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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 3 months ago

Note

you wrote a fanfic the other day about Sebastian gaining some weight but I’d love to see a fanfic where MC gains some weight + Sebastian’s reassurance <3

Pool Side | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Anon! I want to apologize for the very long wait (like... two months...) for this fic! It has been a WIP since you submitted this request but the story took on a life of its own and it took a hot minute for me to finish. I hope it was worth the wait!

Also I promised some more fluff/smut on the blog so enjoy everyone💚

Words: ~16,100

Tags: Smut, Modern AU, Reader Insert, Female MC, Plus Sized MC, No Y/N, Post Hogwarts, Fluff, Actually Unrequited Love, Romance

Beta: @newdreamlove95 💚

The coastline stretched before you, the sea a glimmering expanse of blue beneath the midday sun. White limestone cliffs loomed in the distance, dramatic and weathered by time, framing the golden sand of Durdle Door Beach. It was the kind of place people romanticized—secluded, picturesque, the perfect setting for a group of old friends to escape their busy lives for a single, carefree afternoon.

Except, you hadn’t felt carefree all day.

The sound of crashing waves filled the spaces between laughter, between playful shouts and splashes as your friends waded deeper into the water. The air smelled of sea salt and sunscreen, the sand warm and fine beneath your towel. It should have felt perfect. But as you sat beneath the wide shade of your umbrella, the book in your hands barely touched, all you could think about was how different you felt—how different you were.

Time had shaped all of you in its own way—careers, travels, lessons learned, heartbreaks and triumphs, all of it leaving its mark. Garreth had finally cut his hair, and his once-boyish face was now set with sharper features. Imelda had somehow managed to look even more athletic than she had in school, toned and lean, her features even more fierce. Natty had grown taller, even more poised, carrying herself with quiet confidence. Even Ominis, who you’d always considered the most put-together of the group, had softened somewhat, the weight of his family name no longer pressing so heavily on his shoulders.

And Sebastian—He wasn’t the same as he had been at eighteen, either.

You let your gaze drift toward him, tracking him where he stood near the water’s edge, talking with Ominis. His once-boyish face had sharpened, the angles of his jawline more pronounced, the shadow of scruff darkening his face where smooth skin had once been. Even his curls had changed—longer now, though the wind still toyed with them the same way it always had.

And his body—

He had always been strong, lean from Quidditch and dueling, but now he had filled out, broader in the shoulders, thicker in the arms and chest. Not as sharply cut as he had been at eighteen, no longer carved from restless youth and constant training, but something better—something balanced, something solid—not chiseled, not sculpted, just strong, in a way that felt effortless. Comfortable.

Yet while everyone had changed, you had changed the most.

You adjusted the loose cover-up draped over your shoulders, tugging it down to make sure it hid as much of you as possible. Not that anyone in this group would say anything—but that didn’t mean they hadn’t noticed. Because people always noticed. In fact, people commented. Not cruelly, not always, but enough. Enough that when you saw someone again for the first time in years, you had learned to brace yourself, waiting for the inevitable remark, whether it was an aunt’s offhanded, Oh, you were always such a slip of a thing before! or the faux-concerned, Are you taking care of yourself?

The world never let you forget that you used to be different, better.

At least, that’s how it felt.

You had been confident in your teenage years, running through the halls of Hogwarts with reckless energy, sharp-tongued and sharp-witted, always ready to challenge someone in a duel or throw yourself into something new without hesitation. Back then, your body had never been something you thought about—it had just been yours.

You weren’t sure when that had changed.

Somewhere along the way, your body had shifted, weight settling onto you in ways you couldn’t ignore, in ways other people refused to ignore. It didn’t matter that you were still you, still clever and kind and capable—it was as if the world had collectively decided that none of that mattered as much as the shape of you.

It wasn’t fair, but fairness had never been a rule the world followed. So even though your friends never said anything, you knew they had noticed. How could they not?

The weight of your thoughts pressed down heavier than the sun, hotter than the sand beneath your towel.

You felt guilty.

This weekend had been planned for months—a rare break in everyone’s busy schedules, a chance to reconnect without the distractions of work, responsibilities, or the sheer exhaustion of adulthood. It had taken forever to arrange, largely because of them.

Imelda and Natty were impossible to pin down.

Imelda, who had thrown herself headfirst into professional Quidditch after Hogwarts, had spent the last several years building a name for herself as one of the fiercest Beaters in the league.

And Natty—Natty had never stayed still. She had left the Ministry years ago for international work, teaching and training young witches and wizards abroad. If she wasn’t in Africa, she was in Asia, and if she wasn’t in Asia, she was in Australia.

Getting both of them in the same place at the same time, on holiday no less, had been a miracle.

You should have been thrilled. You were thrilled.

And yet all you could think about was how different you felt—how different you were.

You had tried to prepare. You had tried.

Dieting. Exercising. Starving yourself. Hyping yourself up by buying a new bikini, thinking that maybe—maybe—if it was flattering enough, if you just forced yourself into the right mindset, you’d be okay.

But stepping into it today had made you feel sick.

You had stood in front of the mirror in the beach house bathroom that morning, stomach churning, as you studied the reflection that didn’t match the version of yourself in your memories.

You had stared at your body, turning slightly, tugging at the waistband of the bottoms, at the straps over your shoulders. No matter how you adjusted them, you still looked like this.

So, instead of running into the water, instead of being the girl you wanted to be, the girl used to be, you had thrown on your cover-up and settled under the umbrella, staying there like an anchor while the others ran free.

You watched as Imelda and Poppy tossed a beach ball back and forth, their laughter carrying over the sound of the waves. Imelda, ever the athlete, barely had to move to intercept each pass, her sharp reflexes making it look effortless. Poppy, for all her gentleness, was surprisingly competitive, her playful smirk clear even from where you sat under the umbrella.

A little farther out, Natty floated on her back, arms stretched, face tilted toward the sky. She looked serene, perfectly at ease in the water, her dark braids fanning out around her like a halo.

A little closer to shore, Garreth waded through the shallows, carrying a handful of bottles, the brown glass glinting in the sunlight. He trudged toward Ominis and Sebastian, where they stood in the the surf, the waves lapping lazily at their calves.

Sebastian popped off the cap and lifted the bottle to his lips without a care, his other hand raking through his hair. The sunlight made the water droplets on his skin glisten, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his arms, the long stretch of his back where his swim trunks sat low on his hips. You hated how easy it was to look at him, how easy it had always been.

You wrenched your gaze away, but you heard Garreth open his own bottle with a sharp hiss before sighing dramatically.

“Merlin’s balls,” he laughed. “I forgot to tell you. I finally took Eloise out last weekend.”

Sebastian, already a few swallows into his drink, raised a brow. “That sounds promising. Do tell.”

"It went brilliantly," Garreth continued. "Dinner, drinks, and by the end of the night—" He took a swig of his beer, then grinned wolfishly. "Let’s just say I made quite the impression."

"Spare us the details, Weasley," Ominis huffed, tipping his head back.

"Oh, come on, mate. Don’t pretend you’re not interested."

"I assure you, I am not."

Garreth rolled his eyes before continuing anyway. "She’s gorgeous. You know, tall, really fit, amazing legs. I mean she plays for the Falcons, and bloody hell, you can tell." He whistled low, shaking his head in admiration.

Sebastian made a knowing sound, half a chuckle, half a sigh. “Of course. Tall, leggy, tiny waist. Garreth Weasley’s classic type.”

“Right, well, can you blame me? She's something else,” Garreth pointed at him with his bottle.

Sebastian hummed appreciatively. “I get it. Hard to argue with a body like that.”

Garreth nodded firmly. “Of course you get it, you're a man of taste.”

Your grip on your book tightened, the pages bending beneath your fingers. Of course, Sebastian understood. Of course, he got it.

Because women like that were meant to be wanted.

Women like Poppy, who was soft in the way that was delicate, the kind of pretty that made people want to protect her.

Women like Natty, who carried herself with effortless grace, whose body was carved from strength and discipline.

Women like Imelda, who was lean, fit, sharp-edged and powerful.

Women, apparently, like Eloise, whose body was a gift, something to be admired, appreciated, worshiped.

It made sense. Of course it made sense. But it didn’t stop the ache that settled deep in your ribs, the quiet, sinking certainty that you would never be the kind of woman men spoke about like that.

And then—

“Well,” Ominis drawled, tipping his bottle toward Garreth, “not all of us are so visually inclined, I suppose.”

Garreth snorted. “Are you calling me shallow?”

Sebastian let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Knowing what you like isn’t shallow.”

“Perhaps,” Ominis allowed, tilting his head. “But I still think I have better taste.”

Garreth groaned. “Here we go.”

Ominis smirked, lazy and self-assured. “Forgive me for thinking there’s more to a woman than her legs, Garreth.”

Sebastian snorted. “Alright, we get it, you’re enlightened.”

Ominis only hummed, amused. “It’s just that I, personally, prefer someone with a bit of substance—quite literally.” He tapped his own ribs lightly with a knowing smirk. “I’ve already got enough bone for the both of us. A bit of cushion is good for a man.”

You froze.

Ominis' words hung in the air, settling between the easy laughter and the rhythmic pull of the tide.

On one hand, it was almost comforting in a way, hearing Ominis brush aside such narrow ideals. At least someone—someone you respected, someone you trusted—didn’t think a woman’s worth was measured by how well she fit into a neat little mold.

But at the same time his words didn’t fix anything. Not really. Because it wasn’t him you needed reassurance from.

It was Sebastian.

Garreth laughed, raising his bottle. “Well, cheers to that, then,” he said, clearly unbothered. “Honestly, better for both of us. I’d rather not compete with you, mate. If I had to go up against you and your good looks? I’d be doomed.”

Ominis rolled his eyes but clinked his bottle against Garreth’s all the same.

Sebastian made a sound—low, amused, noncommittal.

And that was it.

No teasing rebuttal. No agreement, but no disagreement either. Just a simple, easy acknowledgment that meant nothing.

Or maybe it meant everything.

Because Sebastian had spoken up earlier, when he’d defended Garreth’s tastes. But now? Now, he said nothing.

He didn’t joke with Ominis. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree. He just let the conversation move on, unbothered, unthinking.

And that was your answer. The truth you had known somewhere deep down but had tried so hard to ignore.

Sebastian got it. Sebastian agreed. Because of course he did. Because why wouldn’t he?

Hard to argue with a body like that.

A sudden burst of splashing pulled you from your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked up just in time to see Natty emerging from the water, droplets rolling down her sun-warmed skin as she pushed her braids back from her face. She was beaming, looking as effortlessly radiant as ever, and you felt a twinge of guilt when your first instinct was to shrink further into the shade.

She cupped her hands around her mouth, calling toward the shore. "I am going for ice cream. Who’s coming?"

The response was instant.

“Ooh, absolutely,” Poppy chirped, catching the beach ball Imelda had just tossed her before jogging toward Natty.

“I could go for something,” Imelda agreed, squeezing the seawater from her ponytail. “Haven’t had a proper cone in ages.”

Sebastian tipped his beer back for a final sip, then turned to Ominis. "You coming?"

Ominis scoffed. "Do you even have to ask?"

You didn’t have time to react before the whole group was moving, heading toward the shore in a mess of dripping bodies and sun-warmed skin, shaking the saltwater from their limbs as they made their way toward you.

"That book must be fascinating if you’re still at it," Garreth teased as he approached your umbrella.

You forced a smile, gripping the novel a little tighter. "Riveting."

Sebastian was right behind him, running a hand through his damp curls as he reached for the towel he’d left beside his bag. "What’s it about?"

You hesitated. You had no idea. You hadn’t read a single word in—how long had it even been?

"It's romance-mystery-crossover," you lied offhandedly, hoping the vague genre mashup would be enough to satisfy him.

Sebastian gave you a slow, amused look, clearly unconvinced. "Sounds made up."

"Of course it is, it's a fiction novel, Sebastian," you countered, flipping the book closed and setting it aside, hoping the conversation would move on.

It did.

Garreth reached for his t-shirt, shaking off the sand before pulling it over his head. "You going to join us in the water after we get ice cream?"

You hesitated.

The question was casual, easy, but you could feel the weight of expectation behind it. Not just from Garreth, but from the others too. Poppy was already looking at you with hopeful anticipation, Natty giving you a small, encouraging nod.

They wanted you to say yes.

And for a second, you wanted to say it too. To be the girl you used to be, the one who wouldn’t have thought twice before running headfirst into the waves, salt-stung and laughing, sand stuck to her legs and hair damp with seawater.

But that wasn’t you anymore.

So you mustered up a small, apologetic smile and said, “Maybe later.”

Garreth groaned. “Oh, come on. You said that last time."

But before he could complain further, Natty had already tossed on her sunhat and pulled her dress over her swimsuit, slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. She didn’t waste time waiting for further debate.

"Come on," she called over her shoulder, already walking down the beach toward the path leading up to the ice cream stand. "Before the ice cream all melts."

That was enough to get the others moving.

Poppy hurried after her, still wringing the seawater from the ends of her hair, Imelda not far behind. Garreth quickly followed, dragging Ominis along with him, still grumbling about how one day you’d actually keep your word and join them in the water.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

You could have followed. You should have followed. But you didn’t.

You stayed put beneath the shade of your umbrella, hands clenched in your lap, your book abandoned beside you.

Because you didn’t need ice cream. You certainly didn’t need the extra sugar, nor the extra calories.

Then a shadow fell over you. You knew who it was before you even looked up.

Sebastian.

His presence was unmistakable—always had been. Something about him was too big, too bold, to ignore.

For a few beats, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there. And then—

"You’re not coming?"

His voice was casual, but there was something beneath it. Something pointed.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes fixed on the page in front of you as if that would be enough to make him move on. "I’m not really in the mood for ice cream."

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave. Didn’t let the conversation drop like you needed him to.

"You were in the mood for it last summer," he pointed out. "And the summer before that. And the one before that. And before that."

"Well, people change, Sebastian."

You hoped that would be enough. That he’d just let it go. But you’d been friends with Sebastian Sallow for over a decade, and Sebastian Sallow never let anything go. Not when it came to you. He would poke and prod, just like he always did, the way he had when you were fifteen, sixteen, eighteen—always tugging at you, always unraveling you.

You heard a heavy sigh, followed by the soft sound of shifting sand as he sat down beside you, uninvited but entirely unsurprising.

His skin was warm from the sun, his shoulders still glistening from the water. He didn’t crowd you, but he was close, the scent of salt and sun-bleached fabric clinging to him as he leaned back on his hands, his gaze now trained fully on you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, brows pulling together slightly, head tilting the way it always did when he was trying to figure something out.

"Are you okay?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

Sebastian hummed, tilting his head toward the horizon, pretending—pretending—like he wasn’t watching you carefully, like he wasn’t studying you the way he always did when he knew you were lying.

"You’ve been avoiding the water all day," he mused. "Didn’t eat much at lunch." He nodded toward your book. "And I’d bet my wand you haven’t actually read a single page of that."

You gritted your teeth. "What’s your point?"

Sebastian turned his head then, looking at you fully. "My point is that you’re clearly not okay," he said, voice steady, measured.

"Sebastian," you sighed, voice tired, "just drop it."

For a second, he actually looked like he might. But then his gaze flickered, his expression shifting with realization.

"Is it because of what Garreth said? I know how much you hate when guys objectify—"

“No.” The word left you quickly, too quickly, your chest lurching at the assumption—not because it was wrong, but because it was almost right.

Because Garreth’s words did matter. Just not in the way Sebastian thought.

He assumed you were bothered on principle, that this was about your usual distaste for men reducing women to their bodies. Because that was who you were to him—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, never one to let careless words slide.

And in a way, it felt good that he saw you like that. It meant he wasn’t thinking about your body. It meant that, in Sebastian’s mind, at least, you weren’t standing on the outside of their conversation, trying to pretend the words didn’t sting.

That was… a relief.

But it didn’t loosen the tight, twisting knot in your stomach, because even though Sebastian hadn’t thought of it that way—you had.

And it wasn’t about Garreth having a type. It wasn’t even about Eloise specifically. You didn’t care who Garreth found attractive—everyone had their preferences.

It was Sebastian. Because he had agreed with Garreth.

And it was stupid, really, that it should hurt at all. You had no claim to Sebastian. No right to expect him to think of you that way. He had never given you any reason to believe he did. The only person who had spent the last ten years hopelessly in love with an idea—with him—was you.

But it still hurt.

"I'm sure you overheard him," Sebastian continued, "I know you like to eavesdrop," he added teasingly.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, please. I wasn’t eavesdropping. You lot were talking loud enough for the entire beach to hear."

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh, but it lacked any real amusement. “Fair enough. But for the record, I don’t think Garreth meant anything by what he said.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I know that.”

And you did know. Garreth didn't have a single mean-spirited bone in his body.

Sebastian was still watching you carefully. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong."

“Right,” he said, stretching the word out and leaning back on his hands. “So you’re sitting here, sulking under this umbrella, avoiding the water, avoiding ice cream, barely speaking to anyone—all because nothing is wrong?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Sebastian—”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the book, your nails pressing into the cover. “You are wrong.”

Sebastian let out a dry, knowing laugh. “Yeah, no, see—that’s the thing about lying. You’re shit at it. Always have been.”

Your jaw clenched. “I swear to Merlin—”

“What?” He turned to you fully, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll hex me? Go on, then. Should be entertaining for the rest of the beach.”

You exhaled harshly, fingers flexing against the cover of your book. “Look, Sebastian, it—” You shook your head, forcing out a small, humorless laugh. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sebastian made a sound in the back of his throat—somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. "You’re not even arguing properly.”

That made you glance at him, brow furrowing. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sebastian gave you a pointed look. “It means when you actually don’t care about something, you normally fight back with something biting, something clever. You roll your eyes, you call me an idiot, you tell me to piss off.” His gaze flickered over your face, sharp and assessing. “You’re not doing that now.”

Your stomach twisted. Damn him. Damn him for knowing you this well.

Sebastian sighed, shaking his head. "Just tell me the truth."

You clenched your jaw, looking out at the waves instead of at him. "Sebastian—"

"No, really." His voice was steady, firm. "What’s the point of this? Of going around in circles when we both know I won’t let up?" He gave you a pointed look, eyes sharp. "You’re wasting your breath trying to lie to me. I see right through it, and you know I do. I’ve got a decade of experience, love."

His voice was light, teasing, but you could hear the weight beneath it. The concern. The care.

And maybe that was what did it. Maybe that was what made something in you snap.

Because you were so tired. Tired of pretending, of swallowing things down, of trying to act like it didn’t hurt.

So you turned to him, something bitter curling in your chest.

“Sebastian, you know why I don’t want to go in the water. Why I don’t want to eat in front of everyone. Why I haven’t taken off my cover-up. Why I don’t want ice cream.”

Your breath was heavy, uneven, your fingers curling into the fabric draped over your shoulders.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

So you shook your head, voice quieter but no less raw.

"You know." Your chest tightened. "And I know that you know, because you have eyes."

Sebastian just stared at you. It seemed, for once, you had managed to stun him into silence. A difficult feat. And yet, here you were.

The weight of his gaze pressed into you like an iron brand, unrelenting, burning. His lips parted slightly, his brows furrowing, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Hurt. Frustration. Anger.

“That’s what this is about?” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “That’s what it’s been about this whole time?”

And when he said this whole time, you knew he didn’t just mean today. He meant the past few years.

The slow retreat. The way you had pulled away, little by little, until the girl he had grown up with—the one who had been fearless, the one who had laughed loudly and took up space without hesitation—had hidden herself away.

His jaw clenched.

“Who?” His voice was rough, barely more than a growl. “Who made you feel like this?”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Who?” You shook your head, gripping the edge of your towel like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Everyone, Sebastian.” Your voice wavered, bitter and exhausted. “The whole fucking world.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his whole body tense like he was barely holding something back. And then his voice came low, simmering with something dangerous.

“Just give me names.”

You let out a shaky laugh, running a hand over your face. “And what, exactly, are you going to do?”

Sebastian’s jaw was tight, his entire body radiating tension. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted, voice clipped. “But I’d very much like the opportunity to find out.”

Your stomach twisted, a mess of emotions you didn’t have the energy to untangle. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “It’s not just one person, Sebastian. It’s in the looks, the comments, the offhand remarks. It’s in the way people notice, the way they always notice, the way they feel entitled to remind you, like maybe you hadn’t already noticed yourself.” Your breath hitched, throat closing up. “It’s in the way people talk about women like me—if they even bother talking about us at all.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face, dragging it down to his mouth like he needed to physically stop himself from doing something. "Merlin, you—why have you never said anything?"

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. "And say what, exactly?" Your voice wavered, edged with exhaustion and bitterness. "That every time I see someone after a long time, I can feel them sizing me up, silently comparing me to who I used to be? That I can’t eat in front of people without obsessing over every bite?" A humorless scoff escaped you. "Or maybe I should’ve told you that whenever people talk about a ‘real woman,’ it never seems to include someone like me—because to them, we’re always just a consolation prize?"

Sebastian stood abruptly, sending a small spray of sand scattering as he pushed to his feet. The suddenness of it startled you, your breath still uneven in your chest, your body tense from the weight of the conversation that had just unraveled between you.

"Come on."

"...What?"

He rolled his eyes, but there was something determined in his stance, something resolute in the way he held his hand out to you.

"Don’t ask questions. Just get up."

You hesitated, glancing from his open palm to his face—his stubborn, determined face, the one you knew far too well. The one that meant arguing would be pointless.

Still, you narrowed your eyes, skepticism thick in your voice. "Sebastian—"

He exhaled sharply, already exasperated, and before you could pull away, he reached down, grasping your wrist with a careful but firm grip. His fingers were warm, rough from years of dueling, calloused in that way you knew too well.

"Just come with me," he murmured, voice softer now, quieter.

You let out a sharp breath but after a long, weighted pause—you let him pull you to your feet.

Sebastian's grip remained steady as he led you away—away from the crashing waves, away from the shade of your umbrella, away from the book you had never actually been reading. Away from the water that had once felt like freedom but now felt like something else entirely.

Instead, he walked you back toward the beach house your group had rented, his pace unrelenting.

You followed reluctantly, the damp sand clinging to your feet as the distant sounds of laughter and crashing waves softened behind you, replaced by the rustling of palm fronds and the creak of wooden steps as the two of you moved past the deck.

"Seriously—what are we doing?"

"Patience."

You scowled. "You’re not exactly known for patience."

"Yeah, well, I’m trying something new," he muttered.

The two of you rounded the deck, past the side gate, until you stepped onto the lush grass of the backyard to where the pool remained untouched.

Because why would anyone use the pool when the ocean was right there? When the horizon stretched endlessly, inviting and vast?

But Sebastian didn’t hesitate. He walked straight to the edge, dropping his towel onto a chair before turning back to you and he reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Your brain barely had time to catch up before he pulled the fabric over his head, revealing his sun-warmed skin, broad shoulders, and sun kissed freckles.

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

"...What are you doing?"

"Getting in the pool."

"Why?"

Sebastian shot you a flat look. "Because you won’t go in the ocean. And if you don’t want to swim in front of the whole world—fine. But you’re not allowed to hide from me."

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. "Sebastian—"

"You love swimming." His said, low and steady, like he was stating an irrefutable truth. "I know you do. And back here, it's just me and you."

You swallowed, your throat tightening.

"Sebastian, it’s not that simple—"

"Why not?"

You inhaled sharply, feeling the words clog in your throat. Because I don’t want you to look at me like everyone else does.

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to keep your gaze locked on his. "Because it just isn’t."

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was barely holding something back.

"That’s not an answer."

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "It’s the only one I’ve got."

For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes dark, searching, unreadable. Then, before you could react, before you could argue or stop him, he stepped closer, reaching for your wrist again.

"Could you, for once in your life, not argue with me?"

He said it with his usual teasing tone, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You sighed.

"Fine."

Sebastian blinked, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to agree.

You barely expected it yourself.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence between you stretching taut.

Then slowly, reluctantly, he let go before finally turning toward the pool and lowering himself into it. The water lapped around his waist as he submerged himself, stretching his arms out with a satisfied sigh.

"The temperature is perfect," he announced. "Trust me, you’re going to love it."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, stomach churning as you reached for the tie at your waist.

This was a mistake.

Your fingers fumbled with the knot, hesitating. Your pulse pounded in your ears. You regretted this already. The bikini—the one you had somehow convinced yourself was a good idea when you bought it—was bright fucking yellow.

Unmissable. Unavoidable. A beacon of self-inflicted torment.

What the hell had you been thinking?

You should have picked something darker, something less obnoxious, something that wouldn’t make you feel like every single part of you was on display.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, floating lazily on his back, watching you. "You’re thinking too hard again."

You clenched your jaw. Your fingers curled around the fabric, tight, hesitant. This was stupid. This was so, so stupid.

But he was watching you. Not impatiently. Not expectantly.

Just waiting.

And that was the only reason you finally, finally pulled at the knot.

The cover-up slipped from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. Immediately, your stomach flipped, your arms twitching with the immediate urge to cover yourself, to retreat, to run—

But then, slowly, deliberately, Sebastian let his feet drop beneath him, standing fully in the water. His gaze dragged over you. Slow. Lingering.

"Sebastian—"

"Yellow."

"What?"

His lips curled slightly, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Your swimsuit. It’s yellow."

Your face burned. "No shit."

Sebastian hummed, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. "It suits you."

Your breath caught.

"Are you coming in or what?" he murmured.

Your throat felt tight.

"Yes."

You forced your legs to move, stepping toward the pool’s edge as if you were approaching a cliff, bracing for the drop.

Every sensation was amplified—the way your thighs brushed together, the curve of your stomach, the stretch marks etched across it. The way your skin dimpled, the way your body moved, the way there was no concealing any of it.

Sebastian was still watching. You felt the weight of his gaze, and it took everything in you not to cross your arms over yourself as you stepped onto the first stair.

The cool water lapped at your ankles. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move faster, descending step by step, letting the water claim you inch by inch.

By the time it reached your waist, you exhaled, relief flooding through you.

Safe. At least partially.

Sebastian had shifted slightly, leaning back against the edge of the pool, elbows braced along the tiled rim.

"See?" he drawled, tilting his head slightly. "Not so bad, is it?"

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus on the water instead of the fact that you were sitting in a bright fucking yellow bikini with Sebastian watching you like you were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Easy for you to say," you muttered. "You’re not the one out here feeling like a goddamn highlighter."

Sebastian’s laugh was quiet, warm. "I don’t know," he mused. "I think you make a pretty good highlighter."

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. "Shut up."

"I’m serious."

"You’re messing with me," you muttered, dragging your fingers through the water, watching as the ripples lapped against his arm.

"I’m not," he said, and something about the quiet certainty in his voice made you hesitate.

Your breath hitched as you lifted your gaze to his.

The teasing was gone. His expression was steady, unreadable, but there was something beneath it—something weighty, something real.

Heat crept up your neck, prickling despite the cool water surrounding you. The moment felt too heavy, too close, pressing in on you in a way you weren’t ready for. So, you did what you always did when you felt yourself slipping—deflected.

"Stop looking at me like that," you scoffed.

Sebastian didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady, focused in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then, finally, he asked, “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

“About... feeling like a consolation prize?”

Your stomach lurched. “Sebastian—”

“Did you mean it?”

You let out a breath, gaze flicking away as you trailed your fingertips absently through the water. “It’s not exactly something I pulled out of thin air.”

He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening where his arms braced along the pool's edge.

“So that’s a yes."

You glanced back at him, at the tight set of his jaw, at the way his fingers flexed against the tiles, like he was reining something in.

“Why does it matter?” you asked.

Sebastian let out a short, humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair before tipping his head back against the pool's rim. “Because it’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

You blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

Sebastian huffed, shaking his head, his eyes sliding back to yours, darker now. “I mean, do you honestly think no one looks at you like... like you're all they bloody want?”

You frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “Sebastian—”

“I’m serious.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “You think no one’s wanted you? No one’s looked at you and thought about what it’d be like to have you under them, or against them, or—”

“Sebastian!” Your face burned, heat spreading like wildfire from your chest to the very tips of your ears.

It wasn’t like you and Sebastian had never talked about sex before—you’d been best friends for over ten years. You’d sat beside him while he’d swapped crude jokes with Garreth, rolled your eyes at his commentary when Imelda complained about whatever hopeless bloke she was entertaining that week, even endured drunken late-night conversations about past flings and failed dates when the two of you had stayed out too long at the pub.

But never—not once—had you talked about it so blatantly.

Because discussing sex in general was one thing. Listening to Sebastian drunkenly mock some disastrous one-night stand was one thing. But this—this was him, talking about you, saying your name in the same breath as under them, against them—

The thought too much, too impossible, too close to something you’d spent the last decade trying to bury so deep it could never surface.

It was unbearable. Unthinkable. Because you knew if you let yourself really hear him, if you let yourself linger on those words, on that voice murmuring them so low and rough, then you would—

You would implode.

So instead, you reacted, your body moving on instinct, on sheer mortified desperation.

Your hand shot forward, cutting through the water as you splashed hard in his direction, your heart slamming against your ribs as you tried to drown out the image of Sebastian's mouth, the sound of his voice, the way he had said it—

The water hit him square in the face, droplets clinging to his dark hair, his skin glistening beneath the late afternoon sun.

Sebastian blinked, expression shifting from intense to something unreadable as he wiped a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“What the hell was that?”

Your breath came out shaky, your skin too hot, your arms twitching with the urge to cover yourself, to disappear.

“You can’t—you can’t just say shit like that!” you managed, your voice bordering on frantic, your pulse hammering so violently you thought it might shake you apart.

Sebastian’s brows lifted, his face still dripping. “Why not?”

“Because!"

“Look, ’m just saying,” he said, voice rougher now, lower, “that you might want to reconsider your stance.”

Your mouth opened, then closed, because Sebastian wasn't done.

“I hear the things guys say about you.” His gaze flickered over your face, then lower—just for a moment, just enough to make your stomach flip. “I hear the things they want to say to you all the fucking time."

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like you were sinking despite being fully buoyant in the water.

“...What are you talking about?”

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. "At work. When we go out. The pubs, the shops, wherever we are. Doesn’t matter." His gaze flickered over you, something simmering behind it. "I hear it."

Your pulse spiked.

“The only reason you don’t hear the shit they say about you is either because they know better,” he said, voice almost bitter. “Because they know you’d hex them into next week if they ever let you hear it. Or—”

Sebastian let out another low laugh, shaking his head.

“Because I scare them off.”

“You... what?”

Sebastian gave you a look, like it was obvious. “I scare them off.”

You just stared at him.

“You think it’s a coincidence no one approaches you when we go out?”

You felt your breath falter, your hands balling into fists at your side. "You’re making that up."

"I promise you," he asked, tipping his head slightly. " I’m not."

You swallowed thickly, your pulse hammering. “That can't be true—”

Sebastian’s jaw ticked. "I know it for a fact. And I can tell you exactly what they say, if you really want to know.”

You clenched your jaw, pressing your lips together, but it didn’t matter—because Sebastian kept going.

“They talk about your ass, how it moves when you walk, how they’d kill to get their hands on it, the kind marks they'd leave if they got the chance.”

You felt burning heat creep up your spine.

“They talk about your tits,” he went on, his eyes flickering over you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “How full they are, how they sit just right, how fucking soft they look, how they’d kill to watch them move if you rode them."

His voice dipped lower, rougher. “They talk about the way your stomach curves when you sit, how they know you’d feel so fucking good under their hands, under their weight.” His jaw ticked, his fists tightening until his knuckles went white. “How they’d bury their face between your legs and press their hands against your waist and feel all of you.”

You felt your pulse hammering, your entire body caught somewhere between stunned disbelief and mortification.

“And your mouth,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Merlin, they talk about your mouth—that sharp fucking wit of yours that makes them either want to win you or get on their knees for you.”

You made a strangled noise in the back of your throat. Your arms twitched with the immediate, desperate urge to cover yourself, to run, to deny, deny, deny—

“I know the world is fucked,” he admitted. “And it sure as hell isn’t fair to women like you. But just because you’re not plastered across a fucking Quidditch magazine doesn’t mean you’re not wanted.” His voice was softer now, but no less intense. “Doesn’t mean men don’t look at you and think about fucking you senseless."

Your breath came out uneven, your heart hammering against your ribs as Sebastian’s words settled around you like something heavy, something undeniable.

But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You refused to believe it.

You shook your head, forcing your voice to come out.

“You’re just—” You exhaled sharply. “You’re just trying to make a point.”

“A point?”

“Yes,” you insisted shakily. “Because you’re frustrated with me, and you hate when I don’t believe you, so you’re just—” You shook your head, your throat tightening. “You’re making a point!"

Sebastian’s jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring slightly. “You really think I’d make all this up?”

You swallowed thickly, your stomach twisting into itself. “Okay, maybe you’re not making it up entirely,” you admitted, voice quieter now, unsure, searching. “Maybe they do say those things, but that doesn’t mean I’m what they want.”

Sebastian frowned, his brows drawing together like he couldn’t believe you were still pushing this.

“I’m what they go for when what they really want isn’t available,” you pressed, voice bitter, thick with something sharp and worn down. “I’m the one they settle for.”

Sebastian stilled. The air changed. His expression darkened, a muscle jumping in his jaw as something sharp flashed behind his eyes. Then he moved—

Closer. Slow. Deliberate.

The water shifted around you, rippling, the cool contrast of it doing nothing to temper the heat pressing into the space between you, heat that came from him.

He loomed, his shadow blocking out the sun, his presence so much heavier now.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice low, tight. “You want to argue? Let's argue."

Sebastian’s brown eyes flickered over you, intent, his focus sharp, almost cutting. “If that were true,” he continued, voice rough, firm, “if guys were only settling for you, then why have I spent years scaring them off?”

“You—” You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding, forcing yourself to lift your chin, to meet his stare head-on. “Because you’re... territorial.”

Sebastian snorted, something dark and frustrated flickering across his face. “Why do you think that is?”

“Because you’re my best friend,” you shot back, shaking your head, like that explained everything. “Because you're you!”

Sebastian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “If you really think that’s all it is,” he muttered, voice thick with exasperation, “that it's because I'm your friend, then you’re fucking delusional.”

Your stomach flipped, something deep in your ribs twisting, recoiling.

“Then maybe it’s because you don’t trust them,” you argued, voice more desperate now, more pleading. “Men can be pricks, Sebastian, you know that.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, they can,” he agreed, his voice rougher now. “But that’s not why.”

“Sebastian—”

“You really think I’d waste my time running off blokes if I thought they weren’t serious?” His voice was incredulous now, like he was talking to someone being insufferable. “For Merlin's sake, I know the things they say about you, and I know they fucking mean it because I’ve said the same shit!”

The world tilted. Your heart stopped. Something in your chest lurched, your breath coming out too shallow, too thin, like your lungs had forgotten how to work, like your ribs had locked up, trapping something inside of you that was too big, too impossible to comprehend.

Sebastian just looked at you. Unwavering. Unshaken. Like he hadn’t just ripped open the very fabric of your reality and upended a decade’s worth of carefully constructed walls, of every defense mechanism you had ever built to keep this exact thing from happening.

“No.”

The word was instant, instinctive, ripped from you like it had been lodged in your throat, an immediate act of defense, of self-preservation.

Sebastian’s brows furrowed, the muscle in his jaw twitching slightly.

“No?” he repeated, his voice edged with something that almost sounded offended.

Your head shook before you could even stop it, panic rising fast, too fast, crashing through you like a wave you hadn’t braced for.

“No,” you repeated, voice higher, tighter, desperate. “That’s not true, it can't be true, you—”

Sebastian let out a sharp breath, his jaw tight, his nostrils flaring slightly as he shook his head. Then he laughed—a short, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes, a huff of sheer disbelief as stared down at you.

“Do you really think I would say this if it weren’t true?”

His voice was low, unwavering—something dangerous simmering beneath the surface, something unyielding, something that said enough.

You could see it in the way his fingers curled into fists beneath the water, in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his throat bobbed like he was forcing the words out, pushing past something that had been buried for too long.

“You’re just—” You swallowed. “You’re just saying that—”

"—No. I have always wanted you."

Sebastian’s voice was rough, edged with something aching, something raw, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth, like he couldn’t believe you were making him say this.

"For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, "I was in love with you at sixteen, and I have been every damn day since.”

Your breath came out uneven, barely a whisper. “Sebastian—”

"I don’t know where you got it in your head that you’re supposed to look like you did when we were kids, but yeah," His jaw clenched. "We’ve changed. And I, as you so aptly pointed out, have eyes—so yeah, you’re right." His brown eyes flickered over you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I do see it. I know you don’t weigh 130 fucking pounds anymore," he continued, voice rougher now, firmer. "And I am fucking thrilled."

You stiffened. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs had shrunk around your lungs.

"Do you want to know why?" His voice dropped lower, something dark flickering behind his eyes.

Your mouth was too dry to answer, but it didn’t matter. Because he kept going.

"Because every single thing you seem to hate about yourself ruins me," he bit out, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was physically restraining himself. "You have no fucking idea how many nights I’ve spent thinking about this," he admitted, voice rough. "Thinking about you."

You were so hot now it felt like you were burning alive, fire coursing through your veins and settling low in your stomach, thick and dangerous.

“I’ve thought about your thighs around my waist.” Sebastian's voice was lower now, almost reverent. “How you’d taste when I spread them apart. How you’d feel pressed against me.”

Your legs clenched instinctively beneath the water.

“I’ve thought about your ass in my hands.” Sebastian shifted, his brown eyes flickering lower, dark and intense. “How it’d feel to have you in my lap, to make you ride me until you forget your own fucking name.”

“And your tits.” He licked his lips, tiling his head back slightly. “They fucking kill me. I mean, god, you were pretty before, but now? Now, they’re full and heavy and fucking perfect, and all I’ve ever wanted is to get my mouth on them."

Your breath came out shaky, your arms twitching like you needed to hold yourself together.

“Merlin, I have spent years trying to behave,” His voice turned almost gritted, like the words were physically pulling something out of him. Hhe muttered, his voice lower now, darker. “But you—fuck, you have no idea how hard it is when you’re standing here looking like this—”

His gaze dragged over you, hungry, slow, like he was devouring every inch of exposed skin, every soft curve, every part of you, like he had spent years looking and wanting, and now that the words were out in the open, he refused to hold back.

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” he admitted, voice lower now, rougher. “I’ve really fucking tried to keep this in. To pretend I don’t notice, to keep my mouth shut, to respect that you don’t see me that way, that you don’t want me that way.”

Sebastian’s brown eyes flickered over you, dark and certain. “But now I find out that you won’t even step in the water because you think you don’t look good enough?” His voice was sharper now, like the words were physically pulled out of him. “That you think you need to hide?! When you look this fucking good?! It's a crime."

The world wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

Not when Sebastian was standing there, saying these things. Not when the same voice you had spent years aching over, pining for, was suddenly confessing all the things you had only ever dared to dream about in your weakest, most hopeless moments.

It was impossible. It was wrong. Not because you didn’t want it to be true, but because it couldn’t be. Because you had spent years overhearing men talk about other women like this.

Women they wanted. Women who fit the mold of desirable, women they admired, lusted after, fantasized about.

You had listened to Garreth wax poetic about Quidditch players, about girls with long legs and sharp features. You had heard Imelda talk about the men who trailed after her, about how they couldn’t help themselves, about how they looked at her like she was something worth having.

But never you. Never you.

So hearing it now—like this, in Sebastian’s voice, in Sebastian’s gaze, in the way his words hit you like a blow straight to the chest—

You felt dizzy, lightheaded, the words pressing against you, into you, wrapping around your ribs, curling low in your stomach, twisting and knotting and refusing to let go.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, his voice hoarse, desperate in a way you had never heard before. “Say something,” he muttered, “Please."

You couldn’t. You couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your lungs squeezing tight as your mind raced, as your body fought to catch up to what was happening.

How could you accept that the same boy who had haunted your every dream, every stupid little fantasy, every sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling with want pressed into your bones— How could you accept that he had been living through the same thing?

Sebastian let out another low, frustrated breath.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice gritted, dark. “Let me make this absolutely clear.”

Then, suddenly, he moved, fast. Aand deliberate.

The water swelled around you as he closed the distance in an instant, surging forward with a force that sent ripples crashing against your skin. Before you could react, his hands were on you—gripping your waist, anchoring you in place. His fingers pressed firm and unyielding against the soft curve of your sides, holding you steady, pulling you closer until there was nothing left between you.

Every inch of him was flush against you—solid, warm, inescapable. You could feel the tension in his body, the quiet strength beneath the water, the way his fingers dug in, pressing, gripping—possessive in a way that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Sebastian’s breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling hard against yours. His jaw was clenched tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin, and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but gravel and heat.

“You feel that?”

"Feel wha—oh."

Oh.

Heat flooded your face, your pulse hammering, your skin burning. Because fuck, he was hard. Right there—there—pressed against your stomach, undeniable proof that every word he had just said wasn’t just frustration, wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment reassurance, wasn’t just a desperate attempt to make you see.

It was real.

It was so fucking real.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, strained. “That.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Your thoughts tangled, scrambled, lost somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, deeper—something that made your fingers twitch against his shoulders, your breath come quicker, your body suddenly hyperaware of every single point where you touched.

But then he went rigid. And suddenly—too suddenly—his hands dropped from your waist.

The moment he stepped back, the absence of him was like a shock to your system, your body instantly missing the heat, the weight, the certainty of him pressed against you.

Sebastian ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, his jaw clenching.

"I—fuck. I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Sebastian let out a sharp, humorless laugh, but it sounded frustrated, almost self-loathing, his expression twisting like he was kicking himself for losing control.

“That was—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head again. “That was out of line. I’m sorry.”

Your pulse pounded, your skin still burning where he had touched you, still hyperaware of every place your bodies had been pressed together.

He was still so close. You could still feel the ghost of him. But Sebastian wouldn’t look at you.

His brown eyes flickered away, somewhere over your shoulder, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you again but was physically forcing himself not to.

“I know you don’t feel the same,” he said, his voice gritted, like he was forcing the words out despite the fact that they physically hurt him. “I know you never have.”

Your heart lurched in your chest, but he kept going.

“I mean, how could you?” His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you again. “It’s been ten years, for fuck’s sake. You’ve never—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t expect you to just, just change your mind.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your mind was reeling. Because what the fuck was he talking about?

You didn’t feel the same? You had never felt the same?

It was so absurd, so absolutely mad, that you actually laughed—a short, startled sound of pure disbelief, because he could not be serious.

Sebastian’s head snapped up at the sound, his eyes narrowing, his entire body going tense. "What?"

You shook your head, still breathless, still dizzy, heat and disbelief and something else—something sharp—twisting in your chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you demanded, voice thin, incredulous. “You think I don’t want you back?!”

Sebastian stiffened then rolled his eyes, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were even trying to argue this. “Oh, come on.”

“No—no, you come on,” you shot back, your hands lifting out of the water, gesturing sharply. “Do you hear yourself right now? Do you actually believe that? You think I—” You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Merlin’s sake, Sebastian, are you insane?”

Sebastian’s nostrils flared, frustration flashing across his face. “I don’t know, am I? Because for years, you—”

“For years, I have been in love with you, you dolt,” you snapped, cutting him off.

The words rang between you, loud and final.

Sebastian froze. His breath stopped. His brown eyes went wide.

For a long, weighted beat, neither of you moved. The only sound was the water lapping gently around you, the distant crash of the waves against the shore, the sharp thud of your pulse in your ears.

Sebastian’s mouth parted slightly, his breath coming out uneven. His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse. “...are you serious?”

With a surge of boldness that felt almost foreign, you stepped forward, closing the space between you. Your hands found his waist, fingers curling tight, anchoring him in place as if daring him to move, to run, to deny what was right in front of him.

You tilted your chin up, locking onto his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“Sebastian, for ten fucking years, I have been in love with you.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in, grasping, clinging, and Sebastian let out a low, desperate sound against your lips. His grip shifted, one hand sliding up your spine, pressing against your bare skin, holding you there, anchoring you to him.

And the other—fuck.

His fingers skimmed down your hip, tracing the soft curve of your side before sliding lower, gripping your ass with a reverence that made your stomach flip. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of you beneath his hands. Like he had dreamed of this—fantasized about this—but never allowed himself to take it.

A quiet, breathless whimper slipped from your lips, and the moment it reached him, Sebastian groaned into your mouth. His hands tightened, his hold possessive, his body pressing against yours, solid and burning and real. You could feel everything—the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his body, the tension coiling beneath every touch, every breath.

He was shaking. Like he was barely holding himself together. Like he was one second away from losing control.

And honestly—

So were you.

Your fingers slid into his wet hair, tangling, tugging just slightly, and Sebastian moaned. His grip flexed, his breath hitched—and then he moved.

In one swift motion, his hands pressed against the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly as he backed you against the edge of the pool, pinning you there, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild as he hovered over you.

“Fuck.” His voice was low, rough, like it had been dragged over gravel.

Those dark, hungry brown eyes locked onto yours, burning with something thick and dangerous, something that sent heat licking up your spine and pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers flexed against your skin.

“Do you want to get out of this bloody pool?”

Your breath hitched. The weight of the question slammed into you, wrapping tight around your ribs and squeezing. Because this wasn’t about getting out of the water. This was about what came next.

Sebastian knew exactly what he was asking. And, Merlin help you, you knew exactly what you were answering.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering, fingers twitching against the bare skin of his shoulders.

“Yes,” you murmured.

Sebastian inhaled sharply. His grip tightened. And then he was lifting you, strong hands braced beneath your thighs, guiding you up onto the ledge. The water sluiced off your skin, the cool air shocking against the heat burning through you.

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling, heart slamming against your ribs.

He stayed in the water, hands still on you, grip firm, unwavering.

His gaze roamed.

You knew exactly what he saw.

Your thighs, still slick from the water, parted where he had positioned you. Droplets clung to the soft curve of your stomach, catching in the dimming sunlight, tracing slow, deliberate paths down to the plush flesh of your hips, slipping lower—between your legs. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the thin, taut fabric of your bikini stretching over the swell of your breasts, highlighting every dip, every line, every part of you he had spent years trying not to look at.

His hands left your thighs for only a second. Just long enough for him to hoist himself out of the water in one fluid motion, muscles flexing, skin dripping, water cascading down his chest and stomach—catching on the waistband of his swim trunks, pooling at his feet.

And fuck, he was beautiful.

You barely had time to process before he was reaching for you again—one hand extended, palm open, waiting.

You placed your hand in his and then he pulled. Not gentle. Not soft. Claiming.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled forward, but before you could find your footing, his grip shifted, and before you could think, before you could question, he was dragging you across the deck—his grip firm, his pace unforgiving. Like he had already decided. Like nothing—not a single fucking thing—was going to get in his way.

Your heart pounded as he led you straight to the lounge chairs, his breathing heavy, uneven.

Your thighs hit the edge of the lounge, and suddenly, there was nowhere left to go. Nowhere but down.

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse hammered. Because—fuck—this was happening.

You sank onto the chair. Sebastian followed. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No pause to let you catch up.

He just moved.

Climbing over you. Caging you in. Settling between your legs, his hands braced on either side of you, thighs pressing against yours—the weight of him hovering just above, heavy, consuming.

Dripping water.

Dripping heat.

Dripping desperation.

His gaze dropped, drinking you in—your parted lips, your heaving chest, your bare stomach, the mess of your thighs spread open beneath him, the fabric of your bikini clinging to wet skin.

"Tell me you want this." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper, his fingers pressing into your waist, grounding himself in you. "Because if you don’t, if I’m wrong, I need to fucking stop before I—"

"You’re not wrong," you interrupted, breathless. "You have never been more right about anything in your entire life."

Sebastian huffed a laugh, and in the next breath, his lips crashed against yours, claiming, taking, devouring. It was rough, messy, all instinct. All heat.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers flying up to his hair, tangling in the damp curls, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing more. Sebastian groaned, low and wrecked, shifting his weight, pressing against you, forcing you to sink further into the lounge chair.

His hands were everywhere, hot and demanding, tracing the dips and curves of your body like he was mapping them out after years of pretending they weren’t his to touch. His fingers pressed into your waist, sliding over the soft curve of your stomach, his grip firm, reverent, like he needed to feel every inch of you beneath him.

“God,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, strained. “You feel so fucking good.”

You let out a quiet, desperate sound, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging slightly, and Sebastian growled, low and wrecked, pressing his hips harder against you, grinding down just enough to let you feel exactly what you were doing to him.

Your head tipped back, a gasp breaking free, and Sebastian wasted no time, his lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat, hot and wet.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, voice dark. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your stomach clenched, your entire body burning, too hot, too much, and you didn’t even realize you were saying his name until his teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath your ear and you whimpered it, breathless and wanting.

Sebastian groaned, his hands flying to your thighs, gripping tight, spreading them wider beneath him, pressing himself between them, flush against you. His lips dragged lower, down the slope of your shoulder, his hands skimming higher, fingers teasing at the strings of your bikini top.

"Please," he muttered, voice thick, unsteady. "Let me see you."

You nodded.

Sebastian sat back on his knees. His breath came out heavy, uneven, as his eyes dragged over you—taking in the way you looked beneath him, sprawled out, wet, wanting.

His jaw tensed, and then slowly, carefully, his fingers found the ties of your bikini top.

Your breath hitched as he tugged at the strings, the knot loosening, the damp fabric clinging stubbornly for a moment before slipping, before baring you completely to him.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his throat working, his hands freezing where they had been resting against your ribs.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked.

And—Merlin help you—the way he looked at you was like you were something to be worshiped. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you were here, that you were his.

His hands twitched.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, like the words had been ripped straight from his chest.

Heat flooded your face, your entire body burning beneath his gaze. “Sebastian—”

But then his hands were on you, and you couldn’t breathe.

Fingertips, warm and reverent, traced over the breadth of newly exposed skin, slow, unhurried. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, featherlight, teasing, making your breath stutter, making heat coil low in your stomach, before he pressed more insistently, fingers disappearing into the plushness of your breasts.

Sebastian exhaled hard, his pupils blown wide, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he was barely holding himself back.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You’re so soft."

Sebastian cursed again, leaning in to kiss you again, deeper, rougher, his hips pressing into yours, his hands gripping, exploring, memorizing.

Your mind was spinning, your pulse erratic, heat licking at every inch of your body, and fuck, this was happening. This was really happening.

Sebastian’s hands trailed lower, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, gripping them tight before sliding to the ties of your bottoms. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled at them, loosening the fabric with each tug.

They clung stubbornly to your skin for a second before he slid it away, baring you completely beneath him.

Sebastian inhaled sharply.

His eyes traced the soft curve of your stomach, the way the dimming sunlight caught the droplets still clinging to your skin, rolling in slow, lazy paths over your navel, down to the plushness of your hips, the swell of your thighs, settling lower, lower—

His throat bobbed, a sharp inhale shuddering through him as his gaze caught between your legs, at the glistening wet heat of you, already slick, already open for him.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice strained, thick with want. His grip on your thighs flexed, his fingers pressing into soft flesh, kneading, his eyes locked onto you, staring like he was witnessing something divine.

Then, finally, finally, he tilted his head up, his brown eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice wrecked.

"Whose fault is that?" you murmured, gazing up at his though half-lidded eyes.

Sebastian let out a low, strangled sound—somewhere between a groan and a curse—his grip sliding up to your hips, tightening, his fingers flexing against soft flesh like he was grounding himself, steadying himself.

"Mine," he muttered, almost to himself, almost reverent. "All mine."

And then he moved lower.

His lips brushed the inside of your thigh, slow, deliberate, his breath hot against your damp skin. His hands, one on your hip, one on your breast, pressed, kneading, gripping, holding you in place as he trailed his mouth along the sensitive skin.

Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching at your sides, instinct begging you to reach for him, to pull him closer, to demand more.

Sebastian hummed against your thigh, slow and pleased, his lips curling against your skin. “You’ve always had such a sharp mouth,” he murmured, voice like gravel, teasing. “But now? Now, you’re going to be too busy moaning my name to run that pretty mouth.”

And before you could even react, before you could do anything but shudder beneath him, Sebastian’s mouth was on you.

A sharp, breathless sound broke from your lips as his tongue pressed against the slick heat of you, slow and thorough, licking through your folds like he wanted to savor you, consume you.

Sebastian groaned, low and wrecked, his fingers digging into your thighs as he buried himself between them, licking, sucking, devouring like he was a man starved—like he had been waiting for this for years.

Your fingers flew to his hair, tangling in the strands, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing more.

He shuddered, his tongue flicking against your clit, slow and deliberate, before dragging lower, teasing and pressing inside.

A whimper spilled from your lips, your thighs twitching around his head, your entire body trembling at the heat of him, of what he was doing to you.

“You taste so fucking good.” Sebastian muttered, his fingers flexing, holding you open for him, his mouth moving with precision, slow and intentional, like he was mapping you out, memorizing every reaction, every sound, every tiny movement that told him exactly what you liked.

Your hips bucked, your fingers tightening in his curls, and Sebastian let out a sound that was nothing short of filthy, his grip on your thighs tightening before his tongue stroked, pressed, teased—

"Look at you," he rasped, voice thick with something dark, something possessive, something hungry. "Falling apart for me already, hm?"

You let out a desperate, broken sound, your body aching for more, for him, and Sebastian just smirked, grinned, before plunging his fingers inside you, insistent and deep.

Your body jolted, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, the feeling of him inside you. Sebastian groaned at the reaction, his fingers flexing, curling, teasing—spreading you open in the most devastating way.

His mouth was back on you in an instant, tongue flicking over your clit, slow and purposeful, as his fingers worked inside you, stroking, coaxing, ruining.

Your head tipped back, pleasure surging through you, sharp and overwhelming, And this time—

You did moan his name.

Again.

And again.

And then—

“Let me fuck you,” he rasped.

Your breath hitched.

“Wha—”

Sebastian’s grip tightened, his nails digging into your skin just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Answer me,” he repeated, his voice lower this time, more desperate. “Before I forget how to be a gentleman and do it anyway."

You huffed, a flicker of defiance sparking through the haze of pleasure. "How demanding of you," you murmured.

Sebastian's grip flexed against your thighs, his fingers still buried inside you, his mouth hovering just above where you needed him most. His jaw tensed, his pupils dark and blown, his expression twisted with want, with something near desperation.

"Answer me," he repeated, his voice thick with warning as his fingers curled inside you, imploring you to respond.

But you just smirked, still gasping, still wrecked, but unwilling to give in that easily. Sebastian wanted an answer? He could wait.

Your fingers twitched against his shoulders before you moved, pushing yourself up. Sebastian’s gaze flickered up to yours, pupils blown, his lips still slick with you, his hands flexing against your thighs like he knew what you were doing—like he knew you were about to make him suffer.

Good.

You reached for him, your fingers curling around his biceps, pushing him back, and Sebastian let you, let you take, let you flip the balance of control.

Your hands trailed lower, down his chest, his stomach, and then your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his swim trunks.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid, his jaw tight, his hands twitching where they still braced against your thighs.

You smirked, slow and deliberate, tilting your head as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What’s wrong?” you murmured. “You were so talkative a second ago.”

Sebastian let out a breath that was more growl than exhale, his head tipping forward slightly, his entire body coiled like he was barely holding himself back.

Your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his trunks, teasing the band, pulling just slightly.

“Let me see you,” you whispered.

Sebastian stared at you, eyes dark, lips parted, his hands clenching, flexing, aching to touch, to take. Then, without breaking your gaze, he reached down, fingers curling over yours, helping you undo the ties.

Your breath caught when the fabric slid down, when his cock sprang free, hard and thick, flushed and leaking, heavy against his stomach, every inch of him aching, straining.

"Like what you see?" he asked, voice smug despite the raw edge of need in it.

Yes.

You swallowed hard.

"I'm deciding," you managed to shoot back.

Sebastian barked out a laugh—short, strained—before he caught your chin between his slick fingers, tilting your face up, forcing your eyes back to his. "Fucking tease," he muttered.

You arched a brow, smirking, and without breaking eye contact, you leaned in.

Your lips brushed over the flushed, aching tip of him, barely there, just enough to make his entire body shudder, to make him suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

His cock twitched against your mouth, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and you—slowly, deliberately—dragged your tongue across it.

Sebastian jerked, his grip tightening on your chin, his breath stuttering, a low, guttural groan escaping him.

You hummed, pleased with his reaction, with the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, with the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding on.

But you didn’t take him fully. Not yet.

You let your lips trail down his length, your tongue flicking out just enough to taste him, to tease him, your hands smoothing over his thighs, slow, measured, unrushed.

Sebastian groaned, low and dangerous, his grip tangling in your hair, tugging and demanding, his body vibrating with restraint, with the barely leashed need to take control, to take you.

“Enough,” he ground out, his voice a raw, strained command. “Either stop teasing, or I’ll fuck your mouth like I know you want me to.”

Heat flooded your stomach, your entire body pulsing at the sheer dominance in his tone, at the way he looked at you like he was losing his mind, like he was aching to wreck you.

You pulled back just enough to make him groan in frustration, enough to make his fingers flex against your scalp, enough to make his cock twitch in anticipation.

Then you licked your lips, slow and deliberate, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What’s the rush?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, filled with challenge. “I thought you wanted to be a gentleman.”

Sebastian snapped.

A growl rumbled from deep in his chest, his grip shifting as he pushed you back onto the lounge chair, his body pressing against yours, hot and unyielding.

“You really want to test me right now?” he muttered, his voice dark, dangerous, his cock pressing hard and heavy against your stomach.

“Maybe."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, shaking his head, a rough, strained chuckle escaping him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his grip shifting to your thighs, spreading you open for him again, positioning himself exactly where he wanted to be, where you wanted him to be.

His gaze locked onto yours, dark and searing, one last time.

“You’re done teasing,” he rasped, voice raw as he pressed the thick, aching length of himself more firmly against your stomach, teasing, taunting. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

You grinned, fingers curling into the damp mess of his hair, tugging him down to kiss you. His groan vibrated against your lips, his hands clenching against your thighs as you deepened it, licking into his mouth, tasting the desperation there.

And then, you shifted beneath him, twisting, arching—attempting to flip yourself over, to press your chest to the lounge, to give him the perfect view of your ass as you braced yourself on your forearms.

But before you could turn completely, Sebastian’s hands flew to your waist, stopping you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering through the haze of heat as you turned to look at him, your breath coming in short pants. “Sebastian—”

He shook his head, softly, slowly, like he wasn’t rejecting you—like he was pleading with you.

“No, don't,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but suddenly softer.

Your brow furrowed, eyes searching his. "Don’t?"

Sebastian's lips curved into a small, strained smile, one hand reaching to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

"As much as I love your ass," he admitted, his jaw tightening as his gaze dipped, sweeping over the soft curves of your body—lingering, wanting. "And as much as I’d love to see it against my hips, to watch myself sink into you, to see the way your back arches, to hold onto these soft, perfect fucking hips and bury myself so deep—”

His voice broke, his breath coming out sharp, shuddering.

“That's not what I want, not for our first time.”

Your stomach flipped, something warm and devastatingly tender blooming in your chest, twisting around your ribs.

Sebastian sighed, his grip on your face tightening just slightly, his gaze flickering back up to yours, something raw, vulnerable shining behind the wrecked hunger in his eyes.

“The first time,” he murmured, voice rough, stripped down, honest. “I want to see you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to watch you come.” His lips ghosted over yours, featherlight, reverent. “Want to see every expression, every little fucking reaction. All of you.”

You swallowed, your breath still unsteady, your body still burning, aching—but the heat had shifted, changed.

This wasn’t just need. It was something more.

His lips brushed over yours, featherlight, his hands framing your jaw like you were something fragile, something precious. "Is that okay?"

Your fingers curled around his wrists, your pulse hammering beneath his touch.

You nodded.

Sebastian exhaled, a breath that felt like it had been trapped inside him for years. Then, so softly—so reverently—he kissed you.

Not like before.

Not feverish. Not desperate. Not a frantic chase of pleasure.

This was different.

This was tender. This was worship.

“I love you,” he said against your lips.

Your hands slid up to his face, cupping his jaw. "I love you too."

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound breathless, almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite process that this was real. That after everything, after years of tension and stolen glances, after all the pushing and pulling, you were here, beneath him, wrapped up in him, saying the words he'd never let himself hope to hear.

His lips found yours again—slow, unhurried, savoring—before he finally shifted, positioning himself exactly where he wanted to be. Where you wanted him to be.

He teased, barely pressing into you, the slick heat of your body driving him to the edge of his restraint. His breath fanned against your lips, uneven, ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

His gaze locked onto yours, dark, devouring, and his voice, when it came, was hoarse.

"Tell me if—if I need to stop."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter, your own lips parting as you whispered, "I will."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip tightening at your waist, anchoring himself to you.

"Keep your eyes on me," he murmured, fingers flexing against your skin, voice rough, edged with something deeper than desire. "I want to see everything."

A shudder ran through you, your breath catching, your pulse hammering beneath the weight of him, the weight of this moment.

Because this wasn’t just need.

This wasn’t just giving in to years of tension.

This was love. A love that burned. That consumed. That settled into your bones and refused to let go.

Then, with a slow, steady roll of his hips, he pushed inside.

Your breath caught, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as he stretched you open, filling you completely, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, until you could feel him in every part of you, until there was nothing between you.

Sebastian shuddered, his grip tightening, his fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of your hips.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice trembling with the weight of his own need. "You—God, you feel unreal."

You clung to him, your hands grasping blindly at his shoulders, his back, needing something to hold onto, needing to ground yourself as pleasure crashed over you in waves, hot and overwhelming.

And Sebastian—God, Sebastian—

His head dipped, his lips brushing against your jaw, the column of your throat, breathing you in, his hands roaming and greedy, mapping every curve, every dip, every soft, yielding part of you like he was memorizing you, like he wanted to brand this moment into his soul.

“Move,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your nails scraping against his skin. “Sebastian—please—"

He didn’t make you wait.

A ragged groan tore from his lips as his hips pulled back, slow and deliberate, before thrusting forward again, deeper, dragging another gasp from your throat as he filled you again and again, his movements measured but devastating.

His lips found yours, desperate, consuming, claiming, swallowing every sound that escaped you, every broken moan, every whispered plea.

And he was watching—just like he said he would.

His gaze flickered over your face, drinking in every expression, every quiver of your lips, every flutter of your lashes, memorizing you.

"You’re so fucking beautiful," he murmured, voice thick with reverence, his hands gliding up your sides, over your ribs and gripping at your breasts.

You whimpered, your body arching into him, your thighs tightening around his waist as he kept moving, slow and deep, dragging out every inch of pleasure, unraveling you entirely.

Heat curled low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter, every shift of his hips, every roll, every stroke against the most sensitive parts of you sending you hurtling closer to the edge.

"Oh god," you moaned, head falling back, tension coiling tighter as he stroked the bundle of nerves inside you, the one that made you see stars, the one that made your entire body tighten around him.

Sebastian let out a wrecked, filthy sound, his hands flexing against your waist, like he was barely holding himself back, like he was trying to keep himself from unraveling too soon—because he wanted to watch you come first.

He moved faster now. Rougher, deeper, every thrust dragging a desperate, broken moans from your lips, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you, sharp and electric, ready to snap.

"Sebastian," you whimpered, your fingers fisting in his curls, your head tilting back, your body begging for release, needing it.

"I've got you," he murmured, breathless, his lips brushing against yours, his movements never faltering, never slowing. His forehead pressed against yours, his voice a ragged whisper. "Let go. Come all over my cock—let me feel it."

And fuck—you did.

Pleasure ripped through you, blinding and all-consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs, the world narrowing to just him, just this, just the way he held you, the way he filled you, the way he worshipped every sound you made.

Sebastian followed you over the edge, his body jerking, his thrusts turning erratic and desperate as he groaned, his fingers digging into your waist, pulling you closer, deeper, until he was buried impossibly deep, spilling inside you, hot and thick and completely undone.

You felt utterly spent, boneless beneath him, warmth pooling in every inch of your body, but you welcomed his weight, the way he sank into you like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was always meant to be.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your chests rising and falling in tandem, your heartbeats thrumming in sync, a quiet, unspoken connection settling between you.

Sebastian finally let out a slow, shaky breath, his lips pressing against your temple, lingering there for a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then, his fingers—still gripping your waist—softened, smoothing over your skin in slow, lazy strokes.

"Holy shit," he murmured, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "That was—"

"Perfect," you finished for him, your voice still breathless, still heavy with everything this was, everything it meant.

Sebastian's lips curled upwards, nudging his nose against yours, his breaths still uneven. "Yeah," he murmured. "Perfect."

You smiled, cupping his jaw and tugging him down for another slow, lingering kiss—one that wasn’t filled with hunger or urgency, but something deeper. Sebastian melted into you, sighing against your lips.

"You're beautiful," he murmured. "You're so fucking beautiful, I'll remind you until the day I die."

You swallowed, your thumb brushing over his cheek as you pulled back, dazed, overwhelmed, utterly wrecked by the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred, something cherished, something he had never once doubted wanting.

“You really believe that?”

Sebastian let out a soft, breathy chuckle against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours, his hands still tracing over your body.

"I don't believe it, I know it," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your lips. "You’re the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Another kiss.

"Perfect, really."

Another.

"Always have been."

Your chest tightened, your stomach twisting, something thick and overwhelming settling in your throat. Because God, you had spent so long believing you weren’t enough—so long shrinking yourself, making yourself smaller, convincing yourself that someone like him could never want you like this.

But he did.

He always had.

And now, with his body wrapped around yours, with the heat of him still lingering between your thighs, with the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—it was undeniable.

It had always been you.

A shaky breath left your lips, and you smiled—small, but real—your fingers tracing over the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the tension there, feeling the way he was holding himself together, barely, just for you.

"I love you," you whispered, and God, it felt good to say it again. To let it out. To give it weight. "I will for the rest of my life—" your thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth, and you grinned, "and after that too. I'll fucking haunt you, Sebastian Sallow."

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him, and his head dropped, his forehead pressing against yours. "Good," he murmured, his voice warm and teasing but full of something deeper, something raw. "Because you're mine. Completely stuck with me."

You huffed a quiet laugh, fingers threading through his curls, nails scraping gently against his scalp.

"Obviously," you mused, voice still breathless. "I can feel you dripping down my thighs right now."

Sebastian groaned, deep and wrecked, his grip on you tightening like he physically couldn't handle what you'd just said. His forehead still rested against yours, but you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his fingers flexed against your hips, like he was resisting the urge to do something about it.

"Fuck," he muttered, and his breath was hot against your lips, his nose brushing yours. "Don't say shit like that unless you're ready for round two."

You smirked, utterly sated, utterly pleased with yourself, your body still thrumming with euphoria. Your hands trailed lazily down his back.

"Who said I wasn't?"

He groaned, half in frustration, half in amusement, and buried his face against the crook of your neck. "You have no idea how badly I want to," he admitted, voice muffled against you, breath hot and uneven. "But I’m pretty sure I have nothing left to give you."

You giggled, running your fingers through his sweat-damp curls, tugging lightly just to feel him groan.

"Nothing?" you teased.

"Love," he mumbled. "I think I came enough for three sessions in one. My soul left my fucking body at some point."

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh. "Sebastian Sallow, surrendering? What in Merlin's name am I hearing right now?"

He groaned again, lifting his head to glare at you—though the effect was utterly ruined by the small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not surrendering," he argued. "I'm just acknowledging that I may need to recover before you completely break me."

You laughed outright this time, the sound bright and breathless, warmth blooming in your chest at the sheer wreckage of him.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "Give me, like, ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."

"You might as well use that time wisely, then," you mused, voice teasing, but laced with something softer, something full.

Sebastian hummed against your skin, pressing a lazy, absentminded kiss to your collarbone. "Mmm, and how’s that?"

You smirked. "By cleaning me up. Preferably with your tongue.”

A low, wrecked sound rumbled from his chest, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and suddenly his grip on your waist tightened.

"You're killing me," he muttered, his breath hot against your skin.

You grinned. "Am I?"

Sebastian lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils still blown wide, his expression caught somewhere between utterly ruined and utterly obsessed with you.

"You are," he admitted, voice rough, hoarse, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your hip. "Because now I have to."

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Oh? Have to?"

His lips curved into a smirk, dark and lazy. "You asked me to," he murmured, voice dipping into something dangerous, something possessive. "And I'm a very considerate boyfriend."

You arched a brow, amusement flickering in your expression as you lifted your head slightly to meet his gaze.

"Boyfriend?" you mused, voice teasing, but beneath it was something softer, something real. "When did that happen?"

Sebastian blinked, then scoffed, like you had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"Merlin’s balls, woman," he muttered, shaking his head as he let his weight settle more firmly against you. "You just let me fuck you into a patio chair, told me you’d haunt me, that you've loved me since we were sixteen, and now you’re questioning whether I’m your boyfriend?"

You grinned. "Well," you drawled, tilting your head, feigning deep thought. "You never asked."

Sebastian groaned, dropping his forehead onto your chest like he physically couldn’t handle you right now. "Unbelievable."

"You’re the one making assumptions," you teased.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze again, and there was something fond in his expression, something soft beneath all that exhaustion and wreckage.

"Alright," he murmured, voice low, hoarse. "Be my fucking girlfriend."

You huffed out a laugh, amused, delighted. "Wow, so romantic."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched upward. "Please be my fucking girlfriend," he corrected, smirking as he trailed a hand down your thigh, fingers teasing, possessive. "Though, given the fact that I've also loved you for a decade, and the fact that I’m about to devour you, I’d say the answer’s pretty obvious."

Your breath hitched slightly, your amusement shifting into something warmer, something deeper, something that curled low in your stomach.

But you weren’t going to let him off that easy.

"Hmm," you hummed, running your fingers down his back, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, enjoying the way he shuddered beneath your touch. "I don’t know..."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, his smirk turning wicked, dangerous. "You don’t know?" he echoed, voice dipping low, teasing, edged with something predatory.

You grinned, thoroughly pleased with yourself, fingers still lazily tracing patterns down his back. "Mmm. Maybe you should convince me."

A deep, wrecked groan rumbled from his chest, and his grip on your thigh tightened. "You really don’t know when to quit, do you?"

You shivered beneath him, your breath catching, anticipation coiling in your stomach. You opened your mouth—maybe to challenge him, maybe to tease him further—

A sharp click rang through the air, the unmistakable sound of the gate latch unlatching.

Sebastian froze.

You froze.

Then—

"OH MY GOD."

You barely had time to process before a chorus of voices erupted from behind you, overlapping in shock, amusement, and sheer disbelief.

"Finally!"

“Sweet Merlin—”

"No fucking WAY."

"I cannot bloody believe this!"

Sebastian flinched, his entire body going rigid, his head snapping up so fast you thought he might injure himself.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat as you followed his gaze toward the entrance of the secluded deck—where your friends stood, frozen, their expressions ranging from amusement to absolute agony.

Poppy had both hands clapped over her mouth, her wide eyes darting everywhere but you. Natty looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or leave the country. Garreth, the absolute menace, was grinning like he'd just won the lottery, nudging Imelda—who was looking at the two of you like she was seconds away from hexing you both for subjecting her to this.

And then—

"Thank fucking Merlin I'm blind," Ominis declared, his expression nothing short of relieved, even as his face twisted in mild disgust. "This was the single greatest blessing Salazar ever granted me."

Sebastian dropped his head onto your shoulder, his damp hair sticking to your skin. His breath hitched—somewhere between a groan and barely-contained laughter—as you immediately scrambled to cup your breasts with frantic desperation.

Mercifully, blessedly, he was still positioned between your legs, hiding the most damning evidence from your group of unwitting, horrified spectators.

"Fuck," he laughed, voice wrecked, his arms tightening around your waist. "This is so much worse than getting caught by a professor at Hogwarts."

You let out a strangled, humiliated sound. "Sebastian, please, we need to get a towel or—!"

Garreth howled with laughter, his voice ringing loud and delighted over the deck. "We left you alone for an hour," he crowed, "and you two finally decided to stop pining and start—”

"SHUT UP," you and Sebastian both shouted at the exact same time.

Poppy let out a giggle from somewhere behind Garreth, and you could practically hear the barely-concealed amusement in Natty's voice when she muttered, "It's about bloody time."

Imelda groaned. “I just—why here?” She gestured toward the deck, still looking like she wanted to bleach her eyes. “This is communal property!”

“Technically,” Sebastian muttered against your thigh, “we were here first.”

“Oh, so that makes it better?” Imelda practically screeched.

You groaned, feeling the heat of absolute mortification creeping up your neck.

Ominis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care how inevitable it was,” he said, voice utterly flat. “I do care that I now have to suffer through knowing where it happened.”

Poppy giggled behind her hands. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Ominis.”

“You try sharing a living space with Sebastian after this,” he deadpanned.

Sebastian grunted, finally sitting up, his broad frame still angled protectively in front of you, shielding as much of you as he could manage. His hair was a disheveled mess, his expression caught somewhere between resigned acceptance and unapologetic defiance—like a man who had been caught red-handed but had absolutely no regrets.

“Well,” he exhaled, his arm still braced protectively in front of you, still shielding as much of you as he possibly could. “Guess we’re not keeping this a secret anymore.”

Natty snorted, crossing her arms, her smirk barely contained. “You two thought this was a secret?”

Poppy giggled from behind her hands, her eyes still squeezed shut like she wasn’t quite brave enough to risk seeing something scarring. “We’ve known for years.”

Garreth grinned like he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. “I knew you two were in love, but this—” He gestured wildly to the deck, to the situation, to Sebastian still bracing himself between your legs like a human barricade. “This is beyond what I could have ever imagined.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Alright, that's enough commentary from the peanut gallery.”

Imelda scoffed. “Peanut gallery? We walked in on this absolute nightmare! You don’t get to act like we’re the ones inconveniencing you.”

“I do, actually,” Sebastian quipped, deadpan. “You’re the ones interrupting our afterglow.”

Natty’s voice was full of strained patience, but there was no hiding her mirth. "Alright, alright, everyone, let’s give them some space before they die of embarrassment."

"Bit late for that," you muttered under your breath.

There was a collective shuffle of movement, a few muffled laughs, and one last dramatic sigh from Garreth before the door clicked shut behind them. Silence settled over the space, thick and still buzzing with lingering mortification.

Sebastian snorted. "You think they’re ever gonna drop this?"

"Absolutely not," you muttered, knowing full well that the moment you and Sebastian emerged from this, you would never hear the end of it.

And yet—

Somewhere beneath the mortification, beneath the utter embarrassment, there was something else.

Something warm. Something real.

Something that felt like forever.

Sebastian shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you, his brown eyes still twinkling with amusement, but soft, fond, full of something deeper than just humor.

"You still gonna haunt me?" he murmured, smirking.

You huffed a laugh, still hiding against his shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the bare skin there.

"Now more than ever, Sallow."

Banner Credit

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the-atlas-sister · 9 months ago

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I AM TIRED (not tired but bored) OF THE WHOLE “His shirt hung of your petit frame-“ THING IN FANFICTIONS.

I AM NOT PETIT

GOJO SATORU’S SHIRT WILL NOT HANG OFF MY BODY. HIS TINY ASS WAIATLINE WONT BUTTON UP ON MY HIPS

MIKEY’S SHIRTS WILL NOT BE LONG- IM 5’7!

I WANNA SEE HIM BORROWING MY CLOTHES

GIVE ME MORE TALL READERS AND MIDSIZED GIRLS

EVERY BODY IS GORGEOUS BUT I WANNA SEE SOME VARIETY

GIVE ME AS MANY SAGGY BOOBIES AND CHUBBY WAISTS AS THERE ARE PERKY BOOBIES AND WAISTS THAT THE CHARACTER CAN HOLD IN ONE HAND

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #manjiro sano #tokyo rev #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu gojo #geto suguru x reader #tanjiro kamado #tall reader #mid size #mitsuya takashi x reader #mitsuya takashi #gojo satoru smut

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melaninpov · 2 months ago

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Aaron Pierre as Francis in Brother (2022)

#aaron pierre #gif edit #gif repost #francis #terry richmond #mid sized sedan #rebel ridge #brother

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stealingyourbones · 3 months ago

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Demon Twins AU that focuses on the discrimination and bullying that Danny faces from being a kid who appeared out of nowhere, evidently adopted, and is impacted from his reactions to the world as a former League Assassin and the culture shock that would come from it forever imprinted on the minds of his peers and fellow Amity Parkers.

#bones writes in the tags #dpxdc #danny phantom #dp x dc #bones prompts #as someone from a mid tier sized town in the Midwest I can count the amount of people in my high school graduating class that wasn’t white #on one hand. it was a moderate 3 digit amount of students in my graduating class too.#if y’all want to make Danny an identical twin of Damian and view Damian as not white passing #then Danny isn’t either. give him the difficulties that comes with it #children are mean. teenagers are even crueler. I was The Wierd Kid in elementary school (unmedicated severe ADHD)#that affected me for the rest of my schooling and my peers still viewed me as that weird kid because I knew them since I was 6 #that shit doesn’t just go away. because of Danny’s strange attitude and adapting to the violently different culture and social norms #that coupled with the fact that he was adopted by the weird eccentric ghost scientists? living hell.

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mmmilkweed · 3 months ago

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Had dark cacao fucked pure vanilla before shadow milk came into the picture

☺️🤭

#milkweed rants #cacaovanilla is lowkey good if you ignore theyre both mid #at least theres some size difference for my wanting heart

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sevikaslatinawife · 3 months ago

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“I’m tired of seeing —“

Then don’t fucking read it? Don’t complain and ruin it for people that enjoy it? Stfu and keep scrolling because you’re capable of that?

Some of yall act like children.

Don’t see something you wanna read? Pick up a keyboard, make it yourself instead of pestering others to do it for you.

“There isn’t enough Sevika x [BLANK].”

Write it yourself? Maybe people don’t know how to or are comfortable writing something else.

We’re all adults but apparently some of y’all didn’t get that memo.

#sevikaslatinawife thoughts #sevikaslatinawife #yall are weird #sevika arcane #sevika headcanon #sevika #arcane #sevika x y/n #sevika x you #sevika x female reader #sevika x reader #arcane sevika #sevika i love you #sevika x mid sized reader #sevika x plus sized reader #sevika x f!reader smut #sevika my love #sevika comfort

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yardsards · 6 months ago

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absolutely enamored by rose quartz's body type and character design. especially after the pink diamond reveal. like, girl CHOSE to become a fat woman. and everyone around her (rightfully) thought she was incredibly hot for it. queen shit.

#eliot posts #su #steven universe #rose quartz #i could complain that she's the more conventional plus size model body type w curves in the ''''right'''' places #but im not going to #cuz this show came out in the mid 2010s on the tail end of the ''thin is in'' era #anything other than a size 0 being portrayed as attractive was fucking groundbreaking #hell a lot of that fatphobia is still up and kicking #it's still hard to find enough fat characters (at least. that aren't villains or laughingstock) let alone ones portrayed as HOT #anyway iirc seeing rose as a teen straightup made me have a minor sexuality crisis #her first couple episodes didn't do it. like something about her in lion 3 looked Off and i didn't like how her hair was animated #but by the time we got to 'we need to talk' ohhhh boy #she was so fucking pretty the way she looked the way she moved and talked #rewatching that ep as an adult i was still like HELLO

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voicemailfromluke-beep · 13 days ago

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hold me steady.

pair: luke hughes x f!reader ; luke hughes x mid/plus-size!reader

genre: fluff, romance.

warnings: body image mentions (positive), fluff overload, public affection.

summary: after a big win on home ice, luke hughes shares a personal moment during the family skate, making a memory you’ll both never forget.

🍅’s note: okay sooo this is my very first luke x mid/plus size reader fic on this account!! i really hope it brings you even a little bit of the comfort it gave me while writing it. it’s on the shorter side, but still full of love 🫶 shoutout to all my sweet chublets, this one’s for you!!

you always knew being with an nhl player meant a lot of things, weird travel schedules, post-game exhaustion, and a never-ending supply of oversized team hoodies. but what you hadn’t expected was just how much luke would try to include you in every single part of his world, even the ones that made you nervous.

like skating.

especially when you hadn’t put on a pair of skates since your fifth grade field trip to the local rink where you spent more time holding onto the wall than actually moving. so when luke had mentioned the devils’ annual ‘family skate’ night, you had smiled and nodded, assuming it would be something you could watch from the stands.

but now you were standing by the edge of the rink, laced into a pair of borrowed skates that felt two sizes too stiff, clutching the boards like your life depended on it.

“babe,”

luke called, skating up to you with a grin, cheeks still pink from the game.

“you ready?”

you gave him a wide-eyed look.

“i feel like a newborn giraffe.”

he laughed, the sound light and easy.

“good thing i’ve got you.”

he offered you both hands. his gloves were off, fingers calloused as they closed gently around yours. you hesitated for a second, self-conscious, not of him, but of the small group of people still lingering in the stands, phones out, watching. and you knew, somewhere up there, was a camera. always was.

but when you looked back at luke, his face was nothing but so open, so soft and so proud. like he wasn’t dragging his hesitant girlfriend across the ice but showing off the best part of his night.

“okay,” you breathed, squeezing his hands.

he pulled you gently, guiding you step by step. it was wobbly at first. very wobbly. but he never let go.

“you’re doing great, babe.”

he said, forehead nearly pressed to yours from how close he stayed.

you weren’t sure how long you were out there maybe five minutes, maybe ten before the sound system crackled overhead. luke glanced up, then back at you with a sly smile.

“wait here,”

he said, skating backward a few feet but still holding one of your hands. you blinked after him as he grabbed the mic the announcer had been using.

you felt your stomach drop.

“hey guys,”

luke’s voice echoed through the rink, instantly drawing all eyes to him and, unfortunately, to you.

“i just wanted to say thanks for coming out tonight.”

you shifted, wishing you could sink into the ice, but he was still smiling. looking right at you.

“and uh,” he continued, eyes gleaming,

“i wanted to introduce someone really important. this is my girlfriend, y/n.”

he gestured toward you like you were the highlight of the game. you swore the ice melted under your skates.

“she makes every goal worth it. every win better. and, clearly” he chuckled

“she’s braver than me for stepping out here in skates tonight.”

the crowd clapped. some cheered. a few girls behind the glass swooned audibly.

you blinked fast, face hot, heart louder than the speaker system.

when he skated back, you tried to glare at him, but the grin on your face betrayed you.

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“i wanted to,”

he said simply, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“you’re important to me. and i want everyone to know that.”

“even when i’m clinging to you like a terrified toddler?”

“especially then.”

he leaned in, kissing your cheek, your temple, your lips. you forgot all about the ice. the people. the cameras.

because with his arms around you, it didn’t matter what size you were, how you looked, or who was watching.

you were still his.

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes imagines #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes x mid/plus-size reader #luke hughes x f!mid/plus-size!reader #luke hughes fluff #luke hughes series #luke hughes fanfic #l.hughes #lh43 #lh43 x mid/plus-size reader #lh43 x reader

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 4 months ago

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Sex | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

This fucking song and this fucking idea have been floating around in my head for months and I think I just gotta get it out before I go NUTS!!! I hope y'all enjoy.

This is... not very plot driven tbh, just pretty much longing and smut.

Words: ~9,200

Tags: Shameless Smut, Modern AU, Plus/Mid-Size Reader, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Post-Hogwarts, Chonky Seb Supremacy, Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Longing and Pining

The walk to the car is excruciating.

And it’s not because of the crowd, not because of the neon-lit chaos of the parking lot, or because people are weaving between cars, shouting to their friends, the leftover adrenaline from the concert still pulsing through everyone’s veins.

It’s excruciating because of you.

Because you’re tipsy and giggling, clinging to Sebastian’s wrist as you stumble over the uneven pavement in those ridiculous platform heels that you insisted on wearing even though you knew you’d be walking half a mile back to the car.

Because your top is tight—way too tight—clinging in ways that make his pulse skip, the fabric stretching over curves that he’s spent ten fucking years trying not to stare at.

Because your jeans are hugging your thighs like they were painted onto you, and he’s trying so goddamn hard not to think about how good they look, how good you look, how much better you’d look without them.

And then there's your makeup—the dark, sultry eyeshadow, the perfectly lined eyes, the lipstick that started out precise but is now just slightly smudged from sweat, from drinking, from running your tongue over your lips all night.

It’s killing him.

You laugh suddenly, squeezing his arm as you stumble again.

“God, my feet hurt,” you whine dramatically, pressing your forehead against his bicep like the weight of your suffering is too much to bear. “Why the fuck did I wear these?”

Sebastian snorts, steadying you easily. “I asked the same thing when I picked you up, love.”

You lift your head, squinting up at him, cheeks flushed from the alcohol, the heat, the pure, unfiltered joy of the night.

“They make me taller,” you say, lifting one foot and wiggling it mid-air for emphasis before dropping it back down with a clunk.

Sebastian shakes his head, amused but also distracted, too fucking aware of you tonight.

“You’re still short,” he mutters.

Your mouth drops open in mock offence and you shove him, but your balance is shit, so you just end up gripping his arm harder, your nails pressing into his skin.

Sebastian swallows. He feels everything—your warmth, your weight against him, the way your fingers curl slightly against his forearm, the way your perfume is mixing with the sweat on your skin, and fuck—

He clenches his jaw. Keeps walking.

You don’t let go.

“That was such a good show,” you murmur, your breath warm against his shoulder.

Sebastian swallows. Nods. “Yeah.”

Then you tilt your head up at him, narrowing your eyes.

“You’re being so quiet,” you tease, squeezing his arm. “Did you not have fun? You didn’t even get a single drink.”

Sebastian exhales sharply through his nose, smirking just enough to cover the fact that his pulse is pounding.

“Yeah, well. One of us had to drive.”

You laugh, nudging your hip against his.

“Responsible and sexy,” you tease. “God, you really are the whole package, aren't you?”

His throat goes dry.

You always do this when you're tipsy. You get flirty, bolder than usual, pushing boundaries you'll never fully cross. You say things, teasing, reckless things, that curl around his ribs and settle deep into the spaces between them. Things that would mean everything if he thought, even for a second, that you meant them.

But you don't. You never do. By morning, it'll be like it never happened.

You'll wake up, groggy and hungover, your memories softened at the edges, and everything you said, every look and every touch, will be reduce to a joke, and Sebastian will have to pretend it didn't mean anything to him either, just like he always does.

He knows this.

But tonight? Tonight, it’s harder to keep his head on straight.

Because you look like this. Because your boyfriend isn’t here. Because your fingers are wrapped around his arm, and your perfume is still lingering in his lungs, and you keep staring up at him like you’re waiting for him to say something. Like you’re daring him to say something.

Sebastian forces out a low chuckle, looking away.

“Let’s get you in the car, trouble.”

He unlocks it with a quick flick of his keys, grateful for the distraction, for something to do with his hands other than wrap them around your waist and haul you up against him.

He slides into the driver’s seat and barely gets the door shut before you’re groaning dramatically and stretching out.

“Oh my god,” you sigh, reaching down with clumsy fingers to unbuckle your heels. “I swear to Merlin, I think my feet are broken.”

Sebastian smirks, watching as you yank them off one by one, dropping them onto the floor with two loud, echoing clunks.

“Told you,” he mutters, reaching for his seatbelt.

“I don’t need your attitude right now,” you huff, kicking your feet up onto the dashboard before twisting to face him.

Then, before he can even register what’s happening, you shift—leaning over the center console, stretching yourself across his lap like you belong there.

His entire body locks up.

Fuck.

Your hair spills over his legs, soft waves spread over denim, the warmth of you pressed against him. You twist a little, adjusting yourself, completely oblivious to how every tiny shift of your body is undoing him.

Sebastian exhales sharply through his nose, staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity.

“You comfortable?” he mutters.

You hum, smiling lazily, your cheek resting on his thigh.

“Mhm.”

His pulse jumps at the sound, but you’re not even thinking about it, are you? You’re not thinking about what it means, or about how he can feel the heat of your body through his jeans, how desperately he’s trying not to not get hard right now, how much he wants—

He exhales sharply, tilts his head back against the headrest, and fights the urge to slam his fist against the dashboard.

This is going to kill me.

Sebastian puts the car in drive.

Your place is only twenty minutes out of town. All Sebastian has to do is survive you laying across his lap and not get pulled over for the blatant seat belt violation happening right now. Simple.

Except it’s not.

Because every time he shifts gears, he feels you. And every time he exhales, he catches the scent of your shampoo, and because your breath is warm through his jeans, your fingers idly tracing along his thigh like this is just something you do, something normal, something casual, something it absolutely isn’t.

Then you start talking, and part one of his mission—survive you being in his lap—becomes infinitely harder.

“You ever think about your exes?”

Your voice is light, teasing, and the question comes out of nowhere.

Sebastian’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Like who?” he mutters.

You hum, fingertips still lazily dragging patterns over his thigh.

“Emilia?” you guess. “Or what about… what was her name? Harper?”

Sebastian scoffs, his pulse pounding. “Not even a little."

You grin like you don’t believe him. “Not even for the—"

“Don’t.”

You huff a dramatic sigh. “Sebastian, it’s okay if you still think about them.”

“I don’t.”

That’s the truth.

Because he doesn’t think about Emilia. Or Harper. Or any of them. Not when every girl he’s ever been with has only been a placeholder for the one person he can’t fucking have.

You hum. "I miss some of mine."

Sebastian exhales sharply, jaw flexing.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He should not be listening to this, but you keep talking, your voice low, thoughtful, the alcohol making you too loose, too honest.

“I mean, not them, really,” you continue. “Just, like… the sex.”

Sebastian almost veers off the fucking road.

He physically has to adjust his grip on the wheel, blinking hard against the heat that flares in his gut, against the way his brain immediately starts supplying images he shouldn’t be thinking about.

You miss the sex. Not the relationship. Not the romance.

The sex.

“You literally have a boyfriend,” he grinds out, his voice tight.

He hears you exhale, feels you shift slightly in his lap. “So what?”

Sebastian finally glances down at you, just for a second, just to make sure he actually heard you right. Because you can’t be serious.

But you are.

You’re staring at him, lips parted, the distant glow of headlights and streetlamps casting golden light over your face.

Sebastian lets out a short, humorless laugh. “'So what'?” he repeats, shaking his head. “Jesus, you really are drunk.”

You make a small, amused noise, your fingers tapping idly against your thigh.

“I’m not that drunk,” you murmur.

Sebastian exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah?” he mutters. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just meant that some of my exes have been better in bed than him, that's all."

Sebastian hums noncommittally, keeping his eyes on the road, but his grip on the wheel is tight. Because what the fuck is he supposed to do with that information?

On one hand—good. He’d never liked your boyfriend anyway. The guy was mediocre at best, the kind of safe, boring choice you made when you were trying to convince yourself you wanted stability instead of passion. On the other—

Sebastian doesn’t exactly want to hear about how great some other guy’s dick was.

But the damage is already done. Because now, he’s thinking about it. Thinking about you with them, thinking about the ones who were better, wondering what made them better.

Was it how they touched you? How they talked to you? Was it the way they knew exactly how to pull you apart, how to ruin you? Was it—

The sensible thing to do is change the subject. Ignore it. Pretend you never said it and focus on not losing his goddamn mind while you’re still draped across him, still warm against his lap, still too close.

But then—because he’s a fucking idiot—the words slip out before he can stop them.

“Who was best?”

You stretch a little, completely oblivious to the way every tiny movement of yours is sending heat pooling in his gut.

“Well,” you muse, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “do you want, like, a ranked list? Or just an all-time favorite?”

Sebastian exhales sharply through his nose. “You know what? Forget I asked.”

“No, no,” you tease, scooting up slightly. “You asked. You wanna know.”

I really fucking don’t.

But he stays silent. Because some stupid, masochistic part of him actually does.

You pretend to think for a moment, eyes flicking to the windshield, lips curving in a way that’s going to fucking kill him.

“Probably Caleb,” you finally say, voice thoughtful, casual, like you’re discussing a meal you once had instead of someone who used to fuck you.

Sebastian hates how his stomach twists.

“Caleb,” he repeats, expression unreadable.

“Yeah.”

Sebastian shifts his grip on the wheel, fighting the urge to roll his shoulders, shake off the tension creeping up his spine.

He remembers Caleb.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Stupid fit. A Muggle who played rugby at Uni. Arsehole.

He also remembers how pissed he was when you first started seeing him, how much he fucking hated the way Caleb used to pull you into his lap at parties like he owned you.

Sebastian clears his throat. “Huh.”

You grin, shifting again, your hand brushing against Sebastian's arm now. “He was good."

"Why?"

The question slips out before he can stop it and you smirk, and Sebastian knows—he knows—he’s about to regret asking.

“He was just…” you hum, tilting your head like you’re choosing your words carefully. “He was… I don’t know. Rough, I guess? He liked taking control. Giving orders. That kind of thing.”

Sebastian grips the wheel so hard it might snap in half.

Because now he’s picturing it. Picturing you, pressed down against a bed, hips pinned, whimpering, gasping, hands gripping sheets, your voice breathy as you—

Stop.

Sebastian's jaw locks, his pulse hammering at his throat. “I didn’t need that image, thanks."

You laugh softly. "Why not? I thought maybe you wanted to take notes."

He laughs, low and dry, shaking his head. “In your dreams.”

Your smirk widens. “Mm. Definitely in my dreams."

Sebastian nearly groans.

Because fuck you for saying that. For laughing softly, for dragging your fingers against his stomach as you shift again, like you can’t stop pressing yourself against him. For smirking when you say it, for the way your voice dips, lower, softer, like you’re confessing something, like you’re actually being honest.

Sebastian holds in a sigh. He is not playing this game.

Because you’re drunk, and you’re not thinking about what you’re saying, and in the morning, you won’t remember how you said it, how your voice curled around the words like you meant them, and because your fucking boyfriend is waiting for you to get home.

So he laughs, low, dry, dismissive.

“Sure,” he mutters. “That’s a nice little fantasy you got there.”

“You’re such a dick,” you say, still amused.

Sebastian hums, flicking the turn signal as he veers onto the quiet stretch of road leading out of town.

Eight more minutes.

Just eight more minutes and he can drop you off. He can shake off the feeling of your fingers grazing his stomach through his t-shirt and of your weight pressing against his lap like it’s the most normal fucking thing in the world.

Eight more minutes and this night will be over.

Then you speak again.

"...Have you ever thought about it?"

“Thought about what?”

You grin, and it’s slow, lazy, dangerous.

“Us,” you say simply.

Sebastian stiffens.

Has he thought about it?

Fuck, he’s spent years trying not to think about it.

Not to think about you pressed beneath him, his hands gripping your waist, his mouth dragging over your skin, your voice breathy in his ear. Not to think about the way you’d sound, the way you’d fall apart, the way you’d look wrecked and flushed and fucking perfect. Not to think about how you’d feel under his hands, under his mouth, how you’d—

Sebastian shoves the thought away violently.

Exhales.

He's not about to tell you that.

“No.”

You laugh softly. Sebastian’s jaw tenses. And then you sit up, just a little, your breath warm against his neck.

“I have,” you say.

Sebastian stops breathing, his pulse slamming against his ribs as he flicks his gaze toward you—just for a second, just long enough to see the way you’re looking at him.

You’re not laughing now. There’s no teasing smirk, no smugness either.

Sebastian swallows hard, forcing his eyes back to the road, trying to think, trying to process, trying to decide if this is real or just another one of your drunken, fleeting moments that won’t mean a damn thing in the morning.

Then your hands move, fingers dragging down his chest, slow, deliberate, your touch featherlight but undeniable.

Sebastian grits his teeth, forcing himself to focus, forcing himself to keep the car steady, forcing himself to—

Your fingertips graze the waistband of his jeans, hooking slightly under the hem, and that’s it.

Sebastian's hand shoots out, gripping your wrist, stopping you.

The car is silent. Just the hum of the engine. Just the sound of both of you breathing hard.

He exhales, slow, controlled. But when he speaks, his voice is wrecked.

“Don’t.”

A pause.

"Why not?"

"Because you don't mean it," he mutters, voice rough, like he’s forcing the words out through sheer willpower.

"...What if I do mean it?"

Sebastian slams on the brakes. The car jerks to a stop, tires skidding slightly on the empty country road, the sudden silence deafening.

He stares at you, his pulse hammering, his breath coming too short, too fast.

"Are you fucking with me?"

"Do I look like I’m fucking with you?"

Sebastian exhales hard through his nose.

Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck if he knows.

Because this is what you do.

You flirt. You tease. You get close, just close enough to ruin him, and then you pull away like it never meant anything at all. And right now, you’re still in his lap with your fingers still hooked in his jeans and your breath hot against his neck, and this... this is dangerous. If you’re joking, if this is just another round of you pushing boundaries you never actually mean to cross, it will break him.

Sebastian tightens his grip on your wrist just for a second—just long enough to make sure you’re listening, really fucking listening.

“This isn’t a joke,” he says, voice rough, uneven. “This isn’t a game, it's not—”

"Sebastian."

Suddenly, you don’t seem drunk at all.

The teasing lilt in your voice disappears, evaporating into the thick silence between you. There’s no lazy amusement, no coy smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, no playful glint in your eyes like there always is when you push him just to see how far he’ll let you go. It’s all gone.

Instead, you are sharp, your gaze cutting through the dim light of the car, slicing right into him.

Sebastian feels the shift like a physical thing, like the weight of something heavy pressing down on his chest. His grip tightens on the wheel out of instinct, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, but it does nothing to steady him.

Because suddenly, you are steady.

You pull back just slightly, just enough to give him an out, to give him space, but you don’t really go anywhere. You are still there, your body still warm on his, your breathing still uneven, just like his. You simply leave just enough distance between you for him to feel it, the unbearable stretch of space that’s always existed, the one he has spent years pretending doesn’t hurt.

For a moment, you just look at him.

Sebastian sees the hesitation in your expression, the flicker of uncertainty in the way your mouth parts slightly, like you’re on the verge of speaking but don’t quite know how. You look like you’re standing at the edge of something dangerous, like you’re deciding whether to step back or let yourself fall.

Then, you inhale. Slow, measured, determined. And you let it all out.

"I’ve always imagined it was you," you say, voice quiet but unwavering, like you've already made peace with the confession before it even leaves your lips. "Every single time I’ve had sex since I lost my virginity, I’ve imagined it was you."

Sebastian’s stomach plummets, and for a split second, he genuinely wonders if he’s actually dead. If he crashed the fucking car and this is what the afterlife feels like—sitting in the driver’s seat with his best friend sprawled across his lap, admitting the thing he has spent years torturing himself over.

You keep going.

"If hell is real, I’m fucking damned," you huff a laugh, your voice coming out rough, frayed at the edges, "because I’ve touched myself to you more than any reasonable amount."

Sebastian makes a wrecked sound in the back of his throat, one that he barely recognizes as his own. His hands clench into fists at his sides, fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do with themselves. Because what the fuck is he supposed to do with this With you?

You're rewriting everything, burning down every carefully constructed wall he has built to keep himself from wanting you too much.

And then you land the final fucking blow.

"You want the truth? I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen," you whisper. "And I want nothing more than for you to take me home at least one fucking time."

Sebastian’s body locks up. His vision tilts. Everything inside him goes too tight, too hot, too overwhelming. His fingers are trembling. His pulse is out of control. His mouth is dry.

No, this isn't a game, or some some drunken, fleeting moment. This isn’t a joke.

This is real.

And he doesn’t know how to breathe.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And I get it if you don’t feel the same," you say, voice softer now, almost like you don’t want to say it, almost like the idea is too painful, "if that’s why you’re acting like this, then I get it."

You laugh again, except this time it’s self-deprecating and bitter. "I mean, for fuck’s sake," you mutter. "I’ve got a boyfriend anyway. This is so fucked up, I know. I just, I don’t know what happened. But something inside me snapped and I can’t hold back any longer."

Sebastian’s jaw tightens. Because yeah, this is so fucking fucked up. And yeah, you do have a boyfriend and he is literally waiting at home for you right now. But Sebastian doesn’t have it in him to care.

Because you love him.

For ten years, he’s wanted this. Ten fucking years of pretending, of ignoring, of pushing it down so deep it nearly killed him. Every drunken flirtation, every lingering touch, every fucking time you smiled at him with that look in your eyes that made him wonder if you wanted it too, and now he knows you did. Knows you do.

And you—

Fuck, you think he doesn’t feel the same?!

"Just forget I said anything," you mumble. "Seriously. I don’t know what I was thinking, I—"

Before you can talk yourself further into this spiral, Sebastian's hand shoots out, gripping your wrist.

You freeze.

He exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tight, his pulse racing, erratic, wild. Then, his voice low, rough, wrecked beyond repair—

"I've been in love with you since we were fifteen, too."

Your lips part, barely breathing, completely still, like you’re trying to process the weight of those words, like you’ve lived in a reality where that wasn’t true for so long that you don’t know how to exist in one where it is.

And then your face crumbles.

"Sebastian," you whisper, voice breaking, shattered.

And that’s it. That’s fucking it.

Sebastian crushes his mouth against yours.

It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s ten years of frustration, ten years of jealousy, of biting his tongue, of pretending he didn’t want you, and ten years of believing he could never have you—all of it, all at once, breaking loose, crashing down.

And you kiss him back.

Hard.

Desperate.

Your hands grip his shoulders, his jaw, fisting into his hair as you pull him closer, closer, like you need this just as badly as he does, like you’re starving for him.

Sebastian groans into your mouth, swallowing the sound of you gasping against his lips, swallowing everything he’s ever wanted from you.

His mouth moves to your jaw, trailing down your neck, sucking a dark, bruising mark against your pulse point just to hear you whimper.

"Tell me again," he growls against your skin, voice rough, demanding.

Your nails dig into his arms, your breath uneven, panting.

"Tell me again how you've thought about me," he mutters, dragging his lips up to your ear. "How you imagined it was me," he rasps, fingers slipping under the hem of your top, gripping your bare waist.

You let out a soft, broken whimper, your fingers curling into his hair and pulling. He grips your jaw, tilting your head so you have no choice but to look at him.

Your lips part, eyes glassy, dark, and fucking desperate. "I imagined you every time."

Sebastian throws the car into reverse.

Because he’s not taking you back to your pathetic excuse of a boyfriend. Not when you’ve spent the entire night driving him insane, not when you're touching him, teasing him, whispering in his ear about the exes you never actually wanted because they weren't him.

Not when you just told him you’ve loved him for a decade.

No, he’s taking you home, and the second he gets you there, he’s going to ruin you.

You blink at him, dazed, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, still straddling his lap.

“Where are we going?” you ask breathlessly.

Sebastian’s grip tightens on your waist as he turns the wheel.

“My place."

Your eyes darken, and then your hands are everywhere—fisting into his hair, sliding down his chest, curling under the hem of his t-shirt like you need to feel his skin and touch as much of him as possible.

You trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, your breath warm, wrecked, and he groans, tipping his head back slightly as your teeth graze his throat.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely able to focus on the road as your hands wander lower.

You shift in his lap, your thighs spreading over him, and Sebastian hisses, cursing under his breath as you press down against him, rolling your hips just slightly.

And then your hands move lower.

Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans, toying with the button, flicking it open. His hips jerk up instinctively and your laugh is breathy, lips grazing against his jaw.

“You drive too well for someone getting felt up,” you murmur against his skin, your voice all smug amusement and heat and fucking destruction as you drag a hand over the bulge in his jeans.

Sebastian groans, a deep, wrecked sound in his throat, his hips jerking into your palm despite himself.

“Fuck, don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

Sebastian slams his fist against the steering wheel, jaw clenched, desperate to focus, desperate to not lose his mind completely.

"If you keep doing that," he growls, low, warning, "I'm gonna pull over and fuck you in this car."

Your breath catches. Sebastian watches as your pupils blow wide, lips parting slightly, grip on him tightening.

His cock twitches in his jeans.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The drive to his place is the longest fifteen minutes of his fucking life. By the time he pulls into his driveway, he’s barely holding himself together.

His jeans are too tight, his body is on fire, his pulse is a reckless, unforgiving thing pounding against his skin, and you—you are still in his lap, still pressed against him, still dragging your lips over his jaw, still palming over him, still teasing, still ruining him.

Sebastian barely gets the car into park before he’s gripping your hips, hauling you against him, mouthing at your throat like he’s starved for it.

You gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, rocking your hips over his lap like you’re hellbent on making him suffer.

And he lets you. For ten long fucking seconds, he lets you.

Lets you grind down on him, lets you drag your nails over his scalp, lets you press hot, open-mouthed kisses against his jaw, lets you whisper his name against his lips, against his skin, against his fucking soul.

Then—

“Inside,” he mutters, voice rough, strained beyond repair.

You blink at him, dazed, breath uneven and wanting. And fuck, he’s never wanted anything more than this. More than you.

The second he pulls you out of the car, you laugh, breathless, fingers gripping his shirt, swaying slightly in his grasp.

Sebastian catches you easily, one arm sliding low over your waist, his palm pressing into the soft curve of your hip, and fuck, he loves the way you feel against him, like you were meant to be there.

You tilt your head back, looking at him through half-lidded, dark-lashed eyes, “You gonna fuck me out here?” you murmur, smirking as you lean up, breath warm against his throat.

Sebastian groans, his hands tightening on you. “Don’t tempt me.”

You giggle, bright and shameless, dragging your nails down his chest, lower, lower, until he’s grabbing your wrist and tugging you along.

The second the front door closes, Sebastian is on you.

His hands in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours, his hips pressing you against the door as he kisses you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs.

And you moan into it, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him closer, biting at his lower lip.

Sebastian growls, pressing into you, his knee slipping between your thighs, forcing them apart.

You let out a whimper, grinding down against him, your fingers tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, pushing it up, trying to get it off.

Sebastian laughs, breathless, rough, dragging his lips down your jaw, sucking another mark onto your throat just to hear you gasp.

“You’re impatient, aren’t you?”

You huff, rolling your hips against his thigh, lips curled into something dark, something smug, something absolutely fucking ruinous.

“You’ve made me wait a decade, Sebastian.”

Sebastian’s grip tightens. and then he’s lifting you, hands firm under your thighs, carrying you through the house like he’s done this a hundred times before, like deep down he’s always known exactly where this was going to end.

You laugh again, thrilled, breathless, arms wrapped tight around his neck as he kicks open his bedroom door and drops you onto the bed.

Sebastian stands at the edge of it, looking down at you—panting, flushed, wild-eyed, ruined before he’s even touched you properly.

You smirk.

“You just gonna stand there, Sallow?”

Sebastian smiles, dark and dangerous. Then he’s crawling over you, one knee pressing between your thighs, his hands bracketing your face, his lips ghosting over yours, teasing, testing, torturing.

His voice is low, a promise, a warning.

“Not a fucking chance.”

He takes your mouth again, swallowing your breathy little gasps as he kisses you deep, slow at first, dragging his tongue against yours, learning the taste of you, the heat of you, memorizing this moment in case the world ends tomorrow and this is all he ever gets.

And you fucking moan.

Loud and wrecked and needy, and it does something to him, something devastating, something that makes him tilt his hips down, pressing into you properly, rolling against you in a way that makes you gasp against his lips.

“Fuck, Sebastian—”

His fingers work automatically, popping the button of your jeans, sliding the zipper down, tugging the fabric past your hips—revealing more, more, more.

Sebastian has seen you a thousand times—in every possible way, in every possible light.

Drunk off your ass at parties, laughing with your head thrown back, cheeks flushed, eyeliner smudged from the heat of the room. Half-asleep, curled up in the passenger seat of his car, your fingers twitching as you dream. Post-workout, sweaty and flushed, hair stuck to your forehead, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. Dressed to the nines for some god-awful date with some guy who wasn’t him, your perfume lingering in his car long after he dropped you off.

And yet, he’s never seen you like this.

Laid out in his bed, your lips swollen, your chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths, your jeans halfway down your legs beneath his hands, the anticipation humming between you so thick it feels like drowning.

You’re reaching for your top, fingers curling around the hem, ready to peel it off—not that it ever hid much anyway.

Sebastian should help you. He should be the one ripping that top off, the one dragging it up and over your head with shaking fingers and an aching hunger that’s been simmering under his skin for years.

But he doesn’t. He just watches as you pull it up slowly, revealing more, more, more.

His mouth goes dry.

Sebastian can’t stop looking.

You are a masterpiece.

Soft and plush, all curves and warmth, the kind of body meant to be touched, gripped, worshiped. The gentle rise and fall of your breath makes your stomach shift beneath the dim bedroom light, and fuck, he wants to put his hands there, feel the way your skin gives under his palms, kiss every inch of it. Your thighs—thick, full, fucking perfect—press against his thigh, and he thinks about spreading them, about feeling them squeeze around his waist, about sinking his teeth into them just to hear the way you’d gasp. Your hips, generous, tempting, made for his hands, make his fingers dig into the sheets, because all he can think about is gripping them, holding you down, guiding you. Your breasts, full and heavy, barely contained by the sheer lace of your bra, stretch against the fabric, making his vision tilt, his pulse hammer, his restraint fucking snap.

And then there’s everything else—the parts of you that make his chest ache, make his stomach tighten, make him wonder how the fuck he’s supposed to survive this. The stretch marks that paint your skin in soft, pale ribbons, evidence of time, of change, of life of a body that has existed beside him for years, growing, shifting, becoming something that was always beautiful but now feels like it was made for him. The softness that wasn’t there when you were younger, but grew with you, grew beside him, shaped by late-night drive-thrus, three too many beers, appetizers you never hesitated to share with him, the comfort of knowing you never had to shrink yourself. The dimples, the dips, the folds where your skin creases when you move, the evidence of a life fully lived, of a body that has only ever been yours—until now. Until him.

And you—you’re wearing a matching set. Black lace. Thin straps. Delicate details that don’t really hide a damn thing.

"Look at you," Sebastian says breathlessly, fingers tracing along the edge of your underwear, teasing. "Dressed up all pretty. You knew, didn’t you?"

You hum, lazily smug, shifting your hips just slightly, just enough to make his brain fucking short-circuit.

"Maybe," you murmur, biting your lip. "Maybe I wanted to be prepared."

Sebastian’s breath stutters, something deep, something dangerous curling in his gut, something possessive and wrecking and unbearable, because fuck—

Prepared? Did you know you were confessing him tonight? Did you get dressed for this moment? Or is he just filling your boyfriend's shoes?

His stomach twists, the thought curdling in his chest, bitter and raw, but then—

Does it matter? Because you're his now.

Sebastian leans in, pressing his mouth to the soft swell of your stomach, dragging his lips along your skin, his fingers curling into your thighs, his breath hot, his hands desperate.

“God, you have no fucking idea how much I love your body, do you?"

You make a wrecked little sound, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling.

Sebastian grins against your skin, dark and dangerous, pressing his lips lower, biting, sucking, making sure he leaves marks, making sure you feel exactly how much he’s wanted this.

You shift beneath him, breathless, giggling as your fingers find the hem of his shirt.

"Only fair," you murmur, tugging at the fabric, your voice teasing, expectant.

Sebastian huffs out a breathless laugh, shaking his head, but he lets you drag it up, lets you peel it off him, lets you look.

Because of course you should get to look.

He just wasn’t expecting to care so fucking much.

Call him arrogant, but he’s always known he’s good-looking. It’s never been a secret.

The wrong women (everyone but you) have always flocked to him like moths to a flame, drawn to the sharpness of his jaw, the cut of his smirk, the way he carries himself with an easy confidence that makes it seem like he never second-guesses a damn thing.

But this? This is different.

Sebastian never had trouble maintaining a trim figure back at Hogwarts, never gave it much thought beyond Quidditch and dueling and running from the consequences of his own goddamn actions. But adulthood claimed him differently, and that Sallow metabolism slowed to a crawl.

Sebastian is not lean.

And normally? That doesn’t bother him. Normally? He doesn’t care.

But right now, under your hands, under your gaze, in his bed—he does.

Because you’ve always been the most stunning fucking person he’s ever known. Because you could have anyone, and you always did.

Rugby players. Duellists. Healers who spend their breaks lifting weights instead of eating lunch. The kind of men who look like they were chiseled out of stone, sculpted into something untouchable, untouchable except for you—because you’ve had them.

Those were your exes.

And now here Sebastian is, broader, heavier in places they weren’t, softer in places they weren’t. Because he’s never been the type to count macros or meal prep or wake up at the ass crack of dawn to run five miles before work.

He’s still strong, sure—Auror training keeps him fit. But he’s also a man who doesn’t think twice about splitting a second plate of chips with you at dinner, who always finishes your leftovers because “wasting food is a crime”, who drinks pints after work without a second thought, who fills out his shirts more than he used to, who carries weight in his chest, his stomach, his thighs.

And now, here he is—bare in front of you. And you’re staring.

Sebastian wants to say something. Wants to make a joke, wants to shift your focus, wants to ignore the way something unsteady coils in his gut when your gaze drags over him—

Then you breathe out, soft, awed, wrecked.

"Fuck."

Sebastian freezes.

Your hands reach out, palms flattening against his chest, sliding over his skin, tracing down his stomach, your fingers pressing into the flesh there—

"You’re so fucking hot, Sebastian," you murmur, breathless, desperate, like you’re telling him the most obvious thing in the world.

He swallows, something rough and wrecked and disbelieving curling in his chest. "Yeah?"

You hum, dragging your hands back up his chest, your fingers tracing the freckles there, the muscle, the places where he’s softer than he used to be, pressing your lips just below his collarbone.

"Always have been," you hum. "But it's been really fucking unbearable the last few years."

Sebastian laughs, breathless, disbelieving, staring down at you like you just told him the sky is green, like you just shattered some fundamental truth about the universe.

Because fuck off—you’re serious? The last few years?

Oh. Oh. you have a thing for him like this—not when he was lean, not when he was a wiry, arrogant little shit back at Hogwarts, but now. Now, when he’s bigger, broader, heavier.

Something dark, something deeply satisfied, something possessive coils in his chest.

“Oh,” he smirks, his voice low, rough with amusement, with understanding, with something sharp and teasing. “So this is what you’re into?”

You blink up at him, your hands still roaming his chest, and fuck, you look ruined.

Sebastian lets out another low, rough chuckle, dragging his fingers down your body, spreading his weight over you, pinning you to the bed. He grabs your wrists, pressing them above your head, trapping them against the pillows.

“You mean to tell me,” he murmurs, lips hovering just above yours, teasing, testing, “that while you were off fucking all those blokes—”

You inhale sharply, your lips parting, your body arching subtly under him.

“—those assholes with their six-pack abs, the dueling champions, professional fucking athletes—”

You whimper softly, and fuck, he feels it. Feels the way your body reacts to him—not to them, not to some long-lost ex, not to your boyfriend, but to him, to his voice, to his weight pressing you into the mattress.

His grin turns wicked.

“You were picturing this?” he teases, his grip tightening just enough to make you shiver. "Me? All soft and heavy and fucking desperate for you?"

Your breath stutters, your thighs twitching against his hips.

Sebastian chuckles, dragging his lips back up to your ear, smirking when he feels the shiver that runs through you.

"And here I was, thinking I let myself go," he mutters.

Your breath hitches, but before you can say anything, he’s pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your throat, sucking a mark there, then another, and another, branding you, making sure you remember this, making sure you feel it.

Your wrists twitch in his grip, but he doesn’t let you move.

Sebastian fucking loves it. Loves the way you squirm, the way your lips part, the way your chest rises and falls in uneven little breaths, the way you’re looking up at him like you don’t even know how to handle what’s happening to you right now.

His smirk deepens. “Tell me, love,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down your jaw, his teeth grazing your throat, “if this is what you wanted all along, why the fuck did you waste all that time with them?"

Your lips part, your expression flickering between dazed, ruined, and incredulous. And then you scoff.

"Because you weren’t fucking me, Sallow."

Sebastian freezes for a beat. Then two.

Then he laughs—low, rough, something almost mean curling at the edges of it. "No," he murmurs, dragging his lips down your throat, grazing his teeth against your pulse. "I wasn’t. But I am now."

You shudder beneath him, your body arching against his in some helpless, desperate little movement that goes straight to his cock.

"Impatient, are we?" he murmurs, smirking against your skin.

You huff a breathless laugh, hips shifting beneath him, fingers flexing in his grip. "You’ve made me wait ten years. Figure it out."

"You're not the only one who waited, you know—"

Sebastian barely gets the words out before you tug your hands free, fingers reaching for his jeans, already undone from your teasing in the car. And he should be savoring this—should be dragging this out, making you beg for it, for him, for all of it—but you're already shoving his jeans past his hips, and he loses the ability to think entirely.

Then your hand slips beneath the waistband of his briefs, and Sebastian’s entire body tenses, his breath catching as your fingers curl around the length of him, teasing, testing.

“Christ,” he exhales, shuddering, his forehead dropping to yours.

Your eyes flick up to his, and the way you look at him—blown pupils, parted lips, your expression equal parts fascinated and utterly fucking desperate—it makes his cock twitch in your grasp.

He can’t fucking handle this.

His fingers tighten on your thighs, his jaw clenching, his entire body burning with the effort it’s taking not to lose himself completely.

Sebastian grabs your wrist, halting your movements, his grip firm but gentle.

Your brows lift slightly, breathless.

“Seb?”

His smirk is wicked, possessive, completely wrecked. He leans down, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw, his lips brushing your ear.

"If we're going to do anything," Sebastian exhales sharply. "We might as well fuck. Otherwise, this'll be over before it even starts."

“Oh,” you breathe, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach.

"We've waited ten years for this," he murmurs, dragging his tongue along your skin, feeling the way you shudder. His voice drops lower, rougher, teasing. "So let's make it worth our while."

Your breath catches, your nails pressing into his skin as you tip your head back against the pillow, blinking up at him like you’re still trying to process this moment—this night, this reality where you’re here beneath him, breathless and wanting, where he’s finally allowed to touch you like this.

And then you grin, a little dazed, a little breathless, completely wrecked already, and say:

“Holy shit, we’re actually about to fuck.”

You both freeze, eyes locking, and then you both start laughing, some combination of nerves and disbelief and a decade of waiting for this exact moment finally crashing down at once.

“God,” Sebastian mutters, shaking his head as he presses his forehead against yours, still grinning, still feeling that wrecked, desperate thing curling low in his stomach. “That’s what you have to say right now?”

You giggle, your fingers smoothing over his shoulders, down his chest. “I mean—come on, this is so surreal.”

Sebastian scoffs, nipping at your jaw, pressing a rough, open-mouthed kiss to your throat, humming when you shiver beneath him.

“Oh, I’ll make it real, love, don’t worry.”

And then he’s moving again, hands everywhere, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your bra, under the waistband of your thong, tugging the fabric down your shoulders.

His breath hitches as your breasts spill free, full and heavy and perfect, your soft curves shifting beneath him, and he can’t stop staring. He feels greedy, like he needs both hands, both lips, every fucking inch of him touching every fucking inch of you.

His fingers brush over the swell of them, thumbing over one hardened nipple, and you let out a soft, breathy little sound that nearly kills him on the spot.

And then your eyes flick down, your breath catching, because he’s still in his briefs, but they’re pointless at this point, and you can see exactly how fucking gone he is for you already.

Your lips part, eyes widening slightly, voice soft, awed, wrecked—

“Oh, fuck.”

Sebastian snaps his gaze up to you, brows lifting.

“What?”

You swallow, blinking at his broad chest, his stomach, his cock aching against the fabric.

“Just trying to wrap my head around the fact that my best friend is secretly built like a fucking god,” you say, laughing breathlessly, teasing, and yet completely, unabashedly honest.

Sebastian laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you. “Oh, I’ll remember that,” he says, voice thick with amusement, with something darker curling at the edges. “Next time you decide to insult me, I’ll remind you that you said that.”

You grin, tilting your head back against the pillow, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“I mean,” you hum, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, “the evidence is pretty overwhelming.”

Sebastian groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder for a second. "And here I thought you preferred the blokes built like Roman statues." He hums, dragging his lips lower, pressing open, slow kisses over your collarbone, between the swell of your breasts. “Should’ve known better, huh?” he murmurs, teasing, grinning against your skin. "Turns out my best mate likes them thick."

You huff a laugh, but it breaks into a whimper when he finally closes his lips around one pert, sensitive nipple, sucking, dragging his tongue over it, groaning when your back arches beautifully into him.

"Apparently," You mutter breathlessly, "You do too."

“Fuck yeah, I do,” he mutters, smirking, tracing the soft curve of your hip, gripping, kneading. “I've always known that. You've been ruining my life with it for years."

You meet his eyes, and your mouth curves into something downright sinful. “Yeah? So why the hell didn’t you do something about it sooner?”

Sebastian barely gets a breath in before you’re pushing him back, shifting your weight, twisting your body beneath him until he’s the one sinking against the headboard, his back hitting the pillows.

He exhales sharply, blown, wrecked, barely processing how fast you move—or the fact that you just fucking flipped him like that.

"Bossy little thing," he mutters, grinning, but his voice is hoarse, completely fucking ruined.

You straddle his thighs, pressing your hands into his chest, pinning him down like you’re making sure he doesn’t move.

And fuck. Sebastian just lets you. Lets you crawl over him, lets you drag your lips down his chest, his stomach, kissing and teasing and taking your fucking time.

He groans, his head tipping back, his hands twitching at his sides because he wants to touch you, wants to grip your hips, drag you back over him, but he doesn’t want to stop you, doesn’t want to break whatever the fuck this is.

His breath stutters when you press a slow, deliberate kiss over the curve of his hip, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his briefs, tugging, teasing.

Sebastian curses under his breath, his jaw clenched tight, his entire body drawn so tight with tension he thinks he might actually fucking die.

"Jesus," he mutters, his hands flexing at his sides.

You hum against his skin, dragging your nails over his stomach, over his thighs, soaking in the way his muscles twitch beneath you.

And then you drag his briefs down, past his hips, past his thighs, down enough to free him.

Sebastian groans, eyes slamming shut, jaw clenching as the cool air hits him, as he feels the weight of himself resting heavy against his stomach, already aching, already dripping for you.

And you just fucking stare, mouth parting slightly, eyes dragging down the length of him, slow, heavy-lidded, like you’re trying to process what you’re looking at.

Sebastian cracks one eye open, breath ragged, and he can’t help but smirk. His voice comes out low, rough, teasing—

“What is it?" He grins, tilting his head, watching the way your gaze flicks over him, the way you press your thighs together.

You exhale sharply, blinking like you need a second to find words.

“Oh, fuck.”

Sebastian laughs, full and deep, completely and utterly smug.

"Shit," you mutter, shaking your head slightly, still staring, like you're recalibrating your entire fucking world.

Sebastian grins, dragging a lazy hand down his stomach, wrapping his fingers loosely around himself, stroking once, slow, teasing.

"See something you like, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice thick with wolfish amusement.

You snap your gaze up to his, glaring. "Fuck off." But your voice is breathless, wanting, wrecked.

Sebastian chuckles, tilting his head back, completely in love with the fact that you are absolutely, completely undone over him.

Then— then you lick your lips, and Sebastian stops fucking breathing.

You lean down, hands gripping his thighs as your tongue flicks over the head of his cock, licking up the sticky precum already there, your lips barely grazing the sensitive tip.

“Fuck,” Sebastian groans, his hands flying to your hair, fingers tightening, but you’re not done yet.

You swirl your tongue over him again, slow, deliberate, your nails dragging over his skin, and then—then you start mouthing off.

Because of course you do.

"You could have had me ten years ago, Sebastian," you murmur, voice low, teasing, sinful, your breath hot against his skin.

Sebastian grits his teeth, jaw clenching. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you hum, pressing one last, teasing kiss to the sensitive tip before dragging your gaze up to his face, smirking. "How the fuck could you be so blind to the fact I've been in love with you this whole time?"

Sebastian groans, fingers tugging at your hair, his body trembling with restraint.

"You’re talking a lot of shit for someone who’s got my cock in their mouth," he growls.

You laugh, fucking laugh, your tongue flicking over him again. "You really can’t take a little criticism, can you?"

Sebastian snaps.

"Alright," he mutters, voice low, rough, wrecked. "That’s enough."

Before you can get another word out, his hands are on you, gripping your hips, flipping you back beneath him.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly, but it’s cut off when he pins you down, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his hand wrapping around your throat, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. Then—just to make sure you never forget who you belong to—

He spreads your legs, dragging his fingers down your stomach, between your thighs, feeling the heat of you, the slick, messy proof of how long you’ve needed this.

"Christ," he mutters, running his fingers through the wetness, spreading it over you, teasing you.

Your hips jerk into his touch, desperate, wanting, already completely undone. Sebastian grins, dark and satisfied, watching you unravel beneath him.

"Messy thing," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours as he drags his fingers up to himself, coating his cock in your wetness.

You practically purr beneath him, your thighs trembling against his hips, the heat of you slick and fucking ready for him.

This is it. Finally.

His fingers curl into the sheets beside your head, his cock dragging through the wet mess between your thighs, teasing, aligning, his vision tunneling, his entire existence narrowing down to the feeling of you, of finally having you—

And then your hand comes up. Soft. Trembling. Pressing against his cheek.

His gaze flickers down to yours. Sebastian stalls instantly. His brain short-circuits, muscles locking tight, because he knows that look.

He knows it in his bones.

Knows it in the way your fingers tremble against his cheek, in the way your lips part like you’re about to say something but don’t know how.

Shit. Wait. Are you having second thoughts? Are you saying no?

Sebastian’s stomach drops, panic flaring as he searches your expression, trying to push past the fog of lust, of need, of desperation—

But it’s not hesitation he finds. It’s something soft, something raw and pleading, and he feels it deep in his chest, where everything soft and aching for you lives.

“Sebastian,” you whisper, barely a breath, and fuck, his chest aches.

“What is it?” His voice is rough, hoarse, aching with restraint.

“If... if this is just for tonight,” you whisper, your voice small, fragile, like you’re saying it through the lump in your throat, “If this is just—if we’re just gonna wake up tomorrow and pretend it never happened, then I—” you pause, your voice breaking slightly. "I need you to tell me now."

And that—

That fucking shatters him. How can you not see it? The way he worships you, the way he’s been yours since he was fifteen fucking years old?

He exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hip. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he tips your chin up, forcing you to see him, forcing you to understand. “You think I could have you like this and then just go back to how things were?”

Sebastian shakes his head, dragging his thumb over your cheek, over your lips, his brows pulling together.

“I’m not built like that, love.”

Your throat bobs, your breath shaky, uneven, your body still trembling beneath him.

He swallows, something breaking open inside his chest. “I’ve wanted you for nearly half my life,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against your temple, against your jaw, against the curve of your throat. “You really think I’d just let you go after this?”

A breathless, almost helpless noise escapes you, your fingers curling into his hair, gripping, holding on to him like you don’t know what else to do with yourself.

Sebastian groans, pressing more of his weight down into you, anchoring you, grounding you, making sure you fucking feel him.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, possessive, reverent, certain in a way that leaves no room for doubt. "You're fucking mine, and I’m yours, and I don’t care how fucking long it took us to get here—I’m not fucking going anywhere. You understand?"

Your lips part, eyes flickering between his, something desperate and so fucking relieved blooming across your face.

"Thank fuck."

Then you pull him down to you, crashing your mouth against his, kissing him like he just fucking saved you. It's messy, all tongue and teeth and years of wanting, and his hands move without thinking—gripping, claiming, spreading you open for him

You whimper into his mouth when he grinds against you, his cock dragging through the wet mess between your thighs, slick and aching and so fucking ready for him.

You shift beneath him, thighs trembling, reaching down between your bodies, lining him up yourself, guiding him right where you need him.

Sebastian chokes on a breath, his head dropping to your shoulder, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Shit," he groans, voice breaking.

He can feel you, feel the heat of you, the wetness of you, and his brain blanks.

He’s done for.

Because this isn’t just sex.

This is everything.

This is forever.

271 notes · View notes

yassbishimvintage · 5 months ago

Text

Studio

Warnings: None. But a lot of fluffy fluff.

A/N: This will be my first series. I got a little carried away.

Word Count: 11.7k

Song Inspo: Studio ~ Schoolboy Q

Banner by: @cafekitsune

It was a warm day. Amari’s favorite client was back again. When he comes in he wraps her in a strong, warm hug.

“Thank you for squeezing me in, Mari,” Brendan says with a soft smile, settling into the chair in front of her. The small salon space feels more like a sanctuary than a workplace—intimate and warm, much like the woman standing behind him.

Amari rolls her eyes playfully, running her hands through his curls to assess the texture. “You say that like I don’t always make time for you,” she teases, her voice light but carrying an undertone that only he can pick up on.

Brendan leans back slightly, tilting his head just enough to catch her eyes in the mirror. “That’s 'cause you spoil me. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Amari chuckles, shaking her head as she grabs her spray bottle, misting his hair lightly. The cool water trickles down his scalp, and Brendan closes his eyes, letting himself relax under her touch.

“You’d survive,” she says, her tone softening. “You’d just look a mess while doing it.”

Her hands move deftly, sectioning off his hair and working with precision. Brendan sits quietly for a moment, his usual quips and charm giving way to the comfort of the moment. There’s something about sitting between her legs, the quiet intimacy of the space, that makes him feel more at ease than he has in weeks.

“You good?” she asks, noticing his uncharacteristic silence.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to look at her reflection. “Just…this. It’s nice. Feels like home, you know?”

Amari pauses for a beat, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. She’s used to Brendan’s smooth-talking, the way he can charm his way through almost anything, but moments like this—when he’s just Brendan, not Mid-Sized Sedan—catch her off guard.

“Well, you know where to find me,” she says softly, her fingers returning to his hair. “Just don’t let that head of yours get too big. Fame or no fame, you’re still just Brendan to me.”

He grins at that, his dimples deepening as he tilts his head back to look up at her. “And you’re still the only one who can handle me, Mari.”

She shakes her head, fighting back a smile as she continues her work. For all his smooth words and playful antics, there’s a sincerity in his tone that she can’t ignore. And though she’d never say it out loud, moments like these—just the two of them, quiet and close—feel like home to her, too.

Brendan tilts his head back, looking up at Amari with a soft, almost boyish smile. His eyes catch hers in the mirror for a moment before shifting up to meet her gaze directly. “What?” he asks with a playful smirk, his voice low and teasing.

Amari pauses, her hands stilling in his hair as she tries to suppress a grin. “Nothing,” she says, but her voice gives her away. There’s a warmth in her tone, a quiet fondness she’s stopped trying to hide around him.

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me,” he says, his smirk growing wider. “You’re lookin’ at me like you got something to say.”

She shakes her head, letting out a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his eyes still locked on hers. “But you like me anyway.”

Amari huffs, pretending to roll her eyes, but the way she leans closer gives her away. The tension in the air shifts, subtle but undeniable, as Brendan's smile softens. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word, just watches her with a quiet patience that feels more intimate than anything he’s said so far.

And then, before she can second-guess herself, Amari leans down and presses her lips to his.

It’s not planned or calculated—just a gentle, impulsive kiss, the kind born out of familiarity and unspoken connection. Brendan responds immediately, his hand instinctively reaching up to rest lightly on her leg, grounding himself in the moment.

When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a spark of nervousness in her eyes. “I—”

But Brendan doesn’t let her finish. “You know,” he interrupts with a grin, “if I knew sittin’ in this chair would get me kissed, I would’ve booked a weekly appointment.”

Amari laughs, swatting his shoulder lightly, her embarrassment fading as quickly as it came. “You’re such a fool,” she mutters, but her smile doesn’t falter.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice quieter now, his hand still resting on her leg. “But you’re the only one I’m a fool for.”

She looks at him, her heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his tone, and for a moment, the world outside the small salon fades away. It’s just them—Brendan and Amari, the way it’s always been, but with a little more honesty between them now.

Amari smirks, her fingers combing through Brendan’s curls as she preps his next section of hair. “Since you don’t pay me the traditional way anyway,” she quips, her tone playful but edged with a teasing accusation.

Brendan raises an eyebrow, his grin spreading wide. “Oh, so that’s how you’re feelin’ today, huh?”

She shrugs, her smile unbothered. “Just sayin’. Bartering services isn’t exactly standard salon practice.”

He chuckles, leaning back a little to look up at her. “First of all, my presence alone is priceless,” he teases, his dimples on full display. “But if you’re open to negotiations…”

Amari tilts her head, feigning curiosity. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”

Without missing a beat, Brendan grins mischievously. “I think sex is a great payment,” he says, his voice smooth, as if it’s the most logical suggestion in the world.

Amari freezes for a second, her lips parting in mock shock before she bursts into laughter. “Boy, you are too much,” she says, swatting his shoulder with the back of her hand.

“I’m serious,” he says, though his grin makes it clear he’s loving the reaction he’s getting out of her. “Think about it—completely mutual exchange of services. Everybody wins.”

Amari leans closer, narrowing her eyes at him. “Oh, is that how you see it? So me busting my ass to make sure you’re camera-ready equals…” She trails off, giving him a pointed look.

Brendan doesn’t miss a beat. “Equals me bustin’ something else for you,” he says with a wink, leaning back in the chair like he just delivered the punchline of the century.

Amari stares at him for a moment, her mouth twitching as she fights to keep a straight face. “You are so stupid,” she says, finally breaking into laughter, the sound filling the small salon.

Brendan joins her, his laugh low and genuine. “You walked into that one, Mari,” he says, his voice softening as he watches her, the playful banter giving way to something warmer.

Amari shakes her head, still smiling as she resumes working on his hair. “You better be glad I like you,” she mutters.

“Oh, I know you do,” Brendan replies, his voice quieter now. “And just so you know...the offer stands.”

Amari doesn’t respond immediately, but the sly grin tugging at her lips says everything she doesn’t. Whatever this is between them—playful, complicated, and completely unconventional—it’s theirs.

“B,” Amari says firmly, her hands pausing in his hair as she looks down at him, her expression soft but serious. “We talked about this…”

Brendan’s grin falters just a bit, though the teasing spark in his eyes remains. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, leaning back against the chair with a dramatic sigh. “No mixing business with pleasure, right?”

She arches an eyebrow, her hands resuming their work, gently detangling his curls. “Exactly. And what you’re suggesting? That’s a straight-up recipe for disaster.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching her in the mirror. “But what if it wasn’t?”

Amari lets out a small laugh, shaking her head. “What does that even mean?”

Brendan shrugs, his tone casual but his gaze more serious now. “Just sayin’, Mari. You and me? We already get each other. Maybe it wouldn’t be a disaster. Maybe it’d be...something else.”

She exhales deeply, her fingers still moving but slower now. “B,” she starts, her voice softer this time. “You know I care about you. And yeah, we have fun, but crossing that line? It’s not as simple as you make it sound.”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. “I get it. I do,” he says, his voice quieter. “But I also know what this feels like. And it’s not just fun, Mari. At least not for me.”

Amari’s hands stop completely, and she meets his eyes in the mirror. For a moment, the air between them shifts, the usual lightness replaced by something heavier, more vulnerable.

“Brendan…” she starts, but he cuts her off, turning in the chair slightly to face her directly.

“I’m not tryna push you into anything,” he says, his tone earnest. “I just...I don’t want you to think this is a joke to me. You’re more than that, Mari.”

Her heart skips a beat at the sincerity in his voice, but she forces herself to keep her composure. “I know that,” she says softly. “And that’s exactly why we have to be careful.”

Brendan studies her for a moment, then nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright. I hear you.”

Amari breathes a quiet sigh of relief, her hands moving back to his hair. “Good,” she says, her tone lightening as she tries to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Now let me finish before you start talking crazy again.”

Brendan chuckles, leaning back in the chair. “No promises,” he says, but there’s a warmth in his voice that tells her he means what he said.

For now, the line between them remains intact, but the unspoken understanding lingers in the space between her hands and his hair—fragile but undeniable.

As Amari finishes the last section of Brendan’s hair, she steps back and gives his curls a quick fluff, admiring her work. “There,” she says with a satisfied smile. “You’re all set. Looking camera-ready as always.”

Brendan spins slightly in the chair, glancing at himself in the mirror. “You’re a magician, Mari,” he says, grinning as he runs a hand through his hair. “How do you always make me look this good?”

“Natural talent,” she replies, smirking as she starts cleaning up her tools. “Plus, it’s not like I’m working with bad material.”

He leans back in the chair, watching her with a lazy smile. “You know what would make this even better?”

Amari doesn’t look up, but the amused quirk of her brow gives her away. “What’s that, B?”

“Dinner,” he says casually, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You, me, some good food…my treat this time. Let me say thanks properly.”

Amari pauses, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Dinner, huh?” she asks, her tone teasing. “And here I thought I’d already been paid in charm and bad jokes.”

Brendan chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “Consider it a bonus,” he says, his grin widening. “Besides, I’m starving, and you’ve been working all day. You deserve a break.”

Amari crosses her arms, giving him a skeptical look. “This isn’t one of your smooth attempts to turn dinner into something else, is it?”

He holds up his hands in mock innocence. “Scout’s honor. Just dinner. Unless…” He smirks, and she throws a towel at him, laughing.

“Alright, alright,” she says, shaking her head. “You win. But if this turns into you trying to pitch another ‘payment plan,’ I’m walking out.”

“Deal,” Brendan says, grabbing his jacket. “Now come on, Mari. Let’s go. I know a spot that’ll change your life.”

She rolls her eyes but grabs her bag, letting him lead the way. Despite her teasing, there’s a small smile on her lips she can’t quite hide. With Brendan, nothing’s ever simple, but somehow, it’s always worth it.

Brendan leads Amari down a quiet street, the glow of neon signs lighting their way. He’s relaxed, his hands stuffed casually into his jacket pockets, while Amari walks beside him, the crisp evening air brushing against her skin.

“I know you’re used to all that fancy restaurant stuff,” Brendan says, glancing over at her with a grin. “But trust me, this place? It’s unbeatable.”

She raises an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in her smile. “You mean to tell me the guy who just finished a collab with one of the biggest designers prefers a hole-in-the-wall spot?”

“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation. “You can’t trust a place that spends more time on the presentation than the food. Here? It’s all about the flavor, Mari.”

They stop in front of a small, unassuming building with a flickering sign that reads Mama Dee’s Kitchen. The windows are fogged up, and the smell of spices wafts out as someone opens the door.

Amari hesitates, looking at the worn exterior. “This is it?”

Brendan nods, his grin widening. “This is it. Best food in the city. You’ll see.”

Inside, the place is cozy and packed, with mismatched chairs and tables crammed together. The walls are covered in photos of customers, scribbled notes of thanks, and old newspaper clippings. A jukebox in the corner plays a soulful tune, adding to the warm, lived-in vibe.

As they sit down, a woman with a big smile and even bigger energy walks over, throwing a towel over her shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t Brendan,” she says, hands on her hips. “Thought you were too big-time to visit us little folks anymore.”

Brendan laughs, standing up to give her a quick hug. “Mama Dee, you know I could never forget about you. Got someone special I wanted to bring by.”

Amari blushes slightly as Mama Dee looks her over, her sharp eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” she says, smiling warmly. “You keep him in line, alright? He needs it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Amari replies, smiling back as Brendan chuckles.

After taking their orders—Brendan insisting Amari tries the jerk chicken and mac and cheese—the two settle in. He leans back in his chair, watching her as she takes in the bustling atmosphere.

“So?” he asks, his voice soft but curious. “What do you think?”

Amari looks around, a small, genuine smile spreading across her lips. “I think it’s perfect,” she admits. “Way better than some pretentious rooftop spot.”

“Told you,” Brendan says, his grin triumphant.

When the food arrives, Amari is blown away. The flavors are rich and comforting, the kind of meal that feels like a hug. Brendan watches her reaction, satisfaction written all over his face.

“You weren’t kidding,” she says between bites, her tone amazed. “This might be the best food I’ve ever had.”

“I know my stuff,” he replies, winking. “Stick with me, Mari. I’ll take care of you.”

As the night goes on, the conversation flows easily, the lines between friendship and something more blurring even further. By the time they leave, Amari is convinced—this hole-in-the-wall is Brendan’s favorite for more than just the food. It’s a reflection of who he really is: unpretentious, full of heart, and unexpectedly soulful.

As they step out of Mama Dee’s Kitchen into the crisp night air, Amari hugs her jacket closer around herself. Brendan walks beside her, his hands tucked into his pockets, a satisfied smile lingering on his face from the meal.

She glances over at him, her brow furrowed slightly. “You’re about to go back to the studio tonight, aren’t you?” she asks, her tone half curious, half resigned.

Brendan chuckles, the sound low and warm. “What makes you say that?”

Amari rolls her eyes playfully. “Because I know you. You’ll eat a meal like that, and instead of relaxing, you’ll get all inspired and head straight back to work.”

He grins, shaking his head. “You act like that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” she admits, slowing her pace slightly. “But do you ever just…stop? Take a night for yourself? For someone else?”

Brendan looks over at her, his expression softening. “I do,” he says after a moment. “You’re looking at it.”

Amari blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“This,” he says, gesturing between them. “Dinner with you, taking a break to spend time with someone I actually like? That’s me stopping, Mari. That’s me taking a night.”

Her cheeks warm, and she looks away to hide the small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re such a smooth talker,” she mutters, though her tone lacks any real bite.

“It’s not talk,” Brendan says, his voice quieter now. “I mean it. But yeah, I’ll probably head back to the studio after I drop you off. There’s this hook I’ve been trying to perfect, and it’s driving me crazy.”

Amari sighs, shaking her head. “Of course you will. You’re impossible, B.”

He chuckles again, nudging her shoulder lightly. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, instead focusing on the sound of their footsteps against the pavement. But as they reach her car, she turns to him, her expression softer.

“Just promise me you’ll get some sleep eventually, okay?” she says.

Brendan smirks, leaning casually against her car. “Only if you promise to keep being my favorite hairstylist-slash-dinner date.”

Amari laughs, shaking her head as she unlocks her door. “Deal.”

As she gets in, Brendan leans down, resting his arms on the window frame. “Thanks for coming out with me tonight, Mari,” he says, his voice sincere.

“Thanks for the food,” she replies, smiling. “And for the company.”

He taps the roof of her car lightly as he straightens up. “Anytime.”

As she drives off, Brendan watches her taillights disappear down the street before turning in the opposite direction. The studio’s calling, but for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel like the only place he wants to be.

Later that night, Amari is sprawled on her couch, wrapped in a soft throw blanket. The dim glow of her apartment’s ambient lighting casts a cozy hue over the room. She’s already undressed and in her favorite oversized t-shirt, a playlist of Brendan’s songs playing softly in the background.

As his smooth verses fill the space, she absentmindedly sips on a glass of wine, letting herself unwind after a long day. Her head bobs slightly to the beat, a small smile tugging at her lips as she listens to his voice.

Then, a soft knock breaks through the music. She freezes for a moment, her brows furrowing. It’s late—too late for unannounced visitors.

Setting her glass down, she stands and pads toward the door, her bare feet silent against the hardwood. “Who is it?” she calls out cautiously, leaning closer but not opening it just yet.

“It’s me,” comes Brendan’s familiar voice, muffled but unmistakable.

Amari sighs, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile as she unlocks the door. When she opens it, Brendan stands on the other side, hands in his pockets and an apologetic look on his face. He’s dressed in the same outfit from dinner, though his jacket is slung over one shoulder now, his curls slightly disheveled.

“B,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. “What are you doing here? I thought you were heading to the studio.”

“I was,” he says, his tone low. “But I couldn’t focus. Kept thinking about you.”

Her heart skips a beat, but she quickly masks it with a raised brow. “Oh, really? And what exactly were you thinking?”

“That you’re probably here, cozy, listening to my music,” he says with a sly grin. “And I thought, ‘Why not give her the live version?’”

Amari rolls her eyes, but she can’t help the laugh that escapes her. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he admits, stepping closer, his expression softening. “But I mean it. I just...wanted to see you again.”

She lets out a slow breath, her guard dropping slightly as she steps back to let him in. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” she teases, closing the door behind him.

Brendan surveys her apartment, the sound of his song still playing in the background. His smile widens when he hears it. “I knew it,” he says, turning to her. “You’ve got good taste, Mari.”

She shakes her head, walking past him to grab her glass of wine. “You’re impossible,” she says, though there’s no real heat in her words. “You want a drink?”

“Nah,” he says, his gaze following her. “I’m good. I didn’t come here to drink.”

His tone is softer now, and when she turns to look at him, his expression is unreadable but intense. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between them.

“B…” she starts, but the way he’s looking at her makes her words falter.

“Tell me to leave, Mari,” he says quietly, his voice steady but his eyes searching hers. “If you want me to, I’ll go. No questions, no hard feelings.”

She stares at him for a moment, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Finally, she exhales, setting her glass down on the counter.

“You’re already here,” she says softly. “Might as well stay.”

His lips curve into a slow smile, and he steps even closer, his hand brushing against hers. For now, the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of them in the quiet warmth of her apartment, his voice still crooning softly from the speakers.

Brendan walks over to her couch, sinking into it with a contented sigh. “This is nice,” he says, looking around her apartment. “Cozy, just like you.”

Amari, still standing by the counter, suddenly becomes acutely aware of what she’s wearing—or rather, what she isn’t wearing. Brendan’s eyes are on her, warm and curious, but not overtly prying. Still, the thought that her oversized t-shirt is the only thing between her and complete exposure makes her pulse quicken.

“I, uh... I’ll be right back,” she mutters, turning quickly toward her bedroom.

Brendan watches her retreat, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Take your time,” he calls after her, leaning back against the couch cushions.

Amari practically dives into her dresser, pulling out a pair of shorts. She quickly slips them on, glancing at herself in the mirror. “Get it together, Mari,” she mutters to her reflection, her cheeks flushed.

When she comes back out, Brendan has made himself at home. One arm is draped over the back of the couch, and he’s scrolling through her playlist on the speakers. He glances up when he hears her footsteps, his gaze flicking down briefly before meeting her eyes.

“Feel better now?” he teases, a knowing smirk on his face.

She narrows her eyes at him but can’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t start, B,” she warns, sitting down at the other end of the couch.

“I’m just saying,” he replies, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mind the outfit, but if this makes you more comfortable…”

“Shut up,” she says, laughing despite herself.

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, the soft hum of music filling the space. Brendan glances over at her, his expression thoughtful.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I know it’s late.”

Amari shrugs, leaning back into the couch. “It’s fine. You’re not exactly a stranger.”

“No,” he agrees, his eyes lingering on her for a moment. “I’m not.”

There’s something in his gaze that makes her stomach flip, but she brushes it off, reaching for her wine glass. “So, what was on your mind at the studio?” she asks, changing the subject.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Honestly? You,” he says simply.

Amari blinks, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking up at her. “Can’t focus when I know you’re here, all cozy, listening to my stuff. It’s distracting.”

She scoffs, though her cheeks warm. “You’ve got a whole career to worry about, B. Don’t let me get in the way of that.”

He leans back again, his smile softening. “You’re not in the way, Mari. If anything, you’re the reason I keep going back.”

Her breath catches for a moment, but she quickly hides it behind her glass, taking a sip. Brendan just watches her, his eyes filled with something she’s not quite ready to name.

“I… uh…” Amari stammers, her usual confidence faltering under Brendan’s steady gaze. She sets her wine glass down on the table, her hands suddenly fidgeting with the edge of her shirt.

Brendan’s lips twitch into a small smile, but he doesn’t press her. Instead, he leans back into the couch, draping one arm over the backrest and letting his other hand rest on his thigh. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says softly, his tone teasing but gentle.

“I’m not nervous,” she says quickly, though the slight crack in her voice betrays her.

“Right,” he replies, his smile widening. “Because you’re always this jumpy, huh?”

She glares at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And yet, here I am,” he says, gesturing around her apartment. “Somehow still your favorite headache.”

Amari huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “You give yourself way too much credit, B.”

“Maybe,” he says, his voice dropping slightly as his eyes lock onto hers. “But I think I’m right about this one.”

The air between them shifts, the playful banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. Amari feels her pulse quicken, her chest tightening as she searches for something—anything—to say.

“B,” she starts, her voice quieter now, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but…”

“I’m just being honest,” he cuts in, his tone serious. “You said not to let you get in the way, but you don’t get it, Mari. You’re not in the way—you’re the reason I’m still in it.”

Her breath catches, and she looks away, her hands twisting in her lap. “That’s… a lot,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “But it’s the truth. And I’m not gonna pretend it’s not.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The only sound is the soft hum of music in the background, one of Brendan’s slower tracks setting the mood without either of them realizing it.

Amari finally looks back at him, her eyes searching his face. “Why now?” she asks, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

“Because I’m tired of pretending like I don’t feel this way every time I’m around you,” he says simply. “And if I’m being real, I think you feel it too.”

She exhales slowly, her walls cracking just enough for him to see the conflict in her eyes. “You’re not making this easy,” she murmurs.

“I’m not trying to,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “I’m just asking you to let me in.”

Amari swallows hard, the weight of his words settling over her. She doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t know if she even needs to say anything. Brendan waits, patient and steady, giving her the space to decide.

Amari takes a deep breath, her heart racing as she looks down at him, his gaze intense yet calm, waiting for her. Something shifts in her, something undeniable, and without fully thinking, she slowly stands up. Her legs move deliberately as she straddles Brendan, her knees pressing against the couch on either side of him.

Brendan’s breath hitches at the change in position, his hands resting on her hips, his thumbs brushing the fabric of her shorts as he looks up at her, eyes dark with unspoken understanding.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

Amari meets his gaze, her own breathing shaky but steady. “I don’t know,” she admits, her voice a whisper, “but I want to find out.”

He exhales slowly, his hands sliding around her waist to hold her steady, pulling her closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, the sincerity in his voice making her pulse quicken.

For a moment, they simply stay there, inches apart, the air between them thick with anticipation. Amari can feel the weight of her own hesitation, but it’s overshadowed by the pull of his presence. She lets herself fall into it, the world outside their small bubble fading as she leans down toward him.

Their lips meet in a soft, slow kiss, and the tension between them finally snaps. It’s a kiss full of unspoken words and raw connection, as if they’ve both been waiting for this moment, even if they didn’t realize it.

As the kiss deepens, Amari moves her hands to the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his hair. She can feel the warmth of his body beneath her, the steady rhythm of his breath matching hers.

Brendan responds in kind, his hands roaming slowly over her back, tracing her skin, savoring the feel of her against him. He pulls her closer, and she can feel the heat between them grow.

But even as the moment unfolds, Amari remains uncertain, the questions still swirling in her mind. She pulls back slightly, her chest heaving as she looks down at him.

“B, I…” She doesn’t know what to say.

Brendan’s hand gently cups her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin with an almost reverent touch. “Mari,” he says softly, his voice steady, “you don’t have to say anything.”

And for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. The silence between them isn’t awkward—it’s filled with understanding, trust, and something more. She doesn’t need to have all the answers right now. They’re here, in this moment, together. And that’s enough.

Brendan’s fingers trace the edge of Amari’s shirt, his touch light and tentative at first, as though giving her the chance to pull away if she wants. But Amari doesn’t move. Instead, she watches him, the anticipation making her pulse quicken. She feels the brush of his fingers against her skin, soft but deliberate, as he slowly tugs at the hem of her shirt, lifting it just enough to reveal the smoothness of her stomach.

Amari bites her lip, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her body betraying the calm she’s trying to maintain. The weight of his touch, the heat from his hands, makes her heart race, and she can’t help but shiver under his gaze.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmurs again, his voice hushed, just above a whisper, his eyes locking onto hers as his fingers linger at the fabric.

She meets his gaze, her hands resting on his shoulders for support, and there’s a softness in her eyes, something she hasn’t allowed herself to show in a while. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she says, her voice steady despite the butterflies stirring in her stomach.

Brendan gives a small, approving smile, his thumb brushing along the hem of her shirt once more, but this time with more intent. “Then let’s make sure we take our time,” he says softly, his fingers sliding underneath the fabric, gently lifting it as though giving her the chance to stop him.

Amari’s breath catches as his hand slides beneath her shirt, his warm palm against her skin, sending a ripple of heat through her. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans down slightly, pressing her lips to his in a quiet, reassuring kiss, before drawing back to meet his eyes once more.

“Take your time, B,” she says quietly, her voice low and steady, matching the unspoken promise between them.

Once her shirt was discarded his eyes grew wide at the bareness of her.

Brendan’s breath catches in his throat when Amari’s shirt finally slips away, revealing the smoothness of her skin. His eyes widen, a mix of awe and admiration flickering across his features as he takes in the sight of her. There’s a brief moment of silence between them, filled only by the sound of their steady breaths.

Amari can feel the heat of his gaze on her, but instead of feeling exposed, she feels empowered, confident in a way she hasn’t in a while. She allows herself to meet his eyes, her chest rising and falling slowly as she watches his reaction. The intensity in his gaze is palpable, and for a moment, she allows herself to savor it.

“Damn, Mari,” he says, his voice rougher now, his hands hovering just above her skin as if unsure of how to proceed. He swallows hard, clearly trying to regain his composure. “You’re... stunning.”

Amari smiles softly, her heart fluttering at his words, but there’s also a part of her that knows this moment is more than just about physical attraction. It’s about trust. And she feels it, deep in her bones.

“Don’t just look,” she teases, her voice playful despite the vulnerability she feels. “Touch.”

At her urging, Brendan’s hands finally move, slow and careful, as he places one hand on her lower back and the other on her waist, his touch tentative but firm, as though seeking permission with each movement. She shivers at his warmth, her skin coming alive under his fingertips.

He leans in, his lips finding her shoulder, planting a soft kiss there, before trailing kisses along the curve of her neck. “You make it so damn hard to think,” he murmurs against her skin, his voice filled with the same unspoken longing.

Amari’s hands slide up to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, and she lets herself sink into the moment, into the heat between them. The world outside her apartment feels like it’s fading away, leaving just the two of them, caught in a silent dance of desire and connection.

Brendan’s lips brush over the sensitive spot on Amari’s neck, and she can’t help the soft gasp that escapes her lips. Her body tenses at the sensation, a shiver running down her spine as her pulse quickens. “Fuck…” she breathes out, her voice a mix of surprise and pleasure.

He smiles against her skin, feeling the subtle tremor of her body under his touch. His hands move, pulling her closer as his lips continue to worship her neck, trailing kisses and light bites, pushing her closer to the edge of the moment.

Amari’s head tilts back instinctively, giving him more access, and she feels herself melting into the sensation, unable to hold back any longer. Her fingers thread into his hair, tugging him slightly as she whispers his name.

“B…” The word comes out almost like a plea, a quiet invitation for more.

Brendan’s breath hitches as he feels her grip on him tighten. He pauses for a second, looking up at her, his face inches from hers, the heat between them undeniable. “You good?” he asks, his voice low, but full of concern, needing her to be comfortable.

Her breath comes in short gasps, but her eyes never leave his, a look of quiet intensity in them. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions. “Just… don’t stop.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. With a quiet chuckle, he leans in again, his hands moving to her hips as he pulls her closer, guiding her to where they both know the moment will lead.

Amari pulls back slightly, her breath shallow as she meets Brendan's eyes. Her heart races, but it’s not from the desire anymore. The weight of their earlier conversation in the shop—about boundaries, about where they stand—starts to flood her thoughts. She can feel the uncertainty creeping in, clouding the intensity of the moment.

“B…” she says again, this time her voice soft but firm, a quiet hesitation in her tone.

Brendan freezes, sensing the shift in her energy. His hand lingers on her waist, his gaze searching hers for understanding. He can feel the tension in the air, the way her body language has changed, and he immediately pulls back slightly, giving her the space she needs.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice gentle, no longer carrying the earlier playfulness. Instead, it’s full of care and concern, knowing something has shifted for her.

Amari runs a hand through her hair, her mind racing. She tries to focus, to make sense of the confusion swirling inside her. “We talked about this before, you know? What this is, or isn’t…” She trails off, unsure of how to voice everything she’s feeling.

Brendan nods slowly, his eyes softening with understanding. “Yeah, I remember. I’m not trying to push you, Mari,” he says, his tone steady and reassuring. “I get it. You’ve got your own thing going on, and I don’t want to mess that up.”

She sighs, her shoulders dropping as she meets his gaze. “It’s not that… It’s just… I need to be sure. Sure about where we stand, what this is. I don’t want us getting tangled up in something neither of us really wants.”

Brendan reaches for her hand, his touch light but grounding. “I’m not here to confuse you or make things harder, Mari. If we need to slow down or take a step back, I’m all in. I just…” His voice falters for a moment, but he recovers, his sincerity clear. “I care about you. More than I let on sometimes. And I don’t want to mess that up.”

Her chest tightens at his words, the vulnerability in his voice tugging at something deep inside her. She looks at him for a long moment, taking in his earnestness. For the first time tonight, she feels like they’re both on the same page, even if they’re not entirely sure where that page leads.

“I care about you too,” she says quietly, her voice steady. “But I need to know this is more than just… than just what we’ve been doing, you know?”

Brendan nods, his thumb gently brushing her hand. “I get it. No rush. We take this however it needs to go.”

Amari exhales a shaky breath, relief washing over her. She smiles softly, grateful for his patience, for not pushing her further than she’s ready to go. They’re still in this, whatever "this" might be, but it’s okay. They’ll figure it out together.

Amari stands up and quickly grabs her shirt, trying to cover herself as she slips it back on, but her mind is still spinning from the tension that’s just simmered beneath the surface. As she pulls the fabric over her head, she mutters under her breath, “Shit! Now I’m turned on.”

Brendan watches her, his lips curving into a grin as he sees the conflicted look on her face. He leans back on the couch, his eyes never leaving her, a mix of amusement and desire in his gaze. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” he teases, his voice smooth and playful.

Amari looks at him, an eyebrow arched in mock disbelief. “You’re not helping,” she says, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. She’s still caught between wanting to hold back and the undeniable pull of their chemistry.

“Maybe I’m not supposed to,” he responds, his tone low, as his gaze slowly slides over her. “But hey, I’m happy to be the one to turn you on.”

Amari lets out a soft laugh, the tension easing a little, though she can still feel the heat building between them. “You know what? Maybe I should go.” Her words are half-serious, though she’s not sure whether she wants to leave or not. The mixed signals are throwing her off.

Brendan chuckles, the playfulness in his eyes not fading. “You can try to leave, but you’re not fooling anyone.” His voice drops to a lower pitch, more teasing. “You’re still here for a reason.”

She shakes her head, her smile widening as she walks over to him, knowing full well that she’s not going anywhere. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, before sitting back down next to him.

His grin deepens. “And yet, you can’t get enough.”

Amari sighs, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice as she turns her head to face him. “You’ve got a way of making things complicated, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But I think you like it,” he says, his voice steady, eyes holding a glimmer of something deeper, something real. “We don’t have to rush, Mari. But I’m not going anywhere, either.”

Her eyes meet his, a quiet understanding passing between them. There’s no rush, no pressure. For now, they just exist in the moment, whatever it may turn into.

Brendan stands up, his movements slow, as though not wanting to leave just yet. He looks down at Amari, a soft smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Till next time," he says, his voice low but filled with warmth.

Before she can say anything, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there for a second longer than expected, as if the touch itself carries a promise—one that both of them are trying to make sense of.

Amari feels the tenderness of his kiss, and despite the earlier tension, she’s filled with a sense of calm. Her heart flutters for a moment, the intimacy of the gesture striking her in a way that she didn't anticipate. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a quiet assurance.

“Take care, B,” she says softly, standing up to see him to the door.

He gives her one last smile, nodding as he reaches for the doorknob. “You too, Mari. I’ll be in touch.”

With a final glance, Brendan steps out, leaving Amari standing in the doorway, a quiet sense of longing in her chest. But this time, it’s different. She’s not sure what comes next, but for the first time in a while, she feels like it might be okay to just let it unfold.

A few days later, after finishing a shoot, Brendan finds himself thinking about Amari more than he expected. He’s been caught up in work, but now that the shoot is over and the adrenaline has faded, he can’t shake the feeling that he wants to see her again. There’s something about the way they connect, the way things are between them, that keeps drawing him in.

He sends her a text: "Hey, you busy? Want to come by the penthouse tonight?"

Amari, who’s winding down from her own day, reads the message with a soft smile. She had been wondering when he would reach out again. Their last encounter had been full of mixed emotions, but she’s curious about where things could go from here.

She types back, "Yeah, I can swing by. What’s the occasion?"

Brendan’s reply is almost immediate: "No occasion. Just wanted to see you."

Her heart flutters at the simplicity of his words. She feels a rush of warmth, and despite all the complexities between them, there’s something comforting about his honesty.

“Alright, I’ll be there soon,” she types before putting her phone down. She takes a moment to freshen up, changing into something casual yet comfortable, and makes her way to his penthouse.

When she arrives, the city lights shine in the distance, casting a soft glow through the massive windows of Brendan’s high-rise. The door opens before she can even knock, and there he is, standing with a relaxed smile on his face.

"Hey," he says, stepping aside to let her in. "I’m glad you came."

She smiles back, a little more at ease this time. "You didn’t give me much of a choice," she teases, stepping inside.

He chuckles and closes the door behind her, then leads her to the living room, where the atmosphere is cozy, dimly lit by soft lighting and a few candles scattered around. It’s clear he’s made an effort to set the mood, though it’s not overly romantic—more laid-back and inviting.

“I just finished the shoot, so I’m kinda wiped,” Brendan admits, running a hand through his hair. “But I wanted to hang out for a bit. You cool with that?”

Amari nods, taking a seat on the couch. “Yeah, I’m good with that. You’re always on the go. It’s nice to see you actually relax for once.”

Brendan grins, sitting beside her. "That’s the goal," he says, kicking off his shoes and stretching out his legs. "I’m just trying to enjoy the little things."

As they sit together, the conversation flows easily, a mix of lighthearted teasing and deeper, more genuine moments. There’s no rush, no pressure, just the two of them sharing space and time together, enjoying each other’s company.

Brendan sits back on the couch, stretching out with ease, his shirt discarded after the shoot. His tattoos, scattered across his arms and chest, tell a story of their own, each one a piece of his past, his experiences. The ink blends seamlessly with his muscular build, broad shoulders and strong arms, giving him a presence that Amari can’t help but notice.

As he leans back, his posture relaxed but confident, Amari catches herself admiring him. The tattoos, the strength in his frame, the way his body seems effortless in its masculinity—it all pulls her in. She can’t help but smile to herself, feeling a familiar heat rise inside her, a quiet turn-on that she tries to push aside, but it’s there, undeniable.

“You good?” Brendan asks, noticing the smile on her lips. His voice has a teasing undertone now, aware of the effect he’s having on her but not letting on that he’s noticed.

Amari clears her throat, trying to stay composed, but there’s something about the combination of his casual ease and his striking physique that has her feeling a bit breathless. “Yeah, just… admiring your work,” she says with a playful grin, motioning to his tattoos.

Brendan chuckles, glancing down at his arms, then back to her with a raised eyebrow. “You like them?”

“I like them,” she confirms with a soft smile, her gaze lingering on his arms for a moment longer than necessary. "A lot."

He shifts, leaning in slightly, the muscles in his chest tightening as he crosses his arms over his torso, his gaze never leaving hers. "Well, if you're into that kind of thing, maybe you should get a closer look," he teases, his tone low, just enough to make her heart race again.

Amari feels a sudden wave of boldness sweep over her, but she plays it cool, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Maybe later," she says, leaning back into the couch, though she can’t quite hide the subtle glimmer in her eyes.

Brendan watches her, the playful energy between them intensifying. "You sure? I promise, there's more where that came from."

Her smile widens, and she leans toward him slightly. “We’ll see about that.”

The tension between them simmers, the easy banter turning into something more, something deeper, but still lighthearted. They’re both aware of the pull they have on each other, but for now,they remain in the moment, no rush, no pressure. Just two people enjoying each other’s presence.

Brendan grabs the remote and casually flips on the TV, the soft glow of the screen illuminating the room. He shifts slightly on the couch, getting comfortable, and without saying much, Amari naturally leans into him, her head resting against his chest as she snuggles close. The warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing make her feel at ease, the tension of the evening melting away.

She can feel the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her, and it brings a sense of calm she didn’t expect. His arm instinctively wraps around her, pulling her a little closer as they both sink into the quiet of the room. There’s no need for words right now; the comfort of each other’s presence speaks volumes.

Amari shifts slightly, finding a better position against him, and with a small sigh of contentment, she lets the world outside fall away. The show on the TV fades into the background as she focuses on the warmth between them.

“Comfy?” Brendan asks, his voice low, the familiar teasing undertone replaced by something a little softer, a little more sincere.

“Yeah,” Amari murmurs, her voice soft as she looks up at him. "I think I could get used to this."

He smiles, his thumb gently rubbing small circles on her arm. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The moment feels easy and unhurried, like it could stretch on indefinitely. The connection between them is quiet but undeniably strong, and as the TV plays on in the background, they both find themselves content in the simple closeness they share.

Brendan’s voice is gentle as he asks, his fingers still tracing small circles on her arm. "Tell me about your day?"

Amari leans into him a little more, letting herself relax further into his warmth. She takes a slow breath, her thoughts drifting back to the events of her day. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but in the quiet of the moment, it feels nice to share it with him.

“Nothing too exciting,” she starts, her voice soft and comfortable. “Had a few clients come in, just the usual. Spent some time brainstorming new styles for a shoot next week. You know, just the usual hustle.”

She looks up at him, finding his gaze steady on her, his interest genuine. "And you? How was the shoot?"

Brendan smiles, his eyes lighting up slightly as he recalls the day’s events. "It went well. Long day, but it always feels good when you’re able to finish strong, you know? The crew was solid, and the photographer had some really great ideas. But honestly, I think the best part was coming home."

He tilts his head, his expression softening. “Coming home to this.”

Amari feels a warmth spread through her at his words, and a small smile tugs at her lips. “I’m glad you’re here, too,” she says quietly, her voice full of sincerity.

Brendan chuckles lightly, the mood lightening once again. "I could tell. You’ve got that smile that says you were thinking about me." His teasing tone is back, but there’s no mistaking the affection in his voice.

Amari rolls her eyes but can’t suppress the smile that grows wider. "You’re full of yourself, you know that?"

But even as she says it, she finds herself more comfortable in his presence, the day’s stress already forgotten in the easy, shared space between them. She settles deeper into him, feeling a sense of peace that she hasn’t realized she was craving.

The conversation flows between them easily, with small moments of laughter, teasing, and more serious talk about life, work, and everything in between. And as the evening continues, Amari finds herself grateful for these simple, quiet moments—the kind that remind her that, sometimes, it’s the little things that matter most.

“B….you know we’re not together right.” She says. Brendan pauses for a moment, his hand still resting on her arm as he looks down at her. Her words hang in the air between them, and the playful lightness of the moment shifts into something more serious.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice soft but steady. His gaze meets hers, and there's a depth in his eyes that wasn’t there before. "I know we’re not together, Amari. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy this… whatever this is."

Amari takes in a slow breath, the weight of the conversation settling in her chest. She hadn’t meant to bring it up like this, but the clarity of her thoughts is something she needs to express. She shifts slightly, pulling back a bit so she can look at him properly.

“I don’t want to make things messy, B,” she says, her voice steady but carrying the vulnerability that she’s been holding onto. “I care about you, but we’ve got our own lives and things to figure out. I don’t want us to get lost in something that isn’t going anywhere.”

Brendan doesn’t look offended or distant. Instead, he listens, nodding slowly, as if he’s been expecting this conversation to come at some point. He’s quiet for a long moment before he responds, his words measured but honest.

"I get it, Mari," he says, his voice low. "I respect that. I never want to make things complicated or push you into something you don’t want. I guess I just… like spending time with you." He chuckles softly, the tension easing in his own way. "I guess I was hoping it could be more, but I’m not trying to rush anything."

Amari’s heart feels a little lighter hearing that. His honesty and understanding calm some of the nerves she didn’t realize she had. She appreciates that he’s not trying to force anything or make her feel guilty for speaking her mind.

“I appreciate that, B,” she says, her eyes softening. “And I do enjoy our time together. I just don’t want us to end up in a situation where one of us gets hurt because we were too caught up in something we didn’t really want.”

Brendan nods again, this time with a more serious look in his eyes. "Yeah, I hear you. We’re on the same page."

There’s a quiet moment between them, the air a little less heavy, but still full of unspoken understanding. Amari leans back into him, but this time, it’s a bit different—more grounded, more aware of where they both stand.

“I’m glad we talked about it,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now. “It feels good to clear the air.”

“Me too,” Brendan replies softly, his arm wrapping around her again, but with a new sense of ease and respect. "And whatever this is, I’m good with it."

Amari inhales deeply, her thoughts momentarily drifting from the serious conversation to the undeniable presence of Brendan beside her. His shirtless frame, the tattoos inked across his chest and arms, the warmth radiating from his skin, all of it pulls her in once more. There’s a magnetic force in the way he sits—relaxed, confident, yet somehow still so approachable.

Her gaze lingers a moment longer, drawn to the way his muscles move beneath his skin, the subtle strength he exudes even in stillness. The connection between them shifts again, this time with an undeniable tension that neither of them can deny.

Brendan notices her change in posture, the slight shift in her body, and he watches her carefully, sensing the change in the atmosphere. A playful glint enters his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something deeper, something more introspective. He knows what she’s feeling, and he feels it too, but there’s a new understanding in the way he waits for her to decide how she wants to navigate it.

“Amari…” he says her name softly, almost as if testing the waters, his voice steady yet laced with curiosity. "You sure about this? About us?"

His question is gentle, but the underlying tension in his words makes it clear that he’s not pushing, just making sure they’re still on the same page despite the pull between them. He’s giving her the space to either step back or lean in, respecting whatever choice she makes.

Amari swallows, her heart racing a little faster, and her eyes flick up to meet his. The words she’s been holding back seem to fall away as the warmth between them intensifies, her restraint dissolving with every beat of her heart. It’s as if everything they’ve said, every conversation they’ve had, no longer matters in this moment. What’s left is simply the undeniable chemistry, the raw connection that’s always been there beneath the surface.

Without saying a word, she leans forward, her lips meeting his in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s a kiss that says everything, that answers his question without a need for more words. She’s not backing away, not this time. And when she pulls back, her eyes are filled with a new, unspoken understanding.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, her voice full of desire, no longer guarded. “I’m sure.”

Brendan moves with a sense of purpose, his hands gently but firmly pulling Amari onto his lap. The movement is natural, like they’ve both been waiting for this, and as she settles against him, her body aligns with his effortlessly. She can feel the heat of his skin beneath her, the tension between them palpable.

For a moment, they both remain still, taking in the closeness. The feel of her body pressed against his, the rhythm of their breaths syncing, it all heightens the quiet intimacy of the moment. Amari’s heart beats faster, her pulse quickening as she realizes just how much she wants to be here, in this space, with him.

Brendan’s hands rest on her hips, fingers lightly tracing the curve of her waist as he looks up at her with a mixture of desire and tenderness. There’s a quiet intensity in his eyes now, something deeper than just attraction—it’s the recognition of a connection that neither of them can ignore.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against her neck as he whispers, "Are you sure about this, Mari?" His voice is low, husky, filled with both curiosity and something more.

Amari meets his gaze, her eyes filled with a fire that matches his. She doesn’t need to say anything this time. The way she presses herself closer to him, the way her hands find the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss, speaks louder than words ever could.

The kiss deepens as they both surrender to the moment, letting the world outside fall away. There’s no more hesitation, no more second-guessing. Just the feeling of their bodies moving together, a perfect harmony of desire and connection.

The morning light filters through the blinds, casting a soft glow across the room. Amari stirs awake, the warmth of the bed wrapping around her like a comforting cocoon. She glances over at Brendan's side of the bed, empty, before hearing the sound of running water from the bathroom. A few moments later, the door opens, and Brendan emerges, brushing his teeth casually, his expression relaxed.

Amari takes in the sight of him—shirtless, his tattoos on full display, his hair still damp from the shower. There’s a peacefulness in the way he moves, and for a second, she allows herself to simply enjoy the moment, watching him with a quiet smile.

He notices her gaze and raises an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He spits into the sink, wiping his mouth before turning to her. “Morning,” he says, his voice still husky from sleep.

“Morning,” she replies, her voice soft, though there's a certain warmth in her tone. She shifts slightly in the bed, pulling the shirt she borrowed tighter around her, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than she did the night before.

Brendan steps toward the bed, leaning down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, the casual affection in his voice making her heart flutter.

“Better than I expected,” she responds, her smile growing a little. "You?"

“Same,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed, looking at her with a mix of contentment and curiosity. “How’s everything feeling? No regrets?”

Amari chuckles softly, shaking her head. "No regrets," she says, meeting his eyes with a sense of clarity. "It’s just... I wasn’t really expecting to wake up here, but I’m not upset about it."

Brendan’s eyes soften, and he reaches over to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m glad you’re not," he says quietly, his voice serious but not overbearing. "We’re good, right?"

She nods, her gaze steady on him. “Yeah. We’re good.”

A comfortable silence falls between them, and for a moment, it feels like the world outside the room doesn’t matter. It’s just the two of them, sharing this quiet moment, free of the complexities that often come with situations like this. Amari feels a sense of peace, but also a flicker of curiosity about what comes next.

“So,” she says after a beat, her smile playful as she glances up at him. “What now?”

Brendan grins, brushing his hand through his damp hair. “How about breakfast?” he suggests, standing up from the bed. “I think you deserve something other than my bed to wake up to.”

Amari chuckles, feeling the ease between them. “Sounds good to me.”

“Did we have sex last night?” She asks. He smirks. “No. But we did make out.” He says.

Brendan’s smirk widens slightly as he sits back on the edge of the bed, eyeing Amari with a playful glint in his eyes. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, looking both relaxed and teasing. “No, we didn’t,” he replies with a teasing tone, “but we definitely made out.”

Amari raises an eyebrow, a mixture of amusement and curiosity crossing her face. She tries to remember the details of the night before, but the haze of sleep and the overwhelming intimacy of it all makes it hard to pinpoint.

“Honestly?” she asks, sounding slightly surprised but not disappointed. “I don’t even remember how we ended up here. I guess we really just... kept things low-key, huh?”

Brendan chuckles, shifting his position to face her more directly. “I think we both just enjoyed being around each other last night,” he says thoughtfully, “and decided not to rush anything. And honestly, it was nice not to have to jump into anything.”

Amari laughs lightly, finally feeling a sense of ease. “Well, I’m glad that we weren’t in some weird, blurry ‘morning after’ situation, then,” she says with a smirk, clearly relieved.

“No weirdness,” Brendan assures her with a wink, leaning forward a little. “Just us, being real and honest.”

There’s a moment of understanding between them, a quiet acknowledgment that whatever their dynamic is, it’s not something either of them needs to rush into or label immediately. It’s comfortable, and there’s no pressure to make it anything more than it is right now.

“Alright,” Amari says, finally sitting up and stretching. “So, no wild stories to tell about last night, huh?”

“Not unless you count making out like teenagers,” he says, grinning. “But if you’re asking for wild... that’s definitely a ‘maybe’ for later.”

Amari laughs, the tension easing further between them. “Good to know. So, breakfast?”

“Definitely,” Brendan says with a smile, extending a hand to help her up. “Let’s see if I can cook something edible, or if we’re stuck ordering takeout.”

“But first.” He says as he kisses her again. Amari smiles, her eyes meeting his with a mix of amusement and something deeper, more drawn to the unspoken connection they’re sharing. She doesn’t say anything at first, letting the moment unfold naturally. Then, without hesitation, Brendan leans in and presses his lips to hers again—a soft kiss at first, slow and deliberate.

The kiss deepens as the world outside seems to fade away, and all that matters is the two of them in this quiet, intimate space. It's a reminder that, even without words, they’re both fully present with each other in this moment. The gentle pressure of his lips on hers stirs something inside her, a warmth that radiates from her chest.

She pulls back after a few moments, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she looks at him, her breath slightly heavier. "You’re really trying to distract me from breakfast, aren’t you?"

Brendan chuckles, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Maybe,” he admits, his voice playful. “But I just couldn’t help myself.”

Amari shakes her head, though the smile on her lips betrays the playful banter between them. “Alright, alright,” she says, finally standing up and stretching once more. “Breakfast it is. But next time, I’m calling the shots on distractions.”

Brendan laughs, following her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, walking toward the kitchen. The moment of tenderness has passed, but there’s an ease and a comfort in the space between them now—no expectations, just a shared understanding of the time they’ve spent together.

Later that day she is waiting for another appointment when Brendan comes in.

Amari sits in the waiting area, flipping through a magazine, trying to pass the time before her next appointment. She’s only half-focused on the pages, her thoughts drifting back to the morning and the quiet moments she shared with Brendan. Her mind replays the kiss they’d shared before breakfast, and she can’t help but smile to herself. It was an easy, comfortable morning, but now, she’s not sure where things are going.

As she looks up, the door to the office opens, and in walks none other than Brendan. He’s dressed casually, a black hoodie over a t-shirt, his usual cool demeanor intact. When he spots her, a smile spreads across his face, and he heads toward her, clearly recognizing the surprise in her expression.

"Didn’t expect to see you here again so soon," Amari says, her voice a mix of amusement and mild surprise.

Brendan grins, leaning against the doorway. “Well, you know I can’t stay away for too long,” he teases. “Besides, I had a bit of time, so I thought I’d drop by. You look like you're waiting for something important."

She chuckles lightly, a hint of playfulness in her eyes. "I’m just killing time. Got another appointment. Nothing too exciting."

“Good thing I showed up then,” he says, stepping into the room. "I’m much more exciting than whatever you’ve got going on."

Amari raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. "I’d say you’re right. But I’m trying to keep things professional here."

Brendan smirks, clearly unfazed by her comment. “You’re always so serious. I think you just like to keep me on my toes."

"Maybe," she replies, leaning back in her chair. "But you know how it is. Can't make things too easy for you."

He moves closer, standing just a little too close for comfort. "Easy?" he repeats, his voice dropping a bit lower. "I’m not sure you’ve ever made anything easy for me, Mari."

Amari feels a spark of tension between them, but she tries to keep her composure. "I never said I would."

Brendan chuckles, clearly enjoying the playful back and forth. “Well, you’ve definitely got me hooked," he says with a wink, before taking a seat beside her.

For a moment, they sit in comfortable silence, the space between them charged with unspoken understanding. Amari wonders if this is where their dynamic is headed—casual but undeniably intense. Before she can fully process her thoughts, the receptionist calls her name, and she stands up, ready to head into her appointment.

“Guess that’s me,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Don’t go getting any ideas while I’m gone.”

Brendan laughs softly. “No promises. Catch you later, Mari.”

As she walks away, Amari can’t shake the feeling that things between them are only just beginning to get more complicated.

Amari pauses in the doorway, her hand on the handle when Brendan’s voice catches her attention. She turns to see him holding a small, elegantly wrapped box. He doesn’t say much, just a small smile on his face, as if he’s done something simple yet significant.

“Here,” he says, his voice casual, but there’s a certain sincerity behind his eyes.

She walks back towards him, a little confused but intrigued, and accepts the box. “What’s this?” she asks, her fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the gift.

“Open it,” Brendan replies, his gaze flicking toward the door as if he’s already halfway out.

Amari carefully unwraps the box, her curiosity piqued. Inside, she finds a key—sleek and polished, with the Mercedes logo shining in the light. Her heart skips a beat. She looks up at Brendan, speechless for a moment, before her gaze shifts outside the window. Her breath catches when she sees the G-Wagon parked outside, its dark, luxurious exterior gleaming in the sunlight.

“No... you didn’t,” she breathes, looking back at him in disbelief.

Brendan’s smirk widens as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I did,” he says simply, his voice steady but with an underlying playfulness. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

Amari stands frozen for a moment, processing what he’s said. She walks over to the window, eyes still locked on the impressive G-Wagon. She can hardly believe it—he had to have put a lot of thought into this, a gesture that felt like more than just a gift. The weight of the gesture doesn’t escape her.

Turning back to him, her voice soft, she finally says, “Why?”

Brendan shrugs, his eyes softening a bit as he watches her. “Just thought you deserved it,” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s been a crazy few weeks. Consider it... a little thank you.”

“But—” she begins, unsure of how to respond. “This is... way more than I was expecting. You sure about this?”

Brendan steps closer to her, his expression now serious, the playful edge gone from his voice. “I’m sure. You’re not someone who just gets by on anything. You deserve something nice. And I don’t do things halfway, Mari.”

Amari’s heart races, a mix of gratitude and confusion swirling within her. She looks back at the key in her hand, the weight of it finally settling. “This is a big deal, B,” she says, her voice small but steady. “I’m not sure I know how to accept something like this.”

Brendan reaches out, gently taking her hand with the key in it. “It’s not about the car, Mari. It’s about showing you that I’m serious about being here. I want you to know I’ve got your back.”

She meets his eyes, searching for any sign of a hidden agenda, but all she sees is sincerity.

"Well..." she says after a beat, her voice still thick with emotions she hadn’t quite expected to feel. "I guess I’ll take it... but I’m not forgetting this."

Brendan smiles, the tension between them easing. "I wouldn’t want you to."

With a final look at the G-Wagon, Amari nods slowly. "Thank you, B," she says softly. "This... means more than you probably know."

Without another word, Brendan slips out the door, leaving her standing there, the weight of the key in her hand symbolizing not just the car, but the unspoken complexity of their connection.

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