Ben held perfectly still for the kiss, letting it land like an anchor. It wasn’t the desperate, tear-stained collision from the hot tub; this was quiet. This was the kind of kiss you gave someone when you weren't saying goodbye, but goodnight. It settled the last of the adrenaline humming under his skin.

He chased her lips for a second when she pulled back, just a small, instinctive lean forward, before letting his forehead rest against hers.

"Deal," he whispered, his voice rough with a relief he didn't bother hiding. "I am banning tears. I am putting a moratorium on heavy emotions. From here on out, we are strictly operating on dopamine, sugar, and adrenaline."

He moved his hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin behind her ear.

"And if you want loud, dumb, and impossible..." He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulled back to look at her. "I mean, look at me. I’m right here. I’m basically a human action movie without the budget. I can provide all the stupidity you need."

He squeezed her nape gently, grounding her.

"Just us," he agreed, soft and final. "No noise. No world. just us and this very questionable CGI snake."

He turned his head back to the screen just as the movie reached its chaotic climax—explosions, screaming, snakes defying biology. He let out a low whistle.
"Speaking of," he noted, pointing a lazy finger at the laptop. "I think J-Lo is about to win. Which means my time has come."

He didn't move away from her, but his energy shifted. The sleepy, cuddly boyfriend vibe sharpened into something playful and competitive. He reached out with his free hand—the one not holding her—and snatched the red controller off the table.

"Start stretching your thumbs, Cleo," he warned, tapping the buttons with a menacing click-clack sound. "The credits are about to roll. The peace treaty is expiring. You wanted a distraction? I’m about to give you the most stressful four minutes of your life."

He nudged her ribs, flashing a grin that was all teeth and boyish trouble.

"I hope you like the taste of dust, because that’s all you’re going to be eating on Moo Moo Meadows."

Cleo laughed softly at his “human action movie” line, her nose wrinkling in that fond, disbelieving way like she’d heard this speech a hundred times and somehow still loved it.

“Strictly dopamine, sugar, and adrenaline?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Wow. Look at you, suddenly a wellness influencer.”

She let his hand settle at the back of her neck, melting into the touch for a second before smirking.

“And please,” she added, eyes flicking over him playfully. “If you’re an action movie, you’re the indie kind. Low budget. Strong emotional arc. Questionable stunts.”

When he grabbed the controller, her shoulders straightened just a little—instinct, muscle memory, rivalry waking up.

“Oh, don’t get cocky,” she warned, narrowing her eyes. “You always get cocky right before you drive off the map like a cartoon idiot.”

She glanced at the screen, then back at him.

“And Moo Moo Meadows? Really? You peaked emotionally at the cow level?”

She laughed when he nudged her, shaking her head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

The movie finally wrapped, the credits rolling with their over-the-top music, and Cleo stretched, arms lifting over her head as she slowly untangled herself from him.

She slid off the couch, padding a few steps toward the hallway before turning back, eyebrow raised.

“Okay,” she said lightly, motioning between the controller in his hand and the bedroom down the hall. “Serious question.”

She grinned.

“Do you actually wanna play a game… or do you wanna play no games and crawl into that comfy bed with me?”

She shrugged, teasing but soft.

“Just saying. Both are valid options.”

"Indie movie?" Ben scoffed, though the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him instantly. "Excuse me, I am a blockbuster event. I have high production value. I have franchise potential."

He tossed the controller from one hand to the other, leaning back against the couch cushions as he narrowed his eyes at her accusation about his driving skills.

"And for the record," he countered, pointing a finger at her with absolute conviction. "I do not drive off the map like a cartoon idiot. I drive off the map because I am a victim of environmental distractions. Usually caused by you. You do something distracting—like laugh, or breathe, or exist in my peripheral vision—and suddenly I’m plummeting into space. It’s a safety hazard. I should sue."

When she stood up and posed the question—games or bed—he stopped tossing the controller. He froze, holding it in mid-air.

He looked down at the red plastic in his hand.

Then he looked up at Cleo, standing there in the hallway light, warm and soft and looking at him with that challenge in her eyes.

Then back at the controller.

Then back at her.

He let out a long, agonized exhale, rubbing his chin with his free hand like a philosopher contemplating the meaning of life.

"This is a crisis," he muttered to the ceiling. "On one hand... eternal glory. The thrill of the race. Putting Toad in his place."

He looked at her again.

"On the other hand... horizontal comfort. Body heat. You."

He sat there for another three seconds, milking the suspense, tapping his chin.

"It’s a real Sophie’s Choice situation. The fans are going to be disappointed. My sponsors will be furious."

Then, abruptly, he set the controller down on the coffee table with a decisive clack.
"Sorry, Mario," he whispered to the plastic. "Not tonight."

He stood up, stretching his arms over his head until his back cracked, groaning dramatically. Then, without a word of warning, he moved.

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, stooped down, and scooped her up into his arms before she could even blink.

"Taxi service," he announced, grinning down at her as he turned toward the bedroom. "Meter’s running. It’s an expensive ride. You have to tip the driver."

He carried her down the short hallway, kicking the bedroom door open with his foot, and marched straight to the bed. He deposited her onto the mattress with a gentleness that contradicted his chaotic energy, immediately reaching for the duvet to pull it up over her.
"In," he ordered softly. "Warmth. Now."

He rounded the bed, shucking off his hoodie in one fluid motion and tossing it onto the chair before sliding under the covers next to her. The sheets were cold, but he fixed that instantly by pulling her against him, wrapping his arms around her and tangling their legs together until they were a single knot of heat.

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply, letting the last of the day's manic energy bleed out into the quiet of the room.

"You know," he whispered against her skin, his voice low and sleepy. "Only a fool would choose video games over this."

He kissed the soft spot behind her ear, squeezing her a little tighter.

"And I’m a lot of things, Cleo, but I’m not a fool."

He pulled back just an inch, enough to see her face in the shadows, a knowing, lazy smirk curving his lips.

"Which means I also know exactly what you just did. You knew I was about to lap you on Moo Moo Meadows, so you deployed the 'come to bed' strategy. It’s a dirty tactic. Cowardly, really."

He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, his eyes softening.

"But it worked. So I guess you win this round."

Cleo laughed when he started talking about sponsors and disappointed fans, the sound warm and sleepy as she let herself be scooped up.

“Wow,” she murmured, looping her arms around his neck while he carried her down the hall, “such a sacrifice. Truly heroic. Somewhere, a gamer sheds a single dramatic tear.”

When he set her down and tucked the blankets around her, she wiggled deeper into the sheets, already smiling as he slid in beside her and pulled her close. She fit easily against him, like she’d been designed for that exact space. Her nose brushed his jaw as he buried his face in her neck, and she let out a soft, content sigh.

“Horizontal comfort is undefeated,” she whispered, her voice drowsy and smug. “You made the correct choice.”

At his accusation about her “dirty tactic,” she tilted her head back just enough to look at him, eyes shining in the low light.

“Excuse you,” she said, mock-offended. “That wasn’t a tactic. That was a public service announcement. I saved you from your own poor decisions.”

She shifted closer, one hand sliding up to rest over his shoulder.

“And yeah,” she admitted with a grin, “I did win.”

She leaned in and kissed him, slow and soft, like she wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. After a second, she pulled back just enough to look at him again, her thumb coming up to brush his cheek. Her finger found the little freckle there, tracing a lazy circle around it.

“And I’m always going to win,” she whispered, smiling. “You know that.”

Her eyes softened.

“It’s only going to get better from here,” she told him quietly, still tracing that tiny freckle like it was something precious.

Cleo didn’t pull her hand away from his cheek. She stayed there, tracing that familiar freckle like it was a promise she could touch.

“I have big plans,” she murmured, softer now, more serious under the teasing edge. “Like… actually big.”

Her smile turned shy for a second, the kind that only showed up when she was about to say something that scared her just a little.

“I’m gonna make room for you,” she continued. “In my closet. And not just, like, a pity drawer either.” Her eyes flicked up to his. “You get two. Minimum. Because you own way too many t-shirts for one drawer and we both know it.”

She let out a small breath, the weight of what she was really saying settling in.

“And I’m gonna clear out that corner by the window,” she added. “The one with the plant that’s barely hanging on? That’s yours. For your guitar. Your notebooks. Your messy little piles of genius.”

Her thumb slowed on his cheek.

“So when you’re home… you actually feel home,” she said quietly. “Not like a guest. Not like you’re borrowing space.”

Her voice dipped, steady and sure.

“Because it’s not just my place anymore,” she whispered. “It’s ours. My home is your home now.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his.

“Big plans,” she repeated softly.

Ben went perfectly still.

His hand, which had been idly rubbing circles on her lower back, paused. The sleepy, half-lidded grin that had been plastered on his face slowly faded, replaced by something much softer and infinitely more terrified.

He stared at her in the dark, searching her face to see if she was joking. To see if this was just pillow talk—the kind of sweet, hazy promises people made in the dark and forgot by coffee.

But she looked dead serious. She was talking about drawer real estate. She was talking about evicting a plant.

"Two drawers?" he managed to choke out, his voice cracking just a little before he cleared his throat, forcing the lightness back in. "Babe, two drawers is... that’s prime real estate. In L.A., that kind of square footage goes for three grand a month. You’re just... giving that up?"

He let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head against the pillow.

"And the corner? The window corner?" He narrowed his eyes, though they were shimmering with emotion he was fighting to keep under control. "You love that plant. You named that plant. I’m pretty sure you sing to it."

He moved his hand from her back to cup her cheek, mirroring her touch, his thumb sweeping over her skin with a reverence that betrayed how hard his heart was hammering against his ribs.

"You realize what you just did, right?" he whispered, the humor melting away into raw honesty. "You just opened the floodgates. You just invited the chaos in permanently."

He moved closer, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes closing tight.

"There are going to be guitar picks everywhere, Cleo. I lose them constantly. You’re going to find them in the couch cushions, in the dryer, in your shoes. You’re going to step on one in the middle of the night and curse my entire bloodline."

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.

"My messy piles of genius?" he repeated, his voice barely audible. "That sounds... that sounds really good. That sounds like everything."

He opened his eyes, dark and fierce and completely undone.

"I’m taking the drawers," he vowed, low and serious. "And I’m taking the corner. And I’m going to buy you a new plant that doesn’t look like it’s on life support."

He kissed her then—not playful, not sleepy. It was a seal. A contract signed in the dark.

"My home is your home," he echoed against her lips, testing the weight of it, finding it heavy and grounding and perfect. "Okay. Okay, we're doing that. Big plans."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, a crooked, watery smile tugging at his mouth.

"But just so you know... if I find my t-shirts being used as paint rags, I’m claiming squatters rights. You can’t evict me. I live there now."

Cleo felt the shift in him immediately—the way his hand stilled on her back, the way his breath changed. It made her chest tighten, not with fear, but with that quiet awe that always crept in when she realized how deeply he was actually listening.

She smiled softly at his cracked little laugh, lifting her head just enough to meet his eyes in the dark.
“Yeah,” she whispered, warmth in every syllable. “Two drawers. I’m serious.”
Her thumb brushed slow over his knuckles. “You deserve more than one.”

When he teased her about the plant, her mouth curved. “I don’t sing to it,” she murmured, pretending to be offended, though her eyes gave her away. “I just… encourage it. Plants thrive on positivity.”

She leaned into his touch when he cupped her cheek, her heart thudding hard at the reverence in his hands. This wasn’t a joke to him. Neither was she. That realization settled deep in her bones, heavy and beautiful.

“I know exactly what I did,” she said quietly when he spoke about chaos. “And I’m not scared of it.”

His list of guitar-pick disasters made her laugh under her breath.
“I already step on paintbrushes in the middle of the night,” she admitted. “And trip over canvases. I’ve survived worse than your little plastic landmines.”

When he said messy piles of genius, her smile softened. She could picture it—him spread across her floor, lyrics scattered, guitar leaning against the couch. Proof of him. Evidence of them.

“That sounds like a home,” she told him gently.

His vow made her breath catch. Drawers. Corner. A new plant. It wasn’t about the objects—it was the permanence. The choice. Her throat went tight, but she didn’t look away.

When he kissed her, she kissed him back just as seriously, one hand sliding into his hair, grounding herself in him. Not rushing. Not afraid.

“My home is your home,” she repeated softly, because it mattered to say it out loud. “It always will be.”

And when he joked about his shirts, she laughed quietly, pressing her forehead to his.
“Relax,” she murmured. “Your shirts are safe. The only thing I’ll do with them is wear them when you’re gone… and let you peal them off of me when you come home.”

She kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, her touch lingering.

Her heart felt full. Scared. Brave. All at once.

“Big plans,” she whispered again—this time not as a joke, but like a promise.

Cleo didn’t hesitate this time.

She leaned in and kissed him again—soft at first, familiar, like muscle memory. The kind of kiss that said I’m here without needing words. She lingered there, letting it stretch, letting it settle, before deepening it just a little. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just full. Her hand slid up the side of his neck, thumb brushing the warm skin beneath his ear, grounding herself in him.

When she finally pulled back, she stayed close, noses brushing, breath still tangled with his. Her forehead rested against his, eyes half-lidded, heart pounding in that quiet, terrifying way that only came with truth.

“I love you,” she whispered.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heavy. It just… was. Solid and sure and real.

Her fingers traced slow circles at the base of his neck, like she was memorizing this version of him—soft, undone, staying.
“I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel it anymore,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve done that for years. Pretended I didn’t need this. Pretended I didn’t want a home with someone in it.”

She smiled against his mouth, small and brave.
“But I do. I want you. I wanna be the one to leave the light on for you.”

Another quick kiss.
“And I’m not scared of saying it.”

Ben felt his breath hitch, a sharp, audible intake of air that he couldn't hide.

Let you peel them off of me when you come home.

The image that painted in his brain was vivid, high-definition, and absolutely lethal. He saw it instantly: the front door of her apartment, his bags dropping to the floor, her standing there in one of his worn-out vintage tees, and him walking her backward until her back hit the wall.

It short-circuited his brain. It made the blood rush south so fast he actually felt lightheaded.

And then she followed it up with I want to be the one to leave the light on for you.
That broke him in a completely different way.

He thought about his apartment in L.A. He thought about how it always smelled like stale air and dust when he got back from a tour. He thought about the silence that greeted him—the kind that rang in his ears after months of screaming crowds. It was cold. It was empty. It was a place to store his stuff, not a place to live.

But the idea of coming back to her? To a light left on? To a corner with his guitar and a drawer with his name on it? That didn't just sound like a plan; it sounded like a lifeline.

"You," he breathed, his voice rougher now, deeper. "You are dangerous, Cleo. You drop these lines like they don't completely rearrange my entire molecular structure."

He tightened his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck again, overwhelmed by how much he wanted this. All of it. The domesticity and the desire, tangled up together.

"Leaving the light on," he murmured against her skin. "God. Do you know how much I hate coming home to a dark house? It’s the worst part. And now..."

He pulled back, needing to look at her. His eyes were dark, dilated, searching hers with a mix of intense gratitude and barely restrained hunger.

"Now I get to come home to you. That’s... that’s the dream, babe. That’s the whole damn dream."

He kissed her, hard and deep, pouring all of that relief into it. But when he pulled back, his hand slipped under the hem of her oversized sweater, his palm resting warm and firm against the bare skin of her waist.

He looked down at the knit fabric, then back up at her, a crooked, apologetic grin tugging at his mouth.

"But listen," he whispered, his thumb sweeping back and forth against her ribs. "I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be the respectful boyfriend who accepts the drawer space and the emotional vulnerability with grace."

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice dropping to a low growl.

"But that comment about peeling my shirt off you? That was unfair. That was dirty pool. Because now all I can think about is peeling this sweater off you."

He kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear, his hand flexing gently against her waist.

"So you have to make the call," he murmured into her hair. "We can go to sleep. We can dream about the drawers and the plant. I can hold you and be perfectly well-behaved."

He pulled back just enough to catch her eye, his expression heavy with want but light with humor.

"Or... I can help you out of this wool fortress, and we can celebrate the merger of our assets properly. Ball’s in your court, landlord."

Cleo felt a soft ache in her chest as he spoke about the silence of his apartment in L.A., the coldness of a space that was just storage for a life lived out of a suitcase. It made her want to never let him walk into a dark room again.

She reached up, her hands finding their way to cup his face, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. She wanted to soothe that rough edge in his voice, to smooth away the memory of that stale air he hated so much.

"I’m glad I can be that for you," she whispered, her eyes searching his, earnest and steady. "I meant it, Ben. The light will always be on. You don't have to dread coming home anymore."

A small, knowing smile played on her lips as he shifted gears, his voice dropping into that low growl that vibrated right through her. She felt the warmth of his hand on her waist, the heat radiating through the wool of her sweater. When he accused her of playing dirty, her smile widened just a fraction.

"I didn't realize I was wielding such power," she murmured, leaning into his touch rather than shying away. "But if the molecular structure needs rearranging... who am I to stop it?"

She listened to his ultimatum—the choice between being "perfectly well-behaved" or "celebrating the merger"—and she didn't even have to think about it.

Instead of answering with words right away, she moved closer, eliminating the last sliver of space between them.

It wasn't a hungry, frantic kiss like the one he had given her moments before. It was slow. It was deliberate and incredibly soft, a gentle moulding of her mouth against his that was meant to savor him, to ground him. She kissed him with a languid tenderness, her fingers threading slowly into the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping the pace unhurried, letting the warmth bloom between them gradually.

When she finally pulled back, just an inch, her forehead rested against his.

"I think," she breathed, her voice a soft hum in the quiet space between them, "that we should probably celebrate the merger."

Her hand, previously resting near at the nape of his neck, began a slow, deliberate journey downward before sliding back up the center of his chest. She flattened her palm over his heart, feeling the heavy, steady thrum of it beneath the fabric. It was beating hard, a rhythmic echo of the desire he’d just voiced, and grounding herself in that pulse made everything feel sharper, more real.

She traced the line of his sternum upward, her fingers lingering against the warmth radiating from him, before reaching higher. Her hand slid up the side of his neck, her thumb grazing the sensitive skin there, until she was cupping his jaw, cradling his face with a reverence that felt almost holy.

She felt the rough stubble against her palm, a texture she was quickly coming to associate with comfort.

With a soft, shuddering sigh against his lips, she tilted her head, pressing closer until every inch of space was erased. She deepened the kiss, but she didn’t speed it up. Instead, she let it unfold like a slow burn, her lips parting slightly to taste him more fully, drawing him in with a languid, rolling rhythm. It was a silent promise, a confirmation that he was right—this, the quiet, the connection, the light left on—was exactly where they were supposed to be.

Ben let out a ragged exhale against her mouth as she deepened the kiss, her slow, deliberate pace wreaking absolute havoc on his self-control. He loved that she wasn't rushing. He loved that she was savoring it. But god, every time her tongue swept against his, the urge to crush her against the mattress and lose his mind spiked a little higher.

"Merger approved," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough. "Motion carried. Unanimous vote."

He didn't waste another second.

He moved his hands from her waist to the hem of the thick, oversized sweater. He brushed his thumbs against her skin as he gathered the wool, guiding her to lift her arms.

"Up," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her chin as he pulled the fabric over her head.

He tossed the sweater blindly toward the chair—he’d worry about folding it or saving it from the paintbrushes later—and turned back to her, ready to make a joke about liberating her from the wool fortress.

The joke died in his throat.

Ben froze, his hands hovering just above her waist.

Because the fortress hadn’t been hiding much.

The lamplight glowed over her skin, casting soft shadows, revealing the fact that under the heavy knit, she was wearing absolutely nothing but a small scrap of fabric at her hips. No bra. No camisole. Just Cleo.

His brain short-circuited. It was a complete system failure.

He stared at her for a heartbeat, his eyes tracing the curve of her, the softness, the sheer, breathtaking reality of her sitting there half-naked in his bed after telling him she wanted him to come home to her.

"Oh," he breathed, the word punching out of him like he’d been hit.

He looked up at her face, his expression a mix of stunned reverence and darkening hunger. A slow, incredulous smile broke through, lopsided and charmed.

"You know," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "For a girl who spent twenty minutes building a defensive bunker on the couch... you travel surprisingly light."

He shook his head, letting out a breathless laugh.

"That is... efficient. I am a huge fan of this efficiency. We should make this a house rule."

He didn't wait for a retort. He couldn't.

He reached out, his hands sliding around her bare back, skin to skin for the first time all night. The feeling of her—warm and soft and smooth against his palms—was electric. He pulled her flush against him, letting out a groan of pure satisfaction as her chest pressed against his bare chest, heat sealing to heat.

"You are trying to kill me," he whispered into her hair, holding her tight, his hand splaying wide over her spine. "First the drawers. Then the light. Now this. You’re going for a total knockout."

He leaned back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark and heavy with want.
"It’s working," he admitted, unashamed. "I am down for the count. You win everything."

Cleo felt a thrill chase up her spine at the look on his face—that stunned, reverent expression that told her she had completely disarmed him. The "defensive bunker" of her sweater might have been a way to hide her nerves earlier, but seeing him now, eyes dark and heavy with want, those nerves transmuted into something sharper. Something bolder.

"I’m glad you approve of the logistics," she purred, her confidence rising to meet his hunger. "But if I win everything... then I get to collect."
She didn't give him a chance to recover.

With a sudden shift of leverage, she pressed her hands against his chest and shoved him backward onto the mattress. She followed him down instantly, swinging her leg over to straddle his waist, pinning him there. The friction of her bare thighs against his hips, the heat of his skin against hers, made her breath hitch, but she didn't stop.

She leaned forward, her body hovering over his as she reached toward the nightstand. Her fingers found the box of Trojans. She plucked one out, and holding his gaze with a smoldering intensity, she placed the corner of the foil packet between her teeth.

She moved down his body, she felt his muscles jump beneath her touch, his hands gripping the sheets as he watched her. When she reached his hips, she took the packet from her mouth and looked at him, her expression mirroring the command he’d given her moments ago.
"Up," she demanded softly.

Ben lifted his hips without hesitation. Cleo hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and dragged them down—but she didn't pull them off. She stopped at his thighs, leaving the fabric there as a deliberate tether, keeping his legs bound, keeping him right where she wanted him.

She tore the wrapper open, the sound sharp in the quiet room. With steady, possessive hands, she placed the condom at the tip and rolled it down, smoothing her palms over him, feeling the heat and the hardness of him twitch against her touch.

She moved back up, positioning herself directly over him. She placed her hands on his chest to steady herself, her eyes locking onto his dilated pupils. She didn't rush. She wanted to savor this just as much as he had savored the kiss.

She lowered her hips, taking him in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, filling herself with him until she was flush against his pelvis. A long, shaky sigh escaped her lips as she settled there, encompassing him completely, claiming her victory.