The door clicked shut, sealing out the wind, and Ben leaned against it for a split second, exhaling a cloud of steam that was slowly fading.

Girlfriend.

The word had slipped out with zero fanfare, just tumbled into the cold air between "paramedics" and "pinecone." He hadn't planned it. He hadn't workshopped it in the shower or written it down on a napkin to test the weight of it. It had just… happened. Like a reflex. Like his brain had already updated the software and forgot to send the memo to his mouth.

He braced himself, waiting for the flinch. Waiting for the "whoa, slow down" look. But she was already on the floor, arranging sticks like she was conducting a symphony, muttering about paper bags.

He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, a small, lopsided grin taking over his face.

She didn't run.

"Right," he muttered to the empty hallway as she disappeared into the bedroom. "Cool. We're doing that. I can work with that."

He peeled the damp towel from his waist, doing a quick, shivering dry-off before grabbing the pile of clothes he’d left on the dryer earlier. He pulled on a pair of soft, heather-grey sweatpants and a matching oversized hoodie, instantly transforming into a walking, comfortable storm cloud. He ran a hand through his damp hair, which was currently doing its best impression of a mad scientist, and decided to just let it be. It was a look. Probably.

He padded into the kitchen, the floorboards cold even through his socks.

He filled the biggest pot he could find with water, cranking the burner to high. He wasn't kidding about the pasta. He had two boxes of rigatoni, a jar of sauce that claimed to be "artisanal," and a block of parmesan he intended to grate until his arm fell off.

He was just dumping the pasta into the rolling boil—steam billowing up into his face—when he heard her.

“...or am I about to commit a crime with a steak knife?”

Ben froze, the wooden spoon paused mid-stir.

"Absolutely not," he said to the steam. "Nope. Vetoed immediately."

He knew Cleo. He knew her hands were steady when she held a paintbrush, but put a kitchen utensil in her hand during a creative fugue state, and she became a liability.

He abandoned the pasta and went straight for the junk drawer—the one every rental cabin in the history of the world possessed. He rattled through three dead batteries, a takeout menu from 2014, and a roll of duct tape until his fingers closed around the orange handles of a pair of safety scissors.

"Armed and dangerous," he announced, walking into the living room.

He stopped in the doorway, the scissors held up like a peace offering.

The scene before him was... actually kind of impressive. She had vases, pinecones, and red fabric strewn about, and she was sitting in the middle of it looking like a chaotic forest nymph who had broken into a Crate & Barrel.

"I am officially intervening," he said, walking over and crouching down beside her. He plucked the steak knife she had somehow already located from her hand and replaced it with the scissors. "We are not doing emergency stitches tonight, babe. I don't care how good the centerpiece looks, I need all ten of your fingers intact for the holding-my-hand part of the evening."

He stayed crouched there for a second, resting his elbows on his knees, watching her work with an amused, affectionate smirk.

"You realize this is way too classy for rigatoni, right?" he teased, nodding at the arrangement. "I feel like I should be serving pheasant under glass. Or at least wearing a tie."

He reached out, tugging gently on a loose strand of her damp hair.

"You good? You need anything else from the kitchen before I go battle the steam again? A glue gun? A chainsaw?"

Cleo barely looked up when he appeared with the scissors, already knee-deep in her own momentum.

She glanced at the orange handles, then at his face, then back to the mess in front of her, a grin tugging at her mouth like she’d been caught doing something she absolutely intended to keep doing.

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely, taking the scissors from him without ceremony. “You just saved at least one fingertip and whatever dignity I had left.”

She set the steak knife aside like it had offended her personally and went right back to work, spreading the runner flat on the floor in front of the fire. The heat was starting to thaw her skin, her cheeks still pink from the cold, hair damp and curling at the ends. She shifted, cross-legged now, and reached for the red silk pajamas.

When he teased about the rigatoni, she huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, eyes still focused as she lined up the fabric.

“Listen,” she said, calm and completely serious, “presentation matters. Even if the food is… aggressively humble.”

She snipped into the silk with careful, deliberate cuts, not rushing it, the fabric sliding cleanly under the blades. She didn’t look at him when he mentioned chainsaws—just kept cutting, unfazed.

“Just don’t overcook them,” she said lightly. “I won’t eat them.”

She adjusted one of the branches, propping it against the vase, then trimmed another strip of fabric, shorter this time. Her movements were sure, grounded. The spiral she’d been flirting with earlier was gone. Replaced with focus. With purpose.

When he tugged her hair, she finally tilted her head back just enough to look at him, eyes warm and steady.

“I’m good,” she said softly. “Really good.”

Then, quieter, more honest—
“And this is fun. Let me have this.”

She went back to work, threading the silk through the branches, red against green against glass, something simple turning unexpectedly beautiful under her hands.

After a beat, she added, almost as an afterthought—

“If you see smoke, yell. Otherwise, I trust you.”

Cleo shifted closer to the fire, the warmth finally sinking into her bones as she worked. She pinched the silk between her fingers, tugging it just enough to get the drape right, head tilted to the side in concentration. The very tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips without her noticing—a habit she’d had forever, one that only showed up when she was fully absorbed.

She adjusted one pinecone, didn’t like it, adjusted it again. Better.

Her brows knit, tongue still out, as she looped the red fabric around the neck of the glass, tying it once, then undoing it immediately with a quiet, dissatisfied hum. She leaned back, squinted at the whole thing like it might argue with her, then leaned forward again, determined to win.

“This part matters,” she muttered to herself, more to the arrangement than to anyone else. “If it looks accidental, it has to actually be intentional.”

She snipped one last thin strip, precise, careful, then threaded it through the branches, fingers steady now. The tongue disappeared as she exhaled, a small smile flickering when it finally looked right.

She sat back on her heels, studying it, then reached forward to nudge one berry cluster just a fraction of an inch.

Perfect.

Without looking toward the kitchen, she called out casually, voice warm and grounded, like everything inside her had settled into place—

“How we doin’ over there, chef? Pasta still alive?”

He lingered in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, just watching her.

She was doing that thing—the thing where the tip of her tongue poked out between her lips because her brain was running at absolute maximum capacity. It was a detail he’d clocked about three weeks into knowing her, usually reserved for difficult chord progressions or tricky shading on a canvas. Seeing it directed at a pinecone and a pair of silk pajamas made his chest do a weird, warm flip-flop that he absolutely wasn't going to acknowledge out loud.

"Intentional," he whispered to himself, grinning as he turned back to the kitchen. "Right."
He walked back into the steam cloud, the bubbling pot of water serving as a harsh reality check.

"Aggressively humble," he muttered, eyeing the jar of tomato sauce with deep suspicion. The label featured a drawing of a smiling nonna who looked like she was judging him. "Alright, Nonna. Don't look at me like that. We're gonna fix it."

If Cleo was out there creating the Louvre of centerpieces, he couldn't just serve up boiled carbs and red sludge. He needed to elevate. He needed to pivot.

He opened the fridge, scanning the contents like he was defusing a bomb.

Beer. Leftover pizza. Water. A lemon that had seen better days.

"Come on," he hissed, shifting a carton of eggs.

Jackpot.

Way in the back, tucked behind a jar of pickles, was a stick of butter—real, salted butter—and a half-pint of heavy cream that he must have bought for coffee and immediately forgotten about.

He grabbed them both. He slammed the butter onto the counter and pivoted to the spice rack. It was a rental cabin spice rack, which meant it was a graveyard of expired seasonings, but he dug until he found garlic powder and a shaker of crushed red pepper flakes.

"We’re in business," he announced to the empty room.

He drained the pasta, saving a mugful of the starchy water because he’d seen a guy do it on TikTok once and he was pretty sure that was the secret to a Michelin star. He dumped the pasta back in the pot, threw in a knob of butter the size of his fist, and cranked the heat.

"Sizzle for me," he encouraged, tossing the noodles.

In went the "artisanal" sauce. In went a splash of the heavy cream to turn it a rich, dangerous orange. In went enough garlic powder to ward off vampires for a three-county radius and a generous shake of the red pepper.

He grabbed the block of parmesan and the grater, attacking the cheese with a fervor that bordered on violent. He grated until a snowy mountain of cheese began to melt into the sauce, thickening it, making it glossy and rich.

He stirred it vigorously, dipping a wooden spoon in to take a taste test.

It burned his tongue, was probably 90% cholesterol, and tasted incredible.
"Oh, yeah," he grinned, pointing the spoon at the pot. "You are no longer humble. You are arrogant. You are a pasta with an ego."

Just as he was contemplating whether adding the sad lemon zest would be genius or a disaster, her voice floated in from the living room.

“How we doin’ over there, chef? Pasta still alive?”

Ben laughed, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard.

"Alive?" he called back, scooping a massive portion into the first bowl. "Babe, this pasta is thriving. It’s undergoing a spiritual awakening. It’s basically the pasta version of me in a hot tub."

He wiped the rim of the bowl with a paper towel—presentation, dammit—and leaned against the counter, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Just warning you," he shouted, grabbing two forks. "I found butter and I wasn't afraid to use it. If you hear my arteries hardening, just turn up the music."

Cleo appeared in the kitchen doorway a second later, arms full and careful, carrying the centerpiece like it was fragile evidence of a crime scene she was very proud of committing.

She’d changed—barely. An oversized sweater swallowed her shoulders, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, hair still damp and loose now, curling softly around her face. Her cheeks were pink from the fire and the cold and the sprint back inside, eyes bright in a way that made the whole room feel warmer just by her standing in it.

She set the centerpiece down in the middle of the table with deliberate care, nudging one pinecone, rotating a branch, then finally stepping back to assess it like a curator.

Only then did she turn her attention to him.

Or rather—to the pot.

Her brows lifted slowly as she crossed the kitchen, peering into the steam with open suspicion the moment he said butter. She leaned over his shoulder, close enough that her sweater brushed his arm, inhaling deeply.

“Oh,” she said, dragging the word out. “You definitely found butter.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully as she watched the sauce cling thickly to the noodles, glossy and unapologetic.

“…Ben.”

She glanced up at him, one eyebrow arching in a way that meant she already knew the answer.

“Did you—” she pointed at the pot with one finger, “—add the whole bar again?”

Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. She reached for the spoon without asking, blew on it once, then tasted. Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second despite herself.

“Okay,” she conceded quietly, swallowing. “That’s… really good. Like dangerous good.”

She shot him a look then—half impressed, half mock-accusatory.

“You realize I made something that belongs on a woodland magazine cover,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the table, “and you responded by making a sauce that could end a bloodline.”

She nudged his hip gently with hers, staying close, inspecting the pot again like she might catch it misbehaving.

“But,” she added, softer now, warmth threading through her voice, “if this is you ‘thriving,’ I’m not mad about it.”

She set the spoon back down, fingers brushing his as she did.

“Just… next time,” she said lightly, eyes flicking up to meet his, “warn me before you unleash dairy-based chaos. I like to emotionally prepare.”

Cleo didn’t hesitate.

She stepped closer, toes lifting so she was balanced on the balls of her feet, arms sliding easily up around his neck. Her sweater brushed his chest, warmth to warmth, her fingers curling at the nape of his neck like they already belonged there.

She looked up at him, eyes soft and bright, lips already curving into a smile.

“Kiss,” she said simply, like it was the most natural request in the world.

Then she puckered dramatically—over-the-top, playful, absolutely impossible to ignore—holding it there just long enough to make him laugh before leaning in that last inch herself, meeting him halfway.

He looked at her standing there—drowning in a sweater that was definitely too big for her, hair wild and damp, smelling like winter air and his own expensive shampoo—and felt a surge of affection so strong it actually knocked the wind out of him for a second.
When she accused him of using the whole bar of butter, he didn't even blink.

"Allegedly," he drawled, leaning back against the counter with a shamelessly smug grin. "I refuse to answer that question without legal counsel. But I will say that French cooking is ninety percent butter and ten percent spite, and I am merely respecting the culinary arts."

He watched her taste it, saw her eyes flutter shut, and felt a victory swell in his chest that was disproportionate to the task of boiling pasta.

"See?" he teased, nudging her back. "Emotional preparation is overrated. Sometimes you just have to let the cholesterol take the wheel."

But then she stepped in close.

The shift was instantaneous. The kitchen, the steam, the bubbling pot—it all blurred into the background. All that mattered was the feel of her sweater brushing against his hoodie and her hands sliding up his neck.

When she said “Kiss” and did that ridiculous, over-the-top pucker, Ben let out a laugh—a genuine, startled burst of sound that vibrated in his chest.

"You are ridiculous," he murmured, shaking his head.

He didn't make her wait. He slid his arms around her waist, his hands slipping under the hem of her sweater to find the warm, soft skin of her lower back. He pulled her flush against him, enjoying the way she fit, the way she always fit.

He leaned down, pressing a quick, teasing peck to her puckered lips first, just to be annoying, before tilting his head and kissing her for real.

It was slow and sweet, tasting faintly of the tomato sauce she’d just sampled and the peppermint tea she’d been drinking earlier. He hummed against her mouth, a low sound of contentment, holding her there for a long moment, letting the domesticity of it settle over him like a warm blanket.

"Bossy," he whispered against her lips when he finally pulled back, though his eyes were dancing with delight. "I like it. Keep that energy."

He kept one arm around her waist, turning them both toward the table where her masterpiece sat.

"Okay, let’s eat before the 'bloodline-ending' sauce congeals," he said, grabbing the two bowls with his free hand. He walked her over to the table, setting the food down next to the arrangement of pinecones and red silk.

He took a step back, admiring the tableau. The contrast was hilarious and perfect. Two bowls of aggressively orange pasta, a centerpiece worthy of a wedding magazine, and the two of them standing there in sweatpants.

"We look like we're about to have a very romantic, very chic séance," he commented, pulling out a chair for her with a flourish. "Madame Cleo, your table is ready. Please try not to get sauce on the silk, or we’ll have to explain to the dry cleaners why our pajamas smell like garlic."

Cleo laughed when he went full fake-lawyer about the butter, shaking her head as she leaned her hip against the counter.

“Allegedly?” she echoed, squinting at him like a detective in a cozy mystery. “Ben, if my arteries start sending me hate mail tomorrow, I’m forwarding it straight to you.”

She dipped the spoon again anyway, because she had zero self-control, and when the flavor hit she let out a soft, pleased hum. Her shoulders relaxed, tension melting right out of her.

“Okay,” she admitted, pointing the spoon at him. “Fine. You win. This is stupid good. But if I die young, tell my story.”

When she stepped closer, sweater brushing his hoodie, she couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face at how fast his attention snapped to her. She reached up, hands resting around his neck, rising slightly on her toes.

“You’re obsessed,” she teased softly, eyes warm. “With butter. With dramatic pasta. With proving yourself.”

She let out a small laugh when he reacted, shaking her head.

“And yeah,” she added, smirking, “I kinda love that about you.”

When he guided her toward the table, she went willingly, still half tucked into his side. The room felt softer now—fire crackling, pasta steaming, her ridiculous woodland centerpiece glowing in the flicker of orange light. The red silk caught the firelight like embers, glass jars throwing tiny reflections onto the ceiling.

She laughed at his séance comment, dropping into the chair he pulled out for her.

“Honestly,” she said, tucking one leg under herself, sweater pooling around her thighs, “if a ghost shows up, that’s on you. You brought the drama pasta.”

She watched him sit across from her, eyes bright, hair still a little wild from the hot tub, and felt that quiet swell of affection again. This. Them. Sweatpants, firelight, too much butter, handmade chaos on the table.

“Thank you,” she added softly. “For dinner. For… all of it.”

Then she grabbed her fork, twirling pasta like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Now eat, rockstar,” she smiled. “Before it does congeal and we actually summon something.”

He watched her tuck her leg under herself—a move that looked equal parts comfortable and physically impossible—and felt that same warm, steady thrum in his chest.

"If a ghost shows up," Ben said around a mouthful of pasta, pointing his fork at her, "I’m offering him a plate. I feel like the undead don't get enough garlic in their diet. It’s sad, really."

He chewed, swallowed, and let out a long, dramatic exhale of satisfaction.

"Okay," he announced, looking down at his bowl with genuine respect. "I take back every bad thing I thought about the jar. This is spectacular. I feel my heart slowing down already, but it’s a worthy sacrifice."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, ignoring the fact that this was technically poor etiquette for a table graced by red silk and pinecones. He watched her eat—watched the way she didn't pick at it, didn't count the carbs, just enjoyed it. It was one of the thousand things he loved about her. In a world full of people who treated food like an enemy, Cleo treated it like an experience.

When she thanked him, his expression softened, the teasing light in his eyes dimming into something warmer.

"Hey," he said gently, nudging her foot with his under the table. "You don't thank me. We’re a team, remember? You handle the aesthetics and the emotional breakthroughs; I handle the carbohydrates and the safety scissors. It’s a delicate ecosystem."

He took another bite, twirling a massive nest of rigatoni against his spoon, splashing a tiny drop of orange sauce onto the placemat. He ignored it.

"Besides," he added, chewing thoughtfully. "I think this centerpiece is actually improving the flavor. It’s giving the pasta... ambition. It feels underdressed, but it’s trying its best."

He watched her take another bite, a small smudge of creamy orange sauce catching the corner of her mouth. He didn't say anything at first. He just watched her, looking at the firelight dancing in her eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweater that he was definitely never getting back.

He reached across the table, his hand hovering for a second before his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping the sauce away with a gentle, deliberate stroke.

"Messy," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing the joke.

He pulled his hand back, licking the sauce off his own thumb with a shameless, heated darken of his eyes.

"So," he said, clearing his throat and picking his fork back up, shifting gears before he dragged her across the table and ruined dinner. "Since we aren't doing the countdown thing... what’s the plan for tomorrow? Do we build a snowman? Do we hibernate? Or do I have to defend my title as the best Mario Kart player in the Sierra Nevadas?"

Cleo let out a soft laugh as Ben pointed his fork like a warning wand, her knee drawing up under her sweater as she settled deeper into the chair. It was comfortable in that way that didn’t ask permission—messy, lived-in, hers.

“If a ghost shows up,” she said, solemn as she twirled her pasta, “and you don’t offer him a plate, I’m pretty sure that’s how hauntings start. Garlic is hospitality.”

She watched him savor the food with that exaggerated reverence of his, chin tipping back, eyes closing for half a second like the jar had personally redeemed itself. It made something warm bloom behind her ribs. She liked feeding people. She liked feeding him.

When he nudged her foot and said team, she smiled down at her bowl, cheeks warming—not bashful, just… settled. She took a proper bite, unhurried, letting the flavors land. No guilt. No counting. Just enjoyment.

“Hey,” she said lightly, glancing up at him. “Safety scissors are an underrated skill. You’re basically indispensable.”

She caught his look when the sauce smudged her mouth but didn’t clock it right away—too busy chasing another forkful. When his hand reached across the table, she froze just a beat, eyes flicking up to his face as his thumb brushed her lip.

Her smile went soft first.

Then she scrunched her nose at him—playful, mock-offended, entirely fond—before leaning back just enough to reclaim her space and her fork, eyes sparkling.

“Rude,” she said, absolutely not meaning it, already going back for another bite like nothing had happened.

She watched him lick his thumb with that look, heat curling low in her stomach, and she shook her head once, grinning to herself as she chewed.

At his question, she slowed. Really thought about it. Fork paused mid-air. Firelight flickered across her face as she stared at nothing in particular, considering the snow, the quiet, the way tomorrow felt wide open.

Then, without warning, she sang—soft, a little dramatic, entirely unpolished—

“Do you wanna build a snowmaaaan…”

She cut herself off with a laugh, shoulders lifting.

“I mean—yes. Probably. At least a lopsided one. With a stick arm that looks vaguely threatening.”

She swallowed, then added, casual but pleased, “I brought my laptop too. We could always watch a movie if the snow wins. Or if you lose Mario Kart and need emotional recovery time.”

She tipped her head, smiling at him over the rim of her bowl.

“No countdown. No pressure. Just… us.”

Ben froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, a single rigatoni noodle precariously balanced on the tines.

He stared at her for a solid three seconds, blinking slowly, before he slowly lowered the fork back to the bowl.

"Did you just...?" He started, a slow, incredulous grin breaking across his face. "Wow. Okay. We just went full Arendelle. I wasn't ready for the vocal run. Disney lawyers are probably rappelling down the roof right now. You’ve doomed us."

He picked up his napkin, dabbing his mouth with exaggerated refinement, trying to hide the fact that he was absolutely delighted.

"First of all," he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "I am extremely down for a menacing snowman. I don't want a happy snowman. I want a snowman that looks like he listens to Slayer. I want a snowman that makes the neighbors lock their doors. We can give him a pinecone mohawk."

He pointed his fork at her again, his expression shifting into mock seriousness.

"But second—and I need you to listen to me very carefully, Cleo—do not write checks your kart can't cash."

He took a defiant bite of pasta, chewed, and swallowed with a cocky tilt of his head.

"Emotional recovery? Babe, I am Rainbow Road. I was born in the drift boost. I play Toad with a level of ruthlessness that is frankly concerning for a man of my age. If you want to go there, we can go there. But don't come crying to me when I hit you with a Blue Shell right at the finish line. I have no mercy. I have no loyalty. On the track, I am a monster."

He laughed then, the sound warm and easy in the firelight, and went back to his food, shaking his head.

"But yeah," he murmured, his voice softening as the joke faded, leaving just the comfort of the room and the girl across from him. "Movies sound good. Snowmen sound good."

He looked up, catching her eye over the centerpiece she’d built with her own frozen hands.
"Just us sounds perfect."

He scraped the bottom of his bowl, mourning the end of the pasta, and then reached for his water glass.

"But seriously," he added, eyes twinkling. "If you beat me at Mario Kart, I'm blaming the butter. It slows down my reflexes. It’s a scientifically proven fact."

Cleo laughed immediately—bright, uncontained—fork still hovering as she watched him short-circuit over the song. She took the opportunity to steal a bite while he was mid-monologue, eyes never leaving his face as she chewed like she was settling in for a show.

“Oh, relax,” she said around the pasta, swallowing before continuing. “If Disney wanted me, they’d have called after the Halloween Anna Incident.”

She tipped her head, smug.

“And they didn’t.”

At the snowman description, she gasped, delighted. “A Slayer snowman?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, absolutely. He’s getting a crooked grin and one coal eye that’s… judging you. And yes—pinecone mohawk. Maybe a scarf that looks stolen.”

When he pointed his fork at her like a warning, she leaned back in her chair, folding one leg under herself again, entirely unbothered.

“Ben,” she said sweetly, then took another bite—on purpose—chewed slowly, dramatically, and only then added, “you’re thirty, babe. It might be time to put the gaming systems away.”

She held up a finger immediately, smiling wide. “—Kidding. Mostly. I respect the lore.”

She watched him puff himself up about Rainbow Road, eyes sparkling, chin propped in her palm like she was observing a beloved creature in its natural habitat.

“Toad?” she echoed. “That tracks. Small. Fast. Slightly unhinged.”

She laughed again when he declared himself a monster, warmth blooming in her chest as his voice softened, the room settling back into that quiet glow. When he said just us, she didn’t rush to answer. She just looked at him for a second, really looked—firelight, empty bowl, pasta-happy and earnest.

She took one more bite.

Then smiled.

“For the record,” she said lightly, “I’ve already beaten you.”

She lifted her brows at his look.

“Not tonight,” she clarified, laughing. “But spiritually. I can feel it. The win is coming.”

She reached for her water, clinking her glass gently against his.

“And yes—movies, snowmen, ruthless karting, butter-based excuses. All approved.” Her smile softened. “Just us is my favorite plan.”

She leaned back, content, eyes warm.

“But when I beat you,” she added, sing-song sweet, “I’m absolutely blaming your age.”

Ben stared at her, his mouth hanging open in a caricature of shock. He slowly lowered his water glass to the table.

"Thirty?" he repeated, his voice rising in pitch. "Did you just drop the big three-oh on me? That is ageism. That is a hate crime. You are hate-criming me in my own rental cabin while eating my butter-pasta."

He shook his head, looking deeply, theatrically wounded.

"For your information, thirty is the prime of a man's life. My reflexes are razor sharp. My wisdom is boundless. And my knees only click sometimes when it rains. You should be intimidated."

He pointed a finger at her when she brought up Toad.

"And do not come for Toad. Toad is an icon. He drives a shoe. He screams constantly. He is small, chaotic, and vaguely shaped like a fungus. He is my spirit animal, and I will not hear a word of slander against him."

He watched her finish her water, loving the way the firelight caught the mischief in her eyes. She was roasting him, and he was eating it up. She looked comfortable. She looked happy. She looked like she belonged here, sitting across from him in oversized knitwear, threatening to destroy him at video games.

When she mentioned the "spiritual win," he scoffed, grabbing his napkin and tossing it onto the table like a gauntlet.

"Manifestation isn't going to save you from a Red Shell, babe," he warned, standing up. "You can’t 'vibes' your way into first place. I’m going to destroy you. It’s going to be ugly. I might make you cry."

He walked around the table, but instead of heading for the kitchen, he stopped behind her chair. He leaned down, wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders from behind, burying his nose in the crook of her neck for a brief, warm second.

"But I love that you have hope," he murmured against her skin, pressing a kiss to her pulse point. "It’s cute. Misguided, but cute."

He pulled back, swiping her empty bowl before she could protest.

"Go," he ordered, jerking his chin toward the living room. "Pick the movie. Set up the laptop. Fire up the console. I’ll handle the dishes."

He started stacking the bowls, balancing the forks on top with practiced ease.

"If I let you help clean up, you’ll try to make a mosaic out of the leftover noodles, and I want to be watching Frozen—or whatever snowman propaganda you choose—within the next ten minutes. Chop chop."

Cleo burst out laughing at his dramatic outrage, nearly snorting as she pushed her chair back.

“Thirty,” she repeated sweetly, batting her lashes at him. “Ancient. Fossilized. Practically a museum exhibit. I’m shocked you’re still allowed to operate heavy machinery.”

She pointed her fork at him when he went off about Toad, trying not to laugh.

“I’m not slandering him,” she defended, grinning. “I’m just saying… if your spirit animal drives a shoe and screams for a living, that explains so much about you.”

When he stood and started issuing threats about Red Shells, she rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Manifestation absolutely works,” she shot back. “You’re just afraid of my spiritual alignment with Mario Kart destiny.”

Then he leaned down behind her, arms around her shoulders, and her whole body softened despite herself. She closed her eyes for a second, smiling when he buried his face into her neck.

“Rude,” she murmured when he called her hope misguided. “But noted.”

She made a face when he stole her bowl.

“Hey! I was emotionally attached to that pasta,” she protested, laughing. “Fine, fine. Domestic king, go do your dishes.”

She stood, stretching her arms over her head.

“Don’t flood the kitchen,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m trusting you.”

She padded down the short hallway to the bedroom and dug through one of her suitcases, unzipping pockets until she found her laptop tucked inside a soft sleeve. She grabbed it, then hesitated, scanning the room before scooping up her charger too—because she knew better.

Back in the living room, she dropped onto her knees in front of the coffee table and carefully set the laptop down, flipping it open and plugging it in. The fire crackled behind her, throwing warm light across the screen as it booted up.

She glanced at the leather couch and immediately wrinkled her nose.

“Nope,” she muttered.

She grabbed two pillows from the corner, fluffing them dramatically, then dragged the thick knit blanket off the armrest and spread it carefully across the cushions like she was preparing a sacred nest.

“I hate leather,” she said aloud to no one, smoothing it out. “It sticks. It squeaks. It judges you.”

Once the couch was sufficiently fortified, she climbed up, tucking her legs under herself and arranging the pillows behind her back. She pulled the blanket over her lap, instantly more relaxed.

From the living room, she called toward the kitchen,
“Okay! Tech setup is happening! You have approximately eight minutes before I choose something aggressively sad or animated.”

She clicked through streaming apps, already smiling to herself.

“Also,” she added, glancing toward the doorway, “I am winning Mario Kart tonight. Start emotionally preparing.”

Ben scrubbed the last bit of orange sauce from the pot with a speed and efficiency that honestly deserved an award.

"Domestic King?" he muttered to the faucet, rinsing the suds away. "I prefer Domestic Deity, thank you very much. I am a god of sanitation."

He dried his hands on the dish towel, tossing it onto the counter, and turned off the kitchen light, plunging the room into shadow and leaving only the warm, flickering glow from the living room fireplace.

He walked in just as she announced the eight-minute warning.

He paused, taking in the scene. She had effectively declared war on the leather couch, burying it under a mountain of knitwear and fluff until it looked less like furniture and more like a soft, fortified bunker.

"I heard 'aggressively sad,'" he announced, stepping over the back of the couch to drop down onto the cushion beside her, purposely collapsing onto the nest she’d built. "And I am issuing a preemptive veto. If I hear the opening notes of Up, I am leaving. I cannot handle the balloon house tonight. My heart is too fragile."

He wiggled into the space next to her, nudging her hip with his own until she made room.
"And you’re right about the leather," he agreed, settling back and stretching his arm out along the top of the pillows behind her head. "Leather couches are narcs. You move one inch and they make a noise that sounds like a fart, and then you have to spend the next ten minutes explaining physics to your guests. It’s humiliating."

He glanced at the laptop screen, then down at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"As for Mario Kart," he said, reaching out to pluck the controller from the coffee table and weighing it in his hand like a weapon. "I admire your confidence. Truly. It’s inspiring to see someone so wrong be so loud about it."

He raised an eyebrow, challenging her.

"But here’s the deal. If I win—which I will—you have to wear the 'I Lost' crown. Which is just a paper plate I’m going to draw a sad face on. And you have to wear it for the duration of the movie."

He leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief.

"But if you win... I’ll admit that thirty is ancient. I’ll start walking with a cane. I’ll yell at kids to get off my lawn. I’ll start listening to talk radio."

He nudged her shoulder.

"Deal?"

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just turned her head—slowly, deliberately—until she was looking at him in full. Firelight flickered across her face, catching in her eyes, warming the curve of her cheek. For a half second she looked genuinely stunned, like she was trying to confirm she’d heard him correctly.

“The I Lost crown?” she repeated, very quietly.

Her hand lifted to her chest in reflex, fingers splaying dramatically over the space where pearls absolutely were not—but should have been, frankly, for a moment of this magnitude.

She stared at him like he’d just insulted her entire bloodline.

“A paper plate,” she went on, voice hushed with disbelief. “With a sad face. In a rented cabin. Surrounded by pine trees and rustic dignity.”

She inhaled once. Sharply.

“No.”

Flat. Clean. Immediate.

She shook her head—once, firm and unmistakable. Then again, smaller, like she was sealing the decision shut.

“No crown. No labeling. No humiliation rituals while I’m trying to enjoy nature-adjacent healing.”

She turned away from him without ceremony, leaning forward to reclaim the laptop sitting on the coffee table. The wood creaked softly beneath her as she shifted, the cabin settling around them—the low crackle of the fire, the faint wind brushing the windows, the deep quiet that only came from being far away from everything.

Her fingers skimmed the trackpad. Scroll. Click.

The screen filled with dense green jungle and ominous drums.

Anaconda.

Jennifer Lopez appeared, glossy and determined and deeply serious about a very unserious situation.

Cleo let out a soft chuckle as she leaned back into the blanket bunker, tugging a thick knit throw up around her waist. The leather couch sighed beneath them, muffled by layers of wool and fleece.

“This one’s a guilty pleasure,” she admitted, unashamed, eyes fixed on the screen. “I know it’s ridiculous. I know the snake is basically a cryptid. But it’s comforting.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a small smile playing at her mouth.

“There’s something very soothing about bad CGI, rainforest chaos, and Jennifer Lopez refusing to die.”

She settled in deeper, shoulder brushing his, the warmth of the fire and the cabin closing in around them like a held breath.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, as the jungle rain began to fall onscreen, “I will not be wearing any crown that announces failure.”

A beat.

“But you’re welcome to keep dreaming about it,” she said, smug and cozy, already fully committed to the snake movie and the night unfolding exactly the way she wanted it to.

Ben stared at the screen, then at her, his eyebrows climbing so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hairline.

"Cowardice," he whispered, shaking his head with mock solemnity. "I am sensing fear, Cleo. I am sensing that you know, deep down, that you would look terrible in a paper plate crown, and you aren't willing to take the risk. It’s okay. Not everyone is built for the high-stakes world of cabin gambling."

He didn't let the challenge die there, though. He reached over and deliberately set the controllers down on the coffee table, right next to the laptop, lining them up with military precision. He tapped the red one—his controller—twice.

"I’m leaving this right here," he warned, flashing her a look. "Consider it a threat. The console is on standby. The kart engines are idling. The second the snake is dead, we race. You are not escaping your destiny."

He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh as the opening credits rolled and the ominous jungle drums kicked in.

"Anaconda?" he asked, his voice cracking with delight. "You find a movie about a snake with a personal vendetta against Ice Cube soothing? Babe, your definition of comfort is terrifying. I love it."

He maneuvered himself fully onto the couch, ignoring the boundaries she had set with the pillows and simply invading her space. He lifted the edge of the thick knit blanket she’d claimed and slid underneath it.

"Scooch," he murmured, nudging her thigh with his knee until she shifted enough for him to fit.

He settled in, extending his arm along the back of the couch again, but this time he dropped it, curling his hand around her shoulder and pulling her into the side of his chest. He wanted her weight against him. He wanted to feel her laugh when the snake inevitably defied the laws of physics.

"Okay," he said, staring at the screen as Jennifer Lopez appeared, looking far too glamorous for the Amazon. "I’m in. But I have questions. Mostly about the snake’s agent. Do you think the snake did his own stunts? Or was there a stunt noodle?"

He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly against her arm, the warmth of the fire and the blanket creating a cocoon that felt dangerously sleepy.

"And for the record," he mumbled, leaning his cheek against the top of her head as the dialogue started. "You not wearing the crown is fine. But if you lose... you owe me a back rub. A real one. With the fancy lotion. That’s the new deal. No take-backs."

He tightened his hold on her, eyes drifting from the screen to the firelight dancing on the wall, and felt a profound sense of peace settle over him.

Bad movie. Good girl.

Yeah. He could do this forever.

Cleo laughed softly as he went on, the sound warm and breathy, muffled by the blanket and the low hiss of the fire. She shifted just enough to get more comfortable against him, her shoulder tucked under his arm, her knee brushing his thigh.

When he started in again—about cowardice, destiny, stunt noodles—she lifted her hand and gently pressed it over his mouth.

A strategic hush.

Her palm was warm from the blanket, fingers splayed across his lips and part of his cheek, thumb grazing the corner of his smile.

“Shhh,” she murmured, trying and failing not to grin. “I’m trying to emotionally prepare for the cinematic masterpiece that is Anaconda, okay?”

She peeked up at him, eyes bright, mischief dancing in them.

“And first of all,” she added, lowering her hand just enough so he could breathe properly, “this has nothing to do with cowardice.”

She shifted, turning slightly toward him so she could see his face better, still tucked into his side.

“It has everything to do with self-respect,” she declared solemnly. “I will not be bullied into wearing a paper plate crown like some medieval jester just because you’re emotionally attached to Mario Kart.”

Her lips twitched.

“That crown is a choice, Benjamin. And I am choosing dignity.”

She settled back into him, tugging the blanket higher around both of them, her head resting against his chest again. Her fingers traced lazy shapes on his hoodie, absentminded and affectionate.

“But,” she admitted quietly, eyes flicking back to the screen as the snake slithered into frame, “if I lose… fine. Fancy lotion. Back rub. Full spa experience.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him again.

“Just know I’ll be doing it while silently judging your controller technique.”

Then she nudged his ribs gently with her elbow.

“Now be quiet. The snake is about to commit a crime.”

He grinned against her palm, the warmth of her hand seeping into his lips, before reaching up to gently peel her fingers away. He didn't let go, though. He just laced his fingers through hers, resting their joined hands on his chest, right over the steady thump of his heart.

"You choose dignity?" he whispered back, his voice thick with amusement. "Babe, that is your first mistake. Dignity is the enemy of fun. And honestly? I have absolutely none left."
He shifted his head, his cheek brushing against her hair as he looked at the ceiling for a split second, confessing his sins.

"Here’s the truth: win or lose, I am absolutely making that crown. I can’t stop the creative juices. The vision is already there. A paper plate, a Sharpie, maybe some glitter if I can find it. I plan on wearing it regardless of the outcome. I’ll look like a sad Burger King monarch, and I will wear it with pride."

He squeezed her hand, bringing his attention back to her face, his expression dropping into a smug, lazy confidence.

"But I accept the terms. I am already mentally spending that massage. I can feel the knots dissolving just thinking about my inevitable victory."

When she mentioned judging his controller technique, he let out a short, scoffing laugh—the sound of a man whose ego was bulletproof in this specific arena.

"Judge away," he murmured, leaning in close to her ear, his voice dropping to a low, teasing rumble. "But just remember... before I ever picked up a guitar, and long before I learned how to use my fingers for... other recreational activities that you seem to enjoy... I mastered the N64 controller."

He pulled back just enough to wink at her, cheeky and unrepentant.

"The dexterity required for Rainbow Road is the foundation of everything I am, Cleo. Show some respect to the claw grip."

He kissed her temple, lingering there for a second, breathing in the scent of her and the fire smoke. He felt settled. He felt good. The anxiety about the future, about the "five days," was quiet for the first time in forever.

"Alright," he whispered, settling back against the cushions and pulling the blanket up to his chin. "I’ll shut up. I’ll let you watch J-Lo fight a rubber tube. I’m just going to lie here and visualize my trophy ceremony."

Cleo huffed a soft laugh into his shoulder, the sound more breath than noise, and let her hand stay where he’d put it—spread over his chest, feeling the steady, reassuring beat underneath. It grounded her more than she wanted to admit.

“Mm,” she murmured, voice low and lazy, “I didn’t choose dignity. I just… tolerate it occasionally. As a character flaw.”

She shifted slightly so she could look at him, eyes half-lidded and warm, listening as he spiraled happily about paper plates and glitter. Her mouth curved into a fond, helpless smile. Of course he already had a vision. Of course it involved commitment to the bit far past what was reasonable.

“A sad Burger King monarch is still a monarch,” she said quietly, indulgent. “I respect the dedication. I do not respect the Sharpie budget.”

When he talked about already spending the massage, she rolled her eyes, but her thumb brushed a slow, absent circle over his sternum—betraying her.
“You are exhausting,” she told him softly. “And wildly confident for someone who hasn’t even raced yet.”

His voice dropping near her ear made her shiver despite herself, and she tilted her head just enough to give him space, a quiet warning smile tugging at her lips.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You keep talking about your hands like that and I’m going to revoke movie privileges.”

At the mention of Rainbow Road, she snorted—actually snorted—and shook her head, settling back against him.
“Show respect,” she echoed. “Right. I’ll notify the academy.”

When he kissed her temple, she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in—fire smoke, clean laundry, something unmistakably him. The quiet afterward felt earned. Safe.

As he settled back and announced his trophy visualization, she finally moved her hand—lifting it just enough to give his chest a gentle, affectionate pat.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, dry but fond. “I’m sure you’ll announce yourself MVP, too. Probably give a speech. Thank your controller. Cry a little.”

She adjusted the blanket, tugging it higher over both of them, then tucked herself closer without another word—her shoulder under his chin, her cheek against his chest. The movie played on, ridiculous and loud, but she didn’t comment on it.

"Oh, absolutely," Ben whispered back, his voice vibrating against her hair. "Tears are guaranteed. I’m going to thank my parents, my agent, and the fungi kingdom for their tireless support. It’s going to be a tearjerker. You should bring tissues."

He grinned when she snorted—a real, unladylike sound that he mentally filed away as one of his top five favorite noises she made, right up there with her sleep-breathing and that little hum she did when she ate pasta.

He tightened his arm around her, securing her against his side like he was strapping her into a roller coaster seat, though the only ride they were currently on involved Jon Voight’s ponytail and some questionable animatronics.

"And for the record," he murmured, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, "revoking movie privileges just means we have to find other ways to entertain ourselves. And considering I’m currently trapped under a weighted blanket and a very comfortable woman... I like my odds."

He let the silence settle then, or as much silence as Anaconda allowed.

For the next twenty minutes, he mostly watched the reflection of the fire dancing in the window, occasionally glancing down at the screen to witness a giant rubber snake defy gravity. He watched Cleo watch the movie. He watched the way her eyelashes fluttered when something jumped out, the way her hand absentmindedly traced the seam of his hoodie.

It was boring. It was stupid. It was perfect.

"Question," he whispered loudly during a tense jungle scene, breaking the mood entirely. "Do you think the snake has a backstory? Like... did he get rejected from art school? Is he acting out because his dad didn't hug him enough? I feel like we're jumping straight to villainy without understanding his trauma."

He poked her side gently.

"Also, is Jon Voight doing an accent, or is he just speaking in cursive? I need subtitles for his face."

He felt her shake with silent laughter against his ribs, and the knot that had been in his chest since he woke up—the fear that he’d push too hard, that she’d pull away, that the "five days" would act like a guillotine—fully dissolved.

He rested his chin on her head, closing his eyes for a second.

"Hey," he said, softer this time, dropping the bit. "This is a good movie choice. Aggressively sad would have killed the vibe. Chaos snake was the right call."

Cleo smiled into his chest at the whole speech, the corner of her mouth lifting first before the rest of it followed. She didn’t move right away—just let him talk, let the warmth and the ridiculousness settle around them like another layer of the blanket.

When he said it was a good movie choice, her head tipped back.

She looked up at him properly then, chin resting on his chest, eyes soft in the firelight. For a second she just watched his face—relaxed, amused, present in a way that felt rare and fragile and worth protecting.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I really wasn’t in the mood to cry.”

Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his hoodie, grounding herself there.

“I think I’m… done crying for a bit,” she admitted, voice gentle but sure. “I’ve had my fill. No sad montages. No emotional breakthroughs. I just wanted something loud and dumb and impossible.”

Her gaze dropped to his hand where it rested against her shoulder, thumb warm and steady. She traced the line of his knuckles once, then shifted closer, pressing into him until there was no space left to overthink.

She smiled again—small, real—and then leaned up, finding his lips without ceremony. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. Just a soft, certain kiss. The kind that said I’m here without asking anything back.

She pulled away after a beat, forehead brushing his, breath warm between them.

“No more tears,” she murmured, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth. “No more overthinking.”

Her hand slid back to his chest, palm flat over his heart.

“Just us.”

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.

Ben’s head fell back against the pillow, a guttural, broken groan tearing out of his throat as she sank down, taking all of him. The sensation was blinding—a friction and heat so intense it felt like she was burning him alive from the inside out, and God, he was more than happy to burn.

His hands flew to her hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin, not to push her away, but to anchor her. To hold her right there, impaled on him, while his brain tried to reboot.

"Jesus, Cleo," he choked out, his voice wrecked, rasping and barely audible. "You... you win. You definitely win."

He tried to thrust up to meet her, instinct screaming at him to drive deep, but the boxers tangled around his thighs held his legs in check, restricting his movement just enough to be maddening. It forced him to surrender control, to lie there and let her set the pace, and the helplessness of it—combined with the sight of her above him, head thrown back, throat arched in the lamplight—was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

"Don't move," he pleaded, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. "Just... stay. Let me look at you."

She looked like a goddess. A beautiful, terrifying goddess who had decided to wreck him for sport. Her skin was flushed, her breasts rising and falling with her breath, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. And she was his. This woman who painted in the mornings and built centerpieces out of yard debris was currently riding him with a look of absolute possession on her face.

He moved his hands up, dragging his palms over the curve of her waist, up her ribs, until he could cup her breasts. He thumbed her nipples, watching her eyelids flutter, feeling the way her inner muscles clenched around him in response. That ripple of sensation nearly sent him over the edge right then and there.

"You said you had big plans," he groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily against the restriction of his boxers, trying to get deeper despite the tether. "Is this part of the plan? Killing me before I even get a drawer?"

He watched her eyes open, dark and blown wide, staring down at him with that same fierce intent she’d had when she talked about the future.

"Move," he commanded roughly, unable to take the stillness anymore. "Ride me, Cleo. Take what you want."

He gripped her hips again, guiding her, his thumbs pressing into her flesh as she began to move. The friction was exquisite, a slow, rolling grind that hit every nerve ending he had. He watched her face, watched the pleasure break over her features, and knew, with absolute certainty, that he was never leaving this room. He was never leaving her.

"That's it," he whispered, a litany of praise and worship falling from his lips as she picked up the pace. "Just like that. God, you’re incredible. You feel so good."

He grit his teeth, his head thrashing against the pillow as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his belly. He was completely at her mercy, bound and buried deep inside her, and there was nowhere else on earth he wanted to be.

"I know," she murmured, her voice a sultry contrast to his rough plea. She leaned down just enough to brush her nose against his, teasing him with the proximity. "And believe me, I love it when you take control. I love the predator in you, Ben. It drives me crazy."

She pulled back, sitting tall again, her palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest, her fingers splaying wide to feel the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath her fingertips. She loved feeling that power thrumming under her hands, knowing she was the cause of it.

"But sometimes," she whispered, her eyes locking with his, dark and heavy with intent, "it’s even better to savor the moment. To feel every single second of it. So I’m going to show you."

She didn't give him the fast, hard rhythm he was begging for. She ignored the way his hips bucked, trying to set a faster tempo. Instead, she tightened her core and began to rock her hips, a slow, deliberate forward-and-back motion rather than up and down.

The friction was maddeningly good, a totally different kind of intensity. She ground herself against his pelvis with every sway, the contact electric, dragging out the sensation until it was a thick, syrupy heat spreading through her veins. It felt like they were melting into each other.

"Oh, god," she gasped softly, the sensation sharpening.
Her head fell back, her hair cascading down her back like a dark curtain. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to contain the sound that wanted to escape, forcing herself to keep the pace slow, to torture him—and herself—in the most exquisite way possible.

She watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his head thrashed against the pillow, fighting the urge to snap the tether she’d created. A soft, satisfied smile curved her lips, seeing him so completely undone by her pace.

She leaned down, her hair curtaining around them, shutting out the rest of the room until it was just the two of them in the dim light. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, tasting the desperation and the heat on his breath.
She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his.

"Sit up," she commanded, the words barely more than a ghost of a whisper against his mouth.

She felt his core engage immediately, his body obeying her without question. He groaned low in his throat as he levered himself up, his hands gripping her hips to support them both. As he rose, she adjusted her weight, wrapping her arms around his neck to bring him fully flush against her.

Now face-to-face, chest-to-chest, the intimacy was suffocating in the best possible way. She resumed that slow, rolling grind, the angle deeper now, more intense. She let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she rested her forehead against his, sharing the same air, the same heat, the same rhythm.

The command was barely a whisper, but it hit him like a shockwave.

Sit up.

He didn't hesitate. He grit his teeth, his core screaming in protest as he forced himself up, fighting the drag of the boxers and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of moving while buried so deep inside her.

As he rose, the angle shifted, driving him impossibly deeper, hitting a spot that made his vision blur for a second.

"Fuck," he hissed, the word tearing out of his throat as he wrapped his arms around her, locking his hands against the small of her back to anchor them together.

Being this close, chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin, was sensory overload. He could feel her heart hammering against his own ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm that matched the blood rushing in his ears. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her—sweat and vanilla and something uniquely Cleo—and let his mouth roam.

He didn't just sit there. He couldn't.

While she set the slow, torturous pace with her hips, he went to work on the rest of her. He kissed the sensitive cord of her neck, open-mouthed and wet, turning the kiss into a sharp, grazing bite that made her shiver in his arms. His hands slid down her spine, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her glutes, kneading and squeezing, pulling her harder against his pelvis with every roll of her hips.

He matched her rhythm now, not fighting for dominance, but harmonizing with it. When she ground forward, he pushed back, rolling his hips to meet her, creating a friction that was less about speed and more about total, consuming contact.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice humming against her pulse point. "So tight."

His hand slid up to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull, tilting her head back roughly so he could see her face in the lamplight. He didn't say anything else—he didn't need to. He just leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was bruising and desperate, pouring every ounce of his adoration and his hunger into it. He swirled his tongue against hers, tasting her, devouring her sigh.

He broke the kiss, breathless, his forehead resting against hers as they continued that slow, maddening grind.

"Don't stop," he rasped, his hands roaming back to her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. "Take exactly what you need."

His mouth on hers was a drug, a potent, dizzying distraction that almost made her lose the rhythm she was fighting so hard to maintain. She hummed against his lips, her hips rolling in that slow, deliberate circle, savoring the way his hands kneaded her flesh, pulling her down just as she pushed up.

She needed more. She needed to see him, to control the angle entirely.
She broke the kiss, breathless, her lips swollen and tingling. Her hands slid from his neck down to his chest, flattening against the hard muscle there.

"Lean back," she whispered, her voice husky and wrecked. "Lean back on your hands, Ben."

He complied instantly, shifting his weight and bracing his arms behind him on the mattress. The movement opened him up completely, exposing the expanse of his chest and throat to her gaze, but more importantly, it shifted the angle inside her again.

Oh.

The sensation was sharper now, deeper. Cleo let out a shaky breath, moving her hands to grip his shoulders. The solid warmth of him under her palms gave her the leverage she needed. She squeezed his shoulders, anchoring herself, and began to pick up the pace.

The slow, torturous roll dissolved into a faster, needy grind. Every slide of her hips against his created a spark that traveled straight up her spine. Her head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as the world narrowed down to the point of contact between them.

"Mmm..." The sound vibrated in her throat, a low, involuntary hum of pure pleasure. She bit her lip, chasing the heat that was pooling rapidly in her belly. She moved faster, the friction becoming a constant, electric current, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she focused entirely on the climbing pressure, desperate to reach the peak.

The friction was everything. The drag combined with the fullness of him created a textured, overwhelming overstimulation that made her toes curl against the mattress. It wasn't just physical; it was the way he let her take the lead, the way he lay back and offered himself up to her completely.
She forced her heavy eyelids open, needing to ground herself in the sight of him before she completely unraveled.

Ben looked... wrecked. Beautifully wrecked. His head was tipped slightly back, the cords of his neck straining, his jaw locked tight as he endured the pleasure. But his eyes—dark, dilated, and burning with intensity—were locked on her face, watching her unravel. Seeing him watch her, seeing the hunger and adoration in his gaze, was the final push she needed.

"Mmm... Ben," she whimpered, the sound broken and airy, vibrating against her own lips.

She couldn't keep the rhythm smooth anymore. The need to crest was too demanding. Her movements became sharper, more desperate—jerky, hard snaps of her hips as she ground down, seeking that friction, hitting that spot repeatedly. Her fingers curled inward, nails biting into the skin of his shoulders to anchor herself against the rising tide.

"I'm... I'm close," she breathed, the confession tearing out of her as a frantic heat flushed her skin. "Don't move... just let me..."

He did exactly as he was told, though it cost him everything.

He shifted his weight back, planting his palms on the mattress behind him and locking his elbows, creating a solid, unmoving incline for her. The shift in angle was immediate and lethal—it drove him impossibly deeper, hitting a nerve that made his vision swim, but he didn't make a sound. He just grit his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he let the wave of sensation crash over him.

He felt like a man strapped to the front of a rocket, completely at the mercy of the countdown, and he wouldn't have traded it for anything.

Because the view... the view was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

From this angle, he had a front-row seat to her unraveling. He watched the lamplight catch the sheen of sweat rising on her chest, the flush deepening across her skin like a bloom. He watched the heavy, mesmerizing sway of her breasts with every sharp snap of her hips, the way her hair whipped around her face, wild and messy and perfect.

He watched her eyes squeeze shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and felt a surge of possessive pride so strong it nearly choked him. She was coming undone, completely wrecking herself, and she was doing it all on him.

He wanted to move. God, he wanted to move. Every predatory instinct in his body was screaming at him to snap his hips forward, to grab her waist and drive into her until they both saw stars. His triceps trembled with the effort of holding himself still, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the sheets, his biceps straining as he locked his frame into place.

But he didn't budge. He stayed perfectly, torturously still, becoming nothing more than an anchor for her pleasure.

He listened to the sounds tearing out of her—the broken, airy whimpers, that low, vibrating hum that he could feel reverberating against his own chest. It was the hottest sound he’d ever heard, better than any song, better than any crowd.

When her nails dug into his shoulders, sharp and desperate, stinging his skin, a bolt of electricity shot straight from the pain to his groin. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached, his head falling back slightly, eyes burning as he forced himself to keep watching, to keep enduring the pleasure that was building like a pressure cooker at the base of his spine.

“I’m... I’m close. Don’t move... just let me...”

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Don't hold back. I want to see you fall apart."

He locked every muscle in his body, forcing himself to be as hard and steady as stone beneath her. He kept his eyes glued to her face, refusing to miss a single second of her breaking. He wanted to burn this image into his brain forever—Cleo, wild and desperate, taking exactly what she needed from him.

He barely breathed. He just held on, his hips aching with the violent need to thrust, waiting for her to take them both over the edge.

The tension that had been winding tighter and tighter in her belly finally snapped.

His voice—rough, broken, and full of raw worship—was the final push she needed. The world behind her eyelids exploded into brilliant, blinding color. A sharp, ragged cry tore from her throat, her hips stuttering as the pleasure seized her completely, dragging her under. She rode the crest of it, her body convulsing, chasing every last ripple of sensation while he remained that steady, immovable rock beneath her.

As the intensity crested and broke, her strength gave out all at once. Her arms trembled and folded, and she collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked skin meeting his chest with a heavy, breathless impact. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, gasping for air, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

She lay there for a long moment, completely spent, whimpering softly as the aftershocks continued to flutter through her, sharp little spasms that she knew he could feel deep inside.

Slowly, the haze began to clear. Cleo lifted her head, her hair falling like a curtain around them. She looked down at him, seeing the strain still etched in his jaw, the dark, predatory hunger in his eyes that he had held back for her sake.

A slow, languid smile spread across her lips. She reached out, her palms sliding up his chest to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

"Now," she whispered, her voice husky and wrecked, "you can have your way with me."

thumbs traced the hard line of his jaw, soothing the muscle he’d been clenching so tight. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest heaved beneath hers as he fought to maintain that last shred of control.

"Since you were such a good boy," she added, the words a low, teasing purr against his skin.

She didn't wait for an answer. She leaned in, sealing her mouth over his, eager and demanding. She pushed her tongue past his lips, sweeping into his mouth with a hunger that matched the fire burning in his eyes, tasting the desperate groan that vibrated in his throat as she finally gave him the signal to let go.

The phrase good boy hit him like a physical blow to the chest, snapping the last, fraying thread of his restraint.

He didn't just accept the kiss; he devoured it. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand tangling in her hair to hold her mouth to his, the other gripping her hip with bruising force. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest—a sound of pure, unleashed relief.

"Finally," he groaned into her mouth, the word rough and jagged.

He didn't waste a second. He abandoned the passive, supportive role he’d held for the last ten minutes and took exactly what she had offered.

He flexed his core and bucked his hips upward, driving into her hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation of finally moving, of meeting her heat with his own force, was blinding. He found a rhythm instantly—fast, sharp, and desperate—making up for every second he’d spent holding still.

He felt her gasp against his lips, felt the aftershocks of her own pleasure ripple around him, and it spurred him on. He ground against her, seeking friction, seeking release, his entire world narrowing down to the friction of their bodies and the taste of her tongue.

He was starving for her. He wanted to merge with her, to fuse his bones with hers so she could never leave.

"You like that?" he rasped, breaking the kiss to bury his face in the damp curve of her neck, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there. "You like making me wait? You little..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. The pleasure spiked, turning white-hot and consuming. His hips snapped forward in a jagged, erratic rhythm, his breath coming in harsh pants against her skin.

"Cleo," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "I’m... I’m going to.."

He drove into her one last time, holding himself deep inside as he came undone. The release was violent and absolute, a crashing wave that emptied him completely, leaving him shaking and breathless in her arms. He gripped her tight, anchoring himself to her as the world spun, his heart hammering against hers like it was trying to break through his ribs.

He held her there for a long time, riding out the aftershocks, his heavy breaths slowly evening out into the quiet of the room.

Eventually, the tension drained from his muscles, replaced by a heavy, liquid warmth. He went boneless, sinking back against the pillows, taking her with him. He kept his arms wrapped around her, refusing to let her go, pulling the duvet up over them to create a warm, dark cocoon.

He pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead, then rested his cheek against the top of her head, eyes closing.

"Okay," he murmured, his voice a sleepy, satisfied rumble in his chest. "You were right. The merger was a success. Shareholders are thrilled."

He squeezed her gently, a lazy smile spreading across his face in the dark.

"But if you ever call me a 'good boy' again... just know that I will absolutely use it against you. That is a dangerous weapon, Cleo. You have to have a permit for that."

A soft laugh bubbled up from her throat, vibrating against his ribs. She tilted her head back, resting her chin on his chest so she could look him in the eye, her expression shifting into a wicked, satisfied grin.

"Oh, don't worry about the paperwork," she teased, tracing a fingertip over the damp skin of his shoulder. "I’ve already got the license. It’s lifetime valid, non-revocable, and strictly exclusive."

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, her eyes dancing with mischief. "So, I hate to break it to you, but I will call you a 'good boy' whenever I damn well please."

She didn't give him a chance to respond. With a dramatic, heavy sigh of feigned exhaustion, she untangled herself just enough to flip over. She pressed her back against his chest, wiggling her hips until she was nestled perfectly against him—the little spoon to his big spoon—and pulled his heavy arm firmly around her waist to lock him in place.

"Deal with it," she mumbled into the pillow, her eyes closing as a triumphant smile lingered on her lips.

The room fell quiet, the only sound the steady rhythm of his breathing against her ear. The playfulness slowly ebbed away, replaced by a deep, bone-settling comfort. She felt his arm tighten just a fraction around her, pulling her flush against him, and she let out a long, contented breath.

She reached down, lacing her fingers through his where his hand rested on her stomach, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I love you, Benjamin," she whispered into the dark, her voice soft and heavy with sleep. "Good night."

He let out a low, vibrating huff against her neck—a sound that was trying to be grumpy about the "good boy" threat but failed miserably, dissolving into a smile he couldn't hide even in the dark.

"Brat," he whispered, but there was no heat in it. Only fond, hopeless adoration.

He adjusted instantly when she flipped, his body curling around hers on instinct. He pulled the duvet up to her chin, tucking her in, then draped his arm heavy and possessive over her waist, anchoring her there. Being the big spoon was his favorite state of being. It was the only time he felt like he could protect her from everything—even if the only thing currently attacking them was exhaustion.

When she said Benjamin—the full name, heavy and serious and sweet—his heart did that traitorous flip again. It sounded less like a name and more like a title he finally earned.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in one last time, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing syncing with his. The silence in the room wasn't empty anymore; it was full.

"I love you too, Cleo," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, vibrating against her back.
He kissed her shoulder through the duvet, his eyes slipping shut, his limbs heavy and warm.

"You're stuck with me now," he added, barely audible, already drifting off. "No take-backs."
Then he let the darkness take them, holding onto his girl, in his bed, in their home.