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blog-o-meter · 2 months ago

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Room 5 - Nicholas Alexander Chavez x fem!reader

summary: (Y/N) escapes to a quaint little hotel by the beach for a few days. On the first night, she realizes that the hot guy in the neighboring room is a... loud guy, and she finds that she can't seem to escape him no matter where she goes.

warnings: 18+, voyeurism (auditory), self-masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v, cursing

required listening: 24 Hours by Sky Ferreira

word count: 17,415

a/n: sorry this one is so long (compared to my other fics), but I just had too much fun writing this one. I honestly could've gone writing more. If anything, I can just add on, but I think I wrapped a nice, little bow on this one. I hope you guys like it, and I would appreciate any and all feedback!! pls enjoy :) edit: I continued the story in a sequel of sorts, which you can check out below!

Making Room (Part 2) | Room On Fire (Part 3) | Room To Breathe (Part 4)

reblogs and likes are appreciated and lets me know if you'd like to see more!

The boutique hotel looked absolutely adorable, white brick on the outside and only two stories — a tiny café and gift shop downstairs and the rooms up top, just steps away from the ocean. It sat between two tall condo buildings, which mostly housed an older crowd of out-of-state tourists.

I was in search of the perfect place for a weekend getaway, and this place seemed to check all the boxes. It wasn’t near any of the busy beach accesses where all of the rowdy high schoolers seemed to hang out at, and the pictures of the café seemed like it was straight out of an interior designer’s Pinterest board. This place, The Pearl, seemed perfect.

Actually, I had been looking forward to this weekend for a long while, having booked this trip about a month ago. Funnily enough, I lived just 30 minutes away from the beach but never had the time to just get away for a couple of days — until now.

After I checked in, I carried my weekend bag and backpack up the narrow staircase to the second floor, the wood creaking underneath my sandals. When I turned on the mid-level landing, that’s when I heard a second set of footsteps coming down from above. I turned my head up, my eyes falling on the drop-dead gorgeous man carefully shuffling down the steps.

Our shoulders brushed as I squeezed by with my luggage, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver that branched out from where our arms grazed.

“Sorry,” I whispered without missing a beat.

The guy smiled politely as he turned his head back, his big, brown eyes inviting, “You’re good.”

My heart skipped a beat hearing his warm, low voice. The stranger was ridiculously attractive, his muscles bulging out of the wife beater covering his torso, his tousled brown hair elegantly falling over his eyebrows. His smile, though, was what made my skin prickle — a wide, genuine grin that showed off his perfectly white teeth behind his pink lips.

I returned a polite smile, continuing my journey up the stairs before he could notice my blushing cheeks. When I arrived to the top of the landing, I saw that the second floor was T-shaped, the rooms in ascending order the further I walked down the hallway.

I turned the corner, immediately sensing the change in atmosphere compared to the row of rooms I had just passed. This section of the hallway seemed much more secluded, quiet, possibly because, indeed, it was in its own corner of the floor away from all the other rooms.

I passed by the one other door in the hall, reaching my room — 6 — at the end where a singular window accented the softly-lit hallway. Setting my bags down, I fumbled for my phone, scrolling through my text messages with the hotel manager for the code to my door. I appreciated the fact that the rooms had a code to enter instead of a plastic key card that I could lose in the sand.

As I input the code into the lock, the wooden staircases creaked as a set of footsteps became louder and louder making their way toward me. It was the same handsome man I had brushed shoulders with earlier, a backpack slung over his shoulder as he approached the only other door, room 5.

Our eyes met briefly, a flicker of recognition in his. “Good night, neighbor,” he said with a slight nod, that same smile that made my chest warm flashing across his face as he made his way inside his room, the heavy door falling closed behind him.

I let go of the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. What are the odds the hot guy and I were staying next to each other? 1 in 5 it seems.

Shaking off the butterflies fluttering around my stomach, I finished inputting the code and dragging my bags inside the freezing room, stopping to admire the details of what my hard-earned paycheck had managed to spoil me with. The room was quaint, a neutral island color palette — the large bathroom and queen-sized bed to my right and the 70” flatscreen tv and closet on the shared wall to my left, a built-in marble counter all along the bottom.

The bathroom was my favorite: an art-deco flair with hints of coastal influence. The full shower was astounding in the best way possible — a beautiful mosaic pattern along the whole wall, double shower heads on opposite ends, and with enough space to possibly fit maybe 5 people. I could literally walk about ten steps between the two shower heads.

I walked back out to the room, setting my bags on the counter and starting to unpack, not in any particular rush to venture outside. As I organized my stuff — bikinis, pajamas, toiletries — I turned on the tv, flipping through channels and settling on HBO, Black Swan playing a few minutes in.

Enthralled by the movie and remembering I had a few snacks in my backpack, I changed into my pajamas and dug out a box of Lady Godiva chocolates from my backpack, climbing into bed and stretching out my arms and legs, excited to start my weekend getaway.

At some point, I had drifted off with a chocolate in my hand only to be awoken by a sound. I didn’t know what it was at first, choosing to ignore it and keeping my eyes closed, hoping I’d drift back to sleep. But it persisted, and it wasn’t a sound I had expected to hear — a woman’s moans.

My eyes fluttered open, thinking it might’ve been coming from the tv. After all, Black Swan did have a sex scene. However, I found the tv to be off. Maybe I had forgotten I turned it off myself before drifting off to sleep. Then, a low, drawn-out groan rumbled through, clear as day.

Oh.

My cheeks flushed, burning at the realization of what I was hearing. I mean, I know a boutique hotel might not have the same amenities as a more established hotel chain, but you’d think thicker walls would have been a forethought. How could somebody planning to open a hotel not have thicker walls?

Again, I heard the moaning, and there was only one other room in the hallway that they could be coming from — room 5, the hot guy. I sat up in bed, heart pounding as I processed what was happening in the room behind the tv. The sounds were so clear you’d think they were having sex in the hallway.

In fact, I thought just that. There was no way that was happening right? I walked up to my room door and carefully peeked my head out, finding the hallway empty.

I retreated back into my room, my heart racing. Any other person would’ve probably turned the tv back on, or put on some headphones, something to block out the sounds, but what I did, I couldn’t tell anyone else about. I stood frozen, listening. I listened past the rhythmic porn-like moaning of the faceless woman, instead focusing on the low rumble of the hot neighbor guy’s voice.

The closet that shared a wall with his room beckoned my name, tempting me to inch closer. Before I knew it, my bare feet were shuffling toward the closet door, quietly swinging it open. The space was small, just big enough to fit a luggage rack and a few hangers up top, but the rhythmic thumping and guttural groans just behind the plaster called out to me.

Carefully, I leaned over the luggage rack, pressing my cheek against the cold, white wall. Every sound was clearer now — the creak of the bed slowing to a stop, the huffing coming from my neighbor, and the yelps coming from the mysterious lady. I could even make out some words.

“Bend over,” my neighbor spoke, his voice deep and seductive.

My stomach twisted hearing him speak in such a commanding yet intimate manner. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that a stranger so polite in passing could be so primal behind closed doors; though, wasn’t everyone?

“You’re so huge, Nicholas,” the mystery lady spoke back.

I know I shouldn’t have been listening, but I was just so enthralled. Did they know just how thin the walls are, assuming they’d block out most sound like I did? I couldn’t imagine someone knowing the walls were thin and still choosing to have sex, especially knowing there was an occupied room next door.

The plaster was cool under my cheek, refreshingly so as I could feel myself becoming warmer and warmer. The sounds of their erotic encounter seemed to vibrate through the wall, through me. Without noticing, I had squeezed my thighs together, my hand finding its way at the band of my pajama pants. As soon as I felt my fingertip slip under my underwear, I was jolted out of my trance. What was I doing?

Before I could feel any more guilty for lingering longer than I should’ve, I pulled myself away from the wall and scampered back toward the bed, choosing to ignore what was going beyond next door, my heart racing. Grabbing my headphones from my nightstand and slipping them on, I threw myself into the sheets and turned on my white noise playlist. But as much as I forced myself to focus on the therapeutic noise, my imagination wandered, picturing the faces my neighbor — Nicholas — might be making right now as he pleasured the woman accompanying him. Before I knew it, though, I had managed to fall asleep.

In the morning, I made my way down the staircase to the hotel’s tiny café, eager to start my day with a light, sweet breakfast. As I descended down the last few steps, I looked over to the sea of tables, hesitation in my heels as my eyes landed on Nicholas sitting by his lonesome as he enjoyed a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a beat-up book in the other.

Swallowing the thought of what I did, and listened to, last night, I walked past him and approached the café counter, the smell of warm croissants and muffins enveloping my nostrils, a temporary distraction that I was grateful to experience.

“Hi,” I politely smiled to the employee, “Can I just get an Italian crème croissant with a hot green tea, please?” I quietly asked, not wanting to interrupt the quiet, calm atmosphere for the patrons of the café.

The barista nodded her head, inputting my order into the tablet register, “We’ll send it over to your table,” she smiled.

I slipped her the money for my breakfast, smiling, “Thank you so much,” and making my way through the slew of empty tables.

I settled in at the corner table on the opposite end of the room, wanting to be as far away from Nicholas as possible to avoid any awkward conversations. Though, I may have chosen the worst table for my plan, accidentally giving myself a clear, unobstructed view of Nicholas from across the room.

His hair was damp, not purposefully styled in any particular way but still somehow falling over his eyebrows in such a perfect manner. He wore a loose flannel with a few buttons loose, the shirt billowing open to tease just enough of the gold cross chain draping over the sculpted valley between his chest.

He hadn’t noticed me yet, completely enthralled by what he was reading — Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. I was stunned by his choice of literature. There was an old fellow a few tables down reading the newspaper to get his local news, meanwhile this guy, Nicholas, was probably on some page where the author is describing, in excruciating honesty, a night he had with a prostitute just as easily as one could describe their morning routine. In a way, I was impressed, curious.

As I waited for my breakfast, fiddling with my fingers, occasionally looking at my phone, my eyes would glance over toward Nicholas, my gaze lingering just a beat too long. The way he achingly turned the page, the tip of his finger playing at the corner of the paper, or the way he’d carefully bring the mug of coffee up to his lips — it was all so titillating.

Thankfully, though, the barista came over with a small pot of piping hot tea and my croissant, interrupting my trance and carefully setting down the items in front of me. Just as she left, my eyes flickered up to Nicholas to find that he had glanced up from his book, a polite smirk at the corner of his lips when his eyes met mine, lifting his mug in a silent, “Cheers.”

Not sure if I should wave or say hi or flash a toothy smile, I settled for a polite closed-mouth smile, lifting my mug back at him before quickly focusing my attention to the food in front of me as my cheeks grew warm. The greeting wasn’t graceful at all, but how could I focus on being graceful knowing I eavesdropped on his privacy just last night? If I was awkward at all, I figured it was my subconscious trying to punish me.

I served myself some tea and picked at my croissant as I looked out the window to the occasional family or couple walking down the street, all carrying their beach items and taking their time to get to the sand. I’d even glance around to the other patrons at the café. Though, I think part of me wanted to see if any of the girls would join Nicholas at his table and reveal herself to be the high-pitched moaner from last night. However, nobody ever did join him. Was he here alone? Or maybe she had taken the morning to be by herself.

Every impulse in me was begging me to take just one more look at Nicholas, to savor his image one last time, but I fought it. Everything except anything in Nicholas’s direction became intriguing to me. The checkered tile on the ground, the promotional poster on the window that I could barely read because of the sunshine striking through it, the older fellow enjoying his newspaper — I didn’t think I’d find myself focusing on the details of such things trying to avoid the gaze of some guy I had talked to for no more than 10 seconds, maybe less.

When I finished up, I quietly tidied the table, collecting all of the dishes and brushing off any crumbs, making my way out of the café and toward my car.

The breeze was refreshing, a nice whisper against my cheeks. I opened the trunk, staring at all of the beach gear I had to carry by myself. It was a struggle, but I managed to carry everything in both my arms — umbrella, picnic, basket, beach chair, headphones, blanket — using every crevice of my upper body to anchor something to me so it wouldn’t fall on the way over.

Thankfully, the beach access was right next to the hotel, and the path to the open sand wasn’t too long. When I got to the end of the path, I was grateful for having woken up early for the opportunity to pick a spot in an otherwise empty beach, a few umbrellas and chairs here and there from the condo occupants. I chose a spot that didn’t have any people too close by for maximum relaxation, carefully setting everything down on the sand.

I stabbed my pink, frilly cabana umbrella into the ground, laying out my beach blanket and beach chair in the shade, sliding everything else onto the corners of the blanket so the breeze wouldn’t pick the fabric up and blow sand toward me.

The water was calling my name, the light green water perfectly sparkling against the morning sun. But before I could strip my clothes off and jump in, I looked around to see if anybody would be looking as I pulled off my clothes. I didn’t see anybody particularly interested in my arrival, so I quickly pulled off my jean shorts and tee to reveal my glittery brown bikini set underneath. Before I became too hyper aware of my body, I walked toward the water, instead letting the feeling wash over me just as the waves of deliciously cold seawater did.

The occasional squawk of seagulls, the sun warming up my skin as it rose higher and higher in the sky and the sound of the waves crashing was all perfect. This moment was all I wanted out of this weekend. No distractions, no work — just me and the ocean. Needless to say, I was very excited to be able to repeat this routine for the next couple of days.

I continued walking into the water until I was chest-deep to let the ocean devour me whole. The feeling that a wave could crash over me entirely was exhilarating. The water slowly picked me up by my feet as I hopped around.

I lingered for a few more minutes in the water, splashing water around or searching for little fish before stepping back out once my fingers started to wrinkle. As I strutted out of the water, though, I saw the familiar shape of somebody relaxing in a chair just a few feet next to my umbrella — Nicholas.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, he was a guest in the hotel, too, after all. Why else would someone book a room in a hotel by the beach if they wouldn��t find themselves relaxing in the sand? But did he have to set up next to me when there was an entire football field of available space?

Meekly and careful not to trip or stumble on the way over, I walked toward my umbrella, fighting the urge to steal a glance at Nicholas, but from the corner of my eye I could see he sat there with his chest exposed. I had to let myself give in; what was the harm in a little peek?

He sat reclined in his chair, his skin deliciously glistening under the killer sun as he took it in. His hair was lightly brushing across his face from the sea breeze, like Mother Nature herself was playing with his hair. Nicholas’s long legs stretched out in front of him, his feet digging slightly into the sand. Both hands rested lazily on the arm of the chair, open. It was like he wanted to take up as much space as he could. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes; I couldn’t tell where he was looking or if he was looking anywhere at all. He radiated a kind of tranquility, as if the ocean had washed away any burdens he carried, something I hoped to experience myself this weekend.

I realized I was staring, my breath caught somewhere between awe and curiosity. I darted my eyes away, afraid I might be caught, which is absolutely the last thing I want.

Growing cold from the breeze brushing my wet skin, I grabbed my towel, drying myself off and squeezing the water out of my hair, mindful of turning myself from Nicholas so as to not flick any water droplets his way or have him think I was trying to grab his attention deliberately. Maybe he just sat there without knowing he had set up next to me. After all, I was in the water this entire time.

As I settled in, I brushed my wet hair over the back of my chair and reached for my picnic basket, pulling out my headphones, sunglasses, and my current read, White Oleander. I didn’t want to distract myself with any energetic music, instead opting to listen to the White Oleander movie soundtrack for the perfect accompaniment to the book.

I read through the chapter I had left off in, but I found myself having to reread some paragraphs, even entire pages, every time I saw Nicholas shift in his seat from the corner of my eye every few seconds. Even the way he jittered his knee up and down was distracting, almost like he wanted to grab my attention. After some minutes, he stood up from his chair, letting out a groan as he slowly stretched his arms and walked toward the water, and I silently thanked the universe for finally letting me have a few minutes to myself.

Though, I couldn’t help but occasionally glance up from my book to observe Nicholas in the water. The sun accentuated his muscles in an almost picturesque way, the stark shadow falling under each crevice of his body perfectly. He cut through the water like a knife as he walked deeper and deeper in the water, splashing water over his chest and shoulders, eventually dipping himself under the water to wet his hair. When he reemerged, the surface broke with a powerful splash, Nicholas throwing his head back and brushing his hair back with his hands.

Shaking myself out of Nicholas’s trance, I buried myself back in my book, trying not to look back up to him and letting myself get lost in the story, and for a while, I did. However, the universe seemed to like playing cruel jokes. About two chapters later, a shadow crossed my face. Curious to know if it was a bird or somebody’s umbrella flying away, I looked up to find Nicholas standing in front of me with a small grin.

“Good book?” He asked, drying his hair with a towel.

Shocked, I almost couldn’t form any words, but I managed to spit out a normal-sounding sentence, “Uh, so far, yeah, but I’m more familiar with the movie.”

“I’ve never seen it,” he confessed, dragging the towel up and down his dripping torso, almost deliberately. “Do you recommend it?”

I was quiet first, trying to clear my head of any thoughts of the night before that kept replaying in my mind. My eyes drifted up from his torso to the smile on his face, his straight white teeth in full show. Thank god I had my sunglasses on

“Totally. The dialogue in that movie is…” I trilled my lips, searching for the right word, “poignant.”

“Sounds raw,” he threw the towel over his shoulder, resting his hands on his hips, his lat muscles flexing outward like wings. “Is it your favorite movie?” He asked as he sat down in his chair, shifting until he found a comfortable position.

“One of,” I replied, turning my head to face him.

“I’ll check it out then,” he smiled, grabbing Tropic of Cancer out from under his chair and spreading it open.

“There’s a movie on that one, too,” I pointed to the book in his hands.

“Really?” He cocked an eyebrow, looking at the cover of the paperback, like he had forgotten what book he was reading. But then, a cheeky grin grew on his lips, “Did you like it?”

I couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle, knowing what Nicholas had meant. “I wouldn’t know; I’ve never seen it,” I smiled, turning my head back to the book in my hands, having almost forgotten about it.

All I heard back from him was a quiet chuckle before he settled back into his chair, the both of us reading their respective books.

After a half hour, I tossed the book and my sunglasses back into the basket and walked out over to the water. I paused at the dry edge of the sand, letting the water nip at my toes, trying not to picture Nicholas behind me. He could have been glancing at me as I made my way over, but he could also be looking at the sky, or the book in his hands, or maybe even his phone. As much as I wanted to peek over my shoulder, I continued forward, letting the sea swallow me.

I lingered, brushing my fingertips over the surface as I planted myself in knee-deep water, clutching the sand underneath my toes as it dissolved under me. As the water hugged my calves, I searched the water for anything I could find — maybe a lost pair of sunglasses, some little fishes, or maybe a conch laying at the bottom of the ocean floor. To no avail, I slowly started to retreat from the water, picking my head up to find Nicholas was looking forward, hiding behind his sunglasses again.

I didn’t let the fact he was looking over to my direction affect my ability to walk properly. After all, he could be looking past me. Maybe under those sunglasses he had his eyes closed. I wouldn’t know. However plausible any of those situations were, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

Upon approaching my chair, I wrapped myself in the damp towel, deciding that my time at the beach for today would be over for now. Slowly, I started to pack up my things, but I honestly didn’t know how I was gonna carry everything back now that I was damp and shivering. I tried juggling some of the things in my arms, but occasionally something would slip from my grasp. I really tried not to seem so helpless, but when the umbrella slipped out from under my arms with a loud thump, I knew keeping up that ruse wouldn’t work.

“Need help?” I heard Nicholas’s voice behind me.

I turned around, catching him push his sunglasses to the top of his head to show off his crinkled eyes, smiling. It seemed to be more from amusement at watching me struggle, not smiling from politeness.

I struggled to hold onto everything in my arms, “No,” I shook my head, laughing nervously. “I mean, I managed to bring everything over in the morning.”

An exhale escaped his lips before he tossed the book to the sand and stood up from his chair, making his way over with a satisfied look, “Let me help.”

I bit my lip, debating if I should let him help or to just push him away so I wouldn’t have that constant reminder of hearing him have sex in my head. Before I could answer, though, Nicholas grabbed the beach chair out from under my arm and picked the umbrella up off the floor.

“Thank you,” I mumbled as I adjusted the remaining items in my arms, now much more manageable without having to carry the bigger things.

“No problem,” he spoke in a low tone, that same tone I overheard when he said ‘Bend over’ to the woman in his bed last night.

My breath caught in my throat. Suddenly, I felt inexplicably warm, like the back of my neck was on fire. His expression was soft, casual, like the same man I had run into in the hallway yesterday, not at all like the man I heard in his room in a false sense of privacy.

We walked back toward the hotel, the sand kicking up behind us with every step. I was too afraid to say anything to him at all after remembering the way he spoke to his late night companion.

“So, are you from around here?” He spoke up, his voice cutting the tension that only I seemed to be aware of.

“Kind of,” I replied, hiding my face behind my damp hair, “I live 30 minutes out. I just came here on a solo-trip for a few days to escape. You?” I didn’t expect the question to slip from my lips, but in a way, I guess, I wanted to coax information out of him. Maybe if I knew more about him, that pang of guilt in my stomach would leave on its own.

He stifled a chuckle, “Not at all. I’m from Colorado, actually.”

I raised an eyebrow, surprised at the answer, “Wouldn’t California beaches be closer to you, maybe even look better than this old shore?” I looked back out into the beach, admiring its charm, but even then, I know it wouldn’t compare to a California beach.

“Actually, I live in LA, so I go out there all the time. I guess, I just wanted to visit a different place,” he answered.

I was surprised at his honesty, but I scoffed, not believing that any person from out of town would want to come here willingly, “Well, you picked a different place, indeed. Not much goes on around here, except when it’s spring break.”

Nicholas stifled a warm chuckle, “Yeah, I think I read that online.”

A part of me wanted to prod. Was he single? Who was that girl from last night? Another guest? The only appropriate question that I could think of that didn’t sound too suspicious was, “Are you here on a solo-trip, too?”

He nodded his head, “Yeah, I do a lot of solo travel. There’s a certain freedom in not having to worry about anyone else except yourself.”

I glanced over to him and saw a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he looked over to me. Something fluttered in my chest, or maybe it was just the droplets of water trailing down from my head.

“Sounds liberating,” I managed to spurt out before the long pause became too awkward.

“It is, but sometimes it’s nice to share it with someone else, even for a little bit,” he said, his words hanging in the air.

I didn’t dare reply. I wasn’t sure if he was alluding to our current moment or maybe to the similar encounters of last night he has with women during his trips. Of course, there’s no way he’d know that I knew what he did behind closed doors, but what if he did?

“Yeah,” I absentmindedly agreed to his statement, eager to cut the conversation short.

We arrived at my car. I opened the trunk with my keys that were in my picnic basket, watching as Nicholas bent over to place the umbrella and chair inside, then grabbing everything from my arms and setting them beside each other, closing the trunk.

“My name’s Nicholas,” he held his hand out for me to shake.

That’s when I realized that he had never introduced himself. The only reason I knew his name was because I had my ear pressed against the wall just as his lady friend from last night had moaned it out of her lips.

I hesitated for just a fraction of a second before breaking through that one-sided tension and reaching out to shake his hand, his warm palm sending a shiver up my arm, “(Y/N),” I introduced myself, meeting his gaze for a second or two before looking down at my feet.

“Pretty name,” he smiled.

Blushing, I shyly said, “Thanks,” retreating my hand from his grasp and whipping back a strand of wet hair behind me.

Nicholas lingered a moment longer, the soft curve of his smile inviting me to hold his gaze. “Any chance you’d wanna get a drink later?”

I blinked, my mind scrambling for a response as the question hung between us. This stranger, Nicholas, was never meant to be more than just some nameless blur that happened to also be a guest at the same hotel I was staying. We were only supposed to bump into each other a few times in the hallway, never going into conversation and being fine with that. Now, here he was, asking me if I wanted to have a drink with him.

I kicked my feet nervously, looking down, afraid to look him in the eye as I turned down his offer, “Actually, I have plans.”

His brow lifted slightly, an amused look on his face. “Solo plans?” he asked, clearly poking fun at my earlier words.

I couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh, despite my nerves. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Fair enough,” he said, his tone casual but with a glimmer of understanding. “But if you change your mind…” he leaned in the tiniest bit, some tiny droplets from his hair dripping onto my skin, “you know where I’m staying,” a mischievous smirk at the end of his lips.

I felt my stomach jump at his words, catching the double meaning. He lingered a bit too long, like he was testing me, before he pulled back, still smirking.

I nodded, “Yeah, I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

I watched as he walked past, sauntering back toward the beach. The way his shoulders shifted as he walked, relaxed yet deliberate, made it impossible to look away. The nerve of him, the audacity to be this calm, this magnetic. Maybe it’s because I’m never forward with people I just met, especially if I think they’re attractive, but I couldn’t wrap my head around the swagger Nicholas oozed. It was like he was aware of the effect he had on me.

Desperate to wash away the sand in my crevices, I trotted toward the hotel entrance, going up the stairway and to my room. I felt relief when the cold air of the room hit my face, pulling my hair away from the back of my neck so the air could creep its way and bring some relief to my flustered self. My head buzzed, replaying anything having to do with Nicholas — the way he dried his towel in front of me, his soft chuckles, even the way he walked.

Get it together, (Y/N). He’s just a guy. Just a guy you won’t see ever again after this weekend. Ever.

I sighed, dragging myself to the shower and stripping the wet bikini off my body and letting it fall to the floor without a second thought.

I was grateful the shower was huge, that way I didn’t feel as suffocated with the warm water steaming up the glass. However, each time I closed my eyes to let the water fall on my face, all I could picture was Nicholas’s charming smile, all I could hear in my head was the way he said ‘Bend over’ to the girl in his bed last night, and suddenly, I could feel a tension pool low in my belly.

Fed up, I turned the faucet knob to cold, shuddering and gasping loudly the moment it fell down my spine. It might’ve been drastic, but it did help. All I could focus on was trying not to tremble under the cold stream of water enveloping me instead of focusing on a certain man.

Once I was done with my shower, I wrapped my hair and body in a towel each, padding out into the cold room, my ankles shuddering at the cold floor beneath me. I changed into a casual set of clothes, thinking I’d probably go out for a walk later. As I dried my hair with the towel, I made my way over to the window, looking out toward the beach to see Nicholas still lounging out in the sand. He was splayed out on the chair, legs wide open as he leaned back and looked out into the water.

Tired of my mind drifting to him, I jumped into bed and put on my headphones, opening up Hulu to catch up on shows. Before I knew it, hours had gone by and it had become nightfall.

I walked to my luggage resting on the built-in counter, zipping it open to pull out a bag of chips I had bought before arriving. That’s when I heard a light knock on my door. I froze at the sound, too scared to shuffle over and check who it was.

“(Y/N), you there?” I heard Nicholas’s voice call out. I didn’t answer, standing still, my heart almost pounding out of my chest. “If you are, I’m heading over to the bar across the street, if you wanna join me,” he calmly spoke through the door, his voice cool and collected.

After a bit, I heard his feet shuffle away, becoming fainter and fainter. I still didn’t dare move an inch, paranoid he might’ve pulled a fake-out and is actually still standing outside my door. I sat on the counter, debating his invitation, but I decided against it. I’m not exactly sure why; any other girl would already have been out the door by now. I just had to trust my gut on this.

Later that night, at about 1:30AM, I found myself still awake, quietly scrolling Instagram on my phone. That’s when I heard the loud giggles of a woman outside in the hall, followed by a deep shush, the giggles falling to a quiet mumble as I heard a door open and quickly fall closed. I ignored the sounds, continuing to scroll and catch up on posts I missed during the day.

Some minutes pass by, about 10. That’s when I heard the bed on the other side begin to thump against the wall, a lady slowly starting to moan. The moans sounded different, belonging to another woman. Then, the all-too-familiar grunts coming from Nicholas started to join in.

I couldn’t reach for my headphones to drown out the sounds of sex coming from the other side; my headphones had died just 30 minutes earlier, now charging on the outlet above the counter. Tossing and turning in bed, I burrowed myself under the covers, hoping it would make some barrier, but to no avail.

Irritated, I walked over to the counter, checking to see if my headphones had any juice that I could use even for just a few minutes until I fell asleep. Just as I reached to disconnect them from their charger, that’s when I heard Nicholas’s voice rumble through the wall.

“You’re so hot,” he said, his tone thick with pleasure.

I stood there frozen, my hand still hovering over my headphones. The more I heard Nicholas speak, the more I found myself inching closer toward the closet. My heart was racing, beating faster the moment I opened the closet doors, carefully stepping inside and resting my cheek against the shared wall.

I knew I shouldn’t have been listening in, again, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was this urge that I had to follow through with. I closed my eyes for a moment, listening past the girly moans and searching for Nicholas’s voice. My chest grew tighter, my thoughts beginning to spiral.

“Just like that,” he growled.

Had I said yes to drinks, would that have been me in there? Would I be the one moaning under him instead of the mystery girl inside? My stomach tightened at the thought, frustrated. I’m not sure why I was letting it get to me like that. Maybe because hindsight is always twenty-twenty. But just knowing that it might’ve been me Nicholas said all those things to had I just agreed to drinks… It drove me crazy.

“Say my name.”

My body tensed at his words. Somewhere between spiraling and intrigued by the events happening on the other side, I had closed my eyes, achingly moving my hand to my shorts, slipping it under the waistband. What if I just pretended it was me he was saying all those things to?

I clenched my teeth, feeling a heat bubbling low in my belly as it slowly rose up to my chest. The sound of Nicholas’s voice; he sounded so close yet we were separated by this thin wall. It was maddening. I slipped my fingers under my underwear, grazing them over my damp self. I covered my mouth with my other hand, proactive about not wanting to be heard from the other side just as I heard them.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Nicholas groaned on the other side.

My breathing became deep, my nostrils pushing out all the air that couldn’t leave my mouth. As my fingers found my throbbing bud, I quietly whimpered out, pretending Nicholas was saying those words to me. I rubbed myself in small circles, bucking my hips into my fingers.

On the opposite side of the wall, Nicholas’s groaning had become guttural, primal. The more the headboard thumped against the shared wall, the more powerful his movements had become. At one point, I thought something might fall off the wall from my side of the room.

As I slipped a finger, then another, inside myself, my breathing became erratic. I imagined Nicholas taking me, right now as I am, hard at the thought that I had been listening in on his sexual escapades. Maybe he’d push me up against the wall, cornering me so that I might not escape him. He seems like the type to want to be in control, and I’d be happy to give it to him.

I pumped my fingers slowly, at first, but then picked up the speed to match the thumping on the wall. The tension in me began to build tighter and tighter. I was so close to collapsing in pleasure, but the moment I heard a loud moan escape the woman’s lips from the other side, I was taken out of my imagination completely, remembering that it wasn’t me he was having sex with.

My eyes ripped open, realizing what I had been doing. I pulled my fingers out and collected myself, shamefully walking out of the closet and reaching for the headphones on the counter. I couldn’t believe that I had been pleasuring myself to the sounds of somebody else having sex. Even more embarrassingly so, I didn’t even arrive to a climax, so I couldn’t even say it was worth it.

I climbed back into bed, trying hard to ignore the sounds coming from the other side and slipping on my headphones, putting on anything that would distract my mind.

The next day, I didn’t wake up as early as I had liked. I ended up falling asleep pretty late, almost 2:30 in the morning, which was not my usual bedtime, clearly. But it was 12PM, still enough time to enjoy a light brunch before officially starting the day.

I changed into some loose clothes, making my way down to the café. Even though I felt guilty about last night, I felt ok enough to confidently walk into the café knowing Nicholas wouldn’t be there. Either he’d be too tired from his late night drinking and stayed in, or he would’ve started his day earlier and already had his coffee for the day. And when I entered the area, I found myself to be correct. He wasn’t there.

Comfortably, I ordered the same meal from yesterday, a croissant and a pot of tea, taking my seat at the same table. What can I say, I’m a creature of habit. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Almost as soon as I sat down, the barista came over with my things, setting them down with a polite smile. Tired and hungry, I pulled a chunk out of the croissant and placed it into my mouth, savoring its sweet taste. I enjoyed my first meal of the day calmly and slowly, relaxed to know I wouldn’t bump into Nicholas right now. Maybe I’d have a few hours to myself before I did. But of course, my peace was short-lived.

As I picked at my food, the front door to the hotel chimed. I was too focused on pouring myself the last few ounces of tea into my mug to look up, but I didn’t have to. A familiar presence approached my table, “Mind if I join you?” Nicholas asked.

I looked up, my eyes locking onto his. He had that oh-so charming smile plastered on his face — innocent, as if he wasn’t the one partially responsible for keeping me up late.

“Sure,” I said, pulling the pot away from my mug.

He pulled up a chair from the neighboring table, sitting down across from me while his gaze flickered down at my half-eaten croissant. “You like taking your time, don’t you?”

I felt a rush of heat creeping up the back of my neck at his casual teasing. He was wearing a faded tee, not from age but one that looked like it had been drying out in the sun too long, his gold cross chain hidden under the collar. I’m sure he looked good in anything he wore.

“Don’t you?” I asked without missing a beat.

Nicholas stifled a smirk, tapping his finger against the table, “So what’d you do last night?”

I almost choked on my own spit at the question, clearing my throat. Dear god, please let me not stumble over my words. “Not much, why?”

He sharply inhaled, like he was unsure if he should answer, “I had knocked on your door to invite you out to the bar again, but you didn’t answer.”

I stifled a chuckle, shrugging my shoulders, “Why? Were you afraid I was doing something better?”

Nicholas’s fingers played at the edge of my plate, smirking. “I figured you were out walking or something,” he smiled.

“Well, I planned to,” I picked at my croissant, ripping off a tiny piece and placing it in my mouth, “but I ended up staying in.”

“Oh? You stayed in?” He shifted in his seat, thinking about his next words. “Sleeping?”

I calculated my answer. I didn’t want him to be embarrassed about the fact that I could hear him having sex the past two nights. “Yeah, early night,” I kept it short, hoping he’d drop the subject or, at least, change the topic.

I wasn’t sure if he believed me, but I didn’t care to elaborate. His presence was disarming enough without dredging up last night’s… intrusive thoughts. Instead, I took another sip of tea and focused on not meeting his gaze.

“So, then why’d you come down here so late in the morning?” He asked, a grin playing at his lips.

I stumbled on my words, trying to find an answer, Nicholas becoming more amused and entertained the more I stumbled. Was he waiting around for me? Did he know his proclivities had kept me up? Did he know I could hear through the walls?

“Lazy morning,” I shrugged my shoulders. He stifled a chuckle, accepting my answer without too much kickback. “What about you?” I asked, turning the tables on him. “What did you get up to last night?”

His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew sharper, and he leaned forward just slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Me? Nothing much,” his finger twiddled near my croissant, pushing around the tea spoon next to it, “I had a drink or two. A little company.” His eyes flickered up to meet mine.

I swallowed hard, the tension between us thickening. His choice of words hung in the air, deliberate and calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing dangling that tidbit of information in front of me, seeing if I’d bite, but I wasn’t going to.

Taking a sip of my tea, I pretended to brush off his words, “Sounds like you had fun,” I spoke casually, keeping my expression neutral.

Nicholas tilted his head, watching me closely. “I would’ve had even more fun, but I had some plans fall through,” he paused, “I had to improvise.”

Oh, the calculation in his words were driving me mad, especially because I didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of baiting a specific reaction out of me. Was I right? Could that have been me in his room last night if I decided to go out with him?

I set the cup down as calmly as I could manage, but inside, I was shaking, “Doesn’t seem like you had any trouble improvising, then.”

For a moment, Nicholas’s fingers stopped tapping against the plate, that infuriating smirk returning. He leaned back into his chair, amused, “You heard, didn’t you?“

My eyes nearly fell out of my head, but I tried to keep it cool, "Heard what?"

His laugh was soft but full of certainty. "Come on, (Y/N). I heard you watching a movie the other night. These walls,” he gestured lazily toward the ceiling, “are paper thin; it was like I was in your room watching it with you.” He leaned toward me, resting his arms on the table again, “That’s why you woke up late, isn’t it?"

God, I wanted to shrivel up and die right then and there. It was absolutely infuriating how he could figure me out so easily. But my suspicions were confirmed — he did know, this entire time, and he still decided to have loud sex knowing anybody in the neighboring room could hear. And he had no shame about it!

My face burned with embarrassment, and l avoided his gaze like my life depended on it. "I didn't hear anything," I stammered, lying so poorly I might as well have just admitted the truth. “I’m a deep sleeper.”

Nicholas tilted his head, that insufferable smirk deepening. “A deep sleeper, huh?” His voice dripped with amusement. He rested his chin in his palm as he studied me like I was some kind of puzzle. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it.”

My grip tightened on the edge of the table, desperate to regain some semblance of control.

“For what it's worth...” Nicholas pushed back his chair and stood, smiling down at me. He leaned down toward me, his tone softening just enough to send a shiver down my spine. "If I'd known you were listening, I might've put on a better show." He took a small bite of my croissant, dusting the crumbs off his hands and making his way toward the door, winking at me before he exited.

Unable to fathom what had just happened, I stayed planted in my seat. Did he seriously just say that? My thoughts spiraled. Was this a game to him? Could he tell just how truly flustered I was by his teasing? Was I really that easy to rile up?

I pushed my plate and mug away from me, hoping to regain some space to avoid feeling suffocated by the remnants of his presence that Nicholas had left behind in his wake. And yet, I couldn’t deny the pull he had on me. No matter how hard I tried to push it down, to deny the heat in my cheeks and the butterflies in my stomach, it was there. Nicholas was under my skin.

I tried to avoid running into him the rest of the day, to suffocate him out of me like one would a parasite, but to know you’re avoiding someone, you’d have to be on the lookout, on your toes. Every corner I turned, I checked to see if he was there. Every room I entered, I scanned around looking for his distinct tousled hair. On the beach, I hid behind my sunglasses, scanning the shore for the familiar build of him. Finding him nowhere, I relaxed a bit, choosing to free myself and going for a short walk along the water.

I let the water lap around my ankles, rhythmically enveloping them as I slowly walked along the borderline empty beach. I picked up a few shells that caught my eye — only the colorful, unique ones. In fact, I kept walking, walking, and walking until it became evening, the sun setting over the beach, slowly but surely.

I returned to my spot, sitting back and admiring the colors of the sky. In fact, I was so relaxed, huddled under my towel, that I may have yawned once or twice. As I continued to look out into the horizon, I felt a cold tap on my shoulder, turning my head up to see who was interrupting my moment of relaxation. Of course, by now, I already knew who.

Nicholas stood there, towering over me with a pair of beers in his hand, holding one out for me. “Pretty, right?” He asked with a smile, looking out into the purple water.

I glanced at the beer in his outstretched hand before shifting my gaze to his face, the fading sunlight casting an orange glow over his sharp features. I kept my expression neutral, taking the beer from him without a word. He took that as an invitation to plop down in the space next to me, stretching his legs out and taking a sip from his can.

We sat there in silence for a while, the only sounds being the gentle crash of waves and the occasional chatter of distant beachgoers. It was… oddly peaceful, almost enough to make me forget about the tension that seemed to follow us — or should I say, me — like a shadow. Maybe, also, because I was a little sleepy.

“So, did you find what you were looking for today?” Nicholas asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

I frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You were walking up and down the beach for hours,” he said, motioning toward the small pile of shells I’d collected.

My mouth grew to a smile, cocky, “You were watching me for hours?”

For the first time, Nicholas stammered on his words, and it was a sight I was incredibly amused by. His head fell as he chuckled, maybe flustered that I had finally caught him in a moment instead of the other way around, “Yeah,” he nodded his head, his cheeks pink, “I was.”

I couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. Watching him falter, even slightly, was a rare treat, one I planned to savor. “I can see why you like pushing people’s buttons now.”

“I don’t like pushing people’s buttons,” he said as he brought the beer to his lips, “just yours.”

It was insane just how quickly Nicholas could turn something back onto you. The admission was so casual, yet it hit me like a rogue wave. I stared at him, half-expecting him to laugh or brush it off as a joke, but he simply leaned back on his hands, eyes on the horizon like he hadn’t just set my pulse racing.

“I’m sure you say that to all your company,” I turned to face the water, sipping on my beer and trying to hide my flushed cheeks. I chose my words carefully, wanting to see how’d he react.

Nicholas let out a low chuckle beside me. “I don’t,” he said simply, his voice drawing me in despite myself. “Only you.”

I stole a quick glance at him, but he was already looking ahead, the way his profile caught the last rays of the setting sun, casting long shadows across his features. There was something magnetic about him, and the more time I spent around him, the more I couldn’t ignore it. He was confident, teasing, but there was something underneath, something deeper that made it hard to read him completely.

A part of me wanted to challenge him, maybe even keep him on his toes. But there was another part of me, the part I kept hidden, that wanted to give in to the tension, to see where it could lead. My mind raced with the possibilities, each thought contradicting the last, until I was sure I was overthinking every moment, every word we exchanged.

I cleared my throat and shifted my position in the chair, facing toward him completely. “Indulge me. What makes me so different that you just can’t help but push my buttons?”

He smiled, like he had an answer prepared since the moment we met, “You don’t give in easily, but you seem like the type to give yourself completely once you do.”

Nicholas’s words lingered in the air, making my pulse quicken. It was strange how effortlessly he could unravel me with just a few words. I tried to maintain my composure, but the quiet between us seemed to stretch longer than I was comfortable with. His words felt like a challenge, but also like a promise. My mind kept drifting back to the night before, to the sounds of him on the other side of the wall.

“I’m not so sure about that,” I replied, keeping my voice steady, though it didn’t quite mask the undercurrent of uncertainty I was feeling.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he shifted closer. “Really? Because there’s only so much pressure somebody can take before they start to crack.”

I wanted to say something sharp, something that would put distance between us, but his confidence was suffocating, almost intoxicating. I couldn’t seem to gather the words to shut him down. So, instead, I took another long sip from my beer, pretending to focus on the view ahead of me, though my mind was anything but at ease.

His smile widened, “Aren’t you cracking?”

For a moment, it felt like time stopped. The world seemed to fade into the background, and it was just the two of us, sitting there in the fading sunlight, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the sudden weight of his words hanging between us.

I cleared my throat, finishing my beer, “I don’t think so,” I said lightly, trying to mask the effect his words had on me.

“We’ll see about that then,” he finally said, his voice low and casual, though I could tell there was a hint of challenge in it.

I was almost afraid to look at him, afraid of what I might see in his eyes. But I couldn’t help it. Slowly, I turned my head, and our eyes met, the connection between us palpable. My head slowly started to move forward by itself, millimeter by millimeter, toward Nicholas. My heart raced faster and faster, it was practically thumping out of my chest when I realized that he was leaning in, too. Right as I was about to close my eyes to welcome whatever was about to happen, I heard a group of people loudly laugh as they passed by behind us. I quietly chuckled to myself, thinking that may be my cue to leave.

Satiating my dose of Nicholas for the day, I dusted myself off and stood up from the beach chair, handing him my empty beer bottle, “I guess we will,” I said, not too much of a challenge behind my words. I grabbed my chair and looked back at Nicholas with a friendly grin before walking off.

I couldn’t shake the feeling of Nicholas’s eyes on me, but I powered through, making my way to my room. The second I entered, I went to the bathroom and stripped off my sandy clothes, turning on the shower to warm myself up from sitting in the cool, evening breeze. The hot water streamed over my skin, washing away the lingering chill from the beach. I let out a deep breath, closing my eyes as the steam began to fill the space.

My mind wandered back to the conversation with Nicholas. His words replayed in my head, their weight sinking in a little deeper with each memory: We’ll see about that.

After my shower, I slipped into a cozy tee and shorts, feeling a bit more grounded. I sat by the window, towel drying my hair, watching the moonlight dance on the water. The calm of the night settled around me, but my mind was still restless.

To distract myself, I turned on the tv, not caring what was on but making sure to keep the sound at a reasonable volume to not disturb Nicholas but just loud enough that I might not hear tonight’s mystery woman moan through the wall.

As the night stretched on, I tried my best to focus on the random show playing on the screen, but my thoughts kept drifting. Every sound outside my window, every muffled thump from the hallway, made my heart race just a little faster thinking it might be Nicholas arriving to his room.

The hours ticked by. I hadn’t heard anything from his side of the wall yet — not a voice, not the creak of a bedframe, nothing. It was almost worse than the alternative. The anticipation was maddening. I half-wondered if he knew I was waiting, if he was deliberately drawing this out just to mess with me.

Finally, around midnight, I heard the faintest sound of a door opening and closing. My stomach twisted, though I wasn’t sure why. I told myself I didn’t care, that whatever he did wasn’t any of my business. There were a few thumps followed by a silence on the other side. I tried to focus on the tv but my ears seemed to be tuned in on what was going on the opposite side of the wall.

Minutes passed, and the silence persisted. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Nicholas had turned over a new leaf tonight, or maybe he just couldn’t hook himself a lady tonight. But just as my focus started to drift back to the tv, the silence was broken by a clear, unmistakable groan — Nicholas. I half-expected it to be followed by the high-pitched moan of a woman, like it was both nights prior, but it never came.

I should’ve turned the volume up, drowned it out, or grabbed my headphones. Instead, I sat there, frozen, as the groaning grew louder — his voice, unmistakable and far too close for comfort. I hated how my body reacted. The heat in my cheeks, the way my chest tightened with every noise, the throbbing sensation between my thighs. I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought, but I let my curiosity get the best of me.

I slid off the bed and crept toward the closet, my heart pounding in my chest. My rational side screamed at me to stop, to mind my own business, but something about the sound of his voice pulled me in. But the little devil on my shoulder told me that I had already eavesdropped twice before, what’s one more time?

Opening the closet doors quietly, I leaned over the luggage rack and pressed my ear lightly against the cool surface of the wall, listening. The groans continued, low and guttural, accompanied by the light sound of a rhythmic wet slapping, sending an uninvited warmth through my body. It took a moment for me to realize there was no second voice, no telltale feminine giggle or breathy gasp. It was just Nicholas.

My breath caught in my throat. He's alone. The realization sent a shockwave through me, equal parts relief and something else I didn't want to name. He wasn't with anyone tonight. He was... taking care of himself.

I pressed my forehead against the wall, closing my eyes as his voice — raw, unguarded, and achingly intimate — filled my ears. My hand instinctively moved to my chest, clutching the fabric of my shirt as I fought the conflicting feelings that raced through me. However guilty I felt for listening in, I couldn’t pull myself away. I was entranced.

His groans deepened, interspersed with uneven breaths, and I felt my knees weaken. It was maddening how his voice seemed to reach right into me. My lips parted slightly, my breath shaky as my body betrayed me, responding to the sounds with a heat I tried desperately to ignore.

The wet slapping quickened, a whimper escaping his lips followed by erratic heavy breathing. I lost all inhibitions, slipping my hand under my underwear. I exhaled shakily, my head resting against the wall, feeling the vibrations of his voice travel through me. My fingers moved instinctively, slow and hesitant at first, matching the rhythm of the sounds spilling from him. Each groan, each sigh seemed to draw me deeper into a haze I couldn't escape.

My mind was a mess of contradictions: shame, desire, and something more dangerous — an unspoken connection, even if he didn't know I was there. I bit my lip, trying to stay as silent as possible, but the tension within me built with each passing moment, threatening to undo me entirely.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Nicholas quickly whined out, followed by a loud moan.

I slipped my other hand under my shirt, kneading my breast, as my fingers worked my throbbing clit. I felt the rapid beat of my heart as it matched the rhythm of his breath. The heat between my legs intensified, and the sound of his voice grew louder in my ears, pulling me further into the spiral. His groans were rough, almost frantic now, and I could feel every pulse, every heavy breath reverberating through the wall like it was echoing through my very bones.

I tried to focus, tried to pull myself out of this situation before it became something I couldn't undo, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't pull away, couldn't shake the pull of him. I closed my eyes tightly, my fingers rubbing harder against my clit in frantic circles, then moving them lower and slipping my middle and ring finger inside of me. Desperate, I pulled my shorts off me, letting them land at my feet.

My own breathing became erratic, escaping through my nostrils as I tried to keep myself from making any sound, biting the inside of my cheek and shutting my eyes closed as I pleasured myself.

His voice broke through the haze of my thoughts again. "God... need you..."

The words, the desperation in them, sent me into a frenzy. I couldn’t hold in my voice any longer — a quiet, whimper escaping my lips as I pumped my fingers inside me, pretending they were Nicholas’s. I could feel the tension in me coiling tighter and tighter the more I heard him talk through his pleasure.

A high-pitched groan slipped out of him, the wet slapping quickening even more. I could almost picture him on the other side — laying down in the middle of his bed, shirtless. his legs dangling off as he tugged at himself, his eyes shut as he grabbed at his hair, giving in.

My breath hitched at the vivid image in my mind. It was a dangerous thought, but one that I desperately wished I was there to see.

I could almost hear the strained breath in his throat, as if he was on the edge, about to break. The thought alone sent an electric charge through me, spurring me to move faster, my fingers pressing deeper, matching the intensity of his own rhythm.

"Please," he moaned, his voice broken, raw with need. "Fuck..."

The vulnerability in his voice, so exposed, so real, made me lose all control. I found myself unable to think or reason anymore. I was lost in him, in the sound of his pleasure, and in the dangerous path I was walking.

His voice faltered, his groans growing more frantic, and that's when I felt it — the sudden wave of warmth, the rush of sensation sweeping over me. But just as I was reaching my peak, so was he. Nicholas let out a sound so intimate and raw that it sent a shiver down my spine. Then came a low, guttural groan followed by the unmistakable — my name.

“(Y/N)- fuck!”

It happened just as I was about to reach orgasm, but I was so startled to hear my name that my eyes shot open and I stumbled back from the wall, knocking over the luggage rack below with a solid thud as it tipped over. I tried to catch it before it hit the floor, stumbling to reach for it, but my effort was for naught. A deafening silence filled the room after the loud noise quickly settled. The only thing I could hear was the loud thumping coming from my chest, becoming faster as I realized my predicament.

My breath came in shallow gasps, my body stiff with tension, caught somewhere between shock and embarrassment. On the other side of the wall, there was a beat of complete silence. I held my breath, waiting to hear something — anything — but nothing came. Not a footstep, not a sound. My mind raced, praying that Nicholas might’ve not heard the ruckus through his climax. Don’t orgasms dull one’s senses?

And then, as if the silence was suffocating me, I heard it. A faint creak — Nicholas’s door, opening then closing with a heavy thud. My chest tightened, anxiety coursing through my veins. I stood there frozen, my legs completely unable to move as if I had stuck them in buckets of cement. I felt every inch of my skin burn with humiliation. That’s when I heard a knock at my door, not light like the day before. It sounded desperate. I couldn’t run; I couldn’t hide. Nicholas knew I was in here.

Slowly, I inched closer to the door, my hand trembling as I reached for the doorknob. I tried to swallow my nerves, but I couldn’t fight the fact that I felt like I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I breathed heavily as I opened the door, clutching at the edge as my eyes fell on Nicholas’s heaving bare chest.

He stood there, his chest rising and falling, glistening from the thin layer of sweat that he had worked up. A slight satisfied grin played on his lips as his eyes trailed down my body, lingering on my bottom half as I stood there in nothing but my shirt and lacy underwear.

He didn't wait for an invitation, stepping inside as soon as the door cracked open, closing it behind him with a deafening click. We stood there, facing each other, the silence hanging thick in the air. I could barely meet his gaze, my cheeks still burning with humiliation. I stammered, hoping to explain myself with a pathetic excuse of a reason, but he interrupted me with a quiet shush, still smirking.

He placed a finger gently over his lips, his eyes dark with something unreadable. "No need to explain," he whispered, stepping closer, his presence dominating the space between us. My breath hitched as he closed the distance, cornering me against the wall, his body heat enveloping me, making my pulse race.

The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the room was closing in on me with every breath. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I couldn't quite figure out what to do with my hands, so I held them behind my back, pressing them against the wall.

“Were you listening in?” He asked, brushing his hand up my sides before it settled on my hip, my body trembling under his touch. It was everything I wanted him to do to me, and yet, I still felt nervous under him.

Too ashamed of myself to open my mouth to answer, I nodded my head hesitantly. Nicholas's smirk widened, but there was no mockery in it. No teasing. His hand slid to my chin, tilting my head up so that our gazes locked. There was no escape now — no way to hide.

“I hoped you were,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, sending shivers down my spine. His thumb traced the line of my jaw slowly, deliberately.

He was so close now that I could feel his breath against my skin, and I was painfully aware of how badly my body was reacting to him. His thumb brushed over my lips, and I instinctively parted them, my breath hitching as his gaze softened, darkened. I could feel the tension between us, so thick that I could almost taste it.

His other hand slid around to the small of my back, pressing me into him, the heat of his body sending waves of electricity through me. His eyes never left mine, and I could hear the rapid beat of my own heart in my ears, drowning out everything else.

Nicholas murmured, his voice dark and full of intention, "Did you enjoy what you heard?" His fingers tightened ever so slightly on my waist, as if testing my response, and I couldn't help the small, almost imperceptible nod that escaped my lips.

Nicholas's smirk deepened, and he closed the gap between us, his lips barely grazing mine. His breath was hot and intoxicating, and the world seemed to disappear around us.

“Were you touching yourself?” He questioned, his hand moving down to my hips, my body squirming the moment his finger hooked itself under the band of my underwear.

I closed my eyes, my lips parting at his touch, nodding my head again. My hands clenched behind my back, the urge to touch him overwhelming. But I couldn't seem to move, too caught up in the magnetic pull between us.

Nicholas's thumb traced the outline of my lips again, the action slow and deliberate. His gaze never left mine, and I could see the hunger in his eyes, the way he studied me like I was something he wanted, something he couldn't resist.

His voice was a whisper, low and intoxicating. "You can touch me if you want to." It was a quiet command, but there was an invitation in it.

I hesitated for a moment, but then, as if drawn by an invisible force, my hand slid up his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the soft skin. My fingers traced the lines of his collarbone, skimming down to the waistband of his pants before I pulled away, suddenly embarrassed by the boldness of the move. Nicholas didn't give me time to retreat too much, though. With a gentle but firm grasp, he pulled my hand back to his chest, guiding it lower, urging me to feel the hard planes of his body.

His lips parted slightly as he lowered his head, his breath hot against my ear. “Don't be shy,” he whispered again, his voice thick with desire.

I swallowed hard, my pulse racing as I let my hand roam over his body, feeling the heat radiating from him. The muscles of his chest were solid under my touch, his skin warm and soft in contrast. My fingertips trailed down to the waistband of his pants again, this time without hesitation. He didn't stop me, didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a low, approving sound, his body shifting closer to mine.

The closeness was dizzying. His scent filled my senses, sharp and intoxicating, and I couldn't help but pull him toward me by his belt loops and lean in, my lips just inches from his.

He took charge, his lips brushing mine softly at first, teasing, testing, until the pressure grew, and I found myself kissing him back without hesitation. The kiss was electric, hungry, full of that same tension that had been building between us for days. His hand slid around my back, pulling me closer, as I tangled my fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss.

My body responded to him, betraying all the resistance l'd tried to put up. I felt his hands everywhere — on my back, on my hips, his hands softly squeezing my ass, pulling me closer as if he couldn't get enough. A groan rumbled low in his throat as his lips moved to my neck, trailing kisses down the curve of my collarbone. I tilted my head back, surrendering to the sensation, every nerve alive, every thought clouded by the pull of him.

His hands slipped under my shirt, sliding along my bare skin, and I gasped at the coolness of his touch against the heat of my body. The intimacy of it all, the way he seemed to know exactly where to touch, how to make me shiver, was overwhelming. But I wasn't the only one lost in this; it was clear from his ragged breathing, from the way his hands shook slightly as they explored my body, that he was just as desperate as I was.

"Everything I did this weekend was to get your attention," Nicholas murmured against my skin. His lips pressed against the curve of my jaw, trailing to my ear, where he nipped at the lobe gently. "I've wanted you since the moment I saw you in the stairwell. I can't get enough of you, (Y/N),” his voice rough, almost pleading, “I want you.”

His confession hit me like a tidal wave, and for a second, I couldn't breathe. His words, his desire, everything he was feeling was laid bare before me, and I couldn't deny that I wanted him just as much.

"I want you, too, Nicholas," I whispered, my voice barely audible, but the raw honesty behind it made his body freeze. His hands paused where they rested on my back, and I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, as if he was trying to read my soul.

I, however, didn't hesitate. My hands found the sides of his face, pulling him back toward me as I kissed him fiercely. The kiss became frantic as our bodies collided, desperate, as though we were both starved for this connection. His hands moved quickly, pulling my shirt over my head and discarding it on the floor. I felt the cool air hit my skin, but it did nothing to dampen the fire building inside me.

I couldn't pull away. My body, my mind, all of it was consumed by him. His lips trailed down my neck, his teeth grazing lightly over the sensitive skin of my collarbone as his hands roamed lower, finding the waistband of my underwear again. I gasped as he gently tugged them down, his fingers brushing against my skin with an intimacy that made me tremble.

Nicholas was steady in his movements, never rushing, always making sure I was with him, always checking, always asking if I was okay with everything. But there was a fire in his eyes, a need that mirrored mine, a hunger that couldn't be ignored.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered against my skin, his voice thick with desire. All I could do was nod my head at his statement, ready to give myself to him.

He wasted no time, lifting me effortlessly. I wrapped my legs around him, hooking them behind his lower back. The feeling of his jeans grazing my bare center was enough to trigger a quiet mewl out of me. Nicholas groaned at the sound, his lips crashing back onto mine as he carried me toward the bed. When my back hit the soft mattress, I felt the weight of him settle over me, his hands bracing either side of my head.

His gaze bore into mine, his chest rising and falling heavily as he paused, his face hovering just inches above mine. For a moment, everything stilled, the only sound was the rhythmic beat of our breaths mingling in the air between us. As he settled down in the space next to me, propping himself up by the elbow, his free hand reached up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over my flushed skin with a tenderness that sent shivers down my spine. The both of us laid there, face to face.

His lips parted as if to say something but no words escaped his lips, the hand on my cheek slowly making its way down, down. It lingered, at first, over my sensitive breast, tracing slow circles around my nipple. I bit my lip at the sensation, digging my head into his chest as I quietly moaned.

Nicholas quietly giggled, amused to see me squirming under him, as he slithered his supporting arm behind my head and pulled me closer to him. His lips rested on my forehead as he slid his hand further down, enveloping my center. “God, you’re soaking,” he whispered; I could feel his smirk against my skin.

His fingers massaged my throbbing bud, then slipped his fingers into me, his touch deft and confident. I loudly gasped and clutched at his arm, arching into him. “Oh, fuck,” I quietly breathed, nibbling on my bottom lip to bite back my moans.

He smiled, “Don’t hold yourself back. Be as loud as you want,” he whispered as his fingers continued to coax me, his thumb massaging my clit.

Digging my nails into his shoulder, my chest violently rising and falling as he pumped his fingers, I shook my head. “Somebody’s gonna hear,” I stammered out through my labored breathing.

“So?” He questioned, slipping a third finger in. Nicholas's confidence was maddening, his tone both teasing and commanding, making it impossible to resist him. “Let them hear how good I make you feel," he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple.

My body arched involuntarily, my head falling back into the pillow as a moan escaped me despite my best efforts to stifle it. Nicholas was not having it. He quickened his pace, quickly slipping in and out with ease, as his thumb continued to circle around my clit. His lips kissed at my neck, his tongue licking my skin before gently sucking. I turned my head, my hand clutching at the back of his hair as I passionately made out with him, softly moaning between kisses.

I was unraveling beneath him, my body trembling as the heat coiled tighter and tighter in my core. My moans slowly became louder and louder, filling the room, and I knew there was no hiding how he was making me feel. The pleasure that I was feeling was so great that I couldn’t focus on kissing Nicholas anymore. I had to pull my head away, glancing down at his hand pumping in and out of me before shutting my eyes and burying my head into his chest again. I could barely find the strength to call out to him, my voice faltering as I moaned out, “Nic…”

"That's it,” he encouraged, his voice a low growl. "Say my name, baby,” his fingers reshaping themselves inside me to reach further

My breathing became erratic hearing him call me baby, my nails raking across his shoulder as I clung to him, "Nicholas," I cried, louder this time, no longer caring who might hear.

The sound of my voice seemed to spur him on, his movements growing even more precise, more relentless. His words, his touch, the heat of his body — it was all too much. "It’s ok; I’ve got you," he murmured against my neck, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along my skin. His gaze locking with mine, his fingers never faltering.

His words were my undoing. I shattered around him, my body arching as a wave of pleasure crashed over me, pulling me under. My cries of ecstasy filled the room, and I clung to Nicholas like he was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. He held me through it, his embrace steady and reassuring as I rode out the high while his fingers continued to coax every pleasure out of me, slowing to a stop.

When I finally came down, my body limped against his, Nicholas pressed a soft kiss to my lips, his hand leaving my core and coming up to his lips. I watched in awe as he licked at his fingers, wrapping his lips around them as he savored every trace of me with a deliberate slowness that made my breath hitch. His eyes never left mine, their intensity sending a shiver down my spine. I buried my face against his shoulder, my breathing still uneven.

He brushed away the damp hair from my face with the back of his pinky, “You taste even better than I imagined,” he spoke softly, his voice velvety.

The weight of his gaze was almost too much, but when I looked into his brown eyes, all I saw was warmth, tenderness, and something deeper that made my stomach ache. My stomach wasn’t the only thing aching, either. The entirety of me did — my hands, my core, my soul. I ached for him.

Desperate to have him at the end of my fingertips, I trailed my hands across his chest, settling on the nape of his neck as I captured his lips in a kiss. Nicholas replied with a soft groan, his hand finding my waist and his fingers delicately digging into my skin. The kiss deepened, our breaths mingling as I pulled him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against me. My hands wandered, exploring the contours of his back, his muscles taut under my fingertips.

I pulled my lips away, pressing my forehead against his, “I hope you’re not done with me yet,” I whispered.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, “Far from it.”

He cradled my head in his hand, angling it slightly as his lips moved with mine, urgent yet tender. Nicholas shifted his weight, moving slightly up on the bed, grabbing me by my hips and rolling himself over on the bed as he pulled me on top of him.

My legs straddled his hips, my bare skin brushing against the rough denim of his jeans. The friction sent a jolt through me, and I bit my lip, my eyes locking with his. His hands slid up my thighs, gripping them firmly as if grounding himself in the moment. His gaze roamed over me with unrestrained hunger, making my skin flush under his scrutiny.

His hands continued their slow exploration, sliding up to rest on my waist. "I could look at you like this forever."

His words sent a thrill through me, and I couldn't help but smile, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. He met me halfway, his hands tightening their grip as he deepened the kiss. I let my hands roam, tracing the lines of his chest and shoulders, marveling at the strength beneath my fingertips. His muscles flexed as he moved beneath me, his hands sliding up to cradle my back, holding me close.

My hips began to move instinctively, grinding against him, and Nicholas groaned, his head falling back against the pillow as his eyes fluttered shut. His reaction ignited something in me, a newfound confidence that made me bold. I leaned down, my lips brushing against his ear as I whispered, "Tell me what you want, Nicholas."

His hands gripped my waist tighter, guiding my movements as he let out a low growl. "I want you," he said, his voice rough with desire.

The intensity of his words sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn't hold back the smile that spread across my face. Leaning down, I kissed him again, pouring every ounce of my own desire into it. My hands tangled in his hair as our lips moved together, our breaths mingling as the space between us disappeared entirely.

Nicholas's hands slid down to my ass, his touch firm yet gentle as he guided me to move against him. The friction between us was electric, each movement sending waves of pleasure through me. His lips left mine to trail down my neck, his teeth grazing over my skin in a way that made me gasp.

"You drive me crazy, (Y/N)," he murmured against my collarbone, his voice raw, “you know that?"

I smiled, my hands bracing against his chest as I moved against him, my confidence growing with every reaction I drew from him. "I do now," I replied, my voice breathless.

Nicholas groaned, his hand digging into my skin as he bucked his hips upward, meeting my movements. His control was slipping, and I could feel it in the way his grip tightened, the way his breathing grew ragged. I continued to grind against him, trying to coax out the whimpers I had heard escape his lips when I was listening through the wall.

Nicholas's hands slid up my back, his fingers tracing along my spine as he tried to steady himself. His head fell back, his eyebrows tied together as his lips parted in a quiet moan that sent a rush of heat through me. But it wasn’t enough. I brushed my thumb against his bottom lip, slowing to a stop so he could feel the loss, teasing him with the occasional grind, “I want to hear you, Nic.”

He nodded his head, pressing me down against him as he bucked his hips upward repeatedly, desperate for me to continue. “Please, (Y/N),” he shut his eyes closed as he ground himself against me, quietly whining.

Smirkingly, I obliged, slowly continuing to grind against him. I rested my palms on his tense chest, bringing them down to the waistband of his jeans. His fingers curled into my thighs the faster I worked, moaning louder and louder.

“Fuck, I can’t—“ he threw his head back, raggedly moaning.

Looking at him in such a vulnerable state underneath me after days of having to deal with his cocky confidence, it made my blood rush. I played with the button of his jeans, undoing them and shimmying his pants and boxers off just enough for his hard length to free itself under me. I spit my hand, gently stroking him as I positioned his member at my entrance.

Nicholas let out a guttural groan, his hands gripping me firmly as I hovered over him, teasing him with my slow movements. I lowered myself onto him, taking him in inch by inch, the sensation sending a wave of pleasure coursing through my body. A sharp gasp escaped my lips, and Nicholas’s eyes rolled back, his head falling back onto the pillow again. The connection between us was electric, every movement, every sound amplifying the intensity of the moment. Nicholas's hands roamed over my body, his touch both tender and possessive.

As I rode him, I grabbed Nicholas’s hands, leading them to my chest. Even though he could barely keep his eyes open, he understood what I wanted, beginning to knead and pinch at my breasts. I moaned at his touch, bringing one hand of his up to my lips to kiss his fingertips before placing it back on my breast.

Suddenly, I felt him tense under me, arching his back toward me, "Don't stop," he pleaded, his voice becoming an octave higher, his grip on me tightening. "Please, baby, don't stop.”

I didn't. I couldn't. The rhythm between us was intoxicating, building to something that felt almost otherworldly. My name fell from his lips like a prayer, and the sound sent a surge of pleasure through me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.

Nicholas's hands fell to my hips, guiding my movements as his breathing grew erratic. "I'm close," he groaned, his voice a mix of desperation and pleasure.

I leaned down, my lips brushing against his ear as I whispered, “Come for me, Nic." My words seemed to break the last of his restraint, and his hips bucked up into me with an urgency that sent shockwaves through my entire body.

“Fuck, (Y/N), I —“ His words cut off as a guttural groan escaped him, his body arching beneath me as he came. The intensity of his release sent me spiraling over the edge with him, my body trembling as the product of his pleasure filled me completely, some of the creamy liquid slowly dripping out me.

The aftershocks of our climax left us both trembling, our breaths mingling as we tried to regain control of ourselves. I collapsed onto Nicholas's chest, his arms immediately wrapping around me, holding me close as though he couldn't bear the thought of letting go.

For a while, we just lay there, our bodies pressed together, hearts pounding in unison. His fingers traced lazy patterns along my spine, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath me, the steady rhythm lulling me into a serene haze.

He caught his breath, “That was….” a hint of a chuckle at the end of his words, “That was fucking incredible,” he said as he kissed the top of my head.

I pulled myself off of Nicholas, lying down next to him and covering myself with the bed sheets. I thought about what he had said earlier at the beach — I may not give in easily, but when I do, I give in completely. It felt nice to finally be seen by someone who could understand me even after only knowing me for a few days compared to other people who have known me for years and still manage to get things wrong about me.

I rolled over to face Nicholas, my hand finding his. He smiled softly, intertwining his fingers with mine and kissing the back of my hand. A smile curled at the end of my lips seeing him so affectionate, “When do you check out of the hotel?” I asked, playing with his hand.

“In the morning. You?” He asked, caressing my cheek with his other hand.

“In the morning,” I replied, my eyes flickering up at him to see his reaction.

He was quiet, not saying anything at first, however, he rolled me over and pulled me closer to him, spooning me and pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “We’ll have tonight, then,” he whispered, wrapping his heavy arm around my waist and nuzzling his head into the pillow.

My chest tightened at his words, and I couldn't help but smile softly. I rested my hand above his, intertwining our fingers. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep to the sound of Nicholas’s soft, rhythmic breathing.

A few hours later, which felt like minutes, I stirred awake to the soft light filtering through the curtains. The remnants of the previous night were scattered around — my shirt and underwear and his jeans and boxers strewn carelessly across the floor, the faint scent of Nicholas's cologne mingling with the crisp hotel room air.

The weight of his big, beefy arm draped over my waist anchored me in place. For a moment, I stayed still, savoring the warmth of his body against mine and the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek before I rotated in place so I could admire Nicholas as he rested.

We were so close that I could count the beauty marks on his face. There was one on his cheek and another on his chin. His lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, his lips slightly parted as he breathed deeply. I softly grazed my fingers over the scar on his forehead, wondering how he might’ve gotten it, though I’m not sure if I’d ever find out. He looked peaceful, vulnerable even, and the sight tugged at something deep within me.

I let my fingers trail lightly over his chest, tracing the faint outlines of the muscles that had pressed against me so urgently just hours ago. He stirred slightly, a low hum escaping his throat as his arm tightened around me instinctively.

His eyes fluttered open, landing on me before he closed them again for a few seconds, “Morning,” he murmured, smiling, his voice thick and husky from sleep. He opened his eyes again, gazing at me longingly.

"Morning," I whispered back, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze despite everything we had shared. His hand slid up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair as he leaned in for a slow, lingering kiss.

“Are we staying in?” he asked, shifting his body to face me.

I smiled, running a hand through his messy bedhead. "Oh, I wish," I admitted, my cheeks flushing as the memories of the night before flooded back, "but we have to check out.”

Nicholas groaned, his forehead pressing gently against mine. “Don’t remind me,” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “We should get some breakfast together before we leave.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, pushing myself up and sitting on the edge of the bed, stretching my arms. I let out a small sigh, feeling the weight of the moment settle on me. The night had been incredible, but the thought of leaving was already filling me with an unexpected ache. “Breakfast sounds perfect,” I said softly, faking a small yawn.

Nicholas and I didn’t waste any time. I changed into a clean set of clothes and packed up my things, my body slowly waking up the more I walked back and forth in the room. Nicholas put on his boxers and jeans and retreated to his room for a bit, quickly throwing all his stuff into a backpack before coming back to my room and helping me carry my bags to the car.

I think I was too somber to say anything, knowing if I did, that a “goodbye” might be attached to the end of whatever I say.

The silence between us felt heavy but not uncomfortable as we made our way to the café, our movements synchronized without the need for words.

As we entered, the delicious smell of freshly-baked pastries beckoned to us. The morning sunlight filtered through the large windows, casting soft rays across the inside. The sound of light chatter and the occasional clinking of cups and forks against the ceramic plates filled the air, but it all felt distant compared to the warmth between Nicholas and me.

He slithered his hand into mine as he led us to the register, politely smiling to the worker. He ordered his meal, a coffee and a Belgian waffle. I was about to order for myself when he interrupted. “She’ll have the Italian crème croissant and a pot of green tea, please.”

I couldn’t help but smile. That first morning in the café, I could’ve sworn Nicholas was so focused on his book that he didn’t realize what was going on around him; I had no idea he was paying attention to me the entire time.

He paid the worker for our food, letting her keep the change, and waked us over to the same table I had sat in both days prior. We sat close, our knees brushing under the table as we picked at our food, the conversation flowing easily despite the unspoken weight of the situation hanging in the air. After some minutes, the worker came over with our food, and we continued to converse while enjoying our breakfast.

Nicholas looked at me, his expression soft but with a hint of something more playful. “So, at what point are you gonna give me your number?” he asked, taking a bite of his waffle.

I paused, chuckling softly as I chewed on my croissant for a moment before meeting his gaze. “What?” I asked confusedly, trying to keep my tone casual, though my heart rate had sped up slightly.

“What, you thought you’d get rid of me so easily?” He took a sip of his coffee, shaking his head and smirking.

I laughed, the sound a little nervous but genuine. “I just didn’t want to assume anything or get my hopes up,” I admitted, giving him a sideways glance. There was a warmth spreading through me that I couldn’t quite place, something between affection and the lingering thrill of uncertainty.

Nicholas’s eyes softened, and he leaned back slightly, his hands wrapped around his cup. “Well, get your hopes up,” he said, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of something deeper. “because I don’t plan on letting go of you anytime soon.”

I swallowed, feeling my heart rate quicken at his words. There was something about the way he said it — so casually but with an intensity beneath the surface — that made me realize just how serious he was. And maybe how serious I was about him too.

“Alright, alright,” I said, smiling, trying to shake off the sudden rush of emotions swirling inside me. “Let’s trade phones.”

Nicholas’s smile widened, and he handed me his phone without hesitation, his fingers brushing against mine as we traded devices. I typed my number into the phone app, adding myself as a contact.

“Just remember we’re in different time zones before you decide to call me in the middle of the night,” I joked as I handed his phone back to him.

Nicholas laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made my heart flutter. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, slipping the phone back into his pocket then handing me mine, the screen off. “Though I won’t make any promises I can’t keep.”

I rolled my eyes playfully, but the blush creeping up my neck betrayed me.

We finished our breakfast. Nicholas quietly walked me over to my car. He walked close to me, his hand occasionally brushing against mine before finally capturing it. He leaned casually against the car with his arms crossed. He looked so effortless, so at ease, but there was something in his eyes — a softness, maybe even a hint of reluctance — that made it clear he felt the weight of the moment, too.

We both stood there silently, knowing this was our goodbye. Nicholas uncrossed his arms, stepping closer until he was right in front of me. His fingers tilted my chin up, and he searched my eyes, his brows knitting together slightly as if to say something. However, instead of resorting to words, he inched his face closer and closer until our lips grazed.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if we were both trying to hold on to the fleeting moment. But then, as if we both couldn’t help it, the kiss deepened, more urgent now, the electricity between us undeniable. My hands found their way to his shirt, pulling him closer, while his arms wrapped around me, his fingers pressing into my back as if he wanted to keep me there forever. Though, we pulled away slowly, our foreheads resting against each other as we caught our breath. Neither of us spoke immediately, both of us reluctant to break the spell.

Nicholas stepped back, “How about next time you have a free weekend you treat yourself to a trip to LA and come visit me?”

My heart skipped a beat at his words, the weight of his offer sinking in. I couldn’t tell if it was the sudden openness of his invitation or the quiet sincerity in his voice that made it feel so real. It wasn’t just a passing comment; it was an open door between us.

“I’d like that,” I said softly, surprised by how easily the words came out.

He smiled, his expression softening. “Good.” He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering as his eyes locked onto mine.

I wanted to say more — something that could make this moment last longer, something to ease the ache already starting to form in my chest. But the words didn’t come, and instead, we stood there, wrapped in silence, our connection hanging between us like an unspoken promise.

He gave me one lingering kiss, brief but filled with everything we couldn’t put into words. When we finally pulled away, he looked at me, as if taking one final mental picture of me standing there, before speaking. “I’ll call you.”

I nodded, feeling the flutter of anticipation start to rise inside me. “You better.”

He squeezed my hand gently before opening my car door and slyly rolling down the window, watching me climb inside and closing the door for me. He leaned on the door, softly smiling, “To be continued.”

I couldn’t help but smile and give him one final kiss through the open window so I could savor his taste before starting up the car. He stepped back, hands in his pockets, to give me enough room to back out of the parking space. I slowly reversed out, waving my hand at him and driving out into the street.

The quiet hum of the engine filled the space, but the silence didn’t feel empty. There was something between us, something that went beyond just a weekend. It was more than I’d expected, more than I’d thought I was ready for, but as I drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the end.

I don’t think I even left the neighborhood before a phone call interrupted my thoughts. My car’s entertainment screen lit up with the contact name in big, bold letters — Room 5.

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I tapped the answer button on the steering wheel. “Hey,” I teased, my voice light and playful, though my chest felt warm at the sight of his contact name lighting up my screen.

“Hey,” Nicholas’s voice came through, smooth and familiar.

It was just the beginning.

Continue the story with 'Making Room' here

#Nicholas Alexander Chavez #Nicholas Alexander Chavez x reader #Nicholas Alexander chavez imagine #Nicholas Alexander chavez fic #Nicholas Alexander chavez x fem!reader #Nicholas chavez #Nicholas chavez x reader #Nicholas chavez x fem!reader #father Charlie mayhew #father Charlie mayhem x reader #fanfic #x reader #Nicholas chavez rpf #nicholas alexander chavez rpf #fic-o-meter

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skzdarlings · 11 months ago

Text

bodyguard: the first guard | part one | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. please note this story will contain a great deal of physical violence, some committed against the reader and some committed by her. this will include fighting, training, torture, and parental abuse. there will also be explicit sexual content. chapter word count: 7500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Felix takes his place in formation. He is the youngest in the youth regiment at only ten years old, but he is no less competent. They all belong to the same special-ops program, a group of specially selected children raised for armed service. They are in the employ of Mister Miroh – and he says they will save the world.

The world is full of shadows, dank black holes and grimy stains so embedded that no regular agent can scrub them out. The young subjects of the soldier program are not regular agents. Their existence is their mission.

Felix has no life outside of the house of Miroh.

He stands straight. He looks forward. His feet are the appropriate width apart and his hands are folded behind his back. He holds this position as the trainers scour the lined formation, studying the young soldiers and reprimanding any flaw.

They need the best soldier for this mission. This is the most important assignment the regiment will ever receive. Felix has trained his whole life for this.

“Miroh has many enemies,” speaks the head trainer. It is a familiar speech, more important now than ever. “But our target is his local rival. This enemy family has been a corrupting force for generations, taking through inheritance what it has not earned. Miroh is not like The Enemy. Miroh is a solider like you. He came from nothing, fought for scraps, and built his own business one brick at a time. He understands the world and he will fix it through you. You will be his hands in the places he cannot reach. Your role is an honourable one.”

A trainer passes Felix. Felix straightens his spine that last infinitesimal degree. They touch his shoulder but do not reprimand him. It makes his pulse hammer with anticipation.

Felix is one of the best. There is a possibility they will pick him, if only because the actual best has a habit of—

“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Chris’s voice comes from a few rows back. “You know what they say: all work and no play makes—”

He is interrupted by a whoosh of air, probably a trainer punching him in the stomach. Felix closes his eyes so he does not wince.

“Bang Christopher Chan,” the head trainer says, his voice booming across the facility floor. “Step forward.”

Felix hears a frustrated sigh, then Chris stomps through the lines to reach the front row. Everyone looks at him.

He is an unassuming character. Not very tall but deceptively strong. Curly black hair and dimpled cheeks. Felix remembers that smile, the lilting and friendly, “Call me Chris,” when Felix was just six years old and first thrown into the regiment.

Bang “Call Me Chris” Chan is the best soldier here. Or he would be, if he did not hate the honour.

Even now he is glaring. Like the rest of them, he is dressed in combat clothes, the pitch black of Miroh. Unlike the rest of them, he stands with a lazy hunch in his shoulders. His dark hair is dishevelled and he scowls like a petulant teenager. He is thirteen going on fourteen but he is far from a normal teenage boy. Even compared to the rest of them, Chris is something special.

“Bang Chan,” the head trainer says. “You have been chosen for this assignment. Congratulations.”

Felix is not surprised. When Chris is forced to apply himself, it is abundantly clear he is the best soldier in the program by a huge margin. Felix is also not surprised when Chris responds with his usual verve and ire.

“Yeah, uh, you can go ahead and shove your congratulations up your ass, mate,” Chris says. He crosses his arms stubbornly. “Even if we kill this guy, do you really expect us to believe that’s the end of it? You’re putting us in the middle of a fight we didn’t start.”

He addresses the soldiers behind him just as much as the trainer. He even glances at Felix who glares back at him, unimpressed with the rebellious dramatics. Chris never learns. He gets more chances than the rest of them because he is so good. If he wanted, he could be unstoppable. He could use his strengths for good.

Instead, he just looks at the trainer and shakes his head.

“Nah,” Chris says. “You started this fight. I’m not ending it.”

A few of the adult guards move towards him. The gathered soldiers take a collective breath, watching with anticipation. It is common knowledge that thirteen year old Bang Chan can take a regular adult guard in a matter of seconds. When it comes to Chris, the question is not who will win, but will he fight at all?

He stands there like he has no intention of fighting. But before anyone can grab him, the door opens.

Miroh enters.

The room is so tense and silent, his footsteps reverberate like thunder. Miroh is every inch a soldier even in his blazer and tie. He walks with purpose, his face intent.

Walking behind him, keeping decent pace despite her smaller frame, is his daughter.

Miroh is a fighter who does not believe in unearned inheritance, so his daughter is trainee soldier like the rest of them. She is the same age as Chris. She trains with the regiment, one of the better agents, but she was not in contention for this particular job. People have tried to kill The Enemy before and it did not work, resulting in the death of innocents. Miroh wants a strong heir and he is not above putting her through the same grueling regime as the rest of them, but he will not recklessly risk her life.

It is fair to Felix. Miroh’s world makes sense. He believes in it. He believes in him.

So he is rapt as Miroh approaches.

The adult guards fall back and the young soldiers stand at attention. Miroh’s jaw is set with grim determination. He stares at Chris.

Chris drops his crossed arms. He is smart enough not to run his mouth at Miroh directly, but his frustration is clearly simmering beneath the surface. His fingers curl and uncurl in little fists.

Miroh stands in front of him. He speaks loud enough to address the entire room.

“I do not begrudge your desire for information,” Miroh says. “You’re soldiers, not animals. I acknowledge that you wish to know about the long-term goals for this company. But that is not your job or your purpose. This business is deliberately compartmentalized so if one cog in the machine fails, the apparatus does not cease to function. The results of your missions speak for themselves. What we’re doing is good work. That is all that matters.”

“Says you,” Chris blurts. Even he looks surprised by his own retort, though he does not take it back. He looks Miroh in the eye.

Miroh looks back. Then he reaches into the holster beneath his long coat and draws a gun. It is smooth, second-nature. Miroh is used to getting his hands dirty. His steady hand points the gun at Chris.

The trigger has not been pulled but the trainers already flinch. They know Chris is the best and they have worked hard to shape him, even if his stubborn mind is not molded as easily as his body.

Chris, himself, does not flinch. He stares down the barrel, unrelenting.

“You don’t want to do that.”

The soft interjection makes everyone pause. Heads turn and eyes dart, everyone’s attention transferring to the thirteen year old girl in the shadows.

Miroh does not lower the gun but he looks at his daughter. Chris looks at her too. Felix is not sure who is more bewildered.

The girl, herself, is calm. She has indubitably mastered a stoic countenance, not a hint of emotion anywhere on her young face.

“He’s the First Guard,” she states simply. “This is not worth killing him over.”

The First Guard. The other kids in the regiment sometimes call Chris that, though he doesn’t like it so it is usually behind his back. Chris does not like that he has been singled out. Chris does not like anything about the program.

This is Miroh’s second attempt at the youth soldier program. The operation raises soldiers from childhood to fight, to withstand pain, to feel no fear. This training is supplemented with medical treatments, hormonal injections that are only effective if administered in the crucial developmental years of childhood. It aids in building a body for soldiership, to take a hit just a little harder than most.

Chris is the only survivor from the first round of injections. He survived every test that followed. He is stronger for it, even stronger than the rest of them. He is a singular asset. He will never be replicated.

Thanks to The Enemy, none of them will ever be replicated. The Enemy recently attempted to recruit Miroh’s developers and killed them when he did not succeed. Detailed knowledge of the treatment died with them.

Miroh can never accomplish anything with his enemy on perpetual offense. Felix knows the stories like the rest of them, the generations of corruption wrought by a single wealthy family with its iron fist wrapped around the country’s throat. Miroh wants to free them. Felix knows if they kill this one man, if the household is left to rot in the hands of its weak successor, then Miroh can finally set everyone free.

It is a noble honour.

Chris does not see it that way. He never has. Maybe it is different for him, having watched those other children die. Felix understands it was a sacrifice, but a necessary one. The Enemy cannot be killed by a regular soldier. So many more innocents will die if he is left unchecked. Surely that is worth the price of a few soldiers. Wars have casualties. It will be worth it.

It has to be worth it.

Bang Chan, the First Guard – call me Chris – takes a deep breath. It sounds frustrated. He glares at Miroh’s daughter who is unaffected.

Felix looks between them. Then his gaze lands on another soldier in the formation. Seo Changbin is in the first row, a boy one year older than Felix. Not the best soldier, not second best, but not the worst. His most notable trait is his humour and his friendship with Miroh’s daughter. They are close – at least as close as anyone can be down here.

Changbin is looking at her right now, his gaze searing with intensity. Their eyes meet briefly and he shakes his head, a small motion, just enough for her to see. Despite his clear warning to stop, she is not dissuaded from addressing her father.

“With all due respect, sir,” she says to Miroh, “Eliminating Bang Chan would be a mistake. He’s the best soldier in the operation.”

“The best,” Miroh says. He presses the barrel of the gun against Chris’s forehead. Chris goes tense and everyone takes a breath.

His daughter is still unmoved. She is a quiet character in general. Felix has barely heard her speak never mind argue. She keeps her head down and goes about her work obediently. She is a good daughter and a better soldier.

Maybe that is why Miroh hesitates.

“He is not the best if this is how he conducts himself,” Miroh says.

“Father, aren’t you the best at what you do?” she asks without hesitation. “Surely a proper soldier like you should be able to control a little boy. Are you saying you are not capable of that task? It takes no skill to shoot a teenager. What message do you send to the rest of us if you have to resort to desperate measures to keep your own army in line?”

The silence is deafening. Even with a gun plastered to his forehead, a little dimple of amusement pops in Chris’s cheek. Changbin exhales. Felix is sick of standing still but he holds his form despite the growing tension.

The seconds feel like hours. Eventually, Miroh lowers the gun.

“Guards,” he says. The adult guards are immediately at his side. “My daughter has faith in our order. I would be remiss as a father to fail her.” He looks down at Chris and speaks with a snarl in his upper lip, “Let us all try our best to succeed.”

Miroh snaps his fingers and points at Chris. The guards swarm him, two of them taking an arm each. At least Chris is smart enough not to struggle. He is an indomitable force but he does not have an army at his call. He lets himself be seized.

“Take him to the Cell,” Miroh says.

An instinctive hiss leaves the mouths of a few soldiers. They have all been trained to withstand various degrees of torture, but the Cell is one of the worst. Even Felix shudders at the mention of it. It is a small windowless room buried deep in the bunker of the training facility, a small prison cell with no light and no warmth. Everyone has taken a turn in isolation, camped on the hard ground in the damp and cold and dark. Down there, minutes feel like days, days like years. At least literal torture causes sensation. The Cell is a great black nothing.

Chris does not argue, knowing it would be useless, but he does glare at Miroh as he is hauled away.

“Take her too,” Miroh says.

With a snap of his fingers, two more guards surface and grab his daughter. Her stoic expression finally fractures, true surprise bursting on her face.

“Me?” she asks.

“As my daughter, your perspective is acknowledged and appreciated,” he says. “As a soldier, you need to remember your place. Throw them in together. Double the people, double the time.”

Felix would not want to be shoved in that tiny space with another person. Certainly not if the trade was double the duration.

But then, Felix does not like company. He does not understand the exhausted look on Changbin’s face. Changbin isn’t being punished, so why would he feel anything?

Felix watches. He holds his form even where others begin to wane.

The guards and their prisoners leave. The door closes and Miroh looks over the regiment.

“Who’s the second best?” Miroh asks.

There is a beat of silence, the scene settling. The trainer finally clears his throat and looks down at his papers.

“Lee Felix Yongbok,” he says in that booming voice. Felix’s heart soars just as high. “Step forward.”

Felix marches forward, keeps his eyes ahead. Miroh approaches him. Felix does not flinch, not even when Miroh circles him like prey.

“He’s young,” Miroh says. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“I want to do good,” Felix answers. “I’m ready.”

They put a gun in his hand and a beanie on his head. He enters the world looking like a normal ten year old boy.

He puts a bullet in the head of The Enemy.

He suspects one day he will be back for the son and granddaughter.

He hopes it will be soon.

P R E S E N T D A Y

Despite your father’s remarkable propensity for making you feel like a child, you are a grown adult. You are intelligent and conniving and dangerously competent. In some ways, having been raised like a soldier beneath his merciless iron fist, you are more steadfast, more severe. Your life is carved into his, your fates tethered as one to his success. You are your father’s daughter, a Miroh, irrevocably a product of his upbringing.

You do not show weakness. You do not throw tantrums. You might spend twenty minutes in the lobby bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, and you might spend another five minutes shining your shirt buttons, then ten more folding and re-folding the lapel of your long coat – but walking into his office almost forty minutes late is not the same thing as throwing a tantrum.

You think you’re composed until you walk through that door, then the week’s anxieties expand in the cage of your chest. You are capable but you are not stupid. Miroh might be your father but he is a totalitarian man of influence and it would be foolish not to be wary of his power.

You are more apprehensive than you appear, but you march in there like a soldier, shoulders back and head high. You inherited your father’s marble expressions and stone stature. No one would ever guess your palms were so clammy, your neck hot and damp with sweat.

“I’m here,” you say by way of greeting. You are not characters to indulge in artificial small talk. There is no affection here and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone’s time.

“I won’t bother with pre-amble,” he says, predictably. ”You know why you’re here.”

“I do,” you say. “And I don’t agree with it.”

“I know you don’t.”

The argument ends just like that. You knew it was a dead-end protestation before you opened your mouth, but you had to say something. You are adamantly opposed to your father’s latest imposition.

A personal, twenty-four hour bodyguard. For you.

The decision was not made lightly. Your father’s business rival perished just under a month ago, the bloody circumstances extreme and mysterious. Until Miroh can ascertain what truly transpired at that house on that fateful night, then he cannot be too careful when it comes to guarding his own legacy.

Your father is a military tactician and business man. He is in the habit of bracing for every eventuality with a detached, pragmatic determination. Of course he wants you watched. This bodyguard assignment is imperative in protecting his house.

“I have a security team,” you say.

“They are insufficient,” he replies.

“I trained them myself.”

“They are too numerous.”

“I’ll cut down the roster.”

“Rotations open vulnerabilities.”

“And who’s to replace them?” Your patience snaps. “One of your dogs?”

“You are also one of my dogs,” he says, voice soft for such a venomous retort. It stings like a slash across your chest. “I would not disparage them.”

“Oh, of course, my apology.” You speak with the same false gentility. “What a thoughtful master you are.”

“I must be,” he says, “because the dogs still come when I call.”

There is so much contempt in his voice. He looks at you with more hatred than he ever directed to his worst enemy. It makes you want to leap across this room and throttle him with your bare hands, like you can shake the animosity right out of him.

You are too old to feel like a little girl on the verge of tears, demanding to know why her father does not love her. You have long since accepted there is no easy answer to that question. You would say that Miroh is simply not capable of love but you know that is not true. He can love. He just doesn’t love you.

You are the perfect heir, his exact replica in ability and countenance, but it is not enough. It will never be enough. No matter what you do, no matter how faithfully you obey him. You have bloodied your hands in the shadows while he takes the public credit. You have helped build the reputation of the family name. You have given him everything.

He rewards you with this.

You are not stupid. Regardless of his excuses, he does not want you under surveillance for your protection. You both know your personal training puts you leagues ahead of the overwhelming majority of agents. Your security team is a superfluous accessory as is.

Miroh has just witnessed the collapse of a previously impenetrable legacy. This does not put him at ease. The battle technician accounts for every possible manoeuvre. You know he foresees his own downfall just as easily as he sees his success. Unseated before his time, reputation annihilated, replaced by someone as savage and persistent as him.

A bodyguard will not protect you from the world. It will protect Miroh from you.

For all your inner turmoil, you are a steadfast rock, standing across your father in his office and exchanging a knowing glance. You are just like him. Of course he is scared of you. Of course he hates you. Of course he needs you.

The feeling is devastatingly mutual.

“Who is it?” you ask, calmly.

“Agent Slump, step forward,” your father calls one of the guards posted at the back wall. “This is your new bodyguard officer. He will accompany you at all times, day and night, including your office hours and service train—”

The agent steps forward as your father speaks. You draw your gun out of your chest holster and shoot when the man steps into your periphery. It blows through his shoulder and knocks him down, all in a piercing shriek that reverberates around the small room. The other guards flinch in the ringing aftermath.

You look at your father and re-holster your gun. You lay the lapel of your long coat back over your chest.

“He leaves something to be desired,” you say. “I would have thought you learned your lesson with these undertrained toy soldiers. Maybe a better bodyguard would have kept your wife alive.”

Your own mother died during complications in childbirth. Miroh remarried a few years later, a woman he genuinely seemed to cherish, a woman who was killed in retaliation for a deal gone sour. Nothing fills your father with more righteous fury than the mention of her. Miroh loved her almost as much as he hates you.

You know better than to retaliate with such childish rejoinders, but you want to hit him where it hurts, see something real on that stoic face. It garners you a flicker of rage, bathed in all that loathing, and it makes you smile.

“Let me know if you can find a competent replacement,” you say. “Until then, I have work to do.”

You turn heel and march to the door. The guards move out of your way despite lack of command. They have never respected you the way they respect your father, but they do fear you and it works the same way.

You are dressed for the office but after an unproductive hour spent stewing in agitation, you give up. The head of your security team accompanies you across town to the primary training facilities. Hidden in plain site, here Miroh has trained and developed some of his most deadly assets.

You are one of those assets. You spent your childhood in this facility, training among an elite selection of children, raised for the purpose of violence and victory. It was a unique program. It has never been revived, the medicant administered to the children lost and yet to be replicated.

You are one of the few still living.

Your training was relatively more lax. As Miroh’s daughter, the trainers could not let you die. But neither he nor they had qualms with letting you suffer. Miroh never admonished them and you never complained, at the time naively thinking that if you could prove yourself then he would care about you.

A foolish aspiration long since abandoned.

But the training has served you well over the years. It certainly comes in handy when you need to fucking punch something.

Your security team is comprised of regular soldiers so it does not take much to best them in a fight. The exertion is nonetheless liberating. You have always felt more at ease in action than behind a desk. Combat clothes are less stifling than formalwear. There is a reason Miroh never paraded you at parties the way his late enemy did with his late daughter. Your place is in a fight and always has been.

After a few rounds in the ring, you stop to rest. Your team knows when to leave you alone to brood. You lay back on the mat, flat in the ring.

There is a moment, as often passes, where you question your entire life. It has been a long, vicious fight, clawing your way to your position, that the road back out seems like an impossibly arduous task. Too much has happened, too much pain and loss. It has to mean something.

You cannot surrender now. The very thought has you reeling, physically painful to even consider.

This is where you belong. It is an irrevocable truth. You are a Miroh.

“Yah, murder princess,” comes a voice and the thud of booted steps. “Just three rounds? Tsk. You’re getting soft.”

You roll over, grinning even though you know better. You look up at Changbin who is dressed in similar fatigues, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark bangs brushing his smirking face.

“I was waiting for a real fight,” you reply. “Looks like I’m still waiting.”

He barks out a laugh.

Changbin is one of the few survivors of your father’s special-ops program. Unlike others who were imported from your father’s overseas operations, Changbin was raised right here alongside you. You do not even remember meeting him; he has just always been there.

He is a few years younger but he always held your attention, both because of his skill and his ability to retain a sense of humour. It was an often sought breath of relief in the conditions of your training.

You look at Changbin now, grinning and more jovial than someone like him should be. It is a testament to his resolute strength that he can hold a dual personality inside him. He has always been that way. He can flip between a stoic soldier and goofy guy in the blink of an eye. It is part of the reason you have never let yourself entirely trust him. Though you are fond of him, he is like you: just a little too good at what he does.

“Haha, the princess thinks she’s a comedian now,” Changbin says. He nudges you with the tip of his boot. “If you want to make me laugh, you should try fighting.”

“Oh, I see.” You cannot help but rise to his bait, like always. He is a perpetual little brother even though he is not your real brother and certainly not little anymore.

You swipe at him and he jumps back. Just like that, the pair of you fall into a long practiced dance.

It is not the gentle footwork of a real dance, but a violent collision and parry of limbs. It is just as musical and in sync, and somehow almost as tender. You know each other’s weaknesses as well as strengths. You know how to beat each other and how to prolong surrender, where to give advantage so the other can continue. You used to fight until the trainers called a tie, saving you both from selection for the loser’s punishment. To everyone else, it looked like a fight. To you, it was a conversation and consolation. Even if you had been in solitude for weeks, in that moment you were not alone.

Changbin reads you now, in every swipe and jump and dodge. In your matching black clothes and matching strength you collide and converse. Your frustration strains in every vein and his enquires are plain in the deliberate pause of his complicated steps.

“Daddy problems, ah, murder princess?” he asks, grinning.

He catches your fist before it collides with that smirk, twisting your wrist so you are forced to follow with a heavy drop. You roll together, a back and forth until you individually spring to your feet and face each other. You wait for the next move with equal calculation.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, batting a hit.

“Really?” he asks. “Because there are rumours in the pig pen that the general was looking for a big strong soldier to protect his little princess.”

He lets you clock his jaw but it is a satisfying smack nonetheless. A drop of aggravation is wrung out with your sweat. You wipe your brow.

“There was a change of plans,” you say.

Changbin laughs. He is loud, always so loud for someone who can be so stealthy.

“Of course!” he shouts. “Keeping the doctors busy today, are you?”

He really knows you too well. It is mutual. You side-step a movement and body-check him.

“Guess that’s what the general gets for choosing from the pig pen,” you say. You infuse your father’s title with all the sardonic venom it deserves and pig pen with the same playful mockery as always.

“Don’t be jealous,” Changbin teases right back, catching your taunt as easily as he catches your punch. “If you keep practicing, one day you might be almost as good as me.” He has been making the same wisecrack for years, laughing to himself every single time.

“Funny,” you say dryly.

“I am the best,” he continues to tease, embellishing his movements with an unnecessarily dramatic flair. “I’m sure that’s why the general doesn’t want me on bodyguard duty, right? I need a real job, not protecting the princess.”

There are a few rapid-fire moves, too taxing for speech. Then you manage, “Right.” You take his offered opening and catch the back of his knee with yours. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your probation after the last field mission.”

You expect to take him down but you do not expect the weight of his crash. It is not like Changbin to fully collapse under you, almost like he was truly surprised.

You are just as dazed by the impact. You loom over him, staring bemusedly, like you have no idea how he got on the floor.

It is not like Changbin to take a hit so personally. Of all your father’s soldiers, he was always the best at shrugging off his individuality in favour of a mission. He does not tend to dwell on his losses anymore than he lingers in his victories. The past is a heavy thing to carry into battle. He knows to leave it behind. There is always another job around the corner.

“You’re not still upset about that?” you ask.

The mission was shortly before the enemy’s downfall. Years ago, one of your father’s child soldiers betrayed an operation. Lee Felix switched sides and the enemy did not let your father forget it. But Miroh is an ever-calculating general who knows which battles are worth fighting. After one failed attempt at seizing the enemy’s daughter, he waited until the enemy came to him instead.

When he finally did, you caught him. You sent Changbin after his daughter and waited for the enemy’s imminent surrender. He retracted his operation but Felix, that loose canon of a traitor-turned-bodyguard, fucked the Mirohs a second time and disappeared with her. They all died a week later.

Changbin was noticeably uneasy after the job, but you did not think much of it. You were not worried about Changbin taking the mission too personally. Yes, Felix was a former soldier in this regiment, but Changbin is not sentimental. You chalked up his despondency to his loss. It is not like him to let a target slip through his fingers.

“Upset,” Changbin says. “Me?”

You know him too well. The joking tone is diminished, buried beneath the weight of his gloom. He tries to smile but it does not fit on his face, too big and too wide of a grin.

You tip your head, your regard scrutinous. You have no idea how to talk to him with real depth. You look at each other and understand it, but vocalizing it is another matter entirely.

Like he can read your thoughts, his face scrunches up and he says, “Yah, you, cut that out!” He shoves you as he gets to his feet, both of you stumbling. “I’m fine,” he says. “Come on, hit me again.”

You are certainly better at conversing that way.

You take a starting stance but you are interrupted when someone from your security team whistles. It is a warning whistle, the sharp tone a code for the arrival of your father.

You and Changbin straighten, turning to watch as Miroh approaches with a flank of armed guards behind him. They are all dressed for combat in their black uniforms and black masks. The half-mask is regulation for all field agents. It covers the bottom half of the face and serves as protection in the event of smoke from explosions or exposure to noxious aerosols and gasses.

It also undoubtedly turns a human soldier into a less-than-human figure. It obscures features, faces, flaws.

Sharp eyes stare at you, every face uniform and expressionless. There are half a dozen of them. Your father’s usual security detail trails behind them. Your security team eyes them in turn. The whole room feels like a pot about to boil over.

“What is this?” you demand.

“This is my adherence to our agreement,” your father says.

“Our agreement?” you ask.

“Yes.” He stops in the middle of the room, standing straight and steady. He looks at ease, like he barges in here with a small army every day. “You tasked me to find a competent replacement bodyguard,” he says. “So here is how this will go: whichever agent can beat you in a fight, right here, right now, will be your new bodyguard. If you defeat them all, I will drop the issue and leave the matter of your personal security to you.”

You look at his soldiers then at him. You force yourself to composure. It is not like you to instigate so much confrontation. You prefer to keep your head down and get the job done. Your father does not love you but he knows your work is reliable. Usually that is enough.

This entire escapade with the enemy has unravelled everyone. The house of Miroh should be more stable than ever, your father taking over assets left behind by the enemy, but the whole world feels changed. It is off its axis. You feel unsteady, your body braced for attack with no reprieve. You feel like you are looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. Everything feels wrong.

In difficult times, you fall back on training and soldier instinct. You are a battle technician, just as competent as your father. He is not going to drop the issue and this is a fair compromise. You can fight these guards. Half a dozen well-trained field agents is a handful but not impossible. Your body is built to be a little faster, a little stronger, to take a hit harder.

“Fine,” you say, a single grating syllable. You bite the word. Through clenched teeth, you add, “Let’s do this.”

You and Changbin exchange a look. He reflects your confusion, knowing you can easily take these guards, knowing Miroh knows that too. It makes you feel even more uneasy. Your father must be planning something but you do not know what. But you cannot control him. You can only control yourself. You can fight these guys. You can win.

You take a swig of water then stretch. The first guard takes a position in the fighting ring. You brace yourselves with a starting stance, measuring the other.

You wait, sweat dripping down your brow. You feel their eyes on you, every soldier, your father, your friend. Changbin stands off to the side, sitting in shadows.

It is where your kind belongs. You are not regular soldiers.

The fight begins and you take him down swiftly. Your game with Changbin was just that, a game. This is real. This is a battle. This is what your body was made to do.

One by one, you take out the agents. They charge at you, they swing at you, they even try to taunt you. You deflect it all. Your fist connects with a temple, your foot their knee. You pop joints and flip soldiers and springboard back to action.

You are getting tired by the last soldier but you do not let it show. You sweat profusely, breathing hard, but you run at him and take him down. Your bodies are a swirl of limbs and powerful movements. Then he is on the ground, groaning, and you are rising, victorious.

“Well?” you say. You cannot help but grin, elated from the sheer exertion of exercise, and proud of your triumph. There is a small, stupid part of you that hopes underneath everything, your father is proud too. That he must relent and admit you are good.

Miroh just stands there, unmoving and unaffected. It dims your smile, frustration returning. It simmers hot beneath your skin. It distracts you.

Pain explodes in your left cheek, so sharp and searing it turns the world dark for half a second. You see lightning flashes as you stumble, falling onto your side. There is another guard in front of you, one you did not even see enter the room. Did he drop down from the ceiling?

He is a blurry shape. You blink the stars out of your eyes, holding your throbbing head until clarity returns.

Then your stomach drops.

It is not a guard looming over you. He wears the same black combat uniform and the same half-mask, but everything about him is different, everything from his build to his stance to the ice cold slash of his dark eyes. Emotionless. Empty.

“Ah, I see,” you say, a breathless slur of words. You cannot stop your voice from shaking. “The First Guard. I should have known.”

There are only two living soldiers who can fight at your level. The only two survivors of your father’s special-ops program. One of them is Seo Changbin.

The other is Bang Christopher Chan.

He stands over you in his combat gear, unflinching and barely human. Even without the mask, you doubt you would see any humanity. There is not a single shred of the boy he once was. Chan was a problem for Miroh, once. That was a very long time ago.

That boy, Chris, is dead. He has been dead for years. The soldier in front of you is someone – something – else.

You get to your feet, slowly and shakily. He watches you. He does not speak and he barely blinks, his gaze a meticulous perusal, his body braced for anything.

Chan has the bloodiest, dirtiest hands of them all. He does your father’s worst missions, assignments with details that even you are barred from knowing. He is terrifyingly efficient, deadlier than any weapon in Miroh’s arsenal, and that is saying something because it is a substantial arsenal.

Your own hands are dirty but it is nothing in comparison. He is fast, he is deadly, and he feels nothing. He looks at you like a machine scans a calculation. A broken bone here, a fracture there. You are certain he is already picturing a hundred different ways to contort your broken body.

“Right,” you say.

You are a strategist. You know how to fight. You know when not to fight. But it is like instinct. You look at him and something says fight him.

You feel your father’s eyes on you. You are not sure who is teaching who a lesson.

You take a swing at Chan. He dodges it. He swings too, faster, but you anticipate it. You tuck and roll, moving faster than you have ever moved in your life. You are seldom pushed to the brink of your abilities like this. Even half your skillset is double what most adversaries possess.

But Chan is too much. You spend the fight on constant defense, blocking swing after swing, hit after hit. You take advantage of the smallest opening and crack your fist on his chest, only to realize he deliberately opened himself to it. He grabs your wrist and twists you around before you can retaliate. You are not used to such brute strength. You follow his twisting to prevent a sprain or fracture, which he anticipates. He grabs you by the throat and yanks you into him, right off your feet.

You choke, blue swarming your rapidly blurring vision. He slams you down on the ground, further disorienting you, still clutching your neck.

You dive somewhere deep inside your head. You collect yourself as per your training, then swing your knee up between his legs. It does not fully incapacitate him but it does discombobulate him. He lets go of your throat and you slide between his legs, jumping up behind him. He turns just in time to take a kick to the stomach, blasting him backwards to the end of the ring. He prevents a worse fall by forcing himself down on one knee.

You take the second he is down to catch your breath. You try to calculate your next move but your adrenaline is dwindling. Hopelessness settles in your chest. You cannot win this fight. At best, you can prolong it, but—

For the second time, you are blind-sided by pain. It shatters down the right side of your body, a winded shove that blows right through you. But it is not Chan. Chan is still getting to his feet.

You look up only for Changbin to bring his fist down in your face. It knocks you off your feet and you land with a heavy thud. Your heart races inside your aching chest.

You have never fought Changbin like this.

“What are you doing?” you hiss when he grabs you by the neck and drags you onto your feet. You come to your senses and fight back, but you are hurt and tired and he has been recuperating.

He punches you clear across the jaw and knocks you down again. The world tilts sideways, spotted with black and blue. Changbin drops on top of you. You cannot even wrestle him, so disoriented. He gets you flat on your front and pins you down.

Then he takes a second to whisper in your ear, “Stop fighting me, murder princess. Who do you want as a bodyguard? Me or that thing?”

If you were not so tired, you might have laughed.

Your life is so backwards. Changbin is helping you by beating the shit out of you. But it is undoubtedly helpful. He is right. If Chan beat you, then Chan would be your bodyguard. Your father would win. He would have one of his agents glued to your side. An agent you would never be able to shake no matter what you did.

But it is not Chan over you. It is your friend. Someone from the same shadows as you. Someone your father was not anticipating.

Changbin grabs you by the neck and yanks you up. You look at your father with blood dribbling out of your mouth.

“I win,” Changbin says.

Your father does not look happy. That should upset you. You and Miroh are bound as one.

But it gives you a thrill. His abomination of a soldier looms to the side, still staring at you, like he expects the fight to continue any second. You suppose Chan’s life is one big fight and always has been.

It doesn’t have to be that way for you, you think to yourself, a dangerous thought, one conjured by the feeling of your only friend holding you in his arms. It looks like a death grip to anyone else, purely technical, but you feel it, the way he cups your injuries carefully despite his bulk and power.

Miroh is scared. He is getting desperate. He wants you brought to heel. In doing so, he is only stoking your resentment.

That pot starts to boil over.

“Well?” you say, in a voice as rough as gravel.

“Yes,” your father says with a petty little snarl. “I suppose you have won, haven’t you?”

Changbin helps you off the ground. You suffer through your pains. You can feign steadiness for another minute, for long enough to retaliate.

You climb out of the ring. You pass the other injured guards. You walk right up to your father.

Miroh stares at you. You have identical glares, measuring each other. Two soldiers with the same fire in their blood.

You punch him. It is a nice sharp shot across the face, using all the strength you have left. You are one of the best. Despite your injuries, it is still one fucking hell of a punch.

Miroh falls back in an undignified sprawl, hitting the hard ground with a painful thud. He is good but he is not you. A fall like that would not have broken your bones the way it clearly fractures his arm.

“Until next time, father,” you say.

You step over him. His security team immediately surrounds him, helping him up. Your team comes to your aid as well. Changbin follows too, coming right up to your side. He grabs your arm and slings it around his shoulder, taking the brunt of your weight seconds before you would have collapsed.

You look back over your shoulder. The injured guards are tending their wounds. Chan is looming in the background like a living shadow. Miroh is clutching his arm and staring at you with fury pouring out of him. You walk away, smiling despite your injuries.

Your father should know better than to hit you.

You always hit back.

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