#it's called a queue sweetheart | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sytoran · 1 year ago

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𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 | barbie!wanda

Having been a Barbie her whole life, Wanda hasn’t got a clue about how her newly-human body works. Thankfully, you happen to be the best gynecologist in town.

pairing: innocent!barbie!wanda x fem!gynecologist!reader

word count: 2054

warnings: smut (18+), not exactly a dark fic - surprisingly consensual given the circumstances, just barbie!wanda exploring her identity and being corruptibly cute

Wanda didn’t quite know what to expect when she stepped foot into the gynecology centre. It’s to learn more about your body, Natasha had said, urging her to go. The doctors there will help you.

She hopes her doctor is nice.

“Name?”

“Wanda Barbara Maximoff.”

“Your queue number is 476. Please proceed to Room B when your number is shown on the screen.”

“Okay.”

The metal handle of the door is cold.

That’s the first thing Wanda registers when her right hand meets the shiny surface. It’s a contrast to the warm blood that flows within her body, thrumming in her veins and sliding under the surface of her supple skin.

Temperature. Texture. Telltale emotions.

It’s a whole new world, really, with a human body. Wanda certainly isn’t used to existing within one that isn’t Barbie-like.

She can’t jump out a window and fly two floors down without breaking any bones. (You don’t want to know the story behind that.)

She can’t walk out of the house in full-body neon pink, either. (That one can be achieved with a severe lack of others’ opinion, but Wanda gets this human thing they call ‘anxiety’.)

Change.

That’s what it’s called, experiencing new things, and that’s what this is about.

Wanda pushes down the door handle. She can do this.

“First time?”

“Uhm, yes.”

The doctor’s back is facing Wanda, going clickety-clackety on the computer that actually works and is not made of plastic. It’s a female gynecologist, just like she requested. (Wanda loves women! She’s all for strong and independent women.)

Wanda probably staring at the back of the doctor’s head a little too hard, but then the doctor swivels in her chair, finally turning to face Wanda, and turns out Wanda actually can’t do this anymore.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Y/N, and I’m your gynecologist.”

(This Barbie is going through gay panic, except she doesn’t know it.)

Of all the things that could possibly happen to her, of course Wanda's gynecologist is the most attractive person she’s ever laid her eyes on.

This was not how this was supposed to go. Wanda’s brain is short-circuiting, and she has this new feeling coursing through her body that causes her heart rate to speed up exponentially. It’s new. And different. And oddly nice.

“Wanda? You alright, sweetheart?”

The blonde snaps out of it with a flushed face, snapping her jaw shut. Sweetheart? Vision – a Ken – had tried calling her that once. She didn’t like it.

Sweetheart.

Wanda decides that she likes the way you say it.

“Yep. I’m right here. Sorry.”

You get this side smile on your face for a moment, something flickering in your eyes as you stare at Wanda, and it causes the biggest shiver to run down her spine.

Wanda’s heart is palpitating uncontrollably. If anyone heard it right now she’d probably die of embarrassment.

You pull out a stethoscope.

F***. (She learnt that word from Tony.)

Wanda’s skin burns under your touch, as you place the medical instrument over her chest, listening keenly to her heartbeat.

The blonde thinks she’s going to pass out, with the way you move your rolling chair over so close your legs could touch hers.

“It’s quite fast,” you murmur, your voice taking on a lower tone, and Wanda has to physically swallow before her heart breaks through the constraints of her ribcage.

“O-oh,” Wanda responds breathily, a lot higher-pitch than she had anticipated, and she swears your eyes darken just a tad bit. (She doesn’t know what that implies. But it’s kind of hot.)

“Turn around,” you continue, moving back slightly to give your patient space. Wanda releases the breath she was holding and steals all the air she can, but when your hands slide up and under the back of her shirt, all that air is lost again.

It takes every cell of Wanda’s existence not to let out a whimper when you apply pressure on the stethoscope, right above the clasp of her bra.

That new feeling has been amplified by a thousandfold, travelling from your touch to her skin to her heart and right between her legs.

(This Barbie is experiencing lust.)

“Alright, I’ve been informed that you’re a rather special case, Wanda,” you comment, not unkindly. “You don’t have any past medical records. So today I just want to check that everything is in good condition. We’ll do a quick pelvic exam to test your sexual and reproductive health, is that alright with you?”

Wanda doesn’t know what a pelvic test is. But she’d do anything you told her to, honestly, so she just nods.

“Okay, so you need to strip and lay down on the bed for me.”

“...Huh?”

(This Barbie is thinking dirty thoughts.)

Wanda is clothed in a blue surgical gown. She doesn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed for that.

All she knows is that the material is scratchy against her chest (or more specifically, her nipples are all tingly — she’s not quite sure what that means yet, but it feels strangely good), and that your gloved hands are spreading her thighs open on the operating bed.

Her feet meet the stirrup supports at the end of the bed, knees falling open, and the way you move your rolling chair between her legs in a swift motion has Wanda questioning how she ever entertained the idea of liking Kens.

Your hands run down the expanse of her thighs — probably a little longer than you should have, not that Wanda’s complaining — and your gaze locks on the pinkish bareness of Wanda’s pussy.

The reaction is instinctive, non-commital, subconscious. “Uhm,” Wanda whines, trying to close her thighs. She squirms under your inspective gaze, biting into her lip and trying to shift away from the grip of your gloved hands.

She’s so bare, so open, so vulnerable. But that’s not what scares her. It’s the fact that she doesn’t mind, not around you.

You seem to catch wind of this, and don’t release your grip on her thighs.

Wanda stares at you with her heart hammering in her chest. Wide-eyed and flushed. The pulse grows from her chest to between her legs and that’s never happened before.

“Sweetheart,” you murmur, very softly, and Wanda melts like putty in your arms.

Her knees fall open again.

The rest of the examination goes somewhat smoothly.

Save for the embarrassing little squeaks Wanda makes when you peer a little too closely at her cunt, it’s not too bad.

She knows you’re discerning possible signs of swelling and soreness or something along those medical lines Wanda is hardly an expert in, but what’s more concerning is the warm liquid pooling in her lower belly.

Wanda’s never felt like this before, especially not as a Barbie, especially not this vividly.

When that warmth spreads to the tip of her folds, threatening to emerge on its surface, Wanda’s breath catches in her throat. She doesn’t know what it means that she’s going to be wet.

“All done,” you comment, leaning back, and Wanda’s legs snap shut just as her pussy grows damp, for the first time.

Crisis averted.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say, almost sadistically, watching her reaction with an amused look. “That’s just the external visual exam. The second part of the pelvic exam is where I get down to the real stuff, yeah? I’m going to have to put my fingers inside you.”

(This Barbie is dangerously close to passing out from skyrocketing levels of libido.)

“I normally use lubricant on my gloved fingers for my patients, but I have a feeling you won’t need it,” you comment dryly, casually tugging off your surgical gloves and tossing them into the trashcan.

Wanda is too embarrassed to respond. Her face is flushed, her nipples are extra tingly, and her pussy is thoroughly soaked at this point.

And you’re just there, sitting between her legs with your hands on her thighs, a very badly hidden smirk on your face.

She kind of wants to slap your dirty mouth. Or maybe kiss it.

“This is a speculum,” you announce, pulling out a metal-hinged tool. “And I’m going to use it to keep your pretty pussy open. Make sure you don’t close up on me again.”

Wanda squeals at your choice of words, slapping your arm in embarrassment. At this point, there’s hardly a need for professionalism, but she’s still not used to the whole thing.

You let a laugh slip from your lips, thoroughly enjoying yourself as you put the medical instrument in place. Wanda’s so pretty, so innocent.

A more sensual look takes over your features when you’re greeted with the sight of her glistening cunt again. Precious.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

“Oh!” The high-pitched noise Wanda makes when two of your fingers push inside her pussy is downright filthy.

The sensations of your warm fingers bounce all around Wanda’s body and the room. It’s only your fingertips, and you’ve barely moved at all, but Wanda’s slick is dripping and she’s already stimulated like she’s never been before.

“More,” Wanda whines, bringing her hips up, urging you to continue. You press her down by the lower belly, your warm spreading out over her skin.

“This is an examination,” you state, no room for question. Your eyes narrow, and Wanda gulps. “We’re doing it how I like it.”

The blonde looks up at you with those doe-green eyes, pouting adorably, before nodding obediently. She’s been so busy ruling Barbieland that relinquishing all that power for once might certainly be pleasant.

You continue to slowly slide your two fingers in her cunt, and Wanda lets out a whimper. Her body moves with your touch like you’re her puppeteer, but maybe she needs it because this feeling is so, so new.

“Feels s’good,” she gasps, and you want to chastise her because it technically isn’t supposed to feel good, but you see the dizzied look on Wanda’s pretty little face and you relent.

It definitely isn’t the first time you’ve had your fingers in a woman, so your practiced fingers curl with expert ease to find her sweet spot. “Oh!” Wanda moans, louder, lithe body arching on the operation bed.

“Shit,” you swear, fingers curling again so you can see that exact reaction. You start to move, faster, harbouring this carnal desire to make Wanda scream and beg.

She’s so innocent, so corruptible, so easy.

Sooner than later, you’re bent over Wanda’s body on the bed, wrist hammering in and out of her sweet pussy, finding all the spots that make her weak.

“Pretty girl,” you pant, biting hickeys into collarbone and her breasts. Her blonde locks are splayed out on the pillow, body shaking with each thrust, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and it’s the most breathtaking sight you’ve ever chanced upon.

You memorise every stroke that makes her arch, every spot that makes her whine — perks of being a gynecologist, you supposed — you find your way around her body like it’s child’s play, and all too soon Wanda’s nearing a hypothetical edge.

“I think- I think I’mna pee,” Wanda cries, clawing at your wrist because the feeling is too much. She can hardly think, at the sheer pace and ferocity of which you were taking her cunt.

“Ever heard of a clitoris?” you question breathlessly, still pummeling your wrist into her soaked pussy. Wanda’s dripping, actually dripping. If she thought she was wet before, she was now soaking the sheets.

“Wh-what?” she responds, equally as breathless. Her mind was all fuzzy, barely registering your question.

“It’s this,” you add, bringing your thumb to harshly press against her swollen and puffy clit.

Wanda screams.

(This Barbie reaches another plane of existence with fantastical pleasure.)

It turns out Wanda is a ‘squirter’. She doesn’t know what the implications of that are.

“Do I need to come back next week?” Wanda asks innocently, knowing full well gynecologist visits only needed to be scheduled once a year. She’s perched on the edge of the bed, back in her clothes.

“Definitely,” you respond, scanning over the test results calmly, like you hadn’t just made Wanda squirt twice in less than thirty minutes.

“Doctor’s orders?” Wanda asks playfully, purposefully batting her lashes when you look up from your computer.

You don’t bother hiding the chuckle that leaves your lips at her antics. “Yeah, doctor’s orders.”

a/n: you do not want to know how many health sites i visited to learn about pelvic exams and gynecology. | main m.list

#marvel smut #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x reader smut #barbie #the barbie movie #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x you #bottom wanda maximoff #sub wanda maximoff #top reader #dom reader #x reader #wlw smut #gxg smut #barbie 2023

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boneblushed · 11 months ago

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Labyrinth

Uh oh, I’m falling in love / Oh no, I’m falling in love again

synopsis you’re reunited with your ex-boyfriend, Rafe, at an Outer Banks wedding.

tags Rafe Cameron x fem!reader, exes to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn-ish, A LOT of angst, an equal amount of pining, an awful breakup but a wonderful reconciliation 💓

wc ~11k

“You look,” you murmur, squeezing Brooklyn’s shoulder gently, “perfect.”

She’s sitting in front of a round, gold-rimmed mirror, the windows on either side of her painting her skin a warm aureate. You stand in shadow behind her, the sunbeams unable to reach your pretty features. There’s a wistfulness to them that’s almost imperceptible.

Almost. If she weren’t your best friend, someone you’ve known since forever, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the way you were hiding from them. The smile on her face falters as she looks up at you through the mirror.

“Look,” she begins tentatively, frowning, “if this is too hard —”

“Do not,” you interrupt. You try for an encouraging smile; what you hope is an encouraging smile. “I’m totally fine, okay? I’m over it.”

A pause. Brooklyn’s reflection sends you a long, hard look. “No one would blame you if you weren’t.”

You know what that means, the insinuation behind her words: you were supposed to be the first one. It’s all anyone in the Figure Eight was saying when they first found out about your break-up: you’re meant for each other, though, we can’t imagine you not being a couple!

Well, neither could you, not that it really mattered. Six months on with half a heart and pulseless motive, you’ve come to realise that wretched pining comes at a costly price.

You can’t afford it anymore.

“I know,” you reply quietly.

The spaghetti strap of your cowl neck falls as you straighten, the periwinkle fabric shimmering forebodingly. An image of the Rafe you knew flashes in your mind, slipping it down to press a kiss on your skin. Your stomach drops.

“But I am,” you add, louder. As though you’re trying to convince yourself more than you are her. “I promise.”

Brooklyn stares at you for a long time before her gaze falls, acquiescing with a sigh. “I hate that you still don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That he could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve you.”

You bite back another wince, the fresh sting of forgotten feelings pricking at your eyelids. “I do believe it,” you say quietly. “I do. That’s what makes all of this so fucking hard — that I know we’re never getting a second chance. That he chose to throw all of it away and I’m never going to be able to forgive him for it.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though!”

“We were together for half our lives, Brooke!” You turn away from the mirror, taking in a jagged breath. “We — his mom had promised me her ring before she died, for God’s sake. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to walk away from what we had?”

A long pause. Brooke’s voice is gentle, but her words cut like a knife. “It’s not as though you had a choice, Y/N/N. He didn’t give you one.”

You look around at her, unshed tears making your pretty eyes shine. “What does it say about me that I’m no closer to accepting that than I was six months ago?”

“Babe.” A tear falls. Brooke’s features soften, and she pulls you into a tight hug, enough pressure to wring out the melancholy in your chest. “It says that you’re human.”

She rocks you for a moment before you’re forced to pull apart, a knock on the door breaking your reverie. “God,” you self-reproach, sending Brooklyn a watery smile. “I would find a way to make your day about me, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe I should ditch Kelce,” Brooklyn replies faux-seriously, catching the stray tears wetting your lower lids. “We can elope or something.”

As though on queue, the Universe intervenes before she can go through with this idea. Perhaps it knows, having watched the pair of grow close throughout college, that there’s a part of her that really would call this all off if you asked her to.

“Sweetheart!” Comes Brooklyn’s father’s voice from behind the door, punctuated by the sharp rap of his knuckles. “It’s nearly time!”

The tension ebbs. Suddenly, everything about this wedding—the same one you’ve been helping her plan forever—becomes entirely too real. Your melancholia is a tide in this way, flowing forth and receding as its surroundings permit. Never fading away; ever-present. Though it may not be as unbearable now as it was when you first broke up, it lingers.

You’re afraid that it always will. You push down this fear like you’ve done every other.

Focus. Your eyes widen in anticipation, mirroring Brooklyn’s as they transform into nervous excitement.

“Come in!” Brooklyn calls anxiously, biting back a squeal. You’re grateful for the fact that you haven’t ruined her mood completely. “Oh my god. Oh my god!”

She stands up and turns around just as her father enters the room, his lined face shining with a wistful sense of happiness. As the atmosphere in the room shifts, she glances back at you, and your insides twist in cruel mocking. More repentant than jealous. I was supposed to be the first one.

You don’t let your expression falter. The first few chords of the processional float into the room through the ajar door, and you spring into action, smoothing out your dress and readjusting your bouquet of flowers.

“That’s my queue,” you say, squeezing her arm once more before slipping past her and her father.

In true Kook fashion, Brooklyn’s wedding ceremony is taking place on the Island Club green. Upon exiting the storage room you’ve transformed into a vanity, you find yourself in the entranceway that leads to the venue, the set-up just visible beyond its oak doors.

Benches of beige driftwood sit on either side of the aisle, twined with buttery white lilies and ivy-like viridescence. They face a brilliant floral wedding arch, where the officiant and Kelce stand talking in hushed whispers. And the sky above you is a vibrant, cloudless blue, golden sunlight fanning down upon the crowd, bathing them aureate.

In the beat that passes, you search for someone you shouldn’t.

The last time that you saw him, he was hunched over his father’s office desk. His eyes were bloodshot and his tired gaze dull; half-finished documents stared up at him in mocking, and a nagging ache was making home in his chest.

The week prior, you hadn’t seen much of each other. And it wasn’t as though he’d requested this space—he rarely did, rarely asked you for anything—you’d just taken it upon yourself to give it to him. Stay in control. If you proposed time apart before he did, maybe it would feel more deliberate; hurt less.

You were dead wrong.

“Look,” he sighs, this cruel, heavy sound that splices right through your chest, “I realise I’ve been neglecting our relationship a lot recently.”

“Yes,” you respond tentatively. “But you’ve been under a lot of pressure recently. I get it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” He glances up at you through red-rimmed irises. “I… I don’t know how long it’ll be like this. With everything that’s happened… my dad dying, and me taking over the firm —”

“I’ve seen you through all of it,” you interrupt quietly, your voice cracking. “I’ve — no questions asked, I’ve done it. I get it, Rafe, you’ve got different priorities at the moment. But we’ve loved each other for so long now that I —”

“But that’s the thing,” he says then, swallowing hard, “I just don’t know if I do anymore. Not as much as I used to.”

The silence that follows feels as though it’s suffocating you. You haven’t said a word, and Rafe’s said plenty, but it’s you with the lungs that heave for loveless oxygen.

“Oh.”

Rafe’s Adam’s apple jumps again, and he breaks eye contact as unshed tears brim to the surface. “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Maybe,” you try, grappling hard for a logical explanation, “maybe your grief’s fucking with your ability to feel anything.”

Rafe’s gaze lifts to your face again, teardrop tracks making your pretty cheeks shine. His heart aches, hard, and he finds it difficult to catch his breath. “But… I’ve dealt with it,” he says quietly. “I’ve had to.”

“How can you have?” You throw back, exasperated. “Rafe you — you haven’t had a moment to yourself since his funeral last month, you’ve holed yourself up in his office and acted like everything’s fucking okay!”

“Because it is!” He replies, his face hardening momentarily. “I’m — I’m fucking fine, alright? I just need to be alone right now.”

“Because you don’t love me anymore.”

Rafe winces. Your lower lip trembles. “Yeah. Because something’s missing… the — the fucking spark, or whatever… and right now, I can’t give you the sort of love you deserve.”

He was tired of hurting you through his abjection, he’d said. As if breaking things off wasn’t the most hurtful thing he ever did.

Thankfully, you aren’t able to spot him in the crowd; if you had, walking down the aisle would have been infinitely more difficult. Out of courtesy to you—and Brooke forcing his hand, of course—he hadn’t asked Rafe to be a groomsman either, so you were well safe from an untimely encounter at pre-wedding festivities. And from standing opposite him in front of the altar. You aren’t sure such close proximity in holy matrimony would be healthy for either of you.

It’s unfair on him though, you know it is. He has as much a right being best man as you do maid of honour — the four of you were thick as thieves once upon a time; in fact, it was you that’d introduced Kelce to Brooklyn.

It feels like so long ago when you think back on it now, being nineteen-years-old with a naïve heart and nothing to lose.

You and Rafe had seemed invincible then, high-school sweethearts that were somehow surviving college-borne distance. Forever, that’s the word that ended every drunk call or late night text; forever, and the promise of a proposal and beach-side villa.

“Shi—did you not see the sock on the door, Smith?” Rafe groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in defeat. He’s spent the past half hour getting you into a compromising position, his rough hands awry and his wet mouth on your soft skin. The amaranthine imprint of his kisses have made home on your neck. You’re straddling him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he really doesn’t want to sacrifice any amount of closeness.

Kelce enters the room tentatively, his hand firmly pressed over his eyes. “Hard to miss. You two decent or what?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out a peal of laughter as Rafe glowers at his roommate, his calloused palms dropping from your hips to your thighs. You push the fabric of your dress over his hands, but he kneads the flesh anyway, the skin on skin like spare oxygen.

Kelce peeks at you from between his fingers before pulling them away, an unimpressed look on his face. “C’mon, surely you’re done with her Cameron. I’ve given you guys the entire fucking day together.”

“Half an hour,” Rafe replies, his blue eyes narrowing.

“As if you need more than five minutes,” Kelce snorts, plopping down on the bed opposite Rafe’s.

“Oh fuck—” Rafe’s large hands circle your thighs and tighten, standing up and advancing toward Kelce with you in his arms, “—right off—”

“Rafe!” You gasp, suppressing another surprised laugh. “Put me down, you asshole.”

“No way, Y/N/N,” Kelce says then, raising his arms in preemptive surrender. “Your PDA’s the only reason he hasn’t given me a shiner yet.”

Rafe affirms this sentiment by pressing a chaste kiss to your temple, his eyes still narrowed as he glares at Kelce. “You’re lucky I love my girlfriend more than I do my fucking reputation.”

Kelce makes a face, keeling over and mock-gagging. “Yeah, yeah, you guys have been bethrothed since fucking pre-K, I get it. Now will you stop being so possessive and let me have a conversation with her?”

You look over your shoulder at him, untangling your arms from Rafe’s neck so he can let you down gently. When he does so, it’s with great reluctance, and he doesn’t hesitate to circle your chest so he can pull you back against him. His strong bicep is warm against your neck, solid pressure.

“What’s up, Kelcey?” You ask, surveying him with interest.

“Ghosted,” he says gloomily, falling back against his duvet, “again.”

Rafe glances down at you at the same time you look up at him, a sage, sympathetic emotion passing between you. In the weeks after your break-up, you’ll come to yearn for this emotion more than anything else — that feeling of being immune to inadequacy, of having found the love of your life so effortlessly.

“You’ve gotta stop coming on so hard, bro,” Rafe says, resting his chin on your forehead. “These sorority chicks are probably all looking for something casual.”

“He can’t help the fact that he’s a lover boy, Rafe,” you defend, frowning. “You’ve just gotta find a girl that wants what you want, Kelce.”

Kelce raises his head hopefully. “Know anyone like that, Y/N/N?”

“Well,” you pause, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully, “I am thinking of inviting my roommate Brooklyn to the Bahamas over summer break —”

“To Rafe’s?” This piques Kelce’s interest. He props himself up onto his elbows, a hopeful grin transforming his features. “Sold.”

How times change.

Today, Kelce stands at the other end of the aisle, waiting for the same Brooklyn that was once your roommate, now his almost wife. He’s wearing an elegant black tuxedo with a lily tucked into the breast pocket, its buttery white petals shining in the sun. He looks so, unimaginably, happy. It should’ve been you and Rafe. Your heartstrings twinge.

“You’re not ready,” you murmur as you pass him on the altar, finding your place opposite his best man, Topper.

Kelce smiles at you, a little nervous, a little unshed. “Will I ever be?”

You shake your head, smiling in tandem.

The wedding procession is a brilliant display of love, and you find a way to make it about your lack thereof. Seconds blur, minutes melt into each other, and your poor mind strays to when things were far simpler. The Island Club was your date night spot, once upon a time. It’s where you’d envisioned you’d get proposed to; where you would get married one day, too. Just like this.

You’re happy for them, you swear it. It’s just a difficult emotion to maintain when the opposite comes so naturally.

Rafe doesn’t arrive until the reception itself.

He wants to believe that this is entirely accidental — he’s had a long day at the office, filled with several meetings with prospective clients. He can’t though, his wretched conscience won’t let him. He chose to go to work today, chose to schedule important meetings at the same time as Kelce’s nuptials.

He thinks he knows why this is, and isn’t sure whether he can handle the why in a satin slip and strappy heels. He wants to believe that he meant everything he said to you six months prior, but the dreadful ache in his chest crescendos in mocking every time he tries this.

He’s made a mistake. He won’t admit this if it killed him. But he knows, deep down, that something isn’t right about all of this.

If he really didn’t love you anymore, if that fucking spark was missing, there shouldn’t have been anything to move on from—the ship should have already departed. But he’s struggling, hard, and his thoughts juxtapose his actions. Despite telling you that he needs to be alone for the time being, you remain unmoored in his mind, rocking back and forth but never sinking.

He’s done his fair share of fucking up over the past few months. Got into something else too quickly, tried that no contact thing and failed miserably. There’s no going back after everything that’s happened. And yet…

“Hello?” He greets you like it’s a question; like greeting you isn’t second nature anymore. Your stomach turns.

When you respond, your voice comes out jagged, pained. “Look. I get that you’re doing this ‘no contact’ thing, or whatever, but Sarah told me something pretty fucked up and I think you owe me an explanation.” Your voice is far weaker.

Rafe winces, a familiar ache pulling through his chest. “If this is about Elle —”

“It’s been a month, Rafe. You may as well have cheated.”

…that fucking hug.

After you’d confronted him about shamelessly flirting with Sarah’s friend, Elle—in front of Sarah, no less, who told you the second it happened—he’d asked to meet up in person and explain himself.

You weren’t quite sure what to make of it all, which is probably why you’d foolishly agreed to hear him out. Ward had hired Elle as an intern before his death; she’d been around a while, long enough for an affair.

It shifted bile into your throat.

And when you’d met him, the exact opposite of what you’d hoped had happened. He’d had the gall to tell you that he thinks something’s there, that he feels that bullshit spark that he swore was missing in your relationship.

What were you meant to say?

But then he’d apologised, recognised it was too soon, begged to stay friends. Friends—like a platonic relationship is in any way gift receipt redeemable. And ironically, hearing him out wasn’t even your biggest mistake, it was that wretched hug goodbye that you’d permitted you get.

It was as though that hug held everything unsaid. Your figure had moulded against his quite perfectly, and why wouldn’t it? He’s the only romantic embrace you’d known since you were a teenager.

And when you’d finally pulled away, separated the pieces of your heart that were finally greeting his again, you hadn’t realised that he’d think about that hug for weeks gone by, just like you.

All the way up until Christmas, which occurred two months after your sudden break-up.

It was the last time you saw him under the pretence of amicability, when you came by Tannyhill to drop off presents and see his family. Mostly him. It felt pathetic, even then; for all you knew, Elle was on his mind and you were somewhere insignificant.

Rafe’s pretty sure he’s fucking doomed.

Your laugh reverberates through Tannyhill like a siren song, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never not recognise the sound of it. It’s as though every bone in his body vibrates in tune to it—so unabashed, so freeing. Far more painful now than it used to be.

You’ve become so many Taylor Swift songs and none of them end happy.

He follows your sweet timbre to the hallway before he can help himself. Once upon a time—God, it feels so long ago now—he’d have been the first person you’d have texted before dropping by the house. Instead, as he stands paralysed at the foot of the stairs, it’s Sarah who’s hugging you, who gets to hold you in her arms.

Luckily for him, your eyes are closed in the embrace, and he’s afforded a second to recalibrate after taking you in. He’s known that you’re beautiful like his first memory on Earth, but that doesn’t mean your proximity leaves him any less winded. You’re fresh-faced with limbs that have an untouchable quality to them; you aren’t his to mark anymore, no longer his to ruin.

He can’t remember the last time he kissed you. He wants to remember so fucking bad. You’re slipping through his calloused fingers and fragments of you are all he has.

“You didn’t have to get us anything!” Sarah exclaims, pulling away faux-disprovingly.

“Hey, don’t do that, of course I did.” Your arms fall back to your side, and you open your eyes in tandem. When they flit past Sarah’s face and find Rafe’s instead, it feels as though someone has tipped ice-cold water down your singlet. A pause. “You’re family.”

Sarah notes the change in your tone with a frown, turning to look over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says, her expression hardening. “Sorry, Y/N/N. I didn’t know he was home.”

You swallow. “It’s no big,” you reply, forcing yourself to look back at her. “We’re alright, really. But I should go, I have a few more presents to drop off.”

Sarah frowns harder. “You sure you don’t want to stay a bit? I know Rose’d love to see you, we’ve all really missed having you around —”

“I’m sure,” you interrupt, handing her the bag of presents you’ve wrapped. “I’ll send her a text, okay? And listen,” you pause, your expression softening a little, “I know this holiday season’s going to be hard without your dad, and I want you to know that I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

Sarah’s eyes well with tears. “It’s going to be hard without you too, Y/N,” she murmurs. “You’re my sister.”

Your features sadden in tandem, and you give her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And I always will be. You know that.”

“You should come to Christmas, then,” she says hopefully.

“I —” you falter as your voice cracks, grimacing slightly, “— I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”

When you turn around, something in Rafe’s chest cracks too. He’s still hanging on to that expression-softening catalyst from a moment prior, yearning hard for the feeling of being on the receiving end of your love.

“Why the fuck,” Sarah fumes, rounding on him once you’re out of earshot, “do you have to ruin everything you touch?”

Rafe doesn’t even have it in him to wince. “I don’t know,” he responds quietly, with an honesty that aches. “If I did, maybe I’d have found a way to fix it.”

Sarah takes pause. Slight disbelief transforms her features. “You have to still love her. How can’t you?”

“I don’t know, alright?” Rafe runs his hand through his hair slovenly. “I just — I’m not happy anymore. It’s not fucking there… I don’t know if it’ll ever come back.”

“What isn’t?”

“The… the spark.”

“Bullshit,” Sarah spits out, accusatory. “The ‘spark’ is fucking bullshit, Rafe. You’re telling me you’ve felt it the entire time you’ve known her? You’re telling me this doesn’t have anything to do with dad’s death?”

Rafe swallows thickly, discomfort coating his throat. “I don’t, alright? All I know is I can’t give her what she needs right now; I don’t know if I ever will.”

To this day, he doesn’t know about your detour that evening — how instead of driving home, you took a left to the look-out where you shared your first kiss. He doesn’t know that the waves crashing ashore bore witness to your heartbreak; that sunset orange painted your tear-streaked cheeks a gentler amber. Caressed them, subdued them, where he no longer could. He doesn’t know you agonised over how much his hair had grown in your absence, the subtle stubble on his jaw, the stark outline of his biceps.

The him that’s foreign to you, now; the him that’s Elle’s and not yours.

At twenty-four years old, Rafe Cameron doesn’t know fucking anything.

Of course, once he does eventually recognise that his ‘something there’ with Elle is a rebound, it’s too late to entertain returning to you with his tail between his legs.

He can’t. Not after everything he’s put you through in the past. So he allows regret to caulk his limbs and bitterness to coat his insides, and Rafe Cameron does what he does best — pushes it down and ignores it.

Which brings him here, a non-attendee to his best friend’s wedding and an hour late to his reception.

He sidles into the venue through a pair of double doors, and the first thing he notices is the dimmed sconces and muted fairy lights. It’s the first thing, because perplexingly, the crowd is hard to discern but you glow anyway. A spotlight illuminates the centre of the room where Brooklyn and Kelce share their first dance, but they don’t draw his gaze, your beautiful features do.

Of course you do, in your strappy cowl neck slip. There’s less periwinkle fabric than he’d anticipated, more exposed limbs, and Rafe feels like he’s run a fucking marathon as he takes you in. And your pretty eyes and glossy lips cascade into a bare neck; soft skin that’s forgotten his rough touch, his bruising kisses.

It’s momentary lust that his regret promptly squashes. He can’t think those thoughts about you anymore, even if they’re almost second nature. Even if he’s spent more tangible years of his life as your boyfriend than he has a fucking stranger.

That’s what you guys are meant to be right now: strangers. His stomach coils. His tired eyes search for the open bar on instinct.

Once he’s acquired a whiskey neat and a glass of champagne, he pulls through the crowd and makes toward your figure.

You aren’t as lucky as he is to mentally prepare for a reunion. When he holds out the shimmering flute and prompts your gaze toward him, there’s a split-second of slack-jawed diffidence before you find your common sense.

God, you wish he wasn’t so easy to stare at.

He’s wearing an expression that isn’t yours anymore, with his thick brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. Yearning, but he can’t be. His blue eyes make your heart leap. Your gaze lifts before it falls, taking in his damp hair, his larger than ever frame. Both feel unfamiliar; he’s shed the skin and aureate curls your fingers once traced. Same notes of patchouli on his neck, though you note the absence of the silver chain you once bought him for Christmas.

Does he still have it, somewhere, hidden in a shoebox under his bed? (His hand is so close to your chest, it feels like you’re dying.) Is it as painful for him to see you like this after months and months of no contact?

Can’t be. Shouldn’t be. The ache may linger, agonisingly, but you’re stronger now than you were when he first ended things.

“Oh,” is all you can muster, accepting the flute of champagne. When your fingers brush, you reprimand the jolt of static. Lust may be hard to shake, but you resolve to let logic prevail. “Thanks.”

Rafe feels it too, harder, more unbearable. “Don’t mention it.”

You break eye contact to look out into the crowd, though it’s a struggle finding anything to focus on. “When’d you arrive?”

“Five minutes ago,” he admits, staring at your side profile for a second longer than he probably should. He analyses the glittery stuff on your cheekbones—highlighter?—for traces of a familiar feeling. “Work shit.”

“Ah,” you reply, raising your eyebrows at him. “Some things never change, huh?”

Rafe winces. “Look, Y/N, I —”

“I’m kidding, Rafe, relax,” you interrupt, sending him a small smile. It makes his stomach turn. “It’s all going well, I hope?”

“It is, yeah,” he responds, smiling in tandem. “Ish. Still doing a fuck tonne of late nights and weekends.”

“Bummer.” It feels strange, making small talk in this way. Strange, though not particularly as awful as you’d predicted. “How’re Rose and your sisters?”

“Yeah, they’re good,” they miss you, “Sarah’s going to UCLA in the fall.”

You nod. “She told me.”

Something in Rafe’s chest drops. He turns to you, his piercing gaze making your skin burn. “I didn’t realise you guys kept in touch.”

“We’ve always been really close. You know that.”

Because of me. “Right.” His eyes fall to your throat as you take another pull of champagne, smooth and unblemished and painfully foreign. “I’m glad.”

You turn to him then, an unreadable expression on your face. “Me too.”

A beat. The pair of you stare at each as the surroundings buzz into static.

“Listen, Rafe, I —”

“Y/N, I’ve been —”

You falter first, scrunching up your face abashedly. “Sorry. You go.”

“I…” Rafe pauses, running his calloused palm through his hair, “I guess I just want to apologise. For everything.”

Your eyes widen, and you turn away from him abruptly. “Rafe, I don’t know if now is the best time to have this conversation.”

“Shit, I know. I know I’m about five months too late and don’t deserve to be heard out.”

“Well,” you pause, chewing on your bottom lip apprehensively. Your voice quietens. “Maybe not at a wedding.”

Or ever. You tip back the rest of your champagne just as the slow dance fades out, breaking away from him. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Rafe fucking hopes so. He needs a clean slate if it’ll kill him. He nods reluctantly, watching you disappear into the crowd in front of him. The ache in his chest crescendos as the physical distance swallows you completely.

—

“We love you,” Brooklyn mouthes, blowing you a kiss through the open window. The limousine she’s in stretches forward with jet-black grandiosity, its ignition blaring alive as you catch it in mid-air.

When you blow one back, Kelce peeks over her shoulder and sends you a wink. The pair of them wave to the wedding-goers surrounding you before the vehicle pulls forward, leaving you in its dust. You watch them exit the Island Club gates, and a sense of bittersweet melancholia finds home in your chest.

That should’ve been you. You turn around as the crowd begins to disperse and find yourself face to face with Rafe once again.

“Oh,” you say, looking up at him in surprise. When your expression relaxes—in recognition—his chest pulls in tandem. “They’re sweet, huh?”

Us; that should’ve been us. Rafe nods, smiling wistfully. “Can you believe you’re the one that set them up?”

“At your holiday house,” you return, smiling in tandem. “This was a two-person wing man job.”

“Nah. You were the one that saw their potential.” A pause. “You’ve always been really good at that.”

Your brow furrows. “At setting people up?”

“At seeing their potential,” Rafe corrects. An unreadable emotion crosses his blue irises. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”

Your expression falters. You aren’t sure what to say to this, so you don’t say anything at all.

“Listen,” Rafe tries again, scratching the back of his neck, “d’you need a ride?”

“Well…”

You hesitate, looking over his shoulder for your parents. When you spot them, they’re in avid conversation with some family friends; they look extremely comfortable, like they’re going to be dawdling until God knows when.

You’re searching for justification even though he doesn’t deserve it. After all the pain he’s caused you, your wretched heart still yearns for more.

Fucking sadist.

“Actually, yeah,” you finish after a beat, bringing your gaze back to him. “That’d be great, thank you.”

His shoulders relax. “Yeah, of course. You have all your things?”

“Uh huh.”

“This way.”

You allow him to guide you to his pick-up trunk, pretend that you didn’t discern it right away. Besides, you were meant to have forgotten the location of his unofficial ‘official’ parking spot. So you follow him toward it, deny the familiarity of its number plate, and act like every dent and wretched scratch isn’t a piece of your heart.

“Shit—ow!” You curse, hurtling forward as you stall, again. “This is fucking impossible, Rafe. I quit.”

Rafe grins perplexedly, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “Baby,” he placates, “if Top can learn to drive manual, anyone can.”

You make a frustrated noise, crossing your arms over your chest. “Not me, clearly.”

Rafe lets out a laugh, unbuckling your seatbelt so he can pull you into his lap. “C’mere.”

When he does so—with entirely too much ease—he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb so he can guide your lips against his. It’s an unhurried kiss, a sure press of emotion, as though he’s rousing the embers that live within your ribcage.

He has this funny way of leaving you out of breath no matter how chaste the embrace. You break away reluctantly, raising your eyebrows at him. “So is this the reward system you used when you were teaching him to drive, hot-shot?”

Rafe makes a face, dipping his head to sponge a kiss to your neck. “Why? You jealous?”

“Never,” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. “You wouldn’t dream of leaving me for someone else, Rafe Cameron. The Figure Eight wouldn’t forgive you if you did.”

“I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did.” Another teeth-scraping kiss. “I’d be crazy to let you go. I’ve been in love with you since we were freshman.”

He doesn’t open the passenger’s side door for you after unlocking his pick-up truck. That isn’t his place anymore.

He wants to, anyway. You want him to, badly. This revelation passes unsaid between the two of you as you climb into the seat yourself, unscathed by chivalry.

Once you’re buckled in, your gaze lifts to the new air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. “Huh,” you say, flicking it absently, “you replaced it.”

He wants to say, you left me no choice. He wants to say, old spice smells like you. “Oh yeah,” he replies instead, clearing his throat. “Rose got me it.”

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

He shifts into reverse and backs out of the park, and there’s a split second where he almost places his hand on your headrest. He can’t do that anymore. Too close; not close enough. You notice it too. An ache passes from his heart to yours.

“Are you going to take any time off over summer break?” You ask, keeping your gaze on the road ahead.

Rafe pulls out onto the main road before turning to you and responding, “I wasn’t planning on it, but I think I might need some.”

“I think you might need some too,” you agree, sending him a fleeting smile. “Bahamas?”

You don’t expect the tears in his eyes that follow. You straighten abruptly, your eyebrows pulling together. “Sorry, I didn’t mean —”

“No—shit, I just—” he falters as his voice cracks, clearing his throat again, “I don’t think I could go back there any time soon. Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “Your dad, of course. I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry about.” He takes in a jagged breath. “Shit, I’m the one that should be apologising. For everything.”

“Rafe —”

“No, listen…”

He pauses as he turns left onto your street, pulling onto the side of the road as soon as he can. He’s still a good mile away from your house, but it feels an injustice to keep you waiting for an explanation. When he turns and angles his body toward you, there’s a brokenness on his face that makes your miserable heart falter.

“I’m… I’m so sorry for everything I put you through after I broke up with you. Even if that was what I needed at the time, even if it was the right decision, I shouldn’t have been so fucking heartless and I regret not reaching out to you more often.”

You swallow thickly. He takes your silence as encouragement to keep going.

“You deserved better than the way I treated you… you’ve always deserved better than me. I didn’t know how to deal with all of my grief and I pushed you away in the process. It was… fuck, it was so selfish of me, and I’m sorry. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t hate myself for it.”

He’s taken all of the oxygen in the car, and you find yourself struggling for air. You turn to him, every drunken rationalisation manifest. “Thank you,” you whisper, “for saying that.”

“And listen, the Elle thing —”

Too much. “Rafe,” you interrupt, swallowing again. “Stop. It’s fine. I accept your apology.”

Rafe frowns, the furrow in his brow painfully evident. “Yeah? Because… because I’d understand if you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, turning away from him. “Besides, it’s ancient history. I forgave you a long time ago in my head.”

“You did?” Rafe’s asks, searching your features in earnest. “Why?”

The champagne you’ve consumed swirls uncomfortably in your stomach. “I had to,” you say quietly. “It was the only way I was going to be able to move on from the situation.”

Rafe’s stomach drops. “Which you have.”

“Which I have.”

The smokescreen between you smothers any semblance of hope you might’ve shared. He nods, turning on the ignition once again. “I hope that means you’re happy, Y/N.”

“It does,” you reply, “I am.”

“Good.” It doesn’t feel good at all. “Maybe this means we can be friends.”

You turn to him again, raising your eyebrows. “Friends?”

“Like we were before,” he affirms, putting the car into drive. His fingers brush the bare skin of your thigh near the gearshift. A very unfriend-like jolt of static shoots into your chest. “I… I don’t know. Sometimes I think I just miss my best friend.”

Your heart sighs. “Me too.”

“Friends then.”

“Yeah,” you reply, sending him a small smile. “Friends.”

—

You haven’t been to Shake Shack since you broke up with Rafe. You didn’t even realise you’d evaded it so long; perhaps it was a subconscious thing, too many painful memories to bear.

You remember when it first opened up in the Banks, this egalitarian refuge nestled between the Cut and Figure Eight.

Rafe Cameron remembers too, remembers bringing you here on your very first date. Roguish at fourteen with endless charm and a handsome face, he had far less creases etched onto his forehead then; far less familial expectations to deal with.

If only you knew he’s evaded it too. When he pulls into the carpark, the aforementioned date comes forth in fragments.

When memories lie dormant so long in one’s head, they tend to lose the stitches that hold them together. Nervousness, excitement, cherry coke and a lilac singlet. The strange feeling of forever before either of you could place it. He doesn’t remember any of your conversation, nor how long the date lasted, but he remembers the cloudless sky, the flutter of new love in his stomach.

The pair of you share a look before exiting his pick-up truck. A look that says: uh oh, and insinuates far more than that.

“So how’s work going, anyway?” Rafe asks, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He’s a beat behind you head toward the entrance, and you can feel your neck burn where his eyes remained trained on you.

“Yeah, alright, same old,” you say, sending him a fleeting smile over your shoulder. His blue irises are dappled golden in sunlight, and their brilliance unsteadies you, the eye-contact like a firestarter. You clear your throat. “Sam quit.”

Rafe’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Not kidding,” you shake your head, “he ended things with Peyton and booked a Contiki in South East Asia.”

“Shiiiiiit,” Rafe wolf whistles, shaking his head in tandem. “Is he going through some kind of quarter life crisis?”

You shrug. “Who would let someone like Peyton go, huh?”

Rafe resists the urge to wince. He can think of one person in particular who threw away something far more special. He clears his throat significantly, regret like molasses coating the sides of his windpipe. “Yeah. How’s she doing with it all?”

“Oh you know Peyton, she’s the queen of acting unbothered,” you reply, sounding reproachful. “Even when she’s heartbroken, she refuses to tell me about it.”

Rafe frowns. “Fuck that.”

“Yeah?” You send him a wayward glance, raising your eyebrows knowingly. “Cause to me, it sounds like someone else I used to know.”

There’s a pause as he meets your gaze, a frightening wistfulness passing between you. It lingers.

“Right.” You’re at the entrance to Shake Shack now, and Rafe grapples for purchase on the one thing he can control—friends. He pulls open the door and beckons you forward, “So. Is today the day you branch out and order something new, Y/N?”

When you pass by him, a tendril-like brush of shoulder on chest, the buttery scent of your vanilla perfume lingers. A lot about you does, a lot more than he’d care to admit.

Rafe’s wretched heart cycles between the old and new you like it’s trying to make them both fit within its chambers.

“Don’t think I have a choice,” you reply, sending him a smile over your shoulder. “They’ve completely revamped their menu since the last time we were here.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows at you. “They have?” You checked?

“Uh huh,” you reply, nodding. “I was going to make a reservation here for our anniversary way back when.” You clear your throat. “When I went on their website to do so, I realised that their menu was totally different.”

You leave out the part where you’d stopped by soon after, asked—no, begged—the manager to serve you the originals when you came. You know, when old time’s sake was a sacred concept. When that sweet, lovesick version of you still existed.

“Oh shit,” Rafe says. Though it’s subtle, he catches the smidge of diffidence in your voice, like the ghost of relationship’s past rearing its ugly head. You checked, for him, and you’re so nonchalant about it. Like it may have mattered then, but right now it matters far less.

He feels an awful twinge in his chest. He adds, “That sucks.” He isn’t sure whether he’s referring to the change in menu or the change in your heart’s purpose.

“I know.”

“I was looking forward to ordering the usual.”

“Me too.” You shrug. “We’re just going to have to find a new usual, I guess.”

What you mean is, make new memories that’ll replace the old ones. What you mean is, erase the nostalgia being here brings.

Also, though you’d never willingly admit it, start anew.

Rafe nods, stepping forward and glancing up at the menu. Though it’s different to the one he remembers from his youth, the interior of the diner is comfortingly familiar — same ugly yellow track lights, same checkered linoleum underfoot. Same fingerprint-smudged counter and broken drinks machine, same uniform on the workers, same greasy smell permeating.

And the same booth you were partial to nestled in one corner, it’s retro cushion covers faded as ever.

The menu, and the girl beside him. The only two things that feel different.

“Hm.” You frown, deliberating over the menu. “I’m thinking the ‘classic’. You want to split some curly fries?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, his blue eyes full of mirth. “So the one that’s exactly your old order, minus the pickles. Got it.”

“Yes,” you decide. “Except I’ll ask them to add pickles.”

“Of course you will.” Rafe grins. “I’ll get the same.”

You gasp, faux-scandalised. “Rafe Cameron eating pickles? Now I’ve seen everything.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “How d’you know I’m not just ordering it to pawn ‘em off to you?”

You balk. “I don’t, I guess.”

“And yes, to the curly fries,” he adds, quick to change the subject. The bashfulness on your features dissipates, but the tension in the room weighs ever-present.

You nod, sliding your wallet out of your back-pocket. “Should we just split the bill, then?”

“No way,” Rafe says, clasping your wrist to hold it in place. Your pulse feels funny. “I got it.”

“Rafe.” You frown, shaking your head. “Look, it really isn’t a big deal —”

It is to me. “Exactly,” he interrupts. “Which is why I got it.”

Maybe you should argue some more, insist on paying until he gives in. But you don’t. Between the pulse-jolting closeness and mocking sense of nostalgia, you aren’t sure you have it in you to retaliate.

Though in an act of rebellion, you avoid your usual booth. Once you’re seated at a new table and separated by your burgers, you re-enter this stupid friendship thing you’ve adopted. The one that boasts no-strings like the red one isn’t obvious.

“So,” you say, popping a curly fry in your mouth. “You remember Maya, right?”

Rafe makes a face. “That psycho roommate you had in senior year? Yeah, pretty hard to forget.”

“Well, she hit me up a month ago to let me know she’d be in the Banks to see her boyfriend.” At his audible gasp, you nod significantly. “I know. Asked if I wanted to catch up while she was here.”

Rafe wolf whistles in amusement. “No fucking way. After the Hell she put you through?”

“I fucking know,” you reply, grimacing in disdain.

Rafe raises his eyebrows, swallowing down a handful of curly fries. “Tell me you said no.”

You raise yours in tandem. “What do you think, casanova?”

“Y/N!” He groans, shaking his head. “Why do you put yourself through this shit?”

You frown, reaching for your soda and sipping stubbornly. Condensation rolls down your palm, the soft skin shining. “C’mon! It was useful, I swear. I got the intel on Maya and her mystery OBX man.”

Rafe leans forward in interest, taking a pull of his soda too. “Go on then.”

“God, I’ve been sitting on this information for ages,” you say, your pretty eyes full of excitement. Rafe’s heart leaps. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out, but we weren’t talking and you were avoiding me and I didn’t know whether I should break no contact.”

It deflates just as quickly, sinking into his stomach like deadweight. “I wasn’t… I don’t know, I thought it’d be best if I kept my distance.” He sighs, sitting back and raking his fingers through his hair. “Clearly that was a mistake. I haven’t been this relaxed in fucking ages.”

You smile small. “Yeah. This is nice.”

“Nice.”

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, this sticky, molasses-like something rising from your chest, “it’s Dylan. Like Dylan fucking Young that had a crush on me in freshman year.”

“Fuck off, seriously?” Rafe replies, mirth evident on his features. “Not kidding, think it’d be grounds for a restraining order if she ever found that out.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, raising your eyebrows significantly. “You promise to take this to your grave, Cameron?”

Rafe nods, faux-somber, extending his pinky toward you. “He won’t hear it from me, Y/L/N.”

When your fingers entwine, you wonder whether he feels it too. It’s a jolt of static that leaves your skin warm and your insides funny, and you wonder whether the effect it has on you is endearing or pathetic.

The latter, you conclude. The red string of fate disagrees.

“Good,” you say, retrieving your hand. “Oh, and,” you take a generous bite of your burger, “did you hear that Taylor’s moving to Texas?”

“I did, actually,” Rafe replies. “From Top, funnily enough.”

You frown. “He’s still pining, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” He pulls apart his burger to pick out the green pickles, placing them onto your plate before re-assembling. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. In the offensive, fluorescent lighting, they shine up at you in mocking. “Anyway, I should probably learn to get used to it. I’m moving into Kelce’s room now that he’s happily wed.”

Your jaw slackens in surprise. “You’re moving in with Topper?”

Rafe grins. “I know. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

“But,” you pause, popping another curly fry into your mouth, “why?”

“Needed to get out of Tannyhill, I guess.” He falters, swallowing down the bile-like rise of emotion from his chest. “Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “That makes sense.”

“Besides, Sarah’s starting college soon, and Wheeze’s off at boarding school for the majority of the year anyway.” He shrugs. “And Rose… well, she’s at the Bahamas house more than she is in the OBX.”

“Too many memories,” you repeat, frowning sadly.

“Yeah. I guess.”

There’s silence then, the comfortable kind. An emotion passes between you that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

It matters less when you finally finish, what you speak about, whether you’ll meet again. All you know is, something feels different now, as though there’s embers that this reunion has reignited in your ribcage. Dormant though they had once been, you’d always hoped that the renewed hope would set them aflame.

The next day, you wake up to a text from Rafe.

thank you for yesterday. It was really nice.

You don’t have it in you to reply; Rafe doesn’t mind. He knows you feel the same way.

—

It’s a few weeks before you see him again, at a farewell party for Brooklyn and Kelce.

Prior to embarking on their honeymoon, they were shifting their lives to Chicago; laying down the foundations of stability so they could return to a clean slate.

It upsets you to no end. You’d always assumed that her marriage to Kelce would guarantee that she settles down in the Banks.

Rafe Cameron must remember this, the way he does everything else. He hands you a beer and clinks his own against it, beads of condensation sliding over his calloused hand.

“Huh,” he murmurs, shaking his head in faux-disappoint, “so much for staying here and ruling the Eight with an iron fist.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, taking a generous pull of beer. Rafe’s gaze falls to the bare column of your throat, and he temporarily loses his bearings. “Does loyalty mean absolutely nothing around here?”

Rafe grins appreciatively. “They’re bound to come back, you know.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Because,” Rafe pauses, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “we were all cursed by the hometown witch when we were babies.”

You let out a peal of laughter. “Is that why I came back here after college?”

It isn’t lost on you that Rafe is standing far closer to you than he should. His spicy, cedar-wood cologne presses over your figure in waves. He bows his head to eye level, still grinning his mirth, “It’s why we all did. It’s also why they aren’t going to last more than a year in Chicago, I’m calling it now.”

“Who isn’t going to last more than a year in Chicago?” Comes Brooklyn’s voice from behind him, pulling the pair of you from your reverie.

He breaks away and turns to find her standing behind him, her eyebrows raised accusatorially at your closeness.

You smile guiltily at her, raising your arms in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t deny it either!” Brooklyn reproaches, faux-scandalised. She sends Rafe a playful glare, reaching for your arm and pulling you away. “I’m rescuing her from your bad influence, Cameron.”

Rafe nods sagely, taking a sip of his beer. “I think that’s wise, Astor—” he balks, shaking his head, “—sorry, Smith. Shit, Brooklyn Smith, huh? Guess I can’t do that last name thing ‘round here anymore, can I?”

“Not with us,” she replies, turning the pair of you around. She sends you the ghost of a wink before adding, “Y/N’s fair game, though. You know she’d rather die than take a guy’s last name.”

Something in Rafe’s chest deflates. “Yeah?”

You frown at him over your shoulder, mildly bewildered. “You knew that, Cameron.”

Maybe I thought I was different. “True.” He raises his beer bottle in acknowledgement. “Besides, Y/L/N suits you too much.”

Not as much as Cameron would have, once upon a time. You nod approvingly, the twinge in your heart conveying the exact opposite. “Doesn’t it just?”

Brooklyn steers you to the kitchen under the pretence of grabbing a drink, her true intentions becoming obvious when Kelce pivots into earshot on his barstool.

“So?” She prods, rounding on you once you’ve halted. “What’s the deal?”

“Deal?” You echo, feigning confusion. “What deal?”

“Don’t do that,” she replies, narrowing her eyes accusatorially. “Are you guys seeing each other again?”

You swallow. Your gaze darts to a helpless-looking Kelce. “Why? Has he said something?”

“That’s the thing,” Kelce mutters, shaking his head thoughtfully. “He hasn’t. But he’s… different.”

You frown. “Different how?”

“I don’t know… chiller. Happier. Like he was before Ward passed away.”

“Of course he is,” Brooklyn snorts, not buying it for a second. “He’s finally being absolved of all his guilt!”

“Brooklyn…” you sigh.

“What? It’s true!” She asserts, crossing her arms across her chest. “He’s… listen, Y/N, whatever you think this is, you need to snap out of it. He’s proved time and time again that he doesn’t have the emotional capability to deal with his shit, and you’ve been made collateral too many times to forgive him this quick.”

“Quick?” Your chest feels on fire. Isn’t seven months of torture enough exoneration?

“C’mon baby, you’ve gotta cut him some slack,” Kelce assuages, gentle but firm. “He fucked up, sure, but he also lost his dad, remember?”

“Grieving or not, he shouldn’t have pushed her away.”

“Granted, but we’ll never know exactly how he was feeling —”

“We shouldn’t have to, you just don’t do that to someone you love —”

“I’m still here, you know,” you interrupt quietly, frowning. “That someone that Rafe doesn’t love.”

A pause. Its silence that’s distilled in the overhead lighting, the scene beneath it awash in dim regret.

Brooklyn’s features are softer when she breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just… I worry about you.”

You know she does; it isn’t her fault. She’s the one that slept over for four weeks straight post break-up, forced food down your throat and wiped away all your tears.

“Don’t apologise, Brooke, I get it,” you say, sending her a small smile. “But I’m fine, I promise. This isn’t even… this feels different.”

“Different how?”

“Like… you know that saying: ‘You’ll never find the same person twice, not even in the same person’? That’s how this feels. We haven’t fallen back into old habits.”

Brooklyn regards this for a moment, surveying your features carefully. “But you’ve been hanging out?”

“Only once,” you reply honestly. “Sent a few texts back and forth, that’s all. If… if anything were to happen, it’d be like a new relationship, not like restarting the old one. You know?”

“I do.”

Kelce smiles. “That’s… shit, that makes sense.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice. “That’s why I couldn’t figure out what it reminds me of, this different him that’s chilled and happy.”

You furrow your brow. “Hm?”

“It’s freshman year him all over again,” he explains. “You know… when the two of you got close the first time ‘round.”

“Oh.” Your heart soars. “Square one, huh?”

Kelce shrugs, sharing a meaningful look with Brooklyn. “Square one I guess.”

You’re about to respond when Rafe’s figure pulls your gaze, his crossed arms and broad shoulders blocking the kitchen entrance. He’s wearing a handsome expression and his hair is perfectly unkempt, the heady scent of his cologne juxtaposing his lack of proximity.

Sometimes, life is unfair. Your ex-boyfriend, now new friend, eliciting such un-platonic thoughts is one of those instances.

And it isn’t as though you’ve given Rafe much of a break, his blue eyes caught on your figure like a moth to a flame. You aren’t wearing a dress he recognises, which is both a delightful and agonising revelation.

Delightful, because it reveals bare expanses of skin that make his wretched hands itch in longing. Agonising, because it’s a reminder of the seven long months that he’s had to spend grappling with your absence.

Having a smile as pretty as yours is extremely unfair, all things considered. And eyes. Soft skin. He needs to stop staring before he does something stupid.

“Perfect,” he announces brusquely, “are we hosting our intervention now?”

He looks at you expectantly. You raise your eyebrows. “You know,” he adds, “the one where we beg them to stay in the Banks?”

“Hey!” Brooklyn exclaims, her green eyes full of mirth. “What d’you mean stay in the Banks? Newsflash, I’m not even from here.”

“You’re not from Chicago either, Ast-Smithy,” he returns significantly, sending her a meaningful glance. “Besides, you married into a Figure Eight family. You are very officially one of us now.”

“Not for long!” Brooklyn sings, sending you a wink.

“C’mon, Smith,” Rafe tries, turning to Kelce and feigning disappointment. “What happened to our sacred pact?”

“We were eight, Cameron.”

“And already privy to the tragedy of small-town life,” Rafe sighs faux-dramatically, nodding in agreement. “I’m bitter, alright? I thought I’d be the first one to get out of here.”

He glances over at you fleetingly as he says this. We’d be the first ones, his heart corrects in vain.

“As if,” you scoff, raising your eyebrows. “Mr Cameron fucking Development leave this place before me? No chance.”

Rafe grins roguishly, his blue eyes shining with amusement. “You’re all talk, Y/L/N. We both know it.” He sends Kelce and Brooklyn a meaningful glance. “We all are.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going to be here all fucking night if we keep arguing about this,” Brooklyn decides, patting Kelce’s thigh to prompt him to stand. “C’mon, baby, we should probably get back to mingling.”

“You know,” she adds, narrowing her eyes playfully. “‘Cause it’s the last time we’ll see some of these people.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. Any retaliation on Rafe’s tongue fails at the timbre of it.

Once they’re out of sight, you turn to him, adopting a faux-somber look. “If we are truly doomed to a life in the Eight, will you promise me something?”

He’s still grappling with the fact that he’s a man starved of your beautiful laugh, now reborn. “Go on.”

“Should you find me yelling at Island Club employees about flower arrangements or charcuterie boards, shoot me.”

Rafe laughs, and it reverberates through your bones warmly. “And suffer alone? No way. I’ll meet you in the middle. Lobotomy?”

“No thoughts in my brain? So generous,” you tease. “Alright. It’s a deal.”

Rafe clinks his beer bottle against yours in confirmation, taking a generous pull of the bubbly liquid. “Can we trade promises?” He asks.

You take a sip in tandem, maintaining eye contact as you do so. There’s tension in the air, that familiar-new feeling manifest, and it’s no longer frightening, but rather a comforting embrace.

You marvel in it. Breaking free feels fruitless. “Yes.”

“If you make a plan to settle elsewhere, will you tell me?”

“Of course I will.” A pause. “Although, I think you’re right. I don’t think any of us are truly capable of leaving permanently.”

“If anyone is though, it’s you,” he says, so matter-of-factly, like he actually believes it. “I mean… you’re the only one who had the balls to go to a college out of state. The rest of us just accepted a cushy offer at UNC.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you dismiss. “I was back here so often I barely left.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “Only because you had a reason to come back.” You still do, if you’ll take me.

I still do, if you’ll take me. “True.” You frown, thinking on this for a moment. “Even so… I don’t know. Maybe it’s that hometown curse talking, but I wouldn’t want to raise my kids anywhere else in the States.”

Rafe’s gaze steadies, pulsing through you in waves. “I get that. We had a pretty sweet childhood, all things considered.”

You make a face. “Like, I don’t think I can deal with this iPad kid epidemic. Least we were sheltered from all that crap, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rafe replies, raising his eyebrows significantly. “Even if there were plenty of other things to jade us with.”

“Shit, I know,” you respond, laughing bemusedly. “See, only people from the Eight know how political beach clean ups can get.”

Rafe chuckles in tandem, taking another sip of his beer. “God, our lives are fucking ridiculous.”

You raise your bottle in agreement. A comfortable silence falls between you.

After pause, Rafe speaks up again. “You know,” he says quietly, an unnameable emotion flickering across his blue irises. “I don’t even think it’s everyone in the Eight.”

You balk. “Hm?”

“The whole, knowing each other thing,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’ve always understood me better than anyone else.”

Your traitorous heart leaps, and you force yourself to ignore it. Actions have always spoken louder than words, and you decide now’s as good a time as any to confront him about this.

It’s time to be brave, you decide. You say, “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Elle.”

Rafe’s miserable heart falters, penitence like a lump in his throat. He’s been preparing for this accusation since your very first reunion, but it still doesn’t feel like enough; he’s a coward trembling at the frontlines, anyway.

“I’ve… we’ve… my therapist and I have talked about that situation at length.”

You eyes widen in surprise. “Your therapist?”

“I’ve been going to therapy, yeah,” Rafe replies, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “For a month or so now, every week without fail.”

It isn’t lost on you that Brooklyn and Kelce’s wedding was a month ago. The rift in your ribcage widens.

“Has it been helping?” You ask.

“A bit,” Rafe admits. “Mostly just to validate what I knew all along, I guess.” At your silence, he continues, “That… shit, that I’ve got this problem where I push people away when I need them the most. The Elle thing, there’s no fucking excuse for it, none, but it became pretty obvious after you confronted me that she was just a rebound.”

“A rebound,” you echo.

“A distraction, an escape… I don’t know.” He rakes his fingers through his hair slovenly. “All I know is, I didn’t care about her, so I didn’t have to push her away. She didn’t make me talk about my dad, my grief, anything, so she was easy enough company to have around when I felt like it.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “But I did.”

“But you did,” Rafe affirms, grimacing sheepishly. “Shit, all you fucking did was care about me and all I did was push you away.”

You try to be pragmatic. “Grief makes people do shitty things.”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t deserve it.”

“True.” A pause. Your gaze falls over Rafe’s face in paces, his haggard expression making you soften. “Listen. I’m glad you’re going to therapy, seriously. I know that’s a pretty big step for you to take.”

For you. “Thank you,” he replies quietly. “It… I just wish I’d listened to you the first time, you know? When you’d told me to go to therapy before I’d ended things.”

Your throat feels funny. “No use living in the past.”

“You’re right,” Rafe replies. A pause. The ghost of a smile flickers over his features. “What did I ever do to deserve your forgiveness?”

You smile in tandem, a little rueful. “Maybe you were a martyr in your past life, Cameron.”

“And you’re one in this one,” Rafe responds. “You know, after I lobotomise you over flower arrangements and charcuterie boards. Does that count as a full circle moment?”

You grin. “Not when you live on the Eight. Infinity sign, baby.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself, the ghost of pet-names past pushing Rafe’s pulse to fibrillation. Your eyes widen abashedly. “Should we rejoin the party?”

Rafe nods, “Probably,” and then, when you’re just out of earshot, “I’d do something stupid if we didn’t.”

—

Over the next few weeks, you begin to see more and more of one another.

A few texts back and forth become more than a few virtual trysts, and every spare moment you have is dedicated to being in each other’s presence.

And it isn’t as though you’re mending old love, this feels like something else altogether. Though old memories may flit through your brain on occasion, they are boundless and free — they don’t define this connection.

You’re starting anew. Rafe realises it too.

He still remembers how it felt to tell you he loved you the first time around, fourteen years old with a bashful smile and enough hope in his heart to ache. He still remembers what you were wearing the first time he drove you around; the first time you came to UNC to visit; the shade of lipgloss you worshipped from Sephora. And you remember it all too, the feeling of being in his pick-up, of being with this roguish, freshman boy that had so much charm your insides soared.

Going through it all again feels like receiving a new lease on life. How lucky are you to love a different person in the same man?

Currently, the pair of you are sprawled out on beach towels, velvet dusk revealing the bespangled sky stretching above you. Beside you, take-out boxes and sodas lie in the sand, discarded. Every now and then, his wrist brushes yours with a jolt of static.

You’re lying closer to each other than you should, his body heat pressing over you in paces. He’s pretty sure his clothes are going to smell like your soft-toned, vanilla perfume later, and he quietly delights in this.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You smile. “Shocker.”

He nudges your shoulder with his in faux-admonishment, turning his head toward you. It lingers; he’s closer. Your pulse feels boundless. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeats. “And I’ve realised something.”

You turn your head in tandem, his proximity making you balk. “What’s that, Cameron?”

“If we hadn’t broken up in the first place, I’d probably never have gone to therapy.”

A hush falls. “True.”

“And I’d never have worked through my emotional unavailability and all the problematic shit that comes with it.” He pauses, a heavy emotion making his blue eyes somber. “We’d have stayed together, but I’d never have become the man that you deserve.”

You swallow. “Is that what you are now?” You murmur, your voice unsure. “The man I deserve?”

“I don’t think so,” he answers quietly. “Don’t think I ever will be. But… but I’m working on it, properly this time. And getting to know you again, for real, has made me realise just how worth it this is.”

It’s too much. You make to turn away but Rafe’s hand stops you, gentle but firm on your face. His thumb swipes over your warm cheek in comforting circles, and you find yourself leaning into his touch inadvertently.

Uh oh, you’re falling in love. You sigh. “It feels inevitable, huh?”

“D’you believe in soulmates, Y/N?”

Your lashes flutter shut in response. Rafe inches closer still, his hand slipping down to your jaw, and when he kisses you, old embers create a new flame within your heart. It’s chaste, unsure, a second first kiss. And yet, though it’s soft, the press of his lips is a ravaging embrace.

“Do you, Rafe?” You return, opening your eyes tentatively.

His gaze is still trained on your pretty mouth, less iris than pupil as his yearning transcends everything else. He presses his thumb on your lower lip gently. “Only if it’s you.”

“I think I am,” you murmur.

Rafe smiles. Oh no, he’s falling in love again. “I think you are too.”

—

I thought the plane was going down / How’d you turn it right around?

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron oneshot

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mononijikayu · 1 month ago

Text

i love you so — nanami kento.

One evening, as you watched the sunset together from your porch, Kento spoke, his voice filled with a sense of finality and peace. "I didn’t think I’d live long enough to retire from all of this." he admitted, the hint of a smile on his lips. "But being here with you… it feels like we’ve made it." You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. "We did," you whispered. "And now, we can live the life we always dreamed of." Kento’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you close. "I couldn’t have done any of this without you, sweetheart." he said quietly. "Thank you… for staying." You closed your eyes, the sound of the waves crashing softly in the distance. "There’s nowhere else I’d rather be."

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Canon Convergence;

WARNING/s: Post-Shibuya Arc, R-18, Smut, Oral (F! Receiving) P to V Sex, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Husband and Wife, Friendship, Husband! Nanami, Reader! Wife, Fluff, Drama, Comfort, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fix-It, Humor, Domesticity, Family Life, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Idiots In Love, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Pining, Nanami Being A Great Husband;

WORDS: 6.8k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is was in a queue. i remember having a bad stomach ache writing this and just really giving up on writing because i really was not having a good day. this is not the last we'll see of sorcerer nanami. and god, we deserve a lot of fix-its for the ending. i'll give it to yall once the exam era is over. the upcoming stuff will be from queued up stuff. but thank you for being patient. i love you all!!! enjoy <3

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next: say so.

YOU WERE GLAD THAT YOUR HUSBAND WAS LIVE. From this moment on, you knew that there was nothing but relief now. Sleepless nights in recovery as he gets better, staying by his side most days as he tries to get himself better every single day. You yourself halted any production on your upcoming book, taking leave despite the amount of workload that you have to deal with. None of that mattered.

You just wanted to be there for your husband. Everything else can wait. Every little bit of the world can stop. You just wanted to be here with your husband. He was your everything. You did not want to miss a single thing. Because the gods know you were only happier, more relieved, knowing your husband is alive. Kento was here, and that was all you were happy about.

As you sat by Kento's bedside, the room was quiet, save for the occasional beep of the medical equipment. His chest rose and fell in steady, rhythmic motions, a reassuring sign that he was slowly, but surely, recovering. You held his hand tightly, feeling the warmth of his skin, and that alone was enough to soothe the ache that had been gnawing at your heart for weeks.

"You're still here." Kento's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of both surprise and gratitude. “Sweetheart, I was going to be out later today. They would have called you.”

"Of course I am." you replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. " And that hardly matters. I’m not going anywhere."

Kento gave a small, tired smile, his fingers curling weakly around yours. "You should be working on that book of yours… your editor—"

"She can wait. None of that matters. You know that." you interrupted gently, squeezing his hand. "You’re more important."

He sighed, a blend of relief and exasperation. "You’re going to get in trouble."

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "Let them be mad. I’m not missing a single moment of this, Kento. I almost lost you." Your voice trembled slightly, betraying the depth of your fear. "I don’t care about anything else right now. Just you."

His eyes softened as he looked at you, a quiet understanding passing between you both. "I’m sorry, sweetie." he murmured, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "For worrying you."

"You don’t have to be, my love." you whispered. "You’re here. That’s all that matters. And I’ll be here every step of the way. Every appointment, every session with Ieiri–san, every movement therapy… I’ll be there."

Kento closed his eyes briefly, the weight of your words sinking in. "Thank you," he said after a long pause, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything."

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "We’re in this together." you whispered. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Months passed, and with each day, Kento grew stronger. The slow but steady process of recovery, while challenging, had brought you even closer. You watched with quiet pride as Kento regained his strength, the grueling hours of movement therapy gradually paying off.

His once rigid, exhausted frame was replaced by the poised and determined man you had always known. There was a renewed warmth in his smile, one that hadn’t been there for so long—a smile that reflected the inner peace he was beginning to find.

Shoko's treatments had been a blessing, and the relief of hearing the doctors say that Kento no longer needed constant hospital visits lifted a tremendous weight off your shoulders. The news that he only needed to check in every few months was like music to your ears. He was coming home, truly home.

As you stepped through the door of your house, Kento at your side, it felt like you were walking into a new chapter of your lives. The space felt different now—warmer, more alive.

You could already picture your mornings together, the sound of soft footsteps as Kento would sneak out early for his morning ritual of visiting the neighborhood market. You imagined him returning with a fresh loaf of bread tucked under one arm, and a bottle of fresh cow milk in the other, his face calm and content in the simple act of shopping.

On the first morning he was well enough, Kento insisted on preparing breakfast. You tried to offer help, but he gently waved you off, a small smile on his lips. "Let me take care of this," he said, his tone warm but firm. "You've done more than enough for me."

You watched him move around the kitchen, still a bit slow, but determined. The smell of fresh eggs and toast filled the air, mingling with the quiet hum of morning. The way he set the table, with such careful deliberation, made your heart swell. It was perfect. Simple, but perfect.

Breakfasts became a cherished part of your daily routine, something so small, yet filled with an endless sense of joy. Kento would tell you about the sights he saw at the market, or the latest book he’d started reading at the park nearby.

The two of you would sit by the window, the sunlight spilling in, and laugh about little things, about nothing at all. It was in those moments, you felt time slow down, allowing you to savor every second.

There were no more looming threats, no more hospitals or sleepless nights. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of life together, a life you had both fought so hard to protect. The weight of the past, though never forgotten, had softened into something you could live with.

"You know," Kento said one morning, his voice cutting through the soft clink of breakfast dishes, "I never thought I’d be able to do this again. Just… enjoy the small things."

You looked up from your cup of tea, meeting his eyes. "It’s the small things that matter most," you replied gently. "And I’m just happy that we get to enjoy them together."

Kento nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. "I wouldn’t have made it without you," he said, his voice full of quiet gratitude.

You reached across the table, taking his hand in yours. "We made it through together. That’s all that matters."

In the silence that followed, the world felt right. No grand gestures, no dramatic moments. Just you, Kento, and the simple joy of being together. Nothing felt more right than this. Your husband let his own cup of tea rise towards his lips. As he took a sip, he put it away to the side.

"Do you remember what I told you about Malaysia?" he asked, his voice low, but filled with a calm certainty.

You nodded, already knowing where this was going. "How could I forget? You always spoke about wanting to settle there, once everything was over."

Kento glanced at you, his gaze thoughtful and tender. "Well, now that I’m officially done with Jujutsu… I think it’s time." He looked away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "I’ve always dreamed of living somewhere quieter, where we can have a little peace. No more exorcisms, no more danger." He paused, his eyes meeting yours again. "What do you think?"

The mere thought of a life far from the chaos of Tokyo made your heart ache with hope. "I think it's perfect. A fresh start, just the two of us." you replied softly, your hand finding his. “And I can work from there. My job isn’t going to be a problem, my love.”

Kento squeezed your hand gently, his expression one of contentment. "You’ve been by my side through everything. Now, I want us to live for ourselves. To finally have that peace we both deserve."

A few weeks later, after countless preparations and farewells, the two of you found yourselves on a flight to Kuantan, Malaysia. As the plane descended, the sight of lush greenery, the vast ocean, and the golden sun made you both smile. It felt like the promise of a new beginning.

Once settled in a small, cozy house near the beach, Kento seemed more at ease than you had seen him in years. His once-tense shoulders were relaxed, and his usual seriousness was softened by the tranquility of your new surroundings. You spent your days walking along the shoreline, enjoying the warm breeze, and talking about everything and nothing.

One evening, as you watched the sunset together from your porch, Kento spoke, his voice filled with a sense of finality and peace.

"I didn’t think I’d live long enough to retire from all of this." he admitted, the hint of a smile on his lips. "But being here with you… it feels like we’ve made it."

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. "We did." you whispered. "And now, we can live the life we always dreamed of."

Kento’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you close. "I couldn’t have done any of this without you, sweetheart." he said quietly. "Thank you… for staying."

You closed your eyes, the sound of the waves crashing softly in the distance. "There’s nowhere else I’d rather be."

EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT LIKE THIS. The days in Kuantan unfold with a rhythm that feels almost surreal after all that you have been throughMornings begin with the soft call of birds and the gentle hum of the ocean, a sound that soothes the remnants of tension in both of you.

You often wake up before the sun rises, taking comfort in the sight of Kento beside you—his expression unguarded, his brow no longer furrowed in worry. The air is warm, yet fresh, carrying the scent of the sea into your room.

The two of you have created a ritual of watching the sunrise together. Wrapped in a light blanket, you step out onto the balcony, where the sky slowly transforms from deep indigo to a golden hue.

The sight of it never fails to bring a sense of calm, especially as Kento stands beside you, his arm slipping easily around your waist. There’s something about the quiet mornings that feel intimate, as though you’re the only two people in the world, basking in a new life that finally feels your own.

Breakfasts are leisurely affairs, often consisting of fresh tropical fruits and steaming cups of coffee. Nanami has taken to savoring the local flavors with surprising enthusiasm, showing a side of him you hadn’t seen before—one of curiosity and delight in the simple pleasures of life. He’s no longer the man burdened by duty, but someone who has learned to slow down, to breathe.

After breakfast, the two of you wander into town, where the locals have already come to recognize Nanami’s stoic figure and your frequent visits to the markets. Kuantan's streets are bustling, but in a way that’s gentle and inviting, not overwhelming.

The sea breeze follows you wherever you go, and the chatter of vendors becomes a comforting background noise. You notice how Nanami’s posture is relaxed, his eyes softer as he greets familiar faces or stops to buy ingredients for lunch.

He’s taken up cooking more often, and you enjoy watching him experiment in the kitchen with local recipes, his focus now on perfecting the blend of spices rather than wielding his cursed energy.

One afternoon, while you’re walking through a hidden path surrounded by lush greenery, Nanami suddenly stops. You look up at him, sensing he has something on his mind. His hand slides into yours, firm but gentle, a touch that speaks volumes of the man he is now—steady, grounded, and deeply content.

“I didn’t think I could ever feel this way, sweetheart.” he says, voice low but clear in the quiet of the jungle trail. “There was a time I thought peace was a luxury I’d never have.”

You squeeze his hand, knowing exactly what he means. The life you’ve built here is worlds apart from the chaos and danger you once faced together, but it's the very contrast that makes it so meaningful.

In the afternoons, you often visit the beaches. Teluk Cempedak has become your favorite spot—a place where the white sand meets crystal-clear water, and the two of you can walk for hours without encountering a soul.

Sometimes you swim in the sea, the cool water refreshing against your skin as Kento watches you with a fondness that never fades. His laughter, rare but heartfelt, comes more easily now, especially when you tease him about letting go of his suit in favor of the casual attire of your new coastal life.

It’s in these quiet, intimate moments that you notice the little changes in him. His guard is down, his movements less calculated and more relaxed. He no longer feels the weight of being a sorcerer, of having to constantly protect or fight. Instead, he’s allowed himself to simply be—Nanami Kento, a man enjoying the peace of a life he’s long deserved.

Evenings are your favorite part of the day. You sit on your veranda, facing the open expanse of the sea as the sun sets, casting brilliant hues of orange and pink across the sky. Nanami often sits beside you, a book in hand, though he rarely gets far in his reading. He’s more focused on the sound of your voice as you talk about your day, or simply enjoying the stillness that surrounds you both. Sometimes, when the mood strikes, you’ll put on soft music, and the two of you will dance slowly in the fading light, your bodies swaying in perfect harmony to a rhythm only you can hear.

One night, as you lie together in the gentle darkness, the sound of waves crashing in the distance, Nanami turns to you with a question of his own. “Did you ever think we’d make it here?”

You’re silent for a moment, reflecting on the years that led to this—of all the pain, the battles, the near misses, and the impossible choices. But now, with his arm draped across your waist and his steady breathing beside you, the answer feels simple.

“I always hoped we would, my love.” you whisper, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “It was always a dream, to just go away and be happy together. Being together was always enough. Life exists to be lived when I have you, you know?”

Kento’s lips curl into the faintest of smiles as he pulls you closer. “I know. I feel the same way.”

And as you drift off to sleep, lulled by the sound of the sea and the warmth of Nanami beside you, you know that this peace—this life—was worth every struggle. Here, in Kuantan, you’ve finally found your sanctuary, a place where you and Nanami can truly be free.

The following weeks in Kuantan seem to melt together in a peaceful haze, each day blending into the next in a rhythm you’ve both come to cherish. The routines you’ve settled into feel like second nature now, but they never lose their charm.

Every shared meal, every walk along the beach, every quiet evening under the stars feels like a gift—a stark contrast to the fast-paced, dangerous life Nanami Kento had once lived.

You decide to explore your new home a little deeper as time passes by. Kuantan has more to offer than its beaches, and as much as you love the ocean, there’s something exciting about venturing further into the local culture.

You both find yourselves at the Sungai Lembing Mines, a historical site nestled amidst lush greenery. The air is cooler here, the dense forest canopy providing shade as you explore the remains of the old mining town. Kento, ever the thoughtful observer, takes in the details of the place with quiet interest.

As you walk through the narrow tunnels, dimly lit by soft lights, Kento surprises you by taking your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You glance at him, his face calm but focused as he guides you through the mine. The place seems to bring out a reflective mood in him.

“I used to think life was about surviving, you know? To come home to you.” he says, his voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space. “I never imagined I’d find a place where I could live—really live. Free from everything, from the pain.”

You smile at his words, understanding the weight behind them. For so long, both of you had lived on the edge, where peace seemed like a distant dream. But now, in this quiet corner of the world, you’ve found a way to truly live, just as he said.

“I’m glad we found it together, my love.” you reply, squeezing his hand gently.

Kento looks at you, his eyes softening with affection. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Later that afternoon, you visit the bustling Pasar Besar, the central market in Kuantan. The vibrant array of fruits, vegetables, spices, and street food is overwhelming in the best way.

You laugh as Kento samples unfamiliar snacks, his face betraying a rare look of surprise when something unexpected hits his palate. It’s moments like this—his subtle humor, the small ways he lets his guard down—that make you fall in love with him all over again.

You spot a stall selling batik cloth and decide to browse through the colorful fabrics. The intricate designs catch your eye, and soon enough, you’re holding up pieces, wondering which would look best as a gift. Nanami, standing beside you with his arms crossed, watches with quiet amusement as you deliberate over the choices.

“You’ll make the right decision, sweetie.” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “You always do.”

“I know I do.” You mumble back to him. “But what if I can’t decide?”

“Then buy as many as you want, sweetie. I’ll pay for it.” He grinned at you, kissing your forehead as you pouted at him. “Go on. Get as much as you like.”

Back at your home by the sea, the evenings continue to be your sanctuary. Tonight, the sky is clear, and the stars are brighter than ever. Kento is in the kitchen, cooking up one of the local dishes he’s learned to perfect—a spicy sambal to go with freshly grilled fish.

You sit at the table, watching him move around the small space with the same precision and care he once applied to missions and battles. There’s something comforting about seeing him this way, so at ease in the simple task of preparing a meal.

When he’s done, the two of you sit on the veranda, plates in hand, enjoying the quiet symphony of the night. The ocean breeze drifts through the air, and the sound of the waves creates a steady, calming backdrop to your meal.

Kento sits across from you, and though his expression remains composed, there’s a softness in his gaze as he looks at you—one that speaks of contentment, of having finally found his place.

As the night deepens, you both remain outside, not wanting to leave the serenity of the moment. The conversation flows easily, dipping into memories of the past but always returning to the present. You talk about everything and nothing—the little details of your day, plans for tomorrow, and the quiet joy of simply being together.

At one point, you catch Kento standing on the porch, gazing out at the sea. The moonlight shimmered across the water’s surface, casting a silver glow that matched the contemplative look in his eyes. You quietly approached, leaning against the railing beside him, sensing he was lost in thought. His profile was softened by the pale light, yet his expression held a depth of reflection you hadn’t seen in a long time.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The sound of the waves rolling in gently filled the space between you, creating a calm, soothing rhythm. Finally, Kento broke the silence.

“You know, sweetie...” he began softly, his voice low and distant, as though he was speaking more to the sea than to you. “There was a time I didn’t think I’d ever end up living this life with you."

You turned to him, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. He continued, still looking out at the endless horizon. "I mean, we had a lovely life in Tokyo. But I wasn’t sure I’d survive long enough to have this—to have you and well... this peace."

There was a long pause as he struggled to find the right words, his hand tightening slightly on the railing. "I thought I didn’t deserve it, you know?" he admitted, his voice barely a whisper now. "Especially with all the things I’ve done… the lives I’ve seen lost." He exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping under the weight of memories you knew he still carried.

You stepped closer, gently slipping your hand into his. His grip was warm, yet tentative, like he was grounding himself in this moment. You feel a lump form in your throat at his honesty. Your beloved Kento has always been pragmatic, a man who understood the brutal realities of the world, and hearing him speak of those doubts only makes the peace you’ve found more precious.

"And I... I still feel guilty," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. "Letting the kids do what I should be doing as an adult, as the one who’s been through it all. It feels like I abandoned them, like I took the easy way out by choosing this life with you."

The rawness in his confession made your heart ache. You squeezed his hand, feeling the depth of his inner turmoil. "Kento, my love….." you began softly, kissing his hand. "You didn’t abandon anyone. You’ve given so much of yourself to that world... to those kids. No one deserves peace more than you."

He turned to face you then, his eyes reflecting not only the moonlight but also the deep well of emotions he kept hidden. "But how do I live with this peace,sweetie?" he asked quietly. "How do I do it when I know others are still out there, fighting?"

You looked at him for a long moment, choosing your words carefully. "Because you’ve earned it, Kento. You’ve given your life, your time, your energy to protect others. Now, it’s time for you to live. And the kids... they look up to you, not because you’re out there fighting, but because of the wisdom you’ve shared. They’ll carry that with them. They will go on and be stronger because of what you taught them. Okay?”

He fell silent again, but this time, there was less tension in his posture. The guilt and doubt, though still present, seemed to soften in the wake of your words. He sighed deeply, a breath that felt like the release of a burden he'd been carrying for far too long.

"You’re right." he murmured, almost to himself. "I just need to let go." His gaze returned to the horizon, but this time, there was a quiet acceptance in his eyes.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, the two of you standing there in the quiet night, the sound of the sea a constant, gentle reminder that you were here, together. In that moment, you both found peace—not in the absence of guilt or regret, but in the choice to live for the present, for each other.

"I’m just glad you’re here, my love." you whispered, your voice barely audible against the sound of the waves.

Kento turned his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "I’m glad I’m here too." he replied, his voice full of quiet gratitude.

“You’ve done all you could, my love.” you say softly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Take your rest. Enjoy the fruits of your labor. Live, okay?”

Kento looks at you, his gaze filled with a tenderness that takes your breath away. “Together.”

Your lips echo the happiest smile you could ever give him. “Together.”

The night stretches on, and as you both sit in the comforting silence, hand in hand, you realize that these quiet, intimate moments are the culmination of everything you’ve been through. You made it. You were here at the finish line.

And here, in Kuantan, you’ve found a home not just in the place, but in each other. And for the first time in what feels like forever, the future seems bright, filled with the promise of many more peaceful nights like this one, together.

THE SUNSETS WERE ONE TO LOOK FORWARD TO. Everything about it was ever so breathtaking. You both couldn't understand what beauty was until you both saw the sunset for the first time. Somehow, the world had only come to make sense when you saw Kuantan's wonderous sunset for the first time.

The beach is bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun, the sky awash with shades of pink, orange, and purple. The gentle sound of the waves crashing against the shore forms a soothing backdrop, but it’s the heat building between you and Kento that holds your attention. The sand beneath your skin feels cool, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from his body as he hovers over you, his presence grounding yet electrifying.

His lips find your inner thigh first, a featherlight kiss that sends a ripple of anticipation through you. His breath is warm against your skin, and with every slow, deliberate movement, Kento teases you, heightening the tension that has been simmering all evening. His large hands caress your hips, his touch gentle yet firm, as if reminding you that you’re completely his in this moment.

He hums lowly, the vibrations of his voice traveling through you, sending shivers down your spine. His lips finally move to your womanhood, his touch both reverent and commanding.

You gasp softly, your fingers curling into the sand as his tongue brushes against your most sensitive spot, teasingly slow, savoring every reaction you give him. Each flick of his tongue, every press of his lips, is intentional, calculated to drive you wild.

The soft crashing of the waves matches the rhythm of his movements—slow, steady, and completely overwhelming. You feel your body respond to him in a way only he could elicit, the pleasure building slowly, winding tighter with each stroke of his tongue. He groans against you, the sound deep and satisfied, as if relishing the way your body reacts to him.

Your breath hitches, a soft moan escaping your lips as he pulls you deeper into this intimate dance. His pace remains patient, never rushing, drawing out every second of pleasure as if time itself has slowed down for just the two of you. He knows exactly how to work your body, how to make you feel cherished and consumed all at once.

“Kento…” you whisper, your voice trembling, but all you can hear is his deep hum of approval, his lips never leaving you, his focus entirely on your pleasure.

The intensity of the moment swells with the colors of the sunset around you, the world narrowing down to just him and the sensation of his mouth on you, guiding you toward the brink of bliss.

Nanami’s mouth moves with a calculated intensity, each flick of his tongue deliberate and unhurried, savoring every reaction. His grip on your hips tightens slightly, holding you in place as your body instinctively tries to shift from the overwhelming pleasure building inside you. The sun sinks lower, casting golden light across your skin, but you barely notice anything beyond the sensations Kento is pulling from you.

Your fingers twist into the sand, grasping for something solid as waves of pleasure roll through you. His tongue circles your sensitive nub, the rhythm maddeningly slow, before he pulls back, teasing you with a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. His breath is hot, mingling with the cool ocean breeze, sending a shiver down your spine.

He hums again, the low sound reverberating through your core as he returns his attention to your aching center. His tongue presses against you, swirling, as his fingers trace soft patterns over your thighs. The contrast of his teasing pace with the tight coil of need inside you is almost too much to bear.

"Patience, sweetie, hm?" he murmurs between movements, his voice low and teasing, the same words he used earlier still dripping with that calm authority that only Kento carries. Your body responds to him instinctively, hips bucking ever so slightly toward his mouth, seeking more of him, needing more.

“Kento… please, my love.” you moan, your voice barely audible, but full of raw desire. He smirks against your skin, clearly enjoying the way you’ve surrendered to him completely.

Instead of responding with words, he increases his pace just enough to push you closer to the edge. His tongue moves with a newfound fervor, flicking over your clit with just the right amount of pressure, drawing another soft moan from your lips. The sensation builds, the pleasure tightening low in your belly, curling and winding like a spring ready to snap.

Kento’s grip on your hips grows firmer, holding you steady as your body begins to tremble beneath him. You feel his fingers digging into your skin, grounding you as you teeter on the brink of release. His mouth works you with relentless precision, his movements growing more intense, more focused.

Your breathing becomes shallow, your heart racing as the tension inside you builds, each flick of his tongue sending you closer to the edge. The cool night air mixes with the heat radiating from your body, and with one final, perfect stroke of his tongue, the dam breaks.

A wave of pleasure crashes over you, your back arching as your release floods through you. You cry out his name, your fingers grasping at the sand as your body shakes with the force of your orgasm. Kento stays with you, his tongue moving slowly, gently, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you’re left breathless and trembling beneath him.

He finally pulls away, his lips brushing your thigh one last time before he crawls up beside you, wrapping you in his strong arms. His breath is steady, calm, a stark contrast to the wild thrum of your heartbeat as you come down from your high.

The two of you lie there in the soft glow of the fading sunset, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your release. Nanami presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your arm.

"You’re incredible, sweetie." he whispers, his voice full of admiration as he holds you close, the sound of the waves lulling you into a state of perfect contentment.

Kento’s strong arms around you feel like the safest place in the world as you lie there, his warmth radiating against your skin, contrasting with the cool breeze of the beach. The remnants of your release still pulse through your body, leaving you relaxed and utterly content, the sound of the waves adding to the peaceful rhythm of the moment.

He pulls you closer, resting his chin on top of your head, his fingers still tracing soft patterns along your arm. There's a quiet satisfaction in the way he holds you, as if he’s savoring the moment just as much as you are. The sun has dipped fully below the horizon now, and the sky is painted with deep purples and blues, the stars beginning to peek through the night’s curtain.

You shift slightly in his arms, tilting your head to look up at him. His eyes are soft, reflecting the dim light of the fading day, and there's a small, content smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In the stillness of the night, you can see the depth of his emotions in the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters to him at this moment.

“Kento…” you whisper, your voice soft, still breathless from the intensity of what just happened. There’s something unspoken in the air between you, something deeper than just desire.

He tilts his head down, brushing his lips gently against yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, filled with the love and care he always shows you. It’s a stark contrast to the raw intensity of just moments ago, but it feels just as intimate, just as consuming.

“I love you, sweetheart.” he murmurs against your lips, his voice deep and full of warmth. “More than I could ever put into words.”

You feel your heart swell at his words, the sincerity in his tone making your chest tighten with emotion. It’s moments like this that remind you just how deeply you’ve fallen for him—his strength, his patience, the way he always knows exactly how to make you feel cherished.

“I love you too, Kento. More than you know.” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. You nuzzle closer to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek as you rest your head on his chest. His hand comes up to gently stroke your hair, his touch soothing as you lie together in the quiet.

“Fuck me, my love. Please.” you whisper breathlessly, your voice laced with need. “Need you, Kento.”

The playful edge in your tone catches him off guard, and a smirk dances on his lips. He raises an eyebrow, looking down at you with a mix of amusement and desire, his eyes glinting in the soft moonlight.

“Is that so?” he replies, a teasing lilt in his voice. “After everything we just did?”

You nod, biting your lip, feeling that familiar heat pooling in your belly again. The way he gazes at you ignites that fire within, the hunger mirrored in his own expression. There’s a magnetic pull between you, a need that feels insatiable.

With a low chuckle, Kento shifts, moving to hover over you once more, the cool sand beneath you feeling inviting as the warmth of his body envelops you. The playful teasing in his eyes remains, but there’s also a seriousness in the way he leans closer, his breath mingling with yours.

“How wanton. My precious sweetheart is wanton.” he murmurs, echoing his earlier words but with a different tone. He’s still in control, yet you can sense the excitement building in him as well. He brushes his lips against yours, a soft yet electrifying connection, before trailing kisses down your neck, each one igniting your skin.

Your body responds instinctively, arching into him, craving more of that sweet friction. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, your pulse quickening as he teases you, his hands exploring every inch of you, igniting every nerve ending.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” he whispers, his voice low and gravelly, a hint of challenge lacing his words. The intensity in his gaze makes your heart race, the way he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

You meet his eyes, determination swirling on your own. “I want you, Kento. Now.”

With that, he smiles, a wicked gleam in his eye, and his hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer. The anticipation hangs in the air, thick and intoxicating, as you both lose yourselves in this moment, ready to explore the depths of your desires once again under the fading light of the sunset.

Kento’s own gaze darkens with desire, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Patience, my dear sweetheart. I told you before." he murmurs, his tone low and teasing. His fingers move with deliberate slowness as he lowers his shorts, pulling down just enough for his thick, veiny cock to spring free. The sight of him makes your heart race.

He doesn't rush. Instead, he takes his time, rubbing his cock between your wet, needy folds, coating himself with your arousal. The sensation is maddening, and every time he slips his cock in just a little before pulling back out, you whine with frustration. You’re desperate for more, for him to fill you.

"You drive me crazy, sweetie." he growls, his large hands gripping your hips firmly. In one smooth motion, he pushes himself inside you, stretching you out in a way that feels so deliciously overwhelming. You gasp, your back arching off the sand as his cock fills you to the brim. He’s big, so big that even just the tip feels like it’s splitting you open.

"So big, Kento,oh—" you moan, your fingers digging into the sand as your body adjusts to the feeling of him buried so deep inside you. His groan rumbles through the air, the sensation of your walls gripping him tightly nearly sending him over the edge.

His hips press forward, and you feel the bulge in your tummy as he nestles himself even deeper into you. His thrusts are slow, controlled, and purposeful, driving you wild with the sweet agony of wanting more.

"You're squeezing me so tight, sweetheart." he grits out, his voice strained as he struggles to maintain his composure. “Too tight.”

Your husband’s slow pace remains deliberate, each slow thrust making you feel every inch of him as he stretches you so fully, so deeply. His hands grip your hips tighter, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you against him, forcing you to take him completely. The sensation is overwhelming—his thick cock filling you, stretching your walls in a way that makes it hard to think of anything but him.

Your moans mix with the sound of the crashing waves, and the setting sun casts a warm glow over both of you, illuminating the scene in a soft, golden light. The contrast between the cool breeze on your heated skin and the fiery pleasure building inside you sends shivers down your spine.

“My love, please. Please….Oh, oh….” you beg, your voice barely a whisper, strained with the need for more. You can feel him twitching inside you, his control faltering slightly as your tightness drives him closer to the edge.

“Let me work you up, a little, hm? Patience, sweetie.” he rasps again, though the way his breathing grows more ragged tells you he’s not far from losing it himself. His cock glides in and out of you with a torturous rhythm, teasing you, keeping you right on the precipice without giving you the release you crave.

Desperate, you rock your hips against him, trying to take more, trying to force him deeper. The movement earns a low groan from him, and suddenly, his grip tightens, his control slipping as he slams into you harder, burying himself completely.

Your body arches beneath him, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the intense pressure of him filling you sends waves of pleasure radiating through your entire body. His pace quickens, the lazy tease of his earlier movements replaced with the primal need to claim you, to make you feel nothing but him.

“Fuck, sweetie.” he growls, his voice deep and rough with lust. “You’re taking me so well—so tight, so fucking perfect. My little wife. Mine, mine. Only mine.” He thrusts into you harder, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls, hitting spots that make your vision blur.

Your hands grasp at the sand for stability, but it does nothing to ground you as pleasure builds inside you, coiling tight in your core. “Kento, I can’t—” You can barely get the words out, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear. “You can, sweetheart. You’re mine. Let go.”

His words, his voice, the feeling of his cock driving deeper and deeper—everything hits you all at once. With a cry, you fall apart beneath him, your body trembling as waves of ecstasy crash over you. Your walls clench around him, pulling him deeper as your orgasm takes over, leaving you breathless and shaking.

Kento groans, the tightness of your release pushing him to the brink. His thrusts grow erratic, his grip on your hips bruising as he chases his own release. With one final, deep thrust, he spills inside you, filling you completely as his body tenses and shudders against yours.

For a moment, the world stands still—the only sounds are the soft crash of waves and your labored breathing. Kento slowly pulls out of you, his cock still throbbing as he collapses beside you on the sand, pulling you into his arms.

The sun dips below the horizon, casting the last of its golden light over the two of you. Wrapped in his embrace, with the warmth of his body still lingering between your legs, you close your eyes, content in the quiet aftermath.

“I love you, Kento. So much. More than you know. ” you whisper, your voice barely audible above the ocean breeze.

He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice soft and tender. “I love you too, sweetheart. But I love you more.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t win against you, aren’t I?”

Kento smiled back, leaning forward to kiss you. “Hm, no. I love you too much, sweetheart. I think I’m willing to fight for the title.”

“Hm….then I will too.” You kiss his jaw, grinning at him.

He laughs. “We’ll see, sweetheart.”

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