Truckee, California

[Midnights]

Truckee, California

Truckee sits tucked into the Sierra Nevada mountains, where winter lingers longer than most places and the air always smells faintly like pine and woodsmoke. The town feels like a secret you stumble into rather than a destination — old railroad roots, weathered storefronts, string lights hung year-round like someone never wanted the holidays to end.

Snow piles high on cabin roofs. Cars crunch slowly over icy streets. Locals walk their dogs in heavy coats, nodding politely but never prying. No one asks what you do for a living. Out here, it’s enough to just exist.

Their cabin is a few miles outside town, hidden down a narrow road lined with towering pines. At night, it’s silent except for wind in the trees and the soft creak of the porch. Inside smells like firewood and coffee. Frost clings to the windows in delicate patterns she wants to paint.

Downtown Truckee has:
• a tiny bookstore with creaky floors
• a coffee shop where everyone knows each other
• an antique store filled with forgotten things
• a record shop he lingers in too long
• a bakery that sells out by noon

They walk hand in hand through snow-dusted streets, no rush. No eyes on them. Just an artist and his girlfriend blending into a town that understands quiet.

Truckee gives them space to:
• create without pressure
• sleep in
• disappear together
• fall deeper in small moments

It’s not flashy.
It’s not famous.
It’s just… peaceful.

Exactly what they needed.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

They walked into town instead of driving, even though the cold had teeth.

Snow crunched under Cleo’s (https://i.ibb.co/7JvV7krf/IMG-1152.png) boots with every step, the sound sharp and clean in the quiet morning. The air smelled like pine and woodsmoke, the kind of cold that woke you up from the inside out. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, shoulders brushing Ben’s as they walked, their breath clouding in front of them like something visible and shared.

Truckee felt suspended in time.

Old brick buildings lined the street, their paint worn soft by decades of winters. String lights hung overhead, still up even though the holidays were long past, like the town didn’t see a reason to take them down. Shop windows were filled with handwritten signs and small displays—books stacked unevenly, ceramics glazed in muted colors, baked goods already dwindling behind glass.

Cars moved slowly, tires crunching over packed snow. A couple walked past with a dog bundled in a tiny coat. Someone nodded at them from across the street—not curious, not invasive. Just acknowledging their existence.

Cleo felt it settle into her bones.

Out here, no one needed to know who you were beyond the moment you were standing in front of them. No one was scanning faces or trying to place names. The quiet wasn’t empty—it was generous.

By the time they reached the general store, her cheeks were pink from the cold and from something softer underneath it. The building glowed warmly against the gray-white morning, windows fogged just enough to feel inviting. The bell chimed when Ben pushed the door open, and heat rushed out to meet them.

Inside smelled like coffee and wood and something faintly sweet.

Ben reached for the basket without comment, sliding it over his arm like it was second nature. Cleo noticed, the same way she noticed everything lately—how right it felt, how unremarkable in the best way.

They drifted down the first aisle slowly, Cleo running her fingers along shelves stocked with practical things: pasta, soup, local honey with labels she couldn’t pronounce. A chalkboard near the register listed the day’s baked goods, half of them already crossed out.

“This feels like a Hallmark movie,” she murmured, glancing sideways at him, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Like we’re supposed to buy bread and soup and accidentally decide to stay forever.”

She picked up a jar of something local—jam, maybe—and set it into the basket. Ben adjusted the weight, already scanning the next shelf like he had all the time in the world.

And somehow, for once, they did.

Truckee didn’t demand anything from them.
Didn’t ask them to be more or louder or better.

It just let them walk.
Let them browse.
Let them exist together in the quiet.

And Cleo realized—warmth creeping into her chest as the bell chimed softly behind them—that this was what the cabin had been about all along.

Not escape.

But space.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben adjusted the basket on his arm, the woven handle creaking softly under the weight of local jam, soup cans, and whatever else they'd absently picked up between glances and laughs. He shot Cleo a sidelong glance, that crooked little half-smile tugging at his mouth like it had been waiting there all morning just for her.

“Bread, soup, jam,” he said, voice pitched low with that familiar mix of charm and mock gravitas. “Couple more jars of honey and we’re one meet-cute away from renovating a historic inn and arguing over backsplash tile.”

He bumped her shoulder with his as they turned the corner into another aisle lined with canned goods and paper-wrapped loaves. She was glowing in that winter-light kind of way—cheeks pink from the cold, lips still a little wind-chapped, hair curling slightly from static electricity. Real and warm and impossible not to look at.

Ben reached for a can of soup, held it up between them. “We could stay, you know,” he added, lighter this time but not entirely joking. “Open a little store. You could sell your art, I’ll grow a beard, start roasting coffee beans I name after Fleetwood Mac songs.”

He glanced over at her. “Tell me ‘Silver Morning Roast’ doesn’t slap.”

A pause. Then a quiet smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, because somewhere under the warmth and the humor, there was that old, familiar ache. The one he didn’t let most people see. The one that always showed up when things felt too good. Too still. Too close to something permanent.

He watched Cleo take another slow step down the aisle, fingers brushing over the edge of a wooden crate. Everything about her in that moment felt unreasonably beautiful. Unforced. Like she belonged here. Like they both did.

Ben exhaled through his nose, the moment tilting unexpectedly toward sincerity. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “I think this is the first time in a long time I haven’t felt like I’m performing.”

He didn’t mean the shows. He didn’t mean the stage lights, or the fans screaming his name, or the half-sleep interviews with headphones still tangled in his hoodie. He meant the moments in between. The ones that got eaten alive by industry and image and expectation.

He looked at her—really looked—and shrugged just slightly, like he didn’t want to say the next part too loud in case it broke something.

“I like not having to be anything here,” he said simply. “Except yours.”

Outside, the soft rumble of tires over packed snow drifted past the fogged windows. Inside, the little bell over the door gave a cheerful chime as another couple stepped in, brushing snow off their jackets, laughing softly like the cold was something they shared instead of endured.

Ben stepped closer to Cleo without even thinking about it, instinct pulling him just enough to the side so she was out of view. Not protectively. Just… privately. Like the rest of the world didn’t get to have this version of her.

This quiet, glowing, his version.

And that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Not a break. Not a layover. Not borrowed time.

But the part that was real. The part he wasn’t willing to keep calling temporary anymore.

He leaned in then, the scent of her shampoo brushing up against cedar and sugar as his breath skimmed her ear.

“Let’s buy the bread and soup,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft, “and see how long we can get away with pretending we live here.”

He pulled back just enough to catch the way she smiled at that—crooked and hopeful and biting back something that looked a hell of a lot like yes. And he winked, of course he winked, already reaching for the nearest loaf like the idea of forever had always been on the shopping list.

They didn’t need to speak the rest out loud.

Truckee would hold it for them.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed under her breath at first, the sound soft and surprised, like it slipped out before she decided whether to keep it. She walked a few steps ahead of him, boots scuffing lightly against the worn wooden floor, fingertips trailing along the edge of the shelf as if she were grounding herself in the ordinary weight of things—labels, glass jars, paper bags folded just a little crooked.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him, eyes bright, mouth curved in something warm and disbelieving.
“Careful,” she said, nudging a loaf back into place where another customer had left it askew. “That’s exactly how towns like this get you. One good loaf of bread and suddenly you’re emotionally attached to the produce guy.”

She slowed near the end of the aisle, picking up a jar of local honey and turning it in her hands, reading the label like it mattered more than it probably did. When she set it into the basket, her fingers brushed his wrist, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Also,” she added, glancing up at him with mock seriousness, “if you name coffee after Fleetwood Mac songs, you’re going to have to commit. No half-hearted blends. People will have expectations.”

She moved again, easy and unhurried, letting the space open up between them before closing it without thinking—standing close enough that their coats brushed as she reached for another item. The store hummed quietly around them: the low murmur of conversation, the rustle of paper bags, the faint clink of glass.

When his tone shifted, when the humor softened into something quieter, Cleo felt it immediately. She didn’t look at him right away. Instead, she paused, resting her hip lightly against the shelf, hands folding together as if she needed somewhere to put the feeling before it spilled.

“I know,” she said after a beat, voice gentler now. “I can feel it too.”

She finally met his eyes, something open and steady there—no rush, no fear. Just recognition.

“It’s like my shoulders dropped somewhere between the cabin and here,” she went on, gesturing vaguely toward the fogged windows. “Like my body realized it didn’t have to be on guard. I don’t even think I noticed how tense I’ve been until… this.”

She took another step closer, not hiding it, not making a thing of it either. Just choosing the space beside him.

“And for what it’s worth,” she added, quieter, “I don’t need you to be anything else. I like you like this. Normal. Carrying a basket. Debating soup.”

Her lips curved again, softer this time.
“Very domestic of you.”

When he leaned in, when his voice dropped near her ear, Cleo’s smile tilted into something more private. She reached out, plucking the loaf from his hand and setting it into the basket herself, decisive.

“Okay,” she said, nodding once like she’d made up her mind about something important. “We’ll buy the bread. And the soup. And the jam.”

She glanced toward the front of the store, then back at him, eyes bright with something that felt like possibility instead of fear.

“And we’ll just… see,” she finished lightly. “No pretending required.

Cleo drifted toward the snack aisle without announcing it, like her body had decided before her brain could intervene. The shelves shifted from sensible to indulgent in the quiet, unmistakable way only small-town general stores managed—hand-cut fudge wrapped in wax paper, mismatched bags of chips, chocolate bars with fonts that felt aggressively earnest.

She stopped in front of the display, hands settling on her hips as she took it in, head tilting slightly.

“Okay, but this is where the real personality test happens,” she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Anyone can buy soup. This is where intentions are revealed.”

She reached for a bag of chips first—salt-and-vinegar, of course—turning it over once before dropping it into the basket like it was inevitable.

“I don’t believe in cabins without snacks,” she added calmly. “That’s how people start lying to themselves about being ‘low maintenance.’”

Her fingers hovered over the chocolate next, indecisive now. Dark. Milk. Something with sea salt. She picked up one bar, then another, then paused, eyes narrowing as if weighing something deeply personal.

“I’m not saying we need all of these,” she said, already holding two. “I’m just saying snow makes everything feel longer, and I don’t want to regret being underprepared.”

She added a third bar to the basket, then looked at him, lips curving into a grin that felt warm and unguarded.

“And before you say anything,” she continued, nudging the basket again as she stepped closer, “this is me being practical. Emotionally. Spiritually.”

She leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into something softer, more private.

“Besides,” she finished, eyes flicking between the shelves and his face, “if we’re disappearing for a bit… we might as well do it properly.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben watched her with a crooked grin, the kind that started lazy but stretched deeper the longer she kept talking. It was the way she said things—like she was halfway through the joke before letting him in on it. Like even her teasing carried warmth, like even her wit wanted him close.

She was halfway down the snack aisle now, arms crossed in mock contemplation, chocolate bars lined up in her hands like she was choosing tarot cards.

And he was absolutely, irredeemably gone for her.

Not because of the chocolate. Not even because of the way she said emotionally and spiritually like it belonged in the same category as trail mix and kettle chips.

But because she made him want things that used to scare the shit out of him.

Cabins. Grocery baskets. Unrushed mornings with nowhere to be.

Because she made it look good.

“You forgot peanut butter cups,” he said casually, reaching past her for a bag without looking, like he already knew exactly where they’d be. “Which is shocking, honestly. Thought you had better survival instincts.”

He dropped the bag in the basket with a dramatic flourish, then leaned back against the endcap like he was settling in. His eyes never left her. Not for a second.

The store buzzed around them—quietly, like even the place itself respected whatever was happening here. That strange, invisible thing that settled between two people when they weren’t trying too hard. When they weren’t pretending not to care. When disappearing didn’t feel like running—it felt like finally arriving.

He let his head tilt slightly, watching the way the cold had pinked the edges of her nose, how her fingers kept brushing the chocolate wrappers like they were thinking for her.

God, she was real.

No gloss. No filter. No stage lights.

Just Cleo in a wool coat, buying too many snacks and calling it spiritual alignment.

“You know,” Ben said after a moment, voice softening like it was only meant for her, “I used to think disappearing meant… losing something. Letting it all go to shit. Like if I wasn’t in the noise, I’d fade out with it.”

His thumb brushed the strap of the basket where her hand had just nudged it. Their fingers didn’t quite touch—but the space between them felt like it held more weight than it used to.

“But this…” he nodded toward the shelves, toward her, toward the soft glow of the store against a snow-covered town, “feels like the opposite.”

He wasn’t used to saying things like that out loud. Not in daylight. Not without a guitar between him and the truth.

But with her, lately, it came easier. The honesty. The softness. The want.

And god, he wanted this.

Wanted her curled up on the cabin couch with her sketchbook open and socks half-falling off. Wanted to make coffee while she wandered barefoot through the kitchen, hair tangled and quiet from sleep. Wanted to pick up jam jars and soup cans and laugh about how domestic he’d become like it wasn’t the most obvious fucking choice in the world.

Ben stepped forward then, just enough to catch her eye again.

“We don’t have to play house,” he said, voice low and steady. “We don’t have to make it mean more than it does.”

A beat.

“But if it does…” he shrugged, a slow smile pulling at his mouth again. “I’m not scared of that either.”

He reached into the basket, plucked one of the chocolate bars she’d chosen, turned it over slowly in his hands before holding it up between them like it was some kind of sacred offering.

“I vote for this one,” he said, smile deepening. “Feels emotionally well-balanced. Like it’d go great with a long afternoon, no plans, and you wearing that sweater I like.”

He tossed it back in, gently, and stepped past her—close enough to brush.

Not rushed.

Not reckless.

Just steady. Certain. His fingers trailing lightly across her coat sleeve as he moved toward the register.

“C’mon, domestic goddess,” he called back over his shoulder, voice teasing but warm. “Let’s pay for our emotional preparedness and get back before the snow traps us forever.”

He paused, just long enough to turn, grinning.

“And don’t lie,” he added, eyes softening on her again. “You’d kinda like it if it did.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo watched his hand drop the candy into the basket like he’d just solved a problem no one else had noticed, and she let out a quiet laugh that curved warm at the edges. She tipped her head, eyes flicking to the basket, then back to him.

“Peanut butter cups are a strategic choice,” she said lightly. “I was saving them for when we convince ourselves we’re snowed in and can’t possibly leave the cabin for at least… three days.”

She shifted her weight, arms still loosely crossed, studying the shelf like she was genuinely weighing her options—but the truth was, she could feel him watching her. Felt the attention in that steady, grounding way that never made her feel crowded. Just seen.

When his voice softened, when he talked about disappearing, she turned toward him more fully. The humor in her expression didn’t vanish—it gentled.

“I know what you mean,” she said quietly. “I used to think quiet was what came after everything else. Like a consequence. Or a retreat.” Her fingers brushed the edge of a chocolate wrapper, thoughtful. “Turns out it’s just another way of living.”

She glanced around the store—the wood shelves, the muted hum, the way no one was looking twice at them—and something in her shoulders eased.

“This feels like choosing,” she added. “Not hiding.”

When he said they didn’t have to play house, she paused. Just for a beat. One eyebrow lifted slowly, almost involuntarily, as she turned back to the shelves with exaggerated innocence.

“Well,” she said, pretending to consider a row of chocolate bars very seriously, “what if I do want to play?”

She stole a sideways glance at him then, the corner of her mouth tipping up. “Not forever. Not loudly. Just… here. Sometimes. With soup and bad snacks and no one asking questions.”

She reached out, took the chocolate he’d chosen from the basket, turned it over in her hands like she was inspecting his judgment.

“This is a solid pick,” she admitted. “Emotionally responsible. I see your vision.”

When he brushed past her, her breath hitched just a fraction—not startled, just aware. She followed him a step later, hand drifting briefly to the basket handle like she was anchoring herself to the moment.

“Domestic goddess,” she echoed softly, amused. “Bold of you to assume I’d share my snacks.”

At his last comment, she laughed under her breath, eyes warm as they met his again.

“I might,” she said honestly. “But only if you promise not to act surprised when we’re still here in an hour, arguing about which chips are better.”

She fell into step beside him toward the register, unhurried, content in that undefined space they were choosing again and again—no labels, no declarations. Just this.

Cleo tucked the receipt into her coat pocket as the bell over the door chimed behind them, the sound bright against the hush of falling snow. The cold hit her cheeks immediately—clean and sharp—but Ben’s hand stayed warm in hers, fingers laced like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She took a few steps before speaking, letting the crunch of snow under their boots set the rhythm. Streetlights glowed soft and amber against the dusk, catching on the string lights strung across storefronts like Truckee refused to ever fully power down its magic.

“This part,” she said quietly, giving his hand a small squeeze, “is my favorite.”

She tipped her head back slightly, breath fogging as she looked up at the lights, the mountains looming dark and steady at the edge of town. Everything felt slowed. Weighted in a good way.

“Walking nowhere in particular,” she went on, voice easy, honest. “Arms full of groceries we probably didn’t need. No one rushing us. No one asking what comes next.”

Her thumb brushed over his knuckle, absent, grounding.

“I don’t feel like I have to be ahead of myself here,” she admitted. “Or bracing for the noise. It’s like… the quiet’s already decided to keep us.”

They passed a parked truck dusted in snow, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, muffled by winter. Cleo smiled to herself.

“I keep thinking about the cabin,” she added. “The fire going. You pretending you know how to build it perfectly. Me pretending I’m not going to sketch the frost on the windows instead of unpacking.”

She glanced over at him then, eyes warm, unguarded.

“And I know we didn’t name this,” she said gently. “Didn’t promise anything loud or permanent.”

Another squeeze of his hand.

“But I like that we’re choosing it anyway. Right now. Step by step.”

The road curved, pines thickening as town thinned behind them. The air smelled like woodsmoke and snow.

Cleo leaned closer as they walked, shoulder brushing his arm.

“Let’s just get back,” she murmured. “Make soup. Eat half the snacks before dinner. See what the quiet does to us.”

She smiled, soft and sure.

“I have a feeling it’s going to be kind.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben had always been good at playing the part people wanted him to. Loud. Easy. Certain.

Onstage, he knew exactly what to give—when to lean into the crowd, when to fall silent and let the reverb hold. That noise, that rush? It used to feel like oxygen.

But walking beside Cleo in the near-dark, her hand small and steady in his, grocery bag rustling softly between them like a low harmony—it made him wish, for just a second, that this could be the whole song. No encores. No back half of a setlist waiting for him. Just her and the sound of their boots crunching snow.

Her thumb brushed across his knuckle like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. Like touching him was a reflex, not a decision. And maybe that’s what wrecked him the most. The quiet ways she chose him. Not in the spotlight. Not for the show. But here.

In this small, flickering kind of life that didn’t need headlines to matter.

Ben glanced over at her, catching the way her breath fogged as she tipped her head toward the lights, the mountains, the hush that had followed them out of town like it knew they needed it.

“Yeah,” he said softly, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Me too.”

She kept talking, painting a picture so vivid he could already feel the firelight warming the cabin walls, see her curled on the edge of the couch with a sketchbook in her lap and her socks pulled too high. She’d pretend not to get distracted. He’d pretend he didn’t love the sound of her pencil more than anything he’d ever written.

God, he wanted that. Wanted her in every version of the life he wasn’t sure he could have.

And still.

There was a part of him that thudded a little heavier in his chest every time she talked about stillness like a destination—because for him, it had always been an interlude. A breath between tour dates. A quiet stolen, not lived in. The stage wasn’t just noise. It was his compass. His drug. His undoing. And his truth.

He didn’t want to give it up.

But he wanted her.

He wanted her.

Not for the photos. Not for the story. For the fact that she could look at a streetlight in a nowhere town and make it feel like church.

Ben squeezed her hand back, slower this time, anchoring himself to the present. To her.

“I’m really good at building fires, by the way,” he said with mock seriousness, flashing her a grin that didn’t quite hide the warmth behind it. “Painfully masculine. Might chop wood in slow motion just to prove it.”

When she laughed, he bumped her shoulder lightly with his own.

“And if you sketch instead of unpacking,” he went on, voice dropping into something that curled at the edges, “I’ll probably end up watching you more than I should. Pretending I’m picking out a record but really just… listening to the pencil.”

A beat. The quiet rolled in again, not heavy—just expectant. Soft.

“You make this feel real,” he said, gentler now. Honest. “Like maybe it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Like maybe I don’t have to choose between chasing what I love and being in the kind of quiet that doesn’t gut me.”

He didn’t say music. Didn’t say tour. Didn’t say stage. He didn’t have to. They both knew.

“I don’t know what the fuck comes next,” he added, letting out a breath that fogged the air in front of him. “But if this is how it starts—walking home from the store with soup and too much chocolate, pretending we’re snowed in when we’re not—then I’m good with that.”

He looked over at her then. Fully. No grin this time. Just that soft, sure thing in his eyes—the kind that didn’t ask for forever but offered right now like a promise.

“I’ll never ask you to follow the noise,” he said. “Not again. But I’d stay in the quiet for you. As long as you’ll let me.”

The wind picked up, cold against his cheek, but he barely felt it. Not with her there. Not with the weight of her leaning gently against him like she’d made the same choice.

They passed the edge of town, the trees thickening like a veil around them. Their boots left matching prints in the snow. Cleo’s hair caught in the wind and he reached out instinctively, brushing a loose strand behind her ear with a tenderness that surprised even him.

“Soup,” he said again, lighter now. “Snacks. Fire.” A grin tugged at his mouth. “You in one of my shirts because yours are ‘too clean.’ And me absolutely winning the chip debate, no matter what you say.”

He bumped her shoulder again. “Yeah. I think the quiet’s gonna be real good to us.”

And he meant it.

Even if he didn’t know how long they’d have this space between the noise—he’d carry it. He’d write about it. He’d return to it like a favorite lyric. Something honest and unfinished and full of light.

Because she was the melody he didn’t know he’d been chasing all along.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo listened to him talk the way she always had—like every word mattered, like even the pauses were saying something she wanted to hold onto. She didn’t interrupt. Just walked with him, their hands still linked, boots finding the same rhythm without trying.

When he joked about the fire, she let out a soft laugh, the kind that came from her chest instead of her throat. She tipped her head toward him, eyes bright in the low light.
“Painfully masculine?” she said, arching a brow. “I’m gonna need proof. Preferably dramatic. Extra points if there’s unnecessary effort involved.”

She squeezed his hand when he mentioned watching her sketch instead of unpacking, her thumb slowing over his knuckle like she was grounding herself there.
“You say that like I don’t already know,” she replied, gentle but teasing. “You’ve always listened better with your eyes.”

The quiet returned, and this time she didn’t rush to fill it. She let his honesty settle—the part where he didn’t name the noise but still made space for it. That mattered to her. That he wasn’t pretending it didn’t exist. That he wasn’t asking her to erase herself to fit inside it.

She leaned into him a little more as they walked, shoulder brushing his arm, trusting the path to keep unfolding.
“I don’t want you smaller,” she said softly. “I never did.”

Her breath fogged as she spoke, words steady, not rehearsed.
“This feels like that place. Not forever. Not an escape. Just—real.”

When he said he’d stay in the quiet for her, she slowed half a step, turning her face up to his. Her expression wasn’t dramatic. It was sure.
“As long as we don’t pretend it’s the only place you’re allowed to exist,” she said.

She smiled then, warm and a little crooked.
“And for the record—if we’re snowed in, imaginary or not, I absolutely get first pick of the chips. That’s not a debate. That’s a boundary.”

She squeezed his hand again and started walking, tugging him gently forward toward the dark ribbon of road and the trees waiting ahead.
“Soup. Fire. Quiet,” she said, like she was listing intentions instead of groceries. “Yeah. I’m in.”

And she was—without a label, without a plan—choosing the next few steps with him because they felt right.

As they walked, Cleo felt it settle in—not all at once, not like a revelation meant to stop her in her tracks, but slowly, the way cold seeps through boots when you stand too long in snow.

This—this quiet, this hand in hers, this soft space carved out between tour legs and noise—was real. It mattered. It wasn’t pretending. But it was also contained. Fragile in the way beautiful things sometimes were.

She knew it without needing to name it out loud: if she never learned how to stand at the edge of his other life—if the stage, the crowds, the hunger of strangers always felt like a threat instead of a fact—then this might be the shape of them. Not lesser. Not false. Just… limited.

Moments. Cabins. In-betweens.

A love lived in parentheses.

The thought didn’t hurt in a sharp way. It ached in a quieter place, somewhere behind her ribs. Because part of her loved this version of them deeply—the simplicity, the way he softened when the world wasn’t watching, the safety of being chosen without spectacle.

But another part of her wondered, carefully, honestly, whether quiet alone could hold a lifetime.

Whether love, no matter how true, could survive forever in the margins.

She didn’t pull her hand away. Didn’t slow her steps. Didn’t let the thought harden into fear.

She just carried it with her as they walked on—through the cold, toward the cabin, toward the warmth waiting ahead—knowing that some questions didn’t demand answers right away.

Some just asked to be acknowledged.

And for now, this was enough to keep walking.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t need to—not when the snow kept crunching beneath their boots like it was spelling out the truth with every step. Not when her hand was still in his and she was still here. Not when her words had landed with that kind of quiet certainty, soft and leveled straight at the center of him like she wasn’t afraid of what she’d find there.

He glanced over at her, the slope of her profile touched by the warm spill of a porch light they passed. His heart gave a hard, grateful kick.

“Okay,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over her fingers, “first of all, that chip boundary is wildly aggressive. Honestly kind of intimidating.”

His smile tilted, playful, unbothered. But there was something deeper in his eyes now—something warm and reverent and a little wrecked.

“And second…” he exhaled, not in defeat, but in something closer to awe, “I don’t know how you still do that. Say exactly the thing that guts me in the gentlest way possible.”

He swung their joined hands between them lightly as they walked, the movement easy, rhythmic, almost musical.

“This right here?” he said, voice low and fond, “You. Snow. Fake groceries. The way your laugh sounds when you’re trying not to encourage me? It doesn’t feel like a break from the real thing. It is the real thing.”

Ben’s gaze lingered on her, just for a moment longer. He wanted to memorize this version of her—the one only he ever got to see. Soft-eyed and sure-footed, grounded in her own voice but still letting him close.

“And if the only place I get to love you like this is in between the rest of it?” he went on, mouth curving like he couldn’t help it, “Then I’ll take it. Every goddamn time.”

There was no bitterness in the way he said it. Just a steady, almost reverent kind of knowing. Like he’d already made peace with what he couldn’t have, and was choosing her anyway.

He gave her hand a gentle tug, pulling her a half step closer so their arms brushed again. His shoulder bumped hers like punctuation.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he added, eyes glinting now, “if we are snowed in, I fully expect us to make it weirdly competitive. Like, ‘how many layers can you wear at once’ or ‘which snack combination will spiritually ruin us.’”

He grinned, breath fogging in the cold. “And I will absolutely light that fire like it’s a Viking funeral. Axe and all. No survivors.”

They rounded the last bend in the road, the trees opening just enough to glimpse the dark outline of the cabin ahead, faint light glowing in the windows like it had been waiting for them.

Ben slowed a little, voice softening again as he glanced at her, sincere beneath the teasing.

“You don’t have to be braver than you are,” he said quietly. “You never did. You just have to keep being exactly this.”

He gestured lazily to her—to all of her, the part that smiled without apology and still carried hard truths in her chest without hiding them.

“That’s the part I’ll keep coming back for,” he said. “Whatever shape it takes.”

Then, before the moment could get too heavy again, he leaned close and bumped his nose lightly against her temple.

“Now come on, domestic goddess. That soup’s not gonna emotionally heal us on its own.”

He gave her hand a playful squeeze, guiding her up the last stretch toward the porch, the cabin light flickering across the snow like an open door in the dark. Like something real. Like home, for however long it got to be.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly at the first part, the sound slipping out of her before she could stop it. She tipped her head toward him, eyes bright, pretending to consider it seriously.

“Intimidation is an important part of boundaries,” she said lightly. “Keeps people on their toes. Especially in the chip aisle.”

Her thumb brushed back over his as he swung their hands, the rhythm of it grounding her in a way she didn’t quite want to examine too closely. When he talked about her saying things gently, about being gutted softly, her smile shifted—still there, but quieter. More honest.

“That’s just… practice,” she said. “I spent a long time learning how to tell the truth without turning it into a weapon. Mostly because I didn’t want to hurt people I cared about.”
A beat.
“And sometimes because I didn’t want to scare them off.”

When he called this the real thing—snow, groceries, her laugh—she didn’t argue. She couldn’t. She felt it too, that rightness humming under her skin, the ease of being exactly where her feet were. She squeezed his hand once, answering without words.

“I like that it’s small,” she said quietly. “I like that it doesn’t need witnesses.”

At his admission—loving her in the in-between—her chest tightened. Not painfully. Just enough to remind her that this mattered. That choosing each other like this was still a choice, even if it wasn’t labeled or promised or explained.

“I know,” she said, honest and steady. “And I don’t take that lightly.”

The competitive snow-in fantasy earned him a sideways glance and a crooked smile.
“You’d lose,” she told him. “I’m very good at unnecessary layers. And I will absolutely invent a snack combination that ruins us both spiritually and emotionally.”

When he talked about the fire, the axe, the no-survivors bravado, she laughed again—this time warmer, freer. The cabin came into view then, the glow in the windows tugging at something deep and tender in her chest.

At his softer words—about bravery, about being exactly this—she slowed with him, turning her face up just enough to catch his eye.

“I’m trying to believe that,” she said. “That this version of me is enough. Even when it’s not loud. Even when it doesn’t follow the noise.”

His nose brushed her temple and she leaned into it instinctively, eyes closing for half a second. When he teased her again about soup and emotional healing, she shook her head, smiling.

“Hey,” she said, nudging him gently, “don’t underestimate soup. Or me.”

They reached the porch and she squeezed his hand once more before letting go to open the door. Warmth spilled out immediately, carrying the scent of wood and something faintly familiar. Inside, she shrugged off her coat, hung it carefully by the door, and kicked her boots into line beside his.

She paused, noticing again that their bags were already stacked neatly near the back—quiet proof of decisions made earlier, without ceremony.

Two weeks, she reminded herself as she slipped her scarf free and moved farther in.

Plenty of time.
Not enough time.

She glanced back at him, softer now, then turned toward the living space.

“Okay,” she said, rolling up her sleeves slightly. “Fire first. Then soup. Then we figure out where everything goes.”

Because even if the days would fly by—she knew they would—she wanted to live inside each one. Fully. Carefully. Together.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben followed her inside, shoulder brushing the doorframe like even the cabin had to make room for her first.

The second the door clicked shut behind them, he exhaled—deep and quiet, like the air had shifted into something warmer just because she was here. He hung his coat next to hers, boots scuffed loose beside hers without needing to think about it, already syncing to the quiet domestic rhythm she seemed to slip into so easily.

Fire first, she’d said.

“Finally,” he muttered to himself with a crooked grin, “my boy scout trauma has a purpose.”

He crossed the cabin in long, easy strides, kneeling in front of the old stone hearth with sleeves pushed to his elbows and the same laser focus he gave a song he didn’t want to screw up. The firewood had already been stacked nearby—he’d made sure of it that morning—and the kindling basket sat just beneath. Pine needles still clung to a few of the smaller pieces.

He worked quickly but deliberately. Arranged the wood like a composition, all layers and breathability. Struck a match with a little flourish, glancing over his shoulder to see if she noticed.

“Moment of truth,” he said, then leaned in and lit the kindling.

The flames caught after a few false starts, flickering to life in a slow crawl before building into a crackling promise. He didn’t move for a second—just sat back on his heels and watched the fire take. Watched it glow like it understood what this night was supposed to feel like.

Then he stood, hands brushing lightly down his thighs, and looked over at her with a grin.

“Not to flex,” he said, “but I may have just reached peak masculinity. Axe or no axe.”

He walked over to her then, slow and easy, the kind of stride that matched the hum of the fire and the warmth curling between them. His hand reached out without hesitation, fingers brushing the side of her arm, then trailing gently down to her wrist.

“I know we joked about soup being the healer,” he said, “but I think it’s this. You. Here. This fire. This cabin. The way you look when you’re already thinking about rearranging the kitchen and hiding the good snacks from me.”

He leaned in, nose brushing her temple again—more deliberate this time.

“I feel you in this place,” he said softly, voice low and wrecked in the way only she ever got to hear. “Like you fit here. Like you made the quiet yours and just… let me in.”

He didn’t ask for anything in return.

He just let the moment hold.

Then, just as the silence thickened, he pulled back half an inch, his smile tugging mischievously at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay. Soup next. But fair warning—I’m very emotionally vulnerable after fire-building, so if it’s one of those brothy types without noodles, I will cry.”

He bumped her hip gently with his, warmth still tucked in his voice.

“Let’s make this weirdly domestic.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo watched the fire catch with a genuine spark of delight in her eyes, the sudden warmth of the room flushing her cheeks a soft, rosy pink. She had watched his little performance—the flourish with the match, the self-satisfied lean back—with the kind of fond, bubbling amusement that felt like champagne in her chest.

When he closed the distance, she didn't retreat; she rose on her toes to meet him, her hands finding purchase on the warm cotton of his shirt, smoothing the fabric over his chest as if checking his heart rate.

"I have to admit," she hummed, her voice light and teasing, though her eyes were soft with that reflected firelight. "The fire-building? Solid ten out of ten. I think I even saw a badge materialize on your chest. Very manly. I’m sufficiently swooning.”

She let him press his nose to her temple, leaning into the contact, soaking up the rough-edged sweetness of his voice. The way he spoke about her fitting there made her breath hitch, a quiet stutter in the rhythm of the evening. But before she could get too weepy about it, he was already pivoting to soup and survival, and she let out a bright, startled laugh.

"Do not panic. I promise there are noodles. I wouldn't do that to you in your fragile state," she teased, bumping her hip firmly back against his.

Then, her expression shifted, her eyebrows arching with sudden, playful curiosity as she latched onto his last words. Her fingers toyed with a button on his shirt, her gaze dropping to his mouth before flicking back up to his eyes, bright and searching.

"But pause," she said, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips. "I need to know more about this 'weirdly domestic' agenda. Because that sounds… interesting." She took a half-step closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes dancing. "What exactly does weirdly domestic look like in your head, Benjamin? Are we talking matching aprons? You serenading the carrots? Or do you have something specific in mind?"

She didn’t actually wait for him to answer. The potential for his answer was delicious, sure, but the reality of him standing there—looking like a lumberjack who’d stumbled into a rom-com and decided to stay—was too good to waste on just talking.

"Actually, don't answer that yet," she chirped, a wicked little gleam in her eye as she spun away from him. She kept a tight grip on his hand, towing him effortlessly toward the small kitchenette like she was leading him onto a dance floor. "I have my own vision. And it starts with you proving those hands are good for more than just carrying wood and looking artistic near open flames."

She released him only to hop up onto the sturdy wooden counter, the movement fluid and energetic. Her legs swung freely as she gestured royally at the grocery bags they’d dumped on the table earlier.

"Step one," she announced, bracing her hands on the edge of the counter and leaning forward, her smile beaming and infectious. "You find the biggest pot in this place. Step two: Noodles. Lots of them. If I can see the bottom of the bowl through the broth, you’ve failed the assignment. And step three..."

She paused, tilting her head, her gaze dropping to his forearms—still exposed, still lightly dusted with ash from the fire—before flickering back up to his face with a playful, meaningful look.

"You stand right there and chop things while I supervise," she declared. "I feel like 'supervisor' is a very critical domestic role. It requires excellent vision, high morale, and occasional taste-testing." She winked, kicking her heels lightly against the cabinet doors, the sound a happy, rhythmic thud. "Unless you have objections? I’m very open to negotiation, provided the negotiation involves you pouring me a glass of wine immediately."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben didn’t object—not really. But the slow grin that tugged at his mouth said he was about to.

He let himself be dragged, all faux-reluctant swagger and dramatically obedient footsteps, until she landed on the counter like she owned the place (because of course she did), legs swinging, hair catching the glow from the fire like a spotlight knew where to find her.

He stood in front of her, arms crossed, expression exaggeratedly pensive like she’d just outlined the battle plans for a very high-stakes operation.

Then—

“Well,” he said, dragging it out like it required serious reflection. “See, I was going to fully submit to your excellent supervisor plan, including the wine, the chopping, and probably the being bossed around part, which—don’t get me wrong—is wildly appealing.”

He stepped in closer, hands bracing on the counter on either side of her legs, leaning in just enough to nudge her knee with his hip.

“But,” he murmured, voice dropping like it was a secret between just them, “you forgot one crucial step in the weirdly domestic agenda.”

A pause.

“I want to smoke one of the joints we brought.”

He grinned, all boyish mischief and unapologetic charm, and leaned in a little closer—not enough to kiss her, but enough for her to think about it.

“It’s in my bag. Rolled to perfection. Waiting. Calling my name.”

He brushed his nose against hers in a fleeting, ridiculous almost-nuzzle, then pulled back just enough to hold up both hands in mock surrender.

“I’ll cook. I’ll chop. I’ll give you the single greatest soup-to-noodle ratio this cabin has ever seen. But I do think I should be allowed to do it while getting just a little high. For the artistic process.”

He was already moving again—grabbing the grocery bags like a man on a mission, tossing her a wink over his shoulder as he added, “You said ‘weirdly domestic.’ That’s gotta include stoned culinary excellence. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

He grabbed a wine bottle with one hand, a pot with the other, then disappeared momentarily into the bedroom to fish the joint from the side pocket of his duffel. When he came back, he offered her the wine with a little bow of reverence, the joint tucked behind his ear like some kind of retro cooking accessory.

“Glass for the lady,” he said, dramatically unscrewing the cap and pouring with flourish. “And mood enhancement for the chef. Honestly? Martha Stewart could never.”

He lit the joint with the same kind of care he’d used on the fire, took a slow pull, then exhaled toward the ceiling as if this was the missing piece of the evening all along. The glow from the fire lit up the side of his face, golden and soft, and when he turned back to her—pot in one hand, joint in the other—he looked perfectly, absurdly content.

“Alright, supervisor,” he said, settling in at the stove like he belonged there. “Let’s get weird.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo watched him over the rim of the wine glass, the liquid swaying slightly as she tracked his movement around the small kitchen. He was a whirlwind of frantic, delightful energy—part gourmet chef, part rock star, part golden retriever who’d just been told he was a very good boy.

“Martha would have paired it with a nice chardonnay and a table arrangement,” she countered, her voice laced with amusement as she set her glass down on the counter behind her. “But I suppose I can’t argue with the pursuit of excellence. If we’re aiming for the history books, we can’t cut corners.”

She watched him stir the empty pot for a second, looking entirely too pleased with his own reflection in the metal, before she made her move.
With the casual dexterity of someone who knew exactly where his attention was (on the stove) and where it wasn't (his right hand), she reached out and plucked the joint from between his fingers.

“Tax,” she murmured, flashing a grin that mirrored his own mischievousness. She brought it to her lips, the paper still warm from his touch, and took a slow, deep drag. She held his gaze as she exhaled, a thin ribbon of smoke drifting between them, turning silver and blue in the firelight. “You said ‘weirdly domestic.’ I’m just doing my part to keep the vibes consistent.”

The haze of the smoke and the warmth of the fire seemed to blur the edges of the room, narrowing the world down to just the space between his flannel shirt and her knees. The sudden, overwhelming surge of affection wasn't because of the high—it was too sharp, too immediate for that. It was just him. It was the way the firelight caught the messy waves of his hair, and the way he looked at a pot of soup like it was a symphony he was conducting just for her.

She shifted forward on the counter, invading his personal space until her knees bumped against his thighs. Before he could make another joke or toss in another ingredient, she leaned in, bypassing his lips to press her face into the curve of his jaw and neck.

He smelled like woodsmoke, expensive weed, and the crisp, cold air that still clung to his jacket. It was the most grounding scent she knew. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, feeling the vibration of his laughter or his breathing against her cheek.

“I love you, Benjamin,” she mumbled into his skin, the words vibrating soft and heavy against the side of his face. “Now make me the best soup of my life.”

Cleo lingered for a moment, watching his profile in the warm, flickering light, the domesticity of it all hitting her softer than she expected. Before he could get too lost in his culinary monologue, she reached out. She plucked the joint from his hand for a second time, ignoring his mock-indignant noise of protest.

“Just making sure the artistic process is… properly calibrated,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth quirked up.

She brought it to her lips and took a slow, deliberate pull. The ember glowed bright orange, a tiny star in the dimness of the kitchen, heating the air between them. It was smooth, grounding. She handed it back to him, her fingertips grazing his knuckles, and then leaned back, tilting her head toward the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling.

She pursed her lips, exhaling a long, thin plume of smoke. It swirled upward into the darkness, catching the firelight and turning a milky, translucent blue before dissipating near the rafters. She stayed like that for a beat—throat exposed to the fire’s glow, watching the smoke vanish—feeling the tension of the long drive and the busy week finally melt into the floorboards.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben gave a low, appreciative whistle—not for the soup, not for the flames licking the underside of the pot, but for the sight of her: smoke curling from her lips, neck tilted back, firelight painting her like some kind of stoned Renaissance muse.

He should’ve taken a picture.
Or dropped to one knee.
But instead—

He turned back to the counter and grabbed a handful of herbs with unnecessary flair, muttering, “Alright, baby. You want Martha Stewart? I got you Martha Stewart.”

He stepped away from the stove dramatically, one arm sweeping toward the nearby table like a contestant on The Price is Right. There, in all its chaotic glory, was Ben’s version of a table arrangement: a grocery bag turned centerpiece, stuffed with a mix of fresh parsley, two lemons, and a very confused bottle of sriracha. The salt and pepper shakers flanked it like security guards. A half-used roll of paper towels leaned drunkenly against a candle he hadn’t even lit.

He gestured at it proudly. “Suck it, Martha. And let’s be honest—she would never look this good doing it.”

With a cocky wink and a satisfied chef’s kiss to the air, he strutted back to the cutting board.

Soup prep resumed.

He lit the joint again, careful—so careful—to blow the ash away from the pot like a man who’d learned his lesson once and only once. He diced with surprising precision for someone currently halfway high, the vegetables piling neatly beside him. Onion. Celery. Carrot. A dash of chili flakes, because domestic didn’t have to mean boring.

But god, he kept getting distracted.

By the sound of her laugh.
By the lazy swing of her foot against the counter.
By the way her lips curled every time she stole the joint back like it belonged to her now.

He wasn’t even mad.

She looked like smoke and firelight and home, and it was a miracle he remembered to stir the damn pot before the noodles went in. He turned the heat down a little, watching the bubbles rise lazily to the surface. A few drops of broth splattered onto the stovetop, and he didn’t even flinch.

She was still watching him.

And he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

He passed her the joint with a reverent little bow, letting their fingers graze again. “Careful,” he said lightly, “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna burn the soup and my reputation.”

He returned to the counter, this time grating garlic like it owed him money.

A beat.

Then—without turning—he added casually, “You know I love you too, right?”

No theatrics. No lead-in.

Just the truth, dropped into the room like a note on the nightstand.

He glanced over his shoulder to meet her eyes, the ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “Like, aggressively.”

Then he turned back to the soup, cheeks flushed in the glow, hiding his soft behind the steam.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo surveyed the table arrangement with the grave, contemplative expression of a high-end art critic standing before a controversial installation at the Met. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, the glass cooling her palm as she swung her legs gently, heels bumping rhythmically against the rough wood of the cabinetry beneath her.

"I have to say," she began, her voice rich with suppressed laughter, "the spatial tension between the Sriracha and the half-dead paper towel roll? It’s brave. It’s radical. Martha isn't just shaking; she’s filing a cease and desist."

She watched him over the rim of her glass, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw as he went to war with the garlic. This—this—was the version of him that ruined her for anyone else. The world got the rockstar, the carefully curated swagger, the voice that filled stadiums. But she got the guy who made centerpieces out of grocery bags and diced carrots like he was defusing a bomb. She got the mess, the warmth, the humanness of him. It made her chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming fullness that had nothing to do with the wine or the weed.

When he dropped the I love you—casual, over the shoulder, like he was tossing salt into the pot—she froze for a split second. Then, a slow, radiant smile broke across her face, softening the edges of the room.

Aggressively.

She set her wine glass down on the counter with a soft clink, abandoning it to focus entirely on him. She didn't hop down; the height advantage the counter gave her was too good to give up. Instead, she leaned forward, invading his personal space just as he turned back to the soup.

"Is that a threat, Wilder?" she teased, her voice dropping an octave, soft and smoky.

She reached out, snagging the back of his shirt to tug him a step closer until he was standing between her knees. She wrapped her legs loosely around his waist, locking her ankles behind him to keep him there, trapped in her orbit.

"Because if it is," she murmured, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, her fingers lingering against the warmth of his temple, "I feel like I should warn you... I tend to escalate things."

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his, breathing in the scent of onions, expensive cologne, and the distinct, earthy smell of the joint he’d just handed off.

"I should tell you the truth, though," she whispered, the humor melting into something fierce and solid. "I am not only in love with Benjamin, but I’m also in love and appreciate Ben Wilder. If we are being honest, I am his number one fan. I know all the lyrics, to all the songs, especially the ones about me.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Benjamin felt the air leave his lungs, not because he was winded, but because she had just pulled the rug out from under his carefully constructed "domestic" peace.

He stood trapped between her thighs, the simmering pot of soup forgotten and bubbling behind him, its steam curling around them like a veil. He had been playing at being the house husband, the quiet man, the safe harbor. But her admission—that she loved the icon just as much as the man—sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity straight to his core.

His hands, still smelling of garlic and earth, found her waist. He didn't just touch her; he gripped her, his fingers digging into the soft denim of her jeans, pulling her forward until her heat was a living thing against his chest.

"His number one fan, huh?" he rasped, his voice losing the playful cabin-breeziness and dropping into that low, vibrating grit that usually only came out under stage lights.

He leaned in, his nose grazing hers, his breath hot against her lips. The "Benjamin" in him wanted to kiss her forehead and thank her for seeing him so clearly. But the "Ben Wilder" in him—the one fueled by adrenaline and the raw power of being wanted by thousands—wanted to take that confession and use it to wreck her.

On tour, the sex was a transaction of energy. It was vulgar, loud, and entirely about the friction of two bodies trying to forget they were lonely. It was degrading because there was no soul in it. But with Cleo? With Cleo, he could bring that same animalistic intensity and know that she was the one holding the leash.

"You like those songs, baby?" he whispered, his thumb dragging hard across her lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the damp pink of her inner mouth. "The ones where I’m screaming for you? The ones where I’m telling ten thousand people exactly how it feels when you’re underneath me?"

He moved his hands from her waist to the backs of her thighs, hitching her closer to the edge of the counter. The movement was possessive, a stark departure from the guy who had just been joking about Sriracha.

"Ben Wilder is a selfish prick," he murmured, his eyes darkening, pupils dilating until the iris was just a thin ring of amber. "He doesn't care about the soup. He doesn't care about being 'weirdly domestic.' He just wants to hear you scream his name until your throat is as raw as mine."

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, not with a soft nuzzle, but with a sharp, nipping bite to the sensitive cord of her throat. He heard her breath hitch—that sharp, jagged intake he lived for—and he felt his own body respond with a violent, heavy thud of blood to his groin.

"You want both of us?" he growled against her skin, his hands sliding up under her sweater, his palms hot and calloused against her ribs. "You want the guy who brings you flowers and the guy who pins your wrists to the headboard and reminds you who you belong to?"
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression a dangerous mix of reverence and hunger. The flirtation was gone; the seduction had turned into a claim.

"Because I’ll give you both. I'll love you until you're whole, and I'll fuck you until you're empty. Whatever you need to feel real."

He slanted his mouth over hers, the kiss tasting of the wine they’d shared and the fire in his blood. It was deep, wet, and demanding—a Ben Wilder kiss, intended to overwhelm. One hand stayed on her thigh, while the other moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair to tilt her face up, exposing her more fully to his hunger.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t shrink away from the sudden, sharp violence of his tone; she bloomed under it. This was the paradox of loving Benjamin Wilder—you had to be soft enough to be his sanctuary, but tough enough to survive the storm when it broke.

She made a low sound in her throat as his teeth grazed the sensitive cord of her neck, a vibration that was half-whimper, half-purr. The rough slide of his calloused thumbs against her ribs sent a shiver racing down her spine that had nothing to do with the draft in the cabin and everything to do with the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure. He wasn’t asking for permission; he was taking inventory of what was his.

When he pulled back to look at her, she didn't just meet his gaze; she challenged it, her hands sliding from his shoulders up into the hair at the nape of his neck, gripping him just as tightly as he gripped her. Her eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and shining with a reckless sort of honesty.

"You think I don't listen?" she murmured, her voice breathless but steady, her thumb tracing the tension in his jaw. "I hear every word. I hear how you tear yourself open on that stage. And yeah... maybe I hate the cameras. Maybe I hate the prying eyes and the articles and the way people think they own a piece of you just because they bought a ticket."

She leaned in, brushing her lips against the corner of his mouth, teasing him, feeding that hunger he had just confessed to.

"But I’d be lying if I said I didn't get off on it, just a little bit," she whispered, the confession tasting like sweet wine and secrets. "Making thousands of women jealous? Walking through a crowd knowing that I’m the one going back to the hotel room with you? It’s a power trip, Ben. It’s intoxicating."

She tilted her head back, forcing him to look at her, to see the fierce possession in her own eyes.

"They’re my harshest critics because they’re starving, and I’m the one sitting at the banquet," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry, confident hum. "They look at me and they see the obstacle. They think if I just moved out of the way, there would be space for them."

Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him down until their foreheads rested together again, the steam from the forgotten soup wreathing around them like a stage fog.

"But the reality is harsh, isn't it?" she breathed against his lips. "Even if I wasn't in the picture... you wouldn't be theirs. You’d never be theirs. They’re chasing a ghost, but I’m the one holding the man.”

She kissed him then, matching his intensity, her tongue tangling with his, tasting the garlic and the smoke and the sheer, overwhelming force of him. She broke the kiss only to whisper against his mouth, breathless and ruined.

"So give me the selfish prick. Give me the rock star. Pin me down and remind me," she challenged, her hips grinding forward against his, seeking the friction, seeking the claim. "Because they can listen to the songs, Benjamin... but I’m the only one who gets to live them."

[Benjamin Wilder]

The mention of her being the only one who got to live the songs was the final snap of the tether. The "Benjamin" who worried about the temperature of the soup and the comfort of the cabin evaporated, replaced by the predator who thrived under the hot lights and the heavy bass.

Ben didn’t say a word. He didn't need to. He reached down and gripped the hem of her knit sweater, his knuckles grazing the skin of her stomach—hot, frantic skin—and yanked the garment up and over her head in one violent, efficient motion. He tossed it blindly; it landed somewhere near the forgotten grocery bags, a discarded relic of their domestic peace.

He didn't wait for her to adjust. His hands went to the clasp of her bra, snapping it with a practiced, ruthless flick of his fingers. He peeled the lace away, exposing her to the flickering firelight and the steam of the kitchen.

He stopped then. Just for a heartbeat.

He stood between her knees, his chest heaving, his eyes raking over her with a terrifying, singular focus. She looked like a masterpiece illuminated in a gallery—the curve of her breasts, the flush rising on her chest, the way her nipples were already peaked and hard in the cool cabin air. She was his banquet, and the hunger clawing at his gut was no longer about food.

"You're right," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge of gravel. "They're starving. And I'm going to make sure you're full."

He reached out, his hand sliding to the back of her head. He didn't caress her; he fisted his fingers into her hair, gripping tight enough to make her gasp, and hauled her head back. He stared into her dark, defiant eyes for a split second before pulling her forward with a sharp, forceful jerk.

Their mouths crashed together.

It wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. It was vulgar and wet and tasted of the desperate possession she had just invited. He used his tongue like a weapon, demanding entry, claiming the territory of her mouth while his other hand moved with a brutal, single-minded intent.

He cupped her breast, his large palm engulfing the soft weight of her. He didn't tease. He squeezed hard, his calloused thumb dragging over her nipple with a punishing pressure that made a muffled, high-pitched keening sound rise from her throat. He kneaded the flesh, marking her, his fingers digging in as he reminded her exactly whose hands were on her.

He broke the kiss just an inch, his lips wet and swollen, his breath coming in ragged hitches.

"Is this aggressive enough for you, babe?" he growled, his voice dropping into that filthy, stage-worn growl.

He shifted his grip on her hair, forcing her to look up at him, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. He looked at her like he wanted to devour her, like he wanted to leave his fingerprints on her soul.

"I’m going to fuck you on this counter," he promised, his hand moving from her breast to the button of her jeans, his fingers fumbling with the metal in his haste. "I’m going to fuck you right next to the soup and the wine, and I’m going to make you scream so loud the neighbors five miles away know exactly who you belong to."

He leaned in, biting the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder, his hand finally popping the button of her denim.

"Tell me," he hissed against her skin, his hand sliding inside the waistband of her jeans, his fingers seeking the slick heat he knew was waiting for him. "Do you still want to hear the lyrics, or do you want the man?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The bite was sharp, a stinging claim that made her vision blur, but it was the slide of his rough, calloused fingers past the waistband of her jeans that stole the breath from her lungs. Cleo didn't pull away; she arched into him, a willing sacrifice on the altar of the kitchen counter. The shock of the cool air on her bare skin was nothing compared to the searing heat of his palm against her, branding her, reminding her that for all her talk of independence, she would always burn the brightest when she was burning for him.

She felt completely, beautifully at his mercy. The iron-tight grip in her hair wasn’t painful—it was grounding. It told her she didn't have to think, didn't have to lead, didn't have to be anything other than his. She let her head loll back further, exposing the column of her throat to his teeth, a low, broken moan vibrating in her chest as he found the slick heat he was looking for.

"The lyrics," she choked out, the words ragged and desperate against the humid air.

Her hands, trembling with the same adrenaline that was turning his eyes into molten gold, fumbled blindly between their bodies. She didn't want the soft, considerate lover right now; she wanted the man who commanded stadiums to command her. She found the metal button of his jeans, her fingers clawing at the denim, desperate to free him, desperate to erase the last barrier between them. She tugged at the fastening, her knuckles grazing the straining evidence of his hunger.

"I don't want the quiet," she hissed, her eyes fluttering open to look at him, dark and glazed with want. She gripped his waistband, yanking at the fabric to pull him violently against her.

The moment the denim gave way under her frantic fingers, freeing him, Cleo let out a sharp, shattered breath. She didn't wait for him to bridge the gap; she dragged him forward, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist and locking her ankles at the small of his back. She needed the weight of him—heavy, grounding, and possessive—crushing her into the hard marble of the counter.

She felt small in his grip, fragile in the way a guitar string is fragile right before it snaps under a heavy hand, and god, she loved it. She loved that he was looking at her not like she was his girlfriend, but like she was a song he was trying to figure out how to play violently.

"You said you’d make me scream," she taunted, her voice trembling but bold, her hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into the muscle there. She lifted her hips, grinding against him, seeking that friction, demanding he stop holding back. "So do it. Don't give me the acoustic version, Ben. I want the stadium tour. I want the noise."

She leaned up, biting his lower lip, tasting the copper and the aggression, her eyes blown wide and dark.

"Show me exactly who I belong to," she whispered against his mouth, breathless and aching.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben didn’t need to hear another word. The "acoustic version" was dead and buried under the floorboards of the cabin.

He let out a low, guttural sound—half-snarl, half-groan—as she freed him from his jeans. The moment his skin met hers, the heat was blinding. He didn't just step into her; he slammed his hips forward, pinning her back against the backsplash with a force that made the pots and pans on the stove rattle.

"You want the stadium tour?" he rasped, his voice a jagged, filthy ruin. "Fine. But you don't get to ask me to stop when it gets too loud."

He reached down, his hand a blur of motion as he hooked his fingers into the lace of her underwear and the denim of her unzipped jeans. He didn't bother sliding them off. He yanked them down past her hips with a brutal, single-minded shove, baring her completely to the firelight. He spread her legs even wider, his hands absolute in their authority as he forced her knees toward her chest, exposing every wet, swollen inch of her to his gaze.

He looked at her then—really looked at her—and the sight of her spread open on his kitchen counter, her breasts heaving and her eyes glazed with a desperate, animalistic need, snapped the last of his restraint.

"Look at you," he hissed, his thumb moving to her center, grinding into her wetness with a punishing, rhythmic pressure that made her hips buck uncontrollably. "Slick and begging for it. You think those girls in the front row have any idea what you look like right now? How much of a mess you are for me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh like he was trying to leave permanent marks, and guided himself to her entrance. He was thick, straining, and absolutely lethal in his intent.

He didn't ease in. He didn't give her a second to adjust.

He drove into her in one deep, violent thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The sound she made—a sharp, shattered scream that was cut off by his mouth slamming back onto hers—was the only music he cared about. He felt her internal muscles clamp down on him, a frantic, tight welcome that nearly sent him over the edge instantly.

He started a rhythm that was anything but domestic. It was a pounding, relentless cadence, his hips hitting hers with a heavy, wet thud that echoed through the small kitchen. He was taking her with a vulgar, unadulterated selfishness, his breath coming in jagged hitches against her ear.

"You're mine," he growled, pulling her head back by her hair again so he could look into her eyes while he wrecked her. He wasn't being gentle; he was being a force of nature. "Every scream, every mark I leave on you—that's the lyric, Cleo. That's the only one that matters."

He increased the speed, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and more punishing. He watched her face crumble, watched her beauty turn into a mask of pure, agonizing pleasure as he bottomed out again and again, hitting her deep and hard.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice dropping to a filthy, possessive command as he felt her starting to unravel beneath him. "Tell me who you're screaming for. Tell me who owns this."

He ground his pelvis against hers, his sweat dripping onto her chest, his eyes dark with the kind of madness that only came from having everything he ever wanted right where he could break it.

"Tell me, babe. Before I take everything else."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The air left Cleo’s lungs in a rush, not as a breath, but as a shattered, broken cry that was immediately swallowed by the rough possession of his kiss. She couldn't have adjusted even if she wanted to; the sheer size and suddenness of him stretched her to her absolute limit, filling every hollow space until she felt entirely consumed by him.

When he pulled back to look at her, she was already gone, her head falling back against the cabinet door with a dull thud, her neck arching to expose the frantic pulse fluttering in her throat. She was drowning in the sensation—the friction, the heat, the relentless, punishing rhythm he set.

Her hands flew to his upper arms, her fingers digging desperately into his biceps, her nails biting into the tense muscle as if he were the only thing keeping her from sliding to the floor. She needed him to anchor her; she needed him to ruin her.

"Ben..." she choked out, her voice barely recognizable, thin and trembling. "Oh god, Ben..."

Every thrust slammed her back against the wood, shaking the breath out of her in jagged, rhythmic gasps. She squeezed her eyes shut, flashes of light bursting behind her lids as the pleasure spiked, sharp and electric, blurring the line between pain and ecstasy. She unlocked her ankles from where they had been resting and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, wordlessly begging for more of the pressure that was driving her insane.

"You," she sobbed, her hips bucking to meet his violence with a desperate need of her own. She opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused and hazy, locking onto the dark madness in his. "It’s yours. All of it... God, Ben, I’m yours. Make it loud... don't stop."

Her grip on him turned frantic as the pace accelerated, transforming from a rhythm into a relentless, battering assault. Her fingernails scraped desperately over the sweat-slicked skin of his shoulders, dragging down to dig into the tense muscles of his back, leaving stinging red crescents in her wake. She needed to anchor herself, to hold onto something solid, because the world was dissolving around her.

"Ben!" she screamed, the name tearing from her throat as he drove into her with a speed that left her breathless, her head knocking rhythmically against the cabinet door.

She squeezed her eyes shut so tight that stars burst behind her lids, but it couldn't stop the physiological reaction to the overstimulation. Hot tears welled rapidly along her lash line, spilling over to track hot paths into her hairline. It wasn’t pain, and it wasn’t sadness—it was pure, unadulterated intensity, a sensory overload that shattered her composure completely.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben watched her break, and for a split second, the rockstar in him wanted to ride that wave of her desperation until he shattered alongside her. He could feel the pulse of her walls—tight, frantic, and rhythmically crushing him—and the urge to finish inside her was a roar in his blood. If this were a tour-stop distraction, he would have just hammered into her until he went blind.

But this wasn't a distraction. This was Cleo.

The realization that he had her completely unraveled—weeping, screaming his name, her nails marking his skin like a map of his own conquest—sent a dark, sadistic thrill through his chest. He didn't want the easy release. He wanted to see just how much of the "stadium tour" she could actually handle before she begged for mercy.

With a sharp, guttural growl, Ben moved.

He didn't slow down; he just stopped. He gripped her hips with bruising force and yanked himself out of her in one harsh, wet motion.

The sudden absence was jarring. Cleo let out a small, wounded sound of protest, her hips jerking forward to find the heat she’d just lost. Ben stepped back just an inch, his chest heaving, his cock twitching and slick with her in the firelight. He looked at her, his eyes cold and predatory, refusing to give her a second to recover.

"Don't move," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat.

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the marble counter on either side of her hips. He loomed over her, caging her in, his shadow dancing against the cabinets as the fire crackled behind him.

"You said you wanted the noise, babe. You said you wanted to live the lyrics," he hissed, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and smelling of the whiskey he’d sipped earlier. "Well, this is the part where the music stops and everybody just watches."

He released one of her wrists, but only so he could point a finger at the wet, swollen center he had just vacated.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. The words were a filthier, darker version of the commands he gave from a stage. "Right now. I want to see exactly what you do when I'm not the one doing it to you."

Cleo’s eyes were wide, dazed, and shimmering with tears, her breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. She looked like she was vibrating from the sudden lack of friction.

"Do it," he growled, his hand moving to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair to force her to look down at herself. "Use your fingers. Show me how much you want it. But listen to me, Cleo—"

He leaned in, biting the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a sadistic, razor-thin whisper.
"If you come... if you let yourself slip before I tell you you're allowed to... I'm walking out of this kitchen and leaving you here to finish alone. Do you understand? You work it until you’re screaming, but you don't cross that line until I say so."

He pulled back just enough to watch, his hand remaining in her hair to keep her head tilted, his gaze fixed on her trembling hand as it moved toward her own heat.

"Start. Now."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The sudden absence of his body left her shivering, the cool air of the kitchen hitting her bare skin everywhere. She felt completely exposed—stripped raw not just of her clothes, which were long gone from the equation, but of her pride.

She didn't hesitate. She didn't fight him. Because the truth was, he didn’t know the half of it.

There had been so many nights—lonely, quiet nights in the crushing silence of her own bedroom while he was thousands of miles away on tour—where she had done exactly this. Nights where she had stared at the ceiling, pressed her hand to her body, and conjured the ghost of his hands just to settle the hollow ache in her chest. She had whispered his name into the pillow then, imagining his eyes, his weight, just trying to feel close to him when the distance felt impossible.

So she did what he asked. It wasn't hard. It was instinct.

Her hand trembled as she slid it down her stomach, gliding over her bare skin directly to the wet heat between her legs. She let out a broken, shaky breath as her fingers made contact, sliding into the slickness he had left behind.

She watched her own hand move, forced by his grip in her hair, but her focus drifted up to him through her lashes. He was growling, he was threatening to leave, he was wearing the mask of the dangerous, untouchable rockstar... but she saw him.

Beneath the jagged edge of his voice and the darkness in his eyes, that was still her Benjamin. It didn't matter what persona he had going on, or how rough he wanted to play it. He was the man who held her together. And if he wanted to watch her fall apart for him, she would give him everything.

"Ben..." she whimpered, her fingers starting a rhythm that was agonizingly familiar, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves that was already swollen and begging for release. Her hips lifted off the marble to meet her own touch, seeking the friction. "Like this? Is this... is this what you want?"

Every stroke sent a jolt of electricity straight to her spine. It was infinitely more intense with his eyes burning into her, tracking every movement. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, fighting the urge to speed up, fighting the wave that was already cresting, terrified he would actually leave if she went over the edge too soon.

"Please," she gasped, her head falling back against his hand, her eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure coiled tight and painful in her belly. "Don't leave... I'm doing it... I'm doing it for you."

Cleo shifted her weight, scooting her hips further back on the cool marble until her back was pressed flat against the backsplash. She needed the leverage; she needed to open herself up completely for him.

She never broke eye contact. Even as her breath hitched in her throat, her gaze remained locked on his, challenging him, submitting to him, worshipping him.

With a slow, deliberate movement, she slid two fingers deep inside herself. The sound was wet and sharp in the quiet kitchen, and she saw Ben’s jaw tighten, a muscle feathering beneath his skin. It wasn’t enough—it wasn’t him—but the stretch felt good, grounding her in the moment.

She bit her bottom lip, dragging her teeth over the sensitive skin, and then, watching his pupils dilate, she added a third finger.

She gasped, her head falling back slightly before she forced it forward again to keep looking at him. She pumped her hand, twisting her wrist to hit that deep, aching spot he had been battering just moments ago. She was stretching herself wide for him, showing him exactly how empty she was without him.

"Is that it?" she breathed, her voice wrecked. "You like watching me like this?"

She kept the rhythm steady—relentless but controlled. She could feel the edge hovering right there, a terrifying, beautiful precipice, but she dug her heels into the counter and held herself back. She didn't want the release yet. Not really. She wanted to know what kind of ruin he was planning to bring down on her next. She wanted him to finish what he started.

[Benjamin Wilder]

His self-control was a frayed wire, sparking and ready to snap. Watching her use her own hand to stretch herself open—seeing the way her fingers disappeared into that wet, slick heat while her eyes never left his—was the most obscene and beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Yeah," he rasped, his voice a guttural scrape of sound. "I like it. I like knowing that even when you touch yourself, you’re looking for me."

He didn't move away. Instead, he reached down, his own hand finding his cock. He gripped himself, his knuckles white as he began to stroke in a heavy, rhythmic pace that matched the wet sounds of her fingers. He watched her watch him, the shared gaze turning the air in the kitchen into something thick and suffocating.

He was throbbing, a hard, demanding ache that wanted to punish her, but he stayed back. He stayed in the audience for a few more agonizing seconds, his hand moving faster on himself, his breath coming in jagged, harsh hitches.

"You’re doing so good, babe," he murmured, his eyes tracking the way she worked her own body. "Stay right there. Don't you dare let go."

Abruptly, he stopped. He forced his hand away from his own body, the denial making his jaw ache. He leaned over, his reach long and steady, and twisted the knob on the stove. The blue flame beneath the soup hissed and died, the sudden silence of the burner making the crackle of the fireplace in the next room sound like an explosion.

He didn't want the kitchen anymore. He didn't want the marble. He wanted the heat.
"Down," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl.

He didn't wait for her to move. He gripped her waist and hauled her off the counter. Her feet barely hit the floor before he was dragging her toward the living area, his hand locked around hers. He led her to the hearth, where the fire he had built earlier was roaring, casting long, flickering orange shadows against the timber walls.

The rug was thick and soft, a stark contrast to the unforgiving kitchen. He pushed her down onto it, but he didn't let her lie back.

"On your hands and knees," he ordered, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive stage-whisper. "Face the fire."

He waited until she complied, her body silhouetted against the gold and red of the flames. From behind, she looked like a dream—the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the way she was still trembling from the forced restraint.

He knelt behind her, his knees bracketed on either side of her hips. He didn't enter her. Instead, he leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his heat engulfing her. He reached around, his hands finding her breasts, squeezing them with a possessive, bruising force while he bit the sensitive skin of her shoulder.

"We’re not going slow anymore," he hissed into her ear, his breath hot and demanding. "But we’re not finishing yet, either. I’m going to make you climb until your lungs burn."

He reached down, his hand guiding him to her entrance, slicking himself with the moisture she’d left on her own fingers. He pushed in—not a thrust, but a slow, agonizingly deep slide that felt like he was claiming every inch of her territory.

"Keep your hands on the floor," he growled, his hips starting a slow, grinding circle that was designed to torture. "Don't touch yourself. Just feel me. Feel exactly how much of a mess I'm making of you."

He began to move—a heavy, rhythmic pace that was deep and deliberate. Every time he drove forward, he leaned his weight into her, forcing her closer to the heat of the fire, making her world narrow down to the smell of woodsmoke and the feel of him filling her up.

The firelight danced over her skin, turning her into something molten and gold. From this angle, she was a map of everything he owned—the arch of her back, the curve of her hips, and the way her hair spilled forward toward the hearth. He felt the vibration of her whimpers against his chest as he slid home, the friction of her heat clamping around him like a vice.

He was deep, buried to the hilt, but he wanted more. He wanted her to feel the sharp edge of his hunger.

He pulled back, almost entirely out of her, the cold air rushing into the space between them for a split second before his hand moved.

Crack.

The sound of his palm meeting the soft, pale curve of her ass was sharp, echoing over the roar of the logs in the fireplace. It was a stinging, stinging heat that matched the fire in front of her. Before she could even gasp, his fingers sank deep into the flesh he’d just struck, his large hand squeezing with a bruising, possessive force.

He used that grip to anchor her, his fingers digging in as he yanked her hips backward with a violent, sudden jerk, impaling her on him once again.

The impact made the air rush out of her in a broken, high-pitched cry. He didn't stop; he kept his hand there, squeezing and kneading her hip while he set a rhythm that was all power and no mercy. He was driving into her with a heavy, rhythmic thud, his body a hammer and hers the anvil.

"You’re not going anywhere, baby," he growled, his voice a low, vibrating grit against the shell of her ear as he watched her shadow flicker against the timber walls. "I’m going to keep you right here until the only thing you can taste is me."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The sharp, cracking sound of his palm connecting with her flesh was a shock to her system that shattered the hazy, drugged feeling of lust, replacing it with a spike of white-hot clarity. A sharp, fractured cry tore from her throat, involuntary and loud, echoing in the quiet cabin. The sting bloomed instantly across her skin, a burning heat that rivaled the fire in front of her, making her gasp for air that wouldn’t come.

Before she could even process the sensation, he yanked her hips back, and the sudden, brutal fullness of him claiming her again knocked the remaining breath from her lungs.

"Ben—!" she choked out, the name breaking apart on a sob.

The intensity of it was overwhelming. She felt pinned between two fires—the roaring hearth warming her face and chest, and the searing, demanding heat of his body possessing her from behind. As he established that punishing rhythm, driving into her with a force that shook her entire frame, she lost the ability to think. She could only feel.

Her head fell back, her neck arching and exposing her throat to the ceiling beams as she surrendered completely to the onslaught. With every heavy, jarring thrust, her body was thrown forward, her breasts swaying with the violent motion, the soft weight of them brushing the air before being pulled back as he anchored her hips. She felt heavy, loose, and completely at his mercy.

"Oh god, it’s too much—" she whimpered, the words dissolving into a series of high, desperate cries as he hit that deepest spot inside her, over and over again.

The pain from the spank throbbed in time with the friction, blurring the lines until she couldn’t tell where the sting ended and the pleasure began. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of sensation. She felt small and conquered, grounded by the rough wool of the rug under her knees and the bruising grip of his hands on her waist.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—not from sadness, but from the sheer, crushing weight of how much she needed this. She needed his roughness, his claim, the way he was making sure she couldn't possibly be anywhere else but right here, existing solely for him.

"Don't stop," she breathed, a frantic, broken plea, her fingers digging blindly into the thick pile of the rug. "Ben, please—wreck me."

Her elbows finally gave way, her strength sapped by the sheer intensity of the pleasure crashing through her. She sank down, her chest pressing flat against the thick rug, her cheek scraping against the scratchy wool. The movement tipped her pelvis, forcing her hips higher, lifting her backside into the air in a desperate, wanton arch that left her completely exposed to him.

The shift in angle changed everything.

Ben didn't adjust; he just took what she offered, driving into her with a newfound, terrifying depth. He hit a spot so deep inside her that her vision blurred, dragging a raw, jagged scream from her throat that echoed off the timber walls. It wasn't a moan; it was the sound of someone being taken apart.

"Oh god, Ben!" she wailed, the sound bordering on a sob.

The fullness was almost too much to bear. She felt stretched, filled to the absolute brink, the friction searing her insides with every heavy thrust. To keep from flying apart, her hands flew out, fingers clawing frantically into the deep pile of the carpet. She gripped the fibers until her knuckles turned white, holding on as if the floor was the only thing keeping her from shattering into a million pieces under his weight.

She was sobbing openly now, her body jerking with the force of his hips slamming against hers, her face wet with tears and sweat, grounded only by the rough wool under her cheek and the relentless, punishing rhythm of the man possessing her from behind.

[Benjamin Wilder]

He watched her shatter, and the sound of her sobbing his name into the wool rug snapped the last tether of his control.

He didn't want to just be inside her; he wanted to encompass her. He wanted to be the weight crushing her, the heat burning her, the only thing she could feel in the dark.

He didn't slow down. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her sweat-slicked back, sandwiching her between his body and the floor. He released her waist and slid his left hand up her spine, past her shoulders, until his fingers locked around the back of her neck.
He didn’t squeeze to choke; he squeezed to hold.

"You like that?" he growled into her ear, his voice a vibrating rumble against her skull. "You like being pinned down like this, babe?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He used his grip on her neck to force her face deeper into the rug, muffling her cries, while his hips snapped forward with a violence that shook them both. He was hitting her with a wet, heavy thud—bone against bone, skin against skin—grinding himself into her with a possessive fury.

He reached down with his free hand, grabbed her right wrist where it was clawing at the rug, and yanked her arm behind her back. He pinned it there against the small of her back, twisting it just enough to stretch her shoulder, just enough to make her gasp at the sudden, sharp tension.

He had her trapped. One arm pinned, neck held, hips anchored by his weight. She was completely helpless, purely a vessel for his pleasure, and the realization made his vision white-out with lust.

"Don't move," he hissed, biting down hard on the sensitive cord of muscle where her neck met her shoulder. He didn't hold back. He bit her hard enough to leave a bruise, marking her, branding her. "Take it. Take every fucking inch of it."

He felt her body spasm, her inner muscles clamping down on him in a terrified, electrified grip. It was too good. It was madness.

He pulled back, almost entirely out of her, dragging the tip of his cock along the sensitive nerve endings at her entrance, before slamming back in. He did it again. And again. Long, punishing strokes that stretched her open and filled her completely.

"You feel that?" he whispered hoarsely, his lips brushing her ear, wet and hot. "That’s me ruining you for anyone else. You think you can go back to being civilized after this? You think anyone else is ever going to touch you like I do?"

He tightened his grip on her wrist, forcing her hips to arch higher, exposing her even more.
"You’re mine," he snarled, the words tearing out of his throat. "Scream into the floor, baby. Scream it."

He abandoned all rhythm, driving into her with a chaotic, animalistic speed, fucking her with a brutality that promised he would burn this memory into her skin forever.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The coarse wool of the rug abraded her cheek, already slick with a steady, hot stream of tears, but the friction was nothing compared to the overwhelming weight of him crushing her into the floor. She felt small, fragile, and completely consumed. Every breath she tried to take was shallow, knocked out of her lungs by the heavy, rhythmic impact of his hips slamming against hers.

She couldn't stop the sobbing; it was a physical purge, her body unraveling under the sheer intensity of his possession. When he bit down on the sensitive cord of her neck, a fresh wave of tears leaked from her squeezed-shut eyes.

The pain was sharp and shocking, a brand that seared straight through to her core, but instead of pulling away, her body betrayed her. She melted further into the floor, her hips instinctively bucking back to meet his violence, desperate to be closer, to be deeper, to be exactly what he said she was—his.

His hand on her neck was a heavy, grounding anchor, and the twist of her arm behind her back left her feeling terrifyingly exposed, her chest pinned but her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. His words—ruining you—echoed in her head, louder than the blood rushing in her ears. He was right. The terrifying realization that no one else could ever reach this dark, feral place inside her made her sob harder, a broken, high-pitched keening sound muffled against the rug.

"I—I know," she choked out, though the words were lost in the wet fabric. She was trembling violently, every nerve ending on fire, caught in a suspended state of agony and ecstasy.

When he demanded she scream, the command bypassed her brain and went straight to her throat. The pressure built inside her chest, a mixture of surrender and devastation. As he drove into her with that final, chaotic speed, abandoning all control, she let go of the last shred of her civilized self.

"I'm yours!"

The scream ripped out of her, raw and guttural, tearing through her sobs. She screamed it into the floor, her voice cracking under the strain, her body convulsing as she poured every ounce of her submission into the sound, acknowledging the ruin, acknowledging the claim, shattering completely beneath him.

The scream scraped her throat raw, leaving a burning trail that matched the fire consuming the rest of her body. Admitting it out loud—screaming it into the abrasive wool—severed whatever fragile hold she had left on reality. She wasn't Cleo anymore; she was just sensation. She was just his.

She sobbed harder, her chest heaving against the floor, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The tears were blinding, hot and relentless, mixing with the sweat dripping from her face. Every thrust he delivered now felt like it was rearranging her insides, jarring her teeth, shaking the very foundation of her bones.

Her arm, pinned tight against the small of her back, throbbed with a sharp ache that grounded her in the chaos. It was a constant reminder of her helplessness, a reminder that she couldn’t escape even if she wanted to—and god, she didn't want to.

"Please," she whimpered into the rug, the word broken and wet. She didn't even know what she was pleading for. For him to stop? For him never to stop? It was all a blur of white-hot intensity.

She felt herself tightening around him, her body betraying her need as the pressure built low in her belly. It wasn't a slow climb; it was a precipice she was being shoved off of. As he abandoned his rhythm for that final, chaotic brutality, the friction became too much.

"Oh god, oh god," she panted, her voice rising in pitch, turning into a desperate, broken cry.

The climax hit her like a physical blow. It started at the point of their connection and radiated outward, paralyzing her. Her toes curled into the carpet, her free hand clawing blindly at the fibers, trying to find purchase as the world spun. She squeezed her eyes shut, seeing stars behind her lids, her hips stuttering and clamping down on him in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms.

She felt ruined. She felt unmade. And through the haze of the orgasm that racked her trembling frame, she sobbed his name again, a worshipful, shattered prayer into the floorboards.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The sound of her screaming his claim—I’m yours!—shattered the last barrier in his mind. It wasn't just a surrender; it was a total abdication of self, and the sheer weight of it snapped the tether of his control.

He felt her internal muscles clamping down on him, milking him in terrified, violent spasms, and the pleasure was so intense it bordered on agony. His vision went white. The roar of blood in his ears drowned out the fire.

He was seconds away.

His instinct was to bury himself as deep as possible, to pour himself into the heat that was convulsing around him. But a jagged shard of clarity pierced the haze—no protection.
With a guttural, strained roar, he gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the bruised flesh, and yanked himself backward.

The exit was harsh. The friction vanished in a split second, leaving a cold void where he had just been filling her.

He didn't stop moving. His hand moved frantically to himself, pumping once, twice, hard, before he unraveled.

He groaned, a broken, defeated sound, as he spilled his release across the small of her back. The hot spurts landed on her sweat-slicked skin, sliding down the curve of her spine, marking her in the most primitive way possible. His knees shook violently against the rug, his head dropping forward until his forehead rested against her shoulder blade, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs like he’d just run a marathon.

For a long minute, the only sounds in the cabin were the crackle of the logs and the harsh, synchronized gasping of their breath.

Then, the red mist began to recede.

Ben blinked, the adrenaline draining out of him, leaving his limbs heavy and trembling. His vision cleared, and the scene in front of him came into sharp focus.

He saw Cleo.

She was pressed face-first into the scratchy wool rug. Her body was shaking with silent sobs. Her skin was flushed and marked—the red handprint on her backside, the bruising grip on her hip, the mess he’d made on her lower back. And her arm... her arm was still pinned awkwardly behind her back where he had trapped it.

A wave of cold nausea washed over him, instantly extinguishing the fire in his blood.
"Shit," he breathed, the word trembling. "Shit, baby."

He scrambled back, his movements frantic and clumsy. He released her pinned wrist instantly, his hands hovering for a second, unsure of where to touch her that wouldn't hurt.
"Cleo," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I’m sorry. Hey, I’m right here."

He reached out, his touch feather-light now, a ghost of the force he’d used seconds ago. He brushed the hair away from her face, flinching when he saw the tears soaking the rug.
"I didn't mean to... I went too far," he murmured, guilt twisting in his gut.

He grabbed the black t-shirt he’d discarded earlier from the floor. With gentle, reverent hands, he wiped the mess from her back, cleaning her skin with careful strokes. He tossed the shirt aside and immediately reached for her, hooking his arms under her shoulders to lift her up.

She was limp, boneless, her head lolling against his chest as he pulled her backward into his lap. He sat back against the hearth, cradling her between his legs, pulling her back against his chest so he could wrap his arms completely around her.

"I've got you," he whispered into her hair, rocking her slightly. "I've got you, baby. You’re okay. I’m so sorry."

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, right over the spot where he had bitten her. He saw the mark—angry and purple against her pale skin—and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to it, trying to soothe the hurt away.

"I lost it," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, chafing warmth back into her skin, feeling the tremors slowly beginning to subside. "I just needed you so bad I stopped thinking. Are you okay? Talk to me, baby. Tell me I didn't break you."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The world was still tilting on its axis, a blur of firelight and the erratic thumping of Ben’s heart against her back. Cleo couldn't stop the tears; they were a physical reaction, a release valve for the overwhelming intensity that had just crashed through her system. When he pulled her back against his chest, enveloping her in his heat and scent, she didn't fight him. She melted into him, her body feeling heavy and overused, like a wire that had carried too much current.

His arm was a solid bar of iron wrapped around her front, holding her together when she felt like she might scatter apart. Instinctively, she brought her hands up, her fingers trembling as she hooked her arms over his forearm, anchoring herself to his strength. She needed that contact, needed to feel the tension in his muscles to know he was real, that they were back on solid ground.

With a ragged, hitching breath, she shifted her weight slightly to the left, trying to find a position that eased the sting on her skin. She curled inward, drawing her knees up high until they touched her chest, making herself small within the protective cage of his embrace.

Every inch of her was throbbing. A dull, pulsing ache radiated from her hips where his fingers had dug in, and deeper inside, she felt swollen and raw, her body still vibrating with the phantom echoes of his possession. It was a soreness that went bone-deep, a heavy, pulsing reminder of how completely he had just overwhelmed her.

She heard the panic in his voice, the raw fear that he had damaged her, and she forced her lungs to expand against the tightness in her chest. She swallowed the sob threatening to climb her throat.

"I’m okay," she finally spoke, the words coming out as a wet, broken whisper. She squeezed his arm, a weak reassurance, and let her head fall back against his shoulder. "I... I’m okay."

She couldn't get any more words out. The "I’m okay" had taken the last of her breath, and her throat felt too raw, too tight to force another sound past the lump sitting there.

Instead, she let her actions speak for her. She squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears squeezing out from the corners to track into her hairline, and simply breathed him in. The scent of him—musk, salt, and the faint, smoky cling of the fireplace—filled her nose, grounding her faster than any apology could.

She tightened her grip on his forearm, her fingers digging into his muscle just enough to show him she was present, that she wasn't broken. She felt the tremors still racking his body, vibrating against her back, and she hated that he was scared. She wanted to soothe him, but she was too drained to move, too heavy to do anything but exist in his hold.

She shifted her head, rubbing her cheek against the solid curve of his shoulder, nuzzling into the warmth of his skin. It was a silent plea for him to just hold her, to stop the apologies and just let the dust settle around them. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackling fire and the slow, stabilizing rhythm of their hearts beating against one another.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her whisper was the only thing that could have pulled him back from the edge.

I’m okay.

It was weak, barely there, but the way she squeezed his arm—her fingers digging into his muscle with that familiar, stubborn strength—told him the truth. She wasn't broken. She was just raw. And honestly, so was he.

The guilt that had flared up in his chest settled into something heavier, something warmer. He stopped the stream of apologies. She didn't need him to grovel; she needed him to be the ground beneath her feet.

"Okay," he breathed against her hair, the vibration low in his chest. "Okay."

He didn't like her on the rug anymore. The wool was too rough against her skin, and the floor was too hard for the way she was trembling.

"Up," he murmured, shifting his grip.

He moved efficiently, scooping his arm under her knees and the other around her back. He stood up in one fluid motion, lifting her effortlessly. She curled into him instantly, a small, naked weight that fit perfectly against his chest. She buried her face in his neck, hiding from the room, and he held her tighter, his jaw brushing against the top of her head.

He carried her the few steps to the overstuffed leather couch that faced the fire. He sat down heavily, keeping her settled in his lap, refusing to let her go even for a second.

He reached out blindly with one hand, grabbing the thick, knitted throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa. He shook it out and wrapped it around her, tucking the edges in tight, covering her nakedness not because he was ashamed of it, but because he wanted to shield her. He wanted to be the only thing touching her.

She was a bundle of warmth in his arms now, only her face and one hand visible.
He leaned back against the cushions, adjusting her so she was cradled against his chest, her legs draped over his thighs. The firelight flickered over her face, illuminating the wet tracks on her cheeks and the swollen redness of her lips.

She looked wrecked. She looked beautiful.

He lifted his hand, his thumb brushing gently under her eye, sweeping away a stray tear. She flinched slightly, just a reflex, and he hushed her with a soft, soothing sound.

"I’ve got you," he whispered. "You’re safe. We’re just here."

He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his lips. He kissed the damp skin of her cheek, tasting the salt. He kissed her closed eyelid, then the tip of her nose. Soft, feather-light touches that were a stark, deliberate contrast to the violence of a few minutes ago.

He wasn't trying to fix it. He was just loving her through the comedown.

He brushed a damp strand of hair away from her forehead, his eyes roaming over her face with a fierce, quiet devotion.

"Just breathe, baby," he murmured, his hand rubbing slow, large circles on her back through the blanket. "I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here holding you until the world stops spinning."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The blanket was a mercy, a heavy, woven shield that trapped her heat and hid the tremors still racking her muscles, but it was Ben’s arms that actually held her together. Being lifted from the floor and settled onto the couch felt like being pulled from a shipwreck onto dry land; the world was still spinning, but at least the ground beneath her wasn't moving.

She burrowed deeper into the warmth of his chest, listening to the heavy, steady thud of his heart. It was slowing down, just like hers, syncing back to a rhythm that suggested life might actually go on.

She could feel the tension radiating off him, the way he was handling her with terrified reverence, as if he thought she might shatter into a thousand pieces if he squeezed too hard. He was drowning in guilt, murmuring reassurances that were more for him than for her. But as her mind slowly began to reassemble itself, clearing the haze of endorphins and adrenaline, she knew he had it wrong.

She wasn't a victim in this.

She had been the match that lit the fuse. She had screamed his claim because she needed to hear it, needed to feel the weight of his possession to silence the noise in her own head. The violence of it—the sheer, unbridled desperation—hadn’t been one-sided. It had been a mutual exorcism. She had wanted him to lose control, to stop thinking and just take. She had wanted to be overwhelmed, to be forced out of her own mind and anchored entirely in her body, and he had given her exactly that.

The soreness throbbing through her hips and the raw, stinging ache between her legs weren't injuries to be mourned; they were proof of life. They were the physical echo of a connection so intense it had burned everything else away. She hurt, yes. Every inch of her felt bruised and overextended, her skin sensitive and her muscles turned to jelly. But it was a satisfied hurt. It was the reality of what happened when two starving things finally collided.

She took a slow, shuddering breath, the scent of him filling her lungs—sweat, sex, and the faint metallic tang of the adrenaline still lingering in the air. Clarity was returning in jagged shards.

One specific shard pierced through the afterglow, sharp and undeniable.
She realized suddenly that amidst the frenzy, the tearing of clothes, and the desperate need to be inside her, a crucial step had been skipped. There had been no pause. No plastic wrapper tearing. Just skin on skin, heat on heat.

She shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at her sore muscles, and peeled one eye open.

Ben was looking down at her, his face a mask of concern and lingering ferocity. She studied him for a second, seeing the love there, but needing to ground this moment in the absolute, stark reality of what they had just done.

Her voice was a rasp, stripped of its usual polish.

"You fucked me without a condom."

She watched the color drain slightly from his face, the panic of the responsible man warring with the satisfaction of the primal animal that had just ravaged her. It was almost comical, the way his eyes widened, oscillating between 'I claimed my mate' and 'Oh god, I just ruined our lives.'

She let out a short, breathy laugh that hurt her ribs, but she couldn't help it. She poked a finger into his solid pectoral muscle, right over his racing heart.

"Don't look at me like that," she croaked, a small, crooked smile tugging at her swollen lips. "I was there. I remember. I'm pretty sure I was cheering you on."
She shifted again, wincing theatrically as she tried to find a softer spot on his lap, letting out a long, dramatic exhale.

"But seriously, Benjamin," she drawled, her voice gaining a little more of its usual dry bite, though it was still laced with exhaustion. "If that reckless display of testosterone results in a tiny version of you, you are doing all the night feeds. Every single one. That is the tax. I am not ruining my sleep schedule because we have the combined impulse control of two teenagers in the backseat of a Honda Civic."

She rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him through her lashes, the humor softening the stark reality of the risk they’d just taken.

"And if I am pregnant," she added, narrowing her eyes with mock severity, "you owe me a very expensive push present. I’m talking diamonds. Big ones. Something to distract me from the fact that I let you turn my brain into mush and my common sense into dust."

She sighed, patting his cheek with a heavy hand. "We are terrible at being adults. Just... zero stars. Would not recommend."

[Benjamin Wilder]

The sheer, blunt force of her statement—You fucked me without a condom—hit him harder than the slap he’d delivered earlier.

Ben froze, his hand stilling on her back, his heart skipping a beat before hammering a frantic double-time against his ribs. For a split second, the haze of afterglow vanished, replaced by the cold, mathematical panic of a man calculating dates and consequences.

But then she laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, but it was a laugh. And then she poked him in the chest, complaining about night feeds and Honda Civics, and the tension that had been crushing his lungs evaporated.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, his head dropping back against the leather cushions as a low, incredulous chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"Jesus, Cleo," he breathed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the exhaustion. He looked down at her, seeing the spark of humor returning to her eyes, cutting through the glaze of the orgasm. She was back. She was snarky, demanding, and absolutely perfect.

He caught the hand she was using to poke him and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"For the record," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and lingering adrenaline, "I did pull out. It was a photo finish, and I definitely ruined the rug, but I didn't finish inside you."

He paused, cringing slightly at his own defense.

"And yes, I know," he added quickly, cutting off her eye-roll before it could fully form. "I know the 'pull and pray' method has about the same success rate as a coin toss. It’s the 'dog ate my homework' of birth control. I’m not winning any awards for responsibility tonight."

He shifted, his hand sliding under the blanket to rest flat against her stomach. His palm was large, warm, and heavy.

"But I’m not gonna lie," he whispered, his eyes darkening as the image of the last few minutes flashed behind his eyelids. "Watching you come undone like that... seeing the mess I made on your back? It was a beautiful sight, Cleo. A masterpiece. Worth the panic attack, honestly."

He listened to her list of demands—night feeds, diamonds, the tax for his recklessness. He should be terrified. He was a musician in the prime of his career; a baby wasn't on the rider. But looking at her now, wrapped in his blanket with her hair a mess and her lips swollen from his mouth, the idea didn't scare him.

It settled in his chest, warm and heavy.

"Deal," he said simply.

"If there's a tiny version of me in there because I couldn't keep my hands off you? I’ll do every night feed. I’ll buy you the diamonds. I’ll buy you the whole damn mine if you want it."
He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers, the playful glint returning to his eyes.

"But I’m a man with a contingency plan. Or, at least, a man with good observational skills." He smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m ninety percent sure I saw a box of Plan B behind the counter at the general store today. It was right between the beef jerky and the fishing bait."

He kissed the tip of her nose, his expression softening.

"We’ll make a run tomorrow morning. I'll buy the pill, you buy the donuts, and we’ll pretend we’re responsible adults again. But tonight..." He pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Tonight, you just let me hold you. Zero stars or not."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh, the vibration of it rippling through her chest against his. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, savoring the absurdity of the conversation—discussing potential parenthood while she was still naked, sticky, and trembling in his arms.

"A photo finish?" she repeated, the words muffled slightly against his skin. She tilted her head back to give him a look that was equal parts incredulous and affectionate. "You make it sound like the Kentucky Derby.”

She felt the weight of his hand on her stomach, the heat of it seeping through to her skin. His promise about the night feeds—the absolute lack of hesitation in his voice—made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the physical exertion. It was terrifyingly sweet. Too sweet. So, naturally, she had to diffuse it.

"I’m holding you to that," she warned, though her voice was soft, lacking any real bite. "If I end up expanding, I expect you to be a servant to my every whim. I want foot rubs, I want weird cravings satisfied at 3 AM, and I want that mine. I want to be dripping in conflict-free carbon."

When he mentioned the placement of the Plan B at the general store, she actually snorted, the laugh startling a fresh wave of soreness through her ribs.

"Between the beef jerky and the fishing bait?" She shook her head, her cheek rubbing against his chest. "Of course it is. Because nothing says 'responsible family planning' quite like Slim Jims and nightcrawlers. This town is a fever dream."

But when he pivoted to the plan for the morning—we’ll make a run—she stopped him.

She shifted in his lap, wincing just a fraction as her muscles protested, and freed one hand from the cocoon of the blanket. She placed her index finger firmly over his lips, silencing him.

"Stop right there," she murmured, shaking her head slowly, her eyes heavy-lidded but resolute. "There is no 'we' in this expedition."

She burrowed back down, wrapping her limbs around him like a koala, making herself heavy and immovable. She was an anchor; she was a statue; she was not leaving this cabin.

"You," she corrected, poking his chest for emphasis with each word. "You are going. You are going to brave the cold, you are going to buy the emergency contraception located next to the bait, and you are going to buy the donuts. Chocolate frosted. Two dozen."

She closed her eyes again, snuggling deeper into the crook of his neck.

"I, however, am staying right here. In the warmth. Recovering from your 'photo finish.' That is the deal. Take it or leave it."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her finger pressed against his lips was a small, soft barricade, but the weight of her body settling against him was an ironclad decree.

He felt her limbs lock around him, her breathing evening out against his neck, and he knew he wasn't winning this argument. Not that he wanted to. The fact that she felt safe enough to order him around while naked and wrapped in a blanket like an exhausted burrito was something he cherished.

He let out a soft huff of laughter against her finger, reaching up to gently wrap his hand around hers and pull it away from his mouth. He kissed her palm—a slow, lingering press of his lips against her lifeline—before tucking her hand back under the warmth of the knit throw to keep it from the cool air.

"Loud and clear, boss," he whispered, his voice rumbling against her ear. "I’ll brave the elements. I’ll face the bait-shop owner. I will secure the contraband."

He shifted his legs slightly, accommodating her dead weight, and tightened his arms around the bundle of her.

"Two dozen chocolate frosted," he mused, a smirk playing on his lips even though her eyes were closed. "Aggressive order. I respect it. We’ll eat them in bed until we both slip into a sugar coma."

He looked down at her. The firelight was casting long, dancing shadows across the room, but in the circle of his arms, everything was still. She was right. She shouldn't move. After the way he’d just handled her—the way he’d pinned her, marked her, and taken her apart on the floor—she deserved to be waited on hand and foot for the next century.

But despite the heavy, bone-deep exhaustion settling into his limbs, Ben found that he wasn't ready to close his eyes.

Sleep felt like a waste. Sleep meant fast-forwarding through the time he had fought so hard to get. He had spent months in hotel rooms where the silence was deafening and lonely, wishing he could teleport to exactly this spot. Now that he was here, with the fire crackling and Cleo heavy and warm in his lap, he felt greedy. He wanted to steal a few more minutes. He wanted to exist in the afterglow just a little longer.

He shifted his hand, sliding it up the back of her neck to thread his fingers into the hair at the base of her skull. He began a slow, rhythmic massage, feeling the tension slowly leaching out of her.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice low and raspy.

He felt her hum a vibration against his chest—not quite a word, but an acknowledgment.

"Don't pass out on me yet," he whispered, tilting his head so his cheek rested against her temple. He kept his eyes open, watching the logs shift and settle in the grate. "I’m not done looking at you. And the fire's still good."

He squeezed her waist gently through the blanket, grounding her.

"Besides," he added, a hint of his usual playful arrogance creeping back into his tone, "you still owe me a review on the view. You said it was 'zero stars,' but I felt that squeeze, babe. I think the data is skewed."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo opened her eyes slowly, the firelight dancing in her vision as she gave her head a small, adamant shake against the crook of his arm.

"I’m not sleeping," she murmured, her voice thick with contentment. "Just... resting my eyes. And enjoying the service. It’s not every day a girl gets held with this much care by a genuine rockstar."

She shifted then, not moving away, but adjusting her position as she sat across his lap. He had her cradled securely, his arms forming a protective cage around her, and she leaned back just enough to look him fully in the face. She settled deeper into his hold, feeling the solid muscles of his thighs beneath her and the steady rise and fall of his chest against her side.

Slowly, she worked her hand free from the warmth of the knit blanket. Her fingers, cool from the air, reached up to graze his jawline. She traced the shape of his mouth, her thumb brushing over his lips—the same lips that had just promised her donuts—before drifting upward.

She stopped at the two bold freckles high on his cheekbone.
She rubbed her thumb over them gently, a soft, reverent touch. She knew millions of women screamed for this face. They had posters of it on their walls, zoomed in on photos of these exact freckles on Instagram, obsessed over every inch of him. But they never got to see him like this. Up close. Guard down. Touchable.

She was never a fan before they started dating. She hadn't even known who he was when they met in that sweltering tent at Coachella in 2020. He had just been a guy offering her shade and water, and she had just been a girl trying not to melt. She hadn't known his songs, his fame, or his reputation.

Maybe that’s what made her different. She met the man before she met the musician. She fell for the guy who made sure she was hydrated, not the guy who sold out arenas.

Her hand drifted down from his cheek, trailing over the cords of his neck and down the solid expanse of his chest until she found where his hand was resting against her waist.

She tugged at his wrist gently, guiding his palm underneath the layers of the knit throw until skin met skin. She pressed his hand flat against her bare stomach, covering the back of his hand with her own to keep it there, anchored and heavy.

It wasn't about the earlier teasing. It had nothing to do with the phantom "passenger" or the hypothetical future they had joked about in the heat of the moment. It wasn't about checking for something that wasn't there.

It was just... him.

She loved the sheer weight of his hand. She loved the rough, calloused texture of his fingertips—hard-earned evidence of thousands of hours pressing down on guitar strings—resting against the softness of her belly. It felt grounding. It felt like he was staking a claim, his heat seeping directly into her, reminding her that he was actually here. He wasn't a pixelated face on a Facetime call or a voice across a bad connection anymore. He was flesh and blood, heavy and warm, holding her together.

"Definitely five stars," she whispered, her gaze dropping to watch the slight rise and fall of her own breathing beneath his palm. "I’m keeping the subscription."

She leaned in then, closing the small distance between them until her breath mingled with his.

The first press of her lips against his was barely a touch—a feather-light graze, soft and adoring. It was a silent thank you for the water in the tent five years ago, for the way he held her now, for the quiet he carved out of the noise just for her. She kissed him slowly, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the faint scratch of stubble against her chin, the familiar, comforting taste of him.

Then, she deepened it.

She didn't rush. There was no urgency, no frantic clawing for more. She simply melted into him, tilting her head to deepen the contact, her lips parting just enough to taste him fully. It was a slow, languid slide into intimacy, keeping the heat low but constant—like the embers glowing in the grate beside them. It wasn't about reigniting the fire they’d just spent; it was about tending to the warmth that remained.

She felt the weight of his hand heavy and possessive against her stomach, anchoring her to him as she kissed him with a lazy, deliberate tenderness, pouring every ounce of her affection into the silence between them.

[Benjamin Wilder]

He kissed her back with the same slow, rolling cadence, his mouth moving over hers with a lazy, thorough appreciation.

Earlier, on the floor, he had been trying to consume her. He had been starving. But this? This was savoring. This was the difference between chugging a cheap beer backstage and sipping a whiskey by the fire. He let her lead, let her tongue trace the seam of his lips, let her taste the remnants of the night on him.

He hummed a low sound of approval against her mouth, the vibration rumbling in his chest where she was pressed so tight.

When she guided his hand under the blanket, pressing his palm flat against the bare skin of her stomach, Ben felt something settle deep in his gut. It was a heavy, grounding sensation, like dropping an anchor in rough water.

He splayed his fingers wide, covering as much of her as he could. His skin was rough—calloused from steel strings and abuse—against the impossible softness of her belly. He felt the heat radiating off her, the slight, rhythmic rise and fall of her breath, and beneath that, the faint flutter of her pulse.

It wasn't just about the sex anymore. It wasn't even about the reckless risk they’d taken, though the thought of it still made his heart kick a little harder in his chest. It was about possession.

She was right. The girls screaming in the front row, the ones with his face on their lock screens? They wanted the guy who stood under the lights. They wanted the noise.

But Cleo?

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes drifting shut as he breathed in her scent.

She had met him when he was just a sweaty, exhausted guy in a tent, trying not to pass out from heatstroke. She hadn't asked for a selfie. She hadn't asked for a setlist. She’d just shared her water and looked at him like he was a person.

That was the moment he was hooked. Not when she took her clothes off, not when she kissed him, but when she looked at him without seeing the dollar signs or the billboard.

"Five stars," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy croak that brushed against her lips. "Good. Because the cancellation policy is brutal. You’re locked in, babe. Lifetime contract."

He flexed his hand against her stomach, his thumb brushing back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm over her navel. He loved the way she trusted him with this—her softest parts, her guard completely down.

"You know," he whispered, opening his eyes to look at her, really look at her, in the dying light of the fire. His gaze traced the swell of her lip, the flush on her cheeks, the way she looked at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. "That day in the tent... I looked like hell. I smelled like sunscreen and bad decisions. And you still looked at me like this."

He smirked, a crooked, boyish thing that softened the sharp angles of his face.

"That's how I knew," he admitted, his voice dropping to a level of honesty he usually saved for the songwriting journal he kept hidden. "Everyone else wants the encore. You were the only one who wanted the guy who was too tired to play it."

He leaned in, capturing her lips again, but this time with a bit more pressure, a bit more heat. He slid his hand from her stomach around to the small of her back, pressing her closer until there was no air left between them.

"So yeah," he breathed against her mouth. "You get the service. You get the care. You get whatever the hell you want, Cleo. Just keep looking at me like that."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a soft, breathy laugh that vibrated against his mouth, her lips curving into a wide, undeniable grin even as he tried to kiss her seriously.

She slid her hands up from his chest, her fingers gliding over the strong column of his neck to bury themselves deep in his hair. She scratched her nails lightly against his scalp, feeling him shiver under her touch, and her grin widened.

"But let’s not pretend I was blind, Ben. I didn't know who you were, true. I didn't know the songs or the reputation." Her eyes danced with a mixture of mischief and adoration. "But I knew you were hot. You were sitting there, sweating in that tent, smelling like coconut sunscreen and dust, looking absolutely wrecked... and I still thought, 'Well, he’s beautiful.'"

She tugged gently on his hair, tilting his head back just a fraction so she could kiss the corner of his mouth.

"That’s the difference," she whispered, her voice dropping to that intimate register that was just for him. "I didn't want the encore because I was already obsessed with the opening act. I saw the mess, and I wanted it."

She felt the weight of his hand on her lower back, the way he claimed her, and her heart did a traitorous little flip. The idea of a 'lifetime contract' didn't scare her half as much as it should have. In fact, it sounded like the only rider she was interested in signing.

She leaned her forehead against his again, her fingers tightening in his hair, anchoring him to her just as firmly as he was holding her.

"So, consider the terms accepted," she breathed, closing her eyes and soaking in the heat of his skin against hers. "But there’s a clause."

She brushed her lips against his, firm and demanding.
"Never take your hands off of me, Benjamin."

She didn't wait for him to agree to the terms. The playfulness in her eyes darkened into something fiercer, something that matched the raw honesty he’d just given her.

Her other hand slid up from his shoulder, joining the first one. She buried both hands deep in his messy hair now, her fingers curling tight against his scalp, gripping the thick strands like they were the only things keeping her tethered to the earth.

With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, she used that leverage to drag his head down, crashing her mouth against his.

The softness was gone. This wasn't a gentle exploration anymore; it was a claim. She kissed him with a hungry, demanding heat, her lips parting instantly to deepen the contact. She tasted him, her tongue tangling with his, pouring every ounce of her affection and desire into the movement. It was a physical seal on the contract he’d just offered, a way of telling him that she didn't just want the service or the care—she wanted the grit, the exhaustion, and the man beneath it all.

She pulled him harder against her, her grip in his hair tightening, urging him closer, deeper, until the crackling of the fire was drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears. She kissed him like she was trying to breathe for both of them.

[Benjamin Wilder]

He didn't just accept the kiss; he surrendered to it.

When her fingers tightened in his hair, dragging him down, a jolt of pure, electric satisfaction arced down his spine. He made a low, rough noise in his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and opened his mouth to her, letting her take exactly what she wanted.

She tasted like expensive wine. She tasted like his.

He loved the way she kissed him when she was like this—fierce, possessive, a little desperate. It was the same energy she’d had on the floor, but focused entirely on his mouth. She wasn't asking for reassurance anymore; she was demanding his presence.

Never take your hands off of me.

The command echoed in his head, louder than the crackling fire. It was the easiest clause he’d ever agreed to.

He shifted his grip instantly, sliding his hands from the blanket to find the warm, bare skin of her waist again. He spread his fingers wide, his thumbs digging into the soft curve of her hips, pulling her hips flush against his. He wanted to merge with her. He wanted to be so close that he couldn't tell whose heart was beating against whose ribs.

He broke the kiss for a split second, just to breathe, his forehead resting heavily against hers, his eyes dark and blown wide.

"You think that's going to be a problem?" he rasped, his voice wrecked and incredulous. "Cleo, I can’t keep my hands off you even when I’m trying to be a gentleman. You think I’m going to stop now?"

He tilted his head, catching her lips again, but slower this time—a deep, rolling grind of his mouth against hers that promised trouble.

"And for the record," he murmured against her bottom lip, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth, "if you thought I was beautiful when I was heat-stroked and covered in dust... then I really have you fooled. But I'm not correcting you."

He moved one hand up her back, tracing the spine he had just marked, his touch possessive but careful.

"The contract is signed, babe," he whispered, nipping lightly at her lower lip. "No take-backs. You wanted the mess? You got him. I'm yours. Every version of me."

He tightened his grip in her hair, mirroring her hold, and pulled her back in. This wasn't just a make-out session on a couch anymore. It was a seal. It was Ben realizing that for the first time in his life, the silence of a cabin in the woods was infinitely louder, and infinitely better, than a screaming crowd.

He kissed her until the fire popped and hissed beside them, until the cold of the window behind them was a distant memory, and until he was absolutely certain she knew he wasn't letting go. Not tonight. Not ever.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt a shiver race through her, not from the cold draft of the cabin, but from the raw, possessive rasp of his voice vibrating against her lips. She leaned into his touch, her body molding against his as if she were trying to imprint herself onto him, loving the way his thumbs dug into her hips to keep her anchored.

"Good," she breathed against his mouth, a small, breathless laugh escaping her. "Because 'gentleman' is overrated. I didn't ask for the polite version, Ben. I prefer the guy who can't keep his hands to himself. So don't you dare start practicing restraint now."

She kept her eyes locked on his, dark and dilated, drinking in the honesty he was spilling just for her. When he tried to downplay the memory of the tent, claiming she was fooled by the heat and dust, she shook her head slightly, her fingers tightening in the hair at the nape of his neck to force him to look at her.

"You didn't fool me," she whispered, her voice fierce and low. She brushed her nose against his, unwilling to give up the contact even for a second. "That guy in the tent? The one covered in dust and sweat? That was the most honest thing I’ve ever seen. The magazines, the stage lights, the photoshoots... that’s the trick, Ben. That’s the costume."

She traced the sharp line of his jaw with her thumb, her expression softening into pure, unadulterated adoration.

"I saw the real you first," she told him, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of it. "And you were beautiful because you were real. No filter. No autotune. Just you."

When he declared the contract signed—when he offered her the mess and every broken, tired piece of himself—Cleo felt her heart swell so tight it actually ached behind her ribs.

"I’ll take the mess," she vowed, pressing her forehead against his, her breath mingling with his. "I’ll take the exhaustion. I’ll take the bad days and the hotel rooms and the silence. I’m not looking for a refund, Benjamin. I’m keeping all of it."

She kissed him then, a slow, searing seal on her own promise, letting her tongue tangle with his one last time before she slowly, reluctantly pulled back just an inch. Her arms, however, stayed locked firmly around his neck.

She looked down at herself, then back up at him, a playful, lazy smirk curving her swollen lips.

"But if the contract includes full service," she murmured, her voice dripping with feigned helplessness, "then we have a logistical issue regarding the bedroom."

She nudged her nose against his cheek, whispering into his ear.
"You realize you’ve rendered my legs completely useless, right? After what you did to me on the floor... I don't think I can walk." She tightened her hold on him, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You broke me, rockstar. You’re going to have to carry me to bed."

[Benjamin Wilder]

He stared at her, the playful smirk on his face slowly fading into an expression of raw, unguarded wonder.

He was used to people dissecting him. Critics, fans, managers—they all had an opinion on who Ben Wilder was, what he represented, and how much he was worth. But Cleo just stripped all of that away with a few sentences. She didn't just tolerate the dust and the sweat; she preferred it. She looked past the costume and fell in love with the guy underneath, the one who was just trying to figure it all out.

It hit him in the chest like a physical weight, but a good one. Like a weighted blanket.
"You really know how to wreck a guy's ego, don't you?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned in, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to her forehead. "I spend a lot of money on that costume, Cleo. But... I’m glad you saw through it. I’m glad it was you."

He let the silence stretch for a moment, just breathing her in, feeling the absolute certainty of her claim on him. I'm keeping all of it.

Then, she whispered the logistical issue.

Ben felt the rumble of laughter start deep in his chest before it even reached his throat. He looked down at her, seeing the mischief dancing in her eyes and the genuine exhaustion in her body, and a wave of dark, masculine satisfaction washed over him.

He had rendered her legs useless. He had done that.

"Is that a complaint, or a performance review?" he teased, a wicked glint entering his eyes. "Because from where I’m sitting, that sounds like a job well done. I take my work very seriously."

He didn't hesitate. He shifted his grip, securing one arm under her knees and the other around her back, keeping the knit blanket wrapped tight around her like a cocoon.
"Logistics handled," he announced.

With a grunt of effort that was mostly for show—she felt light in his arms, precious and substantial all at once—he stood up. The sudden altitude change made her cling to him tighter, her arms locked around his neck, and he loved it. He loved the dependence. He loved that she wasn't even trying to walk.

"Hold on," he instructed, turning away from the dying fire.

He carried her through the dim cabin, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. The air was colder away from the hearth, a reminder that they were in the middle of the woods in winter, but he kept her pressed close to his body heat.

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, revealing the sanctuary they had claimed. The bed was a mess of unmade flannel sheets and down comforters, a glorious, inviting nest.

He walked over to the side of the bed and lowered her down slowly, treating her like something breakable, despite the fact that they both knew she was tough as nails. He settled her against the pillows, the mattress dipping under her weight.

He didn't pull away immediately. He hovered over her, his hands braced on the mattress on either side of her head, trapping her one last time.

"You stay right there," he murmured, looking down at her with a crooked, affectionate grin. "Rest the legs. You’re gonna need them tomorrow if you plan on keeping up with me."
He leaned down, stealing one last, soft kiss from her swollen lips.

"I’ll go double-check the lock on the door and dampen the fire," he promised, straightening up and running a hand through his messy hair. "Then I’m coming back to cash in on that cuddling clause. Don't go falling asleep before I get back."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo wrapped her arms tighter around his neck as he scooped her up, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder to hide the absolute, dopey grin spreading across her face.

"It’s definitely a commendation," she murmured against his shirt, her voice muffled but teasing. "Five stars for the structural damage. You really committed to the role."

She let him carry her, loving the feeling of being small in his arms. When he lowered her onto the bed, she sank into the mattress, looking up at him as he hovered over her. The way he looked at her—like he’d just discovered fire—made her breath hitch.

"I’m not going anywhere," she promised, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her eyes were soft, unguarded, and shining in the dim light. "I'll be right here, waiting for the cuddle clause. Hurry back, Benjamin ."

She watched him walk to the door, her gaze tracing the broad line of his shoulders until he disappeared into the hallway.

Cleo bit her lip, but she couldn't stop the soft, high-pitched squeal that escaped her throat. She kicked her feet beneath the heavy duvet, giggling into the empty room like a teenager who had just been asked to prom by the captain of the football team. It was ridiculous. It was cliché. And she didn't care.

She raised her hand to her mouth, her fingertips tracing the swollen curve of her lips. They felt tender, sensitive. She could still taste the weed on him; she could still feel the phantom pressure of his mouth claiming hers.

With a contented sigh, she rolled onto her side, reaching out for the other pillow—his pillow. She tugged it underneath her head, angling her body so she was curled around it. She buried her nose into the cotton case and inhaled deeply.

It smelled like cedar, woodsmoke, and him.
It was intoxicating. She closed her eyes, hugging the pillow against her chest. She loved everything about this man. She loved the man who had wrecked her on the floor with his intensity, and she loved the man who had just tucked her in like she was made of precious glass. He had taken her apart and put her back together in the span of an hour.

Suddenly, the weight of it hit her. The sheer magnitude of how much she had to lose.

The thought of the scary parts—the tours, the distance, the press, the inevitable complications of dating a man the world thought they owned—prickled hot behind her eyelids. A single tear leaked out, tracking a warm line down her temple and soaking into his pillowcase. It was terrifying to love someone this much. It was terrifying to think it might not work.

She quickly wiped the tear away with the back of her hand, sniffing once.
No, she told herself firmly.

A small, brave smile touched her lips, chasing the fear away. She snuggled deeper into his scent, letting the warmth of the bed envelop her. They could figure out the complicated stuff later. They could fight the world tomorrow.

For right now, she was here. She was safe. And he was coming back.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The hallway air bit at his bare skin, a sharp, icy contrast to the steam oven of the bedroom, but Ben didn't mind. In fact, he kind of liked it. It felt sobering. It felt real.

He padded silently into the main room, his naked feet gripping the cool wood floor. He went straight to the heavy front door, twisting the deadbolt with a loud, definitive click. Then he checked the window latches. He wasn’t paranoid; he was possessive. He wanted to make sure the world outside—the snow, the wind, the noise—stayed exactly where it belonged.

He moved to the hearth, grabbing the iron poker to nudge the dying logs apart, banking the fire for the night. As the flames settled into a low, pulsing glow, his eyes drifted to the rug.
He stopped, a slow, crooked grin spreading across his face.

It was a disaster zone. The wool was rumpled and shoved askew, a testament to the absolute chaos they had just unleashed. He could almost still see the ghost of her there, pressed into the floor, screaming his name. A crime scene of the very best kind.

He ran a hand through his hair, the messy strands falling back into his eyes, and let out a short, satisfied exhale. Yeah, he thought. Structural damage confirmed.

He turned back toward the bedroom, his stride loose and easy.

When he stepped through the doorway, the sight of her stopped him cold again.

She was curled on her side, facing away from the door, her small frame swallowed by the heavy duvet. But it was what she was holding that made his chest tighten. She had bypassed her own pillow entirely and was wrapped around his, burying her nose in the cotton like it was oxygen.

She wasn't clutching a platinum record. She wasn't holding a magazine with his face on it. She was clinging to a pillowcase that smelled like his drool, his cedar shampoo, and the sweat of a man who slept too hard.

It was the most intimate thing he’d ever seen.

He moved quietly, navigating the room by the faint moonlight filtering through the window. He reached the side of the bed and lifted the edge of the duvet, sliding his naked body into the warmth she had created.

The mattress dipped, and he settled in immediately behind her, fitting his body to the curve of hers like a spoon returning to its drawer. He pressed his chest against her back, the friction of skin-on-skin sending a fresh, low-level hum of electricity through him, even though he was thoroughly spent.

He draped his arm over her waist, his heavy hand finding her stomach, pulling her flush against him.

That’s when he saw it.

In the dim light, a small, dark damp spot bloomed on the pillowcase right near her eye. A tear track.

He frowned, his heart giving a painful little kick. He knew that tear. It wasn't sadness. It was the overflow. It was the scary part of loving someone so much it felt like free-falling without a chute.

He didn't wake her to ask about it. He just tightened his hold, his chin resting on top of her head, surrounding her completely.

"I caught you," he whispered into the dark, his voice barely a breath of sound against her hair. "Sniffing my pillow. That’s bordering on obsessive behavior, babe."

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, lingering there, breathing in the scent of her.
"Don't worry," he murmured, answering the fear he knew was lingering behind that tear. "I'm back and not going anywhere else. You’re stuck with the real thing now."

He closed his eyes, his hand splayed wide and protective over her belly, letting the darkness and the silence of the cabin wash over them. For the first time in his life, the silence wasn't waiting to be filled with noise. It was already full.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The vibration of his voice against her hair pulled her up from the heavy, dreamless depth she’d fallen into. She hadn't realized she was crying until she felt the cool track of the tear drying on her cheek, contrasting sharply with the overwhelming heat radiating from him.

She didn't want to hide it. She didn't want to hide anything.

She shifted, the movement fluid and instinctual, the heavy duvet twisting around her legs as she rolled onto her back within the circle of his arms. He moved with her, shifting his weight until he was hovering over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight, caging her in against the mattress. He was a dark, solid silhouette against the pale gray of the room, and looking up at him felt like looking at the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

Her arms lifted, heavy and languid, to wind around his neck. Her fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, anchoring him there, refusing to let the distance grow even an inch.

"Call me obsessive then," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and a raw, terrifying honesty. Her thumb brushed the pulse point below his ear. "I don't care."

She didn't wait for a rebuttal. She pulled him down, closing the small gap between them to press her lips to his. It wasn't a hungry kiss, or a desperate one—it was a seal. It was slow and deep, tasting of the woodsmoke on his skin and the quiet intimacy of the cabin. It was a thank you for coming back from the hallway.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to catch her breath, she looked up into his shadowed eyes, searching for the glint of him in the dark.

"I love you, Benjamin," she whispered, the words tumbling out with a weight that felt like it might crush her if she didn't say them. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer again. "So much. It’s... God, it’s so much."

She didn’t let him pull back to look at her, didn’t let him try to diffuse the weight of her words with a joke or a deflection. Instead, she tightened her grip in his hair, guiding his head down until her forehead pressed hard against his.

It was a grounding force. Bone against bone. A point of contact that felt steadier than the floor beneath the bed. She closed her eyes, shutting out the dim room so the only world that existed was the heat of him hovering over her and the rough, rapid cadence of his breathing mixing with hers.

She kept them pressed together, tight, as if trying to physically transfer the thoughts in her head directly into his. She needed him to feel the truth of it, the absolute certainty that scared her and thrilled her all at once.

"I mean it," she breathed into the tiny space between their lips, her eyelashes brushing against his cheekbone. "I’m not scared of the overflow. I want to drown in it."

She held him there, her forehead locked against his, refusing to break the connection, letting the heavy, solid weight of his skull against hers act as the only anchor keeping her from floating away entirely.

The silence settled around them like a second blanket, heavy and warm. The burst of adrenaline that had come with the confession—the raw, terrifying act of saying the words out loud—began to ebb, replaced by a thick, syrupy wave of exhaustion. It was the kind of tired that went down to her bones, a complete and total surrender.

She tried to keep her focus on the pressure of his forehead against hers, on the solid reality of him hovering there, but the pull of sleep was becoming impossible to resist. It tugged at her limbs, making her arms feel pleasantly heavy around his neck, her fingers relaxing their grip in his hair just a fraction.

Her lashes fluttered, fighting a losing battle against gravity. The darkness of the room started to blur together with the darkness behind her eyelids.

"Don't move," she mumbled, the words barely forming, slurring into the small space between them. She wasn't asking him to stay forever—though that was implied—she just meant for right now. She needed him to stay exactly here, hovering in this space where she ended and he began.

Her eyes drifted shut completely, sealing out the moonlight. The last thing she felt before the drift took her was the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against her chest, a lullaby louder than the wind outside.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo (https://i.ibb.co/Zzv02Z5r/IMG-1263.png) had been awake for hours.

Ben had been sprawled across the bed, hair everywhere, face soft in sleep like none of the world’s weight could reach him there. Peaceful in a way that felt unfair after how intense everything had been between them hours earlier. The kind of peaceful that made her chest ache.

She’d leaned down and kissed his cheek, slow and gentle, and watched him stir just slightly—just enough to remind her he was still there, still real—before she finally pulled away. It felt strange, leaving him like that, so open and unguarded, when the night before had been anything but soft.

The cabin was still dark when she finally gave up on sleep—just a faint blue edge of morning beginning to bleed through the frost on the windows. She padded across the wooden floor barefoot, wrapped herself in the thick knit blanket from the couch, and carried her paints to the window like it was instinct instead of intention.

She was still naked underneath it, skin warm from the bed and the night before, the blanket slipping low on her shoulders as she settled onto the floor with her back against the wall. There was something grounding about it—being bare, unhidden, but alone. No audience. No expectations. Just her and the quiet.

It hadn’t been tender at first. It had been messy. Urgent. Two people crashing back into each other after too much time apart. But afterward… that’s what stayed with her now.

The way he’d slowed everything down.
The way his hands had changed.
The way he’d held her like he was trying to put her back together piece by piece.

She could still feel it in her body—how quickly he’d shifted from fire to care, from want to protection. Like he’d scared himself for a second. Like he’d hated the idea of being anything but safe with her. There was something beautiful in how fast he’d caught it.

He’d stayed close.
Touched her like she was fragile.
Made sure she was okay before he even let himself breathe again.

That part sat heavy in her chest now.

Outside, snow blanketed everything. Pines stood tall and dark against the pale sky, their branches heavy, untouched. The world looked paused. Like it was holding its breath. And judging by how far the light had climbed since she first sat down, she’d been here longer than she realized.

Her canvas was already half-finished.

Soft blues layered into gray. White dragged thin across the surface for the way the snow looked when the light finally hit it. She’d started with the trees, because they felt steady. Because she wanted something solid to look at when her thoughts wouldn’t sit still.

Her brush moved slow, careful. She wasn’t rushing. She didn’t want to finish it yet.

Sleep hadn’t come because her brain wouldn’t stop replaying everything—his laugh in the store, the way their hands fit together, the way quiet didn’t feel empty anymore. Anxiety and happiness tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. It felt like standing at the edge of something beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

She kept painting because it helped her breathe.

The window was cold against her shoulder when she leaned closer, studying the way the light filtered through the trees. She added another soft stroke, then another, chasing the exact shade of morning.

She wasn’t sad.

She wasn’t scared.

She was just… awake.

Wide open to it all.

Wrapped in a blanket. Surrounded by snow. Painting the proof of how long she’d been sitting there, letting the quiet hold her while her heart ran circles around the future.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Consciousness returned to him like a bad fade-in on an old cassette tape—warped, slow, and heavy with static.

Ben groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest, and threw a heavy arm across the mattress, expecting to hit the warm, solid curve of Cleo’s waist. He was ready to pull her back into him, to bury his face in her hair and refuse to acknowledge that the sun existed.

His hand hit cold, flat cotton.

His eyes snapped open.

For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, he didn't know where he was. The wood beams on the ceiling were unfamiliar. The silence was too loud. The smell of cedar and stale woodsmoke wasn't the sterile, air-conditioned scent of a tour bus or the generic floral cleaner of a hotel room.

He sat up, the duvet pooling at his waist, his hair a chaotic, gravity-defying mess sticking up in every direction. He blinked rapidly against the harsh winter light streaming through the uncurtained window, his heart hammering a frantic, double-time rhythm against his ribs.

Empty.

The other side of the bed was made—or rather, the pillow was untouched, the sheets cool.
A cold spike of adrenaline shot through his veins, instantly vaporizing the sleep fog. For a irrational, sickening moment, his brain supplied the worst possible narrative: It was a dream. You’re still on the road. You’re in Omaha, or maybe Detroit, and you dreamt her up because you’re lonely and losing your mind.

"Cleo?"

His voice came out wrecked, a panicked croak that scraped against his dry throat.
He scrambled out of bed, not bothering with clothes. He stumbled into the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards, his breath hitching in his chest. The cabin felt too big. Too quiet. If she had left—if the intensity of last night had scared her off, or if she had decided the "mess" wasn't worth the contract—he was going to burn the place down. He couldn't handle the silence without her anymore.

He rounded the corner into the main living space, his heart in his throat, ready to tear the front door open and run into the snow.

And then he stopped.

The air left his lungs in a long, shuddering exhale, his shoulders dropping two inches as the world tilted back onto its axis.

She was there.

She was sitting on the floor by the massive picture window, bathed in a pool of pale, winter-morning light that made her look like a hallucination. She was wrapped in the chunky knit blanket from the couch, the one they’d huddled under last night, but it had slipped low, exposing the smooth curve of one shoulder and the delicate line of her neck.

She was painting.

Ben leaned against the doorframe, his pulse slowing from a gallop to a steady, heavy thud. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He just watched her.

There was paint on her fingers—smudges of titanium white and cerulean blue. Her focus was absolute, her hand moving with a gentle, rhythmic grace across the canvas propped against her knees. She looked ethereal, like something sacred he had stumbled upon in the woods.

But it was the contrast that wrecked him.

Hours ago, he had pinned that body to the floor. He had marked that skin, wrung cries from that throat, and driven her to a place of pure, unadulterated chaos. He had been a storm, and she had been the landscape he battered.

Now? Now she was the picture of stillness.

She was creating something beautiful out of the silence he usually feared.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the wild curls out of his eyes, and felt a surge of affection so strong it almost knocked him over. This was it. This was the thing he missed when he was standing in front of fifty thousand people. Not the noise. Not the applause. This. The quiet moments in between, where she sat on the floor with paint on her hands and looked like the only thing in the universe that made sense.

He moved then, crossing the room with silent, predatory steps. He didn't want to startle her, but he needed to touch her. He needed to verify, physically, that she wasn't going to dissolve into smoke.

He came up behind her and sank to his knees on the hard floor.

He didn't speak. He just wrapped his arms around her from behind, locking his hands over her stomach, pulling her back until her spine was pressed flush against his bare chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.

She smelled like oil paint, sleep, and her.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mumbled into her skin, his voice thick with sleep and lingering relief. He pressed a kiss to the bare curve of her shoulder, his stubble grazing her skin. "Woke up and the bed was cold. Thought I hallucinated you."

He tightened his hold, anchoring her, looking over her shoulder at the canvas where soft blues and grays were taking the shape of the snowy trees outside.

"Morning, Van Gogh," he whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder, his eyes half-lidded and adoring. "You realize it's illegal to look this good before coffee, right? I'm pretty sure that violates the contract."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo startled just a little when his arms came around her—not from fear, but from surprise—her brush pausing mid-stroke as she felt his warmth press into her back. The blanket slipped lower on her shoulder, and she let it, instinctively leaning into him, the solid comfort of his chest grounding her in a way nothing else quite did.

She let out a soft laugh when he spoke, breath puffing against the window glass. His voice still sounded sleep-thick, rough around the edges in that way she loved most. She tilted her head back against his collarbone, eyes closing for a second as she soaked in him—his warmth, his scent, the weight of his arms like an anchor.

“Morning, rockstar,” she murmured, smiling into his shoulder.

Her free hand came up to rest over his forearm, fingers absentmindedly tracing the faint lines of his veins. She could feel his heart there, steady now, no longer panicked. It made something warm unfurl in her chest.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said gently. “You looked so peaceful… I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Thought I’d let you have one quiet morning without the world yelling your name.”

She glanced back at him, eyes soft, then gestured toward the canvas with her brush. “My brain wouldn’t shut up, so… this is how I cope.” A small, almost sheepish smile. “Sunrise therapy.”

She shifted slightly so he could see the painting better—snow-dusted trees, pale light creeping in, everything calm and untouched. “I’ve been at it a while. Lost track of time.”

His kiss on her shoulder made her shiver, not from cold. She tucked her chin briefly, laughing under her breath. “And hey—don’t act like you don’t look unfairly good right now. Hair everywhere, zero shame. Very on brand.”

Cleo settled more fully back against him, adjusting just enough so her spine fit comfortably to his chest, the blanket bunching at her waist. She set the brush down carefully on the edge of the easel, not wanting to rush the moment, not wanting to break whatever quiet spell had wrapped around them.

Her hand slid over his forearm again, slow and grounding, thumb tracing a lazy line like she was reassuring herself he was really here.

She tilted her head slightly, cheek brushing his collarbone, voice soft and unguarded.

“How’d you sleep?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

He felt the tension finally drain out of his shoulders as she leaned back, her weight settling against his chest like she belonged there. The cold floor was biting into his knees, and the draft from the window was definitely illegal in several states, but with her warm skin pressed against his bare chest and her hair tickling his nose, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He watched her hand trace the veins in his forearm, the smudge of cerulean blue on her thumb moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. It was grounding. It was real.

"Sunrise therapy," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against the shell of her ear. He looked at the canvas—really looked at it. It was quiet. It was cold. It was exactly what the world looked like outside, but filtered through the way she saw things: softer, brighter, more hopeful.

"It’s beautiful, babe," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. "You realize that, right? You see things better than anyone else does."

He huffed a soft laugh when she teased him about his hair, rubbing his cheek against hers to intentionally scratch her with his morning stubble.

"Hey, the hair is a calculated aesthetic," he drawled, the vibration of his humor running through them both. "It takes hours to look this accidentally disastrous. You should be honored to witness the process."

But when she asked how he slept, his smile faded just a fraction, replaced by something heavier, something more honest.

He tightened his arms around her waist, his hands splaying flat over her stomach—right where he had kept them all night until she slipped away.

"I slept like the dead," he admitted, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Best sleep I’ve had in months. Maybe years. No noise, no itinerary. Just you."

He paused, resting his chin on her shoulder again, his eyes drifting half-shut as he watched the dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight.

"But the waking up part? Zero stars," he murmured, echoing her joke from the night before. "Waking up alone in a cold bed after... that?"

He kissed her shoulder again, lingering there, his lips brushing the strap of the blanket.
"Don't do that again," he said, and though his tone was light, the underlying request was serious. "I don't need the quiet, Cleo. I get enough quiet in hotel rooms. Next time your brain won't shut up, you wake me. I make excellent distraction material."

He shifted his legs, sliding one knee forward so he could pull her even closer, effectively trapping her between his body and the view she was painting.

"Besides," he added, a wicked, sleepy glint entering his voice. "I have a donut run to make. And I’m gonna need some serious motivation to put pants on and face that snow."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The silence in the room seemed to deepen after his request, heavy with the dust motes and the winter light. Cleo leaned her head back against his shoulder, letting his warmth seep into the chill that had settled in her bones while she painted. She listened to the rumble of his voice, but she shook her head slightly against his chest.

"I didn't wake you because I didn't want to talk, Ben," she admitted softly, her voice barely rising above a whisper. She kept her gaze fixed on the smudge of blue paint on her thumb, tracing the ridges of her own skin. "When my brain gets like that... loud and messy... words just make it worse. Especially when the noise is about you. About us."

She turned her hand over, staring at her empty palm as if the solution might be written there.

"It's the question mark," she said, her honesty raw. "The future hanging over us. Last night... this last month... it’s been the happiest I’ve been in a long time. So happy that at 4:00 AM, I almost wanted to throw in the towel. I almost convinced myself to wake you and tell you, that when you leave again next week on the tour bus, I wanted to be with you. Just get on the bus with you. Go back on tour. Like before."

She let out a shaky breath, wishing she had an answer, an easier answer than the impossible choice between her stability and her heart. She turned her face into the crook of his neck, her hand coming up to cup his jaw. Her thumb brushed over the rough terrain of his morning shadow.

"I like the stubble, though," she murmured, a small, teasing smile finally breaking through her melancholy. "It scratches, but... it just turns me on."

When he mentioned the donut run, her eyebrows shot up, and the hazy, romantic fog cleared instantly. Reality crashed back in.

"Donuts," she repeated, her tone turning dry. "And Plan B."
She felt him tense slightly as the realization hit him, too. It hadn't gone unnoticed that in the heat of the moment, surrounded by the quiet and the dark, they had completely forgotten to be careful.

But then his voice dropped, asking for motivation, and the dynamic shifted again. The worry about the pills and the future could wait five minutes.

"Motivation, huh?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow.
She pulled away from his chest, shifting her weight. With a fluid, deliberate movement, she rose onto her knees and turned to face him fully. The heavy blanket she had been clutching lost its purchase and pooled around her hips before sliding completely to the floor. The cold air hit her skin, but she didn't flinch; she was bare from the waist up, her breasts just inches from his face, offering him a view far better than the snowy window.

She leaned in, capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of morning and intent. She didn't linger there long. She trailed her mouth down his jawline, over the strong column of his throat, and down the center of his chest, her hair creating a curtain around them.

Her hands smoothed over his ribs and down his stomach. She moved lower, her lips grazing his skin until she was face-to-face with his arousal. She touched his bare cock softly, her finger tracing around the head with a delicate, maddening slowness.

She looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes dark.
"I can give you the motivation," she whispered, her breath hot against him. "And I can also show you where your cum is supposed to go when you're not protected."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her confession about the tour bus hit him like a physical blow to the chest.
I wanted to be with you. Just get on the bus with you.

For a split second, the air left the room. His heart hammered a violent rhythm against his ribs, and the impulse to grab her shoulders and say “Yes. Do it. Pack a bag right now” was so strong it nearly choked him. The idea of her in his bunk, her painting in the back lounge while the world rushed by outside the window—it was the dream he didn't let himself dwell on because he knew how much she loved her life here. He knew how hard she worked for her stability.

He opened his mouth to tell her that, to tell her he would give anything to have her on that bus, but then the blanket pooled.

The words died in his throat.

The shift was instantaneous. One second they were having a heavy, heart-wringing conversation about their future, and the next, she was on her knees, bare-chested in the winter sunlight, looking like a goddess of chaos.

"Jesus," he breathed, the word punching out of him as his eyes dragged over the sudden expanse of creamy skin, the soft curve of her breasts, and the curtain of her hair falling forward.

His brain short-circuited. The whiplash was severe. He went from wanting to comfort her to wanting to ruin her in the span of a heartbeat.

He watched, paralyzed, as she kissed her way down his chest. Her mouth was hot, wet, and deliberate. When her hands found the waistband of his boxers, his hips bucked involuntarily, a reflex he couldn't control.

Then she said it.

I can also show you where your cum is supposed to go.

The sheer, filthy practicality of it—combined with the sight of her looking up at him through her lashes, her hand already wrapped around him—snapped the last of his restraint.

He let out a low, ragged groan, his head falling back against the wall behind him. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly, flew to her hair. He threaded his fingers deep into the strands, gripping her scalp not to pull, but to anchor himself.

"Yeah?" he choked out, his voice a wrecked, guttural growl. "You think that's the solution, do you? Because that sounds like a very... very convincing argument."

He looked down at her, his eyes dark and blown wide with need. The "Plan B" panic was still there in the back of his mind, but this? This was the loophole. This was safe. And god, it was the hottest thing he had ever heard.

"Show me," he commanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He tightened his grip in her hair, guiding her the last inch. "Show me exactly where you want it, baby. Be a good girl and take care of this for me."

He watched her mouth open, watched her tongue come out to taste him, and for a second, he forgot about the snow, the donuts, and the tour bus. The only thing that existed was the wet heat of her mouth and the absolute, devastating fact that he was never, ever going to get enough of her.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The command in his voice, that rough, wrecked growl, sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty window. When his fingers threaded into her hair, anchoring her, Cleo didn't pull away; she leaned into the grip, surrendering to the sudden shift in gravity between them. The heavy conversation about the future dissolved, replaced by the immediate, thrumming reality of his skin against hers.

"I can be your good girl," she purred against his skin, the vibration of her voice humming against his erection.

She didn't rush. Despite the urgency in his hips, she took her time, treating this with the same meticulous attention she gave her canvas. She hovered just millimeters away, letting her breath ghost over the sensitive skin before she finally made contact. Extending the very tip of her tongue, she found the prominent vein running along the underside of his shaft. She traced the length of it slowly, a feather-light, wet stroke that dragged from the base up toward the ridge, savoring the way he twitched in response.

Her hand wrapped around him, her grip firm but gentle, shielding the sensitive head as she swiped her tongue in a languid, deliberate circle around the very end. She tasted the salt and the pre-cum, glazing him slowly as her hand began a rhythmic, velvet stroke up and down the length of him.

Sensing the angle wasn't quite right for what she wanted to do next, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark as she looked up at him.
"Lean back a little more," she whispered, her voice husky. She tapped his thigh lightly. "And lift your hips... yeah, buck out for me. Just like that."

She waited until he adjusted, watching him slide down the wall slightly and arch his pelvis forward, offering himself up to her completely. Satisfied, she moved her free hand underneath him. She cupped his balls, the weight of them heavy and warm in her palm. She was careful not to squeeze, simply holding them, letting her fingers roll them gently within her grasp to ground him.

With him positioned perfectly, she locked eyes with him one last time, letting him see the intent in her gaze. Then, she lowered her head. She parted her lips and slid down, taking the head of his penis into the wet heat of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she sealed her lips around him, silencing the room with the wet, intimate sound of her devotion.

She worshipped him with a devout, agonizing slowness, making good on her promise to be his distraction. She didn't just use her mouth; she used everything—the suction of her cheeks, the swirl of her tongue, the tight, wet heat of her throat as she bobbed her head in a steady, maddening rhythm.

She kept her eyes open, looking up at him through her lashes, watching his face contort with pleasure as she worked. She loved the power shift, the way this strong, composed man who held her together was now unraveling completely at her mercy. She hummed against his skin, the vibration traveling straight down his shaft, enjoying the way his hips jerked and his hands tightened painfully in her hair.

She pulled back just enough to take a breath, the cold air hitting her wet lips, before she decided she wanted more. She wanted all of him.

She relaxed her jaw, opening her throat as she let go of the control she’d been holding onto. With a sudden, fluid determination, she slid down the length of him. She didn't stop at the head this time. She pushed forward, forcing him past her tongue, past her soft palate, taking him deep until her nose brushed against the coarse hair at the base of his stomach.

She gagged slightly, a reflexive, wet sound that vibrated against him, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she held him there, her throat clamping tight around his thickness, engulfing him completely. She squeezed his balls gently with one hand while the other stroked the very base of his shaft, keeping him buried deep inside her warmth, letting him feel the absolute, suffocating pleasure of being completely taken.

She kept him there for a long, breath-stealing moment, letting the sheer size of him stretch her throat until her eyes watered. It was an overwhelming fullness, a complete invasion that she welcomed, letting the reflex of her throat squeeze around him in tight, rhythmic spasms that she knew felt incredible.

When she finally pulled back, she didn't let go of the suction. She dragged her lips slowly up the length of his shaft, creating a vacuum so tight it hollowed her cheeks. The sound was wet and obscene in the quiet room—a slick, slurping noise that seemed to amplify the harsh rasp of his breathing.

She didn't give him a second to recover. Just as the head popped past her lips, leaving him glistening and exposed to the cool air for a fraction of a second, she dove back down.

This time, she established a rhythm—brutal and beautiful. She bobbed her head with a dedicated fervor, her hair messy and wild around her face, moving back and forth like a curtain with every thrust. She took him deep, pulled back, and slammed down again, her nose burying into his pubic hair every time she bottomed out on him.

She used her hand in tandem with her mouth, twisting her grip at the base to work the skin he loved, milking him while her throat took the rest. She could feel his hips snapping forward to meet her, his control shattering as his fingers tightened bruisingly in her hair, but she didn't stop. She swallowed him whole, over and over, determined to drain every drop of tension out of his body and replace it with this.

[Benjamin Wilder]

His head fell back against the wall with a dull thud, his eyes rolling back in his head as the first wet, hot slide of her tongue hit the vein on the underside of his cock.
He was a dead man. He knew it instantly.

The visual alone was enough to end him—Cleo, his brilliant, stubborn artist, on her knees in a pool of winter sunlight, her hair a wild curtain around her face, treating him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. But the feeling… the feeling was dismantling his nervous system wire by wire.

"Fuck," he hissed, the word fracturing on a sharp intake of breath as she obeyed his body’s involuntary twitch, her hand soothing him while her mouth tormented him.

He did exactly what she asked. He slid down the wall, his legs spreading wider, his hips bucking forward to meet her. It was instinct. It was surrender. When she cupped him, holding the weight of him in her palm, he felt a guttural groan tear out of his chest.

Then she took him.

The sensation of her hot, wet mouth sealing around the head was electric, but when she relaxed her throat and swallowed him whole, Ben’s vision actually whited out for a second.
The shock of the depth—the feeling of sliding past her tongue, past her soft palate, and burying himself in the tight, convulsing heat of her throat—made his entire body jerk. His hands, which had been gripping her scalp, tightened instinctively, his fingers tangling violently in the thick strands of her hair.

She’s taking all of it.

The realization roared through his blood, hotter than the fire they’d built last night. He could feel the vibration of her gag reflex against the head of his cock, a tight, fluttering squeeze that felt so good it bordered on pain.

"Jesus Christ, Cleo," he choked out, his voice a jagged, unrecognizable ruin. "You're—fuck, you're so deep."

He looked down, forcing his eyes open through the haze of pleasure because he needed to see this. He needed the image burned into his brain forever. The sight of her nose buried in his hair, her cheeks hollowed, her eyes watering but locked on his… it was the most obscene, beautiful thing he had ever seen.

When she began to move, pulling back only to slam down on him again, creating that wet, suctioned vacuum, Ben lost the ability to stand still.

He couldn't just let her do the work. The primitive need to claim that mouth took over.
He kept his hands fisted in her hair, using the grip to guide her, to anchor her. He began to snap his hips forward, meeting her rhythm, fucking into the wet heat of her mouth with a desperate, jerky cadence.

"That's it," he growled, looking down at her with a dark, possessive fervor. "Take it. Be a greedy girl for me. Show me you can handle the mess."

The sound of it—the wet, slurping noise of her loving him, the soft gag when he hit bottom, the slap of his skin against her lips—filled the quiet cabin. It drowned out the wind. It drowned out his panic.

She was right. He wasn't thinking about the tour bus. He wasn't thinking about the future. He was only thinking about how tight her throat was, and how badly he wanted to flood it.

"Don't stop," he warned, his voice straining, his legs shaking as the pressure built to a terrifying peak. "Don't you dare stop. You said you wanted to show me? Then show me."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The praise was a drug, breathless and rough, and Cleo drank it down just as eagerly as she took him. Hearing Ben—usually so composed, so charmingly articulate—reduced to jagged curses and guttural demands ignited a fierce sense of power in her chest. She had done this. She was unraveling him.

His fingers were tangled tight in her hair, a heavy, grounding weight that steered her, and she leaned into the command. She wanted him to use her. She wanted to be the only thing in his world that made sense.

When he hissed for her to be greedy, she didn't hesitate. She relaxed her jaw, ignoring the ache in the hinges, and dragged her lips all the way down the length of him. It was a tight, overwhelming fullness that stretched her to her limit. She forced her throat open, swallowing him down until her nose brushed against his pelvis, her body convulsing in a sharp, wet gag that clamped around him like a fist. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she hummed against the intrusion, letting the vibration shudder through both of them.

She felt his hips snap forward, fucking into her face with that desperate, jerky cadence, and she met him halfway. She began to move faster, creating a maddening suction as she swirled her tongue around the sensitive ridge of the head before sliding down to engulf him again.

While one hand stayed wrapped around the base of him, keeping him steady, her other hand wandered. She needed to feel the havoc she was wreaking on the rest of him. Her palm slid up over the rigid, sweating planes of his abs, tracing the line of hair until she splayed her fingers wide over his chest.

His heart was hammering against her palm—a frantic, erratic bird trying to beat its way out of a cage. The feeling of that wild, thundering pulse egged her on more than his words ever could. It was the physical proof that he was on the edge, that he was losing the battle for control.

"I’ve got you," she thought, the words lost in the wet, slurping sound of her mouth working him.

She bobbed her head faster, the rhythm sloppy and eager. Every time she bottomed out, taking him deep enough to trigger that reflex, her throat squeezed him in a spasm that made his thighs tremble against her shoulders. She choked around him, a guttural, wet sound, but she kept going, driven by the way his back arched against the wall and the way his grip in her hair tightened to the point of pain. She wanted to ruin him. She wanted to take everything he had to give.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The friction was blinding.

Every time she bobbed her head, dragging that wet, hot suction down the length of him, Ben felt another wire in his brain snap. The sensation of her throat—tight, slick, and convulsing around him—was dismantling him cell by cell. He was dangerously close to the edge, his hips betraying him as they snapped forward to meet her rhythm, chasing the release that was coiling, white-hot and painful, in his groin.

He could feel the vibration of her humming against his skin, a sonic plea that traveled straight to his marrow. It would be so easy to just let go. To tangle his fingers in her hair, hold her there, and pour himself down her throat like she was begging him to.

But as he looked down at her—at the chaotic curtain of her hair, the hollow of her cheek, the absolute devotion in her movement—something darker than simple lust clawed its way up his chest.

It wasn't enough.

He didn't just want to be serviced. He didn't want to just finish and be done. He wanted to consume her. He wanted to wreck her just as thoroughly as she was wrecking him. He wanted to taste his own release on her tongue, but he wanted to taste her more.
"Fuck," he gritted out, the word tearing through his clenched teeth.

With a growl that rumbled deep in his chest, Ben tightened his fist in her hair. He didn't use the grip to anchor her this time; he used it to take control.

"Stop," he commanded, his voice a jagged ruin.

He yanked her back—not gently, but with a firm, undeniable authority. The sound of the disconnect was obscene, a wet, suctioned pop that echoed loudly in the quiet cabin as he dragged himself from the tight, wet heat of her mouth.

Cleo let out a small, protest noise, a whimper of confusion, but Ben didn't let up. He kept his fist wound in her hair, keeping her head tipped back, exposing her face to the unforgiving winter light.

He needed to see this.

She looked devastated in the most beautiful way possible. Her lips were swollen, cherry-red and slick with his saliva. Her eyes were glazed, heavy-lidded and blown wide with a hazy, drugged lust. A single, thin strand of spit connected her bottom lip to her chin, a shimmering testament to how deep she’d taken him.

The sight of her, on her knees and marked by him, sent a fresh wave of adrenaline crashing through his system that nearly buckled his legs.

"Jesus, look at you," he rasped, his chest heaving as he stared down at her with a dark, predatory hunger.

He reached down with his free hand, his thumb pressing hard against her wet lower lip. He swiped roughly, smearing the moisture, pressing into the plush flesh until she gasped.

"You think you’re done?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low-frequency vibration. "You think you get to just kneel there and look pretty while I lose my damn mind?"
He didn't give her a second to answer. The primitive need to taste her, to bury his face in her heat and drown there, overtook him completely.

He released her hair and immediately grabbed her by the hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin.
"Nuh-uh, baby," he growled, his eyes flashing. "My turn."

He moved with a sudden, fluid power that brooked no argument. He didn't care about the painting, the easel, or the expensive knit blanket; he kicked the fabric aside with his foot as he pressed her backward.

"Down," he ordered, following her as she sank to the floorboards.

He loomed over her, blotting out the sun, his body a heavy, heat-radiating presence. He didn't wait for her to settle. He caught her legs, hooking his hands firmly under her knees and spreading them wide apart, forcing her open to him.

He settled heavily between her thighs, the muscles in his arms cording as he braced himself on the floor on either side of her hips. He lowered his head until his nose brushed against hers, letting her feel the harsh, ragged cadence of his breathing.

"You wanted to start this?" he murmured against her mouth, his voice dripping with a filthy, possessive promise. "Then you better be ready to finish it. Because I’m not stopping until I taste every single inch of you."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The sudden absence of him left her mouth feeling shockingly empty and cold, the cool cabin air hitting her wet lips and cheeks. She was dazed, her head swimming from the lack of oxygen and the sheer intensity of the last few minutes. When he wiped her lip with his thumb, pressing into the swollen flesh, a shiver rattled through her that had nothing to do with the winter draft.

She didn't fight him as he pressed her backward. She felt boneless, her limbs heavy and pliable under his hands. As her back hit the floorboards, she looked up at him—he was a silhouette against the window now, blocking out the sun, nothing but broad shoulders and tension.

When he hooked her knees and spread her wide, she let her legs fall open, abandoning all modesty. She was completely exposed to him, panting softly, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

She reached up, her hands resting tentatively on his biceps, feeling the iron-hard tension in his arms as he hovered over her.

"I wasn't..." she whispered, her voice breathless and threading with honesty as she stared up into his dark eyes. "I wasn't looking for a trade, Ben. I didn't do it to get something back."

She licked her lips, tasting the salt and the lingering taste of him, her gaze dropping to his mouth before flickering back up to his eyes.

"I just wanted to make you feel good," she confessed, her voice dropping to a hush. "I just wanted to taste you. That was enough."

Her fingers tightened on his arms, her hips shifting slightly against the floorboards as the heat of his body radiated over her sensitive skin.

"But..." She let out a shaky exhale, her eyes fluttering half-shut as she surrendered to the look on his face. "If you're willing... if you want to... I'll take it. God, I'll take anything you give me."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her words—soft, honest, and utterly selfless—were the final nail in the coffin of his restraint.

I didn't do it to get something back.

It hit him in the chest, a sweet, heavy ache that instantly soured into a dark, ravenous hunger. She was so willing to give everything and ask for nothing, and that just made him want to force everything on her. He didn't want her to just "take" it; he wanted her to drown in it.

"Too bad, baby," he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "Because you're getting it anyway. You don't get to be this wet and expect me to walk away."

He didn't waste another second. He dragged his hands down her sides, his palms rough against her soft skin, until he gripped her thighs. He shoved her legs further apart, widening her stance until she was completely open to him, a banquet laid out in the winter sun.

He lowered his head, not to her center yet, but to the soft, pale skin of her inner thigh. He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss there, biting lightly, inhaling the scent of her—musk, arousal, and the faint, lingering oil paint. It was intoxicating.

"Fuck, you smell good," he murmured into her skin, his breath hot and damp.
He moved inward, his nose brushing against her curls, until he was face-to-face with her heat. She was glistening, swollen, and unmistakably ready for him. The sight of her pink, slick flesh waiting for him made his mouth water.

He didn't tease. He didn't start slow.

He buried his face in her pussy with a guttural groan, his tongue sweeping out in a long, broad stroke from bottom to top. He tasted her instantly—salt and sweet and unmistakably her.

She tasted like home. She tasted like trouble.

"Mmm," he hummed against her, the vibration buzzing directly against her sensitive flesh.
He latched onto her clit, sucking it into his mouth with a greedy, rhythmic suction that matched the way she had just treated him. He worked her with his tongue, flicking hard and fast, determined to make her hips buck off the floor. He wanted to hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his own hunger echoing in the room.

He felt her thighs tremble against his ears, felt her hands finding his hair again, and it fueled him.

He slid one hand down, his fingers slick with her juices, and pushed two fingers deep inside her. She was tight, hot, and clamped down around him instantly.
"So wet," he mumbled against her clit, not stopping the relentless flick of his tongue. "You taste so fucking good, babe. Like sugar and sin."

He began to pump his fingers in a curling, "come-hither" motion, hitting her g-spot with brutal precision while his mouth continued its assault on her clit. He was eating her like a starving man, slurping and licking, catching every drop she gave him. He wanted to drink her. He wanted to stain his chin with her.

He pulled his face back just an inch, a string of saliva and slick connecting his lips to her folds, his eyes wild and dark as he looked up at her over her own mound.

"Open up," he commanded, his voice thick and filthy. "Wider. I want to get all the way in there."

He dove back down, burying his nose deep, his tongue fucking into her as he groaned, losing himself completely in the taste of the woman who owned him.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The shock of his mouth claiming her drew a sharp, shattered cry from her throat, her head falling back against the floor as her hips instinctively bucked up to meet his hunger.

Her fingers instantly found the crown of his head, weaving through the thick strands to find purchase against his scalp. She needed an anchor, something to hold onto as he began to dismantle her, and he was the only solid thing in a world that was suddenly spinning out of control. With every heavy, sweeping lick of his tongue, her nails dug in, scratching dragging lines against his skin, a sharp counterpoint to the wet heat he was lavishing on her.

"Ben," she choked out, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears.

It was different than the fever pitch of last night. Yes, he was still ravenous, his beard still burned pleasantly against her thighs, and his fingers were still curling inside her with possessive, brutal intent—but beneath the growls and the filth, there was a worshipful adoration today. Last night felt like he needed to survive her; today felt like he wanted to live inside her. It was a softer, deeper kind of devastation.

When he looked up, eyes wild and demanding she open wider, she didn't hesitate. She couldn't have denied him if she tried. She spread her legs further, her heels digging into the floorboards, offering him everything she had.

"Please," she whimpered, her nails flexing and contracting in his hair, scratching rhythmically as he dove back in. "Don't stop... God, Ben, don't stop."

The sensation was a tidal wave, drowning out every thought in her head until only the feeling of him remained. The relentless, curling motion of his fingers inside her, hitting that sweet spot with punishing accuracy, combined with the broad, starving strokes of his tongue was too much, and yet, nowhere near enough.

Her whimpers spilled out in a broken, steady stream, a helpless soundtrack to his feast. "Mmn... oh, god... Ben..."

She couldn't stay still. Her hips rolled instinctively, trying to grind down against his mouth, chasing the pressure, needing to be closer than physically possible. Her fingers tightened in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as she pulled him harder against her, silently begging him to devour her whole. Every time he sucked hard against her clit, a sharp, high-pitched noise tore from her throat, her head tossing restlessly against the floorboards.

"It feels... so much," she breathed, her voice cracking, trembling just like her thighs. She was completely at his mercy, unraveling with every lap of his tongue, her entire body arching like a bow string pulled tight.

Her head thrashed from side to side, her hair fanning out like a dark halo on the floorboards as the pleasure mounted, becoming sharp, bright, and almost unbearable.

"I love it," she moaned, the words ragged and breathless, falling from her lips in a chaotic tumble. "God, Benjiman, I love the way you taste me... I love how hungry you are for me."

She dragged her nails down his scalp, shuddering violently as his fingers curled deeper, stretching her, claiming her. She was sobbing with the intensity of it, completely undone by the wet, hot friction of his mouth.

"I love it... I love you," she cried out, her voice breaking as her hips ground down hard against his face. "Don't stop, baby, please... I love feeling you everywhere."

[Benjamin Wilder]

The sound of his full name falling from her lips, broken and desperate, snapped something vital in Ben’s chest. Benjiman. She only used it when she was completely unraveled, when the walls were down and she was stripping him to his core.

The sting of her nails dragging against his scalp was a sharp, grounding pain that only fueled the fire in his blood. He didn't want gentle. He wanted this—Cleo, wild and vocal, writhing on the floorboards, begging him not to stop.

"I’m not stopping," he growled against the wet heat of her center, the vibration of his voice humming directly against her sensitive skin. "I’m never stopping."

He needed to taste her more deeply. He needed to consume the very reaction he had wrung out of her.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his fingers. The friction of the exit drew a long, shaky whine from her, but he didn't leave her empty for even a second. Before the air could cool her skin, he sealed his mouth over her, his tongue diving in to replace his fingers with a broad, flat stroke that mimicked the thrust she was craving.

He lifted his hand, his eyes dark and blown wide as he looked at his own fingers. They were glistening, coated in the slick, heavy proof of her desire. The sight alone nearly sent him over the edge.

He didn't wipe it away. He wanted to be covered in her.

With a rough, needy noise, Ben reached down and wrapped that same hand around his own hardening length. The sensation of her slickness against his skin was electric—hot, velvety, and maddeningly perfect. It was the most intimate lubrication he could imagine, a physical manifestation of her want wrapping around him.

He began to stroke himself, his grip tight, his rhythm matching the frantic, hungry pace of his tongue.

"Fuck, baby..." he murmured against her, the words lost in the wet sounds of his worship.
He wasn't done with her yet. His other hand moved up, thumb and forefinger finding the swollen pearl of her clitoris. He didn't tease. He dominated it. He circled and pressed with a firm, relentless pressure, trapping her between the invasion of his tongue and the external torment of his hand.

He heard her cry out, heard the way her breath hitched into those jagged, sobbing moans that were his favorite song in the world. She was saying she loved him, saying she loved his hunger, and every word was like gasoline.

He licked deeper, tasting his own work, his tongue swirling and stabbing while his hand worked faster on his own cock. He was jerking off to the taste of her, to the sound of her falling apart, using her own body’s reaction to drive himself toward the precipice.

"I love you," he gritted out against her slick flesh, unable to keep the words inside. He looked up through his lashes, watching her face contort in pleasure, watching her head thrash. "I love how wet you get for me. I love tasting you."

He pumped his hand faster, the drag of her fluids making it agonizingly good, while he sucked harder at her center, determined to drag that climax out of her one more time before he let himself go. He wanted to feel her shudder against his mouth while he spilled into his own hand, completely surrounded by her.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The sensation of his tongue combined with the relentless, circling pressure of his hand was a sensory overload that shattered her ability to think. His words—gritty, raw, and vibrating against her skin—were the final undoing. Hearing him claim her, hearing him say he loved the taste of her while he pleasured himself to the very thought of it, made her back arch violently off the floorboards.

She was crying out, incoherent sounds of affirmation and need that tore from her throat as she thrashed against his mouth. It was agonizingly good, but the sight of his hand moving on himself, coated in her, ignited a different kind of desperation. It wasn't enough. She didn't just want his mouth; she needed the fullness of him. She needed to be completely filled, to have him occupy the space he was currently worshiping.

The earlier hesitation, the logic, the careful planning—it all incinerated in the heat of the moment. The Plan B was there. It was a safety net, a contingency they had discussed, and right now, it felt less like a backup plan and more like a permission slip.

"Baby, please," she gasped, her hands leaving his hair to blindly claw at his shoulders, trying to drag him up, trying to bring that friction she saw him giving himself to where she needed it most. "I can't... I need you inside. Please."

She looked down at him through a haze of tears and lust, her chest heaving as she begged him, her voice cracking with the sheer force of her want.

"The Plan B... we can get the Plan B," she sobbed out, frantic to dismantle whatever resolve he had left. “I don’t care about anything else. Just put it in. I need to feel you inside me, Benjamin. Don't make me wait."

The permission seemed to snap the last tether holding him back. He didn't waste a second, didn't offer a single word of argument or hesitation. The only sound from him was a harsh, guttural intake of air that sounded painfully like relief.

He scrambled up her body, the movement frantic and uncoordinated, his skin slick with sweat as he dragged himself over her. The "Plan B" they had spoken of felt less like a contingency now and more like a necessary indulgence, a silent agreement that hung heavy and electric between them. It was a risk, but looking at the raw, starving hunger in his eyes, it was one she was desperate to take.

He braced himself over her, his arms trembling from the strain of holding back. He looked wrecked, his hair falling into his eyes, his gaze locked on hers with a silent, agonizing plea that burned hotter than any touch. He was asking without speaking, his hips pressing forward, testing the entrance, seeking the heat she had promised him.

Cleo met that silent beg with a arch of her back, lifting herself to meet him.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The moment she said it—Plan B—the last remaining barrier in his mind disintegrated. It wasn't just permission; it was a demand, and god help him, he was only too happy to obey.

He didn't speak. He couldn't. The blood roaring in his ears drowned out everything but the sound of her wet, broken breathing and his own heart hammering against his ribs. He scrambled up her body, a frantic tangle of limbs and sweat, until he was hovering over her, bracing his weight on his forearms.

He looked down at her—flushed, desperate, her lips still slick from his cock—and felt a surge of possessiveness so violent it nearly blurred his vision.

"You want it?" he rasped, his voice a jagged shard of sound. "Then take it, baby."

He didn't wait. He lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against her wet heat, and with one heavy, fluid motion, he sank into her.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head dropping forward as the tight, hot velvet of her walls clamped around him. She was so slick, so ready, that he slid all the way home in a single stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation was blinding—a total, encompassing warmth that felt like coming home and burning alive at the same time.

For a second, he just held there, vibrating with the effort of not moving, letting the feeling of being inside her recalibrate his entire world.

Then, the animal took over.

He pulled back and snapped his hips forward, driving into her with a brutal, punishing speed. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The sound of his pelvis slamming against hers filled the cabin, wet and obscene. He fucked her hard, his hands gripping her shoulders to anchor her as he drove deep, chasing the friction, chasing the madness. He wanted to pound the desperation out of her, to replace every thought in her head with the feeling of him filling her up.

"Yeah, take it," he growled, watching her head thrash against the floorboards. "You feel that? That’s mine."

But just as the rhythm threatened to drag him over the edge, Ben forced himself to stop.
He clamped his hands on the floor beside her head, his triceps trembling with the strain, and withdrew slowly. Agonizingly slowly. He dragged himself out inch by inch, letting her feel the friction of the ridges, letting her feel the emptiness return.

He stopped just at the entrance, the tip of his cock teasing the swollen opening, hovering there.

He looked down at her, sweat dripping from his nose onto her chest. He saw her hips buck up, silently begging him to come back, and a dark, sadistic smirk curled his lip.

"Impatient," he whispered, his voice a low, teasing vibration. "You gotta wait for it, baby."

He began to move again, but this time it was a torture. He rolled his hips in a slow, grinding circle, rubbing the head of his cock against her sensitive interior without giving her the depth she wanted. He watched her face contort, watched her mouth open in a silent plea, and he reveled in it.

He pushed in an inch. Pulled back. Ground down.

"Look at you," he murmured, watching her squirm beneath him. "So empty. You want me back in there? You want me to fill you up again?"

He let the tension build, let the air in the room get thick and suffocating with her silent need, until he couldn't stand it either.

With a sudden, guttural roar, he abandoned the game. He slammed back into her, bottoming out with a force that knocked the breath out of both of them. He returned to the violence, his hips a blur of motion, fucking her with a hard, relentless cadence that promised he wasn't going to stop until he had poured every single drop of himself into her.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The brutality of it was intoxicating, a storm she was willing to drown in, but as his pace turned frantic, she needed to ground him. She needed to see him.

Her hands flew up, palms slamming against his cheeks, fingers digging into the rough stubble of his jaw to hold him fast. She didn't say a word, but the force of her grip dragged his gaze down, locking his wild, dilated eyes onto hers.

The effect was instantaneous. The frenetic blurring of his hips slowed, shifting into a heavy, rolling grind that was infinitely more intense.

Keep it like that, she pleaded silently, her mouth falling open in a broken, silent gasp.

She let her legs fall wider, her heels digging into the floorboards to pull him deeper, trying to eliminate even the concept of space between them. The change in rhythm let her feel everything—the terrifying size of him stretching her, the distinct, hard ridges, the thrum of blood in his veins pulsing against her own enraged interior.

Staring up at him, seeing the raw worship and hunger mirrored in his face, was the final straw. The tension that had been coiling in her belly snapped violently.

Her back arched off the floor, a high, keen sound tearing from her throat as the orgasm crashed through her, shattering her composure. She rode the waves of it, her vision blurring, but she refused to let go of his face.

Trembling, she engaged her core and lifted her head, meeting him halfway. She pressed a desperate, open-mouthed kiss to his lips, tasting the salt and heat of him, before pulling back just enough to speak against his mouth.

The slowness was a different kind of torment, a heavy, dragging friction that made her toes curl even as the aftershocks of her own release continued to flutter through her. She didn't want him to speed up. Not yet. She needed to feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of him occupying space inside her.

She kept her hands framed on his face, her thumbs brushing the sweat from his cheekbones, anchoring him in this agonizingly perfect rhythm. Every time he withdrew, she whimpered, and every time he sank back in—deep, deliberate, unhurried—she met him, canting her hips to take him even further.

She tightened her internal muscles around him, squeezing him with a possessive, rhythmic pulse, trying to milk a groan from his throat.

"That's it," she breathed, her voice a broken, wet whisper against his mouth. "Just like that. Don't you dare speed up."

She looked deep into his eyes, letting him see exactly what he was doing to her, how completely he owned her in this moment. She dragged her nails lightly down the back of his neck, shivering as he bottomed out and held there, throbbing inside her.

"Feel me, baby," she pleaded, lifting her hips to grind against him, forcing him to endure the friction of her tightening walls. "Feel how much I need you."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her internal muscles clamped down on him, a rhythmic, milking squeeze that nearly blackened his vision.

"Fuck," he groaned, the sound tearing out of his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to empty himself right then and there. She was commanding him to stay slow, but her body was begging him to finish it.

He opened his eyes, staring down at her. She was flushed, wrecked, and beautiful, but the angle wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted to be so deep inside her that he touched her soul.

He broke her hold on his face, his hand shooting out to grab the thick down pillow she had been clinging to earlier.

"Lift up," he ordered, his voice a strained grit.

He didn't wait for her to comply; he grabbed her hip with his free hand and hoisted her lower body off the floor. She gasped as he shoved the pillow underneath her ass, elevating her pelvis, tilting her hips up to offer him a devastating new angle.

He didn't hesitate. He dropped his weight back down, driving his hips forward.

The shift changed everything.

He slid past the point of friction he’d been hitting before, sinking into a depth that made her eyes roll back. He was hitting her cervix now, a deep, dull thud of connection with every stroke.

"There," he hissed, sweat dripping from his nose onto her chest. "That's it. Now I can feel all of you."

He abandoned the slow grind. He couldn't sustain it, not with her opened up like this. He began to thrust with a long, deliberate power. He pulled almost all the way out, letting the cool air hit the slick head of his cock, before slamming back in—thwack—burying himself to the root.

He watched the way her body absorbed the impact, the way her breasts swayed with the force of his possession. He couldn't keep his hands off her. He reached down, his large hand engulfing her left breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly. His thumb found her nipple, already hard, and flicked it, enjoying the sharp intake of breath that followed.

"You like that?" he murmured, leaning down.

He replaced his hand with his mouth, latching onto her breast through the curtain of her hair. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling against the sensitive nub, while his hand moved down to grip her hip bone, pinning her to the pillow so she couldn't retreat from him.

He established a punishing rhythm—mouth sucking, hand holding, hips driving. He was a machine fueled by lust, piston-firing into her wet heat. He felt the suction of her walls dragging at him, the wet, squelching noise of their coupling filling the room.

He pulled back, sliding out slowly, feeling every ridge of her interior clinging to him, before snapping his hips forward to impale her again.

"You're so tight," he groaned against her skin, the vibration traveling through her chest. "Clamp down on me again, baby. Do it. Squeeze me while I fill you up."

He lifted his head, needing to see her face as he approached the edge. He drove into her, harder, faster, his control snapping like a twig. He wasn't thinking about the snow or the donuts or the pill. He was thinking about the fact that she was his, and he was about to leave the undeniable proof of it deep inside her.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The shift in angle was devastating. With her hips elevated on the pillow, she felt completely laid bare, opened up in a way that left her nowhere to hide. Every thrust hit a spot deep inside her that teetered on the edge of pleasure and pain, stealing the breath from her lungs before she could even gasp.

When he groaned for her to clamp down, her body obeyed before her mind could process the command. She squeezed him, her inner muscles rippling around his length, milking him as he drove into her with that frantic, final desperation. She threw her head back, her fingers digging into the carpet as the tension coiled tight in her belly and then shattered. She felt him stiffen, his groan vibrating against her chest as he poured himself into her, the warmth flooding her deep inside.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing, the room slowly settling around them. Cleo lay still, her chest rising and falling rapidly, feeling the weight of him and the sticky, undeniable evidence of what they’d just done.

Slowly, the fog of lust began to lift, replaced by the practicalities of the morning.

She shifted, gently nudging his shoulder until he pulled back, the loss of his warmth making her shiver slightly. She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face, feeling the soreness in her muscles—a good kind of ache.

"I'm going to go take a shower," she announced, her voice a little raspy. She stood up, her legs slightly shaky, and looked down at him. He looked wrecked in the best possible way, but she couldn't let them stay in this cocoon forever.

"And you," she said, nudging his leg with her foot, "need to go to the store. *Especially* now." She gave him a pointed look, her eyebrows raised. "Go get the supplies. When you get back, you can take a shower while I make breakfast. God knows we need to eat considering we completely abandoned dinner last night."

She leaned down, ignoring her own disheveled state to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. When she pulled back, her expression was tender but firm.

"And then, Ben, you have to work on your music. And I’m going to paint." She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "We came here for that, too. As much as I love... *this*," she gestured vaguely to the pillow on the floor and their naked bodies, "I don't want to be the reason you don't get any work done. I want to be the muse, baby, not the distraction."

She cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking his cheekbone, her eyes glinting with a mix of affection and promise.

"But..." she murmured, leaning in close to his ear. "If you're a good boy and get your work done... we can get in the hot tub later. How does that sound?"

[Benjamin Wilder]

He watched her stand up, his eyes tracing the line of her spine and the faint, red marks his hands had left on her hips. A lazy, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. She looked wrecked, tousled, and absolutely incredible.

When she nudged his leg with her foot, ordering him to the store, he let out a groan that was fifty percent exhaustion and fifty percent theatrics. He reached out, wrapping his hand around her ankle for a brief second, his thumb brushing the bone.

"Aye aye, Captain," he drawled, releasing her with a reluctant sigh. "Plan B, donuts, shower. In that order. Though..."

He sat up, the air hitting his damp skin, and ran a hand through his chaotic hair, sniffing his own shoulder with an exaggerated grimace.

"You sure you don't want a second pair of hands in that shower? I’m pretty sure I smell like sex, woodsmoke, and questionable life choices. I might need to be hosed down before I traumatize the bait shop owner."

He flashed her a grin—all teeth and boyish charm—but didn't make a move toward the bathroom. instead, he pushed himself off the floor, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. His back cracked audibly, a sound that made him wince and laugh at the same time.

"Old man back," he muttered, wandering over to the dresser. He opened the top drawer, rummaging around for a fresh pair of boxers. "That floor is unforgiving. Worth it, but unforgiving."

He pulled on the boxers, shimmying them up his legs, then grabbed a pair of jeans from the chair where he’d discarded them yesterday. He hopped on one foot to get them on, almost tripping over his own boots in the process, but recovered with a stumbling grace that suggested he meant to do it.

"And hey," he said, buttoning his fly as he turned back to look at her, his expression softening. "I hear you on the work stuff. You’re right. I’ve got melodies in my head that are starting to annoy me, so they need to get out."

He grabbed a thick flannel shirt from the dresser, shoving his arms into the sleeves but leaving it unbuttoned for a second, revealing the scratches she’d left on his chest.

"I can handle you being the muse," he teased, walking over to where she stood. He leaned down, bracing a hand on the wall beside her head, trapping her there for a second. "Even if you are a very, very distracting muse. I’ll try to keep my focus on the guitar strings and not... other things."

He winked, reaching out to tap the tip of her nose.

"But that hot tub offer?" He grinned, shaking his head. "That is dirty pool, baby. Manipulation at its finest. And it worked completely. I will be the best boy you’ve ever seen. I’ll write a whole damn symphony if it gets me in that water with you later."

He grabbed his keys from the nightstand, tossing them in the air and catching them with a snap.
"Alright. I’m braving the elements. Save me some hot water."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo leaned back against the doorframe of the bathroom, pulling the lapels of her robe tighter across her chest. She watched him with a soft, tired smile, unable to deny how good he looked—disheveled, flannel unbuttoned, standing in the middle of the cabin.

"As tempting as that sounds," she said, her voice raspy from sleep and overuse, "if you get in that shower with me, we both know absolutely no 'hosing down' is going to happen. We’ll just end up slipping on the tile and missing the donut window. And I need the caffeine and sugar more than I need the company right now."

She kept her tone light, teasing, but the truth was heavier. She didn't have the energy to resist him again, and she needed a moment of solitude to scrub her skin and clear her head.

As he grabbed his keys and winked, flashing that grin that had been plastered on billboards, her smile faltered just a fraction. She watched him move—the easy confidence, the way the world seemed to bend around him—and felt a sudden, sharp pang in her chest.

He was right; she was exhausted. But it wasn't just the physical exertion. She hadn’t slept well even after he’d passed out, her mind buzzing with a static she couldn't tune out. He fogged up her brain. He took up so much space in her thoughts that there was barely room for her own quiet routines anymore.

As the front door clicked shut downstairs, the silence rushed back in, but it didn't bring peace.

She walked to the window, peering through the blinds to watch him jog to his truck. The lines were blurring. She knew that. Last night, tangled in the sheets, it had been easy to forget. It was just Ben and Cleo. But now, with talk of songwriting and "muses," the reality was creeping back in.

She loved him. God, she loved him so much it made her teeth ache. She didn't want anyone else; the thought of another man touching her was laughable. But loving Ben meant loving the storm that came with him. She looked at his truck pulling out of the gravel drive and felt a cold knot of anxiety. She wanted to be with him, desperately, but she didn't know if she could stomach being part of his world. The fame, the noise, the public ownership of his private feelings—it was everything she had built her life to avoid.

"Just donuts," she whispered to the empty room, turning on the shower tap. "Just focus on the donuts."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo had slipped into the hot tub quietly, like she did everything when she was trying not to be noticed.

The water was already steaming, a low fog curling up around her shoulders as she sank down and let the heat loosen muscles that had been tight since dawn. Snow clung to the edges of the deck and the surrounding pines stood still and heavy, like they were keeping a secret. The cabin behind her glowed faintly, warm light spilling through the windows, the sound of nothing louder than wind and the occasional creak of wood.

She’d finished two paintings already.

The first had come easily—morning light, frost on glass, trees standing patient and unmoved. The second had taken longer, more layering, more pauses with the brush hovering while she tried not to think too much about why her chest felt tight even in all that quiet. When she finally set it aside, her hands had been steady, her breathing even. Productive. Grounded. Normal.

Ben had kept his promise.

She could hear him earlier, tucked away with his guitar and notebook, the soft, familiar sounds of him working drifting through the cabin walls. No pressure. No pulling at her attention. Just focus. Discipline. Music. The version of him that had always been both comforting and dangerous in how easily it read her.

That was why she’d put space between them.

Not dramatically. Not coldly. Just… carefully.

She knew him too well. Knew that if she so much as hesitated in a doorway or stared out a window a second too long, he’d clock it. Ask the right question. Tilt his head in that way that meant he already knew the answer. And they still had five days left.

Five days she didn’t want to fracture with a conversation she wasn’t ready to finish.

The getaway had been perfect so far. Quiet mornings. Shared meals. Long stretches of doing their own things without needing to explain it. She didn’t want to be the one who cracked that open too soon. Didn’t want to turn something soft into something sharp just because her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

The water lapped gently against her collarbone as she leaned her head back, eyes closing for a moment. Steam curled into the cold air, disappearing almost as soon as it formed. She focused on that—the way warmth and winter coexisted without fighting. The way things didn’t have to be solved to be real.

She told herself this was enough for today.

That she could sit here, breathe, let the heat hold her, and come back inside when she was ready. That whatever was stirring under her ribs could wait. That five more days was time. That perfection didn’t have to mean permanence.

Snow fell softly around her, the world hushed and patient.

And for now, she stayed exactly where she was.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Operation: Be Boring had actually been a killer success.

For the last six hours, Ben had been a model of artistic discipline. He’d holed up in the corner of the living room with his Gibson, a notepad, and a lukewarm mug of coffee, forcing himself to ignore the fact that Cleo was just a room away.

He’d wrestled with a bridge that had been haunting him for weeks, hummed melodies into his voice memos until his throat felt scratchy, and scribbled down three pages of lyrics that didn't totally suck. It was the most productive he’d been in months, mostly because he wasn't hungover, exhausted from travel, or surrounded by yes-men.

He set the guitar down on its stand, flexing his fingers. His calluses were throbbing—a good ache, a familiar one. He stretched his arms over his head, hearing his spine crack in three different places, and let out a long exhale.

The cabin was quiet. Too quiet.

He stood up, grabbing his empty mug, and padded into the kitchen to get some water. The silence felt heavy, different from the comfortable quiet of the morning. It felt… thoughtful. And Cleo being thoughtful usually meant Cleo was spiraling.

He filled a glass at the tap, drinking it down in one go, and glanced out the sliding glass door that led to the back deck.

Steam was rising in thick, white plumes against the darkening gray sky. And right in the center of it, framed by the snow-heavy pines, was Cleo.

She was leaning back against the edge of the tub, her eyes closed, her dark hair pinned up messily with damp tendrils escaping down her neck. She looked peaceful, but there was a stillness to her posture that Ben recognized. She was retreating. She was doing that thing where she went inside her own head to arrange the furniture because she didn't like how messy the room was getting.

He set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink.

He wasn't going to let her stay in there alone. Not with that much thinking time.

He scanned the counter until he found what he was looking for: a small glass jar and a lighter. He fished out a pre-roll he’d twisted up yesterday—a little indica-heavy blend perfect for doing absolutely nothing.

He didn't bother with a coat. He just shucked off his flannel shirt, leaving it draped over a kitchen chair, and shimmied out of his jeans until he was just in his boxers. He hesitated for a split second, then smirked and ditched the boxers too.

If he was crashing her party, he was committing to the dress code.

He slid the glass door open, bracing himself as the freezing mountain air slapped his bare skin.

"Jesus," he hissed under his breath, stepping out onto the icy deck.

He moved quickly, the snow crunching faintly under his bare feet, closing the distance to the tub in three long strides. Cleo didn't open her eyes immediately, but he saw her shoulders tense just slightly—she knew he was there.

"You know," he called out, his voice cutting through the steam as he climbed the small steps. "I held up my end of the bargain. I wrote the bridge. I ignored the urge to come bug you seventeen times. I think I’ve earned admission."

He swung one leg over the side of the tub, sinking into the scalding water with a low, appreciative groan. The heat enveloped him instantly, melting the chill from the air and the stiffness from his session with the guitar.

He settled onto the bench next to her—close enough that his arm brushed hers underwater, but not crowding her. Not yet.

He leaned his head back against the rim, looking over at her as the water settled around them. He held up the joint between two fingers, flicking the lighter with his thumb. The flame flared orange against the gray dusk.

"Peace offering," he murmured, taking a slow drag and blowing the smoke up toward the pines before offering it to her. "For the muse. You looked like you were thinking too loud over here."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a soft huff of a laugh when he announced his heroic productivity like he’d just returned from war.

“Wow,” she said, finally opening her eyes and turning her head toward him, steam beading on her lashes. “Seventeen times? You’re telling me you restrained yourself and I’m supposed to be impressed?”

She shook her head fondly.
“That’s growth, Benjamin. I’m proud of you.”

But the truth—one she didn’t say out loud—was that the second he slid into the tub, something in her chest loosened. The quiet that had felt heavy before softened. The thoughts she’d been stacking like anxious dominoes scattered. His presence always did that. Like he reached inside her head and turned the volume knob down without even trying.

She’d been spiraling. She knew it. Thinking about time and what-ifs and how easy it was to disappear in this bubble with him and forget the outside world existed. It scared her how good it felt. How safe.

And then he showed up. Half-frozen. Bare. Smirking.

And suddenly she could breathe again.

When he offered the joint, she accepted it with a small smile.
“For the muse, huh?” she murmured. “Is that what we’re calling me now?”

She took a slow drag, eyes fluttering closed for a second as she exhaled.
“I was thinking too loud,” she admitted. “You always catch me when I do that. It’s deeply annoying.”

Her foot brushed his under the water again, this time without thinking about it.
“But… thanks,” she added quietly. “For coming out here. For… interrupting my brain.”

She glanced at him sideways, warmth creeping into her expression.
“Your peace offerings are accepted. Even if you’re aggressively naked.”

And just like that, the anxiety faded into steam.

Cleo shifted closer to the edge of the tub, letting the heat soak into her shoulders as the joint burned low between her fingers. For a few seconds longer, she let herself stay right here—in the steam, in the quiet, in the easy way his presence stitched her back together without asking permission.

Because god, this bubble was intoxicating.

This place where time felt suspended. Where mornings started with paint and evenings ended like this. Where Ben wasn’t a name on a schedule or a face on a screen, but just a warm body next to hers, guitar calluses and all. Where she didn’t have to brace herself for noise or expectations or being seen.

But the thought slid in anyway. Soft. Uninvited.

Five days.

Five days until the snow melted back into roads and calendars and flights. Five days until this cabin stopped being a hiding place and started being a memory. Five days until she went back to Los Angeles—traffic, studios, unfinished canvases—and he went back to wherever his life told him to be next. Cities she didn’t always know. Dates she tried not to memorize.

She stared up at the gray sky, watching the steam disappear into it.

“This is really nice,” she said quietly, almost to herself. Then, softer but steadier, “Like… dangerously nice.”

She nudged his foot again under the water, grounding herself in something real.
“But I keep thinking about how fast five days goes,” she admitted. “And how good we are at pretending the outside world doesn’t exist when we’re like this.”

Her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t even sad. Just honest.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” she added, finally looking at him. “I don’t want to fight or overthink or turn this into something heavy when it’s been… perfect.”

A small breath left her, fogging the air.
“But when we leave here, I’m still in L.A. And you’re still wherever the hell your calendar sends you. And I don’t know how to hold both things at the same time—this and that—without feeling like one of them eventually disappears.”

She leaned her head back against the rim again, eyes closing, letting the water lap quietly around them.

“I just don’t want to wake up one day and realize this was the easy part,” she murmured. “And that I stayed quiet because it felt too good to question.”

Her toes brushed his ankle once more, gentle, seeking reassurance without asking for it outright.

“But right now,” she said, softer again, “I’m really glad we’re here.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

He watched the smoke curl from her lips, the gray tendrils disappearing into the darker gray of the sky. He took the joint back when she offered it, carefully keeping his right hand elevated, resting his wrist on the freezing cold wood of the deck railing to keep the paper dry.

He took a drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, holding it for a second before exhaling a long, slow stream.

She was right. He knew she was right.

He could feel the countdown, too. It was a ticking clock in the back of his head—five days, four days, three days—until the noise rushed back in. Until he was Ben Wilder, the product, and she was Cleo, the girl waiting for a text back from a different time zone.

It scared the shit out of him, too. But he wasn't going to let her drown in it. Not tonight.
"You're right," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the steam. "It is dangerously nice. That’s why we’re here. To remember what it feels like to just be humans, not... schedules."

He kept his dry hand perched on the rim of the tub, the joint smoldering between his fingers, but he used his left hand—the wet one—to reach out under the water. He found her knee, his fingers wrapping around the smooth curve, squeezing gently.

"But hey," he said, waiting until her eyes flickered back to his. "Look at me."

He slid along the bench, cutting through the water until his hip bumped against hers. He was close enough now to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough to smell the chlorine and the lingering scent of her shampoo.

"This part? The cabin? The snow? Yeah, it's the easy part," he admitted, unshrinking in his honesty. "It's easy to be in love when the world is quiet. I get that. And I know L.A. is loud. I know the tour is a beast."

He took another hit, careful to keep his hand away from the splashing water, and then passed it back to her, watching her fingers brush his.

"But you’re looking at it wrong," he murmured. "You think this—us, right here—is separate from that. Like we have to choose between the cabin version of us and the real world version."

He shook his head, water droplets flying from his hair.

"We aren't the location, Cleo. We're the people in it."

He moved his wet hand from her knee up to her neck, his thumb brushing the damp hair at her nape. His touch was firm, grounding.

"When I go back on tour, I’m not leaving this," he gestured between them with his chin. "I'm taking it with me. I'm taking the fact that you know I take my coffee black, and the fact that you know exactly how to calm me down when I’m spiraling. I’m taking the memory of you painting in the morning light."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, ignoring the steam and the cold air biting at his exposed shoulders.

"It’s going to be hard," he whispered, validating her fear without letting it win. "I’m not gonna lie to you. The distance sucks. The schedule is garbage. But don't you dare think that one of them has to disappear. I’m not letting you disappear. And I’m sure as hell not letting us disappear just because I have to get on a bus."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, a crooked, self-deprecating grin tugging at his lips.

"Besides," he teased, his voice lightening, bringing back the charm she needed. "You think I can survive out there without my muse now? You’ve ruined me for anyone else, babe. I need you to keep my ego in check. Without you roasting me, I’ll probably start wearing leather pants and writing terrible synth-pop. You can’t let that happen to the world."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo listened to him without interrupting, her fingers curling loosely around the joint when he passed it back. She watched the smoke drift away, watched the way his face softened when he talked about taking pieces of her with him. It was sweet. It always was. He had a way of making hope sound reasonable.

But something in her stayed still.

Not cold. Not closed. Just… steady.

She took a slow breath before answering, letting it out through her nose. “You always say things like that,” she said quietly, not unkind. “And I believe you. I do. I know you mean it.”

Her foot brushed his again under the water, grounding herself before she kept going.

“I just… I don’t think meaning it is the same as it working,” she admitted. “Not long-term. Not officially. Not in the real world.”

She finally looked at him, really looked. The boyish grin, the tired eyes behind it, the way he tried to wrap everything in humor so it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“This?” she gestured between them, the steam, the snow, the quiet. “This is easy. Not because it’s shallow—because it’s safe. We don’t have deadlines here. No flights. No crowds. No people pulling at you from every direction.”

Her voice stayed soft, but there was a firmness underneath it. “But when you leave… you don’t just go back to a job. You go back to a whole world that doesn’t slow down. And I don’t fit in that world the way you do. I don’t want to either.”

She rested her head back against the tub, eyes on the dark sky. “I think we’re really good at loving each other in moments,” she said. “I don’t know if we’re good at building a life around it anymore.”

A small, sad smile tugged at her mouth. “Not because we don’t care. But because we care in different directions.”

She turned her head toward him again. “So yeah… it’s going to be easy here. And beautiful. And I’m not taking that for granted.”

Her toes nudged his ankle gently. “I just don’t want to pretend it means something it probably can’t be.”

When he joked about leather pants, she huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. “You’d look ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head. “And you know it.”

Then, softer, “I don’t need to be your muse. I just… want to be real with you.”

And in the steam and the cold air, that truth sat between them—tender, heavy, honest.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The laugh he’d been hoping for came, but it was thin. It didn't reach her eyes. And the comment about the leather pants—usually the kind of banter he could volley back and forth for twenty minutes—fell dead in the water between them.

I don’t need to be your muse. I just… want to be real with you.

The word hung there in the steam, heavier than the snow piling up on the railing. Real.
Ben felt the smile slide off his face. It wasn't a gradual fade; it was a sudden, physical drop, like a mask slipping because the string finally snapped. He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the resignation in the set of her jaw. She wasn't fighting him. She was saying goodbye. She was preemptively mourning them while he was sitting right there next to her.

He reached out and took the joint from her fingers. He didn't take a hit. He leaned over and stubbed it out on the icy wood of the deck railing, twisting it until the ember died, leaving a smear of ash against the frost.

He turned back to her, sinking deeper into the water until the cold air wasn't touching his skin anymore. The playfulness was gone. The charm—the easy, deflection-heavy armor he wore like a second skin—was gone.

"Okay," he said. His voice was lower now, stripped of the cadence he used for interviews and fans. It was just Ben. "You want real? Let's be real."

He moved his hand through the water, finding hers again. He didn't just brush her fingers this time; he interlaced them, gripping her hand tight, palm to palm, refusing to let the water act as a barrier.

"You're right. The 'muse' thing... that's a cop-out. It’s a pretty word I use because it makes the distance sound romantic instead of just lonely. It makes me feel like even when I'm a thousand miles away, you're serving a purpose in the art, so you're still with me."

He squeezed her hand, his eyes locked on hers, intense and unblinking.

"But you're wrong about the directions. We don't care in different directions, Cleo. We just exist in different environments. And yeah, mine is loud. It’s fast. It eats people alive if they let it."

He paused, his jaw working as he searched for the words that wouldn't sound like a song lyric. He needed words that sounded like a blueprint.

"You think I don't know that you don't fit in that world?" he asked, his voice rough. "I know you don't. That’s why I love you. If you fit in that world, you’d be just like everyone else I spend ten months of the year with. You’re the anchor. You’re the stillness."

He let go of her hand only to reach up and cup her face. His wet fingers slid into the hair at her temples, his thumbs brushing the damp skin of her cheekbones. He held her there, forcing her to see the absolute, terrifying seriousness in his eyes.

"I am not asking you to come live on a tour bus and pretend to like the noise. I’m not asking you to give up the quiet you built."

He leaned in closer, until his nose was almost brushing hers, his breath hitching slightly.
"But don't sit here and tell me we can't build a life. Because people build lives in harder places than this every day. You say we’re good at moments? Then we string the moments together. We fight for the time. We bleed for the schedule."

He shook his head slightly, his thumbs pressing into her skin.

"I’m tired of the 'it's too hard' narrative. I’m tired of being scared that you’re going to realize I’m too much work. I am work. But you’re the only thing that makes the work worth it."
His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and fierce.

"So don't resign yourself to this ending in five days. Don't treat me like a vacation fling you have to get over. I’m not going anywhere. If I have to fly back here every single weekend to sit in silence and watch you paint just to keep you... then that’s what I’ll do. That’s the work. And I’m willing to do it."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t pull away when his hand tightened around hers. She couldn’t. The moment he took the joint and killed it, something in her chest already knew where this was going. Real didn’t scare her because it was harsh—it scared her because it was honest.

She looked up at him when he said her name, really looked, and that was the mistake.

Because the playfulness was gone. The armor was gone. What was left was the man she loved standing there bare in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t wearing clothes. His eyes were steady and terrified and sure all at once, like he was bracing for impact but refusing to step back.

She held herself still while he spoke, jaw tight, lips pressed together hard enough that they ached. Every word landed. Every single one. She hated how deeply she understood him. Hated how easily he could reach the parts of her she tried to keep orderly and calm.

When he talked about the muse thing—about loneliness dressed up as poetry—her throat burned. She swallowed hard, nodding once, because that part was true and she’d known it the whole time. When he talked about environments instead of directions, her eyes stung, but she kept them open, kept looking at him like if she blinked she might miss something important.

His hands on her face undid her.

She didn’t pull away. She leaned into his touch instead, her breath turning shallow as her resolve started to fray. She could feel herself slipping—not into fantasy, not into romance—but into want. Into the dangerous part where loving him felt louder than logic.

“I know,” she whispered, the words barely making it past the knot in her throat. “I know you’re not asking me to give up who I am.”

Her voice wavered despite her effort to keep it steady. “That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

She closed her eyes for half a second when he leaned closer, when he talked about fighting for time and bleeding for the schedule. Because that was the part her brain kept screaming about. The exhaustion. The constant adjustment. The way loving him had always meant living half a step behind a calendar that didn’t care about her feelings.

Then he said he’d fly. Every weekend. Every time. Whatever it took.

And that was it.

The dam broke—not because she was sad, not because she didn’t want him, but because the weight of it all hit at once. The love. The fear. The want. The knowledge that she could choose him and still be right… or choose him and be destroyed by how hard it would be.

A sob tore out of her chest before she could stop it. Her shoulders shook, breath hitching as tears spilled over fast and ungraceful, her face crumpling against his hands.

“I want to,” she choked, the words tangled and raw. “God, I want to. I want to say yes and stop thinking and just—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Because her brain was still screaming don’t, and her heart was already running toward him.

Before she could talk herself out of it, before fear could reassemble its arguments, she leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate and messy and full of everything she couldn’t say out loud. Her hands came up to his shoulders, fingers curling tight like she was afraid he might disappear if she didn’t hold on.

The kiss said what she couldn’t reconcile yet.

That she loved him.
That she was terrified.
That she wanted him anyway.

And for that moment—just that moment—she stopped thinking altogether and let herself choose him with her whole body, even as tears slipped down her cheeks, even as the future loomed loud and impossible just beyond the steam.

Cleo pulled back slowly, her forehead still brushing his, their breaths tangled and uneven. Her hands stayed on his shoulders like she wasn’t ready to let go, even though she’d stopped kissing him. Her eyes were glassy, lashes clumped with tears she hadn’t bothered wiping away.

She gave a shaky little laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

“I’m your muse,” she said softly, like she was admitting something she’d been fighting for years. “I know I am.”

Her thumb brushed over his collarbone, grounding herself in him, in the heat of his skin, in the fact that he was still right there.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For pretending I’m not. For acting like it doesn’t matter, or like it’s some… silly label. It does matter. You matter.”

Her voice cracked again, but she didn’t look away.

“And I love you,” she said, finally. No defenses. No humor. No conditions. Just truth.

She leaned in once more, resting her forehead against his, eyes closing like she needed that contact to stay upright.

“I love you,” she repeated, quieter.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The kiss wasn't a question; it was a collision.

It was salt and desperation and the kind of raw, terrifying honesty that usually only happened after a bottle of whiskey or a car crash. When her mouth crashed against his, Ben felt the impact rattle his teeth, but he didn't pull back. He surged forward to meet it.

He wrapped his arms around her, abandoning the careful, gentle hold he’d had on her face. He locked one arm around her waist and buried the other hand in her wet hair, pulling her into him until there was no daylight left between them. He kissed her back with a fierce, possessive hunger, trying to pour every ounce of reassurance he had down her throat. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.

When she finally pulled back, gasping and crying, confessing that she was his muse, Ben felt his heart crack open in his chest. It wasn't a clean break; it was a messy, jagged thing that let all the light in.

"I know," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. He released her hair only to frame her face again, his thumbs frantically wiping away the tears that were mixing with the steam on her cheeks. "I know, baby. I know."

He didn't care about the label. He cared that she wasn't running.

He felt her trembling against him, felt the way she was clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping her upright. He couldn't stand the distance of the bench anymore.
"Come here," he murmured roughly.

He didn't wait for her to move. He gripped her waist under the water and pulled her bodily toward him. He guided her legs over his hips until she was straddling him, sinking down onto his lap in the hot water. He wrapped his arms around her back, locking his hands together, encasing her completely.

He pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes tight, breathing in her shaky exhales.

"I love you," he said. He said it firmly. Absolute. Irrevocable. "I love you, Cleo. I love you in the quiet, and I love you in the noise. I love you when you're painting, and I love you when you're terrified."

He pulled back just an inch, forcing her to look at him through her tear-clumped lashes. His dark eyes were intense, burning with a seriousness that left no room for jokes or charm.

"And you’re right. It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be a logistical nightmare and I’m going to hate every second I’m not with you."

He brought one hand up, tracing the line of her jaw, his thumb resting against the pulse fluttering wildly in her neck.

"But we’re doing it," he vowed, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "We’re doing the hard part. I’m booking the flights. I’m making the time. You don't have to carry the weight of the logistics, okay? That’s on me. You just... you just have to keep loving me. Can you do that?"
He searched her face, looking for the promise behind the fear.

"Just keep loving me," he pleaded softly. "And I’ll handle the rest. I swear to you, I’ll handle the rest."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo stayed straddled over him, her hands shaking where they rested on his shoulders. The heat of the water, the steam, his arms locked around her—it all felt too much and not enough at the same time. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing, trying to get the words out before they drowned in her chest.

“I… I can’t imagine myself with anyone else,” she whispered, voice breaking as soon as she said it out loud. “I really can’t. I’ve tried. I’ve played that game in my head, you know? Different faces, different lives. It never sticks. It’s always you.”

She leaned in, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth—like she needed to map him, memorize him in case her brain ever tried to lie to her again. Each kiss was slow, reverent, soaked in the kind of love that scared her because it felt permanent.

“I’ve thought about it,” she admitted against his skin. “The big stuff. The stupid stuff. Us older. Kids running around in those tiny ear-muff things because their dad plays too loud.” A shaky laugh escaped her, half-sob, half-smile. “I can see it. I really can.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands sliding up to cup his face, thumbs brushing under his eyes like she was trying to wipe away futures that hurt.

“But then the voices in my head start screaming,” she confessed. “They tell me I’ll never be able to handle it. The schedules. The noise. The waiting. The missing you when you’re gone. They tell me I’ll drown in it, that I’ll resent it, that I’ll lose myself trying to hold onto you.”

Her chin trembled.

“And I hate that part of me,” she said quietly. “I hate that my brain always thinks it knows better than my heart.”

She pressed her forehead to his, tears slipping free now, unstoppable.

“Because my heart is all in,” she whispered. “With you. It always has been. I just… I’m terrified I won’t be strong enough to live the life that comes with you.”

Her arms tightened around his neck, clinging to him.

“I love you,” she said again, like it hurt to hold it in. “So much it scares me.”

Cleo folded into him then, like her body finally gave up trying to hold itself together. She tucked her face into the warm curve of his neck, right where his skin still smelled faintly like smoke and soap and him. Her breath hitched against his pulse, and she clung there, pressing her forehead into him like she could anchor herself to that steady rhythm.

Her hands slid up his back, gripping him tight, knuckles whitening under the water. She didn’t say anything at first—just breathed him in, letting herself be small for a second, letting the tears soak into his shoulder instead of spilling into the air between them.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t pretty.

It was quiet and raw and real.

Like she finally let herself collapse into the only place that felt safe enough to fall apart.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The image of it—kids with tiny earmuffs, standing side stage while he played—hit him so hard his chest actually ached. It was a vision he hadn’t let himself fully form, a blurry daydream he kept tucked away in the back of his mind because hoping for it felt dangerous. Hearing her say it, hearing her admit she saw it too, broke him open in a way that nothing else could.

He held her tighter, his arms locking around her back like steel bands, pressing her so close he could feel the frantic beat of her heart against his own. He buried his face in her wet hair, closing his eyes as a wave of fierce, protective heat washed over him.
She thought she wasn't strong enough. She thought she would drown.

"You're wrong," he murmured into her hair, his voice rough and vibrating against her skin. "You are so wrong, Cleo."

He moved one hand up to cup the back of her head, holding her there against his neck, refusing to let her hide the tears.

"You think you're weak because you feel things?" he asked, his tone low and intense. "Baby, you are the strongest person I know. You handle me. You handle the noise just by being near it and making it quiet. You think that's easy? You think anyone else can do that?"

He pulled back, forcing her to lift her head, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were dark, searching hers with a desperate, unwavering certainty.

"And listen to me," he said, gripping her face between his wet hands. "You are not doing this alone. You said you’re scared you’ll lose yourself trying to hold onto me? Then don't hold on so tight. Let me hold onto you."

He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his touch gentle but his jaw set.
"I will carry the weight, Cleo. When the schedule is too much, I’ll fix it. When the noise is too loud, I’ll shut it off. You don't have to be the one who stays strong all the time. You can fall apart. You can hate the tour. You can scream at me when I’m gone too long."

He leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers, his voice dropping to a fierce, broken whisper.

"Just don't leave. That’s all I ask. Be scared with me. Be angry with me. But stay."

He let out a shaky breath, a small, sad smile touching his lips as he looked into her eyes.
"And the kids with the earmuffs?" he choked out, the emotion thick in his throat. "I want that. God, I want that so bad. And we’re going to get there. We’ll buy the earmuffs. We’ll figure out the logistics. We’ll make it work because the alternative—the alternative is me without you, and that’s not an option anymore."

He kissed her then—not with hunger, but with a deep, sealing promise.

"I’ve got you," he breathed against her lips. "I’m right here. I’m not letting you drown."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer right away.

She stayed tucked against him, breathing him in, letting his words sink through the noise in her head like warm water through frozen ground. Her fingers tightened in the fabric at his back, knuckles pressing there like she was making sure he was real. Still here. Still choosing her.

Hope felt dangerous.

It always had.

She’d spent so many years pretending she didn’t want this—pretending she was above it, stronger than it, immune to the idea of building something that could hurt this badly if it broke. She’d told herself she was fine with moments. With fragments. With love that lived in pockets of time instead of stretching forward into a future.

But sitting here in his arms, steam rising around them, his voice shaking because he meant every word… she couldn’t lie anymore.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, really look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. Earnest. Terrified and brave at the same time. The man she loved. The man she’d been trying not to hope for.

Her voice came out soft, uneven.

“I’ve been pretending for so long,” she admitted, thumb brushing over his collarbone. “Pretending I didn’t care this much. Pretending I wasn’t picturing all of it… the messy parts, the loud parts, the terrifying parts.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away.

“I told myself wanting this was stupid. That it would hurt too much. That I wasn’t built for your world.”

She shook her head slowly, a watery laugh slipping out.

“But God, Ben… I do want it. I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

She reached up, cupping his face with both hands, pressing her forehead to his.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I probably always will be. My brain is never going to stop screaming at me about what could go wrong.”

Then—quietly, bravely—

“But I don’t want to run anymore.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time the tears were different. Softer. Lighter.

“I have hope,” she said. “And I hate how much it scares me… but I’m not pushing it away anymore.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips to his cheek, his jaw, everywhere she could reach like she needed to mark the moment.

“I’m with you,” she said, finally. Steady. Certain. “We’re going to have this. The hard parts. The quiet parts. The loud parts. All of it.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close.

“I don’t know what it’s going to look like,” she murmured. “But I’m choosing you. I’m choosing us.”

And for the first time, she didn’t flinch at the word future.

She held him like she believed in it.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The knot that had been sitting in the center of his chest for months—maybe years—finally unraveled.

It wasn't a sudden snap; it was a slow, warm release, like the tension leaving his muscles when he first sank into the water. Hearing her say it—I'm choosing us—was the quietest, most thunderous sound he had ever heard.

He felt the sting of tears in his own eyes, hot and sudden, and he didn't bother to fight them. He just let out a shaky, incredulous laugh that vibrated against her forehead.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice rough with relief. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

He pulled back just enough to see her. She looked wrecked and beautiful, her face wet with tears and steam, her eyes shining with that new, terrifying hope. She looked like the rest of his life.

He brought his hands up to cup her face again, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, treating her like she was the most precious thing in the universe.

"I’ll take the hope," he promised, his gaze intense. "I’ll take the fear. I’ll take the screaming brain. I’ll take all of it, Cleo. As long as you don't run, I can handle anything."

He leaned in, kissing her soft and deep, sealing the promise against her lips. It was a kiss of gratitude, of overwhelming love, of a man who realized he just got the one thing he was terrified he’d lose.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers again, a lopsided, watery grin spreading across his face.

"And just for the record," he murmured, the old charm creeping back into his voice, warm and familiar. "Those kids? They’re gonna have the coolest earmuffs money can buy. Custom made. Maybe some glitter. We’re not doing anything halfway."

He squeezed her waist under the water, grounding her, grounding himself.

"So, new rule," he announced softly. "No more counting down the five days. We’re not on a timeline anymore. We’re just... living. Okay?"

He kissed the tip of her wet nose.

"Now, are you going to let me make you dinner? Because I bought an embarrassing amount of pasta at the store, and I feel like we have something to celebrate."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer until her forehead rested against his, her breath shaky but warm. The sound that left her was half laugh, half sob—soft and disbelieving, like her body was still catching up to what her heart had already decided.

“I know,” she said quietly, her voice thick. “I know you’ve wanted it. I think that’s why I was so scared to say it out loud. I didn't want to let you down.”

She leaned into his touch when he held her face, her hands sliding up his arms, thumbs brushing over his shoulders like she was grounding herself in the fact that he was real. Here. Choosing her back just as fiercely.

When he talked about taking all of it—the fear, the noise, the mess—her eyes squeezed shut for a second, emotion cresting too fast. She nodded against his hands, swallowing hard.

“I’m not running,” she said, more to herself than to him at first. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him properly. “I don’t want to be brave alone anymore. And I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel things just to make it easier.”

His kiss broke her open in the gentlest way. She kissed him back slowly, deliberately, like she was sealing the choice she’d just made into her bones. When he pulled away, she stayed close, noses brushing, her smile small but real.

At his grin, she let out a breathy laugh and shook her head, pressing her face briefly into his shoulder like she couldn’t help herself.

“Okay,” she said, nodding once, decisively. “Okay. No countdown. No five-day math in my head. Just… living.”

She kissed the tip of his nose back, softer this time, affectionate and grounding.

“And yes,” she added, finally pulling back just enough to look at him properly, a spark of playful determination lighting her eyes. “I’ll let you make dinner.”

A pause. A tilt of her head.

“But only if you let me show you how to make a centerpiece,” she continued, already slipping out of his arms. “Because I love you, but the paper bag and oranges situation? That was inspired chaos at best.”

She laughed as she stood, water streaming off her skin, not bothering with a robe or slippers. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, eyes bright.

“Don’t start without me,” she called, already moving off the deck toward the trees. “I’ll be right back. I’m upgrading us.”

And for the first time in a long time, her chest didn’t feel tight with fear when she walked away—just light with possibility.

Cleo didn’t slow down when her feet hit the snow.

The cold bit immediately—sharp and clean against her skin—but it only made her laugh under her breath as she stepped off the deck and into the edge of the trees. Steam still clung to her shoulders, hair damp against her neck, the two-piece doing absolutely nothing to protect her from January in Truckee, and yet she felt strangely untouchable.

Like the cold couldn’t reach whatever had finally settled inside her.

She scanned the ground first, crouching to brush snow aside with her fingers. Pinecones came easy—small, tight ones tucked near the base of the trees, dusted white. She gathered a few into the crook of her arm, then stood and snapped a thin branch cleanly from a fallen limb, inspecting it like she was already picturing it on the table.

Better than a paper bag, Wilder.

She found berries next—deep red, stubbornly clinging to a low bush that hadn’t surrendered to winter yet. She hesitated only a second before plucking a few, the color vivid against the snow. She smiled at that. The contrast. The way life insisted on showing up even when everything else was dormant.

She hugged her little haul to her chest and tipped her face up toward the cabin for a moment, watching the faint glow from the windows, imagining him inside already filling a pot with water, probably humming something half-formed, probably pretending he wasn’t watching the door.

The thought softened her chest again.

“I’m doing this,” she murmured to herself, more a promise than a declaration. “We’re doing this.”

The cold finally started to sink in for real, goosebumps racing up her arms, and she let out a small hissed laugh as she turned back toward the deck, balancing branches and pinecones and berries like a scavenger with a purpose.

She jogged the last stretch, bare feet slapping against the wood as she climbed back up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, heart steady.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben didn't move from the water immediately. He sat up straighter, resting his elbows on the frosted rim of the tub, ignoring the cold air biting at his wet forearms so he could keep his eyes locked on the figure moving through the trees.

She was insane. Absolute, beautiful, certified lunatic behavior.

He watched her crouch down in the snow, her skin glowing pale against the shadows of the pines, scavenging for pinecones like she wasn't wearing nothing but a few scraps of fabric in sub-freezing temperatures. Every instinct in his body wanted to yell at her to get back in the warmth, to wrap her in a towel and carry her inside, but he stayed put.

He stayed put because he saw the way she was moving. She wasn't shivering; she was bounding. She looked light. She looked like the weight she’d been carrying around for days—the fear, the hesitation—had just evaporated into the thin mountain air.

If freezing her ass off to find the perfect branch was what she needed to seal the deal on "us," he wasn't going to stop her.

"Careful," he murmured under his breath, his muscles tensed and ready to launch himself over the railing if she slipped on a patch of ice. "Don't drop the berries, babe."

He watched her snap a branch, watched her inspect it with that critical artist’s eye he loved so much, and a huff of laughter escaped him, puffing out as a white cloud. She was right. His paper bag and orange situation had been tragic. She was going to turn a pile of yard debris into something that looked like it belonged in a magazine, and he was going to take full credit for finding the location.

As she turned back toward the deck, clutching her frozen treasure to her chest, Ben finally moved.

He hauled himself out of the water in one fluid motion, the transition from 104 degrees to 20 degrees hitting him like a physical slap. He gasped, water streaming off his naked body and turning instantly icy on his skin.

He grabbed the thick towel he’d left on the bench, whipping it around his waist and tucking it securely just as her bare feet slapped onto the deck stairs.

He stood there, dripping wet, steam rising off his skin, and just shook his head at her as she crested the top step. She was flushed pink from the cold, her hair freezing in wet clumps, holding a bundle of sticks and berries like she’d just robbed a squirrel.

"You," he said, reaching out to grab her free arm and hustle her toward the sliding door, "are a maniac. A visionary, sure. But a maniac."

He pulled the glass door open, ushering her into the warmth of the cabin before the cold could settle into her bones.

"Get inside before you turn into an ice sculpture. I am not explaining to the paramedics why my girlfriend is frozen to a pinecone."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed as he grabbed her arm, half stumbling because she absolutely refused to slow down for him. The cold barely registered now—she was riding the high of adrenaline and whatever soft miracle had just cracked open in her chest.

“Hey,” she protested between breathless laughs as he herded her toward the door, “I was careful. Mostly.”

The word girlfriend hit her a second later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… there. Slipped into the sentence like it belonged.

Her grin went soft and private instantly, something just for herself as she let him hustle her inside. She didn’t say anything about it—didn’t want to spook it—but she tucked the word away like a secret treasure.

Inside, the warmth wrapped around her and she finally hissed, “Okay, fine, you win, it’s freezing,” but she didn’t stop moving. She shook the snow from her hands and crossed straight to the fireplace, kneeling down to carefully unload her haul onto the floor—pinecones first, then branches, then the berries, arranging them like she was already mentally composing the centerpiece.

“Tragic paper bag era is officially over,” she muttered to herself, smiling.

She popped back up and wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets with quick, purposeful movements. “We have to have something glass in here,” she murmured, rifling through shelves until she found a mismatched set of old vases and candle holders clearly left behind by previous renters.

“Perfect,” she whispered, grabbing a tall one and a squat little bowl.

She spotted a rolled runner tucked on a shelf—some forgotten decorative thing—and snatched it too, tucking it under her arm before heading back to the fireplace and dropping everything in a messy pile.

Then she disappeared down the hallway toward their room.

Ben would hear drawers opening, zippers tugged, a very focused hum. She resurfaced a moment later with a silky pair of red pajamas balled up in her hands, grinning like she’d found buried treasure.

She glanced at the setup again, then muttered, half to herself,
“I need scissors…”

Two steps later she leaned into the doorway and called out, louder—

“Hey, rockstar—do we have scissors or am I about to commit a crime with a steak knife?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

The door clicked shut, sealing out the wind, and Ben leaned against it for a split second, exhaling a cloud of steam that was slowly fading.

Girlfriend.

The word had slipped out with zero fanfare, just tumbled into the cold air between "paramedics" and "pinecone." He hadn't planned it. He hadn't workshopped it in the shower or written it down on a napkin to test the weight of it. It had just… happened. Like a reflex. Like his brain had already updated the software and forgot to send the memo to his mouth.

He braced himself, waiting for the flinch. Waiting for the "whoa, slow down" look. But she was already on the floor, arranging sticks like she was conducting a symphony, muttering about paper bags.

He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, a small, lopsided grin taking over his face.

She didn't run.

"Right," he muttered to the empty hallway as she disappeared into the bedroom. "Cool. We're doing that. I can work with that."

He peeled the damp towel from his waist, doing a quick, shivering dry-off before grabbing the pile of clothes he’d left on the dryer earlier. He pulled on a pair of soft, heather-grey sweatpants and a matching oversized hoodie, instantly transforming into a walking, comfortable storm cloud. He ran a hand through his damp hair, which was currently doing its best impression of a mad scientist, and decided to just let it be. It was a look. Probably.

He padded into the kitchen, the floorboards cold even through his socks.

He filled the biggest pot he could find with water, cranking the burner to high. He wasn't kidding about the pasta. He had two boxes of rigatoni, a jar of sauce that claimed to be "artisanal," and a block of parmesan he intended to grate until his arm fell off.

He was just dumping the pasta into the rolling boil—steam billowing up into his face—when he heard her.

“...or am I about to commit a crime with a steak knife?”

Ben froze, the wooden spoon paused mid-stir.

"Absolutely not," he said to the steam. "Nope. Vetoed immediately."

He knew Cleo. He knew her hands were steady when she held a paintbrush, but put a kitchen utensil in her hand during a creative fugue state, and she became a liability.

He abandoned the pasta and went straight for the junk drawer—the one every rental cabin in the history of the world possessed. He rattled through three dead batteries, a takeout menu from 2014, and a roll of duct tape until his fingers closed around the orange handles of a pair of safety scissors.

"Armed and dangerous," he announced, walking into the living room.

He stopped in the doorway, the scissors held up like a peace offering.

The scene before him was... actually kind of impressive. She had vases, pinecones, and red fabric strewn about, and she was sitting in the middle of it looking like a chaotic forest nymph who had broken into a Crate & Barrel.

"I am officially intervening," he said, walking over and crouching down beside her. He plucked the steak knife she had somehow already located from her hand and replaced it with the scissors. "We are not doing emergency stitches tonight, babe. I don't care how good the centerpiece looks, I need all ten of your fingers intact for the holding-my-hand part of the evening."

He stayed crouched there for a second, resting his elbows on his knees, watching her work with an amused, affectionate smirk.

"You realize this is way too classy for rigatoni, right?" he teased, nodding at the arrangement. "I feel like I should be serving pheasant under glass. Or at least wearing a tie."

He reached out, tugging gently on a loose strand of her damp hair.

"You good? You need anything else from the kitchen before I go battle the steam again? A glue gun? A chainsaw?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo barely looked up when he appeared with the scissors, already knee-deep in her own momentum.

She glanced at the orange handles, then at his face, then back to the mess in front of her, a grin tugging at her mouth like she’d been caught doing something she absolutely intended to keep doing.

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely, taking the scissors from him without ceremony. “You just saved at least one fingertip and whatever dignity I had left.”

She set the steak knife aside like it had offended her personally and went right back to work, spreading the runner flat on the floor in front of the fire. The heat was starting to thaw her skin, her cheeks still pink from the cold, hair damp and curling at the ends. She shifted, cross-legged now, and reached for the red silk pajamas.

When he teased about the rigatoni, she huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, eyes still focused as she lined up the fabric.

“Listen,” she said, calm and completely serious, “presentation matters. Even if the food is… aggressively humble.”

She snipped into the silk with careful, deliberate cuts, not rushing it, the fabric sliding cleanly under the blades. She didn’t look at him when he mentioned chainsaws—just kept cutting, unfazed.

“Just don’t overcook them,” she said lightly. “I won’t eat them.”

She adjusted one of the branches, propping it against the vase, then trimmed another strip of fabric, shorter this time. Her movements were sure, grounded. The spiral she’d been flirting with earlier was gone. Replaced with focus. With purpose.

When he tugged her hair, she finally tilted her head back just enough to look at him, eyes warm and steady.

“I’m good,” she said softly. “Really good.”

Then, quieter, more honest—
“And this is fun. Let me have this.”

She went back to work, threading the silk through the branches, red against green against glass, something simple turning unexpectedly beautiful under her hands.

After a beat, she added, almost as an afterthought—

“If you see smoke, yell. Otherwise, I trust you.”

Cleo shifted closer to the fire, the warmth finally sinking into her bones as she worked. She pinched the silk between her fingers, tugging it just enough to get the drape right, head tilted to the side in concentration. The very tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips without her noticing—a habit she’d had forever, one that only showed up when she was fully absorbed.

She adjusted one pinecone, didn’t like it, adjusted it again. Better.

Her brows knit, tongue still out, as she looped the red fabric around the neck of the glass, tying it once, then undoing it immediately with a quiet, dissatisfied hum. She leaned back, squinted at the whole thing like it might argue with her, then leaned forward again, determined to win.

“This part matters,” she muttered to herself, more to the arrangement than to anyone else. “If it looks accidental, it has to actually be intentional.”

She snipped one last thin strip, precise, careful, then threaded it through the branches, fingers steady now. The tongue disappeared as she exhaled, a small smile flickering when it finally looked right.

She sat back on her heels, studying it, then reached forward to nudge one berry cluster just a fraction of an inch.

Perfect.

Without looking toward the kitchen, she called out casually, voice warm and grounded, like everything inside her had settled into place—

“How we doin’ over there, chef? Pasta still alive?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

He lingered in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, just watching her.

She was doing that thing—the thing where the tip of her tongue poked out between her lips because her brain was running at absolute maximum capacity. It was a detail he’d clocked about three weeks into knowing her, usually reserved for difficult chord progressions or tricky shading on a canvas. Seeing it directed at a pinecone and a pair of silk pajamas made his chest do a weird, warm flip-flop that he absolutely wasn't going to acknowledge out loud.

"Intentional," he whispered to himself, grinning as he turned back to the kitchen. "Right."
He walked back into the steam cloud, the bubbling pot of water serving as a harsh reality check.

"Aggressively humble," he muttered, eyeing the jar of tomato sauce with deep suspicion. The label featured a drawing of a smiling nonna who looked like she was judging him. "Alright, Nonna. Don't look at me like that. We're gonna fix it."

If Cleo was out there creating the Louvre of centerpieces, he couldn't just serve up boiled carbs and red sludge. He needed to elevate. He needed to pivot.

He opened the fridge, scanning the contents like he was defusing a bomb.

Beer. Leftover pizza. Water. A lemon that had seen better days.

"Come on," he hissed, shifting a carton of eggs.

Jackpot.

Way in the back, tucked behind a jar of pickles, was a stick of butter—real, salted butter—and a half-pint of heavy cream that he must have bought for coffee and immediately forgotten about.

He grabbed them both. He slammed the butter onto the counter and pivoted to the spice rack. It was a rental cabin spice rack, which meant it was a graveyard of expired seasonings, but he dug until he found garlic powder and a shaker of crushed red pepper flakes.

"We’re in business," he announced to the empty room.

He drained the pasta, saving a mugful of the starchy water because he’d seen a guy do it on TikTok once and he was pretty sure that was the secret to a Michelin star. He dumped the pasta back in the pot, threw in a knob of butter the size of his fist, and cranked the heat.

"Sizzle for me," he encouraged, tossing the noodles.

In went the "artisanal" sauce. In went a splash of the heavy cream to turn it a rich, dangerous orange. In went enough garlic powder to ward off vampires for a three-county radius and a generous shake of the red pepper.

He grabbed the block of parmesan and the grater, attacking the cheese with a fervor that bordered on violent. He grated until a snowy mountain of cheese began to melt into the sauce, thickening it, making it glossy and rich.

He stirred it vigorously, dipping a wooden spoon in to take a taste test.

It burned his tongue, was probably 90% cholesterol, and tasted incredible.
"Oh, yeah," he grinned, pointing the spoon at the pot. "You are no longer humble. You are arrogant. You are a pasta with an ego."

Just as he was contemplating whether adding the sad lemon zest would be genius or a disaster, her voice floated in from the living room.

“How we doin’ over there, chef? Pasta still alive?”

Ben laughed, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard.

"Alive?" he called back, scooping a massive portion into the first bowl. "Babe, this pasta is thriving. It’s undergoing a spiritual awakening. It’s basically the pasta version of me in a hot tub."

He wiped the rim of the bowl with a paper towel—presentation, dammit—and leaned against the counter, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Just warning you," he shouted, grabbing two forks. "I found butter and I wasn't afraid to use it. If you hear my arteries hardening, just turn up the music."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo appeared in the kitchen doorway a second later, arms full and careful, carrying the centerpiece (https://i.ibb.co/8LFWmSB7/IMG-1436.png) like it was fragile evidence of a crime scene she was very proud of committing.

She’d changed—barely. An oversized (https://i.ibb.co/nSQ1Lnv/IMG-1437.png) sweater swallowed her shoulders, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, hair still damp and loose now, curling softly around her face. Her cheeks were pink from the fire and the cold and the sprint back inside, eyes bright in a way that made the whole room feel warmer just by her standing in it.

She set the centerpiece down in the middle of the table with deliberate care, nudging one pinecone, rotating a branch, then finally stepping back to assess it like a curator.

Only then did she turn her attention to him.

Or rather—to the pot.

Her brows lifted slowly as she crossed the kitchen, peering into the steam with open suspicion the moment he said butter. She leaned over his shoulder, close enough that her sweater brushed his arm, inhaling deeply.

“Oh,” she said, dragging the word out. “You definitely found butter.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully as she watched the sauce cling thickly to the noodles, glossy and unapologetic.

“…Ben.”

She glanced up at him, one eyebrow arching in a way that meant she already knew the answer.

“Did you—” she pointed at the pot with one finger, “—add the whole bar again?”

Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. She reached for the spoon without asking, blew on it once, then tasted. Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second despite herself.

“Okay,” she conceded quietly, swallowing. “That’s… really good. Like dangerous good.”

She shot him a look then—half impressed, half mock-accusatory.

“You realize I made something that belongs on a woodland magazine cover,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the table, “and you responded by making a sauce that could end a bloodline.”

She nudged his hip gently with hers, staying close, inspecting the pot again like she might catch it misbehaving.

“But,” she added, softer now, warmth threading through her voice, “if this is you ‘thriving,’ I’m not mad about it.”

She set the spoon back down, fingers brushing his as she did.

“Just… next time,” she said lightly, eyes flicking up to meet his, “warn me before you unleash dairy-based chaos. I like to emotionally prepare.”

Cleo didn’t hesitate.

She stepped closer, toes lifting so she was balanced on the balls of her feet, arms sliding easily up around his neck. Her sweater brushed his chest, warmth to warmth, her fingers curling at the nape of his neck like they already belonged there.

She looked up at him, eyes soft and bright, lips already curving into a smile.

“Kiss,” she said simply, like it was the most natural request in the world.

Then she puckered dramatically—over-the-top, playful, absolutely impossible to ignore—holding it there just long enough to make him laugh before leaning in that last inch herself, meeting him halfway.

[Benjamin Wilder]

He looked at her standing there—drowning in a sweater that was definitely too big for her, hair wild and damp, smelling like winter air and his own expensive shampoo—and felt a surge of affection so strong it actually knocked the wind out of him for a second.
When she accused him of using the whole bar of butter, he didn't even blink.

"Allegedly," he drawled, leaning back against the counter with a shamelessly smug grin. "I refuse to answer that question without legal counsel. But I will say that French cooking is ninety percent butter and ten percent spite, and I am merely respecting the culinary arts."

He watched her taste it, saw her eyes flutter shut, and felt a victory swell in his chest that was disproportionate to the task of boiling pasta.

"See?" he teased, nudging her back. "Emotional preparation is overrated. Sometimes you just have to let the cholesterol take the wheel."

But then she stepped in close.

The shift was instantaneous. The kitchen, the steam, the bubbling pot—it all blurred into the background. All that mattered was the feel of her sweater brushing against his hoodie and her hands sliding up his neck.

When she said “Kiss” and did that ridiculous, over-the-top pucker, Ben let out a laugh—a genuine, startled burst of sound that vibrated in his chest.

"You are ridiculous," he murmured, shaking his head.

He didn't make her wait. He slid his arms around her waist, his hands slipping under the hem of her sweater to find the warm, soft skin of her lower back. He pulled her flush against him, enjoying the way she fit, the way she always fit.

He leaned down, pressing a quick, teasing peck to her puckered lips first, just to be annoying, before tilting his head and kissing her for real.

It was slow and sweet, tasting faintly of the tomato sauce she’d just sampled and the peppermint tea she’d been drinking earlier. He hummed against her mouth, a low sound of contentment, holding her there for a long moment, letting the domesticity of it settle over him like a warm blanket.

"Bossy," he whispered against her lips when he finally pulled back, though his eyes were dancing with delight. "I like it. Keep that energy."

He kept one arm around her waist, turning them both toward the table where her masterpiece sat.

"Okay, let’s eat before the 'bloodline-ending' sauce congeals," he said, grabbing the two bowls with his free hand. He walked her over to the table, setting the food down next to the arrangement of pinecones and red silk.

He took a step back, admiring the tableau. The contrast was hilarious and perfect. Two bowls of aggressively orange pasta, a centerpiece worthy of a wedding magazine, and the two of them standing there in sweatpants.

"We look like we're about to have a very romantic, very chic séance," he commented, pulling out a chair for her with a flourish. "Madame Cleo, your table is ready. Please try not to get sauce on the silk, or we’ll have to explain to the dry cleaners why our pajamas smell like garlic."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed when he went full fake-lawyer about the butter, shaking her head as she leaned her hip against the counter.

“Allegedly?” she echoed, squinting at him like a detective in a cozy mystery. “Ben, if my arteries start sending me hate mail tomorrow, I’m forwarding it straight to you.”

She dipped the spoon again anyway, because she had zero self-control, and when the flavor hit she let out a soft, pleased hum. Her shoulders relaxed, tension melting right out of her.

“Okay,” she admitted, pointing the spoon at him. “Fine. You win. This is stupid good. But if I die young, tell my story.”

When she stepped closer, sweater brushing his hoodie, she couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face at how fast his attention snapped to her. She reached up, hands resting around his neck, rising slightly on her toes.

“You’re obsessed,” she teased softly, eyes warm. “With butter. With dramatic pasta. With proving yourself.”

She let out a small laugh when he reacted, shaking her head.

“And yeah,” she added, smirking, “I kinda love that about you.”

When he guided her toward the table, she went willingly, still half tucked into his side. The room felt softer now—fire crackling, pasta steaming, her ridiculous woodland centerpiece glowing in the flicker of orange light. The red silk caught the firelight like embers, glass jars throwing tiny reflections onto the ceiling.

She laughed at his séance comment, dropping into the chair he pulled out for her.

“Honestly,” she said, tucking one leg under herself, sweater pooling around her thighs, “if a ghost shows up, that’s on you. You brought the drama pasta.”

She watched him sit across from her, eyes bright, hair still a little wild from the hot tub, and felt that quiet swell of affection again. This. Them. Sweatpants, firelight, too much butter, handmade chaos on the table.

“Thank you,” she added softly. “For dinner. For… all of it.”

Then she grabbed her fork, twirling pasta like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Now eat, rockstar,” she smiled. “Before it does congeal and we actually summon something.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

He watched her tuck her leg under herself—a move that looked equal parts comfortable and physically impossible—and felt that same warm, steady thrum in his chest.

"If a ghost shows up," Ben said around a mouthful of pasta, pointing his fork at her, "I’m offering him a plate. I feel like the undead don't get enough garlic in their diet. It’s sad, really."

He chewed, swallowed, and let out a long, dramatic exhale of satisfaction.

"Okay," he announced, looking down at his bowl with genuine respect. "I take back every bad thing I thought about the jar. This is spectacular. I feel my heart slowing down already, but it’s a worthy sacrifice."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, ignoring the fact that this was technically poor etiquette for a table graced by red silk and pinecones. He watched her eat—watched the way she didn't pick at it, didn't count the carbs, just enjoyed it. It was one of the thousand things he loved about her. In a world full of people who treated food like an enemy, Cleo treated it like an experience.

When she thanked him, his expression softened, the teasing light in his eyes dimming into something warmer.

"Hey," he said gently, nudging her foot with his under the table. "You don't thank me. We’re a team, remember? You handle the aesthetics and the emotional breakthroughs; I handle the carbohydrates and the safety scissors. It’s a delicate ecosystem."

He took another bite, twirling a massive nest of rigatoni against his spoon, splashing a tiny drop of orange sauce onto the placemat. He ignored it.

"Besides," he added, chewing thoughtfully. "I think this centerpiece is actually improving the flavor. It’s giving the pasta... ambition. It feels underdressed, but it’s trying its best."

He watched her take another bite, a small smudge of creamy orange sauce catching the corner of her mouth. He didn't say anything at first. He just watched her, looking at the firelight dancing in her eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweater that he was definitely never getting back.

He reached across the table, his hand hovering for a second before his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping the sauce away with a gentle, deliberate stroke.

"Messy," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing the joke.

He pulled his hand back, licking the sauce off his own thumb with a shameless, heated darken of his eyes.

"So," he said, clearing his throat and picking his fork back up, shifting gears before he dragged her across the table and ruined dinner. "Since we aren't doing the countdown thing... what’s the plan for tomorrow? Do we build a snowman? Do we hibernate? Or do I have to defend my title as the best Mario Kart player in the Sierra Nevadas?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a soft laugh as Ben pointed his fork like a warning wand, her knee drawing up under her sweater as she settled deeper into the chair. It was comfortable in that way that didn’t ask permission—messy, lived-in, hers.

“If a ghost shows up,” she said, solemn as she twirled her pasta, “and you don’t offer him a plate, I’m pretty sure that’s how hauntings start. Garlic is hospitality.”

She watched him savor the food with that exaggerated reverence of his, chin tipping back, eyes closing for half a second like the jar had personally redeemed itself. It made something warm bloom behind her ribs. She liked feeding people. She liked feeding him.

When he nudged her foot and said team, she smiled down at her bowl, cheeks warming—not bashful, just… settled. She took a proper bite, unhurried, letting the flavors land. No guilt. No counting. Just enjoyment.

“Hey,” she said lightly, glancing up at him. “Safety scissors are an underrated skill. You’re basically indispensable.”

She caught his look when the sauce smudged her mouth but didn’t clock it right away—too busy chasing another forkful. When his hand reached across the table, she froze just a beat, eyes flicking up to his face as his thumb brushed her lip.

Her smile went soft first.

Then she scrunched her nose at him—playful, mock-offended, entirely fond—before leaning back just enough to reclaim her space and her fork, eyes sparkling.

“Rude,” she said, absolutely not meaning it, already going back for another bite like nothing had happened.

She watched him lick his thumb with that look, heat curling low in her stomach, and she shook her head once, grinning to herself as she chewed.

At his question, she slowed. Really thought about it. Fork paused mid-air. Firelight flickered across her face as she stared at nothing in particular, considering the snow, the quiet, the way tomorrow felt wide open.

Then, without warning, she sang—soft, a little dramatic, entirely unpolished—

“Do you wanna build a snowmaaaan…”

She cut herself off with a laugh, shoulders lifting.

“I mean—yes. Probably. At least a lopsided one. With a stick arm that looks vaguely threatening.”

She swallowed, then added, casual but pleased, “I brought my laptop too. We could always watch a movie if the snow wins. Or if you lose Mario Kart and need emotional recovery time.”

She tipped her head, smiling at him over the rim of her bowl.

“No countdown. No pressure. Just… us.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, a single rigatoni noodle precariously balanced on the tines.

He stared at her for a solid three seconds, blinking slowly, before he slowly lowered the fork back to the bowl.

"Did you just...?" He started, a slow, incredulous grin breaking across his face. "Wow. Okay. We just went full Arendelle. I wasn't ready for the vocal run. Disney lawyers are probably rappelling down the roof right now. You’ve doomed us."

He picked up his napkin, dabbing his mouth with exaggerated refinement, trying to hide the fact that he was absolutely delighted.

"First of all," he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "I am extremely down for a menacing snowman. I don't want a happy snowman. I want a snowman that looks like he listens to Slayer. I want a snowman that makes the neighbors lock their doors. We can give him a pinecone mohawk."

He pointed his fork at her again, his expression shifting into mock seriousness.

"But second—and I need you to listen to me very carefully, Cleo—do not write checks your kart can't cash."

He took a defiant bite of pasta, chewed, and swallowed with a cocky tilt of his head.

"Emotional recovery? Babe, I am Rainbow Road. I was born in the drift boost. I play Toad with a level of ruthlessness that is frankly concerning for a man of my age. If you want to go there, we can go there. But don't come crying to me when I hit you with a Blue Shell right at the finish line. I have no mercy. I have no loyalty. On the track, I am a monster."

He laughed then, the sound warm and easy in the firelight, and went back to his food, shaking his head.

"But yeah," he murmured, his voice softening as the joke faded, leaving just the comfort of the room and the girl across from him. "Movies sound good. Snowmen sound good."

He looked up, catching her eye over the centerpiece she’d built with her own frozen hands.
"Just us sounds perfect."

He scraped the bottom of his bowl, mourning the end of the pasta, and then reached for his water glass.

"But seriously," he added, eyes twinkling. "If you beat me at Mario Kart, I'm blaming the butter. It slows down my reflexes. It’s a scientifically proven fact."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed immediately—bright, uncontained—fork still hovering as she watched him short-circuit over the song. She took the opportunity to steal a bite while he was mid-monologue, eyes never leaving his face as she chewed like she was settling in for a show.

“Oh, relax,” she said around the pasta, swallowing before continuing. “If Disney wanted me, they’d have called after the Halloween Anna Incident.”

She tipped her head, smug.

“And they didn’t.”

At the snowman description, she gasped, delighted. “A Slayer snowman?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, absolutely. He’s getting a crooked grin and one coal eye that’s… judging you. And yes—pinecone mohawk. Maybe a scarf that looks stolen.”

When he pointed his fork at her like a warning, she leaned back in her chair, folding one leg under herself again, entirely unbothered.

“Ben,” she said sweetly, then took another bite—on purpose—chewed slowly, dramatically, and only then added, “you’re thirty, babe. It might be time to put the gaming systems away.”

She held up a finger immediately, smiling wide. “—Kidding. Mostly. I respect the lore.”

She watched him puff himself up about Rainbow Road, eyes sparkling, chin propped in her palm like she was observing a beloved creature in its natural habitat.

“Toad?” she echoed. “That tracks. Small. Fast. Slightly unhinged.”

She laughed again when he declared himself a monster, warmth blooming in her chest as his voice softened, the room settling back into that quiet glow. When he said just us, she didn’t rush to answer. She just looked at him for a second, really looked—firelight, empty bowl, pasta-happy and earnest.

She took one more bite.

Then smiled.

“For the record,” she said lightly, “I’ve already beaten you.”

She lifted her brows at his look.

“Not tonight,” she clarified, laughing. “But spiritually. I can feel it. The win is coming.”

She reached for her water, clinking her glass gently against his.

“And yes—movies, snowmen, ruthless karting, butter-based excuses. All approved.” Her smile softened. “Just us is my favorite plan.”

She leaned back, content, eyes warm.

“But when I beat you,” she added, sing-song sweet, “I’m absolutely blaming your age.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stared at her, his mouth hanging open in a caricature of shock. He slowly lowered his water glass to the table.

"Thirty?" he repeated, his voice rising in pitch. "Did you just drop the big three-oh on me? That is ageism. That is a hate crime. You are hate-criming me in my own rental cabin while eating my butter-pasta."

He shook his head, looking deeply, theatrically wounded.

"For your information, thirty is the prime of a man's life. My reflexes are razor sharp. My wisdom is boundless. And my knees only click sometimes when it rains. You should be intimidated."

He pointed a finger at her when she brought up Toad.

"And do not come for Toad. Toad is an icon. He drives a shoe. He screams constantly. He is small, chaotic, and vaguely shaped like a fungus. He is my spirit animal, and I will not hear a word of slander against him."

He watched her finish her water, loving the way the firelight caught the mischief in her eyes. She was roasting him, and he was eating it up. She looked comfortable. She looked happy. She looked like she belonged here, sitting across from him in oversized knitwear, threatening to destroy him at video games.

When she mentioned the "spiritual win," he scoffed, grabbing his napkin and tossing it onto the table like a gauntlet.

"Manifestation isn't going to save you from a Red Shell, babe," he warned, standing up. "You can’t 'vibes' your way into first place. I’m going to destroy you. It’s going to be ugly. I might make you cry."

He walked around the table, but instead of heading for the kitchen, he stopped behind her chair. He leaned down, wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders from behind, burying his nose in the crook of her neck for a brief, warm second.

"But I love that you have hope," he murmured against her skin, pressing a kiss to her pulse point. "It’s cute. Misguided, but cute."

He pulled back, swiping her empty bowl before she could protest.

"Go," he ordered, jerking his chin toward the living room. "Pick the movie. Set up the laptop. Fire up the console. I’ll handle the dishes."

He started stacking the bowls, balancing the forks on top with practiced ease.

"If I let you help clean up, you’ll try to make a mosaic out of the leftover noodles, and I want to be watching Frozen—or whatever snowman propaganda you choose—within the next ten minutes. Chop chop."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo burst out laughing at his dramatic outrage, nearly snorting as she pushed her chair back.

“Thirty,” she repeated sweetly, batting her lashes at him. “Ancient. Fossilized. Practically a museum exhibit. I’m shocked you’re still allowed to operate heavy machinery.”

She pointed her fork at him when he went off about Toad, trying not to laugh.

“I’m not slandering him,” she defended, grinning. “I’m just saying… if your spirit animal drives a shoe and screams for a living, that explains so much about you.”

When he stood and started issuing threats about Red Shells, she rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Manifestation absolutely works,” she shot back. “You’re just afraid of my spiritual alignment with Mario Kart destiny.”

Then he leaned down behind her, arms around her shoulders, and her whole body softened despite herself. She closed her eyes for a second, smiling when he buried his face into her neck.

“Rude,” she murmured when he called her hope misguided. “But noted.”

She made a face when he stole her bowl.

“Hey! I was emotionally attached to that pasta,” she protested, laughing. “Fine, fine. Domestic king, go do your dishes.”

She stood, stretching her arms over her head.

“Don’t flood the kitchen,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m trusting you.”

She padded down the short hallway to the bedroom and dug through one of her suitcases, unzipping pockets until she found her laptop tucked inside a soft sleeve. She grabbed it, then hesitated, scanning the room before scooping up her charger too—because she knew better.

Back in the living room, she dropped onto her knees in front of the coffee table and carefully set the laptop down, flipping it open and plugging it in. The fire crackled behind her, throwing warm light across the screen as it booted up.

She glanced at the leather couch and immediately wrinkled her nose.

“Nope,” she muttered.

She grabbed two pillows from the corner, fluffing them dramatically, then dragged the thick knit blanket off the armrest and spread it carefully across the cushions like she was preparing a sacred nest.

“I hate leather,” she said aloud to no one, smoothing it out. “It sticks. It squeaks. It judges you.”

Once the couch was sufficiently fortified, she climbed up, tucking her legs under herself and arranging the pillows behind her back. She pulled the blanket over her lap, instantly more relaxed.

From the living room, she called toward the kitchen,
“Okay! Tech setup is happening! You have approximately eight minutes before I choose something aggressively sad or animated.”

She clicked through streaming apps, already smiling to herself.

“Also,” she added, glancing toward the doorway, “I am winning Mario Kart tonight. Start emotionally preparing.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben scrubbed the last bit of orange sauce from the pot with a speed and efficiency that honestly deserved an award.

"Domestic King?" he muttered to the faucet, rinsing the suds away. "I prefer Domestic Deity, thank you very much. I am a god of sanitation."

He dried his hands on the dish towel, tossing it onto the counter, and turned off the kitchen light, plunging the room into shadow and leaving only the warm, flickering glow from the living room fireplace.

He walked in just as she announced the eight-minute warning.

He paused, taking in the scene. She had effectively declared war on the leather couch, burying it under a mountain of knitwear and fluff until it looked less like furniture and more like a soft, fortified bunker.

"I heard 'aggressively sad,'" he announced, stepping over the back of the couch to drop down onto the cushion beside her, purposely collapsing onto the nest she’d built. "And I am issuing a preemptive veto. If I hear the opening notes of Up, I am leaving. I cannot handle the balloon house tonight. My heart is too fragile."

He wiggled into the space next to her, nudging her hip with his own until she made room.
"And you’re right about the leather," he agreed, settling back and stretching his arm out along the top of the pillows behind her head. "Leather couches are narcs. You move one inch and they make a noise that sounds like a fart, and then you have to spend the next ten minutes explaining physics to your guests. It’s humiliating."

He glanced at the laptop screen, then down at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"As for Mario Kart," he said, reaching out to pluck the controller from the coffee table and weighing it in his hand like a weapon. "I admire your confidence. Truly. It’s inspiring to see someone so wrong be so loud about it."

He raised an eyebrow, challenging her.

"But here’s the deal. If I win—which I will—you have to wear the 'I Lost' crown. Which is just a paper plate I’m going to draw a sad face on. And you have to wear it for the duration of the movie."

He leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief.

"But if you win... I’ll admit that thirty is ancient. I’ll start walking with a cane. I’ll yell at kids to get off my lawn. I’ll start listening to talk radio."

He nudged her shoulder.

"Deal?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just turned her head—slowly, deliberately—until she was looking at him in full. Firelight flickered across her face, catching in her eyes, warming the curve of her cheek. For a half second she looked genuinely stunned, like she was trying to confirm she’d heard him correctly.

“The I Lost crown?” she repeated, very quietly.

Her hand lifted to her chest in reflex, fingers splaying dramatically over the space where pearls absolutely were not—but should have been, frankly, for a moment of this magnitude.

She stared at him like he’d just insulted her entire bloodline.

“A paper plate,” she went on, voice hushed with disbelief. “With a sad face. In a rented cabin. Surrounded by pine trees and rustic dignity.”

She inhaled once. Sharply.

“No.”

Flat. Clean. Immediate.

She shook her head—once, firm and unmistakable. Then again, smaller, like she was sealing the decision shut.

“No crown. No labeling. No humiliation rituals while I’m trying to enjoy nature-adjacent healing.”

She turned away from him without ceremony, leaning forward to reclaim the laptop sitting on the coffee table. The wood creaked softly beneath her as she shifted, the cabin settling around them—the low crackle of the fire, the faint wind brushing the windows, the deep quiet that only came from being far away from everything.

Her fingers skimmed the trackpad. Scroll. Click.

The screen filled with dense green jungle and ominous drums.

Anaconda.

Jennifer Lopez appeared, glossy and determined and deeply serious about a very unserious situation.

Cleo let out a soft chuckle as she leaned back into the blanket bunker, tugging a thick knit throw up around her waist. The leather couch sighed beneath them, muffled by layers of wool and fleece.

“This one’s a guilty pleasure,” she admitted, unashamed, eyes fixed on the screen. “I know it’s ridiculous. I know the snake is basically a cryptid. But it’s comforting.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a small smile playing at her mouth.

“There’s something very soothing about bad CGI, rainforest chaos, and Jennifer Lopez refusing to die.”

She settled in deeper, shoulder brushing his, the warmth of the fire and the cabin closing in around them like a held breath.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, as the jungle rain began to fall onscreen, “I will not be wearing any crown that announces failure.”

A beat.

“But you’re welcome to keep dreaming about it,” she said, smug and cozy, already fully committed to the snake movie and the night unfolding exactly the way she wanted it to.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stared at the screen, then at her, his eyebrows climbing so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hairline.

"Cowardice," he whispered, shaking his head with mock solemnity. "I am sensing fear, Cleo. I am sensing that you know, deep down, that you would look terrible in a paper plate crown, and you aren't willing to take the risk. It’s okay. Not everyone is built for the high-stakes world of cabin gambling."

He didn't let the challenge die there, though. He reached over and deliberately set the controllers down on the coffee table, right next to the laptop, lining them up with military precision. He tapped the red one—his controller—twice.

"I’m leaving this right here," he warned, flashing her a look. "Consider it a threat. The console is on standby. The kart engines are idling. The second the snake is dead, we race. You are not escaping your destiny."

He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh as the opening credits rolled and the ominous jungle drums kicked in.

"Anaconda?" he asked, his voice cracking with delight. "You find a movie about a snake with a personal vendetta against Ice Cube soothing? Babe, your definition of comfort is terrifying. I love it."

He maneuvered himself fully onto the couch, ignoring the boundaries she had set with the pillows and simply invading her space. He lifted the edge of the thick knit blanket she’d claimed and slid underneath it.

"Scooch," he murmured, nudging her thigh with his knee until she shifted enough for him to fit.

He settled in, extending his arm along the back of the couch again, but this time he dropped it, curling his hand around her shoulder and pulling her into the side of his chest. He wanted her weight against him. He wanted to feel her laugh when the snake inevitably defied the laws of physics.

"Okay," he said, staring at the screen as Jennifer Lopez appeared, looking far too glamorous for the Amazon. "I’m in. But I have questions. Mostly about the snake’s agent. Do you think the snake did his own stunts? Or was there a stunt noodle?"

He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly against her arm, the warmth of the fire and the blanket creating a cocoon that felt dangerously sleepy.

"And for the record," he mumbled, leaning his cheek against the top of her head as the dialogue started. "You not wearing the crown is fine. But if you lose... you owe me a back rub. A real one. With the fancy lotion. That’s the new deal. No take-backs."

He tightened his hold on her, eyes drifting from the screen to the firelight dancing on the wall, and felt a profound sense of peace settle over him.

Bad movie. Good girl.

Yeah. He could do this forever.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly as he went on, the sound warm and breathy, muffled by the blanket and the low hiss of the fire. She shifted just enough to get more comfortable against him, her shoulder tucked under his arm, her knee brushing his thigh.

When he started in again—about cowardice, destiny, stunt noodles—she lifted her hand and gently pressed it over his mouth.

A strategic hush.

Her palm was warm from the blanket, fingers splayed across his lips and part of his cheek, thumb grazing the corner of his smile.

“Shhh,” she murmured, trying and failing not to grin. “I’m trying to emotionally prepare for the cinematic masterpiece that is Anaconda, okay?”

She peeked up at him, eyes bright, mischief dancing in them.

“And first of all,” she added, lowering her hand just enough so he could breathe properly, “this has nothing to do with cowardice.”

She shifted, turning slightly toward him so she could see his face better, still tucked into his side.

“It has everything to do with self-respect,” she declared solemnly. “I will not be bullied into wearing a paper plate crown like some medieval jester just because you’re emotionally attached to Mario Kart.”

Her lips twitched.

“That crown is a choice, Benjamin. And I am choosing dignity.”

She settled back into him, tugging the blanket higher around both of them, her head resting against his chest again. Her fingers traced lazy shapes on his hoodie, absentminded and affectionate.

“But,” she admitted quietly, eyes flicking back to the screen as the snake slithered into frame, “if I lose… fine. Fancy lotion. Back rub. Full spa experience.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him again.

“Just know I’ll be doing it while silently judging your controller technique.”

Then she nudged his ribs gently with her elbow.

“Now be quiet. The snake is about to commit a crime.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

He grinned against her palm, the warmth of her hand seeping into his lips, before reaching up to gently peel her fingers away. He didn't let go, though. He just laced his fingers through hers, resting their joined hands on his chest, right over the steady thump of his heart.

"You choose dignity?" he whispered back, his voice thick with amusement. "Babe, that is your first mistake. Dignity is the enemy of fun. And honestly? I have absolutely none left."
He shifted his head, his cheek brushing against her hair as he looked at the ceiling for a split second, confessing his sins.

"Here’s the truth: win or lose, I am absolutely making that crown. I can’t stop the creative juices. The vision is already there. A paper plate, a Sharpie, maybe some glitter if I can find it. I plan on wearing it regardless of the outcome. I’ll look like a sad Burger King monarch, and I will wear it with pride."

He squeezed her hand, bringing his attention back to her face, his expression dropping into a smug, lazy confidence.

"But I accept the terms. I am already mentally spending that massage. I can feel the knots dissolving just thinking about my inevitable victory."

When she mentioned judging his controller technique, he let out a short, scoffing laugh—the sound of a man whose ego was bulletproof in this specific arena.

"Judge away," he murmured, leaning in close to her ear, his voice dropping to a low, teasing rumble. "But just remember... before I ever picked up a guitar, and long before I learned how to use my fingers for... other recreational activities that you seem to enjoy... I mastered the N64 controller."

He pulled back just enough to wink at her, cheeky and unrepentant.

"The dexterity required for Rainbow Road is the foundation of everything I am, Cleo. Show some respect to the claw grip."

He kissed her temple, lingering there for a second, breathing in the scent of her and the fire smoke. He felt settled. He felt good. The anxiety about the future, about the "five days," was quiet for the first time in forever.

"Alright," he whispered, settling back against the cushions and pulling the blanket up to his chin. "I’ll shut up. I’ll let you watch J-Lo fight a rubber tube. I’m just going to lie here and visualize my trophy ceremony."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo huffed a soft laugh into his shoulder, the sound more breath than noise, and let her hand stay where he’d put it—spread over his chest, feeling the steady, reassuring beat underneath. It grounded her more than she wanted to admit.

“Mm,” she murmured, voice low and lazy, “I didn’t choose dignity. I just… tolerate it occasionally. As a character flaw.”

She shifted slightly so she could look at him, eyes half-lidded and warm, listening as he spiraled happily about paper plates and glitter. Her mouth curved into a fond, helpless smile. Of course he already had a vision. Of course it involved commitment to the bit far past what was reasonable.

“A sad Burger King monarch is still a monarch,” she said quietly, indulgent. “I respect the dedication. I do not respect the Sharpie budget.”

When he talked about already spending the massage, she rolled her eyes, but her thumb brushed a slow, absent circle over his sternum—betraying her.
“You are exhausting,” she told him softly. “And wildly confident for someone who hasn’t even raced yet.”

His voice dropping near her ear made her shiver despite herself, and she tilted her head just enough to give him space, a quiet warning smile tugging at her lips.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You keep talking about your hands like that and I’m going to revoke movie privileges.”

At the mention of Rainbow Road, she snorted—actually snorted—and shook her head, settling back against him.
“Show respect,” she echoed. “Right. I’ll notify the academy.”

When he kissed her temple, she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in—fire smoke, clean laundry, something unmistakably him. The quiet afterward felt earned. Safe.

As he settled back and announced his trophy visualization, she finally moved her hand—lifting it just enough to give his chest a gentle, affectionate pat.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, dry but fond. “I’m sure you’ll announce yourself MVP, too. Probably give a speech. Thank your controller. Cry a little.”

She adjusted the blanket, tugging it higher over both of them, then tucked herself closer without another word—her shoulder under his chin, her cheek against his chest. The movie played on, ridiculous and loud, but she didn’t comment on it.

[Benjamin Wilder]

"Oh, absolutely," Ben whispered back, his voice vibrating against her hair. "Tears are guaranteed. I’m going to thank my parents, my agent, and the fungi kingdom for their tireless support. It’s going to be a tearjerker. You should bring tissues."

He grinned when she snorted—a real, unladylike sound that he mentally filed away as one of his top five favorite noises she made, right up there with her sleep-breathing and that little hum she did when she ate pasta.

He tightened his arm around her, securing her against his side like he was strapping her into a roller coaster seat, though the only ride they were currently on involved Jon Voight’s ponytail and some questionable animatronics.

"And for the record," he murmured, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, "revoking movie privileges just means we have to find other ways to entertain ourselves. And considering I’m currently trapped under a weighted blanket and a very comfortable woman... I like my odds."

He let the silence settle then, or as much silence as Anaconda allowed.

For the next twenty minutes, he mostly watched the reflection of the fire dancing in the window, occasionally glancing down at the screen to witness a giant rubber snake defy gravity. He watched Cleo watch the movie. He watched the way her eyelashes fluttered when something jumped out, the way her hand absentmindedly traced the seam of his hoodie.

It was boring. It was stupid. It was perfect.

"Question," he whispered loudly during a tense jungle scene, breaking the mood entirely. "Do you think the snake has a backstory? Like... did he get rejected from art school? Is he acting out because his dad didn't hug him enough? I feel like we're jumping straight to villainy without understanding his trauma."

He poked her side gently.

"Also, is Jon Voight doing an accent, or is he just speaking in cursive? I need subtitles for his face."

He felt her shake with silent laughter against his ribs, and the knot that had been in his chest since he woke up—the fear that he’d push too hard, that she’d pull away, that the "five days" would act like a guillotine—fully dissolved.

He rested his chin on her head, closing his eyes for a second.

"Hey," he said, softer this time, dropping the bit. "This is a good movie choice. Aggressively sad would have killed the vibe. Chaos snake was the right call."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled into his chest at the whole speech, the corner of her mouth lifting first before the rest of it followed. She didn’t move right away—just let him talk, let the warmth and the ridiculousness settle around them like another layer of the blanket.

When he said it was a good movie choice, her head tipped back.

She looked up at him properly then, chin resting on his chest, eyes soft in the firelight. For a second she just watched his face—relaxed, amused, present in a way that felt rare and fragile and worth protecting.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I really wasn’t in the mood to cry.”

Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his hoodie, grounding herself there.

“I think I’m… done crying for a bit,” she admitted, voice gentle but sure. “I’ve had my fill. No sad montages. No emotional breakthroughs. I just wanted something loud and dumb and impossible.”

Her gaze dropped to his hand where it rested against her shoulder, thumb warm and steady. She traced the line of his knuckles once, then shifted closer, pressing into him until there was no space left to overthink.

She smiled again—small, real—and then leaned up, finding his lips without ceremony. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. Just a soft, certain kiss. The kind that said I’m here without asking anything back.

She pulled away after a beat, forehead brushing his, breath warm between them.

“No more tears,” she murmured, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth. “No more overthinking.”

Her hand slid back to his chest, palm flat over his heart.

“Just us.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben held perfectly still for the kiss, letting it land like an anchor. It wasn’t the desperate, tear-stained collision from the hot tub; this was quiet. This was the kind of kiss you gave someone when you weren't saying goodbye, but goodnight. It settled the last of the adrenaline humming under his skin.

He chased her lips for a second when she pulled back, just a small, instinctive lean forward, before letting his forehead rest against hers.

"Deal," he whispered, his voice rough with a relief he didn't bother hiding. "I am banning tears. I am putting a moratorium on heavy emotions. From here on out, we are strictly operating on dopamine, sugar, and adrenaline."

He moved his hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin behind her ear.

"And if you want loud, dumb, and impossible..." He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulled back to look at her. "I mean, look at me. I’m right here. I’m basically a human action movie without the budget. I can provide all the stupidity you need."

He squeezed her nape gently, grounding her.

"Just us," he agreed, soft and final. "No noise. No world. just us and this very questionable CGI snake."

He turned his head back to the screen just as the movie reached its chaotic climax—explosions, screaming, snakes defying biology. He let out a low whistle.
"Speaking of," he noted, pointing a lazy finger at the laptop. "I think J-Lo is about to win. Which means my time has come."

He didn't move away from her, but his energy shifted. The sleepy, cuddly boyfriend vibe sharpened into something playful and competitive. He reached out with his free hand—the one not holding her—and snatched the red controller off the table.

"Start stretching your thumbs, Cleo," he warned, tapping the buttons with a menacing click-clack sound. "The credits are about to roll. The peace treaty is expiring. You wanted a distraction? I’m about to give you the most stressful four minutes of your life."

He nudged her ribs, flashing a grin that was all teeth and boyish trouble.

"I hope you like the taste of dust, because that’s all you’re going to be eating on Moo Moo Meadows."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly at his “human action movie” line, her nose wrinkling in that fond, disbelieving way like she’d heard this speech a hundred times and somehow still loved it.

“Strictly dopamine, sugar, and adrenaline?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Wow. Look at you, suddenly a wellness influencer.”

She let his hand settle at the back of her neck, melting into the touch for a second before smirking.

“And please,” she added, eyes flicking over him playfully. “If you’re an action movie, you’re the indie kind. Low budget. Strong emotional arc. Questionable stunts.”

When he grabbed the controller, her shoulders straightened just a little—instinct, muscle memory, rivalry waking up.

“Oh, don’t get cocky,” she warned, narrowing her eyes. “You always get cocky right before you drive off the map like a cartoon idiot.”

She glanced at the screen, then back at him.

“And Moo Moo Meadows? Really? You peaked emotionally at the cow level?”

She laughed when he nudged her, shaking her head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

The movie finally wrapped, the credits rolling with their over-the-top music, and Cleo stretched, arms lifting over her head as she slowly untangled herself from him.

She slid off the couch, padding a few steps toward the hallway before turning back, eyebrow raised.

“Okay,” she said lightly, motioning between the controller in his hand and the bedroom down the hall. “Serious question.”

She grinned.

“Do you actually wanna play a game… or do you wanna play no games and crawl into that comfy bed with me?”

She shrugged, teasing but soft.

“Just saying. Both are valid options.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

"Indie movie?" Ben scoffed, though the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him instantly. "Excuse me, I am a blockbuster event. I have high production value. I have franchise potential."

He tossed the controller from one hand to the other, leaning back against the couch cushions as he narrowed his eyes at her accusation about his driving skills.

"And for the record," he countered, pointing a finger at her with absolute conviction. "I do not drive off the map like a cartoon idiot. I drive off the map because I am a victim of environmental distractions. Usually caused by you. You do something distracting—like laugh, or breathe, or exist in my peripheral vision—and suddenly I’m plummeting into space. It’s a safety hazard. I should sue."

When she stood up and posed the question—games or bed—he stopped tossing the controller. He froze, holding it in mid-air.

He looked down at the red plastic in his hand.

Then he looked up at Cleo, standing there in the hallway light, warm and soft and looking at him with that challenge in her eyes.

Then back at the controller.

Then back at her.

He let out a long, agonized exhale, rubbing his chin with his free hand like a philosopher contemplating the meaning of life.

"This is a crisis," he muttered to the ceiling. "On one hand... eternal glory. The thrill of the race. Putting Toad in his place."

He looked at her again.

"On the other hand... horizontal comfort. Body heat. You."

He sat there for another three seconds, milking the suspense, tapping his chin.

"It’s a real Sophie’s Choice situation. The fans are going to be disappointed. My sponsors will be furious."

Then, abruptly, he set the controller down on the coffee table with a decisive clack.
"Sorry, Mario," he whispered to the plastic. "Not tonight."

He stood up, stretching his arms over his head until his back cracked, groaning dramatically. Then, without a word of warning, he moved.

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, stooped down, and scooped her up into his arms before she could even blink.

"Taxi service," he announced, grinning down at her as he turned toward the bedroom. "Meter’s running. It’s an expensive ride. You have to tip the driver."

He carried her down the short hallway, kicking the bedroom door open with his foot, and marched straight to the bed. He deposited her onto the mattress with a gentleness that contradicted his chaotic energy, immediately reaching for the duvet to pull it up over her.
"In," he ordered softly. "Warmth. Now."

He rounded the bed, shucking off his hoodie in one fluid motion and tossing it onto the chair before sliding under the covers next to her. The sheets were cold, but he fixed that instantly by pulling her against him, wrapping his arms around her and tangling their legs together until they were a single knot of heat.

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply, letting the last of the day's manic energy bleed out into the quiet of the room.

"You know," he whispered against her skin, his voice low and sleepy. "Only a fool would choose video games over this."

He kissed the soft spot behind her ear, squeezing her a little tighter.

"And I’m a lot of things, Cleo, but I’m not a fool."

He pulled back just an inch, enough to see her face in the shadows, a knowing, lazy smirk curving his lips.

"Which means I also know exactly what you just did. You knew I was about to lap you on Moo Moo Meadows, so you deployed the 'come to bed' strategy. It’s a dirty tactic. Cowardly, really."

He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, his eyes softening.

"But it worked. So I guess you win this round."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed when he started talking about sponsors and disappointed fans, the sound warm and sleepy as she let herself be scooped up.

“Wow,” she murmured, looping her arms around his neck while he carried her down the hall, “such a sacrifice. Truly heroic. Somewhere, a gamer sheds a single dramatic tear.”

When he set her down and tucked the blankets around her, she wiggled deeper into the sheets, already smiling as he slid in beside her and pulled her close. She fit easily against him, like she’d been designed for that exact space. Her nose brushed his jaw as he buried his face in her neck, and she let out a soft, content sigh.

“Horizontal comfort is undefeated,” she whispered, her voice drowsy and smug. “You made the correct choice.”

At his accusation about her “dirty tactic,” she tilted her head back just enough to look at him, eyes shining in the low light.

“Excuse you,” she said, mock-offended. “That wasn’t a tactic. That was a public service announcement. I saved you from your own poor decisions.”

She shifted closer, one hand sliding up to rest over his shoulder.

“And yeah,” she admitted with a grin, “I did win.”

She leaned in and kissed him, slow and soft, like she wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. After a second, she pulled back just enough to look at him again, her thumb coming up to brush his cheek. Her finger found the little freckle there, tracing a lazy circle around it.

“And I’m always going to win,” she whispered, smiling. “You know that.”

Her eyes softened.

“It’s only going to get better from here,” she told him quietly, still tracing that tiny freckle like it was something precious.

Cleo didn’t pull her hand away from his cheek. She stayed there, tracing that familiar freckle like it was a promise she could touch.

“I have big plans,” she murmured, softer now, more serious under the teasing edge. “Like… actually big.”

Her smile turned shy for a second, the kind that only showed up when she was about to say something that scared her just a little.

“I’m gonna make room for you,” she continued. “In my closet. And not just, like, a pity drawer either.” Her eyes flicked up to his. “You get two. Minimum. Because you own way too many t-shirts for one drawer and we both know it.”

She let out a small breath, the weight of what she was really saying settling in.

“And I’m gonna clear out that corner by the window,” she added. “The one with the plant that’s barely hanging on? That’s yours. For your guitar. Your notebooks. Your messy little piles of genius.”

Her thumb slowed on his cheek.

“So when you’re home… you actually feel home,” she said quietly. “Not like a guest. Not like you’re borrowing space.”

Her voice dipped, steady and sure.

“Because it’s not just my place anymore,” she whispered. “It’s ours. My home is your home now.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his.

“Big plans,” she repeated softly.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben went perfectly still.

His hand, which had been idly rubbing circles on her lower back, paused. The sleepy, half-lidded grin that had been plastered on his face slowly faded, replaced by something much softer and infinitely more terrified.

He stared at her in the dark, searching her face to see if she was joking. To see if this was just pillow talk—the kind of sweet, hazy promises people made in the dark and forgot by coffee.

But she looked dead serious. She was talking about drawer real estate. She was talking about evicting a plant.

"Two drawers?" he managed to choke out, his voice cracking just a little before he cleared his throat, forcing the lightness back in. "Babe, two drawers is... that’s prime real estate. In L.A., that kind of square footage goes for three grand a month. You’re just... giving that up?"

He let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head against the pillow.

"And the corner? The window corner?" He narrowed his eyes, though they were shimmering with emotion he was fighting to keep under control. "You love that plant. You named that plant. I’m pretty sure you sing to it."

He moved his hand from her back to cup her cheek, mirroring her touch, his thumb sweeping over her skin with a reverence that betrayed how hard his heart was hammering against his ribs.

"You realize what you just did, right?" he whispered, the humor melting away into raw honesty. "You just opened the floodgates. You just invited the chaos in permanently."

He moved closer, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes closing tight.

"There are going to be guitar picks everywhere, Cleo. I lose them constantly. You’re going to find them in the couch cushions, in the dryer, in your shoes. You’re going to step on one in the middle of the night and curse my entire bloodline."

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.

"My messy piles of genius?" he repeated, his voice barely audible. "That sounds... that sounds really good. That sounds like everything."

He opened his eyes, dark and fierce and completely undone.

"I’m taking the drawers," he vowed, low and serious. "And I’m taking the corner. And I’m going to buy you a new plant that doesn’t look like it’s on life support."

He kissed her then—not playful, not sleepy. It was a seal. A contract signed in the dark.

"My home is your home," he echoed against her lips, testing the weight of it, finding it heavy and grounding and perfect. "Okay. Okay, we're doing that. Big plans."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, a crooked, watery smile tugging at his mouth.

"But just so you know... if I find my t-shirts being used as paint rags, I’m claiming squatters rights. You can’t evict me. I live there now."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt the shift in him immediately—the way his hand stilled on her back, the way his breath changed. It made her chest tighten, not with fear, but with that quiet awe that always crept in when she realized how deeply he was actually listening.

She smiled softly at his cracked little laugh, lifting her head just enough to meet his eyes in the dark.
“Yeah,” she whispered, warmth in every syllable. “Two drawers. I’m serious.”
Her thumb brushed slow over his knuckles. “You deserve more than one.”

When he teased her about the plant, her mouth curved. “I don’t sing to it,” she murmured, pretending to be offended, though her eyes gave her away. “I just… encourage it. Plants thrive on positivity.”

She leaned into his touch when he cupped her cheek, her heart thudding hard at the reverence in his hands. This wasn’t a joke to him. Neither was she. That realization settled deep in her bones, heavy and beautiful.

“I know exactly what I did,” she said quietly when he spoke about chaos. “And I’m not scared of it.”

His list of guitar-pick disasters made her laugh under her breath.
“I already step on paintbrushes in the middle of the night,” she admitted. “And trip over canvases. I’ve survived worse than your little plastic landmines.”

When he said messy piles of genius, her smile softened. She could picture it—him spread across her floor, lyrics scattered, guitar leaning against the couch. Proof of him. Evidence of them.

“That sounds like a home,” she told him gently.

His vow made her breath catch. Drawers. Corner. A new plant. It wasn’t about the objects—it was the permanence. The choice. Her throat went tight, but she didn’t look away.

When he kissed her, she kissed him back just as seriously, one hand sliding into his hair, grounding herself in him. Not rushing. Not afraid.

“My home is your home,” she repeated softly, because it mattered to say it out loud. “It always will be.”

And when he joked about his shirts, she laughed quietly, pressing her forehead to his.
“Relax,” she murmured. “Your shirts are safe. The only thing I’ll do with them is wear them when you’re gone… and let you peal them off of me when you come home.”

She kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, her touch lingering.

Her heart felt full. Scared. Brave. All at once.

“Big plans,” she whispered again—this time not as a joke, but like a promise.

Cleo didn’t hesitate this time.

She leaned in and kissed him again—soft at first, familiar, like muscle memory. The kind of kiss that said I’m here without needing words. She lingered there, letting it stretch, letting it settle, before deepening it just a little. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just full. Her hand slid up the side of his neck, thumb brushing the warm skin beneath his ear, grounding herself in him.

When she finally pulled back, she stayed close, noses brushing, breath still tangled with his. Her forehead rested against his, eyes half-lidded, heart pounding in that quiet, terrifying way that only came with truth.

“I love you,” she whispered.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heavy. It just… was. Solid and sure and real.

Her fingers traced slow circles at the base of his neck, like she was memorizing this version of him—soft, undone, staying.
“I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel it anymore,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve done that for years. Pretended I didn’t need this. Pretended I didn’t want a home with someone in it.”

She smiled against his mouth, small and brave.
“But I do. I want you. I wanna be the one to leave the light on for you.”

Another quick kiss.
“And I’m not scared of saying it.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt his breath hitch, a sharp, audible intake of air that he couldn't hide.

Let you peel them off of me when you come home.

The image that painted in his brain was vivid, high-definition, and absolutely lethal. He saw it instantly: the front door of her apartment, his bags dropping to the floor, her standing there in one of his worn-out vintage tees, and him walking her backward until her back hit the wall.

It short-circuited his brain. It made the blood rush south so fast he actually felt lightheaded.

And then she followed it up with I want to be the one to leave the light on for you.
That broke him in a completely different way.

He thought about his apartment in L.A. He thought about how it always smelled like stale air and dust when he got back from a tour. He thought about the silence that greeted him—the kind that rang in his ears after months of screaming crowds. It was cold. It was empty. It was a place to store his stuff, not a place to live.

But the idea of coming back to her? To a light left on? To a corner with his guitar and a drawer with his name on it? That didn't just sound like a plan; it sounded like a lifeline.

"You," he breathed, his voice rougher now, deeper. "You are dangerous, Cleo. You drop these lines like they don't completely rearrange my entire molecular structure."

He tightened his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck again, overwhelmed by how much he wanted this. All of it. The domesticity and the desire, tangled up together.

"Leaving the light on," he murmured against her skin. "God. Do you know how much I hate coming home to a dark house? It’s the worst part. And now..."

He pulled back, needing to look at her. His eyes were dark, dilated, searching hers with a mix of intense gratitude and barely restrained hunger.

"Now I get to come home to you. That’s... that’s the dream, babe. That’s the whole damn dream."

He kissed her, hard and deep, pouring all of that relief into it. But when he pulled back, his hand slipped under the hem of her oversized sweater, his palm resting warm and firm against the bare skin of her waist.

He looked down at the knit fabric, then back up at her, a crooked, apologetic grin tugging at his mouth.

"But listen," he whispered, his thumb sweeping back and forth against her ribs. "I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be the respectful boyfriend who accepts the drawer space and the emotional vulnerability with grace."

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice dropping to a low growl.

"But that comment about peeling my shirt off you? That was unfair. That was dirty pool. Because now all I can think about is peeling this sweater off you."

He kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear, his hand flexing gently against her waist.

"So you have to make the call," he murmured into her hair. "We can go to sleep. We can dream about the drawers and the plant. I can hold you and be perfectly well-behaved."

He pulled back just enough to catch her eye, his expression heavy with want but light with humor.

"Or... I can help you out of this wool fortress, and we can celebrate the merger of our assets properly. Ball’s in your court, landlord."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt a soft ache in her chest as he spoke about the silence of his apartment in L.A., the coldness of a space that was just storage for a life lived out of a suitcase. It made her want to never let him walk into a dark room again.

She reached up, her hands finding their way to cup his face, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. She wanted to soothe that rough edge in his voice, to smooth away the memory of that stale air he hated so much.

"I’m glad I can be that for you," she whispered, her eyes searching his, earnest and steady. "I meant it, Ben. The light will always be on. You don't have to dread coming home anymore."

A small, knowing smile played on her lips as he shifted gears, his voice dropping into that low growl that vibrated right through her. She felt the warmth of his hand on her waist, the heat radiating through the wool of her sweater. When he accused her of playing dirty, her smile widened just a fraction.

"I didn't realize I was wielding such power," she murmured, leaning into his touch rather than shying away. "But if the molecular structure needs rearranging... who am I to stop it?"

She listened to his ultimatum—the choice between being "perfectly well-behaved" or "celebrating the merger"—and she didn't even have to think about it.

Instead of answering with words right away, she moved closer, eliminating the last sliver of space between them.

It wasn't a hungry, frantic kiss like the one he had given her moments before. It was slow. It was deliberate and incredibly soft, a gentle moulding of her mouth against his that was meant to savor him, to ground him. She kissed him with a languid tenderness, her fingers threading slowly into the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping the pace unhurried, letting the warmth bloom between them gradually.

When she finally pulled back, just an inch, her forehead rested against his.

"I think," she breathed, her voice a soft hum in the quiet space between them, "that we should probably celebrate the merger."

Her hand, previously resting near at the nape of his neck, began a slow, deliberate journey downward before sliding back up the center of his chest. She flattened her palm over his heart, feeling the heavy, steady thrum of it beneath the fabric. It was beating hard, a rhythmic echo of the desire he’d just voiced, and grounding herself in that pulse made everything feel sharper, more real.

She traced the line of his sternum upward, her fingers lingering against the warmth radiating from him, before reaching higher. Her hand slid up the side of his neck, her thumb grazing the sensitive skin there, until she was cupping his jaw, cradling his face with a reverence that felt almost holy.

She felt the rough stubble against her palm, a texture she was quickly coming to associate with comfort.

With a soft, shuddering sigh against his lips, she tilted her head, pressing closer until every inch of space was erased. She deepened the kiss, but she didn’t speed it up. Instead, she let it unfold like a slow burn, her lips parting slightly to taste him more fully, drawing him in with a languid, rolling rhythm. It was a silent promise, a confirmation that he was right—this, the quiet, the connection, the light left on—was exactly where they were supposed to be.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let out a ragged exhale against her mouth as she deepened the kiss, her slow, deliberate pace wreaking absolute havoc on his self-control. He loved that she wasn't rushing. He loved that she was savoring it. But god, every time her tongue swept against his, the urge to crush her against the mattress and lose his mind spiked a little higher.

"Merger approved," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough. "Motion carried. Unanimous vote."

He didn't waste another second.

He moved his hands from her waist to the hem of the thick, oversized sweater. He brushed his thumbs against her skin as he gathered the wool, guiding her to lift her arms.

"Up," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her chin as he pulled the fabric over her head.

He tossed the sweater blindly toward the chair—he’d worry about folding it or saving it from the paintbrushes later—and turned back to her, ready to make a joke about liberating her from the wool fortress.

The joke died in his throat.

Ben froze, his hands hovering just above her waist.

Because the fortress hadn’t been hiding much.

The lamplight glowed over her skin, casting soft shadows, revealing the fact that under the heavy knit, she was wearing absolutely nothing but a small scrap of fabric at her hips. No bra. No camisole. Just Cleo.

His brain short-circuited. It was a complete system failure.

He stared at her for a heartbeat, his eyes tracing the curve of her, the softness, the sheer, breathtaking reality of her sitting there half-naked in his bed after telling him she wanted him to come home to her.

"Oh," he breathed, the word punching out of him like he’d been hit.

He looked up at her face, his expression a mix of stunned reverence and darkening hunger. A slow, incredulous smile broke through, lopsided and charmed.

"You know," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "For a girl who spent twenty minutes building a defensive bunker on the couch... you travel surprisingly light."

He shook his head, letting out a breathless laugh.

"That is... efficient. I am a huge fan of this efficiency. We should make this a house rule."

He didn't wait for a retort. He couldn't.

He reached out, his hands sliding around her bare back, skin to skin for the first time all night. The feeling of her—warm and soft and smooth against his palms—was electric. He pulled her flush against him, letting out a groan of pure satisfaction as her chest pressed against his bare chest, heat sealing to heat.

"You are trying to kill me," he whispered into her hair, holding her tight, his hand splaying wide over her spine. "First the drawers. Then the light. Now this. You’re going for a total knockout."

He leaned back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark and heavy with want.
"It’s working," he admitted, unashamed. "I am down for the count. You win everything."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt a thrill chase up her spine at the look on his face—that stunned, reverent expression that told her she had completely disarmed him. The "defensive bunker" of her sweater might have been a way to hide her nerves earlier, but seeing him now, eyes dark and heavy with want, those nerves transmuted into something sharper. Something bolder.

"I’m glad you approve of the logistics," she purred, her confidence rising to meet his hunger. "But if I win everything... then I get to collect."
She didn't give him a chance to recover.

With a sudden shift of leverage, she pressed her hands against his chest and shoved him backward onto the mattress. She followed him down instantly, swinging her leg over to straddle his waist, pinning him there. The friction of her bare thighs against his hips, the heat of his skin against hers, made her breath hitch, but she didn't stop.

She leaned forward, her body hovering over his as she reached toward the nightstand. Her fingers found the box of Trojans. She plucked one out, and holding his gaze with a smoldering intensity, she placed the corner of the foil packet between her teeth.

She moved down his body, she felt his muscles jump beneath her touch, his hands gripping the sheets as he watched her. When she reached his hips, she took the packet from her mouth and looked at him, her expression mirroring the command he’d given her moments ago.
"Up," she demanded softly.

Ben lifted his hips without hesitation. Cleo hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and dragged them down—but she didn't pull them off. She stopped at his thighs, leaving the fabric there as a deliberate tether, keeping his legs bound, keeping him right where she wanted him.

She tore the wrapper open, the sound sharp in the quiet room. With steady, possessive hands, she placed the condom at the tip and rolled it down, smoothing her palms over him, feeling the heat and the hardness of him twitch against her touch.

She moved back up, positioning herself directly over him. She placed her hands on his chest to steady herself, her eyes locking onto his dilated pupils. She didn't rush. She wanted to savor this just as much as he had savored the kiss.

She lowered her hips, taking him in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, filling herself with him until she was flush against his pelvis. A long, shaky sigh escaped her lips as she settled there, encompassing him completely, claiming her victory.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s head fell back against the pillow, a guttural, broken groan tearing out of his throat as she sank down, taking all of him. The sensation was blinding—a friction and heat so intense it felt like she was burning him alive from the inside out, and God, he was more than happy to burn.

His hands flew to her hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin, not to push her away, but to anchor her. To hold her right there, impaled on him, while his brain tried to reboot.

"Jesus, Cleo," he choked out, his voice wrecked, rasping and barely audible. "You... you win. You definitely win."

He tried to thrust up to meet her, instinct screaming at him to drive deep, but the boxers tangled around his thighs held his legs in check, restricting his movement just enough to be maddening. It forced him to surrender control, to lie there and let her set the pace, and the helplessness of it—combined with the sight of her above him, head thrown back, throat arched in the lamplight—was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

"Don't move," he pleaded, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. "Just... stay. Let me look at you."

She looked like a goddess. A beautiful, terrifying goddess who had decided to wreck him for sport. Her skin was flushed, her breasts rising and falling with her breath, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. And she was his. This woman who painted in the mornings and built centerpieces out of yard debris was currently riding him with a look of absolute possession on her face.

He moved his hands up, dragging his palms over the curve of her waist, up her ribs, until he could cup her breasts. He thumbed her nipples, watching her eyelids flutter, feeling the way her inner muscles clenched around him in response. That ripple of sensation nearly sent him over the edge right then and there.

"You said you had big plans," he groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily against the restriction of his boxers, trying to get deeper despite the tether. "Is this part of the plan? Killing me before I even get a drawer?"

He watched her eyes open, dark and blown wide, staring down at him with that same fierce intent she’d had when she talked about the future.

"Move," he commanded roughly, unable to take the stillness anymore. "Ride me, Cleo. Take what you want."

He gripped her hips again, guiding her, his thumbs pressing into her flesh as she began to move. The friction was exquisite, a slow, rolling grind that hit every nerve ending he had. He watched her face, watched the pleasure break over her features, and knew, with absolute certainty, that he was never leaving this room. He was never leaving her.

"That's it," he whispered, a litany of praise and worship falling from his lips as she picked up the pace. "Just like that. God, you’re incredible. You feel so good."

He grit his teeth, his head thrashing against the pillow as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his belly. He was completely at her mercy, bound and buried deep inside her, and there was nowhere else on earth he wanted to be.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

"I know," she murmured, her voice a sultry contrast to his rough plea. She leaned down just enough to brush her nose against his, teasing him with the proximity. "And believe me, I love it when you take control. I love the predator in you, Ben. It drives me crazy."

She pulled back, sitting tall again, her palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest, her fingers splaying wide to feel the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath her fingertips. She loved feeling that power thrumming under her hands, knowing she was the cause of it.

"But sometimes," she whispered, her eyes locking with his, dark and heavy with intent, "it’s even better to savor the moment. To feel every single second of it. So I’m going to show you."

She didn't give him the fast, hard rhythm he was begging for. She ignored the way his hips bucked, trying to set a faster tempo. Instead, she tightened her core and began to rock her hips, a slow, deliberate forward-and-back motion rather than up and down.

The friction was maddeningly good, a totally different kind of intensity. She ground herself against his pelvis with every sway, the contact electric, dragging out the sensation until it was a thick, syrupy heat spreading through her veins. It felt like they were melting into each other.

"Oh, god," she gasped softly, the sensation sharpening.
Her head fell back, her hair cascading down her back like a dark curtain. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to contain the sound that wanted to escape, forcing herself to keep the pace slow, to torture him—and herself—in the most exquisite way possible.

She watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his head thrashed against the pillow, fighting the urge to snap the tether she’d created. A soft, satisfied smile curved her lips, seeing him so completely undone by her pace.

She leaned down, her hair curtaining around them, shutting out the rest of the room until it was just the two of them in the dim light. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, tasting the desperation and the heat on his breath.
She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his.

"Sit up," she commanded, the words barely more than a ghost of a whisper against his mouth.

She felt his core engage immediately, his body obeying her without question. He groaned low in his throat as he levered himself up, his hands gripping her hips to support them both. As he rose, she adjusted her weight, wrapping her arms around his neck to bring him fully flush against her.

Now face-to-face, chest-to-chest, the intimacy was suffocating in the best possible way. She resumed that slow, rolling grind, the angle deeper now, more intense. She let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she rested her forehead against his, sharing the same air, the same heat, the same rhythm.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The command was barely a whisper, but it hit him like a shockwave.

Sit up.

He didn't hesitate. He grit his teeth, his core screaming in protest as he forced himself up, fighting the drag of the boxers and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of moving while buried so deep inside her.

As he rose, the angle shifted, driving him impossibly deeper, hitting a spot that made his vision blur for a second.

"Fuck," he hissed, the word tearing out of his throat as he wrapped his arms around her, locking his hands against the small of her back to anchor them together.

Being this close, chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin, was sensory overload. He could feel her heart hammering against his own ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm that matched the blood rushing in his ears. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her—sweat and vanilla and something uniquely Cleo—and let his mouth roam.

He didn't just sit there. He couldn't.

While she set the slow, torturous pace with her hips, he went to work on the rest of her. He kissed the sensitive cord of her neck, open-mouthed and wet, turning the kiss into a sharp, grazing bite that made her shiver in his arms. His hands slid down her spine, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her glutes, kneading and squeezing, pulling her harder against his pelvis with every roll of her hips.

He matched her rhythm now, not fighting for dominance, but harmonizing with it. When she ground forward, he pushed back, rolling his hips to meet her, creating a friction that was less about speed and more about total, consuming contact.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice humming against her pulse point. "So tight."

His hand slid up to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull, tilting her head back roughly so he could see her face in the lamplight. He didn't say anything else—he didn't need to. He just leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was bruising and desperate, pouring every ounce of his adoration and his hunger into it. He swirled his tongue against hers, tasting her, devouring her sigh.

He broke the kiss, breathless, his forehead resting against hers as they continued that slow, maddening grind.

"Don't stop," he rasped, his hands roaming back to her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. "Take exactly what you need."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

His mouth on hers was a drug, a potent, dizzying distraction that almost made her lose the rhythm she was fighting so hard to maintain. She hummed against his lips, her hips rolling in that slow, deliberate circle, savoring the way his hands kneaded her flesh, pulling her down just as she pushed up.

She needed more. She needed to see him, to control the angle entirely.
She broke the kiss, breathless, her lips swollen and tingling. Her hands slid from his neck down to his chest, flattening against the hard muscle there.

"Lean back," she whispered, her voice husky and wrecked. "Lean back on your hands, Ben."

He complied instantly, shifting his weight and bracing his arms behind him on the mattress. The movement opened him up completely, exposing the expanse of his chest and throat to her gaze, but more importantly, it shifted the angle inside her again.

Oh.

The sensation was sharper now, deeper. Cleo let out a shaky breath, moving her hands to grip his shoulders. The solid warmth of him under her palms gave her the leverage she needed. She squeezed his shoulders, anchoring herself, and began to pick up the pace.

The slow, torturous roll dissolved into a faster, needy grind. Every slide of her hips against his created a spark that traveled straight up her spine. Her head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as the world narrowed down to the point of contact between them.

"Mmm..." The sound vibrated in her throat, a low, involuntary hum of pure pleasure. She bit her lip, chasing the heat that was pooling rapidly in her belly. She moved faster, the friction becoming a constant, electric current, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she focused entirely on the climbing pressure, desperate to reach the peak.

The friction was everything. The drag combined with the fullness of him created a textured, overwhelming overstimulation that made her toes curl against the mattress. It wasn't just physical; it was the way he let her take the lead, the way he lay back and offered himself up to her completely.
She forced her heavy eyelids open, needing to ground herself in the sight of him before she completely unraveled.

Ben looked... wrecked. Beautifully wrecked. His head was tipped slightly back, the cords of his neck straining, his jaw locked tight as he endured the pleasure. But his eyes—dark, dilated, and burning with intensity—were locked on her face, watching her unravel. Seeing him watch her, seeing the hunger and adoration in his gaze, was the final push she needed.

"Mmm... Ben," she whimpered, the sound broken and airy, vibrating against her own lips.

She couldn't keep the rhythm smooth anymore. The need to crest was too demanding. Her movements became sharper, more desperate—jerky, hard snaps of her hips as she ground down, seeking that friction, hitting that spot repeatedly. Her fingers curled inward, nails biting into the skin of his shoulders to anchor herself against the rising tide.

"I'm... I'm close," she breathed, the confession tearing out of her as a frantic heat flushed her skin. "Don't move... just let me..."

[Benjamin Wilder]

He did exactly as he was told, though it cost him everything.

He shifted his weight back, planting his palms on the mattress behind him and locking his elbows, creating a solid, unmoving incline for her. The shift in angle was immediate and lethal—it drove him impossibly deeper, hitting a nerve that made his vision swim, but he didn't make a sound. He just grit his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he let the wave of sensation crash over him.

He felt like a man strapped to the front of a rocket, completely at the mercy of the countdown, and he wouldn't have traded it for anything.

Because the view... the view was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

From this angle, he had a front-row seat to her unraveling. He watched the lamplight catch the sheen of sweat rising on her chest, the flush deepening across her skin like a bloom. He watched the heavy, mesmerizing sway of her breasts with every sharp snap of her hips, the way her hair whipped around her face, wild and messy and perfect.

He watched her eyes squeeze shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and felt a surge of possessive pride so strong it nearly choked him. She was coming undone, completely wrecking herself, and she was doing it all on him.

He wanted to move. God, he wanted to move. Every predatory instinct in his body was screaming at him to snap his hips forward, to grab her waist and drive into her until they both saw stars. His triceps trembled with the effort of holding himself still, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the sheets, his biceps straining as he locked his frame into place.

But he didn't budge. He stayed perfectly, torturously still, becoming nothing more than an anchor for her pleasure.

He listened to the sounds tearing out of her—the broken, airy whimpers, that low, vibrating hum that he could feel reverberating against his own chest. It was the hottest sound he’d ever heard, better than any song, better than any crowd.

When her nails dug into his shoulders, sharp and desperate, stinging his skin, a bolt of electricity shot straight from the pain to his groin. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached, his head falling back slightly, eyes burning as he forced himself to keep watching, to keep enduring the pleasure that was building like a pressure cooker at the base of his spine.

“I’m... I’m close. Don’t move... just let me...”

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Don't hold back. I want to see you fall apart."

He locked every muscle in his body, forcing himself to be as hard and steady as stone beneath her. He kept his eyes glued to her face, refusing to miss a single second of her breaking. He wanted to burn this image into his brain forever—Cleo, wild and desperate, taking exactly what she needed from him.

He barely breathed. He just held on, his hips aching with the violent need to thrust, waiting for her to take them both over the edge.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The tension that had been winding tighter and tighter in her belly finally snapped.

His voice—rough, broken, and full of raw worship—was the final push she needed. The world behind her eyelids exploded into brilliant, blinding color. A sharp, ragged cry tore from her throat, her hips stuttering as the pleasure seized her completely, dragging her under. She rode the crest of it, her body convulsing, chasing every last ripple of sensation while he remained that steady, immovable rock beneath her.

As the intensity crested and broke, her strength gave out all at once. Her arms trembled and folded, and she collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked skin meeting his chest with a heavy, breathless impact. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, gasping for air, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

She lay there for a long moment, completely spent, whimpering softly as the aftershocks continued to flutter through her, sharp little spasms that she knew he could feel deep inside.

Slowly, the haze began to clear. Cleo lifted her head, her hair falling like a curtain around them. She looked down at him, seeing the strain still etched in his jaw, the dark, predatory hunger in his eyes that he had held back for her sake.

A slow, languid smile spread across her lips. She reached out, her palms sliding up his chest to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

"Now," she whispered, her voice husky and wrecked, "you can have your way with me."

thumbs traced the hard line of his jaw, soothing the muscle he’d been clenching so tight. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest heaved beneath hers as he fought to maintain that last shred of control.

"Since you were such a good boy," she added, the words a low, teasing purr against his skin.

She didn't wait for an answer. She leaned in, sealing her mouth over his, eager and demanding. She pushed her tongue past his lips, sweeping into his mouth with a hunger that matched the fire burning in his eyes, tasting the desperate groan that vibrated in his throat as she finally gave him the signal to let go.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The phrase good boy hit him like a physical blow to the chest, snapping the last, fraying thread of his restraint.

He didn't just accept the kiss; he devoured it. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand tangling in her hair to hold her mouth to his, the other gripping her hip with bruising force. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest—a sound of pure, unleashed relief.

"Finally," he groaned into her mouth, the word rough and jagged.

He didn't waste a second. He abandoned the passive, supportive role he’d held for the last ten minutes and took exactly what she had offered.

He flexed his core and bucked his hips upward, driving into her hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation of finally moving, of meeting her heat with his own force, was blinding. He found a rhythm instantly—fast, sharp, and desperate—making up for every second he’d spent holding still.

He felt her gasp against his lips, felt the aftershocks of her own pleasure ripple around him, and it spurred him on. He ground against her, seeking friction, seeking release, his entire world narrowing down to the friction of their bodies and the taste of her tongue.

He was starving for her. He wanted to merge with her, to fuse his bones with hers so she could never leave.

"You like that?" he rasped, breaking the kiss to bury his face in the damp curve of her neck, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there. "You like making me wait? You little..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. The pleasure spiked, turning white-hot and consuming. His hips snapped forward in a jagged, erratic rhythm, his breath coming in harsh pants against her skin.

"Cleo," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "I’m... I’m going to.."

He drove into her one last time, holding himself deep inside as he came undone. The release was violent and absolute, a crashing wave that emptied him completely, leaving him shaking and breathless in her arms. He gripped her tight, anchoring himself to her as the world spun, his heart hammering against hers like it was trying to break through his ribs.

He held her there for a long time, riding out the aftershocks, his heavy breaths slowly evening out into the quiet of the room.

Eventually, the tension drained from his muscles, replaced by a heavy, liquid warmth. He went boneless, sinking back against the pillows, taking her with him. He kept his arms wrapped around her, refusing to let her go, pulling the duvet up over them to create a warm, dark cocoon.

He pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead, then rested his cheek against the top of her head, eyes closing.

"Okay," he murmured, his voice a sleepy, satisfied rumble in his chest. "You were right. The merger was a success. Shareholders are thrilled."

He squeezed her gently, a lazy smile spreading across his face in the dark.

"But if you ever call me a 'good boy' again... just know that I will absolutely use it against you. That is a dangerous weapon, Cleo. You have to have a permit for that."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

A soft laugh bubbled up from her throat, vibrating against his ribs. She tilted her head back, resting her chin on his chest so she could look him in the eye, her expression shifting into a wicked, satisfied grin.

"Oh, don't worry about the paperwork," she teased, tracing a fingertip over the damp skin of his shoulder. "I’ve already got the license. It’s lifetime valid, non-revocable, and strictly exclusive."

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, her eyes dancing with mischief. "So, I hate to break it to you, but I will call you a 'good boy' whenever I damn well please."

She didn't give him a chance to respond. With a dramatic, heavy sigh of feigned exhaustion, she untangled herself just enough to flip over. She pressed her back against his chest, wiggling her hips until she was nestled perfectly against him—the little spoon to his big spoon—and pulled his heavy arm firmly around her waist to lock him in place.

"Deal with it," she mumbled into the pillow, her eyes closing as a triumphant smile lingered on her lips.

The room fell quiet, the only sound the steady rhythm of his breathing against her ear. The playfulness slowly ebbed away, replaced by a deep, bone-settling comfort. She felt his arm tighten just a fraction around her, pulling her flush against him, and she let out a long, contented breath.

She reached down, lacing her fingers through his where his hand rested on her stomach, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I love you, Benjamin," she whispered into the dark, her voice soft and heavy with sleep. "Good night."

[Benjamin Wilder]

He let out a low, vibrating huff against her neck—a sound that was trying to be grumpy about the "good boy" threat but failed miserably, dissolving into a smile he couldn't hide even in the dark.

"Brat," he whispered, but there was no heat in it. Only fond, hopeless adoration.

He adjusted instantly when she flipped, his body curling around hers on instinct. He pulled the duvet up to her chin, tucking her in, then draped his arm heavy and possessive over her waist, anchoring her there. Being the big spoon was his favorite state of being. It was the only time he felt like he could protect her from everything—even if the only thing currently attacking them was exhaustion.

When she said Benjamin—the full name, heavy and serious and sweet—his heart did that traitorous flip again. It sounded less like a name and more like a title he finally earned.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in one last time, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing syncing with his. The silence in the room wasn't empty anymore; it was full.

"I love you too, Cleo," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, vibrating against her back.
He kissed her shoulder through the duvet, his eyes slipping shut, his limbs heavy and warm.

"You're stuck with me now," he added, barely audible, already drifting off. "No take-backs."
Then he let the darkness take them, holding onto his girl, in his bed, in their home.