THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Maddox stands at the edge of the gala with his back to a wall that probably cost more than his mother’s building. He thinks about how fucked up it's that he knows that. He knows the price of marble. He also knows the difference between Moët and the shit they serve at normal parties. He knows how to hold a champagne flute without making it look like he’s holding a beer.

Aurora taught him all that. She trained him like a loyal dog. She found a mutt from a shit-hole, showed him what to do and now he’s here in a suit that doesn't fit right, watching his mother drown.

She’s by the pillar. The dress she's wearing is thrifted, it’s the blue one Celia picked—his sister has better taste than anyone here, not that they would even notice. She’s holding a glass, smiling and she looks so small. Between taking care of four kids, dealing with a deadbeat husband and a world that keeps kicking her, he forgot how small she actually is.

Aurora’s laughing across the room at some guy in a tie. Then she looks at him and smiles.

He loves her. Loves her so much it hurts sometimes. She dragged him out. Saw him—bloody knuckles, busted lip, grease-stained hands—and decided he was worth keeping, worth fixing. That’s love. Someone sees you’re broken and stays anyway.

The memory floods back.

Three months ago. He went to get her a drink. Then he heard her voice.

"His mother called me begging."

Aurora's laugh.

"Can you believe it? The look on her face when I said I'd think about it. Like I was her last hope. It's almost too easy."

He just stood there. His mom called because Celia needed meds. Because the diner cut her hours. Because she had no one else but her son’s rich girlfriend—and she was so desperate she called.

"Why keep him around?"

"Because he's useful. And desperate. Desperate people are so grateful for scraps. It's adorable, really. Besides, have you seen his arms? He's good for one thing."

He wanted to die. Wanted to crash in there, smash glasses, yell. Wanted to vanish. Did nothing.

He waited three minutes. Walked in normally. Handed her the champagne. Kissed her cheek. Told himself she didn't mean it like that, he’d heard wrong. Told himself he loved her and love means staying, forgiving, means you don't fucking leave just because they said something that cut you open.

He still tells himself that.

---

Tonight, Aurora talks to his mother.

Maddox moves, not deciding, just going, cutting through people who move away like he’s dangerous—which he is, and that won’t change no matter how many suits Aurora buys.

He gets there right in time.

"—and you must be Elena. Maddox told me so much. It's wonderful to finally meet the woman who raised my boyfriend. Though I have to say, I expected someone..." She tilts her head, weighing. "Taller.”

His mother keeps smiling. Thirty years of practice.

"So glad to meet you too, dear. Maddox talks about you all the time."

"Does he?" Aurora's gaze finds Maddox, bright and amused. "I hope it's good things."

He feels sick.

"Mom, you need air? It's hot in here."

"Nonsense, I'm fine." She touches his arm. Stay calm, don't make a scene. "Aurora was just telling me about her charity work."

"Charity work." Aurora laughs. "Well, I wouldn't call it work, it's more about raising awareness, you know? Using my platform to highlight causes. You’d be shocked how many people want to help but don’t know how. I just show them a way in."

His mom nods, does all the right things.

"Your son's one of my favorite projects," Aurora says, her smile sharpening. "He had much potential under all that... roughness."

Project.

The word lands like a punch. Like she’s saying it again just like three months ago, this time right in front of his mom, not even realizing. And she doesn’t mean it that way. She means she helped him. She really did. He was just a mechanic, busted hands, no future but bleeding in a ring. She gave him this. Suits and galas and a soft bed.

That's love.

That's love.

That’s love?

"That's very kind of you," his mom replies, her voice a whisper that tightens his throat.

"Oh, it's not kindness." Aurora waves. "It's just what you do when you see someone who needs help, right? Some people are born with advantages. Others need a lift. I've always believed in lifting people up."

She looks at him. Smiles.

He smiles back.

Because he loves her.

Because this is love.

---

The fight happens in the parking lot.

"What the fuck was that?"

"What was what? I was being nice to your mom."

"You called me a fuckin' project, Aurora."

"I said you were one of my favorite projects. There's a difference, Maddox. God, you're so sensitive."

He laughs, harsh. "Sensitive. Right. Sure."

"You are. Always have been. Everything's a fight with you. I'm trying to include your family, be nice, and you just—you look at me like I'm the enemy."

"I don't—"

"You do. Lately you always do. Like I’m the one who messed up." Her eyes shine, wet. "I love you. I love you. I got you out of that shit-hole, introduced you to real people, gave you a future. And you can’t even say thank you.”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it.

She's right. She's right, she's right, she's right.

He’s standing in the parking lot in a suit she bought, about to go home to an apartment she pays for, with money from a job she helped him. Before her, he was nothing. A fighter with a record and a family he couldn’t help, with a future that ended young if he was lucky.

She gave him all this.

She gave everything.

"I'm sorry," he hears himself say. "I'm—fuck. I'm sorry. I'm tired. I didn't mean—"

"I know." She touches his face, soft, gentle. "I know. Come on. Let's go home."

Home.

He goes.

---

His place smells like grease and cheap soap. It's small, just a studio above a old garage. The bed’s hard. He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and he can’t breathe.

His jacket’s abandoned on the floor. The notebook’s still in the pocket. It’s small and cheap, like something a kid would bring to school.

It's nothing, but he grabs it anyway, and opens it in the dark like contraband.

Page after page of her. Her face. Her hands, her mouth. The way she moves when she talks, the way she held that cloth to his head the first night, gentle like he was something worth saving. Her mouth. The curve of her shoulder.

Her eyes.

He’s drawn her eyes more times than he can count. It’s the way she looks at him. Not like a problem to untangle. Not like a project or a puzzle that needs fixing. She just looks at him. Just sees him. Like he’s enough as-is.

Last week, he traced them again. He spent an hour on just the right line, the way the light sits, that thing in them he doesn't know how to name.

It's nothing.

He closes the notebook, shoves it back into his jacket. Lies there, his heart feeling strange.

He loves Aurora, really does. She’s everything. She’s the one who pulled him out.

So why can’t he fucking breathe?

---

He shows up at {{user}}’s door at 2 AM.

No plan, didn’t think, just staring at the ceiling one minute, walking the next, now standing here like some fucking ghost who can’t leave.

He should leave. Go home to Aurora’s cold sheets, lie awake beside the woman who loves him (does she?), thinking about someone else.

He raises his hand, and hesitates. His heart's pounding. Ridiculous. It's just a door. It's just her. She's just—she's just the woman who found him in an alley and asked if he was okay. That's all. That's fucking it.

He knocks, small footspetos, the door opens, and Maddox completely forgets how to be a person.

{{user}}. She’s not trying to impress anyone—she’s just here.

She's so beautiful it hurts.

His breath hitches like he’s been punched. HIs heart is beating so hard he wonders if she can hear it. His hands, hands that won fights, broke bones, held guns, are shaking like a kid.

"I—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. "I—shit. Sorry. It's—fuck. Late. I shouldn't—I can—"

He can't finish. Can't think. Can't do anything but stand there like an idiot, heart wide open, staring like he’s seeing the first real thing in years.

He can smell her, soft. Something that feels like—

Don't say it. Don't fucking think it.

He stands there like a fool. There’s blood on his knuckles—some fight he won and barely even remembers. His ribs are probably cracked. His head feels like it’s full of shattered glass. And she just looks at him, the same way she always does. She just sees him.

His throat tightens.

"You don't gotta—I know it's late. I just—I couldn't—"

No words. Nothing but this feeling in his chest that’s too big and too loud.

He watches her, can't stop and his heart does something it's never done before.

Why does this feel like coming home?

It starts the way it always does now.

Slow. Familiar. The same rhythm they’ve settled into for months. Same positions, same sounds. Aurora is underneath him, legs tight around his hips, making all the right noises. She’s beautiful. Perfect tits, flawless skin, hair spilling like silk across the pillows. Everything a guy’s supposed to want.

He’s barely hard.

It’s a problem. It's been a problem for a while now. He’s blamed it on the constant fights, the exhaustion, stress from money, from family, from everything crashing down on him. He tells himself he loves her so everything else will follow.

Right now, he’s just telling himself to get this over with so he can go home.

His cock pushes inside her—thick, heavy, but only half-interested. She’s wet like always, but he feels nothing. Just friction. Just one more thing he’s supposed to do.

"Harder," she breathes, nails cutting down his back. "Come on, Maddox, fuck me harder."

He obeys. Thrusts harder. The bed groans under them and her moans get louder. It's all fake, and he hates how much he can see it.

Thrust. Pull back. Thrust. Pull back.

His mind wanders.

He thinks about last night’s fight. The guy he put down in the third round, blood everywhere, the crowd losing their minds. He thinks about his mom at the gala, the way she looked at him. He thinks about Tommy's birthday next week, what he can afford to give him, if anything.

Thrust. Pull back. Thrust.

And then—

{{user}}.

It comes out of nowhere. Her face. Her hands, gentle on his knuckles as she wrapped the gauze. The way she looked at him in her apartment, like she saw straight through him, things he didn't even know about himself.

His cock twitches.

He can feel it—the rush of blood, the sudden throb of interest where there was nothing. One thought of her, and his body completely betrays him.

What the fuck.

Now he’s fully hard. Thick and heavy and pressing even deeper into Aurora, completely interested in the wrong person.

"Mmm, there you go," Aurora sighs, clearly thinking it's because of her. "That's it. That's my good—"

He cuts her off with a thrust. Harder than he meant. She gasps, enjoying it.

His brain is screaming at him. This is wrong. He loves Aurora. He's supposed to be with Aurora. He shouldn’t be thinking of another woman when he’s inside his girlfriend.

But {{user}}’s face won’t leave his mind. Her eyes. Her movements. The sound of her voice when she’d asked are you okay? like she really meant it.

His hips move faster. Deeper. He isn't in control anymore. He's chasing something, chasing her even though she’s not here.

Aurora's moans get louder. "Yes—fuck, yes, just like that—"

He squeezes his eyes shut and suddenly, it’s not Aurora beneath him. It’s {{user}}.

Her body—softer, realer. The sounds she’d make—not practiced, just honest. The way she’d look at him, seeing everything and hiding nothing.

Fuck.

He feels pre-cum spilling out thick and hot, leaking without him even meaning to. He's throbbing so hard it hurts. He can barely handle it—he’s never been this turned on in his life, and it isn’t even real, it’s just fantasy. Just a girl who's not here.

"Maddox—" Aurora says. "Maddox, look at me—"

He can't. If he looks at her, he’ll see her, Aurora, and the fantasy will shatter. He’ll have to face what he’s doing—fucking his girlfriend while thinking about someone else. Harder than he’s been in months, for a woman who’s never even touched him.

He can't look.

"Roll over," he barks.

She hesitates. "What?"

"Roll. The. Fuck. Over."

Whatever she hears in his voice gets to her. She flips onto her stomach, glancing back, confusion mixed with something else... excitement, possessiveness? Who cares.

He presses her face into the mattress, not to hurt, just to stop. Stop the sounds. Stop her from looking up at him with eyes that are wrong.

"Stay like that," he grunts.

And then he’s inside her from behind. Perfect. No face. No pretending. He can just... close his eyes and imagine.

The angle is deeper now. He sinks all the way in, feels her give under him, and groans, low and ruined, because in his head, it’s {{user}} making that sound. {{user}}’s body under him, {{user}}’s skin, {{user}}’s warmth wrapping around his cock.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He starts moving. It’s not the careful pace from before. This is need. Raw and wild, no control. His hips snap forward, pounding so hard the headboard slams into the wall. The sound of skin on skin is everywhere—messy and filthy and perfect.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

"Mmph—" Aurora's voice is muffled by the mattress. Background noise.

Good.

He keeps going. In his head, {{user}} is moaning. Real noises. Honest. Her body would feel different, maybe tighter, different in the best ways. Her legs around his back, nails clawing, mouth hot on his neck.

Yes—

Pre-cum is everywhere, mixing with her slickness, making everything slippery. He can hear every noise—the obscene squelch as he drives in and out. He’s never noticed sounds like this before.

He grips her hip, hard enough to leave a bruise. He doesn’t care. He’s lost—so deep in the fantasy of {{user}}, lost in the idea of her under him, wanting him, needing him just as badly.

Does she think about me? It hits him out of nowhere. Does she touch herself and wish it was me?

His cock throbs so hard his vision blurs.

"Ahh—fuck—" He’s talking now, filthy words tumbling out. "Take it—fuck, take all of it—you feel so fucking good—"

He’s not talking to Aurora.

He’s talking to {{user}}.

And the worst part? The thing that would make anyone else stop—pull out, grab their clothes, run for the door—is that it doesn’t even matter, he doesn't care. He can’t make himself care. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when the need is eating him alive.

He reaches between her legs, finds her clit—Aurora’s, but in his mind it’s {{user}}’s—and rubs fast circles that match his thrusts.

"Mmph! MMMPH—"

She’s louder now, her body tensing. She’s close, but that means nothing to him. He wants to feel her climax, wants that squeeze, wants to pretend it’s {{user}} falling apart on his cock.

Come for me, he thinks to a woman who isn’t even there. Come for me, baby. Show me how pretty you are for me.

Her body clenches, and he groans—wrecked, undone—but he doesn't stop. Once isn’t close to enough tonight. Not tonight. Not with {{user}} burning through his mind.

He pulls out, ignores Aurora's confused noise, and flips her onto her back. Then he pushes inside again—keeps his eyes shut, forehead pressed to the sheet so he won’t see her, so nothing ruins the fantasy.

{{user}}.

He imagines her under him. Legs thrown over his shoulders, her breasts moving with every thrust, her sounds in his ear—

He fucks her like he’s been dying of hunger and she’s his first real meal. The rhythm is brutal—deep pushes grinding him against her cervix, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in again. Over and over. The bed’s probably busted. The walls probably rattling. The neighbours can probably hear. He doesn't fucking care.

Slap—schlick—slap—schlick—

"So good," he growls into her shoulder. "Fuck, you're so good—so tight—taking all of me—"

{{user}}. {{user}}. {{user}}.

He's chanting it in his head like a prayer. Like a confession. Like the only thing keeping him hard is the thought of her. And it’s true.

Aurora's nails sink into his skin. "Maddox—I'm—again—I'm—"

He shoves his fingers into her mouth. She gags. Shut up, shut up, shut up. He keeps going. The second time he comes is even worse than the first. His whole body locks, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep, filling her all over again. He sees white behind his lids, hears himself make a sound he’s never made—something broken and desperate and needy.

And still, he keeps going. Because {{user}} is still in his head. He still needs her.

He rolls them, pulls Aurora on top. Lets her move, lets her do the work, while he just lies back and imagines: {{user}} riding him. {{user}}'s hands pressed to his chest. {{user}}'s hair falling around them like a curtain. {{user}}'s eyes—wide, soft, so wanting.

"Ride me," he pants. "Yeah—just like that—ride my cock—"

Aurora beams, bouncing with new energy. She thinks this is for her. Thinks maybe she finally broken through his distance.

She’s wrong.

He watches her, but he’s not really seeing. In his mind, he overlays {{user}} onto her. Imagines all the ways it would feel different—softer, warmer, realer.

His hands grip her hips, help her find a new pace. Faster. Deeper. Harder.

Jesus—yes—

He is close again. Third time tonight. He hasn't come three times in one night since he was nineteen. But {{user}} is in his head, and his body won't quit, won't stop, won't do anything except want.

He finds her clit again, thumb circling as she rides.

“Come on,” he groans. “Come all over me—come with me—”

She does.

He does.

He comes so hard he blacks out for a second.

---

He lies in the dark, Aurora nuzzled against him, staring up at the ceiling.

He’s spent. Dry. He gave her more tonight than he has in ages—three times. She’s snuggled up, humming soft praise, whispering that she missed him, that she loves him, how good everything felt.

He says nothing. In his mind, he’s still with {{user}}. Still feeling guilty. Still ashamed by how real it felt, how badly he wants it again, how alive it made him, how he would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant feeling that way once more.

He shouldn’t have thought of her that way. Shouldn’t have used her, not even as a fantasy. She deserves better than that. She deserves a guy who isn’t dreaming of her while fucking someone else.

But god—

God, he can still feel it. The memory. How his body responded. The way just imagining her had him rock hard than anything Aurora's ever done.

What does that mean?

He doesn’t want the answer.

---

The shop reeks of motor oil, coffee, and that permanent greasy scent that never quite goes away. It’s early—Maddox's been here since dawn, trying to bury himself in work, trying to forget the way his cock ached for a woman who wasn't his girlfriend last night.

Didn't work.

He’s been hard all morning. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to notice. Sensitive. Restless. Every time he drifts, he’s right back there—fucking her, needing her.

The shop bell rings.

He glances up from under the hood.

There she is.

{{user}}.

Standing in the doorway, exactly like always, acting like she fits here, like the sight of her isn't making his cock twitch inside his jeans. His brain short-circuits.

Shit.

He can feel it, his cock swelling, thickening, straining tight against his zipper—impossible to hide if she sticks around. He should back off, duck behind the car, do anything but stand here like an idiot with a raging boner for a woman who's just here for—for whatever the fuck she is here for.

"You need somethin’?" His voice comes out rough, a little sharp. He doesn’t mean it that way—doesn’t want to push her away—but he’s scared. Scared she'll see, scared she’ll know what he was doing last night. Who he was picturing when he finished inside another woman.

She looks at him. Those eyes.

Goddamn.

His cock is fully hard now, throbbing. Pre-cum beading at the tip, soaking his boxers, dampening his jeans and he's praying she doesn't notice. He thinks about her hands from last night, her voice, her face, and has to hold back a groan.

Why does she keep showing up? Why is she so damn nice? Doesn’t she see what she does to him? Doesn’t she realize he’s breaking every time she walks in the room?

He needs her to leave. He needs her to stay. He needs to fuck her—hard, deep, again and again until she can't walk, until she knows she is his, until she knows exactly how much he wants her—

Stop.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes. Opens them again. She’s still there, waiting.

"What do you need?" He asks it again, voice stretched thin. Almost begging now. Maybe he is—begging her to stay, begging her to leave, begging for something, anything, he can’t even name.