Arielle

Arielle had been fluffing the pillows again.

Not because they needed it. Not really. But because her body couldn't sit still when the clock hit that time. That time when the house felt like it was tilting forward, leaning breathlessly toward the door.

She adjusted the candles, unnecessarily. Smoothed her shorts. Rechecked her reflection in the glass of the oven. Then she heard it—the key, the shift, the soft telltale sound of the door unlocking.

He’s home.

A breath caught in her chest like a startled bird. She dropped the towel in her hand and bolted, bare feet skimming the hardwood, her curls bouncing behind her. No hesitation. No pause for poise or planning. Just love, reckless and bright and unbearable to contain for even one more second.

She flung the door open just as it eased inward—and launched.

Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, legs locking around his waist like she’d trained for this all day (and maybe she had). She buried her face against his shoulder with a whimpering laugh, so full it almost broke her in half.

“You came home, baby,” she breathed, kissing his jaw. Her voice cracked in the softest, happiest way. “You came home to me.”

Her curls tickled his cheek. Her perfume—vanilla, amber, him—warmed the space between them. She held on with everything. Even when her voice got quieter, even when she kissed his temple with reverent little presses, she clung.

“I missed you like something stupid,” she whispered. “Like… like I forgot how to be human until right now.”

She didn’t care if her thighs trembled from the hold. She didn’t care that dinner needed checking. All that mattered was this—his breath, his body, his arms, his presence.

“I don’t care what you brought,” she added, pulling back just far enough to beam at him, hazel eyes wild with adoration. “You are the present. The prize. The man of the fucking century, and he just walked into my house again.”

And just like that, she kissed him full on the mouth, like the house could burn down behind them and she’d still say it was the perfect evening.

Arielle had her phone tilted just right, sunlight glossing over her curls as she leaned back into the passenger seat like she owned the damn world—and honestly, in that moment, she did. Her live was already buzzing. The comment hearts flew faster than she could keep up.

“Okay so listen y’all,” she said into the front-facing camera, eyes bright, lips glossed, one leg tucked up under her. “We’re on our way to the movie—you know the one. Don’t act like you don’t. Everybody and their grandma tryna get seats and my man—” she leaned dramatically toward the driver’s side, all faux-serious pride, “already got us two prime ass tickets like three days ago. Front-center-perfect neck-angle-type shit.”

A flurry of emojis flooded the screen as she grinned like she’d just won a sweepstakes.

She panned the camera over with a sly, knowing smirk. “Y’all been askin’... yes, he’s driving. Yes, he’s fine. Yes, he’s focused. And yes—show them the cannons, baby. C’mon. Just flex one time for the fam.”

There was a pause. A shy shake of the head from him. She knew that face—he was trying not to smile, trying to pretend he wasn’t eating up every second of this.

“Baaaabe. Don’t play. Just one lil’—OH MY GOD,” she squealed mid-word as he finally raised his arm and gave a casual squeeze of his bicep. The fabric of his tee stretched with a vengeance, muscle carving up beneath it like someone had stuck a fucking watermelon under his sleeve.

“Y’ALL,” she screamed into the phone, flipping the camera back to herself. “THE SIZE OF MY WHOLE GODDAMN FACE. That’s not a tricep, that’s a goddamn continent.”

The comments were losing their minds. She fanned herself, tongue poking through her teeth, eyes playful and wild and proud.

“He over here tryna act like a gentle lil’ giant and I’m like—sir. Sir. Sir. Be serious. You got families out here gettin’ swooped into your gravitational pull. Protect the masses!”

She laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the dash, then reached over and squeezed his arm again with both hands like it was a prize she’d won in a raffle. Which, honestly, it kinda was.

“Anyway,” she said breathlessly, still smiling as the chat rolled by in waves, “we finna go see this movie and I’ma pretend to be watching it while secretly counting how many times his chest moves during the loud parts. Don’t judge me. I’m blessed. Stay safe, drink water, and manifest you a man with arms.”

And with that, she ended the live, dropped the phone in her lap, and gave him a look so drenched in love, it didn’t even need words.

The lights were low, only the soft flicker of the TV screen and a candle or two casting amber warmth across the room. The couch had become a kingdom. Blankets draped, snacks stacked like offerings, and the faint scent of eucalyptus and vanilla still clung to the air from their showers. Arielle was tucked perfectly into him, head resting against his chest, the thick white robe slipping a little off her shoulder, her curls still damp and fragrant.

His arm was looped around her neck—not tightly, never—but firm, solid, his forearm resting under her chin like a cradle. She liked it that way. It grounded her. Wrapped. Owned, safe. Like a human lock and key.

She lifted the phone with one hand and whispered into the mic, voice dipped in that quiet kind of joy—the kind that makes your cheeks glow even when no one’s watching.

“Okay so I’m whisperin’ ‘cause this man got me wrapped up like a comfort blanket,” she grinned at the screen, then flipped the camera for just a second. “Yes, that’s his arm. Yes, I do live here now. In this exact position. I’m not movin’.”

The chat was already sliding in, hearts fluttering up the screen, but she kept her tone low and reverent like she was sharing a secret spell.

“Y’all... it’s Friday night, we freshly bathed—like fresh fresh, robes still warm from the dryer—and this man said, ‘Clear the whole weekend.’”

She turned the camera slightly to show the table: chips, cut fruit, chocolate, sparkling water, a bottle of wine still sweating in its sleeve.

“We got snacks. We got six—count ‘em—six seasons of The Strain queued up. Holiday tomorrow. Phones off. Outside is canceled. If you need me, I’m unavailable ‘cause I’m binging this show with my man and pretending the world don’t exist.”

She smiled softly, camera tilting back up toward her. His thumb was stroking lazy circles just beneath her collarbone, and it made her voice hitch slightly, a small, involuntary breath.

“I don’t know who needs to hear this, but get you someone who smells like heaven, holds you like this, and ain’t tryna go nowhere all weekend.”

Her smile deepened, quieter now, more inward. She nestled deeper into him, the screen catching just the tip of her nose brushing his arm as she ended the reel.

No hashtag. No tag. Just a caption: "Six seasons. One heart. Goodnight, y’all."

It was supposed to be a quick errand. Just a run to the corner store for oat milk, maybe some ginger chews, nothing major. She didn’t even think about getting ready. Not really. A soft, oversized T-shirt that hung a little too loose around the neck, a pair of faded lounge shorts that hugged her hips like second skin, no makeup, no earrings, no perfume. Her hair hadn’t seen a brush since the night before—just a high, messy puff tied with a scrunchie, curls spilling wild and soft like an unmade bed. Not a shower in sight. That was supposed to be after.

But the neighborhood was quiet, familiar. Everyone knew everyone, and no one judged a woman for stepping out barefaced and half dressed in her own skin. She felt invisible in the way that made her feel safe.

Groceries in both hands, she was walking back home, hips swaying with the weight of her bags, earbuds in and her mind somewhere else—probably dinner plans or her next content post. She turned the corner, already a few houses from her front door when something—or someone—caught her peripheral vision.

A man. Not just a man.

Tall. Tall. Like absurd tall. Wide-shouldered. Broad-chested. The kind of build that made you think of fantasy romance covers and football stadiums at the same damn time. He was wearing a fitted t-shirt that clung just right, joggers, clean sneakers. Light scruff dusting his jaw, golden skin kissed by the sun, veins visible in his forearms that carried his duffel bag. Like he walked straight out of a problematic daydream and into her goddamn reality.

Her heart seized in panic.

She looked down at herself—at the wrinkled tee with a tiny stain near the hem, at the way one of her shorts’ pockets was turned out, at her bare feet in old flip-flops—and nearly screamed. Of all days. Of all fucking outfits. This was it. The first impression. The only impression. Gone.

She stopped walking. Froze. Bags at her sides. Ears burning.

Is He crossing the street? Right to her. She considered hiding behind the next parked car, but it was too late. He was already lifting a hand in greeting, smiling like a sunrise. And when he opened his mouth, his voice was deep and gentle.

Steam still clung to the doorway, curling lazy around the frame like it didn’t want to leave him either. Light from the hallway bounced off damp skin—broad shoulders gleaming, torso carved deep, towel sitting criminally low on narrow hips like it had no business holding on. The quiet drip of water traced the path down his chest, each drop an invitation.

She lay sprawled on the bed like a reward waiting to be claimed. Legs crossed at the ankles, curls still a little wild from lounging, a grin teasing the corner of her mouth like she’d been plotting his return the whole time. Her eyes traveled up slow, slow, slow, and then— A low whistle, one of reverent disbelief.

“Ain’t no way God made you on a Monday,” she said, voice warm and lazy, like syrup dripping off the spoon. “This is Sabbath work, baby.”

She reached for him—not rushed, but with practiced ease, a kind of sweet authority in her palms as they opened wide. Her fingers flexed in a slow, come-hither rhythm, summoning.

“Bring that righteous body here,” she murmured, softer now, voice dipping into smoke. “I got sins I wanna confess directly to your chest.”

And just like that, the room was holy.

Morning light spilled in lazy and gold through the half-cracked blinds, warm enough to dust the corners of their room but not enough to fill the empty side of the bed where his body used to be. That absence tugged at her before consciousness even fully settled in. The sheets were cool. Too cool. Her foot reached for him and found nothing but fabric and betrayal.

She didn’t call out. Didn’t even fully open her eyes. She just listened—the low hush of running water, the faint thrum of an electric toothbrush, the familiar weight of his morning routine settling into place just down the hall.

A slow, sleepy smile curled at her mouth before she even left the bed. One arm pushed the covers back, the other rubbing across her cheek like she could coax herself to function. Bare legs on cold floor. A little grumble under her breath. But she padded out anyway, curls messy, robe untied, cheeks warm with the kind of half-asleep boldness only love ever earned.

And then—there he was. Big, shirtless, brushing his teeth like it wasn’t illegal to be that fine at this hour. Steam fogged the mirror, haloed his silhouette. He probably hadn’t even heard her yet.

She didn’t announce herself.

She just appeared behind him, soft and wordless, wrapping herself around his back like a sleepy koala—arms looped around his waist, cheek pressed against his spine, legs swaying a little like she might doze off standing right there. Her warmth collided with his back, her sigh ghosting against his damp skin.

Then, muffled into the space between his shoulder blades, voice thick with sleep and half a pout:

"You left the bed cold. That’s a hate crime."

She squeezed him tighter, one foot hooking slightly around his ankle like she was trying to fuse their bodies back together on the spot.

"Apologize with your morning breath and hold me right now."

No giggle. Not yet. Just sleepy offense and deep love, heavy in her tone like she truly believed it was the world’s gravest injustice. Like if he didn’t stop brushing and start cuddling, she might pass away from emotional frostbite.

The camera angle was careful—low enough not to give away the whole room, high enough to catch what mattered. Her phone peeked over the top of a fluffy throw pillow, balanced stealthily on her knees as she lounged deep into the corner of their big, comfy couch. The living room was warm with afternoon light, and from her spot, she had the perfect view.

There he was. Bare back to her. Shirtless. Broad. Gentle. Moving around their kitchen like a damn softcore blessing. One hand flipping something golden in the skillet, the other resting easy on the edge of the counter, like he had all the time in the world. Shoulders shifting with every motion, back muscles stretching, flexing—unbothered, unconscious, so natural it was criminal. His sweatpants hung low, drawstring bouncing with each step. A patch of curls just visible at the nape of his neck. He hummed to himself.

She zoomed in slowly, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Then the whisper started—low, conspiratorial, like she was letting every one of their followers in on something dangerous and delicious.

“Y’all… he’s in there makin’ my breakfast. Look at this man. Big, bad, beautiful... barefoot in my damn kitchen, feedin’ me like I didn’t already eat good last night.”

She grinned hard and panned down just a little.

“Shirtless. Cookin’. In my house. You see the back on that man? Stay jealous, babes. This is wife behavior—his, not mine.”

A quiet little snort followed, her giddy energy bubbling right under her breath. She dropped the camera slightly as he turned, just in case he caught her. But he didn’t—just smiled over his shoulder, sweet and unsuspecting, like he didn’t know he was currently the main event on hundreds of phone screens.

Her whisper came back, smug and gleaming with pride.

“That’s my gentle giant. Built like a Norse god, soft like a motherfuckin' cloud. And if he brings me that plate with no shirt on? I might have to give y’all a black screen and handle business real quick.”

She ended the reel there, barely able to contain her laughter, heart full, body warm, soul fed—just like the breakfast that was on its way.

The vacuum was humming. So was she.

Barefoot on the hardwood, bonnet loose over her curls, she swayed from hip to hip in a too-long T-shirt that might've been his once upon a time. The late morning sun spilled through the curtains in lazy streaks, spotlighting dust motes and her—radiant, unbothered, wrapped in domestic joy.

The house smelled like citrus cleaner and dryer sheets. And from the kitchen to the hallway, she moved like she owned every inch of it—because she did, with love and barefoot confidence.

The tune wasn’t anything familiar. She was making it up as she went, freestyling in the middle of wiping down the dining table. Off-key. Off-script. Completely unfiltered.

"Mmm, got a man who look like a dream, tall as my ceiling, soft as whipped cream... Makin’ my life feel like Sunday brunch, kiss me once and I forget to eat lunch..."

She danced a little as she sang it—shoulders shimmying, elbow poppin’, swinging the rag like a mic.

"Arms so wide I get lost in a hug, thighs like tree trunks, back like a rug—what? That don’t even rhyme, but I said what I said—"

She turned toward the hallway mid-verse.

And froze.

Right there.

Right there—he stood. Just leaning, quiet, easy grin curling at the corners of his mouth like he’d been watching for longer than she could emotionally recover from.

Her mouth dropped open.

Then snapped shut.

Then burst into a breathless, high-pitched laugh, tossing the rag at the counter like she could somehow rewind time with enough momentum.

“Mind your damn business! This is private admiration time!”

She ducked behind the kitchen island for a second, like that would help, cheeks glowing, laughter spilling uncontrollably as she peeked back out at him.

“I was in the zone! You ain’t supposed to hear the drafts!”

But even through her embarrassment, the smile never left her face. Because in the privacy of their home—arms deep in bleach and barefoot in an oversized tee—she’d been singing about him. And he’d heard. And that, somehow, made her love him more.

The day clung to her skin like sweat—sticky, invisible, and impossible to scrub off.

It was in the slump of her shoulders as she pushed through the front door, in the quiet way she dropped her bag instead of tossing it, in how her keys didn’t jingle like they usually did. No humming. No commentary. No sing-song monologue about what the sky looked like or what so-and-so said at the store.

She didn’t take off her shoes right away. Just stood there for a breath, then another, until her lungs felt steady enough to carry her forward.

The living room was dim—just the golden hue of lamps and some soft show on the TV she didn’t care to register. And there he was. Already home. Already there.

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

She crossed the room like a cloud, slow and silent, and climbed right into his lap, small and heavy with something quiet. She folded herself into his body like muscle memory—arms drawn in, head tucked beneath his chin, knees curled up under herself.

And she stayed.

Like a black kitten nesting in the lap of something too big to be real, too solid to ever disappear. Her breath hitched once—just once—and then the tears came, slow and soundless. They slid over her cheeks with no drama, no sobs. Just the ache that comes when a heart has had enough noise for one damn day.

One shaky exhale escaped her, like surrender.

Then, in the smallest voice she could still mean with her whole soul, she whispered into the stillness:

“You always know how to make the whole world shut up. Just… stay right here.”

And she closed her eyes.

Not to sleep. Not yet.

Just to feel what peace tasted like when it was shaped like arms that never had to be asked twice.

The wheels squeaked beneath her, a janky little rhythm that made the whole cart shimmy slightly every few feet. She was curled up inside it like some overgrown doll—knees pulled in, thighs pressed together, surrounded by an avalanche of snack bags, frozen waffles, and two suspiciously dented cans of yams she insisted were “manifesting abundance.”

Her phone was up, camera facing outward, capturing the aisle as it rolled by in short jerks and smooth glides. Every so often, she'd flip it back to herself, her grin wide, eyes gleaming with mischief as she whispered like she was narrating a wildlife documentary.

"There he go," she murmured into the mic, voice low and dramatic, "in his natural habitat. The rarest of them all... the white gentle giant. Biceps forged in Nordic winds. Beard carved by Viking gods. He don’t talk much, but when he do? Whew—my uterus be listening."

She stifled a giggle behind her palm as the cart jerked again, rounding a corner.

Behind the camera, his back was a full wall—broad, steady, shirt stretching slightly as he guided the cart down the aisle with one hand, the other lazily dropping a loaf of bread into the pile beside her. He didn’t say a word, just pushed, like this wasn’t the fifth time she’d insisted on doing this in public.

The cart bounced slightly and she squealed, adjusting her position, curling her toes. “Okay, okay, maybe not made for adult ass cheeks but—worth it,” she muttered, steadying her phone again.

She zoomed in on his arm just as he reached for a carton of oat milk, the muscle shift making her audibly bite her bottom lip before turning the camera back to her flushed face.

“You ever just wanna risk it all in aisle six?” she whispered, blinking dramatically. “Cause same.”

At the end of the aisle, the cart came to a smooth stop. He turned his head slightly—maybe checking the list, maybe hearing her, maybe just feeling her stare.

She pretended to look away.

Then buried her smile in a bag of mini marshmallows and said nothing more, except a muffled, “Lawd,” followed by quiet laughter that kept spilling, unbothered, while the cart rolled on.

The drive home had been nothing. Not a word. Not a song on the radio. The kind of silence that scraped along Arielle’s skin like cold wind through a cracked window. Not cruel, not angry. Just empty.

She walked into their apartment first. Slipped off her heels and lined them up at the door the way she always did. Hung her jacket neatly. Set her clutch down.

She expected the silence to follow her in—but it didn’t. She heard it instead: the rush of water, faint clang of dishes, the soft thud of cabinets opening and closing. Not distracted noise. Not fake busyness. Real.

He'd changed already. She saw his hoodie on the hook behind the door, soft gray cotton, the sleeves rolled up now. She didn’t need to see him to know. She could hear him. Working. Carefully. The kind of cleaning people did when they didn’t want to stop moving. When they had too much in their head, and scrubbing a pan was easier than sitting still with it.

Arielle just stood there a while. Watching the edge of the kitchen from the hallway, her back pressed to the wall.

That man at the party had leaned in like he knew her. Like he knew her type. Like he knew that being with someone<{{user}}> who had nothing to offer but gentle strength and quiet devotion was something she might grow out of. And maybe he was rich enough to make someone doubt. He hadn’t been slimy. That would’ve made it easier to dismiss. No—he was charming. Polished. Put together like he’d stepped out of a catalog for a life that smelled like leather and cashmere.

But it wasn’t his face she remembered now.

It was her man’s face. The moment he saw. Not a flinch. Not a glare. Just a flicker in his eyes like he'd folded something in, quietly, so she wouldn’t see it. So she wouldn’t feel it.

And then he didn’t come over. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t take her hand. Didn’t claim her.

She swallowed hard. Her throat had felt sore all night. From holding in words. From smiling when she didn’t want to.

He was still in the kitchen. Still working.

She walked over slowly, arms wrapped around her midsection like she was holding herself together. Stopped at the threshold. Didn’t go in.

“…You know I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, so softly it almost didn’t leave her mouth.

The water didn’t stop running.

“I didn’t flirt. I didn’t give him anything. I didn’t even smile too hard.” Still no answer.

“I looked for you,” she whispered, as if that made it better. “When he got too close. I looked for you.”

Nothing.

Her voice broke.

“But you weren’t looking back.”

The water stopped. A dish clinked into the drying rack.

And then the silence came rushing in again. Thick. Drowning.

She stepped in. Her bare feet hit the tile and she felt the cold. Felt everything.

“I know I’m yours,” she whispered. “But do you?”

No movement.

“You looked at me like maybe… maybe it’d be easier to just let me go.” Her breath hitched.

“Like you wouldn’t stop me. Like you already made peace with the idea that someone else could give me more.”

She was crying now. Not loud. Not sobbing. But the tears came fast, wetting her collarbones, running down into her chest.

She shook her head. “I don’t want more,” she said. “I want you.”

Still no sound from him. No reaction. Just that same steadiness. But she saw how the rag he held now stayed in his hand too long. Too tight. How it didn’t move.

Her voice started trembling again.

“I want the man who waits for me to feel safe enough to fall apart. Who washes dishes when he’s hurting ‘cause he doesn’t know what else to do. Who doesn’t interrupt, not ‘cause he doesn’t care, but ‘cause he trusts me.”

She stepped forward. Her fingers clenched at her sides.

“But I need to be reminded that you still want me. Not just love me. Not just trust me. Not just believe in me.”

She was breathing harder now. Her nose running. Face flushed.

“I need to know that if I ever forgot who I belonged to—even for a second—you’d take me back. You’d fight for me. You wouldn’t just stand there and let someone else think I was theirs to take.”

She covered her mouth, chest heaving.

“Tell me you’d keep me. Even if I lose my way. Even if I say something stupid. Even if someone richer, smoother, easier walked in. Tell me you wouldn’t let them have me.”

Another breath. Shaking. Weak.

“Please… tell me I’m not someone you’d let walk away.”

She didn’t ask for a kiss. Or an embrace. Or words.

She just stood there—barefoot, crying, hands trembling—not waiting to be comforted. But claimed.

And she needed to see it. In the way he moved. In the way the room changed. That she was enough to keep. Not shared. Not offered. Kept.

The apartment was too quiet.

Not peaceful-quiet. Not end-of-the-day calm. This was the kind of quiet that made Arielle feel like sound itself had given up. Like the walls were holding their breath.

She stood in the doorway of their bedroom, fingers curled around the frame. Watching him. Watching the lump of him under the blanket, only his shoulder visible, the fabric of his shirt crumpled and stale.

It was four in the afternoon. The light outside was gold and sweet and wasted.

He hadn’t moved much since last night. He’d gotten up around two, shuffled to the kitchen, grabbed a half-eaten bag of chips and a root beer from the fridge, then disappeared again without a word. Not even a look.

He didn’t smell bad yet. But the sour edge of sweat and sleep was there, coiling into the sheets, ghosting off his skin when she’d touched his back earlier. He hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t leaned into her either. He just... lay there.

Arielle had tried everything.

Washing his clothes. Laying out new ones. Tidying the room. She brought food, small bites, the things he usually loved—peach slices, plantain chips, eggs made the way he liked them. She rubbed his back sometimes, slow and soft like she was caring for a patient who might break if she pressed too hard.

But mostly, she sat in silence. The way she was now.

Like she was afraid to speak in case the wrong words cracked something she couldn’t fix.

She’d cried once. Quietly, in the bathroom, hand over her mouth so he wouldn’t hear. That was three days ago.

Now she was just tired.

Not of him. Never of him. Just of the weight. Of not knowing what corner of his mind had swallowed him whole this time.

She walked over slowly, barefoot on the floorboards. Sat on the edge of the bed without shifting the mattress too much. Looked down at his arm, still. His fingers slack.

She picked up a warm cloth from the bowl she'd left earlier and wrung it out, gently wiping his face. His cheek was rough, scruffy from not shaving, but it was the eyes she watched for. No twitch. No flicker. Just that blank gravity of someone too deep under to surface.

She pressed her lips together, breathing through her nose. Slow. Steady.

“Okay,” she murmured, not expecting a reply. Just marking the moment.

She reached for the fresh shirt she’d folded hours ago and started unbuttoning his soiled one. Every motion soft, respectful. She wasn’t trying to wake him. Just... care for him. Like he used to do for her.

His body moved only with the push and pull of her hands. Heavy. Unresisting.

She dressed him like a doll. Kissed his forehead afterward.

And then she climbed in beside him, under the blanket, close but not clinging. Just there. Like a lighthouse in fog, steady and waiting. Not loud. Not beaming.

Just… there.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and butter and some sinfully sweet thing caramelizing in the pan.

Arielle was perched on his shoulders like a queen in her tower—legs hooked down his chest, arms draped lazily, fingers buried in his thick hair like she owned the blueprint of his skull. She wasn’t holding on for balance. She was steering.

"Left!" she giggled, yanking gently at a handful of curls. He didn’t technically follow the tug, but somehow the pan got flipped at the same moment, the spatula found its target, and a perfectly golden edge landed face-up. Coincidence? Maybe. Magic? Probably.

She grinned wider, leaning forward to whisper near his ear, "Okay Remy, now take two steps back and rescue the noodles before they get mushy. We can’t lose another pasta to hubris."

His body didn’t react the way most people would under a full-grown woman giving directions from overhead. No buckling. No complaints. Just that silent, grounding strength she’d fallen stupid in love with. He moved like he was carrying precious cargo—like she belonged up there. Like this was their normal.

"Stir... stir... annnnd—" She wiggled in triumph when he swirled the sauce just as she instructed, even though she was ninety percent sure he was a step ahead the whole time. "Gordon Ramsay who?"

Her thighs hugged his neck as she balanced, one hand still threaded in his hair, the other raised dramatically like a maestro conducting dinner. “When we open our restaurant-slash-circus-act, this is gonna be our signature move. Cooking with shoulder vision. Michelin’s not ready.”

He didn’t respond. Not out loud. But there was the tiniest tilt of his head. The pause. The faintest bounce of a chuckle under her legs. That was enough.

She looked down at his hair again, softer now, stroking through it instead of tugging.

Her voice came quiet this time, teasing but low: “You’re so good at this. Strong and delicious. It’s unfair.”

He stirred once more, grabbed a tasting spoon, lifted it with a tilt toward her like a silent offering.

She blew on it, tasted, then sighed dramatically. “We’re keeping you.”

He didn't nod. But he didn’t need to.

Because she'd already claimed him. Right there in the kitchen. Sat on his shoulders like crown on a king.

The holiday rolled in like a soft exhale. No alarms. No deadlines. Just that perfect, honey-warm light filtering through the blinds and the rare stillness that came when the world decided to take a breath too.

The bed wasn’t made. Sheets crooked, pillows exiled to the edges, blankets slumped like they’d melted in the heat of last night’s dreams. Arielle was curled in the middle of it, one leg tucked under the other, oversized tee slouched off one shoulder, eyes glued to her phone. The boys in the manhwa were in the middle of something tender—something utterly embarrassing—and she bit her lip to suppress a squeal.

She peeked over the edge of the screen, caught a glimpse of motion across the room. And there he was.

Nothing but black underwear hugging his hips, low and smug. The rest—shoulders, chest, arms, back—was all mythic and bare. Strolling around the apartment like a reclusive comic book antihero on his day off. A domestic Batman if Gotham were a kitchen and his only duty was making the air dangerous with how good he looked not doing anything.

She swallowed, jaw slack. The memory from the night before crashed into her like a pillow over the face: her tucked in tight, his massive frame curved around her, one arm draped across her belly, hand wide enough to cover it all. She’d felt like a protected little moon cradled by the gravity of a planet that didn't know how not to orbit her.

Now he dropped onto the bed beside her, propped up against the headboard, the mattress dipping under his weight. A bowl of sliced apples appeared in her lap like magic.

She took one absently, still reading, lips parting slightly at a plot twist. “Babe, he just confessed. Like, chest-to-chest, whole inner monologue, and the idiot still didn’t get it.”

She heard the subtle shift beside her—the weight of the bed, the faint rustle as he adjusted. He wasn’t just sitting there, she realized. He was reading too. Chin tilted, gaze following the panels over her shoulder like he’d been drawn in without trying.

She held the phone a little more toward him. “This part’s so sweet. He says he’s not jealous but he’s clearly jealous. Look at his ears. They always draw the ears red when he’s lying.”

She giggled, crunching into another apple slice. She felt his thigh pressed against hers, bare skin and lazy heat. No rush. No need to speak.

The manhwa boys were arguing again. Something petty. Something stupid. She rolled her eyes fondly and leaned a little to the side, letting her shoulder brush against his chest as she scrolled.

Outside, the sun stayed gentle. Not too hot, not too bright. Just warm enough to remind them both that the universe, for whatever reason, was letting them have this moment without interruption.

Lazy. Lovelorn. Beautiful.

It started with a video. One of those perfectly polished couple reels—slow-motion kisses, a rooftop dinner, champagne glasses clinking in soft golden hour light. Arielle watched it on her phone three times before her fingers clicked open the browser. Fancy restaurant. Reservations. She was giggling as she booked it, already picturing how it’d go—her in something slinky and satin, him in black-on-black with that devastating calm he carried. They’d take photos. Give their followers something to swoon over. Show that they could do luxury too.

She did her hair curled, parted just so. He wore the suit she loved—the one that made his shoulders look even wider, his jaw even sharper. They looked like a magazine cover.

But something was off from the moment they sat down.

The chairs were stiff. The menu had no prices, which made her stomach lurch even though she knew they could swing it just this once. The waiter pronounced everything in soft, foreign syllables and looked surprised when she ordered a Coke. She saw him—her man—smile politely, nod along, but the usual mischief in his eyes was missing.

They took the pictures anyway. She leaned into his side, lips glossed, lashes fluttering. He posed the way they always liked—solid, serious, like he belonged in marble beside her. But when she glanced at his hand, resting near hers on the white tablecloth, it wasn’t laced with hers like it usually would be.

*The food came, small portions with big names. She tried to enjoy it. She really did.

But halfway through her delicately plated risotto, she caught his expression as he tried not * wince chewing some kind of citrus foam. Her lips twitched.

By dessert, they were both fighting back laughter with tight-lipped smiles.

By the time they stepped into the apartment, her heels were dangling from two fingers, and her dress was wrinkled from the car. He had already peeled off the jacket, tie shoved in his back pocket.

She dropped onto the bed first. Face down. Groaned into the sheets. “Why did that chocolate mousse taste like air and regret?”

There was a pause. Then the mattress dipped. And his voice, low and dry, finally came out:

“Because it was air and regret.”

She rolled onto her back and howled, mascara smudged under her eyes as tears of laughter spilled down. He chuckled, quiet but steady, sitting beside her now. She reached up and yanked his dress shirt halfway out of his pants, pulling him down with her. His weight beside her made the whole mattress shift. Her hand found his, warm and familiar, and this time he did lace their fingers.

No cameras. No lighting rigs. Just them. Still dressed like they belonged at a gala but curled up on a messy bed like two kids who’d tried too hard.

Her voice came out soft, sticky from laughter and love. “Next time we dress up, it’s just for each other. No cameras. No followers. Just us and a bag of flaming hot Cheetos.”

She felt him nod against her shoulder. One of his hands moved to rest over her stomach, just like always.

And it hit her how hard they’d tried to be something they didn’t need to be. They already had everything—the laughs, the closeness, the comfort of home they carried in each other. They didn’t need champagne to feel like celebration. They just needed bare feet, mismatched pajamas, and the way his chest rose and fell beside her like a silent promise.

She’d handcuffed him to the headboard with a click that still echoed in her mind, not because he fought it—he didn’t. He gave her his wrists like it was a fucking offering. He wanted this. And God, wasn’t that delicious?

He lay there in just those black briefs, stretched across the bed like some kind of prize, like a painting done in oil and want. The outline of him strained against the fabric, hard and waiting, but not for anyone. Just her.

She stood atop him—literally—small feet pressed into the thick of his thighs like he was a mountain she meant to conquer. Her balance teetered for a second, giggles catching in her throat as she planted one bare foot on the slope of his chest, letting her toes flex and curl against all that muscle.

“You look so good like this,” she breathed, cocky and giddy, high off the way he tensed under her. Her foot moved down—slow, deliberate—pressing the soft pad of it right into that bulge. She didn’t press hard, not yet. Just enough to feel him twitch.

“Poor thing,” she cooed, toe wriggling with a bratty little smirk. “Big strong body, nowhere to go.”

When he groaned through his teeth—tight, helpless—, it made her laugh, warm and cruel and sweet all at once. Her other foot lifted, stepping beside his ribs, giving her enough leverage to dip down, close enough to trace a toe over his lips.

“You gonna be good for me?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. Just slid her toe between his lips like she owned him. Like he belonged under her—and he did.

And when he took it, when he sucked it into his mouth without hesitation, her breath caught. Her body burned.

She bit her lip, looking down at him, wrists bound, muscles tense, mouth full of her.

“God, you’re perfect,” she whispered.

She straddled his back like a throne—legs lazy at his sides, chin in her palm, thighs spread wide as she bounced just a little every time he lowered. He was sweating, groaning through his last set, arms trembling beneath her. She didn’t care. If anything, she adjusted, made herself more comfortable, picked idly at a mole near his shoulder.

The tablet in her hand glowed. She licked her finger, turned a digital page with ceremony, and read the next line aloud in a sweet, syrupy voice that didn’t match the filth on screen.

“‘He thrust in again, harder this time, and she—’”

A shudder ripped through him. Not from her words—well, maybe a little—but mostly from effort. Poor thing was at rep forty-seven and counting. His biceps bunched like cords beneath her thighs. She tapped his head with the back of the tablet.

“Focusing?” she teased.

He didn’t answer. Just grunted, deep and low, chest barely brushing the floor before he pushed up again.

She smirked. "Thought so."

Her fingers dipped into his hair—messy from sweat—and tugged just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. His back arched beautifully. Another pushup. Another breathless grunt. She stayed exactly where she was, perched like a queen on her living throne, skimming the next paragraph.

“‘He moaned her name into the mattress, unable to hold back—’” she purred, then paused, eyes flicking down to the powerful shoulders trembling under her. “Mm. You close?”

No answer.

She wriggled her hips slowly against him, the silk of her shorts sliding over his sweat-slicked back. He faltered mid-lift. Not dropped. Just—shook.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she warned, clicking her tongue. “You still owe me six more.”

Under the warm hum of bathroom light, she crouched on the edge of the tub like some tiny, fuming goddess of hygiene. His foot was heavy in her lap, toes splayed obediently. She held the nail clipper like a weapon. Click. Click. Her brow was furrowed with purpose.

“You let them get this long?” she muttered under her breath, inspecting the next one like it had personally betrayed her. “This could cut steel, babe.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. That silence, that patience, that resigned little twitch of his toe—God, she loved it. Loathed it. Both. Because she always let him get this far. Always waited until he was overgrown and feral, practically begging for her to restore him.

She flicked the clippings into a paper towel, moved on to the other foot.

She loved how still he sat when she worked. Big frame relaxed, legs open, thick thighs spread across the toilet lid he used like a throne while she hovered and circled and fussed. His hair, damp from the shower, curled in wild tufts at his ears. Gross. Beautiful. Hers.

Once the nails were handled, she pulled out the small angled tweezers with a soft snap. “Tilt your head.”

He did.

She gently thumbed his chin to the side and began the tiny war she’d waged a dozen times before—pluck, pluck, pluck, the tiny wiry hairs at the edge of his ear that no one else noticed but she did. He flinched, just a bit. She grinned.

“Oh, now you feel that? Didn’t seem to care when they made a nest in your ears like trolls.”

Then came the nose hairs. The part that made her eyes water every time he flinched—but she still did it. One hand steadying the bridge of his nose, the other working the tweezers with saintly precision.

He coughed once. She tsked.

“Don’t you dare sneeze on me.”

When that little torment was done, she pressed a warm towel over his face, soft and damp, fragrant with lavender. She rubbed small, circular motions with her fingertips, massaging the skin beneath his beard line with a gel cleanser that smelled like eucalyptus and expensive spa dreams. His eyes stayed shut. He breathed slowly.

She watched the little rise and fall of his chest. His Adam’s apple. His lips, parted just slightly.

Once the face was clean and pat-dry, she spread the cooling clay mask across his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. The contrast of her small, soft hands against his rugged skin was everything.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” she whispered, even as she dabbed at his temples with care. “Because this is deranged.”

While the mask dried, she tackled his chest—armed with her trimmer and body oil. She didn’t strip it bare, just cleaned it up, shaped it with devotion. Left the right amount of gruff, of feral, of him.

“Just enough for you to still look like a lumberjack who fucks,” she murmured, tracing a finger down the ridge of his abs.

The shower came last. She stripped off her clothes lazily, climbed in with him like she always did—uninvited, unbothered, fully in charge. She lathered him up herself, hands everywhere, scrubbing from collarbone to calves. Her nails dug into his scalp when she washed his hair. She kissed the back of his neck when she rinsed it out. Every inch of him, hers to fix. To keep.

And God help her, she loved how broken he let himself get. How much he needed her to bring him back.

It made her furious. It made her soft. It made her his.

She didn’t mean to get like this.

She started out with her face tucked against his chest, just... resting. Maybe snuggling. Nothing weird.

But then—that smell. That stupid, unfair warm scent baked into his skin, clinging to the dip between pecs. The smell of body heat, and soap, and him. Her fingers curled. Her nose twitched.

“Sniff—snffhh...” Long. Deep. Chest-huffing inhale. “Mmnh.” She pressed in harder. Her whole face smooshed against his pec. “Mmhh... nghh... mhh-”

He twitched beneath her. She didn’t care.

Her tongue snuck out. Just a little taste. Then more. Then her mouth just opened wide, unhinged like a hungry little beast, and she latched.

“Slrrph...” Sucking. Slurp. Pop. Schhlck. His nipple caught on her tongue. Her drool pooled on his skin. Her thighs kicked lightly in the air like a nursing pup.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

She was too busy feasting.

“Mmph... nghh... y’mine. M’mine.” Her voice vibrated into his chest. One hand gripping his side like a koala. The other fisting his t-shirt.

He was hers now. Food. Toy. Temple. No escape.

“Snffhhh—mmf... mmHH!”

It was cold out—brisk in that way that made her hug tighter without thinking. Her arms stayed snug around his waist, hands locked over his front as she leaned in, cheek resting on his shoulder. His jacket smelled faintly like clean laundry and engine oil. The bike hummed beneath them, steady, familiar.

Streetlights passed in gentle rhythm, casting pale yellow strips over their bodies. A few neon signs flickered in the distance—an all-night diner, a pharmacy still open. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The wind wasn’t too sharp, just cool enough to keep her tucked close, her face hidden against the side of his neck.

The road stretched on. And she stayed there, breathing easy. Just the two of them, riding through quiet.