuck it away, to mark it like a checkpoint. We were both playing, but neither of us was bluffing anymore.

Saturday was coming. And I’d be ready.

But this—this ease, this tension dressed in silk—was just as important.

I stayed where I was for a beat longer, tracing the slow rise and fall of her chest as she leaned back on her elbows. Morning light slipped across her curls, catching the stray ones that haloed her face like something cinematic. She sipped again, then set the glass on the nightstand with a content sigh.

“Seriously,” she said, voice laced with amusement, “you keep doing this ‘secret luxury’ thing. I’m running out of places I can one-up you at.”

I grinned. “It’s not a contest.”

She bumped my arm lightly. “Isn’t it? Because I can surprise you.”

I leaned into the elbow nudge, my voice dropping. “Then surprise me. But today… just show up.”

Her smirk softened. “Fine. I’ll try my best.”

I reached for her hand, let my fingers trail across her forearm. “That’s all I ask.”

She sat up then, duvet wrapped around her shoulders like a throne. “So… move, boss man.”

I chuckled. “Oh, I move.” I stood and gestured toward the hallway. “But I can’t make you.”

“Point taken.” She stretched long and slow, curls falling around her like a crown. “Alright. Time to adult.”

I offered a hand. “Want help?”

She took it easily. “One day I’m teaching you how to fold fitted sheets.”

I laughed. “I can barely fold my own clothes. But I’m learning.”

We smiled at each other, something unspoken settling between us. I slipped an arm briefly around her waist. “Go get dressed.”

She rolled her eyes—glowing, smirking. “Yes, sir.”

Those two words did something to me. Lit a fuse I hadn’t realized she’d been holding the match to.

I stood still, blinking, as she walked off. The plaid pajama bottoms swaying just enough to test my patience. Her socks slipping a little, her silhouette disappearing around the corner.

I waited until the door clicked shut, then exhaled like I’d been holding my breath through a slow burn.

Game on.

Upstairs, I changed with practiced ease—comfort traded for function, laced with intent. Black shorts, fitted and cut to frame. A compression tee, tight across my chest and shoulders, layered beneath a hoodie. Not for warmth—for contrast. For precision. And then the vest: matte, sharp, sleek as the car I already knew I’d take. All black. Understated. Deliberate.

I caught my reflection in the mirror, adjusted the hem of the shirt, watched how it hugged just enough to catch her attention. It wasn’t vanity. It was anticipation. She’d notice. And for once, I didn’t mind being noticed.

By the time I returned to the kitchen, the snack bag was nearly full. Energy drinks—two this time—because she was my little caffeine addict and I’d be damned if I tried to change that. More sour gummies; she’d devoured them yesterday like she was trying to prove a point. Granola, trail mix, protein bars. And this time, a container of chilled cherries. She’d mentioned them once—offhand, barely a sentence. But I’d remembered. She’d smile when she saw them, and I’d pretend I wasn’t watching just to see that smile bloom.

I was sealing the bag when I heard her steps—soft, measured, deliberate. And then she appeared.

And my grip on the counter faltered.

She wore a matching set—black leggings hugging her like they were sewn onto her skin, a sports bra of the same shade, and a zip-up, worn unzipped just enough to tease the curve of her chest. New, likely. She didn’t seem to realize what she looked like. Or maybe she did, and that’s what killed me. Sunglasses tucked into the top of her ponytail. Those white socks climbing up her calves like a prayer.

My mouth went dry.

She tilted her head. “You okay there, boss?”

My voice came out slower than I meant. “Barely.”

She smirked, reaching for the snack bag.

I shrugged, letting my gaze linger. “Thought I’d even the playing field.”

Her eyes dropped—once. Then snapped away, too quick. “If you say so.”

I stepped closer, the distance between us all but gone. Our arms brushed. “You trying to distract me already?”

She reached past me for a water bottle, her lips curving with that quiet confidence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar,” I said, eyes dropping to her mouth.

She faltered—a breath caught—but then, like her, she recovered. “You’re the one who picked the outfit. You don’t get to act surprised.”

“Then I won’t act surprised.” I let the corner of my mouth lift. “I’ll act impressed.”

She bumped her shoulder into mine as she passed. “Try to keep up, old man.”

And God help me, I was in love with that damn matching set.

I let her lead us out the door, heat humming just beneath my skin. The way her zip-up swayed as she walked, the faint bounce of her ponytail, the way the morning light caught the curve of her calf—every detail burned into me.

My hand found the fob. One click and the roadster came alive in the drive.

Not the G-Wagon.

Today? The Mercedes AMG SL. Matte black. Sleek, low, unapologetically beautiful. The kind of car that whispered indulgence instead of shouting it.

She stopped short at the sight of it. Her steps slowed, her eyes going wide—not for drama, but because she genuinely wasn’t expecting it. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag as she took it in, eyes tracing the lines of the body, the chrome glint on the rims, the way it practically glowed under the morning sun.

“Wait... that’s the SL, isn’t it?”

I bit back the grin. “You like it?”

“Like it?” She walked up to it slowly, running her hand along the edge of the hood like it was some museum piece. “I think I’m in love. This color? The finish? It looks like a Bond villain’s getaway car.”

I opened her door for her, watching how she moved—slow, reverent, like she was getting into something sacred. “Figured you’d appreciate the aesthetics.”

She didn’t even pretend to play it cool. “Oh, I do. I don’t care how fast it goes—this thing is stunning.”

That made me grin. She was a car girl in disguise—she wouldn’t quote horsepower specs or ask about handling ratios, but give her clean lines, a matte finish, and custom leather stitching? She lit up like I’d handed her a diamond.

She settled in, buckled herself without looking at me, and muttered, almost too softly, “You spoil me.”

I walked around to my side, slid in, and started the engine. “Good. That’s the point.”

The car eased out onto the road, smooth as silk. She was already leaning back, sunglasses on, one leg pulled up beneath her, sipping her drink like this was her natural habitat.

And God, it suited her. She made passenger princess look like royalty. No fuss, no chatter—just a quiet, indulgent ease. The way her hand rested on the edge of the console, her fingers brushing the leather, like even that touch was part of the experience.

She adjusted the air vent toward herself, sighed like it was luxury she hadn’t realized she needed. “Okay. I get it now. I used to think people who bought cars like this were compensating, but... this? This is art.”

I glanced over, jaw tightening for a second—because I’d buy her five of these if she asked.

She caught me looking, smirked. “Let me guess—you like that I appreciate the paint job more than the engine?”

“I like that you see it,” I said, voice low. “Most people think they know what they’re looking at. You actually look.”

That shut her up for a second. She shifted, her leg brushing mine, and we drove in silence—her soaking in the interior, me watching her reflection in the windshield.

The drive wasn’t long, but I made it feel like it was.

The road curled through old neighborhoods, then opened up into wide, wooded bends. I didn’t rush. The AMG purred beneath us, never straining, never loud. Like it understood the vibe. Like it was complicit.

She hummed along to the soft music playing low through the speakers—some mellow jazz playlist I’d queued up more for her than me. She moved with the rhythm, fingers tapping the drink bottle in her lap.

And I just… drove.

Every once in a while, she’d glance at me—not speaking, just looking. Like she was memorizing the profile, the wheel in my hand, the way I adjusted my grip every time the road curved.

“You really do this a lot?” she asked eventually. “Just… drive?”

“When I want to think,” I said. “Or not think.”

Her gaze lingered. “And when you want to show off?”

I smiled, didn’t deny it.

When we pulled up to the restaurant—a hidden gem built into a slope, all black steel and sharp edges—she leaned forward in her seat like a kid at an amusement park.

“There’s not even a sign,” she whispered. “It’s like a secret base.”

I stepped out first, rounded the front, and opened her door like it was nothing. The valet nodded to me. “Mr. Wolff.”

She didn’t move right away. Just sat there, looking up at me like I’d hung the moon and parked it out front for her.

I held out a hand. She took it. Warm. Certain.

And I knew right then—I’d put her in every car she liked, every seat she wanted, every space that made her feel like this.

Because this?

This was what it looked like when she let herself enjoy being cared for.

And I’d never get tired of watching that happen. She stepped out slowly, adjusting her sunglasses as her gaze swept the grounds. “Okay,” she murmured, taking in the serene layout. “You really don’t do casual, do you?”

I grinned as I joined her on the walkway. “This is casual. Just curated.”

Inside, everything was calm: pale wood, greenery climbing up minimalist wall panels, the quiet hush of fountains just outside the windows. The hostess didn’t ask for a name. She simply nodded and led us to a sunlit table in the far corner, tucked just beside an open glass panel looking out over a private koi pond. The table was already set—white linen, matte black cutlery, glass carafe of infused water beading with condensation.

She sat down slowly, still taking it in. “You sure this isn’t a spa?”

“They do massage therapy in the back garden,” I said, pouring her a glass of water. “But I thought food first.”

The server approached wordlessly and placed two plates in front of us—both light, but purposeful. Herb scrambled eggs folded like silk, grilled salmon with a citrus glaze, a small bowl of cottage cheese dotted with fresh raspberries and figs, and a chilled protein smoothie with almond milk and oats.

She blinked once at the spread, then looked at me over the rim of her glass. “And let me guess… the chef already knows I’m lactose intolerant?”

“Not the first time I’ve made a special request.”

She picked up her spoon, swirling it through the bowl. “You flirted your way into customized menus?”

“Not flirted,” I corrected. “Negotiated.”

“Mmm.” She took a bite of egg, paused, then nodded slowly. “Okay, that’s stupidly good.”

“They raise their own chickens.”

She glanced up sharply. “You’re not joking.”

I shook my head and took a sip of the smoothie. “Free range, fed on rosemary and thyme. You should hear the sommelier talk about their eggs. It’s practically poetry.”

She laughed, full and bright, leaning back in her chair. “This is the most absurd breakfast I’ve ever had.”

“You haven’t had the tea service.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Comes with honey harvested from the rooftop hives.”

She pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

I smiled over my glass. “That’s the idea.”

We took our time. There was no rush. Between bites, we talked—light things, teasing things. She told me about the first time she’d ever gone climbing, how she’d nearly cried on the wall but pretended it was sweat. I shared a story about a team meeting that went off the rails because someone brought in a cat. She snorted into her berries.

By the time the plates were empty and the glasses refilled twice, she leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. You win. This was perfect.”

“It’s not a contest,” I said, echoing myself from earlier, but there was something warmer in the words now. “But I’ll accept the win.”

She eyed me, one brow arched. “So what happens after this? We scale the walls of some secret underground gym?”

I laughed. “Not quite. Private facility. Ten minutes out. Fully equipped. Controlled temp. No crowd. Just you and me.”

“Competitive climbing?” she teased. “Should I stretch now?”

“I’m counting on it.”

We lingered just a little longer, sipping the last of the smoothies, the space between us quiet but charged. Then, with a soft hum of motion, we stood. I helped her into her vest, her shoulder brushing mine as she whispered, “Bet I can still beat you up the wall.”

“We’ll see,” I murmured.

We stepped back out into the sunlight—quiet, full, entirely at ease—and slipped into the roadster once again. She was already scrolling through a playlist, her knee brushing mine.

It was barely eleven.

And the best part of the day hadn’t even started yet.

The roadster’s doors clicked shut with that quiet luxury you couldn’t fake. She leaned back, sunglasses in place, stretching her legs out in front of her like she had all the time in the world.

“Alright,” I said, gesturing toward the console. “Full passenger princess privileges. Your pick.”

She lit up, immediately thumbing through her phone until she found what she wanted. A low beat kicked in, smooth but playful—something upbeat with just enough bass to make my rearview mirror shimmy.

“Solid choice,” I murmured as I pulled onto the road.

“I figured we needed a shift in vibe. Something high energy. But, like, with taste.”

“Clearly.”

She glanced sideways at me, lips twitching. “So, how nervous are you that I’m going to smoke you up the wall?”

I tilted my head, playing it slow. “I’m not nervous. I’m prepared.”

“For what? The humiliation?”

“For the distraction.” I let the sentence hang in the air. “Because I’ve seen you in action, remember?”

She laughed, tipping her head back against the seat. “You mean yesterday? That was nothing.”

“I have a feeling you say that about everything you’re secretly amazing at.”

She smirked. “I don’t believe in peaking early.”

“Good,” I said, shifting gears as we merged into a quieter street, the turnoff to the gym just ahead. “Because I don’t plan on this being our last adventure.”

She looked at me, not just the flirtatious glance this time, but something that lingered. “You planning a whole itinerary or something?”

I shot her a sideways glance. “You’ll see.”

The GPS blinked once, then announced our arrival. Private parking, tinted windows, and the bold, minimal architecture of the rock climbing facility loomed ahead—black on steel, tucked behind a row of evergreens like it had been hiding just for us.

“You ready to climb?” I asked, turning off the engine.

She unbuckled and shot me a grin. “Race you to the top.”

And with that, she was out the door, ponytail bouncing, the challenge set.

I smiled to myself, lingering a moment longer before I followed.

This was going to be fun.

The roadster’s doors clicked shut with that quiet luxury you couldn’t fake. She leaned back, sunglasses in place, stretching her legs out in front of her like she had all the time in the world.

“Alright,” I said, gesturing toward the console. “Full passenger princess privileges. Your pick.”

She lit up, immediately thumbing through her phone until she found what she wanted. A low beat kicked in, smooth but playful—something upbeat with just enough bass to make my rearview mirror shimmy.

“Solid choice,” I murmured as I pulled onto the road.

“I figured we needed a shift in vibe. Something high energy. But, like, with taste.”

“Clearly.”

She glanced sideways at me, lips twitching. “So, how nervous are you that I’m going to smoke you up the wall?”

I tilted my head, playing it slow. “I’m not nervous. I’m prepared.”

“For what? The humiliation?”

“For the distraction.” I let the sentence hang in the air. “Because I’ve seen you in action, remember?”

She laughed, tipping her head back against the seat. “You mean yesterday? That was nothing.”

“I have a feeling you say that about everything you’re secretly amazing at.”

She smirked. “I don’t believe in peaking early.”

“Good,” I said, shifting gears as we merged into a quieter street, the turnoff to the gym just ahead. “Because I don’t plan on this being our last adventure.”

She looked at me, not just the flirtatious glance this time, but something that lingered. “You planning a whole itinerary or something?”

I shot her a sideways glance. “You’ll see.”

The drive stretched longer than it needed to, and I let it.

Not because of traffic. Not because of distance.

Because of her.

She’d settled into the seat like it was made for her, one leg tucked beneath her, arm resting against the window. Her sunglasses were still perched on her nose, but every few minutes, she’d glance over them at me—half-mocking, half-curious.

“So what happens if I beat you to the top?” she asked, tilting her head.

I kept my eyes on the road. “Is this your way of negotiating for a reward before we’ve even started?”

“It’s not a negotiation if I’m already winning.”

I smirked. “Cocky today.”

She sipped from her drink and shrugged, a small smile curving her lips. “Just honest.”

I didn’t look at her, but I didn’t need to. I could feel her watching me.

“So?” she asked again. “What do I get?”

“If you win,” I said, voice low, “you get bragging rights. For exactly forty-eight hours.”

She made a face. “That’s it?”

“And if I win,” I continued, ignoring the protest, “I get to pick dinner. No complaints.”

She leaned closer, her voice soft and close to my ear. “Even if it’s sushi?”

“Even if it’s sushi.”

She groaned and leaned back. “You play dirty.”

“You’re the one who started with threats.”

We kept up the rhythm—gentle jabs, quiet laughter, the soft click of her nails against her bottle and the smooth turns of the wheel. I turned the music down eventually, just to hear her better.

She hummed something quietly, a song I didn’t recognize but wanted to memorize just because it came from her. And I knew—if the drive had been twice as long, I still wouldn’t have rushed it.

The GPS blinked once, then announced our arrival.

Private parking, tinted windows, and the bold, minimal architecture of the rock climbing facility loomed ahead—black on steel, tucked behind a row of evergreens like it had been hiding just for us.

“You ready to climb?” I asked, turning off the engine.

She unbuckled, that glint in her eye already shining. “Race you to the top.”

And with that, she was out the door, ponytail bouncing, the challenge set.

I lingered a beat longer, smiling to myself, then followed.

Inside, the facility was quiet—open but intimate, ceilings high and walls traced with routes of every level. The air was cool, chalk-dusted. The attendant greeted me by name and waved us in, no waiver needed.

We stowed our things in a corner, and I reached for the hem of my sweater, pulling it over my head in one smooth motion. Underneath, the compression tee clung to every line of my chest and shoulders. I’d picked it for support. And—if I was being honest—for effect.

I caught her watching.

Not directly—never that obvious. But her gaze lingered half a second too long. It dropped, then flicked away, like maybe she hadn’t meant to look that closely. Like maybe she thought I hadn’t noticed.

I didn’t say anything.

Just let the corner of my mouth twitch and turned toward the gear rack.

She unzipped her own jacket a moment later, arms lifting as she slipped it off, revealing the black sports bra beneath. Smooth. Minimal. Deadly. She moved like she didn’t realize she was putting on a show—except I knew she did. At least a little.

I looked.

Openly. Shamelessly.

She caught me.

And instead of calling me out, she just raised one brow in challenge and turned away with a small smirk.

Yeah. This was going to be fun.

The day stretched, each climb becoming its own little rhythm—movement, pause, movement again. Her body glided up one wall, mine scaling the next. We alternated routes: steep technical ones with tiny grips that tested control, and wide ascents that made you fight gravity the whole way.

She was faster. I was steadier.

But that wasn’t the game.

The game was in the way she stood below me, arms crossed, watching every step like she was studying a live blueprint.

“Left foot, boss man,” she’d call out. “Or are you just showing off now?”

I reached higher. “I’m multi-tasking—climbing and distracting you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her laugh gave her away.

When she climbed, I watched. Not just to spot her. Not just to keep her safe. To admire.

Her legs moved with confidence, strength in every stretch, every shift in her hips as she reached for a hold. Her focus was fierce—jaw tight, eyes locked upward. She wasn’t trying to look good. Which made her look devastating.

She took on a tricky overhang, slipped just enough to make my grip tense on the belay.

Her breath hitched.

She found her grip again, fingers re-securing.

Then she looked down. “Worried?”

“Every time you’re more than six feet off the ground,” I said, honest without hesitation.

Her grin softened. She didn’t answer.

But the smile? That stayed for the next few climbs.

And yeah—this wasn’t about winning.

This was about watching her glow.

They called a break after an hour—though it wasn’t really announced. It was more of a silent agreement between heavy breaths and shared glances. The kind of pause that said, Yeah, we earned this.

We wandered toward the lounge corner of the facility, a quieter area with padded benches and a couple of low tables scattered with climbing magazines and forgotten water bottles. She pulled her ponytail a little tighter as she walked, cheeks flushed and glowing, still in her sports bra, and looking like trouble wrapped in a bow.

I grabbed the snack bag I’d packed earlier and set it down on the bench beside her.

“Here,” I said, crouching slightly as I unzipped the top. “Fuel.”

She leaned forward, eyes lighting up the second she spotted what was inside.

“Oh my god, are those the sour ones?” She reached in, holding up the gummies like they were rare treasure. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” I said, taking a seat beside her. “You nearly inhaled the last batch.”

She gave me a mock gasp. “I did not inhale them.”

I just looked at her. Slowly.

She laughed, popping one into her mouth. “Okay, maybe I blacked out a little. They’re really good.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, grabbing a water bottle and cracking the cap. “There’s more. Energy drinks, cherries, trail mix, protein bars—take your pick.”

She rifled through the bag like a kid on Christmas morning, pulling out the chilled container of cherries with a victorious little sound. “Yes. These are so underrated. Seriously, cherries are elite.”

“Elite, huh?” I raised an eyebrow, watching her with quiet amusement.

She nodded, legs crossed, the container open on her lap. “Juicy. Sweet. Aesthetic.”

I smiled, slow and teasing. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

She blinked, caught between chewing and blushing. “You did not just call me juicy.”

I leaned back against the bench, arms draped across the top, completely unbothered. “I said what I said.”

She threw a cherry at me. It bounced harmlessly off my chest, and I caught it midair before it hit the floor.

“Wow,” she muttered, clearly trying not to smile. “You’re actually proud of that one.”

“I stand by it,” I said, tossing the cherry into my mouth. “Besides, you started the flattery. I’m just returning the energy.”

She shook her head, trying to hide her grin behind the rim of her energy drink. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m charming,” I corrected. “Big difference.”

We sat like that for a while—her curled up on the bench, legs tucked, alternating between snacks and slow sips of her drink. I watched her more than I watched the room. The way she savored things—food, silence, the feel of the air on her skin after exertion—was almost meditative.

“You’re staring,” she said softly, not looking up.

“Am I?” I asked, unapologetic.

She glanced at me then, lips pursed like she wanted to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, she reached for a protein bar and unwrapped it carefully. “This whole setup,” she said after a minute, “the snacks, the drinks, the cherries... you always go this far?”

I shrugged. “Only for people I like.”

That made her pause.

“Is this your way of saying I’m special?”

“I thought the cherries made that obvious.”

She looked at me. Really looked.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just the flirting or the food or the cool-down between climbs. It was the softness in her eyes, the unspoken thank you laced into every smile.

“Guess I’ll have to earn my cherries more often,” she said, quieter this time.

I leaned in slightly, close enough that her knee brushed mine. “You don’t have to earn anything.”

She didn’t answer that. Just stared down at the cherries again, a small smile ghosting her lips.

Eventually, she leaned back, drink in hand, her head tipping toward my shoulder. Not resting, just... hovering.

Close.

And we stayed like that, not in a rush. Not needing to be anywhere but here.

A break.

Earned.

Shared.

And exactly the kind of moment I’d pack into the snack bag if I could—just to pull it out and feel it again later.

“Alright,” she said, standing and brushing a few cherry stems off her leggings, “break time’s over. You ready, old man?”

I stood too, slinging the bag over my shoulder and raising an eyebrow. “Old man?”

She gave me a look that was pure challenge. “You’re the one who groaned sitting down.”

“That was a strategic groan.”

“Oh sure,” she smirked, already walking toward the wall. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I watched her move ahead—those leggings, that ponytail, the way she carried herself like the wall had already lost the round—and something primal sparked. Not competitive exactly. Something more... possessive. Admiring.

We clipped back in.

She picked a route—tougher than the last. Longer holds, some angled movement near the top that would take both balance and flexibility. I watched her scan it, brow furrowed in concentration. She had a hand on her hip, that signature smirk already forming.

“You spotting or just enjoying the view?” she asked without looking at me.

I stepped in behind her, tugging the line with practiced ease. “Multitasking, remember?”

She laughed, adjusted her grip, and started climbing.

And I let myself watch.

Her movement was clean—fluid, like dance more than sport. She didn’t power through; she calculated every hold. When she reached the overhang, her foot slipped just a little, and I saw her body tense, muscles flexing, recalibrating.

She found her footing. Looked down. Caught me watching. Again.

“Still multitasking?”

I didn’t even pretend to be sheepish. “Not even trying to hide it.”

She rolled her eyes, but her grin didn’t waver.

When it was my turn, I didn’t just climb—I moved.

Smooth. Intentional. Every shift a deliberate show of strength and ease. I didn’t rush, didn’t grunt or strain, just flowed up the wall with quiet confidence.

Halfway up, I paused on a slanted hold, looked down at her.

“You’re awfully quiet down there,” I called.

She had her arms crossed, bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes narrowed just enough to give herself away.

“Just trying to figure out how many pull-ups you practiced before this,” she shot back.

I reached higher, slow enough to flex as I did it. “I don’t practice.”

“Oh, so we’re lying now?”

I grinned, hooked my leg, and swung up to the next ledge in a controlled arc. From the floor, I could hear her faint exhale. A breath she didn’t mean to let out.

Yeah. She was looking.

When I dropped back down, unhooking from the line, she handed me a towel with mock nonchalance.

“You good?” she asked.

“Better than good,” I said, catching her gaze. “You were impressed.”

She blinked, tried to smother the smile tugging at her mouth. “I was observing.”

“Same thing.”

She stepped in close, towel still in her hand. “Keep showing off like that and I might have to race you again.”

“Deal,” I said, voice low. “Winner gets to name dessert.”

“Winner gets dessert,” she corrected, already turning back to the wall.

And just like that, we were back in it—teasing, climbing, brushing hands as we swapped routes and shared quick glances mid-ascent. But beneath it all, something electric simmered.

Not just chemistry. Not just challenge.

Admiration.

And the quiet, dangerous thrill of knowing neither of us really wanted to win.

We just wanted to keep playing.

Her final climb was slow—not from fatigue, but from intention. Every step was deliberate, measured. I stood below, arms folded, watching her silhouette move against the wall, lit by the soft overhead beams. She didn’t rush it. Just moved with that same grace she always had, like the wall was a conversation and she was fluent in its language.

She reached the top, tapped the final hold, and looked down.

“Was that elegant enough for you?” she called, winded but grinning.

“Poetic,” I called back. “You want to go again?”

She made a show of checking her watchless wrist. “Only if you promise snacks after.”

That settled it.

As she descended, I already had the rest of the night forming in my head. We’d earned a slow evening. Something warm and stupid and comforting.

The gym had fallen into a kind of hushed silence. Our session technically over, the last of the chalk settled in the air, and the only sounds were the low hum of the vents and the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat still winding down.

She was stretched out on the padded bench, arms behind her, head tilted back, chest rising slow and steady. Legs bent at the knee, one foot still pressed flat against the ground. Every bit of her looked flushed and raw in the best way—like the kind of glow you couldn’t fake.

And she was still watching me.

Her eyes flicked to my chest, lingered for a beat too long on the way the compression tee clung after the workout, damp in a few places, stretched tight over my sternum. She didn’t try to hide it now—not the way she bit her lower lip just slightly, or how her eyes narrowed like she was reading something off my skin.

I grabbed a towel and leaned back against the wall near her, letting the air cool my arms. I could feel her gaze even without looking. So I glanced over, slow, deliberate.

“You good?” I asked, voice just above the hush.

She didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small nod, her fingers reaching up absentmindedly to adjust her ponytail.

“You keep staring,” I added, smirking.

“You wore that shirt on purpose,” she said, not bothering to deny it.

I raised a brow. “And?”

She tilted her head, eyes scanning me again. “And I think I should be annoyed.”

“But you’re not.”

She didn’t smile, not fully, but her eyes gave her away. She shifted slightly, stretching out her legs, toes brushing the floor, gaze dragging down my body then back up. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you’re still looking,” I said, stepping a little closer.

She sat up slowly, knees drawn in, hands resting on either side of her. “What can I say? I have taste.”

I let out a quiet laugh, reaching for her hand, brushing her knuckles with my thumb. “Do you always flirt this hard after cardio?”

She looked at our hands, then back up. “Only when I’m allowed.”

The air shifted.

We were still in public. Technically. But the place had been privately booked for the afternoon. No one else in sight. Just a few cameras—security, not surveillance. And even those felt a hundred miles away in this quiet pocket of space we’d carved for ourselves.

I stepped between her legs, not touching—just close. Her hands moved instinctively to my waist, fingers ghosting over the hem of my shirt like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch, or just couldn’t help it.

I looked down at her, every part of me heating.

“You know you’re dangerous like this,” I said softly.

Her hands stilled. “Like how?”

I leaned just enough for my forehead to brush hers. Not a kiss. Not quite. “Like this. Flushed. Smiling. Wearing next to nothing and looking like you don’t know it.”

She swallowed. “And what do you look like?”

I smiled, barely. “Like I’d ruin the rest of the afternoon if I wasn’t trying to be good.”

That got her. I saw the breath catch in her throat.

And then her hand slid beneath the hem of my shirt, just for a second. Just enough for her fingers to trace the edge of my hipbone. My muscles twitched under her touch, and I had to grip the edge of the bench to ground myself.

“You’re not good,�� she whispered.

“No,” I said. “But I’m trying to be.”

We stayed like that—breaths tangled, heartbeats loud—for another moment.

Eventually, she pulled back slightly, exhaled. “Movie night, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, voice rough. “Let’s get out of here before I forget how to be decent.”

She smirked, reaching for her water bottle as she stood. “You say that like you’ve ever been decent.”

I didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she looked like that—hair a mess, cheeks pink, still tasting of laughter and teasing and every kind of temptation.

And she was mine.

At least for tonight.

And that was enough to keep me in check.

Barely.

We left the gym in that easy silence that follows a good kind of exhaustion. The kind that softens your limbs and sharpens your appetite. She was a little flushed, cheeks still pink, her hoodie now tied around her waist again, ponytail slightly loosened from the climbs. Every time I glanced over at her, I caught her rubbing chalk from her palms onto her leggings, like she didn’t want to let the day go just yet.

She climbed into the passenger seat and sank into the leather like she belonged there. Like this was her seat and she knew it. I reached for my seatbelt, paused for just a beat longer, and then glanced over at her.

“Movie night,” I said casually, letting the words fall between us like they’d been waiting all day to be spoken. “Your pick.”

Her head turned slowly, eyes narrowing with that suspicious-but-intrigued look I’d come to adore. “Wait. Like… actual movie night? Snacks and everything?”

“Snacks and everything,” I confirmed, turning the key and letting the car purr to life. “We’re stopping on the way home.”

Her expression shifted into something brighter, less guarded. “You’re serious?”

I didn’t answer. Just smiled and pulled out of the lot.

The car ride was quiet, but the good kind of quiet—windows cracked just enough to let in the early evening breeze, the scent of pine and pavement thick in the air. She adjusted the air vents, kicked off her shoes, and pulled one leg up under her. We didn’t need to talk much. The climb had worn out the need for filler.

“Okay,” she said suddenly, turning toward me. “But real question—how seriously do you take movie nights?”

I glanced at her, brow lifting. “Define ‘seriously.’”

She smirked. “Like, are we talking just popcorn and a blanket? Or do you go full spread? Candles, coordinated snacks, post-movie discussion panels?”

I laughed, easing into a right turn. “Depends who it’s for.”

She didn’t respond right away, just looked out the window with a small, secret smile. Like maybe that answer was more than enough.

We pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the place tucked into a sleepy corner of the city—no bright signs, no traffic. Just quiet, a little forgotten, and perfect.

I put the car in park and handed her my black card.

She blinked down at it. “You’re not coming in?”

“Better not,” I said, voice low, but not unkind. “Someone might recognize me.”

Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, her mouth twitching. “You know, you’re making this way too easy.”

“That’s the point.”

She opened the door but hesitated, one leg still in. “You sure you’re not gonna come in there and try to micromanage my snack choices?”

I tilted my head. “I trust your chaos.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but don’t freak out if I come back with, like, four kinds of ice cream.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

She shut the door and disappeared into the store, and I stayed where I was—one hand resting on the wheel, the other pulling my phone from my pocket. I opened my inbox more out of habit than necessity.

Unread emails stared back at me—sponsorship logistics, circuit updates, something from my press team with the word urgent in the subject line. I tapped it open, skimmed half the first paragraph, and then closed it again.

I wasn’t really reading.

I was just… killing time. Filling space.

Because my head?

It was still in there with her.

I pictured her in the frozen aisle—standing in front of the glass doors, weighing the pros and cons of two different ice cream flavors like it was a life-altering decision. I imagined the way she’d push the cart even though she didn’t need one, just to have something to lean on. The way her brows would scrunch together in exaggerated focus over sour gummies. How she’d probably make a joke to herself in the candy aisle, something stupid and smug, and laugh out loud like no one was watching.

She didn’t overthink those things. That was what I admired most.

She just lived.

Lived in her cravings. In her curiosity. In the joy of picking between fizzy pop flavors and off-brand chip names.

And the thing that gutted me—the thing that knocked the air from my chest every time—was how rare it felt to see someone move through the world like that. Like it was still something worth enjoying.

I wasn’t used to that.

I’d been living on precision and strategy for so long—plans, percentages, performance—that I forgot how beautiful it was to just... be.

And she? She just was.

Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Flushed from the climb, smudged with chalk, hoodie knotted at her waist, and still walking into that store like she belonged in the center of it.

And yeah, okay—I’d spoil her a thousand times over if it meant seeing her that free.

Because there was something unshakable in how she existed.

She didn’t try to impress. She didn’t adjust her volume or smooth out her rough edges.

She showed up.

Messy, opinionated, hungry for both snacks and connection, and wholly, entirely herself.

And she let me see it.

She let me be near it.

That wasn’t small.

That was trust, whether she realized it or not.

I glanced at the time—barely fifteen minutes had passed. I didn’t care. I could wait. I’d wait all day if she wanted.

The playlist kept looping softly through the speakers, and I scrolled half-heartedly through another email. Something about team photos for the next race. My eyes flicked over the words without meaning.

Because I wasn’t thinking about the photos.

I was thinking about her walking back out, bags in hand, smile ready.

And how I could make tonight feel like something hers.

Not polished. Not curated.

Just good.

Just us.

Just... enough.

The passenger door popped open, pulling me out of whatever soft-focus daydream I’d drifted into. She slid in, a little breathless, arms full of victory. Three bags of snacks hit the backseat with a satisfying thud.

She looked over at me, eyes bright. “Okay, so hypothetically, if someone were to get two different kinds of chips, three drinks, a family-sized pack of cookies, and every sour gummy variety known to man... would you judge?”

I blinked once, still catching up. “Not at all,” I said, sliding my phone into the console. “I’d just question how we’re supposed to finish dinner after that.”

She buckled her seatbelt, smug and satisfied. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t finish dinner,” she said, winking. “I said I’d make it interesting.”

We pulled out of the lot and into the quiet hum of the early evening. She dug into one of the bags and immediately opened a pack of gummies, tossing a few into her mouth and offering me one like it was a peace treaty. I took it, not because I needed it—but because she offered.

The drive home was easy. She alternated between narrating her grocery trip like it had been a high-stakes heist and making up weird names for each snack. She turned up the music once, only to skip through half a dozen songs before settling on something mellow that filled the car like warm light.

When we pulled into the driveway, she stretched, arms overhead, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

I opened my door and said, “Go shower. Take your time.”

She paused. “You sure you don’t want the first one?”

“I’ll be quick,” I said, already grabbing a few bags. “You take your time.”

She raised a brow like she didn’t quite believe me, but didn’t argue. “Alright. But if I come out and you’ve eaten all the shrimp, I’m calling it betrayal.”

“I’d never.”

She smirked, turned, and disappeared down the hall, leaving the faint scent of sugar and sweat in her wake.

I took the bags upstairs, started setting up the living room. The upstairs space was quiet, rarely touched, but perfect for this. A big couch, blackout curtains, a low coffee table that was suddenly the command center for all things gummy, fizzy, salty, and sweet.

I dimmed the lights, pulled out the softest throw blanket, and flipped through the streaming apps until I found it—Clueless. I’d remembered. Not because she’d made a big deal about it, but because of the way she’d said it in passing. The kind of detail most people miss.

I queued it up, volume low, just enough to play the opening chords and let the vibe start sinking in.

Then I slipped back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She was still in the shower—true to her word, taking her time—and I was glad for it. Gave me space to work.

Shrimp pasta. Nothing complicated. Just something warm and good. Butter, garlic, a splash of white wine, chili flakes, a little lemon at the end. I moved quietly, methodically. Not because I was trying to impress her with my cooking skills, but because I wanted the night to feel effortless for her.

Something that tasted like comfort.

Smelled like home.

And if she noticed the timing—that dinner would be ready just about when Clueless hit its first act—well, that was the point.

Because tonight? Tonight was hers.

And I was just lucky enough to be the one she came home with.

The pasta was just about done—shrimp curled to the perfect pink, plump and barely kissed by heat. The sauce had thickened just enough to coat the noodles without drowning them, glossy with butter and that sharp kick of garlic and chili. I gave it one last stir, watching the steam curl up like a slow exhale, then turned the burner down to low.

Let it breathe.

Let me breathe.

I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and paused for a second, eyes skimming the counter like I’d forgotten something. I hadn’t. The drinks were chilling. The snacks were waiting upstairs. The movie was queued, already teasing the opening frame behind the sleep screen.

It was all ready.

Except me.

So I climbed the stairs and hit the shower. Fast. Focused. Efficient.

Not because I was trying to impress her—not anymore. We were well past that stage. There was no point in pretending I didn’t want her to see me, really see me. Not just the version in tailored shirts and press conferences, but this one. Raw. Quiet. Intentional.

And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to look at her the way she’d looked at me earlier—like the sight of me had pulled the breath right out of her. Like she was torn between teasing me and memorizing me. I wanted to return that favor.

Ten minutes later, I padded barefoot back into the kitchen. Clean. Warm from the water. Dressed down in black joggers and a worn, soft tee that clung in all the right places without trying to. I liked the simplicity of it. No distractions.

Except the one that was about to walk in.

I plated the pasta—two bowls, heaping but not overwhelming—and shaved parmesan over the top. The scent hit the air and I could already imagine the sound she’d make when she took the first bite.

Then I heard it.

Soft footfalls against hardwood. Bare. Measured.

I didn’t have to look. I could feel her presence shift the atmosphere before she even stepped fully into view.

But when I did look…

The serving spoon nearly slipped from my hand.

She walked into the kitchen like the start of a problem I wanted to fail solving.

Baggy plaid pajama pants, rolled low at the hips—slouchy and too long, dragging slightly over the floor with each step. And the tank top. Jesus. White, worn thin, low cut in the front, just loose enough to drape without clinging, but snug enough that the curve of her chest rose and fell with every breath like punctuation.

Her hair was still damp from the shower, a few pieces sticking to her collarbone, neck flushed from the heat. She wasn’t trying to be anything. Not sexy. Not composed. Not on.

And that was what made it lethal.

My eyes dipped, caught the way the light skimmed her skin, the soft slope of her shoulder, the hint of cleavage that peeked out with every step closer.

She smirked. Caught me staring.

“You keep looking at me like that,” she said, reaching lazily for a fork, “I’m going to think you’ve got an agenda.”

I passed her a napkin, let my gaze drop one more time—just to be sure. “I absolutely have an agenda. It’s mostly shrimp-focused. The rest is… situational.”

She laughed, low and warm, and slid onto one of the stools at the island. As she shifted, the tank top dipped even lower. She didn’t fix it. Just propped her elbow on the counter, leaned in, and looked at me like I was the one in danger.

I took the seat beside her.

We started eating, and the silence settled in comfortably. Soft clinks of forks against ceramic. The occasional sigh—hers, every time the sauce hit just right. Her mouth curved around the pasta like it was the first thing she’d eaten in days, like the garlic and butter were some kind of sin she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying.

She made a soft noise. I froze. She didn’t notice.

Or maybe she did.

Her foot brushed mine under the bar. Once, then again. She didn’t move it.

I glanced up. She was licking sauce off her bottom lip, slow and unthinking.

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to say anything.

The tension wasn’t just in the silence anymore.

It was in the closeness. The way we leaned in just slightly with each laugh. The glances that lingered a fraction longer than polite. The way her thigh nudged mine once when she shifted her seat—and she didn’t pull away.

And it was in the way I wanted it to keep building.

Because dinner was just dinner.

But the way she looked right now?

It was dessert before the movie even started.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

She helped me rinse the dishes, sleeves rolled, hands warm and slick from the soap. We moved like a practiced routine—shoulders brushing, passing plates without needing to speak. Like we’d done this a hundred times before. Like this kitchen had seen us live here, together.

She leaned forward slightly to place a plate in the drying rack, and her tank top slid up in the back. Just a sliver. Just enough to show the curve of her spine and a delicate glimpse of bare skin above the waistband of her pajama bottoms.

And something in me snapped.

I didn’t even think. I just acted.

Grinning, I grabbed her waist, and before she could say a word, I’d hoisted her clean off the ground and tossed her over my shoulder.

She shrieked, breath catching halfway between a squeal and a laugh. “Toto!”

“Too late now,” I said, gripping her securely.

“Put me down!” She smacked my back lightly, not really trying to get free. Her laughter vibrated down my spine.

“Not a chance.”

“You’re going to drop me.”

“I would never.”

“You’re ridiculous!”

“And yet,” I said, giving her thigh a teasing pat, “here you are—complaining from the best seat in the house.”

Her legs kicked lightly as I carried her up the stairs, her hands braced against my lower back, tugging at my shirt just enough to make the trip harder than it needed to be.

She was still breathless when I set her down in the upstairs living room, cheeks flushed, hair slightly wild from being upside down. Her lips parted like she wanted to yell at me again, but the words never came.

“You’re the worst,” she said, mock-glowering.

“You like it,” I murmured, voice low.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Instead, she brushed past me slowly, hips swaying with extra intention now—performing for me, and knowing I’d watch. She dropped onto the couch, limbs loose and comfortable, pulling a blanket over her lap like a throne being claimed. She gave me a look. One of those eyebrow-raised, you-better-get-this-right kind of looks.

“You better have picked the right movie.”

I clicked the remote. Clueless filled the screen, the opening chords spilling soft, golden light across the room.

Her face lit up immediately. She didn’t hide it.

She looked back at me, eyes softer now, darker at the edges. “You really do listen.”

“I do,” I said, settling beside her. Close. Not touching. Yet.

But that gap didn’t last long.

Because once the movie started, she leaned in. Not all at once—just slowly. Gradual. Her leg tucked under her, shoulder pressing into mine. Her bare arm brushed mine, and she didn’t pull back. She just settled, like she belonged there. Like I was the armrest she’d always meant to fall into.

She reached for a gummy from the snack spread I’d laid out earlier, bit into it, then passed me one with her fingers still sticky from sugar.

And from there, the shift was inevitable.

Her head dropped to my shoulder sometime during Cher’s opening monologue. Her hand landed lightly on my thigh. Innocent. At first. But then it lingered.

My arm wrapped behind her. Natural. Protective. But the way my fingers slid slowly against her waist wasn’t exactly casual. I was tracing the edge of that tank top, the rise and fall of her ribs beneath it, just skimming the border of what was polite and what wasn’t.

She turned to me during a commercial break, one hand still on my leg, her thumb drawing lazy circles through the fabric of my joggers.

“I could’ve picked something steamier,” she teased.

I looked at her, not smiling. Not blinking. “You’re doing a fine job of making this one feel that way.”

She shifted, pulling her legs up onto the couch, pressing herself even closer. Her chest pressed into my side, the neckline of her tank slipping just a little lower. She didn’t fix it.

Neither did I.

“You’re staring,” she said softly.

“So are you.”

She tilted her head up toward me, lips parted slightly, breath brushing my jaw.

“Timing,” I whispered, leaning in, mouth barely grazing her ear. “That’s everything.”

She shivered. I felt it.

And still—I didn’t rush it.

Because I could.

I could kiss her, slide my hand beneath that shirt, let this whole night spiral into something hotter, heavier. And God, I wanted to.

But I also wanted her to beg for it.

To tease me the way I’d been teasing her. To press back. Push forward. Play.

And she did.

Every shift of her body, every flick of her gaze down to my mouth and back up again—she leaned into the chaos. Into us.

So I let the movie play.

Timed every lean, every touch, every near-kiss to the beat of it.

Because if there was one thing I was built for—it was patience.

And she?

She was going to learn just how slow I could go.

The movie rolled on, but I barely heard the dialogue. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it—Clueless had its charm. But right now, the story I cared about wasn’t on the screen.

It was unfolding right next to me.

She was curled into my side, knees tucked close, tank top clinging a little tighter now with each shift she made. The blanket she’d pulled over us had slid down to her hips, exposing just enough skin that my hand had found a home on the curve of her waist, fingers draped lightly, occasionally brushing against bare heat.

And every time I moved—just the subtlest shift, a flex of my thumb along her ribs—she twitched.

Not away.

Toward.

I knew what I was doing.

I also knew she knew.

She glanced up at me, trying to play it cool, eyes a little too wide, breath catching every so often on nothing at all.

“Something wrong?” I asked softly, not taking my eyes off the screen.

“No,” she said, a touch too fast.

I smirked.

Let my hand drift a little higher, thumb grazing the bottom edge of her tank. Barely a touch. Barely skin. But enough that I felt the way her breath hitched. She squirmed slightly, adjusting her position, but it only brought her closer. Her thigh brushed mine, her shoulder nudged higher against my chest.

“You’re watching the movie, right?” she asked.

“I can multitask,” I murmured.

She scoffed. “You’re not even pretending to watch it.”

I leaned in, my mouth close to her ear. “I’ve already seen it.”

Her head snapped to face me, just enough for our mouths to be dangerously close. The look in her eyes was almost annoyed—almost—but underneath it, she was flushed.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” she whispered.

I raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You know.”

I dragged the back of my knuckles up along her spine. “Do I?”

She bit her bottom lip. Not in that exaggerated, staged way. In the kind of way you do when you’re trying not to make a sound. Her hands were still tucked against her knees, but I could feel her starting to fidget, like the tension was building just under her skin.

Then, in a moment of boldness, she reached out and shoved at my chest—not hard, just enough to push me back a few inches on the couch. “You’re a menace.”

“You look good when you’re flustered,” I said plainly.

She gave a breathless laugh, hiding her face for half a second. “You’re ridiculous.”

I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I reached forward slowly and plucked a gummy from the snack bowl, held it between my fingers, and offered it to her—silent, deliberate.

She hesitated for half a second too long.

Then she leaned in and took it directly from my hand, her lips brushing my fingertips, her eyes never leaving mine.

We froze there for a second, just breathing.

Her cheeks were pink now, her pupils dilated, and the room felt smaller. Dimmer. Warmer.

The movie carried on—Alicia Silverstone chirping about fashion emergencies and high school boys—but we were barely listening.

My hand found her thigh, light at first, then firmer as I let my fingers trail in slow, aimless circles. Not wandering. Just lingering.

She adjusted again, letting her legs stretch across mine, bare feet curling around my calves.

“You’re going to drive me insane,” she murmured.

“That’s the idea,” I said, smiling softly. “But I’m pacing myself.”

“You’re going to lose the game if you keep pushing.”

“Who said I’m trying to win?”

Her mouth opened—then closed. No comeback. Just that look. That bright, glowing look that told me she was halfway between irritated and completely hooked.

And that was exactly where I wanted her.

Right on the edge.

Because this wasn’t just about teasing.

It was about making her feel every second of it.

And I wasn’t done yet.

Her mouth was back on mine before I could think—hot, insistent, desperate in a way that made something primal snap inside me. She rolled her hips once, slow and deliberate, and I felt it everywhere.

The way she kissed me now—hands fisting in my shirt, nails dragging slightly down my chest—wasn’t soft. It was needy. She was chasing friction, chasing something deeper, and I gave it to her—kissing her harder, teeth grazing her bottom lip as I pulled her tighter against me.

My hands roamed—her back, her thighs, the dip of her waist. I gripped her hips like I didn’t know how to let go. And maybe I didn’t.

She arched into me, her breath catching on a whimper that I swallowed with my mouth, and I could feel her trembling—barely, but it was there.

God, she felt good. She tasted good.

And I wanted her.

Right here, right now.

But I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

Not like this. Not when I planned to ask her tomorrow if she’d be mine for real—my girlfriend. My partner. Not when I wanted it to be more than heat, more than a moment we fell into. Not when I knew I could have her heart, not just her body, if I gave her the space to let it happen.

So I pulled back—slow, reluctant, my lips trailing down to her jaw, her neck, the space behind her ear. I let myself breathe her in one last time, let my hands memorize every curve they could reach through her clothes.

And then I stopped.

Held her in place.

Kissed her once more—slow and deep and final.

She blinked down at me, dazed, her lips pink and kiss-bitten. “Why’d you stop?” she asked, breathless, her voice cracking in the middle like it didn’t know whether to tease or beg.

I pressed my forehead to hers, still breathing hard. “Because I’m going to ask you something tomorrow.”

Her brows pulled together slightly. “Ask me what?”

I kissed the tip of her nose. “Not tonight.”

She sighed, her fingers trailing over my chest, but there was no frustration in it. Just… longing. A quiet ache neither of us wanted to push too far.

Instead, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her fully into my lap, both of us tucked under the blanket now, hearts still racing as the high slowly faded.

We sat like that for a while.

Her head on my shoulder. My fingers tracing soft circles on her back. The movie screen dark, the room dim, the storm between us finally quiet.

And when her breathing slowed, when her body melted into mine like it belonged there, I knew it was time.

I stood with her still in my arms, and she squealed again, half-hearted now, more sleep than protest.

“Toto,” she mumbled, clinging to me.

“I’ve got you.”

“Again?”

“Always.”

She didn’t argue.

Just tucked her face into my neck, arms around my shoulders as I carried her down the hall, steps slow, deliberate.

I set her on the bed gently, tugging the blanket over her and brushing a few strands of hair from her face. Her eyes were barely open now, lashes heavy against her cheeks.

I slipped in beside her, pulling her close, letting her settle with her back to my chest. My arm looped around her waist, anchoring her to me like I was afraid she might drift away in the night.

I kissed her shoulder once, soft. Final.

And as her breathing evened out, as her body relaxed completely in my hold, I whispered it into the space between us.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “I’ll ask you to stay.”

She didn’t hear it.

But that was okay.

Because when the sun came up?

She’d know.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - CH.17 Birds of a Feather

Y/N POV

The morning sunlight was lazy, unhurried as it filtered through the tall windows of Toto’s home, stretching across the wooden floors in golden streaks that danced against the grain. The light caught the edges of the linen sheets tangled around my legs, sheets that still held the scent of cedarwood, roasted espresso beans, and him—Toto. It was a smell I didn’t even realize had become a comfort until I woke to it, soft and grounding.

I lingered longer than I should have, cocooned in the bed, watching the dust motes catch the light like floating stars. The house was quiet but not still. Somewhere down the hall, I could hear the faint clink of ceramic and glass, followed by the low murmur of music—smooth, jazzy, old. Something effortless and elegant. The kind of music that matched how Toto existed in the world: intentional, fluid, precise without feeling rehearsed.

Pushing off the warmth of the sheets, I sat up slowly, still heavy with sleep, stretching just enough for the cool air to kiss the bare skin above my waistband. I hadn’t reached for one of his shirts last night. Instead, I’d gone to bed in my own clothes—plaid pajama pants that were cinched and rolled at the waist to sit just right on my hips, and a ribbed black tank top that hugged my body in a way that made me hyperaware of the softness of my curves. The fabric clung lightly to my chest, and the neckline dipped just enough to feel like a quiet sort of invitation. Bare arms. Bare collarbones. Bare shoulders, still kissed with the faint humidity from last night’s shower and the lingering scent of lavender lotion I’d worked into my skin.

My curls were a little wild but softened by leave-in cream, air-dried just enough to fall in loose coils around my face. Not styled, not intentional—just the way they dried when I didn’t bother trying. And for once, I didn’t feel the urge to change. To fix. To present. I let the comfort of it all wrap around me like armor I didn’t need to take off.

And everything in me reacted to the morning. To the softness of the light. To the stillness of his house. To the low hum of jazz from down the hall and the quiet ache of being near someone who made the ordinary feel holy.

This wasn’t a morning for performances. It was one to simply exist in. One to move slowly, with intention. With ease. There was no need to pull myself together, no pressure to present some curated version of myself. The house, the moment—it welcomed me as I was. Still sleepy-eyed and unguarded, wrapped in cotton softness and carrying the scent of dreams that hadn’t yet faded. The kind of morning where your body remembers how to breathe before your mind remembers why it ever forgot.

I padded barefoot down the hallway, the grain of the wooden floor cool beneath my feet, each step a gentle reminder that I was here—really here. With him. The contrast between the lingering warmth in my skin and the brisk kiss of the floor was grounding. Comforting. The kind of detail you don’t notice unless you're present. Unless the world slows down enough to let you feel it.

As I moved, the music grew louder—a soft, jazzy murmur curling through the air like a sigh. Something with horns and an easy swing, the kind of song you’d dance to barefoot in the kitchen, arms around someone’s neck, your cheek pressed to theirs. It made the house feel alive. Or maybe it was already alive, simply breathing differently with him in it.

And then there was the smell. That deep, rich scent of coffee that Toto brewed with the same intention he brought to every part of his life. Bold and slightly bitter, with that velvety espresso warmth that clung to the air like incense. There was something sacred about it—the way it always arrived before he did, announcing his presence before he even stepped into the room.I turned the corner, and there he was.

Toto stood at the kitchen island, barefoot and beautiful in the kind of quiet, unthinking way that made it hard to look away. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing strong, veined arms dusted with flour. He had a whisk in one hand and his phone in the other, reading a recipe with that same laser-focus I’d seen when he was reviewing strategy notes or negotiating something behind the scenes. But this was domestic. Intimate. Softened by the morning light pooling around him.

There was a smear of flour near his wrist, a faint shadow of it on his temple, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything more tender than the way he squinted at the screen, as if trying to memorize each line. I stood still, hidden just enough by the doorway to watch him without being seen. And watching him like that—so focused, so casual, so at home—did something to me.

Something that made my chest ache in the gentlest way.I leaned against the frame, heart full in my throat.

“Morning,” I murmured, my voice thick with sleep and something more fragile.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t flinch. Just turned slowly, his expression shifting instantly into something warm. His eyes—those deep, unreadable eyes—lit up in a way that wasn’t flashy or dramatic. Just real. Familiar. Like I was the thing he was hoping to see.

“Guten Morgen, Schatzi,” he said, and the sound of it—the slight roughness in his voice, still heavy from sleep—wrapped around me like arms.

Before I even registered the impulse, I was moving forward. Stepping into the room, into him, like gravity had stopped pretending and decided to act on its own. My body fit against his like it had always known where to go. My cheek pressed to the center of his chest, where I could feel the steady, grounding beat of his heart.

He smelled like cinnamon and linen and sleep. Like skin warmed by sunlight and the faintest trace of his cologne that clung to the folds of his shirt. I breathed him in, deeper than I meant to, and he folded around me without hesitation. One hand on the back of my head, the other at the curve of my spine. Holding me without demand.

We stood like that, still and swaying slightly. The world narrowed to the circle of his arms and the jazz playing in the background. There was no rush. No need to speak. Just the unspoken comfort of bodies knowing each other by feel.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, voice a whisper into my hair.

“Mm-hmm,” I hummed, not moving. “Better than I have in days.”

He pulled back just enough to see my face, his hand sliding to cradle my jaw. His eyes searched mine like they were looking for proof of something he already knew but needed to see again. “You always look like this in the morning?”

I huffed a soft laugh. “Messy curls, wrinkled pajamas, and half-asleep? Yeah. Sorry to disappoint.”

His thumb brushed under my chin. “Nein,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

It didn’t land like a line. It wasn’t a compliment thrown into the air for effect. It landed in my bones. In the parts of me that usually braced for rejection. And suddenly, I didn’t feel bare anymore—I felt seen.

He moved back to the counter, reaching for a second mug. “Hungry?”

I leaned into the island, the cool marble pressing against my forearms. “Only if you’re making something.”

He gave me a sideways smile. “Well, lucky you. I am.” He passed me the mug, his fingers brushing mine as he did. “Sit. Let me spoil you a little.”

And I did. I climbed onto the stool, tucking my legs under me, the coffee warm in my hands. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease—fluid, quiet, almost meditative. And all I could do was watch him, trying to memorize the way his body curved around every corner of this life. Every drawer he opened. Every soft exhale. Every second that passed in peace.

Because here, in this golden, slow morning, in plaid pajama pants and a tank top that still carried the scent of lavender, with jazz humming in the air and his hand occasionally resting at the small of my back—this felt like something close to peace.

Something close to home. Something close to love. We eventually drifted into the sunroom, plates in hand, pulled by the promise of morning light and the hush of a house that felt like it was built for moments exactly like this. The table was already set—casual but intentional, like he’d done it without thinking and yet had thought of everything. Soft linen napkins. Thick ceramic plates still warm to the touch. A carafe of espresso that smelled like it had been poured from some quiet, holy place.

I slid into one of the chairs, the cushion giving under me just enough to sigh. Across from me, Toto moved with that same fluidity—present, but never hurried. He plated the food with the kind of care you don’t often see in men like him—men with empires to run, reputations to uphold. But here, in this moment, he was just a man serving breakfast to someone he wanted to stay.

Scrambled eggs, perfectly soft. Avocado slices fanned across toast like something out of a café window. A dusting of sea salt and pepper, a drizzle of olive oil that caught the sunlight as he handed me the plate. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave me—quiet and expectant, like he wanted me to feel the care behind the gesture—was enough.

We ate slowly, the pace unhurried. Between bites, the occasional hum of satisfaction or the clink of cutlery against ceramic filled the space between us. The window in the corner was cracked just enough for the breeze to drift through, bringing with it the smell of autumn—damp leaves, distant woodsmoke, something faintly sweet and earthy. It tugged gently at the hem of my pants, wrapped around my ankles, teased the strands of my hair still slightly damp from my morning shower.

We didn’t speak much. We didn’t have to. The kind of silence that sat between us wasn’t uncomfortable—it was the kind you grow into, the kind built through trust and softness. Our glances said enough. The way our knees bumped under the table, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. The way his foot found mine, toes nudging just to remind me he was there, that I was here, that this was real.

And for a while, I let myself believe I could stay in that quiet forever. But habit dies hard. Halfway through my espresso, I reached toward the edge of the table where I had placed my phone earlier, fingers grazing the screen out of instinct more than intention. I wasn’t even thinking about it—just the pull of unread emails, the mounting to-do lists, the responsibility that lived in my bones.

Before I could even touch it, his hand closed around mine. Firm. Warm.

“No.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “No?”

His fingers didn’t tighten, but he didn’t let go either. He looked at me—really looked at me—and for a second, I saw it. The glimmer of command beneath all that morning softness. The part of him that didn’t ask twice.

“You get a few days,” he said, his voice quiet but immovable. “Just a few. Before the fellowship starts. You’re not going to spend them buried in work.”

I opened my mouth to protest, some weak justification already forming on my tongue—just a quick check, just one email, just something small to stay ahead—but he didn’t let me speak. Instead, he leaned in, slow and deliberate, and pressed his lips to my temple. Not rushed. Not persuasive. Just there. Present. Warm and final.

“And today,” he added, murmured against my skin, “you’re mine.”

And that was it. No dramatic pause. No challenge in his voice. Just truth. Steady and certain, like he’d already decided, like I didn’t need to agree because he already knew I would. And I did. Not because he demanded it. But because, for once, I wanted to let go. Let someone else hold the line. Let him.

We lingered in the sunroom long after the plates were scraped clean and the last sip of espresso had gone lukewarm. The light had shifted slightly, softer now, stretching shadows along the tiled floor. I could’ve stayed there all morning, letting the breeze nudge the hem of my leggings and the smell of toast and coffee settle into the fabric of my clothes. But Toto moved first, rising with the kind of deliberate ease he seemed to do everything with—unhurried but entirely sure of himself.

He took our dishes without asking, stacking them effortlessly before disappearing into the kitchen. I heard the gentle clink of ceramic, the soft rush of water, and then—his voice, light and casual, floating over his shoulder like it was just part of the morning.

“Go get dressed.”

I looked up from where I’d been watching a bird hop along the edge of the windowsill. “Dressed for…?”

He didn’t answer right away. I could see the faintest smirk in the reflection of the glass cabinet as he rinsed a plate and set it in the rack. “Nothing too complicated. Just a little outdoors.”

I narrowed my eyes and leaned back in the chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Only if you hate fresh air,” he said, glancing at me with a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “Comfortable. Moveable. Something you can layer.”

“You’re being very cryptic.”

“I’m being intentionally ambiguous. There’s a difference.”

I let out a long, theatrical sigh but pushed up from the chair, muttering as I passed him, “This better not end with me freezing in a field or getting chased by geese.”

He laughed—really laughed, not just a breathy chuckle, but that deep, chesty sound that vibrated through the air and followed me up the stairs.

Back in the guest room, I stared at my half-unpacked suitcase, hands on my hips, mulling over what exactly counted as “a little outdoors.” Not a hike, clearly. Not a city stroll either, based on the emphasis on layers. It was just vague enough to cover everything from a lakeside walk to a mountain overlook. Eventually, I stopped trying to decipher his intentions and just chose what felt right.

Black leggings—comfortable, high-waisted, secure without being restrictive. I tugged on a pair of tall, thick white socks, letting them reach mid-calf, folding them once to keep them in place. My sports bra was navy, simple and fitted, doubling as a top beneath a charcoal athletic quarter-zip that hugged my arms but left room to breathe. Just in case, I stuffed my oversized sweater into my daybag, the one I always carried on long university days. It was soft and worn, a comforting fallback if the weather turned or if I just needed something to wrap around myself.

I pulled my curls into a high ponytail, smoothing the front and tying them off with a thick black scrunchie. A few pieces framed my face—undone, effortless, but intentional. I tucked my sunglasses onto the top of my head, letting them hold back a few stray strands. No makeup, just lip balm and a swipe of sunscreen. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a quick once-over. Functional. Presentable. Still me.

When I made it back downstairs, he was waiting near the entryway, adjusting the zipper on his vest. His back was to me at first, but he turned at the sound of my footsteps, and something about the moment stilled. He was dressed in black joggers and a fitted hoodie that clung to the shape of his shoulders. Over it, a deep navy vest. His hair had dried slightly, curling faintly at the ends, and he wore it pushed back, a little tousled. Sunglasses hung from his collar.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister, and took him in.

And then I looked at myself.

And blinked.

We… matched. Not identically. But the vibe was uncanny. The same palette—black and navy, white details, layers built for movement. If someone had seen us walking down the street, they’d assume we’d planned it. Maybe not in a “couple goals” sort of way, but definitely in a “they’ve been doing this a while” kind of way.

A surprised laugh slipped out of me. Not mocking. Just soft and amused.

He tilted his head, brow lifting slightly. “What?”

I gestured vaguely between us. “We kind of… coordinate.”

His gaze flicked down to his outfit, then back to mine, and his lips quirked. “Do we?”

“Not on purpose,” I said quickly, suddenly aware of how easy it was to sound like I was reading into it. “Just… interesting.”

He stepped closer, handing me a stainless steel water bottle. Our fingers brushed as I took it from him, and the touch lingered just a second longer than it had to. Not enough to startle, just enough to notice.

“I like it,” he said, his voice low and warm.

I looked up at him, trying not to smile too much. “Of course you do. You’re the one who told me to dress ‘comfortably vague.’”

He smirked. “And look how well you listened.”

I rolled my eyes, but the heat in my chest was undeniable. I hadn’t even done it for him. I hadn’t even thought about him when I pulled the pieces from my suitcase. But now, standing here, both of us dressed in similar tones, hair slightly messy, faces clean and relaxed—it felt… right.

Like we belonged to the same morning.

“Ready?” he asked, sliding his sunglasses into place.

I nodded, slinging my bag over one shoulder. “As I’ll ever be.”

He held the door open for me, sunlight pouring in from the front walk, and for a moment, I thought maybe—just maybe—I didn’t need to know exactly where we were going.

Just that we were going there together.

He locked the front door behind us, and without a word, led me around the side of the house toward the garage. I expected something sleek and modern, maybe the electric car he mentioned once in passing. But when the matte black G-Wagon came into view—angular, glossy in the filtered light, every edge intentional—I paused.

“Oh,” I said, stopping in my tracks.

Toto glanced over his shoulder, clearly catching the way I blinked at the car like it had just roared to life on its own. “What?”

“You drive that?” I asked, half awed, half accusing.

He smirked, clicking the fob. The locks responded with a deep, mechanical thud. “Why do you sound personally betrayed?”

“I just—” I circled the vehicle slowly. The matte finish was gorgeous, every surface smooth and purposeful. The black-on-black aesthetic was aggressive but elegant, like everything about him. Even the windows were tinted almost jet. No one could see in. Of course. “I thought you’d be, I don’t know, less… Bond villain about it.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, already opening the passenger door for me.

I stepped up into the cabin, half-laughing. “Unfortunately? Yes. Of course I do. I feel like I’m about to be driven to a private airstrip.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Inside, the car smelled like clean leather and something warmer—cologne, maybe, or just the filtered scent of him, embedded into the seats. The interior was just as sleek: black stitching, chrome trim, ambient lighting that hummed even in daylight. He climbed in beside me, sunglasses on, adjusting the mirrors with familiar ease.

We pulled out of the driveway and headed for the highway. The hum of the engine was low and powerful, like it didn’t need to try to prove anything.

The drive was over an hour, but it passed quickly.

He kept one hand on the wheel and the other on me—his palm resting firmly on my thigh, fingers curling around the fabric of my leggings like he wasn’t even aware of it, like his body just knew mine needed to be tethered to his.

My legs were folded beneath me, one foot tucked up on the seat, my body turned slightly toward him as I flipped through his phone. “You made a playlist for this?”

“Always good to be prepared.”

“‘Driving Into Trouble’?” I read aloud. “That’s what you named it?”

He shrugged, eyes on the road. “Felt accurate.”

The playlist was everything I didn’t expect it to be—mostly low-tempo, vibey tracks, the kind that you could dance to with the windows down or slow sway to barefoot on a patio. We skipped a few, sang along to others. I teased him mercilessly when a dramatic acoustic ballad came on, and he retaliated by raising the volume slightly when he caught me humming under my breath.

“You have a type,” I said eventually.

“I do,” he agreed, voice low. “And she’s in my passenger seat.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t look away.

We talked about everything and nothing—the kind of conversation that wasn’t about filling time, just existing in it together. He told me a ridiculous story about his first failed camping trip as a teenager, and I admitted I once tried to light a candle with spaghetti because I was too afraid to use a lighter.

We laughed the whole ride.

An hour later, we were driving out of the city—his hand still on my thigh, my legs still curled under me as I flipped through the playlist again, letting the songs wrap around us. He still wouldn’t tell me where we were going, only that I should “wear something I wouldn’t mind getting dirty in.”

That could mean anything with him.

The buildings fell away, replaced by rolling hills and dense patches of trees. The road narrowed, turning from asphalt to gravel, then to a winding dirt path edged by forest. It was quiet, secluded, the kind of place that didn’t exist on Google Maps. The tires crunched slowly over leaves and twigs, and just when I was about to ask if he was sure we weren’t lost, he slowed.

That’s when he smiled—slow, smug, deeply satisfied.

“Treetop trekking,” he announced, parking beneath a canopy of swaying branches.

I blinked at him. “You booked out an entire forest for us?”

He shrugged, like that was a completely normal thing to do. “I like privacy.”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to. Because what he really meant, what sat between those few words, was simple.

He liked having me to himself.

And I liked that, too.

We stepped out into the clearing, and I took a slow look around. The forest was quiet—peaceful, really—just the rustle of leaves overhead and the creak of ropes shifting in the wind. A series of wooden platforms, ladders, and tightropes wove between the trees high above us, zigzagging through the canopy like a playground built for adrenaline. I stared up, taking in the harness lines and the wooden planks suspended on nothing but steel cable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, squinting at a swaying rope bridge thirty feet in the air.

“Nope,” Toto said behind me, clipping his gloves onto his belt like he did this sort of thing all the time. “You said you liked a challenge.”

“I meant academic ones,” I said, but the smile already tugging at my mouth betrayed me.

He gave me a look as he pulled the harness from the gear rack and unbuckled it with one hand. “Feet in.”

I stepped in, obedient but eyeing him skeptically as he crouched to adjust the straps. His hands were efficient, practiced—but not detached. They moved with quiet intent, fingers brushing over the waistband of my leggings as he cinched the harness snug around my waist. I shifted slightly for balance, and that’s when I felt it—his pause.

It lasted just a second too long.

His hands slowed at the base of my back, adjusting the webbing that now cradled and extenuated the curve of my ass a little too well. The tension in his shoulders gave him away before I even looked down. When I did, I caught the flicker in his eyes—the exact place they’d landed. He blinked, jaw tightening slightly, clearly trying to mask it. Trying, and failing.

“You good?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

He rose slowly, hands skimming along the sides of my thighs as he stood. “Perfect,” he said, voice a bit lower than before. “Fits… very well.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That an observation or a compliment?”

He met my gaze evenly, the hint of a smirk curving one corner of his mouth. “Both.”

The air between us tightened—not tense, but charged, full of something playful and unspoken. Still, he didn’t linger. Just grabbed his own harness and pulled it on, rolling his shoulders back with practiced ease.

“Try to keep up, Schatzi,” he called over his shoulder as he headed toward the first platform.

But the way his eyes skimmed over me again, subtle but deliberate, told me exactly who was watching who.

We made our way to the beginner course first—a winding stretch of platforms, wooden planks, and low-hanging rope elements meant to ease you in before the higher climbs. The trees shaded us from the direct sun, but patches of golden light flickered through the canopy, dancing along the cables as they gently swayed in the breeze. Birds chirped somewhere above, and the occasional creak of the ropes echoed softly with every step we took.

I paused at the first platform, staring at the rope bridge ahead of us—planks spaced just far enough to make you question your stride, each one moving independently when the wind or gravity pulled against it. It didn’t look hard, but it didn’t exactly look stable either.

Toto stepped in close behind me, his voice smooth and a little too amused. “You’ve got this,” he said, the edge of a grin in his tone. “Unless, of course, you want me to catch you.”

I smirked without turning. “You’re clipped to a cable. You can’t catch me.”

“Don’t let logic ruin the moment,” he replied, as if romance could defy physics. And somehow, coming from him, it almost made sense.

With a breath, I stepped out. My foot landed solidly on the first plank, and it only dipped slightly beneath my weight. I adjusted quickly, shifting my center of balance, and moved to the next, arms slightly outstretched for stability. It wasn’t as hard as it looked. With each plank, my confidence built, my body moving with more assurance. I could feel him behind me—close but never crowding, his presence like a tether of calm energy that stayed just far enough to let me lead.

The rope elements got trickier after that—narrow wire paths with handholds overhead, small swinging disks to step on, beams that required you to cross sideways. But I found my rhythm. My steps were sure, my breath even. I was stronger than I remembered. And surprisingly—graceful. My ponytail swayed with every shift of my body, and I could feel the sweat prickling behind my knees, the cool breeze licking at the back of my neck.

“You’re natural at this,” he called ahead, watching me clear a two-rope traverse like it was nothing. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

“Pretty sure,” I answered, not turning around. “But I do climb shelves in my apartment when I can’t reach the top cabinets.”

“Remind me to install you a ladder when you move in.”

“When?” I teased.

A beat. And then, quieter: “When.”

His voice dipped when he said it, and for a split second, I missed a step—not enough to fall, but enough to feel it.

From then on, his commentary never stopped.

“Nice balance,” he murmured as I crossed a taut wire, arms stretched to my sides, hips moving in subtle sway. I didn’t need to turn around to feel his eyes on me.

I threw the words over my shoulder without missing a step. “Stop staring at my ass.”

“Impossible.”

It should’ve annoyed me, but it didn’t. Not when it was him. Not when it was laced with that kind of affection—part pride, part hunger, all admiration. If anything, I stood a little taller after that. Stepped with a little more certainty.

Eventually, we came to a section made of swinging logs—each one suspended by two ropes, free-floating, shifting under your weight with each movement. I hesitated only slightly, then launched forward, finding a rhythm as I moved quickly from one to the next. The logs dipped and rolled underfoot, but I kept my balance, adjusting instinctively.

By the time I stepped onto the final platform, heart pounding but grin wide, I felt it—that familiar flush of victory, the way my body buzzed when I pushed past hesitation and just moved.

I turned around, breath short but light, expecting him to be right behind me.

He wasn’t.

He was still on the starting side, leaning one arm against a line post, one leg crossed casually over the other. Watching.

Just watching.

His expression was lazy and amused, but his eyes were sharp—tracking every movement I’d made like he hadn’t missed a single one. He looked way too smug for someone who hadn’t lifted a finger to help.

“You could’ve helped,” I called, breathless but teasing.

“You didn’t need it,” he said, voice low and satisfied.

Then he stepped out onto the first log like it was nothing, gliding over the course with a natural ease that was somehow both infuriating and hot. And when he reached me, he didn’t speak. He just came close, reached up to adjust a stray curl that had fallen loose against my cheek, and let his fingers trail down the line of my jaw—just once—before turning toward the next course.

“Lead the way,” he said, like I hadn’t just made his day. Like he hadn’t just made mine.

Around noon, just as the sun had begun to stretch its full weight over the canopy and the filtered light turned sharp through the branches, he tugged gently on the strap of my harness and nodded toward a clearing just off the course. “Break time.”

We veered slightly off-trail, ducking beneath a thick curve of foliage until the trees opened up into a small sun-dappled space. There, nestled between two old trunks, were two logs fashioned into a makeshift bench, worn smooth by time and sun. It felt like a secret space—untouched, protected, tucked away just enough from the rest of the course that you could pretend the world had narrowed to just this patch of woods.

Toto dropped his backpack onto the ground with a soft thud. Black, structured, naturally—everything about it screamed him. He unzipped it, knelt down, and began pulling out items with an ease that made it clear he had thought about this more than once.

Out came my favorite energy drink—still cool, condensation beading along the sides like it had just come from a fridge. A pouch of sour gummies, already torn open as if he’d known I’d want them first. A container of crisp apple slices, perfectly cut, and still cold thanks to a tiny freezer pack tucked beneath them. A protein bar I recognized from my kitchen back home, one I loved but always felt vaguely judged for because of its aggressively healthy branding—even though it tasted like dessert.

“You packed these?” I asked, already reaching for the gummies, the tart scent making my mouth water.

“I don’t forget details,” he said simply, wiping a speck of dirt from the top of the can before handing it to me. “Especially not yours.”

I stared at him, trying not to let the weight of that line sit too hard in my chest. But it did. Of course it did. I didn’t say anything—just nudged my knee into his gently as I cracked open the drink and took a sip. It fizzed across my tongue, cold and sharp and perfect.

We sat like that for a while, thighs brushing, passing snacks back and forth, letting the silence stretch in the most natural way. Occasionally, I caught him watching me—not staring, just observing. Like he was still memorizing this version of me. This sweaty, slightly disheveled, completely unfiltered version. And the quiet appreciation in his eyes made it hard to look away.

Once we’d refueled and hydrated, we clipped back in and returned to the course—this time, a bit more advanced. The obstacles were longer, higher, and required a kind of coordination that made my arms ache just looking at them. But I was in it now. Fully. And so was he.

We scaled rope walls that stretched higher into the trees, traversed narrow planks suspended between massive trunks, and tackled a vertical cargo net that had me swearing softly under my breath. Every time I faltered, I heard him behind me, calm and steady.

“Almost there, Schatzi,” he murmured once, as I reached for a high handhold, my muscles trembling from effort. “Keep going. You’re doing better than half my team would.”

“Do not start comparing this to F1,” I shot back, clinging to the next rope rung.

He just laughed. That low, rolling sound that wrapped around me like warmth.

And then, as we hit the final leg of the trail—the most challenging portion of the day—he surprised me.

“You lead,” he said, gesturing to the next course. It was taller, sharper in its angles, with suspension points that curved dramatically across the forest in wide arcs. “That way I can keep an eye on you.”

“Eye, huh?” I asked, arching a brow as I clipped into the next section.

He smiled, the kind of slow, lazy grin that made my stomach tighten. “Just one.”

The higher we went, the more intense it became. The wind tugged more aggressively the further we rose, and the platforms became smaller, the spaces between them longer. The climb was tiring in a new way—my arms burning, my balance more reliant on instinct now than strategy. But it felt good. All of it. Every stretch, every pulse of adrenaline. And every time I reached for the next segment, I could feel him behind me, just there. Not crowding. Just steady.

At one point, halfway across a rolling bridge that rocked with every step, I miscalculated the sway and let out a quiet, “Shit—” as I slipped slightly, one foot missing its mark.

I didn’t fall. The harness caught me. But it tilted me just enough to swing awkwardly into the next rope.

And then—his hand.

He reached forward without hesitation, one strong arm curling gently around my waist from behind, anchoring me against the movement as I found my footing again. His chest pressed briefly to my back, steady and warm, his voice low near my ear.

“Got you.”

I swallowed hard, gripping the ropes again. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said, his hand still there. “Doesn’t mean I won’t help.”

I turned just enough to glance at him over my shoulder. His sunglasses were pushed up onto his head now, his gaze open and a little too soft for the kind of teasing we’d been doing all day.

“I don’t mind watching you do hard things,” he added, tone lightening just enough. “Especially when you make it look that good.”

I rolled my eyes and pressed forward, heat blooming under my skin in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

We made it to the final zipline—a long, sweeping descent that curved through the trees and ended just beyond the edge of the course. I launched first, wind tearing through my hair, the scream that ripped from me half-laugh, half-thrill. The trees blurred beside me, the golden light glowing through every green leaf like the forest had decided to bloom just for us.

I landed hard but laughing, tumbling slightly on the mulch before finding my balance again.

Seconds later, he landed with perfect form, his boots crunching softly as he walked straight toward me.

His hand found my hip. His other brushed a curl from my cheek, fingers pausing there like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“You good?” he asked, voice lower now, intimate in a way that cracked something wide open in me.

“Yeah,” I whispered, my breath catching. “More than good.”

And then he leaned down, slow and sure, pressing his lips to the top of my head with a kind of quiet reverence.

Soft. Steady. Like we still had all the time in the world.

The drive home was slow, unhurried. The trees gradually thinned as we left the forest behind, replaced by long stretches of road bathed in soft golden hour light. I watched the sun flicker through the windows in flashes, casting long shadows over Toto’s arms as he drove—one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting, always, on my thigh.

I was quiet, but not withdrawn. Just full—in that physical, sensory way that only comes after hours of movement and air and laughter. I leaned into the seat, curling one leg beneath me, my head tilted slightly toward the window. Somewhere around the third song on the playlist, my eyes began to flutter closed.

I didn’t fight it.

Toto didn’t say a word. He just adjusted the volume, let his hand drift higher up my leg, his thumb moving in slow, idle circles near the hem of my quarter-zip. It was grounding. Reassuring. I felt held, even as I slipped in and out of a light doze, lulled by the hum of the road and the subtle vibrations of the car.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, the sun had dipped behind the horizon. The sky was smeared in deep lavender and burnt orange, the first stars just beginning to emerge overhead. I blinked awake at the shift in motion as the G-Wagon rolled to a stop.

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles against my arm. “We’re home.”

I stretched slowly, limbs heavy and sore in that deeply satisfying way. “I feel like I got hit by a very scenic truck.”

He chuckled. “That truck would’ve been me, hauling you through trees all day.”

“You were behind me the whole time,” I murmured, stifling a yawn. “Don’t act like you carried me.”

He raised a brow as he stepped out of the car. “Emotionally, maybe.”

That earned a quiet laugh as I followed him up the path to the house. The front door creaked open, releasing a puff of cooler air. Before I could make it two steps inside, he turned, already sliding the backpack from his shoulder.

“Go shower. You’ll feel better.”

“You shower,” I countered, kicking off my shoes with a groan. “I’m just going to lie here on the floor and disintegrate.”

He didn’t budge. Just smiled with that same calm authority that always somehow made me move.

“Shower, Schatzi.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Fine. But only because I actually want to feel my legs tomorrow.”

He bent to press a kiss to my temple. “Trust me. This is part of the plan.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I didn’t question it. The hot water hit like a dream. I stayed there longer than I needed to, letting the steam work through every ache. I washed twice, letting the scent of lavender soap and eucalyptus drift through the bathroom, soaking into my skin. By the time I toweled off and pulled on a soft robe, my muscles had softened into something close to contentment.

Downstairs, the lights were dimmed. A few candles flickered on the dining table, their golden glow dancing off plates that had most definitely not been there when we left. I stepped onto the hardwood, barefoot and still slightly damp, and froze.

The table was set. Not in a fancy way, but with care. Two place settings. Small porcelain dishes arranged with intention. Steam curling up from miso soup bowls. A spread of sushi rolls, nigiri, and delicate slices of sashimi were arranged like a curated tasting—salmon, tuna, eel, all resting on beds of rice or nestled beside bright green wasabi and paper-thin slices of ginger.

And at the center, the crown jewel: my favorite spicy tuna roll, dressed just the way I liked it.

I shifted slightly, adjusting the hem of the tank top I’d thrown on upstairs—black, ribbed, a bit more fitted than I remembered. It dipped a little lower than the one from earlier that morning, skimming over the top of my chest and showing just a hint more cleavage than I’d expected. I hadn’t thought much of it—until I saw the way Toto stilled in the kitchen doorway.

He looked up just as I reached for the back of my neck, unconsciously tugging a curl away from my collarbone.

His eyes dragged slowly from my feet to my face—and yeah, maybe they lingered a beat too long at the curve of my neckline.

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Just blinked—slow, controlled—then cleared his throat as if it had caught somewhere halfway up.

“Sushi,” I said, like it was a greeting, pretending not to notice the slight short circuit happening behind his eyes.

“You remembered.”

“I always remember,” he said, voice a touch rougher than usual, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck. “Figured you’d be too tired to cook. You mentioned it once.”

 “I figured you wouldn’t want to cook,” he said with a shrug. “And you mentioned sushi once. I remember things.”

“I mentioned it in passing.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘All I want is sushi, a cold drink, and no one talking to me for ten minutes.’” He grinned. “So I figured, let’s aim for two out of three.”

I stepped closer, the smell of sesame and ginger making my mouth water. “You plated this?”

He feigned offense. “What, you think I’d leave it in plastic containers?”

I raised a brow. “You plated it with chopsticks fanned out and individual dipping bowls?”

He handed me a glass of cold sparkling water, no lemon, just the way I liked it. “Don’t look so surprised.”

We sat down, and for a few minutes, we didn’t talk. Just passed plates between us, swapped bites, and let the comfort of good food settle into our bones. I groaned a little after the first mouthful of salmon sashimi.

“This is unreal,” I mumbled, already reaching for more.

He watched me with a lazy kind of fondness, resting his cheek against one hand. “You’re fun to feed.”

“That’s such a weird thing to say.”

“It’s not weird,” he countered. “You light up when you like something. Your whole face softens. Your eyes go a little unfocused.”

“So I black out while eating,” I said, deadpan.

He laughed, nudging a plate toward me. “Black out beautifully.”

I gave him a look, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to insult you creatively right now.”

He held up a piece of unagi. “This might change your mind.”

We ate slowly, comfortably. The kind of dinner that didn’t require conversation to fill the air. But when we did talk, it was soft and slow and easy—about everything and nothing. I asked him what his worst team meeting had ever been. He told me a story that had me snorting miso through my nose. He asked about my first college apartment and I told him about the time my roommate tried to microwave a metal bowl and nearly started a fire.

He leaned back in his chair, sipping sake. “You’re funnier when you’re exhausted.”

“I’m always funny,” I said.

He lifted a brow. “You’re especially funny when you can barely lift your chopsticks.”

I gave him a mock glare, reaching for the last piece of tamago before he could steal it. “You’re only getting away with this because of sushi.”

“Noted,” he said, raising his sake in a mock toast. “Will weaponize sushi again when necessary.”

I smiled into my glass, letting the warmth spread from my chest out toward my fingertips. The food. The quiet. The flicker of candlelight catching in his eyes. It wasn’t just thoughtful. It was intimate in that particular way—uncomplicated, grounding.

Like we’d done this a hundred times before. Like we could do it a hundred times more.

Cleaning up was easy. Not because there wasn’t much to do, but because we did it together—moving around each other with a rhythm that was beginning to feel instinctive. He rinsed, I dried. He stacked the containers, I tucked the leftovers away. Occasionally, our hands bumped, and he’d glance over with a little smirk, like he enjoyed the domesticity just as much as the obstacle courses.

“You’ve got a very tactical approach to dish organization,” I noted, watching him angle the soy sauce bowls precisely into the dishwasher.

He didn’t even look up. “Years of training.”

“In elite dining logistics?”

“In surviving with German efficiency and very little kitchen space in Monaco.”

I snorted, nudging him with my elbow. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, flicking a droplet of water in my direction, “you keep showing up.”

I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth as I swiped at the water spot on my tank top.

Once the last towel was draped over the edge of the sink, he dried his hands slowly and turned to me with that familiar softness in his eyes. The kind of softness that didn’t need words to make you feel it.

“Come upstairs with me,” he said quietly.

I looked at him, a little surprised by the tenderness in his voice. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “The couch. Upstairs. Just us. No agenda. Just… that.”

I felt it then—that pull. The kind that didn’t come from obligation or expectation, but something deeper. A thread woven between trust and comfort.

So I said, simply, “Okay.”

The upstairs living room welcomed us with soft light and silence. Toto dropped onto the oversized couch first, stretching out, legs long and body relaxed like he’d been waiting to exhale all day. He reached an arm toward me, open and sure.

“Come here.”

I climbed in without hesitation this time, crawling into his lap and curling against his chest until every inch of me was cradled by him. My legs folded beneath his, tangled between his thighs. His arms wrapped around my waist, one hand resting on the small of my back, the other gently smoothing down my spine in slow, rhythmic passes.

It wasn’t just cuddling. It was… enveloping. A full-body exhale into someone else’s warmth. I pressed my cheek to his chest, where I could hear the steady beat of his heart—slow and strong and reliable. His shirt was soft beneath my face, and his scent, that mix of clean soap and something deeply him, filled every inhale.

“You’re not squished?” I murmured after a while, my voice barely audible.

“Not even close,” he said, tightening his hold slightly. “You’re like… perfectly shaped to fit here.”

“Okay, calm down,” I said, smiling despite myself. “That’s dangerously close to a cheesy line.”

“It’s not cheesy if it’s true.”

“Hmm,” I hummed. “You’re just happy I’m not running away from physical affection anymore.”

He laughed softly, the vibration echoing through his chest. “I’d call this progress.”

“Shut up,” I said, nuzzling closer.

We stayed like that, cocooned in soft limbs and softer conversation. We talked about nothing and everything—music we loved, childhood stories, his strange obsession with perfectly folded laundry. I told him about the time I fell off a treadmill in high school and pretended it was on purpose.

He called it “tactical retreat.” I told him he was a menace.

But eventually, my words started to slur together. My muscles melted further into his frame. And the next time he ran his hand along my back, I barely felt it—I was that far gone into exhaustion and contentment.

I didn’t remember when he stood. Only that I felt the shift—the gentle press of his arms under my legs and shoulders, the way he lifted me effortlessly against his chest. I made a soft noise of protest, half-asleep.

“Shh,” he whispered into my hair. “Just sleep.”

I let my head fall against his neck, catching the steady rhythm of his breathing as he carried me down the hall. His steps were slow, careful. By the time we reached his bedroom, I was floating somewhere between consciousness and the warmth of being taken care of.

He laid me down with the kind of reverence that made my throat tighten. The sheets were cool against my skin, but his body heat followed immediately—he slid in beside me, pulled me gently into his arms, and settled us into that same position as the night before.

My head on his chest. His arms wrapped around me. Legs tangled under the blanket.

“G’night,” I whispered, barely able to form the word.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and held me tighter. “Sleep, Schatzi.”

And I did.

Wrapped in him. Completely, peacefully his.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - CH.16 Fall in Love With You

Toto’s POV

I didn’t move.

Not when she leaned in.

Not when her temple touched my shoulder.

Not even when the rhythm of her breathing shifted into something slower, steadier—like her body had finally caught up to the safety of mine.

I stayed exactly where I was.

Let her stay exactly where she needed to be.

And for a moment—longer than a moment, really—I forgot every damn thing outside this room.

The schedule.

The logistics.

The season.

The image I’d spent years curating and protecting.

None of it mattered.

Because this—her, like this—was everything I hadn’t let myself admit I wanted.

Not sex. Not adrenaline. Not distraction.

Just this.

Warmth.

Weight.

Presence.

The soft pressure of her cheek pressed to the curve of my shoulder like she'd been made for that exact angle. The way her breath warmed the hollow of my collarbone. The way her body didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask permission—it simply settled. Trusted.

I kept my arm along the back of the couch. Still. Open.

Not pressing.

Not pulling.

Just there.

I didn't want to move.

Because in that moment, I felt... chosen.

Not because of my name. Not because of what I could offer.

But because I made space.

Because I let her come to me in her own time, her own way, and she did.

She chose to.

And I know what that costs her.

I know the weight of being strong for so long, of curling yourself into armor that looks like independence and resilience—until someone shows you that softness doesn't make you weak.

I know what it means to hand someone your stillness and pray they don’t shatter it.

So when she whispered—“I think I needed this more than I realized”—something in me folded.

Not from pride.

Not even from tenderness.

But from reverence.

I didn’t rush to meet her with words. Didn’t offer anything performative or poetic.

I just said the only thing that was honest.

“I know.”

Barely a breath. But she heard it.

And that was enough.

I felt her body melt just a little more. The last of the tension draining from her limbs, like she'd finally exhaled something she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her fingers shifted in her lap—no longer fidgeting, no longer guarding. Just resting.

The light outside was nearly gone, but neither of us moved to turn it on.

The dark didn’t feel threatening. It wasn’t empty.

It was comforting, like a curtain being pulled around us. A signal that the rest of the world could wait.

I turned my head slightly, enough for my chin to hover just above hers. Not touching. Just watching.

There was something holy about the moment.

Not religious.

Just sacred.

Quiet, and chosen.

I could’ve stayed like that forever—her breath soft against my chest, her warmth sinking deeper into mine, the stillness not begging to be filled, but honored.

And maybe for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I needed to do something.

Fix something.

Plan something.

I just wanted to be.

Here. With her.

Holding the kind of silence that said everything.

She didn’t need me to speak.

She didn’t need me to act.

She just needed me to stay.

And I did.

Because what lived in this moment wasn’t fragile—it was rare. Something that had taken time to build, brick by brick. Boundary by boundary. Trust by trust.

She had let me in.

And I wasn’t going to move an inch until she asked me to.

But the moment… eventually, it broke itself.

Not with drama. Not with a sharp edge.

Just with life.

Her stomach growled.

Not a quiet sound.

Not something that could be brushed off or ignored.

It cut through the dimness like a whisper too loud in a cathedral—undeniable and fully human.

Even wrapped in this pocket of stillness we’d built together, it reached me.

And her reaction was instant.

She tensed—not visibly, not to anyone else—but I felt it.

In the way her breath caught.

In the way her shoulders rose.

In the small, sharp inhale she took like she might be able to reel the sound back in and pretend it never happened.

“Sorry,” she whispered into my chest. And god—she sounded gutted by it.

Like she'd somehow ruined the sanctity of the moment by simply having a body with needs.

I closed my eyes for a beat.

And smiled.

Soft. Private. Just for her.

“That wasn’t an apology-worthy offense,” I murmured, the words low against her temple.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The fact that she hadn’t eaten since the airport—maybe before—was all I needed to know.

And the fact that she thought this was something to be embarrassed about? That her body asking for what it needed might make her less in my eyes?

It broke something in me quietly.

Not because I was surprised.

But because I knew what that meant—what it took to unlearn.

I let my hand move finally.

From where it had rested along the back of the couch to the top of her spine.

A slow, sweeping glide of my fingers down the ridge of her back, enough pressure to be felt. Not firm. Not fleeting.

Just contact.

A quiet way of saying: You don’t have to hide from me.

“Come on,” I said gently, my voice more coaxing than commanding. “Let me feed you.”

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t try to make a joke to deflect.

She just eased back—reluctantly, slowly—rubbing her hand over her stomach with a grimace like it had betrayed her at the worst possible moment.

“Let’s get you upstairs first,” I added, reaching down to tug the blanket away from her legs.

She blinked up at me like she’d already forgotten where she was. Like sleep had started to pull her under before her body reminded her of its emptiness.

“Your suitcase,” I clarified. “Let me carry it up.”

That got a soft nod out of her.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t try to insist she could manage.

Just stood up, quiet and pliant, her hoodie draped over one forearm, her eyes still glassy from rest that hadn’t come yet.

I crossed the foyer to the door where her suitcase waited and grabbed it by the handle.

It wasn’t heavy, but it felt significant. Like every step up the stairs with it was one more thread stitched between her and this house. Between her and me.

She followed slowly, her socked feet quiet on the stairs.

The whole house held its breath, dim and still, like it knew this wasn’t just a guest coming to visit.

This was the beginning of something lived in.

When we reached the landing, I turned left.

Past my room.

Past the guest room.

To hers.

I paused outside the door—not for drama, but because I wanted her to be the one to cross the threshold first.

“This is yours.”

She stepped past me.

And I watched her face.

Watched the soft, stunned shift in her expression as she took it in.

Muted grey walls—peaceful, not cold.

A small desk with the charging station already set up, every cable and adapter already in place.

Books on the shelves that I’d seen in her hands on calls. The candle she’d once said reminded her of her mother’s house.

The lamp cast a warm, amber glow across the bed—cream linen, pillows fluffed, her favorite throw folded with intention, not as a prop.

Her eyes moved slowly from one corner to the next, and I knew what she was seeing.

Not a room for someone.

A room for her.

I hadn’t just made space.

I had carved it out, shaped it, readied it for the way she moved in the world.

And when she whispered my name—“Toto…”—it cracked something deep in my chest.

She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to.

“Bathroom’s through there,” I said softly, motioning toward the door beside the wardrobe. “Towels are out already. Take your time.”

She turned to look at me, hoodie still clutched in her hands, her mouth trembling at the corners like if she tried to thank me out loud, it would unravel her completely.

So I didn’t make her.

I just nodded once and stepped back.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I said. “Come find me when you’re ready.”

And I left her there. Not because I wanted to.

But because she deserved the space to feel the gift of it all.

To walk barefoot through a room made entirely for her.

To light her candle.

To unzip her bag and finally exhale.

To realize, quietly and in her own time, that this wasn’t a temporary kindness.

This was a welcome.

And she was home.

Back downstairs, I rolled my sleeves to my elbows and turned on the stove.

The motion grounded me—gave my hands something to do while my mind stayed tangled in the curve of her fingers leaving mine upstairs. I moved on instinct. That kind of muscle memory born from repetition and ritual. Precision I could control.

I didn’t need to think. I just let it happen.

Olive oil hissed across the pan. Garlic bloomed the second it hit the heat—sharp and sweet and familiar. I crushed rosemary and thyme between my fingers, releasing their oils before dropping them into the skillet. The scent rose like a tide, rich and earthy, wrapping around me as if the kitchen itself was exhaling.

The chicken thighs seared with a clean, satisfying sizzle, the skin crisping to a perfect golden crackle. I seasoned them carefully—citrus zest, sea salt, pepper—before settling them into a pan surrounded by parsnips, carrots, and shallots, all tossed in oil and herbs. I roasted them until their edges darkened and curled, caramelizing just enough to bite back.

Next came the risotto.

Arborio rice toasted in butter until the grains turned translucent. White onions, finely diced, softened slow in the background. Then the first ladle of stock—chicken and white wine, just warm enough to coax the starch out of the rice. Stirring became rhythm. Meditation. Breath.

The same movement, over and over again.

My body knew how to do this.

And still—through all of it—I listened for her.

Every floorboard. Every distant rustle. Every shadow behind the glass of the stairwell.

When I finally heard her—bare feet, soft, unhurried—it took everything in me not to turn around too fast. Not to look too eager. Not to need it.

But then she stepped into the kitchen. And there was no looking away.

She didn’t announce herself.

Just appeared.

And everything in me reacted.

She walked in barefoot, hoodie forgotten somewhere in the crook of her elbow, her curls damp and softly styled in the way I’d memorized from late-night FaceTime calls. Untamed. Natural. Like she hadn't even tried. Like this was just... how she existed.

Her skin glowed pink from the shower, flushed in that way that only came from steam and soap and privacy. Her cheeks were rosy, her face clean and open, her lashes still damp.

And what she wore—

Jesus.

Baggy plaid pajama pants, cinched and rolled several times at the waist, the cotton hugging the slope of her hips just enough to make my restraint flicker. That black tank top—simple, soft, dipping just slightly at the neckline—clung to her chest in a way that made my thoughts scatter.

Bare arms. Bare collarbones. Bare shoulders kissed by humidity and the faint scent of lavender that trailed behind her.

She wasn’t trying.

That was the worst part.

She wasn’t trying to be anything but comfortable.

But she looked like she belonged in every room I'd never let anyone step into before.

God help me, I hoped she didn’t put that hoodie on.

She blinked slowly, taking in the kitchen—the smells, the heat, the low simmer of stock on the stove—and her lips lifted into something small, unforced.

“Hey,” she said, casual. Like we hadn’t just stood in silence that rewired something inside both of us.

“Hi,” I managed, though the word caught in my throat like it didn’t quite belong there.

She padded further in, soft and quiet, and leaned a hip against the bar. Her arms folded beneath her chest, pulling the neckline of her tank just slightly lower, exposing the clean line of her collarbone and the soft swell beneath.

I forced my eyes to the pan.

To the risotto. To the chicken.

Anywhere but her.

I could feel her watching me. Could feel the weight of her gaze settle like heat along the side of my face. Not demanding. Not testing.

Just present.

And the silence between us stretched—not uncomfortable, but dense.

Weighted. Charged.

A hum beneath the surface.

“You okay, Toto?” she asked finally, teasing just enough to ground me again.

I swallowed, cleared my throat. “I—yeah.”

Liar.

She smiled, biting the inside of her cheek like she knew. Like she’d seen the way my fingers paused on the ladle. The way I blinked too slow. The way my voice dropped half an octave lower than I meant it to.

She didn’t gloat.

She just watched.

And I just kept stirring.

Because dinner wasn’t going to cook itself.

And if I let myself look at her for one second longer, I was going to burn the risotto and kiss her senseless in the same breath.

“You cook,” she said again—softer now. Different. Like she wasn’t talking about dinner at all.

“Only when I’m feeding someone who matters,” I replied, without looking at her.

I didn’t need to.

I already knew she was smiling.

And it leveled me.

I plated carefully—every detail deliberate. Roasted chicken thighs, skin blistered and crisp, nestled alongside golden vegetables glazed in their own juices. A generous scoop of risotto, creamy and steaming, topped with a shaving of parmesan and cracked pepper.

No garnish. No pretense.

Just food made with intention.

I set her plate down at the bar and nodded to the stool closest to me.

“Sit,” I said softly. “We’re eating here.”

“Not the table?”

“Too far away,” I murmured, without hesitation. “I want you close.”

She didn’t push back.

She just nodded, lips parting like she might say something—but didn’t. Instead, she climbed onto the stool, folding one leg under the other, arms resting on the edge of the marble like she’d already begun to soften into the moment.

And with her right there beside me—barefoot, flushed, effortless—I realized something:

It wasn’t just about feeding her.

It was about having her here.

In this kitchen. In this light.

In this life I’d kept so carefully measured.

And it was the first time I didn’t want to measure it at all.

I took the seat beside her, close but not crowding.

I set a glass of water beside her plate, in case she become thirsty than rather letting the wine which would pair well take her exhaustion of an unnecessary level.

She grinned. Just a little.

“Eat,” I said, voice low. “I made this for you.”

And she did.

One bite. Then another.

Her posture softened with every chew. Her shoulders dropped. Her foot brushed mine once, unintentionally—but she didn’t pull it back.

For a long while, we didn’t speak.

We just existed in the same space, full plates between us, quiet music humming through the house, the only light coming from the pendant lamp above the kitchen island.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was better than that.

It was intimate.

Something known. Something chosen.

And when she finally leaned her elbow onto the bar, her cheek resting briefly on her hand, she looked at me—not with surprise or awe, but something slower. Something that said:

I’m here. And I’m staying.

And that—more than any thank you—was enough.

We didn’t rush through dinner.

Neither of us seemed to want to.

By the time her plate was nearly clean, she was sitting sideways on the barstool, one knee tucked under her, her posture fully relaxed in that way that only came with real nourishment—body and otherwise.

I reached for her dish, ready to take care of the rest, but her hand stopped mine.

“Let me help.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Her voice left no room for argument—not because it was firm, but because it was honest.

So I let her.

She moved slowly, methodically, rinsing the plates while I cleared the cutting board and put away the leftover risotto. I caught her humming under her breath at one point—something barely there, a melody from nowhere, and it made the corners of my mouth twitch before I could stop them.

When the last dish was placed on the drying rack and her fingers curled around the edge of the sink to stretch her back, I wiped my hands on a towel and nodded toward the stairs.

“Come on. There’s one more place I want to show you.”

The upstairs living room wasn’t a showpiece. It wasn’t designed for guests or entertaining. It was for me—for the quieter parts of me most people never saw. And now… I wanted her to see them.

Low light. Thick, soft rugs underfoot. Floor cushions stacked near the coffee table. A long charcoal sectional, blankets draped lazily over the back, and a record player tucked into the corner with albums stacked beside it. The walls were darker here, rich blue-gray, which made the space feel closer, slower.

I flipped on the lamp and turned to see her eyes slowly scan the room.

“This feels like... you,” she murmured.

“It is.”

She stepped in. Toed off her slippers near the couch. Picked up one of the throw blankets and wrapped it loosely around her shoulders before settling into the corner of the sectional.

I sat beside her.

And this time, I didn’t wait for her to lean in.

I opened my arm without thinking.

And she came to me like she’d been doing it for years.

No hesitation. No tension. Just gravity.

Her head nestled beneath my jaw. One of her legs folded between mine. My hand instinctively curved around her waist.

She let out a quiet sigh, not dramatic, just the kind that slipped out when your body finally caught up to how tired you were. I adjusted slightly, tightening my arm around her, and she didn’t resist. Just nuzzled in deeper, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

We stayed like that for a while—wrapped in quiet, not silence.

There was a difference.

This was the kind of quiet that breathed with you. That filled the room without pressing on it.

“This couch is dangerous,” she murmured, her voice thick with fatigue and fabric. “Like... I might never move again.”

“It’s my best-kept secret,” I said. “You’re lucky I’m sharing it.”

“Mm. Generous of you.”

Her fingers had found the hem of the blanket tucked at my side. She wasn’t clutching it, just… fidgeting, lazily. A loop here. A pinch there. The kind of mindless movement you only do when you’re safe enough to stop performing.

“Is this where you hide after the race weekends?” she asked, her voice low.

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “When I don’t want to think. Or talk. Or be useful.”

“So... always.”

I let out a low laugh. “Careful. That sounds dangerously close to sarcasm.”

“Don’t be soft,” she mumbled, but I felt the smile on her lips, just beneath my collarbone.

“You say that while literally curled into me like a cat.”

“And? Cats are apex predators.”

“You’re the most exhausted apex predator I’ve ever met.”

“Exactly. Dangerous, but nap-prone.”

That pulled a real laugh from me. Not loud, but full. It vibrated in my chest, and I felt her press closer, like she liked the sound of it.

I reached over to the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and turned on the record player. The needle dropped softly. Something slow, instrumental, started to hum through the space—piano and strings. Nothing sentimental. Just soft. Background to the kind of evening that didn’t need a name.

Her body went heavier against mine. I felt her shift again, one hand slipping under the blanket between us, resting lightly over my ribs.

“You okay?” I asked quietly, looking down.

She nodded. “Just... full. In a good way.”

“Food full or...?”

“Everything full.”

There it was again—that way she could say something without dramatizing it. No frills. Just truth.

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She let it settle.

“Toto?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for not talking me out of coming.”

“I wouldn’t have dared.”

“You would’ve, if you thought it wasn’t right.”

“True,” I said. “But it was.”

We didn’t talk after that.

Her breathing began to slow, again. This time deeper. Her body more still. That unconscious twitch of her fingers fading as the weight of her day gave way to sleep.

I didn’t say anything. Just let her rest.

Watched her cheek press deeper into the edge of my sweater. Watched the rise and fall of her shoulders shift into something unmistakably sleepy.

“Schatzi,” I whispered, brushing the back of my fingers lightly along her hip. “You’re gone, aren’t you?”

She made a low sound in her throat. Something noncommittal.

I smiled to myself and adjusted my arm beneath her legs.

“Alright. Come on,” I said quietly.

She didn’t respond.

But as I scooped her up, her arms slid automatically around my neck, her forehead finding the crook of my shoulder like she was half-aware I was moving her, and only half-caring.

She didn’t stir much when I lifted her.

Just sighed—soft and heavy—her arms loosely wrapped around my neck, her face tucked into the hollow beneath my collarbone like she already knew she was meant to be there.

I carried her toward the hallway, pausing at the door to the room I’d made for her.

Her room. Every piece chosen with her in mind.

But when I started to turn the handle, I felt it.

A subtle shift.

Her body stiffened, almost imperceptibly. Her arms tightened—not in panic, not even in resistance, but enough.

Enough to make me stop.

Enough to make me know.

“You don’t want to sleep in here,” I said quietly, not as a question.

She didn’t say anything. Just shook her head once, against my chest.

“Okay,” I murmured, without hesitation.

I turned.

My bedroom wasn’t far. And this time, when I stepped through the doorway, she didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch.

I brought her to my side of the bed—where the sheets were slightly rumpled from the night before, the pillow still holding the faintest shape of my rest—and gently laid her down.

Her fingers held on for a second longer before slipping free.

She shifted, immediately finding the space I’d just vacated. One hand reached out, searching, even as her eyes stayed closed.

I smoothed her curls back from her face, letting my fingers linger just long enough to reassure.

“I’m just going to shower,” I whispered. “I’ll be right back. Two minutes.”

She didn’t respond, not really. But her fingers curled again when I tried to move away. Not tight. Just... attached.

Reluctantly, I stood.

Stepped into the bathroom and shut the door halfway—not fully closed. I didn’t want her to feel shut off.

The water was quick. Hot, but brief. Just enough to wash away the day, the smell of food, the travel, the low buzz of exhaustion starting to pull at me too.

When I came back out, towel slung low around my hips, she was still curled on my side of the bed.

Still in the tank top and pajama pants. One arm tucked under the pillow. The other stretched toward the space beside her like she’d fallen asleep mid-reach.

I pulled on a pair of soft cotton sleep pants, left the shirt off. The lights were low—just the lamp on my nightstand, casting a soft glow across her skin.

I slid in beside her carefully. Quietly.

And the moment the mattress dipped, she shifted.

Without opening her eyes, she moved toward me, like her body recognized the weight of mine before her mind did. Her hand found my chest. Her leg tucked up between mine. Her breath exhaled fully, like this—this—was what her body had been waiting for.

I didn’t say anything.

Just wrapped my arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

She was asleep in seconds.

And I stayed awake for a little while longer, watching the way she softened against me. The way the lines of her day had finally eased. The way she looked in my bed like she belonged there.

Because she did.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - CH.15 Cherry Wine

Y/N’s

I could still feel his mouth against mine.

Even as I stood there—unmoving, barely breathing—in the quiet of his foyer, with my fingers curled ever so slightly into my palms, the sensation hadn’t left. It clung to me, like smoke curling into fabric, like static in my lungs. My lips still tingled with the memory—soft, certain, unhurried. Not possessive. Not rushed. But deliberate. Intended. As if it had existed in the space between us long before either of us had the courage to let it happen. And now that it had, everything else—the air, the room, the very bones of the house—felt different. Thickened. Tilted.

He had kissed me like a man surrendering. Like someone who had carried the weight of restraint for too long and had finally—finally—let go. And somehow, despite the hundreds of things unsaid, it had said everything.

And now we were here.

It was 3 p.m. on an otherwise ordinary afternoon. Gray light filtered through the tall windows, casting soft shadows across the floor. Somewhere outside, the world kept moving—cars humming down narrow roads, leaves rustling in the breeze—but in here? Time had thinned. I wasn’t sure it was moving at all.

I hadn’t even been in London for a full hour. I had landed just after noon. Cleared customs. Retrieved my bag in a daze. Watched the city blur past through the car window as Toto drove me in near silence, our words scarce but our glances too loud to ignore. And now I stood at the threshold of his world—his home—not as an academic fellow visiting for orientation, not as some colleague on assignment, but as me.

Just me.

The girl who had fallen into him faster than she ever meant to. Harder than she should have. And who had spent the weeks apart convincing herself she could compartmentalize. That she could return here and be composed, professional, objective.

How stupid of me.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t brittle or strained. It was dense. Saturated. It wrapped around us like fog, thick with everything we weren’t saying and everything we had said without speaking. The kind of silence that felt holy. Like if you breathed too loud, the moment might shatter.

I stayed rooted in place. My coat still clung to my shoulders, unzipped but not removed. My bag had slipped off somewhere by the door, forgotten. My pulse was a steady roar in my ears, competing with the echo of the kiss still reverberating through my skin. I could feel it in my jaw. In my throat. In my chest.

And yet, neither of us moved.

Toto had kissed me the moment we walked through the door. No hesitation. No lead-up. Just a soft “come here” under his breath, and then his hand gently cradling the side of my face, thumb brushing just beneath my eye. Like he needed to touch me. Needed the weight of it. And then his mouth found mine—and for the first time all day, I had exhaled.

He had kissed me like someone anchoring himself. Like if he didn’t, he might disappear.

And I had let him. I had leaned into it like it was instinct. Like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

Even now, minutes later, my body remembered the shape of him. The angle of his jaw under my palm. The faint stubble that scraped against my cheek. The press of his hand at the small of my back. Every second of that kiss had been soaked in weeks of tension. Of missing. Of restraint that had finally worn too thin to hold.

It had unraveled me.

And now? I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I stood in his home—the home I had imagined so many times through blurry FaceTime backgrounds and stories he’d told in passing. The home where he read the news in the mornings and answered emails too late at night. The home that smelled faintly of cedar and espresso and the clean, subtle warmth of his cologne. It was minimal but not cold. Sharp lines softened by lived-in details. A jacket draped over a dining chair. A coffee cup forgotten on the console table. A book spine cracked open, dog-eared in the middle.

Everything felt curated but real. And now, I was in the middle of it.

I turned slightly, my eyes scanning the space like it might give me some sort of clarity. It didn’t. The kiss lingered in the air like perfume. Heavy. Present. My lips still parted, breath shallow. My hands didn’t know where to rest. My heart was no longer beating in time.

I heard movement behind me. The soft creak of floorboards. Then, his voice. Low. Measured.

“You okay?”

I didn’t turn around right away. Just stared ahead, letting the question settle into the stillness like a pebble dropped into deep water.

“Yeah,” I managed, though my voice betrayed me—thin, unsteady. “Just… taking it in.”

A pause. Then the soft tread of his footsteps. A shift in the air as he came closer. And then—his hand, again. Light against my elbow. Gentle pressure. Guiding.

“Come sit,” he said, barely more than a murmur.

I let him lead me.

We moved into the living room. I sank into the edge of the couch like someone half-awake, unsure of her own limbs. Toto disappeared briefly into the kitchen. I heard the clink of glass. Ice. Water running. My mouth was suddenly dry.

When he returned, he handed me a glass—cool, sweating against my palm—and sat beside me. Not too close. Not far either. Just enough space that it felt intentional.

I didn’t drink. Just held it. My fingers were trembling slightly, and I prayed he didn’t notice.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

We just sat there. Steeped in the aftermath of a kiss that had broken something open in both of us.

I wanted to speak. I wanted to say everything. That I had missed him more than I’d admitted, even to myself. That every message he’d sent, every voice note, every stolen glance during late-night calls had burned a little hole in my chest. That I had counted the days until I could see him again. That I had thought about this moment more times than I could remember—and still, somehow, it had undone me.

But none of it came out.

Because this—this—wasn’t the time for confessions. This was the time for silence. For breath. For sitting in the quiet with the weight of knowing something had changed, and there was no going back.

And neither of us wanted to.

Not really.

Because that kiss? That kiss had been a beginning.

And everything else?

Everything else would come next.

Toto had disappeared into the kitchen.

I heard him before I saw him. The faint creak of a cabinet opening. A soft clink—glass meeting glass. A pause. Then the muted hiss of liquid being poured. A fridge door. The chime of ice dropped into something tall and clean. Calm, purposeful movements. Like he’d done this a thousand times. Like he wasn’t coming off a kiss that had all but rearranged the air between us.

I stood completely still, except for the part of me still vibrating.

My body felt strung tight, like someone had taken the volume of my awareness and dialed it to max. I could hear everything. The hum of the refrigerator. The ticking of a nearby wall clock. The subtle whisper of fabric as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

Wine? Was that what he was pouring?

God. I hoped it wasn’t wine.

I wasn’t prepared for wine. I wasn’t prepared for anything, really—not in this state. Not when my skin was still tingling like an open circuit, still carrying the aftershock of his mouth on mine, the solid heat of his hands bracing my body like I might float away if he let go. Wine would feel… dangerous. Intimate in a way I wasn’t sure I could handle right now.

It felt too much like a second invitation.

And I was already struggling to breathe through the first one.

I exhaled shakily and forced my gaze to shift, letting my eyes begin to wander. Anything to ground myself. Anything to delay the inevitable moment when he would return to the room and the silence would bloom between us again—thick and expectant and sharp around the edges.

This was the first time I was really seeing his home. Not through the blurry lens of video calls, or those occasional snapshots he sent in the dead of night when he was still working at the kitchen table. Not with the fuzz of jet lag dulling my senses or the performative smile I wore during team calls, trying to act like my chest wasn’t constantly aching for more.

Now, it was just me. And this space. And the echo of his mouth on mine.

The house was what I expected—and nothing like I expected at all.

Meticulous. Structured. Minimal in design, but not in energy. Everything seemed intentional. Clean lines. Soft, neutral palettes. Hardwood floors that gleamed under the overcast afternoon light. It looked like the kind of space you’d see featured in a magazine—uncluttered, tasteful, dignified.

But it wasn’t cold. No, not even close.

There was warmth here. Subtle but present. The kind of warmth you only notice when you’re standing still enough to feel it. It lingered in the things that hadn’t been curated—only lived. A jacket draped over the back of a kitchen stool. A pair of glasses left on the armrest of the couch. A faint watermark ring where a mug had been set down and forgotten.

It felt… real. Lived-in. His.

My eyes scanned slowly, deliberately. There was a vinyl record player in the corner, the kind with a brushed gold arm and a wooden base. Beside it was a neat but slightly uneven stack of albums. Not arranged alphabetically or by genre. Just placed. Worn in places from use, not neglect.

There was a lamp nearby. The warm kind, with the soft pull chain that glowed amber in the corner, casting light over a deep brown leather sofa. One end of the couch was slightly indented, the throw blanket slouched halfway down the cushion—like someone had fallen asleep there recently and left in a hurry.

None of it was staged. None of it tried to impress.

It simply was.

I stood at the edge of it all and let the realization settle: this was where he lived. Where he breathed. Where he unraveled at the end of too-long days and started again with quiet, determined mornings. And now, I was standing in the middle of it. Still wrapped in my coat. Still unsure of how I belonged in this picture.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

My gaze flicked toward the hallway just in time to hear his footsteps returning. Slow. Measured. Like even he was unsure of how to step into this new version of us.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low—careful.

I turned toward the sound, and there he was, framed by the doorway. His eyes on me, searching for something. Not fear. Not regret. Just… checking in.

He held two glasses. Water. Just water.

Thank God.

Relief bloomed in my chest—fast and sharp. Wine would have felt like a suggestion. Water felt like a peace offering. A moment to breathe. To land. I nodded and reached for the glass.

Our fingers brushed.

The touch was brief. Barely there. But I felt it everywhere.

I felt it in the base of my spine. In the tightening low in my stomach. In the heat that immediately rose to my throat. And I saw it in him—the slight way his jaw tensed. The faint pause before he let go. Like he wasn’t quite ready to break the contact either.

The silence between us stretched again. Thicker now. Heavier.

"You don’t have to pretend this is normal," he said after a long moment. His voice was calm. Steady. Unflinchingly honest. “It’s not.”

I let out a quiet laugh. Not because it was funny—because it was true.

“It’s not,” I agreed, my voice softer than I intended.

There was a pause. One of those delicate silences where you can almost hear the heartbeat of something unnamed trying to take shape.

“But I want it to be,” I added. The words left my lips before I could weigh them, stop them, soften them. They came out stripped and bare.

I wanted this to be normal. Him. Me. Whatever this was that was growing too quickly to control and too quietly to define.

His gaze lifted. Locked onto mine.

And whatever I thought I’d feel in that moment—fear, embarrassment, uncertainty—it didn’t come. Only quiet.

Steady. Clear. Like the part of him that spoke in gestures and restraint had finally stepped forward.

“Me too,” he said.

And it wasn’t a promise. Or a confession. It was something simpler. Stronger.

A choice.

His eyes stayed on mine, unwavering. And for a second, the house disappeared. The kiss faded. The silence folded inward.

There was only this.

Him.

And me.

And the raw, quiet knowing that something in both of us had just shifted—and we weren’t going back.

He didn’t ask me to sit.

He didn’t have to.

The suggestion hung in the air, unspoken but understood—woven into the soft hush of his voice, the way he looked at me like I was something delicate. Something real. The moment our eyes met, I felt it—an invitation wrapped in silence.

So I moved first.

Settled onto the couch with the kind of caution you reserve for sacred spaces, unsure of where to place my hands, unsure of anything, really. My body felt suddenly foreign to me—too heavy in some places, too light in others. The heat of the kiss still clung to my skin, and everything I touched felt vaguely electric.

The glass of water in my hand gave me something to hold, but not much to anchor me.

Toto followed a moment later, his footsteps soft but sure. He didn’t sit close—of course he didn’t. That wasn’t his way. But he didn’t go far, either. He lowered himself onto the other end of the couch, angled slightly toward me, enough that I could feel the presence of him like a current. Our knees didn’t touch. But they almost did.

Almost was louder than contact.

That narrow space between us might as well have been charged with voltage. It was the kind of distance that makes you hyperaware of every breath, every shift. The kind that doesn’t let you forget the closeness. It insists on being felt.

I gripped the glass tighter and brought it to my lips, just for something to do. The water was cold. Crisp. It grounded me for half a second before dissolving again into static. My mind wouldn’t stop moving. Not in straight lines—never that—but in spirals. In disjointed flashes of memory and sensation.

I was hyperaware of everything.

The texture of the throw pillow at my side. The slight creak of the leather under Toto’s weight. The sound of our breathing in the quiet room. The fact that my knees had drifted a little closer to his without me realizing.

My heart was thudding against my ribs so hard it felt like a drumroll. Not nervous, exactly. Just… exposed. Open in a way that was new. Unfamiliar.

I turned my head slightly to glance at him, unsure of what I’d find. I expected him to be looking at his phone. At the window. At anything but me.

But he was watching me.

And not in a way that made me shrink. Not in a way that suggested scrutiny or expectation.

It was thoughtful. Measured. Quiet.

Like he was memorizing me.

Like he wanted to imprint the moment—not to analyze it, but to keep it. To hold it, somewhere private.

There was no hunger in his eyes. No heat or lust or possessiveness. Just… presence. And it almost undid me more than the kiss.

“Are you hungry?” he asked softly.

The question cut gently through the quiet, like the softest blade.

I blinked, startled by the sound of his voice. “Not yet,” I murmured, shaking my head once.

He nodded, once. No follow-up. No insistence. Just acceptance.

And then… silence.

Not awkward. Not empty. Full.

We sat like that, side by side, close but not touching, in the thick of a moment neither of us knew how to name. The kind of silence that expands instead of contracts. That holds more meaning than words could ever manage.

There were a hundred things I wanted to say.

I missed you.

You look tired.

You look beautiful.

I think I’m in trouble.

I think I’m already in too deep.

But none of it came out. The words felt too small. Too flimsy for what was happening in my chest. How could I describe this—us—in a way that didn’t cheapen it?

The truth was, I didn’t have the language for this yet. I only had feeling. The kind that sat too heavily in your ribcage and made it hard to breathe.

After a while, Toto stood.

Not abruptly. Not awkwardly. He unfolded from the couch like a man with a purpose, but not one he needed to explain. He disappeared into the hallway for a moment, and I stared blankly ahead, pulse still beating wild against the back of my throat.

When he came back, he was holding a blanket.

It was soft. Light gray. Looked like it had lived here forever. He didn’t offer it with any ceremony. He didn’t say anything grand. He just reached across the back of the couch and draped it carefully near where I sat.

“In case you’re cold,” he said.

I looked up at him slowly, the tenderness of the gesture hitting me harder than it should have.

Not flowers. Not some sweeping gesture. Just… this. Thoughtfulness in its purest form.

“I’m not,” I whispered, barely able to find my voice.

He nodded. “Still.”

Still.

Still, he brought it. Still, he noticed. Still, he thought of me. Still, he cared—even in the quiet, even in the small ways. Maybe especially in the small ways.

I looked at the blanket. Then back at him. Then at the space between us.

“You’re being careful,” I said, more to myself than to him.

I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But once I had, I couldn’t take it back.

He turned toward me, something soft flickering in his expression. His eyes traced mine, then dropped for a fraction of a second before returning—like he was thinking. Choosing his words.

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “I have to be,” he said.

And then, quieter. “With you.”

My throat tightened. Heat stung at the backs of my eyes.

Because no one said that to me. No one ever had to be careful.

People expected me to be fine. To hold it together. To keep pace, keep calm, keep going. And I did. I always did. I bore weight like it was stitched into my skin. And I never let it show.

But this? Sitting here, in this house, knees brushing the air beside his, the ghost of a kiss still lingering between us like a thread that hadn’t been cut—I didn’t want to be fine.

I didn’t want to be composed. Or strong. Or invulnerable.

I just wanted to be held. To be seen without needing to explain. To be wanted—quietly, fiercely, in all the ways that had nothing to do with performance.

And somehow, in that one answer, he had told me that I was.

Still.

I wanted to be his.

God, I wanted it with a kind of clarity that terrified me. Not the performative kind of want that looks good in curated texts or soft-spoken promises. Not the fleeting pull of infatuation that burns too hot and fizzles too fast.

This was different.

This was bone-deep. Cellular. The kind of wanting that rearranges you. That sinks into the cracks of who you are and says stay.

I didn’t just want his attention. I wanted his stillness. His certainty. I wanted the way he looked at me like I wasn’t a puzzle to solve, or a role to fill, or a complication to manage. I wanted the way he noticed—without needing to be asked. The way he didn’t try to fix me, just made space for me to exist as I was.

I wanted that space to be mine.

I wanted him.

So when the silence between us started to ache, when the pressure in my chest bloomed so wide it almost hurt, I broke it.

“Can I ask you something?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Toto turned toward me slightly, his eyes catching mine instantly. “Anything.”

That word—so simple, so immediate—loosened something I hadn’t even realized I was clenching.

I stared at the rim of my glass, heart pounding harder than it had any right to.

“What now?”

My question dropped like a stone between us. Not accusatory. Not demanding. Just raw. Honest. A whispered exhale of fear, hope, and something I couldn’t quite name yet.

His expression softened—so subtly that if I hadn’t been watching him like I was studying scripture, I might’ve missed it. His brow smoothed. His lips parted just slightly. The tension in his shoulders uncoiled like he’d been waiting for me to ask.

“Now,” he said gently, “we slow down.”

I blinked. My throat closed around the sharp swell of emotion rising there. “You want to slow down?”

“I want to get it right.”

Get it right.

Not keep it secret. Not keep it light. Not don’t make a mess of this.

He wanted to get it right.

That undid me.

Because I wasn’t used to things going slow. I wasn’t used to them going right either.

My history was littered with relationships that came fast and loud and demanding. Where affection was conditional. Where interest was a currency I had to constantly earn. Where being chosen came with expiration dates, performance reviews, or worse—silence.

I wasn’t used to this—being chosen in the quiet. In the steady. In the real.

I wasn’t used to someone seeing me unravel and saying stay anyway.

“Okay,” I said, and it wasn’t just agreement—it was a surrender. But not the kind that felt like defeat. This surrender felt like a step off a ledge into something soft. Something I didn’t need to brace for. Something that would catch me.

Even as I said it, my chest ached from the effort of releasing the panic curled in the corners of my mind—the panic that told me to do something. Be more. Explain myself. Convince him.

But he wasn’t asking for any of that.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely, like he was grounding himself before he said the next part.

“You don’t have to prove anything here, Y/N,” he said. “Not to the team. Not to me.”

He paused. Not for emphasis, but to make space for the words to land.

“Just… be here. Be you.”

I didn’t respond right away.

I didn’t know how.

Because those words cracked something wide open in me. That kind of freedom—that kind of invitation—it didn’t come for girls like me. Not often. Not easily. I was used to being the one who earned her space. Who shaped herself into what someone else needed. Who edited her edges until she fit the room.

And now here he was, asking me to unlearn all of it.

To just be.

I looked down at my glass, blinking hard, watching a single droplet of condensation slip slowly down the side. I followed it with my eyes, as if it held the answer to the question I was too scared to say aloud.

I wasn’t used to this.

“I’m not used to people wanting that,” I whispered, so low I wasn’t sure if it even made it out of my throat.

I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I wasn’t fishing. I was stating a truth that had wrapped itself around my ribs like armor for most of my life.

And then—

“I’m not people.”

He said it so simply. So easily. But it hit me with the weight of a confession.

That made me look at him.

And this time, when I met his gaze, I didn’t look away.

Because he wasn’t asking me for anything. He wasn’t expecting me to hand him every vulnerable part of myself just to earn a seat next to him. He wasn’t testing me. He was choosing me.

And not because I’d performed well. Not because I’d fit a mold. Not because he’d been watching and waiting for me to become someone worth holding onto.

He was choosing me as is.

He didn’t touch me. Not yet. His hands stayed where they were. His body remained angled, open, but still.

And yet… his presence was everywhere. Around me. With me.

His words hung in the room like a balm I didn’t know I needed. And in that moment, I understood something that had eluded me for years:

This wasn’t about grand gestures. This wasn’t about fireworks.

This was the quiet miracle of someone seeing you—really seeing you—and not flinching.

This was the slow unfolding.

The patient unraveling of fear, of want, of trust.

This was what came after the kiss. After the storm of weeks apart. After all the pretending and restraint and silence.

That kiss had been the beginning.

But this?

This was everything that came after.

And maybe, for the first time, I was ready for it.

He didn’t say anything after that.

He didn’t have to.

The words—I’m not people—still echoed in the spaces between us, reverberating like the last note of a piano key played in an empty room. A soft sound that lingered long after the fingers had left the keys.

I let it live there.

I let it hold.

For once, I didn’t rush to fill the silence.

It wrapped around us, not suffocating, but protective. Like a blanket laid gently over two people who didn’t yet know how to name what they were building but knew it mattered. Knew it was worth protecting.

Toto didn’t reach for me. He didn’t try to punctuate his words with a hand on my shoulder or a soft graze of my knee. There was no need. His restraint didn’t feel like fear. It felt like reverence. Like he understood the weight of the moment and didn’t want to crush it with eagerness.

And that?

That meant everything.

So I sat still. My fingers curled loosely around the cool glass in my hand, the condensation dampening my palm. My breathing had slowed without me realizing. It was quieter now. Deeper. I felt it in my chest—not the panic, not the ache—just the weight of being. Of letting myself exist without adjusting for someone else.

My gaze drifted again, not to escape, but to ground. I looked at the light glinting off the rim of my glass. The soft blur of his reflection in the window. The slight shift in his shoulders as he leaned back into the couch, giving me space without retreating.

He was there. Fully. Not hovering. Not performing.

Just present.

And somehow, that steadied me more than anything else could.

I didn’t speak for a while. Neither did he. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full. Saturated with the gravity of what we’d just given each other. Trust. Not in grand declarations. Not in confessions.

In stillness.

In letting it be.

Eventually, I set my glass down gently on the table in front of me. My fingers hesitated for a second longer than necessary at the edge of it, as if they didn’t want to part from the task. As if they didn’t yet know what to do next.

I folded my hands in my lap.

Then unfolded them again.

There was a question rising in my throat—not a big one, not a heavy one. Just a soft, curious flutter of thought I hadn’t expected. I wasn’t even sure if I’d say it. But it sat there, warm and close to the surface, waiting.

I glanced sideways at him again. He was staring down at his hands, thumbs pressing slowly into each other like he was thinking too, like he was processing just as much as I was.

He looked… calm. But not detached.

He looked like someone who had chosen stillness. Who had practiced it. Lived inside it long enough to understand its value.

When he finally looked at me again, his gaze was quiet—but lit with something. Something unspoken. Like he’d been waiting for me to speak but didn’t need me to.

Like he’d be here whether I did or didn’t.

I blinked once. Then twice.

And the question slipped out.

“Do you always move like this?”

His brow lifted slightly, not in confusion, but amusement. “Like what?”

“Like you’re sure. Like there’s no rush.”

He exhaled, a sound almost like a laugh. Not because it was funny—but because it was true.

“I’ve lived fast for a long time,” he said after a moment. “Too fast. Everything had to be efficient. Precise. Calculated. If it wasn’t, it was waste. It was risk.”

I nodded, slowly, letting the words settle between us.

“But with you?” he continued. “I don’t want speed. I want time. I want… attention. Not just from me. I want to give you time. I want you to feel like there’s room to breathe here. Like you don’t have to perform to be allowed to stay.”

My throat ached at that. The sheer gentleness of it. The way he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it hadn’t taken me years to believe I was even allowed to ask for that.

He didn’t look away when he said it, either.

He held my gaze.

And in that stillness, something in me cracked open.

A small, fragile breath of relief escaped my lips—like a tiny exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding for years.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had that,” I whispered. “Not really. Not without it coming at a cost.”

He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to reassure me right away. He just let me say it.

I swallowed hard.

“Every space I’ve ever walked into… I had to earn it. Immediately. With effort. With energy. With something. Just being me never felt like enough.”

My voice broke slightly at the end—not from pain, but from release. From the weight of saying it out loud.

Toto’s eyes softened. And still, he didn’t move. No reaching. No interruption.

Just a quiet, solid presence.

“I don’t want that for you,” he said. “Not here.”

I nodded, the emotion curling quietly through my chest.

“I don’t want that for me either,” I said, voice steadier now.

Another silence followed. But this time, it was warm. Peaceful.

And then… he shifted. Just slightly.

Not closer. Not with intent to touch.

But he turned his body more fully toward me. His knee aligned with mine, not brushing, but just enough that I could feel the closeness. His arm rested on the back of the couch now, not hovering behind me, but simply there.

An offering, not a request.

I felt it like a lighthouse. Steady. Soft.

There was no move. No kiss. No grand escalation.

Just two people sharing space in a room filled with history and hope and the quiet miracle of slowing down.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet with noise.

I leaned back into the couch.

And breathed.

The silence between us deepened—not like a void, but like a softening. A hush drawn over something sacred. There was no rush to fill it. No urgent need to do, to say, to move. It was the kind of stillness that asked nothing of me but presence.

And yet... the weight of being here was profound.

I could feel the shift inside me. Not sudden, not seismic—but tectonic all the same. Something slow and irreversible had started to slide into place.

My thoughts were no longer racing. They were drifting. Looser now. Quieter. Less like static and more like waves. Each one lapping against the shore of the moment we were in, soft and inevitable.

It was then that I noticed it—the way my body had begun to relax, slowly, almost without permission.

My spine, which had been drawn taut like a bowstring, had eased against the back of the couch. My jaw, clenched so long it had started to ache, now sat slack. My fingers, which had been laced tightly around my glass like it might anchor me to something solid, now rested open and bare in my lap.

I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until the tension started to leave.

It was happening in degrees. In breaths. In the way the world around us began to feel quieter—not because it had changed, but because I had.

And him?

Toto hadn’t moved.

Not really. But he was there. Fully.

His presence beside me was like a constant. Not overbearing. Not commanding. Just… steady. Like gravity.

I could feel the warmth of him radiating through the short distance between our bodies. Not touch, but the nearness of touch. The almost of it. The promise of it. It sat between us like a live wire, buzzing with quiet potential.

I tilted my head the tiniest bit toward him, just enough to catch the outline of his form in my periphery. He wasn’t looking at me. Not directly. His gaze was cast forward, steady, focused somewhere in the middle distance. But I could feel him tracking me, noticing every shift. Every breath.

I swallowed.

I didn’t know what I was waiting for. Permission? Courage?

I didn’t even realize I was moving until I already had.

It started with my leg. A small shift. A nudge. Barely perceptible. The outside of my knee inched just slightly toward his, bridging that last inch of space.

And when our knees finally touched—

He didn’t move.

He didn’t jerk away. He didn’t tense.

He stayed.

That was the answer I didn’t know I needed.

Because it wasn’t just contact—it was consent. Quiet, wordless, full.

And so I let myself breathe a little deeper.

My fingers brushed against my thigh, restless now. They wanted something to do. Something to hold.

But I didn’t want to rush it. I didn’t want to stumble into closeness out of panic or ache. I wanted to choose it. With intention. With care.

I glanced down at the space between us. His arm rested on the back of the couch now—not behind me, not intruding—but there. A silent offering. Not pressure. Not reach.

Just availability.

I stared at it for a moment. Not because I was unsure, but because I was reverent.

This wasn’t about need.

It was about trust.

And when I leaned into him—softly, slowly, not all at once—it wasn’t about relief. It wasn’t even about comfort.

It was about closeness. About saying, in the language of proximity: I’m here. And I want you here too.

My shoulder brushed his. Lightly at first.

Then, I let more of my weight rest against him. Not heavily, not completely. Just enough.

Just enough.

I felt him inhale. A slow, deliberate breath that expanded his chest beneath me.

And then—so gently I almost didn’t register it—he adjusted. He shifted closer, just a fraction, enough to let me settle against him more fully. His side curved around me, his presence wrapping like warmth. No arm around me. No tightening hold.

Just the embrace of presence.

And God, it was enough.

I closed my eyes.

The room disappeared for a moment.

The clock on the wall, the couch beneath me, the fading light from the windows—all of it slipped into the background. What remained was the shape of him beside me. The rhythm of his breath. The silent invitation in every inch of space he gave and didn’t take.

His head tilted—barely—but I felt the weight of it shift toward me. He didn’t press against my temple. Didn’t cradle or lean.

But the gesture was there.

I feel you. I’m here.

His fingers moved then, just the slightest twitch. They brushed against the sleeve of my sweater. Not gripping. Not curling. Just a whisper of touch. His thumb grazed the soft wool fabric and stilled.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t pull away.

I didn’t even open my eyes.

Instead, I let the moment root itself deeper.

And in the hush that followed, something inside me opened wide.

Not in longing. Not in hunger. Not even in love—not yet.

In safety.

A feeling so foreign to me it almost ached to hold.

And still—I stayed.

And so did he.

I didn’t move at first.

Even after the space between us thinned. Even after my knee found his and settled there like a secret. Even after his presence began to pulse in the air beside me like a second heartbeat, low and constant. I sat there, still as breath, watching my own hesitation like it was something outside myself.

Because there’s a difference between wanting closeness and allowing it.

Between craving touch and choosing it.

And in this moment, that difference mattered.

Everything about this afternoon—about him—had been deliberate. Gentle. Laced with restraint so thick it felt like silk. I knew if I turned my head, if I blinked a certain way, if I even leaned in a little more, he’d meet me there.

But he wouldn’t move first.

And I loved that about him.

I loved that his patience wasn’t performative. That his stillness wasn’t an act. He wasn’t holding back to manipulate the moment, or to make it mean more than it did. He wasn’t waiting to pounce.

He was waiting for me.

My decision. My pace. My moment.

And that kind of waiting? That kind of reverence?

It felt like being honored in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

So I gave myself permission to feel it all. To sit inside that charged, humming silence and breathe through the vulnerability of it. To notice how my pulse had moved from my chest to my fingertips. How my limbs buzzed, not with adrenaline, but with something deeper—something close to surrender.

I looked at my hands, resting in my lap, open now. No tension. No pretense. Just there.

My gaze flicked briefly toward him—not directly, but enough to catch the angle of his profile. His cheekbones were carved in the late afternoon light. There was a quiet patience in his stillness, but I saw the effort behind it. The way his jaw twitched faintly. The way his fingers curled against his knee, not clenched, but not relaxed either.

He wasn’t unaffected.

That mattered.

Because I didn’t want to be touched by someone indifferent. I didn’t want to lean into stillness that didn’t ache to hold me back.

I wanted it reciprocated.

And in him, I could feel it.

Even in the smallest details. The way he shifted his weight ever so slightly—not to close the space, but to stay open. To remain accessible. The way he angled his shoulder toward me like a door left ajar.

I saw it. I felt it.

And then—finally, quietly, like the exhale of a prayer—I leaned in.

Not all at once.

I didn’t press against him or fold into his side like some dramatic confessional. I didn’t make it a moment to remember.

I just... eased.

Inched.

I let my shoulder drift closer until it brushed his.

And even that—just that—made my entire body go still.

Because touch? Real touch? When you’ve gone without it for so long—it feels seismic. Not sexual. Not sensational. Just real.

And realness, for me, had always carried risk.

But not now. Not here.

Because the moment our shoulders aligned—he breathed out.

Not audibly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But I felt it. His body shifted. Softened. Tilted.

Not into me.

Around me.

Like he was adjusting to let me in. Like he was giving shape to the space I now occupied.

My cheek was still inches from his chest. My back remained upright. I wasn’t tucked into him. I hadn’t committed to the full weight of my body.

But even so—

I felt held.

The air changed between us. It wasn’t electric anymore. It was warm. Settled. Thick with something unnamed but deeply understood.

And then, slowly—so slowly I might’ve imagined it—his arm moved.

Not forward.

Not around me.

But along the back of the couch. A stretch. A shift. Not an invitation. Not a signal.

A presence.

He didn’t touch me. He didn’t pull me in.

He just let his hand rest there—close, near the edge of my shoulder blade. Like a lighthouse in fog. Steady. Unmoving.

It said, I’m here.

And that was enough to undo me.

Because I’d never been given that before.

I’d been given arms that clung. Hands that groped. People who reached for me out of need or hunger or control. But this?

This was an offering. An availability.

A choice.

I closed my eyes, slowly, and let myself lean in further—just enough for my temple to brush his shoulder. My body tucked in slightly, shifting into the space his had carved for me.

And when I did—

He didn’t move.

Not an inch.

But I felt him breathe deeper.

His ribs expanded beneath me. His head tilted just the smallest bit toward mine. His hand—still resting along the couch—lifted no more than two fingers to graze the fabric of my sweater. Just once.

It was like a pulse. A check-in.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t question.

I just... stayed.

For the first time in too long, I didn’t feel like I was balancing on a knife’s edge, trying to be enough, to do enough, to earn the right to be here.

I just was.

And that was all he wanted.

We stayed like that for what could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. The light outside dimmed. The corners of the room began to soften into shadow. The hum of the city faded into nothing.

And I didn’t need anything else.

No conversation. No promises. No escalation.

Just this—his shoulder beneath my cheek. His breath in rhythm with mine. His presence a quiet shelter I hadn’t realized I’d been searching for.

And when I finally spoke, it was only because the silence had held me so completely that the truth had nowhere left to hide.

“I think I needed this more than I realized.”

I didn’t even know if I said it aloud until I felt his head tilt slightly in acknowledgment. Until I felt his thumb brush again, barely there, across my arm.

“I know,” he said. Barely a whisper.

And that was all.

No grand answers. No solution.

Just knowing.

Just choosing.

Just this.

And for once, it was enough.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 14 Home

Toto’s POV

I saw her before she saw me.

It wasn’t some cinematic realization, no slow-motion orchestral build-up. Just a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in the air. One moment, I was a man waiting in an airport terminal, lost in the mechanical buzz of arrivals and departures—and the next, the world slowed.

She was just… there. Amidst the chaos of rolling suitcases and overhead announcements and the stale, recycled airport air, she appeared. Still. Certain. Like some anchor I hadn’t known I’d been waiting for.

And God, she looked the same. But also... not.

Something about her had changed. Subtly. Softened. She wasn’t diminished, no—never that. She was just less armored. Less braced for impact. As if the weight she always carried in her spine, in her shoulders, had slipped off somewhere on the flight, and now she stood in front of me, lighter. Unknowing.

I watched her scan the crowd, her eyes flicking past families reuniting, couples kissing, travelers hurrying—until finally, they found mine.

And that was it.

Every plan I’d made, every well-rehearsed boundary I had painstakingly constructed, every reason I had told myself this had to stay professional—gone. Disintegrated. Erased by one look.

She started walking toward me.

Each step was deliberate. Controlled. And yet, I could see it—the catch in her breath, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands tightened around her bag like it might keep her steady.

We didn’t touch. Not yet.

Instead, I asked the most mundane question in the world. About her flight. About luggage. Anything to ground myself.

She answered with a smile that had the same effect on me that it always had—a quiet destruction. Gentle, and yet completely undoing. There was something in her voice, a note so familiar it made my ribs tighten.

I took her bag from her hand—let our fingers brush. Just a whisper of contact, but I felt it deep.

We walked together in silence, our steps finding a rhythm as effortlessly as they always had. No one would have noticed anything unusual. To the outside world, we looked like colleagues. Nothing more. Just a team principal picking up a new fellow from the airport.

But between us? That silence was loud. Charged. Holy.

She kept close. Not clinging—never clinging—but near enough that the heat of her arm hovered beside mine. We didn’t speak, but our bodies communicated in subtleties. The slight angle I shifted the suitcase to give her space from the businessmen brushing past. The way she subtly matched my gait. Like we remembered how to move together, even after all this time.

I led us out into the cool autumn sun, the airport fading behind us, replaced by the sting of fresh air and the dull hum of the city. My car was parked in the short-term lot—an easy escape route planned in advance. The glass exit slid open, and the world beyond grew sharper.

I saw them—two men in team lanyards near the main entrance.

Old instincts kicked in. I subtly stepped closer, using my body as a shield without thinking. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask. She just followed me when I veered toward the side exit.

And again—I knew.

This wasn’t new to her.

Being watched.

Being on alert.

Being careful.

It was second nature by now. Not paranoia—just pragmatism. There was always someone watching in this world. A camera tucked in the corner. A phone lifted just high enough. A glance that lingered a moment too long.

Especially when your name carried weight. Especially when the person walking beside you wasn’t just anyone.

Once we passed through the glass exit, the crowd began to thin, replaced by the rhythm of rolling luggage and idle vehicles. The noise dulled, the sharp edges of airport energy smoothing out into something quieter, looser. I felt the shift in my shoulders first. A slight release. Not relief. Just space.

I glanced around, then back to her, voice low. “Lower level,” I murmured, gesturing toward the ramp. “Didn’t want the plates caught.”

She looked over at me, smile small and subdued. “Subtle, as always.”

There was no teasing in it. No smugness. Just understanding.

I turned to look at her—really look. Let myself, for just a second, take in the shape of her again. The curve of her cheek, the way the sunlight caught in her straightened hair. The faintest shadows beneath her eyes—fatigue, no doubt. From travel. From everything.

“You expected a grand entrance?” I asked, tone intentionally light.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze drifted back toward the line of cars beyond the railing, her expression unreadable.

“No,” she said finally. Then, softer, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud: “This… feels right.”

Those three words slowed something in me.

It hit me differently than I expected. Not like a confession. Not like a line meant to comfort. Just… the truth. Quiet and steady. The kind of truth you only hear when everything else falls away.

We walked in silence from there, feet falling into rhythm, the shade of the lower level wrapping around us as we descended the ramp. The air was cooler down here, humming with the reverberation of engines and rubber and concrete.

Her footsteps echoed beside mine, just a fraction behind me. I adjusted without thinking, falling back half a pace to match her again. Subtle. Automatic. Protective.

The garage swallowed us—its vast ceiling supported by thick concrete columns, each level dimly lit by flickering fluorescents. Our steps clicked along the smooth cement floor, each tap unnervingly loud in the emptiness.

I walked her toward the car parked in the corner. Black exterior. Tinted windows. Plate angled just slightly inward, away from where the cameras caught angles at the entrance. I hadn’t done it consciously. I’d done it like I do everything—methodically, precisely, one step ahead.

I clicked the key fob. The locks snapped open with a mechanical clunk that sounded far too loud in the cavern of the garage.

She paused beside the passenger door.

Didn’t open it. Didn’t speak.

She just looked at me.

And there was something about it—something unsettling in how steady her gaze was. Not searching. Not hopeful. Just still.

Like she was deciding whether this was still real.

Like she hadn’t let herself believe it until right now.

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t urge her inside.

I just stood there, letting the moment stretch. Letting her have that silence.

Then, slowly, she opened the door and climbed in.

No fanfare. No hesitation.

I closed the door quietly behind her. Rounded the hood.

Each step back toward the driver’s side felt like a test I wasn’t sure I’d studied enough for. I was prepared, technically. I always was. But this—her—wasn’t a technicality.

She was here.

And I wasn’t ready.

But I’d never be ready.

Not for her.

Not in any version of the word.

Inside the car, the air was cooler. The soft click of the door locking echoed faintly.

I started the engine and adjusted the air vents, giving myself something to do. Something to occupy my hands while my mind tried to find center.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t reach for the radio.

She leaned back in the seat, quietly, head tilted against the window.

I pulled out of the garage, the tires whispering over the incline. The road unfolded ahead of us, sun glaring off the hood as we merged onto the main avenue.

And still—we said nothing.

But it wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Full of everything we weren’t saying. Full of time passed. Of feelings held tightly. Of choices made in slow, careful increments.

We passed a sign for the motorway, and I guided the car onto it, merging into the smooth lane with practiced ease.

“You hungry?” I asked, finally.

She turned slightly toward me, brows lifting. “Are you?”

A faint smile tugged at the edge of my mouth. “I asked you first.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile that followed was real. Soft.

“Not really,” she admitted. “But if you’re getting something…”

“Then you’re getting something.”

And just like that—there it was.

The rhythm.

That quiet, familiar give-and-take that always settled between us without fanfare.

We spoke in light fragments. She commented on the traffic. I made a dry remark about airport logistics. She noted how the sun was sharper here than where she came from—dry, unforgiving, not as soft.

I watched her in the periphery of my vision.

At one point, I caught her fiddling with her sleeve again. Pulling at the zipper. Her fingers were tense, but her shoulders were starting to ease. Her coat fell slightly open, the tension in her frame loosening just a little as we drove further from the city.

“This doesn’t feel real yet,” she said, quietly, into the space between us.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“It is,” I said, after a breath. “But I know what you mean.”

She didn’t look at me.

Not when she said it: “You left work to get me.”

“I’d do it again.”

She didn’t respond.

But something in her posture changed.

Subtle. But I felt it.

Almost an hour passed.

The city faded behind us. Buildings turned to fields. Highways gave way to quieter roads, hedges climbing along fences, trees filtering the late light across the windshield.

She’d shifted in her seat, one leg curled beneath her, shoulder dipped closer to the armrest. I could feel her just inches away, her fingers brushing the edge of the center console as she absently traced it.

I didn’t reach for her hand.

But I thought about it.

So many times.

My fingers flexed against the wheel. Then settled again.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe she did—and chose not to say anything.

Either way, we let the silence stretch. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… simmering. The kind that made you hyper-aware of every small movement, every breath, every missed glance.

And then we turned onto the final road.

The one that led home.

The trees arched overhead like old sentinels. Golden light flickered through the branches, casting dappled shadows across the hood. The gravel beneath the tires changed the sound of the drive, grounding us in place.

I watched her as she looked out the window, eyes following the curve of the lane, taking in the estate as it unfolded in pieces—first the hedges, then the slope of the lawn, then the house.

The light caught the windows just right.

And she was quiet.

I didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t ask her what she was thinking.

I wanted to.

But I let her have it.

I parked slowly, the soft crunch of gravel under the tires fading into stillness as I cut the engine.

We didn’t move.

We just sat there.

Both of us staring forward.

Not touching.

Not speaking.

Breathing the same air.

Feeling the same ache.

She was here.

Not for a visit. Even though for two weeks.

But

Here.

And this was just the beginning.

It should have felt like a victory.

I’d imagined this a hundred different ways—her suitcase rolling across the tile, her voice echoing in my hallway, her laugh catching in the kitchen light—but nothing I imagined felt quite like this.

Because she was here. In my country. In my car. On my time. This was no longer a fleeting conversation squeezed into a layover, or a message left unanswered because of the time zones.

She was here.

And still, I couldn’t move.

We stayed seated.

The engine had been off for maybe two minutes. Or ten. Maybe more. I honestly couldn’t tell. Everything outside the car blurred into gold and grey and shadow. The silence inside pressed harder than I expected it to.

The occasional ping from the engine cooling off ticked in the air like a metronome. Somewhere nearby, a bird chirped and fluttered away. But between us—nothing.

Not words. Not breathe. Just the same distance we’d carried since the terminal. Measured. Careful. Reverent.

She stared forward, her profile bathed in the soft afternoon light slanting through the windshield. Her lashes fluttered once. Then again. Not like she was tired—like she was thinking. Her mouth opened slightly, just enough to draw in a breath like she was going to speak… but then she didn’t.

I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head slowly, watching as she looked away from the glass. Her reflection blinked back at her faintly. Too faint for a real conversation.

And still, I didn’t push her.

I couldn’t.

Because I knew if I said anything—if I so much as moved too fast—I’d fracture the fragile thing we were both still carrying in our chests.

I let my hands rest lightly on the steering wheel, fingers loose, thumbs brushing the smooth leather. Every part of me felt suspended—like I was trapped in the exact moment between holding my breath and releasing it.

I wanted to say her name.

Just her name.

I wanted to feel the shape of it in my mouth again, to hear it hang in the still air between us and see how it landed.

But I didn’t.

Because she hadn’t said anything.

And pushing her had never been my instinct.

So I waited.

Waited for her to move first. To break the silence. To give me something.

But she didn’t.

And neither did I.

I glanced over again, more openly this time. Her hand was resting against her thigh, fingers tapping softly against her leggings like she was counting out seconds. She wasn’t nervous. Not really. But she was unsure. And I knew why.

Because what happened next mattered.

Because going inside meant we were doing this.

It was borrowed time. It was quiet moments snatched between departures and long days. It was always going to end.

But this…

This had no ending scheduled.

I watched her chest rise and fall. One breath. Then another.

She still hadn’t looked at me.

And I didn’t want to walk into the house like this. With this wall between us. With this goodbye still stuck in our throats from weeks ago, pretending we didn’t feel the space it carved into both of us.

So I reached for the handle.

Opened the door.

Stepped into the silence.

Cool air greeted me. Not cold, but crisp in the way early autumn afternoons often are—just enough bite to remind you the season hasn’t turned completely.

I came around the car slowly, almost unwillingly. My footsteps sounded louder than they should have on the gravel.

When I opened her door, she turned her head but didn’t move. Not right away.

We looked at each other.

She blinked up at me, and something in her eyes softened—but didn’t break.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t reach for her.

I just waited.

And after a beat, she got out.

Her shoes landed softly on the ground. She stood still, for a moment, close enough that I could feel her body heat, but not touching. She looked up at the house. Then at the door. Then back at me.

“This is real,” she murmured.

I nodded once. “It is.”

She didn’t smile. Not yet.

But something in her shoulders loosened.

I stepped aside, gestured toward the path. We walked to the door in silence.

Each step echoed in my head louder than the last.

Her bag wheels clicked once or twice before she let the handle drop, her fingers curling around the strap instead.

I keyed us in, pushed the door open, and held it for her.

She walked through.

I followed.

The front door closed with a soft, final click behind us.

And that was when the silence changed.

Not gone.

Not heavier.

Just... closer.

The kind of silence that wrapped itself around you. That pressed into your chest, into your throat, into every thought you’d managed to keep neatly organized until the moment someone stepped into your space and reminded you why none of it mattered.

She was here.

Only for two weeks but soon after would be permeant.

She was here.

And this—this wasn’t the beginning. This was the continuation.

Of every moment we hadn’t finished.

Of every touch we had to cut short. Every word we swallowed. Every thought we tucked behind tight smiles and careful glances. It was all here now, gathered in the air between us, waiting.

We stood there, just inside the door, the sunlight slanting across the floor in golden stripes. Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke.

Not yet.

Not with this weight still hanging between us—dense and unsaid, like a knot that hadn’t been pulled tight, but hadn’t been loosened either.

It just was.

Alive. Unresolved. Almost unbearable.

I turned to face her. Fully. Slowly.

She felt it—or maybe she was already turning before I did. Our eyes met in the space between breath and thought.

And that was when everything slipped.

The practiced silence. The carefulness. The way we’d been pretending this was easy.

Her eyes were full—not wet, not crying. Just full. With all of it. The weeks. The waiting. The wondering. The not-touching.

I felt it like a wave—sharp, all-consuming. Like gravity finding its hold again.

“I know we were careful,” I said, voice lower than I meant it to be. “I know we had to be.”

She didn’t answer right away. I saw the breath she pulled into her chest, felt the crackle of something shift.

“But I didn’t want that to be our hello.”

Her chin dipped, not in shame, not in hesitation—just… breaking. The slow fall of a barrier finally caving.

“I didn’t either,” she whispered. “Not really.”

And that was it.

The unraveling.

I stepped forward, slow, deliberate—one movement at a time, like even gravity was watching. My hands were shaking, just barely. Enough to remind me this wasn’t routine. This was her.

This was everything I’d been keeping myself from.

She looked up at me, and for the first time, she wasn’t holding anything back.

And I… I couldn’t wait anymore.

I reached for her. One hand. Light. Careful. Just enough to touch the side of her face. My thumb grazed her cheek, and she leaned into it, her breath trembling, her body not quite touching mine yet—but almost.

She lifted her hand slowly, fingertips brushing my jaw, trailing toward the curve of my neck like she was relearning me by touch alone.

My eyes closed for a second—just long enough to forget what restraint felt like.

When I opened them, she was still there.

Close.

Waiting.

I didn’t kiss her like I was asking.

I kissed her like I remembered.

Like I knew the shape of her mouth and the sound she made when she sighed into it. Like I’d waited long enough. Like we both had.

It started soft—our lips barely brushing, like the heat between us hadn’t been simmering for days. Weeks. Months. But then she leaned in, tilted her head, parted her lips just slightly—and it changed everything.

Heat bloomed low in my spine. My hand slid into her hair, fingers threading into the softness at the nape of her neck. Her mouth opened to mine, and she kissed me back like she was holding onto something she didn’t want to lose again.

It wasn’t frantic.

But God, it was desperate.

A quiet, burning kind of desperation—the kind that came from too much time apart, too many nights spent imagining, too many touches that never happened.

I stepped forward until our bodies were flush, her chest against mine, her hands gripping the fabric of my coat like it was the only thing anchoring her.

And still—we didn’t break the kiss.

We just breathed into it.

Again. And again. Slow. Deep. Needy in the most tender, aching way.

She made a sound then—half sigh, half whimper—and it knocked the wind out of me. I pulled her closer, one arm around her waist, the other still in her hair, and kissed her like I’d forgotten where we were.

Her hands slid beneath my coat, palms flat against my chest, fingers curling into my sweater. I could feel the heat of her even through the layers, could feel the tremble in her hands.

When we finally pulled apart, it was slow. Reluctant. Like gravity was still trying to hold us together.

Her lips were red. Kiss-swollen. Her breathing uneven.

I pressed my forehead to hers.

“Say it,” she whispered.

I opened my eyes. “Say what?”

“That this is real.”

I exhaled. My thumb stroked the edge of her jaw.

“This is real,” I said. “You’re real. And I’m not letting you go again.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Like what?”

Her lips curved, barely. “Like coming home.”

I kissed her again—softer this time. Just a press of lips. Just a breath.

And when we pulled away, her hands didn’t leave me.

She didn’t pull back. Neither did I.

Because this wasn’t about touching, or heat, or mouths colliding.

This was about relief.

About belonging.

About finally—finally—getting the hello we deserved.

Not rushed. Not stolen.

Ours.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 13 Houston, We Got A Problem

I swear im low key getting fed up with it not posting, if you haven't followed me on wattpad or AO3, do so. here's the link:

I'm Yours - Chapter 15 - cthrnschumacher - Formula 1 RPF [Archive of Our Own]

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 12 Far Away

Tumblr has been finicky lately, here is the next chapter, also consider following on AO3 or wattpad same story and username

I'm Yours - Chapter 14 - cthrnschumacher - Formula 1 RPF [Archive of Our Own]

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 11 Need You Now

Y/N POV

Since our late-night conversation, it felt as though life and university had made some unspoken pact to collide and accelerate with relentless intensity. Ironically, it had to be the moment Toto left for Brackley.

At first, his absence had felt like a weight—something I carried in the quiet moments, in the spaces between obligations, in the breaths I took when the world around me stilled just long enough for the loneliness to creep in. It wasn’t always sharp or overwhelming; it was something dull and persistent, an ache rather than a wound. I would catch myself reaching for my phone, expecting a message, a voice note, anything to remind me that he was still just on the other side of the screen. But of course, reality always settled in—he was busy, I was busy, and life had a way of making sure we both felt it.

The initial haze of missing him had been softened by the inevitable pull of routine, but not in the comforting, predictable way routine usually felt. This wasn’t the ease of slipping into a rhythm; this was the sensation of being thrown into the deep end of an ocean with no time to tread water. Lectures and tutorials stretched into the evening, each professor seemingly competing to make their class the most demanding. Research projects were no longer just exercises in academic curiosity—they were intellectual marathons that required endless revisions, constant re-evaluation, and a level of perfectionism that could drive anyone to the brink.

And then there was work—my other divided obligation. Balancing an already precarious schedule with part-time shifts that, while necessary, drained whatever energy remained at the end of the day. Some days I barely had time to eat, let alone breathe, rushing from one commitment to the next with the kind of determination that wasn’t sustainable but had somehow become the norm. The hours blurred together, punctuated only by caffeine refuels of any form and the occasional five-minute mental breakdown in the nearest quiet corner of the library.

The unspoken pressure of expectations tightened around my shoulders with each passing week. Deadlines loomed like storm clouds, growing darker and more ominous as they approached. The demands weren’t just academic—there was the pressure to be on top of everything, to excel, to prove that I was meant to be here, that I could handle it. And I could, I reminded myself, because this was something I signed up for. I had known, from the moment I chose this path, that it would be a relentless pursuit, one that required sacrifices and sleepless nights.

But knowing and experiencing were two very different things.

Still, I loved it.

Even as exhaustion settled deep into my bones, even as the days stretched into nights with little reprieve, I loved the challenge. There was something exhilarating about being at the edge of your limits, about pushing yourself further than you thought possible, with the help of caffeine of course. There was a strange satisfaction in looking at an assignment—one that had taken hours of research, countless cups of coffee and energy drinks, and an unholy amount of stress—and knowing that it was good. That it was yours. That it was worth the effort.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t hell getting there.

And you’d think that professors, after years of teaching, would have learned to space out assignments. They were once in our shoes, weren’t they? Surely, they remembered what it felt like to juggle multiple courses, to balance academics with everything else life threw at you. Surely, they knew that having three major deadlines in one week was a death sentence.

But no.

It was as if they had all convened in a secret roundtable discussion, nodding in agreement as they plotted the ultimate test of mental and sometimes physical endurance. There had to be some sort of conspiracy among faculty—a carefully coordinated effort to make sure students never experienced a moment of peace. It wasn’t enough to have one overwhelming workload; they had designed their syllabi in infinite synchrony, all agreeing that now was the time to challenge their students’ mental, emotional, and physical limits.

Despite the long hours spent buried in textbooks, toggling between dense research papers and frantic notes scribbled in the margins, there were moments when focus eluded me. No matter how much I willed myself to drown in academia, my mind betrayed me—slipping away from the rigid confines of theory and analysis to something softer, something warmer.

Toto.

It was infuriating how easily my thoughts drifted to him—how, no matter how tightly I tried to grip my focus, he always found a way to slip through the cracks.

I could be neck-deep in research, sorting through endless journal articles, cross-referencing citations, building a foundation for a paper that required more mental energy than I had left to give, and suddenly, there he was—soft and steady in my mind. The memory of his voice, deep and warm, would filter through like a whisper between the words I was reading, making it impossible to concentrate.

It wasn’t just any memory of him that distracted me—it was always the intimate, unguarded moments. The way his voice softened when he was tired, dipping into something slower, something a little rougher around the edges, like he wasn’t just speaking, but feeling every word. Or how he called me Schatz like it was second nature, like the word belonged to me and me alone. It lingered in my mind long after he’d said it, taking up space in my head in a way I never invited but never really resisted either.

And despite everything—the pressure, the expectations, the chaos of my own world—he still made time for me. Even in the middle of a schedule that would overwhelm anyone else, he never let a day go by without something. A message. A voice note. Sometimes just a simple Thinking of you. Those three words, in his voice or on my screen, had the power to derail me completely.

And I hated that I missed him this much. Not because I regretted what we had. Not because I wished it was different. But because the missing was inconvenient. It was distracting. It was a twinge I couldn’t afford to dwell on when I had so much to do with so much at stake, especially soon to be a fellow. But the heart, especially the in me, is annoyingly stubborn, and emotions have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect them.

Like in the middle of a lecture, when the professor’s voice faded into the background, blurred into nothing more than a low hum as my mind replayed the way Toto had laughed the last time we talked. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way he leaned back in his chair with that knowing smirk, the way he looked at me—like distance didn’t matter, like time zones were irrelevant, like for those few stolen minutes, I was the only thing in his world.

Or during an impossibly long study session, when exhaustion settled deep into my bones and my brain refused to cooperate, and I found myself staring at my phone, wondering what he was doing at that exact moment. Whether he was in a meeting, whether he was having his third—or fourth—coffee of the day, whether he was thinking about me, too.

Or in the rare quiet moments, when there were no distractions left to drown in. When there were no papers to write, no chapters to read, no deadlines to chase. When I was alone in my room at home, and there was nothing but silence. When my bed felt too big, and my hands felt too empty, and my heart felt the space where he used to be. That was the worst part—when the missing had nowhere to hide. I told myself I didn’t have time for this. That there was no room in my life for longing. But time had stopped listening to me a long time ago.

So, I buried myself in work.

I filled my days with lectures and assignments, letting them consume every waking hour. I let the deadlines dictate my existence, let the pressure push me forward, convinced myself that if I just kept moving, the missing wouldn’t feel so heavy. That if I never stopped, if I never let myself sit in the quiet for too long, I wouldn’t have to feel it.

But it was always there.

Lurking beneath the surface.

Waiting for the quiet.

Waiting for the moment when my mind wasn’t occupied with something else, when my hands weren’t flipping through pages, when my body wasn’t running on borrowed energy. Because even in the chaos, even with an ocean between us, he was still the one thing I couldn’t shake.

But It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. More like an ache—a dull, persistent thing that settled in my chest, pressing down in the moments when I allowed myself to remember just how far away he really was.

It was strange, the way distance worked. How it could feel suffocating and hollow all at once. How it could make a person both incredibly present and impossibly far away at the same time. But despite the thousands of miles, despite the time zones and the packed schedules and the inevitable exhaustion, distance had done little to sever the connection between us.

If anything, it had forced us both to try.

It had made us intentional. Made us carve out time in impossibly busy schedules, made us reach across time zones and hold onto whatever moments we could steal. Somehow, without ever really deciding on it, texting had become an intrinsic part of my day. It was woven into the fabric of my routine, as natural as morning coffee or the inevitable rush between classes.

A brief check-in between lectures—How’s your day going?

A shared meme sent in the middle of a tedious meeting—This is you.

A voice note recorded in the dead of night, when the weight of the day felt too heavy to put into words—I wish you were here.

Sometimes, it was nothing more than a single emoji. A subtle reminder that we were thinking of each other, even when words failed.

And then there were the video calls.

Not every day. Not always planned.

But when they happened, they felt like stolen moments. Like pressing pause on reality, just for a little while. Like stepping out of our separate worlds and into something that was still ours.

They were late at night for me, during the rare hours when my schedule slowed enough for me to breathe. For him, they were stolen moments between obligations—minutes taken from work lunches, from late-night meetings, from whatever chaos his role demanded of him that day.

And yet, despite the exhaustion, despite the miles, despite everything else pulling us in different directions, we always found our way back here.

Back to each other.

Like this morning.

The sun was barely up, spilling golden light through my window, casting long shadows across my desk. My coffee sat half-finished beside my open laptop on your desk, notes sprawled in front of you, the remnants of last night’s study session still lingering in the margins. I should have been reviewing my research. Should have been preparing for another grueling day of lectures and deadlines.

Instead of focusing on my work, instead of crossing off the long list of tasks demanding my attention, my phone was in my hand. Thumb hovering over his name. Hesitation lingered, just for a second, that familiar internal debate surfacing—Is he too busy? Will I be distracting him? Should I just wait for him to text first?

But then, I remembered the way he always answered. The way, no matter how packed his schedule was, he somehow made time. With that thought, I pressed call. The screen flickered to life, and there he was.

Seated in what looked like a conference room, the sterile white walls behind him doing nothing to soften the exhaustion in his posture. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, collar undone just enough to make him look almost relaxed—if not for the slight crease between his brows. His dark hair was slightly tousled, evidence of too many times running his hands through it in frustration. A plate of half-eaten pasta sat in front of him, next to an almost-empty cup of coffee.

But none of that mattered.

Because the second he saw me, the tension in his face eased.

"Morning, Schatz." His voice was low, warm, tinged with quiet exhaustion.

I smiled, curling my hands around my coffee mug, soaking in the simple comfort of seeing him.

"Morning for me," I teased, lifting my mug as if to prove it. "Lunchtime for you."

Toto exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "And yet, here you are, calling me instead of working."

"And yet, here you are," I countered, arching a brow. "Picking up."

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, his head tilting slightly in surrender. That smirk—mischievous, knowing, effortlessly charming—made the miles between us feel smaller, just for a second.

It was moments like this that made the distance easier to bear.

I shifted, tucking my legs beneath me on my desk chair, the ceramic of my mug warming my fingers. "Exactly why I called," I admitted. "Figured we could have a meal together, even if we’re in different time zones."

His expression softened slightly, and I caught the way his lips curved—subtle, but undeniably affectionate. "And here I thought you just wanted to check if I was still alive."

I smirked, taking a slow sip of coffee. "That too."

Toto shook his head, but there was amusement in his eyes as he picked up his fork. "How’s uni?"

A sigh escaped me as I glanced at the open notebook beside me, pages filled with frantic scribbles and hastily highlighted lines. "Intense. I think my professors had a meeting and collectively decided to assign all major projects at once. Either that, or I’ve just lost my ability to manage deadlines."

His brows lifted slightly. "That doesn’t sound like you."

I huffed out a quiet laugh. "I’m managing. Barely. But yeah, it’s a lot."

Toto tilted his head slightly, studying me through the screen in that way that always made me feel like he saw more than I was saying. "Are you sleeping enough?"

I groaned, already regretting mentioning anything. "Don’t start."

"Schatz—"

"Yes, I’m sleeping," I cut in, narrowing my eyes at him. "Not… well, but I’m trying."

Toto gave me a look—the kind that said he absolutely did not believe me. His gaze was unwavering, like he was calculating how much he should push, how much I was willing to admit.

I knew he was about to start lecturing me on efficiency, time management, optimizing my schedule—because that was so much easier for someone who operated like a machine.

So, I changed the subject.

"And you?" I asked, tilting my head. "Work swallowing you whole yet?"

He let out a small sigh, running a hand through his hair, further disheveling the already unruly strands. "I’d say no, but that would be a lie."

A faint murmur came from behind him—someone speaking in German, their voice just out of frame. He turned his head slightly, responding with a quick, clipped reply before looking back at me.

I raised a brow. "Work?"

"Always," he muttered, reaching for his water. "Half the team thinks I’m permanently glued to this chair."

I hummed knowingly. "Not entirely untrue."

His lips twitched. "Cheeky this morning, are we?"

"You bring it out of me."

His phone buzzed on the table beside him. He glanced at it briefly but ignored it, his attention still on me.

I recognized that look.

It was the I should be going, but I don’t want to look.

"You need to go?" I asked, already bracing for the inevitable.

Toto hesitated, then shook his head. "Not yet. I’d rather stay here and talk to you."

My fingers curled a little tighter around my mug.

"Good," I murmured, staring at him through the screen. "Because I miss you."

Toto’s grip on his fork tightened slightly. His gaze flickered—something unreadable crossing his expression before his voice dipped lower, quieter. "Ich vermisse dich auch, Schatz."

I swallowed, my chest tightening at the weight of those words. The sincerity in his voice, the quiet admission of something neither of us could change, settled deep in my bones.

"I miss you too."

Toto let out a slow exhale, his gaze steady, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

"I shouldn’t be this distracted at this hour of the day," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, self-deprecating smile.

A small laugh escaped me, breaking through the quiet. "Well, at least you’re eating. That’s progress."

"Not by choice," he muttered, nudging his mostly finished plate as if it had personally offended him. "Apparently, I’ve developed a reputation for skipping meals, so I now have people making sure I don’t starve."

I shook my head, unable to suppress my amusement. "You would absolutely survive off coffee and adrenaline if they let you."

"Also not untrue," he admitted, setting his fork down with an air of finality. His eyes softened slightly as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "But I prefer when you’re the one reminding me to eat."

Something warm and unspoken bloomed in my chest at that.

It was simple, really—the way he said it, the way he meant it. He never needed to elaborate. It was in the way he looked at me, in the way he lingered on the line even when he should have hung up, in the way he always answered my calls, no matter how chaotic his day was.

"Of course, I care," I said, my voice quieter now. "Even from an ocean away, I care."

Toto let out a slow breath, nodding. "I know."

A comfortable silence settled between us, not the kind weighed down by distance or longing, but the kind that felt like an understanding—an acceptance of what we were, of where we were, of the space we occupied in each other’s lives, even with the miles stretching between us.

"I’ll call you later?" he asked eventually, though it wasn’t really a question.

"I’ll be waiting."

He lingered for a second longer, his eyes scanning my face like he was memorizing every detail, tucking it away for when the distance felt too vast, too unfair.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he murmured, "Talk soon, love," before the screen went dark.

I stared at my phone for a moment, my fingers still curled around the edges as if keeping the connection alive a little longer. The warmth of our conversation lingered, wrapping around me like a quiet comfort.

Even across time zones, even with the chaos of life pulling us in different directions, he still made time.

And for now, that had to be enough.

I let out a breath, setting my phone down beside my coffee mug. The silence in the room felt different now—less hollow, less lonely.

The open notebook in front of me beckoned, the half-finished notes and highlighted passages waiting for my attention. With a resigned sigh, I picked up my pen, rolling my shoulders as I refocused on where I had left off.

The words on the page blurred for a moment, my mind still half-stuck in the conversation, in the way his voice had sounded when he said my name, in the quiet way he admitted missing me.

But there was work to do.

And so, with a deep inhale, I forced myself back into the rhythm of academia, back into the world that didn’t pause for distance, for time zones, for longing.

The weight of missing him hadn’t disappeared, but for now, it could wait.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 10 Sweet Dreams

its not letting me post the latest chapter so I'm linking the other places here:

Look for the chapter sweet dreams

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch.9 Cover Me Up

Toto POV

The walk away from her was excruciating—a slow, deliberate march back to reality, each step pulling me further from the warmth I didn’t want to leave behind. I stood in her doorway a moment too long, memorizing every detail of her face, the way the light caught her hair, the slight tremble of her lips. She reached out, her hand brushing mine one last time as she whispered, “Take care.” Her voice cracked, soft but weighted, and I felt it reverberate through me like a fault line, the fissure in my own heart threatening to break wide open. The air between us felt charged, heavy with words we hadn’t said. I wanted to tell her I’d miss her, that walking away felt impossible, but my throat tightened, the words caught somewhere between my chest and lips. So instead, I nodded, a poor substitute for the emotions clawing at me, and forced myself to step away.

The path to the car stretched impossibly long, each step dragging against invisible chains. The pavement under my loafers thudded loudly in the stillness, mocking the quiet ache inside me. The midday air was brisk, nipping at my face and hands, but I barely noticed. All I could feel was the hollow ache of distance growing between us, step by step. I wanted to turn around, to run back to her, to pull her into my arms and hold her until all the words left unspoken could somehow pass between us without sound. My hands twitched with the urge to reach for her, but I kept walking, my resolve a fragile, fraying thread.Halfway to the car, I slowed, my hand brushing against the key fob in my pocket. My heart was pounding, loud and erratic, and I couldn’t help but steal one last glance over my shoulder. And there she was, still standing in the doorway, framed by the warm glow of the foyer light that spilled out into the dusk. Her arms were wrapped around herself, her fingers clutching at the sleeves of her sweater as though trying to hold onto the last bit of me she could. Our eyes met, and the world seemed to shift, tilting precariously on its axis. Her gaze caught me, full of things we didn’t have the courage to say aloud—longing, sadness, hope, and something else that felt too vast to name. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, the distance between us insignificant, as if the pull of her eyes alone could keep me rooted there forever.I raised my hand in a small wave, the motion awkward, my arm stiff as though unsure if goodbye was something I could truly offer her. She mirrored the gesture, her lips curving into a bittersweet smile that only deepened the ache in my chest. I wanted to stay frozen in that moment, to etch every detail of her expression into my memory, but the weight of leaving pressed against me like a physical force.

When I finally turned away, my movements felt mechanical, as if I were on autopilot, my body carrying me forward while my heart clung desperately to the past few seconds. Reaching the car felt like an eternity, and as I unlocked the door, I hesitated, my fingers lingering on the handle. My mind replayed the way her voice had cracked, the way her eyes had shimmered with unshed tears. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I closed the door slowly, the soft click sounding louder than it should, like the punctuation mark on something I wasn’t ready to end. For a moment, I sat there, unmoving. My hand rested on the edge of the door before pulling it shut completely, and I exhaled deeply, my breath fogging up the windshield as the chill of the evening seeped into the car. Her touch still lingered on my fingers, a ghostly warmth that felt almost cruel now that she wasn’t beside me. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles whitening, as if the physical anchor would somehow ground me. Finally, I turned the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life, its low purr filling the stillness, but I didn’t drive. My eyes drifted back to the house one last time.

She hadn’t moved. She stood there in the doorway, her silhouette softened by the light behind her, the garage door still open as if leaving room for me to reconsider. Her expression hadn’t changed—eyes wide and searching, reflecting the same emotions swirling within me. Longing. Sadness. Reluctance. A part of me wished she would call out, ask me to stay, give me the permission I desperately wanted to turn around. But she didn’t. And neither did I. I shifted the car into drive, my heart warring with the mechanics of moving forward. As the car began to roll away from the curb, I kept my gaze on her, unwilling to let her fade into the background of my rearview mirror. Her figure grew smaller with each passing second, the distance between us stretching like a taut string ready to snap. Even as I turned onto the main road, my mind stayed with her, the imprint of her standing in that doorway forever etched into my memory. The ache in my chest was no longer a quiet hum but a full, resounding thrum that echoed with each beat of my heart. The road stretched ahead, but my thoughts lingered behind, tethered to the woman who had just said goodbye.

The road ahead stretched long and dark, the headlights of my car casting twin beams that sliced through the oppressive night, illuminating patches of the asphalt that seemed to vanish into the abyss. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning bone white from the force, my fingers clenching in a desperate attempt to anchor myself. The car’s interior felt suffocatingly silent, broken only by the occasional hum of tires against the uneven road, a subtle reminder that I was still moving forward, even as everything inside me screamed to stop. I reached out to turn on the radio, desperate for some distraction, but each song that played seemed either too loud, too cheerful, or too melancholic—too out of sync with the quiet storm brewing inside me. Frustrated, I flicked the switch off, and the silence closed in around me once again, broken only by the steady, rhythmic hum of the engine beneath me. Her scent lingered faintly on my shirt, a soft reminder of what I had lost—a mix of her shampoo, sweet and floral, and something uniquely her, a delicate fragrance I could never quite name but knew instinctively. I closed my eyes for a moment at a red light, allowing the memory to wash over me like a wave. The feel of her damp curls, so soft and wild, slipping through my fingers as I carefully styled her hair, the way she leaned into me with her head tilted just so, trusting me to make her feel beautiful. The soft warmth of her skin, impossibly smooth under my touch as I traced the line of her jaw, memorizing every contour. The sound of her laughter, bright and unguarded, echoing in my ears as I pulled her close, shielding her from the cold spray of water in the shower, the way she melted into my arms as though we were one entity, bound together by an invisible thread. Each of these memories felt vivid and searing, as if I were reliving them in real time, each moment so clear it almost hurt. I could still feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine as we stood under the cascading water, the steam filling the small space, creating a cocoon of intimacy around us. Her whispered “thank you” as she nestled into my chest, the tremble in her voice carrying a depth of emotion that words couldn’t capture.

I barely registered the passing streetlights or the other cars on the freeway as they blurred by, their headlights casting fleeting shadows across my windshield. My mind was consumed by thoughts of her—of the way she made me feel simultaneously grounded yet untethered, as though I were floating on a cloud of quiet joy mixed with fierce longing, lost in the warmth of our shared moments, but also aching from the distance that now stretched between us. At a stoplight, I rested my forehead against the steering wheel, exhaling shakily, the weight of everything pressing down on me like a physical force. The dull glow of the dashboard illuminated my face, casting an ethereal light that highlighted the crease between my brows and the faint sheen of moisture clinging to my eyes. What is it about her that makes it so hard to leave? I wondered, the question repeating in my mind like a broken record. I had said goodbye to so many people in my life—family, friends, teammates—but this was different. It was more than just a farewell; it was the loss of something irreplaceable, a connection that felt as though it had become a part of my very being. My chest tightened as I thought about the sweater I had left with her. It wasn’t just a piece of clothing; it was a symbol, a tangible connection to me in my absence, something that would remind her of the way I held her close, the way I kept her safe in my arms. I imagined her curling up in it, the fabric enveloping her like my arms would if I were still there, offering her the same warmth and comfort I once provided. It gave me a small measure of comfort, knowing that, in some way, she would always have that piece of me to hold onto, no matter how far apart we were.

After what felt like an eternity, I found myself back in the city, the place where everything had begun, the place that now felt like a distant memory. The hotel loomed ahead, its glowing sign a harsh reminder of the reality I had to return to, a stark contrast to the soft, fleeting moments I had shared with her. I pulled into the underground parking lot and turned off the engine, but I didn’t immediately get out. Instead, I sat there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, my hands still gripping it as if holding on would somehow keep me tethered to something real, something I wasn’t ready to let go of. My thoughts swirled like a storm inside my mind, crashing against one another with no escape. The car, which had once felt like a small sanctuary, now felt empty, too quiet without her laughter, her voice, her presence filling the space. I ran a hand through my hair, leaning back against the seat with a deep sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me, as though it was the only way to release some of the tension that had built up. The weight of the evening, the heaviness of everything I had just left behind, settled over me like a blanket, pressing down on my chest and making it harder to breathe. With a force of will, I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and stepped out into the cool, stale air of the parking garage, the silence around me almost deafening in its stillness. The hum of the air conditioning was the only sound as I made my way to the elevator, the monotonous buzz filling the space as I waited for it to arrive. I pressed the button for my floor, and as the doors closed, I leaned against the wall of the elevator, watching my reflection in the polished metal doors. The face staring back at me seemed foreign, like a stranger I didn’t recognize—tired, worn, and lost in thoughts of her.

My room was exactly as I had left it—neat, impersonal, and devoid of the warmth I had felt in her presence. I set my bag down by the door and collapsed onto the edge of the couch my head falling into my hands. The silence was deafening, amplifying the ache in my chest. I reached for my phone, my thumb hovering over her contact. The urge to call her, to hear her voice, was overwhelming. But I hesitated, knowing that hearing her would only make the distance between us more unbearable. Instead, I set the phone down and leaned back against the cushions my eyes drifting shut. Memories of her flooded my mind—the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, the sound of her voice calling my name, the feel of her hand in mine. Each memory was a double-edged sword, bringing both comfort and pain. I didn’t know how long I sat there, lost in my thoughts. The world outside moved on, but I was caught in a loop of longing and bittersweet memories. I rubbed the back of my neck decide on getting up and wandered to the bathroom. The harsh white light flickered on as I twisted the shower knob, letting the water run hot until steam fogged up the mirror. Stripping off my clothes felt mechanical, as if my body were moving on autopilot while my mind stayed rooted in the memories of her.

The water cascaded over me, scalding and relentless, but it did little to wash away the ache in my chest. I leaned forward, pressing my palms against the cool tile, letting the sound of the shower drown out the noise in my head. Her face flickered in my mind’s eye—her smile, the softness in her gaze when she looked at me, the way her hand had lingered on mine in the doorway. I stayed under the water longer than I should have, only stepping out when the heat began to wane. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I padded back into the room, the air-conditioned chill prickling my skin. I grabbed the hotel’s room service menu, scanning it without really reading. Food was the last thing on my mind, but I knew I couldn’t sleep on an empty stomach. A few minutes later, I placed an order for something simple—a sandwich and some soup. The mundane act of ordering felt almost absurd in the haze of my emotions, like trying to carry on a normal routine when nothing felt normal anymore.

While waiting for the food to arrive, I pulled on a pair of sweats and a plain t-shirt, the soft fabric doing little to ease the heaviness pressing against me. As I passed the mirror by the desk, my reflection stopped me. My face looked haggard, my eyes shadowed, and my shoulders slumped as though the weight of missing her had somehow become tangible. The knock at the door interrupted the silence, startling me out of my thoughts. I opened it to find the room service attendant with a tray in hand. Mumbling a quick thank you, I avoided their gaze and placed the tray on the small table near the window. The food was unremarkable. The sandwich was bland, and the soup tepid, but I forced myself to eat enough to quiet my stomach’s protest. When I was done, I pushed the tray aside and stood by the window, the city lights flickering like a thousand tiny reminders that life outside was still moving. My voice barely rose above a whisper as I murmured, “I’ll see her again.” The words lingered in the air, a fragile promise I clung to, offering a faint glimmer of solace in the quiet ache that surrounded me. Minutes stretched into hours as I remained by the window, my mind stuck in an endless loop of memories. The city below blurred into an indistinct haze of lights and shadows, a reflection of the emotions swirling within me. Finally, unable to stave off exhaustion any longer, I stepped away and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to my chest. The mattress felt unyielding, the room too cold and sterile—a stark contrast to the warmth I had left behind with her. I reached for my phone on the nightstand and stared at her contact for what felt like an eternity. My thumb hovered over the call button, the temptation to hear her voice clawing at me. But I stopped myself, knowing it would only deepen the ache. With a sigh, I set the phone down and sank back into the pillows, my eyes drifting shut. Memories of her filled the space between wakefulness and sleep. Each recollection was bittersweet, and the hours passed slowly as my mind replayed every detail of her, every moment etched into my heart. Finally, the weight of exhaustion pulled me under, her image the last thing in my mind, and the promise of seeing her again the only thing easing the ache in my chest.

I woke up early the next morning, the faintest glimmer of light filtering through the closed curtains, casting soft shadows across the sterile hotel room. The quiet was suffocating, thick with the weight of the night’s silence. I could feel the heaviness of sleep still pulling at my body, the kind of tiredness that settled deep into your bones, lingering long after you’d woken. But it wasn’t my body that refused to rest; it was my mind, which refused to let go of the thoughts of her. The pillow beside me was cold, empty, and the absence of her presence was palpable, as though it had a weight of its own, pressing down on me. I lingered there for a long moment, unable to move, unsure if I even wanted to. I listened to the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft sounds of the city waking outside. Every part of me ached to stay in this quiet, dreamlike space, where she had just been a few hours ago, where her warmth still seemed to linger in the air like an echo. I closed my eyes for a second, imagining her there beside me, her body curled close to mine, the soft rise and fall of her breathing a gentle rhythm I could have easily drifted back into. But reality was waiting. The day was waiting, pulling me out of the moment, forcing me to face what was ahead.

Reluctantly, I reached for my phone on the nightstand, feeling its weight in my hand as I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over her contact, indecision gripping me. I wanted so badly to hear her voice, to call her, but I hesitated. It was still early, and I knew she was probably fast asleep. The temptation to hear her voice was overwhelming, but I resisted. The silence that followed in the room was almost deafening, my heart thudding in my chest, each beat a reminder of the distance between us. I could already picture her face, the soft lilt of her voice as she answered, and I longed for it, but I knew calling especially at this hour, would only lace with concern. So, I focused on my message instead. It wasn’t much—just a few simple words—but enough to let her know I was thinking of her. Enough to bridge the gap, to remind her that even though we were far apart, she was still on my mind.

Good morning, I hope you slept well. Thinking of you.

I hit send and immediately watched the dots appear, indicating the message had been delivered. They disappeared just as quickly. There was no immediate response, but I didn’t expect one. It was still early, after all. I placed the phone down on the bedside table, the absence of buzzing and pinging leaving the room quieter than before. The weight of the silence seemed even heavier now, amplifying the emptiness that surrounded me. I sat up slowly, letting the cold air from the air conditioning brush against my skin, waking me up fully. My gaze wandered toward the window, where the first light of day was beginning to break through the horizon. It painted the city in soft shades of pink and gold, an almost surreal beauty. For a moment, I let my gaze linger there, absorbing the view, but it only seemed to heighten the loneliness. The city below felt alive, bustling with energy, while I sat in this sterile room, alone. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the lingering fatigue that seemed to cling to me. The lethargy was more than physical; it was emotional, a heaviness that made it hard to breathe, hard to think clearly.

I couldn’t stay in this moment forever. I had to move forward, even though every part of me wanted to stay in the dream, to hold on to her, to hold on to the way we had shared this space just days before. But reality was waiting. The day ahead was waiting, and I had to face it. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor beneath my feet sending a jolt of wakefulness through my body. My muscles protested the movement—still stiff from the hours I had spent lying in bed, tangled in sheets and memories. I stood up, feeling the ache in my body but also the weight of the day ahead pressing down on me. I had to return the rental car, check in at the airport, and go through security. Each step I took felt like a step further away from the time I had spent with her. Each task pulling me back into the reality of being apart, into the reality of her absence.

I quickly scanned the room, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. The space looked exactly as I had left it the night before—neat, impersonal, and stripped of any warmth. It was as though the very essence of her had vanished when she left, taking with it the life that had once filled the room. I picked up my suitcase from the corner, where it had been hastily tossed aside when I first arrived, and glanced at it. The zipper caught slightly, and I tugged at it absently, not really paying attention as I stuffed the last of my things into the case. The thought of leaving this place felt jarring. The act of packing, of putting things away, felt like I was physically saying goodbye again—closing a chapter that had only just begun. The room was no longer the place where we had shared laughter and soft moments. Now it was just a place, empty and cold.

Once the suitcase was packed, I stood for a moment, the weight of everything sinking in. I glanced at the clothes I had laid out for the day—simple, practical—but even they seemed to add to the heaviness I felt. I knew I had to get moving, but part of me wanted to just stay in this moment, to freeze time. I moved to the bathroom, walking with slow, deliberate steps, my mind still foggy with the thought of her. The harsh, fluorescent lights flickered above me as I entered, making my eyes squint against the sudden brightness. The bathroom felt as sterile as the rest of the room, offering no comfort. But I needed the routine, the act of moving forward, to ground me. I stripped off my clothes, feeling the weight of the night still hanging in the air, and stepped into the shower, hoping that the heat of the water would somehow refresh me, clear away the ache that had settled in my chest.

The shower hissed to life, the hot water cascading down over me in a wave of steam. I closed my eyes, letting the heat envelop me, the water scalding against my skin in an attempt to wash away the tension, the lingering thoughts of her. I let the sound of the water fill the space, hoping it would drown out the memories that kept resurfacing—the sound of her laughter, the way she had looked at me when I kissed her goodnight, the softness of her touch when she held my hand. Unwilling to leave the moment, unwilling to face the world outside. But eventually, I stepped out, the heat fading from the water, leaving me standing there, damp and still. I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked back into the room. I glanced at the clothes I had set aside to wear. They were simple, a dress shirt and jeans with a sports coat, nothing fancy. But as I pulled them on, the weight of everything seemed to settle heavier on my shoulders. I still had to leave. I still had to face the reality of going back to London without her. But for now, I focused on the small, familiar task of getting ready, letting the routine ground me as much as it could. The ache in my chest remained, but at least for a moment, I wasn’t entirely consumed by it.

I grabbed my jacket from the chair where I had tossed it and walked toward the door. I glanced at the clock—just enough time to grab breakfast and get everything in order before heading to the rental place. My feet felt heavy as I walked to the elevator. The air felt thick, as if every step I took was a reminder of the distance. I tried to push the thought away, but it lingered stubbornly. The elevator ride down was quiet, the soft hum of the machine the only sound breaking the stillness. I stepped out into the parking garage, the concrete floor cool beneath my feet, and made my way to the rental car. It was waiting for me, parked in the same spot I had left it the night before, the once-familiar sight now feeling like a symbol of all the things I was leaving behind.

The drive to the rental drop-off was uneventful—smooth and silent, the streets empty at this hour, the city still caught in the quiet of early morning. The car seemed like an extension of me, a hollow vessel carrying me toward the inevitable end of this chapter. My fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel as I navigated the familiar route, but my mind was elsewhere, swirling with thoughts of her. I parked the car, the engine dying with a soft sputter, and took a moment to collect myself. The process of returning the keys was quick, almost too quick, but it felt like the final step in a journey I wasn’t ready to end. I stood there for a moment after, the weight of everything settling over me once again, before finally turning to leave. There was no turning back now. The short cab ride to the airport, the familiar sights of the terminal greeting me as the driver pulled into the terminal. The hustle and bustle of travelers, the constant hum of announcements, and the cold nature of it all made my stomach twist. The world around me was in motion, everyone coming and going, and yet, I felt strangely detached from it all, like an outsider watching life unfold without me. I grabbed my bag and made my way inside, checking in quickly, as the lines were short this early in the morning. I glanced at the departures board, trying to steady my racing thoughts. I was leaving, and yet it felt as though I was leaving a part of myself behind. The realization made my chest tighten.

I passed through security with little fanfare, the familiar motions of placing my bag on the conveyor belt, walking through the scanner, and retrieving my things feeling mechanical, like a ritual I had done a thousand times before during the race season and off season. But today it felt different—empty, even. I moved through the terminal, grabbing a quick coffee from one of the kiosks, but the bitterness of it couldn’t shake the torondo of emotions inside me. The airport was full of people, yet I felt completely alone. I found a seat near my gate, but the minutes dragged by, every second stretching longer than the last. My phone buzzed with a message from her—just a simple reply to my good morning text.

Good morning! I slept well, thank you for checking in. I miss you.

I read the message over and over, each word sending a wave of warmth through me, followed quickly by the sharp sting of longing. I put my phone down, trying to steady myself as the announcement for my flight echoed through the terminal. I stood up, my legs feeling heavier than they should, and made my way toward the gate. There was no turning back now. The boarding process was as routine as it had ever been, and yet it felt like the finality of it all was pressing on me, making each step feel like a goodbye. As the flight attendants called for final boarding, I took one last look at the terminal before stepping onto the plane. The city outside seemed so distant now, like a fading dream I wasn’t ready to wake from. I slid into my seat, buckling up and staring out the window as the plane taxied toward the runway. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted inside me—that I was no longer the person I had been when I first arrived. But even in that moment, with the plane gaining speed on the runway, I clung to one thought: I’ll see her again.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 8 It's You

Y/N's POV

I finally take the chance to look up at him from kneeling in between his legs. The sight was beautiful, his chest still heaving as he came down from his high, the light sheen on his skin from the intensity of my action; my eyes finally met his, which had something other than lust laced in the gaze. Toto, finally gaining some consciousness, pulled me up from in front of him and pulled me onto his lap. He scooted us until his back was against the pillows and rested against the headboard of my bed. He pulled me in for a hug in which I rested my head against his chest, and my legs were tangled between his. We snuggled into each other, embracing the afterglow of our intimacy.

I couldn't tell you how long we stayed like this, but I felt serene. I know today will be short-lived, and Toto feels the same. I knew this would be the last time I see him, being physically near him, just to hold me; ironically, he's been the stability I've longed for. I've never been the one to let my heart determine my actions or just be flat-out smitten, but Toto broke through all of that and, in a matter of days, put me utterly speechless. I am so relieved and don't dare to tell someone how I genuinely feel for them because I've been broken several times. I was never anyone's first choice, and even when I approached someone just to talk to them only, to find out they called me psychotic behind my back or that they thought I wasn't okay trying to figure out why they were giving mixed signals and the best part was telling someone I loved them and the feelings where mutual between us for them to start a relationship with someone else. From those instances, I have had no choice but to pick up the pieces of my own broken heart, piece them back together, and guard them from the next person. From then on, it was hard to tell someone that I was interested because I couldn't bear putting the pieces back together; the pain over the years is unlike another and unbearable that I don't wish on my enemy. I get too easily attached and become emotional. I couldn't bear any pain. But these past few days, Toto has shown me what it means to care for someone other than yourself; he's been courteous, sweet and safe, which I yearn for. I wish I could tell him the number of times I would lay awake at night or the times I cried myself asleep wishing I could have someone to love, to hold, to care about someone and give my heart to them. I want to tell him someday how he was a breath of fresh air I never knew I needed from drowning for so long. As if he understood, to end my inner monologue preaching my painfulness of romanticizing love, he gently kissed the top of my head and squeezed his arms tighter around me. I couldn't help but just melt further into his arms.

"I'm going to miss this, miss you, just holding you, all of this pains me." he sighs and kisses the top of my head, "You know … I'm going to miss you too, Toto… We can still talk on the phone, video calls, and text. I know the time difference will be painful, but I need you, too." I shift out of his grasp to look him in the face, and he loses his grip around me to do so. His looks softened, "How did I get so lucky to find such a sweet girl like you?" he slid his hand up to cup my face and kissed the tip of my nose, and I couldn't help but smile softly at his comment. "You know, I could say the same about you." His lips curl up into a smile, and he pulls me in for a hug again; we stay like this for a moment, just savouring the physicality of our situation. I take the chance to draw back from his embrace, which he loosens and slides his hands to my waist. "On that note, would you like to come shower with me?" I couldn't help but reflectively bite my lower lip, to which my eyes dart back up to his, and his lop-sided smirk turns into a full-blown smile, and he says with such tenderness, "I would love to." Toto pulls the covers off our bodies, adjusts my legs, and is now straddling his lap. His hands slide to grasp the underside of my thighs, and I go to wrap my arms around his neck. He shuffles the both of us until his legs are off on the edge of the bed, and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He stands up with me in his arms.

I couldn't help but giggle at him carrying me as if I weighed nothing to him and headed out of my room and towards the washroom. "okay, Schatzi, I might need a bit of guidance on where it is," "Okay, we are almost there, its the room by the top of the stairs to the right" I feel him a nod, and he keeps making his way. Weirdly, I have never been carried in my home, but you let the feeling slide. We both enter the washroom. He gently places you back on your feet as you turn to get the water on, a little warmer for your liking, and I know Toto would do the same; I also make sure my bathrobe is there, and luckily, there is an extra towel for Toto to use, so you don't need to leave. You take the chance to get your hairbrush, as this would be the perfect opportunity to get your hair wet and rack product through it again. You can sense Toto watching you meticulously as you get prepared. You check the temperature of the water, and it's at the perfect temperature; you open the shower curtain, turn around and extend your hand towards Toto, signalling to take hold, which he does. You couldn't help but notice his demeanour; he keeps his gaze at your eyes or the floor, and his face supports a light blush. His cute, boyish grin makes you melt whenever he glances at you.

It was adorable that he is still a little awkward around you, as you are with him, so you decide to take charge. You pull the both of you into the shower and close the curtain as he enters behind you. You turn to pull the little lever to turn on the showerhead, to which your oblivious mind shoots out cold water, causing you to squeal at the sudden temperature change. Toto masks a chuckle while pulling you towards him for warmth, your back pressed against his front side. As you stand there like this, just looking up at him, without realizing, he now has his hand out, testing the temperature to see if it's finally right, which it is, and nudges you silently, telling you to step forward, with his hand still around your waist. Both of you are now under the stream of water; you turn around to face him, placing your hands on his torso, tipping your head back, closing your eyes, and allowing your head and hair to submerge and become soaking wet fully. From this action, Toto pulls you closer to him, peppering kisses to your jaw and neck, causing your lips to curl up. You slowly bring your head back up and open your eyes, locking them instantly with Toto's. You see the glimmer of tenderness and adoration. Feeling that you could get lost forever in his eyes, you break the gaze and shift ever so slightly towards the shampoo pump. Toto looks at your action and does the same. He is a little quicker than you, and he has the product lathering into your hair; you smile and turn around so he can have better access to your hair. He places a gentle peck on your shoulder, acknowledging the gesture. You couldn't help but let your eyes fall shut and hum at the sensation of Toto's hands massaging and lathering the shampoo into your hair and scalp. You knew he was a very tactile and physical man, but this let a warmth spread throughout your entire body that made you feel at ease around him without caring for the world around you; it drowned everything out and caused me just to let my eyes shut. He let his hands run delicately through your hair, as if not to pull or massage too aggressively not to cause any pain; it was entirely different than how you wash your hair. I felt his hands move away from my hair, and I hadn't noticed him grab the removable showerhead, where he started rinsing the shampoo from my hair. I had already felt the smile plastered on my face; he continued washing my hair but applied a bit of conditioner to it, ensuring it spread evenly. Taking the brush and running it through my soaked hair, he made sure to section the hair and run it through in small sections, detangling the hidden knots while attempting to cause minor pain. All these actions were tender, and you couldn't help but lean back into his front side. Every so often, I would place kisses on your shoulder. You could sense his concentration, wanting to learn your shower routine, hoping he gets it right. You never intended him to help, but it was something he did automatically. Once he had finished detangling your hair, he set down the brush and turned you around. He had a warm smile on his face, to which you motioned over to the washcloth; he took hold of it, applied a generous amount of shower gel and gently lathered your skin.

Toto's hands worked the lather into your skin with a tenderness that made your heart swell. His touch was gentle but firm as he knelt down, ensuring that every inch of your skin was cleansed and cared for. He moved up your legs with deliberate, careful strokes, and you couldn’t help but feel a warmth radiating from the core of your being. The sensation of the washcloth against your skin, combined with the feel of his hands guiding it, made you feel more connected to him than ever before. When he finished with your legs, Toto stood up, his eyes meeting yours with a softness that took your breath away. He moved the washcloth to your arms, taking his time as he worked his way up to your shoulders, paying particular attention to every curve and line of your body. The suds dripped down, mingling with the water from the shower, creating a cascade of bubbles that danced along your skin. He then moved to your back, asking you to turn around so he could reach every part of you. You complied, leaning forward slightly and feeling the pressure of his hands as they worked the washcloth over your shoulders, spine, and lower back. He was thorough, ensuring every inch was covered, but always with a lightness that kept you at ease.

Once satisfied, he looked slightly surprised but quickly gave you a playful smile, raising his eyebrows as if to say, "Your turn, huh?" You nodded, your grin widening as you applied a generous shower gel to the cloth. The scent filled the small space, fresh and invigorating, and you took a moment to savour it before turning back to him. You took it, feeling a rush of affection for him as you began to lather his skin in the same gentle, loving way he had done for you. Starting at his shoulders, you pressed the washcloth to his skin, working it in small, circular motions. His muscles tensed slightly under your touch, but you could feel them relax as you continued, the warmth from the shower still clinging to his skin. You moved slowly, taking your time as you lathered his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your hands. You couldn't help but admire how the soap suds clung to his skin, the contrast between the white foam and his tan complexion. His eyes were closed, and there was a peaceful contentment on his face, and it made your heart swell to know you could bring him this kind of comfort. As you moved the cloth lower across his abdomen, you felt the strength of his core muscles beneath your fingers. His body was firm, sculpted from years of dedication to working out and his rigid lifestyle, but there was a softness in how he responded to your touch that made you feel closer to him than ever before. When you reached his arms, you took extra care, running the washcloth down each one with slow, deliberate strokes. You briefly intertwined your fingers with him, squeezing gently before continuing to his hands. His hands, so strong and capable, were now relaxed in yours, and you marvelled at the tenderness he showed despite his strength. Toto opened his eyes, watching you as you knelt to wash his legs. You worked your way down, lathering each leg with the same care and attention he had given you, ensuring every part of him was cleansed. He watched you intently, a small smile playing on his lips as you moved back up, meeting his gaze again. You brought the washcloth back to his chest as you stood, moving it in soft, rhythmic circles. He leaned into your touch, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. You couldn’t resist the urge to lean in and press a soft kiss to his collarbone, feeling him shiver slightly under your lips. “Feels nice,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, sending a warm flutter through your chest. You smiled against his skin, your breath warm on his damp chest.

You could feel the bond between you two growing stronger with each tender movement and shared glance, filling you with a deep sense of love and connection. You finished by rinsing the washcloth and running it gently over his skin, removing the last traces of soap. The water cascaded down his body, washing away the suds and leaving his skin clean and refreshed. You took your time, savouring each moment, each touch, knowing that this was a memory you would hold onto for a long time. When you were done, you took a step back, admiring your work. Toto smiled down at you, his eyes full of affection and gratitude. He reached out, gently cupping your cheek in his hand, and you leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm against your skin. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. The connection between you felt almost tangible, like a thread binding you together, tighter with every passing moment. When you were both fully rinsed and all the suds were washed away, Toto reached out to turn off the water. The sudden silence filled the bathroom, broken only by the soft dripping of water as it trickled down from your bodies. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you as the last water dripped from your body. You stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until Toto slowly pulled back, reaching for a towel. He wrapped it around your shoulders first, rubbing your arms gently to warm you up, before grabbing another for himself. The tender care in his actions made your heart flutter, and you couldn’t help but smile up at him. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and wishing these last few days could last an eternity. He guided you out of the shower with towels around you, leading you to the sink, where you stood side by side, feeling a deep sense of contentment. Once you were mostly dry, Toto took your hand and led you to the mirror above the sink. The steam from the shower had fogged up the glass, but he wiped it clean with the edge of his towel, revealing your reflection side by side. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight—the two of you, hair damp, cheeks flushed, looking like a perfect pair. Toto reached for a comb and gently ran it through your damp hair, ensuring no tangles were left behind. You closed your eyes, enjoying the moment's soothing motion and quiet intimacy. Eyeing the hair products, a determined look in his eyes as he prepared to help you style your hair. You couldn’t help but chuckle softly at his focus, knowing he was doing his best to take care of you in every way possible. He took a chance to assess how to proceed until he looked at your eyes and motioned over which to apply first; he applied a small amount of leave-in conditioner, evenly distributing it from root to tip. The way he moved with such care made you feel cherished as if you were the most important person in the world to him. He repeated all these actions with the curl cream, mouse, and gel. You couldn’t help but lean back slightly as he worked, resting your head against his chest. He paused momentarily, smiling down at you before continuing, his fingers deftly working through the tangles. You closed your eyes, enjoying the soothing rhythm of his movements, feeling completely at ease in his presence. Once your hair was fully detangled and styled to his satisfaction, he softly murmured, “Perfect.”

You opened your eyes and turned slightly to look at yourself in the mirror. Your hair was parted as it usually was, and the curls loose and damn but holding because of the product, and the soft waves from the shower still held their shape. It was simple, but it made you feel beautiful, especially knowing Toto had done it. He leaned down and kissed your temple, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled back with a satisfied smile. You turned to face him, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice full of affection. “Anytime,” he replied softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at you. With that, he took your hand again, leading you out of the bathroom and back into your room. The room was filled with the soft, fading light of the late afternoon, casting a gentle glow over the space. You felt a deep sense of contentment wash over you as Toto guided you toward the bedroom, where your clothes were neatly folded from earlier. He smiled at you, a mixture of tenderness and care in his eyes, as he picked up your clothes. “Let me help you,” he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination to care for you, even in the most minor ways. You nodded, a warm smile on your lips as you allowed him to gently guide you to sit on the edge of the bed.

Toto knelt in front of you, his large hands deftly picking up your underwear. He carefully guided your feet through the openings, sliding them up your legs with the utmost care. His soft and deliberate touch ensured that you felt comfortable and cherished with every movement. Once he had them in place, he reached for your leggings, repeating the process with the same tender precision. You watched him, your heart swelling with affection at how attentive he was to your comfort. He guided the leggings up your legs, pausing just before pulling them up, his hands lingering on your hips as he looked up at you. You nodded slightly, giving him silent permission to continue, and he did so, gently pulling the waistband into place. Next, he picked up your bralette, holding it with a delicate reverence. You leaned forward slightly, raising your arms so he could slip it over your head. His hands were careful as he adjusted the straps on your shoulders, ensuring it fit just right. Once settled, he reached for your hoodie, guiding your arms through the sleeves before pulling the fabric over your head. As he zipped up the hoodie, his fingers brushed against your skin, sending a soft shiver down your spine. You couldn’t help but smile at his meticulousness, ensuring you were dressed warmly and comfortably.

When he was done, you reached out, taking his hand in yours. “My turn,” you whispered, your voice filled with the same affection and care he had shown you. He stood up, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he handed you his clothes. You took your time mirroring his earlier actions as you helped him dress. You started with his boxers, guiding them up his legs and ensuring they sat comfortably on his hips. Next came his trousers, which you carefully pulled up, taking care not to rush as you adjusted the waistband. As you reached for his shirt, you noticed how he watched you with a soft, appreciative gaze. You couldn’t help but smile as you guided his arms through the sleeves, pulling the fabric over his head and smoothing it down over his chest. The feel of the material under your hands was familiar and comforting as you adjusted the collar and buttons. Once he was fully dressed, you stepped back, admiring your work. The two of you stood there momentarily, fully clothed yet still feeling that deep, intimate connection forged in the shower. Toto reached out, pulling you into his arms, holding you close as you rested your head against his chest. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with emotion. “For everything.” You smiled, wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him tightly. “Anytime,” you whispered back, feeling a profound sense of contentment as you stood together, the outside world fading away, leaving only the two of you in this perfect, tender moment.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, the moment's warmth faded as reality gently intruded. You could feel Toto’s chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calming you, but there was a subtle tension in how he held you, a reluctance that spoke volumes. Toto slowly pulled back, his hands lingering on your shoulders as he looked down at you, his expression tinged with affection and regret. “I have to go soon,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of the inevitable goodbye. You felt a pang in your chest, the thought of him leaving tugging at your heart. But you nodded, understanding the demands of his life and the responsibilities he had to return to. “I know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to keep your emotions in check. Toto reached up, cupping your cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing gently against your skin. “It won’t be long,” he promised, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made you believe every word. “I’ll keep in touch; I’ll call, text… whatever it takes. And before your fellowship starts, I’ll ensure everything is ready for you when you visit the Brackley.” You nodded again, finding comfort in his words, even as the sadness of his departure loomed over you. “I’ll hold you to that,” you replied with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, and he kissed your forehead tenderly. When he pulled back, there was a spark of determination in his eyes. “Wait here,” he said suddenly, his tone filled with a quiet resolve as he stepped away from you and moved toward his bag.

Curious, You watched him as he rummaged through his belongings, pulling out a familiar black cable-knit sweater. It was one of his favourites, a piece of clothing you had seen him wear yesterday driving you home, and one that always carried his comforting scent. Toto walked back to you, holding the sweater with a small, affectionate smile. “I want you to keep this,” he said, his voice gentle. “So you can have a piece of me with you, even when I’m not here.” Your breath caught in your throat as you took the sweater from his hands, the soft fabric warm against your fingertips. It felt like a piece of him, something tangible to hold onto when the distance between you seemed too great. “Toto…” you began, your voice faltering as you looked up at him, overwhelmed by the gesture. He shook his head, cutting you off with a tender smile. “It’s yours,” he insisted. “Whenever you miss me, just put it on, and I’ll be right there with you.”

You couldn’t help but smile through the tears in your eyes. You hugged the sweater to your chest, feeling the warmth and comfort it brought, just as his presence did. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. Toto’s expression softened as he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, his voice filled with a quiet determination that made you believe in the possibility. You nodded, blinking away the tears as you held onto his words. “And I’ll be ready to visit,” you added with a small, determined smile. He chuckled softly, leaning in to press one last kiss to your lips. It was slow, tender, filled with all the unspoken words that neither of you could express. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a moment, both of you savouring the last bit of closeness before he had to leave. “I’ll call you when I get to the airport, text before I board and depart, and as soon as I land, I will be in touch,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ll be waiting,” you replied, your voice steady despite the ache in your heart.

Y/N's POV

I finally take the chance to look up at him from kneeling in between his legs. The sight was beautiful, his chest still heaving as he came down from his high, the light sheen on his skin from the intensity of my action; my eyes finally met his, which had something other than lust laced in the gaze. Toto, finally gaining some consciousness, pulled me up from in front of him and pulled me onto his lap. He scooted us until his back was against the pillows and rested against the headboard of my bed. He pulled me in for a hug in which I rested my head against his chest, and my legs were tangled between his. We snuggled into each other, embracing the afterglow of our intimacy.

I couldn't tell you how long we stayed like this, but I felt serene. I know today will be short-lived, and Toto feels the same. I knew this would be the last time I see him, being physically near him, just to hold me; ironically, he's been the stability I've longed for. I've never been the one to let my heart determine my actions or just be flat-out smitten, but Toto broke through all of that and, in a matter of days, put me utterly speechless. I am so relieved and don't dare to tell someone how I genuinely feel for them because I've been broken several times. I was never anyone's first choice, and even when I approached someone just to talk to them only, to find out they called me psychotic behind my back or that they thought I wasn't okay trying to figure out why they were giving mixed signals and the best part was telling someone I loved them and the feelings where mutual between us for them to start a relationship with someone else. From those instances, I have had no choice but to pick up the pieces of my own broken heart, piece them back together, and guard them from the next person. From then on, it was hard to tell someone that I was interested because I couldn't bear putting the pieces back together; the pain over the years is unlike another and unbearable that I don't wish on my enemy. I get too easily attached and become emotional. I couldn't bear any pain. But these past few days, Toto has shown me what it means to care for someone other than yourself; he's been courteous, sweet and safe, which I yearn for. I wish I could tell him the number of times I would lay awake at night or the times I cried myself asleep wishing I could have someone to love, to hold, to care about someone and give my heart to them. I want to tell him someday how he was a breath of fresh air I never knew I needed from drowning for so long. As if he understood, to end my inner monologue preaching my painfulness of romanticizing love, he gently kissed the top of my head and squeezed his arms tighter around me. I couldn't help but just melt further into his arms."I'm going to miss this, miss you, just holding you, all of this pains me." he sighs and kisses the top of my head, "You know ... I'm going to miss you too, Toto... We can still talk on the phone, video calls, and text. I know the time difference will be painful, but I need you, too." I shift out of his grasp to look him in the face, and he loses his grip around me to do so. His looks softened, "How did I get so lucky to find such a sweet girl like you?" he slid his hand up to cup my face and kissed the tip of my nose, and I couldn't help but smile softly at his comment. "You know, I could say the same about you." His lips curl up into a smile, and he pulls me in for a hug again; we stay like this for a moment, just savouring the physicality of our situation. I take the chance to draw back from his embrace, which he loosens and slides his hands to my waist. "On that note, would you like to come shower with me?" I couldn't help but reflectively bite my lower lip, to which my eyes dart back up to his, and his lop-sided smirk turns into a full-blown smile, and he says with such tenderness, "I would love to." Toto pulls the covers off our bodies, adjusts my legs, and is now straddling his lap. His hands slide to grasp the underside of my thighs, and I go to wrap my arms around his neck. He shuffles the both of us until his legs are off on the edge of the bed, and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He stands up with me in his arms.

I couldn't help but giggle at him carrying me as if I weighed nothing to him and headed out of my room and towards the washroom. "okay, Schatzi, I might need a bit of guidance on where it is," "Okay, we are almost there, its the room by the top of the stairs to the right" I feel him a nod, and he keeps making his way. Weirdly, I have never been carried in my home, but you let the feeling slide. We both enter the washroom. He gently places you back on your feet as you turn to get the water on, a little warmer for your liking, and I know Toto would do the same; I also make sure my bathrobe is there, and luckily, there is an extra towel for Toto to use, so you don't need to leave. You take the chance to get your hairbrush, as this would be the perfect opportunity to get your hair wet and rack product through it again. You can sense Toto watching you meticulously as you get prepared. You check the temperature of the water, and it's at the perfect temperature; you open the shower curtain, turn around and extend your hand towards Toto, signalling to take hold, which he does. You couldn't help but notice his demeanour; he keeps his gaze at your eyes or the floor, and his face supports a light blush. His cute, boyish grin makes you melt whenever he glances at you.

It was adorable that he is still a little awkward around you, as you are with him, so you decide to take charge. You pull the both of you into the shower and close the curtain as he enters behind you. You turn to pull the little lever to turn on the showerhead, to which your oblivious mind shoots out cold water, causing you to squeal at the sudden temperature change. Toto masks a chuckle while pulling you towards him for warmth, your back pressed against his front side. As you stand there like this, just looking up at him, without realizing, he now has his hand out, testing the temperature to see if it's finally right, which it is, and nudges you silently, telling you to step forward, with his hand still around your waist. Both of you are now under the stream of water; you turn around to face him, placing your hands on his torso, tipping your head back, closing your eyes, and allowing your head and hair to submerge and become soaking wet fully. From this action, Toto pulls you closer to him, peppering kisses to your jaw and neck, causing your lips to curl up. You slowly bring your head back up and open your eyes, locking them instantly with Toto's.

You see the glimmer of tenderness and adoration. Feeling that you could get lost forever in his eyes, you break the gaze and shift ever so slightly towards the shampoo pump. Toto looks at your action and does the same. He is a little quicker than you, and he has the product lathering into your hair; you smile and turn around so he can have better access to your hair. He places a gentle peck on your shoulder, acknowledging the gesture. You couldn't help but let your eyes fall shut and hum at the sensation of Toto's hands massaging and lathering the shampoo into your hair and scalp. You knew he was a very tactile and physical man, but this let a warmth spread throughout your entire body that made you feel at ease around him without caring for the world around you; it drowned everything out and caused me just to let my eyes shut. He let his hands run delicately through your hair, as if not to pull or massage too aggressively not to cause any pain; it was entirely different than how you wash your hair. I felt his hands move away from my hair, and I hadn't noticed him grab the removable showerhead, where he started rinsing the shampoo from my hair. I had already felt the smile plastered on my face; he continued washing my hair but applied a bit of conditioner to it, ensuring it spread evenly. Taking the brush and running it through my soaked hair, he made sure to section the hair and run it through in small sections, detangling the hidden knots while attempting to cause minor pain. All these actions were tender, and you couldn't help but lean back into his front side. Every so often, I would place kisses on your shoulder. You could sense his concentration, wanting to learn your shower routine, hoping he gets it right. You never intended him to help, but it was something he did automatically. Once he had finished detangling your hair, he set down the brush and turned you around. He had a warm smile on his face, to which you motioned over to the washcloth; he took hold of it, applied a generous amount of shower gel and gently lathered your skin.

Toto's hands worked the lather into your skin with a tenderness that made your heart swell. His touch was gentle but firm as he knelt down, ensuring that every inch of your skin was cleansed and cared for. He moved up your legs with deliberate, careful strokes, and you couldn't help but feel a warmth radiating from the core of your being. The sensation of the washcloth against your skin, combined with the feel of his hands guiding it, made you feel more connected to him than ever before. When he finished with your legs, Toto stood up, his eyes meeting yours with a softness that took your breath away. He moved the washcloth to your arms, taking his time as he worked his way up to your shoulders, paying particular attention to every curve and line of your body. The suds dripped down, mingling with the water from the shower, creating a cascade of bubbles that danced along your skin. He then moved to your back, asking you to turn around so he could reach every part of you. You complied, leaning forward slightly and feeling the pressure of his hands as they worked the washcloth over your shoulders, spine, and lower back. He was thorough, ensuring every inch was covered, but always with a lightness that kept you at ease.

Once satisfied, he looked slightly surprised but quickly gave you a playful smile, raising his eyebrows as if to say, "Your turn, huh?" You nodded, your grin widening as you applied a generous shower gel to the cloth. The scent filled the small space, fresh and invigorating, and you took a moment to savour it before turning back to him. You took it, feeling a rush of affection for him as you began to lather his skin in the same gentle, loving way he had done for you. Starting at his shoulders, you pressed the washcloth to his skin, working it in small, circular motions. His muscles tensed slightly under your touch, but you could feel them relax as you continued, the warmth from the shower still clinging to his skin. You moved slowly, taking your time as you lathered his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your hands. You couldn't help but admire how the soap suds clung to his skin, the contrast between the white foam and his tan complexion. His eyes were closed, and there was a peaceful contentment on his face, and it made your heart swell to know you could bring him this kind of comfort. As you moved the cloth lower across his abdomen, you felt the strength of his core muscles beneath your fingers. His body was firm, sculpted from years of dedication to working out and his rigid lifestyle, but there was a softness in how he responded to your touch that made you feel closer to him than ever before. When you reached his arms, you took extra care, running the washcloth down each one with slow, deliberate strokes. You briefly intertwined your fingers with him, squeezing gently before continuing to his hands. His hands, so strong and capable, were now relaxed in yours, and you marvelled at the tenderness he showed despite his strength. Toto opened his eyes, watching you as you knelt to wash his legs. You worked your way down, lathering each leg with the same care and attention he had given you, ensuring every part of him was cleansed. He watched you intently, a small smile playing on his lips as you moved back up, meeting his gaze again. You brought the washcloth back to his chest as you stood, moving it in soft, rhythmic circles. He leaned into your touch, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. You couldn't resist the urge to lean in and press a soft kiss to his collarbone, feeling him shiver slightly under your lips. "Feels nice," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, sending a warm flutter through your chest. You smiled against his skin, your breath warm on his damp chest.

You could feel the bond between you two growing stronger with each tender movement and shared glance, filling you with a deep sense of love and connection. You finished by rinsing the washcloth and running it gently over his skin, removing the last traces of soap. The water cascaded down his body, washing away the suds and leaving his skin clean and refreshed. You took your time, savouring each moment, each touch, knowing that this was a memory you would hold onto for a long time. When you were done, you took a step back, admiring your work. Toto smiled down at you, his eyes full of affection and gratitude. He reached out, gently cupping your cheek in his hand, and you leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm against your skin. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. The connection between you felt almost tangible, like a thread binding you together, tighter with every passing moment. When you were both fully rinsed and all the suds were washed away, Toto reached out to turn off the water. The sudden silence filled the bathroom, broken only by the soft dripping of water as it trickled down from your bodies. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you as the last water dripped from your body. You stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in each other's warmth, until Toto slowly pulled back, reaching for a towel. He wrapped it around your shoulders first, rubbing your arms gently to warm you up, before grabbing another for himself. The tender care in his actions made your heart flutter, and you couldn't help but smile up at him. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and wishing these last few days could last an eternity.

He guided you out of the shower with towels around you, leading you to the sink, where you stood side by side, feeling a deep sense of contentment. Once you were mostly dry, Toto took your hand and led you to the mirror above the sink. The steam from the shower had fogged up the glass, but he wiped it clean with the edge of his towel, revealing your reflection side by side. You couldn't help but smile at the sight-the two of you, hair damp, cheeks flushed, looking like a perfect pair. Toto reached for a comb and gently ran it through your damp hair, ensuring no tangles were left behind. You closed your eyes, enjoying the moment's soothing motion and quiet intimacy. Eyeing the hair products, a determined look in his eyes as he prepared to help you style your hair. You couldn't help but chuckle softly at his focus, knowing he was doing his best to take care of you in every way possible. He took a chance to assess how to proceed until he looked at your eyes and motioned over which to apply first; he applied a small amount of leave-in conditioner, evenly distributing it from root to tip. The way he moved with such care made you feel cherished as if you were the most important person in the world to him. He repeated all these actions with the curl cream, mouse, and gel. You couldn't help but lean back slightly as he worked, resting your head against his chest. He paused momentarily, smiling down at you before continuing, his fingers deftly working through the tangles. You closed your eyes, enjoying the soothing rhythm of his movements, feeling completely at ease in his presence. Once your hair was fully detangled and styled to his satisfaction, he softly murmured, "Perfect."

You opened your eyes and turned slightly to look at yourself in the mirror. Your hair was parted as it usually was, and the curls loose and damn but holding because of the product, and the soft waves from the shower still held their shape. It was simple, but it made you feel beautiful, especially knowing Toto had done it. He leaned down and kissed your temple, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled back with a satisfied smile. You turned to face him, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice full of affection. "Anytime," he replied softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at you. With that, he took your hand again, leading you out of the bathroom and back into your room. The room was filled with the soft, fading light of the late afternoon, casting a gentle glow over the space. You felt a deep sense of contentment wash over you as Toto guided you toward the bedroom, where your clothes were neatly folded from earlier. He smiled at you, a mixture of tenderness and care in his eyes, as he picked up your clothes. "Let me help you," he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination to care for you, even in the most minor ways. You nodded, a warm smile on your lips as you allowed him to gently guide you to sit on the edge of the bed.

Toto knelt in front of you, his large hands deftly picking up your underwear. He carefully guided your feet through the openings, sliding them up your legs with the utmost care. His soft and deliberate touch ensured that you felt comfortable and cherished with every movement. Once he had them in place, he reached for your leggings, repeating the process with the same tender precision. You watched him, your heart swelling with affection at how attentive he was to your comfort. He guided the leggings up your legs, pausing just before pulling them up, his hands lingering on your hips as he looked up at you. You nodded slightly, giving him silent permission to continue, and he did so, gently pulling the waistband into place. Next, he picked up your bralette, holding it with a delicate reverence. You leaned forward slightly, raising your arms so he could slip it over your head. His hands were careful as he adjusted the straps on your shoulders, ensuring it fit just right. Once settled, he reached for your hoodie, guiding your arms through the sleeves before pulling the fabric over your head. As he zipped up the hoodie, his fingers brushed against your skin, sending a soft shiver down your spine. You couldn't help but smile at his meticulousness, ensuring you were dressed warmly and comfortably.

When he was done, you reached out, taking his hand in yours. "My turn," you whispered, your voice filled with the same affection and care he had shown you. He stood up, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he handed you his clothes. You took your time mirroring his earlier actions as you helped him dress. You started with his boxers, guiding them up his legs and ensuring they sat comfortably on his hips. Next came his trousers, which you carefully pulled up, taking care not to rush as you adjusted the waistband. As you reached for his shirt, you noticed how he watched you with a soft, appreciative gaze. You couldn't help but smile as you guided his arms through the sleeves, pulling the fabric over his head and smoothing it down over his chest. The feel of the material under your hands was familiar and comforting as you adjusted the collar and buttons. Once he was fully dressed, you stepped back, admiring your work. The two of you stood there momentarily, fully clothed yet still feeling that deep, intimate connection forged in the shower. Toto reached out, pulling you into his arms, holding you close as you rested your head against his chest. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice low and filled with emotion. "For everything." You smiled, wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him tightly. "Anytime," you whispered back, feeling a profound sense of contentment as you stood together, the outside world fading away, leaving only the two of you in this perfect, tender moment.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other's embrace, the moment's warmth faded as reality gently intruded. You could feel Toto's chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calming you, but there was a subtle tension in how he held you, a reluctance that spoke volumes. Toto slowly pulled back, his hands lingering on your shoulders as he looked down at you, his expression tinged with affection and regret. "I have to go soon," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of the inevitable goodbye. You felt a pang in your chest, the thought of him leaving tugging at your heart. But you nodded, understanding the demands of his life and the responsibilities he had to return to. "I know," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to keep your emotions in check. Toto reached up, cupping your cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing gently against your skin. "It won't be long," he promised, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made you believe every word. "I'll keep in touch; I'll call, text... whatever it takes. And before your fellowship starts, I'll ensure everything is ready for you when you visit the Brackley." You nodded again, finding comfort in his words, even as the sadness of his departure loomed over you. "I'll hold you to that," you replied with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, and he kissed your forehead tenderly. When he pulled back, there was a spark of determination in his eyes. "Wait here," he said suddenly, his tone filled with a quiet resolve as he stepped away from you and moved toward his bag.

Curious, You watched him as he rummaged through his belongings, pulling out a familiar black cable-knit sweater. It was one of his favourites, a piece of clothing you had seen him wear yesterday driving you home, and one that always carried his comforting scent. Toto walked back to you, holding the sweater with a small, affectionate smile. "I want you to keep this," he said, his voice gentle. "So you can have a piece of me with you, even when I'm not here." Your breath caught in your throat as you took the sweater from his hands, the soft fabric warm against your fingertips. It felt like a piece of him, something tangible to hold onto when the distance between you seemed too great. "Toto..." you began, your voice faltering as you looked up at him, overwhelmed by the gesture. He shook his head, cutting you off with a tender smile. "It's yours," he insisted. "Whenever you miss me, just put it on, and I'll be right there with you."

You couldn't help but smile through the tears in your eyes. You hugged the sweater to your chest, feeling the warmth and comfort it brought, just as his presence did. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. Toto's expression softened as he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll be back before you know it," he promised, his voice filled with a quiet determination that made you believe in the possibility. You nodded, blinking away the tears as you held onto his words. "And I'll be ready to visit," you added with a small, determined smile. He chuckled softly, leaning in to press one last kiss to your lips. It was slow, tender, filled with all the unspoken words that neither of you could express. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a moment, both of you savouring the last bit of closeness before he had to leave. "I'll call you when I get to the airport, text before I board and depart, and as soon as I land, I will be in touch," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I'll be waiting," you replied, your voice steady despite the ache in your heart.

You both held hands out the corridor of your room, him slipping his loafers back on and touching the door he came from. He took a few steps down and turned back to you again; now at eye level with you, he dropped his bag down, allowing both his hands to be accessible to only cup your face for one last kiss. He paused for a moment, giving you one last lingering look, before he turned and walked out of the garage and to his car, leaving behind a silence that felt both comforting and lonely. You stood there for a moment, holding his sweater close, the scent of him wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. The room felt emptier without him, but the shirt in your hands was a small reminder that he wasn't truly gone. You slipped the shirt over your head, the fabric soft and warm against your skin. It was oversized, the sleeves hanging past your hands, but it made you feel closer to him, as if he were still there, holding you. As you settled onto the bed, you couldn't help but smile at the thought of the next time you would see him, the promise of your visit to the facilities before your fellowship beginning to take shape in your mind. Until then, you had the sweater, the memories, and the certainty that he would do whatever it took to keep your connection strong, no matter the distance.

[cthrnschumacher]

What is your Wattpad name

hey it's all the same:

Catherine Schumacher

@cthrnschumacher

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 7 Slow Dancing in the Dark

Toto's POV

We exited my hotel room; I started making my way to the elevator and managed to push the call button for it to come to my floor. I stand there with Y/N in my arms. I never thought carrying someone would be calming, but her weight is soothing, and she radiates such a warmth that I could be lulled to sleep. I don't know how, but her presence drowns out the world, making it feel like it is just the two of us, and everything is in the silence of the background. It all feels right, and it's only been a few days. Every time I leave her, I yearn for the next interaction with her. I know it's still early in whatever this will be, but I need her around me. She brings such serenity into my life that I never knew it was something I needed. Mindlessly, I enter the elevator and push the button to the parking garage. Taking a second to see how Y/N is, I see she is in the lull of sleep, but she still remains slightly aware of her surroundings; her breathing is shallow and steady. I kiss the top of her head; her reaction to my little gesture causes her to snuggle closer into my arms, purring out my protective nature to shield her from the world.

The elevator dings, pulling me from our bubble, and the doors slide open to the garage. I make a beeline to my car to maintain our closed-off world. On my way there, I try to nudge Y/N softly, "Y/N…..Y/N…. hey, we are at my car; I'm going to have to let down now, okay." I feel her head nod in acknowledging my next step. We reach my car, and I keep my grasp on her thighs but start to lower myself, almost like I'm squatting to allow her feet to touch the ground. Assuring that she is stable, I allow myself to stand straight again, pulling her towards me and keeping her close. This will enable me to reach into my pocket for the car's key fob to open the trunk and place her backpack there. I feel Y/N push her face into my torso, and I instantly wrap my arm around her waist to pull her closer as I reach to press the button that closes the trunk. I guided her to the car's passenger side and ensured she got in just fine. Closing the door behind her, I go to the driver's side and slip in to start the car ride to her home. I didn't need to input her address into the GPS; during these short few days, I memorized her way home. As I exit the hotel garage and enter the city streets, I glance over to see Y/N leaning close to my side of the car. I note it, allowing myself to drive out the city streets quickly. Once I reach and merge onto the highway, I allow my arm to rest on the center armrest and let my forearm dangle, which helps my hand to relax on her thigh. Doing so, she moves in closer to me and rests her head on my arm. If I wasn't driving, I wanted to capture this moment: how her head nuzzled into my arm and hugged my arm for comfort. These intimate moments make time fly at supersonic speed, yearning to have her sleep in my arms, keeping her close. My thoughts are endlessly about her. They jump from wanting to see her in the office and her outstanding work ethic to taking long walks or hiking with picnics as we are on our little adventures or just going on late-night drives and her being my little passenger princess right now. These ideas run wild with the amount I want to do with her, just the two of us.

I glance over to see how Y/N is doing; she's dozed off and looking peaceful. It hurts that I must leave in two days; I will miss her. I have never liked long-distance relationships, but there is a first for everything, and I want to ensure it works with her. I can't lose her; I don't want to lose her. I reflect on my thoughts and know it's coming off as desperate, but it's quite the opposite. I have never found someone like her who gave me butterflies, and I want to be around her. As cheesy as it sounds, it is love at first sight, and I hate to have to put distance now when I feel we are having a great start to our connection. But this could be a great test; see how she reacts, and it will be a learning moment for her. I have been in a few, but our connection is different. With the others, they were almost needy in the contact and affection that was required of me. Y/N isn't like that. These past few days, I've gotten to know her. She is independent, intelligent, caring, and wholehearted in every action she takes. It took someone caring and loving for her to want that affection. I know she is competent on her own, and she has acknowledged it as well, but I can see that it puts her at ease not to take control, and I want to be that stability for her, as patriarchal as that sounds. And don't get me wrong, I want her to be successful, and I will let her do that. I don't want to limit the opportunities the world offers her because she deserves them all. After all, she is hard-working and earnest.

Too wrapped up in my thoughts, I realize that the next exit will soon take me to her house, and we will be there in a few short minutes. It's pretty dead on the streets where she lives, so I slow down to savour my time with her, but it still manages to go by quickly. I pull up close to her house, just a block away, to ensure none of her family members see me. I nudge her slightly to get her to wake, "Schatzi…..Y/N darling….. it's time to wake up…" I see her straighten up and lift her head off my arm. She looks up with the cutest sleepy eyes, and my heart hurts more to bother her peace. She takes a few seconds to recognize where she is and nods. "… awww, come here…." I chuckle softly at her disorientation but kiss her forehead; she leans into it more as if she doesn't want to leave. I pull back, bend down to capture her lips one last time and exit the car to open the trunk and get her bag. She was already out of the car, and I came to her side. I look down at how precious she is. God, she makes saying goodbye so tricky; I pull her in for a hug and rub her back. I speak just above a whisper, "I know Y/N…. it pains me to separate from you…. but we must." She nods, pulls away, and I see her walk to her house. When I see her entire garage and it closes, I get in the car and pull up closer to her house. She flickers the lights, signalling she is in her room, and with that, I drive off and back to the hotel similarly when dropping off the offer Y/N. I keep one hand on the steering wheel and place my other like I had Y/N holding my arm and resting her head on it. It's late in the night; the roads are dead, and it doesn't take me long to get back to the hotel.

I enter the parking garage and park in the same spot I had previously. Ensuring that my car is locked, I go upstairs and head straight to my room. The smell of Y/N is still faint in the air, making my lips curl slightly, feeling her presence. I strip from my sweats and the black cable-knit wool-cashmere sweater, and I'm not surprised that I'm semi-hard; I still feel her presence, the smell of and reminisce of what happened on the bed that I'm going to be sleeping in, which makes me react this way. But I don't act on the urge. I feel at ease with the night, just laying there and drifting into sleep, wishing she was in my arms. I hug the pillow I had placed for her; it smells of her, causing me to succumb to my sleepiness.

Before I knew it, it was 5:30 am, and I felt well-rested. I manage to still hug the pillow, but feel bliss that her scent is still there. She is all I think about now; I even dream of her, showering her with the affection she deserves, not just emotionally but physically. I decided to send her a message for when she woke. I grab my phone off the nightstand and unlock it. I go to my messages and click on her name when we become official; I can't wait to change her contact to something else. I thought briefly about what to type and decided on something simple, but I didn't want to overwhelm her.

Good Morning Princess

Yesterday was intense, but it was the right kind, and I won't lie; she glowed after being thoroughly fucked out, even if it was from my mouth and fingers doing it. And I just keep recalling her blissfullness. The way her pussy just squeezes my fingers, fuck, I just want to feel her walls clamp on my cock, to see her stomach bugle being deep in her. Her looking of being overstimulated, fuck, I lost control of myself just seeing her in that state, spasming from my doing. It makes my cock rock hard. I couldn't help but stroke myself slowly. She gets me horny, and sure, my sex drive is high, but fuck with Y/N, it's a whole new level, and I love every second. I keep with slow strokes. It's the idea of just teasing and becoming a leaking mess for her; the high of just edging myself because of her makes my cock leak with precum. And I won't lie the sight of my cock just makes the teasing all the better; the tip is achingly red and asking for attention. I can feel the blood pulsing in my cock as I slowly stroke my hand up and down, and the slight of precum just oozing out would put me over the edge. I let go of cock and just see it stand on its own, and the fact it twitches from the teasing makes me horny. I decided that this energy should be used well and think I should go to the gym.

I get out of bed and put on my sweats from last night, forgoing underwear and wanting to just feel my sensitive cock move freely. I also put on my gym shirt from the day before and take a chance to look in the mirror. Deciding that my appearance was decent, but I took slight issue with the way my dick was tenting in my sweats. I won't lie. It was kinda hot to see it like that, but if I was in public, it was best I not be too indecent. I decide to pull my dick up, and it sits flat onto my navel, being held there, the waistband of my sweats. It doesn't make my hard cock noticeable because of the shirt, which is a plus, but it would later be my demise. I grab my headphones and room key and head out. I decide to retake the stairs to the gym; to my luck, it's empty again. I head straight to the treadmill and just start with a walking pace. As I began to slow, I couldn't help but feel my cock leak with precum. It was soon then done I realized the friction with my sweats and my cock being held in place flat against my navel by the waistband of my sweats, providing enough friction to make it leak. Smile slightly at the stimulation, like fuck the light pressure, and the rubbing feels fantastic, but I suppress the urge and start jogging. Finally finishing up on the treadmill, I decided today would be an excellent chance to work my legs. I opened the notes app again and pulled up my leg routine. The gym isn't like a regular gym, so I have to substitute some of my exercise with alternatives. Since I'll be focusing on the quads, hamstrings and calves, and if I have time, we will also do a bit of core exercise. Since there aren't that many machines for legs, I use the free weight to get the most leg exercise, and I decided to make it a split circuit session to make it the most intense. I determined the order to be Bulgarian divided squats, stiff leg deadlifts, and weighted calve raises, doing six sets of each exercise, eight reps of the weight. It wasn't too bad; it was an average pace like all my workouts. After finalizing the plan, I walk over to the dumbbells and start with a lightish weight for my first two sets. Breezing through the first exercise circuit, I take a small break, sip some water and continue this, gradually increasing the weight every 2 sets. I keep going on until I'm done with my last set of weighted calve raises.

Walking over and re-raking the weights, I sit to calm down a bit from the exercise. Feeling less exhausted, I get up from the bench, exit the gym doors, and go to the elevator to return to my hotel room. I glance down at my phone, and it's now 7am; I don't see any missed notifications either, so I will continue until I need to start work. Finally arriving on my floor, I head to open the door, enter my room and turn on the lights. I turn on the lights in the washroom and get all my things prepared to shower. Once that is done, I grab the hotel phone, dial-up for room service, and order the same thing I had last time. Finally placing the order for my breakfast and hanging up the phone, I head back to the washroom to shower.

I turn on the tap to get the water running so I don't hop in. When the water is freezing, I take the chance to strip off gym clothes. Stepping into the shower, I step under the shower head and let myself soak under the water. I let the warm water run down my head and body. Feeling I had let myself sit under the water for a reasonable amount of time, I grabbed the washcloth, poured some shower gel, and started lathering my body. Feeling I covered every inch of my body in studies, I stepped back under the shower head and rose off. Feeling refreshed and clean, I turn off the shower tap, step out, grab a towel and start drying off. Wrapping the towel around my body, I step out of the washroom. I first turn on the TV to help decide on my outfit based on the weather. I concluded that it was practically the same weather as yesterday, so I spiced it up with dark tan chinos, a white dress shirt and a black cable-knit wool-cashmere sweater over the top. I decided on the sweater I wore last night, but I plan on gifting it to Y/N as a goodbye present. It's a little cheesy, but I want her to have it, to remember me, to feel close on days when she struggles the most and wants to be in my arms. I wear it often to make sure it smells like me and always comfort her even though we will be miles apart. Feeling my heart skip a beat at the thought and reflexively biting my lower lip in excitement, I get dressed and spray a heavy amount of deodorant and cologne, ensuring she receives the perfumey smell mixed in with my natural musk as I wear it. Finishing with looking presentable, I grab my tablet and skim over some of the work notifications I have to fill in my time as I wait for room service to bring my breakfast.

A few moments later, there is a knock at my door, in which it is my breakfast. I let them in to place it on the table, and soon enough, they are out. I finally take a chance to dig in and get some food into my system. While doing so, I checked my phone to see if Y/N was finally awake; sure enough, there was a good morning text. I smile, see her response, and click on our text messages. I decided to text back to see how she slept, and I got even more excited seeing the little text bubble pop up indicating that she was typing her message. I shove more food into my mouth to fill this waiting time. And see her response,

Good! Slept through the entire night for once!

I'm glad to hear that she rested well; I am a little concerned, tho when she says for once, she makes it seem like she doesn't sleep often; this will be something later, but for now, I'm just happy she slept well. But my next concern is if she is sore from our activities yesterday. I figured out how to respond briefly, but I also inquired about her actual state of being. I finally decided on a reply,

That's good to hear. How are you feeling about last night, and soreness or muscle aches? Just making sure you're okay.

I hope she sees the sincerity in my concern. I want to take our activities further, and it's adorable that she is naive to this realm, but if last night was just a taste of what could come, I want to make adjustments to make it more pleasurable without exhausting her. I saw her typing again, so I put down my phone for a second to eat some food and take a sip of coffee, which was ample time for her to reply. Her text was adorable,

That is probably the reason why I slept so well.

It had the emoji with hands hiding the face. Even through text, she still knows how to portray her shyness; she is so expressive, and seeing her this way is lovely. From what I get so far, she seems pretty reserved, and the more we talk, the more that breaks. Deciding it is time to change the subject, I reply:

Well, I'm glad you're okay and slept well from it ;). What are your plans for today?

I see her start typing again. I wish I could be having this back and forth over the phone, but I don't know how comfortable she is; I also don't want to overstep just yet. See that she replied

There's not much going on. I'm just studying and getting work done at home today! Why, what's up??

I decided on making the trip to see her since she's home, but I want to first see if she is okay with it.

Are you okay if I stop by? I want to see you one last time before my flight tomorrow if that's okay?"

I see her typing again, but I now have my gut flipping in nervousness, hoping she doesn't shoot down the inquiry. I set my phone down again, took a few more bits of my breakfast, and sipped my coffee. I still don't see a response and try not to overthink it. Maybe she is just doing something and not readily at her phone right now, or I shouldn't look into this small action so much. Slightly shaking the thought from my head and taking more food while focusing on the TV, I see several notifications pop up. I took a second to breathe and unlock my phone. Her reply was in several short texts.

Of course, it is! Tho just be here after 1:30pm, and you might have to leave at 5pm I just don't want anyone in my family to see you Sorry if that's a lot to ask for I get it if that's also a lot to ask for, and if you don't want to come, I get that as well.

I reread those messages. It's cute that she wants to sneak around, and I won't lie, I understand where she is coming from; all of this is relatively new to the both of us, and we don't want a lot of people knowing until we are both sure we can handle the heat.

Yes, that shouldn't be a problem at all!

I see her typing immediately, and it makes me smile to know that I've made her day, even more so that she'll get to see me. I see her text pop up.

Great! See you soon!

I'm smiling ear to ear, to which I reply back reflexively at this point.

See you too!

I place my phone further away and slump into my chair, astonished. I get to see her one last time. It will be bittersweet, but I can't wait. With that, I continue eating breakfast and focusing on the local news. Even though it is background noise to the million thoughts racing in my head, it's not dead silence. Finally finishing breakfast in auto-pilot mode, I take the chance to look down at my watch to see the time; it is currently 8:30am, so I have a few hours to kill before I should actually make my way to her, and since I'm leaving the city, who knows how bad the traffic is so I know that I'll need to go the hotel roughly 12:30ish to make to her.

With that, I move from the table where I had breakfast to the desk. I sign in to my laptop and set up my tablet to get started on some work that requires my attention. I have a meeting today to talk to some team members about coordinating the Y/N fellowship for the year. We were thinking about the logistics of this, which means we would want her to start when the next season starts, and since we are in October, these logistics need to happen quickly. That is the first meeting I will be jumping into, which is ironically happening now. Logging into the team meeting mainly involves HR personnel and a few other members. I see the Head of HR, several assistants, and some of our staff do some DEI work. I pulled up the agenda for the meeting and saw the discussion of the fellowship opportunity, along with the Professor of the course. The meeting started by approving the agenda, which was done smoothly. Now, we have transitioned into a quick discussion of the items before getting onto the topic of the Y/N fellowship. The leader of the meeting first handed off the debate to the Professor.

We first finalize the idea that instead of a studying abroad program, which is only a few months, this will be considered a fellowship, in which Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team will award the fellowship to Y/N to research DEI in the Motorsport industry and how to enhance inclusivity not only within the industry but more within the teams. We decided the fellowship would be a year-long concurrent with the race season, which she will start after the FIA gala and finish the following year around that same time. This means she will need to put her next semester on pause for her courses and come to the UK as of December and finish her classes online. It shouldn't be too hard; we will collaborate with her professors to adjust to the new schedule. I will give her a brief update when I see her later today. Still, since most things are not concrete, we need to have a few more meetings within the next week to figure out how to accommodate her stay and more of the course content. We would want to make this a fruitful fellowship. We end this meeting on good terms, and I hope to go into the next meeting on car development for the upcoming season. In this meeting, I can sit back a bit more and listen to how the development is going and the direction the team is taking.

The meeting ended in no time, and I let my team know I would be taking the afternoon off and wouldn't be in much contact. Shutting down my laptop, I left it at my desk in the hotel room, grabbed my bag, and placed my tablet there, deciding to show Y/N the preliminary logistics of the fellowship. Once that is done, I slip on my loafers and jacket, then placing my wallet and room key in my pocket, I head out the door with my bag over my shoulder. Since the day was sunny, I put my sunglasses on and went to the elevator to head down to the parking garage. Exiting, I unlock my car, heading straight to the driver's side and slipping in. I place the shoulder bag on the passenger. Closing the door behind me, I turn on the car, get the seat belt on, reverse out and make my way over to Y/N's house. Even though I knew the exact way to her house, I put her address into the GPS to see how long during the day time if it would take to get to her house; it wasn't so bad, 45 to 50 minutes until I reached her home. That should put me close to meeting her at 1:30, with some time to spare. If I arrive early, I see a grocery store and might pick up some of her favourite snacks. I don't like the idea of showing up empty-handed, and I know I can't bring her flowers since she admitted that she didn't want anyone in her family to know, so her favourite snacks will suffice.

As I drove there, it turned out my plan was right, and I decided to head up to the grocery store to pick up her snacks. It only takes me a few minutes since Twizzlers and energy drinks are in the same aisle. Grabbing the items and cashing out the self-checkout. I return to my car, place them in the bag, and start my journey to see Y/N. In a few minutes, I'm finally at her house. I stopped on a different street from her home and pulled out my phone. I unlock my phone and open the messaging app. I click her name and text her, letting her know I'm here. I leave my car, grab my shoulder bag, and walk to her house. It was a relatively minute walk, and I saw the garage door to her house open up. She was standing at the top of the stairs leading inside her house with an adorable grin plastered on those beautiful lips. I'm lucky to have my sunglasses on; I take the movement to scan my eyes up and down her body; she has on leggings like yesterday, and she's wearing a zip-up hoodie that zips up a little less than halfway. It showed a cute little bralette; her hair was up in a ponytail, and her curls were a little frizzy but coiled enough, making it look like she styled it a bit. I enter her garage, and she immediately clicks the button to close it behind me.

I get closer to her as she is still standing on the stairs and in the doorway, where I lift my sunglasses up for them to rest on my head. I make eye contact with her as she stands, where she is almost my height. "Hi" "Hi" "How was the drive-in? I hope traffic wasn't so bad?" "No, it wasn't, but I'm happier to see you." She bit her bottom lip at the remark, and a blush creeps. She makes me melt at how reactive she is. "why don't you just come on in?" "Sure." "Would you mind taking off your shoes? We don't wear them around the house." "Of course I can…" "Would it also be too much to ask you to bring them upstairs? I just don't want anyone to see in case you need to sneak out." "Awe, of course, only to make you feel more comfortable." I smile up at her, and we lock eyes. I wink at her for a second. Her cheeks turn crimson.

I enter her house; it's quite a lovely modern home with a few antique items. I slip off my loafers and grab them to bring them up. "Follow me," which I helplessly do; I assume she is taking me to her room. I know it sits atop the garage as she flickers the lights whenever I take her home. I follow her; as we make our way up the staircase, I see the master bedroom and another bedroom, and I see a room at the end of the hall that seems to be her room, as the desk is the first thing I see with a monitor and laptop that is on. She enters first, and as I follow behind her, I start looking around; her room is nice, it's white with a plum accent wall. Her room is enormous enough, with a queen-sized bed in the middle resting against the accent wall; it has an in-wall bench; it fits her perfectly.

"You can sit on the bed or the bench if you want; you can place the shoes on the bench with your book bag." "Sure."

I do as she recommends, placing both down, and I remove my jacket and put it beside them. I turn around and catch her eyeing me up and down. It's cute to see her in the act, and I decide to step closer, and her eyes lock with mine. I speak just above a whisper at how incredibly close we are, "I miss you," "Me too," and I place a hand at her waist to pull her in, and I cup her cheek to lean down and kiss her softly. I couldn't tell you how long we kissed, but it was slow and felt like an eternity. I pull away and lean my forehead against hers; I hear her say, "How do I miss you this much? I don't want you to go…" "I know, but it won't be long until you see me again." It was an honest answer; it pained me to hear her say that, and I kissed her forehead. I grab her hand, walk over to her bed, and take a seat, sitting almost in the center of the bed. My legs open, and she steps to stand between them, but what shocks me is she sits on my lap.

Instantly put my hands around her waist to steady her but to pull her in. She rested her head on my shoulder, and I decided to make the moment more enjoyable. I lie down with her, causing her to squeal at the action, and I chuckle. Entirely lying down with her almost on top of me, she giggles and rests her chin on my chest as she looks me in the eyes. I can tell she is thinking about something and decides to entertain it for a little, "Penny for you thought?" "Well, I was thinking about the fellowship, and I know it's only been like a day or two since I've asked, but has there been any discussion yet?" It is as if she can read me like an open book, and I decide to fill her in on the details. "Actually, there has been. Would you like to see some of the things we discussed?" but then I lift my head up and whisper, "But I would have to swear you to secrecy." I feel her giggle with her on top of me, and she frantically nods.

I bite my lip and gently remove her from me. I got up and walked over to my book bag. Her excitement and anticipation put me over the moon; I turned back and walked to the bed and found Y/N in the center, sitting and waiting patiently. I sit down with one leg hanging off the side of the bed with the other bent. I open the book bag and decide to give her the snacks I got her, "But first, I didn't really want to come empty-handed, so I got you these," and handed her the Twizzlers and energy drinks. "awe, Toto you didn't have too" "Schatzi, I know, but I wanted to, plus there is more, but that is for later."

She raises her single eyebrow like I do but dismisses it immediately, knowing that if she doesn't accept, she will end up with items regardless. I pulled out my tablet and opened up some of the documents being reviewed today and some of the notes I'd made. I knew this conversation would be lengthy, so I also took hold of the stylus in case Y/N had questions and could pose them to the team.

I started explaining the logistics, in which it will be a year-long fellowship; the team is looking to possibly start in November or December; for that start, she would need to complete onboarding, and we would have to figure out what finishing this semester will look like. The allotted credits will be an entire course load, allowing her to complete her degree on time to graduate with her class. We then move the discussion to living accommodations, which my team will provide for the follow-up. She is technically employed under the team, with a contract to sign, NDAs, and other documents. Since she will also be travelling with the team and will be working under the FIA as well, I informed her that my team is also working on her visa applications and FIA documents for her to do legal work and research under our team and FIA board and ensuring that we can adequately pitch the idea to research other teams and participants at the races. The last thing we discussed was the living accommodations; I told her the team would provide her with all the support she needed. I have yet to say to her that even though she will get money for the support, she will live with me.

"Did you have any questions, or did you want to wait until you get the actual contract with all of it written out?" "I can wait, Toto; I would like to see it in writing because that would be considered a binding contract." "I understand; it will take another week or so." "Yeah, that's no problem; just see it in writing." "I get that."

I place my tablet back in my book bag and turn back to her; Y/N is biting her bottom lip as if she is thinking of something. She then leans in and kisses me softly. I cup her face with my hand and kiss her back; I turn my body more and gently nudge her to lie down. The kiss became more passionate, and she wrapped her arms around my neck; she tangled her hands into my hair and slightly tugged the hair near the nap of my neck. I start moving my hands up and down her body, just wanting to feel more of her. I pull away from kissing her lips and start peppering them down her jaw to her neck. I kiss that sweet spot close to her ear, and she starts moaning. I travel my hands down to her body and tug at the hoodie. I feel her head nod, and I take that as a sign and unzip her hoodie and slip it off her, exposing her skin, now covered in goosebumps. I feel her legs wrap around my waist, and feeling her wanting more friction ignites me to go further. I move my hand back up her body until I reach her bralette and massage her breast. My little action causes her to arch her body in my hand; I smile and kiss her neck, to which I then use my thumb and gently rub it over her nipple, which starts to pebble. Making sure to treat both her breasts with just as equal attention, I start kissing down her neck, to her collarbone and then her breast. I tug at Y/N's bralette with my teeth. "ahhh… yes… toto… please…" Hearing her beg just purrs at my possessive side, especially when she is such an angel doing unholy things.

My hands do quick work to remove her bralette, and I attach my mouth and start flicking her nipple; her whimpers get louder, and she pushes her head further into her body, sucking more and making sure her nipple is wet; I unlatch my mouth and blow lightly at the patch of wetness on her nipple, she whimpers more and arching her back up. I give the same attention to her other nipple and tug at her leggings; she nods again. Hooking my fingers at the waist of her leggings and start pulling them down her hips along with her panties while I'm still sucking her nipples. She unhook her legs from my torso to allow me to pull them off completely; she now lying underneath me in all her glory. I pull away from her nipple for a final time and blow softly, and the patch of wetness, she whimpers from the clash of temperature on her body. I trail my hand down her body to between her legs, running my fingers and feeling the wetness between her legs, "awe, my little princess is so wet, just for me."

She moans at my touch and words, "Daddy…. please", her desperate sound of wanting more friction, I smear her wetness all over her pussy, causing her to buck up when I rub my palm over her clit. Smiling at her reaction, "Come on princess, open your legs for daddy." She does so immediately, opening wide for me to see her snatch glistening from her slick. "Dripping just for me, Daddy barely did anything" I look up to see her looking intently at me, her pupils blown wide; I seize the moment to lay down, causing the mattress to dip and putting her legs on my shoulders and blow a little at her cunny while looking directly at her. That moment of seeing her eyes roll to the back of her head, then being tossed back, and her whimpering made me latch my mouth onto her clit, tonguing the bundle of nerves. I kept a steady rhythm and preventing her from bucking her hips into my head, I kept my arms wrapped around her waist to steady her. She tasted too sweet, and all I could do was lap her pussy with my tongue, focusing more on her clit before sucking. Her moans, more engaged, "Daddy, please… I… I'm gonna cum" "Cum for me, princess," sucking on her labia and licking a flat stripe up her pussy. "Let me taste you, princess. Make a mess for Daddy." With another suck on her clit, she fell apart in high keening moans escaping and writhed helplessly in my grasp. "ohh, that's such a sweet, creamy pussy for Daddy." Her juices kept flowing as a tonguing her now overstimulated pussy.

Loosening my grasp around her waist, I crawl back up to Y/N and kiss her softly, her moaning into the kiss, tasting herself on my lips; she pulls away with a wicked grin on her face, "Your turn, Daddy," Shocked by her remarks. I go to sit on the edge of the bed; she crawls to me and straddles my lap, and my hands instantly fly to her waist. She pulls at my collar to bring me into a searing, hot kiss, but she starts biting and tugging at my bottom lip. Even though my cock has been problematic since our start, this is straining more against the confinement of my pants. She starts roaming her hands down my torso, lifting the hem of the black sweater up until she reaches my neck. We break from the kiss, and she lifts the sweater off my arms and neck and throws it to the pile of clothes on the floor. Her lips are back on mine, kissing me passionately, and her hands make quick work on the buttons of my shirt. Doing so, she started kissing down my jaw and down my neck. I knew she was genuinely different when her lips landed on my neck, and she started nipping and leaving love bites in the spot just under my ear. Moaning her name and pulling her up against me more, leaving no space. Dazed in the sensation she was giving me, I hadn't realized she tugged the shirt out of my pants, slipping off my arms and discarding with the rest of the clothes. Her small hands roam my torse, wanting her to feel more of me, and she leaves kisses on my neck and chest. By this point, I'm panting, realizing what she is about to do. She lifts herself off from straddling my lap but still kisses down my chest, her hands fiddling with the button and zipper of my pants but manages to undo both, hooking her fingers on the waist and band of my pants and underwear, removing them in one go. I lift my hips up, giving her ease to do so. As she got them off, she kneeled in front of me, looking innocently, and all I could do was adore the sight in front of me, and my cock twitched with excitement.

I whispered softly, "It's okay, princess, don't be shy." I couldn't help but smile and continued, "Just give Daddy a kiss." I could see the hesitation while maintaining eye contact; her plump lips kissed the head of my cock, and I could help my groan. Her lips were unlike any other feelings. My cock oozed with precum. Her small hand wanted to wrap around my cock, but couldn't from its girth; she slowly stroked it while licking the head. I tossed my head back, grunting at her actions. I felt lost in English words and started reverting to German. She starts licking the entire length of cock, licking long strips on the understrip. I don't know how I recovered from the blissfulness and getting lost, but I bring my head back up to look down at Y/N.

I can see her visibly enjoying herself, giving pleasure to me. My head was swimming with lustful thoughts the more I could do with her. Until I felt more heat around the head of my cock to realize she popped the head of cock into her mouth, I had to suppress the urge to buck my hip up. I knew she had no experience, but her actions of tonguing and sucking on the tip of my cock could make her blow my seed at any second. "Ahh… princess… y.. you're gonna make daddy cum… if you continue." From that comment, she sucked harder on the tip, and I couldn't help but groan again, "fuck… princess… ahh… you love sucking daddy cock don't you…. fuck… you cock hungry … for daddy?" Her mouth made a popping sound, dropping my cock from her mouth while stroking the base of my cock. She looked up at me adoringly and kissed my thighs all the way up to my hip but whispered, "I love daddy's cock." She lowered her mouth to my cock again, sucking hard on the tip and stroking the base. Her actions brought me closer to my release, I was whimpering as she tongued the tip. Embracing the pleasure that Y/N has me in and edging me out for so long, I let my climax wash over me. Feeling my cock twitch in her mouth as ropes of my cum fill her. What I hadn't expected was for Y/N to suck harder, wanting to swallow my spend, mewing out in pleasure as Y/N sucked my oversensitive cock. Feeling that she has swallowed all of my spent, she pops her mouth off my cock, and shifts her gaze up to me.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 6 Mystery of Love

Toto's POV

Her question lay heavy in the air; it was not the tension that made it dense; it was the exact opposite, actually. All she did today was tease, and by no means were her actions tortuous; it was the fact she was doing it unintentionally. I wish she knew the effect she had on men, or for the first time, I found someone who makes me struggle to think clearly. Being around her made me feel warm, wanting her close to me, especially right now, even when she could barely make eye contact with me on her little proposition to unwind together for a bit. My heart gushes to protect her timidness, but soon, that will change; I hope she will no longer have to fear me when she requests anything because I will give her anything she desires. I soften my actions as I get up from the chair and step directly in front of her, almost towering her. I take my hand and use my index finger to hook under her chin and reply honestly, just above a whisper, "I would love to." Those doe eyes and her smile have me weak; only if she knew. I can get lost in the eyes all the time. I take this chance to lower and extend my hand to her. Y/N takes hold, and I lead us to the sofa. 

This time, I want to position us and make it more comfortable since I am still determining how long we will have like this together. We walk towards the sofa, and I sit first and then look up at her; I won't lie. Seeing her standing in front of me in the little gap between my legs was a beautiful sight; she was assessing my every movement, but I couldn't help how perfect she looked, just ready. I let out a breath; I didn't know what I was holding and tried to stop my mind from running wild on the possibilities I could do with her like this. I take the chance to guide her on how I want her to sit and position herself so she is as comfortable as possible. "So you're going to sit on my right.....but you are going to lay both your legs across my thighs. That way, you can wrap your arms around me and lay your head on my chest if you want to.....Are you okay with that if I put my arms around you?" I don't often ask whether my actions are okay. Still, since this is intimate, her consent is a little necessary, especially since I want her to relax. She just nods, and even though I would take that as an answer, I need to draw the answer out of her; I want her to be vocal, "Schatzi, I need words." I was in awe to see her shiver; I hadn't realized that even though I spoke softly, my register was relatively low, but she reacted instantly. I see her gulp, almost clearing her throat to say, "Yes, you can put your arms around me."

"Okay ..... Good.... now come and sit," I nod and can't help but grin. I hold out my hand so she has something to steady herself as she sits to my right and then lifts her legs until they are over my thighs. She makes eye contact but then glances at my chest and back up to my eyes; I know she is silently asking again if I am okay, and I nod. She shuffles towards me to wrap her arms around me and lay her head on my chest. I am engulfed in her warmth; she radiates so much heat it's intoxicating in the most pleasant way. I take the chance to wrap my arms around her waist and lean back into the sofa so I'm not stiff as I sit and look down at her.

I couldn't believe she was in my arms again. I take the chance to sit and reflect on the previous day and all of today's events. Everything has so far been surreal, and the thought of this all ending soon in a matter of days will kill both of us. I have never craved anyone more, but Y/N is the only person whose touch I want the most. She has become a necessity; I don't know how I will last long without her touch. I need to devise a plan to bring her to England during the winter break, give her a tour of the facility, and get her used to everything before starting in February. That's the plan; it's away from her to get used to her future normalcy and would be a nice vacation for her. I pull myself out of my own thoughts and check to see if Y/N is comfortable and to break the silence. "Y/N...." "mhmmm....." "Are you feeling okay?" "I am quite content, actually." "That's good to hear," I just feel her nod. "I have never felt this peace before; everything feels right, Toto." I know this will break a boundary, but I kiss her head and then rest my chin on top of it. Her responsiveness to my actions brings another level of possessiveness; she melts further into me. "I couldn't agree with you more, Schatzi." I feel the vibration of her hum. We sit in silence for a little more until I feel her arms uncoil from around my torso to place them tucked in between her body and lay on my torso. She softly speaks, "No offence, my arms got tired, and you are huge to wrap my arms around." Her comment made me chuckle, "It's okay, as long as you are comfortable, that's the only thing that matters to me." in saying that, I placed another kiss on her head. 

This time, she lifted her head to look up at me; even though the room was dim, I could see her pupils were blown wide. The desire is evident in her eyes for the first time, but I see her bite her bottom lip, almost too timid to act. I unclasp my hands around her waist and wrap my left arm around her waist. I bring my right hand to cup her neck and have my thumb stroke her cheek. Her head lulls into my hand as if she depended on my touch. I pull her face forward to kiss her, to feel her lips on mine. The kiss starts slow and gentle, but the more it progresses, the more it becomes passionate. Her hands move from between us to both resting on my chest. I pull her closer, not wanting any more space between us. I feel her shift her legs, so I lose my grasp, but I do not want to break the kiss and feel her adjust until she sits. She goes from her legs draped over my thighs to straddling them, but she is too afraid to move forward to press into me. With both my hands around her waist, I pull her in closer. Even though I'm slouched on the sofa, she sits just below the navel. She is propped up on her knees, making it so we are almost level kissing each other, and I make sure to hold onto her waist, making sure she is steady. Knowing she won't move now, I want to explore more of her and feel every inch of Y/N's skin on my lips. I start peppering kisses from her lips onto her jawline and back to her ear.

I take a second to focus on that area below her ear where her neck meets, nip at the skin, and then soothe it with my tongue before leaving more kisses. Her moans in my ear encourage me to keep what I am doing. I note that her sweater is in the way, and I start tugging at it, signalling if I can take it off; she nods frantically. Now, I could just rip it off her, but where is the fun in that? I take my time; I move my hands from her waist and travel up her torso through the bottom of her sweater; she gasps at the new point of contact but has yet to remove the clothing. She gasps and lets her head fall back, a bit encouraged. I start to place more kisses around her neck, her scent intoxicating my nostrils, but at the same time, I could stay buried in her neck for ages. 

Finally ending my little tease of running my hands up and down her torse inside her sweater, I move my hands down to her waist, pull the shirt until it's over her head, and toss it to the side of the sofa. She takes a chance to sit on me, not realizing our actions have made me rock hard. I let out a little groan; she immediately went to her knees, her face laced with concern. A smirk pulls to face, and I entertain her little reaction; she must be so new and doesn't know how to react. Y/N is flustered by my touch, and I decide to rub my hands up and down her thighs to calm her down, and I hear her speak. "Toto, are you okay? You let out a groan." Her eyes kept darting from my eyes to my lips, trying to figure out if she should be concerned. "Ohhh, I'm perfect schatzi... you don't know what you do to me...." I keep rubbing her thighs, making her shiver; I feel her lean her forehead to mine, "Toto, I could say the same for you...." She pulls at my collar to kiss me again. Her fire is like none other, but I am afraid this could be new to her, that this is all new to her, and I decide to break the kiss. "Y/N, I have to ask, not because I am not enjoying this. But have you ever been with someone..." She bites her lip, and I see her cheeks turn red, and she instinctively goes to bury her head in the crook of my neck. I take it as a confirmation that it is, and I make sure my tone is comforting. "Ohhhh schatzi, please don't be embarrassed..... everyone has a first." I feel her huff into my neck so weirdly that I am even more turned on by her embarrassment. She is my perfect little angel; she is my good girl, and it's cute to see her flustered and experiencing everything for the first time. I want to be her first for everything she shares. I feel her lift her head from the crock of my neck. She pulls away slightly, now facing me, "Is it that obvious, like I never intended to wait this long in my life, but being with you, I want to experience new things and ...." I cup her face and kiss her gently with much tenderness, and she does the same, dropping her hands from my shoulders to my biceps. "Y/N, I want you to experience every first with me, including this one, I just don't want to hurt you, and I feel bad for being in a shitty hotel room to do it." I feel her toy with one of the buttons on my dress shirt and let my words sink into her head. I gently push her to sit on my lap again, but this time directly on my hard cock, and hearing her gasp is music to my ears. Still, I want to continue what I was saying to lighten the mood because I don't want to make it seem like I can't put out either. "You feel that... I'm hard all because of you. Y/N, you make me like a horny teenager at school, I can't resist you, and I want to have my way with you, but I don't want to start out rough if you don't know the pleasure..." I intentionally leave that thought open-ended, hoping she questions it.

"Pleasure?" There is my good girl, "Yes...pleasure... if you’re still up to it, let me give you a taste of it...." She bites her lip, giving it some thought until I see her hesitantly nod agree. "Schatzi, you know I like words; use that pretty little voice of yours," "Yes.." "Yes, what.." "Yes... I... uhh. I want a taste of pleasure..." I cup her cheek and stroke my thumb over her bottom lip, quivering, "That's my good girl." She just nods again, and I pull her in for another kiss. 

"When I get up, wrap your legs around me, okay?" "Okay." I make sure that both my hands are under her thighs and get up in one swift motion. I guide her legs to ensure they wrap around my waist, and she hooks her arms around my neck. I have her in my arms, and she giggles at my actions and us standing. I lean in to kiss her again, make my way toward the bed, and place her gently on it, making sure not to break the kiss. Once I lay her down, I pulled away and stood in front of her. She propped herself on her elbows, curious about what would happen next. "You trust me, right, Y/N?" I hope she learns by now that I like hearing her verbal confirmation instead of simply nodding; she nods, but I see her ready to speak, "Yes, I trust you, Toto." I let out a hum of approval, "Good... before I go further, you okay if I say strip you down to achieve your pleasure?" I can't help that my lips slightly curl into a smirk, but her not knowing what I have in store for her has me hard just at the thoughts. I see her nod again, and just as I think, I need to remind her of words, "Yyy... yes... you can, uhh, strip me." "Good, that's my good girl." I come to the other side of the bed, where I can sit with my legs hanging off the edge of the bed; this way is more intimate and less intimidating for Y/N. Closing the gap between us, I start kissing her again, but it is soft and tender; I cupped her cheek to not rush the subsequent few actions. I take my other hand and tug at the tank top button, telling her I will take off this piece of clothing first; she nods into the kiss. I move both hands to the bottom of the shirt and gently pull it over her head, only breaking the kiss for a second, tossing it in the same direction as her sweater. She is now left in a cream-coloured bra and her leggings. I take the chance to start kissing down her jawline to her neck and pepper kisses along her collarbone down to her chest and back up. I kiss every inch of her exposed skin as I slowly remove her bra straps off her shoulders and move my hand up to unclasp it from behind. Doing so, I feel her shiver under my touch. I make myself aware to see if she starts feeling self-conscious since I know she has a habit of that and wants to be there to reassure her; taking this mental note, I begin to remove the Y/N's bra and toss it to the floor next to us. I keep kissing her to ensure she feels warm, knowing that her body is starting to feel all different things and soon collide with other extremes.

Moving my kisses back up her neck, over her jawline, and to her lips again, I slowly nudge her to lie entirely on the bed. Once I have her laid down, we kiss sensually until I start back on my path, but this time to remove her leggings. I know this is taking my time with Y/N, but it matters most that she is comfortable and confident the entire time; I do not want her to walk out of this room with any self-pity or loathing. It would be painful to see that hurt the most beautiful woman I've seen. Continuing down my string of kisses until I'm in between her breasts, I lift my right hand and, taking the back of my hand, I brush her nipple. I hear her gasp and look up to see if she is okay. To my sight, Y/N has her eyes closed and enjoying the pleasure. I continue on a few times until I get to use my hand and message the breast; she moans and arches into my touch. I resume my actions but start rubbering my thumb other the now erected nipple, making sure that it is perked up; feeling satisfied and seeing that Y/N is feeling enjoying herself, I bring my mouth close to her nipple and lick it softly, looking up to see her reaction, she gasps loudly and looks down, I smile wickedly and continue until my mouth is latch on and sucking and flickering her nipple with my tongue. Her skin tasted so sweet, and I started doing the same with the other nipple as my mouth was attached to this one. I ensure it's fully erected and tender enough to toy with it in my mouth. Y/N the entire time is very responsive; her gasping my name, arching into my touch, and every now and then bucking her hips into me gives me a sense she might be ready for what I have next in store for her. Deciding this is enough teasing of her breast, I start placing a kiss in between the valley of her breast and down her stomach to her leggings. I reach the top of her navel and tug slightly at the material, seeing if it is okay to take them off; she nods again. I hooked my fingers on the material and kissed every inch of newly exposed skin, going down her legs, removing the entire bottoms along with her underwear, and placing kisses as I returned to her navel again. I stop to look up at Y/N; she looks gorgeous naked in front of me, and I take this time to explain one thing before moving forward. "If anything I do hurts, you let me, and I will stop, okay, Y/N?" "Okay, Toto." 

Pleased with her response, I place both my hands on her knees and gently push them apart. Just looking at her pussy, its glistens in the dim light. I kiss the inside of her thighs until I reach her pussy, not wanting to start right away, latching my mouth on her clit; I want to toy with her, see how many orgasms I can get out of her, to hear her scream my name in pleasure. "Look at you so wet for me, and I have barely started," I take my index finger and swipe up her slick, and her moan escapes her lips as I do this. I bring the digit to my lips and suck on her slick, fuck, she tastes so sweet; I could be buried in the pussy for ages just eating her out; I look to see she is blushing seriously at what I just did. I let my hand fall from my lips and used that same finger to trace circles on her thigh, "Y/N, you have been holding back on such a sweet pussy, now I can't resist, but first we start off slow, okay." She nods again, the finger I use to trace circles on her thigh; I bring closer to her pussy. I run my finger up and down, spreading some of her juice as a lubricant. I prep her pussy and slip just one finger in; I hear Y/N moan and look up to see her head toss back in pleasure. I continue to push the finger in until it bottoms out. Fuck, her pussy is so tight, and she squeezes my finger; I can't help but think how my hard cock will feel pushing into her, and I feel my cock twitch in my pants. I slowly move my finger in and out, ensuring she feels no pain. I see that she is moving her hips to my movement and take this as a chance to add a second finger. I hear her moan again and the new feeling, but I sense that she is enjoying it with her head back and hips meeting the thrust of my fingers. I leave it at just two fingers, not wanting to overwhelm her in one go and start finding a rhythm. As I begin to thrust my fingers in and out of her faster, I feel her walls flutter; she is close, so I pick up the pace a bit more, hearing her moan my name as she reaches her peak, "Toto.....ahhh....don't.... aaah...stop." It's music to my ears, and I keep pace until her walls are tightened around my fingers. "That's it cum for me, Y/N, be a good girl and cum." I feel her walls clamp on my fingers, and she lets out an elongated moan. I don't stop thrusting my fingers, letting her ride out her high; once a few moments, I slow my thrusts and see if she is okay. 

I don't know what washed over me to start giving her names, but at this moment, that was all I wanted her to do: claim my possession over her. "How's my little princess feeling? You were amazing for your first orgasm." She is a little breathless, so I let her calm down. I want to draw as many orgasms out of her today as I can; I want her to crave this feeling more; I want to see her unable to walk from my doing. "Mmmm, that was amazing da... Toto." I see her blush; she just tried to call me daddy, fuck I can feel the wetness in my briefs; she's daddy's little girl, daddy's little princess; I want to draw it out of her; I want her to call me daddy. "What did you call? What did my little princess say, hmmm? I want to hear it ..." I see the hesitation in her eyes, but he takes a deep breath.

"I... uuh... I... called you da...daddy?" She is almost wincing, thinking I would be mad, and is the opposite; she's my little girl, "Are you daddy's good girl? You think you can handle what daddy's going to do next?" I see her frantically nod. I wish she knew by now that I love hearing and wanting to be vocal about what she wants. "No, princess, Daddy needs words." I don't say it too sternly. Still, with enough dominance to tell her to correct her actions, she breathes again, "I'm ready for more, Daddy." "Good girl, my good little angel."

I say this and lower my mouth to her pussy and lick a long strip up her slit. I see her head tossed back and moaning from my actions. I smile and continue a few more times and latch my mouth to her clit and start sucking lightly. I'm sucker her little bundle of nerves and flick her clit with my tongue a few times, her moans turning into whimpers. Seeing she is thoroughly enjoying the sensation, I continue my tonguing her clit and sucking, alternating between the two until she is close. She was really enjoying my mouth on her pussy because she was leaking more than before, her slick running down my chin, making my face a mess, and it was making my cock hurt, especially since I was making her feel on cloud nine while I'm still fully clothed. I know how to relieve myself, but I want Y/N to cum a few more times before I satisfy myself. I feel her breathing start to pick up, and I focus more on her clit, just flicking it constantly with my tongue, which was now making her chase her release more, "I...I'm... ahh....close... ah.....d....don't ...stop..." "Mmmm, that's it.. mmm cum...mmm for daddy!" Just like that, she came, her juices flowing out of her so fast I couldn't catch it all in my mouth. I kept lapping up whatever I could and felt the rest dripping down my face. I looked up to see her back arched high up off the mattress and gripping the sheet, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I could feel that she was now coming down from her high, so I pulled back where and made my way to her to see if she was doing okay. I want to ensure I will continue on; I already made her cum twice; I just want to make sure before I do more I'm not hurting her. 

I am close to Y/N on the bed, and I reach down to cup her cheek; she looks blissed out as I rub my thumb gently on her cheek, "You are doing so well, Y/N, more than I had anticipated. You have the most sweet-tasting pussy; you help back on me. Hmmm.... see for yourself." I lean down and capture her lips. She kisses me hungrily, pulling her head up a tad to deepen the kiss and allow my tongue to enter. She immediately concedes the fight for dominance and is, at this point, French kissing. I pull back slowly and look her in the eyes, "How are you feeling, Y/N? Nothing too painful; you think you can last another round?" I let my question sink into her mind for a bit. I don't want to force her to overwork her body; these feelings are all relatively new to her, and to feel the extremes collide, you just have to be careful.

I take a second as I stroke her hair with my other hand to look at the time; it's roughly 9:40pm, meaning I could draw out another orgasm and give her proper aftercare and be able to drive her home. I hope she says yes; if not, I am still more than happy to make the aftercare session longer and talk more about what she liked from the session and what I hope this can do, not just sexual but as a relationship; she pulls me from my thoughts. "I... I... I'm feeling bliss.... uhhhh.. a little sore, more muscles tensing and releasing, but I don't feel pain... I think... I can do another round," She says, the last part biting her lip as if shy to say she wants to keep going. I couldn't help but smile widely; she was pushing herself, and I was making her limit, but she had confidence that she could handle it. I lean down to give her a gentle kiss and nod my mouth okay. 

I pull away and start kissing down her jawline and pepper more down her neck. As I leave kisses down her neck and start moving towards her breasts, my hand massages her breasts. Trying something new, I rub my thumb over her nipples until they harden; once they are perked, I start to pinch them with my thumb and index fingers, hearing her gasp as I move further down her stomach and soon reach her navel. I place a few kisses around that area and down to her inner thighs, feeling her squirm underneath me from all the tease the rest of her body is getting. I move my hands from her breast to wrap my arms around her hips and legs as if in a headlock, but with one hand, resting the small area below her navel to keep her still. She is looking down at me, waiting in anticipation once I dive my head in, hoping I will break eye contact. Instead, I latch my mouth on her clit without breaking eye contact and suck; her eyes rolling back in pleasure, turned me on and sucked harder. Moving from her clit to licking her slit, I place my thumb on her clit and start rubbing it in small circles. She tried to buck her hips but failed because of my grip around her hips and legs. Her moans fill my ears as I continue pursuing her pleasure. I would stop one action and continue the other; I wanted to edge her to orgasm and see if she could handle a little pain before intense pleasure. She has taken everything so well today; I am genuinely proud of her, especially since this is the first time she has felt the satisfaction of such intensity. Deciding to stop the alternating actions, are start to rub her clit in tight circles and suck harder on her pussy lips and lick my tongue against her slightly; her moans begin to be drawn out and soon become whimpers. I feel her getting closer and closer, and I pick up the pace, my thumb moving faster and start flicking my tongue to her clit as well. I hear her moan become drawn and turn into whimpers, "That's cum for me, cum Y/N," continuing my actions, she cums, but the amount of assault I gave her pussy thus far caused her to squirt. Her stimulation caused me to create such a beautiful mess that I kept lapping her juices as she squirted, not wanting any of it to go to waste.

"So beautiful for daddy....mmmm....yes squirt more princess.... mmm....squirt for daddy... make a mess ... ohh fuck daddy loves that you make a mess for him" I move one of my hands away from Y/N's leg and go to start buttoning my pants. I slowly lap her juices and quickly work my pants until my cock is unleashed from its confinement. I hiss as the cold air hits it; I need to relieve myself now; her squirting was the last straw, don't get me wrong, I can go without cumming, but her action put me at my wit's end. "Daddy is going to use your slick, okay? He needs to use your slick to cum" I just see her nod frantically, now watching what I was doing. I take my hand and open palm her pussy, she whimpers at the overstimulation, and I smile at her, bucking her hand into me; I give her pussy a slap, and she moans and looks at what I'm about to do. I take that same palm and smear her slick all over my cock. She bites her lip, seeing her like she is turned on by my action but too tired to help. I look her in the eyes, and I start jerking my hand up and down my cock, "Daddy.... got so horny... uuhhhhh...seeing his princess cum so many times... you see... how hard.... daddy is for you." I could barely get out what I wanted to say, the sensation hitting like a freight train. She moves closer to the edge of the bed, watching my actions intently, and as my hand moves faster on my cock, I know I'm getting close. I hear Y/N pull me from my thoughts. "Cum for me, Daddy, make a mess on me. I wanna see my daddy cum for his little princess" I groan so hard hearing those words come from her mouth, those exact words sending me over the edge as ropes of cum land on her stomach and breast. I come down from my high and see her smiling up at me; I have never felt more lucky to have her; she is my everything. 

I lean down and kiss the top of her head, and she lets out a hum, just being content with the happenings of this evening. "You did so well for me, Y/N. I am very proud of you. Come here, let's go shower, and I'll drop you off at home." She nods at the command I give her; I hold my hand out to see if she can stand on her own two feet. Her tiny hand takes hold of mine, and she can stand, but her legs look like they can give at any minute. I place my hands at her waist and help guide us to the washroom. I turn on the lights and have her lean against the sink. I head to the shower and turn on the water, making it slightly hotter than usual to help her muscles relax. I returned to her to ensure her safety and started taking off my button. She reaches out, "Let me," Stunned by her request, I nod and step forward. She starts unbuttoning the shirt; I steady her face; even though she is blissed out, her actions are concentration. I feel her pull at the shirt to remove it from my pants, and I let it drop to the floor. I take the chance to slip off my boxer briefs and pants in one go, and I see her put her hair in a bun; I make a mental note to not wash her hair. Seeing her done, I move closer, placing my hands at her waist and placing a tender kiss on her forehead, feeling her lean into the kiss.

I help guide her into the shower and put her under the water first; she hums at the temperature approval. I let both our bodies get completely soaked for a while, enjoying the warmth from the shower, and I lean down to your ear, speaking gently, "Are you okay if I shower you?" "mmmmm.... yes, Toto, I would love that." I smile at her answer, then kiss her temple. I remove one of my hands from around her waist and grab the shower cloth, placing it under the water to soak; I hold my shower gel, wanting her to feel comfort in my scent and put a generous amount of the cloth. I lather the liquid into the fabric a few times before placing it on Y/N's skin. Satisfied by its look, I set it around her neck and take the cloth and wash that area of it, moving it around to see every inch of that area covered in foam, moving down to her shoulders and then running the cloth all around her back then down to her plump ass.

I move my hand with the fabric back up to her shoulders and pull her backside into my front side, allowing her to lean into me as I shower her front. I went to wrap both my arms around her torso and placed a gentle kiss on her temple; she leaned into me, more relaxed. I could see the smile on her lips, and it brought me peace. I unwrap my arms around her torso, take the cloth, start from across her chest, and see the foam cover up on her body down her body; those small actions make her gasp a little, making me chuckle silently at her reaction to my touch. Finishing lathering her body, I guide her under the water to rinse it all off. I put my hands around her waist to guide her in, turning around to allow her to rinse off her back; she is now facing me and places her hands around my waist, and I lean down to kiss her lips. Our kiss is soft and gentle, just taking in the moment of the care for her; I pull away slightly and just our foreheads to each other, "All clean," I say and couldn't help but smile, and she giggles. She whispers, "Now your turn," she takes the shower cloth, puts a bit more of my shower gel, starts at my chest, and works her way down to my torso. I see the concentration in her eyes and the amount of care and gentleness she takes. This is truly the first time she has me in awe, and it becomes a realization that making sure and double-checking is care, not timidness. I leave this thought in my head when she says, "Okay, time to rinse." I nod and move to the showerhead. 

Once I'm done rinsing off, I turn off the water and step out of the shower to get us towels. I take hold of the first one I see and give it to Y/N before taking another and wrapping it around my waist. I help Y/N step out of the shower, "Why don't you dry off, and I go grab your clothes?" "okay, thank you Toto." I smile and exit the washroom; I go find all her clothes to see that she is dried off, but still, as the towel wraps around her, she thanks me again for the gesture. I close the washroom door to give her a bit of privacy, and I start doing the same, but in a quicker manner. I pat dry my body and go to the drawers to grab a pair of joggers and a black cable-knit wool-cashmere sweater.

Is it a little cliche to forgo underwear? Yes, is it only a drive to her house? Yes, but honestly, I am returning to the hotel and will be stripped naked before sleeping. So it's one less thing to wear. I slip on my sneakers, and as I am done, I see Y/N step out. She is wearing her leggings and sweater, but I can see she is also taking the chance to not wear her tank top. The material in her hand looks more than just that item of clothing. I don't put more thought into it as she smiles shyly and walks to her bag to put those items of clothing away and then gets her boots on; she doesn't tie up the laces since she will be taking them off as soon as she gets home. I look at her, "Ready to go?" "Yes." "And... are you good to walk... or would you like me to carry you?" She smiles towards me while lifting her arms up, squealing, "Carry me!" I smile, take her bag, and put it on my shoulders; I place my hands around her waist, lift her up, and pull her close. She wraps her legs around my torso and her arms around my neck, placing her head in the crook of my neck. I put my one arm as if it was like a ledge for her to sit on and the other wrapped around her back. As I did so, I couldn't help but chuckle; it had dawned on me that she was not wearing her bra; she also wanted to be more comfortable. She could get a sense of my new discovery and started to giggle. I chime in, "Schatzi, did you decide it was a good idea to not wear anything underneath?" I hear her laugh but answer my question, "Mmm.. no" "Are you lying to me, Schatzi?" She giggles again, "Maybe... what are you going to do about it?" playing along with her little antics, I tap my hand on her ass, causing her to shiver. Does she like that? I can't tell, so I repeat my actions with more force; she gasps; she definitely likes the idea, "Ohh, does my princess need to be punished?" "I promise it won't happen again," she chimed quickly; I let it go instantly but mentally noted the idea of trying again next time. "Okay, Schatzi, but only because you promise." She kisses my neck and hums to my answer; she will be the death of me. With that, I head toward the door to exit the hotel room; I glance quickly at one of the surrounding clocks, and it's 10:30pm as we head out. 

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch. 5 Somewhere Only We Know

Y/N's POV

I went right to bed when Toto sent me a message that he got back safely. My alarm went off at 7:30 in the morning, feeling well-rested and hugging a pillow. My sleeping self wished it was in Toto's embrace, just wanting to lie beside him in his hold - the thought just made me smile. Rubbing my eyes and turning to grab my phone from the nightstand, I saw a notification from Toto. I clicked it, and my smile instantly grew wider.

Good Morning Schazti! I hope you slept well!

He is charming, something I never experienced in my life, someone who doesn't think I'm invisible, sees me, and, I hope, cares. I instantly replied I didn't want to keep him waiting. When I'd text back and forth with other guys, I would purposefully delay my response; it was the dating culture, but Toto was different. I didn't want to keep him waiting. I only think about him and just want to be around him. Finally, thinking of a response.

Good Morning Toto! I did, but I wish it was your embrace while I sleep instead of hugging my pillow.

I hadn't realized I was biting my lip from the response. Yes, it was suggestive, hoping I was in bed with him, and that text made it really clear, but that was all I wanted. To be in his embrace, cuddle into his body that engulfs mine. He is a hands-on person. After all, that was all I noticed yesterday: the small touches here and there. And don't get me wrong, I liked it too. The stolen and accidental touches are all I crave. Deciding on finally getting out of bed and getting ready for the day. I don't have to be as quiet as before since everyone in my family is mostly up. I head to the washroom to brush my teeth and relieve myself of the ungodly water I drink throughout the night. After doing so, I wash my face and assess the appearance of my hair. It doesn't need to be drenched in the water this time; the curls are looser than yesterday and look much more bouncy. Happy with it, I head back to my room and pick an outfit for the day.

Since I am not people-facing and will be in the library, my look will be far more toned down today. I head to my dresser and pick out a nude bra so it doesn't show as much with the white tank top and seamless underwear to wear with a black pair of leggings. Slipping those on, you pick out a couple of grey wool socks and decide on a black baggy sweater with the NASA logo and some other features. It was simple and relaxed, but I also put it together and paired it with black Doc Martins and my black puffer vest from yesterday. It was a monochromatic look but a tad more stylish than plain black. After getting dressed and grabbing my bag from yesterday, I head out the door to the train station. I didn't unpack my bag yesterday, so I kept everything in it, making it one less thing to worry about.

The commute into the city was typical as usual: taping the card on the entry and exiting the train, then transferring to the subway once I got into the city. On the subway, I decided to work in the library today to complete course readings and work on small assignments. I wanted a change in scenery and wasn't required to be in my small office. It was customary for me to do so, plus the library I will be heading to is typically dead. The Medieval department has a small library, but it was my favourite to study in. The aesthetic of wooden bookshelves and tables, the winding stairs to the upper balcony of books and the stained glass windows and wooden arches on the inside made me feel like I wasn't in a metropolitan area in the middle of the busy city. It was my quiet oasis in the city to get work done. I didn't like the modern libraries on campus because they were all mono-coloured and industrial, plus the ventilation system was loud, making it hard to think. And the amount of reading and annotating I needed to get done required peace and quiet with minimal people. Getting out on the subway spot close to your department, you walked further to reach the Medieval department.

Entering the building was eerie, but it brought you a sense of comfort. Not a single sound meant no one was in there but the staff. Taking your rightful spot on the library's second floor close to an outlet and stained glass window, you set your bag on the seat next to the one you will be sitting in. Pulling out the chair and taking a seat, you start to unpack your laptop and tablet with its stand so you can have a dual monitor set up to read and make notes. You started looking in the course site on which readings to get done. Taking the chance to download everything, you turn your phone to silent and place it in your bag to minimize the number of distractions. Once everything was set up, you started with the first of 4 articles. It could have been better, depending on the week; sometimes it was heavy or light on the required reading, and for 2 courses, this was typical, so it should take just a little over 1pm to finish. The first glance at the articles was to read the summary and/or the introduction, then the last few paragraphs to grasp the topic and make notes on the argument presented. The second read-through of the article consisted of finding argument points and quotes that can help on future assignments or anything that brought a question to mind or something to comment on during your discussion in the lecture. You repeated this process for the remaining three articles, occasionally looking at your school email for any critical updates or inquiries from your other commitments that needed your attention. Since there wasn't much to check, you went back to reading. By the time you were done reading all the material and making the required annotations, it put you at 2pm and decided this was the point where you well deserved a break. Taking this as an opportunity to look at your phone before packing up to grab something to eat, you turn on the device and see a notification from Toto. Biting your lip, eager to see his response, you unlock the device and chat with him; his response tells you to turn crimson.

Is that so ….. I couldn't stop thinking about you, too. What are you doing today?

Your heart melted; he was thinking about me!! It was an understatement that I wasn't thinking about him, but I had other things to focus on. Noticing that he sent the last message not too long ago, you decide to reply to his inquiry on your day.

I just finished reading some articles and was about to grab lunch! Why, what's up?

Sending the message only seconds ago, and before you could even exit the app, you saw that he was typing. Eager to see how he would respond, you waited until you saw the little typing bubble disappear. Anxiously, you started biting your bottom lip. We all know that waiting for any response from someone you are currently crushing on can feel like an eternity. However, with Toto, it was as if time stood still, and before you knew it, there was a response.

Would you like to grab lunch together?

A smile pulled onto your lips, but you slightly started to panic. Sure, you did, but you wanted to avoid going to a restaurant like last night. In the middle of your overthinking brain, another message pops up.

We can grab lunch and bring it back to my hotel room to eat.

As if the first offer wasn't enough, but he wanted to be alone in his hotel room while we ate, now you definitely weren't sure what direction this thing was going. You knew you needed to respond but needed to learn how. Taking a few breaths and not getting too far ahead, you decide it may be just a friendly lunch of ordering food and eating together. Mustering up the courage to respond, you finally reply.

Sure, I would like that!

The text gives too much indication that I'm a little speechless, but I could care less at this moment. I started packing my things, waiting to see how Toto would respond to agreeing to have lunch with him. As I put all my stuff in my bag, I took hold of my phone and saw that he responded.

Sounds great! Is there anything you were craving or specifically wanted to get?

Taken back by the response, he was letting me decide on what we get to eat. From the events that happened last night, all he did was get to pick the options and not get me wrong. If I add that he did that yesterday, it was a lovely and grand gesture. But I like the option of picking as well. I responded that I didn't want to keep him waiting because he would order or we would go together to pick up lunch.

Is sushi okay? Are you not up to eating raw fish?

I was telling him my food choice but also wanted to give him an option. I know raw fish isn't for everyone, so I was okay with checking to see if that was okay with him. As I was getting up from my seat and putting my backpack on my shoulders, I saw a message from Toto.

Perfect! Here is the address to the Hotel, and my room number is 562. You can drop off your bag while we pick up lunch nearby and bring it back to eat. I will let the front desk know that you are coming up so they won't give you too much trouble. See you soon!

You smiled at the response; he knew your bag was heavy and wanted to make you comfortable. Copying the address into Google Maps, you saw that the Hotel was only a 15-minute walk from where you were. It was okay, and odd that the hotel was close to here. You were in the middle of the downtown core, so tourists wanted to visit your university. Study the directions closely so you don't have to keep looking down at your phone as you approach him. You put on your sunglasses and headphones to play music and exit the library. The weather was nice out, which made the short walk pleasant; following the directions you saw, you made it to the hotel Toto was staying at in no time. You entered the front doors and told the front desk that you were there to see a guest at the room number he had given you. They just got off the phone with Toto since the gentleman nodded, said he was waiting, and gave you a slight direction to find his room. You thanked the man and took the elevator up. You were eager to see Toto again and more relaxed than yesterday, but you weren't expecting this. Pulling you from your thoughts as the elevator dings, meaning it is on the floor you need, you search from the room. Once finding it, you knocked on the door softly. Yes, you were a little nervous, but you double-checked to ensure it was the room. A few seconds too long later, you saw a smiling Toto. "Hi," "Hi," "Why don't you come on in." All you could do was nod as Toto turned slightly to allow you to enter the room, which you did. You walked in, entering the space, in which you heard the door close and heard him make his way to you. "You can place your bag on the couch. I just need to get my jacket, wallet and phone, and we will be good to go, okay?" "Sure, take your time; I'm in no rush."

You smiled warmly at him to ensure he didn't need to rush and waited a few minutes until he was ready. Looking out the window, admiring the view from his hotel room, you hear Toto speak. "Ready to go?" "Yes, lead the way." You approach him so you both can exit the room to grab lunch. He opens the door to allow you to leave first so he can shut the door behind us. He ensured it was closed, as it now had your belongings. You silently waited for him, not wanting to rush the man. He then turns to you, smiles and leads the way to the elevator. He presses the button to take us down until you hear him speak. "I hope you don't mind walking. It's a nice day, and the place is not too far away to require driving?" "No, not at all, I don't mind! ….. Yes, it is nice out."

You blushed a little; it was nice that he was considering your comfort around him. Both of you stepped into the elevator when it came to the floor you were on. The silence wasn't awkward; it felt comfortable not to speak for a bit, and I was still thinking about some of the things I needed to work on, so I am still trying to shift my mindset to relax. Arrived at the hotel lobby and walked past the front desk towards the doors and onto the city streets. You slipped your sunglasses back on since it was still sunny out, and you didn't want to strain your eyes from squinting so much, having the same thought. Toto also did the same with his sunglasses. You glanced up at him, just admiring his facial features and the way his sunglasses sat on his face. You wouldn't tell him you liked his particular pair, but it was a nice, rounded frame that suited his face well. He led most of the way to the sushi shop. It was close to your side of campus, and you passed this shop quite often but have yet to bother to try the place out. As you got to the place's entrance, you saw Toto a few steps ahead to grab the door and hold it open while you stepped in first, with him following behind you.

You both stand side by side, glancing up at the menu; you have an idea of what you want just by glancing at the options. You also wanted to get a little because you saw the prices and wanted to be sure it was enough for Toto to pay. You felt guilty that he was paying for everything these past few days. He wouldn't let you pay for any of your stuff. Pulling you from your thought, "Have you decided what you want, or did you want me to order for the both of us?" Now that thought was intriguing again, to let him decide on food again. It would be nice for someone to choose from your option, which consisted of an assortment of sashimi and a few pieces of a salmon roll. Finally deciding on what you want to do, you reply to Toto's inquiry, "Sure, you can pick; the only request is that there is sashimi; I'm not picky about what you get, tho," you said, turning to him, and he just looked at you. He smiled and nodded at your little request. You just stood there silent again. It honestly felt nice not to make every decision. It was a long day for you, even though it was roughly 3pm. You hadn't eaten today, so you were running low on energy to think. You watched as Toto made his way to the front of the counter and placed the order with the employee. He glanced back at you to ensure what he was ordering was okay with you, but you didn't catch a single thing he said until he finally said your name. "Y/N…… Y/N….. is there something you'd like to drink?" "No, I was going to grab a sparking water from the convenience store on the way back…." "Fine by me!"

From that, he placed the final bits of the order with the employee. I am assuming he also paid since I zoned out after that, just thinking about the contents of the article and reflecting on my day thus far, until I saw Toto walk towards me, pulling me from my trance of thought. He could tell I was off because I proceeded to catch a concerned look on his face. "You okay, Y/N…. you seem a little distracted today?" You can hear his concern in his voice as he speaks gently. Being tired was an understatement, and you wouldn't say that Toto was mostly to blame because he was all you were thinking. So you blame school and your work today and have not eaten all day. So it just shows that you forgot to eat, and the lack of food leads you to need more energy to fuel you more. You don't usually forget to eat, but sometimes, when you are focused, your hunger instinct doesn't kick in. For someone who does workout often, you honestly weren't sure how you could forget that food is fuel for the body. Not wanting to concern Toto with the long pause before responding, you tell him the truth, hoping that little chuckle you add makes it seem like a silly mistake."Hahaha… I forgot to eat today, and when I'm too zoned in on doing work, I lose all appetite. So I can't wait to eat since I'm starving!"

You exaggerated that last bit, hoping he understood it was just a slip-up. Judging by the little smile creeping on his face, he bought it, but you can still sense the concern in his eyes. From that point, he kept a careful eye on you, so he was alert and ensured you wouldn't pass out on him because you hadn't eaten yet. Then you see him turn, ready to say, "Why don't you take my card and gtab two sparkling waters from the convenience store, and I'll meet you there? Food will be done in a few minutes, so I can meet you there and head back to the Hotel together. How does that sound?" "Sure, any preference in sparkling water, or do you want the same one I'm, which is a Sanpellegrino?" "That's fine by me, preferably a glass bottle." "Got it, I'll see you soon!"

He handed me his credit card, and I smiled at him and headed out the door. I put the card in my pocket to ensure I wouldn't lose it, But I couldn't believe he had given me his card. I kept rubbing my fingertips along the card; it was heavy, but from metal, I'm assuming it had to be a different card because this man had money. You just smiled. He had this must trust in you to take his card and yourselves water. Never in a million years would I think this happened to me, but you were flipping for joy on the inside. The convenience store was close and in the same direction back to the Hotel. Pulling on the store handle and entering, you greet the employee behind the counter and head to the fridges for sparkling water. You knew exactly where they kept them since you frequent this convenience often to grab sparkling water when craving pops some days. Open the fridge door, grab two bottles and start to make your way to the employee to pay for the two drinks. He scans the drinks, and you tap Toto's card on the machine and ask for the receipt. You were curious to know if Toto needed it after all. This could be a business card, which is business expenses since you are technically his research fellow, so you take hold of the receipt, put both the card and paper in your pocket and see a waiting Toto outside the store. You push the door open. Toto is smiling at you; this man could kill with his smile. "Ready to head back?" He says with the two bags of food in hand. "Yes!" You nodded up at him and turned to walk back to the Hotel.

You kept your eyes on the bags of food. You were petite and knew you were probably not going to eat much, but still, it was a lot of food, and who knows what he got, but you were looking forward to digging in. You eventually entered the lobby of the Hotel and made your way back to his room. He shifted the bag to carry all in one hand and opened the door. Once doing so, you allowed him to enter first, and he followed behind you. You returned to the couch, where your bag was, and it had a little table in front of it. You placed the two water bottles on the table, and Toto brought the desk chair over so he could be his seat facing you, making a little dinner table. He started to unpack the food, and you looked up at him, "Do you mind if I use the washroom before we eat?" "Of course, it's the door on the left close to the door exiting the room." "Thank you." He glanced up at you with a slight smile as you moved past him to make your way to the washroom. Turning on the lights and entering the bathroom, you close the door behind you for some privacy to relieve yourself.

Doing so, you take the chance to glance around; it was clean, and you tell housekeeping did come to make it look presentable. Still, you get to smell Toto's cologne, and the thought of his signature scent just had a smile creeping up on your face. You flushed the toilet and washed your hands. You head back into the main space to see all the food set up, and Toto smiles as he sees you walk in. He had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, not wanting to make a mess. His veiny forearms are on full display, and he gets up from his chair to all of you to sit first in your seat. Before you sit, you realize that your sweater might also get dirty. Having to reach across the table for food, you slip it off, leaving you in the tank top. Toto smiles up at you, and you sit across from him. Feeling self-conscious, you keep the sweater on your lap, covering your stomach.

Sure, you worked out, but you weren't lean and always felt self-conscious, especially when food was around. Toto sits back in the chair and starts explaining what he got; everything is by appearance since he opened all the containers. "In this container, closest to you and per your request, is sashimi. I got you an assortment of Tuna, Salmon, Eel and Butterfish. In the container between us, I got a roll platter, which was a dynamite roll, spicy salmon and tuna, some tempura, some veggies, and a California roll. I also got some edamame if you want to snack on it, and there are also salads if you would like them. I hope this is okay; you said you haven't eaten, so please eat and don't hesitate. I can get you something more afterwards." "No, this is more than enough. This is a great selection, and honestly, this could feed double the amount of just us two!" "Well, there are containers; you decide to eat later, you can have some later, but now take some sashimi, and please eat."

You blushed a little from his forcefulness in getting you to eat. With that, you took hold of your chopsticks and started placing some of the sashimi into your plate to eat. You put a total of 6 pieces and want to pace yourself, not wanting to feel like you haven't eaten in days. Once you started to eat, you could see Toto relax a little and start putting some rolls and sashimi onto his plate. The food before you was finished, and you were deciding what to put next. Still, you took a moment to think, so in your ideal mind, you took some edamame to eat and, deciding to initiate conversation, asked Toto, "Which of the rolls do you recommend I try?" You allow him to swallow the contents in his mouth, and he wipes his lips with a napkin before responding to you. "I would go with one of the tempura. I like different textures as I'm eating, and so far, you have just had sashimi, and after that, maybe some of the rolls; I think you will like the dynamite one the most!" "Great then, the tempura is next!"

He smiled at you as you took hold of your chopsticks and placed a few pieces of shrimp and yam tempura onto your place. You were pleased with his recommendation; the texture difference helped to down a pit more food. You now decide you need a bit of acidity to cleanse your palette, so you take ahold of the salad and put a bit on your plate. Downing that as well, you felt it was time for the rolls. Taking Toto's recommendation, you put some dynamite rolls in your place, a few veggie pieces, spicy salmon, and tuna. Finally finishing your plate, you felt you couldn't possibly down more food. Surprisingly, that was enough food for the both of you. You neglected the idea that Toto is much taller than you and can eat twice to possibly three times the amount you can. You tell him you finished eating and couldn't take more food and thank him.

"Okay, I can't eat anymore; the selection was amazing. Thank you again, Toto, for lunch. It was perfect." You had the biggest smile on your face, and Toto was reciprocating the same as well. You were satisfied and leisurely picked at the edamame, not wanting to make it awkward while Toto continued to eat. Though he did take a chance to respond to your comment, thank him."I'm glad you enjoyed lunch. I appreciate you taking the time to eat with me; you were great company instead of eating alone!" You still kept smiling; you could relate to his comment because you would have done the same if he hadn't sent you that message. Before you could respond to his comment, "If you still have work that needs to get done, you can work here if you want; you already look comfortable on the couch." You took a second to ponder on his comment. You were sitting on the couch as the two of you ate with your cross legs like a kid would do while sitting on the floor. It was reflexive; you were honestly just making yourself comfortable and didn't even notice that you did that, and the idea of having to go walk back to the library set your things up and make yourself comfortable again. You just didn't feel like doing that again. And it would be nice to have someone who makes me accountable to get more done, so you decide to take Toto up on his offer, but you make sure with him if it's okay.

"Sure!….. But are you sure? I don't want to intrude if you have something else to work on and need privacy to do so?" He huffed a little at your response; he gets a sense that I always like to double-check on offers I get."Why would I offer if I wasn't sure you couldn't work in this space with me… You know that at some point, we will have to work in the same room if you will be the research fellow." Giggling at this comment, "That is true; fine, I will work here then!" His smile grew wider once he accepted his invitation to work in the same space as him. You were kinda nervous because he was someone that you were absolutely falling head over heels for. Still, now you actually have to concentrate around him. This would be hard, especially if he kept his sleeves rolled up. Deciding on working in here, Toto helps you clean up the table that you two just finished eating at, which would be your makeshift workspace while he was at his desk. Once you finally cleaned the table, you rested on the couch. It was now 3:30pm, and you wanted to pick up studying at 4. You just wanted to ease into it. You slip off your boots to make yourself more comfortable, put your feet up, and just lean on the back of the couch while scrolling your phone with your sweater on your lap. Toto returns and decides to lift your feet up and take a seat, now placing your feet on his lap.

"Did you want me to move so you can sit comfortably?" "No, I'm wonderful, but I love to see you making yourself comfortable." He smiled at me, and now I started to feel bad, so I shifted up a bit more, and he mentioned again. "You don't have to move; stay like this. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable; I just see that you always have something on your mind, and to see you do nothing and relax is a nice change." He says this, looking up at me; I can tell he is sincere when he tells me this. It was true, but he is also catching me at a time in my life when I am at peak stress, so I'm not in the right mentality either. "Ya, I know, just a transition I am getting used to, but it will pass, you know…" "Ya, I understand… but you will get through it; I know you can."

He looks me in the eyes as he tells me this. It's a relief that someone believes in me. I wish I could say to him, but I don't want to make it seem like I am messed up. Having someone other than friends or family to encourage you was lovely, and Toto looks genuine. Feeling too comfortable and bold, I decided to see how Toto would react by sitting next to him and having his arm around me. I was never needy or affectionate, but he is hands-on, and I just wanted to be close again. Toto was about to protest when he saw you get up from your place on the couch and walk toward where he was sitting. He has his right arm on the sofa's armrest, and his left is on the back of the couch. You sit where the left is resting on the back of the sofa. He just has a look of astonishment as you sit, tucking yourself to the left. And you place your hands in your lap and just rest your hand slightly on his side. Toto looks down at you, and his look of astonishing fades into a warm smile, and he proceeds to ask, "Are you comfortable yet?" Responding a little too cocky, "Would you be comfortable if your arm was around me?" You don't know what was washing over you, but you looked up at him as you asked him that. He looks down and responds softly, "Your wish is my command."

He wraps his left arm around you, and he pulls you in closer to him. Your head rests on his chest, and you can hear his heart racing, but his breath is steady. You smile into his chest that he must be nervous, and honestly, you were too, but this felt right; he makes everything feel right. You managed to focus a little too much on his breathing, and just having his scent engulf you made you start to get a little sleepy, and your eyes fluttered shut. You hear Toto speak to you, not wanting to disturb the peace washing over you, "Schatzi, are you tired? Did you want to take a little nap on the bed?" You respond a little too quickly in your tired mind, "No… I'm very comfortable like this, just don't let me sleep, or I won't sleep at night." "Okay, I won't let you sleep." He spoke softly and placed a gentle kiss on the top of my head.

I hadn't even noticed that I let out a hum of approval, to which Toto just pulled me in a little closer. We stayed like this for a bit longer; he was so warm that I didn't have to wear my sweater, and I'm not going to lie. He is a walking radiator for someone relatively smaller than him. Knowing I had to get up to start working, I did it gradually. "Toto, what time is it?" He lifts his left hand to check the time and places it back down. "It's 3:56, why?" "I have 4 more minutes like this; okay, then I start doing work." "Okay, schatzi, 4 more minutes," He says softly, allowing me to be this peaceful for the rest of the time. You weren't tired anymore, but now you were mentally preparing yourself to start doing work. You decided to break the silence this time again."Thank you for this." "For what?" You can tell he is confused, so you clarify for him. "The embrace or whatever this is cozying up to you if you call this." Attempting to gesture in the sitting situation without moving because you are comfortable. You hear him reply. "You're welcome. I am always happy to see you comfortable." You smiled that he knew how happy you were and attempted to see how far you could push this again. "Toto, can you drive me home once I'm done studying? I still want to spend time with you." He almost didn't finish your thought before he could reply. "Of course, anything to spend more time with you." He was excited, and you could tell.

You took this as an opportunity to lift your head from his chest and look up at him. He had the goofiest of smiles, and you couldn't help but smile. You couldn't help but shift your gaze from his eyes to his lips. I am guessing Toto took this as a queue in which he took his right hand to cup your cheek, and you leaned slightly into his touch, your eyes fluttering close because of his gentleness. With that, he pulled your face up to meet his lips for a gentle kiss. It was soft and slow, and you could forget time. He pulled away, and you returned to rest your head against his chest with this chin on the top of your head. You could feel his arm shift to look at this watch, and he sighed a little to get your attention. "Y/N" "Yes…" your response just barely above a whisper. "It's 4pm." "Ooookaaay." You whined softly in his embrace. Toto let out a huff. He sensed you were comfortable and enjoyed you in his arms, so to help prepare you to let go, he rubbed your back a bit before you peeled yourself off him to sit in front of your laptop.

You take this chance to slip your sweater back on because you shivered at the heat loss. You hear Toto softly chuckle from your loss of contact. Still, it makes you smile, knowing he finds your reaction to him humorous. Toto gets up from the couch and walks towards his desk to continue work. He turns to you one final time. "Let me know what time you were thinking of leaving or when you think you will be done, and I'll pack up as well." "Is like 8:30 okay?"" More than perfect; since that is quite a bit of time, I will head out to get some snacks. Is there anything in particular you want?" He startled you with this comment, but it made you blush. You took a second to think and finally came up with a cheeky answer. "Ummmm… Strawberry Twizzlers, if not those, then cherry is fine; a bag of chips, you can pick… Oh…. and a Redbull if they have any." You know the Redbull comment would make him smirk, and right on queue, he did. "I will get you everything else but the Red Bull. Is a monster okay then?" He could tell you were joking, but he still wanted to ensure. "Yes, that's fine, or any energy drink. I was only teasing, you know." You couldn't help but giggle, making Toto shake his head disapprovingly. He grabs this coat and wallet. "I will be back soon, okay?" "Okay!" Just like that, he turned to you, smiled, and went to get snacks for your extended work time, to which you opened your laptop to start working on your assignment.

You put your noise-cancelling headphones on and proceed to open up the Onenote. Had all the notes for the assignment you wanted to start. In the section, it was the assignment instructions. You took a chance to review the parameters and the requirements needed to complete the assignment and figure out how to approach it. It was just another essay, so you looked back at the syllabus. You saw which weeks interest you and topics you could consider writing roughly 15-20 pages about. With a brief skim of the syllabus, readings and notes, you figured out a week and topic on which you could write. With that, you gathered the necessary articles and lecture notes. You opened a new page on OneNote in which you could dump information and thoughts that came to mind on how to focus the subject matter. At this point, you look like a madman, switching from different types, and your eyes darting really fast, attempting to absorb so much of the content and sort out the coming thoughts. You hadn't realized how much time had passed, nor did you notice that Toto returned because of the noise-cancelling headphones; he was at the desk with his back towards you, working on his laptop.

Deciding this was an excellent time to take a snack break, you take off your headphones and silently approach Toto, hoping you can sneak up on him. Biting your bottom lip, attempting to contain your giggles, you came close to his ear and whispered, "What you working on?" Toto jumps a little in his seat and then turns his chair towards you with a smile, reciprocating the one on your face, "Someone is a little minx?" "Well, it seemed like a funny thought to scare you a little." You couldn't help but giggle even more, and with that, you asked him, "Wanna take a snack break with me? I'm a little peckish." "Ahh, peckish… needing some sugary brain food to focus?" He inquired sarcastically because of your selection. "Yes, using the sugar high to elaborate on an outline I'm drafting before I type the essay out." "Well, in that case, we take a screen break too and rest your eyes; we don't want to strain them if you have a few more hours of staring closely at the screen." "Sure, why not? We can chat then!" You said that with too much excitement, in which you heard Toto chuckle deeply; you couldn't help that you made this man react this way.

He turns towards the snack and pulls them closer to the both of you on his desk. You take the chance to look and find somewhere to sit, feeling awkward to still stand beside him while he sits. Toto notices your little search, in which he chimes up, almost reading your mind, "You can sit on my thigh while we take our snack break; I don't mind." You blush deeply at this suggestion, and a little lost for words, he just turns to you with a little smirk. Inhaling a little, attempting to take a second to breathe and think about what you want to do next, you finally ask him, "Are you sure? Aren't I too heavy for you? Like, are you really sure?" You had a bad habit of doubling-checking, especially when it was an offer like this, but you wanted to ensure Toto was okay with it. "Of course, you aren't heavy; I got you." He tries reassuring you, and you reluctantly take up his offer. Nodding at him to show that you are okay with it, Toto opens up his legs more so you can sit on his thigh, facing him as well. You sit gently, not making sure he is comfortable or in pain, and he just looks up and smiles warmly at you. You are at eye level with him, and he says, "Can I put my arm around your waist to keep you steady? I just want to ensure you don't fall backwards or anything?" It was thoughtful that he cared for your safety, so you nodded, agreeing to his suggestion.

At this point, you somehow became mute, too, and he nudged the bag of snacks toward you. Peering into the bag, you take ahold of the Twizzlers and open up the package. Taking a few of the cherry licorice pieces and biting into them, Toto opened his snack and did the same before placing his arm back around your waist to steady you. Deciding to break the silence, "Thank you for the snacks. I know you didn't have to, but thank you again." "No need to thank me, schatzi. Your presence has been more than enough, and I just want to make sure you're enjoying yourself while with me." You couldn't help but offer a warm smile; he says the damnedest things that make you melt. He asks you a question to change the subject and understand what you were so concentrated on that you don't notice him entering the room again, "How is your work coming along? What is that you are exactly working on again?"

Happy at the subject change; you delve into the details of your paper. You felt that it was okay to ramble on a little bit just by the intent look Toto was giving you as you were trying to explain the topic you intended to research and how to possibly connect it with the discussions in the course and things you were dealing with on the subject matter. You also became over-invested in any research project, but that was the point, right? The end objective of any course is walking away and learning something new, which I always did. In this case, you were rambling on the subject you researched, so new ideas came to mind, even as you explained to Toto. Attempting to not make your mind go a million miles a minute on your research, you wrap up the topic. You take this chance to make eye contact with Toto since you hadn't done that for a bit, attempting to explain the jist of your subject; you take in that he has his head slightly tilted, quizzically trying to absorb your every work, nodding several times like he understands the topic. Feeling like you have finally spoken enough and wrapped up your thought on the last point, you take the chance to bite into some more licorice, silently giving Toto a chance to interject or say something as you fish into the bag for those energy drinks because you felt a little thirst from talking too much. You took them out of the bag and placed them on the table. You wanted to open one of them to drink, but before you could do so, you wanted to double-check the time; you were a caffeine addict, sure, but you value sleep, so you didn't want to consume the drink at the expense of being wired the entire night.

"Toto, do you have the time?" He gave you another puzzled look but looked down at his watch, "It's 6:30. Is everything okay?" Still had concern laced on his face as you went silent. You took a minute to ponder if it was too late to consume the drink. At 6pm would have been fine, but it's closer to 7pm, and you were already eating sugar, so the crash could be harmful. Finally deciding to break the silence, you speak up, telling Toto your thought process. "Ya, I was just thinking if it's too late to drink it, I don't want to be wired the entire night, and I am already eating sugary snacks, so I might pass. Can I keep it for tomorrow, if that's okay?" You glanced up at him as you explained whether to consume more caffeine, and his expression softened at your little concern. "Yes, Schatzi, I bought the drinks for you. And I think that is best, too, if sleeping is your concern." He rubbed the small of your back, supporting your decision and easing the tense poster you hadn't realized you were holding.

With that, you kept picking at your snack in silence. I'm not going to lie; I want to talk, especially with him, but I am not used to switching between a student and wanting to know him more than just a crush. It wasn't that you were awkward; it was far from it. It happened to be in the moment; you were in your own head and wanted to complete this task, and it would be a hard day of work. You were looking forward to finishing and just wanting to sit and chat, but you were somehow mute. Pulling yourself from your thoughts to take one last piece of licorice, you glance up, almost having to do a double take because you see Toto studying you, but his expression is soft. Immediately, a blush washes over your face, and Toto smiles back at you. "You must have a million thoughts since you zone out for so long." He wasn't wrong; this comment only made you turn a deeper shade of red. Smiling through the embarrassment and wanting to hide more of your facial expressions from him, you just shove your face into his shoulder. At this point, Toto could genuinely tell you were embarrassed and wrapped his other arm around you, pulling you closer to comfort you. "ohh, common schatzi cat got your tongue?" He was still teasing you for zoning out, but at this point, you giggled, attempting to make it a little light-hearted. Not wanting to leave his embrace, you shake your head and respond to his comment, not wanting to lift your head so he can hear you clearly, "I can't help it if my mind goes a million miles a minute, it jumps from one thought to the next." Toto just sighs at your response as if understanding the depth of what that meant. To still comfort you, he leans his head into yours and whispers, "Just making sure you are alright; I know you don't do it on purpose. Don't worry, Y/N, I'm just teasing." "I know, Toto, don't worry, I'm good, I just needed a new hiding place." You heard that deep chuckle again coming out of him, and he just pulled his embrace tight, wanting to tease him back, "Ouch Toto, you're hurting me," he instantly pulled you off of him and started to franticly glance up and down to see if you were okay. You couldn't help but burst into laughter and choose to use his exact words, "Ohh, Toto cat got your tongue!" And the both of you were just laughing like idiots.

Calming down from your laughing fit, you stretch your back a little and get up from Toto's lap, "Alright, time to get the last bit of work done…. with a few more pieces of licorice in hand!" You say that with too much enthusiasm, and Toto just smiles at you; he must like seeing you more cheery than stressed. Taking a few pieces in hand, still facing him, you hear him comment sarcastically, "Yes, because sugar fuels the will to work." "hhhmmm…..Indeed it does; you should see me on candy, coffee and energy drinks when I'm writing or studying; I'm truly magnificent to watch." The response was a little too nonchalant for my liking, but I quickly glanced at Toto, and his expression was a mix of concern and shock. The combination of food groups, mostly candy, caffeine, and the liquid version of the two combined, helps me focus. Still, I tend to look like a madman who furiously types at a computer screen. I go back to the couch, where my laptop is and give a once over at the work I was doing before taking a break. Letting my thoughts return to me on how I was linking things together, I continued my work.

At this point, understanding the direction in which this paper is heading, you start finding the appropriate sources to write. This was usually the hard part of writing a research paper and was tedious. You take to the internet and open up Google Scholar and your university library website. You start using the library website and type in key terms related to the topic. You filter out by the year since you want to use the most relevant sources, ensuring the source is an article or book, and you sort out if the articles are peer-reviewed. You do this process several times with different terms until you have a solid folder of sources on your computer to look through another day. You repeat this process, but using Google Scholar this time helps to get different search engines involved. It allows you to cover your bases before you start creating your outline. As you do so, some promising articles need access. You turn to your library website and enter the article name, allowing access through your university sign-in. Completing this process now a few more times and sifting through the folder of downloaded PDFs of articles and books, you make a preliminary list of how the source could be used, along with some of the course material and lecture notes. You click back onto Onenote and start putting messages on our outline page on how the paper could come together. Group the ideas in case you need to make headings in the essay and their correlation to the topic. Completing this sift through roughly 20 documents and feeling that your eyes can no longer look at a computer screen, you saved everything you were working on before completely shutting down your laptop for the day. You packed it into your bag with your headphones and took your phone to look at the time; it was a little past 8pm. Glad you finished a lot of work in one sitting; you get up and go over to Toto to bug him until he finishes his work.

"Toto…." "Yes, Y/N." "Are you done yet? I'm bored." With that comment, all you see is Toto turning to you, and he sees the stupid smile plastered all over your face and gives you a similar one back. "Okay, give me a second to save the items I'm working on." "Okay." Allowing him to do so, you walked until you stood next to him, in which you just turned to face him, leaning against the desk he was working on. Once he had finished saving all his documents and shut off his laptop, he turned to you, "Did you want me to take you home now, and I grab my things and be ready to go?" "Actually was wondering if you want to sit for a bit, before we go? You have my complete and undivided attention to actually talk this time." You looked him in the eyes, wondering if we would accept the offer; I mean, regardless, he would still have to drive me home, but not sure if he still wanted to sit and actually talk because the snack break was a clear indication that I can't hold an honest conversation with my mind elsewhere.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Update

Hey,

I know most of yall are waiting on a new chapter, I have it drafted (well mentally at least) just been busy with a few things these past few weeks that I haven't had a chance to just sit and write. But y'all can comment or DM if there is something that yall might want to see in the fic or song requests. I tend to write the chapter with a theme of a song and I like broadening my music selection ...... so comment or DM me. If y'all get any questions about the fic or my thought process also always happy to answer or if ya want to get to know me!