Blue Lagoon, Iceland

[Midnights]

Welcome to the Blue Lagoon

A visit to the Blue Lagoon is an invitation to slow down and immerse yourself in one of Iceland’s most iconic natural experiences.

Set within a dramatic lava field, the Blue Lagoon offers a rare contrast of elements: black volcanic rock, open sky, drifting steam, and milky-blue geothermal water that remains warm year-round. From the moment you arrive, the world feels quieter, softer, and unhurried.

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The Geothermal Lagoon

At the heart of the experience is the expansive outdoor lagoon. Naturally heated geothermal seawater surrounds you, rich in minerals and known for its soothing properties. As you move through the water, you’ll find varying temperatures and depths, allowing you to relax, float, or lean comfortably against the lava rock edges.

The lagoon is designed for lingering. There is no set path—only space to unwind at your own pace.

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Silica Mud Masks

Included with your visit is access to the iconic silica mud masks. Available directly within the lagoon, these mineral-rich masks are applied to the face, left to set briefly, and then rinsed away in the warm water. It’s a signature Blue Lagoon ritual that blends skincare with play.

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In-Water Lagoon Bar

Enjoy refreshments without leaving the water at the in-lagoon bar. Guests can order beer, wine, sparkling wine, cocktails, and non-alcoholic beverages using a wristband system. The experience is relaxed and social, designed to enhance—not interrupt—your time in the lagoon.

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Sauna & Steam Rooms

Step out of the water and into modern sauna and steam facilities, where heat and relaxation continue. The sauna offers a dry, intense warmth, often paired with views of the surrounding lava fields, while the steam rooms provide a deeply enveloping experience.

Alternating between heat and water is part of the Blue Lagoon tradition.

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Relaxation Areas

Quiet indoor and outdoor lounge spaces are available throughout the complex. These areas are ideal for cooling down, resting, and enjoying the minimalist surroundings between soaks.

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Spa Treatments

For a more personalized experience, guests may book additional spa treatments, including in-water massages and specialized skincare services. These treatments are offered in private or semi-private settings and are designed to complement the natural environment.

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Dining & Refreshments

On-site dining options range from casual café fare to refined meals with lagoon views. Menus highlight fresh ingredients and Icelandic influences, offering the perfect way to extend your visit beyond the water.

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The Atmosphere

The Blue Lagoon is calm, modern, and immersive. Steam drifts gently across the water, sounds are softened, and the landscape feels otherworldly. Whether you visit in the quiet morning light, beneath shifting clouds, or as evening settles in, the experience remains uniquely restorative.

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A Place to Unwind

The Blue Lagoon is not about rushing through activities. It’s about warmth, stillness, and giving yourself the time to simply be present.



At The Retreat at Blue Lagoon Iceland

Staying at The Retreat at Blue Lagoon Iceland transforms a visit to Blue Lagoon Iceland into a fully immersive retreat experience. Designed for quiet, privacy, and restoration, the hotel offers exclusive spaces and experiences reserved only for guests.

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Private Lagoon Access

Guests of The Retreat enjoy access to a private lagoon, separate from the main Blue Lagoon. This area is calmer and more secluded, allowing for uninterrupted soaking in geothermal water surrounded by lava rock and open sky.

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The Retreat Spa

The on-site spa is an exclusive sanctuary offering a range of treatments inspired by the lagoon’s natural elements. Guests can book private or guided rituals, in-water therapies, and specialized skincare experiences designed to promote deep relaxation and renewal.

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Relaxation & Meditation Spaces

Quiet rooms throughout the hotel are dedicated to rest and reflection. These minimalist spaces encourage guests to disconnect, offering comfortable seating, soft lighting, and views of the surrounding lava fields.

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Dining at Moss Restaurant

Fine dining is available at Moss Restaurant, located within the hotel. The restaurant offers a seasonal tasting menu inspired by Icelandic ingredients, served in an elegant setting overlooking the lava landscape. Reservations are recommended.

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Casual Dining & Lounge Areas

Additional dining and lounge spaces provide lighter meals, drinks, and relaxed seating. These areas are ideal for unwinding after the lagoon or enjoying a quiet evening without leaving the property.

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In-Room Comfort & Views

Each room at The Retreat is designed as a private refuge, featuring modern interiors, natural textures, and views of the lava fields or lagoon. Many rooms include balconies or terraces, offering a peaceful space to enjoy the changing Icelandic light.

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Guided Experiences & Walking Paths

Guests can explore the surrounding lava fields via designated walking paths that wind through the landscape. These paths offer quiet opportunities for reflection, photography, and gentle exploration of the area’s volcanic terrain.

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Atmosphere

The Retreat is intentionally quiet and intimate. There is no nightlife, no crowds, and no urgency. The focus is on stillness, comfort, and allowing guests to move slowly through their stay.

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A Complete Escape

Staying at The Retreat allows guests to experience Blue Lagoon Iceland beyond a single visit — turning it into a destination defined by privacy, balance, and a deep sense of calm.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The Blue Lagoon hotel room felt cocooned from the rest of the world—thick walls, muted lighting, the faint mineral-clean scent still clinging to the air from earlier. Outside, the Icelandic night pressed cool and quiet against the windows, but inside everything was warm, hushed, deliberately slowed.

It was their first night here. That fact sat gently in Cleo’s (https://i.ibb.co/nqccpSPC/IMG-2471.png) chest, like something she didn’t want to rush past.

The evening had unfolded exactly the way she’d hoped. She’d met Phoebe at the hotel bar—soft lighting, low music, the kind of place where even the VIP section felt calm instead of performative. They’d laughed too loudly at nothing, leaned close over the table, talked about the water and the cold and how unreal it felt to be here. Cleo had had a few drinks at dinner. Maybe more than a few. Enough that warmth lingered in her cheeks and her limbs felt pleasantly floaty. Enough that time had started to stretch in friendly, forgiving ways.

Meanwhile, Ben had disappeared with Jax—off somewhere else in the hotel, exactly as planned. Grill talk. Nothing talk. Ben-without-a-stage talk. Knowing he was nearby, relaxed, not “on,” had let Cleo lean fully into the night.

She’d headed back first.

Now, alone in the room, she closed the door behind her with a soft click and leaned back against it for a beat longer than necessary, blinking slowly as if the room needed a second to catch up to her. She smiled to herself—loose, unguarded—then pushed off the door and padded farther inside, toes sinking into the carpet.

Her jacket slid off one shoulder and stayed there, forgotten. Her hair was down, slightly wild, framing her face in a way that made her look younger somehow. Her movements were careful but buoyant, like she was concentrating just enough to stay graceful.

Her eyes landed on the small table by the lamp.

The wine.

“Oh,” she murmured, delighted, like it had personally surprised her.

She picked up the bottle, turning it slowly, squinting at the label with exaggerated seriousness. She nodded once, decisively, as if she’d come to an important conclusion.

“Yes,” she told it. “You seem… correct.”

Finding the corkscrew took longer than it should have. She opened one drawer, then another, then the same drawer again, laughing softly at herself when she realized what she’d just done. When she finally located it in the amenities box, she held it up triumphantly.

“Okay,” she said to the empty room. “We’re professionals.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her, and braced the bottle between her thighs with great care. Her tongue poked out slightly as she lined up the corkscrew, brows knit in concentration. She twisted. Nothing happened.

She paused, frowned at the bottle, then tried again—slower this time, as if kindness might help.

“Don’t be rude,” she whispered to it.

The cork creaked faintly but didn’t give. Cleo sighed, then laughed—an airy, helpless little sound—and shook her head, hair falling into her face.

“I am absolutely capable,” she told the bottle, gently defensive. “I just… need cooperation.”

That was when the door opened.

Ben stepped inside, jacket halfway off—and stopped.

He didn’t announce himself. He just watched.

Cleo, perched on the bed, slightly flushed, hair everywhere, holding court with a bottle of wine like it had personally offended her. Her coat was sliding down her arms, her posture upright but soft, eyes bright and unmistakably drunk in the gentlest way—happy, unfiltered, a little delayed.

She sensed him before she fully registered him.

“Oh,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. Her face lit up instantly. “Hi.”

She lifted the bottle toward him, proud and a little wobbly, like she’d accomplished something monumental already.

“They left us this,” she explained, earnest. “Because you’re famous. But I think it’s also… for me.”

She tried the cork again. It refused.

Cleo sighed dramatically, then looked back at him, eyes crinkling with a grin that made it impossible to be annoyed.

“Don’t judge me,” she said sweetly. “Dinner wine turned into ‘first night in Iceland’ wine and then suddenly I was emotionally invested in this bottle.”

She looked down at it, then back up at him, head tilting, expression hopeful and conspiratorial.

“So,” she said, voice warm and just a little slow,
“do you want to be a hero—
or should I keep negotiating?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben hadn't realized how much he needed an hour of absolutely nothing until he was standing on a freezing cold terrace with a lukewarm beer and Jax.

It was the kind of reset button he couldn’t buy. There were no managers hovering, no fans trying to be cool while filming him from across the room, no setlists to debate. Just Jax, leaning against a railing in the pitch-black Icelandic night, roasting Ben relentlessly about his "retired wizard" aesthetic and asking if the silica mud was going to make him too pretty to be friends with anymore.

They’d talked about the tour for maybe two minutes before Jax got bored and switched to complaining about the rental car’s seat warmers. It was grounding. It was real. It was exactly the kind of noise Ben needed to clear out the static in his head.

He walked back to the room feeling lighter than he had in months. The hallway was quiet, the carpet thick enough to swallow his footsteps, and he found himself humming a melody that didn't exist yet—something slow and atmospheric, just like this place.

He keyed into the room, expecting to find Cleo maybe reading, or unpacking, or staring out at the steam rising from the lagoon.

He didn't expect to walk into a high-stakes hostage negotiation between his girlfriend and a bottle of Cabernet.

Ben stopped in the entryway, shrugging his jacket the rest of the way off his shoulders as he took in the scene. She was perched on the edge of the bed, coat half-off like she’d gotten distracted mid-striptease, hair a glorious, wind-blown disaster, clamping a bottle between her thighs with a level of concentration usually reserved for defusing bombs.
She looked soft. She looked happy. She looked delightfully, undeniably tipsy.

A slow, affectionate grin spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, perfectly content to just watch the show for a second.

When she finally spotted him and her face lit up—Oh. Hi.—Ben felt a warm, heavy thud in his chest. That look. The way she beamed at him like he was the best part of the night, even better than the wine. It was a hell of a drug.

"Hi," he replied, his voice low and amused, pushing off the wall to walk toward her.
He listened to her explain the provenance of the wine—because you’re famous—and her very valid emotional investment in it, his grin widening with every word. She was slurring just the tiniest bit, her movements loose and fluid, and it made him want to wrap her up in the duvet and keep her there forever.

"Negotiating?" Ben repeated, stopping right in front of her. He stood between her knees, looking down at her with pure adoration. "Baby, from where I’m standing, it looks like the bottle is winning. It’s putting up a hell of a fight."

He reached down, his large hands covering hers where they clutched the neck of the bottle and the corkscrew. His fingers were warm from his pockets, steady against her fumbling ones.

"I think being a hero is in my contract," he teased gently. "Clause 4, Section B: 'Ben must intervene when wine bottles become hostile.'"

He gently pried her fingers loose, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles before taking the bottle from her thighs. He didn't step away. He stayed right there in her space, the bottle in one hand. With practiced ease—the muscle memory of a thousand backstage riders—he twisted the corkscrew the rest of the way in and pulled.

Pop.

"There," he said, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. "Negotiation concluded. The hostage is free."

He set the open bottle on the nightstand and immediately turned his attention back to her. He rested his hands on her waist, sliding them under the open coat to find the warmth of her sweater, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against her sides.

"You look..." He shook his head, looking at her wild hair and her bright, hazy eyes. "You look incredibly happy. And maybe like you’ve had a head start on the relaxation."

He leaned down, bumping his nose affectionately against hers.

"Did you have a good time with Phoebe?" he murmured, smiling against her lips. "Did you solve all the world's problems over dinner wine?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo blinked up at him, the concentration she’d been pouring into the bottle dissolving instantly into a smile that was all warmth and relief and a little bit of mischief. The tension left her shoulders the second she saw him there, solid and familiar in the doorway, like the room had finally settled into the right shape.

“Hi,” she echoed, softer than she meant to, like the word had weight.

She laughed at his assessment of the situation, the sound loose and unguarded, and glanced down at the bottle as if it had personally betrayed her. “Hey, I had it for a second,” she protested lightly. “It’s just… very determined. And it kept looking at me like that.”

When his hands covered hers, warm and steady, she let go immediately, like she’d been waiting for permission. Her fingers lingered against his for half a beat longer than necessary before retreating, her shoulders tipping forward as she watched him take over. The pop of the cork made her gasp and then laugh again, delighted and impressed.

“Oh my god,” she said, grinning up at him. “You really are a hero. I was about to start negotiating terms. Like… I’ll open you tomorrow, I promise.”

She shifted slightly on the bed when he moved closer, his hands finding her waist, sliding beneath the coat. The contact grounded her instantly. She leaned into it without thinking, her knees angling inward just enough to bracket his hips, like muscle memory had kicked in before her brain caught up.

“Happy is accurate,” she said, nodding once, emphatic. “Very accurate. Possibly the happiest version of me. Also—yes—I absolutely had a head start. I forgot Icelandic pours are… generous.”

She reached up, fingers catching lightly in the front of his jacket before drifting to his collar, her thumb brushing the edge of it in a small, absent-minded motion. Her eyes were bright, a little hazy, but focused entirely on him.

“Phoebe was in rare form,” she went on, smiling at the memory. “Very passionate about the spa rules. Very convinced we’re all going to die if we don’t hydrate properly. We solved nothing, but we laughed a lot, which I think counts.”

She tilted her head when he bumped his nose against hers, smiling so close their mouths almost brushed. “And I kept thinking about you,” she added honestly, quieter now. “About how weird it is that this is real. That we’re actually here.”

Her forehead rested against his for a second, the room warm and hushed around them.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured. “From the bottle. And from myself.”

Then, with a small, conspiratorial smile, she glanced toward the nightstand where the open wine waited.

“Now,” she added gently, “you should probably pour it. Before it decides to attack again.”

Cleo smiled, the edge of her coat slipping farther down her arms as she relaxed fully now that he was there. She watched him for a second—really watched him—the way his shoulders had dropped, the way his energy felt quieter, steadier than when he’d left. It made something warm bloom in her chest.

She reached up, smoothing her thumb along his jaw, affectionate and slow, her touch a little uncoordinated but sincere.

“So,” she said softly, tilting her head. “Did you have a good time with Jax?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a second as her thumb brushed his jaw. Her coordination was maybe operating at eighty percent efficiency, but her aim was perfect. She felt warm and real, and looking at her—cheeks flushed, coat falling off her shoulders—he felt a surge of affection so strong it almost knocked the wind out of him.

"Jax," Ben said, opening his eyes and flashing a crooked, easy grin. "Jax is currently formulating a theory that the Northern Lights are just a government projection to sell more wool sweaters. He’s in rare form too."

He turned slightly, keeping one hand on her waist as he reached for the glasses on the nightstand.

"We stood on a balcony until my fingers went numb and talked about absolutely nothing," he admitted, his voice dropping into that low, content register. "We argued about the best track on Abbey Road for twenty minutes. It was spiritual. It was exactly what I needed."

He poured the wine—a generous Icelandic pour, matching her earlier assessment—and the rich red liquid swirled in the glass, dark and velvety against the dim light. He handed one to her, his fingers brushing hers, lingering on the connection.

"But I prefer this view," he murmured, his gaze flicking over her face. "Much warmer. Significantly prettier."

He set his own glass down for a second and moved his hands to her shoulders, gently peeling the sliding coat the rest of the way down.

"And as much as I love the 'disheveled explorer' look," he teased softly, sliding the heavy fabric down her arms and tossing it onto the chair nearby. "Let’s get you out of the survival gear. You’re safe inside now. No wind chill factor."

He picked up his glass again and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, kicking off his boots with a heavy thud, finally shedding the last of the travel day himself. He rotated his body to face her, sitting cross-legged, knee bumping against hers.

"To Phoebe’s rules," he proposed, lifting his glass for a toast, his eyes dancing with amusement. "To Jax’s conspiracies. And to the fact that we are actually, physically here."
He clinked his glass against hers—a soft, crystalline chime in the quiet room.

"It is weird," he agreed, taking a sip and watching her over the rim of the glass. "But it's the good kind of weird. The kind where I don't have to check the schedule for tomorrow because there isn't one."

He lowered the glass, licking a drop of wine from his lip, and looked at her with a steady, grounding intensity.

"So," he asked, his voice soft, inviting her in. "What was the final verdict on the spa rules? Are we allowed to have fun, or is fun strictly prohibited by the silica gods?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly, the sound bubbling out of her like she couldn’t quite contain it, and she tipped her head back just a little as if picturing it.

“That tracks,” she said, grinning. “I feel like Jax would absolutely uncover a global sweater conspiracy and then immediately forget about it because he got distracted by a dog or a snack.”

She took the glass from him carefully—deliberate, proud of herself for the coordination—and lifted it up to eye level, studying the color like it might reveal secrets.

“Talking about nothing is my favorite kind of talking,” she added, warmth threading through her voice. “That’s when you know you’re actually okay. When you don’t need to solve anything.”

She took a sip, smaller than his, savoring it, then looked back at him with a soft, unguarded smile when he said he preferred this view.

“Yeah?” she said, clearly pleased. “Good. Because I was hoping I’d still rank above Abbey Road.”

When he slid her coat off completely, she let him, lifting her arms with exaggerated cooperation, laughing under her breath.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “I was absolutely battling the elements. A true pioneer. You saved me.”

She shifted on the bed as he sat, angling her body toward him, one knee brushing his, her balance a little loose but her focus completely on him.

At the toast, her face lit up.

“To Phoebe’s rules,” she echoed, lifting her glass. “Which are… extensive. And laminated. She read them like she was issuing commandments, but—” she beamed then, unmistakably proud and affectionate, “—she was smiling the whole time. So I think that means she approves. Don’t tell her I said that.”

She clinked her glass to his and took another sip, cheeks warm, eyes bright.

“And the spa,” she continued, leaning in a little, lowering her voice like she was sharing classified information. “We are absolutely allowed to have fun. Encouraged, even. The silica gods want us relaxed, hydrated, and slightly unrecognizable.”

She laughed at that, shaking her head.

“Tomorrow is… soak, float, put mud on our faces, make zero decisions,” she said happily. “And then we sleep in. Like, aggressively. No alarms. No responsibilities.”

Her smile softened into something quieter as she reached out, fingertips brushing his knee, grounding herself there.

“And after that?” she added, eyes half-lidded, content. “Cuddling. All day. You, me, nowhere to be. I’m not leaving the bed unless someone physically removes me.”

She took one more sip of her wine, then looked at him over the rim of the glass, playful and fond.

“This is my ideal pace,” she said lightly. “A little wine. A lot of you. And absolutely no schedule.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the mattress where their knees touched. He watched her over the rim of his glass, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and pure, unadulterated fondness.

"Let's be clear," he said, lowering his wine and leaning in just a fraction. "Abbey Road is a masterpiece. It changed the trajectory of modern music. It is a perfect album."

He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"But Abbey Road doesn't look like you in a hotel room with messy hair. So, yeah. You win. You win by a landslide. It’s not even a competition."

He listened to her breakdown of the spa rules—the hydration, the silica, the aggressive relaxation—and he felt his shoulders drop another inch. The idea of Phoebe handing out laminated commandments was terrifyingly on-brand, but the idea of Cleo relaxed and unbothered was the real prize.

"Aggressively sleeping in," he repeated, savoring the phrase. "I like the violence of that. I want to sleep so hard I forget my own zip code. I want to sleep until I don't remember what a guitar looks like."

He took a sip of his wine, watching her fingers brush his knee, feeling the warmth of her touch seep through his jeans.

"And regarding the 'not leaving the bed' clause," he murmured, his voice dropping into that soft, intimate register. "You say that like I’m not going to be the one holding you hostage. You think you’re going to have to fight to stay in bed? Cleo, I am going to be a human anchor. I am going to be a very heavy, very comfortable paperweight."

He set his glass on the nightstand next to the bottle, deciding he was done with the wine. He wanted his hands free.

He reached out, his palms cupping her face, his thumbs brushing lightly over her flushed cheeks. She looked so soft, so happy, and the fact that she was sitting here telling him her ideal pace involved "a lot of him" made his chest ache in the best possible way.

"You have no idea," he whispered, searching her eyes. "How much I need exactly that. Zero decisions. Just us."

He tilted her head back gently, studying her face like it was the only map he needed.
"You're a little wobbly, you know," he teased softly, a grin touching his lips. "It's very cute. You've got that 'I conquered the wine bottle' glow. It suits you."

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her forehead, then down to the tip of her nose.
"But since we have a big day of mud masks and aggressive napping tomorrow," he murmured against her skin, "maybe we switch to water? I want you fresh for the silica gods. They seem demanding."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed at him immediately, soft and bright, the sound spilling out before she could even help it. She leaned in without thinking, forehead brushing his, like that was just where she belonged now.

“Okay, first of all,” she said, smiling wide, eyes warm, “I am not arguing with the cultural significance of Abbey Road. I respect it. I honor it. I would never slander a perfect album.”

She tipped her head slightly, hair falling into her face as she added, quieter and more playful,
“I’m just saying it’s having a hard time competing with this exact moment. That’s not its fault.”

When he repeated aggressively sleeping in, she grinned like he’d just said the most romantic thing she’d ever heard.

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Violent rest. Zero alarms. No responsibilities. If I forget what day it is, we’re doing it right.”

His comment about being a human anchor made her smile soften, her hand drifting to his chest, fingers resting there like she was feeling something steady under her palm.

“I would absolutely let you hold me hostage,” she admitted easily. “I’d probably thank you for it. Maybe negotiate snacks.”

When he cupped her face, her breath hitched just a little—not because she was overwhelmed, but because she felt seen. Completely. She leaned into his hands, eyes flicking between his.

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I keep saying it. Just us. No deciding. No planning. Just… being.”

Then—water.

Her eyes widened instantly.

She gasped, dramatic and scandalized, one hand flying to her chest.

“Water?” she repeated, disbelief dripping from the word. “Benjamin.”

She straightened up a bit, squaring her shoulders with exaggerated dignity. “I want you to know I heard everything you said before that. I was emotionally aligned. Spiritually bonded.”

Then she pointed at him, wobble minimal but confidence maximal.

“But suggesting I switch to water like I’m some kind of dehydrated houseplant?” she continued, trying very hard not to laugh. “That’s bold. That’s brave.”

She pushed herself up from the bed in one smooth, if slightly ambitious, motion. There was a brief moment where she had to recalibrate—ankle, heel, gravity—but she recovered like a champion, planting her boots and lifting her chin with theatrical pride.

“I can walk in a straight line,” she announced firmly, immediately taking two careful steps to prove it. “And I am doing it in these heels. Which, by the way, is a skill. A life skill.”

She turned back toward him, pointing a finger for emphasis, her balance loose but her confidence unshaken.

“And also,” she added, narrowing her eyes playfully, “I am twenty-eight years old. Twenty. Eight. If you think you can cut me off like I’m a college freshman who just discovered tequila, you are deeply mistaken.”

She took another step closer—closer than necessary—leaning in just enough to make the point land.

“Because if you do not let me continue drinking,” she said sweetly, lowering her voice into a mock-threatening whisper, “I will go get my big sister.”

A beat.

“And you know,” she continued, nodding solemnly, “Phoebe is very scary when she thinks I’m being bullied into something I don’t want to do.”

Her lips twitched, fighting a smile, then she broke into a grin anyway, softening immediately. She reached out, resting her hands lightly on his chest, steadying herself there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” she concluded, eyes bright and teasing, “do try me.”

Then, quieter—fond, warm, undeniably happy—

“I promise I’ll drink water too,” she added. “Just… not instead.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s hands went up instantly. It was a reflex, a survival instinct honed by years of navigating high-stakes situations, and this—Cleo threatening to unleash Phoebe—was a Defcon 1 scenario.

"Whoa. Okay. Pause," he said, his eyes wide, backing up a fraction of an inch even though he was already sitting down. "You didn't say we were bringing out the nuclear option. I surrender. I fold. White flag."

He shook his head, looking at her with a mix of genuine fear and absolute delight.
"Phoebe is terrifying on a Tuesday morning," he pointed out. "Phoebe defending you? That is a force of nature I am not equipped to fight. I don't have the armor class for that boss battle. You win. The wine stays."

He let out a low whistle, impressed by her sheer audacity.

"And for the record," he added, his voice dropping into a teasing, affectionate lilt as he reached out to steady her by the hips. "That was a spectacular straight line. Truly. It was geometric. It was artistic. It had flair."

He grinned, his thumbs rubbing lightly against the navy fabric of her dress, right where the ruching cinched at her waist.

"I am not questioning your motor skills, Cleo. I am simply suggesting that we hydrate so that tomorrow, when we are floating in a lagoon, your head doesn't feel like a drum solo."

He stood up then, moving into her space with an easy, fluid grace. He placed his hands firmly on her waist, his grip warm and sure against the fitted bodice of her dress, grounding her wobbly determination.

"But you’ve made your point," he murmured, looking down at her, his expression softening from playful to something heavier, more attentive. "You are capable. You are an independent woman with excellent balance."

He guided her backward, step by slow step, until the back of her knees hit the mattress. He applied just enough pressure to encourage her to sit, waiting until she was safely settled on the edge of the bed, the hem of her mini dress riding up slightly, before he let go.

"However," he said softly, "these need to go. You've done enough walking for one day."
Ben didn't sit next to her. Instead, he sank down onto his knees on the plush hotel carpet, positioning himself right between her legs.

He looked up at her for a second—taking in the square neckline of her dress, the bare skin of her legs, the way she looked like a queen even in a hotel room—before reaching for her left heeled boot.

"Relax," he commanded gently, his voice a low rumble.

His hands moved with slow, deliberate intent. He found the zipper at the side of the boot and pulled it down, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He didn't rush to pull it off. Instead, his hands slid over the leather, warming it, before slipping inside to cup her heel.

He slid the boot off slowly, easing it away from her foot, his fingers grazing the arch of her foot. He set it aside and immediately moved to the other one.

He kept his eyes locked on hers as he worked the second zipper, the angle making him look up at her through his lashes.

"Better?" he asked softly, sliding the second boot off and tossing it near the first.

He didn't pull away. He stayed there on his knees, his hands moving up to rest on her bare knees, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thighs just below the hem of her dress. It wasn't aggressive; it was worshipful.

"Now," he whispered, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. "Wine for the lady. Water for the peace treaty. And me, right here, making sure you don't have to walk another line unless you really want to."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed so hard she had to brace a hand on his shoulder, the sound tipping into that bright, unguarded place that only showed up when she felt completely safe.

“Oh—oh no,” she said, grinning wide as he surrendered. “You absolutely know better. You don’t threaten Phoebe-adjacent consequences unless you’re prepared to lose.”

She steadied herself when his hands found her hips, not resisting it at all—letting him be the anchor he clearly wanted to be. “And thank you,” she added, mock-serious, “for acknowledging the artistry of that walk. I worked very hard on it.”

When he talked about hydration and drum-solo headaches, she softened, tilting her head and meeting his eyes. “Okay,” she conceded gently. “That part is fair. Lagoon Cleo wants to be happy, not concussed.”

She let him guide her back without argument, the backs of her knees catching the mattress as she sat, watching him with a fond, slightly dazed smile. The dress rode up and she didn’t even notice—too busy tracking the way he moved, careful and attentive.

Her breath hitched just a touch when he knelt, not from nerves but from the quiet intimacy of it. “You know,” she murmured, voice low and warm, “most people don’t get this version of you.”

She relaxed when he told her to, toes flexing instinctively as he unzipped the first boot. “Bossy,” she teased softly, eyes never leaving his. “But I’ll allow it.”

As he eased the boots off, one then the other, she reached down and brushed her fingers through his hair, a light, affectionate touch. “Yes,” she answered when he asked if it was better. “Much.”

When his hands rested on her knees, thumbs tracing slow circles, she leaned forward slightly, elbows on her thighs, meeting him where he was. Her smile turned softer, more sincere.

“Deal,” she said quietly. “Wine for me. Water for diplomacy.”

She glanced toward the glasses, then back to him, eyes bright and steady. “And you?” she added, tilting her head. “You stay right there. That seems… strategically sound.”

Cleo let herself go.

Not dramatically—just a quiet, earned surrender. She leaned back until her shoulders met the mattress, the motion slow and unguarded, the way you move when you know you’re not about to fall through anything. The bed dipped softly beneath her, cool sheets against warm skin, and she left her knees bent, legs still where they were, an open, familiar shape that didn’t need adjusting.

She exhaled, a long, steady sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deeper than her lungs.

“Oh,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Her gaze drifted up to the ceiling, tracing the faint shadows cast by the low lamps, the edges of the room blurring into something gentle and indistinct. No music. No voices outside the door. No expectations tugging at her sleeve.

Just stillness.

She let one hand fall to her stomach, the other resting loose at her side, fingers slack for once. The tightness she carried so often—between her shoulders, behind her eyes—unspooled quietly, without fanfare.

“This,” she said softly, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “is nice.”

She didn’t move to reach for him. She didn’t need to. The peace was already there, filling the room, settling into her bones.

For the first time in a long while, her thoughts didn’t race ahead to tomorrow or rewind through yesterday. They simply… paused.

And Cleo lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling safe, feeling present—feeling, finally, at rest.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stayed right where he was—kneeling on the hotel carpet, framed by her legs—and watched the tension leave her body like a magic trick.

One second she was holding court, defending her walking skills; the next, she was pouring herself onto the mattress like liquid mercury. He watched her chest rise and fall with that long, deep exhale, and he felt a sympathetic looseness spread through his own shoulders.

"Strategically sound," he echoed, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I’d say it’s a tactical masterclass. You look very comfortable. I’m jealous."

He didn't move to join her up there yet. He wasn't done with the service portion of the evening.

He reached out, capturing her right foot again. His hands were large and warm, wrapping completely around her arch. He didn't ask for permission; he just started. He pressed his thumbs firmly into the sole of her foot, finding the tight spot right in the center where the heel had been punishing her all night.

"This is nice?" he teased softly, looking up at her chin and the line of her throat exposed to the ceiling. "Baby, you have low standards. Lying down is just the baseline. We haven't even hit the premium features yet."

He worked his thumbs in a slow, circular rhythm, digging deep enough to make it count but gentle enough to keep her in that floaty state. He watched her reaction closely—the way her toes curled slightly, the way her breathing hitched. It was a different kind of applause than he got on stage, but frankly, he liked this one better.

"I found a knot," he announced gravely, sliding his hand up to cup her heel and stretch the foot gently. "I think this one has a name. I think it’s named 'The Walk from the Car.' It’s a stubborn little guy."

He moved his hands up, sliding over her ankle and gliding along the curve of her calf. Her skin was cool, smooth, and soft under his palms. He used the heels of his hands to push upward, dragging long, firm strokes from her ankle toward her knee, working the muscle that had been holding her up in those heels all night.

"You know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to watch his own hands on her skin, contrasting against the dark navy of her dress that had ridden up her thighs. "I’m a man of many talents. Musician. Actor. Unlicensed podiatrist. You’re really getting the full Ben Wilder experience tonight."

He switched legs, giving her left foot the same devoted attention, kneading the arch until he felt the resistance melt away. He loved touching her like this—not grabbing, not taking, just giving. It grounded him. It made the room feel small and the world outside irrelevant.

He slid his hands up her left calf, squeezing the muscle gently, his thumbs tracing the line of her shin bone. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the mattress on either side of her knees, looking up the length of her body to her face.

"How we doing?" he asked, a crooked, charming grin playing on his lips. "Is the customer satisfied? Or do I need to call in a manager?"

He squeezed her calf one last time, playful but possessing.

"I charge hourly, by the way," he whispered, his eyes dancing. "But I accept payment in soup decisions and exclusively focused attention."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t move at first. She let herself stay exactly where she was—spread out on the bed, limbs loose, spine sinking into the mattress like it finally trusted gravity again. The ceiling above her blurred at the edges, not from the wine so much as from the relief of being done, of being held by the quiet instead of the noise.

When he said strategically sound, she let out a soft, breathy laugh that barely made it past her lips.

“Mmh,” she murmured, eyes still on the ceiling. “I knew you’d appreciate the tactical angle.”

Then he said it—the thing about premium features—and that finally pulled her attention fully back to him.

She tilted her head just enough to look down the length of her body at him there on the carpet, kneeling like this was exactly where he belonged, hands already warm around her foot. Her mouth curved, slow and fond, the kind of smile that came from somewhere deep and unguarded.

“Baby,” she said quietly, voice warm and sure, “I would stay at a one-star motel with flickering lights and a suspicious ice machine if it meant I got to be with you.”

Her toes flexed instinctively when his thumbs pressed into her arch, a soft sigh slipping out before she could stop it. She didn’t even bother pretending she was composed. Not tonight. Not here.

“This?” she added, eyes fluttering closed again. “This is just… bonus content.”

When he teased her about low standards, she laughed again—this time a little fuller, a little tipsier.

“Hey,” she protested mildly, though there was no heat in it. “I have very high standards. You just happen to meet all of them while kneeling on hotel carpet and touching my feet.”

Her breathing slowed as he worked, the rhythm of his hands steady and intentional. She felt herself melting in stages—the kind of unraveling that didn’t feel dramatic, just inevitable. When he announced he’d found a knot, she groaned softly, tipping her head to the side.

“Oh, that one?” she said. “Yeah. That’s absolutely named after the walk from the car. It’s been holding a grudge all night.”

Her fingers curled loosely into the sheets when his hands slid up her calf, the pressure firm and grounding. She could feel how careful he was—not just with her body, but with her mood, her edges. It made her chest ache in that quiet, good way.

When he listed off his many talents, she cracked one eye open to look at him, amusement shining through the haze.

“Unlicensed podiatrist is really where you shine,” she said dryly. “Very niche. Very exclusive service.”

She watched him switch to her other leg, watched the focus in his face as if this mattered just as much as anything else he did in the world. Maybe more. It made her feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with being looked at.

When he leaned closer and asked how they were doing, manager jokes and all, she finally shifted. Slowly, lazily, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

She bent one knee, then the other, planting her feet lightly on the mattress. Then she sat up, the movement unhurried, her body still loose from his hands. She reached for him without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair first, then down to his cheek.

Her thumb brushed along his jaw, slow and affectionate, her touch warm and grounding now, returning the care he’d just given her.

She looked at him properly then—really looked at him—and her expression softened into something deeply content.

“The customer,” she said gently, a smile tugging at her lips, “is extremely satisfied.”

She leaned in just enough to press her forehead briefly to his, breathing him in, before pulling back again.

“Five stars,” she added. “Would absolutely book again.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben leaned into her hand the moment it touched his face, his eyes slipping shut for a second as her thumb brushed his jaw.

He let out a long, ragged exhale, the kind that emptied his lungs of the last remaining bits of tour stress. Hearing her talk about one-star motels and suspicious ice machines—and knowing she meant it—hit him harder than the wine. It grounded him. It made him feel like he wasn't just a destination for her; he was the journey.

"Five stars," he repeated, his voice low and raspy, vibrating against her palm.

He turned his face just enough to press a kiss to the center of her hand, his lips lingering on her skin, warm and devout.

"I’ll take it. I’ll frame it. I’ll put it on my business card right under 'Retired Wizard.'"

He opened his eyes, looking up at her through his lashes with a gaze that was equal parts mischief and absolute, terrifying adoration. He kept his hands on her knees, his thumbs sweeping back and forth over the soft skin of her inner thighs, grounding her, claiming her.

"But regarding the one-star motel," he murmured, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You have terrible taste, Cleo. I, for one, refuse to sleep anywhere that doesn't offer at least a complimentary continental breakfast. I have standards. I’m a diva."

He chuckled softly, but the sound faded as he looked at her—really looked at her—sitting there with her hair wild and her dress riding up, looking at him like he hung the moon.

"Five stars," he whispered again, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't believe his luck.
He shifted his grip, sliding his hands up her thighs just a few inches, not pushing for more, just needing to be closer.

"Just so you know," he said, his voice dropping into that intimate, serious register that made the air in the room feel thinner. "I don't offer this service to just anyone. The 'Ben Wilder Premium Package' is extremely exclusive. It’s a very limited release. You have to know a guy."

He leaned forward, resting his chin on her knee, looking up at her with big, soulful eyes that knew exactly what they were doing.

"But for you?" He smiled, slow and soft. "I'm fully booked. Indefinitely. You can have the whole schedule."

He moved one hand from her leg to capture hers where it rested on his cheek, interlacing their fingers and bringing her knuckles to his lips for another kiss.

"Now," he murmured against her skin, lingering there like he had all the time in the world.
He didn't make a move to get up. He didn't check the time. He just stayed there, kneeling between her legs on the hotel carpet, looking up at her with a quiet, devastating sincerity that cut through all the jokes.

"I think I’m going to stay right here for a minute," he whispered, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Because looking at you like this? Happy, relaxed, looking at me like that?"

He shook his head slowly, a soft, amazed smile touching his lips.

"It beats any view I've ever had from a stage, Cleo. Hands down. No contest."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo’s smile tugged slow and crooked as she felt his breath warm against her palm, the rasp of his voice vibrating right into her skin.

“Five stars,” she echoed softly, amused and a little undone by how serious he sounded about it. “You say it like you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.”

She laughed under her breath at the business card comment, her thumb still tracing the familiar line of his jaw. “Retired Wizard stays,” she said fondly. “But if you laminate it, I’m judging you.”

When he called her taste terrible, she tipped her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, laughter spilling out warmer this time. “Excuse you,” she murmured. “My taste is impeccable. I just don’t require… amenities to be happy.” Her gaze dropped back to him, affectionate and steady. “I require you.”

Her breath hitched just a little as his hands shifted, not pushing, just closer—close enough to remind her he was there, present, choosing her. She reached down, fingers threading through his hair, grounding herself the way he always grounded her.

“And don’t pretend I don’t know a guy,” she added quietly. “I know the guy. Very well.”

When he rested his chin on her knee and looked up at her like that—open, reverent, devastating—her chest tightened. She softened immediately, the jokes slipping away.

“Indefinitely sounds right,” she said, voice low and certain. “I don’t need the schedule. I just need… this.”

She let him stay there, kneeling, unhurried, like time had agreed to pause for them. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles when he kissed her hand again, her touch returning the care without thinking.

“That stage line,” she murmured, eyes shining. “You’re not allowed to say things like that and expect me not to fall apart a little.”

She shifted then, slowly, carefully, sitting up straighter. Her hand slid from his cheek to his shoulder as she rose to her feet, steady despite the haze. She turned her back to him, fingers finding the zipper at the back of her dress, pausing.

“Hey,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder with a small, trusting smile. “Can you unzip me?”

The zipper slid down. The dress followed, whispering to the floor at her feet. She stepped out of it without hurry, bare and unguarded in the quiet, then turned back to him.

Cleo leaned down, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and kissed him gently—slow, tender, full of warmth rather than urgency. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his, her smile soft and unmistakably content.

Then she whispered, just for him, voice calm and sure—

“Come to bed with me.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben watched her rise, the movement fluid and graceful despite the wine, and he made no move to follow her up. He stayed right where he was—kneeling on the plush hotel carpet, hands resting on his thighs—and watched the perspective shift. Suddenly, she was towering over him, a vision in navy blue and messy curls, while he remained anchored at her feet.

When she turned her back to him and asked him to unzip her, the air in the room seemed to thicken, charging with a sudden, electric intimacy.

"Unzip you," he repeated, his voice low, the words rumbling in his chest. "I think I can handle that. It falls under my jurisdiction as unlicensed support staff."

He didn't stand. He didn't even think about standing. The position felt right—devotional, attentive, exactly where he wanted to be.

He reached up, his large hands hovering for a second against the small of her back, feeling the warmth radiating off her skin through the fabric. He traced the line of her spine upward with his thumbs, a ghost of a touch, before his fingers found the small metal tab at the top of the dress.

He pulled it down slowly.

The sound was a sharp, erotic zzzzzt that cut through the silence of the room. He watched the navy fabric part, revealing the pale, smooth curve of her back, inch by inch, vertebra by vertebra. He resisted the urge to press his mouth to her skin right then and there—though it cost him something—and instead let his hands slide down her sides, guiding the fabric as it loosened.

The dress pooled at her feet in a soft, dark cloud.

She stepped out of it, bare and beautiful, and turned to face him.

Ben stopped breathing.

From down here, looking up at her, she looked like a goddess who had decided to grace a mortal with a visit. She leaned down, her hands finding his shoulders to steady herself, and brought her face to his level.

He met her halfway, tilting his head back, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. The kiss was slow, sweet, and tasted faintly of red wine and absolute certainty. It wasn't a hungry kiss; it was a promise.

When she pulled back, her forehead resting against his, and whispered it—Come to bed with me—Ben let out a short, incredulous breath, a laugh trapped in his throat.

He kissed her nose, then her lips one more time, before finally unfolding his frame.

He stood up, rising to his full height until he was the one looking down, the dynamic shifting effortlessly from worship to protection.

"Cleo," he whispered, shaking his head slightly as he looked at her, marveling at the fact that she was real. "You say that like there is literally anywhere else in the universe I would rather be."

He didn't wait for her to walk. He bent down, sweeping one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. He held her high against his chest, holding her like she was the only thing in the room that had any gravity, burying his face in the curve of her neck for a brief, grounding second.

"Request accepted," he murmured into her skin, carrying her the few steps to the bed. "Schedule cleared. Management has been informed."

He lowered her onto the mattress, the sheets cool against her skin, and followed her down immediately. He covered her body with his, taking his weight on his elbows so he could just look at her—hair fanned out on the pillow, eyes bright and trusting.

"I’m yours," he said, staring into her eyes with a crooked, helpless smile that was all truth and no performance. "Clocked in. Overtime approved. Whatever you want."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled up at him when he said it, really smiled — the kind that settled instead of sparkled.

“Anywhere else?” she murmured, voice low and steady. “No. I didn’t think so.”

When he lowered her onto the bed and hovered there, careful with his weight, she didn’t rush him. She let the moment stretch, let him look. One leg stayed long beneath him, relaxed. The other bent naturally at his side, anchoring him close.

Her hands slid into his hair first, grounding, familiar. She kissed him — slow, deliberate — not asking, not hesitating. Her palms traced over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

“Mmm… Ben,” she mumbled softly against his mouth.

Her fingers slipped under his shirt, warm against his skin, and before he could fully help, she tugged — one smooth, decisive pull — catching one arm and the neckline, peeling the fabric away in a single motion.

She didn’t rush the next kiss either.

Just held him there, close and certain, like this was exactly where he belonged.

Cleo stayed there with him for a moment, forehead brushing his, her breath evening out as if she needed the pause to be brave enough for what came next.

Her hands slowed where they rested on his back, thumbs tracing small, absent lines like she was grounding herself through touch. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—not fragile, just honest in a way she didn’t always allow herself to be.

“Hey,” she murmured, tipping her head just enough to look at him properly. “There’s something I need to say before I lose my nerve.”

She swallowed, a small smile tugging at her mouth, more soft than playful.

“I thought I already loved you as much as I could,” she said. “I really did. I remember thinking—this is it, this is the ceiling, this is as deep as it goes.”

Her fingers curled lightly into his shirtless back, anchoring him there.

“But these last couple of months?” she went on, shaking her head a little. “They did something to me. Watching you show up. Watching you stay. The way you’re gentle when no one’s watching, the way you let me be exactly who I am without trying to fix it or frame it or make it prettier.”

Her voice softened even more, warmth settling into every word.

“I didn’t know it could keep growing like this,” she admitted. “I didn’t know I could fall harder after I was already in love.”

She leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth—not asking, just reassuring.

“I’m in it,” she whispered. “More than I ever thought I’d be. More than I planned. And I don’t feel scared about that at all.”

Her forehead rested against his again, her smile small but certain.

“I just feel… sure.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the shirt tear away from his body, the fabric bunching at his elbows before he shrugged it off completely, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

But the physical sensation of skin-on-skin was nothing compared to the absolute sledgehammer of her words.

I didn’t know I could fall harder.

Ben stopped breathing. He froze, hovering over her, his weight braced on his forearms, staring down at her face. The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked out by the sheer gravity of what she just admitted.

He had been prepared to be the caretaker tonight. He had been ready to be "Zen Ben," the guy who gives foot massages and opens wine bottles and tucks her in with a chaste kiss on the forehead because she’s had a long day and a few drinks. He was ready to be noble.

But then she looked at him with those wide, hazy, devastatingly honest eyes and told him she was in it.

"You..." Ben started, his voice cracking, rougher than sandpaper. "You can't just say things like that, Cleo. You can't drop a nuclear bomb of affection while I'm trying to be a gentleman."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. He couldn't. The surge of emotion—love, relief, and a fierce, blinding desire—was too much to contain behind a smile.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

This wasn't the slow, sweet kiss from before. This was hungry. It was deep and wrecking. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue sweeping inside to taste the wine and the truth on her breath. He kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul, like he needed to physically consume the words she’d just spoken.

He let his restraint slip—just enough.

He lowered his hips, letting his full weight settle between her legs, pressing the hard ridge of his erection firmly against her thigh. He wanted her to feel it. He wanted there to be zero ambiguity about what she did to him.

"Sure," he gasped, breaking the kiss but staying right there, his lips hovering millimeters from hers. "You feel sure? Good. Because I feel... insane. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

He moved his hands from the mattress to cup her face, his thumbs stroking hard over her cheekbones, holding her gaze with an intensity that burned.

"I tried to be good," he rasped, grinding his hips against her in a slow, deliberate circle that made his own breath hitch. "I was going to tuck you in. I was going to let you sleep."
He kissed her jaw, his mouth hot and wet, moving down to the sensitive cord of her neck where her pulse was hammering.

"But you had to go and tell me you love me more," he growled against her skin, nipping lightly at her throat. "And now I don't think I can be noble, Cleo. I think I need to be inside you. I think I need to show you exactly how hard I’ve fallen."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, searching for any sign of hesitation, checking the haze in her gaze to make sure she was still with him. He needed her to know this wasn't just the wine talking for him either.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice dark and desperate, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Tell me you're too tired. Tell me to clock out. Because if you don't... I am going to ruin you for anyone else. I am going to love you until you can't remember your own name."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo blinked, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. The wine had made the edges of the room soft, but Ben—hovering above her, desperate and raw—was the clearest thing she had ever seen.

His words washed over her like hot water. Ruin you. The threat didn’t scare her; it thrilled her. It settled deep in her belly, coiling tight and warm. He was trying to be good, trying to give her an escape hatch, but the sweetness of that, the sheer protective instinct of it, only made her want him with a ferocity that cut right through the alcohol in her system. She wasn't confused. She wasn't just "tired." She knew exactly what she was asking for.

She reached up, her hands sliding from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair to anchor him there. She could feel the tension vibrating through his frame, the sheer effort it was taking him to hover instead of crush her, and she decided to break that restraint once and for all.

"Let's make our babies," she mumbled against his lips.

The words were hushed, pressed directly into his mouth, but they were perfectly distinct. There was no hesitation, no stumble in her speech—just a heavy, undeniable promise.

Before he could even process the words, before he could gasp or argue, she surged upward. She pressed her lips against his, her tongue sweeping into his mouth with a hunger that matched his own. She kissed him like she was searching for oxygen, like he was the only air left in the room and she was drowning.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled, dragging his weight down until there was no space left between them. She felt the rough slide of his bare chest against her sensitive skin, his chest hair scratching an itch she hadn't known she had, rasping against her breasts. It was abrasive and raw and real, and she didn’t care. She loved it. She arched into him, a silent demand for him to stop talking, stop hovering, and just be with her.

She poured everything she had into the kiss, drinking him in, tasting the shock and the desire warring on his tongue. She wasn't letting him go; she wasn't letting him overthink this. The wine made her bold, but the love made her certain.

Her hands slid up from his neck, her palms warm and steady as she cupped his face. She held him there, framing him like he was the only thing worth looking at, even with her eyes squeezed shut against the rush of sensation. Her thumbs grazed the rough stubble along his jaw, loving the friction, loving the masculine grit of him that contrasted so perfectly with the desperate tenderness of his mouth on hers.

Then, her fingers pushed higher, diving past his temples and into the thick waves of his hair. She gripped the dark strands, tugging gently to angle his head deeper into the kiss, anchoring him to her. As the texture slid between her fingers—soft, dense, and wild—a fierce, hazy thought bloomed in the back of her mind.

I want this, she thought, her heart hammering against his chest. She wanted a little boy with these same dark, unruly curls. She wanted a little girl with this same thick mane to braid. She wanted his stamp on the world, woven right into the DNA of the family she was begging him to start right now.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Let's make our babies.

The words didn't just land; they detonated.

The last shred of Ben’s "noble boyfriend" act evaporated in a cloud of white-hot heat. He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against her lips, and kissed her back with a hunger that bordered on violence. He wasn't gentle anymore. He devoured her, his tongue sweeping deep into her mouth, tasting the wine and the reckless promise she’d just made.

He felt her legs hook around his waist, pulling him down, and the friction of her soft skin against his bare chest sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He ground his hips against her thigh, unable to help himself, needing the friction, needing to feel the resistance of her body against his.

But it wasn't enough. The clothes were in the way. The denim of his jeans felt like a cage.
He broke the kiss, gasping for air, and scrambled back. He didn't say a word—he couldn't. His breath was coming in short, harsh pants as he stood up by the side of the bed. His hands fumbled with his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency, ripping the buckle open. He shoved his jeans down, not caring that the button flew off or that he nearly tripped getting them over his heels. He kicked them aside. His boxer briefs followed a second later, discarded in a pile on the floor.

He was hard, painfully so, the cool air of the room hitting his skin only emphasizing the heat radiating off him.

He moved back to the bed instantly, crawling over the mattress like a predator returning to its kill. He positioned himself between her spread legs, looming over her, his eyes dark and dilated as he took in the sight of her—flushed, wild-haired, and waiting.

He reached for the waistband of her panties—a scrap of white lace that looked impossibly innocent against her skin. He hooked his thumbs into the sides and dragged them down. He lifted her hips easily with one hand, sliding the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, and off her ankles, tossing them blindly into the room.

Now there was nothing. No barriers. Just her.

He settled his weight between her thighs, careful not to crush her but needing to be close. He pressed his hips forward, the head of his cock brushing against her slick heat, teasing the entrance but not entering. Not yet.

He wanted to savor this. He wanted to make sure she was ready for everything he was about to give her.

He lowered his head to the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her aroused skin, while his hand moved down between their bodies. He found her wetness instantly. She was soaked, slick with desire, and the feeling nearly sent him over the edge right there.

"So wet," he breathed against her throat, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle.

He used his thumb to circle her clit, dragging through the slickness, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that made her hips buck up against his hand. He kept teasing her, rubbing the swollen bundle of nerves, spreading her wetness over her folds until she was glistening. But he wanted her slicker. He wanted her sliding open for him without a hint of friction.

He pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers up to his mouth. He held her gaze, his eyes dark and intense, as he licked his fingers, coating them thoroughly, wetting them until they glistened.

He brought his hand back down, the cool slide of saliva mixing with her heat as he found her entrance again.

He slipped one slick finger inside her, then a second. They glided in effortlessly, deep and smooth. He scissored them slowly, stretching her, preparing her. He felt her inner muscles clamp down around his fingers, pulsing a welcome, and he groaned, resting his forehead against hers as he pumped his fingers in and out, mimicking the thrusts he was desperate to give her.

He kept the rhythm steady, his thumb continuing its relentless work on her clit, while he stared into her eyes, watching her pupils blow wide, watching her breath hitch and catch. He wasn't going to stop until she was begging. Until she was so open and ready that taking her would be the only option left.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo’s breath hitched, a ragged sound escaping her throat as she arched against the relentless rhythm of his hand. The sensation was electric—the slick, sliding pressure, the way he was stretching her—but it wasn't what she was aching for. The emptiness inside her felt vast, and his fingers, while skilled, were just a placeholder for the weight and warmth she truly needed. She didn't want to be prepared; she wanted to be possessed.

She reached up, her hands trembling slightly as she found his face. She slid her palms over his warm cheeks, her fingers threading into the hair at his temples to hold him still. She pulled him down gently, guiding him until his focus was entirely on her, until his forehead rested against hers.

She brushed her lips against his, a feather-light caress that was a stark, tender contrast to the heavy heat pulsing between her legs.

"Ben, please," she whispered against his mouth, her voice soft and thick with need. "Don't... don't tease me anymore. I don't want to wait." She kissed the corner of his mouth, her eyes fluttering open to plead with him directly. "Just take me. Please, just make love to me."

She felt his hand pause, the rhythm stopping at her plea, and the sudden stillness made the empty ache inside her throb even harder. She didn't want the teasing; she wanted the completion. She wanted the promise she had made to become a reality.

She kept her hands on his face, her thumbs tracing the tense line of his cheekbones, feeling the heat radiating off him. She looked up into his eyes, trying to convey that this wasn't just the wine, and it wasn't just a whim. It was a deep, resonant need.

"I'm yours," she breathed, the words catching in her throat. She shifted her hips, tilting her pelvis up to graze against him, trying to guide him past the threshold he was hovering over. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him down, using her whole body to beg him to bridge that final gap.

"Right now, Ben," she whispered, her gaze unwavering. "Be with me. Completely."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stopped.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, the loss of contact making a muscle in his jaw jump, and rested his forehead against hers. He looked deep into her eyes, seeing the desperation there, the raw need that mirrored his own.

"I’m not teasing you, baby," he whispered, his voice rough, breathless. He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, tender despite the fire in his blood. "You know how I do vocal warm-ups before a show? All those scales? The humming?"

He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft and reassuring.

"It’s not to stall," he murmured against her lips. "It’s so I don't wreck the instrument when I finally hit the high notes. I just want to make sure you’re ready to sing for me."

But her plea—right now, be with me—cracked the last of his discipline. He couldn't hold back anymore. The preparation was done; the show was starting.

He shifted his hips, his hand moving down to guide himself. He lined the broad head of his cock up with her entrance, feeling the slick, welcoming heat he’d coaxed from her.

"Okay," he breathed, his eyes locking onto hers. "No more waiting."

He pushed forward.

He entered her slowly, agonizingly so. He let the head slide past the ring of muscle, stretching her, filling her inch by glorious inch. The sensation was blinding—hot, tight, and wet—a velvet vice that wrapped around him and felt like coming home.

He watched her face as he claimed her, watched her eyes widen and her lips part. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to snap his hips, forcing himself to take this slow. He slid deep, burying himself to the hilt until his hips met hers with a heavy, final thud.

He bottomed out and stopped.

"God," he groaned, the sound torn from his chest. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, squeezing his eyes shut as the pleasure washed over him in a crushing wave. She felt incredible. She felt perfect.

He held there for a long moment, letting her adjust to the size of him, letting the reality of them being connected like this sink in. He wrapped his arm under her, pulling her body flush against his, skin to skin, heart to heart.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

He pulled back almost all the way out, then dragged himself back in—a long, heavy stroke that hit every nerve ending. He wasn't pounding into her; he was savoring her. He established a slow, rolling rhythm, grinding against her clit with his pelvis on the downstroke, listening to the way her breath hitched in time with his thrusts.

He turned his head, finding her mouth, and kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking the slow, relentless slide of his body inside hers.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a long, shaky moan as he finally filled her. His words about the warm-up floated through her mind, sweet and funny, but they were instantly drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming physical reality of him stretching her. The sensation of him sliding deep, burying himself until there was no space left between them, was a relief so profound it made her toes curl.

As he began that slow, rolling rhythm, a high, needy whimper escaped her throat. It felt heavy and consuming, a friction that set her blood on fire. Her hands wandered over the expanse of his back, her palms sliding against his warm, damp skin. She traced the shifting muscles of his shoulder blades, feeling the power in his body as he moved over her and in her.

She needed more. She needed him closer, deeper. She lifted her hips, arching off the mattress to meet his thrusts, trying to take every inch he was offering.

Suddenly, he angled his hips just right, grinding against a deep, sensitive spot inside her that sent a jolt of pure electricity through her nervous system. She cried out, the sound broken and raw, her fingernails digging slightly into his shoulders.

"Oh!" she gasped, the pleasure spiking sharp and bright. She hooked her arms tighter around his neck, dragging his heavy frame down until he was crushing her into the mattress, until she was completely enveloped by his heat. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, her breath hot against his skin.

"Benjamin," she breathed, the full name falling from her lips like a prayer, heavy with affection and surrender. "Yes... Benjamin."

The rhythm he set was slow and deep, a rolling tide that seemed to reach the very center of her being, and with every heavy stroke, the haze in Cleo’s mind crystallized into a single, radiant image.

It wasn't just pleasure; it was purpose. Every time he buried himself inside her, she felt a soaring sense of completion that went beyond the physical. This is it, she thought, her mind whirling with visions of dark, unruly curls and little hands grabbing at her fingers. She could see a little boy with Ben’s soulful eyes, a little girl with his gentle smile. She wanted that future so badly it ached, a sweet, hollow longing in her chest that only he could fill.

She tossed her head back, a broken, high-pitched moan tearing from her throat as he hit that spot again, harder this time. She didn't just want to feel him; she wanted to keep a piece of him.

"Yes..." she hissed, her hands raking down the damp skin of his back, her nails dragging lightly over his shoulder blades to urge him on.

She lifted her hips to meet him, slamming against him, trying to fuse their bodies together permanently. Her hands flew up to tangle violently in his thick hair, gripping the strands she adored, the strands she imagined brushing out of a toddler's eyes one day.

"Deeper," she begged, her voice ragged and breathless. She bit her lip, overwhelmed by the friction and the fierce, biological need crashing through her. "I want all of you. Make it real."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her voice cracked on the name, a desperate, breathless prayer that shattered whatever fragile control Ben had left.

Make it real.

The command hit him like a physical blow, bypassing his brain and wiring directly into the primal, possessive instinct that had been roaring in his blood since she first mentioned names in the trailer. The time for charming metaphors and slow, teasing warm-ups was over. She wasn’t asking for the boyfriend who opened wine bottles; she was asking for the man who wanted to bind her to him permanently.

He didn't answer her. He couldn't. His throat was too tight, his pulse deafening in his ears.
He groaned, a rough, guttural sound torn from the deepest part of his chest, and tightened his grip on her waist until his fingers dug into her soft skin.

He pulled back—slowly, agonizingly—dragging himself almost all the way out until just the swollen head remained hooked inside her entrance. He felt her hips buck, chasing him, unwilling to let him go, and the desperation in her movement snapped the last tether of his restraint.

He snapped his hips forward.

He drove into her hard, burying himself to the hilt in a single, punishing thrust that pushed her body up the mattress. The impact knocked the breath out of her in a sharp gasp, and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed erotic and loud in the quiet room.

He didn't retreat this time. He held himself there, grinding deep against that swollen, sensitive spot she’d cried out over, letting her feel the full weight and length of him stretching her, filling her, claiming the space.

Then he pulled back and did it again.

And again.

The rhythm shifted instantly from a slow roll to a hard, relentless pounding. It was a drumbeat, heavy and fast. He released her waist and grabbed her thighs, his large hands sliding down to hook behind her knees. He hauled her legs wider, pressing them back toward her shoulders, opening her up completely to his view.

This angle changed everything. It let him go deeper than before, hitting the very back of her, touching parts of her he felt like he was discovering for the first time.

He watched her face as he fucked her—watched the way her eyes rolled back, the way her lips parted in a silent scream, the way her head thrashed against the white pillowcase. He was sweating now, a fine sheen coating his back, his muscles straining as he maintained the pace. Every thrust was a declaration. Every time he slammed into her, he was answering her plea.

Real. Real. Real.

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her sweat, her perfume, and her arousal. He bit down lightly on the sensitive slope of her shoulder—not to hurt, but to stifle his own roar of pleasure, to mark her. His hand slid down from her knee to grip her hip bone, his thumb digging in to anchor her against the force of his thrusts, keeping her exactly where he needed her.

He wasn't holding back a single ounce of energy. He was pouring everything he had into her—the adrenaline of the tour, the quiet of the hotel room, the terrifying fierce love that had been building in his chest for months. He pounded into her with a terrifying, beautiful intensity, determined to give her exactly what she asked for, determined to leave a part of himself inside her that would never, ever leave.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo gasped, her head thrashing against the pillow as the rhythm shifted from a slide to a slam. The sheer force of him pushed her up the mattress, jarring the breath from her lungs, but she didn't fight it. She welcomed the violence of it, the absolute possessiveness in the way he held her legs wide and drove into her. It felt like he was trying to merge their bodies into one, and she loved every second of the crushing weight.

She craned her neck, seeking his mouth, and when she found it, she kissed him with a wild, messy heat, tasting the salt on his skin. She sucked on his tongue, meeting his energy, before she pulled back just an inch. Her eyes half-lidded and dark with desire, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down—hard enough to be felt, a seductive, siren-like challenge amidst the storm.

When he groaned and buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her shoulder, a shiver ripped through her that had nothing to do with the cold air. She didn't flinch away. Her hand slid up the back of his sweat-dampened neck, her fingers weaving into the thick hair at the base of his skull. She gripped tight, anchoring him there, holding his heavy head against her pulsing skin as if to say, I’ve got you.

She wasn't even trying to reach a climax. The pressure was building, hot and coiled, but she ignored it, letting it simmer in the background. She didn't want this to end, and she wasn't chasing her own release. She wanted this—the connection, the feeling of him filling the empty spaces inside her. Her goal was singular and fierce. She wanted to keep him. She wanted his DNA woven into hers; she wanted the consequence of this night to last a lifetime.

As he pulled back slightly, his chest heaving, she reached up and framed his face with both hands. Her thumbs stroked over his flushed cheekbones, wiping away a bead of sweat. She looked up at him, her expression open and wrecked, a portrait of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

She stared straight into his dark, dilated eyes, seeing the edge he was teetering on. She wanted him to fall. She wanted him to ruin her.

"Let go, Ben," she whispered, her voice a smoky, broken rasp. She ran her thumb over his lip, her gaze dropping to his mouth and then back up to his eyes with searing intent. "Give it all to me. Be a good boy..."

She arched her hips, inviting him deeper one last time.

"...and finish inside me."

[Benjamin Wilder]

The bite to his lip was a spark in a powder keg, but the words—be a good boy—were the match that blew the whole thing sky-high.

Ben’s vision actually blurred at the edges. The praise, whispered in that smoky, wrecked rasp, hit him right in the center of his chest, stripping away the last of his civilized layers. It wasn’t just hot; it was devastating. It tapped directly into the part of him that just wanted to serve her, to please her, to give her everything he had until he was empty.

"Cleo," he choked out, the name tearing from his throat as a ragged, desperate groan.
He didn't just let go; he unraveled.

He abandoned the rhythm he’d been maintaining. He stopped trying to pace himself, stopped trying to make it last. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her skin with bruising force, and he drove into her with a frantic, chaotic need. He fucked her hard, fast, and deep, chasing the friction, chasing the edge that was suddenly rushing up to meet him.
He watched her face—the way she looked at him, open and demanding—and he felt his control shatter completely.

Finish inside me.

"Yes," he hissed, his voice unrecognizable. "Yes, baby."

He slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the root, grinding his pelvis against hers to get as deep as physically possible.

Then he broke.

He tensed, his entire body going rigid as the orgasm hit him like a freight train. He threw his head back, a guttural roar of pleasure ripping from his throat, loud and raw in the quiet room. He poured himself into her, pulsing hard, flooding her with everything she’d asked for, everything he’d been holding back.

He held her tight, his arms shaking with the force of his release, pressing her into the mattress as he spent himself completely. It went on and on, wave after wave of white-hot intensity that left him feeling hollowed out and refilled all at once.

He stayed there for a long time, buried deep inside her, his chest heaving against hers, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He couldn't move. He didn't want to. He felt heavy, drained, and completely, irrevocably hers.

Slowly, the room started to come back into focus—the dim light, the hum of the heater, the sound of their ragged breathing mingling in the air.

Ben dropped his head to her shoulder, his face buried in her hair, too weak to lift it. He pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice a wrecked, breathless rumble against her neck.
He pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her as if he could physically hold the moment in place.

"I hope that was it," he whispered, sounding awed and absolutely sure. "I hope we just made a Sage or a Briar. I’m ready to meet them."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo lay there, her chest rising and falling in time with his, the heavy, comforting weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. She felt completely unraveled, her limbs heavy and loose, but her heart was full to bursting.

"I love you too," she whispered, her voice trembling and thick with emotion. She pressed her cheek against the top of his head, her arms tightening around his broad shoulders. "Always. So much."

But when he murmured those names—Sage or Briar—and spoke with such awe about meeting them, something inside her fractured.

Tears, hot and sudden, pricked at the corners of her eyes and spilled over, tracking silently into her hairline. She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by a wave of longing so sharp it almost hurt.

For the longest time, she hadn't let herself touch this dream. She hadn't let herself look at Ben—at the chaotic, loud, public whirlwind of his life—and picture a nursery. The touring, the screaming fans, the constant movement… none of it was conducive to the quiet, private life she craved. She was terrified of the world knowing their business. She remembered how suffocating it felt the last time things got out of hand, the intrusion, the judgment. She wasn't sure she had the armor for that kind of war again.

But lying here beneath him, feeling the way he held her like she was the only thing that tethered him to the earth, the fear began to recede, replaced by a fragile, blooming hope.

He wasn't just the rockstar tonight. He was Benjamin. He was the man who wanted to be noble, who wanted to protect her, who wanted to build something real. If he could keep being this man—if he could keep shielding her and prioritizing us over them—then maybe, just maybe, they could have this.
She sniffled, shifting slightly to kiss his sweat-dampened temple, her fingers stroking soothingly through his hair.

"I hope so too," she choked out, her voice barely audible, acknowledging the terrifying, wonderful possibility for the first time. "I really hope so."

The room settled into a heavy, peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing slowly syncing back up. Ben felt heavy on her, a dead weight of exhausted muscle and bone, but Cleo didn't want him to move. She wanted to feel every ounce of him, wanted to keep him anchored right here in this safe, private harbor they’d created.

She shifted her hand, sliding it from the nape of his neck to his face. She curled her fingers slightly, using the smooth side of her index finger to trace the strong, sharp line of his jaw. The dark stubble rasped against her skin—a rough, masculine texture that contrasted perfectly with the tenderness of the moment. It was grounding, that grit. It reminded her that he was real, that he was here, and not just a dream she was having.

"I've got you," she whispered into the quiet, her voice a soft, lulling hum.
She continued the motion, gliding her finger back and forth along his jawline, a rhythmic, soothing caress designed to calm the adrenaline she knew was still fading from his blood. She pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, breathing in the scent of him.

"Just breathe, baby," she murmured, her touch steady and loving. "I'm right here. We're right here."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the wetness against his temple before he registered the sound of her sniffle.
He was floating—drifting in that heavy, golden haze that comes after completely emptying yourself—but the sensation of her tears, and the quiet, trembling way she said I hope so too, pulled him right back to the surface.

He didn't move his body at first. He let her hand continue that soothing, rhythmic stroke along his jaw, leaning into her touch because he needed it just as much as she did. It was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the mattress.

But he needed to see her.

"Hey," he rasped, the word vibrating against her collarbone.

He gathered his strength—which was currently sitting at about zero percent—and pushed himself up onto his forearms. The movement was slow, his muscles protesting the effort, but he needed to take his weight off her chest. He hovered there, framing her face, and looked down.

She was wrecked. Beautiful, flushed, and crying silent, hot tears that were tracking into her hair.

Ben felt his heart squeeze tight in his chest. He knew those tears. He knew they weren't just happiness; they were relief. They were the release of all the anxiety she carried about his world, about them, about whether this fragile thing they were building could actually survive the noise.

"Baby," he murmured, his face softening with a tenderness that hurt.

He lowered his head, pressing his lips softly to the wet track on her cheek, tasting the salt. He kissed her eyelid, then the corner of her eye, drinking up the evidence of her fear and her hope.

"We’re right here," he echoed her words, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with her. "And we're not going anywhere. I promise you."

He shifted one hand to brush a damp strand of hair off her forehead, his thumb lingering on her temple.

"If we just made a Sage or a Briar?" he whispered, a crooked, exhausted smile touching his lips. "Then they're going to be lucky. Because they get you."

He kissed her mouth—soft, lingering, sealing the promise—before finally groaning and rolling off her. He didn't go far. He collapsed onto his side and immediately scooped her up, pulling her back against his chest so they were spooning, fitting her body into the curve of his like a puzzle piece. He draped his heavy arm over her waist, his hand resting flat and possessive over her stomach.

He buried his face in the back of her neck, inhaling deeply, feeling her heart beat against his forearm.

"I am officially a corpse," he mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "I can't move. If there is a fire, you have to save yourself. Tell the world I died happy."

He squeezed her middle gently, his hand splaying wide over her belly, warm and protective.

"But seriously," he whispered, drifting now, safe in the harbor she'd built for him. "Thank you. For being brave with me."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo’s breath caught when he said hey, the sound of it vibrating against her collarbone like he was anchoring himself there. Her fingers never stopped moving along his jaw, slow and repetitive, like she was afraid that if she did, everything would spill at once.

“I know,” she whispered back, voice thin and trembling. “I’m here. I just—” She swallowed. “I’m here.”

When he lifted himself and looked at her, really looked, the tears broke harder. She didn’t try to hide them. Her eyes shone, lashes clumped, mouth pulling tight as she tried to keep herself steady and failed anyway.

“Baby,” she echoed softly when he said it, the word undoing her completely. Her hand slid up to his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye like she needed to reassure herself he was solid, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

She let him kiss the tears from her face, eyes closing as he did, her breath stuttering. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not because she felt wrong for crying, but because the intensity of it surprised even her. “I’m not sad. I’m just… relieved. And scared. And really, really full.”

When he promised they weren’t going anywhere, her forehead tipped forward until it rested briefly against his. “I want to believe that,” she said quietly. “I do. Sometimes it just feels too good to be real.”

At the mention of the names, a broken little laugh slipped out through her tears. “Sage or Briar,” she murmured. “Our musician, surfer or a painter, ” Her hand drifted down to his wrist, holding him there. “Like us.”

She kissed him back when he kissed her, slow and lingering, as if she were memorizing the shape of it.

And then he pulled her back against him.

The moment his arm settled over her waist and his hand rested warm and sure against her stomach, the dam finally gave. Her shoulders shook, breath hitching as the tears came harder—not panicked, not sharp, just deep and overwhelming. She pressed her face into his forearm, letting herself cry without restraint now that she was held.

“I didn’t know I was holding this much,” she whispered between uneven breaths. “I didn’t know where to put it.”

His joke drew a soft, tearful laugh out of her. “I’d come back for you,” she said quietly. “Even if there was a fire. I’d come back.”

She reached back, lacing her fingers through his where it rested on her middle, holding his hand there like it was meant to be. Her crying didn’t stop right away—it softened, turned into quiet, shuddering breaths as she let herself feel everything at once.

When he thanked her, her voice came out raw but sincere. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For seeing me like this and not pulling away.”

She shifted closer, fitting herself more fully into the curve of him, still crying softly—not from fear now, but from the release of finally letting herself believe she was safe enough to fall apart.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the tremors running through her body, the way her breath hitched and stuttered against his arm. He didn't try to hush her. He didn't try to fix it. He just lay there, solid and unmoving, letting his body absorb the shockwaves of her release.

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, his lips finding the soft, damp skin just below her ear. He kissed her there—slow, reverent, breathing in the scent of her skin and the lingering trace of the sex they’d just shared.

"Hey," he murmured against her shoulder, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "Don't thank me for that. Never thank me for that."

He shifted his arm, his hand spreading wider over her stomach, his thumb rubbing a slow, soothing circle over her navel.

"You think I want the polished version?" he whispered, his mouth moving to press a kiss to the prominent bone of her shoulder blade. "You think I want the red carpet Cleo who smiles for the cameras and pretends everything is fine?"

He shook his head against her hair, tightening his hold on her waist.

"I don't. I want this. I want the messy parts. I want the snot and the tears and the shaking."
He paused, resting his cheek against her shoulder, his eyes closed but his heart wide open.

"Seeing you like this... trusting me enough to fall apart?" he said softly, the truth of it making his voice thick. "That’s the biggest compliment you could ever give me. It’s better than the applause. It’s real. And I am so in love with the real version of you it’s actually kind of embarrassing."

He kissed her shoulder again, feeling her body slowly start to soften into his, the jagged edges of her crying beginning to smooth out.

"And as for the 'pulling away' part," he added, a hint of that familiar, teasing warmth creeping back into his tone, though it was quieter now, gentler.

He squeezed her middle, possessive and sure.

"Bad news, babe. You’re stuck with me. We just crossed the Rubicon. We just—hopefully—combined genetic material."

He nudged his nose against her neck, smiling against her skin.

"I’m like a barnacle now. I’m like a burr on a sweater. You couldn’t shake me if you tried. I’m going to be annoying you with bad jokes and foot massages for the next fifty years, so you might as well get used to the weight."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a shaky breath when he said hey, the word settling her more than anything else had. She nodded slightly against his arm, as if agreeing with him without trusting her voice yet.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I won’t. But I’m still grateful you’re… you.”

When his hand spread over her stomach, slow and grounding, she reached back and threaded her fingers through his, holding on like it anchored her to the bed, to him, to the moment. Her breathing began to even out, though her chest still felt tender and wide open.

“I know,” she murmured when he talked about the polished version of her, her voice softer now, steadier. “I get so tired of pretending I’m fine all the time. It’s exhausting being watched.” She swallowed, squeezing his hand gently. “This version of me doesn’t get much air.”

At his words about wanting the messy parts, her eyes burned again—but this time the tears came slower, warmer. She turned her head just enough to press her cheek against his forearm.

“I don’t fall apart in front of people,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t even realize how much I was holding back until you didn’t flinch.”

When he told her he loved the real version of her, she laughed softly through the last of her tears, the sound shaky but genuine.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head back slightly toward him, “I’m very relieved you’re into this one. Because she’s the only one who actually knows how to breathe.”

At his teasing, she huffed a quiet laugh, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand before settling again. She tightened her grip on his fingers, then turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder, eyes still damp but glowing.

“You joke,” she said softly, “but I can’t wait.” She paused, choosing her words carefully, honestly. “I can’t wait for the day I get to watch you hold a tiny human and realize you’ve already been practicing your whole life. The patience. The care. The way you show up.”

Her voice warmed as she went on, steadier now. “I can see it so clearly—our mornings, our messes, our life. You making terrible jokes and pretending you’re not emotional about it.”

She squeezed his hand again, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“That future?” she murmured. “It feels real to me. And it feels… safe.”

She settled back into him, letting her body relax fully now, her tears finally spent.

“And for the record,” she added quietly, a smile in her voice, “I don’t mind barnacles. Especially the ones who stay.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let out a soft, vibrating chuckle against her neck when she mentioned his "terrible jokes," the sound rumbling through his chest and into her back.

"Objection," he murmured, his voice thick with sleepiness and a smile he couldn't hide. "My jokes are top tier. They are sophisticated. Our child is going to be the funniest kid in kindergarten. They’re going to be doing tight five-minute sets at show-and-tell."

He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her even more flush against him, needing to eliminate every millimeter of space between them. Hearing her say she could see it—the mornings, the messes, the life—made his heart hammer a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. It was terrifying, sure, but mostly it felt like looking at a map and finally recognizing the destination.

"But regarding the 'tiny human' skills," he whispered, his tone shifting, losing the joke and finding the raw, honest center of it. "You have a lot of faith in me. My experience is mostly limited to keeping Jax alive since we were kids and not dropping expensive guitars."

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, lingering there.

"But if you think I can do it... if you think I'm ready to show up for a little person like that?" He swallowed hard, the emotion clogging his throat again. "Then I believe you. Because you’re usually right about everything. Except my jokes."

He moved his hand on her stomach, splaying his fingers wide as if he could already protect whatever might be happening in there.

"Safe," he repeated, testing the word. "I like safe. Safe is good. I think I've spent my whole life trying to be loud, or impressive, or cool. But safe? For you?"

He rested his chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes.

"That’s the best thing I could ever be."

He drifted there for a second, surrounded by the scent of her and the quiet of the room, feeling the luckiest he’d ever felt in his life.

"And I'm glad you're okay with the barnacle situation," he mumbled into her hair, his voice fading as the adrenaline crash finally took hold. "Because I meant it. I am attached. I am structural now."

He squeezed her one last time, a silent promise.

"Sleep now, Cleo," he whispered, drifting now, safe in the harbor she'd built for him. "We've got a big future to rest up for. Plus, we have a very serious appointment with some silica mud in the morning, and I need you rested for the robe wars."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled when she felt his laugh against her neck, the sound warm and grounding.

“Objection noted,” she murmured, voice soft and fond. “But I stand by my assessment. Your jokes are… ambitious. Kindergarten audiences are very discerning.”

She let him pull her closer, welcomed it, her back settling fully into his chest like that space had always been shaped for her. She reached back for his hand again, lacing their fingers together and holding on as his tone shifted, as the joke fell away.

“You underestimate yourself,” she said quietly when he talked about faith, about readiness. “You’ve been showing up for people your whole life. You just never called it that.” Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, slow and reassuring. “You’re gentle when it counts. You pay attention. That’s most of it.”

When his hand spread over her stomach, her breath caught—not sharp, just full. She covered his hand with hers, keeping it there.

“I can see it,” she went on, voice low and certain. “You half-asleep, pacing the floor. Talking nonsense to calm someone who doesn’t even have words yet. Teaching them music before they know what music is.” A small smile curved her mouth. “Our life. Loud sometimes. Messy sometimes. But ours.”

At the word safe, she nodded once, pressing her cheek lightly against his forearm.

“You already are,” she said. “You don’t have to prove anything else to me.”

She felt him settle, felt the weight of him ease as sleep began to claim him, and it softened something deep in her chest. When he joked again, fading, she let out a quiet, affectionate breath.

“Structural barnacle,” she whispered, amused and tender. “I like the sound of that.”

At his last words, her eyes closed. She tightened her fingers around his hand one more time, anchoring herself in the promise of it.

“Okay,” she murmured, calm and full and certain. “Sleep.”

She stayed awake just a moment longer, listening to his breathing even out, letting herself imagine that future he mentioned—not loud, not flashy, just steady and shared—before finally letting herself rest too.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben listened as her breathing shifted, lengthening into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

He didn't move for a long time. He just lay there, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, feeling the way his own heartbeat seemed to be syncing up with hers. The room was starting to cool down—that sharp, crisp Icelandic chill seeping in through the invisible cracks—and he felt a protective instinct flare up that had nothing to do with saving guitars.

He shifted carefully, inches at a time, trying not to disturb the structural integrity of the spoon. He reached down, grabbing the thick, heavy duvet they had kicked off in the heat of the moment. With the precision of a bomb disposal expert, he pulled it up, draping the weight of it over her legs, her waist, her shoulders. He tucked the edge of it under her chin, cocooning her completely, making sure not a single draft could touch her.

He settled back down, his arm heavy over the blankets now, his hand finding the curve of her hip through the down filling.

"Safe," he whispered into the dark, a final seal on the night.

Then, the exhaustion pulled him under, and Ben Wilder slept harder than he had in a decade.



The first thing Ben registered was the light.

It wasn't the harsh, accusatory sun of Los Angeles. It was a soft, diffuse, steely grey light bleeding through the edges of the blackout curtains, suggesting that the world outside was awake, even if he wasn't entirely sure he was.

The second thing he registered was that his arm was completely asleep.

He was pinned. Cleo was sprawled halfway across him, her head resting on his chest, one leg thrown over his thighs, effectively trapping him in the most comfortable prison imaginable. Her hair was a chaotic halo of curls tickling his chin, and she was breathing warm, soft puffs of air against his collarbone.

Ben blinked at the ceiling, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face as the memories of the night before filtered back in.

The wine. The boots. The desperate, wrecked way she’d whispered his name. The promise.
Sage or Briar.

In the cold light of morning, usually, the panic would set in. The "what did I do?" anxiety. But Ben lay there, pinned by the girl he loved, and checked his internal weather report.

Clear skies.

He felt... grounded. He felt like he’d finally arrived at the destination he’d been driving toward without a map.

He carefully extracted his numb arm from beneath her, shaking the blood back into it with a wince, then checked his watch on the nightstand.

9:08 AM.

"Respectable," he whispered to himself. "We’re practically functional adults."

He shifted, rolling onto his side so he could face her. She was out cold, deep in the kind of sleep that usually required medication or a three-day hiking trip to achieve. He brushed a stray curl off her cheek, his fingers lingering on her soft skin.

"Psst," he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. "Hey. Future mother of my children. Wake up."

He kissed the tip of her nose, then moved to her ear.

"We have an appointment," he murmured, infusing his voice with a mock-serious urgency. "The silica gods are waiting. And I look terrible without my morning mud. You don't want to see me like this."

He nudged her gently with his knee.

"Come on, sleepyhead. Robe wars start in T-minus ten minutes. I've already been practicing my wizard poses."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t wake right away.

At first there was only a soft shift—her brow smoothing, her breath deepening—like she was surfacing slowly from somewhere warm and distant. She made a small, content sound against his chest, instinctively burrowing closer when he moved, her arm tightening around his middle as if to say don’t you dare.

“Mmm,” she murmured, barely audible, words tangled in sleep. “Too early.”

When he kissed her forehead and nose, she scrunched her face faintly, lashes fluttering but not quite opening yet. His voice—low, familiar, teasing—cut through the fog a little more.

“Silica gods?” she mumbled into his skin, voice thick and slow. “I thought they were… optional.”

She shifted, one leg hooking more firmly over his thighs, effectively re-trapping him, her cheek pressing into his chest like it belonged there. A sleepy smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.

“Wizard poses,” she added, half-laughing, half-yawning. “That feels… deeply threatening.”

Her eyes finally cracked open just a sliver, unfocused and heavy-lidded. She looked up at him like she had to re-learn the shape of his face, then smiled fully—soft, unguarded, still wrapped in sleep.

“Hi,” she whispered, like she hadn’t seen him in days instead of hours.

She yawned, long and slow, then let her eyes fall shut again, forehead resting against his chest. Her hand slid lazily up his side, fingers curling softly into the skin of his back.

“Five more minutes,” she murmured. “Future mother of your children needs… buffering time.”

Then, quieter—almost instinctive, said without thinking—
“Don’t move. I’m very comfortable right here.”

Cleo stayed curled against him, eyes closed again, but she was awake now in that half-soft, half-dreaming way where everything felt distant and safe.

She shifted slightly, her cheek sliding over his chest until she found the steady rhythm of his heartbeat again. Her fingers traced a slow, absent line along his side, not teasing—just familiar.

“Okay,” she murmured after a beat, voice still heavy with sleep. “Maybe… three minutes. Five was optimistic.”

She took a slow breath, then another, like she was cataloging the morning—the light, the quiet, the fact that she was here and not rushing anywhere. Her leg loosened a little but didn’t move away, still draped over him like an anchor.

“I forgot how nice it is when the world doesn’t ask anything of you right away,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “No noise. No expectations. Just… this.”

Her eyes opened again, fully this time, and she tipped her head back just enough to look at him. The smile she gave him was gentle and unguarded, the kind that only showed up when she felt completely at ease.

“You look very serious for a man about to be covered in mud,” she added quietly. “Very committed to the ritual.”

She yawned again, smaller this time, then pressed a light kiss to his chest—unhurried, affectionate.

“Alright,” she sighed, finally relenting. “You win. But if you steal my robe, I’m filing a formal complaint with the silica gods.”

She didn’t move yet, though. She lingered for one more heartbeat, letting herself feel how real this morning was before she shifted, slow and reluctant, ready to meet the day with him.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt her cheek slide against his chest, settling over his heart, and he knew he was in dangerous territory. If he didn't get them out of this bed in the next five minutes, they weren't making it to the lagoon. They were going to order room service, build a pillow fort, and stay horizontal until checkout.

Which, honestly, sounded perfect. But he had a plan. And he wanted to see her in the steam.

"Hi," he whispered back, the word catching slightly in his throat at the sight of her sleepy, unguarded smile.

He let his hand drift up and down her back, tracing the curve of her spine as she bargained for time.

"Buffering time granted," he murmured into her hair. "But I should warn you, my connection speed is very high. I'm already fully loaded and ready to annoy you."

When she talked about the silence and the lack of expectations, Ben's hand stilled for a second. He pressed his chin to the top of her head, soaking in the weight of her words. She was right. This—the quiet, the privacy, the us-ness of it—was rare. And he intended to fight for it.

"I like 'just this' too," he said softly, his voice losing the teasing edge for a moment. "It's my favorite setting. We should default to this setting more often."

He watched her eyes open fully, that soft smile knocking the wind out of him all over again.
"I take the mud very seriously, Cleo," he said, keeping his expression deadpan despite the affection radiating off him. "It's a spiritual experience. It’s exfoliating. It’s the secret to my youthful glow. You think this face maintains itself? It takes dedication. It takes minerals."
He kissed her forehead one last time, inhaling the scent of her, before he squeezed her tight and finally accepted her surrender.

"Formal complaints noted," he said, a wicked glint entering his eyes as he grinned. "But in the event of a robe shortage, survival of the fittest applies. I have longer reach. You have been warned."

He moved then—not pulling away abruptly, but shifting so he could slide his numb arm out from under her neck and sit up. He kept one hand on her waist for a beat longer, grounding himself, before letting go.

"Okay," he said, stretching his arms over his head with a groan that cracked his back in three places. "Three minutes are up. Up and at 'em, Tiger. The lagoon awaits."

He swung his legs out of bed, grabbing his boxers from the floor where he'd abandoned them in a hurry the night before. He stood up, unashamedly naked for a moment in the grey morning light, the cool air hitting his skin, and turned to look back at her nestled in the sheets.

"Unless," he added, pausing with his hands on his hips, a smirk playing on his lips. "You need help with the buffering process? I offer a very specific technical support service. It involves coffee and possibly carrying you to the bathroom."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer his hi out loud. She smiled instead, cheek still tucked over his heart, like the sound would be redundant when the feeling was already there.

When he warned her about buffering time, she made a soft, amused sound, her fingers idly tracing the line of his side.
“Mm,” she murmured. “You say that like I’m supposed to be impressed. Fully loaded before coffee feels… optimistic.”

At his agreement about just this, she stilled, really listening. Her cheek pressed a little more firmly into his chest, anchoring herself there for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “This is the part that feels rare. When nothing’s asking anything of us yet.” Her thumb brushed a small, absent circle near his ribs. “We should absolutely default to this whenever we can.”

His deadpan seriousness about the mud finally pulled a laugh out of her, low and sleepy.
“Minerals,” she repeated, fond. “Of course. I should’ve known there was a whole belief system behind the glow.” She tipped her head back just enough to look at him. “Very devoted. Very enlightened.”

At the robe warning, she scoffed softly.
“That’s unfair,” she said. “You’re taller and you know it.” A beat, then a smile. “But I’ll remember this when I steal yours later.”

When he slid out from under her and announced the end of buffering time, she sighed dramatically and stretched into the sheets like she might protest on principle.
“Three minutes was generous,” she muttered. “But fine. I hear the call of the lagoon.”

She watched him stand in the grey morning light, eyes still heavy-lidded but appreciative. When he offered technical support, she pushed herself upright, the sheets pooling around her waist, and looked at him thoughtfully.

“Well,” she said slowly, considering. “Here’s the thing. I am awake. I am cooperative.” She tilted her head. “But I am not vertical yet.”

She held out her arms toward him, open and unmistakable, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
“So if you’re offering the carrying option,” she added gently, “I think that’s the most efficient solution.”

Once he scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom, she relaxed into him easily, one arm looped around his neck.
“See?” she murmured. “Problem-solving.”

He set her down by the sink, and she immediately reached for a makeup remover pad, leaning over the counter as she wiped away the remnants of the night before. Her movements were unhurried, comfortable—like this was a routine she didn’t have to rush through.

“Okay,” she said softly once her face was clean, splashing it with cool water. She brushed her teeth next, glancing at him in the mirror with a small, content smile around the toothbrush. “Now I’m officially human.”

She rinsed, dried her face, then stepped back into the bedroom long enough to pull on her bathing suit, slipping it on with practiced ease before returning to the bathroom. She shrugged into a white, fluffy robe, tying it loosely at the waist.

“There,” she said, smoothing the sleeves, finally awake now. She looked at him, eyes warm.
“Lagoon-ready.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest, ankles crossed, watching the transformation with a kind of fascinated reverence.

He’d seen Cleo in evening gowns that stopped traffic. He’d seen her in oversized vintage tees that belonged to him. He’d seen her in nothing at all (his personal favorite genre). But there was something about watching her in the harsh, unforgiving light of a hotel bathroom, scrubbing her face and brushing her teeth, that hit him differently. It felt… permanent. It felt like a scene from the life she’d described earlier—the messy, quiet, real life.

Watching her spit toothpaste into the sink shouldn't have been romantic. It really shouldn't have been. And yet, Ben felt a swell of affection so large it was actually inconvenient.

"Official human," he echoed, pushing off the doorframe as she finished rinsing, walking up behind her to catch her eye in the mirror. He rested his chin on the top of her head, grinning at their reflection. "I don’t know. I kind of missed the smudged-mascara raccoon look. It was very rock and roll. It was giving 'indie sleaze album cover' in the best way."

He waited while she ducked into the bedroom to change, taking the opportunity to quickly brush his own teeth—minty fresh was a non-negotiable for the robe wars—and run a hand through his hair. He attempted to tame the gravity-defying situation happening on top of his head, staring critically at a cowlick that refused to submit to water or prayer.

"Fine," he told his reflection. "Be that way. The wind is going to humble you anyway."

When she emerged in the fluffy white robe, announcing she was ready, Ben stopped wrestling with his hair and felt a grin split his face.

"Lagoon-ready," he repeated, looking her up and down with exaggerated appreciation. "You look like a very expensive cloud. A luxury marshmallow. I am intimidated by your comfort levels. I feel like I should be offering you a cucumber water and a non-disclosure agreement."

He turned, grabbing his own swim trunks from his suitcase. He shimmied into them quickly, hopping on one foot to get his balance—a movement that was decidedly not cool—then grabbed the matching hotel robe.

He shrugged it on, popping the collar and tying the belt with a sharp, dramatic knot like he was a karate master preparing for a bout in the dojo.

"Alright," he said, turning back to her and giving a solemn nod. "The Fellowship of the Ring is assembled. We have the robes. We have the sheer will. We have the silica appointment."

He walked over to her, sliding his hands into the deep pockets of his robe and leaning down. He crowded her space just a little, enjoying the way she looked up at him, before pressing a quick, hard kiss to her mouth—minty and fresh and promising.

"But just so we're clear," he murmured against her lips, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I have done my research. That water is warm, but the air is technically classified as 'Arctic.' And I have zero thermal regulation. I am a lizard, Cleo."

He pulled back, grinning.

"If I get cold, I am climbing onto your back like a koala. I have zero shame. I will use you as a human raft. I will cling. It won’t be dignified, but it will be necessary for my survival."

He stepped back, grabbing the room key card from the dresser and bowing grandly toward the door, sweeping his arm wide.

"After you, my lady. Let’s go get muddy."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo caught his reflection watching her in the mirror and smiled to herself, small and private, as she finished rinsing her mouth.

“Hey,” she said lightly when he echoed official human, eyes meeting his in the glass. “That raccoon look was earned. It told a story.” She tilted her head, amused. “Very underground. Very I survived the night.”

When he rested his chin on her head, she leaned into it instinctively, her hands braced on the counter. “Indie sleaze album cover,” she repeated, laughing softly. “You say that like it wasn’t intentional.”

She stepped out to change, and when she came back in the robe—fluffy, oversized, tied just loose enough to be comfortable—she watched his face shift into that exaggerated admiration and couldn’t help the grin that spread across hers.

“Luxury marshmallow?” she said, glancing down at herself. “I’ll take it. I feel extremely plush.” She smoothed the robe sleeves with mock seriousness. “And yes, cucumber water would be appropriate. Sparkling, preferably.”

As he hopped into his trunks, she laughed openly now, leaning back against the counter. “Oh, very graceful,” she teased. “Really commanding the room.”

When he popped his robe collar and declared the fellowship assembled, she lifted an imaginary sword. “I accept my quest,” she said solemnly. “I will not be swayed by cold or mud or robe theft.”

He crowded her space and kissed her, and she kissed him back without hesitation—brief, sure, smiling against his mouth.

At his koala warning, she laughed, shaking her head. “First of all, you are not a lizard,” she said. “Second of all, if you climb me like a human raft in public, I will never let you live it down.” Her eyes softened. “But fine. I’ll save you. For survival reasons only.”

She adjusted her robe belt, then stepped toward the door as he bowed. Pausing just long enough to look back at him, she smiled—warm, grounded, exactly where she wanted to be.

“Lead the way,” she said. “Let’s go get muddy.”

Cleo stepped into the hallway first, the cool air brushing her bare calves beneath the robe and making her laugh softly under her breath. She pulled the robe a little tighter—not out of modesty, just instinct—and glanced back at him as the door clicked shut behind them.

“Okay,” she said quietly, voice already dropping into that hushed, shared tone reserved for hotel corridors and early mornings. “I will admit… I am slightly concerned about your lizard physiology.”

She padded along the carpet, slippers whisper-quiet, then reached back without looking until her fingers found his hand. She laced their fingers together, grounding, easy.

“But,” she added, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth, “I’m prepared to be brave. For science. And for you.”

The elevator ride down was slow and quiet, just the soft hum of movement and their reflections in the mirrored walls—two people wrapped in white robes, hair still damp and sleepy, looking more like they’d lived together for years than guests passing through.

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled, the kind that didn’t need words.

“This,” she said softly, nodding at their reflection, “is exactly what I meant earlier.” A pause. “No audience. No expectations. Just us stealing warmth and pretending the world doesn’t exist yet.”

When the doors opened and the scent of minerals and steam drifted toward them, she squeezed his hand once.

“Alright,” she murmured, eyes bright now, anticipation settling in. “Lagoon time.”

She leaned in closer as they walked, shoulder brushing his. “And if you cling to me like a koala,” she added lightly, “I promise I’ll only tease you a little.”

Cleo felt it the moment they turned the corner—the subtle shift from public quiet to managed quiet. Fewer voices. Softer footsteps. A staff member who smiled a little too knowingly and nodded before Ben even said a word.

“Oh,” she murmured under her breath, glancing up at him. “We’re doing that entrance.”

She didn’t pull her hand away, though. If anything, her fingers tightened around his, grounding herself as the attendant stepped aside and gestured them toward a narrow path marked PRIVATE ACCESS.

Cleo caught the look—polite, practiced, reverent—and let out a small, amused breath. “I always forget,” she said softly, leaning in toward Ben as they walked. “You exist in a slightly different lane than the rest of us.”

The path opened into the lagoon’s VIP enclave: steam rising in gentle curls, stone walls that blocked out the rest of the world, water glowing a deeper blue-green here, quieter, calmer. No crowd. No chatter. Just the low hush of minerals and warmth.

She stopped for a second, taking it in.

“Okay,” she admitted quietly. “This is… really nice.”

She glanced sideways at him, her smile warm but a little bashful. “I promise I’m not here because of that,” she added, tapping their joined hands lightly. “But I’m also not mad about it.”

She stepped closer to the water’s edge, the steam curling around her ankles, robe brushing her calves. The quiet wrapped around them like a held breath.

“This feels like cheating,” she said, half-laughing. “Like we skipped a level.”

Then, softer—more honest—she added, “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

She looked back at him, eyes bright, already warm just thinking about the water.

“And for the record,” she said, teasing now, “if you cling to me in here, no one important will see. That’s the real VIP perk.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben squeezed her hand as they navigated the stone path, the steam rising around them like a curtain being drawn shut.

"Listen," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. "I didn't invent the lane. I just merge into it aggressively when I need to. And today? I needed to."

He watched her take in the private enclave—the milky blue water, the moss-covered lava rocks, the silence that felt heavy and expensive. When she said it felt like cheating, he laughed, a low sound that vibrated in his chest.

"It is cheating," he agreed cheerfully. "It’s a cheat code. But considering I spent the last three months sleeping on a bus that smelled exclusively of dry shampoo and diesel, I feel like the universe owes me this. And by extension, it owes you."

He stopped at the edge of the water where a set of wooden hooks waited for their robes. He turned to face her, his expression softening as she thanked him.

"Cleo," he said, reaching out to tuck a damp curl behind her ear. "You don't have to thank me. Honestly? The only reason this is cool is because you're standing in it. Otherwise, it’s just hot soup and silence."

He looked at the water, then back at the freezing Icelandic air nipping at his exposed ankles.

"Okay," he announced, steeling himself. "This is the worst part. The transition. It’s going to be violent. It’s going to be disrespectful to my biology."

He looked at her with wide, serious eyes.

"On three. Robes off. We run—dignified running, but fast—into the water. Do not hesitate. Hesitation is death."

He didn't wait for a count. He shucked his robe in one fluid motion, hanging it up with shaking hands as the arctic air hit his bare skin. He let out a sharp, high-pitched yelp that was entirely uncool.

"Go, go, go!" he hissed, ushering her toward the steps.

He followed her in, the water accepting them instantly. The heat was a shock to the system, enveloping his freezing limbs in a thick, mineral-rich embrace. He sank down to his chin immediately, letting out a long, groaning sigh of pure ecstasy.

"Okay," he breathed, the steam swirling around his face. "We survived. I can feel my toes again."

He looked over at Cleo, her skin flushed from the heat, the water lapping at her shoulders. She looked ethereal in the mist, like a siren who had lured him into the deep end.

He paddled over to her, closing the distance until he was invading her personal space.

"And regarding the VIP perk..."

He grinned, that boyish, mischievous look returning.

"You said no one important would see."

He didn't climb on her back—he wasn't that cruel—but he did wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him underwater. He hooked one leg around hers, anchoring them together, effectively becoming the barnacle he’d promised to be.

"I am a tropical creature," he murmured, resting his wet chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes against the steam. "I require body heat. It’s for science."

He kissed the side of her neck, wet and warm.

"Also," he whispered, gesturing vaguely toward a wooden box on the edge of the deck filled with white silica paste. "The mud awaits. I’m ready to make you look like a ghost. It’s very romantic."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed as he leaned in to whisper, the sound soft and breathy, almost swallowed by the steam curling around them.

“Aggressively merging tracks,” she murmured back, eyes warm. “That checks out. Very on brand.”

When he called it cheating, she smiled, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “I think you’ve earned the cheat code,” she said gently. “Bus karma alone justifies it.” She glanced around the quiet enclave again, then back at him. “And I’m not arguing with the universe when it decides to be generous.”

At the edge of the water, when he tucked her curl back and told her she didn’t have to thank him, her expression softened in a way that felt unguarded.

“Well,” she said quietly, “hot soup and silence is still pretty great.” Her lips curved. “But yeah… it’s better with us.”

When he announced the transition like a battle plan, her eyes widened, amused. “Violent?” she repeated. “Disrespectful to your biology?” She laughed, already bracing herself. “You’re really selling this.”

Then he dropped the robe and yelped, and she burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” she said, hurrying after him. “You said dignified!”

The heat of the water wrapped around her instantly, a full-body sigh escaping her as she sank in. “Okay,” she breathed. “Worth it. Absolutely worth it.”

She turned just in time to see him drifting closer, steam clinging to his hair, that familiar grin already forming.

At his reminder about the VIP perk, she raised a brow. “I did say that,” she replied lightly. “I stand by my words.”

When his arms slid around her waist underwater and he hooked his leg around hers, she laughed again, this time softer, more surprised, hands coming up instinctively to rest on his forearms.

“So this is the barnacle phase,” she said, amused. “I should’ve known.”

She tilted her head slightly when he rested his chin on her shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a second at the warmth and the closeness. “For science,” she echoed, smiling. “Of course.”

At the kiss to her neck, she let out a quiet breath, leaning back into him without thinking.

“And the mud,” she added, glancing toward the box he gestured at. “You’re very excited about this.” She laughed, turning her head just enough to look at him. “Fine. Make me a ghost. But if I look terrifying, I’m blaming the minerals.”

She reached back and squeezed his arm once, anchoring them together.

“Honestly,” she said softly, steam swirling around them, “this might be my favorite cheat code yet.”

Cleo eyed the wooden box of silica mud like it had personally challenged her.

“Oh, I absolutely get first rights,” she said, slipping one arm free from his barnacle hold just long enough to scoop a cool handful of the paste. “You do not get to turn me into a ghost without consequences.”

She turned toward him in the water, the steam curling around them as she lifted her hand. “Hold still,” she warned lightly, already smiling. “This is a delicate process. Very technical.”

She dabbed the mud onto his cheek first, slow and deliberate, her fingers cool against his warm skin. Then another streak along his jaw. She traced it up the bridge of his nose, laughing quietly as she worked, the contrast between the mineral paste and his expression far more charming than intimidating.

“There,” she murmured, studying her work with mock seriousness. “You look very enlightened. Like you just emerged from a mountain with forbidden knowledge.”

She added one last gentle swipe across his forehead, smoothing it out with her thumb, then let her hand fall away. For a second, she just looked at him—mud-smeared, steam-softened, eyes bright and familiar—and something in her expression shifted from playful to tender.

“Okay,” she said softly. “That’s enough science for now.”

She leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and kissed him—slow and warm and easy. It wasn’t rushed or hungry; it was the kind of kiss that lingered, that said this is good without needing to explain why.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his, a small smile still on her lips.

“Your turn,” she added quietly. “But be nice.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stayed perfectly still while she worked, closing his eyes like a cat accepting a particularly good scratch behind the ears. The cold shock of the mud against his steam-heated skin was alarming, but the focused, gentle touch of her fingers was worth the thermal confusion.

When she declared him "enlightened," he cracked one eye open, trying to look wise despite the fact that half his face was currently hardening into a plaster cast.

"Forbidden knowledge," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a mock-guru register. "Yes. The mountain spoke to me. It said, 'Ben, your pores are congested.' It was very humbling."

He leaned into the kiss immediately, humming a low sound of approval against her lips. The contrast—the cold, drying mud on his skin and the warm, wet softness of her mouth—was fantastic. It was weird and sensory and exactly the kind of memory he was going to file away for a rainy Tuesday in three years.

When she pulled back and told him to be nice, he scoffed, the sound cracking the drying mask on his cheek slightly.

"Nice?" he asked, feigning offense as he waded over to the wooden box. "Cleo, I am an artiste. I don't do 'nice.' I do 'visionary.' I do 'avant-garde.' You are not a face to me right now; you are a canvas."

He scooped up a generous handful of the white silica paste, feeling the gritty, cold texture between his fingers. He turned back to her, holding his hands up like a surgeon scrubbing in.

"Okay," he said, his expression intensely serious. "Hold still. I’m going to attempt a masterpiece. It’s titled 'Girl Who Is About To Have Very Soft Skin.'"

He stepped into her space, the water sloshing gently around their waists. He didn't just slap the mud on. He took his time.

He started with her nose, dabbing a perfect white dot on the tip.

"Boop," he whispered.

Then he moved to her cheeks. He used the pads of his thumbs to sweep the white paste across her skin, following the line of her cheekbones. The mud was freezing, and he watched her eyes widen at the temperature, but he kept his touch warm and firm.

"This is very high-tech," he murmured, concentrating as he applied a stripe to her forehead. "I'm channeling my inner Bob Ross. Just happy little accidents. Happy little clouds of silica."

He worked his way down to her chin, covering every inch of skin until she was just a pair of bright eyes and a smiling mouth surrounded by a white mask. He used his pinky to carefully wipe a smudge away from her eyebrow, treating the moment with the gravity of restoring a Renaissance painting.

He stepped back to admire his work, tilting his head to the side.

"Wow," he breathed, nodding slowly. "Terrifying. Absolutely haunting. You look like a scooby-doo villain. It’s working for me."

He stepped back in, sliding his muddy hands down to rest on her waist—under the water where they would rinse clean—and pulled her hips against his.

"You look beautiful," he said, the joke vanishing as he looked at her eyes framed by the white mask. "Even looking like a swamp ghost. Still the best thing I've ever seen."

He leaned down, hovering just inches from her lips.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he warned softly, his eyes dancing. "It’s going to be gritty. It might ruin the structural integrity of my mask. But I’m willing to take the risk if you are."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly as he held so perfectly still for her, the sound warm and affectionate, her fingers lingering on his skin just a second longer than necessary.

“Forbidden knowledge,” she echoed fondly, eyes bright. “I knew the mountain would speak to you eventually.” She smiled, thumb brushing carefully along his jaw where the mud was already starting to set. “Very brave of you to listen.”

When he leaned into the kiss, she met him without hesitation, smiling into it, the odd mix of cold paste and warm water making the moment feel strangely intimate. When she pulled back, her eyes stayed on his for a beat longer than playful banter required.

At his offense over being nice, she huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course,” she said. “Visionary. I should’ve known.”

She held still when he stepped closer, chin lifting just slightly in compliance. The cold dab on her nose made her blink in surprise, then laugh.

“Hey—” she protested softly, but there was no real complaint in it. Just trust.

She let him work, eyes following his face as he concentrated, feeling the contrast of the cool mud and the warmth of his hands. When he brushed her cheekbones, she inhaled slowly, steadying herself against his forearms.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” she murmured. “I feel extremely… curated.”

When he wiped the smudge from her eyebrow with such care, something in her expression softened completely. She stayed quiet, letting him finish, letting herself be looked at.

At his verdict, she rolled her eyes fondly. “Scooby-Doo villain?” she said. “Wow. I feel very seen.”

When his hands slid to her waist under the water, pulling her closer, her hands came up instinctively to rest on his forearms, grounding and familiar. Her smile gentled at his words, eyes steady on his.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “You look pretty good yourself. Very… enlightened swamp monk.”

When he warned her about the kiss, she smiled—slow, affectionate, certain.

“I trust your artistic vision,” she said softly. “Even if it’s gritty.”

She leaned in first this time, closing the distance, kissing him gently—careful, unhurried, smiling against his mouth like the moment mattered because they did.

“Worth the risk,” she murmured.

Cleo didn’t pull away after the kiss.

Instead, she let it linger for a breath, then another, the steam curling around them as if it were conspiring to keep the moment suspended. She smiled against his mouth, soft and unguarded, before her hands slid up—slow, certain—wrapping around the back of his neck.

“Careful,” she murmured fondly, close enough that her words brushed his lips. “You’re going to crack your masterpiece.”

She shifted closer, the water rippling around them as she lifted herself just enough to wrap her legs around his waist, instinctive and familiar, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her forehead rested briefly against his, mud masks brushing in a ridiculous, intimate way that made her laugh quietly.

“Sorry,” she added, not sounding sorry at all. “You looked… very holdable.”

Her arms tightened slightly around his neck, not clinging—just anchoring. She pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his cheek, careful of the drying mask but affectionate all the same.

“I like you like this,” she said softly, eyes warm. “Warm water. Steam. No rush.” She smiled, thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw where the mud was already setting.

She stayed there, wrapped around him, content and steady, letting the lagoon hold them both as much as they held each other.

Cleo didn’t loosen her legs from around him.

She trusted the water. Trusted his hold. Trusted the way the lagoon carried them both without asking anything in return.

Slowly, deliberately, she leaned back—letting her spine arc, letting her weight surrender to the warmth. Her arms slipped free from his shoulders and extended outward on either side of her, palms open, fingers relaxed, floating just beneath the surface as the water held them up.

Her head tipped back.

Above her, the sky was a soft, endless grey—low clouds drifting, steam rising to meet them. The air was cool against her face, the water hot against her skin, and the contrast settled into her bones like something medicinal.

She didn’t speak.

She just breathed.

The world narrowed to sensation: the steady strength of him anchoring her at the waist, the gentle lap of mineral water against her ribs, the faint sound of wind somewhere beyond the stone walls. Her thoughts quieted until there was nothing left to reach for, nothing to anticipate.

Just this.

Just floating.

Just being held while she let go.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben adjusted his grip instantly.

As she leaned back, surrendering her center of gravity to the water and to him, his hands slid from her waist to her hips, his fingers splaying wide underwater to cradle her. He locked his elbows, turning his body into a living, breathing piling for her to tether herself to.

He watched her drift back, her hair fanning out in the water like a dark halo, the white mud mask stark against the grey-blue lagoon. Her throat was exposed, her arms spread wide like she was embracing the entire sky.

It was the ultimate trust fall.

For a woman who spent her life managing perceptions, handling crises, and keeping the world from spinning off its axis, seeing her like this—completely unmoored, floating, held up only by the water and his hands—did something to Ben’s chest that felt a lot like a heart attack, but the good kind.

He didn't speak. He didn't want to ripple the water or break the silence she had finally found.

He just stood there, legs planted firmly on the silica-soft bottom of the lagoon, and held her. He watched the steam curl off her wet skin. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, slow and deep. He watched a single drop of condensation roll from her chin down the long, elegant line of her throat.

He felt fiercely, irrationally useful.

This is the job, he thought, the realization settling over him like the heavy steam. Forget the stadiums. Forget the noise. This is the gig. Just keep her floating.

He swayed slightly with the movement of the water, rocking her almost imperceptibly, just enough to let her feel the weightlessness. He stood guard over her peace, staring down anyone else in the lagoon who even thought about swimming too close to their little pocket of steam.

After a long minute, he saw her take a deeper breath, her eyelashes fluttering as the cold air nipped at her nose.

Ben tightened his grip on her hips, a silent signal.

"I got you," he murmured, the words low and vibrating through the water between them.
He exerted a gentle, steady pressure, guiding her back upright. As she broke the surface tension and curled back toward him, he was ready, his arms shifting instantly to wrap around her wet, slippery back, pulling her flush against his chest before she could even shiver.

He rested his chin on the top of her wet, muddy head, holding her tight.

"Ten out of ten," he whispered into her ear, his voice thick with affection. "Excellent buoyancy. impeccable form. You looked like a very relaxed, very beautiful starfish."
He squeezed her, grounding her back to earth.

"How was the sky?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo came back to him slowly.

Not startled. Not rushed. Just… returning.

As he guided her upright and wrapped his arms around her, she let herself fold into his chest without resistance, water streaming off her shoulders as she tucked her face beneath his chin. Her arms came back around him, lighter now, hands resting against his ribs, her breath still deep and unhurried.

She didn’t speak right away.

She stayed there, eyes closed, forehead pressed to his collarbone, listening to the steady beat beneath her ear. Feeling the way his hold was firm without being tight—present without demanding anything from her.

When he kissed the top of her head, she smiled.

“Mm,” she murmured softly, the sound more feeling than word. She shifted just enough to tip her face up, her cheek brushing his chest, eyes still half-lidded. “Grey,” she said finally, voice quiet and content. “Big. Soft. Like it wasn’t asking me to be anything.”

Her fingers curled slightly against his back, grounding herself again.

“I forgot what that feels like,” she admitted, barely above the steam. “To just… float. Not fix. Not steer. Just let go.”

She leaned back in just enough to look up at him properly, eyes warm, mask cracked and ridiculous and perfect.

“Thank you for catching me,” she said simply.

Then she rested her head back against his chest, arms snug around him, letting the water rock them together.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, a smile in her voice, “ten out of ten anchoring. Very sturdy. Extremely trustworthy.”

She closed her eyes again, utterly at ease, and stayed right there.

Cleo shifted in his arms, the movement slow and deliberate, water rippling softly around them. She lifted just enough to create space, her body still anchored to his, legs wrapped around his waist like she had no intention of going anywhere.

Her hand came up, fingers slick with warm water and traces of drying mud, and she caught his cheek gently—thumb resting along his jaw, the rest of her palm warm and sure. She didn’t rush it. She let the moment stretch, her eyes meeting his for a quiet beat before she guided his face downward.

She found his lips with her own, unhurried and tender, the kiss soft at first—an exhale more than a demand. The steam wrapped around them, muting the world, making the contact feel private and suspended.

She lingered there, mouth moving against his with an easy familiarity, not asking for more than the moment offered. When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his, breath warm, steady.

Her hand stayed on his cheek, thumb brushing once along his skin, like punctuation.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to.

Cleo stayed close to him, the water still rocking them gently, steam curling around their shoulders. She let her hand trail down from his cheek, fingers lingering at his collarbone before drifting back up to rest lightly on his shoulder.

She hesitated for half a second—not uncertain, just choosing the moment—then smiled softly.

“Hey,” she said quietly, tilting her head so she could look up at him. “Can I ask you something a little… domestic?”

Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle against his skin. “I know exactly what this place is going to do to my hair,” she added, amused, eyes flicking briefly toward the misty sky as if the lagoon itself were listening. “The silica. The minerals. The absolute betrayal.”

She laughed under her breath, then looked back at him. “I came prepared,” she said. “Like, very prepared. Masks, treatments, oils—the whole emergency kit.”

Her expression softened into something more intimate, more hopeful. “So I was wondering,” she said gently, “if later tonight… while we’re in the tub… you’d wash my hair for me.”

She shrugged lightly, almost bashful. “Just… take your time with it. Help me undo whatever this place does.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “I trust you with it.”

She leaned in just a little closer again, content and warm, waiting for his answer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt a slow, ridiculous grin spread beneath the hardening mask on his face.

Can I ask you something a little… domestic?

She said it tentatively, like she was asking for a favor, unaware that she was actually offering him the Holy Grail of boyfriend activities. Washing her hair wasn't a chore; it was a promotion. It was intimate, tactile, and required her to trust him with the one thing she was most protective of.

He tightened his arms around her waist underwater, pulling her hips flush against his again.

"Domestic?" he repeated, his voice low and vibrating with amusement. "Babe, domestic is my favorite genre. I am striving for domestic. I want to win an award for Best Supporting Actor in a Domestic Role."

He looked down at her, seeing the genuine hope in her eyes, and shook his head slightly, marveling at her.

"You're asking if I want to get my hands in your hair while you relax in a tub?" He raised his eyebrows, the mud on his forehead cracking slightly with the movement. "Let me check my schedule. Oh wait, it’s clear. Indefinitely."

He moved one hand from her waist, bringing it up out of the water—clean, rinsed free of the mud—to tuck a wet, silica-stiffened curl behind her ear. He felt the texture of it, already starting to get that distinctive crunch the lagoon was famous for.

"I accept the mission," he said solemnly. "I will battle the minerals. I will deploy the emergency kit. I will condition the hell out of you, Cleo. I’m actually a very underrated shampoo boy. My scalp massage technique is legendary in three counties."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, the masks brushing together with a faint, gritty sound that made him smile.

"But seriously," he whispered, dropping the joke to let her hear the truth of it. "I’d love to. Taking care of you is literally the only thing I want to do today. If that means spending an hour detangling this disaster..."

He tugged gently on the curl near her ear.

"...then I’m your guy. I’m cheap labor. I work for kisses and room service fries."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly when she felt his arms tighten around her again, the sound warm and a little disbelieving.

“Best Supporting Actor in a Domestic Role,” she repeated, smiling up at him. “I’d vote for you. Standing ovation. Lifetime achievement.”

When he talked about checking his schedule, her eyes softened, something affectionate and relieved flickering there. “Indefinitely,” she echoed quietly. “That’s a really good availability window.”

She stilled when his hand came up to tuck the stiff curl behind her ear, her smile turning fond and knowing. “Yeah,” she said, amused. “That crunch? That’s betrayal setting in.” She tilted her head slightly into his touch. “This place is beautiful, but it is not kind.”

At his solemn acceptance of the mission, she laughed again, shaking her head. “Legendary in three counties?” she teased. “I feel very lucky to have secured your services.” Her hands slid up his arms, resting easily at his shoulders. “And I absolutely believe you about the scalp massage. You have very… confident hands.”

When he leaned his forehead against hers and let the jokes fade, her expression softened completely. She stayed there with him, eyes warm, steady.

“Hey,” she started, instinctively, then stopped herself with a small, breathy laugh. “—no. Okay. You told me not to thank you for things like this.” She shook her head slightly, smiling. “So I’m not thanking you.”

Her thumb brushed gently along his shoulder, grounding. “I’m just… really grateful,” she said instead, quieter, more honest. “That I get to be with someone who wants to do this. Who treats taking care of me like it’s normal. Like it’s a given.”

She smiled when he tugged lightly at the curl. “And if you’re really willing to detangle the disaster,” she added, affectionate, “I promise to pay you in kisses and fries. Possibly also eternal loyalty.”

She leaned in just a fraction closer, content and certain.

“I can’t wait,” she said softly.

Cleo lingered against him for a moment longer, the steam wrapping them in that hushed, unreal quiet, before her attention drifted outward—toward the dark rock walls ringing the lagoon.

Thin streams of crystal-clear water spilled from narrow fissures in the stone, cutting silver lines down the black lava. Cold. Untouched. The opposite of the milky warmth holding them up.

She tipped her head in that direction, thoughtful.

“Okay,” she said softly, fingers still resting at his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek where the mask was starting to dry. “Before this turns us into ancient artifacts…”

Her mouth curved, fond and a little amused.

“They’ve got fresh water coming straight out of the rock over there,” she went on. “Like—glacial cold. No minerals. No nonsense.” A pause, then quieter: “We should rinse our faces first. Before it sets all the way. Reset the whole situation.”

She shifted just enough to orient them toward the side of the pool, but she didn’t let go of him—one hand sliding down to lace her fingers through his, keeping them tethered together as she floated closer.

“And then,” she added, almost casually, “we reward ourselves.”

Her eyes flicked toward the low wooden bar built into the edge of the lagoon, half-hidden by steam. Bottles lined the shelves behind it. People lounged nearby with drinks balanced carefully at the water’s edge.

“They’ve got the good stuff,” she said, voice easy, already imagining it. “The silica smoothie. The skyr one. Juices if we want to pretend we’re being virtuous.” A beat. “And prosecco. Beer. Wine.”

She glanced back at him, lips tilting.

“I feel like post–mud mask calls for something celebratory. Or at least something cold we didn’t have to stand up for.”

She squeezed his hand lightly, grounding, affectionate.

“So,” she murmured, starting to guide them toward the rock wall. “Cold water rinse first. Shock ourselves back into our bodies.” A soft smile. “Then we float to the bar and decide who we’re being today—wellness couple or vacation menace.”

She didn’t rush. She never did with him. Just drifted forward, steam and water and quiet carrying them along, perfectly content to let the morning unfold one small, shared decision at a time.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let her guide him toward the rock wall, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand as they waded through the milky blue water.

"Ancient artifacts," he muttered, reaching up to touch his face. The mud had dried into a stiff, crackling shell that made him feel like a pottery project gone wrong. "Yeah. I can feel my expression fossilizing. If I sneeze right now, my face might actually shatter."

He eyed the thin streams of glacial water cutting down the black lava rock with deep suspicion.

"Glacial cold," he repeated, looking at her like she’d just suggested they cuddle a polar bear. "You know, for someone who claims to love me, you are very eager to introduce me to hypothermia today. First the air, now the face-freeze."

He sighed, dramatic and resigned, but he followed her anyway. He would follow her into a volcano if she held his hand like that.

"But you’re right," he conceded. "I need to rinse. My eyebrows are currently structural load-bearing walls for this mask, and I’m worried about them."

They reached the falling water, and Ben didn't hesitate—mostly because if he stopped to think about the temperature difference, he’d chicken out. He stepped under the stream, letting the icy, crystal-clear water hit his face.

It was shocking. It was electric. It was like slapping God high-five.

He sputtered, scrubbing the mud away with frantic hands, gasping as the cold water washed away the grit and revealed the skin underneath. He emerged a second later, shaking his wet hair like a dog, water flying everywhere, his skin tingling and bright red from the temperature contrast.

"Okay!" he yelled, blinking water out of his eyes and looking at her. "I’m awake! I am violently awake! That was exhilarating and terrible!"

He wiped his eyes, watching her rinse off with significantly more grace, the water cascading over her features and leaving her glowing.

"Now," he said, slicking his wet hair back and looking toward the swim-up bar with the intensity of a man lost in the desert. " regarding the 'wellness couple' versus 'vacation menace' question."

He waded closer to her, wrapping an arm around her wet waist to steal some of her warmth back.

"I think we need to be a hybrid," he declared, steering them toward the floating menu. "We are 'Wellness Menaces.' We are 'Chaotic Good.' I say we get the green juice—the one that tastes like a lawnmower—to apologize to our livers for last night."

He grinned, that boyish, charming smile flashing even with his hair plastered to his forehead.

"And then?" He leaned in, kissing her wet, cold cheek. "We get the prosecco. Because we’re celebrating. We survived the mud. We survived the cold. And I’m pretty sure I look 5% more radiant, so we need to toast to my vanity."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo watched him the entire time he stood under the stream, lips pressed together to keep from laughing outright as he sputtered and shook himself like that. She lifted her hands instinctively when the spray flew her way, then dropped them again, smiling openly at him.

“Violently awake is exactly what that looks like,” she said, voice warm and amused. “That water doesn’t ease you into anything. It just… reintroduces you to existence.”

She stepped under the falling water herself then, slower, bracing one palm against the rock as the cold spilled over her forehead and down her cheeks. Her breath hitched once—sharp and surprised—but she stayed there, rinsing deliberately. Fingers smoothed along her jaw, over her nose, into her hairline, washing away every last trace of chalky white.

“Give me a second,” she added lightly, glancing at him through the stream. “I’m not ordering drinks while I still look like a haunted statue.”

She ducked her face once more, blinking hard as the water ran clean, then stepped back into the warmth of the lagoon, skin flushed and glowing, hair slicked back from her face.

“Okay,” she said, satisfied, reaching for him again—her hand finding his side automatically. “Now I’m a respectable human.”

When he wrapped his arm around her waist, she leaned into it without thinking, stealing his warmth back just as easily as he’d taken hers. She tipped her head up toward him, smiling at the way he said hybrid like it was a manifesto.

“‘Wellness Menaces,’” she repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “That feels correct. Cleansing rituals followed immediately by questionable choices.”

Her mouth curved as she looked toward the floating menu. “Green juice first,” she agreed. “The lawnmower one. We’ll pretend it’s repentance.” A beat, softer and teasing. “Then prosecco. Because surviving mineral mud and glacial water feels worth celebrating.”

When he kissed her cheek, she turned her head just enough for her lips to brush his jaw in return—brief, affectionate, grounding.

“And for the record,” she added, squeezing his side gently, “you do look annoyingly radiant. So yes. A toast to your vanity feels not only appropriate but necessary.”

She began guiding them toward the bar again, unhurried, content, steam curling around them as she leaned into him.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Clean faces. Awake bodies. Drinks. Let’s commit to the chaos.”

Cleo kept his hand in hers as she guided him through the warm water, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles against his skin.

“Come on,” she murmured, amused. “Before you start narrating your own recovery like it’s a documentary.”

At the swim-up bar, she leaned forward slightly, steam curling around her shoulders as she glanced at the menu. She didn’t hesitate long.

“Two green juices,” she said easily. “Same one.”

She turned back to him right away, fingers still laced through his like ordering was the least important part of the moment.

While they waited, she stepped closer and lifted herself into him without ceremony, arms sliding around his neck. Her legs wrapped securely around his waist, settling there like it was the most natural place in the world. The water buoyed them, her body warm against his, steady and unguarded.

“There,” she said quietly, forehead brushing his. “Much better.”

She stayed there, hanging on him comfortably, cheek resting near his temple. One hand slid into his damp hair, fingers combing through slowly, absentminded and affectionate. The other rested at the back of his neck, grounding.

“This part,” she murmured after a beat. “After the shock. Before we rush anywhere. I like this.”

When the drinks arrived, she didn’t immediately pull away. She lingered another second, then reached just enough to take one glass and pass the other into his hand.

“One each,” she said softly, lips curving. “Commitment.”

She lifted her glass slightly, a lazy, understated toast.

“To not turning into ancient artifacts,” she added, smiling.

She took a sip, made a small face at the taste, then laughed quietly into his shoulder, still wrapped around him, perfectly content to stay right there while the steam rose and the morning stretched on.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben adjusted his grip instantly, his hands sliding down to cup the backs of her thighs underwater, anchoring her weight against him. He didn't complain about the reversal. Honestly? Being the tree worked for him. It meant she was center-mass, wrapped around him like she intended to stay there until the next ice age.

"I accept my fate," he murmured into her wet hair, swaying slightly to keep them balanced in the water. "I am the tree. You are the wildlife. It’s a very symbiotic ecosystem we’ve got going on here."

He looked at the green sludge in his hand, then at hers. It vibrated with a terrifyingly healthy color—a green so bright it looked radioactive.

"Okay," he said, tapping his plastic cup against hers with a dull thud. "To not becoming artifacts. To photosynthesis. To… whatever this is doing to our insides."

He took a sip.

He didn't immediately put the cup down. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, a full-body shudder rolling through him that had nothing to do with the cold air.

"Oh, wow," he rasped, opening one eye to look at her. "That is… a lot of personality. That has a very aggressive flavor profile. It tastes like I’m licking a lawnmower, Cleo. A lawnmower that has only ever mowed spicy weeds."

He watched her take a long, disciplined sip of her own, her throat working as she swallowed the thick mixture. She didn't flinch. She just looked at him with those bright, challenging eyes, daring him to be healthy.

"You’re a machine," he whispered, impressed and slightly horrified. "How are you doing that without grimacing? You look like you’re drinking ambrosia."

He sighed, resigning himself to the bit. He wasn't going to be the weak link in the wellness chain.

"Fine," he muttered, lifting the cup again. "If you can do it, I can do it. We are glowing. We are vibrating with minerals. I love nature."

He took a massive gulp this time, committing to the cause. He felt the ginger burn his throat and the kale settle heavy in his stomach, but he kept his eyes locked on hers the whole time. He drank it like it was a dare, draining half the cup in one go before pulling it away with a gasp.

"Okay," he wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a green mustache briefly staining his skin before the water washed it away. "I think I can feel my vision sharpening. I think I can see through time."

He rested his forehead against hers, their wet noses brushing, the half-empty cups still held carefully out of the water between them.

"We’re finishing these," he said, his voice dropping to a low, stubborn rumble. "We are not quitters. We are going to drink every drop of this swamp water, and then we are going to be so healthy it’s annoying. We’re going to be insufferable."

He squeezed her thighs tighter, pulling her hips flush against his, letting the warmth of the water seep into his bones to counteract the cold juice.

"Drink up, koala," he ordered softly, grinning against her lips. "Make me proud."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo stayed wrapped around him, feeling his hands steady at the backs of her thighs beneath the water, the quiet strength in the way he held her like it was second nature. The lagoon swayed gently around them, steam curling up between their faces, turning the morning soft and unreal.

“Very strong tree,” she murmured, smiling against his temple. “Excellent root system. Very dependable forestry.”

When their cups tapped together with that dull plastic thud, she lifted hers with a small, almost ceremonial nod.

“To not fossilizing,” she said softly. “And to becoming unbearably vibrant.”

She took a long, steady sip just as he braced himself and then visibly suffered. The shudder that rolled through him shook the water between them, and she had to press her lips together to keep from laughing into her drink. She swallowed cleanly, composed, throat working in a slow, controlled rhythm.

When he stared at her like she had just performed a minor miracle, she raised one brow at him.

“You really don’t understand my training,” she said, calm and slightly smug.

She adjusted in his arms, the warm water sliding along her shoulders, her legs tightening just enough to keep her balance as he swayed.

“My parents went through a heavy smoothie phase in the nineties and early 2000s,” she continued lightly. “Blenders running at six in the morning. Wheatgrass shots before school. Powders that came in unmarked jars and promised enlightenment.”

She took another sip—slow, deliberate, unflinching.

“And let’s just say there were… other green influences in the house too,” she added, lips curving faintly. “Very herbal. Very devoted to plant-based living. The air was… consistently earthy.”

Her fingers slid into his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead as she studied him.

“This?” she said, lifting her cup slightly. “This tastes like home.”

When he doubled down about finishing them, stubborn and dramatic and so deeply committed to the bit, her expression softened in that way it always did when he chose pride over comfort.

“We are absolutely finishing them,” she agreed. “We did not come all this way to be defeated by kale.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose lightly against his, steam dampening her lashes.

“Watch,” she murmured, eyes steady, daring.

And then she did it.

She tilted her head back and drank the rest in one smooth pull, throat working as she swallowed every last aggressive ounce like it was a shot of something reckless and celebratory instead of liquefied vegetables. The cold hit first. Then the ginger burn. Then the dense, grassy aftershock. She didn’t break eye contact once.

When the cup was empty, she lowered it slowly.

Exhaled.

Blink.

A faint flush rose to her cheeks from the ginger and the heat of the lagoon.

Then she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and let out a soft, satisfied laugh that vibrated against his skin.

“See?” she said lightly. “Just pretend it’s terrible tequila and you lost a bet.”

She held the empty cup up between them like a trophy, steam swirling around her wrist.

“Gone.”

Her legs tightened slightly around his waist, her body warm and buoyant against his, pride flickering in her eyes as she brushed her thumb slowly along his jaw.

“You’re up,” she added quietly, voice low and playful. “Don’t embarrass the ecosystem.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben watched her swallow the last drop, his expression hovering somewhere between horror and absolute, unadulterated worship.

He processed the information about her parents—the blenders at dawn, the "unmarked jars," the herbal influences that made the air earthy. It explained so much. It explained the iron stomach. It explained the way she could find a pocket of calm in the middle of a chaotic tour bus. She wasn’t just tolerating the wellness; she was built from it.

"So you were molded by the kale," he whispered, staring at her empty cup like it was a weapon she’d just disarmed. "You were born in the smoothie. I merely adopted it."

He looked at her throat, watching the faint flush rise on her skin, and felt a surge of competitive affection that was entirely ill-advised. She looked triumphant. She looked beautiful. She looked like she was waiting for him to fail so she could tease him about it for the next decade.

"Terrible tequila," he muttered to himself, swirling the green sludge in his cup. "Right. I can do that. I’ve drank worse things in better bars. I once drank something out of a shoe in Berlin."

He met her eyes. The challenge in them was electric.

"Don't embarrass the ecosystem," he repeated, narrowing his eyes at her. "Babe, I am the ecosystem. Watch and learn."

He didn't give himself time to overthink it. He didn't sniff it again (fatal error). He just tilted his head back and opened his throat.

He poured the rest of the juice down the hatch in one aggressive, continuous motion.
It was cold. It was thick. It tasted like he was drinking a freshly mowed lawn mixed with resentment and ginger. He felt the shock of it hit his stomach, warring with the heat of the lagoon water lapping at his chest, but he didn't stop. He squeezed his eyes shut for a microsecond as the last of the pulp hit his tongue, suppressing the urge to cough, and swallowed hard.

Done.

He slammed the empty cup down onto the floating tray next to hers—a little harder than necessary, causing the plastic to wobble.

"Ha!" he exhaled, the sound exploding out of him as he wiped his mouth with his wet forearm.

He shuddered—a full-body ripple that started at his shoulders and went all the way down to where his hands were gripping her thighs underwater.

"I did it," he wheezed, blinking water out of his eyes and looking at her with wild, victorious pride. "I am empty. I am purified. I can feel my organs applauding."

He leaned forward immediately, invading her space, his forehead pressing against hers hard.

"Admit it," he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, breathless rumble. "That was impressive. I barely cried. I am a wellness warrior."

He didn't wait for her to answer. He shifted his grip on her legs, hoisting her slightly higher against his waist, and captured her mouth in a messy, enthusiastic kiss.

It tasted like ginger and cold vegetables and steam, and it was fantastic.

"You taste like a salad," he murmured against her lips, grinning as he pulled back just an inch. "But like... a really expensive, sexy salad. The kind they serve at places that don't have prices on the menu."

He kissed her again, slower this time, letting the taste fade into the background as the warmth of her body grounded him.

"Okay," he whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder, his arms locking around her back to hold her secure. "Health achieved. Now we switch to the prosecco. Because if I have to be this virtuous for five more minutes, I’m going to start levitating."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t pull away when he slammed the cup down like he’d just conquered something ancient and mythical.

She watched him.

Watched the stubborn set of his jaw. The way he forced himself through it. The little tremor in his shoulders when the ginger hit. The way he refused to back down just because she’d dared him.

When he pressed his forehead to hers and demanded recognition, her lips curved slowly.

“Barely cried?” she echoed softly. “You absolutely cried. Internally. Spiritually.”

Her hands slid up from his shoulders to cradle the back of his neck, thumbs brushing damp skin just beneath his ears.

“But,” she added, voice warming, “it was impressive.”

She let that land. Let him feel it.

“Wellness warrior,” she murmured, studying his face like she was grading the performance. “Very brave. Very committed. A little dramatic. Ten out of ten.”

When he hoisted her higher, her breath hitched—not from surprise, but from the way his hands tightened around her thighs, solid and sure. Her legs adjusted automatically around his waist, ankles crossing behind him as the lagoon water shifted around their bodies.

The messy kiss made her laugh against his mouth before she softened into it. It did taste like ginger and green things and steam.

“You taste like stubborn pride,” she murmured back, brushing her nose against his.

When he called her a sexy salad, she shook her head faintly, smiling.

“That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received,” she said lightly. “I’m choosing to take it.”

His chin on her shoulder, arms locked around her back — she relaxed into him fully. The water moved gently around them, warm and buoyant. His heartbeat steady against her ribs.

“Levitating would be very on-brand for you,” she said quietly. “You’d act like it was accidental.”

Her fingers traced slow patterns along his shoulder blade beneath the water.

“But yes,” she conceded, tilting her head slightly so her cheek brushed his. “Virtue accomplished. Ecosystem preserved.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes soft but mischievous.

“We can graduate to prosecco.”

Her thumb brushed the faint green stain near the corner of his mouth, wiping it away with exaggerated tenderness.

“But don’t think I didn’t notice,” she added gently, “that you didn’t flinch the second time.”

Her legs tightened around him again, secure, grounding.

“You’re adaptable,” she said. “You’d survive my childhood.”

She leaned in once more, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his lips — no challenge now, no competition — just warmth layered over warmth.

“Now,” she whispered against him, “let’s toast to your organs. They worked very hard today.”

Her legs loosened from his waist, sliding down slowly until her feet found the soft, silica-silt bottom. She didn’t fully step away though — her hand immediately finding his again, fingers weaving through his like it was automatic.

“Come on,” she murmured.

Steam curled around them as they waded back toward the swim-up bar, the floating trays bobbing gently against the wood. The air felt colder now that the shock of the glacial rinse had passed, but she stayed close enough that their arms brushed with every step.

When they reached the counter, she leaned her forearms against the edge, chin tipped slightly up toward the bartender.

“Two proseccos, please,” she said easily — no hesitation this time.

Not a hybrid. Not virtuous. Just celebratory.

While they waited, she turned into him again without thinking, arms sliding back around his waist under the water. She rested her cheek against his chest for a moment, listening to his heartbeat steady and warm.

“You survived,” she said quietly, amused.

The glasses arrived — slim flutes balanced carefully on the floating tray between them. Pale gold bubbles rising fast and bright.

She lifted one, then pressed the other into his hand.

“To adaptability,” she said softly, holding his gaze.

“To not fossilizing.”

Her flute tapped gently against his, the sound small but sharp in the misty air.

Then she took a sip — slower this time. Letting the crisp bite wash away the ghost of ginger and kale.

She closed her eyes for a second, exhaling.

“Okay,” she breathed. “That’s better.”

When she opened them again, there was warmth there. Satisfaction. A little pride.

“Now we can be insufferable,” she added lightly, lifting her glass again. “But in a glamorous way.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the slide of her body against his as a physical loss the moment her legs loosened and she found her footing on the soft, silty floor of the lagoon. He didn't let her go far—he couldn't have even if he wanted to, which he definitely didn't—his hand instinctively finding the small of her back under the water to keep her within his orbit.

He watched her order the prosecco with that easy, quiet confidence she applied to everything from crisis management to ordering breakfast, and felt a surge of affection so sharp it almost rivaled the ginger burn still lingering in his throat.

Adaptable.

She’d said it like a compliment, but Ben took it as a knighthood. Knowing what he knew now about the blenders at dawn and the earthy, herbal air of her childhood, he realized that fitting into her world wasn’t just about keeping secrets; it was about keeping up.

"I’ll take adaptable," he murmured, leaning his hip against the underwater bench as the bartender slid the flutes toward them. "I’m putting it on my résumé. Right under 'can open a bottle of wine with a shoe' and above 'proficient in mario kart'."

He watched the pale gold bubbles rising in the glass, frantic and bright against the milky blue backdrop of the water. It looked like civilization. It looked like a reward.

When she tapped her glass against his—clink—the sound was swallowed instantly by the steam and the vast, open silence of the lava field.

"To glamour," he agreed, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register he reserved just for her. "And to being insufferable. I think we’ve earned the right to be at least twenty percent annoying for the rest of the day."

He brought the glass to his lips, the steam curling around the rim.

The first sip was a revelation.

It was crisp, dry, and aggressively cold. It washed away the grassy, aggressive memory of the kale and replaced it with something sharp and elegant. It tasted like luxury. It tasted like they had gotten away with something.

"Oh, thank god," he sighed, lowering the glass but keeping it close to his chest. "That is much better. That tastes like forgiveness."

He turned slightly in the water, shielding her from a drifting cloud of steam with his shoulder. He looked at her—really looked at her. Her hair was slicked back, wet and dark, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the fresh, clean glow of her skin. She wasn't wearing the armor of her job, or the polish of a red carpet. She was just Cleo, standing in a volcano, drinking wine with him at ten in the morning.

"You know," he said softly, tracing the rim of his glass with a wet thumb. "You’re right. About the 'not asking anything of us' part."

He took a half-step closer, the water rippling between them.

"I feel like... I don't know. Like we're paused. Like the rest of the world is on mute."

He reached out with his free hand, his fingers finding hers underwater again, weaving through them tight.

"And for the record," he added, his eyes searching hers, "I'd survive your childhood. I'd drink the unmarked powders. I'd listen to the blenders. If it gets me to this version of you? I’d do it twice."

He clinked his glass against hers one more time—softly, deliberately.

"So, glamour it is. What's the plan, partner? Do we float until we turn into prunes? Do we haunt the waterfall? Or do we just stand here and look mysterious until someone asks for our autograph?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled when he said he’d take adaptable, the expression slow and warm, like she was filing that away somewhere important.

“Put it in bold,” she said softly. “It’s a strong skill.”

When he described the prosecco as forgiveness, she laughed under her breath, lifting her glass again for another measured sip. It was better. Clean. Bright. The bubbles snapping lightly against her tongue before dissolving.

“See?” she murmured. “Balance. You suffer, then you sparkle.”

Her eyes softened when he shifted closer and the noise of the world seemed to dissolve again into steam and mineral water. She could feel the sincerity in him before he even finished speaking.

Paused.

Muted.

She felt it too.

Her fingers tightened around his underwater, grounding and steady.

“You’d survive,” she said quietly. “You’d complain theatrically. You’d dramatically narrate the blender sounds like it was a horror film. But you’d survive.”

A beat.

“And you’d probably reorganize the spice cabinet.”

When he said he’d do it twice, something in her expression shifted — affectionate, sure, but deeper than that. Certain.

“You don’t have to survive it,” she said softly. “You just have to be here.”

She clinked her glass against his again, deliberate and light.

Then she tilted her head slightly, thinking.

“Okay,” she said, sliding easily into planning mode but without losing the softness. “We float for a few more minutes. Enough to justify the prosecco.”

She took another sip, watching the bubbles rise in the flute.

“Then we go eat. Something substantial. Bread. Butter. Something that makes the green juice nervous.”

She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his.

“After that — spa. The hot sauna. The one that feels like it’s medically questionable but spiritually necessary.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, playful.

“Then we eat again. Because sauna math cancels calories.”

She tapped the side of her glass against his chest gently.

“Then we go back to the room. Nap. Actual nap. No negotiations.”

A soft smile.

“Then bath. You wash my hair like the legendary three-county shampoo boy you claim to be.”

Her thumb traced lightly along the side of his hand in the water.

“And then dinner with my sister and Jax. Clean. Civilized. Pretending we didn’t spend the morning arguing with kale.”

She took one last sip of prosecco and exhaled slowly.

“That’s the plan.”

Her eyes lifted back to his, warm and steady.

“Tell me you can keep up.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben listened to the itinerary like it was the setlist for the greatest show on earth.

Bread. Butter. Sauna. Nap. Hair washing. Dinner.

It was a symphony of leisure. It was a masterclass in vacation pacing.

He swirled the prosecco in his glass, watching the bubbles race to the surface, and felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth that he couldn’t suppress.

"First of all," he said, pointing the stem of his glass at her accusingly. "I absolutely would reorganize the spice cabinet. It’s called mise en place, Cleo. You can’t have the cumin just living next to the cinnamon like anarchy. That’s how accidents happen. That’s how you get savory oatmeal."

He took a sip of the wine, letting the cold, crisp liquid wash over his tongue as he considered the rest of her proposal.

"Bread and butter," he mused, nodding solemnly. "Yes. We need to confuse the green juice. We need to introduce it to complex carbohydrates so it knows who’s really in charge. I support this bullying of vegetables."

He shifted in the water, his legs brushing against hers, enjoying the friction and the warmth. The steam was getting thicker around them, creating a private little cloud that made the rest of the lagoon feel miles away.

"Sauna math," he continued, ticking the items off on his fingers that weren't holding the wine. "I’m familiar with the discipline. It’s closely related to 'Vacation Calories Don't Count' and 'If It's Fruit It's Basically Water.' I am a scholar in this field."

But when she got to the part about the bath—the "legendary three-county shampoo boy"—Ben’s expression softened. The joke fell away, replaced by that heavy, focused warmth that only showed up when he was looking at her.

"I’m training for it right now," he murmured, flexing the fingers of his free hand underwater against her hip. "I’m doing finger pushups. I’m visualizing the lather. It’s going to be the main event."

Then came the dinner plans.

My sister and Jax.

The collision of worlds. His oldest friend, the guy who knew every stupid thing Ben had ever done since he was six, and Cleo’s sister, the person whose opinion probably mattered more to Cleo than anyone else’s.

"Civilized," he repeated, testing the word like it was a foreign language. "Clean. Civilized. Pretending we didn't just drink pond water."

He looked at her, searching her face. She looked calm. She looked ready.

"You know Jax is going to try to break me, right?" he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "He’s going to tell the story about the time I got stuck in the tuba. He’s going to bring up the frosted tips phase. He has no loyalty."

He sighed, dramatic and resigned, but he leaned in closer, until their foreheads were touching again.

"But for you? I will be civilized. I will use the correct fork. I will not make a single tuba joke."
He brushed his nose against hers, inhaling the scent of the mineral water and the faint, sweet smell of the prosecco on her breath.

"Keep up?" he whispered, low and rough, dropping his voice to a rumble that vibrated through her chest. "Babe, I’ve already mentally eaten the bread. I’m already in the nap. I am four steps ahead of you."

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and happy and completely locked on hers.
"But since I'm ahead of schedule?"

He tightened his arm around her waist, anchoring her flush against him in the warm water, refusing to let the moment end just yet.

"That means we can stay right here. In the steam. In the quiet. Because once we step out of this water, the world gets loud again. And I want to keep you to myself for as long as I can."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo watched him as he unraveled her plan like it was something to admire instead of something to follow, her smile growing quieter, softer, the more he talked.

“Savory oatmeal feels like a personal failure,” she murmured, lips brushing the rim of her glass before she took another small sip. “I agree. That kind of chaos shouldn’t be allowed in a shared space.”

Her fingers stayed threaded through his, warm and certain beneath the water, even as he moved, even as the steam thickened around them until the rest of the lagoon felt like it had disappeared.

She liked him like this.

Loose. Present. Not performing.

When he talked about the sauna and vacation math, she let out a small, breathy laugh, her head tipping just slightly toward him.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, amused. “You sound… practiced.”

But it was when he shifted—when the humor dropped, when his focus narrowed—that she stilled.

She felt it the same way she always did with him. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just… real. Like something settling into place instead of catching fire.

Her thumb traced slowly along his wrist underwater, grounding them both.

“You’re going to do great,” she said quietly when he mentioned Jax, her voice soft but sure. “And if he tells the tuba story, I’ll just tell something worse about him. It evens out.”

Her mouth curved slightly.

“Civilized is a group effort.”

When he leaned in, when his forehead pressed to hers, her eyes softened completely, the world narrowing down to the space between them.

She breathed him in—steam, mineral water, something faintly citrus from the drink.

And then his voice dropped, and something in her chest tightened in that quiet, familiar way.

Keep you to myself.

For a moment, she didn’t answer.

She just looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Then her lips curved, slow and knowing, something softer underneath it.

“We’re here for three weeks,” she said quietly, her voice low enough it barely carried past him.

Her nose brushed his, gentle, unhurried.

“We don’t have to rush any of it.”

She leaned in just enough to kiss him—soft at first, lingering, like she wasn’t trying to prove anything. Just… staying.

When she pulled back, it was only an inch.

“We could cancel everything,” she added, almost casually, but her eyes stayed on his. “The bread. The sauna. The… civilized dinner.”

A faint, teasing glint.

“We could be irresponsible.”

Another kiss—slower this time, her hand sliding up to rest at the side of his neck, her thumb brushing just under his ear.

“Order room service instead,” she murmured against his lips. “Stay in. Let the world stay loud without us.”

Her forehead rested against his again, her voice dropping softer.

“Practice.”

A small pause. A breath.

“For Sage… or Briar.”

She said it like it was something precious. Not a joke. Not a plan. Something in between—hope, wrapped in quiet.

Her fingers curled gently at the back of his neck, holding him there, not letting the moment slip away.

“We’ve got time,” she whispered.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The word Practice hit him harder than the glacial water had.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a promise. It was a direct line to the conversation in the dark, the one about the future, the one that had terrified him in the best possible way. Hearing her say those names—Sage or Briar—in the light of day, with prosecco on her breath and mischief in her eyes?

Ben felt his chest cave in.

He stared at her, the steam curling around them, and forgot about the cold air. He forgot about the green juice. He forgot about Jax and the potential tuba story.

"You are dangerous," he whispered, the words rough and low, vibrating against her lips. "You are an actual hazard to my pulse."

He moved his hand to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the damp skin there, anchoring her to him. He loved the way she looked right now—soft, conspiring, willing to burn the whole itinerary down just to be alone with him.

"Cancel everything," he repeated, tasting the idea. "Be irresponsible. Stay in."

He leaned in, brushing his nose against hers, his eyes dark with a sudden, fierce intensity.
"Do you have any idea how much I want to say yes to that? Do you know how easy it would be to just carry you out of here, put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, and not come out until Tuesday?"

He kissed her—slow, deep, and hungry—letting her feel exactly how tempting that offer was. He felt her sigh against him, the surrender in her body calling to every possessive instinct he had.

But then he pulled back, just an inch, resting his forehead against hers. A crooked, regretful smile touched his lips.

"But here is the problem, Cleo," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "If we cancel on Jax, he wins. He will text me forty times. He will accuse me of being 'soft.' He will send me emojis that no grown man should ever use."

He sighed, dramatic and pained.

"And your sister? If we bail on a 'civilized' dinner to stay in and… practice… she’s going to know. She’s going to look at me with that knowing, terrifying sister-look, and I will crumble."
He squeezed her waist underwater, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

"So here is the counter-offer," he whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.
"We keep the bread. Because we need the stamina. We keep the butter. Non-negotiable."
He kissed the corner of her mouth.

"We keep the dinner. Because I want to sit across a table from you and touch your leg under the tablecloth and know something no one else knows."

He gently tugged on a wet, stiff lock of her hair

"And the bath? The salon treatment?" He looked her dead in the eye, utterly serious. "That stays. I am absolutely still washing your hair. I need to get the silica out, but mostly I just need to have my hands on you for forty-five minutes straight. That is a mandatory service."

He moved to her ear, his breath hot against her wet skin.

"But the nap?"

His hand slid lower, pressing firmly against the small of her back.

"The nap is cancelled. The nap is now officially replaced by… rehearsals. Extensive, repetitive, highly dedicated rehearsals."

He pulled back to look at her, searching her eyes, checking to see if she was with him.

"Sage or Briar aren’t going to make themselves," he said softly, the humor fading into raw, honest adoration. "And I’m a big believer in putting in the hours. Are you okay with a modified schedule?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt it the second the word practice landed—felt the shift in him, the way his breath changed, the way his body drew tighter around hers like something had locked into place.

It wasn’t just teasing anymore.

It was real.

And God… she loved that about him.

Her lips curved faintly when he called her dangerous, her thumb still resting at the edge of his jaw, feeling the warmth there even against the cool air and steam.

“Good,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “I’d be worried if I wasn’t.”

Her nose brushed his again, slow, deliberate, letting him sit in it—the weight of what she’d said, the promise tucked inside something that sounded light but wasn’t.

She felt the pull of it too.

The temptation.

Cancel everything. Stay in. Forget the world exists.

When he kissed her, she melted into it without hesitation, her hand sliding fully into his hair, holding him there, letting the kiss deepen just enough to say yes without actually saying it.

For a second, she would’ve followed him anywhere.

But then he pulled back—and she saw it. The shift. The balance. The way he didn’t just want her… he wanted everything that came with her, too.

Her expression softened.

She listened to him, really listened, the corners of her mouth lifting more and more the further he got into his “counter-offer,” the ridiculous seriousness of it, the way he built a whole structure around them like he was protecting something.

When he said stamina, she let out a quiet laugh, her forehead dipping briefly to his shoulder.

“Bread for stamina,” she echoed, amused. “Very scientific. I trust your research.”

The kiss at the corner of her mouth lingered in her smile.

“And butter,” she added softly. “Always butter.”

Her hand slid back to his neck when he talked about dinner, about sitting across from her, about knowing something no one else did.

Something in her chest tightened—warm, steady, sure.

“I like that part,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “The part where it’s just ours.”

Her gaze held his, open, unguarded.

When he tugged at her hair, she huffed a small, knowing breath.

“That part is non-negotiable,” she said. “You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. Full service.”

But then—

The nap.

She felt his hand slide lower, heard the shift in his voice, and she knew exactly where he was going before he even finished.

Her smile deepened, slow and a little dangerous—but this time, she shook her head.

Not harsh. Not dismissive.

Just… certain.

“No,” she said quietly, her fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him back into her answer.

Her nose nudged his, gentle.

“I’m agreeing to the schedule,” she murmured, lips hovering close enough to his that her words brushed warm against them. “Bread. Butter. Dinner. Bath. All of it.”

A soft pause.

“But the nap stays.”

Her mouth curved, just slightly.

“That’s not negotiable.”

She kissed him—slow, deliberate, not rushed—like she was sealing it.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his again, her voice softer, more thoughtful now.

“But…”

Her thumb traced a small line along his cheek.

“We can push dinner.”

Her eyes lifted to his, calm, knowing, a hint of something conspiratorial flickering there.

“We don’t have to be on anyone else’s timeline. We could go later.” A beat. “Or show up a little… unraveled.”

A quiet breath, her lips brushing his once more, lighter this time.

“That way,” she murmured, “we don’t have to rush anything.”

Her fingers curled at the back of his neck, holding him there.

“Nap stays,” she repeated softly. “But everything else?”

A small, almost wicked smile.

“We can take our time.”

Cleo held his gaze for one second longer after she said it—long enough for it to settle, for him to feel exactly what she meant without her needing to spell it out.

Then her expression shifted.

Softer. Lighter. Back to the surface.

She brushed her nose once more against his, a fleeting, almost absent gesture, before her hand slipped from the back of his neck.

“Come on,” she murmured, quieter now.

There was a hint of truth in it. A warning, wrapped in something easy.

She leaned in, pressing one last kiss to his mouth—gentle this time, grounding instead of pulling—then she let herself drift out of his hold.

The absence was immediate.

The water closed the space between them, steam curling into it like a curtain, but she didn’t look back. Not yet.

She turned instead, wading through the milky blue toward the edge of the lagoon, her fingers skimming the surface as she moved. The heat clung to her skin, to the back of her neck, to the damp strands of her hair as they slid down her spine.

The air hit her first.

Cold. Sharp. Immediate.

She inhaled it, steady, letting it wake her up as she climbed the dark stone steps, water trailing from her legs in thin, silver lines that disappeared into the volcanic rock.

For a second, she just stood there—bare shoulders exposed, steam lifting off her skin into the grey sky above.

Then she reached for her robe.

The fabric was thick, soft, impossibly warm as she pulled it around herself, the contrast almost startling after the heat of the water. She slid her arms through, letting it settle over her shoulders before drawing it closed, fingers finding the belt at her waist.

She tied it slowly, deliberately.

Grounding.

When she finished, she exhaled—soft, quiet—and pushed damp hair back from her face, tilting her head slightly as if resetting herself.

Only then did she glance back toward him.

Her expression was calm. Steady.

But there was still something there—something warm, private, tucked just beneath the surface.

“Your turn,” she called lightly, her voice carrying through the steam. “Unless you’ve decided to live here now.”

A small pause.

Her mouth curved, just a little.

“I’d respect it. It’s a strong choice.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Unraveled.

The word hung in the steam between them, heavier and more promising than any itinerary he could have drafted.

Ben watched her wade away, the water rippling in her wake, and felt a dangerous mix of admiration and absolute, knee-weakening desire. She had managed to negotiate a nap, a delay, and a implied rendezvous in a single sentence, all while looking like a water deity.

He was dating a mastermind. He was dating a genius who knew exactly which buttons to push to get him to agree to anything.

He watched her climb the steps, the water sluicing off her skin in rivets, the steam clinging to her ankles. He watched her wrap that thick white robe around herself—a tragedy in the short term, but a necessary step for the "unraveled" part of the plan later.

"Strong choice," he muttered to himself, echoing her. "Yeah. Living here is a strong choice. But there is no bread here. And there is no bed here."

He took one last look at the lagoon—the blue water, the black rock, the place where they’d just negotiated the terms of their afternoon—and nodded.

"Good game," he whispered to the water.

Then, he braced himself.

He moved toward the steps with the grim determination of a man about to sprint through a blizzard. He climbed out of the water, and the Icelandic air hit him like a physical slap. It was rude. It was aggressive. It stole the heat right out of his bones and replaced it with a shivering reality.

"Oh, god," he hissed through his teeth, his wet feet slapping against the cold stone as he lunged for his robe. "Bad. Bad. Bad idea."

He wrestled his arms into the sleeves, shivering violently, and tied the belt with hands that were suddenly clumsy. He flipped the collar up, huddled into himself, and hurried toward where she was standing, a beacon of calm and warmth in the grey mist.

"I considered it," he chattered, coming up beside her and immediately violating her personal space to steal her radiant heat. "I considered evolving gills. But then I remembered the butter."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders—robe against robe, a friction of terrycloth—and steered them toward the exit, walking briskly.

"Okay," he announced, his teeth chattering slightly but his grin wide and triumphant. "Plan locked. We are getting the bread. We are getting the butter. We are pushing dinner until we are sufficiently... what was the word?"

He looked down at her, his eyes dark and dancing with the promise she’d made.
"Unraveled," he quoted, his voice dropping to a low, meaningful rumble despite the cold. "I like that word. I’m going to hold you to that word."

He squeezed her shoulder, guiding her through the steam toward the warmth of the changing rooms.

"Now, march. Before I freeze into a statue and you have to carry me back. I promise I’m heavier than I look."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The fourth morning felt quieter than the others.

Not in the obvious way—there was still wind slipping low across the lava rock, still distant murmurs from other guests somewhere near the main building—but quieter in her chest. Like something inside Cleo (https://i.ibb.co/rG69b3Z2/IMG-3269.png) had finally matched the pace of the landscape.

Cleo stepped out from the retreat’s low, slate-colored structure with her hands tucked into the pockets of her wool coat, the cold catching at the bridge of her nose. Steam from the lagoon drifted behind her in pale ribbons, dissolving into the wide Icelandic sky.

Beyond the stone wall, the land opened without apology.

The lava field rolled outward in frozen swells—hardened mid-surge, like an ocean arrested in the middle of a storm. Roped formations twisted together where molten rock had once folded over itself. Jagged ridges rose and fell unpredictably. Some surfaces were matte and porous, others slick and dark as obsidian where rain had smoothed them over centuries.

The black wasn’t flat. It shifted—charcoal, ink, hints of rust where iron bled through in thin seams. And everywhere, moss.

Thick, luminous green moss clung to the rock in velvety drifts, filling crevices, softening edges, glowing almost neon against the volcanic stone. It looked fragile, but it wasn’t. It had survived fire.

Yesterday had been divided worlds.

She’d spent it wrapped in eucalyptus steam beside her sister—skin warmed, shoulders loosened, talking in low, private tones that only sisters could manage. Dinner stretched long after the plates were cleared, conversation circling gently around the future.

And she had told her.

Not with ceremony. Not like an announcement. Just between sips of tea.

She and Ben were trying.

The word had felt heavier out loud.

Phoebe hadn’t panicked. She hadn’t smiled too quickly either. There had been a pause—a careful, protective silence.

You’re sure?

They hadn’t known each other before 2020. There was no long childhood mythology tying them together. They had met as adults—fully formed, fully stubborn, fully complicated. They dated from 2020 to 2021. One intense, compressed year that burned bright and ended messy.

After that, they hadn’t disappeared from each other’s lives.

They had hovered.

Returned. Pulled back. Chosen other people, then quietly chosen each other anyway. Even when they weren’t together, there had been gravity. A constant recalibration that always seemed to land them back in the same orbit.

Phoebe had watched that too.

It didn’t feel like impulse or timing or chemistry masquerading as permanence.

This wasn’t impulsive.

It was overdue.

Ben had spent yesterday off-property with Jax—black-sand beaches, remote waterfalls, roads that felt like the edge of the earth. He’d come back wind-reddened and bright-eyed, smelling like cold air and distance, telling her about cliffs that made him feel small.

They had met again at night like two travelers returning from separate maps. Different stories. Same bed.

This morning was theirs.

The marked walking path began just steps from the main building—narrow wooden planks raised slightly above the lava to protect the fragile moss. Subtle wooden posts guided the way, not fencing the land in but asking for gentleness.

Cleo paused at the start of it, boots crunching lightly on volcanic gravel before stepping onto the wood.

She let herself walk a few paces alone first.

The sky hung low and pale, light diffused into silver. In shallow dips between rock formations, rainwater collected in dark pools that reflected the sky like broken mirrors. The wind moved cleanly across the open field, unobstructed, carrying nothing but cold.

It felt extraterrestrial. Ancient. Stripped down to essentials.

No cameras.
No noise.
No performance.

Trying didn’t feel reckless out here.

It felt steady.

She slowed her pace until Ben came up beside her, then slipped her hand into his without ceremony. Her fingers threaded through his naturally, easily, like they’d practiced this part for years.

“Okay,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “This is my speed.”

The path curved gently ahead, weaving deeper into the frozen waves of black rock and impossible green.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was chasing her life.

She felt like she was walking directly into it.

“Let’s see where it goes.”

Cleo walked a few steps in silence after she said it, letting the words settle into the open air.

The wooden planks dipped slightly, following the natural rise and fall of the lava beneath them. On either side, the rock formed strange, sculptural shapes—twisted ropes where molten earth had once folded over itself, sharp spines jutting upward like frozen flames. In the shallow creases, moss gathered thick and luminous, cushioning the violence of what had come before.

She tightened her hold on his hand just slightly.

“Do you ever think about how long this has been here?” she asked quietly, eyes scanning the uneven horizon. “Like… this rock was fire once. And now it’s just… background.”

The wind caught the edge of her coat, pressing the fabric against her. She breathed it in—cold enough to sting, clean enough to reset something in her lungs.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben adjusted his stride, letting the frantic, forward-leaning momentum of his usual walk bleed out until he was perfectly synced with her. He didn't mind the cold. It felt clarifying, scraping away the lingering exhaustion of the tour, leaving only the sharp, electric reality of being right here.

He looked out over the frozen swells of lava, his eyes tracking the jagged lines and the impossible, luminous green of the moss. When she spoke, the wind almost stole the words, but he caught them, letting them settle in his chest.

Fire once. And now it's background.

He shifted his grip, sliding their joined hands into the deep, fleece-lined pocket of his coat to shield her fingers from the bite of the wind. His thumb stroked slow, steady circles over her knuckles in the dark warmth.

"I was actually thinking about that yesterday," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that carried just enough to reach her. "Out on the coast with Jax. Looking at these massive cliffs and thinking about how much absolute violence it took to make something this quiet."

He kept his eyes on the horizon for a moment longer—the pale silver sky, the dark, reflective pools of rainwater—before turning his head to look down at her. His nose was red from the cold, a few dark, unruly curls whipping across his forehead, but his expression was entirely soft. Stripped down.

"It’s kind of hopeful, though, isn't it?" he said quietly. "That something can start out as a catastrophic eruption, just completely chaotic and uncontainable... and then eventually, it cools off. It settles. The moss grows over it."

He didn't need to spell the metaphor out. The ghost of 2021—the intensity, the mess, the way they had burned bright and fractured—was a shared memory they didn't have to tip-toe around anymore. It wasn't a sore subject; it was just history. It was the fire that had formed the rock.

"I like the fire," he added, his shoulder bumping gently against hers as they walked, a warm, solid point of contact against the freezing air. "But I think I like this part better. The part where it just becomes the ground you walk on. The part where things can actually grow."

He let out a slow breath, a plume of white steam vanishing into the wind, and squeezed her hand inside his pocket. He had told Jax yesterday, too. Standing on a black sand beach, freezing his ass off, he’d told his oldest friend that he and Cleo were trying. Jax had laughed, shoved his shoulder, and told him he was going to be a terrible influence on a toddler, but then he’d pulled him into a crushing hug. About time, man, Jax had said. You've been her orbit for years.

Ben looked at Cleo's profile—her nose pink from the cold, her eyes scanning the ancient, quiet earth, looking more at peace than he’d seen her in months.

"This is my speed, too," he whispered, pressing a quick, freezing kiss to her temple before pulling back just enough to catch her eye. "Wherever this goes. I'm taking the walk with you."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt the exact moment his pace changed.

It was subtle — a quiet recalibration — but she noticed. She always noticed when he chose steadiness over momentum. When he let go of the forward lean that had defined so much of his life and simply… matched her.

When he slid their hands into his coat pocket, she made a small approving sound under her breath. The fleece lining wrapped around her fingers immediately, and she curled into it, letting his thumb trace slow circles over her knuckles. The warmth felt deliberate. Protective without being dramatic.

When he said he’d been thinking about it yesterday — about the violence it took to make something that quiet — her eyes lifted toward the horizon.

“You on a cliff thinking about geological trauma,” she murmured softly. “That tracks.”

But there was no mockery in it. Just affection.

She followed his gaze over the lava fields — the frozen waves, the ridges that looked like something mid-roar, arrested in motion. Rainwater pooled in shallow depressions, reflecting the pale sky like fractured mirrors.

“It is hopeful,” she agreed. “That it doesn’t stay catastrophic.”

Her voice wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t haunted. It was calm. Considered.

“That something can burn that hot,” she added, “and still end up… livable.”

When he said he liked the fire but preferred this part — the ground-you-walk-on part — her shoulder leaned into his bump instinctively.

“I don’t want to erase the fire,” she said quietly. “It was real. It was alive. It just didn’t know how to stop.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“We were loud,” she corrected gently. “Not uncontainable. Just loud.”

The wind swept across the boardwalk, lifting her hair across her cheek. She tucked it back with her free hand, eyes still on him.

“And I don’t miss the part where it felt like one bad day could undo everything,” she added, softer now. “I don’t miss the volatility.”

When he said this was his speed too — that he was taking the walk with her — something in her expression shifted. Not surprised. Just… moved.

She slowed.

Then she turned toward him fully.

Her boots pivoted against the wood, and her arms slipped around his torso without hesitation, sliding beneath his coat so she could feel the real warmth of him. She pressed her cheek briefly to his chest, inhaling cold air and wool and something that was just him.

Then she tilted her head back, chin resting against him so she could look up.

“You saying that,” she said softly, “means more than the metaphor.”

Her fingers flexed lightly at his back.

“It’s easy to promise when everything feels poetic and windswept,” she continued. “It’s harder when it’s repetitive and boring and we’re arguing about who forgot to buy oat milk.”

A faint sparkle returned to her eyes.

“I want the oat milk part.”

She rose slightly on her toes and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to his mouth — longer than the one he’d given her, as if to thaw the cold he’d left on her temple. When she pulled back, she didn’t move far.

“I don’t feel like I’m bracing anymore,” she admitted quietly. “That’s new.”

Her hand slipped back into his coat pocket, reclaiming the warmth.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, “if this is your speed, you should know mine includes stopping for unnecessary snacks and dramatic commentary about moss.”

She glanced over at the luminous green patches stretching across the lava.

“I mean, look at it. It’s thriving. Very resilient. Honestly, aspirational.”

Her shoulder nudged his again.

“But I’m walking it,” she said, echoing him gently. “All of it. Slow. On purpose.”

A tiny pause.

“And if I slip,” she added with a small, mischievous smile, “you’re absolutely catching me. I refuse to become part of the landscape.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his arms automatically banding around her to pull her flush against his chest. The shock of the Icelandic wind was entirely neutralized by the sudden, solid heat of her body pressed into his. He rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a second as the wool of her coat scratched pleasantly against his jaw.

"Oat milk," he repeated, the words vibrating deep in his chest. He laughed, a quiet, rough sound that got immediately swallowed by the open air. "You say you want the oat milk fights, but wait until it’s 7 AM on a Tuesday, I’ve bought the barista blend instead of the unsweetened vanilla, and suddenly the poetry is dead and we are at war."

He tilted his head down to meet her kiss, his mouth opening soft and pliant against hers. It wasn't the frantic, desperate kind of kiss they used to share in the back of cramped tour vans or dimly lit studio booths back in 2021. This was different. It was unhurried. It was a promise. It tasted like cold air and mint and absolute certainty.

When she pulled back and tucked her hand back into his pocket, he squeezed her fingers, his thumb resuming its rhythmic, grounding stroke over her knuckles.

I don't feel like I'm bracing anymore.

The admission hit him squarely behind the ribs. For years, he’d known she was holding her breath around him—waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the schedule, the press, or his own restless, chaotic energy to blow up whatever fragile peace they’d managed to build. Hearing that she’d finally let her guard down, that she was actually resting her weight against him? It felt like he’d just been handed the keys to the city.

"I'll take the dramatic moss commentary," Ben said, turning his gaze back to the neon-green patches clinging stubbornly to the black rock. "I respect the moss. It knows what it's about. It’s got a very strong indie-survivalist brand going on. Very DIY."

He bumped his hip against hers, gently urging them back into a slow walk along the wooden planks. The boards creaked softly under their boots, a steady, rhythmic metronome against the vast silence.

"And as for catching you," he added, throwing a sideways glance at her, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. "I think that’s literally in my job description now. Right under 'Not buying the wrong oat milk' and 'Providing body heat in sub-zero climates.'"

He shifted his grip on her hand, lacing their fingers together even tighter inside the fleece-lined pocket.

"You’re not becoming part of the landscape on my watch, Cleo," he murmured, a teasing smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained entirely sincere. "I’m far too selfish for that. I need you in the kitchen, judging my grocery choices."

He paused, his boots halting on the wooden planks for a fraction of a second as his brain abruptly caught up with his mouth.

"Wait. No. Hold on," he backtracked immediately, his eyes widening as a spike of panic cut through the Icelandic chill. "Not in the kitchen like—like some 1950s, patriarchal, 'make me a pot roast' kind of way. I just meant—" He gestured frantically with his free hand, suddenly extremely earnest. "Because of the milk. The fridge is in the kitchen. That’s where the oat milk lives."

He squeezed her hand inside his pocket, looking genuinely horrified at his own phrasing while the wind carried the sound of her quiet laughter.

"You can judge my groceries from the living room," he insisted, talking fast now, desperate to clear his name. "Or the driveway. Honestly, I will bring the cartons to you wherever you are for a visual inspection. I am a deeply progressive modern man, Cleo. Please don't cancel me on a volcano."

He let out a long exhale when her laughter warmed the air between them, his own panicked grin returning as he relaxed back into his stride.

He looked out at the jagged, frozen expanse, feeling a profound, dizzying sense of scale. The world out here was ancient and massive and entirely indifferent to them, but right here, on a narrow wooden path suspended over hardened lava, everything felt perfectly sized. The volume of his life—the noise, the expectations, the constant forward motion—had finally been dialed down to a hum.

"Slow and on purpose," he echoed, his voice dropping an octave, stripping away the humor for just a second to let her know he meant every syllable. "I like the sound of that. Let's go look at some more rocks."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo stayed folded into him when he pulled her close, the Icelandic wind cutting sharp across her back while his warmth settled solid and anchoring at her front. The wool of his coat was slightly damp from the mist in the air, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. His laugh rumbled through him before it reached her ears.

“Barista blend?” she murmured, lifting her face just enough to look up at him, mock-offended. “Benjamin. That’s not a tiny oversight. That’s a direct attack on domestic harmony.”

Her mouth softened anyway, and she leaned up to kiss him—slow, deliberate, letting it linger. The air tasted clean and metallic, the kind of cold that made everything sharper. His lips were warm, mint lingering faintly, and the kiss didn’t rush. It didn’t grab. It settled. It felt like something placed carefully where it belonged.

When she pulled back, she slipped her hand back into the deep pocket of his coat, reclaiming the fleece-lined warmth. She curled her fingers into his palm, feeling his thumb resume that steady rhythm across her knuckles, and something in her chest unclenched in response.

At the moss commentary, she turned her gaze outward, toward the impossible green clinging stubbornly to black volcanic rock. The moss looked soft from a distance, but she knew it was resilient—slow-growing, patient, thriving in what should have been inhospitable.

“It does have integrity,” she said thoughtfully. “No marketing team. No dramatic reinvention. Just quietly surviving catastrophic fire and minding its business.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Honestly? That’s a very strong long-term strategy.”

When he bumped his hip against hers and started reciting his updated job description, her mouth twitched.

“Providing body heat in sub-zero climates,” she repeated, nodding gravely. “Essential infrastructure. Government funded.”

She let herself be nudged forward, the wooden planks creaking beneath their boots in a slow, steady rhythm. The sound echoed faintly across the open field, swallowed almost immediately by the vast quiet.

Then—

“I need you in the kitchen—”

She slowed.

Very slowly.

Her head turned toward him in one smooth motion, one eyebrow lifting with surgical precision. The side-eye she gave him was controlled. Measured. Devastating.

“In the kitchen,” she repeated evenly.

She watched panic bloom across his face like frost creeping over glass. The frantic clarification. The refrigerator geography lecture. The deeply progressive modern man manifesto delivered at breakneck speed while standing on a volcano.

She held the stare for exactly one more beat.

Then she laughed.

Not small. Not polite.

Warm and bright and completely uncontained, the sound whipping away in the wind.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, shaking her head. “You absolute menace.”

She stepped closer again, sliding her free hand inside his coat to rest flat against his ribs. She could feel the warmth of him through the knit of his sweater.

“I know what you meant,” she assured him, still smiling. “And before you self-destruct further? It doesn’t sound so bad.”

Her voice softened just slightly.

“I grew up watching my parents in a kitchen,” she continued. “My mom cooking because she genuinely loved it. My dad hovering because he genuinely loved her. Sometimes it looked old-school from the outside—she’d be stirring something on the stove while he dried dishes behind her—but it never felt unequal.”

She shrugged lightly.

“It was just… teamwork. Care. Back and forth. No one keeping score.”

Her thumb began tracing small, absent circles against his side without her thinking about it.

“I don’t mind the thought of taking care of you sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “Making dinner. Arguing about milk. Pretending to be scandalized when you absolutely sabotage our fridge.”

She leaned up and brushed a quick kiss against his mouth, softer this time. Familiar.

“Not because I have to,” she clarified gently. “Because I want to.”

Then her expression sharpened playfully.

“And if you ever tried to assign me pot roast duty like it was policy, I would absolutely report you to the nearest lava fissure.”

She slipped her arm fully around his waist again as they resumed walking, their boots thudding softly against the planks.

“But honestly?” she added after a few steps, glancing sideways at him. “We’re not exactly the gold standard for traditional domestic sequencing anyway.”

She tilted her head, wind tugging loose strands of her hair across her cheek.

“In the classic timeline, we’re supposed to get married first. Then babies. Then milk wars.”

Her lips curved.

“We skipped straight to ‘let’s try for a child while debating oat milk on top of ancient lava.’”

She huffed a soft laugh.

“Very old-school. Very conventional.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly against his.

“We’re doing this whole thing backwards.”

The boards creaked beneath them as she slowed just enough to step in front of him for a second, walking backward so she could see his face clearly against the pale sky.

“But backwards compared to who?” she asked.

Her expression shifted—still warm, but steadier now.

“We’re not rushing because we’re scared. We’re not checking boxes. We’re not trying to fix something broken.”

Her fingers tightened around his inside the pocket.

“We’re choosing it. In the order that feels right to us.”

The wind lifted the ends of her coat, snapping it lightly against her legs.

“Maybe our order is baby first. Wedding later. Or wedding during. Or both chaotic at once.”

She smiled, softer.

“Maybe we argue about milk for three years and then throw a party.”

She leaned in and brushed her nose lightly against his, their foreheads nearly touching.

“We’re doing it our way,” she said quietly. “That’s the only version that makes sense to me.”

She turned forward again, guiding him down the narrow wooden path suspended over black rock and luminous moss.

“Slow and on purpose,” she repeated, the words settling between them like something solid. “Even if it looks sideways from the outside.”

She squeezed his hand once more inside the warmth of his pocket and nodded toward the endless stretch of green clinging stubbornly to stone.

“Come on,” she added lightly. “Let’s go admire more emotionally stable greenery.”

And she walked with him into the wind, steady and unbraced, exactly where she meant to be.

Cleo let the silence settle again after her last joke, the wind filling in the spaces where words weren’t needed.

She tightened her hold on him as they continued farther down the wooden bridge, the planks stretching like a thin ribbon across the hardened lava. The moss seemed brighter here—almost electric against the black rock, glowing in stubborn patches like it had claimed victory over something ancient and furious.

A small group of visitors approached from the opposite direction—two older hikers bundled in windbreakers and knit caps, moving carefully, pausing every few steps to take photos. Cleo instinctively shifted slightly closer to Ben, not out of fear of being seen, but out of habit. Proximity was her comfort language.

She offered the hikers a polite, easy smile as they passed.

“Hi,” she said warmly, voice gentle against the wind.

One of them nodded back, murmuring something about how beautiful it was today. Cleo glanced out across the lava field and agreed.

“It feels like it’s holding its breath,” she added softly.

Once they passed, she slipped her hand deeper into Ben’s pocket again, fingers lacing with his. The world here felt wide but quiet, even with other people moving through it. No one was rushing. No one was shouting. Just boots on wood. Wind. Distant camera shutters.

Another couple came up behind them—mid-twenties, laughing too loudly, one of them slipping slightly on the frost-dusted planks. Cleo’s lips curved.

“That was us once,” she murmured under her breath.

Not unkindly. Just observant.

She slowed slightly to let them pass, stepping aside near a small widening in the bridge where the railing dipped lower. The girl glanced at Ben for half a second too long—recognition flickering—and Cleo noticed it without reacting. She’d grown past that tightness. Instead, she leaned into him deliberately, casual but unmistakable.

He was with her.

She tipped her head up toward him once the couple moved on.

“See?” she said lightly. “We’re practically locals now. Blending in. Very mysterious moss enthusiasts.”

Her thumb traced slow circles over his knuckles inside his coat pocket as they resumed walking.

The bridge narrowed again, the drop to the lava field below more visible now. The rock wasn’t smooth—it was rippled and folded, frozen mid-motion, like waves stopped in time. In some places, it had split open into deep fissures that looked bottomless.

Cleo slowed to peer over one of them, careful but curious.

“Imagine this glowing,” she said quietly. “Imagine it moving.”

She straightened and looked at him again, wind tugging strands of hair across her cheek.

“I’m glad we’re not the glowing, exploding version anymore,” she added, softer. “I like this part. The cooled-down part.”

She squeezed his hand again and kept walking, boots thudding gently in rhythm.

A few more visitors appeared in the distance—some walking alone, others clustered in pairs. The bridge hummed faintly with shared footsteps, but it never felt crowded. Just human. Just passing through something older than all of them.

Cleo exhaled slowly, watching her breath dissolve into the air.

“Do you think,” she asked lightly, glancing up at him again, “that in fifty years someone will walk over us metaphorically and call it scenic?”

Her lips curved.

“‘Ah yes, here lies the legendary Oat Milk War of 2030.’”

She bumped her shoulder against his gently, smiling.

Then, more seriously, as they reached a bend in the bridge that curved slightly upward—

“I don’t feel small here,” she admitted quietly. “I feel… proportioned.”

She looked out at the vast black landscape, then back at him.

“And I feel steady.”

She nudged him forward again, reclaiming their slow pace.

“Come on,” she said softly. “There’s more bridge.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

The wind picked up, a sudden, sharp gust that whistled through the porous volcanic rock and rattled the wooden handrails of the path. Ben didn't just flinch at the "patriarchal pot roast" threat; he seemed to physically recoil, his shoulders bunching up toward his ears as he processed the potential for a lava-fissure reporting.

"Lava fissure reporting. Right. Noted. Adding that to the 'Things That Will End Me' list, right under 'Accidentally suggesting a juice cleanse,'" he muttered, though the sheer relief in his voice was palpable as her laughter broke the tension. He watched her laugh—really watched her—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners and the way the sound seemed to momentarily push back the oppressive, grey weight of the sky.

He didn't pull his hand out of the pocket. If anything, he pressed deeper into the fleece, seeking the friction of her skin.

"Teamwork," he repeated, the word tasting better than 'domesticity.' "I can do teamwork. I’m a very collaborative artist, Cleo. I’m excellent at backing vocals. If you’re the lead singer in the kitchen, I’m the guy on the tambourine making sure the rhythm doesn’t drop. I’ll dry the hell out of those dishes."

He slowed his pace as she turned to walk backward, his eyes locked on hers. The way she looked at him—unfiltered, framed by the wild, wind-whipped strands of her hair—made the vastness of the Icelandic interior feel strangely intimate, like they were the only two people on a planet that had only just finished cooling.

"Backwards," he mused, a crooked, self-deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, we’ve never really been great at the linear stuff, have we? We didn't do the 'coffee at 3 PM and a polite movie' phase. We went straight to 'The World is Ending and I Need to Be Near You' in 2020. We’ve been living in the finale since the pilot episode."

He stopped walking entirely, forcing her to halt as well. He reached out with his free hand, catching a stray lock of her hair and tucking it behind her ear, his cold fingers lingering for a second against her flushed skin.

"I don't care about the sequence," he said, his voice dropping, losing the frantic, comedic edge and replacing it with something heavy and resonant. "The traditional timeline is for people who aren't us. It's for people who didn't have to break apart and find each other again in the dark. If the baby comes first, then that kid is just going to have a front-row seat to how much I adore their mother. They’ll get to see the wedding from the hip. That’s a pretty good view."

He leaned in, his forehead coming to rest against hers. The tip of his red nose brushed hers, a tiny point of freezing contact that made him chuckle softly.

"Sage or Briar... they're going to be born into a 'Wellness Menace' household where the milk is wrong, the music is too loud, and their parents are obsessed with each other," he whispered. "It sounds like a masterpiece to me."

He pulled back just enough to look at her again, his expression shifting as a group of hikers passed by. He watched her smile at them—that easy, graceful warmth she wore so well—and felt a proprietary hum in his blood. When she mentioned feeling 'proportioned,' he nodded, his gaze drifting out over the black waves of the lava field.

"Proportioned. Yeah," he agreed softly. "It’s hard to have a big ego when you’re standing on a thousand years of cooled-down rage. It puts the milk wars into perspective."

He nudged her back into motion, their boots resuming that steady thud-thud on the planks.

"And for the record," he added, a spark of his usual mischief returning to his eyes as they rounded a bend toward a particularly impressive cliff of obsidian-flecked rock. "If we're going to be 'mysterious moss enthusiasts,' I think we need a better backstory for the hikers. Maybe we’re exiled royalty? Or we’re here searching for a rare, medicinal lichen that cures cynicism?"

He squeezed her hand inside the pocket, pulling her shoulder tight against his side.
"Fifty years from now, I hope someone walks this path and hears a faint, ghostly echo of us arguing about whether or not 'barista blend' is a valid lifestyle choice," he teased. "I want our bickering to be part of the local folklore. The Haunting of the Unsweetened Vanilla."

He looked ahead at the bridge as it climbed a small rise, the steam from the distant lagoon still visible as a faint, ghostly veil on the horizon.

"More bridge," he echoed, his thumb tracing a slow, contented line over her wrist. "I'm in no rush to get to the end of it. As long as there's a snack at some point, I can walk this for the next decade."

He paused, a thought striking him.

"Wait, did Jax tell you about the waterfall yesterday? The one behind the hidden cave?" He glanced at her, his eyes bright with the memory. "He almost fell in trying to get a photo of a rock that looked like a 'sad potato.' If we’re doing 'slow and on purpose,' I might have to take you there tomorrow. It’s significantly less civilized than this, but the moss is even more aspirational. It’s practically a forest."

He pulled her closer as the wind howled again, a low, mournful sound that seemed to validate the ancientness of the land.

"I've got the warmth covered," he reminded her, his voice dropping back into that adoring rumble. "I'm essential infrastructure, remember? You're stuck with the heating bill."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed when he recoiled at the lava-fissure threat, the sound carried sideways by the wind and torn thin before it could fully echo.

“Good,” she said lightly, eyes narrowing in playful warning. “Fear keeps you sharp. We can’t have you out here casually suggesting patriarchal pot roasts on sacred volcanic ground.”

The gust that followed whistled through the honeycombed rock below them, a hollow, almost musical sound that made the wooden rails tremble. Cleo instinctively leaned into him, her shoulder pressing into his ribs, not out of fragility—but because it felt natural. Anchored.

At his tambourine speech, she tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Tambourine is a respectable instrument,” she conceded. “Underrated. Crucial to vibe maintenance.”

Her gaze drifted outward as they resumed walking. The lava around them wasn’t smooth—it was frozen mid-collapse, ridged and folded like black ocean swells that had stiffened in place. In some places it formed sharp, twisted ropes of stone; in others, it had fractured into jagged shards that looked almost glasslike. The moss softened everything. A luminous green that shouldn’t have existed here, thriving in cracks, hugging contours, patient.

When he said they’d been living in the finale since the pilot, her mouth curved—not amused, exactly. More knowing.

“That’s accurate,” she murmured. “We skipped the cute exposition and went straight to emotional climax.”

She slowed when he stopped, letting him tuck the windblown strand behind her ear. His fingers were cold, but the touch was deliberate, careful. She watched his face as he spoke about the timeline—the order of things—and the sincerity in his voice settled deep.

She didn’t interrupt.

When he mentioned a baby watching them get married from the hip, something fragile flickered behind her eyes. Not fear. Not even nerves.

Recognition.

“They’d get a very chaotic origin story,” she said softly. “But a clear one.”

Her hands slid up beneath his coat, flattening against his sides through the knit of his sweater, absorbing warmth. The wind pressed her coat against her legs, the hem snapping lightly around her calves.

“Wellness Menace household,” she repeated, smiling faintly. “I think that sounds… full.”

Not perfect. Not polished.

Full.

A group of hikers passed again—boots crunching softly against frost dusting the planks. One woman paused to photograph a particularly dramatic outcropping where the lava had bubbled and collapsed into a cavernous hollow. Cleo glanced at it too—the inside dark, shadowed, lined with mineral veins that caught the pale light like fractured obsidian.

When he echoed her word—proportioned—she nodded slowly.

“It’s hard to feel catastrophic out here,” she said. “The land already did that. It doesn’t need help.”

The path curved slightly upward, and from this higher angle they could see further—the lava field stretching endlessly, broken only by moss and distant ridges of hardened flow. The lagoon’s steam hovered faintly in the distance like a breath the earth hadn’t fully exhaled.

At the exiled royalty suggestion, she huffed a soft laugh.

“Exiled royalty feels dramatic,” she said. “I prefer ‘quietly researching rare lichen with mysterious funding.’”

She squeezed his hand inside the pocket.

“We have a grant. It’s very exclusive. Very moss-based.”

When he started talking about their ghostly milk arguments becoming folklore, she grinned wider.

“The Haunting of Unsweetened Vanilla is absolutely going to be a cautionary tale,” she agreed. “Children will be warned about improper plant-based substitutions.”

The bridge climbed a little steeper now, the wooden boards creaking louder under their weight. Wind rushed across the open field, stronger at this elevation. Cleo lifted her chin into it, eyes narrowing slightly against the sting.

At the mention of the waterfall, she glanced sideways at him.

“A sad potato?” she repeated. “You’re telling me a grown man risked hypothermia for emotionally resonant produce?”

She shook her head, smiling.

“Yes,” she decided. “We’re going. But we’re not slipping into glacial death over melancholic vegetables.”

The moss here thickened along the base of a black rock wall that rose sharply beside the path. It climbed the stone like velvet, softening edges that had once been molten violence. In some cracks, tiny pools of water had gathered—dark mirrors reflecting the pale sky.

When he reminded her about being essential infrastructure, she slid her arm fully around his waist this time, tucking herself against him as another gust tore across the ridge.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’m absolutely outsourcing heating responsibilities.”

Her cheek pressed briefly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath layers of wool and cotton. She breathed in the clean, mineral scent of cold air mixed faintly with him.

They walked a few more steps in quiet, the boards thudding steadily beneath them.

“You know,” she added after a moment, glancing up at him, “if we do this for the next decade like you suggested, we’re going to need stronger boots.”

Her eyes flicked out over the vast expanse again.

“But I wouldn’t mind it.”

The wind howled low and distant, like something ancient shifting in its sleep. The bridge stretched onward, narrow and deliberate, cutting through cooled fury and stubborn life.

She squeezed his hand once more inside the warmth of his pocket.

“More bridge,” she said softly. “I’m not in a rush either.”

Cleo kept walking, but her pace slowed—not from fatigue, but from wanting to take it in properly.

The bridge leveled out again, stretching straight across a section of lava that looked almost braided. The rock had twisted over itself in thick, frozen ropes, ridges catching the pale light so that the surface shifted between matte charcoal and faint silver sheen. In the deeper grooves, frost had settled overnight, turning the black into something dusted and fragile-looking.

She tilted her head slightly, studying it.

“It looks soft from far away,” she murmured. “Like you could lie down in it.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“And then you remember it would absolutely tear you apart.”

A few more visitors moved toward them—quiet this time. A middle-aged man with a camera slung around his neck paused to let them pass first, offering a polite nod. Cleo returned it with a small smile, the kind that didn’t invite conversation but didn’t close the door either.

She felt the brief flicker of recognition in his eyes—curiosity, maybe—but it didn’t linger. Out here, everyone was small. Fame didn’t compete well with geology.

She liked that.

When the path widened again, she stepped closer to the railing and leaned slightly over it, careful, studying a long fissure that split the lava field open like a scar. It wasn’t deep enough to be terrifying, but it felt significant. A seam. A memory of movement.

Her hand slipped from his pocket and found his wrist instead, thumb resting against his pulse.

“It’s strange,” she said quietly, eyes still on the dark split in the rock. “How something can look violent forever but not actually be violent anymore.”

She glanced up at him then, wind catching the edges of her coat again.

“We did that.”

Not proud. Not triumphant.

Just factual.

She stepped back toward him and slid her hand back into the pocket of his coat, reclaiming the warmth, reclaiming the small contained space where their fingers could lace together without the wind intruding.

The bridge dipped slightly, leading them toward a lower section where the moss was thicker—almost carpet-like in certain stretches. It blanketed the stone in rolling, uneven mounds, luminous against the muted sky. In some places it climbed vertically, clinging to rock faces like stubborn hope.

She couldn’t help smiling at that.

“Very aspirational,” she said softly, nodding toward the greener section. “I want that level of commitment to recovery.”

The steam from the lagoon drifted faintly across the horizon behind them now, ghostlike and distant. Ahead, the land opened up into something flatter, the bridge threading carefully between natural ridges and shallow depressions filled with rainwater.

She tightened her arm around his waist again, instinctive as the wind picked up once more.

“I like that this doesn’t rush you,” she admitted. “The path forces you to go one direction. One step at a time. You can’t cut across. You can’t shortcut it.”

She looked down at their boots, synchronized, thudding in quiet rhythm.

“That feels… right.”

Her gaze lifted again to the horizon, where the sky shifted from pale grey to a faint, almost lavender tint near the edges of the clouds.

“And if we end up with Sage or Briar or whoever they decide to be,” she added lightly, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “I want them to know this version of us. Not the eruption. The cooled ground.”

She squeezed his hand gently.

“The part where we walk slow because we want to. Not because we’re afraid of slipping.”

Another pair of hikers appeared in the distance, tiny against the vastness. Cleo exhaled, breath visible in the cold air, and leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

“We’re not small here,” she said softly. “We’re just… correctly sized.”

She lifted her head again and nodded forward.

“Okay,” she added, tone warming. “Tell me about this sad potato waterfall. I need to assess the level of emotional damage before I agree to future expeditions.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stopped walking.

He didn't pull her to a halt abruptly, just let his momentum ebb until they were standing still on the narrow wooden planks, the wind whipping around them in an invisible, freezing tide. He looked down at her hand, where her thumb had settled against his pulse over the dark, jagged fissure in the rock.

We did that.

He stared at the split in the earth—a violent, permanent scar that was now just a quiet part of the scenery. He swallowed hard, the cold air catching in his throat. He remembered the feeling of that tectonic rupture back in 2021, the absolute certainty that he had broken something he could never fix. But looking at her now, feeling the steady, calm weight of her thumb against his skin, he realized the rock hadn't just cooled. It had settled into something stronger.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice thick, rougher than the wind. "We did."

He lifted his free hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against her cold cheek.

"And for the record," he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth before lifting to meet her eyes, "if Sage or Briar ever ask about the fire, I’m going to tell them the truth. I’ll tell them I was an idiot who didn't know how to handle the heat. But I’ll also tell them that their mother is the reason the ground is solid now."

He let his hand drop, sliding his arm back around her waist to pull her tight against his side as they started walking again. He liked her phrasing—correctly sized. It took the pressure off. Out here, he wasn't a frontman, and she wasn't managing a dozen different crises. They were just two people taking up exactly as much space as they were meant to.

When she demanded the story of the sad potato, a laugh burst out of him, sharp and bright, startling a raven that had been resting on a nearby crag.

"Okay, so picture this," Ben began, gesturing broadly with his free hand, painting the scene against the pale Icelandic sky. "We drive for an hour off the main road, right? Middle of nowhere. It’s raining sideways. We hike through this canyon that looks like the set of a fantasy movie where everyone dies in the second act. And then the canyon just... opens up."

He dropped his hand, his eyes widening slightly as he remembered the sheer scale of it.
"It’s this massive, hidden waterfall pouring over a sheer cliff of black basalt," he told her, his voice echoing the awe he'd felt yesterday. "The water is aggressive, Cleo. It’s deafening. It’s kicking up so much mist you can barely breathe, and the river at the bottom is just churning, icy violence. It’s majestic. It’s terrifying."

He shook his head, a wry, affectionate grin spreading across his face.
"And then there’s Jax."

Ben sighed, leaning his head against hers as they walked. "I’m blaming your sister for the first part. Phoebe’s got him taking 'moody landscape' photos now. He was out there talking about the exposure and the leading lines, looking for the perfect shot. It’s disgusting. He’s completely domesticated. He asked me to step to the left because my neon beanie was 'ruining the melancholy palette.'"

Cleo’s laughter vibrated against his ribs, and Ben squeezed her waist, entirely pleased with himself.

"But the potato," Ben clarified, pointing a finger in the air for emphasis, "the potato was entirely him. His weird brain alone."

"He wanders way too close to the edge of the bank," Ben continued, adopting a tone of exhausted disbelief. "The rocks are slick. The drop-off is fatal. I’m yelling at him to back up, calculating how I'm going to explain to Phoebe that her boyfriend was swept out to sea. And he just points down at the base of the falls. He points at this wet, lumpy, incredibly unremarkable boulder getting absolutely pounded by glacial runoff."

Ben paused for dramatic effect, letting the wind whistle through the silence.

"And he yells over the roar of this magnificent, ancient waterfall, 'Ben! Look at it! It looks like a sad potato!'" Ben shook his head, his face a mask of faux-tragedy. "He told me it was an allegory for modern existence. He told me it looked like a tuber that had given up. And then he spent ten minutes risking his life to get a photo of it from the 'optimal angle of despair.'"

Ben let out a long breath, looking down at Cleo with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

"So, yes," he concluded, his thumb resuming its slow stroke across her knuckles inside his pocket. "I survived the eruption of our twenties, only to almost watch my best friend die for a melancholic vegetable. I think assessing the emotional damage before future expeditions is a very smart call on your part."

He bumped his shoulder against hers, his dark eyes sparkling. "Though, if you want, I can show you the picture at dinner. He made it his lock screen."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo watched him as he stopped, the shift in his body subtle but unmistakable.

The wind moved around them in long, cold ribbons, threading through the broken lava and rattling softly against the rails of the bridge. For a moment she didn’t say anything. Her thumb stayed where it was against his pulse, steady and warm beneath the cold air.

When he said we did, her eyes drifted down again to the fissure below them.

It really did look permanent. A jagged seam where the earth had once pulled itself apart with unimaginable force. But the moss creeping along its edges softened the violence of it. Green threading into black.

She felt his knuckles brush her cheek and leaned into the touch without thinking.

When he said he’d tell Sage or Briar the truth—about being an idiot who didn’t know how to handle the heat—her mouth curved gently.

“I would expect nothing less,” she said quietly.

Then he added the part about her being the reason the ground was solid now, and she shook her head once, soft but certain.

“You’re not getting away with that version of the story alone,” she said. “The ground cooled because we both learned how to stop erupting.”

Her fingers slipped briefly up his wrist before settling back inside the pocket when they started walking again, reclaiming the warmth there.

As he launched into the waterfall story, she listened with growing amusement, her gaze drifting over the landscape as if she could see the scene he was describing.

The lava around them had shifted again—now rising in thick ridges like waves frozen mid-crash. In the dips between them, water had collected into shallow pools that mirrored the pale sky. Moss grew thicker here, almost carpet-like in some places, glowing impossibly green against the black stone.

When he described the canyon and the rain and the violent waterfall, her brows lifted slightly.

“That sounds extremely serene,” she said dryly. “A peaceful spa day.”

At the mention of Jax becoming a moody landscape photographer, she snorted softly.

“Phoebe’s influence,” she said knowingly. “Give it six more months and he’ll own a wool sweater and talk about light quality unironically.”

She was already smiling when he reached the sad potato reveal, but when he repeated Jax yelling about a tuber that had given up, she lost it completely.

Her laugh came out bright and startled, echoing across the open lava field.

“A melancholic potato,” she repeated, shaking her head. “That is… devastatingly specific.”

She imagined Jax crouched dangerously close to a roaring waterfall, risking his life for existential produce, and pressed her lips together to keep from laughing again.

“Phoebe is absolutely going to frame that photo somewhere in their house,” she said. “Probably above the couch.”

They walked a few more steps, the bridge curving slightly between two higher ridges of rock. A raven lifted from one of the outcrops as they passed, its wings cutting dark against the grey sky.

When he mentioned showing her the photo at dinner, she nodded immediately.

“Oh, I’m absolutely seeing it,” she said. “I need to evaluate the emotional depth of this potato.”

Her eyes flicked up to his.

“But tomorrow,” she added.

She glanced out over the lava again, the wind pushing strands of hair across her cheek.

“I want to see it in person. The waterfall.”

Her tone softened just a little.

“It does sound peaceful, actually,” she admitted. “Terrifying waterfalls, existential vegetables… the whole thing.”

Her hand tightened around his inside the pocket.

“And I want to experience as much of this as I can with you,” she said.

Her gaze drifted ahead down the bridge again where it stretched over another rolling section of moss-covered lava.

For a long time, most of their memories had been cramped and hurried—tour buses, green rooms, back seats of cars between cities. Always moving. Always loud.

“This,” she said quietly, gesturing lightly at the vast open land around them, “I like this version better.”

Her shoulder nudged his.

“We’re making memories that don’t involve a sticky tour bus floor or someone banging on the door because you’re late for soundcheck.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Sad potato waterfall included.”

She squeezed his hand once more.

“So yes,” she concluded lightly, glancing up at him again. “Show me the photo tonight.”

Her grin widened just slightly.

“And tomorrow we go meet the potato.”

The bridge dipped slightly where the planks met a section that stayed shaded most of the day. A thin, almost invisible skin of frost had settled there, catching the pale light just enough to look harmless.

Cleo didn’t see it until her boot touched down.

The sole slid.

Not dramatically—just enough for the ground to disappear from under her for a split second.

Her body reacted before her brain did. Her grip tightened on his hand inside his pocket while her other arm shot out instinctively toward the railing. Her foot skidded sideways across the board with a sharp scrape.

“Oh—”

The sound came out half laugh, half surprise.

But she didn’t fully fall. Her balance tipped, weight pitching forward—

—and Ben’s arm was already there.

His hand caught firmly at her waist just as her other foot planted again. The movement pulled her back against him, the momentum carrying her into his chest.

For a second they just stood there, the wind still whipping past them, her breath caught somewhere between startled and amused.

Cleo blinked, looking down at the plank that had betrayed her like it personally offended her.

“Well,” she said calmly, as if nothing had happened, “that was humiliating.”

Her hand slid up his arm automatically where he held her, fingers curling into the sleeve of his coat while she steadied herself.

She looked up at him, eyes bright with the leftover adrenaline.

“I want to formally apologize for almost becoming part of the landscape five minutes after you specifically said that wasn’t allowed.”

Her mouth curved, a little breathless.

She glanced back at the frosted plank again and nudged it lightly with the toe of her boot.

“Sabotage,” she declared. “Clearly.”

The wind tugged at her coat again, but this time she leaned more fully into him, one hand still resting at his chest while she recovered the warmth she’d lost in the brief stumble.

“On the bright side,” she added lightly, “you got to fulfill your job description.”

Her fingers slid down to find his hand again, reclaiming their place inside the pocket.

“Catching me.”

She squeezed once, then looked ahead down the bridge where the path curved between two larger lava ridges that rose like frozen waves on either side.

“Very strong performance,” she said approvingly.

Then she stepped carefully forward again, more deliberate this time.

“But let’s not make a habit of testing your infrastructure, okay? I’d like to keep the lava fissure reports theoretical.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s laugh came out low and helpless into her hair the second her boots found traction again—half relief, half are you kidding me—and he didn’t even try to hide it.

He kept his hand at her waist for a beat longer than strictly necessary, fingers spread like he was personally offended the bridge had tried something. Like he was going to file a complaint with Iceland’s entire geological department.

“Sabotage,” he echoed solemnly, eyes flicking down at the frosted plank like it had committed a crime. “Absolutely. That board looked you in the face and chose violence.”

He shifted behind her, still close, still warm, and then—because he was who he was—he leaned in with exaggerated seriousness.

“I’d like to formally announce,” he said, “that your apology has been accepted by the Department of Essential Infrastructure.”

His thumb traced a slow circle against her side, right where he’d caught her, like he couldn’t help himself. Like the contact was part reassurance, part mine to hold—not ownership, just instinct.

“And for the record,” he added, voice dropping into something smug, “that was a ten out of ten catch. Very cinematic. Very heroic. If there were witnesses, I would be insufferable about it.”

He finally let her reclaim their hand in the pocket, but he didn’t move away. He stayed tucked behind her shoulder like a draft-proof barrier, his coat pocket turned into their tiny private room in the middle of a lava field.

When she called it a strong performance, he made a face like he’d just been awarded something.

“Thank you,” he said, utterly pleased with himself. “I’ve trained my whole life for that exact moment. Years of being emotionally available and also… having reflexes.”

He glanced down at the plank again as they started forward, slower now, careful together.

“I’m just saying,” he went on, charmingly aggrieved, “you try to become part of the landscape, and suddenly I’m the one who has to carry you out like a Victorian heroine. Which I would do, obviously. But it’d really mess with my brand.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly, the kind of touch that said I’m here more than it said joke.

Then, as the wind cut through again and she leaned into him, his voice softened without losing the warmth.

“I like you alive,” he murmured. “Preferably not fossilized into a lava ridge. You’re very hard to cuddle that way.”

He paused, then added, “Also, you’d be terrible at being a tourist attraction. You’d refuse to pose.”

A beat. His grin returned, quick and bright.

“Okay. New plan,” he announced, nudging their joined hands deeper into the pocket like he was locking them in place. “We walk like seniors in a mall. Slow. Safe. Aggressively unsexy. No sudden movements.”

He tilted his head toward the rest of the boardwalk, where the planks curved between black rock rises and glowing moss.

“And if you so much as think about ice-skating again,” he said, eyes narrowing with mock authority, “I’m carrying you. No debate.”

He took another step, then another, settling them back into rhythm—his body angled slightly between her and the railing like he couldn’t help guarding her from the elements, from gravity, from rogue planks with bad intentions.

“Besides,” he added, voice brightening again as if this was the logical conclusion, “I can’t take you to meet the potato tomorrow if you’re currently one with the Earth.”

He glanced down at her with a crooked smile.

“And I’m not explaining to your sister that I lost you to… artisanal frost.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a quiet breath once her boots felt steady again, the tension leaving her shoulders in a slow, embarrassed exhale. She glanced down at the plank that had nearly taken her out, then back up at him with a small, sheepish smile tugging at her mouth.

“Well,” she said lightly, brushing a strand of windblown hair out of her face, “I’m glad the Department of Essential Infrastructure is feeling generous today.”

Her eyes flicked down to where his hand had been at her waist a moment ago, the warmth of it still lingering through the layers of wool and cold air. She didn’t comment on it directly—just leaned a fraction closer to him as they started walking again, their joined hands tucked deeper in the pocket.

“And thank you,” she added after a beat, quieter but sincere. “For the… heroic intervention.”

The word came with a hint of amusement, but there was real gratitude under it. She knew exactly how close she’d been to landing squarely on the boards.

Cleo glanced ahead at the path as it curved through the dark lava ridges, the moss glowing almost impossibly bright against the black rock. It looked soft from a distance, though she knew it probably wasn’t.

“You’re right, though,” she said thoughtfully. “Becoming part of the Icelandic landscape would’ve been a pretty dramatic choice for day four of the trip.”

She tipped her head slightly toward him, her smile growing a little more playful.

“And it would’ve ruined your brand. You’d spend the rest of the tour explaining how you lost your girlfriend to… hostile flooring.”

The wind swept across the bridge again, colder this time, and Cleo instinctively leaned into his side as they walked. Not clinging—just fitting there naturally while they moved at the slower pace he’d set.

“Senior-in-the-mall walking I can handle,” she agreed. “Very dignified. Very safe.”

She deliberately placed her next step with exaggerated care, as if proving a point, then glanced up at him again with a small grin.

“See? Responsible adult.”

When he mentioned the potato again, she laughed softly under her breath.

“I’m still curious about that, by the way,” she said. “If someone nearly died photographing it, I feel like it deserves at least a brief viewing.”

Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles inside the pocket as they continued down the boardwalk.

“But tomorrow,” she added. “Today I think we should stick to bridges that don’t try to fight me.”

She looked out over the lava field again for a moment, the wind moving the moss in faint ripples between the rock.

Then she bumped his shoulder gently with hers.

“And for the record,” she said, glancing up at him, “I also prefer being alive. Mostly because I like walking places with you.”

Cleo walked another few careful steps beside him, her boots landing deliberately on each plank now like she was honoring the new “senior mall walking” treaty he’d established.

The wind shifted again, pushing across the open lava field and carrying with it the faint mineral smell from the distant lagoon. It tugged at the ends of her hair and made the moss ripple in quiet waves between the black stone ridges.

She was just about to say something else when—

Her stomach growled.

Not subtle. Not delicate. Just a very clear, very audible complaint from somewhere under her sweater.

Cleo froze for half a second mid-step.

Then slowly turned her head toward him.

“…that,” she said calmly, “was geological activity.”

Her mouth twitched.

“Probably unrelated to the lava field.”

She exhaled a small laugh through her nose and gave his hand a gentle squeeze inside the pocket.

“Okay but seriously,” she admitted, glancing ahead at the winding boardwalk, “I think my body just remembered that we had green juice for breakfast and then decided to go walk ten miles across ancient volcanic terrain.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing at the path like it had personally caused the problem.

“Which, in hindsight, feels like poor planning.”

Another quiet rumble from her stomach followed, softer this time but still noticeable enough that she winced and huffed a small embarrassed laugh.

“Wow,” she muttered. “Rude.”

Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug.

“So… when you mentioned snacks earlier,” she said, looking up at him with a hopeful, slightly sheepish smile, “that was less of a philosophical concept and more of an immediate survival requirement.”

They continued walking, the boards creaking softly beneath their boots as the bridge curved deeper through the moss-covered rock.

Cleo leaned lightly into his side again as another gust of wind came through.

“I’m just saying,” she added thoughtfully, “if I pass out from hunger, you’re definitely carrying me out like the Victorian heroine after all.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s first reaction was a full-body effort not to laugh.

He failed.

It started as a sharp exhale through his nose, shoulders bouncing once, then it turned into that low, helpless laugh he always got when she was being deadpan in the face of something undeniably humiliating—like gravity or hunger or the earth itself conspiring.

He kept their hands tucked in his pocket, fingers laced, and glanced down at her with exaggerated seriousness.

“Geological activity,” he repeated, nodding like a scientist. “Yeah. I heard it. Pretty sure the lava field just tried to communicate with you.”

He leaned in a fraction, voice dropping like he was sharing classified information with a very important coworker.

“It’s either that… or you’re secretly a dinosaur.”

He let that hang for half a beat, then added, “Which honestly would explain a lot. The dramatic survival instincts. The intolerance for hostile flooring.”

When she admitted the green juice situation and called it poor planning, he made a face like he was personally offended on her behalf.

“Green juice is a scam,” he said. “It’s lawn clippings in a cup and then everyone acts surprised when you’re starving an hour later. Like—wow—who could’ve predicted.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze inside the pocket, the thumb-circles returning like muscle memory.

Then, without breaking stride, his other hand slipped into the inside pocket of his coat—slow and deliberate. Like this was not his first time smuggling supplies into an expedition.

He pulled something out and held it up between them with a smug little flourish:

A granola bar. Peanut butter. Dark chocolate. The kind that looked vaguely healthy but was absolutely, unapologetically built for survival.

He didn’t offer it right away.

He just stared at it for a second like it was evidence.

Then he looked at her, eyebrows lifted.

“Okay,” he said softly, “first of all—this is why I’m essential infrastructure.”

He nudged it toward her mouth with ridiculous gentleness, like he was feeding a wild animal he didn’t want to startle.

“Second—this is my private snack,” he added, eyes glinting. “The one I haven’t been sharing. Because I knew. I knew you were gonna pretend you were fine until your stomach did… whatever that was.”

He tipped his head toward her with mock severity.

“Take it. Before you collapse and I have to carry you like a Victorian heroine and then you write a think piece about it.”

He paused, then corrected himself with a grin.

“Actually—no—please collapse. Just a little. Let me live out my tragic romance fantasy. I’ll say something dramatic like, ‘She’s fading…’ and then you’ll punch me back to life.”

He held the granola bar closer, finally letting it be an actual offering instead of a performance.

“Eat,” he said, voice warm but firm in that playful way that still felt like care. “I’m not losing you to the combination of oat milk wars and a brisk walk across ancient volcanic terrain.”

As they kept moving, he glanced ahead at the boardwalk with exaggerated suspicion.

“And if the bridge tries you again,” he added, “I’m filing a formal complaint with the Icelandic Boardwalk Council. I’ll be ruthless.”

His eyes slid back to her, softer under the humor.

“Also,” he said lightly, “if you pass out, I’m carrying you. But I’m narrating it like a nature documentary.”

He bumped her shoulder with his, gentle and familiar.

“‘Here we observe the rare lava-field girlfriend in her natural habitat… refusing snacks until it’s almost too late.’”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo stopped walking.

Not dramatically—just enough that the steady creak of the wooden planks beneath their boots paused and the wind swept past them without the rhythm of their steps to interrupt it. The boardwalk curved through the lava field ahead like a narrow ribbon, black rock rising on either side in jagged humps softened by glowing moss.

Her eyes dropped slowly to the granola bar in his hand.

Then they lifted back up to his face.

There was a long, quiet beat where the wind slid through the fissures in the rock and tugged at the ends of her hair.

“…your private snack?” she repeated carefully.

Her brows rose.

One hand came up to press against her chest like she’d just received deeply upsetting personal news.

“Benjamin Wilder,” she said softly, almost reverently, “I thought you loved me.”

Her gaze drifted down again to the granola bar, then back to him, narrowing slightly as if she were reassessing the entire relationship.

“My body,” she continued, tapping two fingers lightly against her stomach through the thick knit of her sweater, “is currently attempting to assemble a human being from scratch.”

The wind lifted the hem of her coat and she shifted closer to him without even thinking about it, still staring at him with quiet accusation.

“And you’ve been walking around Iceland,” she said slowly, “with hidden snacks.”

Another beat.

Cleo lifted her hand between them.

Palm out.

“Nope.”

She shook her head once.

“Mad at you.”

The seriousness lasted approximately two seconds.

Because the moment he nudged the granola bar closer—peanut butter and dark chocolate catching the soft gray daylight—something in her expression cracked instantly.

Her eyes brightened.

“Oh wait—no—give me that.”

She grabbed it out of his hand with surprising speed.

The movement made the boardwalk creak again beneath them, and the moss-covered lava ridges beyond the railing looked almost neon against the dark volcanic stone.

But she wasn’t looking at the landscape anymore.

She was looking directly at the pocket his hand had come out of.

Her eyes narrowed slowly.

“…is there more in there?”

She stepped closer to him immediately, free hand diving into the inside pocket of his coat before he could even respond.

“Benjamin.”

Her fingers brushed fabric, wrappers.

Rustle.

“Benjamin.”

Another rustle.

Her head tilted with focused determination as she dug deeper into the pocket like someone conducting a search.

Then she pulled something out.

Another granola bar.

Her face changed instantly.

“Oh my god.”

She reached back in.

A second one appeared.

“You’ve been hoarding.”

The wind pushed across the boardwalk again, lifting strands of her hair across her cheek while she stared at the small collection of snacks now in her hands like she’d discovered buried treasure.

“You’ve been walking across a frozen lava field,” she continued, incredulous and delighted all at once, “like some kind of foraging woodland creature with emergency provisions.”

Without hesitation, she tucked the first bar into her coat pocket.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Each one slid safely into the deep wool pocket like she was stocking a vault.

She patted the pocket twice, satisfied.

“These are mine now.”

Then she held up her hand again between them, finger raised with mock severity.

“Still mad.”

A tiny pause.

“Very mad.”

She immediately started opening one of the bars.

The wrapper crinkled loudly in the cold air, and the smell of peanut butter drifted faintly between them.

Cleo took a bite.

The relief was immediate and obvious.

Her shoulders dropped a little as she chewed, the cold wind suddenly much less offensive now that food existed.

They started walking again slowly along the boardwalk, the planks curving between low ridges of black volcanic rock where the moss glowed bright green like velvet against the ancient stone.

She leaned lightly into his side again without thinking, chewing thoughtfully.

Her shoulder bumped his.

“Okay,” she said after swallowing, voice noticeably brighter. “But if I pass out later it’s your fault for delaying snack deployment.”

Another bite.

She looked out across the lava field for a moment—the land stretching wide and dark and quiet under the pale sky—before glancing sideways at him again.

“…also,” she added casually, “if you narrate my life like a nature documentary…”

She nudged his arm with her elbow.

“…I’m pushing you into the moss.”

A small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as they continued down the winding bridge, her pocket now suspiciously full of emergency rations.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben froze in place for exactly half a second—the exact half second where her hand disappeared into his coat pocket and his entire soul left his body to go file a complaint.

Not because he was actually mad.

Because he was caught.

And being caught by Cleo was always a full-contact sport.

His eyes widened as she dug deeper, the wrapper-rustle sounding absurdly loud out here in the open, wind-whipped nothingness. He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a plea.

“Okay—okay, hold on—” he started, but it was too late. She was already pulling contraband out like she’d just raided a bunker.

When the second bar surfaced, his mouth fell open.

When the third did, he actually looked over his shoulder as if someone might arrest him for snack crimes.

“Alright,” he said, voice cracking into laughter despite himself, “first of all—this is a gross mischaracterization of what’s happening.”

He gestured vaguely at his coat, at her hands full of loot, at the entire lava field like the setting itself was conspiring.

“I am not hoarding,” he insisted, dead serious. “I am prepared. There’s a difference. One is morally corrupt and selfish. The other is… hot.”

He shot her a look—pure, wounded dignity.

“And you’re acting like I’m some kind of woodland creature—like I’m not a grown man who simply respects… logistics.”

The corner of his mouth twitched when she tucked the bars into her pocket like she was stocking a safe. He watched her pat the pocket twice and swear ownership like she’d just annexed his entire supply chain.

His jaw flexed, working hard to look offended.

“You can’t just—” he began, then stopped because she held up her finger and said she was still mad while actively eating his emergency provisions, and that combination nearly took him out.

He tried again.

“I would like to point out,” he said, walking again as she leaned back into his side, “that I offered you the snack with reverence. I presented it like an artifact. I didn’t delay snack deployment—I curated the moment.”

He glanced down at her, cheeks pink, eyes brighter already, wrapper crinkling like proof of life.

“And yes,” he added, mock stern, “I did have more.”

A beat.

“I always have more.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping like he was confessing something dangerous.

“I have trust issues with breakfast. I never believe it. Breakfast is a liar. Breakfast tells you you’re fine and then abandons you on a bridge.”

He watched her take another bite and couldn’t help smiling, because she looked so instantly better it was almost ridiculous. Like the human body was just a complicated machine that ran on peanut butter and spite.

When she threatened to push him into the moss, he gasped, offended on principle.

“You wouldn’t,” he said, then paused, reconsidered, and corrected himself immediately: “Actually you would. You absolutely would. You’d do it with a calm face and then tell everyone it was geological activity.”

He bumped her shoulder back with his, gentle.

“And for the record,” he continued, “if you shove me into the moss, I’m going to dramatically sink into it like I’m being absorbed by the earth. I’m going to haunt this boardwalk forever. Tourists will come and I’ll whisper, ‘Snack crimes…’ in their ears.”

He tipped his head toward her pocket, now suspiciously full.

“You do realize,” he said, eyes narrowing with playful accusation, “you just stole enough snacks to survive a minor apocalypse. If the silica gods strike again, you’re basically the pantry.”

He glanced at her profile as the wind cut across them again, her face framed by loose strands of hair, mouth still working thoughtfully through a bite.

And he got distracted, because of course he did.

Because she looked soft and fierce and alive in the middle of all this black rock and neon moss, and he loved her so much it made his chest feel too small to hold it.

He cleared his throat like he could physically shake the feeling off.

“Okay,” he said, trying for normal and failing in a way that probably showed on his face. “Truce.”

He lifted their joined hands slightly in his pocket like a peace offering.

“You keep the snacks,” he said generously. “I’ll keep you upright. We’ll both pretend this is an equal exchange.”

Then, with a grin that was pure trouble:

“But if you’re ‘very mad,’ you’re gonna have to punish me later.”

A beat.

He added quickly, deadpan, “Emotionally. With a strongly worded complaint. Maybe in writing. Possibly illustrated.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo slowed a little as they walked, not enough to break the rhythm of their steps but enough that she could turn her head and look at him properly.

The boardwalk curved ahead through a shallow valley of lava rock, the planks pale and slightly frosted where the cold had settled overnight. On either side, the ground was a chaotic field of black volcanic formations—jagged ridges, hollow pockets, and long cooled ripples where ancient lava had hardened mid-flow. Between all of it, the moss glowed bright, almost neon green, spreading like velvet over the stone.

The wind skimmed across the open landscape and tugged at the loose strands of her hair again. Cleo lifted her hand to tuck them behind her ear while she finished chewing her bite of the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling faintly in the quiet.

She swallowed, then turned her head slightly to study him.

“Punish you,” she repeated slowly.

Her tone wasn’t scandalized.

It was curious.

One eyebrow lifted.

“Interesting choice of words, Benjamin.”

Their boots stepped over a slightly uneven plank in the bridge, the wood creaking softly beneath them. The railing beside them rattled faintly when another gust of wind slipped through the open lava field.

Cleo took another bite of the granola bar, chewing thoughtfully while she watched him out of the corner of her eye like she was evaluating new information.

“Because earlier,” she continued casually, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her thumb, “you were claiming moral superiority for your emergency snack preparedness.”

Her hand dipped into the deep pocket of her coat again, adjusting the newly acquired stash with a small, satisfied pat. The faint shape of the bars pressed against the wool like hidden treasure.

“And now,” she said, glancing up at him again, “you’re suggesting I… punish you.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

“That feels like a strategic pivot.”

They walked a few more careful steps along the boardwalk. Ahead of them the path rose slightly, disappearing between taller formations of lava rock where the moss was thicker and brighter, catching what little light filtered through the cloud cover.

Cleo leaned a little closer into his side as another gust of wind slid across the open field, the warmth of him beside her cutting the edge of the cold.

She chewed slowly, still thinking.

“So what exactly does this punishment entail?” she asked, tilting her head toward him.

“Because you mentioned a strongly worded complaint.”

Her mouth curved faintly at the corner.

“And illustrations.”

She took another bite, chewing slowly as she studied him, the wrapper rustling softly in the quiet between the wind.

“I’m just trying to understand the scope of this disciplinary action.”

Her tone remained perfectly reasonable.

“But if I’m going to commit to being ‘very mad,’” she said thoughtfully, “I feel like I should know what my options are.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers as they continued down the bridge, their joined hands still tucked together inside his coat pocket where the warmth pooled between their fingers.

“For example,” she added, glancing up at him again, eyes glinting with curiosity, “is this more of a formal grievance process?”

Another step.

The boards creaked beneath their boots, the lava field stretching endlessly on either side of them.

“Or are we talking about… creative consequences.”

Her gaze flicked down briefly to the pocket where she’d confiscated the snacks, then back to his face.

“Because right now,” she said, lifting the half-eaten granola bar slightly like evidence, “the only crime I see is snack concealment.”

A beat passed as the wind swept across the moss again, making it ripple faintly against the dark stone.

“And I’m still deciding,” she added quietly, her smile growing just a little, “how serious that offense actually is.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s first instinct was to laugh.

His second instinct—stronger, more dangerous—was to look at her the way she was looking at him right now and promptly forget how language worked.

Because she had that tone. The one that sounded perfectly reasonable while she was absolutely, unmistakably, winding a knife in slow motion.

He cleared his throat like that might reset his brain.

It didn’t.

“Well,” he said, drawing the word out with a casualness he did not deserve, “when you put it like that, it sounds like I’m trying to get myself in trouble.”

He glanced sideways at her, mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin. He didn’t pull his hand out of the pocket. If anything, he tucked their joined hands deeper, like he was protecting himself from his own stupidity.

“I’m not,” he added quickly. “I mean—” a beat, then he shrugged, helplessly honest in the most annoying way. “Not on purpose.”

The wind hit them again and she leaned into him, and Ben’s entire face did that thing where it softened without his permission.

He looked away, like he could hide it.

He couldn’t.

“Okay,” he said, suddenly very serious about this nonsense, “the scope of disciplinary action is… flexible. It’s a living document. It evolves based on the severity of the offense and how intimidating you look while eating stolen snacks.”

He nodded toward the granola bar in her hand like it was Exhibit A in a court case.

“Snack concealment,” he echoed. “Yes. A crime. Technically.”

His voice dipped like he was offering sworn testimony.

“But also? A public service. Because if I hadn’t concealed them, you would’ve eaten them yesterday. And then we’d be right back here with your stomach committing acts of terrorism.”

He paused, then added with a small, smug lift of his brows—

“So really, I saved your life.”

A beat.

“And now I’m being threatened with… creative consequences.”

He said it like he was trying to sound worried, but his eyes were betraying him. He looked delighted. Like she’d just offered him his favorite kind of trouble: the kind that came with her smile and her attention and the warmth of her shoulder pressed against his arm.

He turned his head slightly toward her, lowering his voice as if the lava field might gossip.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “Let’s define terms.”

He lifted his free hand—palm up—like he was laying out options on an invisible menu.

“Option one: formal grievance process. Strongly worded complaint. Delivered ieally in front of the fire. I will sit there and take it like a man.”

He nodded once, solemn.

“You may cite sources. You may reference my prior statements about moral superiority. You may call me ‘Benjamin Wilder’ again if you want maximum emotional damage.”

His mouth twitched.

“Option two: illustrated addendum.” He glanced down at her, eyes warm, mischievous. “You draw me a political cartoon. Something humiliating but fair. Like… me as a woodland squirrel hoarding granola bars in my coat.”

He let that hang a beat, then shrugged like he’d accept his fate.

“Option three—” he hesitated just enough to make it annoying, then continued with a straight face, “creative consequences.”

He leaned closer, the edge of his coat brushing her sleeve.

“Which could mean… you confiscate all snacks permanently and I have to earn them back through acts of service. Chopping wood. Making soup. Carrying you over any surface that looks even mildly suspicious.”

His eyes flicked down to the frosted boards beneath their feet.

“I’ll be honest,” he added, “I’m already in a committed relationship with the idea of carrying you. So that’s not really punishment. That’s just… Tuesday.”

He held her gaze then, the grin finally breaking through—boyish and wicked and soft all at once.

“But,” he said, lowering his voice, “if you’re asking whether I’m strategically pivoting because I like the idea of you being in charge of my consequences…”

He shrugged, like he couldn’t help it.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Then, as if to save himself from the direction his own mouth was taking this, he pointed at her coat pocket with mock accusation.

“Also, I’d like to file my own grievance,” he said. “You’ve stolen three bars and you’re acting like you’re the victim here.”

He bumped her shoulder gently.

“That’s not discipline, Cleo. That’s a hostile takeover.”

A beat.

His smile softened, quieter now, like the joke had opened the door for something real to slip through.

“But whatever you decide,” he added, thumb brushing her knuckles inside the pocket, “I’ll accept my punishment with dignity.”

Then he glanced at the half-eaten bar again and muttered, deadpan:

“Unless you make me share that last bite. Then we’re going to war.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo listened to him with that same slow, thoughtful expression she got whenever Ben started explaining something that was very obviously nonsense but delivered with such sincere conviction it almost sounded legitimate.

Almost.

She didn’t interrupt.

That would’ve been too easy.

Instead, she let him talk through the entire presentation—the menu of punishments, the snack-related legal defense, the heroic claim that he had personally saved her life through strategic granola bar concealment—while she walked beside him with her hand still threaded through his inside his coat pocket, warm against the cold air whipping across the lava field.

By the time he finished, Cleo had that look.

The one that meant she’d been thinking.

Which, historically, was never good news for Ben Wilder.

She tilted her head slightly, considering him, eyes drifting over his face like she was evaluating the seriousness of his case.

“Mm,” she murmured thoughtfully.

Then she reached into her coat pocket and broke off the last small bite of the granola bar he’d been so concerned about, popping it into her mouth with deliberate calm.

Her brows lifted faintly as she chewed.

“You’re right,” she said after a moment. “This is complicated.”

The wind tugged loose strands of her hair across her cheek, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand before glancing up at him again.

“Because on one hand,” she continued, “you did conceal snacks from a woman whose body is currently attempting to grow an entire human.”

She gestured faintly toward her stomach.

“That feels… ethically questionable.”

A beat.

“But on the other hand,” she added, nodding slightly, “your argument about preventative snack management is… annoyingly logical.”

Her mouth curved just a little.

“So I suppose the disciplinary process needs to be… thorough.”

Cleo squeezed his hand once inside the pocket, the gesture absentminded but grounding.

They took a few slow steps along the boardwalk, the planks creaking faintly under their boots as the path curved between black ridges of cooled lava and bright, stubborn moss.

When she spoke again, her tone had shifted—still light, but edged with something quieter.

“Obviously,” she said, “this can’t be resolved out here.”

She tipped her chin toward the open lava field like it was an inappropriate courtroom venue.

“Too many environmental distractions.”

Her eyes flicked back to him, calm but unmistakably amused.

“So I think the only fair option,” she went on, “is to postpone judgment until later.”

Ben’s thumb brushed across her knuckles again.

Cleo didn’t look down at their hands.

She looked at him.

“After dinner,” she said.

A small pause.

“Back at the hotel.”

Another step along the boardwalk.

“And then,” she continued evenly, “you can begin the process of earning back your reputation.”

Her expression stayed composed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

“Through acts of service.”

She shrugged one shoulder lightly, like the details were still under review.

“You mentioned soup,” she said. “But I’m not sure that’s going to be sufficient.”

Another glance up at him—longer this time.

“We might need a more… hands-on demonstration of remorse.”

Then she slipped her hand out of his coat pocket briefly just to pat the one holding the stolen snacks.

“For now,” she added sweetly, “I’m confiscating the evidence.”

She stepped forward again, falling back into stride beside him.

“And Benjamin Wilder?”

Her voice softened just slightly as she nudged his arm with her shoulder.

“If you behave yourself through dinner…”

She let the rest of the sentence trail off, her smile doing the rest of the work.

“…we’ll see how convincing your apology is later.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s face did that thing it always did when she was being calm on purpose—eyes narrowing slightly, mouth twitching like he was trying to decide whether to be offended, turned on, or impressed.

It landed somewhere in the middle.

He kept walking, kept their shoulders aligned, kept their hands where they belonged inside his pocket like a shared secret, but his mind was absolutely sprinting.

Because in his defense—in his very reasonable, morally righteous defense—he had revealed the snack the second she so much as blinked wrong.

He hadn’t hoarded for sport. He hadn’t concealed for power.

He’d concealed for… logistics. For love. For operational stability.

And somehow, somewhere between “here, please don’t pass out” and “I am essential infrastructure,” he’d ended up sentenced to a lifetime of “acts of service” like he was a disgraced butler.

Which—annoyingly—he would probably excel at.

He glanced sideways at her, eyes warm, voice slipping into that playful, aggrieved cadence he used when he was trying to make her laugh without breaking the tenderness.

“Okay,” he said, “I’d like to state for the record that I revealed the snack the moment you showed signs of distress.”

He raised his brows. “Immediate deployment. Rapid response. Heroic.”

A beat.

“And now you’re confiscating evidence and talking about remorse demonstrations like I committed international crimes.”

His mouth curved into a grin, helpless and charmed by her.

“You’re having fun,” he accused lightly. “This is… this is a little power trip.”

He leaned closer for a second, not stopping, just letting his shoulder brush hers with more intention.

“Which I support,” he added, quieter, “for the record.”

He let that hang just long enough to see if it landed the way he meant it to—because it did. It always did with her. Then he rescued himself with humor before he got too honest and accidentally started talking about feelings like a man who owned a journal.

He nodded toward her pocket, where the snacks now lived like stolen treasure.

“Also, you can’t call it ‘confiscation’ when you’re stealing from the guy who literally saved you from starvation,” he said. “That’s not justice. That’s piracy.”

He made a thoughtful face.

“I’m pretty sure this makes you a pirate queen.”

Another gust of wind came through and she tucked closer, and Ben’s thumb resumed its slow circles over her knuckles, steady and instinctive. His tone softened without him meaning to.

“Behave through dinner,” he repeated, like he was tasting the words. “You say that like I’m not going to be on my absolute best behavior.”

He glanced at her again, eyes bright with mischief.

“I’m going to pull your chair out. I’m going to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ I’m going to pretend I’m not staring at you every time you talk.”

A beat.

“I’m going to be insufferable,” he concluded. “Like… scandalously polite.”

He paused, then added, deadpan, “Do you want me to hold your coat too, or is that too submissive?”

He squeezed her hand once in the pocket—an answer to everything she wasn’t saying out loud. Loving. Present. Right here.

“Okay,” he said, letting out a breath like he was resigning himself to a fate he secretly enjoyed. “I accept the terms of your very biased legal system.”

Then his smile turned softer at the edges, fond in a way that made his throat feel tight.

“But just so you know,” he added, voice warm, “I’ll do the acts of service thing. I’ll cook. I’ll behave. I’ll apologize with my whole body if that’s what you’re implying—”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting.

“—because watching you be pleased with me is, unfortunately, one of my favorite hobbies.”

He let her shoulder bump his again and pretended to stagger, like she’d pushed him.

“Now,” he said brightly, “lead the way, Your Honor. I will be a model citizen.”

And as they walked on—hands still tucked together, her pocket full of his “evidence,” moss glowing beside them like neon velvet—Ben decided that if this was what being in trouble with her felt like…

He might start committing snack crimes on purpose.

[Midnights]

Cleo listened to him make his case like he was standing before some invisible council of snack-related justice, the wind pushing gently at their coats as the boardwalk carried them farther across the black, rippled lava field. The moss beside the path glowed stubbornly green against the stone, and somewhere far off a raven called, the sound swallowed quickly by the open air.

She kept her hand tucked inside his pocket the entire time, fingers warm around his, letting him finish every single dramatic defense before she said a word.

By the time he reached pirate queen, her mouth had already started to betray her.

A quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

“Okay,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “First of all—if I’m a pirate queen, that means you sailed directly into my territory carrying valuable cargo. That’s not my fault. That’s poor planning on your part.”

She glanced down toward the pocket holding the stolen bars and patted it once, thoughtfully.

“Strategic acquisition.”

Then she looked back up at him, the wind tugging a loose strand of blonde hair across her cheek.

His whole heroic deployment argument earned a small, conceding nod.

“I will admit,” she said, “the response time was impressive. Very efficient. Extremely heroic.”

Her lips curved faintly.

“But you’re forgetting something important in your little courtroom drama.”

Cleo slowed half a step, turning her head just enough to look at him properly.

“Acts of service,” she said evenly, “are not a lifetime sentence.”

Her thumb brushed lightly over the back of his hand where their fingers were intertwined.

“They go both ways.”

She said it calmly, but there was a quiet warmth behind it now.

“Which means if you’re planning on cooking and behaving and being scandalously polite,” she added, “you should probably prepare yourself for… reciprocation.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“Because I’m not above returning the favor.”

The boardwalk creaked softly beneath their boots as they kept moving, the path rising gently between two ridges of dark volcanic rock.

When he accused her of the power trip, she sighed—dramatic but not entirely insincere.

“…Okay, yes,” she admitted.

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug.

“It might be a tiny power trip.”

She glanced up at him again, expression softening.

“And I’m sorry.”

The apology came easily, even if the hint of amusement stayed in her eyes.

“Turns out confiscating snacks and making dramatic legal declarations in the middle of a lava field does something to a person.”

Another gust of wind swept across them, and she leaned slightly closer to him again without thinking.

“But for the record,” she added after a moment, voice quieter now, “I’m not actually sentencing you to anything.”

Her fingers squeezed his once.

“I like taking care of you too.”

Then she tilted her head, studying him again with that same thoughtful expression.

“And if you’re planning on apologizing with your whole body later,” she said lightly, “you should probably remember that sometimes the acts of service… involve teamwork.”

Her mouth curved faintly at the edges.

“But we’ll figure that out after dinner.”

She nudged his shoulder gently with hers, bringing the moment back to the rhythm of their walk.

“Until then,” she added, glancing ahead at the winding boardwalk, “I expect flawless behavior from my model citizen.”

A small pause.

“And Benjamin?”

Her eyes flicked toward him again, amused.

“If you start committing snack crimes on purpose…”

Her smile widened slightly.

“…I will absolutely raise the penalties.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the laugh in her before he heard it—the way her fingers warmed around his inside the pocket, the way her shoulders loosened as if the whole lava field had finally gotten the memo to stop trying to kill her. It hit him right in the chest, that quiet, unstoppable little sound, and his mouth curved without permission.

He looked over at her, eyes bright, like he’d just won something he hadn’t even known he was competing for.

“Poor planning,” he repeated, scoffing softly. “That’s insane. I planned perfectly. I brought snacks. I saved your life. I endured public humiliation.”

He glanced down at her pocket with theatrical offense.

“And then you robbed me.”

But when she said acts of service went both ways—when her thumb brushed the back of his hand and she said reciprocation like it was the most reasonable thing in the world—Ben’s face did that thing again. The one where the joke almost slipped, where the softness tried to show.

He blinked once, like he needed to reboot.

“Okay,” he said, voice careful but playful, “I want to be very clear: I support equality in all things. Especially… acts of service.”

He dragged his eyes back to her face, brows lifting.

“But you saying ‘reciprocation’ like that? On this bridge? In this wind? That’s actually… wildly threatening.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly, keeping their pace slow, their boots landing in sync like they’d practiced. The boardwalk creaked. The moss glowed. The world felt huge and small at the same time.

When she admitted the power trip and then apologized—I’m sorry—Ben reacted like he always did when she offered him something soft: he tried to joke first, so he wouldn’t accidentally get too earnest and start looking like a man who wrote sad songs in his Notes app.

He made a long, exaggerated sigh, as if he were a saint being tested.

“I accept your apology,” he said solemnly. “As the injured party. As the victim. As a brave man who was simply trying to provide nutritional stability.”

A beat.

Then his eyes flicked to her again, warm.

“Also,” he added, quieter, “I’m not mad. I like you when you’re a little power-drunk. It’s… cute. In a terrifying way.”

Her squeeze tightened around his fingers, and he squeezed back without thinking. Just reflex. Just yeah, I’m here.

When she said she liked taking care of him too, something inside him eased—like the world didn’t just take from him. Like he wasn’t always the one trying to prove he could carry things without dropping them.

He didn’t say that part out loud.

Instead, he let his grin return—boyish, bright, like the conversation hadn’t just turned holy for a second.

“Teamwork,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was dangerous. “Okay. Great. Love that. Big fan of collaboration.”

He nodded toward the ridge ahead where the boardwalk rose, mock serious.

“We’re gonna need to set some parameters. A plan. Maybe a schedule. A color-coded chart.”

He glanced at her, eyes glinting.

“Because if you think I’m going to survive you being ‘not above returning the favor’ without some kind of safety briefing, you’re underestimating my ability to completely fall apart.”

When she demanded flawless behavior from her model citizen, Ben straightened a fraction, posture suddenly impeccable.

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, ridiculously polite. “I will be on my best behavior.”

He paused, then added, deadpan:

“Unless you look at me like that again. Then I can’t guarantee anything.”

The wind swept through the fissures and he angled his body slightly to block it from her, almost unconscious, keeping her close as if the cold had to go through him first.

At her warning about raising penalties, he gasped, scandalized.

“You can’t just ‘raise the penalties,’” he protested. “That’s entrapment. That’s corruption. That’s—”

He cut himself off, smile breaking through again.

“Okay,” he conceded, leaning a little closer, voice dropping like a secret. “Fine.”

He swung their joined hands lightly inside the pocket, the warmth there undeniable.

“I won’t commit snack crimes on purpose,” he promised.

A beat.

“…I’ll just keep being accidentally heroic.”

He looked down at her then—soft-eyed, amused, alive—and added with pure, affectionate sincerity tucked inside the joke:

“And if you want to take care of me too…”

He shrugged, like he wasn’t trying to make it heavy. Like it was just another fact.

“I’m not gonna fight you on that.”

Then he tipped his chin toward the rest of the boardwalk, grinning.

“Now come on, pirate queen,” he said lightly. “Let’s get back to the retreat before you start drafting the official snack crime constitution in my pocket.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo listened to the entire speech like it was a closing argument in the very dramatic trial of Benjamin Wilder vs. The Pirate Queen.

Her expression stayed suspiciously composed the whole time, even when he accused her of robbery, even when he called himself the victim of nutritional injustice, even when he accepted her apology like some long-suffering saint.

But the warmth of his hand around hers inside his pocket gave her away.

By the time he finished promising not to commit snack crimes—on purpose—the corner of her mouth had already curved into that quiet, knowing smile.

She slowed her steps just slightly.

The lava field stretched around them in rippling black waves of cooled stone, moss glowing bright and soft against it like velvet. Ahead, the wooden boardwalk dipped gently toward the end of the trail where the buildings of the retreat finally came into view—glass, warm lights, steam rising faintly into the cold air.

Cleo reached into her coat pocket.

For a moment it looked like she was just adjusting something—until she started pulling things out.

First one granola bar.

Then another.

Then the third.

She stacked them neatly in her palm like a very official return of stolen property before placing the entire pile into his hand.

“There,” she said simply.

“Full restitution.”

Her fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary before slipping away, letting his hand go as she stepped slightly ahead of him on the boardwalk.

The wind caught her hair again as she turned back toward him over her shoulder.

That same calm expression.

That same tone.

“You know,” she said lightly, “this whole conversation about reciprocation?”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the bars now sitting in his hand, then lifted back to his face.

“That wasn’t about snacks.”

A beat.

“Or household duties.”

Her mouth curved just slightly as she held his gaze.

Then she winked.

Just once.

The path widened as they reached the end of the boardwalk, the volcanic rock giving way to gravel and the soft glow of the retreat’s entrance ahead. Warm light spilled through the large glass doors, steam from the nearby lagoon drifting lazily into the cold evening air.

Cleo turned forward again and walked the last few steps toward the entrance.

“Come on,” she called back over her shoulder, her voice bright now.

“Let’s go eat.”

And before he could answer, she pushed through the doors and disappeared inside the hotel.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben just… stood there for a second.

Not long. Not dramatic. But long enough for the wind to slide right through the space where her hand had been in his pocket and make the absence feel louder than it should’ve.

He stared down at the three granola bars in his palm like they were evidence from a crime scene.

Full restitution.

He snorted under his breath, half laugh, half disbelief, and closed his fingers around them.

Then her voice floated back—light as air, sharp as a hook.

That wasn’t about snacks.

Ben’s brain tried to do something useful with that information.

It failed.

His eyebrows lifted slowly. His mouth opened like he had a response ready.

He did not.

The wink was the final blow. A clean, surgical hit. One that left him standing on a boardwalk in a lava field holding three granola bars like a man who had just been spiritually body-checked.

He blinked once.

Then twice.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, voice faintly hoarse. “Cool. Great. Awesome.”

He looked toward the retreat—at the warm light spilling through glass, at the steam lifting into the cold like a promise.

Then he looked back down at the granola bars.

And because the universe had a sense of humor, he tucked them into his pocket like he was safeguarding precious artifacts.

He started walking again, quickening his pace just slightly—not a jog, but the kind of brisk, purposeful walk of a man who suddenly remembered he had somewhere to be and also might be in danger of getting kissed into another dimension later.

He pushed through the doors a few beats after her, warmth rushing over him. The lobby smelled faintly like cedar and expensive soap and quiet money. People moved slowly, wrapped in towels or robes, faces relaxed and unbothered.

Cleo was already ahead, utterly composed, as if she hadn’t just dropped a loaded line and vanished.

Ben caught up beside her, slipping into step like he belonged there—like he hadn’t been emotionally tripped in the snow five minutes ago.

He leaned in slightly, voice low, playful, so only she could hear.

“Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, eyes forward like an innocent man, “I understood the wink.”

A beat.

“I did not understand it peacefully.”

He glanced sideways at her, catching the curve of her mouth, and his own smile turned slow and crooked.

“And I would like to officially submit,” he continued, “that ‘reciprocation’ is an extremely unhinged thing to imply right before dinner. Because now I have to sit across from you and pretend I’m thinking about food.”

He paused as they reached the hallway that led toward the restaurant, then added with mock sincerity:

“I’m gonna be a nightmare.”

Then he straightened, all charm again, slipping into the soft normalcy like it was muscle memory.

“Alright,” he said, brighter, as if nothing had happened at all. “Lead the way.”

But his hand drifted back toward hers as they walked—subtle, familiar—like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded.

Because he knew exactly what she’d done.

And he was going to spend the rest of dinner trying not to grin like an idiot every time she looked at him.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo heard him coming before he caught up.

Not because he was loud—Ben rarely was—but because there was something unmistakable about the energy he carried when he was trying very hard to look like a man who was completely fine.

She moved slowly through the warm cedar-scented lobby, boots soft against the polished floor, the heat of the building thawing the chill that had settled into her bones outside. The air smelled faintly of wood, mineral water, and something herbal drifting from the spa down the hall. Guests moved quietly around them—wrapped in white robes, hair still damp from the lagoon, voices soft and unhurried.

Cleo slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat as she walked, shrugging the fabric closer around herself while the warmth spread through her fingers again.

When Ben leaned in beside her, his voice low and conspiratorial, she didn’t look at him right away.

She just listened.

Just so we’re clear… I understood the wink.

Her mouth twitched faintly.

I did not understand it peacefully.

That finally did it.

She turned her head slightly, catching the edge of his grin, the way he was doing a very convincing impression of a man who was calm and composed when in reality he looked like someone who had just been dropped into the middle of a completely different game.

“Mm,” she murmured softly, like she was taking his complaint very seriously.

When he continued—about having to sit through dinner pretending he was thinking about food—her shoulders lifted in a small, innocent shrug.

“I did warn you,” she said lightly.

The hallway toward the restaurant opened ahead of them, soft golden lighting spilling across thick rugs and low wooden walls. The faint clink of silverware and quiet conversation drifted from the dining room doors.

Ben straightened beside her, slipping back into his usual easy charm like muscle memory.

Lead the way.

Cleo stopped.

It was subtle enough that he almost didn’t notice at first.

He took another step before realizing she hadn’t moved.

When he turned slightly toward her, she was already looking up at him.

For a moment she just studied him—the wind had left his hair a little wilder than usual, the shaggy brown strands falling across his forehead in soft disarray. The warmth of the building had taken the edge off the cold in his cheeks, leaving them faintly flushed.

Without saying anything, she lifted her hand.

Her fingers brushed lightly along his jaw.

The touch was gentle, warm against skin that still held the last trace of Icelandic cold. Her thumb traced along the faint line of stubble there, slow and thoughtful, like she was grounding herself in the familiar shape of his face.

Ben went very still.

Cleo’s eyes stayed on his for another quiet second before she spoke.

“You know…” she said softly.

Her hand lingered there just a moment longer before falling away.

“We could always skip the restaurant.”

A small pause.

“Get room service instead.”

The words landed between them calmly, almost casually, but the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Then you wouldn’t have to sit there pretending you’re thinking about food.”

She stepped past him again, turning away from the dining room hallway entirely and heading instead toward the elevators at the far end of the lobby. The polished floor reflected the warm overhead lights, and a tall window nearby showed the dark Icelandic evening outside—steam drifting in pale ribbons against the night.

As she walked she loosened the belt of her coat slightly, pushing her hair back over one shoulder.

Then she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said simply.

Her expression was calm, but there was something unmistakably playful in her eyes.

“Before you start behaving again.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s brain did the funniest thing.

It went completely blank.

Not in a cute, harmless way either—more like someone had reached in and yanked the power cord out of the wall. One second he had a whole personality, a whole set of jokes lined up, a whole plan to be charming and scandalously polite.

Then her hand hit his jaw and the plan disintegrated into static.

He stood there for half a beat too long, like the lobby might be able to explain what just happened.

It didn’t.

Cleo’s thumb traced his stubble—slow, thoughtful—and Ben swallowed hard, eyes tracking her mouth like an idiot who’d never seen a woman before in his life.

And then she said it.

We could always skip the restaurant.

Room service.

No pretending.

Ben’s gaze flicked once—just once—toward the dining room hallway with the soft clink of silverware and the warm glow and the normal, responsible adult life waiting in there.

Then it snapped back to her as she turned toward the elevators.

A small, helpless laugh broke out of him under his breath. Not because it was funny.

Because it was her.

Because she made him feel like he was sixteen again and also thirty at the same time—like he knew exactly what he wanted and still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have it.

He started after her immediately, of course he did. But he didn’t catch up right away. He let her have the lead, watched the way she moved through the lobby like she belonged to the quiet—like she’d made peace with it and could bend it around them when she wanted.

When she loosened the belt of her coat, Ben’s entire body did a useless little internal flinch.

Like: Oh. We’re doing this. We’re actually doing this.

He reached into his pocket absentmindedly and felt the shape of the three granola bars.

Which, honestly, felt like the universe mocking him.

He stepped into the elevator alcove just as she pressed the button. The doors were still closed, the little arrow above them glowing patiently, and Ben stood beside her trying to look like a man who wasn’t one sentence away from combusting.

He failed again.

He leaned in slightly, voice low, playful—barely contained.

“Before I start behaving again,” he echoed, eyebrows lifting. “That makes it sound like you’ve seen me behave and found it… disappointing.”

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

Ben didn’t move at first. Not until she stepped inside. Then he followed, turning automatically so his body angled between her and the hallway—pure habit, pure instinct, like he was still shielding her from cold wind and rogue boardwalk planks.

The doors slid shut, sealing them in warm quiet.

Ben exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath since the lava field.

Then he finally looked at her—really looked.

“You’re evil,” he said softly, with absolute fondness. “Do you know that?”

A beat.

His gaze dropped to her mouth again. He swallowed once, the grin tugging crooked at the corner of his lips.

“I was ready to be a model citizen,” he added. “I was ready to talk about soup like it was a personality trait. I was gonna pull your chair out and everything.”

He lifted his hand, and for a second it hovered—like he was asking permission with his body even if his mouth couldn’t manage it.

Then his fingers brushed the edge of her coat collar, knuckles grazing her neck where her skin was warm from inside now. His touch was light. Testing. Reverent.

“And now,” he murmured, “you’re trying to get me to skip dinner.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, bright with that unmistakable mix of mischief and want.

“That’s not fair.”

A pause.

“Also,” he added, quieter, almost laughing at himself, “it’s working.”

The elevator started to rise. The soft hum filled the space.

Ben shifted closer, not crowding—just enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the steady presence.

His voice dropped again, intimate and playful.

“Room service,” he murmured. “Okay. Great.”

Another beat.

“But I need you to know,” he continued, eyes locked on hers, “if we do this… you don’t get to act innocent when I spend the entire ride upstairs thinking about that little jaw touch.”

He let his thumb skim lightly along the inside of her wrist—small contact, loud meaning.

“And for the record,” he added, mouth tipping into a grin again, “I can behave.”

He leaned in a fraction, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek.

“I just don’t want to.”

The elevator kept climbing, the hotel quiet around them, and Ben—rockstar, troublemaker, hopelessly devoted—let himself look at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.

Because right now, she was.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The elevator hummed quietly as it climbed, the soft mechanical sound filling the small space between floors. Warm light glowed overhead, reflecting faintly off the brushed metal walls. Outside the glass panel in the door, the lobby level slipped away, replaced by the slow, steady rise toward the guest floors above.

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She watched him.

The way his voice had dipped when he said he could behave.
The way his hand hovered before touching her coat collar, like he still asked permission even when he was clearly losing the fight with himself.

When his knuckles brushed the edge of her collar and the warmth of her neck, something in her expression softened.

His last line hung between them.

I just don’t want to.

For a moment the only sound was the quiet lift of the elevator and the steady rhythm of both their breathing in the small space.

Cleo’s eyes stayed on his.

Then she stepped closer.

Not suddenly. Not dramatic. Just one smooth shift forward that erased the little bit of space between them. The front of her coat brushed against his shirt as she leaned in, one hand lifting slowly until her fingers settled against the front of his jacket.

Her thumb rested there for a second, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric.

“You know,” she said softly, her voice quieter now in the enclosed space, “I noticed that.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to his mouth again before returning to his eyes.

“That you can behave.”

A small pause.

“Sometimes.”

The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Then she leaned in the rest of the way.

Her kiss landed slow and deliberate, warm and unhurried. Not the teasing, passing kind she’d given him on the boardwalk earlier, but something deeper—her mouth fitting against his like she had already decided exactly how long she intended to stay there.

One of her hands slid lightly up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric near his collar as she kissed him.

For a second she pulled back just enough that their foreheads nearly touched, her breath warm between them.

“There,” she murmured.

Her hand slipped down from his collar to rest briefly against his chest again, grounding both of them in the small moving room.

“That should help with the behaving problem.”

The quiet hum returned after the soft sound of their kiss faded, the small space warm and still around them. Cleo didn’t step away immediately. Her hand remained against his chest for a moment longer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her fingers.

Ben looked like someone who had just been successfully ambushed.

Cleo’s mouth curved slightly at that.

She eased back just enough to look at him properly again, one shoulder brushing the metal wall behind her. A loose strand of blonde hair had fallen forward near her cheek, and she pushed it back absently as the elevator continued its slow climb.

Outside the glass panel the numbers ticked upward.

Another second passed.

Then the elevator chimed softly.

The movement slowed, the mechanical hum lowering in pitch as the car eased to a stop. The doors slid open with a gentle whisper, revealing a quiet hallway lined with warm lights, pale wood paneling, and thick carpet that muted every sound.

Cleo glanced toward the open corridor.

Then back at Ben.

“See?” she said softly, like this had all gone exactly according to plan. “You survived the ride.”

Her fingers brushed briefly against his wrist before she stepped forward out of the elevator, boots quiet against the carpet.

The hallway felt calmer than the lobby—almost hushed. A long window at the far end looked out over the dark Icelandic landscape, steam drifting up from the lagoon in pale ribbons against the night.

Cleo walked a few steps down the corridor before slowing, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was following.

There was that same faint smile again.

The one that had gotten him into trouble all evening.

“Well?” she said lightly.

She slipped the keycard from her coat pocket, turning it between her fingers as she reached their door.

“I thought you said room service was working.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben followed her out of the elevator like a man attempting to walk normally after getting his brain reset.

Which—judging by the way his shoulders were still slightly too tense and his mouth kept twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to grin or file a formal complaint—was not going great.

He hadn’t spoken since the kiss. Not because he didn’t have words, but because every single one of them was either:

1. embarrassingly honest,


2. wildly inappropriate for a hotel hallway, or


3. both.



Cleo’s “you survived the ride” hit him like an insult disguised as a compliment, and he let out a breathy laugh that sounded like defeat with a pulse.

He trailed a step behind her, eyes on the back of her coat, the swing of her hair, the easy way she moved like she hadn’t just rearranged his entire internal wiring with one deliberate kiss. The corridor was quiet enough that he could hear the soft scuff of their boots on carpet, the faint hush of distant water systems, the little click of the keycard between her fingers.

And then she looked back at him.

That smile again.

His throat bobbed.

He did what he always did when he felt too much: he went playful.

He leaned his shoulder lightly against the wall beside their door, trying for casual. Succeeding in looking like a guy who was definitely thinking about kissing her again.

“Well?” she asked, sweet as sin.

Room service. Working.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the keycard, then back to her face. His grin went slow and crooked.

“Okay,” he said, voice low, a little rough at the edges like the elevator had stolen the oxygen. “First of all—room service is working in the sense that it has fundamentally altered my priorities.”

He lifted his hands a little, palms out, like he was presenting an argument to the same snack-related court she’d invented earlier.

“Second of all,” he continued, stepping closer—not cornering, just closing the distance because apparently he no longer knew how to exist more than a foot away from her, “I would like to file a complaint.”

He nodded toward her mouth with exaggerated seriousness.

“You can’t just do that—kiss me like you already own the rest of my evening—and then ask if it’s working.”

A beat. His eyes warmed.

“It’s like asking a man if he’s hydrated while actively pouring water down his throat.”

He let his gaze drop briefly—her coat, her hands, the way she held the keycard like she held every advantage—and then he looked back up, grin turning boyish.

“Also,” he added, quieter, “I did survive the ride. Barely. That was not a fair test.”

He shifted closer again, head tilting slightly.

“If you do that again in an enclosed space,” he said, voice soft with humor and something else underneath it, “I’m gonna start acting irresponsible on purpose.”

He reached out, fingers brushing her wrist—not grabbing, just touching. Like he needed proof she was real and still right there.

Then he glanced down the hallway toward the distant window, the steam rising in pale ribbons against the night.

“You know what’s crazy?” he murmured. “This place is so peaceful and I’m still—”

He cut himself off, smiling again because he wasn’t about to hand her a full confession in a hallway.

Instead, he leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed the space near her cheek.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he said softly. “Room service isn’t the thing that’s working.”

His eyes flicked to hers.

“You are.”

He pulled back just enough to let her see the grin return—easy, charming, completely smitten.

“So yeah,” he said, nodding once, decisive. “Open the door.”

A pause.

“And I’ll order whatever you want.”

Another beat, his voice dropping to something warm and wicked:

“Just don’t act surprised when I can’t remember a single item on the menu.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just watched him for a second—the way he leaned against the wall like he was pretending to be relaxed while clearly vibrating with energy, the crooked grin that kept breaking through no matter how hard he tried to play it cool.

When he finally finished his speech—about room service, priorities, hydration metaphors, and forgetting the menu—her mouth curved again in that quiet, knowing way.

Then she slid the keycard through the lock.

The soft green light blinked.

The door clicked open.

Cleo pushed it inward and stepped inside first, the warmth of the suite wrapping around her immediately. The lighting was soft and amber-toned, the room large and open in that understated luxury the retreat seemed to specialize in.

Behind her, the door closed with a quiet thud.

For a moment she didn’t say anything.

She moved calmly across the entry space, shrugging her coat off her shoulders as she walked. The thick fabric slid down her arms easily, revealing the sweater she’d been wearing underneath. She draped the coat over the back of the nearest chair near the entryway without really looking.

Ben was still near the door.

And she could feel his eyes on her.

That awareness followed her across the room like warmth.

She slipped her boots off next, nudging them neatly beside the wall before stepping barefoot onto the soft carpet. The room opened fully in front of them now—a small living area with a low couch facing a wide window, a kitchenette tucked along the wall with polished wood cabinets and a quiet little counter space.

One of the nicer suites.

Plenty of room.

Too much room, maybe, considering the tension that had followed them upstairs.

Cleo finally turned around.

Ben was still standing where he’d been, near the door, looking like a man who had just walked into the last place on earth he expected to lose control of a conversation.

She leaned lightly back against the edge of the counter behind her, folding her arms loosely for a second while she looked at him.

Confident.

Curious.

That same faint smile.

“So,” she said calmly.

Her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

“What exactly is working?”

The question was gentle, but the look she gave him made it clear she already knew the answer.

She pushed off the counter and walked toward him slowly, her bare feet quiet on the carpet.

Ben didn’t move.

By the time she reached him the distance between them had almost disappeared again.

Cleo stopped just in front of him.

Her gaze drifted briefly to his mouth, then back up to his eyes.

“You mentioned the kiss,” she said softly.

Her hand lifted again—slow, deliberate.

Her fingers found his jaw exactly where they had before.

This time she didn’t just brush past it.

Her thumb traced along the line of his stubble again, warm and thoughtful, her palm settling lightly against his cheek as if she were reacquainting herself with the shape of his face.

She knew exactly what that touch did to him.

And the small, almost imperceptible smile that appeared told him she knew it.

“You mean this?” she asked quietly.

Her thumb slid once more along his jaw before she leaned in just enough that her voice dropped lower between them.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the building and the distant whisper of water systems running somewhere deep in the spa below.

Cleo didn’t pull her hand away.

She let it rest there against his jaw, her eyes steady on his.

Waiting.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben forgot every single smart thing he’d been planning to say.

Not metaphorically. Not in the charming, exaggerated way he usually played it.

Just—gone.

Her hand on his jaw did that to him. The slow drag of her thumb through the scruff there, the calm certainty of it, the way she stood in front of him like she had all the time in the world and already knew exactly what she was doing. He felt it everywhere—low in his ribs, at the back of his neck, in the sudden, dangerous stillness that took over his body.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t run his mouth just to buy himself a second.

He just stood there by the door, feeling her palm against his cheek and looking at her like she’d turned the whole room into something much smaller than it was. Something warmer. Something he could get lost in if she kept touching him like that for another ten seconds.

His hand came up slowly—not to stop her, never that—just to touch the inside of her wrist. Lightly. His thumb rested there, feeling her pulse, grounding himself before he completely unraveled in the entryway like some guy who’d never been kissed before.

Then he let out the smallest breath. Half laugh. Half surrender.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

His voice came out lower than he meant it to. Roughened.

“This.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for a second, then came back up, open and a little helpless in a way only she ever got to see.

“And the part where you know exactly what you’re doing,” he added, the corner of his mouth tugging despite himself. “That’s… really not helping me keep any kind of dignity here.”

He stepped in then. Not enough to crowd her, just enough that the space between them stopped feeling theoretical. His free hand found the edge of the counter beside her hip, bracing there like he needed somewhere to put all the energy she’d pulled out of him.

Ben tilted his head slightly into her touch, because pretending he didn’t like it would’ve been stupid and they were past stupid tonight.

“You touch my face like that,” he murmured, eyes on hers, “and then you ask what’s working?”

A beat.

“Feels a little rigged.”

The smile she’d been wearing made him laugh softly through his nose. God, she was gorgeous when she got quiet and deliberate like this. Dangerous in the most civilized possible way.

He let his thumb skim once along the inside of her wrist again, then his gaze dipped to her mouth one more time.

“I was trying to be charming about it,” he said. “Say something smooth. Keep a little mystery alive.”

Another small breath.

“But honestly?”

His voice dropped lower.

“It’s you in this room with me. Barefoot. Looking at me like that. Touching me like you’ve already decided something.”

He didn’t kiss her yet. He got close enough that he could have, easily, but he stayed there, hovering just at the edge of it, letting the tension pull tight and sweet between them.

His expression softened. Less joking now. More true.

“And I know I’m supposed to care about dinner,” he said quietly, “but I really, really don’t.”

Then, because he was still himself—because some part of him would always reach for humor right at the edge of sincerity, just to keep from combusting—his mouth curved again.

“So if this is a trap,” he murmured, “I just want it on record that I walked in willingly.”

His eyes held hers another second.

Then his hand slid from her wrist, up her forearm, slow and warm, until it came to rest lightly at her waist.

Waiting, the same way she was.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer him immediately.

She let the quiet breathe for a moment instead.

The room had settled around them in that soft, insulated way expensive hotels always seemed to manage—warm lamplight glowing against pale wood, the faint hum of heating hidden somewhere behind the walls, the distant whisper of water moving through the spa floors below. Outside the large window across the living space, the Icelandic night sat heavy and dark, steam drifting faintly upward from the geothermal pools somewhere out of sight.

But none of that held her attention.

Ben did.

Her hand was still resting against his jaw, fingers curved along the warmth of his cheek while her thumb moved slowly through the stubble there, thoughtful and unhurried. She could feel the way he’d gone still under the touch—the subtle tightening in his shoulders, the quiet way his breathing had shifted.

He always did that when she touched his face.

Like some part of him forgot what he’d been about to say.

She studied him while he talked, watching the flicker of honesty behind the humor, the way his voice dipped lower when the teasing gave way to something more real. His hand had found her waist now, warm and steady through the fabric of her sweater, grounding himself there without even thinking about it.

When he finished—when he admitted he didn’t care about dinner and that he’d walked into the trap willingly—her mouth curved just a little.

“You did,” she said softly.

Then she moved.

The step was small, but it closed the last of the space between them. His body was warm where it met hers, the solid line of him pressing lightly against her as she reached up again, her fingers slipping from his jaw to the back of his neck. Her hand threaded gently into the hair at the base of his head, the familiar texture of it grounding in a way she didn’t entirely examine.

Ben was taller.

He always had been.

So Cleo rose slightly onto the balls of her feet, steady and natural, bringing her face level with his.

For a second she simply looked at him.

Close enough now that she could see the tiny shifts in his expression—the way his mouth had parted slightly, the way his eyes had softened when he realized she wasn’t joking anymore.

Then she kissed him.

This one wasn’t the quick spark from the elevator.

It landed slower. Warmer. Certain.

Her mouth met his with quiet confidence, her hand holding gently at the back of his neck while the other settled briefly against his chest to steady herself on her toes. The warmth of him flooded through the small space between them, and for that suspended second the entire suite seemed to shrink around the moment.

The world outside—lava fields, icy boardwalks, polite dinners they were supposed to attend—faded cleanly away.

He was the only thing there.

After a moment she pulled back, but only barely.

Her feet lowered softly back to the carpet while her fingers remained loosely curled at the back of his neck. Their faces were still close—close enough that his warmth lingered against her lips, close enough that she could feel the shift in his breathing.

Her eyes searched his for a second, amused and bright with the knowledge of exactly what she’d just done to him.

The corner of her mouth lifted.

“You just gonna stand there,” she asked quietly, her voice threaded with soft humor—

“or you gonna do something, Benjamin?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s whole body answered before his mouth did.

Something in him shifted the second she said it—low, clean, decisive. The teasing part of him didn’t disappear exactly. It just got quieter. Stepped back. Made room.

His hand at her waist tightened, not hard enough to startle, just enough to make the point that he’d heard her.

Oh, he’d heard her.

For half a second he only looked at her, that crooked almost-smile gone softer, sharper somehow. Like the boyish charm had burned down into something steadier. More dangerous. The kind of look that said he knew exactly what she’d done to him with that kiss, and exactly what he wanted to do about it.

Then he moved.

His other hand slid up, slow but certain, curving around the back of her neck as he stepped fully into her space. Not asking the room for permission. Not pretending he still cared about dinner or room service or whatever flimsy excuse for restraint had existed thirty seconds ago.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice roughened into something lower. “I’m gonna do something.”

And then he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not careless.

Just deeper.

The kind of kiss that came with intention behind it—his mouth opening over hers with a hungry, measured confidence that made the whole suite feel suddenly too warm. His hand stayed at the back of her neck, thumb brushing into her hairline, while the other held steady at her waist and drew her in until there was no space left to wonder about.

He kissed her like a man who had been playful all day and was done pretending that was the whole story.

Cleo’s sweater was soft beneath his palm. The heat of her through it nearly wrecked him. He let his hand travel—only a little, just enough to feel the shape of her side, the curve of her back as he pulled her closer against him. Enough to make it clear he wasn’t just standing there anymore.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was only to drag his mouth along the line of her jaw, warm and deliberate, until he found the place just below her ear. He felt her breath hitch and smiled against her skin, barely there.

“That what you meant?” he murmured.

But he didn’t wait for an answer. Not really.

His mouth found hers again, slower this time for half a beat before he tilted her head the way he wanted and kissed her deeper still, his grip on her tightening just slightly when she leaned into him. There was nothing hesitant in him now. No careful distance. No half-step retreat.

Just heat. And certainty. And the very male satisfaction of finally getting his hands on something he’d been wanting all evening.

He backed her up a single step—then another—until the counter edge met the backs of her thighs. Not trapping. Just guiding. His hand slid from her waist to her hip, thumb pressing there through the fabric of her sweater like he liked the feel of having her exactly where he wanted her.

When he pulled back again, his forehead rested briefly to hers, his breathing no longer even.

“You ask me that,” he said, voice low and almost amused, “while you’re kissing me like that?”

A breath.

“That’s cruel.”

His fingers skimmed up her side, then back down, not enough to lose control of himself, but enough to make good on the promise of doing something. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, then back to her face.

And there it was again—that look. Less boy now. More man.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

Not because he thought she would.

Because he wanted her to know he’d stop in a second if she asked. Because whatever had taken over in him still knew exactly who she was.

When she didn’t, his mouth curved.

“Thought so.”

He kissed her again—shorter, hotter—and this time his hand slid behind her thigh, lifting just enough to settle her onto the edge of the counter with an ease that made it clear he hadn’t done it to show off, just because standing this far apart had become intolerable.

“There,” he said, low and satisfied, one hand braced beside her on the counter, the other warm on her leg. “Better.”

Then he looked at her like she was the one thing in the room worth any attention at all, and leaned in to kiss her again—slow at first, then not slow at all.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt the shift in him the moment it happened.

It wasn’t sudden or reckless—it was steadier than that. The teasing edge that had carried them through the boardwalk and the elevator softened into something deeper, something warmer and more certain. And when his hand tightened at her waist, she knew exactly what that meant.

Her breath caught just slightly when he stepped into her space.

Then he kissed her.

The difference between this kiss and the others wasn’t subtle. It was slower at first, deliberate, the weight of his attention settling fully on her as if the rest of the world had finally stepped out of the room. His hand at the back of her neck held her there gently, his thumb brushing through her hair while the other arm kept her close against him.

Cleo leaned into it immediately.

Her fingers tightened at the back of his neck, pulling him closer as she rose again onto her toes to meet him. The warmth of him, the steady strength in the way he held her, made something low and bright spark through her chest.

When he guided her back toward the counter she went with him easily, the edge of it pressing against the backs of her thighs before he lifted her up. The motion was smooth and instinctive, and the second she was sitting there she drew him closer between her knees without hesitation.

Her legs wrapped lightly around his hips, pulling him in until there was no space left between them.

Cleo kissed him back just as hungrily now, her hands sliding from his shoulders down his chest, fingers catching in the fabric of his shirt before slipping underneath it. Her palms found the warmth of his skin there, fingertips brushing slowly over the firm lines of his back as she explored the heat of him.

The contact made her breath deepen against his mouth.

Ben’s warmth was everywhere—his hands steady at her waist and thigh, his body pressed close between her knees, the faint scent of cold air and cedar still clinging to him from outside.

Cleo tilted her head slightly, kissing him deeper, her fingers tracing along his sides beneath the shirt before moving upward again, feeling the way he reacted to her touch.

The room felt smaller now.

Quieter.

Only the soft rustle of fabric, the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the warmth building between them filling the space.

Her hands lingered beneath his shirt, fingertips grazing his skin again before settling there as she pulled him closer against her, kissing him with a slow, hungry confidence that made it clear she had no intention of stopping any time soon.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben didn't just lean into her touch; he seemed to exhale his entire day—the cold wind, the rocks, the distance—right into the crook of her neck. When her fingers slipped beneath his shirt, the heat of her palms against his skin felt like a match hitting gasoline. He let out a low, rough sound, half-groan and half-surrender, and crowded closer, his body fitting into the space between her knees like it had been carved specifically for her.

His hands, still cool from the Icelandic air, didn't stay still for long. One slid from the soft wool of her waist up the curve of her ribs, his thumb tracing the underside of her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt, while the other gripped the back of her thigh, hoisting her even tighter against him.

"Cleo," he rasped against her lips, his voice dropping into that gritty, basement-register rumble. "You have no idea. You have absolutely no idea what you're doing to me right now."
He broke the kiss just long enough to trail his mouth down her jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear before he buried his face in the hollow of her throat. He breathed her in—mint and warmth and the lingering scent of the lagoon—and felt a fierce, possessive ache tighten in his chest.

He didn't want the slow, poetic version of this anymore. He wanted the unraveled version.
His hands moved with a sudden, focused urgency. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes blown wide, heavy with a hunger that made the room feel like it was losing oxygen. He reached down, his fingers hooking into the hem of her sweater, and tugged it upward, his gaze never leaving hers as he helped her skin it over her head.

He didn't wait for it to hit the floor before he was back in her space, his bare chest pressing against her lace-covered heat. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation that made his hands shake just a fraction as they found her waist again.

"Sage or Briar," he whispered, the names a low, raw vow against her skin as he started a path of biting kisses down the slope of her shoulder toward the swell of her breast. "I meant it, Cleo. Every word."

He bit his lip, a wicked, desperate grin flashing for a split second before he looked up at her, his hands sliding around to the small of her back, pulling her so flush against him that he could feel every hitch in her breathing.

"I’m done being patient," he murmured, his voice thick and demanding. "I want everything. Right now."

He reached for the button of her jeans, his knuckles brushing against her stomach, and he didn't stop, his focus narrowing down to the hitch in her breath and the way her fingers were digging into his shoulders.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t just give in; she dissolved into him, her resistance a memory lost to the Icelandic wind outside. As his knuckles brushed her stomach, a low, broken moan vibrated through her, lost against the heat of his mouth. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the scent of the lagoon and the raw, electric weight of Ben’s proximity.

She reached up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck to cup the back of his head, her grip firm and anchoring. She tilted her head back, a silent invitation that exposed the long, sensitive line of her throat, offering him every inch of the access he craved. While his mouth claimed her skin, her hands moved with a matching urgency. She reached down to help him with the stubborn denim of her jeans, pushing the fabric over her hips until it pooled on the floor, leaving her in nothing but lace and the burning intent in his eyes.

Not willing to let a single barrier remain, she grabbed the hem of his shirt. Her fingers hooked into the fabric, and she helped him yank it over his head, finally bringing her bare skin against the hard, radiating heat of his chest.

The contact was a jolt that seemed to snap the last thread of her composure. She didn't wait; she leaned in, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Her lips were hot and demanding as she began to kiss her way down his neck, moving over the ridge of his collarbone to the broad expanse of his chest. His chest hair tickled her lips, a coarse, masculine texture that sent a fresh wave of heat through her, but she didn't slow down. She continued her trail, her kisses growing more deliberate as she moved lower, tracing the firm muscles of his torso. Just as she reached the center of his stomach, she let her tongue dart out, tasting the salt and warmth of him. She dragged it slowly, teasingly, back up the centerline of his chest, making him catch his breath.

She surged upward then, reclaiming his mouth in a kiss that tasted of desperate, beautiful finality. "Sage or Briar," she murmured against his lips, the names of their future echoing his earlier vow.

The reality of it settled in the space between their heartbeats: they were really doing this. They weren't just losing themselves in each other; they were trying to create something entirely new. The weight of that realization only made her pull him closer, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she signaled that she was done waiting, too.

Cleo felt the shift in his muscles—that sudden, rigid stillness that came when a man realizes he’s won everything he’s ever wanted. The air between them was gone, replaced by a humid, heavy heat that made her skin feel too sensitive for the cool air of the room.

She didn't want to talk anymore. She didn't want the names or the vows or the heavy, beautiful weight of the future hanging in the air. She just wanted him—all of him, without the barrier of a single inch of space.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, her nails lightly scraping his scalp as she pulled him a fraction closer, her mouth hovering just a breath away from his. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic, rhythmic demand that matched the hitch in his own breathing.

"Bed," she whispered against his lips, the word less of a suggestion and more of a broken command.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben’s brain essentially flatlined.

The wet, burning glide of her tongue tracing the center of his chest had already short-circuited his nervous system, but feeling her mouth move against his skin while she breathed those names—Sage or Briar—incinerated whatever fragmented restraint he had left. It wasn’t a concept anymore. It was a physical, pulsing reality anchored right in front of him, her bare legs already locked around his waist.

When she whispered Bed, he didn't give her the chance to climb down.

His hands clamped down hard on the backs of her thighs, his thumbs pressing deeply into the soft, bare skin just below the edge of her lace panties. With a sharp exhale, he hoisted her higher against his chest, lifting her cleanly off the marble counter. Cleo let out a breathless gasp, her legs instinctively tightening their vice grip around his hips, her nails digging into his shoulders as he carried her.

He crossed the suite in three long, urgent strides. The cool, muted Icelandic light filtering through the heavy drapes was entirely lost on him; his entire world had narrowed down to the weight of her in his arms and the frantic, hammering rhythm of his own pulse.

He let her fall back onto the center of the mattress, following her down so fast the physical connection barely broke. The bed dipped heavily under their combined weight, the crisp, chilled hotel sheets offering a shocking contrast to the absolute fire radiating from their bodies.

Ben settled firmly between her spread knees, bracing his weight on his forearms to hover over her. He looked down—her dark hair fanned wildly across the white pillows, her chest heaving, her eyes blown wide and dark with the same consuming hunger tearing him apart. She was a wrecking ball to his senses, and he was entirely ready to be demolished.

He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.

His hands moved to the delicate lace still clinging to her hips. He skipped reverence entirely, his fingers hooking into the thin sides, dragging the fabric down her legs with a singular, ruthless focus before tossing it blindly onto the floor.

He rocked back on his heels just long enough to deal with his own clothes, making frantic, tearing work of his zipper. He kicked his jeans and boxers away with a harsh thrust of his legs until there was absolutely zero fabric left in the room to get in his way.

When he came back down over her, the heavy, full-body friction of his bare skin pressing flush against hers drew a ragged, animal sound from the back of his throat. He caught her wrists, pushing them gently but firmly into the pillows above her head—not to trap her, but to anchor himself before he lost his mind completely.

He captured her mouth in a bruising, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue sweeping inside to taste the desperate, breathless heat of her. At the same time, his hips shifted forward, settling perfectly into the cradle of her thighs. He found the wet, slick heat of her instantly, the alignment so devastatingly precise it made his vision blur at the edges.

He broke the kiss, dragging his mouth down to her jawline because he needed to see her face. He kept his eyes locked intensely on hers, watching her pupils dilate, watching the breath stutter in her chest as the anticipation peaked.

With one deep, unbroken thrust, he drove himself completely inside her.

The breath punched out of his lungs in a sharp hiss. She was impossibly hot and tight, gripping him so perfectly that his jaw locked, the veins in his neck standing out as he forced himself to hold dead still for a fraction of a second, letting them both absorb the stretching, overwhelming fullness of it.

Cleo’s back arched off the mattress, a beautiful, shattered moan tearing from her throat as her eyes fluttered shut.

That sound snapped the last cord of his control. He released her wrists, letting her hands scramble to grip his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin as he withdrew and slammed back in. The rhythm was immediate, deep, and relentless. There was no gentle buildup, no slow seduction—just the raw, forceful friction of his hips snapping against hers, driving into her with a primal, consuming urgency. The silence of the room shattered, replaced entirely by the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the heavy bedframe, and the ragged, desperate sounds they were both making as he buried himself in her over and over again.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The world outside the heavy drapes—the frozen moss, the jagged lava rocks, and the biting Icelandic wind—ceased to exist. The only reality was the white-hot friction of Ben’s skin against hers and the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him. As he drove into her with that first, deep thrust, the air punched out of Cleo’s lungs in a jagged, broken sound. Her back arched violently off the mattress, her spine a taut bow as she met his weight head-on. Every relentless movement sent a shockwave through her nervous system; it was a blunt, heavy sensation that bordered on a sharp sting every time he hit the base of her, but she didn’t want him to slow down. She wanted the bruise of it. She wanted the mark of him.

She was finished with being delicate, finished with the "slow and poetic" version of them that had sustained her for so long. Her hands scrambled blindly across the pillows before finding his sweat-slicked shoulders, her nails digging into his skin to anchor herself against the sheer force of his rhythm. With a guttural moan that was half-plea and half-triumph, Cleo shifted her hips, tilting her pelvis upward to eliminate the last fraction of space between them. She was angling herself, guiding him with a desperate, instinctive intelligence, ensuring that every time he slammed back in, there was nowhere left for him to go but deeper.

The physical intensity was staggering, a raw and beautiful violence that made her head toss restlessly against the pillows. She lifted one leg, hooking it high and tight around his hip, locking him into the cradle of her thighs. The movement forced a deeper alignment, one so visceral and precise that her vision blurred into a haze of white light and dark shadows. Every time he withdrew and lunged back, she felt her internal muscles clench around the intrusion with a fierce, possessive heat. The sting was there—a sharp, electric throb at the very center of her—but it only served to ground her in the reality that they were finally, irrevocably, doing this.

"Ben," she gasped, the name breaking apart in her throat as her eyes flew open to find his. She didn't care about the breathless ache in her chest or the way the bedframe groaned under their combined weight; she only cared about the way he was looking at her—like he was a man drowning and she was the only air left in the world. She tightened her grip on his shoulders, her fingers leaving red crescents in his skin, as she signaled with every hitch of her breath and every tilt of her hips that she wanted every bit of the unraveled, demanding version of him.

Cleo felt her own control shredding, melting into the heat and the rhythmic, heavy friction that was filling her entire world. The sting of him hitting deep was no longer a warning; it was a catalyst, a sharp, grounding reminder that they were finally crossing the line they’d been dancing around for so long. She wasn't just a participant; she was a vacuum, pulling him in with every desperate tilt of her pelvis and every hitch in her lungs.

She reached up, her arms winding around his neck as she sought to bridge the tiny remaining gap between them. Her hands dove into the thick, dark mass of his hair, her fingers curling tight and pulling with a frantic, rhythmic urgency that matched the snap of his hips. She needed his mouth. She needed to taste the same desperation she was feeling. When she finally caught his lips with hers, the kiss was bruising and lawless, a collision of teeth and tongues that tasted of salt and the fierce, possessive heat of the moment.

The sound of their breathing was a ragged, unified thing in the quiet of the suite. Cleo’s fingers tightened even further in his hair, her knuckles white as she tugged his head down, anchoring him to her as if she were afraid he might disappear if she let go for even a second.

Every time he drove back into her, her eyes squeezed shut, her head tossing against the pillow in a blur of white-hot sensation. She could feel the tension coiling in the base of her spine, a tight, electric spring that was winding tighter with every deep, relentless thrust.

"Harder, baby," she managed to moan against his mouth, the words muffled and thick with a sudden, overwhelming Need. She arched higher, her leg still hooked high around his hip to keep him locked deep within her, her body vibrating with the sheer force of him. The "Sage or Briar" of it all wasn't a dream anymore—it was pulsing in the friction of their skin, in the way her internal muscles were starting to ripple and seize around him, and in the raw, primal focus in his eyes that told her he wasn't going to stop until they were both completely undone.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The word harder ripped through the last, fraying thread of his sanity like paper.

He didn’t just hear it; he felt it vibrate against his mouth, a breathless command that bypassed his brain entirely and went straight to his blood. Ben tore his lips from hers with a wet, ragged gasp, his chest heaving as he pushed himself up just enough to look down at her. She was a vision of absolute, beautiful ruin—her dark hair fanned wildly across the stark white pillows, her lips bruised and swollen, her eyes blown wide with a desperate, feral hunger that perfectly mirrored his own.

She had her leg locked around his hip, holding him captive, but he needed more leverage. He needed to give her exactly what she was begging for.

Ben shifted his weight, the muscles in his back pulling taut. He slid one hand down to catch the back of her hooked knee, pushing her leg higher and pressing it back so she was completely, devastatingly open to him. He braced his other arm rigid against the mattress beside her head, locking his elbow to anchor his weight.

"Like this?" he ground out, his voice completely unrecognizable—stripped of all its usual easy charm and reduced to a raw, guttural rasp.

He withdrew almost entirely, the slick, slow friction making his jaw lock tight, and then he drove his hips forward, slamming back into her to the hilt with a forceful, punishing snap.
The heavy, wet sound of their bodies colliding echoed sharply in the quiet room. Cleo cried out, her spine bowing off the mattress as she took the full, blunt force of him, and that sound hit Ben like a mainline of pure adrenaline.

He didn't give her a chance to catch her breath. He established a brutal, unrelenting rhythm, pulling back and burying himself inside her over and over again. He wasn't making love anymore; he was staking a claim. Every violent thrust was calculated to hit that deep, aching spot that made her lungs stutter. The heavy wooden headboard began to knock a frantic, rhythmic beat against the wall, a physical metronome to their chaos, but Ben didn't care. He didn't care about the hotel, the lava fields, or the rest of the planet. His entire universe had shrunk to the wet, tight heat of her body clutching around his length.

It was pure, agonizing torture. Her internal muscles were beginning to spasm and ripple around him with every strike, dragging him dangerously close to the edge. The coil in his groin was winding so tight it physically ached, a blinding pressure building at the base of his spine, but he stubbornly clamped down on it. He refused to let it snap. Not yet. He wasn't done wrecking her.

He leaned down, the sweat glistening on his chest sliding slick against the bare heat of her breasts, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He opened his mouth against the sensitive curve where her shoulder met her throat, his teeth scraping lightly over her skin as he pistoned his hips.

Her nails dragged hard down his back, leaving lines of absolute fire in their wake, urging him on. The pain was grounding, a sharp counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure that was threatening to drown him. He tightened his grip on her thigh, his knuckles turning white, and pushed the tempo even faster, driving deeper, pushing them both higher up the steep, terrifying incline of the climb.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt as though she were being dismantled and rebuilt with every heavy, forceful strike of his hips. The stinging depth of him was a jagged, beautiful reality that made her head toss against the pillows, her breath coming in short, panicked hitches as she tried to keep up with the sheer momentum of his hunger. She was no longer just a participant; she was a live wire, sparking and snapping under the weight of him. When he buried his face in her neck, she felt the vibration of his growl against her skin, but she couldn't let him stay hidden. She needed to see the man who was currently burning her world to the ground.

Her hands, slick with sweat and shaking with a desperate adrenaline, flew to his face. She didn't just touch him; she gripped him, her palms framing his jaw with a possessive strength that forced him to look at her. She pulled him up, her fingers digging into his skin as she pressed her forehead hard against his, their sweat mingling in the narrow, heated space between them. A long, shattered moan vibrated through her chest and into his, a sound of total surrender and fierce demand. "Ben," she choked out, her voice a raw, broken thread as she sought his lips with hers. The kiss was messy, desperate, and tasted of the salt from their skin and the frantic heat of the room.

While their mouths were fused in a bruising collision of teeth and tongues, Cleo reached down, her hand finding the iron-grip of his wrist. She guided him, urging him to take hold of her other leg—the one not already pinned back—and hoist it high. She pushed against the solid, radiating heat of his chest, not to create distance, but to force him back onto his knees, widening the angle until she was completely, devastatingly exposed to him. The shift allowed him even deeper, hitting that aching, sensitive spot with a precision that made her back arch violently off the mattress.

She was wide open now, held captive by his hands and her own desperate need, her internal muscles already beginning to ripple and seize around him in a rhythmic, involuntary welcome. Every time he drove back in, the world splintered into shards of white light, and she clung to his face, her eyes locked on his as she felt the coil at the base of her spine wind tighter and tighter. She was drowning in the sensation of him, her head falling back as another shattered cry broke from her throat, her body vibrating with the knowledge that they were finally, violently, crossing into the point of no return.

Cleo’s vision was a blurred smear of white sheets and Ben’s dark, focused eyes, but her nerve endings had never been more sharp. The pressure building inside her was a tidal wave, a heavy, coiling heat that made every inch of her skin feel like it was humming. She was stretched to her limit, anchored by Ben’s bruising grip on her thighs, but it wasn't enough. She needed to shatter.

With a ragged, animalistic moan, she released her hold on his face. One hand stayed white-knuckled against the headboard to steady herself against the violence of his pace, while the other slid down between their bodies. The friction was incredible—the slick, sliding heat of him moving inside her combined with the frantic, trembling movements of her own fingers as she found the center of her own storm. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation that made her breath hitch and her eyes roll back.

She began to move against herself in a fast, desperate rhythm that mimicked his, her touch adding a sharp, stinging clarity to the blunt force of his thrusts. It was too much; it was everything. Her internal muscles began to seize and pulse around him in a frantic, rhythmic greeting, each contraction tighter than the last. The world outside the room, the future they were building, even the names they had whispered—it all condensed into this one, singular point of friction.

"Baby, please," she sobbed against his mouth, her fingers working with a blurred, focused urgency. She was pushing herself over the edge, her back arching so high off the mattress that only her heels and shoulders touched the silk. The coil at the base of her spine snapped, sending a blinding explosion of white-hot pleasure through her entire frame. Her head fell back, a long, shattered cry tearing from her throat as she spiraled, her body rippling in a deep, prolonged release that gripped him with a fierce, possessive intensity.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben was gone. The second she reached down, the second the sound of her own desperate, focused touch joined the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies, any remaining fragment of his restraint was incinerated.

He watched her shatter. He watched her eyes roll back and her spine arch into that beautiful, impossible curve, and the sight of her completely undone by him—and by her own hand—was the final, devastating blow.

The fierce, rhythmic pulsing of her internal muscles seizing around him was a physical trap, dragging him under. His jaw locked so tight it felt like it might crack, the veins in his neck and forehead standing out as he took the full, vibrating force of her release.
"Cleo—"

Her name was a shattered, guttural sound, less a word and more a broken exhale of pure worship.

He didn't slow down. He couldn't. He drove into her with three more deep, staggering thrusts, his hands nearly bruising her thighs as he held her open, his entire body vibrating with a tension that had become agonizing. On the final strike, he buried himself to the absolute hilt, his head falling back as his own control snapped violently.

The explosion was blinding. It felt like his entire nervous system was being rewired in a single, white-hot burst of sensation. He poured everything into her—every vow they’d whispered in the dark, every hope for Sage or Briar, every ounce of the protective, consuming love he’d been carrying since 2020.

His muscles spasmed, his back pulling into a rigid, trembling line as he spent himself completely. He stayed there, buried deep, his chest heaving as he fought for air that didn't seem to exist in the room anymore.

Slowly, the world began to bleed back in.

The sound of their frantic breathing, the smell of salt and sex, the cool Icelandic light still mocking them from the edges of the drapes. Ben’s arms finally gave out, and he collapsed forward, careful not to crush her but needing the full-body contact. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his skin slick and burning against hers, his heart hammering a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs.

He didn't move for a long time. He just held her, his fingers still tangled in her hair, feeling the aftershocks of her release still fluttering against him.

"Stay right here," he managed to rasp, his voice a ghost of itself, thick with an exhaustion that felt like peace. "Don't move a muscle, Cleo."

He shifted just enough to press a lingering, salt-tasting kiss to the pulse point in her neck, his eyes still closed, finally—completely—unraveled.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The silence that followed was heavy, humid, and thick with the weight of what they had just done. Cleo lay there, her chest heaving in a jagged, syncopated rhythm with Ben’s, her skin slick and burning wherever it pressed against his. The ceiling of the suite seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, the cool Icelandic light at the edges of the drapes feeling like a world away. She felt hollowed out and filled up all at once, her muscles still twitching with the faint, electric aftershocks of a release that had felt more like an exorcism than a climax.

She didn't move—not because he’d asked, but because she couldn't have if she tried. Her limbs felt like clead, anchored to the mattress by the sheer gravity of his body. Slowly, she lifted one shaking hand, her fingers finding the damp, dark silk of his hair. She began to play with the strands at the nape of his neck, a rhythmic, grounding motion that helped tether her back to reality. Her other hand slid down the broad, sweat-slicked expanse of his back, her palm dragging slowly up and down the valley of his spine, tracing the rigid muscles that were only just beginning to lose their frantic tension.

The scent of him—salt, warmth, and the fading trace of the lagoon—was everywhere, filling her lungs as she turned her head slightly to press her cheek into his temple. She could feel the frantic hammering of his heart against her ribs, a wild, galloping pace that slowly began to settle into a deep, steady throb. The "Sage or Briar" of it all didn't feel like a whispered dream anymore; it felt like a living, pulsing vow settled deep inside her body.

"I’m not going anywhere," she breathed, her voice a soft, wrecked splinter of itself. She tightened her hold on him, her fingers curling into his hair as she pulled him just a fraction closer, if that was even possible. "I’m right here, Ben. I've got you."

She closed her eyes, letting the heavy peace of the aftermath wash over them both. There was no more cold wind, no more distance, and no more patience—just the two of them, tangled together in the wreckage of the bed, finally and completely unraveled.

The heavy, sacred silence of the room was suddenly punctuated by a sound that was decidedly less than poetic. Cleo felt the vibration of it before she heard it—a deep, insistent, and prolonged grumble from her stomach that echoed against Ben’s chest. The sheer timing of it, coming right on the heels of such a life-altering, soul-baring moment, was enough to break the spell.

A small, breathless huff of air escaped her, which quickly spiraled into a genuine, tired laugh. She didn't try to hide it; she just let her head fall back against the pillow, her fingers still lazily twining through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. The tension that had just been so primal and heavy shifted into something warm and human.

"My body has spoken again," she murmured, her voice still a bit husky and wrecked from the screaming she’d been doing minutes before. She felt another ripple of hunger beneath her ribs, more demanding this time, as if her metabolism had just realized exactly how much energy she'd spent.

She turned her face into the crook of his neck, her lips brushing his skin as she spoke. "And I hate to break it to you, Ben, but the granola bars? Yeah, those aren't going to cut it this time. Not even close." She let out a soft sigh of mock-defeat, her hand continuing its slow, rhythmic glide up and down the damp skin of his back. "I think we’ve officially moved past 'light snack' territory and straight into 'I need a three-course meal and possibly a whole loaf of bread' or I might actually faint."

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, savoring the weight of him and the absolute peace of the aftermath, even as her stomach gave another low, traitorous growl.

"Sage or Briar is going to be a very hungry baby if this is the baseline," she joked softly, the name feeling more real now than it ever had before.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben didn’t move at first. He just let his forehead drop against the curve of her shoulder, his breath coming in hot, shallow hitches that puffed against her skin. He felt like he’d been dismantled and put back together in a way that left several parts in the wrong places, but he didn't care. Every nerve ending was humming a low, steady frequency of pure, unadulterated devotion. The sound of her stomach—that deep, subterranean roar against his own ribs—hit him like a splash of cold water, and a slow, lopsided grin started to spread across his face, hidden in the hollow of her throat.

He let out a long, ragged exhale that turned into a quiet, vibrating chuckle. It was so perfectly her. They could touch the edge of the universe together, they could rewrite their entire history in a single afternoon, and her biology would still chime in with a reminder that it was lunchtime.

"Sage or Briar is clearly taking after their mother," he murmured, his voice a gravelly, basement-register rumble that felt like it was vibrating straight into her marrow. "Already demanding a rider. Already sending back the catering."

He finally shifted his weight, though it felt like trying to move through molasses. He pushed himself up onto his forearms, bracing his weight so he could look down at her. He didn't pull out of her yet; he stayed anchored there, relishing the heavy, slick heat of their connection as the air of the room finally started to cool the sweat on his back. He looked down at her, taking in the beautiful, chaotic wreck of her—the dark hair plastered to her forehead, the bruised softness of her mouth, and the way her eyes were just beginning to focus again.

"A loaf of bread," he repeated, his eyes dark and heavy with a warmth that was less about hunger and more about a terrifyingly deep level of adoration. "You’re really going to hold me to that, aren't you? After I just gave you a spiritual experience, you’re looking at me like I’m a delivery driver."

He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the center of her forehead, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth. Each one felt like a seal on a contract.

"I feel like a hollowed-out tree, Cleo. My legs are currently made of cooked spaghetti. I’m pretty sure if I try to stand up, I’m just going to dissolve into the carpet." He let out a soft, huffed laugh, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a slow, rhythmic intensity. "But for you? For the mother of my future bread-thieves? I will rally. I will find the strength. I will wage war on the room service menu until they bring us everything that isn't nailed down."

He lowered his head again, resting his nose against hers, breathing her in. The weight of the future felt solid now. It wasn't a "maybe" or a "someday." It was the heat between them, the exhaustion in his limbs, and the quiet, fierce promise in the way she was looking at him.

"Three courses," he whispered, his grin widening just a fraction, flashing that boyish, slightly wicked edge. "But I'm ordering the fries, too. And I'm not sharing. Well, okay, I’m sharing with the baby. You’re on your own."

He shifted, finally and reluctantly moving to slide off her, the loss of contact feeling like a physical ache. He rolled onto his back beside her, the sheets cool and crisp against his overheated skin, and stared up at the ceiling, his chest still rising and falling in deep, heavy swells. He reached out, his hand finding hers blindly on the mattress, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight.

"Give me two minutes to remember how to be a human being," he exhaled, his voice still thick and wrecked. "Two minutes of silence to honor the man I was before you destroyed me. Then I’ll get the bread."

He turned his head to look at her, his expression suddenly stripping back to something raw and defenseless.

"I meant it, you know," he added softly, the humor fading into a quiet, resonant sincerity. "The 'not going anywhere' part. I think I’m actually fused to this bed. I think this is just who I am now. Ben Wilder: Provider of Carbs and Eternal Devotion."

He squeezed her hand again, his eyes locking onto hers.

"So, what's the verdict? Are we going with the massive club sandwich that requires a map to navigate, or the steak that’s definitely larger than my head? I feel like we’ve earned the 'everything' section of the menu. Every single calorie."