dragoneyelashart - Tumblr blog

dragoneyelashart · 4 days ago

Text

drug dealer! billie hcs ★⋆˙

smut/angst/fluff ୨ৎ warnings: mention of gunplay, spit kink, use of drugs

drug dealer! billie who calls you her favorite customer, always giving you discounts

drug dealer! billie who when you forget to pay makes you suck her dick in compensation

drug dealer! billie who wears her strap to parties just incase

drug dealer! billie who has girls all over her, but when she sees you she’s moving to make space for you, patting the empty space on her lap so you can sit.

drug dealer! billie who purposely moves around when you’re sat in her lap so you can feel her strap pushing into you

drug dealer! billie who is big on fucking you from behind

drug dealer! billie who always calls you ‘baby’, ‘mama’ and especially ‘her girl’

drug dealer! billie who makes you gag on her strap and swears she can feel how good your mouth is on her

drug dealer! billie who always praises you for taking her so deep

drug dealer! billie who’s staring you down at a party when she see’s you flirting with anyone else

drug dealer! billie who keeps a gun in the waist band of her pants

drug dealer! billie who would threaten anyone flirting with you with that gun, then later have you on your knees while she trailed the gun down your body

drug dealer! billie who loves when you leave marks on her neck

“yo billie, who gave you that mark” “my girl did” she says winking

drug dealer! billie who licks the drugs off your body, placing it on your tits, thighs and stomach

drug dealer! billie who spoils you with her money

drug dealer! billie who comes to you after a fight + fucks you when she's angry

"you gonna let me take my anger out on you, mama?" she'll say as you're waiting patiently on your knees for her

drug dealer! billie who spits in your mouth before she kisses you like it's a routine.

drug dealer! billie who says "good girl" every time you bring her a lighter, her phone, her gun — doesn’t matter what it is.

drug dealer! billie who has your name tattooed on her thigh, right where only you get to see it.

drug dealer! billie who keeps one of your panties in her glovebox like it’s a good luck charm.

drug dealer! billie who lets you sit on her lap while she counts money, her hand casually gripping your thigh while she multitasks.

drug dealer! billie who only sells to people she likes, and if someone she doesn’t like asks, she just points to you and goes, “ask my girl, maybe she’ll be nicer than me.”

drug dealer! billie who brings you a bag of your favorite snacks every time she drops something off “can’t have my baby starving while she’s getting high.”

drug dealer! billie who makes you ride her strap with her glock on the nightstand.

drug dealer! billie who tells people you’re her wife even though you're not married — yet.

drug dealer! billie who pulls you by the collar and growls, “don’t ever talk to that punk again,” then kisses you like she owns you.

drug dealer! billie who smells like weed, gunpowder, and your perfume, she says she wears it to remember what home smells like.

drug dealer! billie who sends you selfies mid-deal, shirtless in her car, captioned “thinking about you with my dick out lol”

drug dealer! billie who gets into a fight and when you ask “did you win?” she smirks, bruised knuckles and all, “you should see the other bitch… actually, don’t. just look at me.”

drug dealer! billie who tells everyone “this pussy's prescription only,” and you’re the only one with the refill card.

drug dealer! billie who lets you weigh the product on her lap like she’s testing how well you can handle pressure.

drug dealer! billie who tells you, “don’t cum till I say,” then takes her sweet time fingering you, loving the way you beg and whine for her.

drug dealer! billie who’ll have you in the backseat of her car, legs over her shoulders, strap buried deep.

drug dealer! billie who’ll make you choke on her strap with one hand in your hair, the other still texting a client. “keep going, mama — i’m multitasking.”

drug dealer! billie who fucks you with her silver chain wrapped around your throat like a leash, pulling every time you moan too loud.

drug dealer! billie who loves when you wear nothing under her oversized hoodies/ shirts and only finds out when your sat on her lap or she grabs your ass — “such a slut for me, huh?”

drug dealer! billie who’ll finger you under the table during a deal, whispering, “be quiet, baby, i’m working,” while you’re shaking in her lap.

drug dealer! billie who records you crying on her dick and plays it back when she’s alone, cocky smirk on her lips as she listens to how ruined she made you.

drug dealer! billie who’ll edge you all night then finally fuck you in the morning, saying “only good girls get to cum on my strap.”

drug dealer! billie who won’t tell you where she disappears to some nights, just comes back with bruised knuckles and haunted eyes, muttering “don’t ask, baby, please.”

drug dealer! billie who pushes you away when she’s scared, when things get too good, she starts fights just to convince herself you’ll leave before she gets too attached.

drug dealer! billie who almost gets caught in a raid and calls you from a burner phone, breathless and frantic, “i don’t know if i’ll make it out… just know i love you, alright?”

drug dealer! billie who refuses to sleep next to you after a deal goes bad because she doesn't want to bleed on your sheets — “i’m dirty, baby. you deserve better.”

drug dealer! billie who goes dead silent when you cry in front of her for the first time, then holds your face and whispers, “you know I’d kill anyone who made you feel like this... even if it’s me.”

drug dealer! billie who gets so used to giving everything away,money, product, sex, that when you love her without asking for anything, it breaks her.

drug dealer! billie who makes you promise that if she ever disappears, you’ll leave town and never look for her “i can’t have you getting hurt just because you love me.”

drug dealer! billie who sneaks into your apartment just to cook breakfast in your kitchen, eggs burnt, toast uneven, but she’s so proud. “i feed you and fuck you? wife me.”

drug dealer! billie who gets high and gets soft, lays with her head in your lap and lets you play with her hair while she hums whatever song’s in her head.

drug dealer! billie who keeps a stash of your favorite snacks in her glove compartment. “my girl’s gotta eat between rounds.”

drug dealer! billie who rolls joints with pink rolling paper because “you like cute shit,” and always kisses you before lighting up.

drug dealer! billie who lets you wear her hoodie and hat, then posts you on her private story with the caption “mine mine mine.”

drug dealer! billie who always calls you to “come crash at mine” after a long night, she sleeps better when she can feel your heartbeat against her back.

drug dealer! billie who secretly keeps every love note, polaroid, and silly doodle you’ve ever given her, stashed in a shoebox under her bed.

drug dealer! billie who never says “be careful” — just “text me when you get home” — but she means “if anything ever happened to you I’d burn this whole city down.”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone @vijaxx | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

414 notes · View notes

dragoneyelashart · 5 days ago

Text

i saw before 🤭🤭

★ what about dating milf!billie? and what about dating milf!sabrina?

★ milf!billie who’s your lonely neighbor with two sons

your mom insisted that you grab a box of cookies from home and go meet your new neighbors, because making friends is very important.

knocking on the massive door of the wooden house, you immediately heard a woman's voice, and then a quick stomping of feet, before two boys, about seven and five years old, appeared on the threshold, looking at you with genuine curiosity.

but your attention was caught by a tall brunette who appeared behind them a few seconds later. you weren't sure where your gaze was directed until she spoke. her voice was melodic, beautiful, with a slight hoarseness that made your knees buckle.

you showed up at her house one day. then ‘accidentally’ found out that her eldest needed a math tutor. very coincidentally, you were the only candidate for this position.

you started with a couple of hours a day, explaining and working through the topics of the lower grades and praising the boy for all the correct answers. you didn't notice the way billie was looking at you. until she asked you to stay and have dinner with them.

then again and again until you ended the day in her bedroom, sprawled across the crisp white sheets with her tongue exploring every inch of your body.

⋆ milf!billie who woke you up with her hands on your hips the morning after the first night, unable to wait to plunge her tongue into your pussy again.

"please, my love. just let me make you feel good, okay?"

⋆ milf!billie who always manages to find an excuse to tease you in front of her sons, causing your face to flush bright red.

"your slutty skirt's fit for bouncing on my strap, not teaching my son"

⋆ milf!billie who prefers a sporty style of clothing.

⋆ milf!billie who constantly presses herself against you from behind, letting you feel her strap tease the small of your back.

⋆ milf!billie who can't keep her hands off you. she has to touch you all the time. hand on your waist, fingers teasing the inside of your thigh.

⋆ milf!billie who clearly has 'mama' as a favorite.

"c'me here, mama, wanna show you something"

⋆ milf!billie who once touched herself in her bedroom when you walked in without knocking.

⋆ milf!billie who, unlike you, didn't get embarrassed, eventually trapping your head between her legs.

"s'okay mama, close the door and come here. i needed your help anyways"

⋆ milf!billie who fucked you on every surface in her house; the bed, the couch, the shower stall, the tables, the kitchen counter...

⋆ milf!billie who definitely has daddy kink.

⋆ milf!billie who always opens the door for you when you come into her house. she has to be the first one to see you.

⋆ milf!billie who makes you sit on her lap, feeling her strap press against your folds while you try to sit still and not move.

"gonna be a good girl for me, princess? let daddy look at you"

⋆ milf!billie who loves how obsessed you are with her tits. constantly leaving little marks on them that only the two of you can see.

⋆ milf!billie who loves watching your body bounce on her strap.

⋆ milf!billie who loves making you go bigger and bigger until your insides turn to mush.

"come on, pretty. it’s only 10 inches. m'gonna stretch this pussy so good"

⋆ milf!billie who saw you right through when you came into the kitchen to ‘get some water’. well, you ended up on the counter and three of her fingers buried in your cunt.

"gotta be quiet okay mama? can't let my kids hear"

⋆ milf!billie who has a mark on her collarbone from your teeth after you were trying so hard to be quiet.

⋆ milf!billie who likes to hit it from the back. hands pressing down on your shoulder blades, making you arch your back better for her.

⋆ milf!billie who made you walk around the house with a vibe, turning it off every time you got close.

⋆ milf!billie who teased you that same night when you were begging for her touch.

'yeah i know, hard to think when your mind is constantly thinking about dick isn't that right?'

⋆ milf!billie who works in her office and holds you on her lap, cockwarming her

"patience, slut"

⋆ milf!billie who likes to take control. always. she just needs to feel like something in this life is in her power. and you were a perfect candidate.

⋆ milf!billie who slapped your face when you guided her fingers to your clit, just because you needed more.

"so fucking greedy huh? daddy's fucking you with her dick and you still need more?' pathetic little bitch"

⋆ milf!billie who makes you clean up your mess with your tongue.

⋆ milf!billie who fucked you in the car after you tried to touch yourself, while she was driving to pick up her boys from soccer.

"can't keep your hands to yourself, huh?" she looks around for the nearest place to park before you end up in the backseat, your hips moving against her thigh, making a mess on her pants. "daddy, please, need more!" your head falls onto her shoulder as her nails dig into your waist, guiding you. "sluts don't get more. shut up and keep fucking yourself"

★ milf!sabrina whose son you're babysitting...

when you first saw her, you'd never think that such a good looking woman could be 36 years old. she looked perfect, like an angel fallen from heaven. her captivating smile, her soft blue eyes peering under your skin with every look she gave you. it was a game, her game, that you lost before it even started.

sabrina was soft from the first second. for some reason constantly letting her hands rest ‘innocently’ on your body, be it your arm, your waist, your lower back. you just thought she was being polite. she just couldn’t wait for the moment when her hands would slip under the fabric of your skirt.

she didn’t notice how her gaze darkened when she watched how well you treated her son. she couldn’t control her thoughts.

you were young, inexperienced and completely innocent. all sabrina wanted was to corrupt your perfect body, looking like it was made for her touch.

sabrina insisted that you stay for dinner. she always did because you couldn't say ‘no’ to her

the same way you couldn't say ‘no’ when her hand landed on your thigh under the table.

"hush, sweetie. be a good girl and listen to my son tell us about his day" her warm breath on your neck lit a fire that neither of you could put out.

that night, you couldn't wait for her to put her son to bed. you needed her like oxygen.

she was soft, gentle. at first.

"has anyone ever touched you before, my angel?"

sabrina just couldn't let anyone have you when she found out she was the first one who could make your eyes roll into the back of your head every time she touched you. she couldn't let you go home that night.

"there's a spare room in my house. you can live here."

you couldn't say no to her.

⋆ milf!sabrina who has a wild mommy kink. it blew her mind when you first said it.

⋆ milf!sabrina who can't keep her hands off you, even when you're trying to parent her son.

⋆ milf!sabrina who swallowed hard when she heard you call her mommy in front of her son.

"your mommy's making dinner for us, sweet boy, let me help you"

she couldn't wait until the evening, gagging you with your own panties while her fingers were buried in your pussy.

⋆ milf!sabrina who couldn't help but giggle when you told her you'd never thought about what it was like to suck something.

"tsk, baby, i thought you were worth something. guess mommy just has to teach you then"

⋆ milf!sabrina who held your hair so gently, guiding your head as you learned how to suck her strap properly. choking and gagging, but ready to do anything to please her

"breathe, princess. gonna be my good girl and take everything i give you, yeah?"

⋆ milf!sabrina who stops guiding your head, and seeing your confused look, just strokes your cheek.

"you're a big girl, you can finish it yourself"

⋆ milf!sabrina who has no idea how hard you're dripping down your thighs. the pink vibe pressed against your clit is putting too much pressure.

⋆ milf!sabrina who loves hit it from the back. she loves to run her hands down your spine, reaching for your breasts, playing with them as her hips slam into you.

⋆ milf!sabrina who makes you push yourself onto her cock without moving at all, while you cry and beg her to help you.

⋆ milf!sabrina who’s obsessed with your mouth working so desperately on her pussy.

⋆ milf!sabrina who cooks for you every day.

"thank you ms carpenter, this is delicious" "you know how to thank me, princess"

your head’s buried between her legs for the next few hours.

⋆ milf!sabrina who is the 'whore' type. she just loves the way your moans get louder when she calls you that.

⋆ milf!sabrina who loves to punish you when you misbehave.

"so desperate to cum? you forgot your fucking manners?"

⋆ milf!sabrina who actually loves it when you act like a brat. it gives her full right to do whatever she wants with your body; spanking, slapping, pulling your hair, sometimes too hard.

⋆ milf!sabrina who makes you count until your skin is covered in her handprints and your makeup is ruined by the endless stream of tears.

"shouldn't have then sweet girl? you gonna go back to being my good little girl baby?"

⋆ milf!sabrina who leaves you tied to the bed, forcing you to watch her fingers disappear into her own pussy while you squirm, begging her to untie you.

⋆ milf!sabrina who always has to shut you up because you're too loud.

"shh, be quiet, sweetie. don't wanna wake my son up, yeah? can't let him see what mess you made on mommy's sheets"

⋆ milf!sabrina who makes you look in the mirror while she fucks you.

⋆ milf!sabrina who pulls your hair too hard when you look away.

"did i gave you permission to close your eyes, angel?"

⋆ milf!sabrina who constantly taunts you in front of her son. tiny shorts, tight shirts. presses up against you when she 'needs to get something from the top shelf'. and sometimes you can feel the strap under her sweatpants.

"could fuck you right here and right now, sweetie"

⋆ milf!sabrina who has a big breeding kink. she's a mother. she just needs to make you feel the same.

"c'mon, my sweet girl, just wanna give you my babies. gonna you take it like a good girl? let mommy fill you up, huh?"

⋆ milf!sabrina who's just a fucking pervert, calling you while you're studying, letting you hear how fast her fingers move inside her.

'keep talking, princess. don't stop. don't stop'

⋆ milf!sabrina who goes crazy if you let out a little whine. she'll just beg you to keep going.

'please, baby, keep making those sweet sounds'

⋆ milf!sabrina who has no qualms about crawling into your panties while you're watching a movie with her son, who's just too engrossed in the picture on the screen.

⋆ milf!sabrina who definitely blindfolds you sometimes, making you guess which strap she's fucking you with. and you better guess right.

⋆ milf!sabrina who's obsessed with your tits. just makes you cockwarm her, playing with your them until you can't think straight.

⋆ milf!sabrina who innocently asks you to put sunscreen on her and then takes off her bikini.

⋆ milf!sabrina who fucks you in a hot tub while her son plays with his friends in the backyard.

"let's see how many times i can make you cum before he notices."

⋆ milf!sabrina who taught you how to masturbate. just because she likes to see how shy you are.

"i need my sweet girl to know how to take care of my pussy when mommy's isn’t there"

⋆ milf!sabrina who's too possessive when it comes to you. 'you're mine' just not enough. you have to belong to her. your soul and your body. and you better know that she owns you.

⋆ milf!sabrina who gets pissed when she sees you talking too sweetly to some guy.

"mommy doesn't fuck you enough, huh? not make you cum enough you're gonna whore yourself to some pathetic guy?"

⋆ milf!sabrina who couldn't stop leaving her handprints all over your ass until you're screaming that you belong to her.

"this pussy is mine. mine and only mine to fuck, you understand, whore?"

⋆ milf!sabrina who stimulates you until you learn your lesson.

"oh now it's too much? or am i gonna see you in 5 minutes drooling over some guy like a pathetic little bitch?" her hand's in your hair, lifting your head off the mattress as you do your best to stay on your hands and knees. thick strap is too deep for you to think straight. "i’m so sorry, mommy! please, i wanna cum f'you." tears are streaming down your cheeks, but she doesn't care. you just don't understand how much lust's in that body that she can treat you like a doll, fucking your brains out. "f'me, mama? yeah, i own this fucking pussy"

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch @mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts, @thebluediner, @xiletay, @eilishsfantasy, @ariieeesworld, @peytonneilish @brinasheqrt, @sabrinannlyn @mystiquemm,@itsdopewhatmorecanisay,

#zara’s recs─ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚ ✮⋆˙⋆˚࿔#billie eilish #sabrina carpenter #kara ౨ৎ⋆.˚

371 notes · View notes

dragoneyelashart · 6 days ago

Text

not alot, just forever

fluff/ angst/ smut ୨ৎ

a/n: kind of inspired by gilmore girls wc: 8.2k words

the town’s small. not in the cute brochure way, but in the way that everyone knows your last name, and your dog’s name, and what kind of coffee you drink when it’s raining. it’s the kind of place where people wave from their cars, where the hardware store still writes receipts by hand, and where gossip moves faster than cell service.

your café sits on the corner of main and pine, right where the sidewalk cracks from the roots of an old tree no one’s had the heart to cut down. it’s got a crooked front window and a hand-painted sign that’s faded just enough to feel lived in. the inside smells like espresso, warm bread, and whatever candle you remembered to light that morning. vanilla and cedar today, something soft.

you open early. before the sun sometimes. before the bakery next door even finishes their first batch. the regulars come in half-awake, rubbing sleep out of their eyes, trading quiet good mornings and weather talk. you keep the music low. nothing that talks too loud.

there’s a slow rhythm here. the mail truck pulls up at nine. the local high school kids try to sneak in before class, thinking you don’t notice their backpacks and fake IDs. the sheriff always comes by at noon, nods like he doesn’t have time to sit, then stays for twenty minutes.

it’s not flashy. not exciting. but it’s yours. your space, your hands on every corner of it, from the mismatched mugs to the chalkboard menu that smudges no matter how carefully you write.

you built this place like a second skin. like something to belong to.

and even on the days when the sky’s gray and your body’s tired and you want the whole town to just shut up for five minutes, you love it. you love it the way you love an old book. the way you love silence after too much noise.

it’s just past 10 when she walks in.

you don’t even have to look at the clock. you know her footsteps by now, slow, heavy, like she’s already tired of the day. the bell above the door rings a half-second before the scent of outside air slips in with her, warm and full of summer dust.

you glance up. she’s wearing jeans that look like they’ve been through something, cuffed sloppily at the ankle, and a black t-shirt that says i have the dick so i make the rules in bold white letters. subtle, as always.

you roll your eyes before she even says anything.

she catches the look and smirks like she’s already won. “good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“barely morning,” you mutter, wiping down the espresso machine even though it doesn’t need it.

she drops her laptop on the counter table like she didn’t just walk in here with that shirt and expect to be normal about it.

“bold outfit,” you say, eyes flicking back to the phrase stretched across her chest.

she shrugs, sliding onto one of the stools. “had a long night. didn’t really look in the mirror.”

you hum, not sure if you believe her.

her hair’s a little messy, in that “i don’t care” way that actually means she probably spent twenty minutes getting it just messy enough. dark circles under her eyes, but still somehow glowing. she pulls the laptop open like she’s here to get work done, but you already know that’s a lie.

“you actually gonna use that thing?” you ask, nodding to the laptop.

“maybe. depends if you’re interesting enough today.”

“so probably not.”

she grins. “don’t sell yourself short, babe. you’re half the reason i’m even vertical right now.”

you snort. “and the other half?”

“caffeine. spite. sexual tension.”

you don’t respond, but you can feel the heat crawl up your neck. you turn away, pretending to rearrange the croissants even though they’re already lined up.

the café’s in its late-morning lull. a few people are tucked into booths, quiet conversation and the soft clink of ceramic mugs. the sunlight through the windows makes the wooden floors glow, and everything feels a little softer than it should, too peaceful, too golden.

and then there’s her. sprawled out at the end of the counter like it’s her personal front-row seat to your daily performance.

she types something on her laptop. you glance over, probably fake typing, she’s been on the same screen for ten minutes.

but her eyes? they’re watching you.

always you.

you move through the motions, restocking lids, sweeping up stray sugar packets, pulling espresso shots, and you can feel her watching.

not in a creepy way. not in a heavy way. just... there. steady. like background music you’ve started to memorize.

“so what was this long night?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

she shrugs, not looking away from her screen. “went out. stayed out. regretted it halfway through.”

“rough crowd?”

“rough thoughts,” she says, and that’s all.

you don’t push. you never do.

but your fingers slow on the lid stack. and for a second, the silence feels a little too loud.

“coffee?” you ask instead, voice softer now.

she looks up.

“you offering, or trying to get me to pay rent?”

“depends on how annoying you plan to be today.”

“guess you’ll find out.”

you roll your eyes and grab a cup anyway. you don’t even ask what she wants, you already know. you always know.

she watches you make it. you can feel her eyes on your hands, your shoulders, your mouth when you frown at the milk frother.

you try not to let it show, but it’s hard to pretend she’s just another customer when she looks at you like that. like you’re a painting in a museum she keeps sneaking glances at when no one’s looking.

you hand her the cup, fingers brushing just barely.

she takes the cup from your hand, but doesn’t drink it right away. just holds it like it might say something. her fingers tap twice against the lid before she finally lifts it to her lips.

“mmm,” she hums, eyes closed for a second. “you spoil me.”

“you overpay me.”

“you don’t charge me.”

“exactly.”

she cracks one eye open, tilts her head. “that a confession?”

“that’s a mistake,” you mutter, moving back behind the bar.

she laughs, short, a little raspy. it sticks to the air like steam.

you turn toward the sink, rinse out a milk pitcher that didn’t really need rinsing, and she’s still there when you turn around again. legs crossed now, one boot toe tapping against the wooden rung of the stool.

“you sleep at all?” you ask.

“enough.”

“that’s not a real answer.”

“neither was your question,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to grin. “you checking on me?”

“no.”

“liar.”

you shake your head, but your lips press into something that’s not quite a smile. she catches it anyway.

“you want half my croissant?” she asks, already tearing it unevenly.

“you haven’t ordered one.”

“semantics.”

she digs into the bag she brought with her , paper, stamped from the bakery two doors down. same one she always swings by before landing here. she slides the smaller half across the counter toward you, crumbs trailing behind like breadcrumbs in a storybook.

you glance at it, then at her. “you didn’t wash your hands.”

“i licked them.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“and yet, here you are.”

you stare her down for a second longer, then take the croissant.

she beams. like she’s won something.

the air in the café is thick with that lazy mid-morning warmth, sun on wood, cinnamon-sugar glaze softening under the heat, the buzz of quiet conversation and distant jazz playing low from the speaker above the espresso machine. you wipe down the counter between customers, slow and methodical. not because you need to, but because it gives your hands something to do.

billie keeps typing now, like she’s suddenly in the mood to be productive. her brow furrows. she chews her straw thoughtfully, even though the drink is hot and has no straw.

“hey,” she says, not looking up, “what’s a better word than bittersweet but, like... not as cheesy?”

you think for a second. “melancholy.”

“too soft.”

“poignant.”

“too smart.”

“complicated?”

she lifts her head, grinning. “you calling me complicated?”

“i’m saying you don’t like big words.”

“i like big mouths,” she says, “and you’ve got one, sweetheart.”

you shoot her a look.

she just winks.

someone new comes in, orders an iced chai and a bagel with too many modifications. you nod along, polite, efficient, not really listening. you make the drink, ring it up, hand it off. they thank you and leave.

when you glance back, billie’s watching again. not sneaky about it. just... there.

you arch an eyebrow.

“what?”

“nothing,” she says, smiling behind the rim of her cup. “you’re just cute when you’re fake-nice.”

“i’m not fake.”

“you hate 80% of your customers.”

“wrong. it’s 85.”

she laughs again, louder this time, and it draws the attention of a woman sitting at the window with her book. you pretend not to notice.

“you ever think about doing something else?” she asks, more casually than you expect.

“like what?”

“i don’t know. something where you don’t have to talk to people.”

you glance around the café, wood counters, low-hanging light fixtures, plants someone gave you two years ago still thriving in mismatched pots. “this is that job.”

“fair.”

she sips again, then rests her chin on her palm. “so you like it here?”

you shrug. “it’s mine.”

“good answer,” she says, voice softening a little. “that’s rare.”

you say nothing, and the silence settles again, not uncomfortable, just full.

like the light coming through the windows. like the sound of spoons clinking on ceramic.

around noon, she kicks off one shoe and folds her leg beneath her. then she pushes her cup toward you across the counter.

“top-up?”

“you’ve had enough.”

“it’s decaf,” she lies.

you stare at her. “it’s not.”

“maybe the real caffeine is the friends we made along the way.”

“that doesn’t make sense.”

“it does in my heart.”

you sigh and take the cup anyway.

“you’re enabling me,” she calls after you.

“i regret everything.”

you bring the cup back, hot and full, and set it in front of her.

she takes it with a mockingly sincere “thank you,” then blows across the top before taking a sip.

“perfect, as always,” she murmurs.

you don’t answer. just keep wiping down the same spot on the counter until it shines.

outside, the sidewalk’s warmed up. you can see the shimmer of heat in the distance, over the roof of the corner store across the street. a couple kids on bikes zoom by, laughing too loud. someone’s dog barks at nothing.

inside, it’s quieter. cooler. more deliberate.

billie’s watching you again. or maybe still.

“you ever take a break?” she asks.

you shrug. “sometimes.”

“you should take one now.”

“why.”

“so i can bother you without you having an excuse to run away.”

“who says i’m running?”

she tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with one missing piece.

then she says, very softly, “nobody.”

and just like that, the moment folds in on itself. not dramatic. not sharp. just a quiet, off-center pause in the middle of a slow day.

you go back to the register.

she goes back to her laptop.

she spins slowly on the stool, back and forth, foot dragging lightly on the wooden rung beneath her. like a child.

“you know you’re my favorite person here, right?” she says after a while.

you pause with your hand on the espresso grinder. “i’m the only person who talks to you.”

“yeah well,” she shrugs. “still counts.”

you don’t reply, just flip a switch. the grinder hums. she watches you like she always does, not just with her eyes, but with her whole body, always leaning in, elbows on the counter like she’s waiting for a secret to slip out of your mouth.

you think about saying something sharp. instead, you grab a clean rag and wipe a spot near her elbow.

“you should actually work,” you murmur.

she sighs, the way she does when she’s about to say something half-serious and ruin the moment. but she doesn't.

instead: “you got a favorite flower?”

you blink.

“what?”

“flower. like, if you had to choose.”

“why?”

she shrugs, lazy. “just making conversation.”

“you never ‘just’ do anything.”

“you’re stalling.”

“i like lilies.”

“classic.”

“what, you expected something weirder?”

“nah,” she says, tipping her head back. “i expected something quiet. like you.”

you glance up.

she’s not looking at you now, just at the ceiling.

the moment stretches longer than you meant for it to. so you cut it.

“i think your laptop just fell asleep from neglect.”

she looks at it like she forgot it was even there.

“honestly, same.”

“what do you even do for a living?” you ask, mostly to change the subject.

“writer,” she says, drawing a little air quote in the sky.

you laugh, “you haven’t written a single word today.”

“i’ve been doing character studies,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward you. “you’re very inspiring.”

“you’re very unemployed.”

she gasps. “slander.”

you shrug. “truth.”

it starts with the rain.

fat drops hammering the windows like they’re trying to get in. you hear it before you see it, the hush of wind curling around the side of the building, the soft tap that builds and builds until it sounds like the sky is cracking open. the street outside is dark and empty, wet pavement glowing in flashes beneath the streetlights. your sign flickers once. holds.

the café is closed.

chairs flipped up on tables. floor freshly mopped. everything quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the storm rolling in above town. you move through it like you always do, towel in hand, mind on autopilot, wiping down surfaces that don’t really need it. the lights are dim, just the low amber ones near the counter still on. enough to see, but not enough to feel fully awake.

and then the door opens.

you hear it, that jingle you know like your own name. and for a second, you think maybe you imagined it. no one should be out right now. not in this weather.

but then she’s there.

billie.

drenched.

her hair’s plastered to her forehead, soaked all the way through. her shirt clings to her skin, black fabric darker with water, jeans stuck to her legs like she waded through a flood. she’s breathing hard like she ran here, though you doubt she did. her boots squeak on the floor.

"you’re closed," she says, but she’s already stepping inside.

"you think?"

she huffs a laugh and pushes the door shut behind her, the sound of rain suddenly muffled.

"thought i’d try my luck."

"what are you even doing out in this?"

she shrugs, like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just walk through a downpour with no umbrella, no explanation, and end up at your door.

"couldn’t sleep."

"so you decided to trespass."

she walks past the front tables, slow and dripping. "you always say that, but you never kick me out."

"you’re getting water all over my clean floor."

she spreads her arms, flashing that cocky grin even as water slides down her neck. "guess you’ll just have to mop again."

"unbelievable."

"consistently."

she peels off her jacket, leather, of course, now soaked through, and drapes it over the back of a chair. she’s shivering a little. you notice it and try not to.

"i’m making tea," you mutter, heading toward the counter. "you’re not getting coffee this late."

"yes, mom."

"keep that up and you’re getting nothing."

"you wound me."

you put the kettle on. the café smells like vanilla and lemon cleaner and storm air, sharp and fresh and oddly sweet. you hear her move behind you, the sound of her shoes coming off, probably. a sigh as she drops into a chair.

you don’t look at her.

two mugs. the good kind. not the chipped ones you give to people you don’t like.

"you okay?" you ask, because the silence stretches too long.

she doesn’t answer right away. just breathes.

"yeah," she says finally, quiet. "just... didn’t wanna be home."

you nod like that makes perfect sense. and somehow, it does.

the tea steeps. you hand her a mug and sit across from her at one of the low tables by the window.

she curls her fingers around the cup like it’s a lifeline. steam fogs up the glass. outside, the rain keeps falling, heavier now. you can’t even see the sidewalk anymore.

for a while, neither of you talk.

just the clink of ceramic. the sound of breathing. a storm outside that makes everything inside feel closer, smaller, quieter.

"you’re not gonna ask me what’s wrong?" she says eventually, looking at you over the rim of her mug.

"no."

she nods, like she expected that.

"you always do that."

"do what."

"give me space. even when i don’t ask for it."

"maybe i’m just polite."

"maybe you just get it."

you don’t respond. the air feels too full again. your tea’s gone cold, but you don’t move.

she shifts in her chair, leans back, eyes tracing the ceiling.

"you ever feel like everything’s just... closing in? like the whole town’s a box and someone’s slowly taping it shut?"

you blink. not sure what to say.

"you could’ve gone anywhere," you say.

she looks at you. eyes darker in this light. softer.

"nah," she says. "just here."

you hold her gaze for a second too long.

then you stand. grab her mug.

"more tea?"

"please."

you walk away. her voice follows, low and warm.

"you’re a softie when no one’s looking."

"shut up."

flashback: the first time she walked in

it was fall. early, before the leaves started to turn.

a tuesday, maybe. definitely slow.

you were behind the counter, wiping down the pastry case and half-listening to the radio. a soft indie track humming through the speakers. it was quiet. the kind of quiet you’d grown used to.

and then the door opened.

billie.

new face. confident stride. a little too loud for the space. sunglasses pushed up into her hair, silver chain around her neck, smirk already in place like she’d been practicing it in the mirror.

"hey," she said, walking right up to the counter like she belonged.

"hi."

"what’s good here?"

"everything."

"bold claim."

"accurate one."

she grinned.

"alright, mystery barista. surprise me."

"you allergic to anything?"

"just commitment."

that made you snort. you hated that it made you snort.

you made her a iced spanish latte with oat milk. handed it over in a to-go cup and watched her take a sip.

her eyes lit up.

"damn. okay. this is actually fire."

"told you."

"don’t get cocky."

"don’t come into my café talking big if you can’t handle the menu."

she blinked. smiled wider. leaned her elbows on the counter.

"i like you."

"you don’t know me."

"yet."

she came back the next day.

and the next.

always something different, a bad joke, a new excuse, a worse shirt. but always that grin. always that spark. like she was waiting to catch you slipping. like she wanted to.

and somewhere between then and now, she stopped being a stranger.

and started being something else.

whatever that means.

back in the present, the rain is slowing.

the café feels smaller now. dimmer. she’s curled up in one of the big chairs near the window, tea gone, jacket still damp on the back of another chair.

you’re across from her, one leg tucked under you, fingers tracing the rim of your cup.

everything’s quiet.

"thanks for the tea," she says softly, breaking the silence.

"don’t mention it."

she looks at you, long and unreadable.

"no, seriously. thank you."

you nod.

and that’s it.

almost.

there’s a beat, a breath, where something could shift.

but it doesn’t.

not yet.

but then she shifts forward, slow and deliberate, like she’s testing gravity itself. her eyes search yours, not asking, not begging, just waiting. you don’t breathe. don’t move. until you do.

you lean in.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not sudden. it’s the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been building for years, a question finally answered. her lips are cold from the rain but her breath is warm, and the moment your mouths meet, the storm outside might as well disappear. everything narrows to the press of her hand against your knee, the tilt of her head, the impossible closeness.

it’s quiet. slow. reverent.

when you part, she lingers close, noses brushing.

"took you long enough," she whispers.

"you’re dripping on my chair," you whisper back.

she laughs, and it sounds like something breaking open.

like relief.

like home.

it’s been four years.

billie got out.

not just out of the town, out of the box she used to describe so vividly, the one with the walls closing in. she wrote about it, too. turned those suffocating feelings into paper and ink, pain into poetry, long nights into chapters that other people held in their hands. her first novel hit shelves like a thunderclap. then came the interviews. the book tours. the readings in crowded rooms where people clung to every word she said. she got famous. not explosively, but steadily. like the world had been waiting to hear from her and finally could.

you watched it all from the café.

same sign. same flickering bulb. same uneven table in the corner no one ever wanted except billie.

her name was everywhere, a whisper in literary circles that grew louder until it became a shout: billie. the girl who walked into your life like a storm, then left it drenched and broken behind her.

but you? you were left in the silence that came after.

she didn’t say goodbye.

not a word the next day after that kiss. no phone call, no text, no last look. just gone, like she was never really there.

and that absence?

you opened the café and found the chair where she sat still damp from her jacket. her cup still on the table, empty. like she’d just stepped out to take a call and never came back.

and maybe you waited longer than you should’ve. maybe every time the door opened for weeks after, your chest hitched just a little. but she didn’t come back. not then. not for a long time. you replayed the last night over and over in your mind. the warmth of her lips against yours, the way her hand pressed into your knee like she was holding onto something too fragile to lose. but the warmth turned cold quickly. the next morning, only a void remained.

your life didn’t stop.

it just got quieter.

it didn’t just hurt. it hollowed you out.

the café felt different after that. the regulars kept coming. tourists in the summer, college kids in the fall. you got a new barista to help with mornings. painted the walls. changed the playlist.

but every now and then, someone would leave a copy of her book on a table. and you’d pretend not to see it.

until you did.

until you read it.

and there you were, in the margins. not named, not spelled out, but unmistakably you. in the taste of spanish latte’s, in the silence between dialogue, in the lines about rain that never felt cold when she was inside.

and it hurt.

because she remembered.

every creak of the floorboards, every clink of a cup felt like an echo of what was lost. you’d catch yourself glancing at the door, half-expecting her to walk back in, drenched and smirking like she always did. but the door stayed closed. the rain fell, but it didn’t wash away the ache. inside you, a quiet storm raged, grief tangled with confusion, love tangled with bitterness.

you wonder if she even thinks about you. if the applause that greets her on stage, the flashing cameras, the whispered praise, do they drown out the memory of that night? or does she feel it too? the loss, the sudden absence that still clings like a shadow?

some nights, the loneliness presses so hard against your ribs you can hardly breathe. you trace the spaces where her fingers used to brush yours, remember the way her laugh filled the room, the reckless hope in her eyes.

but mostly, it’s a dull ache. a weight you carry like a secret, tucked deep beneath the everyday, beneath the routine of opening the café, wiping down counters, making tea for strangers who’ll never know the story you carry.

you tried to move on. tried to believe that the girl who left was gone for good, a chapter closed.

but in the quiet moments, when the world slows, and the storm outside mimics the one inside, you still reach for a ghost.

billie is out there, shining bright and unreachable.

and you’re still here, holding onto the shadow of a kiss that should have meant forever.

some nights, billie lies in hotel beds that smell like bleach and borrowed air, staring at ceilings she doesn’t recognize, wondering what the sky looks like back home.

not the town. not the streets. not the peeling paint on her old apartment door.

just the sky outside your café.

she thinks about the rain.

it always felt different when she was with you. softer. quieter. like it wasn't there to ruin things but to wrap everything in a hush only you and she could hear. the storm that night lingers in her mind more than any interview, more than any standing ovation. she remembers the way your lips felt against hers, tentative, trembling, sure, and how she almost said stay. or maybe don’t let me go. but she didn’t. and the next morning, she ran.

getting out was everything she ever dreamed of. the books. the buzz. the freedom. she doesn’t regret it.

but sometimes she wonders if she mistook escape for healing.

she writes about you. never by name. never directly. but your ghost threads through every chapter. you’re in the spaces between lines. in the quiet barista with gentle hands. in the unfinished love stories. in every mention of coffee and silence and windows fogged by storm-breath.

and no one knows. not really. they think they do. they read her words and imagine someone else. someone flashier, someone louder, someone more tragic.

but it was you.

always you.

she scrolls past the photos of her book signings, smiling faces, hands clutching her novels like they mean something. and they do. they really do. but when the clamor dies down, when the hotel door clicks shut behind her and the minibar hums in the dark, she’s alone.

and in that stillness, she thinks about how you never asked her to stay. how she left anyway. how it was easier to vanish than to risk watching your face fall.

she wonders if you kept the mug she used.

she wonders if you still make tea late at night, for two, out of habit.

she wonders if, maybe, just maybe, you’d want to see her again.

but she doesn’t reach out.

not yet.

because for all the chapters she’s written, that one still terrifies her.

the one where she comes back.

and finds you no longer waiting.

a week passes like fog; thick, slow, heavy.

the town is quieter than usual. even the kids on bikes seem subdued, their laughter dimmed beneath gray skies. everyone’s waiting for something. or maybe mourning something already gone.

the morning of the funeral, the air hangs low. not quite raining, but close, moisture clinging to skin, clouding the edges of windows, making every breath feel heavier.

mr. peterson is gone.

a man whose hands were always smudged with grease, whose voice cracked with too much laughter, who gave away more than he ever charged. he was a fixture in this town. not just a mechanic, not just a neighbor, he was memory made flesh. the kind of person who taught you how to change a tire and how to forgive in the same breath.

you stand near the back of the service, coat buttoned high, fingers knotted tight in your sleeves. the area is full, standing room only. a sea of bowed heads. a tide of grief.

you don’t cry.

not at first.

but when they start reading letters, notes written by kids, old friends, former customers, you feel your chest start to give. like something’s splintering. not all at once. just hairline fractures. soft and slow.

you blink down tears, your throat tight, and when you finally lift your gaze —

you see her.

billie.

she’s near the back. tucked into the shadow of the doorframe. black coat clinging to her body, eyes sharp and distant and aching. she doesn’t belong here, and yet, somehow, she does. she’s the same and not. taller, maybe. more tired around the eyes. her hands are folded in front of her like she’s trying not to shake.

you freeze.

your heart doesn’t beat right. skips. crashes.

she doesn’t see you.

or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t move.

and you don't go to her.

after, the crowd spills out into the misty gray. people hugging, crying, sharing stories in quiet tones. you move with them, pulled along by ritual. but your mind is on her. your skin still humming from the way her presence sliced through the air like a knife.

you don’t speak. you don’t look back. but her shadow follows you home.

you think maybe she’s gone again.

but the next day, you see her.

first it’s just a shape, across the street, moving slow. her hands buried deep in her coat, sunglasses on despite the lack of sun. she walks like she’s listening to old music no one else can hear. then another day. closer this time. standing at the crosswalk. waiting. not crossing. not coming in.

you pretend not to notice.

but of course you notice.

how could you not?

every time the bell above the café door rings, you think it’s her. every stranger with wet hair and tired eyes turns your stomach to knots.

she’s haunting you, and she hasn’t even spoken.

and then, friday night.

the café is dark.

you’ve just mopped the floor. the chairs are up. the last tea cup sits drying in the rack. it smells like lemon and lavender, like peace you haven’t quite earned. you’re locking up. reaching for the switch.

the door opens.

the bell.

your whole body goes still.

slowly, like turning in a dream, you look up.

billie stands in the doorway. wet from the rain. hair curling at the ends. eyes wide, searching.

you can’t breathe.

she’s backlit by the streetlamp, pale gold framing her like something not quite real. water beads along her jaw. she doesn’t speak.

you do.

“we’re closed,” you say, the words flat, automatic.

but it’s not anger in your voice.

it’s fear.

hurt.

history.

she steps inside anyway. closes the door behind her. the bell falls silent. the rain hushes to a whisper against the windows.

“i know,” she says.

you stand behind the counter, both hands gripping the edge. you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips.

“then what are you doing here?”

her eyes flick around the room like she’s memorizing it. like maybe she’s been seeing it in her head for years and forgot how quiet it really is.

“i couldn’t stay away,” she whispers.

you exhale. sharp. wounded.

“you don’t get to say that. not after four years. not after you left without a word.”

she flinches.

“i know.”

“do you?” you take a step forward, words shaking. “you kissed me and left. didn’t call. didn’t write. just vanished like it meant nothing. like i meant nothing.”

her face breaks at that, creases down the middle like glass spidering beneath pressure.

“you meant everything,” she says, voice low, wrecked.

“then why did you leave?”

“because if i stayed, i wouldn’t have had the strength to go,” she says, eyes locked on yours. “and if i asked you to come with me, you would’ve. and i couldn’t ask you to give this up. the café. your life. you belonged here, and i didn’t even know who i was yet.”

you stare at her.

rain pools at her feet. the floor you just cleaned glistens under her boots.

you should be angry. you are.

but mostly, you’re hollow.

“i waited,” you say. the words barely audible. “for months. i woke up hoping. every day. every day i hoped you’d walk through that door. every day i saved your mug. and then i stopped. because i had to. because you didn’t come back.”

her shoulders tremble. her hands shake.

“i wanted to,” she breathes. “god, i wanted to. every book i wrote, every sentence had you in it. but i scared… i was so scared. of seeing you. of not being what you remembered. of finding you happy without me.”

you say nothing.

the air between you buzzes. too many words. too many memories.

she takes a step closer.

you don’t move.

“i came back,” she says. “because i couldn’t carry it anymore. the silence. the wondering. i needed to see you. even if it hurts. even if you hate me.”

you close your eyes.

because she’s here.

and it hurts.

because you missed her.

and it still hurts.

because part of you never stopped waiting.

and it hurts more than anything.

“i don’t hate you, i could never hate you billie” you whisper.

her breath catches.

you open your eyes and look at her, and she looks so lost. so different. and still so devastatingly familiar.

“but i don’t know if that’s enough.”

she nods. eyes glossy. jaw tight.

“can i sit?” she asks.

“you’re already standing in the past,” you say, voice breaking. “might as well.”

and when she sinks into the nearest chair, small, soaked, shaking, it’s not the reunion either of you dreamed of.

the room is still. too still.

the hum of the fridge in the back is the only sound, low and distant, like a heartbeat underwater. the rain keeps falling against the windows, soft now,more of a whisper than a song. time slows.

you stay behind the counter for a long moment, hands braced against the wood, watching her where she sits,soaking, shivering, small in the big armchair she used to call “her throne.”

she doesn’t look at you.

her eyes are on her hands, clenched in her lap, the knuckles white with strain. her coat is dripping onto the floor. her hair sticks to her cheek. there’s a tremor in her shoulders she’s trying to hide.

you step away from the counter.

cross the floor in slow, careful steps, the echo of your footfalls muffled by the hush. you grab the old throw blanket from the back of the couch,the one customers always fought over on colder mornings. it still smells like lavender and lemon cleaner. you drape it over her shoulders without a word.

she flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.

“you’ll catch cold,” you murmur, voice barely more than breath.

“that’d be fair,” she replies, not looking at you. “at least then the outside would match the inside.”

you sit down across from her, slowly, like the weight of the conversation has aged you ten years. the old table between you is scratched and familiar. there are tea rings stained into the surface. ghostly reminders of better days.

you rest your hands on your knees. open. empty.

she finally lifts her head.

and the moment your eyes meet, it all tightens again, that brutal pull in your chest. her face is thinner, somehow. older. the sharpness around her mouth softened with fatigue. but her eyes are still the same.

still her.

you look away first.

“i made a life without you,” you say softly. “it wasn’t the one i thought i’d have. but i made it.”

her voice cracks.

“i know.”

“and i’m not angry,” you add, even though your throat tightens. “i was. for a long time. but then i got tired. and sadness is quieter. easier to carry.”

she closes her eyes. her chest rises and falls, shallow and quick.

“i hated myself for leaving,” she says. “i still do.”

“then why didn’t you come back?”

“because… i thought it would hurt you more if i did. because i thought you deserved someone who wouldn’t run.” she exhales. “but the truth is, i was just a coward. i was scared that i couldn’t be enough. scared that you’d look at me and see someone smaller than the version you loved.”

you swallow hard.

you want to tell her she was enough. you want to scream that you would’ve followed her anywhere if she had just asked. but the silence has lived between you for too long now. and grief has made your truths quieter.

“i missed you every day,” she whispers. “even when people were cheering for me. even when i stood on stage with my name in lights. none of it felt real. not without you.”

you clench your jaw.

“i watched your interviews,” you say, voice shaking. “i read your books. tried to find myself in the pages. i thought… maybe i’d show up as a line. a place. something.”

“you were everything,” she says instantly, eyes wide. “you were in every line. i just didn’t know how to say it.”

you go quiet.

a breath.

two.

the rain softens.

finally, you whisper, “you broke me.”

her face twists. like you’ve struck her.

but you continue, slow and steady and wrecked: “you broke me, billie. and then you got famous. you got out. and i was still here, trying to remember how to breathe without you.”

tears trace silently down her cheeks.

she doesn’t wipe them.

“i didn’t mean to ruin you,” she says.

“you didn’t,” you reply. “but you didn’t stay to help me rebuild, either.”

she presses her palms to her eyes. breathes in deep. when she drops her hands, her voice is hoarse, broken open.

“do you hate me?”

the question hangs in the air like smoke.

you take your time.

you think about the nights alone. the mornings with no texts. the empty seat in your café. the ache that never left.

and then you think of her laugh. the way her eyes used to crinkle when she was trying not to cry. the way she kissed you like it meant forever.

“no,” you say. “i never could.”

she lets out a sound then, half sob, half exhale.

you lean back in the chair. arms crossed tightly. like you’re holding yourself together.

and she looks at you, through all the time and space and years between you, and asks the only question she’s ever truly feared:

“can you ever forgive me?”

and for the first time in years, you don’t know.

you just look at her.

and feel everything. and nothing. all at once.

you don’t speak for a long time.

her question hovers in the space between you like smoke , fragile, curling, waiting to disappear.

can you ever forgive me?

your fingers twitch against your jeans. your mouth opens, then closes. it’s hard to say the words, not because they aren’t true, but because they are.

you nod.

slowly. once. then again.

and when you finally look her in the eyes, you say, “yeah. i think i already have.”

billie crumbles in the quietest way, her shoulders fold in on themselves, her hands press over her mouth like she’s holding back the kind of sob that doesn’t come from the throat, but from the bones. her whole body shakes, and you don’t hesitate.

you move to her.

kneel in front of the chair, take her hands gently in yours.

she grips you like she might fall through the floor otherwise.

and when you whisper, “come upstairs,” it’s not an invitation out of pity. it’s not because you feel sorry for her. it’s because some part of you, maybe the oldest part, still aches to be close. to know she’s real. to touch the space between you and feel it finally closing.

she just nods.

no words.

just eyes full of disbelief. and hope. and something like reverence.

you lead her to the back door behind the counter, past the shelves of forgotten mugs and the coat you always mean to mend. the stairs creak beneath your steps. they always do.

it’s not a long climb. but it feels like one.

you unlock the door to your apartment and step inside first.

it’s warm. small. safe.

a little kitchen. a threadbare couch. a desk with papers stacked in neat towers. your bed, tucked into the corner, soft with mismatched linens and the weight of years lived alone. plants line the windowsill, stubborn things, thriving despite it all.

she stands just inside the doorway, blinking slowly, like she’s afraid to breathe.

“this is yours?” she asks quietly, eyes scanning the space.

“yeah,” you say. “it’s not much. but it’s mine.”

she smiles , a soft, broken thing , and nods. “it’s beautiful.”

you move to the kitchen, hands shaking slightly, filling the kettle without asking. she sits at the edge of your bed, silent, watching you like she can’t believe this is real.

when you finally hand her a mug, your fingers brush hers.

electric.

she holds it close to her chest, like it’s keeping her grounded. her lips press to the rim, but she doesn’t drink.

“i didn’t date anyone,” you say suddenly, voice barely audible. “all these years. i tried, once or twice. but…”

you shake your head.

“they weren’t you.”

she looks up.

and you see it , the guilt, the sorrow, the overwhelming, all-consuming ache of someone who’s been waiting to hear that and dreading it at the same time.

“i didn’t either,” she whispers. “there were people. parties. places. but i couldn’t… not really. my body showed up. my mouth smiled. but the rest of me was stuck here. with you.”

you sit beside her on the bed.

your knees touch.

you take the mug from her hands, set it down on the nightstand.

and when you turn back, her eyes are full of tears.

“i’m still in love with you,” she breathes. “i never stopped.”

you exhale, shaky.

and you say, “i know.”

then, softer: “me too.”

her hands find yours again.

and when she leans in, slowly, like she’s asking permission with every inch, you meet her halfway.

the kiss isn’t soft, at first.

it’s desperate.

years of silence, of pain, of longing , all poured into the press of her lips, the way her hands cradle your jaw, the way you pull her in like you’ll never let go again. it’s messy. tear-streaked. trembling.

but it’s real.

and when it slows, when your foreheads press together and you both breathe in the same shaky, broken breath , it’s like the years collapse.

she pulls you into her lap, hands splayed at your waist, holding you like a prayer. your fingers slip into her hair, still damp from the rain.

there’s no rush. no expectation.

just closeness. warmth. the quiet joy of a second chance.

you curl into each other under the old quilt. fully clothed. fully wrecked. fully home.

and in the dark, as the storm outside softens into silence, you whisper into the hollow of her throat:

“this time… stay.”

and she nods, voice catching on the promise she makes like it’s sacred.

“i will.”

you don’t remember who moves first.

maybe it’s her hand brushing against your cheek, thumb tracing just beneath your eye like she’s memorizing the slope of you. maybe it’s you shifting closer, letting your nose nudge hers, your breath catching when she doesn’t pull away.

either way, it’s slow. deliberate.

when she kisses you again, it’s different than before , no rush, no desperation. just depth. quiet and aching and full of things neither of you know how to say. her lips are soft, and there’s a tremble in the way she moves, like she’s afraid she might do this wrong, might ruin it somehow. but your fingers curl in the hem of her shirt and you guide her closer, chest to chest, breath to breath.

you feel her sigh into your mouth , like relief, like surrender.

she kisses you like she remembers everything. like her body has held this memory tight and she’s only now letting it resurface. your hands move together in sync, clumsy at first, tugging at fabric more for closeness than for want. her shirt lifts, yours follows, and the air between you shifts , warm skin pressed to warm skin.

her fingers drag slowly along the curve of your spine, reverent. she kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, her mouth whisper-soft, as though afraid she might spook you. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, breath stuttering as her lips find all the places she dreamed of tracing over and over.

the blanket slides down around your hips. the rain has stopped, but the warmth remains. your apartment glows in soft lamplight , golden and still. she pushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, then your shoulder.

"you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen," she murmurs, voice breaking like the words are heavy.

your throat tightens. you don’t answer. instead, you let your body say it , the way you wrap your arms around her waist, the way you guide her down until she’s pressed against you fully, your leg slipping between hers, chests rising and falling in sync.

her hands explore like she’s painting you , palms dragging over your ribs, your waist, the dip of your stomach. her fingers shake, but her touch never falters. her lips find your skin again and again, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your forgiveness.

you gasp when her mouth meets your sternum, when her fingers trace delicate lines along your side. you feel open. raw. like your heart is resting just beneath the surface of your skin, beating in time with hers.

when her hand trails lower , tentative, trembling , you let out a soft sound, half a gasp, half a plea.

"billie," you whisper, the name a prayer on your tongue. your fingers tighten in her hair, guiding her gaze to yours. there’s no shame in your voice, just aching honesty. "please… touch me."

her breath stutters, like hearing you like this cracks something open in her chest. her hand finds your thigh, sliding up with exquisite slowness, until she’s nestled against you , where the heat between your legs pulses with need and something deeper, more fragile. she pauses, eyes searching yours.

"are you sure?" she asks, voice hoarse.

you nod, breathless. "i need you."

and when her fingers finally press at your sensitive clit, your back arches, not just from want, but from the feeling of being seen. known. forgiven.

she moves with care, every touch a silent apology, every stroke a vow. her fingers pushed deep inside you, your eyes tracing her every move. when she slips her thigh between yours, and you move to meet her, your bodies slotting together in an intimate, aching rhythm.

she moves like she knows your body better than memory, every shift of her hips, every graze of skin, sending heat curling low in your stomach. when her thigh presses between yours and you move to meet her, the friction is slow, electric. it sparks something deep inside you, not rushed, not frantic, just full.

you rock together, breath to breath, skin slick and warm, the rhythm natural, instinctive. her body pressed against yours becomes a tether, grounding and consuming all at once. every roll of her hips draws a whimper from your throat, a sound you can’t bite back, not when she’s watching you like that, eyes dark, focused, like you’re the only thing she sees. billie’s head is thrown back, the feeling of finally having you to herself, driving her insane. pleasure blooms in slow waves. not sharp, but heady. liquid. it builds with every drag of your bodies together, your muscles tightening, trembling, aching for more.

your hands clutch at her, her waist, her back, her shoulders, needing something to hold onto, something to keep you from unraveling completely. and still, she moves with you, against you, as if trying to memorize the exact sound you make when it becomes too much.

you whisper her name like a mantra, over and over, voice breaking around it. her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, every kiss stoking the fire she’s already lit beneath your skin. “billie, fuck, feels so good” you whisper out, running your hands up her chest softly. “yeah? feels good, mama? m gonna have you coming over and over for me,”

a slow kind of desperation, hips rocking, skin to skin, tears slipping down your cheeks as you whisper her name over and over.

"i missed you," you choke out between gasps. "i missed you so much, billie“

she presses her forehead to yours, her hand clutching yours tight above your heads, like she’s holding you together. your legs tighten around her, the tension building.

"i’ve got you my love,” she whispers. “m not leaving now“

231 notes · View notes