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No Reservations : Chapter fifteen

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: so lowkey…this may feel like im teasing you but trust the process guys😔

You spot Charlotte before she spots you, standing in the massive wraparound backyard of the Matthews “cabin,” dressed in black leggings and a soft cream fleece jacket, her hair half-up, glowing in the late morning light. She’s fussing with something on a picnic table and doesn’t hear the crunch of your boots on the gravel until you’re almost beside her.

“Hey,” you call.

Charlotte jumps slightly and then spins around, beaming. “You made it!”

You give her a suspicious look. “Why do you look nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” she says too quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m…curating an experience.”

“Oh god.” You cross your arms, eyeing the setup, an open picnic blanket, a few bundled towels, a thermos, and a covered tray. “Am I about to be sacrificed to the Aspen gods?”

She laughs, a little too breathy. “No! I planned a picnic. And an activity.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”

Charlotte lifts the cover off the tray to reveal two small canvases, neatly clipped to portable easels, along with a set of paintbrushes and tubes of paint.

“I thought we could paint,” she says, smiling nervously. “You know, decompress a little. You’ve been in the test kitchen nonstop. This is still technically team-building.”

You stare at her. “You’re having me paint in the snow?”

“It’s spring snow,” she argues, but her voice is wobbly with anticipation. “And I brought blankets. And cider.”

You walk over and pick up a brush, turning it in your fingers. “You trying to distract me from the fact that this is a date?”

Charlotte flushes red, her mouth opening and closing. “It’s not—I mean—I wouldn’t say no to that interpretation.”

You smirk. “Relax. I think it’s sweet. You planned this whole Pinterest-core afternoon just for me?”

Charlotte groans and drops her face in her hands. “Lena told you, didn’t she.”

“No,” you say, fighting back a smile. “But now I’m going to make her tell me.”

She lifts her face, and her expression softens as she watches you settle onto the blanket, tucking one leg beneath you. Her nerves seem to melt just a little.

“I just wanted to spend time with you,” she says, quieter now. “Without any kitchen pressure. Just…us.”

Your breath catches. Not because of the words, but because of the way she’s looking at you. Like she’s not just seeing you, she’s remembering you. Wanting you.

“Okay,” you say, gently. “Then let’s paint.”

A little while later, you’re both halfway into your canvases, yours more abstract, hers a chaotic attempt at the mountain skyline, and you feel a peace settle in your chest. Charlotte’s making fun of her own lack of painting skills, and you’re teasing her for the blush that won’t go away.

“Yours looks like a chicken nugget on fire,” you say, leaning over to squint at her sky.

“That’s supposed to be the sun!”

You laugh. “Sure, Van Gogh.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, her shoulders finally relaxed. And then, for a moment, the laughter dies down, and you’re both just staring at each other, cheeks flushed, the quiet settling soft between you. Her eyes flick to your mouth. It’s almost a kiss.

Almost.

But instead, she coughs and looks away, fumbling with her paintbrush. “Okay, no more flirting, we have to focus. This is still a team-building exercise.”

“Charlotte,” you say, barely holding in your smile, “you are the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”

She just shrugs, cheeks pink again. “Yeah, well. I have a plan.”

You tilt your head. “A plan?”

She smiles—that sly, slightly wicked, I-know-what-I’m-doing smile that always makes your heart skip. But she doesn’t elaborate. And that silence says more than any words ever could.

The walk back to the house is quiet in the best way. Snow crunches beneath your boots, and the wind has finally stilled, leaving only the faint rustle of pines and the occasional puff of your shared laughter echoing through the trees.

Charlotte walks beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. She’s still holding the ridiculous, half-finished canvas she insisted on keeping (sun nugget and all) and every time she looks at it, she laughs under her breath.

You glance over. “You’re really proud of that disaster, huh?”

“It has personality,” she defends, bumping you gently with her elbow. “Plus, it’ll look fantastic in my office. Right next to the stress relief cactus Lena gave me.”

“I think it might give your cactus a complex.”

Charlotte snorts. “You’re mean.”

“I’m honest,” you say, grinning.

She slows when you reach the porch, but neither of you makes a move for the door right away. There’s a stillness to this moment, not awkward, but expectant. Like both of you are waiting for something.

Charlotte shifts her canvas under one arm. “I… I had fun today.”

You nod. “Me too.”

Her eyes linger on yours again. And there it is…that same flicker of want, of maybe-this-is-the-moment, but then her phone buzzes in her pocket, and the spell breaks. She sighs, checks it, and mutters something like saved by the bell before slipping it away.

You raise an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“I may or may not have ordered something,” she says, fidgeting.

You squint. “Like groceries?”

“Like… dinner. Or, um, a fourth meal.”

You narrow your eyes. “Lottie. What did you do.”

A beat passes, and then headlights flash across the driveway as a car pulls up, tires crunching in the gravel. You hear it before you see it. The crinkle of paper bags. The unmistakable scent of fast food.

And then Charlotte, beaming like an idiot, says, “Hope you like Taco Bell.”

Your jaw drops. “There’s Taco Bell in Aspen?”

“There’s delivery Taco Bell in Aspen,” she corrects proudly. “And I ordered extra Baja Blasts because I remember how grossly obsessed you were with them in school.”

“I—” You blink at her. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “You used to hoard the hot sauce packets like they were currency.”

You try to play it cool, but your smile gives you away. “Okay, well, this might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Charlotte laughs, and her voice is soft when she says, “Just wait till you see the nacho fries.”

Later, the two of you are curled on the massive couch under separate throw blankets, sharing an enormous spread of fast food. Charlotte’s giggling at the expression you make after your first sip of Baja Blast. “It’s like you’re drinking nostalgia.”

“It tastes like bad decisions and skipping class,” you sigh, sipping again. “God, I missed this.”

She nods, quieter now. “Yeah. Me too.”

The laughter dies down. You’re both full and warm and settled into a soft sort of silence, the kind that feels safe. She looks over at you, lips curled into the ghost of a smile, her lashes low. Her eyes dip to your mouth again. And this time… you almost let her.

Almost.

But instead, you stretch your arms above your head and yawn. “Alright, you gonna walk me to my door again or what?”

Charlotte blinks like she’s been caught. “R-right. Yeah. Of course.”

You both stand, toss your wrappers, and walk upstairs, slower than necessary, footsteps echoing against the hardwood. When you reach your room, you turn toward her. Charlotte is looking at you again like she’s so close to saying or doing something bold. Like she wants to kiss you right there in the hallway with hot sauce still on your breath. Instead, you step closer, brush her hair behind her ear, and lean in to kiss her cheek, soft, deliberate, lingering.

Just near her mouth. Just enough to leave her breathless. You pull back slowly, and Charlotte is frozen, pink-cheeked and stunned. “Goodnight, Lottie.”

You slip into your room before she can say a word, and close the door with a wicked grin on your face. You’re sprawled across the guest bed, your laptop open but long-forgotten, when your phone buzzes and Travis’s name lights up the screen.

You answer with a lazy grin. “Look who remembered I exist.”

His voice crackles through the line, warm and familiar. “Hey, don’t guilt-trip me, chef. I’ve been busy planning something big.”

You sit up a little straighter. “Oh yeah? You finally trying to fix your disastrous fantasy football lineup?”

Travis just chuckles. “Not even close. Hang on—lemme show you something.”

The camera flips, and you’re staring at a velvet ring box perched in his palm. Inside: a delicate, beautifully understated diamond ring. Elegant. Soft. So Akilah. Your jaw drops.

Travis is glowing. “Wanted you to be the first one to know… I’m proposing to Aki.”

You gasp. “Shut up.”

“I swear,” he says, laughing, voice thick with emotion. “It’s happening. Next month. I’ve got this whole idea—sunset, tacos, candles—”

You’re suddenly blinking back tears, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Trav, that’s… that’s incredible.”

“I’m freaking out,” he admits. “But like in a good way.”

You press a hand to your chest. “Do you need help planning? Do you want me to cook something? I’ll fly back. I’ll—”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he grins. “Okay so picture this—she loves music, right? What if right as she says yes, boom, full mariachi band comes out playing her mom’s favorite song—”

Your phone buzzes. A text banner appears at the top of the screen, and you see Natalie’s name.

photo dump :)

missed you today.

kept thinking about your face.

let’s ft soon

Your heart skips—no, lunges. A string of candid photos loads in behind the preview. Natalie in a sun-drenched field somewhere. A blurry iced coffee. A book she knows you loved. A close-up of her pouty smile. A mirror selfie in a tank top that makes you physically bite your lip.

Heat crawls up your neck. Natalie always does this somehow. Makes you feel like you’re tethered to something dangerous and delicious all at once.

“You good?” Travis asks, eyebrow raised. “Who texted you?”

You blink and tilt the phone just slightly out of view. “Nothing. Just—um. Work stuff.”

Travis narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’re flushed.”

“I’m not—flushed.” You clear your throat, change the subject. “Okay, so—a mariachi band?? No way, dude. That’s bold.”

Travis beams. “Right?? But you think it’s too much?”

“A little,” you laugh, grateful for the shift, “Why mariachi band? I think I’m lost on that part.”

He nods like you bring up a valid point. And starts describing the playlist he’s building and why mariachi makes sense, where he plans to hide the ring box, your eyes flicker back to your phone on the comforter. Natalie’s name still glowing at the top. And your chest aches, with joy for your best friend, yes. But also with that awful, swoony pull toward someone who makes your stomach flip and your judgment blur.

Someone who’s made you feel seen and wanted… and also a little lost. You smile for Travis. You nod, you encourage, you dream with him. But later, when the call ends and the room is still again, you open the text. You stare at Natalie’s photo dump far longer than you should. And the butterflies come back in full force.

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I'm currently rewatching yellowjacket's and JACKIE TAYLOR COME HOME TO ME

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No Reservations : Chapter Fourteen

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: geeked out on recipes and whatnot 😭 but i hope u enjoy !!

The sun poured through the skylights of the test kitchen, golden and warm against the stainless steel counters. You were already two hours in, apron dusted with flour, hair shoved into a messy bun, fingers moving with fast, practiced ease as you plated a fourth version of the seared trout.

Steam curled up from the pan as you flipped the fish one last time, tossing in a handful of shaved fennel and citrus segments. The sauce on the back burner was thickening perfectly, fragrant with white wine and lemongrass. Behind you, a row of already-tested plates sat in neat order: duck, short rib, some daring vegetarian risotto you were still workshopping.

You didn’t notice the door open.

Didn’t notice Charlotte until she spoke, her voice soft, still laced with morning husk.

“God. Look at you.”

You turned, startled, only to find her standing in the doorway, dressed in an immaculate navy suit, hair pulled back into a sharp twist. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a business magazine. But her eyes were tired, a little worn—sparked with something real the moment she saw you.

You smiled. “Morning. I didn’t think you’d be up yet.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, stepping in. “But Lena said the kitchen was already alive, and I had a feeling it was you.”

You shrugged, turning back to your station. “Menu doesn’t write itself.”

Charlotte watched you move, the fluid, unthinking confidence in the way you stirred, reached, plated. You didn’t need to ask questions. You knew what you were doing. And damn if that didn’t do something to her.

You glanced over your shoulder. “You hungry?”

She hesitated. “I should probably say no.”

“But?”

She sighed, smiling. “But… yes. Absolutely starving.”

You nodded once and grabbed a fresh pan. “Sit. I’ll make you something.”

She slid onto a stool at the island, watching you like she used to, chin in hand, completely transfixed. You worked quickly, pulling ingredients from memory, barely even thinking as you reached for the gruyère, the crusty bread, the roasted tomatoes already cooling on the rack.

The smell of butter hit the heat and Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment like it physically calmed her. You were nearly done when she said it. “Wait… is this—?”

“Your comfort meal,” you said over your shoulder, grinning. “Gruyère grilled cheese, roasted tomato soup. No tweaks, no twists. Exactly how you liked it.”

Charlotte’s face softened into something almost childlike. “You remember that?”

You slid the plate in front of her, sitting across the counter. “Of course I remember. It was your favorite thing to eat after we… you know.”

Charlotte blinked, and her face went bright red. Eyes widening in realization before blinking again. You just smirked as you sipped your coffee.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled into her hands, face burning. “You’re the worst.”

“Am I wrong?”

Charlotte glanced at the plate like it might save her, then back at you, eyes shining with laughter and something else, something a little molten.

“No,” she muttered, cheeks still flushed. “You’re not.”

You winked. “Thought so.”

She bit into the sandwich and groaned softly. “Jesus. Okay. This? This is still illegal levels of good.”

You beamed, pleased. She looked at you like you were the best part of her day…and maybe, just maybe, you were. The kitchen had quieted down by mid-morning—the burners off, the pans resting, and the hum of the prep fridge the only sound left.

Charlotte had finished her grilled cheese and soup but hadn’t moved. Her suit jacket was folded neatly over the stool, sleeves rolled up, heels kicked off. She looked comfortable in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time, eyes glassy with warmth, watching you with that fond, awestruck look she always tried to hide but failed miserably at.

You turned, wiping your hands on a towel and grabbing a clipboard from the counter. “Okay, so,” you began, eyes lit up, “I wanted to run the draft Aspen menu by you.”

Charlotte straightened, visibly excited. “Yes, hit me with it.”

You laid the board between you both and pulled up a few printed mockups, annotated with your quick notes in sharp, tidy handwriting. “So the direction I’m leaning into is kind of… rustic luxury. Local-forward, but not obnoxious. Like, dishes that feel indulgent, warm, and elevated without being pretentious.”

Charlotte’s smile tugged wider. “Go on.”

“Starters,” you said, tapping the first line. “We open with a trio, mushroom consomme with brown butter breadcrumbs, whipped goat cheese with rosemary honey and grilled flatbread, and a little venison tartare on puff pastry. All small, clean, rich.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, already picturing it. “Sexy. Love it.”

You grinned. “Mains are where it gets a little wild. I’m playing with a roasted elk loin with blackberry demi-glace, served with parsnip puree and fried sage. Then a steelhead trout dish over charred leeks with preserved lemon gremolata. And… I’m testing a plant-based shepherd’s pie—oyster mushrooms, white beans, roasted root veg under a golden cauliflower-potato mash. Rustic but craveable.”

Charlotte looked like she was in a trance. “God. I’d eat all of that right now.”

You shrugged modestly, but your eyes glinted with pride. “And dessert’s still in the sketching phase, but I’m thinking a warm brown butter cake, maybe with bourbon-glazed apples and spiced creme fraiche. Or… a snow sugar pavlova with juniper cream and candied pine nuts. Something whimsical. Playful.”

Charlotte blinked like she’d just remembered to breathe.

“I mean, obviously everything will get a wine pairing and some rotating seasonal swaps,” you added, flipping the page. “And I want to test a fondue moment, but, like, deconstructed. Less ‘tourist trap’ and more…” you paused, thinking, “…Michelin fantasy sequence.”

Charlotte let out a little laugh, breathless. “You’re brilliant.”

You tilted your head. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes locking onto yours. “But still—brilliant.”

You shrugged one shoulder, cheeks warm. “It’s a draft. I’ll keep tweaking.”

Charlotte leaned in just slightly, elbow resting on the island, chin in hand. “Do you know what you look like when you talk about food?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Alive,” she said, without hesitation. “Like… every part of you is switched on. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath caught just slightly, the kind of pause that could become something if you let it. But you didn’t let it. Not yet.

Instead, you looked down at your notes and smiled “Glad you like it. Because I’m dragging you into test tastings this week whether you want to or not.”

Charlotte grinned. “Oh, I want to. Make no mistake.”

And for the first time that morning, she looked a little nervous, like she realized she was maybe saying too much, feeling too much, falling too much. But it was already too late. Because watching you come alive like this?

She was already gone.

Charlotte scrolled through the notes on her tablet as she slid into the cushioned booth across from Lena at the café inside the Aspen property’s admin wing. The place was all glass walls and dark pine, sleek, quiet, and too formal for either of them, but it was the only place on-site with halfway decent espresso.

Lena didn’t look up from her laptop. “You’re late.”

Charlotte dropped her tablet on the table. “You’re lucky I’m here at all. I’ve had three meetings since seven. I swear my father breeds new executives in his sleep.”

Lena’s eyebrow arched. “Charming. And what do these purebred execs want now?”

Charlotte sighed and leaned back. “Someone embezzled from the Aspen branch’s renovation budget last year. Dad wants me to clean up the mess before the board hears about it.”

“So a normal Tuesday,” Lena deadpanned.

Charlotte grunted. “Unfortunately.”

They went over a few key points, names, numbers, deadlines, and Lena updated her on the investor dinner that was being finalized for the end of the week. Then, just as the conversation started to edge back toward the tedious, a chime dinged softly from Charlotte’s watch. Charlotte’s entire expression lit up.

Lena didn’t even look. “There it is.”

Charlotte beamed, tapping the screen. “You know what that means!!”

Lena rolled her eyes and closed her laptop with a soft snap. “Yes. It’s time for one of your highly curated, questionably justified ‘team-building activities’ with our dear consulting chef-slash-situationship.”

Charlotte made a face. “She’s not—okay, maybe—but these activities are important!”

Lena arched a brow. “Important for the Aspen menu?”

Charlotte hesitated. “Emotionally, yes.”

Lena snorted and sipped her espresso. “God help me.”

“I planned something good today,” Charlotte said, practically glowing. “Like, really good. Outdoorsy, but not terrifying. Thoughtful. Pretty.”

“Did it come with a Pinterest board and a secret Spotify playlist?”

Charlotte flushed. “…Shut up.”

Lena’s smirk softened. Despite the eye-rolls and sarcasm, there was a flicker of something warm in her gaze as she packed up her things. “You really like her.”

Charlotte looked down at her watch, the buzz of the alarm still humming against her wrist. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do.”

Lena stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Alright. I’ll send her to the house in twenty. You better not make her wear a helmet again.”

“That was one time,” Charlotte said, indignant. “And it was adorable.”

“Traumatizing,” Lena corrected, walking off. But she paused in the doorway, glancing back with a dry smile. “You got this. Try not to spontaneously combust.”

Charlotte was already on her feet, nerves and excitement rolling through her like electricity. “I got this. Can you just make sure she meets me at the house?”

Lena nodded. “Done.”

And as she disappeared down the hallway, Charlotte stood there for a beat, heart pounding like she was about to go on a first date all over again.

Which, in her mind, maybe she was.

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WEDNESDAY — The Devil You Woe, 2.02

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No Reservations: Chapter thirteen

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Dinner wasn’t what you expected.

When you made your way downstairs, nerves coiled under your skin like static, you’d braced for something formal, candlelight, plated dishes, that Charlotte Matthews brand of flawless intimidation.

But what you walked into instead was…

Charlotte in a worn long-sleeve Henley and joggers, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her hair loosely tied back, standing barefoot in the sleek marble-and-wood kitchen, grinning like she’d just found a secret. Her whole face lit up when she saw you. And you? You swore you saw her sway a little when she took you in.

“God,” she murmured under her breath, then caught herself and smiled wider. “You clean up nice.”

You glanced down at your simple jeans and fitted sweater, brushing a hand through your hair, but her gaze was unwavering. Like you were divine. You swallowed hard at the thought.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you said, smirking as you leaned against the counter. “I was half-expecting a three-piece suit.”

Charlotte scoffed, mock offended. “I do know how to relax.”

You arched a brow. “Prove it.”

She walked over to the counter and lifted a bottle of wine. “Well. First of all—vino. And second,” she opened the fridge with a little flourish, “we’re making pizza.”

That made you pause. “Pizza?”

Charlotte beamed. “It’s our thing, right? Cheap slices after work. Rooftop margarita pies when we couldn’t afford anything else back in culinary school. Seemed fitting.”

You laughed, warmth bubbling in your chest. “You remembered that?”

Her voice softened, “I remember a lot of things.”

You didn’t answer that. Just stepped forward, brushing past her with a hand grazing her arm, and grabbed the flour. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

The kitchen filled with the warm scent of yeasty dough and garlic, the distant sound of music playing from Charlotte’s phone tucked into a nearby cup. There was flour everywhere, on the counter, on both of your shirts, dusting Charlotte’s cheek like a constellation.

You kneaded, chopped. “Are you really putting figs on your pizza?” you teased, eyeing her dough.

Charlotte smirked. “It’s sophisticated.”

“It’s pretentious.”

“Oh, please, you’re over there making a buffalo mozzarella masterpiece with fresh basil like you’re filming an episode of Chef’s Table.”

You shrugged innocently. “Can’t help that I have taste.”

She snorted, elbowing you gently. And for a moment, your faces were too close. Your laughter fell into silence. The air between you turned hot and heavy, like the oven behind you. Her eyes dropped to your mouth, just for a second.

But then she stepped back, clearing her throat. And you looked away, pulse thudding in your throat. The moment passed. But it lingered.

By the time the pizzas were finished and the kitchen smelled like heaven, the sun had dipped behind the mountains. You sat across from each other at the island, legs stretched out, bare feet brushing under the counter.

“Okay,” Charlotte said after a long sip of wine. “Yours wins. But only because you bribed me with that garlic oil finish.”

You raised a brow, a wide smile on your lips. “Wasn’t a bribe. Just skill.”

She laughed and leaned back, watching you with a softness she rarely let out. You were already pushing your chair back when she spoke again, quiet. “Do you remember that night in the kitchen? At school. The kiss?”

You stilled. Your heart skipped.

“God,” you breathed, then laughed. “Yeah. I thought about that kiss for weeks.”

Charlotte’s smile turned gentle. “Me too.”

It hung there. Truth, stretched thin between you. The soft light of the cabin played against her cheekbone, and you felt that pull again, like gravity had shifted slightly in her direction. But she didn’t move. Neither did you.

And somehow, that restraint only made it worse. You grabbed a dish towel and stood. “Come on. Let’s clean up before I start kissing you again in this kitchen.”

Charlotte’s laugh followed you as you turned to the sink. “So you’re admitting it might happen?”

You didn’t look at her. But your voice was low, teasing, “I’m admitting it’s getting harder not to.”

Later that night, the dishes were drying on the rack, wine glasses mostly empty, and the smell of roasted garlic and crisped dough still clung to the cabin’s warm air. You leaned against the kitchen counter, lazily sipping the last of your wine, and Charlotte stood across from you, fiddling with her bracelet something she only ever did when she was nervous.

“So,” she said, tone carefully casual, “about this week.”

You raised a brow. “What about it?”

“Well…” Charlotte straightened a bit. “Technically, you’re here to consult on the Aspen flagship’s winter menu. The location’s been underperforming, so we’re assessing what’s working, what isn’t, and how to recalibrate before ski season kicks off.”

“Right,” you nodded slowly, “the restaurant needs saving, and I’m here to play culinary savior.”

Charlotte smirked. “Pretty much.”

You could feel her trying not to smile too hard. “And what’s your role in this?”

Her expression dimmed slightly, more serious now. “There’s some corporate mess I have to untangle— bad vendor contracts, staffing issues, branding confusion. It’s why my dad sent me up here in the first place. He thinks I fix things.”

You caught something flicker behind her eyes and filed it away to ask about later. Charlotte cleared her throat, grabbing her phone from the counter and pulling up a calendar. “But! I did block out time for the two of us to explore some things while we’re here.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Explore… things?”

She didn’t look up right away. “Tasting local cuisine. Meeting suppliers. Visiting that new artisanal bakery up the mountain. Snowmobiling—uh, purely for research purposes of course.”

You laughed. “Snowmobiling is for research now?”

Charlotte flushed, but still managed to keep her voice playful. “Every chef should understand the terrain that grows their ingredients.”

“Oh wow. That’s rich coming from a girl whose family estate could fund a small country.”

Charlotte finally met your gaze, and there was that grin again, a little too pleased with herself. “What can I say? I’m committed to the work.”

You tilted your head. “So I’m just here for…professional bonding?”

Something about your tone made Charlotte falter. Her mouth opened, then closed, and for a split second you saw that familiar nervous wreck behind the cool exterior. She adjusted her bracelet again.

“Well,” she said carefully, “it’s also important to build…rapport. With consultants. Who’ve kissed you in kitchens before.”

You snorted. “God, Lottie—”

She cut in with a mock gasp. “Nickname. That’s cheating. I’m too weak for that.”

You tried not to grin as you sipped your wine. “Fine. Continue with your very serious consultant itinerary.”

Charlotte’s smile softened. “We’ll work in the mornings. Review the Aspen location’s current menu, sit in on service, see how things run. But afternoons are mostly free, I figured we could do some one-on-one tastings, maybe some recipe development.”

“And snowmobiling,” you reminded.

“And snowmobiling,” she said, laughing. “Look, I wanted you to enjoy this trip too. I know things have been… hectic. So if we can sneak in some fun while saving a restaurant, I’m calling that a win.”

You watched her a moment, the way her hair curled just slightly from the heat of the kitchen, how loose and real she looked here—not the heir to an empire, but just Charlotte. Someone who wanted this week to mean something. Maybe more than she was saying.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Let’s save a restaurant. And maybe…have a little fun doing it.”

Charlotte’s gaze lingered on yours, her voice just above a whisper. “I’d like that.”

The hallway was quiet, bathed in amber light from sconces shaped like lanterns. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath your socks as you walked beside Charlotte, both of you moving slower than necessary, neither ready to say goodnight just yet.

You stopped in front of your door.

Charlotte did too.

Her hands were in her pockets again, like they always were when she was trying to keep from reaching for something. For you. You turned to her, lips parted to say something, but she beat you to it. She stepped a little closer. No words.

Just that look in her eyes, warm, vulnerable, almost pleading. Then, gently, deliberately, she leaned in and kissed your cheek. Not a quick brush. Not a platonic peck.

It lingered.

Warm and slow and a little too close to the corner of your mouth. You felt her breath, the faint scent of pizza dough and wine still clinging to her. Her lips hovered for just a beat longer than they should have. Like she didn’t want to pull away.

Charlotte did finally pull back, but her gaze didn’t leave yours. She looked at you like she was memorizing something. Like if she let herself, she would just close the distance and kiss you properly. No hesitation. No plan. Just want.

God, she wanted to.

She wanted to pin you against the door and kiss you like she did in that kitchen all those years ago—reckless, hungry, young. But she didn’t.

Because this time, she had a plan.

She was going to do it right. Win you back completely. Make you hers. But still, the ache in her chest throbbed like a warning. The distance between you suddenly felt too sharp. You smiled softly, heat blooming in your chest.

“Goodnight, Lottie.”

You reached for the doorknob, pausing just long enough to glance back, and saw it. The longing still painted across her face, quietly wrecking her. Then you disappeared inside, door clicking shut behind you. Charlotte stood there a while longer. Touching her fingers to her lips. Wondering how she was going to survive a whole week of this.

[honeysweet56]

Same Old Love (Part Three..)

T!Fem Lottie Matthews x Fem Reader

Just a little freaked out :3

Her body was already flushed, taut with want, but underneath the arousal was something rawer. Older. Something she'd kept locked away for too long. You kissed the inside of her thigh. Her skin twitched under your mouth, and her fingers slipped deeper into your hair like she needed something to hold onto—something real. And then, when you glanced up at her, you didn’t rush. You let her see that you knew her. That you weren’t just touching what was in front of you—but every memory, every version of her you’d ever loved. Including the one she still sometimes struggled to name out loud.

You palm at her boxer briefs and you can feel her dick get harder, you always thought it was so cute when she couldn’t hold it back. She whines at you before you finally tug the briefs away. Her cock—slick, flushed, —twitched when your breath ghosted over it.

Lottie groaned, head tipping back against the couch. “You’re fucking insatiable.”

You grinned. “You’re the one leaking all over yourself.”

Before she could respond, you licked a slow stripe from the base to the head, your tongue flattening, tasting the mix of her and your spit still clinging to her skin. “God—fuck—” she hissed, her hand threading into your hair again, firmer this time, more demanding. You loved the way her control unraveled.

You sucked the head into your mouth, tongue swirling around it before sinking lower—slow and wet and steady. Her cock thickened on your tongue as you took more, letting her push deeper into your throat.

You set a rhythm—head bobbing, lips slick, your hands gripping her thighs hard enough to leave faint red marks. She was panting, muttering curses under her breath, barely able to keep her hips still as you swallowed her down again and again.

When you pulled back to breathe, you stroked her with one hand—wet, fast, precise—while your mouth worked her head, tongue teasing the underside, lips tight around her.

Her body tensed, hips twitching wildly.

Suddenly, with a surprising strength, Lottie reached down, pulling you up. Your mouth breaks away just long enough for her to haul you onto her lap. Your chest pressed flush against hers, your lips barely inches apart.

Her hands slid up your back, holding you close, grounding you as her hips pressed into yours. The heat was instant, electric—your teeth caught her bottom lip as she whispered against your mouth, “Not yet. I want you with me.”

You nodded, breathless. You take off your bottoms and she guides your mouth back to hers as she lifts you up. She's too impatient with wanting to be inside you, so the first attempt is a miss.

She shifts, hips moving faster, grinding into you like she’s trying to claim you before you’re ready. Your breath hitches as she presses down harder, but the angle’s off—too sudden, too fast—and your hips don’t align.

A sharp jolt shoots through you both. You pull back just enough, lips brushing hers, voice steady but teasing “Just let me do it.”

She nods apprehensively and before you do, she stops you “Wait. Can we go to your room?”

You immediately nod your head, not minding at all. “Yeah of course, it's right back here.” You get off her and you tug her gently off the couch, helping her step out of her tangled jeans and briefs, your own clothes halfway undone, hanging loose as you led her down the hall.

Her cock jutted up against her stomach, still aching, still leaking, but she followed you with a hunger that bordered on reverence. When you pushed the door to your bedroom open, Lottie froze for a second on the threshold.

Her eyes moved over the space slowly—the books, the half-made bed, the soft lamp light pooling across your sheets, the faint scent of you lingering everywhere. It feels like you.

You sit down in the middle of your bed, waiting for her. She crawls up on the bed with you, cupping your face with her hands before they make their way down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it off. The same goes for her white tank top. Every inch of newly exposed skin made the air between you crackle hotter. Your bra hit the floor. Then her hands were on your thighs, spreading them.

Lottie was right there—lined up and ready, her cock slick and flushed, your thighs spread wide beneath her as she hovered over you, muscles tight with restraint. You could feel the head of her cock teasing against your entrance, breath hitching, hips already tipping to meet her—

And then she froze. “Shit,” she muttered, pulling back with a groan like it physically hurt to stop. “Hang on.”

You blinked, confused, flushed and strung out. “What?”

She was already sliding off the bed, bare and half-dazed, muttering to herself as she stumbled over to the pile of her jeans. “Condom,” she said. “Fuck. Forgot.”

You flopped your head back against the pillow, legs still spread, chest rising and falling. You almost considered telling her to forget it but that thought is quickly replaced by why the fuck she just has one on her like that.

She dug into the pocket of her wallet like a woman possessed and came up with one—foiled and slightly crinkled but intact. “Got it,” she said, triumphant, holding it up like a trophy.

When she turned back around and saw your expression, her grin faltered.

You were still sprawled out on the bed, but now with your arms crossed over your chest, an unimpressed arch to your brow. She paused. “What?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why do you just… have one? In your wallet?”

Lottie blinked, then ran a hand through her hair, clearly flustered. “I mean—I don’t know? In case?”

“In case what, exactly?” you asked, tone dry.

“In case this,” she said, motioning toward you. “Obviously.”

Your expression didn’t change. “In case you just have sex randomly?”

So she came closer, climbing slowly back onto the bed, the crinkle of the wrapper soft in her hand. Her expression shifted—less flustered now, more open.

“I started carrying one after we started dating in high school,” she said quietly, eyes on yours. “Not because I was sleeping around. I wasn’t. I just… I knew what I wanted. And I didn’t want to be the reason something got messed up because we didn’t have one.”

Your expression softened, just a little.

She leaned in closer, voice dropping. “It’s not for anyone. It’s for you—if this ever happened again. I didn’t know if it would. But I didn’t want to be stupid if it did.”

That made you pause. “Okay fine I’ll take it.”

Lottie smiles and gives you a peck before ripping open the wrapper with her teeth. The condom was on in a flash, practiced and smooth, and then her weight was back over you again.

Lottie gripped your thigh with one hand and guided herself with the other, her tip nudging against your entrance.

This time, there was no rush—just unbearable pressure, the head of her cock slipping against your soaked heat as she pushed forward, slow and steady, inch by inch. “I think your body remembers mine, you were always so ready for me.” She teases

You moaned, sharp and sudden, head tipping back against the pillow. She watched you, eyes locked on your face as she sank in deeper.

“There you are,” she rasped, voice rough around the edges. “You feel so fucking good.” Your hands flew to her shoulders, nails digging into bare skin, desperate for something to hold onto.

Lottie’s mouth dropped open as she sank inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your walls stretched around her. She wasn’t even halfway in before she had to stop, forehead resting against your collarbone as she cursed under her breath.

When she bottomed out, hips flush against yours, you gasped at the stretch, the fullness, the sheer weight of her inside you. Lottie leaned over you, bracing on one arm, her mouth dragging along your neck, her breath hot and ragged.

This time, there was no teasing. Just a slow, deliberate press—her cock pushing in inch by inch, filling you with steady, unrelenting pressure that made your breath catch in your throat. Just in and out, a deliberate pace meant to tease, to wreck, to make you fall apart inch by inch. Every time she pushed back in, it hit deeper, harder, but still unhurried, like she wanted to memorize what it felt like to be inside you again.

You moaned, low and drawn out. “Fuck, Lottie—”

Her jaw clenched, her eyes dark and locked on where your bodies met. “You’re so tight,” she hissed. “So warm. You don’t even know what this is doing to me.”

You clutched at her back, nails dragging gently along her spine, trying to keep yourself from crying out too loudly as she pushed deeper, filling you slowly, carefully, like she wanted to feel every twitch, every clench, every inch of you around her. She set a rhythm—deep and relentless. Her hips snapped against yours, her hands gripping your thighs, her mouth tracing messy kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, along with the choked moans you were both too far gone to stifle.

“God,” she growled, burying her face in your neck. “I missed this. Missed you.”

“No, I missed you so much more.” You breathe out

Lottie gripped your hips tighter and started driving into you with everything she had, each thrust sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core. You could feel her cock drag against that perfect spot inside you, over and over, building pressure so fast it made your head spin.

You were so wet now, slick and aching, every glide of her cock sending a fresh shockwaves through your gut. She kissed you through it, slow and messy, tongues tangling, hands caressing your sides, your breasts, your face. The way she was loving you was lethal—like she wasn’t just trying to fuck you, she was trying to brand herself into your soul. The coil in your stomach was tightening, your muscles twitching, your moans growing more desperate with each thrust. Lottie felt it too—felt your legs tremble around her, your walls pulsing.

She could feel it building in you, the desperate tension, the need pulsing under your skin. Your breath stuttered against her mouth, and your body writhed beneath her, trying to coax her into moving faster, harder.

Without a word, her hands slid under your thighs and pushed them up, making your body fold deliciously beneath her. She kissed you once, slow and deep—before pulling back and murmuring, “Turn over for me.”

Her voice left no room for questions, but it wasn’t rough—it was reverent. Hungry. You obeyed without thinking, your body already aching for what was coming.

Lottie sat back on her heels and watched you roll onto your stomach, the curve of your back, the way you instinctively arched for her. You felt her fingers trail lightly down your spine, her other hand guiding your hips up until you were on your knees, face pressed into the pillow, bare and open for her.

You felt her shift forward—one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding herself back inside you.

This time when she entered, it was slower still, but the angle changed everything. Deeper. Fuller. It pulled a cry from you, one that was raw and uncontrollable. Lottie stilled once she was fully in again, both hands settling on your waist like she was claiming you all over again.

And then she started moving. Not fast—but firm, deliberate strokes that hit something deeper with each thrust. You gasped into the pillow, hands grasping at the sheets, your body rocking forward with every push of her hips.

The sound of her skin meeting yours was lewd, sharp in the quiet room—matched only by the choked moans spilling from your lips and the low, guttural noises Lottie was trying to keep buried in her throat. She leaned forward, her chest pressed against your back now, her hands sliding under you to find your chest, your throat, your hips—touching every part of you like she needed it all. Your body trembles, every nerve alive with the lingering fire of release, heat flooding through you as you feel utterly consumed, filled by Lottie in every way. Beneath the raw pleasure, a fierce ache blooms in your chest, vulnerability blending with the deep trust and closeness that only moments like this can bring. Your breath is ragged, heart pounding like thunder, but your mind quiets, focused solely on the warmth of her pressed against you and the steady rhythm of her breaths.

Her hands dug into your waist, fingers pressing into your skin with a fierce need to hold on, to steady herself against the storm building inside her. You could feel her trembling—the subtle quiver in her muscles, the hitch in her breath—as she fought to keep control, to push through the mounting wave.

She pressed harder, faster, breath ragged as she murmured, “Come on… come on… come on…” The raw vulnerability in her voice was almost unbearable, as if she was begging herself to stay strong, to not let go too soon. Her hips faltered for a brief second, then she found a jagged, ragged rhythm again.

You came with a cry, body arcing into hers, vision going white-hot as your orgasm tore through you. Lottie held you through it, never stopping, her rhythm faltering only slightly as she chased her own edge, her own unraveling. She was close—so close—but she forced herself to slow, to breathe, to look at you again.

She keeps holding on tight like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. She pulls you impossibly closer and her thrusts start to get ragged again.

You felt her pulse throb inside you, her whole body shaking against your back as she clung to you, breath breaking, “Fuck- I think I’m gonna cum.”

She rises from you, chasing that high. Her hands slid down your hips, fingers digging in as she pulled herself higher, arching her back just enough to press harder into you. You clenched around her with every movement, muscles trembling, heart pounding in sync with her.

Then, with a sharp, trembling gasp, her body tensed behind you, hips jerking once before she came—breathless, trembling, utterly undone. As she feels herself cum, she instinctively pulls out, not wanting to risk upsetting you.

Lottie didn’t let go of you right away. After she pulled out, she stayed close—pressing her chest to your back, her breath still ragged, warm against your shoulder. One hand gently slid up to your ribs, holding you like you were something fragile, something she couldn’t believe she got to touch again.

You could feel how hard she was trying to slow her heartbeat, to catch up to the moment, but she still kissed your shoulder like an apology, like a thank-you. She rested her forehead against your shoulder, voice husky and soft. “Are you okay?” She asks as she feels you slump against the bed.

You nod your head, curling back into her, and she exhaled a quiet sigh of relief, her fingers already brushing through your hair, grounding both of you.

“I’ll grab you water in a sec,” she whispered, nuzzling into your shoulder, “but I just need to stay here with you for a minute. You feel too good to let go of.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss her cheek, and she smiled, cheeks still flushed, eyes half-lidded with softness. “Thanks Lot, there's water in the fridge.”

She finally sat up, slipping off the condom carefully, tying it and tossing it into your bathroom's trash can before walking out towards the kitchen. When she does return, her boxers on which she must have found out in the living room. Lottie hands you one of the waters she acquired from the kitchen before returning into the bed with you.

Lottie pulled you onto her chest without hesitation, wrapping both arms around you and pulling the blanket over you both. Her fingers moved slowly through your hair, brushing sweat-stuck strands away from your face.

There was a quiet tension there, like she was waiting for something, maybe even bracing for it. But you could feel her thumb still stroking gently over your waist, the rhythm steady, grounding.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to, but it didn’t waver. “I love you.”

Her breath caught.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” you added, the words spilling out now—honest, raw. “Even after we broke up. Even when I pretended I was fine. I thought about you all the time. That night never felt right. Even if it was necessary… I never felt right doing it.”

And Lottie kissed you—not with urgency, not with heat, but like a prayer. Like the kind of kiss you give when you’ve found your way back home after being lost for far too long.

When she finally pulled away, her voice was barely there. “I love you, too,” she said, forehead still pressed to yours. “I don’t think I ever stopped. I don’t think I know how to. I want you to myself, I know that's selfish but I don’t ever want to let go again. I want you back.”

You reached for her hand, entwining your fingers with hers. She didn’t flinch. She gripped back hard, like she’d been waiting for someone to catch her fall. Like she had been waiting for you.

You curled closer, burying your face in her neck as her arms tightened around you. Her fingers threaded through your hair again, slower this time, and she pressed a kiss to your temple, lips lingering like she didn’t want to ever lift them away.

“I’m yours.” you said softly, like a promise.

[honeysweet56]

Same Old Love (Part Two)

T!Fem Lottie Matthews x Fem Reader

Part Two for you guys! Sigh... I have to make a part three and maybe four... maybe I got a little carried away but I don't think anyone will complain. Let me pop out with a few more fics and then I will get a masterlist going! Anyways let me stfu- heart ya'll

-----

The cold night air follows you up the short walk to your building, your steps syncing without either of you meaning to. She glances around, taking in the brick facade, the dim security light over the entry.

Inside, the hallway smells faintly of someone else’s cooking—garlic and basil, maybe—and your footsteps echo softly against the tile.

You unlock your door and push it open, flicking on the light. “My roommate’s out of town,” you mention casually, stepping aside so she can come in. “So… it’s just us.”

Her eyebrow arches—just enough to make your stomach flip—but she only says, “Convenient.” She shrugs off her jacket, letting it fall over the arm of the sofa before sinking into the cushions like she’s been here a hundred times. Her eyes follow you as you move toward the kitchen, that faint smile never quite leaving her face.

You’re halfway to the kitchen when you catch a quiet laugh from the couch. Not loud—just enough to pull your attention back.

“What?” you ask, hand pausing on the counter.

She shakes her head, almost to herself. “Nothing.” But then her gaze meets yours, and she can’t help it—her mouth curves. “I was just thinking… remember the school parking lot? Before morning practice?”

It clicks instantly, and heat rushes to your face. “Oh, God. Coach Ben.”

Her grin deepens. “Mhm. That knock on the window? I swear you stopped breathing.”

You try to suppress a laugh, shaking your head. “I thought we were dead.”

She tilts her head, still watching you. “You didn’t even look at me for the rest of the day.”

“That was self-preservation,” you counter, but your voice is softer now, because you remember “And Coach Ben catching us kissing in the back of your car wasn’t exactly on my bucket list.”

Her eyes linger on yours a second too long “I think we were doing a bit more than kissing if I remember correctly.”

Your breath catches, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. “Lottie—”

“What?” she asks, feigning innocence, but the way she leans back into the couch, stretching out like she owns the place, makes it clear she’s enjoying this.

You grab two mugs from the cabinet just to have something to do with your hands. “You're just- nevermind.”

The kitchen feels warmer than it should, and you’re suddenly aware of every sound—the soft hum of the fridge, the heater kicking on, her quiet laugh following you like it’s hooked into your ribs.

When you hand her the mug, her fingers curl around yours instead of the handle, holding for just a moment too long.

You feel it—sharp and warm, all at once—and when you finally let go, she’s still watching you like she’s reading the rest of your thoughts before you can form them.

You sit beside her, maybe closer than necessary, the cushions dipping under your weight until your knees touch. Lottie sips on the tea you gave her and her eyes widen just a little. “Chamomile?”

You nod your head “Yeah.. with just a little honey if I remember correctly.”

Her brows lift slightly, but her smile softens in a way that makes your chest feel warmer than the steam from the kettle. “ I didn’t think you would remember that.”

“Guess you’re more memorable than you think.” She lets out a quiet laugh, softer this time, as if the surprise is settling into something gentler. Her eyes meet yours, warm and steady.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” she murmurs, but there’s no real bite in her voice—just a hint of fondness. “Even though it means a lot to me.”

She shifts slightly, the soft creak of the couch under her breaking the silence. Her eyes darken—not with anger, but with a quiet vulnerability that’s rarely so exposed.

“That night…” she begins, voice almost a whisper. “I felt like I was losing more than just you.”

You watch her carefully, noticing how her fingers fidget with the edge of the cushion, how her breath catches just a little. You set your mug down and you scoot closer towards her, taking her mug from her. You lean into her and her hand slides down your arm and to your waist, fingers curling gently around you. Before you can think twice, she pulls you closer, closing the gap completely.

The world outside feels distant—like it’s paused just for you two—while you both soak in the weight of everything unsaid. Finally, you tilt your head up, searching her eyes for any sign, and when they meet your own, soft and sure, you lean in slowly.

Your lips brush against hers, gentle and hesitant at first, like discovering a familiar place you’ve missed more than you realized. The kiss deepens, unspoken apologies and promises folding into the quiet of the room, sealing the fragile moment between you.

The kiss lingers, soft and searching, until you feel a quiet confidence blooming between you. Slowly, you shift closer. Without breaking contact, you ease yourself onto her lap, the warmth of her body grounding you in a way words never could.

She wraps her arms around you instinctively, fingers threading through your hair as the world outside fades further into nothing.

As you settle into her lap, Lottie feels a wave of vulnerability wash over her—an openness she rarely allows herself, yet somehow trusts you with. Relief follows, softening the tension she’s carried between you both, like she can finally breathe again. Beneath it all, a quiet longing hums through her—a yearning not just for your touch, but for the connection she’s missed and maybe still wants. Her heart beats a little faster, breath catching quietly, as she balances the tender pull between caution and desire.

Your hips betray you, pushing yourself against her. Only a few seconds go by before you feel a slight pressure against your own crotch. You look down at the culprit and so does Lottie, who is now seemingly mortified.

Lottie gasps and her face instantly flushes “Oh my god- I am so sorry. I don’t even know how that happened.” She runs her hands over her face.

You give her a smug look and you start to kiss her neck before whispering “I think your body remembers me.”

Lottie gives an eye roll before letting you attack her deeper. Her pants were getting tighter and tighter by the second. Her eye roll was a flimsy shield, a delightful lie her body was already tearing down. You felt the tremor start deep in her hips, a delicious, involuntary shiver that rippled through her, making her muscles clench.

Your teeth grazed the sensitive skin behind her ear, and a low moan, not entirely her own, "I- I remember everything"

“You think I haven’t thought about this?” you breathed against her collarbone. “All those nights I couldn’t sleep, wondering if you still felt me when you closed your eyes?”

She shuddered. “Don’t,” she said, almost begging. But her hands were already tugging at your shirt, sliding up under the fabric like muscle memory. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

"I’ve never stopped meaning it."

And something cracked open in her then—her mouth found yours again, but this time there was no hesitation. Just hunger, sharpened by time and distance and everything unspoken. Her hands were on your back, your sides, anywhere she could touch you like she was afraid she’d wake up and you’d be gone again.

When you ground down just right, Lottie let out a broken sound into your mouth, and for a moment the world narrowed to the friction, the heat, the impossibility of being apart again. Her hips surged up against you, chasing it now—chasing you.

Your hands moved with deliberate care as you reached for her belt, fingers grazing the cool metal of the buckle before working it open, slow and unhurried. Lottie swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, her hands clenched into the fabric of the couch cushions like she didn’t trust herself to stay still.

The soft clink of the undone buckle felt louder than it should’ve in the quiet room. You kept eye contact as you unfastened her jeans, easing the zipper down inch by inch, the tension stretching between you like a held breath.

Then you slipped off the couch and sank to your knees in front of her.

Lottie was overwhelmed—stunned by how deeply it affected her. It wasn’t just the physical closeness; it was the tenderness, the reverence. She felt exposed, seen, and wanted in a way that went beyond lust. Lottie’s breath hitched again as your hands moved lower, easing her jeans further down her thighs. You felt the tension coil through her like a live wire—part anticipation, part fear of being seen too fully. But she didn’t stop you. She opened her legs just a little more.

----

Guys don't hate me but I have to make a part three. Guess the masterlist is coming sooner than I anticipated. :/

[honeysweet56]

Same Old Love (Part One)

T!Fem Lottie Matthews x Fem Reader

This one was more of a slow burn, kind of, but trust the freak is there. This is more sweet ex bf coded Lottie than frat boy (I have a few of her in progress) Thank you guys again for being so freaking awesome! I heart you all! Also make sure to read part two so ya'll don't miss anything. :))

You trail behind Natalie as she pushes through the front door of the frat house, the bass already thudding in your chest like it’s trying to replace your heartbeat. The air inside smells like cheap beer and cloying cologne, the floors sticky under your sneakers. You wrinkle your nose, adjusting to the chaos.

“I told you we should’ve pre-gamed,” Natalie yells over the music, half-laughing. She nudges you with her shoulder. “You look like a deer in headlights.”

You glance around, eyes scanning the crowd, and that’s when it hits you. A weird little drop in your stomach. Not fear, exactly. Just… something.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, half to yourself. “I’ve got a weird feeling.”

Nat doesn’t even look fazed. “Yeah, that’s just your body realizing it’s sober at a frat party. Come on, drinks first. Emotional spirals later.” You assume she is already high out of her mind so the bluntness didn’t really bother you.

You let her pull you toward the kitchen, but that feeling doesn’t go away. It hums just under your skin, vibrating faintly like a half-remembered song. You grab a red solo cup and fill it with something vaguely fruity, trying to laugh at one of Natalie’s sarcastic comments, but you’re not really present.

You pass under the doorway, into the kitchen where the lights are just slightly brighter, and you try to focus on the red solo cup in your hand. You pour something half-warm and neon blue into it, the alcohol burning faintly as you sip.

But the feeling stays.

That quiet buzzing at the back of your brain. Like someone just said your name in a dream. Like something is… off.

Natalie’s talking to someone from her dorm last year, laughing easily, but your eyes keep drifting. The doorway. The crowd. The big glass doors that lead out into the backyard.

And then—

You see her.

Charlotte.

Outside. There’s a slight flush to her face from the alcohol or the crowd, maybe both. Her hair is a little longer than you remember, her head tilted back in a carefree laugh as she watches one of her friends sink a shot in beer pong. The lights from the kitchen window cast a warm glow on her face, catching on her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose.

She’s wearing black Dickies—rolled once at the ankle—and a pair of beat-up black Converse, the laces undone like she didn’t bother or didn’t care. Her white tank top is half-tucked into her waistband, slouchy and worn thin with age, and over that she’s got on a navy flannel shirt, unbuttoned and rolled at the sleeves.

And now your chest feels cracked open. That feeling that was bubbling in your stomach has officially exploded, making it so much worse.

Time doesn’t stop—but you do. Your breath catches somewhere just behind your teeth. And in that long, suspended glance, something old and buried pulls taut in your chest. A shared life in another version of you—notes passed in class, summer grass stains, quiet arguments in your childhood bedrooms, tearful goodbyes.

Beside you, Natalie turns her head to follow your gaze.

She blinks. “Holy shit. Is that—?”

You nod once, not trusting your voice.

“Damn,” she mutters, like it’s an observation, not a landmine. “Is that Lottie? Wait, didn't you guys date?”

Your mouth is dry and your legs already want to move “Uh yeah. Briefly.”

You blink and drag your eyes away from the window, from Lottie— still perfect, still surrounded by the kind of easy charm that made you fall for her in the first place. Your heart is racing as your own brain betrays you, replaying all of the memories you had together.

You remember a certain memory. The room was still half-dark, the sky just starting to lighten with the first hint of dawn. You woke to her breathing slow and steady beside you, her hand resting lightly on your chest. It was one of those secret sleepovers you kept between just the two of you—stolen nights where the world outside didn’t exist. Watching the soft curve of her face in the dim light, how peaceful she looked when she thought you weren’t awake, something inside you settled.

Shaking the weight of the memory from your mind, Natalie’s elbow nudges you sharply. Before you can react, she presses a shot glass into your hand with a grin. “Okay, yeah, she’s way hotter now,” she teases, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But come on—focus. We’re here to have fun, not get lost in the past.”

Her voice is firm but light, a tether pulling you back from the edge of that ache. You take the shot, trying to lock it all away—at least for tonight.

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The room pulses with music and laughter, the hum of conversations weaving through the crowded frat house like an electric current. Natalie pulls you deeper into the throng, the press of bodies and the sharp tang of spilled beer grounding you in the present.

You try to breathe it all in—the flashing lights, the careless smiles, the way the night promises freedom and forgetfulness. But beneath it all, that quiet ache lingers, a soft echo of a past that won’t quite let go.

—

Hours slip by in a blur—laughter growing slurred, music fading to a low hum, conversations turning softer, more fragmented. The party’s energy slowly drains like air leaking from a balloon, leaving behind a warm, sticky residue of sweat, spilled drinks, and half-forgotten secrets.

Somewhere in the back of the house, you find yourself sinking into a random couch in the garage. The space smells thick—an intoxicating blend of cheap weed, stale beer, and the unmistakable musk of bodies tangled in the dark. The hum of muffled music vibrates through the walls, and distant voices float in and out like ghosts.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your racing heart. When you open them again, there she is—Lottie, standing just a few feet away, framed by the dull glow of string lights tangled above. She keeps her distance, a careful, measured space between you, like she’s holding back a storm.

“Hi,” she says, voice low but steady, like she’s testing the waters.

You look up at her, heart skipping in a way that’s both familiar and jarring. “Hi,” you manage, voice a little rough from the night. “Sorry- here uh you can sit down. If you want, of course.” You scoot over leaving her some room on the couch.

Lottie smiles, slowly lowers herself onto the couch beside you, careful to keep a respectful space between you both. The worn cushions creak softly beneath her, and the faint scent of her still lingers in the air. “You know I have thought about what I would say to you if I ever saw you again for so long and now- I have no words it seems.”

You glance around the cluttered garage — the dim string lights casting soft, flickering shadows over empty beer cans and crushed cigarette packs, and then to her eyes. “I can start if you want.”

She nods her head “Yes please..”

You scoot a little closer on the couch, settling into the quiet between the party’s fading noise. Your voice is steady, warm, “How have you been? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She leans back slightly, relaxed but still keeping that spark in her eyes “I’m really good, I just transferred here actually. I didn’t really care for my other school so I went with the next best option. What about you? You look really good- stunning even.”

Your face gives a light flush “I uh thanks. That’s really sweet. You look amazing yourself, truly you do. Are you still playing soccer?”

She smiles, almost sheepishly. “No, not anymore. I quit after freshman year. It didn't feel right without the team. I still like to play with my friends sometimes.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I get that.”

She tilts her head, studying you. “And you? Still writing all the time?”

You grin. “Of course. I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.”

“That’s good,” she says, nodding, then adds quickly, “I liked reading your stuff. You never let me keep anything though.”

You raise your brows, feigning offense. “That’s because I didn’t want you to have physical evidence of my teen angst. I had a reputation to uphold.”

Lottie laughs — a soft, surprised sound, like she hadn’t expected you to still be able to make her laugh like that. “Oh really?”

“You liked that about me.”

She lifts a shoulder, teasing. “I didn't not like it.”

You tilt your head. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

Lottie smirks. “Careful. If I start handing those out, you’ll think I still have a thing for you.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard — and she must see it, because her expression softens, like maybe she didn’t mean to let that slip. Lottie shifts slightly on the couch, her knees bumping gently into yours. You both glance down at the contact at the same time, then look away.

She clears her throat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to, uh—crowd you.” Apologizing for entering your space and for the comment earlier.

You wave it off, smiling nervously. “No no it’s totally fine- Um so what are you doing for school here? Still wanting to do psych?”

She perks up a little at the question, “I am! I’m double majoring now, actually.”

“Oh really? So psych and?”

“Fine arts.”

You blink. “Wait, really? Charlotte thats amazing”

“Oh it's nothing really.” She says humbly.

“It is,” you say, smiling scooting closer to her.. “Honestly, I love that for you. I mean, you always seemed to be really interested in them and you were always good at that sort of thing.”

Lottie tilts her head. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do. It’s hard to not. They both suit you, you were always so beautifully chaotic.” You admit.

Lottie nudges your arm playfully and she runs her hands over her face. “Oh god. You need to relax!” She smiles — that familiar, quietly glowing smile — and you find yourself leaning in just a little, not enough to make it obvious, but enough that your knees brush again.

You bump her back, a little grin tugging at your lips. “Sorry I can’t help myself. But I mean it. “ You say, voice lower now. “You always had this way of… making things feel. I don’t know. Bigger. Heavier. Realer.”

Lottie blinks, her mouth twitching into a crooked smile. “Realer’s not a word.”

“It is now,” you shoot back easily. “Don’t distract me. I’m being sincere.”

She ducks her head, a flush rising high in her cheeks, blooming over the bridge of her nose. “God, stop.”

You grin. “What? You used to love when I got poetic on you.”

“That was different,” she mutters, brushing a curl behind her ear with a suddenly very shaky hand. “That was when I wasn’t the subject.”

“You were always the subject,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Lottie freezes for just a beat — and then laughs, breathless, clearly caught off-guard. “Jesus. You’ve still got it, huh?”

You raise your brows. “Got what?”

She bites her lip, smiling. “That thing. The way you talk. Like you’re trying to undo a person with words.”

You pretend to think. “Is it working?”

She looks at you — really looks — and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room fades out, like it’s just the two of you in this weird, stinky garage with the ghosts of a hundred bad parties around you.

“Maybe,” she says softly. “A little.”

You smile. “I’ll take it.”

Lottie exhales, cheeks still pink, and shifts closer, her thigh pressing into yours now. That doesn’t go unnoticed. “It’s pretty late- but I am starving. Would you maybe want to go get something and I’ll take you home?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised but pleased. “That sounds… perfect, actually.”

Her smile widens, a spark of something shy and confident at once. “Good. Because I’m kind of hoping for some more of that sincerness you have for me.”

“Deal.” You say as you rise out of your seat, waiting for her to follow.

You both step out into the night, the muffled bass of the party fading behind you as the door swings shut. It’s late — the kind of late where the air is thick and quiet and everything feels a little more intimate than it should.

Lottie walks beside you with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her loose black jeans, shoulders slightly hunched against the warm night breeze. Her eyes flick toward you now and then, like she’s still checking if this is real.

“So,” she says, glancing around the sleepy street, “do you still swear by cheap burgers and fries? Or did college ruin your taste?”

You let out a small laugh. “Please. I’d let cheap greasy burgers cater my wedding.”

Lottie grins. “Still dramatic I see.”

“Still a sweetheart I see.” You glance over at her, catching the way the amber streetlight cuts across her jaw, the faintest smudge of glitter still clinging to the corner of her eye.

You follow Lottie to her car- She unlocks it with a click and tosses you a little grin over her shoulder as she opens the passenger door for you. You raise an eyebrow. “So do you still drive like a maniac or have you calmed down a little?”

Her tall figure is standing over you. It seems like only yesterday that you both were in that exact same position when you would hype her up for a soccer game she might have been nervous about.

She laughs, the sound soft and a little nervous. “Oh hush.”

The car smells like the party — a little smoke, a little perfume, maybe Lottie’s shampoo — but it’s quieter here. You watch her in profile as she backs out of her spot, the concentration in her brow, the way her thumb taps against the steering wheel in rhythm to a song you can’t hear. You remember the countless times you were in here, either listening to music or riding her until she begs, you didn’t know which you did more.

The roads are mostly empty, the city half-asleep. It feels suspended — a bubble of space where time doesn’t move the way it’s supposed to. Lottie keeps glancing over at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

“You okay?” she asks after a few minutes, voice quiet over the hum of the car.

You nod. “Just feels…weird. In a good way.”

“Yeah.” She exhales through her nose, eyes still on the road. “Me too.”

A pause.

She pulls into the diner parking lot and cuts the engine, but neither of you move right away. There’s something delicate in the silence, like if you speak too loud it might break.

The bell over the door jingles softly as the two of you step into the diner. It's mostly empty—just a pair of college kids asleep in a booth and a trucker nursing a black coffee at the counter. The overhead lights are buzzing faintly, casting everything in a soft yellow haze. You smell syrup, burnt coffee, and fryer oil, familiar and comforting.

Lottie lets you slide into a booth and she doesn’t hesitate to slide in right next to you. It’s not bold, not exactly—she doesn’t look at you when she does it, just shrugs off her jacket and settles in with a quiet “This okay?” that brushes the air between you like a second thought.

You nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

Her thigh warms next to yours. Not quite touching, but close. You both glance at the laminated menus, even though neither of you are really looking. It’s quiet for a beat—just the low hum of the diner, a bored-looking waitress refilling someone’s decaf in the next booth, a radio playing some half-forgotten ‘80s song like it’s trying to slip in unnoticed.

“So,” you murmur, “Are you still a chicken and waffles girl or have you evolved?”

“I contain multitudes,” she replies, deadpan. Then her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile and failing. “What about you? Still eating fries like it’s a food group?”

You gasp, feigning scandal. “I’ll have you know I have a very complex palate now. Fries and milkshakes.”

“Wow,” she says, mock-impressed. “So cultured.”

You glance over at her just in time to catch the soft pink bloom at the tops of her cheeks. She's biting back a smile, and her eyes are wide in that way you remember—like everything you're saying is being saved somewhere behind them. You forget how close she is until she turns her head to meet your eyes, and suddenly there’s hardly any space at all. “You are so annoying.”

The waitress stops by with a notepad and Lottie leans in, calm and certain like she’s done this a hundred times. “She’ll have the cheeseburger, no tomatoes, no pickles—medium well,” she says smoothly, then adds, “And fries, but with no salt please if you can.”

The waitress barely finishes scribbling before Lottie continues, “And I’ll do the chicken and waffles. Syrup on the side, please.”

You look at her, amused. “Oh so it’s like that?”

She nods her head and hands the menus back to the waitress. “Thank you so much. And yes it is certainly like that.”

The plates hit the table with a soft clatter—yours stacked with a cheeseburger and a generous pile of fries, hers with golden, perfectly crisp chicken over pillowy waffles, syrup in a little silver cup on the side. She doesn’t dig in right away. Instead, she pushes your ketchup a little closer to you and sets an extra napkin by your plate like it’s second nature.

You take a bite of your burger, then glance up to Lottie. For a while, it’s just the quiet rhythm of forks against plates, the occasional soft hum of a shared song playing faintly from the jukebox. She leans over halfway through, steals one of your fries without asking, and you let her, even though you pretend to glare. She raises her eyebrows like she dares you to take some of her waffle in retaliation.

You do.

She doesn’t stop you. At some point, one of her hands has made its way on your knee. And over syrup and salt and the low hum of conversation around you, it hits you how good it feels—this quiet, ordinary kind of closeness.

The waitress swings by, sets the folded bill on the edge of the table with a practiced smile. You reach for it immediately, but Lottie’s faster—she’s already sliding her card in like it was part of her plan all along.

“Hey,” you protest, reaching for your wallet. “No, not a chance.”

She shrugs, standing up and pulling on her jacket. “It’s too late, I'm sorry.” She puts her hands up.

The waitress returns the card

You follow her out the door, still mock-grumbling about it, but you don’t try to argue anymore. Her hand finds yours again in the parking lot. She gives it a gentle squeeze. You squeeze back.

She opens your door first before circling to her side, and when you’re both inside, the heater kicks on with a soft rush. The world outside feels far away, and for a moment you sit there in the glow of the dash lights, your fingers brushing over hers on the center console.

Her grin lingers as she shifts into reverse, but instead of watching the mirrors, she steals another glance at you.

“What?” you ask, heat rising to your cheeks. “Nothing,” she says—too quickly, too smoothly—and you know she’s lying.

When she pulls into your apartment’s parking lot, she cuts the engine, and the sudden quiet makes the moment heavier.

“So…” she starts, resting her hand back on the shifter, drumming her fingers like she’s trying to decide if she should say more.

“So,” you echo, unbuckling your seatbelt.

Her eyes flick up to yours, then away. “Thanks for, uh—tonight. I had fun.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too hard. “Me too.”

There’s a beat where neither of you move, the dash lights painting her profile in a faint, warm glow. It’s awkward, but not bad awkward—just charged.

You push your door open halfway, hesitating. “You, um… want to come up for a bit? Just—coffee, or tea, or…” You trail off, suddenly aware of how that sounds.

Her gaze snaps back to yours, the smallest spark in her eyes. “Yeah,” she says, without missing a beat. “I’d like that.”

[honeysweet56]

to add to your summer fics, imagine being on vacation with lottie in a nude beach☝🏻

— GOING TO THE NUDE BEACH with lottie matthews

warning: non-sexual nudity, obviously. lots of fluff. gn!reader. some slightly suggestive content + an even more suggestive ending. also i hope this isn’t too similar to my skinny dipping with lottie blurb.

lottie would 100% act like this is the most normal, natural thing, which, okay, maybe it is, but all the naturalness in the world won’t change the fact that you’re shy about her initial idea: the nude beach was right at the top of lottie’s vacation list, circled in bright marker in her travel guide.

looking back at it now, you honestly don’t know why you said yes, considering all the countless excuses you want to come up with now that you’re in the situation.

lottie had brought it up so casually, sliding the little travel guide she’d put together across the counter during dinner and tapping the highlighted bullet point with her index. “oh, did i mention?” she asked. “there’s this nude beach here, if you wanna go?”

and, well.

you did want to go, especially knowing how much it clearly meant to her, you just hadn’t thought you’d actually follow through with it, past the idea stage. lottie can be persuasive like that, though.

“we don’t have to if you’re not comfortable,” she’d said later, whilst rinsing dishes at the sink. “but i heard it’s supposed to be super peaceful! and we’ll find a spot where it’s just us, hm? what do you think?”

which is exactly how you ended up here, at said nude beach, wrapped in a towel that’s far too small to cover you while a breeze slides up your thighs, bunching the whole thing at an unfortunate angle. the wind is exposing more than you intended, assuming you ever intended to reveal anything in the first place, and you try to shift your stance to fix it.

at least the spot is as secluded as lottie promised, with no strangers or a countless number of nude sunbathers you had somehow anticipated in sight. still, you feel the burn of phantom eyes and resist the urge to further cover yourself with your arms.

lottie, on the other hand, is completely unbothered, shrugging out of her bikini top next to you. the strap slips from her shoulder as she stretches her arms above your head and your gaze catches on the dip of her ribs, the faint stretch of muscle under her skin.

all the details of lottie’s body are on display to you, down to the few birthmarks scattered across her collarbones: her breasts hang freely, with the support her bikini might’ve offered tossed aside, the salt air stiffens her nipples, and you don’t even try to stop your gaze from going lower, taking in the lines of her stomach, the trail of hair from her navel to the place between her thighs. your pulse jumps when you realize her bottoms are gone too, discarded in a messy pile with the rest of her clothes.

noticing your stare, lottie turns her head. “don’t worry,” she whispers, her palm reaching out under the towel to soothe you. “it’s just me & you.” this, and lottie’s eyes on your hidden frame, as loving as ever, is what it takes for you to finally pull the towel loose, letting it slip off your body.

not long after, and it’s completely gone.

the two of you are stretched out under the reeds, your legs brushing where they’re tangled up. the sun dapples the sand & your skin, while lottie lies beside you on her side, as unbothered as she was when you first arrived. a paperback she brought along is propped between you, and you’re supposed to be trading paragraphs, taking turns reading out loud.

an impossible task, when lottie can’t keep her hands still, never not touching you, and so neither of you is making much progress. her fingertips, currently moving around your navel, are drawing patterns there, her hands big enough for her thumb to simultaneously skim along the slope of your breast.

the sentence you were reading trails off, your lashes fluttering shut.

“what was that…?” lottie asks.

you groan, too aware of the warmth radiating from her all too familiar body, even as she drops her head back onto the towel and puts on her sunglasses to shield her eyes.

hours later, when the sun starts setting in the distance, your book lies forgotten, its pages fluttering in the early-august breeze. you’ve spent the entire day here, and for this whole time, the beach has been empty, allowing you to sunbathe & enjoy yourself without the self-conscious feeling that would’ve come had strangers been around to see.

you & lottie spent all this time side by side. the privacy of the cove has even allowed her to kiss you, knowing there weren’t any people around to catch you making out and grinding together.

the apples of your cheeks have gone a little pink over time, your legs aching pleasantly when lottie suddenly tugs on your arms. “come on!” she says, and you follow her toward the water. the surf has gone cooler, refreshing on your sunburnt skin, and the whole coastline, left and right, as far as the eye can see, remains empty.

lottie leads you in, the water creeping up your legs, and wraps her arms around your bare middle. she ducks her head between your shoulder blades, nuzzling into you as she sighs happily. her lips brush over the bumps rising along your skin, and you can feel her nipples, the softness of her as lottie curls up against you. she kisses your shoulder, down your back, cupping your chest in her hands.

“you’re really warm,” she points out.

you turn, craning your neck to find her mouth, but the current makes balance hard to hold, and so you laugh when your teeth knock, your lips sliding past hers.

“missed,” lottie’s mouth brushes the corner of yours. “you’ll get it right next time.” she doesn’t give you the chance, though, pressing her lips to your jaw instead, tilting your chin up, hands traveling south and to rest rest at your hips.

your laugh falters into a gasp of: “lottie…”

her fingers press gently on each side, her teeth grazing your throat at your pulse point. lottie’s palms slide up and down your sides, holding you still. this close, you watch the sun set below the horizon together as her hands wander.

[honeysweet56]

MY HEART-

With Her I Die |33|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Thirty-Three: Clinical Stripping

warnings: references to self-harm/picking at scars, medical/wound care scenes, and arguing (...of course).

note(s): my wattpad comment section had fun with this chapter.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots @mikuley @sleepyjackets @wnbawag @eatingouturmomrn

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The stream runs clearer here, away from where the others do their washing and water collection. You've carved out this little pocket of privacy through weeks of quiet negotiation—Shauna suggesting the location, you pretending it was just practical rather than intimate. It's become your ritual, this weekly tending to wounds that refuse to fully heal.

"Shirt off," Shauna says, settling her supplies on a flat rock with the kind of careful precision that makes ordinary moments feel significant. Her tone is matter-of-fact, medical, but there's something underneath it that makes your chest tight with awareness.

You comply without the usual bout of self-consciousness that plagued you in the beginning. The fabric pulls away from skin that's learned to accommodate touch again, learned to accept care without flinching. Progress, Misty would say, though she's not here to witness this particular milestone.

The afternoon light filters through the canopy above, dappling your skin in patterns that shift with the breeze. Shauna's hands are gentle as she examines the healing wounds, fingers tracing the edges of stitches with the kind of practiced familiarity that comes from weeks of repetition.

"They're looking better," she murmurs, reaching for the clean cloth she's dampened in the stream. "The inflammation's almost gone."

You nod, not trusting your voice when her attention is focused so completely on your body. There's something about this ritual that strips away pretense, leaves you both suspended in a space where touch means healing and healing means hope.

Her gaze catches on the jagged scar along your forearm—the one that has nothing to do with fishing accidents or survival mishaps. The one that tells a story neither of you has been willing to speak aloud. Her fingers hover just above the raised skin, not quite touching but close enough that you feel the warmth of her hand.

"You've been picking at it again," she says quietly, and it's not quite an accusation but close enough to make shame crawl up your throat.

The habit is unconscious now, fingers finding the rough edges when your mind wanders to dark places. When the weight of being alive feels heavier than it should. You want to lie, to make excuses, but something about the way she's looking at you makes dishonesty impossible.

"Sorry," you mutter, like the apology could undo weeks of nervous destruction.

Shauna doesn't respond immediately, just begins cleaning around the area with movements so careful they feel like forgiveness. The silence stretches between you, comfortable in its weight, heavy with understanding that doesn't require words.

This is what intimacy looks like now—knowledge without explanation, care without judgment. The scar is part of your history, part of the story that brought you both to this moment by the stream. But it's also something else: proof that you survived your own darkness long enough to find reasons to stop reaching for it.

"There," she says finally, securing the last of the fresh bandaging. "That should hold until next week."

Next week. The promise implicit in those words makes something warm unfurl in your chest. That there will be a next week, another ritual, another opportunity to choose healing over the alternative.

You're reaching for your shirt when the sound of approaching footsteps cuts through the quiet. Both you and Shauna freeze, the intimacy of the moment suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable. Your fingers fumble with the fabric, trying to cover yourself before—

"There you are," Mari's voice carries that particular edge of frustration that's become her default lately. "We've been looking everywhere for—"

She stops mid-sentence as she and Tai emerge from the treeline, her gaze landing on your half-dressed state with a reaction that's immediate and telling. Her face flushes deep red, eyes widening before she forces herself to look away with the kind of deliberate intensity that only draws more attention to what she's trying not to see.

"Jesus," she mutters, but there's something in her voice that suggests the exclamation has less to do with surprise and more to do with the way her body is responding to the sight of you.

Tai, ever the diplomat, keeps her expression carefully neutral, though you catch the slight raise of her eyebrows that suggests she's filing this moment away for later analysis.

"Sorry," Tai says, though she doesn't sound particularly sorry. "We were checking the snares and heard voices."

You finally manage to get your shirt over your head, hyperaware of the way the fabric clings to still-damp skin. Beside you, Shauna has gone very still, her posture shifting into something protective, possessive. The change is subtle but unmistakable—the way she positions herself slightly in front of you, the set of her shoulders that suggests she's prepared to defend territory.

"We come here every week," Shauna says, and there's steel underneath the casual explanation. "Same time, same routine. Not exactly a secret."

Mari's flush deepens at that, because of course she knows about your weekly appointments. Everyone knows, the same way everyone knows about the careful way you and Shauna orbit each other, the unspoken claim that's been building between you both.

"Right," Mari says, voice slightly strained. "We just... wondered where you two kept disappearing to."

The emphasis on 'two' is pointed, loaded with implications that make the air between you all crackle with tension. You're oblivious to the subtext, focused more on the way Shauna's jaw has tightened, the way her hand has moved fractionally closer to yours.

"Well, now you know," Shauna replies, and there's something almost territorial in the way she says it. Like she's marking boundaries, establishing claims that have nothing to do with medical necessity and everything to do with the careful intimacy you've built together.

Tai clears her throat diplomatically. "The snares were empty, by the way. Might want to try relocating them."

It's a transparent attempt to redirect the conversation, and you're grateful for it even if the others seem reluctant to let the moment go. Mari's gaze keeps drifting back to you despite her obvious efforts to focus elsewhere, her attraction written across her features in ways that would be flattering if they weren't so complicated.

"Thanks for letting us know," you say, because someone needs to acknowledge Tai's peace-keeping efforts. "We'll head back in a few minutes."

The dismissal is gentle but clear, and after another moment of charged silence, Tai nods and turns to go. Mari follows with obvious reluctance, shooting one last conflicted look over her shoulder that makes Shauna's possessiveness flare like a lit match.

Once they're gone, the space feels different—charged with awareness of how the scene must have looked, what conclusions might be drawn. You finish adjusting your shirt, hyperaware of Shauna's continued proximity, the way she's still positioned like a shield between you and the world.

"That was weird," you say finally, because the silence is stretching toward uncomfortable.

Shauna makes a sound that might be agreement, but her attention seems focused elsewhere. On the way Mari looked at you, maybe, or the implications of being discovered in your private ritual. There's something working behind her eyes, some calculation or realization that she's not quite ready to share.

"We should probably head back," she says eventually, but she doesn't move to pack up her supplies. Instead, she stays close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, close enough that the space between you feels deliberate rather than accidental.

"Shauna," you start, not sure what you want to say but knowing that something has shifted in the last few minutes. Something that has less to do with Mari's interruption and more to do with the way Shauna looked when she thought someone else might be seeing you the way she does.

But she shakes her head, a small movement that suggests the conversation will have to wait. That whatever's building between you needs more time, more privacy, more certainty before it can be spoken aloud.

So you help her pack up the medical supplies, your hands brushing against hers with the kind of incidental contact that feels anything but accidental. And if you both take longer than necessary, if the walk back to camp is slower than usual, well—some rituals are worth extending, worth savoring before reality intrudes again.

The promise of next week hangs between you like a bridge, spanning the gap between what is and what might be. Between healing and hoping, between survival and something that looks remarkably like the beginning of living again.

------

Shauna's hands won't stop shaking.

She sits on the edge of their shared bedroll, fingers worrying at a loose thread on her jacket while her mind replays the scene by the stream over and over. The way Mari's eyes had gone wide, pupils dilating as her gaze swept over your exposed skin. The way she'd stumbled over her words, cheeks flushing that telltale red that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with want.

The worst part? You hadn't even noticed.

"You're being weird," you say from across their small space, your tone carrying that particular brand of obliviousness that makes Shauna want to scream. You're folding your spare shirt with the kind of deliberate care that suggests you're trying to fill silence, unaware that every casual movement is driving her slowly insane.

"I'm not being weird," Shauna replies, though her voice comes out sharper than intended. The thread in her fingers snaps under the pressure, and she stares down at it like it's personally offended her.

You pause in your folding, those perceptive eyes finally focusing on her with something that might be concern. "Okay, you're definitely being weird. What's wrong?"

What's wrong? The question sits in the air between them like a lit fuse, and Shauna can feel herself teetering on the edge of saying something she can't take back. Because how does she explain the way her chest had tightened when Mari looked at you like that? How does she articulate the sudden, overwhelming need to step between you and anyone else who might see what she sees?

"Nothing's wrong," she lies, because the truth feels too big for the space between them. Too dangerous.

You set down your shirt, and she recognizes the shift in your posture - the way you straighten when you're about to push an issue. It's the same stance you used to take with Jackie when she was being evasive, the same gentle persistence that had made their relationship work despite Jackie's tendency to deflect with humor.

The comparison hits Shauna like a physical blow, and suddenly she's furious - at you, at herself, at the ghost that still occupies the space between them.

"You didn't see it, did you?" The words come out before she can stop them, loaded with accusation and something darker.

Your eyebrows furrow in that familiar way that means you're genuinely confused. "See what?"

"The way Mari was looking at you." Shauna's voice is getting louder now, months of carefully controlled jealousy finally finding an outlet. "Like she wanted to—" She stops herself, jaw clenching around words that feel too raw to speak.

"Mari?" You actually laugh, which is somehow the worst possible response. "Are you serious? Mari can barely stand me most days."

The casual dismissal makes something snap inside Shauna's chest. Because of course you don't see it. Of course you're completely oblivious to the way people orbit around you, drawn by some gravitational pull you don't even recognize you have.

"God, you're so fucking naive," she snaps, standing abruptly. The movement makes the small space feel even smaller, like the walls are closing in around them both.

Your face changes at that, confusion shifting into something harder. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Shauna knows she's picking a fight now, knows she's letting her frustration bleed into cruelty, but she can't seem to stop herself. "You walk around completely clueless while people—" She gestures wildly, encompassing not just Mari but herself, though she can't quite say that part out loud.

"While people what, Shauna?" Your voice has gone quiet, dangerous in the way it gets when you're really angry. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

The question hangs between them, and Shauna realizes she's backed herself into a corner. Because what is she accusing you of? Of being attractive? Of inspiring devotion you don't ask for? Of making her feel things she's not sure she has the right to feel?

"Nothing," she says finally, but it comes out weak, deflated. "Forget it."

"No." You stand now too, and the small space forces you both into proximity that feels charged with unspoken things. "You don't get to start a fight and then just drop it. What's really going on here?"

Shauna can feel herself spiraling, can feel the careful control she's maintained for years starting to crack. Because the truth is sitting right there in her throat, waiting to spill out and ruin everything they've built together.

The truth is that watching Mari look at you had felt like watching someone else stake a claim on something that wasn't theirs to want. The truth is that the weekly ritual by the stream has become the highlight of her week, the careful tending of your wounds an excuse to touch you in ways that feel more intimate than medical necessity requires.

The truth is that she's falling for you, has been falling for you, and the knowledge sits in her chest like a stone because she knows - knows - that your heart still belongs to a ghost.

"You still love her," she says instead, the words coming out barely above a whisper. "Jackie."

Your face goes very still at that, and Shauna watches something shutter behind your eyes. It's the same look you get when someone mentions Jackie directly, that careful blankness that suggests you're protecting something precious and painful.

"Of course I do," you say finally, and the simple honesty of it hits Shauna like a slap. "That doesn't just... stop."

"I know that." The words come out harsher than she intends, frustration bleeding through. "But you can't live in the past forever."

"I'm not living in the past." Your voice is getting louder now, matching her energy. "I'm trying to survive each day, which is apparently more than you think I'm capable of."

"That's not what I—" Shauna stops, takes a breath, tries to find words that won't sound like accusations. "I just... I see the way you look sometimes. Like you're waiting for something that's never going to come."

"And what exactly should I be looking for instead?" The question comes out sharp, pointed, and Shauna can hear the challenge underneath it.

Me, she wants to say. Look at me. But the words stick in her throat because saying them would mean admitting things she's not sure either of them is ready for.

"I don't know," she says instead, which is both a lie and the most honest thing she's said all night.

You stare at each other across the small space, the argument having stripped away the careful politeness they usually maintain. In the dim light, Shauna can see the exhaustion written across your features, the way this conversation is costing you energy you don't have to spare.

"This is stupid," you say finally, running a hand through your hair. "We're fighting about nothing."

But it's not nothing, and they both know it. It's everything they can't say, every careful boundary they've drawn around their relationship to keep it safe and manageable. It's the weight of competing loyalties, of hearts that want things they're not sure they're allowed to have.

"Yeah," Shauna agrees, because what else is there to say? "Stupid."

You settle back onto your side of the bedroll, turning away from her in that way that suggests the conversation is over even though nothing has been resolved. Shauna follows suit, lying down with her back to you, both of them maintaining the careful distance that's become their norm.

But in the darkness, she can hear your breathing, can feel the warmth radiating from your body just inches away. And she knows that tomorrow there will be another day of careful interactions, of managing the space between them like something fragile that might break if handled wrong.

The truth sits in her chest like an unexploded bomb: she's in love with someone who's still in love with a ghost. And she has no idea what to do with that knowledge except carry it, day after day, like another weight in a life already heavy with survival.

Outside their shelter, the forest settles into its nightly rhythm, but sleep feels impossibly far away. Because some arguments don't end with resolution - they end with the recognition that some truths are too dangerous to speak, too precious to risk losing by wanting more than what's offered.

Tomorrow they'll go back to their careful dance, their weekly rituals, their unspoken understanding. But tonight, the space between them feels like an ocean, and Shauna falls asleep clutching the knowledge of her own heart like a secret too fragile to share.

[honeysweet56]

No Reservations - chapter twelve

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: the trip left the chat !!

Your apartment was a disaster zone.

An open suitcase lay flopped across your bed like a beached whale. Clothes were spilling out of drawers, shoes mismatched in the corner, a half-packed toiletry bag teetering on the edge of your nightstand. You stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, brow furrowed, a single heeled boot in one hand and a pair of snow boots in the other.

Van appeared in the doorway with a dramatic sigh. “God, you’re hopeless.”

You didn’t even look at her. “I’m deciding between ‘business casual’ or ‘please don’t let me die in a snowstorm.’”

Van kicked the door shut behind her, tossed her bag on your armchair, and walked over like a woman on a mission. “You’re packing like you’re going to be on Survivor: Aspen Edition.”

You gave her a look. “Okay, don’t knock Survivor Van. It’s a great show. Charlotte said it might snow. And then there’s the summit. And drinks. And the hotel dinners. And her.”

Van raised her brows. “Ah. Her.” She yanked the heeled boot out of your hand and flung it onto the floor. “Okay, we’re starting over.”

“I like those shoes.”

“Yeah, and I like you not crying in a hotel bathtub because you kissed your boss in the mountains.”

You groaned and flopped down onto the bed. “You’re worse than my mom.”

“Your mom doesn’t know Charlotte once called you ‘the best fuck in all of Hyde Park’ while literally drunk on rosemary gimlets.”

You buried your face in a sweater. “God, please stop quoting her like we’re in a rom-com. It was college—and besides, she’s sweeter now. Who fucking gives forehead kisses like it’s chivalry anymore?”

Van sat beside you and patted your back like you were a cat she didn’t fully trust. “Which you’ve mentioned six times in the last hour.”

You peeked up at her through your hair. “That’s because it’s worth mentioning more than once—I don’t know what this trip is. Like, is it professional? Friendly? ‘Hey, let’s resolve all this tension and maybe sleep together in a luxury resort before pretending it never happened’?”

Van made a face. “Okay, wow, gross. I literally just had lunch.”

You smacked her with the sweater. “Be serious!”

“I am serious.” She reached for your suitcase and began expertly folding your sweaters. “You’re going to pack your grown-woman outfits. You’re going to pretend this is strictly business. And you’re going to keep your feelings in check.”

You squinted at her. “And if I can’t?”

Van shoved a pair of leggings in the suitcase. “Then at least wear cute pajamas so you can cry in style.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Thanks, Van.”

“Always,” she said, softer now. “Just don’t let her pull you back in unless she means it this time. I like my best friend with some self-esteem.”

You gave her a salute. “Yes, Captain.”

Van pointed a sock at you. “And pack moisturizer. That altitude is rude.”

It felt too fast when travel day was finally here. The Uber slowed at the edge of the private terminal, snowflakes melting against the windshield. Your driver glanced back, eyebrow raised.

“You sure this is it?”

You stared through the window at the small, sleek jet parked on the tarmac like it belonged in a Bond film. At the bottom of the steps stood Charlotte Matthews, coat draped over her shoulders, scarf billowing slightly in the breeze, hair pulled back in a low, perfect bun, her whole body glowing like some kind of high-altitude goddess.

She was smiling. Actually, she was beaming.

You swallowed, hard. “Yeah,” you murmured, grabbing your duffel. “I’m sure.” Before you even had a chance to fully step out of the car, Charlotte was already halfway to you, practically bouncing on her heels.

“Hey,” she said, breath visible in the cold, hands fluttering like she couldn’t figure out what to do with them. “You made it.”

You chuckled at her. “It’s a private plane. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She laughed, cheeks pink from the wind—or maybe from you. “You look…”

“Cold?” you teased, tugging your coat tighter.

“No,” Charlotte said, stepping closer, eyes warm. “Beautiful.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Jesus, Matthews, we haven’t even taken off yet. Take me to dinner first.”

From the top of the stairs, Lena cleared her throat, loud enough to interrupt, not loud enough to be impolite. She stood with an iPad clutched to her chest and a look that could only be described as: These two are ridiculous, but I’m still rooting for them.

“Charlotte, I told you to stay inside. You’ll get windburn.”

“She’s fine,” you called up. “Besides, it’s not like she listens to you anyway.”

Charlotte grinned and offered you her hand, like some kind of gallant knight. “Come on. We’ve got champagne and—Lena made a seating chart, but I’m ignoring it.”

You laughed despite the nerves fluttering through your stomach as you took her hand. Her fingers curled around yours, too warm, too familiar.

As you climbed the stairs together, Charlotte leaned in and whispered, “I packed an extra sweater. For you. In case you forgot.”

You turned to her, a smirk tugging at your lips. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

Charlotte tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “The kind I’d like to sit next to for the next three hours.”

Behind you, Lena muttered under her breath. “God, help me,” but you didn’t miss the ghost of a smile playing on her lips as she stepped aside to let you both in.

Inside, the jet was as luxe as you expected, plush leather seats, soft lighting, a tray of mimosas already chilling. But none of that really registered. You were too aware of the way Charlotte sat beside you instead of across, the way her knee brushed yours when she shifted, the way her smile lingered like she didn’t want to let it go.

This was going to be a long flight. A dangerous one. And you were already in trouble. The jet lifted with a low rumble, smooth as silk, and within minutes, you were gliding above the clouds. Charlotte had insisted you sit beside her— “for turbulence,” she said, which was cute, since the skies looked clearer than your conscience.

You were thankful regardless, you hated flights. Always had. The moment the seatbelt sign dinged off, she relaxed into her seat, legs crossed, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her thigh. You’d never seen her this… soft. Not in the kitchen. Not at work. Not even in the quiet moments when she thought no one was watching. It was unnerving, kind of charming, and if you were honest, a little hot.

“You really brought a duffel bag?” she teased, nodding toward your feet.

You raised an eyebrow. “What, you thought I was gonna show up with matching monogrammed luggage and a pressed travel itinerary?”

Charlotte pretended to consider it. “Maybe a backpack with your initials stitched in. Something… tasteful.”

You smirked. “Sorry to disappoint, princess.”

Her ears turned red instantly. “I’m not—” she cleared her throat, “—not a princess.”

“Oh no?” You leaned back into the buttery leather. “You own a Michelin-starred restaurant, take private jets, and make people cry over garnish placement. But yeah, sure. Totally grounded.”

She narrowed her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips ruined the effect. “You’re infuriating.”

“And yet,” you said, reaching for the mimosa she’d poured you, “you invited me on this little Aspen getaway.”

“That was… professional courtesy.”

“Right,” you drawled. “And the way you’re blushing right now? Also professional?”

“I’m not blushing,” she insisted, face fully pink. She tugged her coat tighter around herself, looking anywhere but at you. “I’m just… warm.”

You let it go. Barely.

The banter slowed eventually. Charlotte leaned her head back, staring out the window at the clouds stretching endless and glowing. The sunlight caught the soft edge of her jaw, the slope of her nose. She looked tired, not the kind of tired you sleep off, but the kind that builds in layers.

You stood and stretched, making your way toward the galley where Lena was reviewing something on her tablet. “Hey,” you said, keeping your voice low. “Can I ask you something?”

Lena gave you a sidelong glance, cautious. “Depends.”

“What exactly is this trip? Charlotte mentioned a summit, but she’s been avoiding the subject like it’s contagious.”

Lena sighed. Not annoyed, more like she’d been waiting for the question. She closed the tablet with a soft snap.

“Charlotte’s father is the kind of man who believes legacy is built in boardrooms and polished over cocktails,” she said flatly. “When something in the Matthews empire goes south, bad press, investor tension, misaligned projections—he sends Charlotte in to ‘clean up the mess.’”

You frowned. “Because she’s good at it?”

“Because she’s the best at it. And because it’s easier for him to play puppeteer from a distance.”

Your mouth tightened. “Sounds like he doesn’t give her much of a choice.”

“He doesn’t,” Lena said, her tone even. “He gives her a spotlight. With strings.”

You glanced back toward Charlotte, who was now pretending to read a magazine, one leg bouncing restlessly.

“So this trip,” you said. “Isn’t just a summit.”

“No,” Lena said. “It’s damage control. PR spin. Polite warfare in ski lodges and five-star restaurants. He’s testing her. Again.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why does she keep saying yes?”

Lena didn’t answer right away. Like she was finding the right words to say next. “Because she still thinks proving herself might one day be enough for him to let go.”

That… hurt more than it should. You turned back toward your seat, and just before you slid back in beside Charlotte, Lena added under her breath, “She’s different around you. Just don’t let her burn herself trying to stay warm.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded.

Charlotte turned to you, already smiling, voice laced with something lighter. “What, miss me already?”

And because you couldn’t help it, you smirked. “Depends. You still warm?”

She rolled her eyes. But her hand brushed yours under the armrest, and neither of you moved away. The Matthews “cabin” rose like something out of a film—all timber and glass, perfectly nestled into the snowy hills of Aspen. If the private jet hadn’t already set the tone, this sealed it: Charlotte Matthews didn’t just vacation, she curated experiences.

She led you up the front steps with practiced ease, punching in a code at the door and pushing it open with a small, proud smile. Warm light spilled into the foyer. There was a stone fireplace already crackling in the sitting room, a lofted ceiling strung with golden bulbs, and the faint scent of cedar and something sweet wafting through the air.

“I know it’s a little much,” she said, glancing at you as you stepped inside, “but my father insists on keeping up appearances even in the woods.”

You laughed under your breath. “Yeah. Just a humble little log shack.”

Charlotte grinned. “C’mon. I’ll show you your room.”

She led you down a wide hallway lined with black-and-white photos and abstract art that probably cost more than your rent. The cabin may have been all wood and warmth, but it had been decorated with sleek, minimal touches that screamed money with restraint.

Your room was at the far end of the hall, spacious, high-ceilinged, with a window that overlooked the snowy trees and mountains beyond. There was a king-sized bed dressed in navy linen, a soft throw blanket folded at the foot, and a set of your bags already placed neatly by the closet.

Charlotte stepped aside and gestured. “Here we are. Yours is just down the hall from mine. For convenience.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Convenience, huh?”

Her lips twitched. “Well, yeah. I mean. In case you need anything. Or… whatever.”

You gave her a look, then wandered in, fingertips brushing over the plush comforter as you turned. “So what’s the protocol here? Do I unpack now or wait until someone offers to do it for me?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. “Dinner’s in two hours. You’ve got time. Do whatever makes you feel less nervous.”

You tilted your head. “I’m not nervous.”

She looked at you. Really looked. “You’re always a little nervous when you travel.”

You held her gaze, refusing to smile, even though you wanted to. How she remembered that tiny detail all these years later was…impressive. “Charlotte Matthews got me all figured out, huh?”

“Trying to.” She mumbles.

Charlotte stood there a moment longer, fingers curling lightly around the edge of the doorframe. She wasn’t moving. Not really. Just lingering—like there was something unsaid on her tongue.

You watched her, the quiet beat stretching. “Charlotte,” you said, voice low, “if you’re wanting a kiss, you’re gonna have to ask for it.”

Her eyes went wide. Color climbed from her neck to the tips of her ears. “I—thought it was our thing,” she stammered, “I walk you to your door, you give me a kiss.”

That got a laugh out of you, soft and surprised. “Wow. And here I thought you just wanted to be chivalrous.”

Her mouth opened, probably to protest, but you closed the space between you first, one hand reaching up to cradle her cheek. You kissed her softly, deliberately, just a breath too close to her mouth. Her skin was warm beneath your touch. Her breath caught, and then her eyes fluttered open.

You didn’t move your hand. “Thanks for walking me to my door.”

Charlotte smiled, dazed and red. “Kay. I’ll… uh… let you unpack.”

She backed out of the room a little too fast, nearly missing the doorknob as she reached for it. You smirked as it clicked shut behind her, your heart thudding just enough to make you sit down and breathe.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

You exhaled hard, crossed the room, and flopped backward onto the bed with a soft whuff. The mattress cradled you immediately, the plush comforter rising around your arms as you stared at the wooden beams overhead, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a race.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You groaned and fished it out. You opened it to find Van’s text.

U alive or did your private plane crash in the Rockies 🤨

You huffed a laugh, thumbs moving quickly.

Alive. Landed. Not kidnapped. Plane had snacks and leather seats. Will send proof of life later.

Almost immediately Van responds back;

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do

…which basically means don’t sleep with your boss 🫩

You snorted, typing back;

U r worse than my mom

Another buzz, but it wasn’t Van this time. You saw the name before the message and paused. Natalie. Your stomach twisted. You shouldn’t open it.

You really shouldn’t. But your finger tapped anyway. Your eyes lingered on Natalie’s text.

Did you land safe?

So simple. So normal. Like she hadn’t reminded you about your first kiss only hours earlier. Like she hadn’t showed up in your life…again all breathy apologies and mixed signals. Like she still had some quiet claim on your heart she didn’t deserve. And despite all that still—you typed back before you could stop yourself.

Yeah. Safe.

There was a beat. Then Natalie was responding back;

Okay bby don’t have too much fun without me 💔

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. A smile lingering on your lips despite the eye roll. God you hated how she did that to you.

“Jesus,” you muttered, chucking your phone onto the far end of the bed like it had personally offended you.

You lay there, body still and buzzing. The silence of the cabin was soft, padded, the kind that made you aware of your own heartbeat. Your hands came up to your face, covering your eyes, fingertips pressed into your temples.

You were here. In a luxury cabin in Aspen. With Charlotte. And it had been maybe two hours, and already she was lingering in your doorframe, letting you touch her face like it was a normal thing to do.

And all you could think was how badly you wanted to kiss her. Properly. Not a cheek-kiss. Not a teasing moment that ended with a flustered retreat. You wanted to close the space and stay there.

Your lips parted against your palms. You didn’t move. God, how are you going to survive this trip?

[honeysweet56]

me writing the fic rn: