#saw the pros doing nothing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 1 month ago

Text

Pro Bono

mafia boss!Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max Verstappen could never be called a bleeding heart, he’s head of the mafia for crying out loud, but when his sister begs him to help her friend escape from an abusive marriage, he can’t help but be drawn to you … and do whatever’s necessary to keep you safe

Warnings: domestic violence, murder, and mentions of Jos Verstappen

The restaurant is loud, filled with the hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from nearby tables. You sit across from Victoria, watching her tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she stirs her drink with the thin straw. The monthly dinner — the one you never miss — has always been a comfort. It’s the one place you can pretend, even if for just an hour or two, that everything in your life is … normal.

But tonight, Victoria’s eyes narrow as she looks at you. She sets the drink down, barely touched. “What’s that on your arm?”

You glance down quickly, tugging your sleeve further down. “What?” You say, trying to sound casual. Too casual. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that.” She leans forward, her voice lowering. “I saw it earlier when you were reaching for the breadbasket. Bruises.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest. You reach for the glass of water, but your hand trembles. You pull it back, trying to hide the shake. “V, I told you. It’s nothing. I-I’m just clumsy, you know?”

Her eyes lock onto yours, and the silence stretches between you both. The noise of the restaurant fades into the background, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears. She’s not buying it. She never has.

“You’re not clumsy,” Victoria says quietly, her voice cutting through the noise. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t break eye contact. “You’ve never been clumsy. Not like that.”

You swallow hard, feeling the lump form in your throat, the one you’ve been pushing down for months, years, who knows how long now. You try to smile, but it falters. “It’s really-”

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “Please don’t lie to me.”

And that’s when it happens. The floodgates open. Your chest tightens, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. You don’t even have the strength to wipe it away. You just sit there, trembling, while Victoria watches, her expression filled with concern and something like anger. But it’s not at you.

“He-” Your voice cracks, and you look down at your hands, twisting them together in your lap. “He hits me, Victoria.”

The words hang there, suspended in the air between you, before they drop like stones into the pit of your stomach. You regret saying them the moment they leave your mouth, but there’s no taking them back now.

Victoria’s breath hitches. “Oh my God.”

You shake your head quickly, regretting it all, wishing you could pull it all back, pretend you never said anything. “No, no. It’s not — it’s not like that all the time. It’s just — sometimes he gets angry. You know how things can get.”

Victoria’s face hardens. “No, I don’t know. And don’t do that. Don’t downplay it.”

You bite your lip, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free from your chest. You can’t look at her. Not when her eyes are filled with that mixture of pity and anger. It makes you feel small, weak. But you can’t stop now. It’s all coming out, spilling over like a dam that’s cracked.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I can’t leave him, Victoria. I have nothing. I don’t have my own money. I don’t even have my own credit card. Everything is in his name. Everything.”

Victoria’s hand reaches across the table, grabbing yours. Her grip is firm, warm, grounding. “You don’t need money to leave him. You just need to get out.”

You blink away the tears, shaking your head, your throat tight. “I don’t even have enough for a lawyer. He’s smart, Vic. He’s careful. He makes sure I can’t-”

“I know a lawyer.” Victoria’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, steady and calm. “And he’ll take you on for free. Pro bono. No questions asked.”

You stare at her, your brain struggling to catch up with her words. For a moment, it feels like the world shifts, tilting on its axis. “A lawyer?” Your voice sounds foreign, like it’s coming from someone else. “For free?”

Victoria squeezes your hand tighter, her eyes sharp, determined. “Yes. For free. You don’t have to pay a dime. You just have to let me help you.”

“I-” You shake your head again, overwhelmed, the weight of everything pressing down on you. “I can’t. I can’t just leave. What if-”

“What if what?” Victoria’s voice rises slightly, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “What if he kills you? What if next time, it’s worse? You don’t have to live like this. You shouldn’t live like this.”

You pull your hand back, pressing it against your forehead, trying to stop the panic building inside you. “You don’t understand, Vic. It’s not that simple. He’ll know I’m planning something. He’s always watching, always checking up on me. And if I mess up, if I try to leave-”

Victoria interrupts, her voice fierce. “Then we’ll get you somewhere safe. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The tears come harder now, faster, as you sit there, your body shaking with the force of them. “I don’t know how I got here,” you manage between sobs. “I don’t know how it got this bad.”

Victoria gets up, sliding into the seat next to you, her arm wrapping around your shoulders. She pulls you close, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel something other than fear. You feel the warmth of her friendship, the safety of her presence.

“You don’t have to stay, you hear me?” She whispers, her voice soft but firm. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this.”

You shake your head, still clinging to that last thread of fear, of doubt. “He’ll come after me. He’ll find me.”

“No, he won’t.” Her voice is firm, stronger than you’ve ever heard it. “You’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s a long silence between you, the weight of her words sinking in. You wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, sniffling, trying to catch your breath.

“I don’t know what to do,” you finally admit, your voice small, exhausted.

Victoria pulls back slightly, looking at you with those fierce eyes of hers. “You don’t have to know what to do right now. You just have to let me help you. One step at a time.”

You nod, but it’s more out of exhaustion than agreement. Your body feels heavy, weighed down by everything — by the bruises, the fear, the hopelessness. But there’s something else there too. Something small but growing. Hope.

Victoria squeezes your hand again, as if reading your thoughts. “We’ll get you out. I promise.”

You don’t say anything, because you’re not sure you believe her. But in this moment, sitting here in this crowded restaurant with your best friend by your side, it’s the first time in a long time you feel like maybe, just maybe, you have a way out.

***

Victoria doesn’t waste a second after dinner. The moment you part ways outside the restaurant, her mind is already racing, fingers scrolling through her phone for a contact she hasn’t dialed in months.

Max.

She knows exactly where he’ll be. He’s always at the penthouse late into the night — never sleeping until the early hours, always up to something. It’s been that way since their father passed. Even now, years after he took control of everything.

Her heels click sharply on the marble floors as she walks into the sleek, modern lobby of his building. The doorman gives her a polite nod — he knows who she is — but doesn’t stop her from heading straight for the private elevator.

The ride up is quick, the air tense. Victoria’s fingers twitch with nerves. She’s not scared of Max, not really, but talking to him about this — about you — feels different. She hasn’t brought him anything this personal in years. Ever since he took over their father’s operation, Max has become a closed book. Hard. Calculated. Cold, even.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and she steps into the hallway, making her way to the penthouse door. She doesn’t bother knocking. Max expects her by now.

The penthouse is a reflection of him — clean, sharp lines, monochrome tones, everything in its place. Expensive. Impenetrable. Just like him.

Max stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his back to her. The city lights cast shadows over his broad frame. He’s in a tailored suit, as always. Even at home, he’s never out of uniform, always dressed for business.

“Vic,” he says without turning around. He doesn’t need to see her to know it’s her. He always knows. “What brings you here at this hour? You usually text before showing up.”

Victoria exhales, trying to steady her nerves. “I need a favor.”

That gets his attention. Max turns, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they meet hers. He doesn’t say anything, just waits. That’s the thing about him — he never rushes, never speaks before thinking. It’s why he’s so dangerous. And effective.

“It’s not for me,” she adds quickly, stepping further into the room. “It’s for a friend.”

Max raises an eyebrow, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “A friend?”

She nods, hesitating for a moment. “It’s … complicated.”

He walks over to the bar, refilling his glass, then gestures toward it with a tilt of his head. “Drink?”

Victoria shakes her head. “No. I need you to listen.”

Max leans back against the bar, his eyes fixed on her. ��I’m listening.”

She takes a deep breath, plunging in. “You remember Y/N? My friend from university?”

There’s the slightest flicker of recognition in his eyes, but he doesn’t comment. He just waits for her to continue.

“She’s in trouble,” Victoria says, her voice lower now, as if speaking the words makes it more real. “Her husband — he hits her. She’s … she’s trapped. She can’t leave. He controls everything. All the money, the house, everything. She doesn’t have a way out.”

Max doesn’t react immediately, his face unreadable as always. But Victoria can tell he’s listening closely. He’s always been good at that, hearing what isn’t said.

“I told her you could help,” Victoria says, biting her lip. “I told her you’d represent her. Pro bono.”

Max raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a humorless smile. “Pro bono?”

“You’re a lawyer, Max. And you’re the best I know.”

He lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “I haven’t practiced law in years, Vic. You know that.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Victoria steps forward, her voice firm. “You’re still licensed, and you still know more than anyone else. She doesn’t have time to find another lawyer. She needs someone who can handle her husband — and he’s not just some random guy. He’s smart, careful. He knows exactly how to keep her under control.”

Max takes a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes flickering to the window before settling back on her. “And why should I get involved in this?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” Her voice hardens. “And because … you know what it’s like.”

Max’s jaw tightens, the first crack in his stoic exterior. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Victoria crosses her arms, stepping closer. “Dad used to beat the hell out of Mom. And you saw it, just like I did. You know what that does to someone. You know how trapped she must feel.”

Max’s eyes darken, but he stays silent, his grip tightening around the glass.

“She can’t do this alone, Max,” Victoria presses. “And I know you — if you get involved, you can get her out. You have the resources, the power. Hell, you’ve been running the goddamn mafia for the last six years. I’m pretty sure you can handle one abusive husband.”

Max’s expression hardens at the mention of the mafia. It’s a subject Victoria rarely brings up. But tonight, there’s no avoiding it.

Their father was a force of nature, larger than life, ruthless. A man who ruled with an iron fist both at home and in the underworld. But for all his power, for all his control, he had one weakness — his temper. And when he lost it, their mother bore the brunt of it. It’s a memory that neither Victoria nor Max can erase, no matter how many years have passed.

Their father insisted on education, though. “A smart leader is a dangerous leader,” he used to say. He forced both Max and Victoria to get degrees — real ones. Victoria went into business. Max chose law, not because he ever wanted to practice, but because he knew the value of understanding the system from the inside. It was a tool, a weapon he could wield in both worlds — the legitimate and the illegitimate.

When their father died, Max took over. It wasn’t a choice. It was an obligation. And he’s been running the empire ever since, using his legal expertise as just one more weapon in his arsenal.

But now, Victoria is asking him to use it for something different.

Max sets the glass down with a soft clink, walking over to the window. He looks out over the city, his hands in his pockets, the silence stretching between them.

“She’s scared, Max,” Victoria says quietly, her voice softer now. “She’s terrified, and she doesn’t know how to get out. I can’t just sit by and watch her go through this. And I know you won’t either.”

Max doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is distant, like he’s seeing something far beyond the city lights. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he turns back to her.

“What’s the husband’s name?” He asks, his voice low but sharp.

Victoria exhales, relief flooding her chest. She knew he wouldn’t turn her away. He never does. “Jonathan Harper.”

Max nods once, his expression unreadable. “I’ll look into him.”

“Thank you,” Victoria says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Max walks over to her, his eyes meeting hers with that intensity that always unnerves people. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

“Good,” he says, turning away again, already moving toward his desk. “Tell her I’ll take the case. But she needs to be ready. Once this starts, there’s no going back.”

Victoria nods, even though he’s not looking at her. “I’ll tell her.”

“And, Vic,” Max adds, his voice colder now, sharper, “you know what happens if this goes sideways. He’s not just some guy. I’m not going to pull punches if things get messy.”

Victoria swallows hard, but she doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

Max’s eyes flicker back to hers, and for the first time tonight, his expression softens, just slightly. “I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

Victoria smiles, though it’s a sad smile. “I know you will.”

She turns to leave, her heart still racing, but lighter now. Max is involved. You’ll be safe. She’s sure of it.

Just as she reaches the elevator, Max’s voice stops her. “You’re a good friend, Vic.”

She turns, meeting his gaze. There’s something in his eyes that she can’t quite place — something softer than usual.

“So are you,” she says quietly.

The elevator doors close behind her, and for the first time that night, she allows herself to breathe.

***

It’s a quiet evening when you walk into Victoria’s house, your hands trembling slightly as you push the door open. The warm air from inside greets you, the faint scent of vanilla candles lingering in the air. But you can’t take any comfort in it. Your nerves are shot, and your heart hammers against your ribs with every step you take.

Victoria’s house is familiar, but tonight, it feels like foreign territory. You haven’t been here in months — haven’t been anywhere that felt safe in what feels like years. Your lips are swollen, your eye still tender to the touch, though the worst of the bruising has started to fade into ugly shades of green and yellow. You can feel the pulse of it beneath your skin with every beat of your heart, a constant reminder of what happened.

You don’t want to be here. You don’t want anyone to see you like this, especially not Victoria. And especially not her brother.

Victoria meets you at the door, her expression soft but concerned, her eyes immediately darting to your face. She’s trying not to show how horrified she is, but you can see it in the way her lips press together, in the tightening of her shoulders.

“Hey,” she says gently, pulling you into a hug before you can protest. Her arms are warm, firm around you, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into her.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, even though you know she doesn’t believe it.

She pulls back just slightly, looking at your face with a quiet sadness. “You don’t have to say that. Not with me.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Is … is he here?”

“Max?” She asks, glancing over her shoulder toward the living room. “Yeah. He’s waiting inside. Don’t worry, he’s — he’s good at this kind of thing.”

Your stomach twists. You’ve never met Max properly. You’ve heard about him, of course. Victoria used to mention him all the time in university, back when he was in law school, back before he took over everything. But you’ve never been in the same room with him. And now? Now, it feels overwhelming.

You can’t stop thinking about how you look. How awful you must seem. A mess of bruises and broken pieces.

Victoria must sense your hesitation because she touches your arm lightly. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. But Max … he’ll help you. I swear.”

“I know,” you say, but your voice is small. “I just — I don’t want to waste his time. I can’t even pay him. I don’t have-”

“He knows,” Victoria interrupts, her voice firm. “I told him everything. He doesn’t care about the money, trust me.”

You glance toward the living room, anxiety tightening in your chest. “Okay.”

Victoria leads you inside, and you feel every step like it’s too heavy, like your body is made of stone. When you finally step into the living room, you see him — Max — sitting on the couch, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, assessing. He’s dressed in a black suit, the jacket hanging open, his tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His hair is slicked back, and his features are sharp, chiseled in a way that makes him look both intimidating and somehow … calm.

He stands when he sees you, but the moment his eyes land on your face, something changes in his expression. The cold calculation that had been there melts away, replaced by something much darker — something that looks a lot like fury.

For a moment, you think he’s angry at you, but then you realize it’s not you. It’s what’s been done to you.

“Jesus Christ,” Max mutters under his breath, his voice low, dangerous. He steps forward, but then stops himself, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “He did this to you?”

You don’t answer at first. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, the shame curling around your chest, making it hard to breathe.

Max looks at Victoria, and then back at you. His voice softens, though it’s still edged with that same cold anger. “Sit down. Please.”

You nod, moving to the couch opposite him, your body stiff, awkward. You don’t want to be here. You don’t want anyone looking at you. But there’s no going back now.

Victoria sits beside you, her hand resting on your knee, offering silent support.

Max doesn’t sit back down. Instead, he stays standing, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze never leaving you. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice gruff. “I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

You try to smile, but it’s weak, and your lip twinges with pain. “It’s … it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Max says, his voice sharper now, cutting through the air like a knife. “And it’s not going to happen again.”

You blink, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. “I can’t — I can’t pay you, Max. I-I don’t have anything. Everything’s in his name. The house, the accounts … everything. I don’t even have a credit card.”

Max shakes his head, stepping closer. “You don’t need to pay me. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

Your throat tightens. “But I don’t want to-”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, his tone softer but still firm. “Don’t apologize. You don’t owe me anything. I’m going to help you, and I don’t need your money to do it.”

“But-”

“Listen to me,” Max says, sitting down across from you, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans in. His eyes lock onto yours, intense and unwavering. “I’ve seen this before. I know what it’s like to feel trapped. My father … he was the same way. He beat my mother for years, and she stayed because she thought she didn’t have a choice. But you do. You have a choice.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling over you. “I just don’t know how to — how to leave. He controls everything. He’ll find me if I try to go. He always finds me.”

Max’s expression darkens, his jaw tightening. “Not this time. I promise you, once we start this, he won’t get near you again. We’ll make sure of it.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the hope you’ve tried to bury for so long flickering faintly in the back of your mind. “But how? He’s … he’s smart. He’s careful. He’ll know if I try to leave.”

Max’s gaze sharpens, his voice low and deliberate. “He might be smart, but he’s not smarter than me. I’ll make sure we take him for everything he’s worth. You’ll get what’s yours, and he’ll have nothing.”

You stare at him, trying to process the weight of what he’s saying. It doesn’t feel real. The idea of being free, of having something — anything — of your own seems impossible. But the way Max says it, the confidence in his voice, makes it seem … possible.

Victoria squeezes your knee gently, her voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now. We’ll take it one step at a time. But Max … he’s got this.”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. The tears you’ve been holding back slip down your cheeks, and you wipe them away quickly, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Max leans back, his expression softening for the first time since you walked in. “You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t have to be anything but ready to fight back. And I’ll be right there with you.”

There’s a long silence in the room, the weight of everything pressing down on you. But for the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like you’re carrying it alone. Max’s presence is steady, strong, and somehow … comforting. You’re not sure how or why, but you feel like you can trust him. Like he’ll keep his word.

You look up at him, meeting his gaze, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you can get out of this.

***

The city lights flicker below, casting shadows on the polished floors of Max’s penthouse as he stands at the window, phone in hand. He’s never been the type to hesitate, but this call — it’s personal now. His jaw tightens as he stares out over the skyline, the weight of what he’s about to do settling in his chest.

You’re staying at Victoria’s tonight, safe for now. It’s been hours since Max left you there, but your face — the bruises, the haunted look in your eyes — still lingers in his mind. He can't shake it. The rage he felt earlier, seeing you like that, bubbles back up to the surface, but he channels it into cold calculation.

He dials the number Victoria had given him, the one listed under your husband’s name, Jonathan Harper. Max’s fingers are steady, even though his blood simmers beneath the surface. He presses the phone to his ear, waiting.

One ring.

Two rings.

On the third ring, the line clicks open, and a voice comes through, sharp and annoyed.

“Who the hell is this?” Jonathan’s voice is biting, laced with impatience. “It’s late. What do you want?”

Max takes a slow breath, his voice low, smooth as steel. “This is Max Verstappen. Y/N’s lawyer.”

There’s a pause, a brief one, and then Jonathan lets out a derisive snort. “Lawyer? She’s got a lawyer now? You’re joking, right? She can’t even afford to pay for groceries, let alone a lawyer.”

Max’s grip on the phone tightens. “She doesn’t need to worry about that. I’m representing her pro bono.”

Jonathan scoffs, the sound thick with disdain. “Pro bono? Let me guess, you’re one of those bleeding-heart types, huh? Think you’re gonna save the poor damsel in distress? She doesn’t need saving, you idiot. She knows her place.”

Max’s chest tightens, but his voice remains eerily calm. “Her place? The only place she’ll be is as far away from you as possible.”

Jonathan laughs, cold and condescending. “You think you can just take her away from me? She’s nothing without me. She doesn’t have a dime. She’s got no friends, no family that gives a damn. She’s worthless. The only reason she’s got a roof over her head is because of me.”

Max’s jaw clenches. “She’s filing for divorce.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, followed by a harsh, barking laugh. “Divorce? Is that what she told you? You must be even dumber than you sound. She can’t divorce me. She doesn’t have the guts. Besides, what’s she gonna get in the divorce? The clothes on her back? I own everything. And trust me, I’ll make sure she leaves with nothing.”

“You’re mistaken,” Max says, voice hardening. “She’s not walking away with nothing. You’re going to pay, and you’re going to pay big.”

“Pay?” Jonathan’s voice rises, anger seeping through now. “For what? For putting a roof over her head? For putting food in her mouth? I’ve been supporting her pathetic ass for years, and now she’s pulling this stunt? She’s nothing but an ungrateful little-”

Max cuts him off, his voice like ice. “Watch your mouth.”

The venom in Jonathan’s voice deepens. “I’ll say whatever the hell I want about her. She’s mine. She’ll always be mine. And you can’t change that, no matter what you do. You think a lawyer’s gonna scare me? I’ve seen your type before. You show up, throw around a few legal threats, and then crawl back under your rock when it doesn’t work out. But guess what? I’ve got a lawyer, too. And he’s ten times better than whatever pro bono hack you are.”

Max doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. He’s heard men like Jonathan before. Hell, he’s dealt with men far worse. But something about this — about the way Jonathan talks about you — makes his blood boil in a way it hasn’t in years.

“You’re going to bring your lawyer,” Max says, his tone calm but laced with menace. “And you’re going to meet me. We’ll settle this properly. Or I’ll take you to court, and I’ll make sure you lose everything.”

Jonathan spits another laugh. “You’re bluffing. You can’t take me to court. I’ll bury you, and I’ll bury her, too. You’ve got no case.”

Max’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You’d be surprised what I can do. I’m not just some lawyer. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

Jonathan’s tone shifts, unease creeping in for the first time. “Yeah? And who the hell are you?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of the question hang in the air. Then, quietly, but with the full force of his reputation behind it, he says, “I’m the man who’s going to destroy you.”

There’s a pause. Max can almost hear the gears turning in Jonathan’s head, the realization dawning. Jonathan doesn’t know the full story yet, but he’s starting to understand that Max isn’t just some random lawyer off the street.

“You think you’re tough?” Jonathan spits, but his voice falters, just slightly. “You think you can intimidate me? You’ve got no idea what I’m capable of. I’ve got connections, money-”

“I don’t care about your money,” Max interrupts, his voice deadly calm. “And your connections? They mean nothing. Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to meet me in person. Tomorrow. Noon. I’ll send you the location. Bring your lawyer. This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a formality.”

Jonathan is silent for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is colder, more calculated. “You think you can push me around? Fine. I’ll meet you. But don’t think for a second this is over. When I’m done, she’ll be crawling back to me, and you? You’ll wish you’d never gotten involved.”

Max’s lips curl into a grim smile, but there’s no humor in it. “We’ll see.”

With that, Max hangs up, the sound of the call ending echoing in the quiet room. He stares at the phone in his hand, his mind already working through the next steps, the strategies. But the rage — cold and burning at the same time — still simmers just beneath the surface.

He walks over to the bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. The burn of the alcohol does little to dull the edge of his anger, but it sharpens his focus. He thinks of you, your bruised face, the way you flinched when you talked about Jonathan.

Max doesn’t care about the money or the case. This isn’t about winning a legal battle. This is about something much bigger. Jonathan Harper is the kind of man Max despises — the kind of man who thinks he can take what he wants, hurt who he wants, without consequence.

Max has dealt with men like Jonathan his whole life. His father was one of them. He remembers the nights his mother spent hiding in their bedroom, her face swollen, her eyes red from crying. He remembers standing outside the door, helpless, listening to the sound of his father’s rage. He swore, even as a boy, that he would never be like his father. And now, he’s making sure men like him pay.

He takes another sip of whiskey, his thoughts hardening into resolve. Jonathan Harper has no idea what’s coming for him.

Max pulls out his phone again, sending a quick message with the meeting details: the time, the place. It’s an upscale restaurant, neutral ground. He doesn’t need to lure Jonathan into a dark alley. No, Max is going to do this the right way — through the law. And if the law isn’t enough, he has other means at his disposal.

He glances at the clock. It’s late, but he knows sleep won’t come tonight. Not with everything spinning in his head.

Max looks out at the city again, the skyline glittering like a sea of possibilities. Tomorrow, Jonathan Harper will realize just how outmatched he is. And by the time Max is done, he’ll make sure you’re safe. Completely safe.

And Jonathan Harper? He won’t have a damn thing left.

***

The restaurant is quiet, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clinking of silverware against plates. You sit next to Max at a polished wooden table in a private room, tucked away from the rest of the patrons. It’s fancy — more than you’re used to — but everything feels off. Like you don’t belong here. You’ve been fidgeting with your hands for the past half hour, unable to sit still, as the minutes tick by.

Jonathan isn’t here yet.

His lawyer arrived on time, a sharp-looking man in a suit so clean it practically sparkles, sitting across from you and Max. He’s polite, overly so, but you can tell there’s no kindness behind his carefully measured smiles. The way he eyes you — it’s like you’re something beneath him, something he’s already decided isn’t worth much.

But it’s not the lawyer that’s making your stomach twist into knots. It’s Jonathan.

The lawyer checks his watch again, sighing lightly as if to signal his own annoyance. “I apologize for Jonathan’s delay. He’s … a busy man.”

Max doesn’t even glance at the lawyer. He’s been staring at the door for the last forty-five minutes, jaw clenched so tightly you think he might crack a tooth. His hand rests on the table in front of him, fingers drumming a slow, tense rhythm against the wood. Every second that passes, you can feel his anger growing — radiating off him like a storm about to break.

“It’s been forty-five minutes,” Max mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “He thinks he can just waltz in whenever he wants.”

The lawyer opens his mouth, but Max cuts him off without even turning his head. “He’s late. That’s disrespectful. To me. To her.” His voice is low, controlled, but the edge is unmistakable.

You lower your eyes to your lap, where your fingers twist nervously in the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t wanted to come to this meeting in the first place. Being here, waiting for Jonathan — it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing you’re about to fall. The anxiety is suffocating.

“Hey,” Max’s voice softens, pulling you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting his gaze. “You’re doing fine. He’s the one who should be nervous.”

You try to smile, but it’s weak, and Max sees through it immediately. His expression hardens, but not at you — at the situation. At Jonathan.

“I won’t let him do anything,” Max adds, his voice steady. “You’re safe.”

You nod, though the tension in your chest doesn’t ease. You’re not afraid of Jonathan in the same way you used to be. Not exactly. It’s more the dread — the weight of knowing he’s going to walk in and say things that’ll hurt, that’ll drag you back down into the hell you’ve fought so hard to escape.

The door opens then, and you flinch, your breath catching in your throat. For a second, you think it’s Jonathan, but it’s just the server, bringing water to the table. Max watches you carefully, his eyes sharp, protective. You can feel him tense beside you, every muscle in his body on edge.

“Where the hell is he?” Max mutters under his breath, his patience clearly running thin. He checks his watch again, his hand tightening into a fist on the table.

The lawyer clears his throat, an attempt to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “Jonathan has a lot on his plate. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

Max shoots him a look, the kind that silences any further excuses. “He’s almost an hour late. If he wanted to show any respect for this process — for her — he would’ve been here on time.”

You glance at the door again, half hoping Jonathan won’t show. That maybe he’ll just stay gone, and you can pretend for a little while longer that this is all over. But you know better than that. Jonathan always shows up, eventually.

And he does.

Nearly an hour after the scheduled meeting time, the door swings open, and there he is — Jonathan Harper, in all his smug, arrogant glory. He strolls in like he owns the place, not even glancing at you as he makes his way to the table. No apology, no acknowledgment of how late he is. Nothing. Just that same cold indifference you’ve seen so many times before.

You shrink back instinctively, your heart pounding, your hands twisting tighter in your lap.

“Well, well,” Jonathan says, his voice dripping with mockery as he pulls out the chair across from you. He doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he stands there, looking down at you with that familiar sneer. “I see you finally found yourself a babysitter, huh?”

You flinch, the words hitting you like a slap. You can feel Max’s anger beside you, simmering just below the surface.

Jonathan sits down, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “I have to say, I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you to hire a lawyer. But then again, you’ve always needed someone to take care of you, haven’t you?”

The air in the room grows thick with tension, Max’s silence growing heavier by the second. His fists clench on the table, knuckles white, but he doesn’t move — yet.

Jonathan doesn’t even look at Max. He’s too busy reveling in his own cruelty. “I mean, come on. You couldn’t even manage to keep the house clean, let alone figure out how to divorce me. It’s cute, really. This whole act. Like you think you’re suddenly strong enough to stand up to me.”

Your chest tightens, shame flooding you, and you can’t bring yourself to meet Jonathan’s eyes. He’s always known how to hit where it hurts most.

Max’s voice cuts through the air, low and dangerous. “That’s enough.”

Jonathan’s eyes flick to Max for the first time, his smirk widening. “Oh, this must be the lawyer. What’s your angle, huh? You think you’re gonna play hero and save her from the big bad husband?”

Max leans forward, his voice cold. “I said that’s enough.”

Jonathan just laughs, leaning back in his chair, completely unfazed. “You’re not scaring anyone, buddy. You think I care about your little threats? I’ve got more money and more power than you can even imagine. And her? She’s nothing. She’s been nothing for years. You’re wasting your time.”

Before you can even process what’s happening, Max stands, his chair scraping back with a loud screech. His hands slam onto the table with a force that makes the glasses shake, his body leaning over the table, looming over Jonathan.

The sudden movement sends a jolt through you, and you glance up at Max, heart pounding. His face is inches from Jonathan’s, his eyes blazing with barely controlled fury.

“You’re going to shut your mouth,” Max says, his voice low, lethal. “Or I’m going to shut it for you.”

Jonathan blinks, his smirk faltering for the first time. But then, as if to mask his own fear, he laughs again, though it sounds more forced this time. “Oh, tough guy, huh? You think you’re going to intimidate me?”

Max leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends chills down your spine. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with. Keep talking, and I’ll make sure you lose everything.”

Jonathan’s smile returns, but there’s something colder behind it now. “You’re bluffing. She’s got nothing. And when this is all over, neither will you.”

Max straightens, his hands still planted firmly on the table, his eyes locked onto Jonathan’s. “Meet me at noon tomorrow. Bring your lawyer. Or don’t — it won’t make a difference. But I’m telling you now, you’re done. You’ll never hurt her again.”

Jonathan sneers, pushing his chair back and standing. He adjusts his jacket, glancing at his lawyer with a bored expression. “We’ll see.”

He turns without another word, walking out of the room like he’s already won.

You sit there, frozen, your heart still racing as the door clicks shut behind him. Max stays standing for a moment, his fists still clenched, his breathing heavy. Then, slowly, he relaxes, his shoulders dropping as he exhales a long, controlled breath.

You don’t say anything at first. You don’t know what to say. Everything feels raw, exposed.

Max turns to you, his eyes softening when they meet yours. “He’s not going to win. You hear me?”

You nod, though your body still feels tense, the weight of Jonathan’s words pressing down on you.

“I promise you,” Max says, his voice quiet but firm, “he’s not going to get away with this. Not this time.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, you believe him.

***

Jonathan grips the steering wheel with one hand, his phone pressed to his ear with the other. His friend on the other end of the call is laughing at something Jonathan said, some offhand comment about how pathetic you are — how you’ve always been pathetic.

“Can you believe she actually thinks she’s gonna win?” Jonathan says, his voice dripping with disdain. “I swear to God, it’s like she’s forgotten who’s in control. I’ve got everything — everything — and she’s sitting there with nothing, thinking some low-rent lawyer’s gonna save her.”

His friend’s laughter crackles through the speaker, fueling Jonathan’s ego. He glances at the dashboard clock — he’s late, but who cares? It’s not like Max and his little damsel in distress can do a thing without him. They need him there. They’re at his mercy. And that’s how it’s always been.

“Max, though,” Jonathan continues, “that guy’s a real piece of work. Acting like he’s some knight in shining armor. Bet he’s got his own skeletons. Probably looking to get a taste of what I had.”

He laughs cruelly, switching the phone to his other ear as he maneuvers through traffic. He barely pays attention to the road. He never does. There’s an ease to his movements, like the world bends to his will, like there’s no need to care about anything or anyone. Not you, not Max, and certainly not whoever might be in his way.

“Yeah, she was always weak,” Jonathan adds. “Clingy, needy … hell, even if she manages to win, she’ll still be nothing without me. Just a broken little girl playing house.”

The friend on the other line chuckles darkly, clearly enjoying the tirade. Jonathan feeds off it, leaning into his own bitterness, his own inflated sense of superiority.

“She’s nothing without me,” he repeats, as if saying it out loud makes it more true, as if it cements his control over you. The idea that you might actually be moving on — finding freedom from him — twists inside his chest, but he shoves the thought away. No, you’ll never be free of him. He won’t let you.

Jonathan shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the wheel, the city blurring past as he approaches the meeting point. He’s already imagining the look on your face when he walks in, late and unapologetic, just to remind you who’s really in charge. He smiles to himself, his lips curling into a sneer.

“She's probably trembling right now,” Jonathan scoffs into the phone. “Waiting for me to show up, like a good little-”

Suddenly, something feels off.

He presses the brake pedal out of habit as the traffic ahead begins to slow — but nothing happens. His foot sinks down to the floor, the pedal soft and useless beneath his foot. Jonathan’s heart skips a beat.

He tries again. Harder this time. But still, nothing.

“Shit,” he mutters, his eyes darting to the dashboard, hands tightening around the wheel. He presses the brake repeatedly, panic beginning to creep into his chest as the car continues to speed forward.

“Hold on,” he says to his friend on the phone, his voice sharp now. “Something’s wrong with the damn car.”

The brake doesn’t respond at all. The car picks up speed as it rolls downhill, buildings flashing by in a blur of glass and steel. Jonathan’s breath quickens. He yanks the steering wheel, swerving between lanes, his tires screeching as the car narrowly misses another vehicle.

“What the hell …” Jonathan’s voice is a strained whisper now. He slams his foot on the brake again, harder, and his whole body tenses. Nothing. No response.

His friend’s voice crackles through the speaker, confused. “What’s going on?”

“The brakes …” Jonathan mutters, his voice strained. “The goddamn brakes aren’t working!”

The friend says something else, but Jonathan barely hears it. His mind races, adrenaline surging through his veins. He yanks the wheel again, veering off the main road, trying to avoid the cars ahead, but the car is moving too fast. Way too fast.

Jonathan curses under his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Panic claws at his throat, but he forces it down, refusing to let fear take over.

He’s not going to crash. He can’t crash.

He’s Jonathan Harper. He doesn’t lose.

His phone slips from his hand and clatters onto the passenger seat as he struggles to regain control. The buildings are coming closer, faster. His breath comes in shallow, rapid bursts as he wrestles with the wheel, trying to steer toward an empty alleyway. But the speed, the force of the car — it’s too much.

The last thing he sees before impact is a flash of brick and glass.

The sound of the crash is deafening. Metal crumples, glass shatters, the front of the car folding like paper as it collides with the side of a building. Jonathan is thrown forward, his seatbelt jerking him back just as his head slams into the steering wheel.

Pain explodes in his skull, his vision blurring as the world spins around him. The car is still now, steam hissing from the hood, the engine making a pitiful whine before going silent.

For a moment, Jonathan doesn’t move. His ears ring, his head swimming, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. He tries to breathe, but his chest feels tight, constricted, like there’s something inside him squeezing the air out of his lungs.

Slowly, he lifts his hand to his face, touching his forehead. His fingers come away wet, sticky with blood. His own blood.

“Shit …” he groans, his voice weak, barely a whisper. He tries to move, to reach for the door, but something stops him. A sharp, searing pain in his chest. He gasps, choking on the breath, and a wave of dizziness washes over him.

The taste of blood is stronger now. It fills his mouth, thick and metallic, and when he coughs, crimson sprays across the shattered windshield.

Something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong.

He tries to lift his head, but it’s too heavy. His hands shake as he grips the steering wheel, trying to steady himself, but his vision is fading, the edges going dark. He coughs again, harder this time, and more blood pours from his mouth, thick and viscous, staining his shirt, pooling in his lap.

No. No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

Jonathan struggles, panic surging through him now. He can’t breathe. His chest heaves, but no air comes in, just the taste of blood and the sharp, stabbing pain that’s getting worse with every second.

He tries to call for help, but his voice is lost, buried beneath the gurgling, choking sound coming from his throat.

He’s dying.

The realization hits him like a freight train. He’s dying, right here, in the driver’s seat of his own car, choking on his own blood. And no one’s coming to help him.

His fingers slip off the wheel, falling limp at his sides as his vision narrows to a pinprick of light. He gasps, trying to suck in one last breath, but all he gets is more blood, flooding his lungs, choking him from the inside.

As the darkness closes in, Jonathan’s last thought is of you.

You, standing in that restaurant yesterday, small and afraid, but maybe — just maybe — stronger than he ever gave you credit for.

***

The clock ticks loudly in the otherwise silent room. Each minute that passes only seems to grow heavier, the tension building with every tick. You sit in the same chair you did yesterday, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeves, stealing glances at the door every few seconds.

Max sits across from you, his expression unreadable but his fingers drumming lightly against the table. Jonathan’s lawyer is seated at the far end, flipping through some documents with a detached boredom that doesn’t match the mounting frustration you feel swelling in the room.

It’s been almost two hours. Jonathan was late yesterday, but this … this is ridiculous.

Max finally speaks, his voice calm but edged with annoyance. “Two hours. How much longer are we supposed to wait?”

The lawyer doesn’t look up, just shrugs. “I’ve been Jonathan’s lawyer long enough to know he’s rarely on time. You’ll get used to it.”

Max’s jaw tightens. You can tell he’s fighting to keep his anger in check. “This isn't a casual lunch meeting. It’s a legal matter.”

“Legal or not,” the lawyer replies, turning a page, “Jonathan Harper moves at his own pace.”

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of their words hang in the air. You want to speak up, to suggest maybe you should leave and try again another day, but your voice feels trapped. Instead, you clasp your hands together tightly in your lap, trying to ignore the gnawing pit in your stomach.

Max glances over at you, his expression softening for just a moment. He sees how tense you are, how uncomfortable you’ve been this entire time. He leans back in his chair, looking like he’s ready to explode but holding it together, probably for your sake.

“He’s deliberately wasting our time,” Max mutters, almost to himself, though the frustration is clear in his voice. His eyes flick back to the door, then back to you. “We’ll give him five more minutes. If he’s not here by then, we leave.”

You nod, grateful for the out, but before you can say anything, your phone buzzes on the table. The sound is jarring in the quiet room. For a moment, you freeze, staring at the screen as an unfamiliar number flashes across it.

Max’s eyes are on you immediately. “You gonna get that?”

You hesitate, but something tells you to answer. You slide the phone off the table and hold it to your ear. “Hello?”

“Is this Mrs. Harper?” A woman’s voice, calm but urgent, crackles through the line.

Your heart skips a beat. You feel Max and Jonathan’s lawyer watching you, but their gazes blur as a cold shiver runs down your spine.

“Yes, this is she,” you answer, your voice barely above a whisper.

“This is Mercy General Hospital. I’m afraid I have some difficult news. Your husband, Jonathan Harper, was brought in around an hour and a half ago after a car accident.” The voice on the other end pauses as if giving you space to process.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Car accident? Your mind races, trying to make sense of what she’s saying.

“An accident?” You repeat, your voice shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman continues, her tone softening, “but unfortunately, he didn’t make it. He passed away on the ambulance ride over.”

The phone slips from your fingers. You don’t even feel it hit the floor. Everything around you blurs, the room spinning out of focus as your body goes cold. For a second, all you hear is the ringing in your ears, drowning out everything else.

Max is out of his chair in an instant. He’s at your side before you even realize what’s happening, his arms wrapping around you just as your knees give out. You’re not crying. You’re just … empty. Hollow. The world feels like it’s closing in, suffocating, but Max is holding you up, his voice low in your ear.

“Hey, hey — easy. I’ve got you.” His words are steady, but you can hear the concern threaded through them. He lowers you into the chair gently, keeping his hands on your shoulders to steady you.

You blink, trying to make sense of it. Jonathan is dead? He’s … gone?

Max crouches in front of you, his face level with yours now, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you’re still there, still processing. “What happened? What did they say?”

Your lips move, but no sound comes out at first. You have to swallow, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “Jonathan … he’s dead. There was an accident.”

Max’s expression doesn’t change. He stays perfectly still, but you see something flicker in his eyes, something unreadable. He’s quiet for a moment, then he glances at the phone lying on the floor before looking back at you. “When did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper, your voice shaky. “They said … they said he didn’t make it to the hospital. It happened over an hour ago.”

The lawyer finally looks up from his papers, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Jonathan’s … dead?”

Max straightens, his hand still resting on your shoulder as he turns toward the other man, his voice suddenly all business. “Yes, it seems there’s been an accident. He didn’t survive.”

Jonathan’s lawyer stands slowly, his face pale. He opens his mouth, then closes it, as if the gravity of the situation is just sinking in. “I … I’ll need to contact his estate. This complicates things.”

Max ignores him. He’s still focused on you, his thumb brushing lightly over your shoulder, grounding you, keeping you tethered as your world spins out of control.

You feel numb. The words echo in your mind: Jonathan is dead. Jonathan is dead. But you don’t know what to feel. Relief? Guilt? Fear?

Max crouches back down, his eyes never leaving yours. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice low and gentle but firm. “You’re safe now. Do you hear me? He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You nod, though the words feel distant, like they’re meant for someone else. You’re still struggling to catch up with the reality of what’s happened.

“I need you to breathe, okay?” Max continues, his hands still steady on your arms. “In and out. Nice and slow.”

You do as he says, inhaling shakily, then exhaling, trying to pull yourself back to the present, to this room, to the fact that you’re still here, even if Jonathan isn’t.

Max watches you closely, waiting until you’ve steadied yourself before speaking again. “We’ll go to the hospital. We’ll take care of everything. But you don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here.”

His words are solid, something to hold onto as the world tilts around you. You don’t know how long you sit there, just breathing, letting the weight of everything settle. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours.

Eventually, you nod again. “Okay.”

Max stands and helps you to your feet, his hand steady at your back as you move toward the door. He picks up your phone from the floor, handing it to you without a word. You take it, but your fingers tremble so much that you can barely grip it.

As you walk toward the exit, Max’s presence is a constant comfort beside you. You glance at him, and for a fleeting moment, you see something in his eyes — something deeper than concern, something more intense. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the calm, steady confidence that he always exudes.

You don’t know what’s waiting for you at the hospital. You don’t know how you’re supposed to feel about Jonathan’s death, or what it means for your future.

But for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you’re going to be okay.

And that’s when you realize: you’re not alone anymore. Max is here. And for reasons you don’t fully understand, that thought makes all the difference.

***

The car hums beneath you, the soft rumble of the engine the only sound breaking the silence between you and Max. The city lights blur past the window, smudged streaks of white and yellow against the inky night sky. You barely notice the streets you're passing, barely hear the distant honk of horns or the murmur of the radio playing low in the background. Everything feels distant, like you’re watching your own life from somewhere outside of your body.

Max sits beside you, one hand gripping the steering wheel with calm certainty. His posture is relaxed, almost too relaxed for what’s just happened. You steal a glance at him, trying to read his expression. His face is as calm as ever, his jaw set, eyes focused on the road ahead.

But then you catch it — a flash of something. A fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk. It’s there for just a second, curling at the corner of his mouth before vanishing like it was never there. But you saw it.

And in that moment, something clicks.

You sit up straighter, your heart thudding in your chest as a realization settles over you like a heavy weight.

He knows.

He’s known for a while.

You blink, turning to face him fully now, your pulse quickening. “Max.”

He glances at you, his expression still steady, but something in his eyes shifts. “What is it?”

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. It takes everything in you to push them out. “Did … did you have something to do with Jonathan’s accident?”

There’s a beat of silence. Max doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his gaze on the road, his hand steady on the wheel, his fingers drumming lightly against the leather. But you can feel the air change between you, thickening with something unsaid.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and calm. “What makes you ask that?”

Your chest tightens. You can’t look away from him now, the truth pulling at you like gravity. “I saw your face. That little smile. You’re not … you’re not surprised that he’s dead, are you?”

Max doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t rush to deny it. He just sighs, like he’s been waiting for this conversation, like he knew you’d figure it out eventually. His grip on the wheel tightens for just a moment before he lets go of a breath.

“No,” he says simply, his voice calm but firm. “I’m not surprised.”

Your heart skips a beat. The air in the car feels suddenly heavier, pressing down on your chest. You wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He lets the silence hang there, the weight of his words sinking in.

“Max,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “Did you … did you kill him?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightens, and he glances at you briefly, as if gauging your reaction. And then, after a long pause, he says it.

“Yes.”

The word hits you like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of you. Your hands clench in your lap, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to process what you’re feeling. Shock? Fear? Relief?

“Why?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, your throat tight. “Why would you …”

Max keeps his eyes on the road, his voice low but steady. “Because he hurt you. Because he would have kept hurting you if I hadn’t done something.”

You stare at him, your mind racing, your pulse pounding in your ears. There’s no remorse in his voice, no hesitation. He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like killing Jonathan was just another necessary task, something he had to cross off a list.

“You didn’t have to …” you start, but the words die in your throat. Because part of you knows he’s right. Jonathan would have kept hurting you. And no one else was going to stop him.

Max glances at you again, this time his expression softening, though there’s still a cold edge to his eyes. “He didn’t deserve to live after what he did to you. I wasn’t going to let him walk away from that. Not after everything.”

There’s something dark in his voice, something you’ve never heard before. It sends a chill down your spine, but at the same time, you feel a strange sense of comfort in it. Max did this for you. He killed Jonathan because he thought it was the only way to protect you.

You swallow hard, your mind reeling. You should feel horrified, you should be angry or scared or disgusted. But you’re not. You’re not any of those things. Instead, you feel something else entirely — a strange, overwhelming sense of … relief.

Jonathan is gone. He can’t hurt you anymore. And Max … Max made sure of that.

You take a shaky breath, the tension in your chest slowly easing. “You killed him for me,” you say, your voice soft but steady.

Max nods, his eyes still fixed on the road. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

His words hang in the air, and for a long moment, you don’t say anything. You let them settle, let them sink into your bones. He’s not ashamed. He’s not regretful. And somehow, that makes it easier to accept.

Finally, you exhale, the weight of everything lifting off your shoulders. “Thank you.”

Max glances at you, clearly surprised by your words. His brows furrow slightly, and for the first time since the conversation started, he seems uncertain. “For what?”

“For protecting me,” you say, your voice firmer now, more certain. “For doing what no one else would have.”

Max’s expression softens again, and he lets out a breath he didn’t seem to realize he was holding. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand moves from the steering wheel, reaching across the small space between you. His fingers brush against yours, and then he gently takes your hand in his, squeezing it softly.

You look down at your intertwined fingers, the warmth of his hand grounding you in a way you didn’t expect. You squeeze back, letting him know that you’re okay. That you understand.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It’s calm. Steady.

You lean back in your seat, your gaze shifting back to the city lights outside the window. Jonathan is dead. The nightmare is over. And somehow, despite everything, you feel like you’re finally free.

Max’s thumb rubs lightly over the back of your hand, and you turn to look at him again. His face is still calm, but there’s something softer in his eyes now, something almost tender.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

You feel your chest tighten at his words, but not in the way it did before. This time, it’s different. This time, it feels like something is shifting between you, something you hadn’t noticed before but now feels impossible to ignore.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there, holding his hand, feeling the steady pulse of the city outside the car, and the steady pulse of Max beside you.

***

The hospital parking lot is almost empty, the few scattered cars gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. You and Max sit in silence, the weight of what’s just happened hanging heavy in the air. The hum of the engine dies as Max turns the key, and for a moment, neither of you moves. You stare at the hospital entrance, your heart pounding, your palms damp with nervous sweat.

It hits you — this is really happening. Jonathan is dead, and now you’re supposed to walk in there and pretend to be devastated. To mourn him, to cry for him.

Max shifts in his seat, turning toward you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He’s been calm the whole drive, unshaken, and now he leans forward, eyes locked on yours, his voice low and measured.

“Listen,” he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is light, but his tone is firm. “When we walk in there, you need to act the part. They’re going to expect tears, shock — grief.”

You swallow hard, the idea of playing the grieving widow making your stomach turn. “I don’t know if I can do this, Max.”

His hand lingers near your face, fingers ghosting against your cheek. “Yes, you can,” he says, his voice softening. “You’re stronger than you think. Just focus on what you need to do. No one can know that you’re relieved. You loved him, remember?”

A bitter laugh escapes you, but it dies quickly in the back of your throat. The irony isn’t lost on you, pretending to be a devoted wife to the man who tormented you. But Max is right. No one can know.

You nod, taking a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I can do it. I’ll … I’ll cry if I have to.”

Max’s hand moves from your face to your hand, squeezing gently. “Good. And don’t worry about the rest. I’ll handle any questions, any details. Just play your part.”

You bite your lip, nodding again, your heart still racing but your mind clearing. You’ve played so many roles before — dutiful wife, obedient woman, silent sufferer. This is just another role to get through. Just another mask to wear.

Max releases your hand and pushes open the car door. “Ready?”

No, you think. You’re not ready. But you don’t have a choice. You force a smile, though it feels like it might crack your face. “Ready.”

The two of you walk toward the entrance, the automatic doors whooshing open to the sterile, cold smell of disinfectant and hospital walls. Your breath quickens as you step inside, the reality of the situation crashing over you like a tidal wave. Nurses bustle past, clipboards in hand, murmuring to one another, while the soft beep of machines hums in the background.

You feel exposed, like every person here can see straight through you, can see that the grief you’re about to display isn’t real.

Max leads you to the front desk, his hand resting lightly on your back in a gesture of support. He leans in toward the nurse on duty, his voice low and authoritative.

“We’re here to see Jonathan Harper,” he says. “He’s my … sister’s husband. We got a call.”

The nurse looks up, her expression softening with sympathy as she glances at you. “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says gently. “If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll call someone to come speak with you.”

You nod, not trusting your voice just yet. Instead, you let Max guide you to the waiting area, where you sit down in one of the stiff plastic chairs. Your hands are shaking, so you fold them in your lap, gripping your fingers tightly together.

Max sits beside you, his hand resting on your knee for just a moment, grounding you. His presence is reassuring, a steady anchor in the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

“Remember,” he says under his breath, leaning close enough that only you can hear. “You loved him. Show them that.”

You nod again, taking a shaky breath. You focus on your hands, on the feel of the cold plastic chair beneath you. You need to let the reality of the situation sink in — Jonathan is dead. He’s really gone. The man who hurt you is gone.

And you’re supposed to be devastated.

The thought makes your stomach churn, but you force yourself to push it aside. This isn’t about what you feel. This is about survival. About making sure no one suspects the truth.

A few minutes pass before a doctor approaches, a man in his mid-forties with graying hair and kind eyes. He kneels in front of you, his expression full of the kind of sympathy you don’t deserve.

“Mrs. Harper,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but … your husband didn’t make it.”

And just like that, you snap into character.

Your breath catches in your throat, your eyes widening as the weight of the words hits you. “No,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “No, that can’t be … there must be some mistake.”

The doctor shakes his head gently, placing a hand on your arm. “I’m afraid there’s no mistake. We did everything we could, but the injuries were just too severe.”

You feel the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and you let them fall. You’ve always been good at crying on cue. It’s something Jonathan hated about you, your ability to turn on the waterworks whenever you needed to. But now, it’s a weapon, a tool to make everyone believe the lie.

You cover your mouth with your hand, your body shaking with sobs that come more naturally than you expected. It’s almost too easy to cry for the life you lost, for the years of pain, for the woman you used to be before Jonathan destroyed her.

“I don’t understand,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “How … how did this happen?”

The doctor sighs, his face etched with regret. “It was a car accident. The paramedics did everything they could, but he passed away before he reached the hospital.”

You let out a soft, broken cry, your shoulders trembling as the grief pours out of you. You don’t have to fake that part. The relief feels like grief in a way, like a release of something you’ve been holding onto for far too long.

Max leans in, his hand on your back again, his voice low and soothing. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

The doctor stands, giving you a moment to compose yourself. “We’ll need you to come with us to identify the body, Mrs. Harper,” he says gently.

You nod, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks. “I … I can do that.”

The doctor gives you a small, understanding nod and turns to lead the way down the sterile white corridor. Max stays close by your side, his hand never leaving your back. As you walk, you focus on your breathing, on keeping the tears flowing just enough to sell the part.

You feel Max lean in slightly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re doing great. Just a little longer.”

You nod, sniffling as you walk, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. You’re not just playing the part of a grieving widow — you’re erasing the evidence, erasing the truth. You’re erasing Jonathan Harper from your life, once and for all.

When you reach the morgue, the doctor stops in front of a pair of heavy metal doors. He pauses, turning to you with that same sympathetic expression. “Are you ready?”

No. You’re not ready. You’ll never be ready for this. But you nod anyway, because what else can you do?

Max squeezes your shoulder, his voice low and steady. “You’ve got this.”

The doctor opens the door, and the cold air hits you like a wave. The room is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights flickering slightly as the doctor leads you toward a covered body on a steel table. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse loud in your ears as you take each step.

This is it. The final act.

The doctor gently pulls back the sheet, revealing Jonathan’s pale, lifeless face. His features are slack, his skin bruised and bloodied from the accident. For a moment, you can’t breathe. The sight of him — so still, so powerless — it’s like seeing a ghost. The man who held so much control over your life now lies broken in front of you.

You force a sob, your hand flying to your mouth as you step back, tears streaming down your face. “Oh God … Jonathan …”

The doctor watches you, his eyes full of pity, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. You’ve done your job. You’ve played your part.

Max steps in, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close as you turn away from the body. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”

You nod, still crying, still playing the part.

***

The car ride back is heavy with silence, the hum of the engine filling the void between you and Max. You stare out the window, watching the city blur by in shades of gray, your mind still reeling from the night’s events. Jonathan is dead. The words feel surreal in your head, like a distant truth you’re not quite ready to touch.

Max drives with one hand on the steering wheel, his other resting on his lap, fingers tapping lightly as though he’s thinking. His face is calm, focused, but there’s something different in the air now — an ease in his posture that wasn’t there before. He’s done what he set out to do. Jonathan is gone, and now it’s just a matter of cleaning up the aftermath.

After what feels like an eternity, Max breaks the silence, his voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent of something darker. “I had someone look into Jonathan’s will.”

Your gaze snaps to him, your heart skipping a beat. The words rattle in your brain, bringing with them a new layer of uncertainty. “What do you mean?”

Max glances at you briefly, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the dashboard. “Jonathan never updated it. He didn’t add you.”

The breath you’ve been holding releases in a sharp exhale, anxiety knotting in your stomach. Of course he didn’t. Of course, even in death, Jonathan would find a way to hurt you. You sink back into the seat, your head leaning against the cold window. “So … what does that mean? I don’t get anything?”

Max is quiet for a moment, but then his lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Not quite. The legal system will treat it like a case of forgetfulness. You were married, and he didn’t update his will, so you’ll still be the main beneficiary. It’s a loophole.”

You frown, trying to process his words. “Are you sure?”

He chuckles softly, his voice dripping with confidence. “I’m a lawyer, remember? Trust me. It won’t be a problem.”

You stare at him, your mind buzzing. Max always seems to have the answers, always one step ahead of everyone else. You’ve barely had time to think about what Jonathan’s death means for you — financially, legally, emotionally — but Max has already covered all the bases.

“It feels wrong,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “Like … taking his money after everything.”

Max raises an eyebrow, glancing at you with a look of mild amusement. “After everything he put you through, I’d say it’s more than fair. You deserve every cent.”

The bitterness in his tone is palpable, and for a moment, you see flashes of the man who took control of the situation with such ease. He doesn’t just see this as a legal matter, there’s something personal about it for him. Something about Jonathan’s abuse struck a nerve, and you realize again just how far Max is willing to go to protect you.

“But what if people start asking questions?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want anyone to think I-”

“Stop.” Max’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, firm but not harsh. He reaches over, placing his hand on yours. The warmth of his touch calms you, steadying the racing thoughts in your mind. “No one is going to question anything. You were his wife. You’re entitled to everything. No one’s going to think twice.”

You stare at your intertwined hands, the weight of his assurance sinking in. Max always seems so certain, so sure of himself. He makes everything sound simple, even when it’s not. Even when you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall.

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “It just feels so … complicated.”

Max squeezes your hand, his voice softening. “I know it does. But I’ll make sure it’s not. You won’t have to worry about any of this.”

His words are like a balm to your nerves, but there’s still a flicker of doubt gnawing at you. You’ve been living under Jonathan’s thumb for so long, every part of your life controlled by him, that the idea of having any freedom — especially financial freedom — feels foreign. You’re not used to having power, and the thought of inheriting everything Jonathan left behind feels like stepping into unfamiliar territory.

“What did he leave behind?” You ask after a moment, your voice quiet.

Max’s eyes flicker with something — an unreadable emotion — but his tone stays steady. “More than enough to ensure you’re taken care of. He wasn’t exactly a modest man.”

You nod, biting your lip as your mind runs through the possibilities. Jonathan was always secretive about his finances, never letting you see the full picture. But you knew he had money — more than enough to maintain the lavish lifestyle he forced you into, the one that felt like a cage. Now, that money is yours, and the thought leaves a strange taste in your mouth.

“I don’t want it to feel like … blood money,” you say quietly, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Max’s grip tightens on your hand, his voice firm. “It’s not blood money. It’s justice. He took so much from you. Now, it’s time you take something back.”

You look at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt, but there’s none. Max’s conviction is unwavering, his belief in what he’s done — and what he’s doing — absolute. It’s both comforting and unsettling, this realization that Max sees the world in such clear-cut terms. Right and wrong. Justice and vengeance.

And somehow, you’ve fallen right into the center of it all.

As the city lights flicker by, you let out a soft sigh, resting your head against the seat. “I don’t know what to do with it all. The money. The house. Everything.”

Max’s eyes soften, his voice gentle. “You don’t have to decide right now. One step at a time. The most important thing is that you’re free.”

The word ‘free’ hangs in the air, and for a moment, it feels like a foreign concept. You’ve spent so long living in fear, tiptoeing around Jonathan’s moods, that the idea of being free — truly free — seems almost impossible.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice small. “I’ve never been on my own before.”

Max is silent for a moment, then he reaches over, brushing a thumb across your knuckles. “You’re not on your own. You have me. You have Victoria.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. The truth is, you don’t feel alone. Not with Max sitting beside you, guiding you through every step of this mess. But the idea of relying on someone else again — especially after everything with Jonathan — it makes your stomach twist with uncertainty.

“Thank you,” you whisper, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “For everything. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Max’s lips curl into a soft smile, but there’s something deeper in his eyes — something you can’t quite place. “You don’t have to repay me. You’ve been through enough. Let me take care of this.”

The car slows as you approach Victoria’s house, the familiar sight of her front porch coming into view. Your heart clenches as you realize that this — this strange, messy situation — is your new reality. Jonathan is gone, and with him, the life you once knew.

Max pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine, the silence between you thick and charged. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Max turns to you, his expression softer than before, his eyes searching yours.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I promise.”

You nod, though you’re not entirely sure you believe it yet. But there’s something about the way Max says it — something about the certainty in his voice — that makes you want to believe.

As you reach for the door handle, Max’s hand brushes yours, stopping you for a moment. “And if you ever need anything — anything at all — you come to me. Understand?”

You look into his eyes, feeling a strange warmth spread through your chest. “I understand.”

With a final squeeze of your hand, Max lets you go, and you step out of the car, the cool night air hitting your skin. You walk up to Victoria’s front door, the weight of everything pressing down on you. But as you turn back to see Max watching you from the driver’s seat, you can’t help but feel a flicker of hope.

For the first time in a long time, you’re free. And maybe, just maybe, you’re strong enough to figure out what that means.

***

The restaurant is one of those upscale places with white tablecloths and a quiet hum of conversation, the kind of place that feels almost too polished for the three of you to have anything resembling a casual lunch. You sit across from Max, watching him, trying to get a read on him the way you’ve been doing ever since everything happened. It’s hard to tell with Max. He always seems so composed, like everything is part of a plan that only he knows.

Victoria, sitting next to you, has been doing most of the talking, catching Max up on the little things that have been going on — her job, mutual friends, things that feel oddly normal considering how not normal your life has been lately. You pick at your salad, your appetite still shaky after everything that’s happened.

“So,” Victoria says, after taking a sip of her wine. “What’s the plan with the house?”

The question catches you off guard, though you’ve been thinking about it non-stop. Jonathan’s house. The house you lived in with him. The house that still feels like it’s haunted by his presence, his cruelty, the fights that rattled through its walls. You look down at your plate, avoiding Max’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I can’t … I can’t stay there.”

Victoria reaches over, placing a comforting hand on your arm. “Of course not. You shouldn’t even have to think about it. You’re still welcome to stay with me as long as you need. My home is always open for you.”

You glance up at her, gratitude warming your chest. Victoria has been nothing but supportive through all of this, offering you a safe place to land when everything felt like it was crumbling. But even though you’ve appreciated every second of her kindness, the truth is … you feel like a burden.

“I don’t want to impose,” you say softly. “I’ve already stayed longer than I should have.”

Victoria waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not imposing at all.”

“I don’t know,” you continue, fidgeting with the napkin in your lap. “I just … I feel bad. It’s your space. I don’t want to be in your way.”

Before Victoria can respond, Max clears his throat, drawing both of your attention to him. He’s been quiet for most of the lunch, observing, listening. Now, he sets his fork down, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression.

“You could move in with me,” he says, so casually that it takes a moment for his words to register.

Your head snaps toward him, eyes widening in disbelief. “What?”

Even Victoria looks taken aback, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Wait — what?”

Max shrugs, his expression calm, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell on the table. “I’ve got plenty of space. The penthouse is way too big for just me anyway.”

Your brain scrambles to catch up with what he’s saying. Move in with him? Into his penthouse? You’re not sure how to respond, your mind immediately filling with reasons why that’s a bad idea.

“Max, I-I can’t just move in with you,” you stammer, feeling your cheeks heat up. “That’s … I mean, it’s your home. I don’t want to-”

“You wouldn’t be imposing,” Max cuts in smoothly, as if he’s already anticipated every one of your protests. “Like I said, it’s way too big for one person. You’d actually be doing me a favor.”

Victoria blinks, looking between the two of you, her surprise turning into a curious smirk. “I mean, it’s not the worst idea,” she says, clearly enjoying how flustered you’ve become. “Max does have that ridiculous apartment. It’s like living in a luxury hotel.”

You shake your head, still trying to wrap your mind around the suggestion. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t want to be dependent on anyone again, especially not after …”

Your voice trails off, but Max knows exactly what you’re thinking. He leans forward slightly, his gaze intent. “You wouldn’t be dependent on me. This isn’t about control, it’s about giving you a safe space to figure things out.”

His words hang in the air, their weight settling over you. Max always knows how to say the right thing, how to make it sound like everything is under control. And maybe it is, in his world. But in your world, everything still feels like it’s teetering on the edge of chaos.

“I don’t know …” you murmur, your fingers twisting the napkin in your lap.

Max reaches across the table, his hand resting on top of yours. His touch is firm, grounding. “I’m not asking you to decide right now. Just think about it. You don’t have to figure everything out at once.”

You glance at Victoria, hoping she’ll have some kind of advice, but she just grins, leaning back in her chair as if she’s thoroughly entertained by the entire conversation. “Honestly? I think it’s a good idea. You’d have more space to yourself, and you wouldn’t feel like you’re cramping my style.”

“I don’t feel like I’m cramping your style,” you mutter, giving her a playful glare.

She laughs, but there’s a softness in her eyes as she looks at you. “Look, you’ve been through hell, and I think the last thing you need right now is to worry about where you’re staying. Max is offering you a chance to take some of that stress off your plate. You should take it.”

You swallow hard, your gaze flicking back to Max. He’s watching you intently, waiting for your response. And while every instinct in you is screaming to refuse — to keep your independence, to not get too close — the truth is, you’re tired. Tired of fighting, tired of being afraid, tired of not knowing what’s going to happen next.

Max’s offer feels like a lifeline, and as much as you hate to admit it … you need one.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max nods, his expression softening. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The conversation shifts after that, Victoria taking over with a story about a disastrous date she had earlier in the week, but your mind stays stuck on Max’s offer. Move in with him? The idea feels foreign, like stepping into a life that’s not your own. But then again, everything about your life has felt foreign since Jonathan died.

Later, as the three of you finish your meals and the waiter clears the plates, Victoria leans over and whispers in your ear, her breath warm against your skin. “You should say yes.”

You glance at her, your eyes widening. “To what?”

“To moving in with Max,” she says, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I mean, come on. A penthouse? You’d be living the dream.”

You roll your eyes, though her words stir something in your chest. “It’s not about the penthouse.”

“Right,” she says with a knowing smirk. “It’s about Max.”

Your face heats up, and you quickly look away, hoping she doesn’t notice the flush creeping up your neck. But of course, Victoria notices everything.

“You like him, don’t you?” She teases, nudging you with her elbow.

You shoot her a glare, though it’s more out of embarrassment than anger. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing you for a second. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know.”

You groan, leaning your head back against the chair. “Can we not do this right now?”

Victoria laughs, but she doesn’t push it further. Instead, she just gives you a soft smile, the kind that says she knows exactly what’s going on, even if you’re not ready to admit it to yourself.

By the time lunch is over and the three of you are standing outside the restaurant, the sun warm on your skin, you still haven’t made up your mind. Max’s offer feels too good to be true, like stepping into a different world, a world where you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

But as Max pulls you into a quick hug, his strong arms wrapping around you for just a second too long, you start to wonder if maybe … maybe it’s not too good to be true.

Maybe it’s exactly what you need.

***

The late afternoon sun casts golden light over the city as you stand at the entrance of Max’s penthouse building, staring up at the sleek, glass structure. It still feels surreal. A part of you wonders how you got here — how your life has shifted so quickly from the nightmare of Jonathan to this strange, uncertain new chapter.

Max stands beside you, keys in hand, effortlessly calm like always. He glances over, his dark eyes warm. “Ready?”

You nod, gripping the handle of the box you're holding a little tighter, though your nerves buzz underneath your skin. “Yeah. Ready.”

The moving truck is parked a few feet away, filled with your belongings. You don’t have much, just some clothes, books, a few personal items, and the memories that you’ve tried to leave behind. Victoria offered to help today, but Max insisted that he could handle it. You’re still not sure how you feel about that — about Max doing so much for you — but you’ve stopped protesting. Every time you try, he brushes it off like it’s nothing.

Max leads you into the lobby, the doorman greeting him by name. You follow him into the elevator, clutching the box to your chest. The ride up is silent, save for the low hum of the elevator. When the doors open, Max steps out first, turning back to give you a reassuring smile.

“Let's get these up to the apartment,” he says, his voice steady, like moving you in is just another ordinary task for him.

You step out of the elevator and into his penthouse. The doors open into a sprawling, open-plan living room, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the city. The space is sleek, modern, but somehow still comfortable — just like Max himself.

He sets his box down and glances over at you. “We can start setting things in your room if you'd like. The spare bedroom is down the hall.”

You try to hide the way your breath catches in your throat as you nod. “Sure. Thanks.”

As you begin moving boxes from the truck to the penthouse, you find yourself increasingly distracted by Max. Every time he bends to lift a box, his muscles strain against the fabric of his shirt, the sinewy strength in his arms drawing your attention. His movements are fluid, effortless, as though this is nothing for him.

And it's not just that he’s strong — it's the ease with which he carries himself. There’s no posturing, no arrogance. He’s doing this because he wants to help, because he sees you struggling and wants to make things easier.

You try not to stare, but it’s impossible not to notice the way his shirt stretches tight across his broad shoulders or the way his biceps flex when he lifts heavier boxes with one hand, like they weigh nothing at all. He catches you glancing once or twice, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.

After a couple of trips back and forth from the truck, you’re standing in the living room, trying to decide where to start unpacking. Max steps beside you, brushing a bit of dust from his jeans, and glances around the space.

“Where do you want this stuff?” He asks, motioning to the remaining boxes.

“I guess I’ll start with the bedroom.” You bite your lip, glancing toward the hallway. “It’s not a lot, really. I don’t want to take up too much space.”

Max shakes his head. “You’re not taking up space. Like I said, this place is too big for one person. Besides,” his voice softens, “you deserve to feel comfortable. Make it yours.”

Something about the way he says that, like he genuinely cares, makes your heart skip a beat. You nod, feeling your throat tighten as you head down the hall with him. The spare bedroom is just as luxurious as the rest of the apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows and more space than you’ve ever had in any room you’ve lived in.

Max sets the box down near the door, watching as you take in the room. “What do you think?”

“I don’t even know what to say,” you admit, shaking your head. “It’s … beautiful. It’s too much, Max.”

He steps closer, his presence warm and solid next to you. “It’s not too much. It’s exactly what you need. And besides, I want you here.”

You swallow, trying to process the weight of his words. He wants you here. Max has always been protective of you, ever since you met him through Victoria, but this is something else. It’s not just protection — it’s … something more. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.

As the day wears on and more boxes make their way into the penthouse, you start unpacking, trying to make sense of this new chapter. Max works alongside you, quietly helping without ever making you feel like you owe him anything. Every time you glance over at him, he’s there, steady and calm, grounding you in a way you never expected.

After a while, Max heads back to the truck to grab the last few items, leaving you in the apartment alone. You take a moment to breathe, running your fingers over the smooth surface of the kitchen counter. It still doesn’t feel real, being here, surrounded by luxury and safety. You’ve spent so long being afraid, walking on eggshells around Jonathan, that this feels almost … too easy. Too good.

Max’s voice calls out from the hallway as he returns, carrying the final box. “That’s the last of it.”

You nod, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Thank you, Max. For everything.”

He sets the box down with a quiet thud, then turns to face you, his dark eyes steady. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do, though.” You cross your arms, feeling a mixture of gratitude and something else — something heavier. “I don’t even know how to start repaying you for all of this.”

Max steps closer, the air between you shifting, heavy with unspoken tension. He tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk on his lips, though his eyes are serious. “I’m not doing this because I expect anything in return.”

“I know,” you whisper, looking up at him. “But still.”

He reaches out, brushing his thumb across your cheek in a gesture so gentle it makes your chest ache. “You’ve been through enough, okay? You don’t owe me anything. All I want is for you to feel safe.”

The warmth of his touch lingers even after he pulls his hand away. You nod, though your throat feels tight, overwhelmed by the way he looks at you, like he actually means it. Like he’s the one person in your life who doesn’t expect you to give something back.

The two of you stand there for a moment, the weight of everything that’s happened settling between you. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you realize that maybe — just maybe — you’re finally safe.

Max’s phone buzzes, breaking the silence. He glances down at the screen, his expression shifting back to that calm, collected demeanor you’ve come to know. “I need to take this call. Are you okay unpacking the rest by yourself?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, waving him off. “Go ahead. I’ve got this.”

He nods, already heading for the door. But before he leaves, he pauses, turning back to give you one last look.

“If you need anything,” he says, his voice low, “I’m here.”

You nod again, watching him leave, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the hallway as he disappears. Once he’s gone, you let out a long breath, sinking down onto the couch.

This is your life now. And somehow, despite everything, it doesn’t feel as scary as it used to.

***

The scent of simmering tomatoes and garlic fills the air as you stand in Max’s kitchen, stirring the pot of sauce slowly. The space around you feels both intimate and strangely unfamiliar, a far cry from the cold, silent kitchens of your past. Here, in Max’s penthouse, everything feels alive, warm.

Max leans against the counter beside you, watching the sauce bubble. He’s more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, his sleeves rolled up and his tie long discarded. It’s a side of him you haven’t seen before — domestic, almost casual. You’re still getting used to it, the idea of Max being more than just the quiet force of nature who’s been protecting you. Here, in the soft glow of his kitchen lights, he seems … human.

“Are you sure it needs more basil?” Max asks, raising an eyebrow at the pile of fresh leaves you’ve already tossed into the pot.

“Trust me,” you say with a smile, turning the spoon in your hand. “It does.”

Max chuckles under his breath and takes the spoon from you, dipping it into the sauce for a taste. He blows on it gently, then takes a slow, thoughtful sip. His eyes narrow as he considers the flavor, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“Not bad,” he admits. “But I think you’re overestimating the power of basil.”

“Basil makes everything better,” you say playfully, nudging him with your elbow.

He smirks, setting the spoon down on the counter before leaning back against the cabinets, his arms folding across his chest. “We’ll see. I’ll let you have this one.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you go back to stirring the sauce. Max watches you quietly, his eyes lingering on you in a way that sends a strange warmth through your chest. You’ve been in his penthouse for a few days now, and things between you have settled into an easy routine. It’s nice — this strange sense of normalcy.

But every now and then, when you catch him looking at you like that, you’re reminded that there’s nothing entirely normal about this.

“So,” you start, trying to focus on the sauce instead of the way Max is watching you. “Do you cook often?”

Max shrugs, still leaning back lazily against the counter. “Not really. Usually, I have someone come in to do it, but … I don’t mind doing it myself sometimes.”

You nod, stirring the sauce in silence for a moment. There’s a calmness between you, a quiet comfort that has become a regular part of being around Max. But there’s also something else. Something unspoken.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” you say suddenly, surprising even yourself with the question.

Max tilts his head, watching you for a moment before a small smile creeps onto his lips. “You know, you ask a lot of questions.”

“I do,” you admit, meeting his gaze with a playful glint in your eyes. “And you never answer them.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Alright. Let me think.”

There’s a pause as Max considers his answer. Then, after a moment, he leans in a little closer, his voice dropping just slightly.

“When I was in law school, I almost dropped out. My dad wanted me to be a lawyer, to have something legitimate on the side. But halfway through, I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the honesty. “Really? But you stuck with it.”

“Yeah,” Max nods, his expression thoughtful. “I stayed because of Victoria. She said I was too stubborn to quit.”

You smile softly, stirring the sauce as you consider his words. There’s something oddly comforting about hearing that — even Max, the man who always seems so sure of himself, had his moments of doubt.

Before you can respond, Max reaches for the spoon again, dipping it into the sauce for another taste. This time, he doesn’t blow on it first, and the heat catches him off guard. He winces slightly, pulling the spoon away from his lips quickly.

“Too hot?” You ask with a grin, watching his reaction.

“Just a little,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But as he does, a small streak of sauce remains on the corner of his lip, bright red against his skin.

You chuckle softly, pointing at his face. “You’ve got something right … there.”

Max pauses, his hand hovering near his mouth as he tries to find the spot. But before he can clean it off, something inside you stirs — a sudden impulse you don’t fully understand. Without thinking, you take a step closer, reaching out to him.

His eyes meet yours as you lean in, your heart pounding in your chest. The space between you shrinks, and before you can second-guess yourself, your lips brush against the corner of his mouth, tasting the faint hint of tomato and basil.

The moment is quick, fleeting, but the electricity in the air lingers long after you pull away.

Max freezes, his dark eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The kitchen is quiet except for the low simmer of the sauce on the stove.

You swallow hard, suddenly unsure of what you’ve just done. “I — sorry. You had … some sauce.”

Max blinks, his gaze softening as the corner of his mouth lifts into a small, almost amused smile. “I noticed.”

Your heart races as the weight of the moment hangs between you, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But then Max steps closer, his presence warm and steady, his voice low.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says softly, his eyes searching yours.

“I … I know,” you murmur, your breath catching in your throat as he inches even closer. “But I wanted to.”

For a moment, Max just looks at you, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. And then, slowly, he reaches up, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “you’re full of surprises.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your skin tingling under his touch. “Is that a bad thing?”

His thumb grazes your cheekbone, his touch gentle but firm. “No,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Not at all.”

The tension between you crackles in the air, thick and charged, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you standing in the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce and garlic surrounding you like a haze.

Max’s hand lingers on your face for just a second longer before he pulls away, clearing his throat and stepping back. The distance between you returns, but the weight of what just happened still hangs in the air, unspoken.

“I should, uh …” He glances at the pot, his voice a little hoarse. “We should finish dinner.”

“Yeah,” you agree quickly, trying to ignore the way your heart is still racing in your chest. “Dinner.”

Max turns back to the stove, grabbing the spoon and stirring the sauce again as though nothing happened. But you can’t shake the feeling that something did happen — that something between you shifted in that moment, even if neither of you is ready to acknowledge it yet.

As you move around the kitchen together, preparing the rest of the meal, the atmosphere is lighter, but there’s an undeniable tension simmering beneath the surface — something neither of you can ignore, no matter how hard you try. Every time your hands brush, every time your eyes meet, it’s there, lingering just out of reach.

And though neither of you says it out loud, you both know that whatever this is between you … it’s far from over.

***

The clink of dishes fills the kitchen, a peaceful rhythm as you and Max stand side by side at the sink. The scent of the meal you cooked together still lingers in the air — garlic, basil, and rich tomato sauce — its warmth a comforting backdrop to the easy silence that has settled between you.

You rinse the plates, passing them to Max, who dries them with a towel and places them in neat stacks. It’s strange how domestic this feels, how normal. After everything that’s happened, after all the chaos and tension, this moment feels almost surreal in its simplicity. The steam from the hot water rises, blurring the edges of your thoughts as you hand him the next plate.

There’s a calm between you, but also something unspoken. A simmering energy that’s been lingering ever since that brief, impulsive kiss earlier. Every time your hands brush, every glance you exchange — it’s there, lingering in the air like a spark waiting to catch.

You try to focus on the task in front of you, scrubbing a stubborn spot on a plate with a sponge, but your thoughts keep drifting back to the way Max’s lips felt when they grazed yours. The way his eyes darkened when he looked at you afterward. And how, even though neither of you has mentioned it since, you know he hasn’t forgotten either.

Lost in your thoughts, you absentmindedly squeeze the bottle of soap a little too hard, and a burst of bubbles shoots out, landing on Max’s arm. You blink, startled, then burst into laughter as you see the suds clinging to his sleeve.

“Whoops,” you say, biting back more laughter as Max looks down at his arm, then back at you with raised eyebrows.

“Whoops?” He repeats, his tone dry but with a playful glint in his eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

You shake your head, still giggling. “I swear I didn’t! You just-”

Before you can finish your sentence, Max reaches out, swiping a finger through the bubbles on his arm and flicking them back at you. You gasp as the soapy foam splashes your face, catching you completely off guard.

“Max!” You protest, laughing even harder now as you wipe the bubbles from your cheek. “That was not fair!”

Max smirks, leaning casually against the counter with the towel still in his hand. “Payback.”

You narrow your eyes playfully, but you can’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips. The tension that’s been simmering all night seems to dissolve in the laughter, replaced by something light and easy. For a moment, it feels like you’ve stepped into a different reality — one where the two of you can just be like this. Normal. Happy.

But then, as the laughter fades, the silence between you shifts again, the air thickening with something else. Something heavier.

Max is watching you, his eyes dark and intense, the playful smirk fading into something far more serious. His gaze lingers on your face, tracing the curve of your lips, the way your chest rises and falls as your breath quickens.

The mood changes so fast it almost knocks the air from your lungs. One second, you’re laughing, and the next, the tension between you is back, sharper and more urgent than before.

You can feel it — the pull between you. It’s like a magnetic force, drawing you closer together, even though neither of you has moved. The bubbles, the dishes, everything else fades into the background as Max takes a slow step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Max …” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. But you don’t know what else to say. You don’t know what this is, this charged energy building between you, but it’s impossible to ignore.

Max takes another step, closing the distance between you, his hand still holding the towel loosely at his side. His eyes are locked on yours, and for a moment, it feels like the entire world has narrowed down to just the two of you. Just this moment.

You’re not sure who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you at once. But suddenly, Max’s hand is on your waist, pulling you toward him, and his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is hard, almost desperate, like all the tension that’s been building between you has finally snapped. His other hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss, pressing you back against the counter.

You gasp against his lips, your hands instinctively grabbing at his shirt, pulling him closer. The cool surface of the cabinets presses into your back, but you hardly notice it. All you can focus on is Max — on the heat of his body against yours, the way his lips move with a hunger that makes your knees go weak.

For a split second, you can’t think. Can’t breathe. All you know is that you want more — need more. Max’s kiss is consuming, overwhelming, and you find yourself lost in it, lost in him.

His hand tightens on your waist, his thumb brushing against the bare skin just under the hem of your shirt. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you let out a soft, involuntary moan against his lips.

That sound seems to snap something in Max. He breaks the kiss suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you, his breathing ragged. His eyes are wild, dark with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks, his voice rough, low. His thumb still strokes your skin, a gentle reminder of the fire burning between you.

You nod, your heart racing. You can barely find your voice, but when you do, it’s filled with certainty. “Yes.”

That’s all it takes.

Max crashes his lips against yours again, harder this time, more intense. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your waist as he presses you further into the cabinets. The towel he was holding drops to the floor, forgotten, as both of his hands find their way to your body.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against you. His kiss is rough, insistent, and you can feel the barely restrained desire in the way his hands roam your body, the way his mouth claims yours like he can’t get enough.

The kiss deepens, growing more heated by the second, and you lose yourself in the sensation of it all — the taste of him, the feel of his hands on you, the way his body fits so perfectly against yours. It’s like nothing else matters in this moment, like the world outside this kitchen doesn’t even exist.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, Max pulls away again, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to catch his breath.

You’re both silent for a moment, the only sound in the kitchen the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the rapid beating of your hearts. Max’s hands are still on your waist, his grip firm but gentle, as if he’s afraid to let go.

When he finally opens his eyes, they’re softer now, the wild intensity from earlier replaced by something deeper. Something more vulnerable.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, your heart swelling at his words. “Me too.”

He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips — this one slower, more tender, like he’s savoring the moment. When he pulls back, there’s a small smile on his face, and you can’t help but smile back.

There’s a calm between you now, a quiet understanding. Whatever this is between you, it’s real. It’s undeniable. And as you stand there, wrapped in Max’s arms, you know that things between you will never be the same again.

***

“Is that …” One of the men, Gregory, squints toward the entrance of the exclusive restaurant, pausing in the middle of a flirtatious exchange with the hostess. His words trail off, confusion clouding his features.

“What?” Brian, the stockier of the group, follows his gaze, annoyed that Gregory stopped mid-conversation. “What’s up, man?”

Gregory gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the door, where a woman has just stepped in. The place is dimly lit, but something about her seems familiar, though they can't quite place her.

“Do I know her from somewhere?” Gregory mutters, his brow furrowed as he leans back in his chair. The hostess, sensing their distraction, uses the opportunity to walk away, leaving them with menus but no promises of a table anytime soon.

Brian cranes his neck to get a better look. “Wait … yeah, she looks familiar.” His eyes narrow, trying to make out her face in the low light as she stands by the coat check with a man. The guy is tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an expensive-looking suit. He’s effortlessly helping her out of her coat, revealing a very obvious baby bump underneath her fitted dress.

“That can’t be …” Gregory’s voice drops, his eyes widening. He leans forward abruptly, his voice incredulous now. “No way. It can’t be her.”

Brian is staring hard now too, the realization dawning on him slowly. “Holy shit. Is that …”

“It’s Y/N,” Gregory finishes, his tone a mix of disbelief and amazement. “No fucking way.”

Both men stare openly now, their jaws slack. This can’t be the same Y/N they remember. The meek, quiet wife of their old friend, Jonathan Harper. The one who always seemed so timid, always a little on edge, looking small beside Jonathan's larger-than-life personality.

“Didn’t she …” Brian begins, but the sentence dies in his throat as you turns, facing their direction for a brief second. There’s no mistaking it now. It’s definitely you.

“But she looks …” Gregory is still fumbling for words. Different is an understatement. The woman they remember had been quiet, always fading into the background whenever Jonathan had his friends over. The Y/N they’re looking at now is glowing, confident, carrying yourself in a way they’ve never seen before.

“Jesus, man,” Brian mutters under his breath, eyes still locked on her. “She’s pregnant.”

Gregory snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. “And with someone else? This quick after Jonathan? What the hell?”

Brian leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his tone taking on a gossipy edge. “Guess the widow moved on real fast, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Gregory's expression darkens. “She sure doesn’t look like she's grieving anymore.”

The two of them exchange knowing looks, already jumping to conclusions. In their minds, the version of Y/N they remember wouldn’t have been able to survive without Jonathan — without a man to take care of her. But here you are, very much alive, very much pregnant, and very much with someone else.

Brian’s eyes flicker back to your new partner. “Who the hell is the guy?”

“Beats me.” Gregory leans forward, intrigued. The man looks polished, strong, and carries himself like he’s someone important. He’s not standing too close, but his body language is protective, subtle but noticeable. He’s keeping an eye on you, as if ready to act if needed.

Gregory turns back to Brian, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Should we go say something?”

Brian looks at him, eyes gleaming with the kind of self-satisfied anticipation of someone about to stir trouble. “Hell yeah, we should.”

They exchange smirks, feeling a sudden surge of superiority. After all, you had been part of their circle by extension of Jonathan. You were Jonathan’s wife — emphasis on were — and to them, this move you pulled, getting knocked up by someone else and flaunting it in public, doesn’t sit right.

“Let’s see what she has to say for herself,” Gregory mutters, already starting to rise from his seat.

But as the two men stand up, ready to saunter over, something makes them pause.

The man at your side reaches up to adjust his suit jacket, and as he does, the fabric pulls back just enough to reveal something. Tucked into a holster at his side is a sleek, black gun, the metal gleaming subtly under the restaurant's dim lights.

Gregory stops mid-step, eyes widening. “Holy shit.”

Brian notices it at the same time. The two exchange glances, the smugness draining from their faces, replaced with a mix of uncertainty and alarm.

“Did you see that?” Brian hisses, his voice dropping several octaves.

Gregory nods, frozen in place, his gaze locked on the gun. He looks back at you, now laughing softly as the man beside you places a protective hand on the small of your back. You have no idea they’re watching you, no idea they were even thinking about approaching you. But your partner? He’s fully aware.

Max turns his head just enough to catch their eyes, and though he doesn’t say a word, his message is clear. The slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth says everything. Don’t even think about it.

Brian swallows hard. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Gregory shakes his head, suddenly regretting the entire idea. “I don’t know, but I’m not sticking around to find out.”

They both sit back down, their bravado evaporating as quickly as it had come. They exchange another uneasy glance, neither of them willing to admit they’ve just been scared off by a single look, but both fully aware that they want nothing to do with whatever’s going on here.

“Maybe she’s not our business anymore,” Brian mutters, grabbing his glass of whiskey and taking a long, deliberate sip.

Gregory nods, his eyes flickering back to you one last time. You’re completely engrossed in your conversation with the man, your hand resting on your belly as you smile softly up at him. Whoever this guy is, he’s clearly important to you. And as much as they hate to admit it, you don’t look like the fragile, breakable woman they remember.

In fact, you look happier than you ever did when you were with Jonathan.

“Yeah,” Gregory agrees, his voice subdued. “Maybe she never was.”

The two men settle back into their seats, the waitress bringing over a basket of bread and menus they’d long since forgotten about. They exchange a few more words, but the energy has shifted. The gossip that once seemed so juicy has lost its appeal.

As they half-heartedly resume their conversation, their eyes drift back to you and Max every so often. They can’t help it. There’s something captivating about the way you hold herself now — something different from the woman they once knew.

Brian, ever the more curious of the two, finally leans back in his chair and lets out a low whistle. “She really moved on, huh?”

Gregory shrugs, pushing his bread around on the plate in front of him. “Guess so.”

But as the night wears on, neither of them can shake the image of you and your new life. The woman who was once a shadow in the background of their lives is now someone they barely recognize. And for the first time, they realize that maybe — just maybe — they never really knew you at all.

Across the room, you and Max remain unaware of their scrutiny, wrapped in your own world, where the past no longer has a hold on either of you.

2K notes · View notes

gutsby · 3 months ago

Text

Cowboy Killers

Pairing: Cowboy!Joel x Reader

Summary: On a mission to find—and fight—your best friend’s lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair.

Warnings: 18+. Drunk-Assholes-to-Enemies-to-Lovers. Oral (m!receiving). Road head. Age gap. Daddy kink.

Note: My favorite sub-genre of country music is ‘I’m Gonna Fucking Kill My Husband,’ and I think Miranda Lambert’s ‘Gunpowder & Lead’ is a perfect representation of that.

Word count: 4.1k

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and—

“I’m about to lay this motherfucker out,” you announced.

Across the line, your friend laughed.

“Yeah? You see him?”

Of course you saw him. Who else would be wearing a Carhartt flannel and jeans in ninety-four degree heat? Not a soul in this world but your friend’s own lying, piece of shit, hopefully-soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, you guessed.

The game that Old Fuckstick Miller had decided to play tonight was a dangerous one—he was dumb as shit, and you were drunker than a skunk. He was dating your best friend, and she was not present at the Tipsy Bison to see the barefaced clusterfuck taking place before you now.

She was home, over thirty minutes away. He had told her that morning he would be working late, and not to wait up. You were here, at the bar, approaching one A.M. with a Redbull Vodka clenched in either fist and a Texas-sized frown on your face, seeing the very same man with his hands all over a woman that wasn’t your friend. You’d wanted to puke as soon as you saw them. You knew you could never trust a man who claimed to be an Austin native and couldn’t name a single George Strait song.

Your friend had only been dating the guy for a month, and you’d just seen his face in pictures up until now, but from what you could see less than twenty feet in front of you—slightly blurred from all the drinks you’d had—this guy was him. A dick. There, cheating on your best friend.

And no man would get to do that and walk out unscathed if you had anything to say about it.

Your grip tightened on either one of your fizzy drinks and, barely managing to cradle the phone between your head and your shoulder, you gestured over to another friend.

“Dave. Take it,” you said, words slurring a little.

Dave York cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as you passed him one of your RBVs and shimmied off the barstool. By the time he was able to pose his question, your ass, your phone, and your one remaining drink were already wobbling the other way. Vaguely, you heard him:

“Where ya headed, hon?”

You turned and raised your drink, then seriously doubted he would be able to hear you over the blare of the music, but yelled back anyway, ‘I’M GONNA KILL SOMEONE!’

The age-old pro-forgiveness aphorism continued to thump in your brain as you made your way over and began to contemplate every feasible method of murder.

A gun in the face would’ve been too simple—and besides, you’d never owned or shot a firearm in your life.

Poison could be fun, but from the way you were approaching the man now, you seriously doubted he’d ever let you get within a mile of his drink. You nudged the phone closer to your ear and took a sip from your own.

“Closing in,” you told your friend simply.

She’d already given you the go-ahead to execute the confrontation and beat his ass any way you pleased after the fact. Now it wasn’t so much a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ you’d finally get to encroach on this little loved up scene at the other end of the bar. The man had had his back turned to you, and the stunning redhead hanging off his neck, likewise, had no idea what was coming. You smiled.

“Promise you won’t go to jail this time?” your friend said.

“Will you bail me out again if I do?” Your grin got bigger.

“Well, duh.”

“Good deal. I’ll be the shitfaced inmate with ‘Fuck Men’ tattooed on her forehead. Wait for Travis County to call.”

“I love you, psycho.”

“Love you more.”

You ended the call.

And you were fully ready to end this man’s life when you saw him lean in to kiss the woman’s neck—that was sick.

You weren’t thinking straight. You weren’t seeing straight

You yelled out, ‘He-e-e-ey, honey!’ without blinking.

The couple turned.

As soon as the man had done a full 180, you flung your drink in his face and made sure the cup struck his nose.

“You cheatin’ FUCK!”

He flinched, sprayed by your vodka-infused energy juice.

The music overhead was loud, but not so deafening as to prevent the bar from hearing your shriek. From the front of the room, a band was playing ‘Gunpowder & Lead,’ and you couldn’t help but feel the song had been fate.

“What the f—” the adulterer started, evidently stunned.

You knocked the Shiner Bock out of his hand and spat:

“Working late, are we?!”

And spilled another patron’s beer reeling back.

“Got a little caught up on the way home?”

Gesturing toward the green-eyed beauty to his left. At first, the girl fixed her stare on you as if you’d sprouted another head, but then, by turns, she was tilting it to him.

“You have a girlfriend?” she hissed.

Cheater McFuckstick was wiping his beard with his hand

Shaking his head.

“Hell no, I ain’t never—”

“LIAR!”

Channeling your inner Representative Wilson circa 2009, you let your mouth fall open and stared at the big, burly man like the Congressman had once done to President Obama all those years ago. The semi-stranger in front of you was far less composed than his political counterpart.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he snapped.

You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is she your girlfriend?” would-be mistress said, shrill.

“NO!” you and been-knew asshole yelled together.

You saw the man’s nostrils flare, and at the same time, the woman beside him departed. Quickly. A few people around you cleared the way, while others still stared, gawked, and murmured amongst themselves. The Miranda Lambert cover band continued on without a hitch, though you could tell there had been a stir in the crowd. They probably thought the worst of it was over.

They thought wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you seethed, unrelenting.

You almost expected the man to turn and leave.

You thought wrong.

“You’re a cunt.”

And the man chucked a stray whiskey sour in your face.

The $15 spirits splattered on your skin like the meanest insult of all. His aim was better. Though he didn’t let go of the cup, as you had with him, he did make sure to coat the whole of your twisted look with the liquor, and once it landed, he had had the nerve to do something else, too.

He brought the glass to his lips then drank what was left.

“How’s it feel?” he sneered.

You stood in wet, sticky silence for half a second; arguably, you’d earned that cocktail to the face.

On the other hand, who the fuck did he think he was?

You grabbed a random can of Keystone Light and flung it at his chest to give him a hint—and catch him off-guard.

“You’re a bitch, Tommy Miller!”

“Wh—”

“Maria’s my best friend, you absolute f—”

“What—”

“—and you cheated on her for what? All so she—”

“What did you just call me?!”

“A BITCH!”

“No, the NAME!”

“TOMMY MILLER!”

“I’M JOEL!”

Oh.

You and Joel were shortly escorted out of the bar.

Joel’s name, and a trace of bourbon, were still fresh on your tongue when you found yourself stranded in the middle of the Tipsy Bison parking lot two minutes later. You leaned into a car beside you and held your stomach.

“Someone drop you on the head as a baby?” Joel barked.

Presently, for you, the world was tilting sideways, and your head was throbbing at a nauseating tempo.

“Go around slingin’ drinks at any old man you—”

Green. Green must’ve been the color of your face as you braced your hands on your knees and assumed a stance as if to scream at the ground. Rather than expecting any noise to ring out, though, you had only to squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto a hunch for something much less pleasant. And viscous.

Reeking mostly of Red Bull and regret, if you had to guess.

Joel took a big step back, and then he took another.

“Da-a-adgummit, girl, what the—”

He turned away just in time to miss the sight of you emptying your guts on the ground, but not quite fast enough to be spared the sounds of you retching. They were loud. Joel Miller was known to be a largely imperturbable force around these parts, but even he was made to feel queasy hearing that. Out of habit, he clapped his hand to his own gut and stumbled off. He stared at the bar, then at his car, then at the gravel crushed under his feet for what felt like the longest time. Then his gaze lingered to his lower half, and he thought:

‘Please, please don’t gimme no daughters. Please.’

He was forty-five. The time for making babies and raising daughters to be anything like a woman of your ilk was probably long past him. All the same, he kept his gaze on his crotch and sighed. Balls, you better not betray me.

When he heard the crunch of rocks, he turned around.

“HEY!”

Oh, no. No. Not tonight.

You were staggering to your car, keys in hand.

“Hey!” Joel called again, jogging after you.

It seemed the second shout had done him no more favors than the first. You were fumbling to get the key inside the door, and you looked as determined as ever.

Over your shoulder, you tossed back, careless:

“You ain’t the boss of me, Tommy Miller.”

You got the key to turn. You opened the door. You were just about to climb inside what looked to Joel to be the ugliest Dodge Ram pickup he’d seen in his life, when he grabbed your arm.

“It’s Joel,” he growled. Pinching your elbow tight as he tugged it back, “And you ain’t driving anywhere tonight.”

Somewhere in front of him, tilted away from his line of vision, you must’ve been grinning, because the next thing he heard from you was the scoff of a laugh.

“Oh yeah?”

Joel flipped you around to face him.

“Yeah,” he snapped.

Feeling a bit like a kid for mimicking your tone.

What were you, twenty-two? Twenty-three? You couldn’t have been a patron of a place like Tipsy Bison for very long, or else he would’ve recognized you tonight.

Then again, you struck him as the type to have had a fake ID since you were fifteen, so he really couldn’t know.

“I’m twenny-wuh-un,” you slurred up at him, exaggerated, once he’d made you step down from the running board and onto the ground. Answering his last unspoken question with the same, sleepy grin as before. Then lifting one of your hands to wag a finger in his face, “I can drink legal anywhere I want to in this country.”

“Not there,” Joel nodded to the interstate.

You looked to where he’d gestured and whistled. Standing and staring, like he had done to his crotch.

“Well fuck me-e!” you said next, dragging out the sound a childish amount, “You the law or somethin’, Mr. Joel?”

“Ain’t no cop.” Joel rolled his eyes.

You kept smiling. Then you turned on your heels.

And instead of trying to climb back into your truck, you sauntered off—in what direction, Joel couldn’t tell. You were more so bumbling about, turning in circles like the world’s most scantily-clad, semi-intoxicated ballerina. And then you stopped. You put your hands on your hips.

“‘Cause I’m the law,” you resumed in a slow, deliberate drawl. The twang you used was mostly feigned, “And you cain’t beat the law. Don’t nobody get away with that, not even a bunch’a Alabama smart alecks, believe you me.”

Joel didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about. The man was Texas born and bred, and you knew it.

He communicated as much by pinning you with a wide, bewildered stare, and something in that seemed to amuse. You stared back, making your eyes bug out too.

“It’s a quote from a movie,” you said, after a beat, “You’ve never seen Fried Green Tomatoes before?”

Joel couldn’t say that he had.

Joel reckoned there was a lot more than just movies he didn’t share in common with you. Miss Twenty-One. Barely a year past the age he’d been when he’d moved out of the house and tried to make a living on his own.

This woman, this girl he saw twirling out in front of him now probably couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel if he’d asked you to. Joel shook his head and moved his feet, frown etching deep.

“Alright, princess. Up.”

You didn’t seem to understand, until he’d lifted you. Up.

You were thrown over his shoulder and carried to a truck much nicer than yours in less than fifteen seconds or so.

“Stinks in here,” you said as soon as he’d set you down.

Then, sniffing the air—and grinning:

“Aw, hell, Miller…you smoke?”

Joel wished he’d said no.

Wished he’d rolled his eyes and told you to pipe down, stop asking him questions. It would’ve made the drive a whole lot easier, and more peaceful. Nowhere near as painful, either, if he were being perfectly honest—the strain in his jeans had already gotten to be more than he could bear, and all you’d asked for was a pack of smokes.

“They call ‘em Cowboy Killers,” you said, matter-of-fact.

“I know what they’re called,” Joel grumbled in reply. Flicking the radio on and hoping to find a tune that would drown out the too-lovely, cloying voice you’d assumed as soon as you thought you might win a cigarette off of him. More chatty now than ever.

And for one, blissful moment, Toby Keith had you beat. The calm was fleeting. As soon as ‘Who’s Your Daddy’ started to drift through the car’s old speakers, you reached across and turned the knob to the left.

“Gross,” you muttered.

“What?”

“Got a light?”

“Blow me.”

Joel’s harsh, clipped tone was deliberate. The way he’d made himself mean—meaner than he’d been around a woman in a long, long time—was a choice. He couldn’t let your faux sweetness win him now. Not after you’d thrown two drinks in his face, mocked his truck, and foreclosed any possibility of getting laid by way of all your publicized infidelity philippics and shit-talking. Giving in to your charms from where you sat in the passenger seat now would only sink him further in his own esteem. Simply put, Joel’s ego couldn’t take it.

“Okie doke,” you said presently. Shrugging.

“Now keep your—HEY!”

Joel nearly swerved his truck off the road and into a ditch. Your deft little hands had slipped into his lap—and started palming his crotch through the denim.

He’d just managed to right the vehicle before jerking a look your way, staring at your hand, then your face:

“What the fuck was that?!”

“You said ‘blow me,’ Joel!” you huffed, and you seriously appeared as distraught as he was, “Sorry for listening!”

Joel grit his teeth with all the force of a cold steel trap.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” He gripped the wheel even tighter.

“I’m aware.”

“Where the hell do you live, anyway?”

You told him.

Your hand slipped down to the seat beside him.

And just as Joel let out what felt like the tiniest sigh of relief—he knew where that was, and the address sounded vaguely familiar—he yelped again. This time, he managed to keep control of his truck, but it was hard.

Your fingers had returned, and they were kneading the bulge under his jeans. Joel flushed from head to toe.

He didn’t have so much as half a mind to make you stop. He didn’t want to see you slink back over to your side of the car. But you were twenty-one, and he was forty-five. And you were both under the influence to some degree. And he was driving, for fuck’s sake. Shit like that only worked in dreams—not on a highway in a town like this.

He turned the radio dial to 75. At length, he heard it loud:

‘WHO’S YOUR DADDY? WHO’S YOUR BA-A-A-ABY?’

He saw you cringe.

“C’mon, Joel,” you groaned, “That’s…yuck.”

The fingers of the one hand kept digging, rubbing, but the other reached out and turned the music down again.

Joel shifted in his seat, feeling the pleasure start to bloom from the pit of his stomach, but not wanting to let you off that easy. Briefly, he looked from the road to you.

“What? You got a problem with Toby Keith?”

“I got a problem with anyone sayin’ ‘daddy’ like that.”

You unzipped his fly. Popped the button of his jeans from underneath the soft shelf of belly hanging over it, and held him, finally. You could only cup his erection through his boxers at that point, but the friction was enough to send a shiver through the whole of the old man’s body. He hadn’t been touched like that by a hand that wasn’t his own in…he couldn’t remember how long. He sighed.

“That why you’ve got your hand down the pants of a man old enough to be your father?” Joel quipped.

He couldn’t help it.

Your hand only gripped him tighter. From the passenger seat, you’d leaned over and started crawling. Scowling.

Your knees swiftly planted themselves on the old, upholstered cushion of the bucket seat, and you slipped a touch beneath the waistband of his underwear. With a hand that was smooth and soft and eager to please, you wrapped your fingers around that base and leaned in.

“You sound like you want me to say it,” you whispered.

Under your hand, he pulsed. His gaze stayed on the road.

“Don’t make no difference to me, sweet pea,” he said, and was amazed how even he was able to keep his tone:

“But those ‘Cowboy Killers’ you wanted…”

Your fingers curled tighter. Your head sank lower.

“…they don’t come cheap, y’know.”

Oh, you knew. He saw a smile snag at the corners of your lips as you brought them to his lap, and he had to force himself to look at the road again. It was empty and dark.

The tarmac stretched out for days. The fields rolling past warned sternly, ‘Don’t let her win,’ and something more in between each tree seemed to invite deliberation—remembrance, maybe. Joel was far too focused on the feel of your mouth to give the woods a second thought.

You’d worked the first inch between your lips in a slick, obscene sort of kiss; you made room for just the head and then toyed with a bead of precum leaking out of his slit. You licked it, squeezed the shaft in your hand, and hummed while the first real moan rumbled through him.

Joel turned to putty with just that flick of your tongue. He didn’t have to see your face to know he was losing.

On the wheel, his grip grew tighter, and he choked out:

“Ain’t your fuckin’ lollypop, kid.”

Then, dropping one hand to push down on your head—make you take him to the back of your throat in one go.

“Daddy wants you to suck him like a big girl, hear?”

At the base of his cock, he felt you gag. From the bottom of his heart, Joel knew there was no sound sweeter than that. He ran his fingers over your skull and tapped gently.

“If you want those smokes,” he told you—and really, with all the warmth and moisture of your mouth enveloping him now, he’d had to try to sound rougher than he was, “You’re gonna do what daddy says and suck him right.”

You gagged again, then squeezed his denim-clad leg with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his member.

Joel yanked you by your hair and made you look up.

Your cheeks were already smeared with spit and tears. Much to his surprise, he found your eyes alight and soft.

Suffused with desire, too, from what he could see.

“Yes, daddy.” You grinned up at him.

Joel knew if he let your gaze stay on his a second longer now he’d either crash his car, blow his load, or fall in love—and he simply refused to let you succeed on any of those fronts, so he shoved your face back down.

You sucked him obediently. Greedily. Mouth growing more pliant and wet by the second, as if your jaw and salivary glands had contrived to get him as close to release as possible, as quickly as they were able.

Joel took a left onto a road he had only a dim recognition as being connected to yours, and he got that feeling again. You were bobbing your head, taking him further, flattening your tongue along the bottom of his member when his pleasure swelled inside him. At the same time, he felt a sense of dread. His hands were shaking on the wheel. He didn’t dare steal a look down to the sweet, soaked, perfect little mouth sucking him dry, because he knew that feeling would only strike twice as hard. He had to cum, or make you stop, or bring his truck to a halt.

As it was, he felt five tiny crescents sink into his thigh as you gripped him tighter, and a noise bubbled up in your mouth. Your breathing went shallow, and your lips stretched wide—you were trying, and succeeding, in deep-throating his thick, throbbing, much-too-old-for-a-girl-her-age member down close to your windpipe, and Joel could feel it. He hit his blinker, not thinking, and saw a sign that marked your street. Trepidation hit him again.

Fully, this time, in a feeling that was more like terror.

He didn’t have another second to question it, either. By the time he had the old, lone farmhouse in his sights and his heart nearly halfway up his throat with fear, your own throat pulsed, and opened the last two inches to him in. Your nose found their home in the rough, grey, wiry hairs at the base of his belly, having swallowed him whole, and Joel quickly sensed the start of what he knew too well.

He came down your throat in one, two, three, four, five long spurts, and didn’t let his foot off the gas even once.

He saw your house, approaching closer now, and paled.

No fucking way.

You’d wanted to skip the whole way up your drive.

Spit still drying on your cheeks, cum resting comfortably in your belly, and a smile as bright as the sun on your face as you waved to the F-150 pulling off toward the road, you’d never felt more alive—or smug—in your life.

“Is your dad…Lucien Flores?” Joel had asked no more than a second after his dick slipped out of your mouth.

“The one and only.”

Somehow, his face got even paler. His jaw visibly clenched, and his palm hit the top of the wheel. Hard.

It was then that you’d learned your father had hired Joel Miller on as a full-time ranch hand sometime last week.

He’d remembered the address, vaguely, but didn’t connect the dots until he’d pulled up in front of your house and damn near punctured your windpipe with his pulsing dick from how fast he’d jumped up—and cum.

His spend had almost shot through your nose with the force of it, but you didn’t mind. Once he’d revealed the wild, gory, and admittedly hilarious details of his newfound employment, you were too busy laughing your ass off to care if he’d torn your throat in two with his dick.

“So you really are a cowboy, then,” you’d said, giggling.

Joel had scowled. Rolled his eyes. Practically turned the color of a tomato when you leaned in and kissed him.

Now you were waving to him from your front door.

Joel’s truck was slow to go. The taste of him was fresh.

And there, weighing light in your back pocket while you said goodbye was a brand new pack of Marlboro Reds.

2:21 AM

You were safely in bed. You checked your phone.

Aside from fourteen missed calls, you saw:

1:09 AM – Maria

DUDE

1:09 AM

TOMMY JUST CAME HOME

1:09 AM

THAT’S NOT HIM AT THE BAR

1:13 AM

IT’S JUST JOEL!! HIS BROTHER!!!

1:13 AM

ABORT ABORT ABORT

1:42 AM

DAVE SAID YOU BEAT JOEL UP???? CALL ME

1:54 AM – Dave York

Ur gonna fuck that old dude aren’t u

#‘HIS FIST IS BIG BUT MY GUN’S BIGGER’#‘HE’LL FIND OUT WHEN I PULL THE TRIGGER’#ms. lambert was INSANE for that #supporting women’s rights and wrongs all day long in this fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us fic

1K notes · View notes

evilminji · 7 months ago

Text

Okay but? We of the DPxDC? Are COMPLETELY Sleeping on DPXBNHA?

And not even for the Main Plot Shenanigans!

Just?? It has ALL of DC's super powers? But MORE OF THEM. And like 80% of the population has um! Danny can?? Finally achieve his DREAM of being???

JUST SOME DUDE™!

Yeah, he's in Japan. That's a bit of a learning curve. And YEAH, there was a cataclysmic war like a few centuries back that sorta... fucked everybody up. No one wants to talk about it. There may be mass graves and Never Forget memorials. But?

On the SURFACE!

This place seems utopian!

No ghost hunters! Advanced technology! Robust social services*!

Wait... what was that asterisk? What do you mean "corrupt shadowy government organizations"? What do you MEAN "Immortal Supervillians"? NO SPACE PROGRAM!?!? AaaaaAAAAAAAAAAH?!?!? I'M IN HELL!!! This is ACTUALLY THE BAD PLACE, THIS IS HELL, OH GOD NOOOOOOO-!!!!!!

Cause see?

There are SO MANY REASONS he'd end up there?

Think about it! Wish that he lived somewhere his weird biology wouldn't exclude him from becoming an astronaut? In Quirks having Bnha Japan EVERYBODY has weird biology! Y'ain't special! You could TOTALLY be an astronaut!..... if we HAD those! We do not. Shut down that program during the Quirk Wars and never really started it again. (And somewhere, Desiree LAUGHS)

Or MAYBE? Things are getting a little hot on the ground? Bit TOO spicy. The Family Fenton and Friends have fallen back, behind the barely holding shields. Not even the Mansons considerable political maneuvering could stop the inevitably of human fear and blind unthinking hatred. Money can't buy everything, in the end. There is only ONE(1) way out.

Through the Zone.

Plan: Strangers In A Strange World is a go.

They're all Limnal enough to fake it. Sam with her plants. Tucker with his technology and persuasion. Jazz with her limited empathy. Their parents with their... well, weirdness. And with a touch of ghostly assisted meddling? Well, they've always BEEN there! Haven't they?

And that's not to MENTION the random 4 year olds with no control! JUST coming into their powers! With all those big emotions in tiny bodies? Startling events and tantrums? Villian attacks? What could THEY possibly hope to do to control or guide that fresh new power? It does what it does and the rest of us are just along for the ride!

If Danny happens to be minding his business and gets accidentally kidnapped by a VERY distraught 4 year old? Well, that's hardly the KIDS fault, now is it? They're FOUR! That is basically a toddler! Tiny child! They are upset, confused, and didn't mean to do ANYTHING. He's a hero. And Heros don't blame little kids from accidents, no matter HOW stressed it makes them.

No, the curse like a sailor INSIDE their head. Like an ADULT.

Just? Imagine~☆

The slow transition from *starry eyed shoujo sparkles* "This is SO COOL~!" to "huh, that's... kinda weird. And Sus. Weird Sus. Maybe nothing... oh! A distraction!" To "okay, this KEEPS happening, that was shady. You all saw that right? You realize that's not NORMAL, right? That that's fucked up? Not cool?" To "oh god, oh God, OH GOD! I'm in HELL! This is actually HELL! I'm trapped in HELL!!! WHAT THE FUC-"

Like? This kid LOVES space. LOVES the stars. And this is one of the few Superhero Cannon that SPECIFICALLY MENTIONS that IN CANNON? Thanks to Quirks? As in Superpowers? That VERY THING got fuckin SCRAPPED. Gutted. Consigned to be a relic of the past so they could all focus on punching each other Real Good.

He would weep BLOOD. Chew the WALLS. The LEVEL of unhinged this child would unleash? Not as Danny Phantom... but as DANNY J. FENTON? Beautiful. Vaguely psychotic. Definitely doing the Fenton Name proud. God, the NOISE HE WOULD MAKE would be inhuman and yet somehow? Come entirely from his human half.

They👏 Would👏 Hear👏 BOSS👏 MUSIC👏

I don't even know if he'd CARE about the main characters. They'd be tangential at best. The man would be in a one man war with I-Island over their lack of space program and hoarding of scientific progress. Probably living out of an abandoned building or forgotten subway station. Just? The MOST bedraggled, feral genius to ever haunt Japan.

As opposed to the REFINED feral genius. Who is Nedzu.

I bet Danny stands outside his school at one AM waving his scientific papers at a camera and YELLS. Like a deranged lunatic. Mismatched slippers and a "haven't slept in a week" crazed glint in his eyes.

He's Nedzu's new best friend. They GET each other.

And, yes, Nedzu COULD let him in... but it's faster to just let him yell and read the papers through the camera. Who CARES if they both seem insane! Let's shout about advanced physics and engineering at 1 am! Over the speakers!!! Oh? You need to physically SHOW me the notes? Well I COULD unlock the gates... OR just wait for you to finish scrambling up the walls like a feral Racoon, to then throw yourself OVER them.

Either, Or.

I'm just SAYING! We are SLEEPING on this! There is so, SO much fun to be had! Danny breaks rules and minds! His outrage over injustice and the complete lack of SPACE! His protection instincts going BUCK FUCKIN WILD. The INDESCRIBABLE hate boner he would have for Mr. "Lemme just rip parts of your soul out so I can collect your powers like pokemon cards" AfO.

There? Is SO MUCH, guys. SO MUCH!

@hdgnj @the-witchhunter @babbling-babull @hypewinter @nerdpoe @lolottes @dcxdpdabbles @mutable-manifestation

#dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #dpxbnha #dp x bnha #dp x mha #dpxmha #minji's writing #dp prompt #dp x bnha prompt

2K notes · View notes

ganggangscenarios · 6 months ago

Text

Diamond Heart

Part 2

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Summary: You finally decide to utilise your gym membership. Personal trainer!Jungkook

Genre: Romance, comedy, smut, angst

Warnings: Body image. Negative language. Heavy smut scene at the end.

________

This is the second time I've uploaded this story. The first time, I received some pretty mean comments and messages. SOOOOOO I have to say, if you don't like. my writing, that's fine, just exit my page lol. Do not leave mean comments please.

——————————

New year, new you, right? Your new years resolution was to get your body right, eat healthily, drink less and most importantly; get in the gym. However, it had been months since the new year had begun and you still hadn’t utilised your gym membership. The fee was regularly from your bank account every month and you had yet to step foot into the establishment. You frowned every time you saw the transaction on your bank statement, but you did absolutely nothing about it.

But the influence of social media made you feel like you wanted to try and be a gym girlie. So you took your gym bag to work, placed It under your desk so you didn’t have any excuse not to go. Plus, the gym was quite literally in your work building.

You sigh change into untouched gym clothes that you had bought all the way back at the end of December, preparing for your new year’s resolution. Shame rushes over your body as you tear the tags from the tight fitting clothes and chuck them into the sanitary bin next to the toilet. Huffing and puffing you slide your socked feet into new exercise shoes. Stuffing your work clothes into the bag, you exit the bathroom stall and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You didn’t look too bad, you looked like someone who was ready to workout. If you looked the part, you could play the part.

Lugging the bag over your shoulder, you head to the gym.

It was pretty empty, you were surprised, as the majority of colleagues held a membership, considering all employees got a ten percent discount as your employers owned the building.

You guess that people don’t usually come straight from work, they most likely go home and come back. But not everyone suffers from severe procrastination like you do.

Heading to the changing rooms, to put your bag away, you pass a very good looking man, you almost trip over as your eyes stick to him. He dressed in a baggy white shirt and shorts, his feet adorned in similar shoes to yours. His hair was cut in a cool way, it was kinda long, considering all the men at work and currently surrounding him, all sported cropped haircuts. His ears and his lips were embellished with piercings, you almost walked into a wall when you saw him playing with his lip piercings, the tip of his tongue, just grazing the shiny metal. Your gaze fleetingly drops to his arm, his tattooed arm. How was a man like this working here? He should be on the cover of vogue or something.

Tearing your eyes away from him, you manage to make it into the changing room, unscathed. You quickly lock away your bag and head back out onto the main floor, phone and AirPods in hand, ready to tackle the gym. And then it hits you a ton of bricks. You have no idea what you’re doing. You didn’t know where to start, what equipment does what, what part of your body to focus on.

You look around at people lifting weights, running on the treadmills, using the equipment like pros.

Your eyes focus in on the 'smoke show' of a man that ‘briefly’ caught your eye earlier. He was now sitting behind the front desk and under a large poster for personal trainers. The poster read ‘In the body gym: PT sessions available; first 2 sessions are free’. And if a sign from the universe, it doesn’t fail to mention how the offer is time limited. You take it as a sign, plus you were most likely going to try the gym twice before never going again. Might as well get free personal training out of it.

With determination, you walk towards the front desk, before stopping in front of that man of a man. And that’s when the words on your tongue freeze.

Jungkook notices a presence looming over him and he puts the finishing touches on the next promotional poster. He looks up and smiles. He noticed you when you first came in, you were a new face, he knew all the regulars who attended the gym and he had never seen you before. He would definitely remember a face like yours. He stands up.

“Hello, how can I help you?” He rests his tattooed hand on the desk and he notice how your eyes grow larger at the sight.

Your words are still finding it hard to get out of your mouth. You probably look like such a weirdo, standing there and staring at him. You manage to lift your finger and gesture to the poster behind him.

He smiles and his smile is the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

“You want to book a PT session?”

You nod and swallow the lump that had been lodged in your throat since you walked up to the desk.

“Sorry, yes, I’d like to book five.” You fumble to pull out your credit card from the back of your phone.

“I can just add the fee to your account. You don’t need to pay directly. The fee won’t be noticeable until the third session, on the account of our offer.” He leans forward to adjust your account.

You can see down his shirt from the angle. And by the sight you can tell that he works in a gym. Hell, he might even live in it.

He clicks a few times and quickly straightens back up, you swiftly divert your gaze.

“You are free to start your first session today.” He comes out from behind the desk and he towers over you, your knees buckle. Maybe that’s something you need to work on. Do your knees have muscles? Can you make them stronger?

“Okay, should I wait here for the trainer?” You ask.

He goes behind the desk, ducks down and then comes back out.

He extends his hand and you stare at him in confusion.

He retracts his hand, and rubs the back of his neck.

“I don’t know why I did that…” He awkwardly chuckles, shaking his head.

It can’t be. There’s no way that he’s your P-

“I’m your trainer. I hope that’s okay, the other guys are fully booked and I had a cancellation today, so I thought it’d be a cute joke…” He trails off, taking note of the smile growing across your face.

You feel kinda at ease seeing him get a little awkward attempting to joke with you. He looked like he should be the cockiest motherfucker ever, but second by second he was proving that he was the complete opposite of that. It was endearing but there was no way he could be your personal trainer, not like you had a shot with him anyway, he probably had a really fit and hot girlfriend. You digress, you didn’t want him to see you all sweaty, breathing hard and struggling to complete simple moves.

He looks at you, his eyes doubling in size. He can tell you’re slightly uncomfortable, he could almost visualise the Neurons firing off in your head. He was attracted to you, that’s for sure, he wasn’t trying to come off as creepy. Maybe he did, and now you don’t want to train with him, maybe you’ll cancel your membership too.

He rapidly looks around the gym, hoping to catch the eye of one of his colleagues, so he could offer to trade clients. He catches Namjoon’s eye, but before he could call him over, you speak;

“It was funny, I’m just a bit scared.”

His gaze meets your eyes again. He internally feels a huge rush of relief. Thank goodness he didn’t scare you away.

“Oh good.” He tucks his hair behind his ear.

Cute. You think.

“Why are you scared?” He quickly follows up.

Shifting your weight between your feet, you answer, your voice barely audible over the EDM base leaking through the speakers.

“I don’t want to embarrass myself. You’re a professional and I don’t want to make a fool of myself.” You play with your earbud case, avoiding eye contact.

You wouldn’t be his first client who had that same fear, it was completely natural to be scared of embarrassing yourself. He felt the same way when he started boxing, the first session was nerve-racking, scared of getting anything wrong. But all you need is a good and supportive trainer. And if says so himself, that’s what he thinks he is.

“Don’t be scared. I’m here to help you. We’ll start slow, okay?” He offers a warm smile and places his large hand on your shoulder.

You almost fall from the feeling of his hand on your bare shoulder. Yes, you were acting like a teenage girl who had never interacted with a man before. But look at him. You were a grown ass woman who had never interacted with a man that looked like him before.

He leads you over to a room separate from the rest of the gym, closed off with glass doors, allowing you to see the whole place. Inside the room were a few exercise balls, foam roller and weights. The floor was soft and covered in mats.

He takes you over to the furthest mat in the room.

“Just me and you here, so don’t be nervous. This section is pretty discreet.” He reassures you.

You smile and place your phone and earbuds down on the floor next to the two mats you were currently occupying.

“We are going to start with stretching, so please sit down. I might have to help you with some of the positions. I hope you don’t mind being stretched…” His voice quietens as he realises how it sounds.

His cheeks flush a pretty pink. A hot flash that runs through you, leaves a thin layer of sweat on your hairline.

And so it begins.

The next morning you wake up sore as fuck. All that extra stretching at the end of the session seemed useless now. Your legs feel like lead as you swing them out of bed and headed to the bathroom. As you sit on the toilet, your thighs scream at you, it was almost as if you could feel every fibre of your muscles tear.

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. Finishing your business, you wash your hands and run the shower.

You tap the screen on your phone to see a message from Jungkook. He said it was important to have direct contact with each other, just incase he wanted to recommend some gym wear or if you had any questions.

Jungkook (Gym): ’Hope yesterday didn’t tire you out too much. You did great 👏 ‘

Another comes in as you finish reading.

Jungkook (Gym): ‘I hope to see you at the gym (or outside) soon! Make sure to book another session! 😊’

You quickly pick up your phone, steam fills the room as the water continues to gush from the pipes.

It vibrates in your hand.

Jungkook (Gym): ‘Sorry if that was unwarranted.’

It vibrates again. You didn’t want to risk opening the messages just incase you were unsure of what to say. You really didn’t want to leave him on read unintentionally.

Jungkook (Gym): ‘Please ignore the last two messages 😣 .’

Jungkook (Gym): ‘Lets pretend that didn’t happen. Sorry for the spam 😔

You click on the notification and unlock your phone.

You: Its okay 😆 My body feels like its on fire every time I move, is that normal?

You fire off the text.

Jungkook (Gym): ‘Yes 😂 completely normal. You should buy a foam roller to massage your muscles~ But more stretching should help in the mean time. Here is a video to follow (its me btw 😳)’

He sends a link to a Youtube video. You’re intrigued. The gym seemingly had a YouTube channel. The link loads and then you see Jungkook on your screen. Holding the phone in one hand, you quickly turn off the shower and head to your bedroom. Careful not to walking into any walls, you sit on your bed.

He greets the audience cheerfully, informing them that this was a tutorial for stretching to relieve muscle ache. He is wearing the gym’s merch, not like when you saw him the day before, it wasn’t a baggy t-shirt, no. This time it was a form fitting sleeveless, lycra shirt, with the gym’s logo nestled between his sculpted pecs. His vibrant tattoos more on show than they were in person. His legs were wrapped in shorts, that fell just above his knees.

He encourages the viewers to get an exercise mat or find a soft surface. You follow his instruction. A loud groan escapes your lips as you struggle to sit down.

He sports the brightest smile as he guides the (most likely thirsty) watchers through the exercises.

You strain your muscles as you attempt to toe touch. And then he says something that brings you back to the previous day, during your session.

“You might need a partner to stretch you, if you can’t get far enough. It’ll feel really good.”

You were being advised on how to stretch and then when it came to this specific stretch. You were laying on your back, hands clasped around your knee. You knew that you weren’t flexible, but you didn’t know that you were this stiff. You tried your best to pull your leg into your chest, but you couldn’t anything.

“Its not working.” You say, letting your leg drop to the ground with a thud.

Jungkook chuckles and looks down at you, arms crossed, his biceps bulging. The strength it took to not stare was more than what you used to lift the weights.

“I think you need help.” He kneels down in front of you.

He pauses.

“I can help you, if you want.”

You nod.

He mutters an ‘okay, great’, before asking you to resume the position. He moves forward, putting his body over yours, placing his hands on your calf and pushing your leg up and down.

You almost moan with how good the stretch felt. You try your damn hardest not to concentrate on the man who was currently on top of you. You tried not to take notice of his scent, or the small scar on his cheek, or the mole under his lip.

“Can you feel it now?” He smirks.

He knew you could feel it, he heard the noise you let slip. He tries not to think anything of it, but his mind runs wild. He had to be professional. Plus you hadn’t indicated that you were interested in him in the slightest.

You nod again. He sits back on his heels and lets go of your leg.

You’re pulled out of your reminiscent state by a notification and the sound of the phone vibrating against the floor.

Jungkook (Gym): Did it help? 😢

You quickly reply with no thoughts. Empty headed.

You: Its not the same without you

He was gonna think you were like all those other woman in the gym who thirsted over him. You needed to fix it.

You quickly send another message.

You: *your help ☺️

Jungkook’s heart sank at your correction. Maybe you weren’t interested. You probably in a relationship and the last thing you wanted to deal with was a creepy PT harassing you. He doesn’t reply.

You spend your whole shower thinking about being left on read.

Your closest co-worker, Bethany, sits across from you during in lunch. She notices how you barely make conversation, or keep the conversation. You check your phone every 5 minutes.

“Who are we waiting for?” She asks, her fork digging around in her bowl.

“Huh?”

She chuckles.

“You’re obviously waiting for someone to text. You keep on looking at phone like every two seconds. So, who are we waiting for?”

You didn’t know you were being that obvious.

“Well… My personal trainer is a total twenty out of ten. And he messaged me this morning to give me some stretching tips, and I may have ended our last convo on a creepy note. And now I think that he’s ghosting me because I was a creep. He probably blocked me. I’m probably banned from the gym.” Words rush out of your sauce covered lips. Maybe spaghetti wasn’t the best meal to have in the middle of the day.

Bethany shoves a napkin in your face, which you accept gratefully. She request to see the messages. Embarrassed, you hand your phone over to her.

She remains silent as she scrolls down the screen.

“He has a crush on you.” She finally speaks, her eyes fixed on the screen, her thumb pressing down. She was doing more than looking at the messages.

“You better not be sending another message.” You warn her, hand reaching across the table.

She swiftly moves her chair back, so your phone is out of reach.

“If you don’t snatch him up, someone else will. Oh my God, he is…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, she turns the screen towards you. And you freeze. It is a picture of a rather muscular man’s bare back, the hair at the nape of his neck was wet with sweat. And the tattooed arm… You knew that arm. It was in your dreams last night.

“W-where did you find that?”

She smiles and her thumb resumes the swiping motion.

“It was in his previous profile pictures.” She leans back in her chair.

“His picture is a brown dog.” You sit back, the image burnt into your eyes.

How were suppose to act now that you’ve seen that? All you can imagine is digging your nails into that back as-

See? You’ve been corrupted. No, you must be ovulating, that why the impure thoughts plague your mind. You’ve seen good looking men before, but you’ve never had such a primal reaction before. You also didn’t know him well enough to like anything besides his looks. His very, very, very good looks.

“He has a ton of pictures. He may be the first guy ever who’s good at taking pictures. Damn, look at this.” She turns the screen towards you once more. This time he was standing in a mirror, hair slicked back and in a black button down.

“I can never go back to the gym. I guess my new years resolution is not going to be fulfilled.” You sigh, leaning forward to put your head in your arms.

Suddenly, Bethany gasps.

“He replied.” She smiles.

Your heart drops to your stomach.

“I can’t look. You read it.” You close your eyes, not wanting to look at her face.

She clicks on the notification. It felt as if seconds were taking hours to pass.

“Aww~”

Your head pops up, eyes shoot open.

“Aww?”

She nods.

“He said ‘I’d be glad to help, I like you.”

You lunge forward and grab the device out of her hand.

It shakes in your hand

Jungkook (Gym): * your company 😜

Your heartbeat quickens and a smile spreads across your face. He was nicely making fun of you, recalling back to your little save earlier.

“If you don’t go for it, I will.” Bethany jokes, her engagement ring, glistening under the lighting of the restaurant.

You sit back in your chair, clutching the phone, thinking of a reply. The phone buzzes again.

Jungkook (Gym): I hope I didn’t ruin my chances of asking you out for dinner after our training sessions. I hope it didn’t come off as creepy 🤢

You didn’t dwell on a reply, you thumbs swiftly move across the screen as you type out a reply.

You: Why wait? 🫤

Jungkook didn’t want to rush anything just incase the attraction was purely physical. You still had four sessions left. He didn’t want to put either of you in that uncomfortable position of feeling like you were stuck with someone you had a bad experience with. What if you found him boring, or strange, or creepy? Oh he was so stupid, luckily you seemed interested, but he didn’t even ask if you were single or not, he just pounced on you like some sort of predator.

Jungkook (Gym): I want you to keep on coming to the gym. I want it to go well.

Your heart melts. It was endearing. That someone that looked like him could be nervous.

You send a heart emoji and lock your phone, placing it screen down on the table. As you’re about to open your mouth to discuss your messages with Bethany, your phone rings. Flipping it up, you see the name on the screen; Jungkook.

You show Bethany. She snatches the device from you and answers it, shoving it to your ear.

“Hello?” You say.

“Hi. How are you?” His silky, yet raspy voice bleeds through the speakers.

Your eyes zero in on the left over food on your plate, your finger mindlessly tracing patterns into the table.

“I-I’m good. You?”

You could hear the EDM music that played in the gym come through the phone. It must be at work.

“Same. Uh, do you want to come in today? I could help the soreness go away? Well, not completely, but feel better?” He suggests, shyly. You practically see his tattooed arm raise to go behind his neck to shake through the back of his hair.

You didn’t have any plans to go to the gym for another 2 days Your sweaty clothes were still stuffed in your gym bag next to your front door. You hadn’t even bothered to put them in the laundry.

“Uh… I don’t have my gym clothes today.” You lean back in your chair.

Jungkook was unsure of how he was going to come off but he had to try. He really wanted to see you, he felt pathetic having a crush like this. Pursuing a crush like this.

“We have gym apparel here.” He says.

You almost scoff. Not meaning to come off as condescending. You try to disguise the scoff as a cough.

“I’m not really a gym girlie. So I’m not into buying gym clothes like that… I’ll be come in on Friday tho-“

He cuts you off.

“I’m looking at the system now and your membership actually expires tomorrow. You signed up for a 6 month contract and well… its been 6 months.”

He was telling the truth, but he was coming off as desperate.

“Oh. Um, Its my lunch break right now, I guess I could quickly come in to renew. I’ll be there soon.”

You both mutter a quick farewell before ending the phone call.

“Sounds like he really wants to see you.”

You walk into the gym, feeling slightly uneasy dressed in your work clothes, your heels sinking into the padded floor. You immediately spot Jungkook who was currently with a client at one of the machines, a young woman who looked like she didn’t really need to be in the gym, but thats probably what hard work and dedication gets you. Results. He was dressed casually as always, a t-shirt and baggy shorts. This time a beanie encased his raven locks. You rip your gaze away from the two of them and head to the front desk. A young man greets you, you read his name tag ‘Namjoon’. He was tall, buff and oh so handsome. Was that the requirement to work at this gym?

How can I help you today?” Namjoon asks.

“Hi, I need to renew my membership.” You start.

The man smile, his dimple becoming more prominent with every tooth that displays.

“Sure, what’s your name?” His fingers ready to enter your information into the computer.

You give him your name, placing your handbag on to the counter to find your ID just incase.

Namjoon’s eyebrows reach his hairline and his yells for Jungkook. You’re startled at the sudden outburst. You look up at him in confusion. He gives you a curt smile before backing away from the counter and jogging over to Jungkook. You follow him with your eyes as he approaches Jungkook. You’re unable to hear their conversation as a count of the the loud music and the distance. You see Jungkook turn to his client and she dismounts from the machine and takes a swig of water. The two men exchange a few words before Jungkook heads your way. He approaches you with a gleaming smile on his face. You return a shy grin.

He jogs behind the counter.

“Is there a problem? Couldn’t Namjoon, is that his name? Couldn’t he do it?” You tilt your head in wonder.

Jungkook felt a pang of jealousy in his chest, he didn’t enjoy the fact that you seemed to want Namjoon to assist you when he was right there.

You notice his eyes flicker and his smile falter.

“You looked busy, I didn’t want to bother you.” You reach your hand out in defence.

His smile returns at its luminescence.

“Its no bother. I was expecting you.” Types in your information into the system and prints out a new contract. He quickly turns around to grab the sheet of paper from the printer. You take the time to admire his back, the image of his shirtless back flashing through your mind.

Your thoughts are interrupted when he puts the contract down on the counter and gestures to the pen perched in it’s stand. He tells you where to sign. You quickly sign and date on the dotted line before handing it back to him.

“Do you want to grab dinner tonight?” He asks.

You’re taken aback by the sudden invite.

Before you could respond, Jungkook’s client saunters over to the two of you.

“Kookie, are we going to finish the session?” She leans on the counter, and you take the opportunity to take a glance at her body. She had the physique of a dancer, or a model. She was definitely on someone’s (your) vision board.

You weren’t an overly insecure person, but thats was mostly because you kept to yourself and limited your use of social media. But in times like these, when you unintentionally comparing yourself to another woman who was just simply existing in the presence of a good looking man. You wrap your blazer around your waist trying to shield your shape as you feel her eyes dart up and down your body.

“Yeah give me one second.” He doesn’t turn away from you.

Jungkook was about to open his mouth, when the lady interrupts;

“He’s really good. He’ll get you into shape in no time! He also offers meal plans, if he hasn’t told you already.” She gives you the once over one more time.

You feel yourself fold in. Your shoulder slump and chest caves in. You suddenly become aware of your body and how different it was in comparison to all the people in the gym. In comparison to Jungkook, who was seemingly trying to ask you out right now. You thought of his intentions. Was he trying to garner more business for the gym? Was he going to take you out and suggest that you sign up for more PT sessions? Or maybe he was simply doing his job? And he asked all his clients out to dinner so he could monitor their eating habits?

Or MAYBE it was worse; and he got a kick of leading innocent woman into thinking they had a chance with men like him. And all the people at the gym knew it?

“Clara, I’ll be over in 5 minutes. Namjoon is gonna take over for a while.” He gestures over to Namjoon, who was leaning against a machine, patiently waiting for her to return.

She scoffs before walking away, making a point to sway her hips as she walks away. Jungkook rolls his eyes and looks back at you, a smile resting on his visage.

“Are you free tonight?” He asks, his eyes grow with hope.

The hope soon dissipates when he watches your face distort with uncertainty.

“Look, I don’t want you to go above and beyond for me. I just want to get used to coming to the gym first. Um… I know I’m not a supermodel but-.” He stops you.

“What?” He brows furrow in confusion. He runs through the past few minutes in his head and wonders where he may have misled you. He knew he sometimes had the misfortune of mixing up his words and confusing people, but he honestly didn’t think he mixed up his words this time. He barely spoke.

“I appreciate your help, but please don’t feel obliged to go outside the boundaries of the gym t-.” He cuts you off again.

“Boundaries?” He questions.

You swallow the hard lump that had formed in your throat, you already felt small, but you felt yourself becoming smaller.

“Yeah. I know you offer ‘meal plans’. But we don’t have to go out for dinner in order for you to sell them to me.” You choke out.

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise and his mouth drops open.

“I-I. No.” Is all he can say.

“No?”

“No. I want to take you out because I like you. Well I like what I know of you. I want to get to know you. I think you’re gorgeous by the way.” The last part comes out under his breath.

You’re lost for words, you don’t know whether you should apologise or question his response.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I wanted to wait until after our sessions were done so you didn’t get the wrong impression.” He looks down at his shoes.

You felt so bad, jumping to conclusions, you were the one who forced to ask you sooner. He was trying to make you comfortable, he never said anything about your appearance or made you feel any less than. You forced your insecurities on a really nice guy, who showed a little interest in you.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I should get another trainer. And I’m-“ His gaze meets yours, eyes wide.

“No, no! I still want to be your trainer and take you out! I just hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression. I really like you.”

You shift in your spot, clutching your bag.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screens a few times. He shows you the screen.

“Look, if you don’t want to get dinner, which I understand. Lets go here. Its a painting cafe, its open til late night and they have drinks. Its really chill. You mentioned in our first session how you wanted yo do something creative, right?”

You smile, he was seemingly trying so hard.

“Okay.” You say, coyly.

He beams.

“Okay?”

You nod.

“I’ll meet you outside at 6:30?” He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket.

“Okay!” You smile before turning around and walking away.

This time, Jungkook watches you walk away, failing at containing the smile that had exploded on his face.

Jungkook knew his last client of the day felt rushed, he didn’t bother with the final stretches like he usually does, he didn’t even bother to jokingly flirt with the 75 year old woman like he usually did either. He aided her in putting the 2kg weights back on the rack before running into the men’s changing room, stripping and jumping into the shower.

He scrubbed his body head to toe, making sure to get rid of the grime from the day.

Before he knew it, he was waiting outside of the building, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He catches a glimpse of his reflection and he immediately fixes his hair, one strand would not stay in its place, he knew he needed to use more hair gel. He should’ve asked Jimin if he could use a little more.

Staring through the glass, he saw you coming, caught up in the crowd of people who were dying to get home.

Finally, you come through the doors and walk up to him. You greet him brightly, hoping he can’t hear the nerves plaguing your voice.

He beams at you and asks about your day. He informs you that the place wasn’t too far away and was in walkable distance.

The start of the date was awkward, as expected, no more than a few words at a time being exchanged. He was ever the gentleman, before picking out a design for your canvases, he helped you out with your apron. You fought to keep your knees from buckling as he came in close from behind to tie the back. You do the same for him, the height difference, between the two of you becoming ver present, as well as the broadness of his back.

The host lead you two a secluded room, as you both clutched your chosen designs in hand. The room was quite romantic, low lighting, except for the luminous light surging each easel. There was a table separating the two chairs, displaying the paint and the brushes. You glance at Jungkook and see the look of glee.

You both place the canvases on the easels and take your seats. The host, takes place in front of the two of you.

“You have 2 and a half hours, you are free to use all the material here. If you need anymore, please press the call button.” She gestures to the button, stuck to the end of the table, covered in the paint bottles.

She continues;

“This is an evening painting session, so we now serve wine at the bar. Selective dishes are also available to order. Coffee and snacks are still available. And… please refrain from any inappropriate behaviour, or you will be asked to leave and banned from the premise. We do have CCTV in each room.” She offers an awkward smile and swiftly leaves the room.

Jungkook hopes you don’t think that he brought you here for illicit reasons. Maybe you’d think he was one of those sleazy guys who take women to private rooms and try it on with them. Shit. You haven’t said anything. Shit. He hasn’t said anything. He’s been in his head for the past few seconds.

“I hope I’m not bad at this.” You say, breaking the silence, with a light laugh.

He turns to you and smiles, picking up a paintbrush and offering it to you. You take it and return the smile.

From then on, the date runs smoothly. You both decide to order a bottle of wine and share a plate of pasta. One bottle turned into two, and the room was filled with laughter and stories. The misunderstandings of the afternoon long forgotten. Before you knew it, a voice came through a small speaker, you didn’t know was there, reminding you that you had 10 minutes left.

In a burst of tipsy laughter, the two of you hurriedly finish your paintings.

Picking up your painting and Jungkook to the ‘drying station’, located, near the entrance. You both remove your paint covered aprons before attending to your paintings once again. You take a peek at his masterpiece before you flick on the hairdryer.

“How are you real?” You ask in disbelief.

He tilts his head in confusion.

“You look amazing, you’re nice, and you can paint. What can’t you do?” You giggle.

He laughs and shakes his head.

“No, no. I- You- I mean thank you. But I think the same about you.” He says quickly turning on his hairdryer, aiming it at his picture.

The hum of the machines fill the room, echoing your laughter that once filled your ears. Your ears, that were now flushed with flattery.

The hostess takes both paintings, wrapping them up carefully, and handing you both your respective bags. She taps on the register, reading off the total bill. You reach in your bag to find your card, yeah, it was a date, but you felt strange standing there as Jungkook paid for something that could’ve easily been a platonic date… Your thoughts are interrupted.

“Do you want the receipt?”

“Huh?” The sound slipped out.

Jungkook looks at you before answering.

“No thank you. Thank you, have a nice evening.” His free hand grabs yours and he guides you both outside.

So… not a platonic date then.

The street was much busier than it had been than when you had arrived. It was filled with people unwinding after a long day at work, ready for the weekend. It was also littered with loved up couples, holding hands, looking for places to eat, talking to each other about who knows what. If anyone were to look at the two of you, they would think you were one of those lovelorn couples. The way your hand fit in his, pace matching his, laughter mixing harmoniously with his.

“Thank you for tonight. I had so much fun.” You pull him to a stop, pulling him into a side road, away from the foot traffic.

Jungkook feels his heart swell, he was so happy. He felt like it went well, but to hear you say it? Made him feel like he was flying. To think that a few hours ago, it was all almost slipping away from him. He found himself drawn to you, he couldn’t explain it. He always believed that that’s how he’d find his ‘person’. It would just feel right. And it does.

“Me too. Thank you for giving me a chance.” He takes both your hand in his, eyes growing double in size.

You didn’t think it was possible for a man like him to look cute, but here he was, with his eyes shining, looking down at you. Looking as adorable as ever. You move closer, you were aware of your actions, but you also knew that the wine you drank was giving you the courage to do what you were about to do.

“I would like to k-“

“Yes.” A puff of air tickles your lips, as he closes his eyes.

He doesn’t feel anything.

He opens his eyes and steps back.

“Oh I’m sorry, I as-“

You pull him in and plant you lips on his. Its not perfect, you miss slightly, you feel his lips curl into smile. His hand leaves yours and meets your waist, bringing you in closer, he readjusts his lips on yours. His lip rings indenting into the plum flesh of your bottom lip. You have the sudden urge to feel it on your tongue. You swipe your tongue along his bottom lip, letting it tease the metal accessory for a few milliseconds before slipping it into his mouth. A low growl rumbles in his throat and he tangles is tongue with yours. Your hand finds its way to the back of his neck, fingers delving into the hair at the nape of his neck. His hand wonders from your waist to your lower back, fingers inching closer to your behind.

The sound of a throat clearing brings you to a halt.

You separate, the rustling of your bags, sounding like teens laughing at their peers being caught making out at a high school house party.

“We should uh… get going.” You say, using your fingers to wipe the saliva from your mouth.

Jungkook licks his lips and nods. You were more than ready to go about being awkward and distant but that was never his plan, he grabs your hand and walks with you like he’d been kissing you like that.

He walks you back to the work building and calls you a taxi. You both bid each other a sweet goodnight, exchanging smiles and hugs before parting ways.

Jungkook makes sure to text you as soon as he watches your taxi drive down the road, telling you how much he enjoyed spending time and how he hopes he could do it sometime soon.

Your heart jumps at the sound of your phone vibrating in your bag. It does backflips as your eyes take in his words. For the second time that evening you ask him;

You: How are you real? 😂

He smiles to himself as he heads home, he snaps a quick picture of himself and sends it.

Jungkook 💕: Very real and all yours lol

He immediately regrets sending it. Fingers scrambling, he sends a second message.

Jungkook💕: If you’ll have me 🥴

He must be playing a joke on you, right? What does this tall, handsome, funny, sweet PERSONAL TRAINER want with you? He’s seen you, right? He’s seen the other women who go to his gym, right?

Jungkook looks at his message and sees the ‘1’ disappear. You read it. And you weren’t replying. He came on too strong. Great, he ruined the perfect evening.

Just as about he was about to type out an apology, your message pops up.

You: Do you have a fetish or something?

He furrows his eyebrows. Figuring texting is messing up true feelings, he presses the voice call button.

Your eyes widen when you see his name on your screen. You pick up.

“Hi.”

“Hey. Fetish?” He gets right to it.

“Yeah. You know…” Your voice comes out as a whisper.

He stops walking, he sits on a bench.

“I don’t know. To be honest, I’m very confused.”

You felt so embarrassed. You let your insecurities get the best of you and sabotage this relationship before it had the chance to even start.

“Jungkook. You’re you and…”

You pause. You feel your eyes water.

“I’m me. I’m not in the best shape and I’m not skinny or have a perfect hourglass figure. I’m definitely heavier than you.” You let out a dry laugh.

“I’m struggling to understand and believe that you like me. And that this isn’t some sort of sexual thing.” Your breath shakes.

Jungkook’s brows are now in permanent furrowed state, that never crossed his mind. Of course it didn’t because he didn’t think of you like that.

He says your name. It was different from the way you’ve heard it said by other guys before when you’ve brought up the same issue. He didn’t say with defeat or dipped in grease. It was usually followed by ‘you should take it as a compliment, I think big girls are sexy’. ‘I wanted to see what it was like’

Jungkook said nothing of the sort;

‘I’m me and you’re you. I like you. I like everything about you. Well, what I know so far, I want to know more. I want to go on more dates, I want to see where this goes. Hopefully it can go far. I’d really like that. And you may not understand why I like you, but you don’t have to right now, I’ll show you. I’m sorry if a guy has made you feel like you’re a plaything and not likeable. I wish I could punch him.”

You laugh.

“I like hearing you laugh. I want to be the reason for that. Thank you telling me how you feel and not just ghosting. I appreciate it. “ You could hear him smile through the phone.

He couldn’t be real. But you had to tell yourself he was or you’d fuck it up.

“Thank you for not being weirded out.” You sniffle.

He laughs.

“After kissing me like that? I’m locked in.”

2 months later

Jungkook was a very understanding and patient boyfriend. He must’ve gotten a lot of practice from his job as a personal trainer. He pushed you to try new things, go to new places, but he always made sure you were comfortable. He was a living manifestation of your dream man.

He had asked you to be his girlfriend during your 5th and final training session. You were stretching together, he had your leg stretched out and next to your head (definitely not gym approved), when he ‘popped the question’. You agreed very quickly and kissed him, only for the kiss to be interrupted by ‘Clara’, the client who was convinced that she was playing the long game with Jungkook.

She lets out a loud gasp before storming out of the room.

“I think I may have lost you a client. Sorry.” You giggle.

He pecks your lips and releases your leg.

“But I gained a girlfriend.

Jungkook invites you over for a movie night after work on a Friday night. He’s ever the gentleman, he waits outside the building, takes your bag and holds your hand the entire walk to his house. You had been over to apartment on several occasions. But never for an overnight stay, for a moment or two before heading out. You head to the bathroom, taking your overnight bag, you wash off your makeup, change out of work clothes and into a oversize shirt and sleep shorts. Neatly folding your clothes back into your bag, you head back out into the living room.

He looks up at you as you place your bag under the breakfast bar.

“You look cute.” He smiles, cutting up strawberries into a bowl.

You walk up next to him, your brushing up his broad back and wrapping around his waist. You kiss his cheek.

“Thank you.” You kiss his jaw.

You were both quite wary when it came to physical intimacy, you’d cuddle, hold hands and occasionally kiss, but things were moving very slowly. You wondered if he was even attracted to you (you tried to push the bad thoughts to the back of your head) , as he rarely ever initiated contact. You were still trying to come across has chill and nonchalant, but the truth was… you were horny. You wanted to jump his bones every time you saw him, he was gorgeous. He had been bragging about a delicious dish that he learned to make, and how excited he was to show you. You were a bit reluctant about accepting the invite, you’d been to his apartment before, but for only a few minutes at a time. You had never spent time with him in his house with access to a bed.

You help him cook, despite him telling you to sit down. You both sit down and enjoy the meal, sharing laughs and stories from the day. After eating, you wash up together, feeling very domestic.

Drying your hands, you shyly you ask;

“Should we watch a movie?”

Jungkook dries the last bowl and smiles, that shy smile that you adored so much.

“Sure, the remote is on the couch. Pick whatever.”

You place the dish towel down ever so carefully, the silence lingering in air before you speak.

“I uh was thinking we could uh watch it in your bedroom. If you’re comfortable of course.” You pick the towel up once more, wringing it in your hands, palms turning red.

He notices your hesitation, places the bowl in the cabinet, gently pulls the towel out of your hands and wraps his arms around you. You immediately relax into the hug.

“Don’t be nervous to ask for things like that. I want to cuddle with you wherever. It’ll be nice.”

Before you knew it, you were under the sheets with Jungkook on top of you, lips locked, legs too, entangled in a heated position. One arm was around his neck and one was around his tiny waist, sneaking up his shirt. He moaned into the kiss, the deep guttural sound causing a pool arousal to soak your underwear. His large hand had naturally made its way on to your breasts, he has growled at the feeling of your braless tits in his hand. His other hand was above you, resting on the pillow. He let his body rest on you a little, increasing your temperature ever so slightly. You gasp into his mouth, feeling something firm pressed against your stomach. He kisses your lips once more before moving to your cheek, down to your jaw and then your neck, sucking your skin slightly. You weren’t a particularly vocal person in bed, but his actions were making hard for you to keep quiet, involuntary whines escaping your body.

“I-I’m h-hot.” You whimper.

He smirks.

“Yeah, you are.”

You snort.

“No~ I’m literally hot, can we take off the blanket?”

“Oh.” He laughs and flips the blanket off, rolling to the side of you, leaning on his elbow.

He stares at you. Before you could ask a question, his lips are on yours again. His hand cups your jaw. You kiss him back fervently, your hand

He pulls away, lips a hairbreadth from yours. His hand travels down your body, caressing your breast, squeezing your waist. Which makes you tense up. Your waist and stomach were areas that you were self conscious about, it felt like he was squeezing your flaws.

Think about something else. Thinking about something else.

He feels you go stiff.

“Are you okay?” He asks, lips pink and swollen.

You nod.

“Just touch me.” You grab his hand and place it on your waistband.

He bites his lips, without breaking eye contact, his fingers disappear into your shorts. He touches you over your panties first. He moans at the feeling of the soaked material.

“You’re so wet. All for me?” He smirks, eyebrows raised.

Your breath gets caught in your throat as he moves your panties to the side and his thumb meets your clit, fingers gliding over your folds. He takes his time before curling his long fingers into you, causing your to moan out in pleasure, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. He slowly fucks his fingers into you. The room is filled with the crude wet sound of your heat and the murmur of the voices of the long forgotten movie playing on TV.

You’ve never sounded like this before, unintelligible sounds tumbling from your lips as he pumps his digits in and out, hitting that place deep inside you.

“Y-your’e gonna make me c-“ You kiss him and place your hand on his bulge that had been growing.

He hisses, bucking into your hand. He takes his fingers out of you and hurriedly removes your shorts and underwear. You barely have time to think when his mouth meets your centre. His thick tongue licks you up, sucking on your pearl, like the best candy he’s ever tasted in his life. Your hands shoot out to grab his hair as you shake. You grunt out his name as you cum, eyes rolling to the back of your head, you try to catch your breath.

Jungkook rises to his knees and rips off his shirt, you catch a glimpse of his adonis like body before his kisses you. How were you in bed with someone who looks like that? Even though you had just felt like jelly, your brain tells your body to tense up. You kiss him back, trying your best to push the thoughts away, but as your hand feel up his toned, muscular physique, it was getting harder to fight them away.

Jungkook feels you tense under his touch. He pecks your lips before pulling away.

“Are you okay?” He asks, brown eyes glistening.

You nod and try to push the intrusive thoughts to the back of your mind. He raises his eyebrows, non verbally questioning you. You nod once again and presses your lips against his. He moans and kisses you back passionately. His hands wonder again, gripping your waist and pulling you closer to him. Your muscles tense once again. He feels you go stiff, he pulls away again.

Your eyes remain closed, scared to look at him. You’ve really fucked up now, he probably thinks you’re weird, and he probably regrets giving a ‘fat’ girl a chance.

“You’re not okay. Tell me what’s wrong baby.” He moves closer to you and brushes hair out of your face, but then he quickly retracts.

“Do you not want me to touch you?”

You open your eyes, not daring to look at him, your stare tasering in on every detail of his bedroom ceiling.

“I’m sorry if I m-“

“No! I just have- I’m just… All I keep thinking of is what you must think.”

He looks at you puzzled.

“What I think?”

You take a deep breath and sit up, pulling your legs into yourself.

“You must’ve been with girls who have insane bodies, and you work at a gym for god’s sake! And now you’ve got to tolerate me. I don’t wanna put you off by taking off my shirt.” You ramble.

Jungkook barely keeps up with your words, he wants to grab you and tell you that you’re beautiful, and that he is more than attracted to you. But he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, you were literally telling him how you were uncomfortable you were with him touching you. Well, you didn’t say that explicitly but he didn’t want to push you further.

Him just sitting there was making you more anxious, maybe he had been hiding his true feelings. He did find you repulsive, maybe he was being kind and didn’t know how to let you down gently.

Without sparing a glance his way, you attempt to get off the bed. He stops you, hand gently landing one your thigh. You stare down at his tattooed fingers, slightly gripping, leaving dents in your skin.

“Don’t go. I think you’re gorgeous. L-like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. That I’ve ever had the privilege to meet, to date, to kiss… To touch.”

You scoot back on the bed, eyes never leaving his.

“N-now I understand if you don’t wanna stay the night anymore, but.. I really want you to stay. And we don’t have to do anything, I won’t even touch you. I can sleep on the couch if that would make you more comfortable.”

He moves his hand towards your face, fingertips hovering over your cheek, scared to brush your hair out of your face.

“Even if you want to leave, please don’t leave thinking that I don’t want you or that I’m not attracted to you. You are perfect to me and it sucks that guys have made you feel like you aren’t the most beautiful woman in the world. “

You look into his eyes and you can feel his sincerity. You lean into his open hand, letting his palm warm your cheek.

“I-i want you to touch me. I want you to want to touch me.”

Jungkook grabs your face and kisses you.

“I do want to touch you. I want to do more than that. But I want you to feel more than comfortable with that.”

You kiss him, deepening the kiss before he even has the chance to pull away. You wrap your arms around his neck and you fall back, pulling him on top of you.

He rolls you both onto your sides and places his hands firmly on your hips. He moans into your mouth, sending heart down between your legs. You clench around nothing and rub your legs together, in an attempt to relieve yourself.

Jungkook’s hand brushes your thigh, as if he was asking for an invitation inside. You spread to let him in, his fingertips once again dance along your folds, becoming slick with arousal. He toys with your hardening nub, making you twist and turn. His mouth detaches from yours and land on your neck. He licks and kisses a spot that makes it impossible to keep quiet. Your arms wrap around his body, nails digging into the taut skin of his back. His fingers tease your opening before plunging in deep. His fingers move smoothly and quickly, pulling egregious noises from your lips. He feels you tighten around his fingers.

“Are you gonna cum for me again? Soak my fingers?” He whispers in your ear.

You feel a burning flash run through your body as you let go and experience release. You come undone and as you do, he presses his lips against yours, licking into your mouth. He gently pulls his fingers out of you and brings his fingers to his lips, alternating between kissing you and tasting your release.

Breath heavy, you snake your hand down between your bodies, fingers brushing his hardness in his boxers. He shudders. It had been a while since he had had sex. People perceived him as a hardcore fuckboy but he was truly the opposite. He wanted to be in a relationship, truthfully, that’s the only way he could cum, knowing the person beneath him was ‘his’.

“I don’t think I’m gonna last. I-I’m sorry.” He breathes out.

You smirk before pushing him back onto the bed and kneeling next to him. You bend at the waist and place a kiss over his boxers. His breathing gets heavier, chest heaving, abs clenching.

You palm his length before pulling him out and taking him into your mouth. You both moan as you sink deeper and feel him it the back off your throat. You suck gently, pulling off to lick at his tip.

His hand lands on the back off your head, slowly coming around to stroke your cheek. You maintain eye contact as you bob up and down. His eyes roll to the back of his head and he throws his arm over his eyes, unable to control his body as the pleasure takes over.

Suddenly, he gently pulls your hair, forcing you off of him.

“I’m gonna cum. I wanna feel you.” He confesses.

He sits up and reaches over to open his bedside table draw. You watch as he pulls out a foil packet. Expertly, he rips it open and slides the condom over his length. He turns back to you, encouraging you to lay back on the bed.

You lay back, and part your legs. He lines up with your core and gently pushes in. He hisses out a few curse words as he feels. You tighten around him. He almost collapses with how good it feels.

“So fucking tight.” He says through gritted teeth.

His grip on your hips tightens as he rocks back and forth. His tip hitting a spot in you that makes you scream in pleasure. He leans over you, encouraging you to hold on to him.

You both find a steady rhythm, moans reaching a crescendo as you explode. He follows shortly after, you feel the warm fill the condom. He rolls off you and next to you on the bed.

“Y-you are so sexy. Fuck.” He breathes out, chest heaving.

You laugh and turn to look at him.

“Thank you. I think you are too.” You reach out and brush his slightly damp hair out of his face. The angles of his chiseled face glisten more with the assistance of the tin layer of sweat that had formed on his skin.

He scoots closer to you and pecks your lips before getting up to get rid of the soiled condom that has become baggy with the deflation of his length.

You watch his figure as he heads into the bathroom.

You sigh a sigh of happiness. You might never be completely happy with yourself but you hope you can be happy with him and learn to love yourself as much as he might.

Hope you enjoyed this! Once again, no mean message please :)

#jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook scenarios #bts scenarios #jungkook x reader

1K notes · View notes