alohajix

[alohajix]

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑴𝒆

Description: he took me. Locked me away in a beautiful room and said I was his. Not because I asked. But because he swears I was made for him. And the worst part? I think he’s right.

Warnings: this one-shot contains dark, triggering content. Captivity, dubcon, obsession, possessive!harry, psychological manipulation, breeding kink, chocking, crying kink, degradation, praise kink, overstimulation, creampie, power imbalance.

Words count: 6K.

*****

I woke up to the sound of silence. Not the kind you get in a peaceful home. Not the soft, sleepy kind that wraps around you in the morning. No—it was the kind of silence that presses in on your ribs. That tells you something isn’t right before you even open your eyes. The bed beneath me was too soft. The sheets too clean. The air too warm, too still. This wasn’t my room.

My eyes fluttered open, and it took a moment for them to adjust to the soft, golden light. The walls were cream. The ceiling high. The curtains drawn over tall windows. There was a dresser across from the bed, a vase of pale flowers on top. Everything was perfect. And unfamiliar.

I sat up too quickly and the dizziness hit—head spinning, heart racing. My limbs felt heavy, like I’d been asleep for days. Or drugged. Panic scratched at the back of my throat. I looked down. My clothes were still on—my jeans, my shirt, everything intact. But I wasn’t in my shoes. My socks were missing. My bare feet hit the hardwood floor, and I stood slowly, wobbling. The door was ahead of me, white and pristine with a polished handle. I crossed the room and tried it. Locked. Locked from the outside.

I knocked. Hard. Then harder. “Hello?” My voice cracked. “Is someone there?” Silence.

My heart pounded. I turned in a slow circle, scanning every inch. The furniture was minimal, but cozy. Intentional. Too intentional. Everything matched—creamy tones, soft touches. Even the way the blankets had been tucked around me felt… deliberate. This wasn’t random. This was a room meant for me.

And then I heard it—footsteps. Quiet, steady ones, just outside the door. My breath caught. The knob turned with a slow click, and I backed up instinctively. The door opened. He stepped inside. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black shirt stretched over his chest. Curls messy. Arms inked. He looked calm—unbothered. Like this was normal. Like I wasn’t shaking in a stranger’s bedroom.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click.

I stared at him, frozen. “Where… where am I?”

He smiled. It was gentle. Too gentle. “You’re safe,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.” His voice was smooth, warm. British. He took a step closer. “You’re home now.” Home.

I shook my head. “This isn’t my home.”

He tilted his head. “It will be.”

I backed up further, but there was nowhere to go. Just the bed behind me, the wall beyond that. He didn’t move any closer—just watched me with quiet, terrifying calm.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to. Not yet.” He gestured to the chair by the window. “Sit. Please. I’ll explain everything.”

“I’d rather stand.”

A pause. Then a small nod. “Alright.”

We stared at each other in silence. I couldn’t stop shaking. My mind raced, trying to piece together anything that made sense—where I’d last been, how he looked familiar. He wasn’t a stranger. Not completely. I’d seen him before. In passing. At the coffee shop near my building. In the elevator once. On the sidewalk. Always watching. Always alone.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently, like he could feel me spiraling. “I’d never hurt you. You have to believe that.”

“Then let me go.”

“I can’t.” He looked almost sad when he said it. “You don’t understand yet.”

I stared at him. “Understand what?”

His eyes darkened slightly. “That you were made for me.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He stepped closer, and this time, I didn’t move. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or something worse—something deeper. Something that made me want to know what he’d do next.

He knelt slowly in front of me, like I was something sacred. His hands didn’t touch me. Not yet. But they hovered—just near my hips, steady and open.

“I’ve watched you for so long,” he said, voice low now. “You don’t even know how special you are. How perfect. You move through the world like you’re invisible. Like no one really sees you.” His eyes flicked up to meet mine. “But I do. I always did.” I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. “You smiled at me once,” he continued. “Outside the shop. You don’t remember. But I do. It was the first time I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I had to have you.”

His hand rose slowly and brushed a lock of hair from my cheek. I flinched, but he didn’t stop. His fingers were soft. Gentle. Reverent.

“You’ve been alone too long,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

He smiled again. Sadder this time. “No. But that’s the thing about fate—it doesn’t wait for permission.”

I blinked, and he stood. He didn’t try to touch me again. He just walked to the door and turned back once before leaving.

“Rest, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

The door shut behind him. And locked.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I didn’t know how long I slept. Or if I slept at all. Time moved strangely in that room. The light from the window never changed much. The soft glow of the lamps made it hard to tell if it was morning or night. There was no clock. No phone. No noise beyond the occasional creak of footsteps outside the door. I kept waiting for reality to kick in. For a knock at the door. A rescue. A scream.

But there was only him. He came in once a day—always calm, always smiling. Sometimes with food, sometimes just to sit in the corner chair and watch me like I was a painting. He never touched me. Not yet. But the way he looked at me… It was worse than touching.

Today, he brought a tray. Toast. Strawberries. Tea. A small vase with a single white flower in it. Everything too perfect. Too delicate. I sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath me, staring at him while he arranged it all on the table by the window.

“You don’t eat enough,” he said gently, slicing a strawberry with the side of his fork. “You always skip lunch. Sometimes dinner too. I used to worry about you.”

I blinked. “Used to?”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I don’t have to worry anymore. You’re here now.” I didn’t reply. He picked up a strawberry half and walked over, crouching in front of me again, just like he had that first day. “Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

I stared at him. He waited. Calm. Confident. I should have said no. I should have pushed his hand away. But my body moved before my brain caught up. My lips parted. And he slid the fruit into my mouth with two fingers.

“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “See? You’ll feel better if you eat.” I chewed slowly. Swallowed. His eyes didn’t leave my face. “I brought you something,” he said softly. From his back pocket, he pulled out a small photograph. He held it up with care, like it was precious.

It was me. On the train. Headphones in. Looking out the window. Caught mid-thought. My blood ran cold.

“I took this two months ago,” he said, smiling like it was a fond memory. “You looked so peaceful that day. So soft.”

“You were following me.”

“I wasn’t following.” He tilted his head. “I was protecting. There’s a difference.”

I reached for the photo with shaking fingers. He let me take it. There were words written on the back in neat, looping handwriting: MINE. I dropped it like it burned me. He didn’t flinch. Just picked it up and tucked it back into his pocket.

“You don’t understand yet,” he said again, like that explained everything. “But you will.”

I swallowed hard. “What do you want from me?”

His eyes softened in a way that made my chest hurt. “I want you to let me love you.”

“That’s not love.”

“Yes, it is.” He reached out again, and this time, his fingers traced a line from my jaw to my collarbone. “This is what real love looks like, sweetheart. The kind that doesn’t fade. The kind that claims.” I shivered under his touch. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. It was… reverent. “I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered. “You think this is wrong. That you should fight. But tell me something…” His hand moved lower, just barely brushing the top of my chest. “When’s the last time someone made you feel wanted?” I blinked. He smiled like he already knew the answer. “That’s what I thought.”

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving me time to move, to stop him. I didn’t. I couldn’t. His lips brushed mine—once, soft and fleeting—and then he pulled back just enough to murmur against my mouth.

“You taste like mine.” He stood without another word, took the empty tray, and walked toward the door. “You’ll see,” he said, hand on the knob. “You’ll start to feel it soon.”

The door clicked behind him. And this time… I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I stopped trying to count the days. There were no clocks. No calendar. Just the soft rustle of sheets, the tray of food he brought every morning, the scent of him that lingered long after he left the room.

Harry. I didn’t speak his name out loud. Not even in my head, at first. It felt dangerous—like naming the thing that had taken you gave it more power. But he already had all of it. He didn’t touch me often. Just little things. A hand on my shoulder. Brushing hair behind my ear. Lifting a fork to my mouth. But I noticed every single time. And worse—my body noticed, too.

I was scared. Still scared. But the fear had morphed into something uglier, hotter. I wanted him near me. I hated the way the silence stretched after he left. I hated the sound of my own breath, the ache between my thighs that built every time he whispered mine. I was breaking. And he knew it.

He came in that night without food, without flowers. Just him. Just the weight of his presence in the doorway. I was already sitting on the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them. I looked at him like I always did now—somewhere between anger and desperation.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. I didn’t answer.

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Not close. Not touching. Just waiting.

“I miss hearing your voice.”

I glanced at him. “Why am I still here?”

His expression didn’t change. “Because you belong here.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” He reached out, slowly, and touched my ankle. Just a fingertip. I flinched. But I didn’t move away. His fingers moved up my leg, slow, steady, warm. “You don’t tremble the same way you used to.”

I closed my eyes. “You’re breaking me.”

“No.” His hand slid further, over the curve of my knee. “I’m showing you the truth.”

He moved closer, kneeling on the bed now, towering over me. I opened my eyes and saw it—hunger. Control. Obsession. All layered behind the calm. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered. I didn’t.

His hand moved under my shirt. Fingers trailing across my stomach, slow and possessive. I sucked in a breath. “Tell me no,” he said again. Still, I said nothing. “Good girl.”

His mouth was on mine—soft but unrelenting, like he’d been holding back for weeks. His tongue swept past my lips and I whimpered, shame burning through me. My body arched. I hated it. I needed more. His hand slid down between my legs, under the soft cotton of my shorts.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You’re already wet for me.” I turned my head away. But he didn’t stop. Two fingers slid through the slick heat and circled my clit slowly.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Not freedom. Not escape. Just this. My touch.”

I gasped as he slipped one finger inside me, then another. He filled me slowly, deliberately, curling just right, watching my face with dark fascination.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That ache? You’ve needed me for so long. You just didn’t know how to ask.”

My hips rolled against his hand, shame flooding every nerve—but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.

He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. “Come on, sweetheart. Let go. Come for me like the good little thing you are.”

I moaned—soft, desperate—and came around his fingers. My thighs shook. My nails dug into the sheets. And I sobbed. Not from pain. From how good it felt. From how badly I needed it. From how much of myself I just gave him.

He pulled his fingers out, slow and slick, and held them up to my mouth. “Open,” he said. I did. He pushed them in—wet, warm, tasting like me—and smiled. “You’re starting to understand.”

He kissed my forehead like it was the end of a prayer. And then he left me in the dark. Soaked. Shaking. Ruined. And waiting for more.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I didn’t cry until the next morning. Not when he touched me. Not when I came for him. But when I woke up to the smell of him still on my skin, the ache between my legs, the silence in the room—It all cracked open.

I sat on the floor by the window, knees pulled to my chest, and let it happen. Hot, angry sobs into my arms. Shame flooding every part of me. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Not really. He’d blurred the edges, rewired the need. And when I heard the door unlock, I didn’t look up. I just curled tighter.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Then his footsteps crossed the floor, slow and deliberate. He knelt beside me, his hand hovering near my back.

“I didn’t want to break you like this,” he said softly.

I turned my face away, still crying. “Then why did you?”

“Because I couldn’t let anyone else have you.”

I looked up. “You don’t even know me.” His eyes met mine—steady. Calm. Dangerous.

“I know everything,” he said. “I know how you curl up when you sleep. I know the way your lips part when you’re reading. I know how lonely you’ve been, even when you smile at people. I know you’ve never been touched the way you deserve.” His fingers reached out, wiped a tear from my cheek. “I know no one’s ever made you feel like you matter.”

My bottom lip trembled.

“I do,” he whispered. “I see you.”

I didn’t want to believe him. But something inside me cracked. A deeper break. One that didn’t come from fear—but from truth. A truth I didn’t want to name.

I reached for him. He caught my wrist in one hand, eyes darkening.

“You don’t get to give me pieces,” he said, voice low. “If you want this—you give me everything.”

I stared at him, heart pounding. “Then take it.” That was all it took.

He stood. Grabbed me by the waist. Carried me to the bed and threw me down like I weighed nothing. His hands were rough now—tearing off my shirt, yanking my shorts down my legs, baring me completely.

“You’re mine,” he growled, spreading my legs. “Say it.”

I gasped as he climbed over me, mouth hot on my throat. “Yours—”

He reached down, tugged his sweats low, and pressed the thick, hard weight of his cock between my thighs.

“You let me touch you. Taste you. Now I’m going to fuck you.” His hand wrapped around my throat. “And you’re going to take it.”

I whimpered. Nodded. “Please—”

He didn’t wait. He slammed into me, raw and deep, making me cry out as his hand kept me pinned.

“Look at you,” he snarled. “So fucking wet. You begged for this. Don’t pretend you didn’t.” Every thrust hit harder. Deeper. My hips arched to meet him, shame and heat spiraling out of control. “You like being fucked like this?” he whispered into my ear. “Pinned down, crying, full of me?”

I choked on a sob and nodded.

“That’s right. You’re my good girl now. My perfect little thing.” His hand left my throat and gripped my jaw, forcing my gaze to his. “You were made for me,” he said again, voice low and shaking with something wild. “You were made to be filled by me. Ruined by me. Loved by me.”

I shattered. Tears spilled as I came around him—tight, desperate, broken. My legs shook. My voice caught in my throat. And he fucked me through it.

“Take it,” he growled. “Take all of me.” His thrusts turned erratic, rougher. He bent over me, panting, grinding deeper. “I’m gonna fill you up,” he whispered. “Gonna make sure you feel me dripping out for days.”

“Please,” I sobbed. “Harry—”

He moaned my name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. Then he came—deep, raw, thick inside me. His cock pulsed as he emptied himself, still grinding, still whispering mine, mine, mine under his breath. He collapsed against me, chest heaving. And I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t. But because I didn’t want to.

I woke up with his scent on my skin. Warm. Heavy. Musky. Faint traces of sweat and sex still clung to the sheets, my thighs sticky with what he left inside me. The ache between my legs wasn’t sharp. It was deep. Lingering. Proof that he’d taken me completely. And I let him. The worst part? I wanted him to do it again.

I didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know if it was trauma or surrender or something darker. But I knew I didn’t hate the way it felt waking up next to him—his arm draped over my stomach, breath soft against the back of my neck, cock already hard against my ass. He was still asleep. For once, still. His fingers twitched against my hip, like he was dreaming about holding me even tighter.

I stared at the ceiling. I could scream. I could fight. But I didn’t. I reached down, tangled my fingers with his. And he woke up. A quiet sound left his throat as he pressed himself closer to me. His cock slid between my thighs—slow, thick, already leaking.

“Mmm,” he hummed, nuzzling against me. “Still full of me.”

I didn’t answer. Just let him grind softly, slowly, against my skin.

He kissed the back of my neck. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” I whispered.

“Good,” he breathed. “You’ll remember me every time you sit down.”

I didn’t stop him when his hand slid up my chest, cupping my breast. I didn’t stop him when his other hand slid between my thighs, spreading them wider.

“You’re still so wet for me,” he said, almost reverent. “Look at you. Open. Ready.”

He pushed inside—slowly this time. Deep and thick, every inch dragging against sore, swollen walls. I gasped, body arching into his.

“I should’ve taken you the second I brought you here,” he whispered. “But I wanted you to need me first. And now you do, don’t you?” I nodded. He fucked me slow, possessive, like he had all the time in the world. Like I was something precious and broken, and he loved every ruined inch. “You’re mine now,” he said. “Forever.”

“I know.”

“I’ll take care of you. I’ll give you everything. You’ll never need anyone but me.”

I turned my head slightly. Our lips touched—soft. Gentle. Like a real kiss.

“Will you ever let me go?” I asked quietly.

He paused. Buried deep inside me. Breathing hard. “Why would I let go of what was made for me?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. Because I didn’t want him to let go.

He kissed me again, slower this time, more patient than I deserved. His hips moved in gentle rolls, dragging orgasm after orgasm from me until I was shaking, clinging, crying into his mouth. And when he came, spilling inside me again, he didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around me like chains made of silk. Like a vow.

“You’re everything I ever wanted,” he whispered.

I buried my face in his chest. And let him keep me.

*****

what the heck was that? do we love possessive!harry or nah? 😭

[alohajix]

Hi i really loved casting tape, would you ever do more parts?

hiii, thank you love 💕

I think I could work on something more for sure

[alohajix]

𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝑳𝒖𝒔𝒕

Description: working the late shift at a nearly empty diner isn’t glamorous—but it pays the bills. Savannah’s used to the quiet, the tired regulars, and the occasional flirt. But when a tattooed stranger with a slow smile walks in after midnight, the tension builds fast and burns hot. One cup of bitter coffee turns into a filthy, unforgettable encounter behind the counter.

Warnings: stranger!Harry, soft dom!Harry, kitchen sex, filthy talk, roughness, praise kink, fingering, oral (f. & m. receiving), consent check-ins, light aftercare. Readers +18.

Words count: ~ 6K.

*****

It was nearly 1 a.m. when the diner bell rang. I didn’t even flinch anymore—not this deep into the shift. The sound had become background noise like the soft sizzle from the kitchen or the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. I didn’t look up right away either, just scribbled the last few words of an order on my pad and slid it through the window to Richie in the back.

“Table seven’s still waiting on their eggs,” I called, voice flat with exhaustion.

“Tell ’em to relax,” Richie grunted. “They ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

I rolled my eyes and finally turned toward the front. That’s when I saw him. He was tall—really tall—wearing a loose white tee that clung just enough to suggest the kind of build that made you look twice. Ink crawled up both arms, black lines and shading peeking out from under the short sleeves. He had a mess of brown curls that looked almost too good for someone walking into a grimy diner at 1 a.m., and his jeans hung low on his hips like he didn’t give a damn. But it was his eyes that got me. Sharp and soft at the same time. Like he’d seen too much and still managed to find a reason to smirk about it.

He slid into the booth in the far corner, back against the wall, one arm draped along the top of the seat like he owned the place. I grabbed my pad, stepped behind the counter, and made my way over.

“You know we serve better food before midnight, right?” I asked, stopping at his table.

He looked up slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Then he smiled—and holy hell, it was lazy and crooked and completely unfair.

“Good thing I’m not here for the food.”

My eyebrow arched. “You lost or just feeling bold tonight?”

“Maybe both.” His voice was smooth, with a soft British accent I hadn’t expected. “Got in late. Was driving through, saw the lights on. Figured I’d take my chances.”

“You always gamble with greasy eggs and burned toast?”

“I’ve gambled on worse.”

I bit back a smirk and tapped my pen against the pad. “Well, mystery man, you want coffee?”

“Only if you make it.”

I gave him a look. “It’s from a pot that’s been sitting there since ten. My magic won’t save it.”

He leaned forward just slightly. “I don’t mind it bitter.”

There it was—just a flicker. The tiniest shift in his tone that pulled something tight in my stomach. I hated that. I also didn’t hate it.

“Black?” I asked, already turning.

“Please,” he called after me.

The warmth of his stare followed me all the way back to the counter. I poured the coffee, grabbed a mug, and headed back—ignoring Richie’s snort as he muttered something about me “playing waitress of the year.” I slid the mug onto the table in front of the stranger without spilling a drop. “Try not to cry when it hits your taste buds.”

He took a sip, hissed softly through his teeth, and nodded like he’d just accepted a challenge. “Yeah. That’s awful.”

“Told you.”

“But you brought it anyway,” he said, eyes flicking up to mine again. “That’s sweet of you.”

“I’m not sweet,” I muttered, tucking my pen behind my ear. “Don’t mistake sarcasm for kindness.”

“I won’t. But I like both on you.” Jesus.

He didn’t say it with a wink or a sleazy grin, either. Just…soft and easy. Confident in a way that didn’t feel forced. He was the kind of guy who probably got what he wanted without needing to raise his voice. Or his hands.

I cleared my throat and forced my gaze toward the order pad. “You hungry or just here to flirt with the help?”

He tilted his head. “Depends. What’s good?”

“Nothing after midnight.”

“Lie to me.”

I fought back a smile. “Alright. The pancakes are divine. Light as clouds. Eggs cooked to perfection. Sausage links that’ll change your life.”

He grinned. “You’re not even trying to be convincing.”

“You asked for a lie. That was it.”

He chuckled, eyes dropping to my name tag for the first time. “Savannah.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your name.” He nodded toward my chest. “Didn’t wanna keep calling you ‘waitress.’ Felt impersonal.”

My face burned. It wasn’t even the way he said it—it was the way his eyes lingered for a beat too long, like he hadn’t just been reading.

I crossed my arms. “And you are…?”

He paused. “Harry.”

“Last name?”

“Do you need one?”

“I like to know who I’m insulting.”

He laughed again—quiet, genuine. “Just Harry.”

“Well, Just Harry, pick something off the damn menu before I decide you’re not worth the caffeine.”

He lifted the sticky laminated menu, held it between two tattooed fingers, and said, “Surprise me.”

“Brave,” I murmured, already writing something down. “You might regret that.”

“Doubt it,” he said, leaning back. “You’ve got a good face for trust.”

I snorted. “You’ve clearly never been here before.”

I slipped the order in with Richie—somehow convincing him to fry up a fresh egg without complaining too much—and found myself glancing back toward the corner table more than I meant to.

Harry hadn’t pulled out a phone. He hadn’t asked for WiFi. He just…sat there. Watching the world with a slight tilt to his head like it was all one big inside joke he hadn’t shared yet. He caught me staring. I rolled my eyes and turned back to wipe the counter even though it was already clean. I didn’t get flustered over strangers. And definitely not over the kind with arms like that and a voice that curled around my spine.

I brought his plate over about ten minutes later—eggs, toast, hash browns, and two sausage links I only cooked because I didn’t want him leaving too soon. He looked up, those slow green eyes locking onto mine like he already knew what I was thinking.

“Didn’t poison it, did you?” he asked, smiling as I set the plate down.

“Too expensive,” I said. “Besides, if you died here, I’d have to mop around your corpse until someone showed up. Doesn’t sound like fun.”

“Mm. Caring and practical.” He dragged his fork through the eggs. “You’re really ruining my whole brooding loner fantasy.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I deadpanned, though my lips tugged at the corners. “Anything else you need?”

He tilted his head, pausing just long enough for it to feel deliberate. “You gonna sit?”

I blinked. “Sit?”

“Place is empty. You look bored.” He motioned to the booth across from him. “Figured you could give me shit for a few more minutes.”

I hesitated. We weren’t supposed to sit with customers—not unless they were drunk or crying or both. But it was 1:30 a.m., and the only other table in the diner was too busy arguing over how toast should be buttered to notice anything. So I slid in across from him, arms folded, keeping the distance casual. He nodded like I’d done exactly what he wanted.

“You from here?” he asked, cutting into the sausage.

I shook my head. “Moved a couple years ago. Couldn’t afford the city anymore.”

“Same.”

“You just passing through?”

He looked up from his plate, meeting my eyes with that calm, unreadable expression again.

“Maybe. I don’t always plan shit out.”

I leaned back. “That supposed to sound sexy or mysterious?”

He grinned. “Did it work?”

I shrugged. “Kinda.”

We sat like that for a few beats—his fork scraping the plate, my eyes drifting to the tattoos curling over his forearms, the way his fingers looked wrapped around the handle of his coffee cup. He was the kind of guy I’d always told myself not to trust. The kind who didn’t talk too much. The kind who knew exactly how long to pause between words to make you lean in closer. But he hadn’t looked at his phone once. Hadn’t acted like he was bored or waiting for something better. He was here, right now, like this greasy, fluorescent-lit hole-in-the-wall diner was the most interesting place in the world.

Or maybe just I was.

“You always work this shift?” he asked, tone low and casual.

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

“Pays more. And I don’t like people.”

He smirked. “You like me, though.”

I scoffed. “I don’t even know you.”

“But you’re sitting here. Talking. Smirking.” His voice dropped slightly. “You don’t sit with just anyone.”

“I sit when I’m bored.”

“You’re not bored,” he said, his eyes holding mine. “You’re curious.”

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong. I hated how quickly he’d figured that out. How easily he could read between my sarcasm and the tired tilt of my mouth. Most people only saw the uniform and the attitude. But not him. Not Harry.

“You’re full of yourself,” I muttered, standing before he could see the warmth rising in my chest.

He looked up at me slowly, letting his eyes drift down just enough to make my skin prickle. Then he reached for his wallet and pulled out a few bills, tossing them on the table.

“You got anything else to clean up?” he asked, voice soft. “I don’t mind helping.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You want to help me clean?”

He smiled. “Not really. Just figured it might give you a reason to talk to me a little longer.”

I should’ve told him to go. That the shift was almost over and I didn’t need help from a charming stranger with too many tattoos and a voice that made me clench without warning.

Instead, I said, “Come on, then.” He followed me behind the counter. And just like that, the air changed.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click as I led him behind the counter. Technically, customers weren’t allowed back here. But something about the way Harry moved—easy, quiet, hands in his pockets—made it feel like he belonged anyway. Like this wasn’t breaking a rule so much as rewriting it.

I grabbed a rag from the sink and tossed it toward him. “Here. You can start by wiping the bar down.”

He caught it one-handed, cocked his head. “Bossy.”

“I’m not your boss.”

He stepped closer. “Pity.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to the coffee machine. It didn’t need cleaning, but I pretended to tinker with it anyway—mostly so I didn’t have to look at him watching me. But he was there. I could feel it. The heat of his body, just a little too close behind me. The low sounds of him wiping the counter in slow, lazy circles. Like he was taking his time on purpose.

“You always this charming?” I asked, keeping my back to him.

“You always this guarded?” I froze for half a second, fingers stilling on the carafe. “Didn’t mean it like that,” he added softly. “Just think it’s sexy, that’s all.”

I turned then. “My attitude?”

His eyes met mine. Steady. “Your fire.” God.

I hated how warm that made me feel. How the word fire in his mouth sounded like something private. Something earned.

“You don’t even know me,” I muttered, brushing past him toward the sink. Our shoulders touched—barely—but it was enough to spark something low in my stomach.

“I know enough,” he said.

“Like what?”

He leaned against the edge of the bar, arms folded, watching me without shame. “You’re tired but won’t admit it. Sarcastic to keep people at a distance, but your eyes soften when they’re kind to you. You wear black nail polish because it makes you feel in control, but you chip it off when you’re anxious.”

I looked down at my fingers, lips parting slightly.

“You’re a hurricane in a diner apron,” he added, voice dropping. “And I’d let you ruin me.” Fuck.

The rag in my hand dropped to the floor. I bent to pick it up—and when I stood, he was right there. Chest to chest.

No more teasing distance. No more safety net.

“Careful,” I said, but my voice wasn’t steady anymore.

“Why?” His voice was velvet. “You gonna bite?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I whispered.

He laughed under his breath—low and dangerous—and stepped even closer, crowding me against the counter. His hand brushed mine as he reached past me for the towel on the sink. The contact was small, but intentional. Like everything else he’d done.

“You gonna keep pretending this isn’t happening?” he asked, tilting his head, lips barely a few inches from mine.

I swallowed hard. “You’re the one pretending.”

“I’m not pretending anything, sweetheart.”

The pet name sent a jolt straight through me. I should’ve shoved him away. Should’ve walked out or told him this was a bad idea.

Instead, I leaned in just enough to whisper, “Then do something about it.”

His breath caught—and then he moved. One hand slid to my waist, gripping tight. The other came up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing the corner of my mouth. His eyes flicked to my lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. I didn’t. I couldn’t. So he kissed me. And it wasn’t gentle. It was filthy. Hungry. Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he walked in—and now he was starving.

His mouth slanted over mine, hot and demanding, tongue sweeping against mine like he was claiming me. His hand stayed at my waist, pulling me in so tight my back arched off the counter. I gasped, and he swallowed it—groaned into it—like he’d been waiting for that sound. When he finally pulled back, I was panting. Dazed.

He looked down at me, lips slick, eyes dark. “Still think I’m pretending?” I shook my head. He smiled. “Didn’t think so.”

The second his lips left mine, I reached for him—fisting my hands in the front of his shirt, dragging him right back. Harry groaned, deep in his throat, as he crashed his mouth onto mine again. This kiss was messier, rougher, and so much worse—because now I knew what he tasted like. And I wanted more. His hands slid under my uniform shirt, fingers spreading wide over the bare skin of my waist. He touched me like he already knew my body, like he had the right. And I let him. Welcomed it.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he muttered against my neck, teeth grazing skin as he pressed open-mouthed kisses down my jaw. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this since I walked in.”

“You didn’t even know me,” I whispered, breath caught as he dragged his fingers higher, pushing my shirt up over my ribs.

“I knew enough.”

He gripped my hips suddenly, spun me around, and bent me slightly over the counter—my hands braced on the cold metal, his chest pressing into my back. I gasped, heat pulsing low in my belly.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, mouth by my ear.

I nodded, biting my lip. “Yeah.”

“Need to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

“I’m good,” I breathed. “I want it.”

“Good girl.” That fucking voice.

He yanked my leggings down, underwear dragged along with them, and the air hit my skin. My thighs pressed together on instinct, but he nudged them apart with his knee.

“Fuck,” he hissed behind me. “Look at you… soaking already.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

He laughed—soft and filthy. “You don’t want me to shut up.”

One hand snaked between my legs, fingers sliding through my folds like he had all the time in the world. I gasped, hands flexing on the counter as he found my clit with maddening precision.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he murmured. “Thinking about me doing this to you. Touching you like this… making you fall apart on my fingers.”

I whimpered, hips pushing back into his hand. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

That earned me two fingers deep, fast and unforgiving. I choked on a moan as my body clenched around him, legs wobbling.

“Shit,” he muttered, still pumping. “So fucking tight.”

“Harry—”

He pulled his fingers out with a soft wet sound, spun me back around, and dropped to his knees like it was instinct. I barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on me—hot, wet, tongue dragging slow and deep through my folds. My head fell back with a sharp cry.

“Jesus—fuck—”

He licked like he was starving for it. Like every filthy, wet sound I made was his reward. He sucked my clit into his mouth, hummed low in his throat, and slid two fingers back inside me while keeping eye contact. I came so hard I nearly screamed. My knees buckled, but he caught me, pulled me into his lap as he stood. His cock pressed hard through his jeans, and I fumbled with the button, desperate to feel him—desperate for more.

“You sure?” he asked, fingers gripping my chin.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I need it.”

He growled, shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, then lifted me by the hips and sat me on the counter. I wrapped my legs around his waist and gasped when the head of his cock slid through my folds.

“Condom—?” he asked, breath ragged.

I reached into the drawer beside me and pulled one out without thinking. His brows lifted.

“Goddamn. Always prepared?”

“You’re not the first guy who flirted behind this counter,” I smirked.

He tore it open and rolled it on fast, grabbing my hips again. “Bet I’m the first one to fuck you on it though.” And then he thrust in. We both gasped. “Fuck, Savannah,” he groaned, forehead dropping to mine. “You feel—fuck—you feel so fucking good.”

My nails clawed at his back as he started to move—slow, then fast, then filthy. His hips snapped against mine, the slap of skin loud in the kitchen. His hand tangled in my hair, the other squeezing my thigh.

“You gonna come for me again?” he panted. “Let me feel you clench around my cock?”

“Yes—Harry—yes, yes—”

“Say my name again.”

“Harry,” I cried out. “Don’t stop—please—don’t—” He didn’t. He fucked me through it—my orgasm crashing into me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. And then he groaned, hips stuttering, eyes locked on mine.

“Gonna come,” he growled. “Fuck—Savannah—shit—”

He spilled into the condom with a low, breathless moan, rocking through it, buried deep inside me. His forehead stayed pressed to mine, our breaths mingling in the thick, charged silence. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and diner grease—should’ve been gross. But somehow, it felt perfect.

Harry was still inside me, his hands firm on my waist like he hadn’t decided whether to let go yet. I didn’t move either. My fingers stayed curled in the fabric of his shirt, clinging like I hadn’t just let a complete stranger fuck me senseless in my workplace kitchen. I felt wild. Spent. Alive. And just a little dazed.

He finally blinked, brushing the tip of his nose against mine. “You okay?”

I nodded, voice barely there. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I whispered again. “Just… wow.”

A slow grin spread across his face, cocky but not in a shitty way. “Yeah. Wow.”

He kissed me then—softer this time. Slower. And somehow that kiss wrecked me even more than the others had. He pulled out gently, helped me down from the counter like I was breakable, and stripped off the condom before tossing it into the trash beneath the sink. Then he cleaned me up with a paper towel—silent, focused, gentle. Too gentle.

“You’re being nice,” I said, squinting at him.

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Feels suspicious.”

He smirked. “Maybe I’m just not a dick.”

I rolled my eyes and tugged my leggings back up. “That’s not what I meant.”

He stepped close again, crowding my space like he hadn’t just been inside me, like there wasn’t still a raw, buzzing tension curling between us.

“What’d you mean then?” he asked quietly.

I looked up at him—at the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark curl that had fallen over his brow, the softness still lingering in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Just… I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Sweet.” That made him smile again—smaller this time. Realer.

“I’m not always,” he said. “But I like being that way with you.”

I didn’t have a response for that. Not one that made sense, anyway. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, eyes on mine.

“So,” he said, tone lighter, “do you always keep condoms next to the forks, or was that a special surprise just for me?”

I groaned and shoved him playfully. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He caught my hand, pulled it to his lips, and kissed my knuckles. “Never.” God, he was dangerous.

I grabbed a clean rag and started wiping the counter like I hadn’t just come harder than I had in a year.

He watched me in silence for a moment, then said, “You working tomorrow night?”

I glanced at him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Might stop by again.”

I tried not to smile. Failed. “You might get less than special treatment next time.”

“That a threat or a promise?”

“Depends on your tip.”

He stepped in close, just enough to make my heart stutter again. “I’ll tip you, sweetheart,” he murmured. “But I think we both know you already got the best part of me tonight.” Cocky bastard.

I shoved him again—harder this time—but he just laughed, turned around, and walked back out into the diner like he owned it. Before he reached the door, he looked back at me over his shoulder, eyes still sparkling, lips curved just right.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said.

Then he was gone. And I was left breathless, aching, and already hoping his plate showed up on my counter tomorrow night.

*****

hope you liked this one guysss 💕

[alohajix]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒂𝒑𝒆

Description: she said she wasn’t nervous. She said she'd never done this before. But then he walked in—and made her forget every lie she told herself. The Casting Tape — you only need to watch it once to come back for more.

Warnings: this one-shot includes explicit sexual content, including fingering, oral sex (M/F), face-fucking, rough grinding, dirty talk, praise kink, light choking, spanking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), and graphic language. Readers +18.

Words count: ~ 7K.

I understand you guys really enjoyed “First Time for Everything”. So here’s a new one-shot I've been working on for a while, featuring pornstar!harry once again.

please enjoyyy💕

*****

I almost didn’t walk through the door. It looked too normal from the outside—just a nondescript black building sandwiched between a vape shop and a custom auto wrap place. No sign. No logo. Just a metal door and a tiny keypad. I stood there for a full minute, staring at my reflection in the door’s narrow glass panel, wondering what the hell I was doing. My fingers fidgeted with the zipper on my hoodie as I debated bailing. But then I remembered rent. And how many hours I’d spent reading that post.

“Paid casting opportunity. Professional, safe, filmed. No pressure to continue. Just be yourself.”

So I buzzed in. A soft click, and I stepped inside. The air was cool, sterile, quiet. A short hallway led to a room that looked more like a YouTube set than anything porn-related—white walls, gray backdrop, soft box lights aimed at a plain black leather couch. A camera was already set up on a tripod, its little red light blinking lazily like it was waiting. There was no one else in the room, just a low table with a water bottle and a clipboard. I approached it like it might bite.

“Hey there,” a voice called from behind me—low, male, casual. “You can grab a seat. We’ll start in a second.”

I turned to find a guy with a headset leaning against the doorframe, sipping coffee. He looked more like someone who worked in tech support than adult film, and he barely glanced at me. That helped a little. I gave him a tight smile and sat down on the couch, tucking one leg under the other. The camera stared back at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my denim skirt.

“You go by your real name or a stage name?” the voice asked.

I hesitated. “Stage name.”

He chuckled. “Smart. What should we call you?”

“…Lola.” I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t even know anyone named Lola.

“Cute,” he said. “Alright, Lola. We’re just gonna ask you a few questions. Keep your eyes on the camera, speak clearly, be yourself.”

I nodded once. The camera light turned solid red.

“Tell us how old you are and why you’re here.”

My voice came out a little too fast. “Twenty-two. I—uh—I heard about this through a friend of a friend. Thought it might be… interesting.”

“And have you done anything like this before?”

I forced a smile. “Not professionally.”

He chuckled again, friendly but disinterested. “Good answer. So—this is a soft casting. No pressure to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We just want to see how you come across on camera. If it feels natural, maybe we’ll try a short chemistry test.”

My stomach flipped. “Chemistry test?”

“With a partner,” he clarified. “Clothed or not. Touching or not. Totally up to you.”

I swallowed hard. “And who’s the partner?”

“Hey, man,” the guy said suddenly, glancing over my shoulder. “You mind stepping in for a quick test?”

I didn’t hear footsteps. I felt them. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful. And then I heard his voice.

“Yeah. I’ve got time.” I turned. And immediately forgot how to breathe.

He walked in wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair tucked under a gray beanie, tattooed arms on full display. Calm. Comfortable. Like he belonged here. And when his eyes met mine—green, curious, knowing—I had to look away before I gave something away.

I knew who he was. Everyone who’s ever dipped into amateur porn knew who he was. He wasn’t just a pornstar—he was the pornstar. The one known for making people cry in the best way possible. The one who ruined girls for normal guys. The one I may or may not have watched the night I sent my application in.

“Hi,” he said softly, voice like silk. “I’m Harry.” Of course he was.

I tried to remember how to smile. “Hi.”

He looked me over—slowly, respectfully, but definitely. His gaze dragged from my hoodie to my bare thighs, then up to my lips before meeting my eyes again.

“You okay to keep going?” he asked. “Or just here to talk?” His tone was soft. Patient.

I bit my lip. I should’ve said no. I should’ve kept it simple. But the way he was looking at me… “Let’s try,” I said quietly.

His mouth curled into a half-smile. “We’ll go slow.”

He sat beside me on the couch, leaving just enough space between us that it felt intentional. His thigh brushed mine every time I shifted, and I wasn’t sure if it was on purpose—but I hoped it was.

The camera was still rolling. “You nervous?” he asked, his voice low and almost amused.

“A little,” I admitted. “You’re not exactly a nobody.”

He smiled at that—soft, slow, like he was letting the compliment soak into his skin.

“Well, I’ve done a few of these,” he said, tilting his body slightly toward me. “So if you want to stop at any point, you say the word. We good on that?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Safe word or something?”

“We can use red. If you want to pause, say yellow. But honestly? Just talk to me. I listen.”

God, that shouldn’t have made my stomach twist—but it did. His hand landed gently on my knee. Just a touch. Nothing dirty. But the weight of it made my heart skip.

“Can I touch you a little more?” he asked.

I swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

He slid his hand up my thigh, slow and deliberate, until his fingers curled around the bare skin just beneath the hem of my skirt. His pinky brushed the side of my underwear. He didn’t move further. He just… held me.

“See? You’re already shaking a little,” he said, voice soft like a secret.

“I’m not,” I lied.

His thumb moved lazily across my thigh. “You are. That’s okay, though. Nervous is normal. But you look good nervous.”

I smirked despite myself. “Is that your line?”

“No,” he said, leaning in just a little. “That’s the truth.”

His other hand reached up, fingers playing with the zipper of my hoodie. He didn’t pull it down right away—he just watched my face.

“Can I?”

I nodded again. “Yeah.”

He tugged the zipper down, slow as hell. I didn’t wear a bra on purpose—I’d told myself it was about being comfortable, but I’d also known what kind of job this was. I’d wanted to feel like I was ready for it, even if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. He pushed the hoodie off my shoulders, revealing my thin tank top underneath—white, ribbed, tight. My nipples were already hard beneath the fabric.

His eyes dropped for half a second. “Fuck.”

“What?” I teased.

“You’re hot.” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Didn’t expect that.”

I grinned. “You didn’t look me up before this?”

He leaned closer, lips near my ear. “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Fuck. That got to me. I shifted in my seat, squeezing my thighs together, and his hand didn’t miss it.

“You get turned on easily, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Only when someone says shit like that.”

He chuckled, and it vibrated straight through me. “Alright then. Let’s see how much you can take before we even get your clothes off.”

He turned to face me fully, his hand now resting between my thighs, thumb pressing lightly at the crease where leg met hip. I was still covered, but it felt dangerously intimate.

“Look at me,” he said. I did.

His hand moved to my waist, sliding under the hem of my shirt. His palm was warm on my bare skin, fingertips grazing my ribcage, tracing just under the curve of my breast. His thumb brushed upward, catching the edge of my nipple through the fabric—and I gasped, barely holding still.

“Sensitive?” he asked, eyes still locked on mine. I nodded, biting my lip.

He pinched lightly—just enough to make me jerk—and then soothed the spot with his palm.

“You’re already breathing like you’ve been at this for an hour.”

“Maybe I just like the way you touch,” I whispered.

He grinned again. “Yeah?”

His other hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair as he leaned in. “I’m gonna kiss you now. Okay?”

I nodded. “Please.” And then he kissed me. Slow. Firm. One hand holding my jaw just right while the other teased under my shirt. His lips moved against mine like he had all the time in the world. He tasted like mint and something just a little bit sweet—god, it was unfair how good he was at this.

My mouth opened for him on instinct, tongue brushing his as he deepened the kiss. I whimpered before I meant to, and he smiled against my lips.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He pulled me onto his lap. I didn’t even realize I’d moved until I felt his thighs beneath mine, the stretch of my skirt riding up, the thick press of him already hard beneath me.

“You wanna keep going?” he asked, hand splayed on my lower back.

“Yes.”

“You wanna keep your clothes on for now?”

I nodded again. “Let me stay like this.”

He gave a slow, approving nod. “Smart girl.”

I started to grind—tentatively, testing—and he held me tighter.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His hands stayed on my waist, guiding me. My panties were soaked through already, and he hadn’t even touched me properly. His cock pressed up against my center through both layers, and the friction was delicious.

“Feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered. I nodded. “Good. Don’t stop.” I didn’t.

I rocked against him slowly, rhythmically, trying to match the pace of his hands, trying not to let my moans get too loud. But the fabric was slick, and I was clenching around nothing, desperate for more. He leaned up to kiss me again, slower this time, while grinding back into me with little thrusts of his hips.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered. “Using me to get yourself off. All clothed. So dirty, baby.”

God, baby—the way it rolled off his tongue nearly made me come.

“I wanna see you fall apart,” he said against my lips. “But not yet. Gotta take my time with you.”

I whimpered, hands clutching his shoulders. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it to be unforgettable.”

I didn’t mean to drop to my knees. It just happened. One second, I was straddling him, moaning into his mouth, and the next, I was slipping down between his legs, hands trailing over his thighs like they belonged there. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t say a word—just leaned back on the couch and watched me with that slow-burning smirk, his chest rising and falling like he already knew what I was going to do next.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice husky.

I nodded as I settled between his thighs, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “You’ve been hard since I got here.”

His brow ticked up. “And you think that means you get to do something about it?”

I looked up at him, tilted my head innocently. “I know I do.”

He grinned. “Cocky.”

“I learned from the best,” I said, tugging his sweats down just enough to free him. And fuck.

I’d seen it before—on screens, in videos—but nothing prepared me for the way it looked up close. Thick, long, already leaking at the tip. Veins along the shaft. His entire body was unfair, but this? This was just cruel.

I wrapped my hand around him slowly.

“You gonna stare at it all day, or you gonna do something?” he teased.

I licked a long stripe from the base to the tip, just to shut him up. His breath caught.

“Mouth open,” he murmured. I obeyed, letting my tongue hang out as I stroked him slowly. He was heavy in my hand, warm and twitching, and when I finally took him into my mouth, I moaned like it was for me, not him.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, his head tipping back. “You’re better than half the girls I’ve filmed with.”

I pulled back just enough to say, “That supposed to make me feel special?”

He looked down at me with a grin. “It should.” Then he shifted his hips forward a little, his hand slipping into my hair. “Hold still,” he said. “Let me fuck your mouth a little.”

I whimpered, nodding as he gathered my hair in his fist and guided me back down. His thrusts were slow at first, controlled, testing. He pushed past my lips and onto my tongue, letting me feel every inch. I hollowed my cheeks around him, drool already sliding down my chin. The angle made my throat ache—but I didn’t care. He watched every second.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Look at me. Eyes up. Fuck—just like that.” I moaned around him, and he groaned in return, gripping my hair tighter. “You like this?” he asked. “Being used a little?”

I blinked up at him, spit trailing from my lip to the base of his cock. “Yes.”

“How filthy are you, baby?”

I swallowed him deeper before answering. “Wanna choke on it.”

He smirked, that filthy edge sharpening in his eyes. “Greedy girl.”

He held my jaw and started to fuck into my mouth harder, sloppier. My mascara was running—I could feel it—and my knees were going numb, but I didn’t care. Not when he was groaning and panting above me, thumb wiping spit from the corner of my mouth.

“Open wider,” he growled. “Let me all the way in.”

I did. He pushed in until the tip hit the back of my throat, and I gagged—but he didn’t stop. He stayed there for a second, watching the tears spill down my cheeks before pulling back with a wet, obscene pop.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” I blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, lips puffy and slick. “You want me to come in your mouth?” he asked.

“No.” He raised a brow. “I want more than that.” He stared at me for a beat. Then he reached down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me gently to my feet.

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated, chest heaving. “All of them?”

“All of them,” he said softly. “Want to see what kind of mess I’ve made.”

I peeled off my hoodie first, even though it had already been unzipped. My tank top followed, sticky with sweat. Then my skirt. Then my panties—soaked, clinging to my thighs. His eyes drank me in.

“You’re soaked.”

“You made me like this.”

He stood up—slow, deliberate—and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my neck, then lower, until he was kneeling in front of me.

“You ever squirt before?” he asked, voice low.

I swallowed hard. “No.”

He smirked. “Might today.” Then he leaned in and dragged his tongue across my inner thigh.

He didn’t go for my pussy right away. Instead, he kissed every inch around it—my thighs, the crease of my hip, the patch of skin just above my mound. His hands wrapped around my legs, holding me steady as he took his time. The anticipation had my stomach fluttering, my cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to be touched.

“Please,” I whispered, shifting.

He looked up at me from between my legs, his lips shiny with spit. “Yeah?”

I nodded, breath shaky. “I—I need—”

He slid one finger up my slit, slow as hell. “You need this?” he asked, teasing my clit with the lightest touch. “Or my mouth?”

“Both.”

He grinned. “Good answer.” Then he dove in.

His mouth latched around my clit like he’d missed it, like he owned it. His tongue flicked and sucked, alternating between slow pressure and fast strokes that made my legs tremble. I cried out, one hand gripping the back of the couch, the other tangled in his hair. He moaned against me when I tugged, and I felt it vibrate through my whole body.

“F-fuck,” I gasped. “Harry—”

“You taste so sweet,” he muttered between licks. “Could stay here all day.”

He pushed two fingers into me while his tongue kept working, curling them just right. My back arched off the couch, a moan ripping from my throat so loud I was sure the mic picked it up.

“That’s it,” he said. “Let them hear how good I’m making you feel.”

I was already on the edge, too fast, too intense—and he knew it.

“You close?” he asked, sliding his fingers faster, deeper, hitting every nerve ending I had.

I nodded, gasping. “Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop—” He stopped. Pulled back. Fingers still inside me, but barely moving. I whimpered. “Why—”

“Cause I want you to come on my cock, not my tongue.”

“Fucking mean,” I whispered.

He smirked. “You like it.” I hated how right he was.

He stood and kicked off his sweats fully this time, leaving him completely naked—tall, lean, toned. Tattoos stretched across his chest, down his arms. His cock was heavy and thick, standing up proudly, still slick from my mouth. He grabbed a condom from the table behind him—but I stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“Don’t,” I said softly. His eyes locked on mine.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I’m clean. On the pill. I want to feel all of you.”

His jaw clenched. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

He climbed back onto the couch, pulling me into his lap again. This time, we were both naked. Skin against skin. He lined himself up with one hand, the other gripping my waist.

“Take it slow,” he murmured. I did. I sank down on him inch by inch, gasping at the stretch, the burn, the way he filled me up so deep I thought I might break.

He kept eye contact the whole time. “Look at you,” he said. “Taking it so well.”

I whimpered when I bottomed out, thighs shaking.

“So fucking tight,” he growled. “You weren’t made for this, were you?”

I moaned. “Maybe I was made for you.” That broke something in him.

His hands gripped my hips, and he started to move—slow thrusts upward that hit just right. I rocked against him, chasing friction, rolling my hips as he fucked up into me.

“Say my name,” he ordered.

“Harry.”

“Louder.”

“Harry.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“So fucking good,” I gasped. “You’re so deep—fuck—it’s so good.” His hand came up to my throat, not squeezing, just holding.

“You’re gonna come like this?” he asked. “Like a needy little slut in my lap?”

I nodded frantically. “Yes—please, I need it—I need to come—”

“Then come.”

I shattered. The orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through me in pulses that left me crying out his name, clinging to him, hips still rocking even as I trembled. He held me through it, whispered praise into my ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “So fucking good for me.” But he wasn’t done. He flipped me over onto the couch, face-down, ass up. “Not finished with you yet,” he growled.

He slid back into me easily, grabbing my hips and fucking into me hard now—rough, deep, animalistic. My cheek pressed against the cushion, mouth open as he pounded into me.

“You want it rough?” he panted. “You want to feel how hard you made me?”

“Y-yes—fuck—yes—”

He slapped my ass, hard. “Say you love it.”

“I fucking love it.”

“Say who’s fucking you.”

“Harry—Harry’s fucking me—please don’t stop—”

He leaned over me, one hand tangled in my hair, the other holding my throat as he fucked me from behind. Skin slapping, breath ragged, everything filthy and perfect.

“Gonna come on you,” he groaned. “Wanna see you dripping.”

“Yes,” I begged. “Do it—please—come on me—”

He pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast before spilling hot all over my lower back and ass, groaning through gritted teeth. I lay there, trembling, dripping, wrecked. Breathing like I’d run a marathon.

He exhaled a long breath, letting it hang in the quiet between us. The only sound now was the soft hum of the camera still rolling. The red light blinked steadily, like it had witnessed every filthy, raw second of what just happened. Harry sat back, eyes scanning over me like he wasn’t sure if he was done yet—or just trying to memorize how I looked. Wrecked. Flushed. My hair a mess. My thighs still trembling.

“Stay there a sec,” he said, voice a little rougher than before.

I blinked up at him, cheek still pressed to the couch cushion, and nodded. He disappeared for a moment and came back with a warm towel. He didn’t rush—just knelt beside me, gently wiping me clean, taking his time like he actually cared. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just good at playing the part. But something about the way his fingers grazed my skin, soft and unhurried, made my chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, gaze flicking up to mine.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… that was a lot.”

A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Good lot or bad lot?”

“Really good.”

He handed me the towel and stood up to grab water bottles. When he tossed one to me, I caught it with shaky hands.

“You looked like you’ve done that before,” he said, sitting down beside me again—close, but not touching.

“I haven’t,” I replied, twisting the cap off. “Not like that.”

He raised a brow. “You sure?”

I smiled. “Trust me. I’d remember if someone ever made me feel like that before.” He went quiet, watching me sip.

“You ever actually plan on watching the footage?” I looked at him. At the blinking red light still recording.

“I kind of want to,” I admitted.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll show you mine… if you come back and film another one.” I stared at him, half smiling, half stunned.

“You saying that to everyone who comes through here?”

“Nope.” He leaned in just slightly, voice lower. “Just the ones who moan my name like they mean it.”

I laughed, flushed, and shook my head. “You’re dangerous.”

He smirked. “Only on camera.” I didn’t believe that for a second. But I wanted to find out.

[alohajix]

late-night cravings?

i’ve got a new one-shot dropping later today and trust me—you’re gonna want to clock in for this shift.

think:

– a quiet 1AM diner

– a bored waitress with attitude

– a tattooed stranger with a slow smile

– filthy tension that turns real fast behind the counter

Late Shift Lust

it’s soft-spoken filth. it’s sweat and sarcasm. it’s hands on hips and mouths everywhere.

posting later today. stay ready 💕

[alohajix]

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚

Description: in the quiet town of Holmes Chapel, Amara—a gentle, nurturing kindergarten teacher—lives a life built on routine, safety, and quiet strength. She’s not looking for love, especially not after the scars left behind by someone she’d rather forget. But when Harry Styles walks into her classroom carrying his three-year-old daughter and a heart still grieving the loss of the woman he loved, everything changes. Neither of them is ready. Neither of them is looking. But sometimes, the people who change your life don’t knock first. They just… show up.

Warnings: this mini-series includes grief, past emotional abuse/manipulation, trauma recovery, single parenthood, and emotional vulnerability. Later chapters will contain explicit smut (clearly labeled).

Words count: ~ 90K.

First part is here! Tell me what do you think in the comments💕

*****

PART ONE – Tiny Brave Things (Words: 15K)

AMARA

The kettle clicked off just as the sun began its slow rise behind the garden hedge, spilling pale gold through the kitchen window and casting a honeyed glow across the tile floor. I stood barefoot by the sink, hands wrapped around a mug that still steamed gently against my palms, and let the morning settle around me. The quiet was soft and familiar—no cars, no voices, just the faint hum of the fridge and the birds calling to each other through the hedgerow.

This was my favorite part of the day. Before the noise, before the paint-stained fingers and paper towel crises, before someone cried because someone else used the purple crayon first. Just the stillness of home. My own breath, steady and slow. The ceramic weight of the cup in my hands. The ache in my shoulders I hadn’t realized was there until the heat began to ease it.

I took a sip and leaned against the counter, watching the steam curl and vanish. My skin was still warm from the shower. I hadn’t bothered with the hairdryer—just towel-dried my hair and twisted it into a low bun. A few strands clung to my temples, already loosening in the morning humidity. I didn’t mind.

I glanced at the clock above the oven: 6:41 a.m. Early. Earlier than I needed to be up, but I’d stopped fighting it. My body knew what it needed. I gave up on sleeping in years ago—around the same time I realized I felt safest when I had a little extra time. A little extra quiet. A little extra space between me and whatever the day might bring. Some people woke up to alarms. I woke up to the weight in my chest shifting ever so slightly.

I finished my tea, rinsed the cup, and padded barefoot across the warm kitchen floor to my small dining table—the one I’d rescued from a vintage shop three years ago and painted myself on a rainy weekend. Pale blue, a little chipped at the corners now. I liked it better that way. I pulled out the chair closest to the window, sat down, and reached for my to-do list. Just seeing it calmed me. It was half crossed-out already, scrawled in neat loops across lined paper, right down to things like “pick up more lavender spray” and “replace dying peace lily in reading corner.” I didn’t mind the repetition. Some people found it exhausting. I found it grounding. The structure. The rhythm. The knowledge that every morning, twenty-three little faces would walk through my classroom door, dragging backpacks and half-zipped coats and stories about their cat’s birthday party or a new rainbow shirt.

And today—there’d be one more. Olive Styles. Age three. I hadn’t met her yet. Her father had registered her yesterday, just before the office closed, so I’d only heard the name in passing from Mrs. Keller, the school secretary.

“Sweet-sounding little thing,” she’d said. “He filled everything out perfectly. Very polite. Very…” She’d paused then, lowering her voice even though it was just the two of us. “Put-together.”

I’d smiled, distracted by a stack of coloring books I needed to sort, and hadn’t thought much more of it. At the time. But now, sitting alone in my kitchen with the day stretching ahead of me, I realized I was… curious. Which was ridiculous. Parents came and went. I met them at drop-off, at parent nights, at emergency “your child has a tooth in their pocket again” calls. I didn’t wonder about them. And yet—

I shook it off.

I stood, slipped into my flats, pulled my cardigan from its hook near the door, and took one last glance around the room—everything tidy, everything still. Then I stepped outside.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Holmes Chapel was still half-asleep as I walked into town. The air was cool against my skin, and the streets shimmered faintly with dew. I took the long route, weaving past hedgerows and low stone walls, nodding to the dog walkers I saw every morning. The same faces. The same smiles.

That was the thing about this town—you couldn’t hide in it. Not really. People knew each other. Knew who’d married whom. Who’d left, who’d come back. And in my case, who’d once dated Logan Clark, and who now politely avoided the subject.

I passed Mrs. Whitmore’s house just as she stepped out in her robe and slippers, watering can in hand.

“Morning, love,” she called, not looking up.

“Morning. They’re looking lovely,” I said, nodding at her roses.

“They always bloom early when the weather’s soft,” she replied, and I smiled.

I turned down the high street, already waking up with the scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakery and the soft jingle of the florist unlocking her front door. The bell above the café rang as someone stepped out with a paper bag and a steaming cup. I walked past it all, my pace steady, familiar.

Ten minutes later, I pushed through the iron gate in front of the school and stepped into the quiet hallways of a place that had become more home than anything else. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as I made my way to my classroom. The moment I unlocked the door, I was hit with the faint scent of lavender spray and children’s markers. I breathed it in like oxygen.

This space—bright, safe, colorful—was where everything felt steady. The paper butterflies we’d made last week still hung from the ceiling, their wings swaying in the faint breeze from the open window. The reading corner cushions were fluffed. The whiteboard still had the words “You Are So Loved” written in big, bubbly letters.

I set down my bag, slipped off my cardigan, and turned on the fairy lights above the bookshelf. Then I got to work. Puzzles out. Name tags in place. Crayons sorted. Paint trays prepped. I moved with the rhythm of someone who’d done this a hundred times and still cared enough to make it feel new. I was adjusting a stack of books when I heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Well, well. Look who beat me in.”

I turned to see Mya, leaning against the doorframe, holding two takeaway cups and smiling like she knew something I didn’t.

“Miracles happen,” I said, walking over to take one of the cups. “No more running in at 7:59 like I’ve just escaped a burning building.”

“I don’t know, I kind of liked that look on you,” she said, stepping into the room. “A little wild-eyed. Kept the parents on their toes.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest.”

She sank into the beanbag in the corner and took a sip of her drink, eyes following me as I rearranged the art supply shelf.

“So,” she said casually. “Today’s the day, yeah?”

I glanced over. “The new student?”

“Olive Styles,” she said, as if she were testing the name out loud.

I nodded. “Starts today.”

Mya grinned. “That’s such a cute kid name. Sounds like someone who wears tiny boots and carries a leaf collection in her pocket.”

“I hope so.”

She gave me a look. “And the dad?”

I blinked. “What about him?”

Mya raised her eyebrows. “You tell me. The name Styles isn’t exactly forgettable.”

I shrugged, turning to face the shelf again. “Mrs. Keller said he filled out everything properly. Sounded polite.”

“That’s code for hot,” she said, sipping her coffee with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s code for ‘I didn’t ask.’”

“Sure. Sure it is.”

I tossed a crayon box at her gently. “Some of us are focused on the children, thank you.”

She laughed, catching it. “You’re such a mum already, it’s scary.”

“Maybe someday.” The words slipped out before I could catch them. I didn’t mean to sound wistful, but there was a silence after that. A breath.

Mya watched me for a beat too long. “You’d be a brilliant mum, you know.”

I smiled, quiet. “Thanks.”

She stood and handed me the empty cup. “Alright, I’ve got to go prep for my own little chaos tornado. But text me if anything interesting happens.”

“Define interesting.”

She grinned. “Tall, dark, and devastating.” And with that, she left.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

HARRY

Olive was already in bed with me when the alarm went off. I didn’t even hear the first buzz. Just felt her small hand tug at my T-shirt, the way she always did in the early hours. Her knees were curled into my side, bunny tucked between us, thumb grazing her bottom lip like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to suck it or not. She never cried out when she came into my room—just showed up, quiet, steady, like her body remembered something her mouth hadn’t quite learned how to say.

I blinked up at the ceiling, still hazy with sleep, then down at her soft curls resting against my chest. It was early. Still grey outside. Still the kind of hush that made you feel like the world hadn’t quite started yet. I liked that part. The stillness. The space between night and day. The part where no one needed anything from me yet. Except for her. I brushed a hand gently down her back, the fabric of her sleep shirt warm from sleep.

“Morning, bug,” I whispered. She didn’t answer, just snuggled closer. Today was her first day. The first day of something new. And it felt… big. Bigger than it should’ve.

It wasn’t just preschool. It was the first time I’d let someone else carry her weight for a few hours. The first time she’d sit in a room full of strangers and look around for a face that wasn’t mine.

I pressed a kiss to her hair. “Think we can be brave today?”

Her breath shuddered out across my chest. Just a tiny sound. She didn’t answer. I didn’t push. We stayed like that for a few more minutes, until the light outside turned a little less grey and a little more gold. Then I sat up slowly, pulling her into my lap.

“Toast and jam?” I asked. She nodded, eyes still heavy. “Milk in the bunny mug?”

She gave me a sleepy thumbs up. I carried her to the kitchen, setting her gently on one of the bar stools. She leaned against the counter with her head in her hands, bunny tucked under one arm, curls wild and matted in the back. I started the toast and turned on the kettle, letting the familiar motions quiet the nerves buzzing under my skin.

The house was still. Not empty—but quieter than it used to be. There were still traces of Becca everywhere. In the way the mugs didn’t match. In the pink apron hanging behind the pantry door. In the stack of kids’ books on the shelf near the fireplace. I hadn’t moved any of it. Couldn’t. Some days, it helped. Some days, it made me want to take a hammer to the walls.

Olive stayed quiet while I made breakfast. I knew she was nervous—could feel it in the way she picked at the hem of her sleeve, in the way she stared at her bunny like it might have answers she didn’t. I set her food down and leaned against the counter across from her.

“You remember we’re going to school today, right?” She nodded, eyes on her plate. “And remember, I’m not leaving until you’re ready.”

Her lips pressed together, like she was thinking hard. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know,” I said gently. “You don’t have to. I’ll be right outside for a little while. And then I’ll come pick you up after lunch, just like we said.”

She took a tiny bite of toast. “Will there be books?”

“Lots.”

“Glue?”

“Probably.”

She looked up. “The funny-smelling kind?”

I smiled. “The exact one.”

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “Okay.”

I walked over, crouching beside her stool so I was eye-level. “You’re gonna be okay, bug. Just try your best. That’s all.”

She leaned into me, small arms around my neck. “Will Miss be nice?”

I hoped so. “Yeah. I think she will.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

We were quiet on the drive. I kept the music soft—something acoustic and familiar—and glanced at her in the rearview mirror every few seconds. She was staring out the window, bunny still in her lap, curls pulled into two low pigtails that I’d clumsily tied myself. Becca used to braid them. Made them look easy. Olive never flinched when Becca did her hair. Now, she only let me do it if I promised to be gentle. And I always tried.

We pulled into the small car park beside the school, and I turned off the engine. Olive looked up at the building. Then back at me. Her bottom lip wobbled. Just once. I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for her.

“You ready to be brave?” She shook her head. “That’s okay,” I said, lifting her carefully from the seat. “You can do it scared, too.”

I carried her toward the building, her arms looped tightly around my neck, bunny squished between us. The school was quiet from the outside, sunlight glinting off the windows, the iron gate just barely ajar. When we reached the door, I paused. She was breathing fast, her forehead pressed to my collarbone.

“Bug,” I whispered, “you’re safe.”

She didn’t let go. But she didn’t pull away either. I adjusted her in my arms, took a deep breath, and opened the door. And there she was.

She turned from the bookshelf when we walked in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The room glowed behind her—fairy lights strung above the shelves, sunlight pooling on the rug, soft music playing from a speaker I couldn’t see. It smelled like lavender and Play-Doh and something warm I couldn’t name.

She looked up at us and smiled. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t practiced. It was soft. Real. Welcoming in a way I hadn’t expected.

“Hi,” she said, walking toward us. “You’re right on time.”

Her voice was gentle—like she was speaking to both of us at once. Not just Olive. Olive peeked at her from beneath my chin.

“I’m Miss Amara,” she said softly. “But you can call me Miss, if that feels easier.”

Olive didn’t answer, but she didn’t hide, either.

“She’s a bit shy,” I said, my voice lower now, unsure why. “And this is all new.”

“I understand,” Amara said. “She can take all the time she needs.”

I nodded, heart tugging as Olive pressed her face into my neck.

“She brought her favorite book,” I added, reaching into her little backpack and pulling out The Koala Who Could. “And her blanket’s in there, too. Just in case.”

She took the book gently from my hands, her eyes scanning the cover like she recognized it.

“Thank you,” she said. “This helps a lot.”

“She likes the part with the tree,” I said, then caught myself. “Sorry. I know you probably don’t need all that.”

“No,” she smiled. “It’s lovely. I like knowing what matters to her.” She knelt down a little, meeting Olive’s eye line. “I heard you’re very good at puzzles,” she said softly. “I saved a special one for you, if you want to see it.”

Olive didn’t move at first. Then, slowly—so slowly—she turned to look at me.

I nodded, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Want to try?”

She hesitated. Then let her arms fall away from my neck. I crouched down and set her gently on the floor, her bunny still tight in her hands.

“You can bring that,” Amara said. “We like bunnies here.”

Olive blinked at her. Just once. Then followed her toward a little round table covered in puzzle pieces. I stayed by the door, heart full of something I couldn’t name. Amara turned back, eyes meeting mine.

“She’ll be alright,” she said. I believed her.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

AMARA

Olive didn’t say much. But she didn’t cry either. And honestly? That was more than enough.

She sat at the little round table near the windows, gently pressing puzzle pieces into place like it was a task someone had assigned her and she was determined to get it right. I stayed near her for the first ten minutes. I didn’t hover—just tidied nearby, made soft commentary, occasionally pointed out a missing tail or paw. She didn’t respond with words, but every once in a while, she’d glance at me. Just to check I was still there.

Eventually, I drifted across the room to welcome the others. Kids tumbled in—some running, some sleepy, one in tears because her snack box had the wrong sticker on it. The usual chaos. The beautiful, joyful, sticky kind. And all the while, Olive watched. She didn’t join in. But she didn’t shrink away either. She sat with her bunny tucked between her knees and her shoulders squared like she was bracing for something.

About an hour in, I was helping two boys at the paint table when I felt her beside me. Quiet as anything. She held up a small piece of paper. It was her drawing. A tree. A tiny grey shape in the middle. A koala.

I crouched to her level and smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

She pointed to the koala. “Kevin.”

“From your book?” She nodded once. “He looks very brave in your drawing.” She didn’t say anything. But she smiled.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

At snack time, I let her sit beside me. Some of the kids liked crowding together in little clusters on the rug, but Olive stayed close. Not clinging—just nearby. Her bunny sat in her lap while she quietly munched on crackers and watched the others giggle about apples shaped like hearts.

One of the boys—Elliot—came over and plopped down beside her without warning. Olive stiffened.

“That’s mine,” he said, pointing at one of the puzzle blocks she’d brought over earlier.

I turned toward him gently. “She’s using the extra pieces from the bin, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

He frowned. “But I used the yellow one yesterday.”

“She didn’t take it,” I said softly. Olive stayed frozen. I crouched, placing a hand gently on her back. “It’s okay.” She looked at me—those big, searching eyes—and I swear, the tension in her shoulders melted just a little at my touch. I looked to Elliot. “How about you show Olive how you built your tower yesterday? Maybe you can do it together?”

He grumbled, but after a minute, he nodded and scooted closer. Olive glanced at me again, then sat up straighter. She placed the yellow block in front of him. And when he smiled at her, she whispered, “Okay.” It was barely audible. But it was there. And something in me shifted.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The day flowed in soft, colorful waves. We did handprint art with washable paint. I read a story about a dragon who only ate marshmallows. Olive sat closest to the rug’s edge but turned her head toward me with each page. She never interrupted like the others did. Just listened, wide-eyed, taking it all in. She let another little girl braid one of her pigtails. She handed someone a red crayon without being asked. She laughed—once—when someone sneezed glitter by accident.

And for a few precious hours, I didn’t think about Logan. Until I heard my name at the door.

“Amara?” I looked up to see Mrs. Keller peeking in, holding a clipboard. “Phone message for you, love. Not urgent. Just… something to have.”

I stood, brushing paint from my hands, and met her at the door. She handed me the pink slip.

LOGAN, it read in thick, rushed letters.

Called to ask what time you finish today. Said he might stop by.

The breath caught in my throat before I could hide it.

Mrs. Keller’s eyes softened. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I lied. Because what else was I supposed to say?

I tucked the note into the pocket of my cardigan and turned back to the classroom. Olive was watching me. Not with fear. Not with confusion. Just… watching. Like she knew what it looked like when someone got a call that changed the air around them.

I forced a smile. “Time to clean up, sweet pea. Want to help me with the paint lids?” She nodded. Didn’t let go of her bunny. But walked with me anyway.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The clock on the classroom wall ticked closer to one. The sunlight had shifted across the room now, casting warm stripes on the floor where a few kids were finishing their snack. Most had gone home for the day—early pickups and half schedules. Olive was the last still waiting. But she didn’t seem worried.

She sat beside me at the low round table, her bunny perched carefully on the edge, as we sorted puzzle pieces back into their box. She was focused. Calm. And every once in a while, she’d glance at the door. Not anxiously—just waiting. It was only her first day, and somehow, she was already part of this place.

I felt a quiet kind of pride settle in my chest.

When the knock finally came, she didn’t flinch. Just turned her head and smiled before I even stood up. I walked to the door and opened it.

He was there. Harry Styles. His curls were slightly messier than this morning, like he’d run a hand through them too many times. He wore a grey jumper and jeans, his coat unzipped, his shoulders a little more relaxed than they’d been before. But his eyes? Still soft. Still searching.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter than necessary. “She alright?”

“She’s better than alright,” I said, smiling as I stepped aside. “She’s been brilliant.”

He looked over my shoulder and saw her—tiny, bunny in hand, puzzle box now clutched to her chest. His shoulders dropped a little more. And for a second, something passed between us. Not a moment. Not yet. But a pause. Like he saw me now. Not just as her teacher. As something more.

Olive slid off the chair and padded over in her little pink trainers, curls bouncing softly.

“Daddy,” she said, not with desperation—just warmth.

He crouched and held out his arms, scooping her into a hug. “Hey, bug. You did it.”

She pulled back just enough to show him the puzzle box. “We found the fox.”

“You did?” he said, eyes wide like she’d just announced she’d climbed a mountain.

She nodded, then looked at me. “Miss helped.”

I smiled. “She did most of it herself.”

Harry stood, Olive still perched on one arm. He turned to me with something in his expression that wasn’t just gratitude.

“You’re very good with her,” he said.

“I try to be good with all of them,” I replied gently. “But she made it easy.”

He exhaled through his nose. “She doesn’t usually let go like that. Not since…” He trailed off, glancing down at her. I knew what he was going to say. He didn’t need to finish it.

“I’m glad she felt safe here,” I said.

He looked back at me, and for a second, the noise in the hallway faded. Everything stilled.

“ If she wants to come back tomorrow.” I smiled. “She’ll have her spot waiting.”

He nodded. “Same time?”

“Same time.”

We stood there for a second longer than we needed to. Then Olive tugged gently at his collar. “Can we get the bread with the holes?”

“The bagels?” he asked, already smiling. “Course we can.”

He glanced at me one last time. “Thanks again, Miss Amara.”

I liked the way he said it. Like it mattered. “You’re welcome,” I said. And I meant it.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The classroom emptied slowly. I lingered, like I always did. Wiping down the tables. Tidying the reading corner. Restoring the classroom to the gentle stillness it always held before the day began again.

The sunlight had faded to a softer gold now, stretching long across the floors. I turned off the fairy lights and packed my things with the kind of slow rhythm that comes after a full, good day. I didn’t feel tired. Not the heavy kind. I felt full. Full of little moments. Olive’s soft voice. Her quiet nod. The way Harry had looked at her—and at me—like something new had settled between the three of us and none of us quite had the words for it yet.

I stepped out into the early evening air and started toward the square. I hadn’t planned to stop at the market, but my fridge at home was bare, and the day had left me craving something warm. Something soft. Maybe bread. Or jam. Or chocolate.

The cobblestone paths were glowing under the fading sun as I walked into the village center. The hanging baskets of spring flowers swayed gently in the breeze. A woman walked past with her daughter, holding hands and humming the same tune Olive had been singing under her breath at cleanup time.

The bell above the market door jingled as I stepped inside. It smelled like oranges and pinewood. I made my way to the produce aisle and reached for a basket of strawberries, still thinking about the way Olive had said Miss helped like it meant something deeper.

“Afternoon, Miss Amara.” I turned.

Mr. Beckett stood behind me in his usual green jumper, arms tucked behind his back like he always had something to say.

“Hi, Mr. Beckett,” I said, smiling.

He gave a knowing look. “Heard you’ve got a new one in class.”

I nodded. “Olive Styles.”

He tilted his head. “That’d be Harry’s girl, wouldn’t it? Up by the hill cottages?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Sweet thing, that one. Saw them last week at the bakery. Didn’t say much, but the little girl had her eyes on the pain au chocolat like it held all the answers to the universe.”

I laughed softly. “Sounds like her.”

He leaned on his cane, his voice gentler now. “People talk, you know. Small town and all. Shame what happened to his girl.”

My throat tightened. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know her well,” he went on. “But she had a light to her. That kind of quiet kindness you don’t always see anymore.”

“She must’ve been special,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re one of the good ones, Amara. Always were. That little girl’s lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” I said, the words catching slightly on their way out.

He smiled, tipped his cap, and moved toward the back of the shop. I stood still for a second, basket in my hand, surrounded by fruit and light and the soft hum of old music playing overhead.

I didn’t know what I was feeling. But it was something. Something warm. Something real.

I grabbed a loaf of bread, a jar of raspberry jam, and—without thinking—a bar of chocolate I didn’t need but wanted anyway.

When I stepped back outside, the sun had slipped behind the rooftops, and the sky was washed in pale pink and lavender. And even though the air had cooled, something lingered in my chest. Not warmth. Not yet. But the sense that maybe—just maybe—something had shifted. And when it did… I’d be ready.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

HARRY

Olive fell asleep before I finished the dishes. She was curled sideways on the couch in her unicorn pajamas, one hand tucked under her cheek and the other still wrapped around her bunny’s floppy ear. I didn’t move her right away. I just stood in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall in that slow, even rhythm that only came when she was truly safe.

The house was dim now, lit only by the lamp in the corner and the glow of the kitchen light. There was music playing low on the speaker—something soft with strings—but I couldn’t hear it clearly over the noise in my head.

I’d done it. We’d done it. Day one.

She’d gone to school, let go of my hand, sat at a table beside strangers, and smiled at her teacher. She’d come home with purple marker smudged on her fingertips and told me about Kevin the koala like it was the most important story in the world.

And she’d said she wanted to go back. That part broke me a little. In a good way. I sat on the floor beside the couch, letting my hand rest gently on her foot. Just enough to feel her warmth. I thought about Becca. About how proud she would’ve been. How she’d probably cry and then pretend not to. How she’d make cupcakes for the whole class after week one and write me a to-do list I didn’t ask for.

I closed my eyes and let the ache come and go like it always did. Then I opened them again. And saw Olive’s sketchbook on the coffee table. I flipped it open slowly, expecting crayon scribbles. But there it was. A tree. A koala. And below it, written in crooked three-year-old letters, a name.

Miss.

And just like that, Amara’s face filled my mind again—her quiet voice, her steady gaze, the way she’d crouched beside Olive like she’d known exactly what to say and exactly when to say nothing at all. I didn’t know why she stayed with me like that. But she did. And something about it felt a little like the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I deserved.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

AMARA

I sat on the couch in my comfiest socks with a cup of tea cooling beside me and my feet tucked beneath a throw I’d had since university.

The house was quiet. Lavender-scented. Dim except for the reading lamp behind me. I should’ve been grading. Or planning. Or sleeping. But my thoughts kept circling back to her. To Olive. To the way she’d looked up at me after storytime with a crayon in one hand and her bunny tucked under the other.

And—maybe more than that—to him. To the softness in his voice when he said her name. To the look in his eyes when she reached for my hand. To the quiet that settled between us like something shared.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mya.

MYA: Sooo… how was the dad?

I smiled, shaking my head and picked up the phone—only to see another notification above hers. One I didn’t open.

LOGAN: Still pretending I don’t exist? You know I can always find you.

I locked the screen. Pushed the chill back down. Then opened Mya’s message instead.

AMARA: Polite. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who remembers which page in the koala book his daughter loves most.

MYA: Oh no. You like him.

AMARA: I don’t know him.

MYA: Yet.

I put the phone down and leaned my head back against the cushion. The warmth from the tea drifted into the air, sweet and steady. And somewhere beneath the comfort of the night and the quiet hum of my house, I felt it again. That shift. That pull. That soft, slow opening. Something new. Something gentle. Something I didn’t have a name for yet.

But maybe— Maybe when I’m ready, I’ll let it in.

[alohajix]

𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 1014

Description: freshly single and craving something reckless, Cassie meets a soft-spoken stranger in a hotel lobby. One look turns into one night—filthy words, slow touches, and a room she might never want to leave.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex (f. receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, light chocking, soft dom harry, alcohol consumption. Readers +18.

Words count: 12K.

*****

The lobby was quiet, humming with the low buzz of a piano track playing somewhere overhead. Glass walls caught the last flickers of city light, and the air was thick with cologne, polished floors, and money. It was the kind of place where everyone either had somewhere to be—or was waiting for something to happen.

I was the latter. Sat on the edge of a velvet armchair in a dress I probably wouldn’t have worn two weeks ago, I sipped what was left of my watered-down drink and crossed my legs tighter. My breakup was still fresh—three years gone in one loud, final fight—but I wasn’t here to sulk. Not really. I’d told myself I just needed to get out, clear my head. Let the city hold me for a while. But deep down, I wanted to forget. Maybe even get a little reckless.

I’d spent the last hour pretending to scroll through my phone, watching couples pass by, laughing, arms linked or fingers brushing. I tried not to let it eat away at me, but it did. That sharp twist of loneliness, edged with something hotter—want. Need. I wanted someone to see me. Crave me. Someone who didn’t know my past or my favorite coffee order or the sound of my laugh at 2 a.m. Someone who wouldn’t ask why I wasn’t home.

I ran a finger along the rim of my glass. I didn’t need a relationship. I didn’t even want a conversation. I just wanted out of my head.

That’s when I noticed him. Tall, broad-shouldered, leaning casually against the bar with a glass in his hand and his head tilted slightly toward me. He didn’t look like everyone else here—too understated. Wavy brown hair that curled at the ends, a plain black tee hugging his chest beneath a dark jacket, rings on his fingers that glinted every time he adjusted his grip on the glass. He had a quiet confidence, like he could ruin you without saying a word.

And then he walked toward me. My heart kicked up the moment our eyes met. His lips curled just slightly, but he didn’t smile.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, voice low, smooth with that unmistakable British lilt.

I blinked up at him, pretending I wasn’t already a little dizzy. “Be my guest.”

He took the seat beside me—close, but not too close. Enough to feel the heat off his body. Enough to make me ache for more.

“Didn’t look like you were waiting for anyone,” he murmured, eyes still on mine.

“I wasn’t.” I tilted my head. “Are you always this forward?”

He chuckled softly, gaze dropping to my lips. “Only when it works.” God.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was thick, full of something unspoken, crackling beneath the surface. I shifted in my seat, my dress brushing against his thigh as I did. He didn’t move. His scent—clean skin, faint spice, something woody and warm—settled into my nose like a drug.

“What’s your name?” I asked, voice a little breathier than I meant it to be.

“Harry,” he said, tilting his glass toward me. “You?”

“Cassie.”

“Cassie,” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting it. “Pretty name. You look like you’re not quite sure what you want tonight.”

That made me pause. My lips parted, but I didn’t speak. He leaned in just slightly, voice softer now, aimed only at me. “Or maybe you do. You’re just waiting for someone to ask.”

My thighs clenched instinctively. I could’ve played it coy. Could’ve teased or deflected. But something about the way he looked at me—like he already knew what I was thinking—made the words slip out before I could stop them.

“Do you have a room here?” His eyes darkened instantly.

“I do,” he said, voice gravelly now.

I stood, slowly, letting him look at me. His gaze dragged over every inch, lazy and deliberate.

“Then take me to it.”

————————————————————————————————

It should’ve felt too fast. But it didn’t. I followed him through the sleek glass elevators in silence. There was something magnetic in the stillness, something dangerous in the calm. The doors slid shut behind us, and I suddenly became aware of the way his hand brushed mine as he reached for the button. His knuckles were rough, the backs of his fingers dusted with ink. I wondered what his hands would feel like on my waist. On my thighs. Around my throat.

“Regret it yet?” he asked, barely glancing at me.

“Not even close.”

He nodded once. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flirt. Just pressed his back to the elevator wall and let the air between us fill with everything we hadn’t said yet. The ride was slow. Too slow. I didn’t lean into him. He didn’t reach for me. But when the elevator dinged, I could still feel the tension in my gut, hot and liquid.

He walked ahead, key card ready, and I took my time watching him—broad shoulders rolling under that black jacket, jeans sitting low on his hips. His walk was confident, grounded. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he wanted to make me wait.

Room 1014.

He slid the card in, the light flashed green, and he opened the door for me.

“After you.”

The room was dark and cool, the soft scent of linen and something musky drifting out from within. I stepped inside, heels clicking quietly against the hardwood. I heard the door click shut behind me. But he didn’t touch me. Not yet.

“You nervous?” he asked after a moment.

I turned toward him slowly, my hand resting on the back of a chair. “Should I be?”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Not unless you’re scared of wanting something too much.”

I didn’t respond. I was too focused on the way he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. His sleeves hugged his arms, tattoos curling over his skin, disappearing into the dark fabric.

“I’m not going to rush you,” he said, stepping closer, voice low and even. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“I didn’t come up here to talk,” I replied quietly.

He raised an eyebrow, pausing a few feet in front of me. “Didn’t think you did. But you look like someone who’s been pushed around before.”

My jaw tensed. His eyes caught it.

“I won’t do that to you,” he said simply. “Even if you want me to.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, I took a step closer, closing the space between us until we were nearly chest-to-chest. I could see the gold flecks in his green eyes now. I could smell the heat on his skin. He didn’t move. He didn’t reach. He just looked at me like he was waiting.

So I whispered, “What if I want to be touched?”

His voice dropped. “Then tell me where.”

My breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat. I didn’t answer right away. I was too aware of the silence stretching between us, too wrapped in the feeling of his gaze on me. There was no smirk, no playfulness in his face—just heat. Pure and controlled and terrifying in how much it made me want.

I swallowed. “Everywhere.”

He blinked, slowly.

“Cassie,” he said, low and deliberate, like he needed to say my name just to stay grounded. “You sure?”

I nodded, but he didn’t move. He waited. Patient. Unrelenting.

So I said it. “Yes.” That was all he needed.

His hand lifted first, fingertips grazing the side of my jaw so lightly I barely felt it. But I leaned in anyway, craving more. He cupped my cheek, thumb tracing a path just below my eye, and his other hand followed—slow and careful—brushing down the slope of my neck until his palm pressed just above my collarbone.

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

“You’re slow.”

He smiled at that, a tiny curl at the corner of his mouth. “That’s on purpose.”

His hands traveled downward, not groping—just exploring. Over the curve of my shoulder, down the outside of my arms, until his fingers wrapped gently around my wrists. He guided my hands to his chest, placed them there like he wanted me to feel him. And I did. Solid warmth under soft cotton. A steady heartbeat under inked skin.

“You haven’t been touched like this in a while,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question. And I didn’t deny it.

His thumb brushed over the inside of my wrist, eyes holding mine.

“Tell me something,” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“What were you thinking about… when I walked over to you?”

I let out a slow breath. “Whether or not you’d be worth it.”

His grin deepened, and something flickered in his eyes—darker now, mischievous, but still patient. He dipped his head just slightly, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he asked, “And what do you think now?”

“I think you’re still being too careful.”

His hands slid down to my hips, fingers curling around the fabric of my dress. “You want reckless, don’t you?”

I nodded, barely.

“You want to forget.”

“Yes.”

He stepped forward, pressing his body against mine without warning, and I gasped—his chest firm against mine, his thigh between mine, his hand suddenly tangled in my hair. He didn’t kiss me. He just looked at me, holding me still.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“I want to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Everything.”

His mouth brushed mine. “I can do that.” And then he kissed me.

God—he kissed me like he meant to erase every other man before him. His lips were soft but sure, coaxing rather than demanding. But when I opened my mouth to him, he groaned low in his throat and pressed me back toward the bed. I went willingly.

He guided me with both hands, like he’d done it a hundred times before, like he knew exactly where my body would go and how it would respond. When the backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, he paused. His forehead rested against mine, and his fingers slid down the length of my arms again.

“You nervous?” he asked again, but softer this time.

“No.”

“Good.”

He kissed me again—deeper now, slower, teeth scraping just enough to make my knees buckle. I clutched the front of his shirt, pulling him in closer, and this time he let his hands wander. One dragged up my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress higher. The other trailed over my ribs, just barely grazing the side of my breast.

“You feel good,” he whispered against my lips.

“Then touch me.”

His smile curved against my mouth. “I am.”

“Not enough.”

He laughed once—low and rough—and his mouth moved to my jaw, then my throat. He took his time there, letting his lips brush over my pulse before sucking gently at the skin. I arched into him, desperate for more, but he didn’t rush.

“Cassie,” he said again, dragging my name out like a promise.

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

“You have me.”

I pulled back slightly, looking at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen.

“I want your hands on me,” I said quietly.

He didn’t respond. Just leaned in, slowly, and kissed the corner of my mouth before pulling back entirely. For a second, I thought he was stopping. But then he dropped to his knees. My breath caught. He looked up at me from the floor, palms gliding up the backs of my thighs, pushing my dress higher, higher, until I was completely exposed to him. He didn’t touch me—not there. Not yet. He just stared, taking his time.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“I know.”

He pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “You’re soaked.”

“I know.”

And then—finally—he slid my panties down, inch by inch, until they pooled at my ankles. He helped me step out of them, kept eye contact the entire time, and pocketed them with a smirk.

“Souvenir,” he said, like it was nothing.

“Fuck,” I whispered, breathless.

“I haven’t even started yet.” He said it like a promise. Like a threat. Like he already knew how I’d unravel.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just stood there in front of him—bare from the waist down, dress hiked around my hips, legs slightly parted, breathing shallow. Harry stayed on his knees, still holding eye contact. The sight of him like that—broad shoulders, messy curls, gaze locked on me from beneath long lashes—made something inside me twist.

Then he leaned in. His hands slid slowly up the backs of my thighs again, thumbs brushing over the curve just beneath my ass. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other. Feather-light. Like he had all the time in the world.

“Still want this?” he murmured against my skin.

“Yes,” I breathed, my voice thin.

“Good. Wanna taste how fucking sweet you are.”

He hooked one of my legs over his shoulder. The shift forced me to balance with one hand gripping his hair, the other clutching the edge of the dresser behind me. He didn’t tease. Didn’t draw it out. The first stroke of his tongue was slow—so slow—it made me gasp. The second had my hips tilting forward. By the third, he was groaning into me like he needed it just as much as I did.

“Fuck, look at this cunt,” he muttered, voice rough against my skin. “Dripping all over my tongue already.”

He hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight through me. One arm wrapped tighter around my thigh, holding me steady while his mouth worked in slow, deliberate circles. He alternated between soft licks and firm pressure, and when I squirmed, he simply gripped me harder, tongue dragging deeper, wetter, filthier.

“Gonna ruin this pussy,” he said between licks, lips slick and red now. “Gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

The words made me moan. My head dropped back, my spine arching as pleasure crept higher, faster than I wanted it to.

“Harry—” I choked out.

“Yeah, baby? That close already? Go on. Fucking soak my face.”

“I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me. Wanna feel that pretty pussy fall apart.” That did it.

My orgasm hit with a low, desperate cry, my legs trembling as I came against his mouth. He held me steady, licking me through it, only easing up when I was gasping for air. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was shiny, and his expression was dark, intense, like he wanted more.

“Fuck,” I breathed. “That was…”

He stood up, licking his bottom lip as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was just your warm-up.”

I blinked. “Warm-up?”

“Yeah, love. I’m not even close to done with you.”

He kissed me hard—filthy and deep, tongue sweeping into my mouth like he wanted me to taste myself. I moaned into it, grabbing at the hem of his shirt, pulling until he raised his arms. I tossed it to the floor and finally got a full look at him.

Jesus.

His chest was strong, defined, tattooed with black ink that danced over his collarbones and down his ribs. I ran my hands over it slowly, letting my nails drag. He hissed softly, eyes dropping to my hands.

“You’re fucking unreal,” I whispered.

“Wait ‘til you feel me inside you.”

He turned us toward the bed and lowered me onto it gently. Then he undid his jeans, pushing them down his hips—no boxers underneath. My eyes widened slightly at the sight of him: thick, flushed, already hard. He caught the way I looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“You gonna be a good girl and take every inch?”

“Every single one.”

He crawled onto the bed and hovered over me, trailing kisses down my throat, between my breasts, over my stomach. Then he paused, hands bunching the hem of my dress again.

“Still want me to fuck the heartbreak out of you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Gonna make you cum ‘til you forget who fucked you over.”

He pushed the dress up and over my head, leaving me fully naked beneath him. I felt bare in every way, but I didn’t look away. Not when his hand gripped my jaw. Not when he leaned in and kissed me like he owned me.

“Condom?” he asked against my mouth.

“In my purse.”

He reached for it without rushing, pulling one out and tearing the wrapper with his teeth. My thighs rubbed together while I watched him roll it on—his hands slow, practiced, deliberate. When he looked back at me, I was already panting.

“Spread those legs for me, pretty girl.”

He didn’t make me ask twice. The first push of him inside me stole every thought from my brain. He was thick, stretching me inch by inch, and still slow—always slow.

“Shit—this pussy’s so fucking tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to mine. “So warm. Fucking made for me.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. “Please fuck me. Don’t make me wait.”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you nice and deep.”

He set a rhythm that made my body burn. Deep, steady thrusts that dragged across every sensitive spot. His hand found my throat—not tight, just enough pressure to make me feel claimed—and his other hand slid under my knee, angling me open even more.

“Look at me,” he said. I did.

“Let me see how pretty you look when you take cock.”

He fucked me with purpose—filthy, perfect purpose. His hips ground against mine with every thrust, pelvis catching my clit just right, making my moans get louder, higher. I clawed at his back. He kissed me through it, groaning when I clenched around him.

“You gonna cum again for me, baby?”

“I’m close,” I gasped.

“Do it. Cum on this cock—make a mess. Want you soaking me.”

I shattered with a cry, body arching beneath him, eyes fluttering shut as my second orgasm tore through me. He didn’t stop—just fucked me through it, still holding eye contact like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. When I came down, he was still moving—slower now, controlled.

“You okay?” he whispered.

I nodded, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned again, hips stuttering slightly. “Gonna fill you up, even if you can’t keep it in.”

“Do it.”

He kissed me hard one last time, then buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, drawn-out moan, his grip bruising on my waist. I held him through it, shaking slightly, head spinning. Then he collapsed beside me, chest heaving. Silence filled the room. Not awkward. Just… full.

I turned my head toward him. He was already watching me.

“Worth it?” he asked.

I smiled. “You have no idea.”

*****

hope you enjoy this one lovelies! 💕

don’t forget to ask any request you'd want to see next

[alohajix]

coming soon… my first mini-series: When You’re Ready

hi, lovelies—

i’ve been quietly working on something really close to my heart, and i’m finally ready to share a little of it with you.

When You’re Ready is a six-part mini-series set in Holmes Chapel. it’s slow, soft, emotional—and it follows a gentle kindergarten teacher and a single father who’s still learning how to breathe again after loss.

it’s a story about healing. about love that arrives quietly. about little girls with bunny plushies, picture books that make you cry, and adults who are still figuring things out too.

you’ll get fluff, angst, warmth, softness, tension, and yes—smut. all wrapped in a slow-burn, strangers-to-lovers package.

i’ll be posting updates, and chapter links right here—and i genuinely can’t wait for you to meet these characters.

thank you for being here.

— with love, lisa 💕

[alohajix]

꒰ masterlist ꒱

— a quiet collection of stories told in soft sighs, messy hearts, and lingering touches.

| “give me all of your love, give me something to dream about…”

stories spun from daydreams and midnight thoughts—organized below.

————————————————————————————————

✧ series

stories that stretch across time — unfolding slow like honey.

• When You’re Ready (ongoing)

“Healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it sounds like a little girl’s laughter, a quiet classroom, or a man learning to hope again.”

In the quiet town of Holmes Chapel, Amara—a gentle, nurturing kindergarten teacher—lives a life built on routine, safety, and quiet strength. She’s not looking for love, especially not after the scars left behind by someone she’d rather forget.

But when Harry Styles walks into her classroom carrying his three-year-old daughter and a heart still grieving the loss of the woman he loved, everything changes. Neither of them is ready. Neither of them is looking.

But sometimes, the people who change your life don’t knock first. They just… show up.

↳ Part One (Saturday, March 29)

✧ one-shots

single nights. stolen moments. stories that begin and end with a touch.

• Just Like That ( Tuesday, March 25)

When Emma meets Harry—a charming, British bartender—on a night out in New York City, their instant connection lingers long after the music fades. A few days later, one simple text turns into a date neither of them can forget. What starts with soft conversation and lingering looks quickly builds into something deeper, more electric… and maybe even real.

• First Time for Everything (Wednesday, March 26)

When Nora finds out her best friend Harry makes adult content, curiosity turns into something much more. One video leads to another, and soon they’re filming, posting, and falling into something hotter—and deeper—than either of them expected.

• Until I Break (Thursday, March 27)

When Ember comes home from college, the last person she expects to fall for is her brother’s best friend. But one stolen kiss turns into something neither of them can walk away from.

• Room 1014 (March 28, 2025)

Freshly single and craving something reckless, Cassie meets a soft-spoken stranger in a hotel lobby. One look turns into one night—filthy words, slow touches, and a room she might never want to leave.

• The Casting Tape (Saturday, March 29)

She said she wasn’t nervous. She said she'd never done this before. But then he walked in—and made her forget every lie she told herself. (Words: ~ 7K.)

↳ Off the Record (coming Wednesday, April 2)

A few days after her first casting, she gets a message. No name. No warning. Just an invitation to watch the tape back—with him. But this time, there’s no crew. No red light. No director calling the shots. Just the two of them, a couch, and everything they left unsaid. (Words: ~ 5K)

• Late Shift Lust (Saturday, March 29)

Working the late shift at a nearly empty diner isn’t glamorous—but it pays the bills. Savannah’s used to the quiet, the tired regulars, and the occasional flirt. But when a tattooed stranger with a slow smile walks in after midnight, the tension builds fast and burns hot. One cup of bitter coffee turns into a filthy, unforgettable encounter behind the counter. (Words: 6K.)

• You Were Made for Me (Sunday, March 30)

He took me. Locked me away in a beautiful room and said I was his. Not because I asked. But because he swears I was made for him. And the worst part? I think he’s right. (Words: 6K.)

✧ requests

written just for you — born from curious minds and quiet whispers.

(requests: open — feel free to drop something in my ask box)

————————————————————————————————

“so glad you’re here. hope you find something you love.” 💕

[alohajix]

𝑼𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝑰 𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

Description: when Ember comes home from college, the last person she expects to fall for is her brother’s best friend. But one stolen kiss turns into something neither of them can walk away from.

Warnings: this one-shot contains mature themes and explicit content such as praise kink, oral sex (f receiving), soft dominance, no protection sex (pack it before you tape it guys), emotional vulnerability, mention of past toxic relationship. Readers +18.

Words count: 5.5K.

enjoy guys 💕

*****

The house smelled like home the moment I stepped inside—fresh laundry, old hardwood floors, and the lingering scent of the cinnamon candle Mom used to light before she left. I kicked my shoes off near the door and dragged my suitcase over the threshold, already hearing laughter coming from the kitchen.

I wasn’t expecting company. Not this early.

“Ember?” my brother’s voice called out. “That you?”

“Yeah,” I answered, dropping my bag by the stairs. “Didn’t know you were home.”

He stepped into the hallway, grinning as he wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Got in yesterday. I’ve got someone helping me fix the garbage disposal.”

And that’s when I saw him. Harry. Leaning against the doorframe like he’d always belonged there, curls damp from the heat, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. He looked taller. Or maybe broader. Or maybe I’d just spent too much time trying to forget how good he looked in gray sweatpants and worn-in t-shirts.

“Hey, Em,” he said, voice a little lower than I remembered. “Long time.”

I blinked, swallowing the flutter in my chest. “Hey. Yeah. Been a while.”

He pushed off the frame and walked over, arms wide like we were just friends. Like it was normal. I hesitated, then stepped into his hug. Warmth. Familiar. Strong hands on my back, not lingering but not rushed either. His chest against mine just long enough to make me realize how far from little I felt in his arms.

He pulled back with a wink. “Didn’t expect you home so soon.”

“Semester ended early,” I said. “I needed a break.”

“Yeah?” His eyes searched mine for a beat too long. “Break from what?”

Before I could answer, my brother clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “From idiot boyfriends, probably.”

Harry’s jaw tightened just slightly. Barely enough to notice.

I offered a forced smile. “Something like that.”

“Well,” my brother said, oblivious. “You can help us haul stuff from the garage later. We’re clearing out Dad’s old workbench.”

“Perfect,” I muttered, trying not to look at Harry again. But I felt him. Every time he moved, every time his gaze flicked toward me, like he was trying to figure something out.

He followed my brother back into the kitchen, and I stood frozen in the hallway, heart hammering. Harry Styles was in my house. The same boy who used to tease me for having braces and cried laughing when I fell into the pool in my clothes. The same man who’d ghosted me for years only to show up now—looking like that, sounding like that—and calling me Em like nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Especially me.

*****

The sun had started its descent by the time I wandered outside with a cold drink in hand. The sky was orange and hazy, casting that kind of dreamy light that made everything feel warmer than it was. I found them both in the garage, boxes pulled apart and tools spread out across the workbench.

Harry had shed his hoodie. Now he was in a black tank top that clung to his chest, shoulders flexing every time he reached for something. There was grease on his fingers. A smear on his jaw. I stared a second too long before he caught me. His lips curved. I looked away.

“You good?” my brother asked without glancing up.

“Yeah,” I said, walking over. “Need help?”

“We could use some sorting,” Harry offered, pulling open a dusty drawer. “Unless you’re too delicate for a little dirt.” There was that old teasing tone again. Familiar. Comfortable. Dangerous.

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one wearing white sneakers in a garage.”

He laughed—soft and surprised. “Alright then. Let’s see what you’ve got, Em.”

He handed me a box, our fingers brushing. Just a light touch, but my stomach flipped. I turned away too quickly. We worked in near silence for a while, but not the awkward kind. My brother had music playing low on a speaker, something classic and mellow, and the three of us moved around each other like a lazy rhythm. Occasionally, Harry would say something under his breath that made me smile. Once, he nudged my hip when I was in the way, murmuring a soft “excuse me, trouble.” My brother didn’t seem to notice the way Harry watched me. Or maybe he did, and he was in denial. Because I was me, and Harry was Harry, and there were unspoken rules.

Rules Harry had always followed. Until now.

When the sun finally dipped behind the trees, my brother called it. “Alright, I’m starving. Chinese?”

“Sounds good,” Harry said, stretching his arms behind his head.

I shouldn’t have looked. But I did. Veins. Biceps. The smallest hint of a tattoo under the edge of his tank. I tore my eyes away before either of them caught me staring.

“I’ll shower quick,” my brother added, heading inside. “Don’t eat all the spring rolls before I get back.”

I rolled my eyes, then turned to grab another box—only to bump straight into Harry’s chest.

He caught my waist, steadying me. “Careful.”

My hands landed on his stomach, firm under the thin cotton of his shirt. I should have stepped back. Should have said something casual. But my mouth went dry. So did his.

His hands lingered a little too long. “You alright?” he asked softly.

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Just tired.”

His thumb brushed against my side like he didn’t mean to—but we both knew he did. His jaw clenched. Eyes dropped to my lips. For a second, I thought he might kiss me. Right there. In the garage. With my brother just inside. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back. And smiled like he hadn’t just pulled the air out of my lungs.

“I’ll go clean up too,” he said, grabbing his hoodie off the stool. “Don’t want to scare the delivery guy.”

He walked past me, and I let my eyes follow him—until he glanced back. Caught me again. This time, he didn’t look away.

*****

The house had gone still. That late-night kind of quiet, when everything feels heavier—footsteps, thoughts, the tension you’ve been pretending not to feel all day.

I crept down to the kitchen barefoot, needing water. Maybe space. Maybe something to make sense of the way Harry had looked at me in the garage. The way I could still feel his hands on my waist hours later.

I didn’t expect him to be there. He stood with the fridge door open, bathed in the pale glow of the light. Hair damp from his shower, curls loose and messy. Just a plain white t-shirt now. Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard me. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

I shook my head. “Too much on my mind.”

He grabbed two bottles of water and passed me one. Our fingers touched again, and this time, neither of us looked away. We stood there in silence for a few seconds, the kind that pulses with everything unsaid. Then he leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“You alright?” he asked quietly. Not casual this time. Real.

I nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

“Ember.” My name in his voice did something to me. Made my throat tighten.

I swallowed hard. “It’s just weird being home. Everything feels the same but I don’t.”

He watched me like he wanted to ask why. Like he already knew.

“That guy you were with,” he said after a moment. “Your brother told me a little. Didn’t sound like he treated you right.”

I looked down, gripping the bottle in my hand.

“He didn’t.” Harry’s jaw tightened again, that same flash of protectiveness I’d seen earlier rising up in him. But softer this time. More personal.

“He ever hurt you?” he asked, voice low. Controlled.

“Not like that,” I said. “Just… made me feel small. Like I was always too much or not enough.”

Harry stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “You were never too much. Or not enough.”

I looked up at him, my chest aching. “You don’t even know me anymore.” He moved closer still. Inches away now.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I want to.”

The room shrank around us. The hum of the fridge faded. My pulse roared in my ears.

“You can’t,” I whispered, barely trusting myself. “You’re—”

“Your brother’s best friend,” he finished, stepping even closer.

I nodded, heart pounding.

He searched my face, voice hushed and rough. “Do you want me to stop?” I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t want him to.

His hand came up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. My breath hitched. And then he kissed me. Soft. Careful. Like he was giving me the chance to pull away. I didn’t.

I leaned in, my hands finding his chest, gripping the front of his t-shirt like it was the only thing holding me together. He deepened the kiss, his hands moving to my waist, then my back, then curling into my hair like he’d been waiting to do it for years. We pulled apart once. Barely. His forehead rested against mine.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “Really bad.”

But neither of us moved. His lips brushed mine again—so gently, so reverently, like he was memorizing the shape of them. And I knew we were past the point of turning back.

We didn’t say anything as we crept upstairs. The house was too quiet, too easy to get caught, but I didn’t care—not with the way Harry’s hand brushed the small of my back as we moved, not with how his eyes stayed on me even in the dark. We passed my brother’s room without a sound. The hallway stretched long and silent, but it felt like fire under my skin.

I pushed my bedroom door open slowly. He followed me in, closing it behind us with a soft click. We stood there for a beat. Breathing. Thinking. Not thinking.

His voice came low in the dark. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I don’t want you to stop.” That was all it took.

His mouth was on mine before the words had even finished leaving my lips, rougher this time. Hungrier. His hands cupped my jaw, his body pressing me back until my legs hit the edge of the bed. I fell into the mattress with a soft gasp, and he followed, crawling over me, one hand sliding under the hem of my shirt.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured against my neck, voice thick and strained. “You have no idea what it’s been like all day… trying not to touch you.”

I arched into him. “Then stop trying.”

His groan was quiet but deep, vibrating through me as his hand slipped higher, over my ribs, under my bra. His mouth kissed down my neck, open and wet, teeth grazing lightly.

“F*ck,” he whispered. “You feel so good already. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

I cupped his face, pulled him back to look at me. “Then make it worth it.” That flipped something in him.

His mouth crashed into mine, tongue sweeping in, hands tugging my shirt over my head. He pulled away just enough to look down at me, chest rising hard, eyes blown wide in the soft darkness.

“No bra?” he breathed, voice like gravel.

I smiled. “Too lazy. Regret it?”

He laughed—low, dangerous—and leaned down to take one nipple into his mouth. My back arched instinctively, breath catching as his tongue flicked and sucked, his hand kneading the other breast like he couldn’t get enough.

“F*ck,” I whispered, fingers threading through his curls. “You’re not supposed to be this good.”

He looked up at me, lips wet. “Baby, I’ve barely started.”

Then his hand slid down my stomach, fingertips teasing the waistband of my shorts.

“You gonna let me taste you?” he asked, voice dark and sweet. “Wanna see if you’re as sweet down there as you are up here.”

I swallowed hard. “Take them off.”

He smirked, and then my shorts were gone. My panties, too. All in one smooth motion that made my heart race. And when he spread my thighs open with both hands, his eyes locked on mine and he said, “Don’t look away. I want you to watch me fall apart over this p*ssy.”

I couldn’t look away if I tried. Harry was on his knees at the edge of the bed, fingers wrapped around my thighs like he’d never let go. His eyes never left mine—not even when he leaned in, lips ghosting just above where I ached for him most. He kissed the inside of my knee first. Then a little higher. Then the other leg. Soft, warm, maddening kisses that made my hips twitch.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, voice thick with awe. “You’re already shaking.” I breathed out a laugh, barely.

“Maybe because you’re torturing me.”

He grinned. “Not torture, love. Just… appreciating.”

And then he kissed the crease of my thigh—slow, reverent—his stubble scraping gently against my skin. His hands stroked along the tops of my thighs, thumbs tracing lazy circles that only made everything burn more. He paused just before his mouth reached me, hovering.

“You want this?” he asked, quiet and serious.

“Yes.” My voice cracked on the word.

He leaned in, lips parting, and kissed me there—soft and warm and so slow I thought I might lose my mind. A long lick, flat and firm, made my head fall back.

“Jesus,” I gasped.

He chuckled softly. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

His tongue moved with more purpose now, slow laps between my folds, taking his time. Exploring. Learning. And when he flicked his tongue just right, just enough pressure on my cl*t, I cried out without thinking. Harry groaned.

“That the spot?” he murmured, breath hot against me.

I nodded fast, hips lifting off the mattress. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He tightened his grip on my thighs, holding me open. “Not until you cum for me, Ember. Want to feel you shake on my tongue.”

My hand found his hair, fingers curling tight as he buried his face between my legs again—messier this time, more eager, like he was starving and I was the only thing he wanted.

“F*ck, Harry,” I moaned. “You’re so good.”

He hummed against me, the vibration shooting straight through me. His tongue swirled, circled, flicked in just the right rhythm until my breath turned shallow and my thighs started to tremble.

“Close, aren’t you?” he said, glancing up with that smug, wrecked look. His lips were slick, his jaw flushed. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

I whimpered. “Yes—don’t stop, please—”

He didn’t. He held me steady and kept his mouth on me, his tongue relentless and patient, coaxing me toward the edge until it hit—

Hard.

My whole body tensed as I came, loud and breathless, legs shaking around his shoulders. He didn’t stop until I was gasping, writhing, too sensitive to take more. Only then did he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing just as hard as I was.

“I knew you’d fall apart for me,” he said, eyes dark. “F*cking knew it.”

Harry was still on his knees between my legs, breath ragged, lips swollen, and eyes full of something I couldn’t name—like worship and hunger had tangled together and taken him over completely. I reached for him.

“Come here,” I whispered.

He climbed up the bed slowly, dragging his hands along my sides, eyes searching mine like he was waiting for me to change my mind. I didn’t. My fingers found the hem of his shirt and tugged it up. He let me take it off without a word. His skin was warm and firm under my palms, the softest dusting of hair down the center of his chest leading lower. I wanted to feel all of him. I wanted him.

I slid my hands down his stomach, fingers dipping into the waistband of his sweatpants. He inhaled sharply as I slipped them down, his c*ck springing free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

“Jesus,” I breathed.

He let out a quiet laugh, rough and shaky. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I wrapped my hand around him, slow and deliberate, just to watch the way his jaw clenched.

“Not bad,” I whispered. “Just… exactly what I wanted.”

He leaned over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other curling around my hip.

“You sure about this?” he asked again, voice hoarse. “Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop.”

I lifted my hips, lining him up against me, the blunt head of his c*ck brushing through my folds.

“I don’t want you to stop.” That was it.

He pushed in slowly—inch by inch—filling me, stretching me, making me gasp and grip his shoulders. His forehead dropped to mine, his groan deep and low as he sank all the way in.

“F*ck,” he breathed. “You feel like heaven.”

We stayed there for a moment, still and full of fire, just breathing each other in. Then he started to move. Slow, deep thrusts that made me gasp, made my back arch, made my body open to him in every way I could. His hand gripped my thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. His mouth found my jaw, my neck, my shoulder—pressing kisses like promises.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he whispered into my skin. “Thinking about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

I moaned beneath him, nails digging into his back. “You’re better than I ever imagined.”

That made him groan again—louder this time—and he picked up the pace, his hips hitting mine with more urgency, more desperation.

“Say that again,” he growled.

“You’re so good, Harry. So f*cking good.”

He lost it after that. His thrusts turned rougher, deeper, like he couldn’t get close enough. His hand tangled in my hair, pulling gently so he could look down at me.

“Look at me,” he said. “Wanna watch you fall apart on my c*ck.”

I did. I kept my eyes locked on his as he fucked me harder, every stroke hitting just right, until I was panting, shaking, crying out his name over and over.

“Come with me,” he whispered, mouth on my neck. “Wanna feel you cum when I do. Wanna feel you clench around me while I fill you up.”

The filthy promise pushed me over the edge. I shattered beneath him, body pulsing around him as he groaned loud and deep, hips stuttering as he came hard, spilling into me with a final, desperate thrust. He stayed there, buried inside me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathless and shaking. Neither of us said anything for a long time.

And then Harry kissed me—slow, deep, almost gentle. Like he already knew that this wasn’t just sex. That something about this mattered.

The room was still. Heavy with the scent of sweat and skin and sex. My sheets were twisted beneath us, and Harry’s arm was still wrapped tightly around my waist like he was afraid I’d disappear.

Neither of us moved for a while. I stared at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath, trying to make sense of the way I felt—like I’d just unraveled and been put back together all at once. Harry’s fingers traced lazy lines along my side. Up. Down. Around the curve of my hip. Gentle and aimless like he didn’t want the moment to end.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice low and rough.

I nodded against his chest. “Yeah. Are you?”

He gave a small laugh, breath brushing my hair. “Pretty sure I just had the best sex of my entire life. So… yeah. I’m good.”

I smiled, hiding it against his skin. Then, quieter, he added, “Wasn’t just that, though.”

I looked up. His eyes were on me, softer now. Honest. “It wasn’t just sex for me. I don’t know what it was, but… it was more than that.”

Something tight in my chest loosened.

“Me too,” I whispered. “It felt… right. Even though it probably shouldn’t have.”

He brushed my hair off my face. “I never let myself think about it. Not seriously. You were always just Ember—your brother’s little sister.”

I smirked. “Not so little anymore.”

His hand slid down to squeeze my ass gently. “No. Definitely not.”

We both laughed, and for a second, everything felt lighter. Easier. But there was still something lingering under the surface.

“What happens now?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry sighed, resting his forehead against mine. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On if you want this to be a one-time thing,” he said slowly. “Or if you want me to risk your brother murdering me in the name of something real.”

I blinked. “You want something real?”

He nodded. No hesitation. “I do,” he said. “If you do.”

I leaned in, kissed him softly. “I want you.”

His smile was everything—soft and wrecked and relieved all at once.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “Even if it means sneaking around for a while. I’ll take whatever you give me.”

We stayed tangled like that for a long time. His arm around me, my fingers tracing shapes on his chest, our legs tangled under the sheets. At some point, he pulled the blanket up over both of us, and I let myself relax completely.

For the first time in a long time, I felt safe. Wanted. And maybe, just maybe… loved.

[alohajix]

𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈

Description: when Nora finds out her best friend Harry makes adult content, curiosity turns into something much more. One video leads to another, and soon they’re filming, posting, and falling into something hotter—and deeper—than either of them expected.

Warnings: this one-shot series contains explicit sexual content, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough sex, dirty talk, light spanking, voyeurism/exhibitionism, filming of sexual acts, and public sharing of adult content. Readers +18.

Words count: 6.2K.

I NEED HOLY WATER AFTER THIS ONE 🔥

also if you guys want a request you can hit me up

*****

I never thought I’d catch my best friend in bed with someone—not like that, anyway. Technically, Harry was alone. But he wasn’t exactly just lying there.

I only meant to grab my hoodie. I’d left it at his apartment the night before, and he told me to swing by whenever—I had the code, I always did. We’d been best friends since freshman year, and by now, walking into his place felt like second nature. But I wasn’t expecting the soft, rhythmic moaning drifting from his bedroom.

I froze. I wasn’t sure whether to knock, run, or just melt into the floor and pretend I didn’t exist. But curiosity—my most dangerous trait—kicked in.

It was faint, but familiar. Not the voice. The sound. Video. It was coming from his laptop. Relief washed through me so fast I almost laughed. Of course Harry wasn’t hooking up right now. He was watching something. But then I heard his voice.

“Yeah? You like that?” Low. Smooth. Just cocky enough. My stomach flipped.

I stepped closer. Just a little. His door was cracked open, the way it always was when he was alone. And yeah, it was his voice. Confident. Teasing. Definitely not acting. He wasn’t watching the video. He was in it.

I stood there a second too long, heat flooding my face, unable to look away from the shadow of him on the screen—shirtless, his mouth curved in that same smug little grin he used on me when he was winning at Mario Kart or stealing the last slice of pizza.

Then I turned around and left the apartment like it was on fire.

I didn’t bring it up for two days. He texted like normal. Memes. Random photos of his dog. A video of some guy skateboarding with a gallon of milk. I ignored them all.

Then finally—finally—he called me.

“Nora. Did I do something?”

I stared at his name glowing on my screen, thumb hovering over the answer button. My heart thudded like I was guilty of something, like I was the one who’d been caught moaning into a camera.

I answered. “Hey.”

“You’ve been weird.”

I bit my lip. “Have I?”

He sighed. “You’re doing the thing where you pretend everything’s fine but you’re actually spiraling and probably making a pros and cons list about whether I’m still your friend.”

I let out a small laugh. “That’s… specific.”

“Because I know you. So tell me what I did.” There was a long silence.

Then I said, “I came by to get my hoodie. A couple days ago.” Pause.

“Oh,” he said. Then again, softer, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” More silence.

Then, casually—like we were talking about what to order for dinner—he asked, “Did you watch the whole thing?”

“Harry!”

He laughed, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’m kidding. Kind of.”

I groaned. “I didn’t mean to walk in on your… work.”

He went quiet again. Then, gently, he said, “That’s what it is, you know. Work.”

I sank into my bed. “I’m not judging. I just didn’t know you were… doing that.”

“You never asked.”

“I didn’t think I had to!”

He chuckled. “It’s not exactly a secret.”

I hesitated. “So… how long have you been doing it?”

“A little over a year.”

My mouth went dry. “Like… just solo? Or—”

“Mostly solo,” he said. “Sometimes not.” Oh.

I tried to picture him filming like that with someone else. I shouldn’t have. But I did.

“And… you’re okay with people watching you like that?” I asked, quieter now.

He waited. “Would it bother you if I said yes?”

“I don’t know.”

His voice dropped just enough to make me shiver. “Did it bother you when you saw me?”

I didn’t answer. But he must’ve heard it in my silence.

Then he said, “I’ve been thinking about asking you.”

My breath caught. “Asking me what?”

“To make a video. With me.”

I swallowed. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Harry…”

“You don’t have to say yes,” he said quickly. “I’d never push. But you asked if it bothers me when people watch—and no, it doesn’t. Not if I’m with someone I actually want.”

My heart was pounding.

“And you’d want that,” I said, my voice smaller. “With me?”

He exhaled into the phone like I’d asked the dumbest question in the world. “Nora. I’ve wanted you since sophomore year.”

My cheeks burned. “You’ve never said anything.”

“You’ve never looked at me the way you did after you saw that video.”

I felt dizzy. Like I’d just stepped off a cliff and wasn’t sure whether I’d land or fly.

“Nora,” he said, softer now. “I’m serious. If you’re curious… if you want this… we could try it. Just us. No pressure. No posting. Just… see what it’s like.”

I didn’t say yes. Not yet. But I didn’t hang up either. And that silence? That was my maybe.

I didn’t sleep much after that call. Not because I was uncomfortable—but because I couldn’t stop thinking. About what he said. About the way he said it. I kept replaying his voice, that calm, confident tone like he wasn’t just throwing out some wild suggestion, but offering me something I didn’t know I wanted until it was right in front of me. And the worst part? I did want it.

I wasn’t sure what that said about me, but I was sure about that. So the next night, I texted him:

Nora: If we did it… just us. No camera. Just to try it. Would that be okay? He called me almost immediately.

His voice was softer this time, slower. “Yeah. That’d be more than okay.”

*****

It didn’t happen right away. He came over like it was normal—pizza, sweatpants, a dumb movie we both knew we wouldn’t pay attention to. But the air between us had changed. Everything felt closer. More charged. He was watching me. Not in the way best friends did. Not like Harry. Like someone who wanted to take their time peeling me open, layer by layer, just to see how I’d fall apart.

“Still okay?” he asked when the movie was barely halfway done, his fingers brushing my knee like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch me yet.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “I just… I’ve never done something like this before.”

“With me,” he said, leaning closer. “You’ve never done something like this with me.”

I smiled, nervous and warm all over. “Is that supposed to make it better?”

“God, I hope so.”

I didn’t even realize how close we were until his hand slid over mine. Until I felt his thumb tracing the space between my knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world. My whole body lit up like it was suddenly tuned to just him.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said softly. “Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“I know.” I hesitated. “But I want to.” That was all it took.

He kissed me like he’d been waiting forever. Slow at first, like a question. Like he was giving me space to change my mind. But I didn’t—I couldn’t. I melted into him, his hand tilting my chin just enough to deepen it, just enough to make me gasp when his tongue slid against mine.

He pulled back only a breath. “Still okay?”

“I’m never going to say no to that again.”

His grin was cocky and devastating. “Then come here.”

We barely made it to my bedroom. He tugged my hand, pulling me into him, our mouths crashing again with more hunger this time. Every step we took felt like something unspoken breaking wide open. My back hit the door. His hands framed my waist. And then I was on the bed, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and need.

“I’ve pictured this,” he murmured, crawling over me, his mouth brushing my jaw, my neck. “Too many times.”

“You’re not the only one,” I whispered, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”

He grinned and peeled it over his head, tossing it to the floor. I dragged my hands down his chest, slow, tentative, until he leaned down and kissed me again—deeper now. His hips pressed against mine, and I could feel how hard he was already, even through his sweats. Clothes slipped away between kisses and soft gasps. He undressed me gently, his fingers teasing the straps of my bra down my arms, lips brushing my skin as he bared it. I felt stripped down in more ways than one—every look, every touch, like he was discovering something he didn’t want to rush.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, thumb grazing the underside of my breast before taking one into his mouth. I moaned, arching beneath him, my fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked, then switched sides, lavishing slow attention that sent heat rushing straight between my legs.

His hand slid down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath my underwear. I inhaled sharply as he found me—already wet, already aching.

“God, Nora,” he groaned. “You’re soaked.”

He circled my cl*t with slow, steady pressure, drawing a whimper from me. I couldn’t stop moving, hips tilting into every stroke as he leaned in to kiss me again, his mouth swallowing the breathy sounds I couldn’t hold back.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against my lips, two fingers sliding inside me with an ease that made me moan.

“You,” I whispered. “I want you.”

He pulled his hand back, kissed me once more, then sat up just long enough to shove his sweats off and roll a condom on. I couldn’t stop staring—flushed and panting, wanting him more than I’d ever wanted anything. When he lined himself up and pushed into me, it was slow. Gentle. His eyes locked on mine as he stretched me open inch by inch, giving me time to adjust, giving me everything.

“F*ck,” he groaned, settling deep. “You feel so good. Better than I ever imagined.”

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, breath catching as he started to move—each thrust building, deeper, smoother, more insistent. My legs locked around his waist, dragging him closer. My name fell from his lips like a prayer, over and over.

The room blurred around us—heat, skin, breath, sound. He filled me completely, his hips rolling into mine, our bodies meeting over and over until I was gasping his name, nails digging into his back.

“I’m close,” I whispered.

His thumb found my clit, rubbing tight circles as his rhythm picked up. “Come for me, baby.”

And I did—my whole body tightening, then unraveling in waves as I clenched around him, crying out his name. He followed right after, burying his face in my neck as he groaned and thrust deep one last time, his whole body shuddering with release.

After, we lay tangled in the sheets, the silence full but not awkward. He looked over at me, hair messy, eyes soft. “So…”

I turned my head. “So.”

“Was that a one-time thing?”

I smiled, heart thudding again. “I don’t think I want it to be.”

His grin returned—easy, sweet, smug as hell. “Good.”

Then he rolled on top of me again, warm and familiar, but now with a spark I knew would never go back to innocent.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “If we do ever want to make something… I’d want it to be with you.”

I kissed him, just once, slow and deep. “I’ll let you know.” And judging by the look in his eyes, he knew I would.

*****

It took me a week to say yes. Not because I didn’t want to. I did. I thought about it every night—what it would be like to let him touch me again, to do it with his camera watching. I thought about how his voice sounded when he got serious, how gentle he was even when he moved like he was starving for me. But this time was different.

This time, someone else would see it—could see it. Even if we said no one would. Even if it stayed between us. It was the idea of being seen that lingered in the back of my mind. And the part I couldn’t ignore? It turned me on more than it scared me.

So when he came over, kissed me like he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it either, and whispered, “You still want to try?”—I whispered yes into his mouth like it was the answer I’d been holding onto since the moment I walked in on that video.

He didn’t set up a whole production. It was just his phone on a tripod, angled carefully, lighting soft and natural from the string lights around my room. No pressure. No performance. Just us.

“You good?” he asked, kneeling next to the bed, watching me with a look that was all reassurance and heat.

“I’m nervous,” I said, glancing at the phone. “But… kind of excited too.”

He leaned in, his voice low against my lips. “You’re allowed to be both.”

I gave a shaky breath and looked back at the lens. “So that’s really recording right now?”

Harry smiled. “Yep. You want to say hi?”

I laughed—nervous, breathless. Then I turned to the camera with a slow smile and said softly, “Guess we’re doing this.”

Harry’s eyes darkened instantly. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

I bit my lip. “I didn’t even do anything yet.”

He kissed me, and it was slow and deep, like he was warming me up from the inside out. He peeled off my shirt, then reached behind me to undo my bra, tossing it aside. “God, look at you,” he murmured, glancing at the camera, then back at me. “You’re gonna drive them insane.”

“They’re not watching yet,” I whispered.

“No,” he said, mouth brushing my neck. “But I am.”

His hands moved over me, slow and sure, cupping my breasts as he kissed down to them. He took one nipple into his mouth and sucked lightly, then looked up at me while doing it, watching the way my lips parted and my back arched.

“You wanna show them how good it feels?” he asked.

I looked into the lens, cheeks burning, and whispered, “He’s really good with his mouth.”

Harry chuckled low and wicked, switching to the other side. “Keep talking like that and I’m not gonna last.”

He moved lower, dragging my shorts and panties down in one smooth motion, his hands stroking up my thighs.

“Open up for me, sweetheart,” he said.

I did—nervous, turned on, and very aware of the camera now capturing every second. He lowered his mouth to my center, his tongue flicking over my cl*t in slow, teasing circles. I moaned, grabbing the sheets, but he didn’t let up. If anything, he licked deeper, more deliberately, humming softly against me.

“F*ck,” I gasped. “Harry, that feels—”

“Amazing?” he offered, glancing up, his lips shiny. “Tell them how good I’m making you feel.”

I looked at the lens, dazed and breathless. “I’m gonna come just from his mouth.”

He groaned, like he needed to hear that, and then slid two fingers inside me, curling them perfectly. My body seized up as the orgasm hit—hot and sharp and all-consuming. I cried out, riding it out against his mouth, his name falling from my lips over and over. When I opened my eyes, Harry was watching me, completely focused.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, still breathless. “Better than okay.”

He kissed me—slow, filthy, sweet. I tasted myself on his lips and moaned softly into his mouth. Then he grabbed a condom from the drawer, rolled it on, and positioned himself between my legs.

“You wanna look at the camera while I f*ck you?” he asked, teasing.

I smiled, flushed and bold. “Maybe.”

He nudged the tip of his c*ck against my entrance. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

He slid in with one long, slow thrust, filling me completely. My eyes fluttered closed, and I let out a shaky moan.

“Look at them,” he whispered.

I forced my gaze open and found the camera. “He’s inside me,” I said, voice soft and shaky. “And it feels so f*cking good.”

Harry groaned above me and started to move, each thrust smooth and deep. His hands gripped my hips, dragging me against him as he rocked into me.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “So tight. So good for me.”

My legs wrapped around him. I couldn’t look away from the lens now—I wanted to be seen. I wanted to show how wrecked I was for him.

“You gonna come again?” he asked, fingers finding my clit.

“Yes—Harry, please, don’t stop—”

“Let them see it.”

I moaned louder as the orgasm built again, my body tightening, hips grinding into his.

“Right there,” he growled. “Come for me, baby.”

And I did—hard. Crying out, trembling under him as I clenched around him, eyes locked on the lens like I wanted them to feel it. Harry thrust harder, chasing his own release, eyes flicking between me and the camera.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he groaned. “I’m gonna come—fuck—”

He pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast as he spilled across my stomach, chest heaving. The lens caught it all.

After, he turned off the camera and collapsed next to me, sweaty and smiling.

“You did so good,” he murmured, brushing hair from my face.

I laughed breathlessly. “That was insane.”

“You like being watched, huh?”

I bit my lip, still breathless. “Apparently.”

He leaned over and kissed me again. “Want to see how it turned out?”

I smiled, lazy and flushed. “Only if we’re naked again while we do.”

He groaned and dropped his head to my shoulder. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

It started with the comment. Well—another comment. We were sprawled across his bed, phones glowing, scrolling through the chaos we’d unleashed online. The video was climbing faster than either of us expected, and the comments weren’t slowing down.

“Y’all got me feral. If she ever lets you f*ck her from behind, I need it filmed immediately.”

“Imagine her riding him with those little gasps—yes please.”

“We need to see her beg next time. She looks like she could be so filthy.”

I read that one twice. Then I passed him my phone. He blinked, read it slowly, then looked at me.

“You okay?” he asked, lips twitching.

I shrugged, biting back a grin. “I mean… I could be filthy.”

His brows lifted. “You could.”

I tilted my head. “You saying I haven’t been?”

He leaned in, lips brushing my jaw. “I’m saying… if you’re ready to go there, I’ll follow your lead.”

There was a moment of silence. Tension. Awareness. That subtle shift where something playful becomes serious—charged. Then I said, “Okay. Let’s film something else.”

Harry’s pupils blew wide. “You want to right now?”

I nodded. “But I want it different this time.”

“Tell me.”

“Less sweet. More…” I swallowed. “Rough. I want you to talk to me. Use me. I want to look into the camera and know they’re gonna lose their minds.”

He stared at me for a full beat, chest rising.

“Jesus, Nora,” he murmured. “You really are gonna ruin me.”

We set it up together this time. The tripod went higher, angled downward toward the bed. He adjusted the lighting, brought in a second soft lamp, and checked the shot while I peeled off my hoodie and climbed onto the sheets in just my matching black lingerie set.

“Holy fuck,” he said, just staring.

I smirked at the camera. “They wanted filth.”

“You’re giving it to them already and we haven’t even started.”

I crawled back toward the pillows, legs parted, head tilted. “So start.”

He hit record. He stripped as he walked over—slow and confident, his c*ck already thick and heavy as he climbed onto the bed.

“You look like a dream,” he murmured, settling between my legs. “You know that?”

I smiled, glancing at the camera. “Then stop staring and touch me.”

His hand wrapped around my neck—not hard, just firm enough to still me, to make me look up.

“You want rough?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You want them to see how pretty you look getting ruined?”

“Please.”

He leaned down and kissed me hard—open-mouthed, demanding. His hand slipped between my thighs, fingers stroking my soaked underwear. “You’re already wet.”

“You haven’t even done anything,” I whispered.

He tugged my panties aside and slid two fingers in without warning. I gasped.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re dripping, baby.”

I whined and bucked my hips. “Harry—”

“Shh.” He sat up on his knees, yanked my panties off completely, and spread my thighs wide. “Look at them,” he said.

I looked into the camera, breathing hard, legs open and trembling.

“Tell them how badly you want it.”

“I want him to f*ck me,” I said, flushed. “Hard. From behind. I want to feel him everywhere.”

He hissed. “Keep talking like that and I’m not gonna last.”

I rolled onto my stomach, arching my ass into the air, cheek to the sheets. “Then don’t wait.”

He groaned low in his throat, grabbed the condom from the nightstand, and rolled it on fast. The moment he lined up behind me, his hands gripped my waist, and he slammed into me with one hard thrust.

I cried out. “F*ck—yes.”

“That’s it,” he growled, pulling out and slamming back in. “Take it, baby. Just like that.”

His hips hit mine over and over, fast, brutal, perfect. I was gasping, panting, shaking.

“You hear those sounds?” he said. “That’s what you do to me. You hear how fucking wet you are?”

I moaned as he reached down and smacked my ass, once, then again, each one leaving a stinging warmth.

“Say something,” he panted. “Talk to them.”

I turned my head toward the camera, eyes half-lidded, voice shaking.

“You guys wanted to see him ruin me?” I moaned. “He’s fucking me like I belong to him.” Another hard thrust.

“You do belong to me,” he growled. “This perfect little p*ssy is mine.”

My orgasm built fast—hot and wild, dizzying as he drove into me, one hand wrapped in my hair now, the other gripping my hip like he needed me closer.

“I’m gonna come,” I cried out.

“Then come. Come with me deep inside you.”

And I did—my whole body spasming, collapsing forward into the sheets, mouth open in a silent moan as he f*cked me through it. Harry followed with a loud groan, pulling out to finish on my ass, chest heaving as he stroked himself through the last few spurts. The camera caught it all. We stayed like that for a beat—panting, messy, wrecked.

Then he leaned down and kissed my spine. “You just made the filthiest, hottest fucking video I’ve ever filmed.”

I turned my head, dazed. “You think they’ll like it?”

He smirked. “They’re gonna lose their minds.”

*****

They posted it the next morning. No warning. No teasing. Just a title—“She Wanted to Be Ruined.” It blew up within hours. By noon, Harry had over ten thousand new followers. By dinner, my DMs were full.

We laid in bed again, wrapped up in each other, reading the comments between kisses and bites of takeout.

“The way she says ‘I belong to him’? Ruined me.”

“Bro. That arch. That ass. That moan. That everything.”

“The way she talks to the camera like she knows she’s a fantasy? Obsessed.”

“That’s not porn. That’s art.”

“I’ll never recover from the way she looked back at the camera after he came on her.”

I buried my face in his chest, laughing, flustered, completely high on it.

“Think they liked it?” I teased.

Harry kissed the top of my head. “They worship you.”

“I kinda like it.”

“You love it.” I didn’t argue.

A notification popped up on his phone.

“Wanna go live?” he read aloud, then glanced at me. “We don’t have to talk about everything. Just… check in. Say hi. Let them see us.”

I raised a brow. “You think they’re ready for that?”

He smirked. “I think you’re their new obsession.”

I rolled onto my back, stretched, and grinned. “Then let’s give them a little more.”

The live Q&A was chaos. We propped the phone against the lamp, climbed under the blanket together—me in one of his oversized shirts, Harry shirtless with the most unapologetic grin—and hit “Go Live.” The chat exploded in seconds.

“THEY’RE ALIVE.”

“Nora you are a goddess what the hell.”

“Did she really come twice??”

“How does it feel to break the internet?”

I giggled and leaned into him. “You’ve created a monster.”

“She created herself,” he said to the chat. “I just helped bring it out.”

“Will you make more?”

“Is this just content or are you two together??”

“Please collab again I’m begging.”

“How did you stay hard while she was saying that stuff?”

Harry laughed, fingers brushing my thigh. “Barely.”

I looked at the camera. “We’re figuring it out. But I think it’s safe to say… there’s more coming.” The chat lost it.

We didn’t stay live long—just enough to tease, enough to connect. Enough to promise that whatever we were turning into, it wasn’t over yet. We didn’t say what it meant for us—what we were now. But I didn’t need to define it just yet. Not when I had his arm around me, my name on their lips, and the next idea already forming in the back of my mind.

After all… There’s always a next video.

[alohajix]

𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕

Description: when Emma meets Harry—a charming, British bartender—on a night out in New York City, their instant connection lingers long after the music fades. A few days later, one simple text turns into a date neither of them can forget. What starts with soft conversation and lingering looks quickly builds into something deeper, more electric… and maybe even real.

Warnings: this one-shot includes mature themes and sexual content. Readers +18.

Words: 4K.

*****

My phone buzzed from somewhere under the blanket draped across my legs. I was half-asleep on the couch, still in scrubs, feet sore from a twelve-hour shift and brain running on fumes. I almost didn’t check it. But then I saw his name.

Harry: Hey, you. Still thinking about that smile. Want to get a drink sometime?

I blinked at the screen. Once. Twice. Then I sat up.

My heart did this weird flutter thing I hadn’t felt in a while. Three, maybe four days since I met him at the club, and he’d been in the back of my mind ever since—British accent, wide grin, messy curls, and that way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. And now here he was. Texting me.

I reread the message. Then I read it again. My thumb hovered over the screen, heart still racing like it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was just a text and not a marriage proposal.

Still, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to say yes. I did. God, I did. But it had been a while since someone made me feel that kind of nervous. The good kind. The kind that caught me off guard, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding until it rushed back in.

Finally, I typed: Hey you. I was kind of hoping you’d say that.

I hit send before I could overthink it. Then set the phone down on the coffee table like it might combust in my hand if I stared at it too long.

I leaned back into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around me, suddenly very aware of the silence in the room. The hum of the fridge. The faint sound of a car horn outside. The quick, anxious rhythm of my pulse in my ears. What if he changed his mind? What if I read too much into that night? What if—

My phone lit up again.

Harry: Tomorrow night? I get off at 8. There’s a little place I love—quiet, cozy. Thought of you when I passed it today.

And just like that, the nerves were gone. Replaced with something warmer, steadier. Excitement. That quiet kind that builds in your chest like a secret you’re not ready to say out loud yet.

I stared at his message, the edges of a smile tugging at my lips. He thought of me. Today. In the middle of his life, his day—he saw a place and pictured me there. With him. I let myself sit in that for a second. Let it settle. Let it feel real.

Then I typed: That sounds perfect. Send me the details?

I didn’t even try to hide the smile this time.

The next evening crept up faster than I expected. By six, I was out of the shower, towel wrapped around my head, standing in front of my closet like I’d never dressed myself before. It wasn’t just about picking an outfit—it was about feeling like myself. Comfortable, confident, like the version of me he met that night at the club… but maybe a little softer, a little more deliberate. I tried on two dresses. Then jeans and a blouse. Then the first dress again.

My bathroom counter was a mess—lip glosses, hairbrush, mascara wand balanced between product bottles. I kept checking my phone for no reason, like I was expecting him to cancel. He didn’t. Instead, at 6:42, his name lit up the screen.

Harry: I’ll meet you outside. Can’t wait to see you.

I stared at the message, heart giving that little skip again, and finally settled on a simple black dress and boots. Casual, but just enough effort. By the time I slipped my jacket on, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—and paused. Not bad. Not overdone. Just me. And for the first time all day, I let myself feel it: I was excited.

Really, genuinely excited.

The air outside was crisp, just cool enough to flush my cheeks as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Streetlights flickered to life as the sun dipped behind the buildings, the city shifting into its evening rhythm. Then I saw his car—a black, older model with character. Parked just a few feet down the block. And there he was, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, hands in his jacket pockets, curls just messy enough to be charming.

His head lifted as I approached, and that slow, familiar smile tugged at his lips.

“Hey, you,” he said, voice low and warm, that accent hitting me harder than I expected.

“Hey,” I breathed back, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You look…” He paused, eyes moving over me in a way that made my skin warm. “Incredible.”

I laughed, soft and breathy. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He pulled the door open for me with a slight bow. “After you, m’lady.”

I rolled my eyes but climbed in, heart racing just a little. The inside of the car smelled like clean leather and something vaguely like cedarwood. Safe. Comfortable. As he slid into the driver’s seat beside me, I caught him stealing a glance.

“What?” I asked, grinning.

“Nothing,” he said, putting the car into drive. “Just… glad you said yes.”

The ride was easy—quiet music playing low, city lights flickering past the windows like little glimmers of magic. Neither of us said much, but it wasn’t awkward. Just that kind of comfortable silence that felt earned, like we didn’t need to fill it to make it meaningful. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a small side street I’d never noticed before. Brick buildings lined the block, cozy and close, with warm lighting spilling from the windows of a little place nestled on the corner. No flashy sign, just a simple wooden door and a soft glow behind frosted glass.

Harry parked and looked over at me, like he was checking to see if I approved.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I love it already.”

He smiled, clearly pleased, and got out to open my door before I could even reach for the handle.

Inside, the restaurant felt like a hidden pocket of calm—dim lights, flickering candles on the tables, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware. There was music playing somewhere in the background—something jazzy and slow, almost like it was dancing just at the edge of hearing.

The hostess greeted us with a knowing smile and led us to a small booth near the back. Harry let me slide in first, then settled across from me, his knee brushing mine under the table as he got comfortable.

“This place is one of my favorites,” he said, resting his arms on the table. “Feels like the kind of spot you can actually talk in, you know?”

I nodded, glancing around. “It’s perfect.” And just like that, the night officially began.

The server came and went—water glasses filled, orders taken, menus gone—and then it was just us again. Soft music played in the background, the candle on our table flickering gently between us.

Harry leaned forward a little, resting his arms on the table. “So… neonatal nurse. That’s impressive. I don’t think I could hold a baby without panicking.”

I smiled. “Most people can’t at first. It’s all about being calm and steady.”

He looked at me for a second, then said, “You seem like someone who’s good at that.”

“I try,” I said, still smiling. “What about you? Do you bartend full-time?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m finishing a business degree. Been taking my time with it, but I like it. I’ve always wanted to start something of my own, you know? Build something real.”

I nodded, surprised but impressed. “That actually fits you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You think before you speak,” I said. “You don’t talk just to talk.”

That made him laugh quietly. “Is that a compliment?”

“It is.”

There was a pause—just long enough for something to shift between us. Softer. More aware.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, voice lower now.

“Oh?” I asked, leaning slightly closer. “And what did you expect?”

He gave me a look. “Someone quieter. Maybe shy. But you’ve got this calm strength about you. Like you slow things down just by being in the room.”

My chest tightened in the best way. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t. I just looked at him, and he looked back.

“You’re good at this,” I said after a second.

“At what?”

“Making someone feel like they’re the only one here.”

He smiled. “Maybe you are.”

Dinner went by in a blur of warm food, quiet laughter, and the kind of conversation that made time feel like it was moving just a little too fast. I didn’t want the night to end, but eventually, the plates were cleared and the server brought the check. Before I could even reach for my bag, Harry had already slipped his card into the folder.

“Wait—what are you doing?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

“Paying,” he said simply, sliding it back toward the edge of the table with that annoying little smirk.

“I can split it with you.”

“You could,” he said, eyes meeting mine, “but I won’t let you.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, even though my cheeks were already warm. “That’s not fair.”

He leaned in a little. “It’s a date, Emma. Let me take you out.”

The way he said it—soft but sure—left no room for argument. So I sat back and let him win, even if I rolled my eyes doing it.

Outside, the night had settled into something quiet and cool. The street was mostly empty, and the city had that rare hum where everything felt a little slower, a little softer.

“Want to walk for a bit?” he asked, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

We walked side by side, close but not touching, the rhythm of our steps falling into sync without trying. He told me a story about a nightmare shift at the bar, I told him about a baby that surprised us all and pulled through. We laughed. We paused. We kept walking. At one point, our hands brushed—and for a second, neither of us moved. But then he gently took mine, like it had been there waiting for his.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud. Just… easy.

By the time we made it back to his car, my heart was lighter, but the tension between us had thickened—comfortable, electric, and very much alive. The drive back was quieter than the ride there, but not in a bad way. The kind of quiet where everything meant more—every glance, every small shift in the air between us.

I watched the city blur past my window, lights streaking against the glass, but I could feel him glance over at me every so often. Like he was checking to make sure I was still smiling. Or maybe just stealing a look because he couldn’t help it.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift.

I turned my head toward him. “So are you.”

His mouth curved. “Yeah, but you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

He flicked his eyes toward me, then back to the road. “Like you’re thinking something dangerous.”

I laughed under my breath. “You first.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m trying to behave.”

I shifted slightly in my seat, the space between us feeling tighter somehow, even though neither of us moved any closer.

“Are you always this good at… not behaving?” I asked, voice a little quieter now.

His grip on the wheel tightened, just barely. “Depends on the person.”

There was heat in his tone now. Subtle, but unmistakable. It filled the small space between us like static. My skin buzzed with it.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I said after a beat. “That night at the club. You caught me off guard.”

“Good,” he said, glancing over again—longer this time. “You caught me too.”

The light turned red, and we came to a slow stop. He looked at me, really looked, his eyes falling to my lips before finding my gaze again. Everything felt still. Held in place by a thread so thin it could snap with the slightest touch. When I bit down on my bottom lip, something changed. I didn’t mean to do it for him, but the way his jaw tightened and his eyes darkened told me exactly what it did. He reached over without a word, his hand settling on my thigh—confident, slow, like he was testing how far I’d let him go. His fingers stayed still at first, then brushed lightly against the inside of my leg, just enough to make me breathe a little deeper.

I looked at him, and he was already watching me. My chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, heart pounding. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.

The city kept moving around us, but we stayed like that—his hand on me, my pulse racing, everything stretched tight between us—until we pulled up in front of my place. He let the engine idle for a second longer before turning the key, and the silence in the car changed again. Still charged. Still full of what now.

He turned toward me, his hand slipping away from my leg so slowly it almost hurt.

“Thanks for tonight,” I said quietly, not sure what else to say.

His eyes flicked down to my mouth again before coming back to mine. “You’re welcome.”

The question hovered between us like fog—thick, unspoken, undeniable.

“Do you want to…” I started, then stopped, heat rising in my chest. He didn’t make me finish.

“Come up?” he said. I nodded. Just once. And we both got out of the car.

The click of my keys in the lock felt too loud in the quiet hallway. My fingers trembled just slightly as I turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside with Harry close behind me. The soft glow from the streetlights outside spilled into the apartment, painting faint gold shapes across the floor. I dropped my keys into the bowl by the door, my back still turned to him, trying to calm the flutter in my chest.

I barely had a chance to turn around before I felt him step in close—his presence warm, steady, intentional. And then his hand was on my waist, and his mouth was on mine.

It took my breath for half a second—not because I didn’t want it, but because I hadn’t expected it to happen so suddenly. The kiss was firm but unhurried, like he’d been waiting all night and couldn’t hold back another second. His lips moved slowly over mine, not rushing, not demanding—just asking. His other hand came up, cupping the side of my face gently, his thumb brushing just below my cheekbone as he pulled back, just barely.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely more than a breath between us.

I nodded, already leaning back in. “Yeah.”

His mouth curved into a soft smile against mine before he kissed me again—this time deeper, more sure, his hands sliding along my waist as I melted into him, every thought slipping out of reach except him. Everything about it felt right—slow, warm, and only just beginning.

My back pressed gently against the closed door as his hands settled on my waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of my dress with a quiet kind of urgency. There was nothing rushed in the way he touched me—just intent. Like he wanted to feel everything. Like he needed to.

I curled my fingers into the front of his jacket, tugging him just a little closer until our bodies aligned perfectly, chest to chest, his warmth sinking into me in a way that made my knees feel unsteady. When we finally broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against mine, breathing a little heavier now.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the second I saw you,” he whispered.

I didn’t answer—not with words. I slid my hands beneath the lapels of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders slowly, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle. He let me, his eyes locked on mine the whole time, like he was watching to see if I meant it. And I did.

He kissed me again, deeper now, his hands moving from my waist to the small of my back, then lower. I gasped softly into his mouth when his fingers gripped just a little tighter, pulling me flush against him.

“Emma,” he murmured, my name catching in his throat like a secret. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” I whispered. “I want you.” That was all he needed.

My back met the couch cushions, and his body followed, settling against me, his hand sliding up the side of my thigh, beneath my dress. Every touch sent heat straight through me, and when he kissed down my neck, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

His fingers found the zipper at my side, tugging slowly, giving me time to stop him—but I didn’t. I only arched into him, wanting more. His lips brushed the top of my chest, and I felt the clasp of my bra shift under his hand. But before he undid it, he paused—just enough to meet my eyes.

I pulled him in for another kiss, but between kisses, I whispered, “Bedroom.”

He stilled, just for a beat, then nodded and stood, holding his hand out to me. I took it without hesitation. He followed me down the short hallway, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, steady and warm. The anticipation between us built with every step, the silence heavy with everything we were about to give in to.

Inside my bedroom, the light was soft—just the amber glow of the bedside lamp—and the room felt suddenly smaller, more intimate, now that we were both here.

He kissed me again as I turned to face him, hands returning to my back, and this time he unhooked my bra with ease. The straps slipped from my shoulders, and the look in his eyes changed—darker, deeper, filled with heat and reverence.

“You’re stunning,” he said, barely above a whisper. His fingers trailed up my thigh, warm and sure, until he reached the heat between my legs.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured against my skin, voice thick. “I barely touched you.”

“I’ve wanted this since the second you texted me,” I whispered, my voice shaky as his fingers slid over me again.

“Yeah?” He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “You think about me?”

“All the time,” I breathed, hips arching into his touch.

He groaned, kissing me again, slower this time, more deliberate. “You have no idea what that does to me.” He paused and looked at me like I’d just knocked the air out of him. “Jesus, Emma,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

“Come here,” I said, pulling him back to me.

He kissed down my chest, his mouth hot and open as he wrapped his lips around my nipple, sucking gently until I moaned, squirming beneath him.

“I want to hear more of that,” he said into my skin, voice low and hungry. “I want to hear everything.”

When his mouth moved between my thighs, I gasped his name, hand threading into his hair. His tongue moved with skill—slow circles, teasing flicks—and when he slipped two fingers inside me, I cried out, hips rocking uncontrollably.

“God—Harry—don’t stop,” I moaned. He didn’t.

He watched me fall apart beneath him, eyes dark with focus. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

When the orgasm hit, it took everything from me—my breath, my words, my grip on anything but him. He kept moving until I trembled, then kissed his way back up to my mouth, swallowing my shaky breaths.

“You still okay?” he asked, brushing hair from my face.

“More than okay,” I said, tugging at his jeans. “I want you. Now.”

He smiled, breathless and sweet, and leaned over to grab a condom. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” I whispered, watching him roll it on. “I need you.”

He groaned as he positioned himself between my thighs. “Fuck, I’ve needed you since the second you walked into that club.”

And then he pushed into me—slow and deep. We gasped together, his name slipping from my lips as he filled me completely.

“You feel—shit—Emma, you feel so good,” he murmured, his hand gripping my thigh as he found a steady rhythm. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Then don’t,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Just give me everything.”

He kissed me hard, hips thrusting deeper now, and when I moaned into his mouth, he pulled back just enough to speak.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I breathed. “Harder.”

His eyes flashed, and he flipped me gently, pulling me on top of him, guiding my hips down until I was fully seated again.

“Ride me, baby,” he said, gripping my waist. “I want to watch you come.”

I moved slowly at first, grinding against him, teasing us both. His eyes never left mine. Every sound I made, every shift of my body, seemed to push him closer to the edge.

“You feel so good,” I gasped, nails dragging down his chest. “So deep.”

His hands slid up my thighs, over my hips. “Faster, Emma. Just like that.”

The pressure built again, faster this time. My body trembled above him as he thrust up into me, chasing it.

“Harry—fuck—I’m so close.”

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Let go. I’ve got you.” And I did.

My orgasm ripped through me, loud and consuming. My walls clenched tight around him and seconds later, he followed, hips stuttering beneath me, breath caught in his throat as he moaned my name like a promise. I collapsed onto his chest, both of us slick with sweat, hearts racing and skin humming with aftershocks.

His arms wrapped around me without hesitation, lips brushing my temple as we lay there tangled and quiet.

“Still thinking about that smile,” he whispered, his voice warm and spent.

I laughed against his skin. “Still thinking about you.”