Cleo Ashcroft
 

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The apartment was quiet when they came in. Not empty—just settled. The kind of quiet that belonged to a place that knew its owner well enough not to perform when someone new crossed the threshold.

Cleo kicked the door shut with her heel and dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the entry, the familiar clink grounding her. The lights were low already—one lamp on in the living room, warm and amber, casting soft shadows across canvases leaning against the walls. Paintings in various states of completion were everywhere: some stacked carefully, others abandoned mid-thought, colors still raw and unapologetic.

She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it up, movements automatic, like her body knew this space by heart. It was different from her childhood room—less history, more intention—but it carried the same quiet honesty. Nothing here was curated for anyone else.

She glanced back once, catching the way he took it all in without touching anything yet. Without assuming. That mattered more than she could explain.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said lightly, even though there was no apology in her tone. Just context. “I paint better when I don’t clean as I go.”

She padded into the living room, barefoot now, toes brushing paint flecks she never quite managed to scrub away. She set her phone on the coffee table, then leaned back against the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the space, arms folding loosely as if to say: this is it. This is me.

“You can sit wherever,” she added, softer. “Nothing’s precious.”

She turned toward the sink, filled two glasses with water, letting the sound run a little longer than necessary. When she handed one over, her fingers brushed his—brief, grounding. She didn’t pull away.

Cleo dropped onto the couch and tucked one leg beneath her, the other dangling loose. He sat beside her a moment later, close but careful, their shoulders touching naturally like distance had already been negotiated. The contact made something in her chest loosen—not rush, not ache. Just settle.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The city hummed faintly through the windows. A siren far off. A car passing. Inside, the air felt held, like the room itself was breathing slower.

Cleo stared ahead, then exhaled, long and unguarded.

“This is usually when my brain starts trying to narrate everything,” she admitted quietly. “So I’m trying not to let it.”

She shifted slightly, her hand resting on the cushion between them, close enough that their knuckles brushed. This time, she let it stay there. Open. Unclaimed.

She leaned back, head resting against the couch, eyes drifting half-closed. Being here—with him—didn’t feel like pretending. It didn’t feel like deciding. It just felt real in the way quiet truths always did.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself, more breath than word.

And they stayed like that—no rush, no expectations. Just two people in a lived-in room, letting the night unfold without forcing it into shape.

Cleo stayed quiet for another beat, letting the stillness stretch until it felt less fragile and more earned. The hum of the city outside softened into background noise, and the apartment settled fully around them, like it had decided he wasn’t an interruption.

She shifted on the couch, uncurling slightly, then glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Not searching. Not tentative. Just checking in.

“I can show you around,” she offered, casual but real. “If you want.”

She didn’t make it sound like a tour. No presentation. No pressure. Just an open door.

“It’s small,” she added, a hint of amusement threading through her voice. “But it’s… me.”

She pushed herself up from the couch and held out a hand—not tugging, not assuming he’d take it. Just there. An invitation.

“Living room you’ve already met,” she continued lightly, gesturing around at the canvases and paint-streaked corners. “Kitchen’s mostly functional chaos. Studio situation is… technically the dining nook, but we don’t have to call it that.”

She smiled, soft and unguarded now, the kind that only showed up when she felt at ease.

“And my room’s down the hall,” she finished, not loaded, not coy. Just honest. “If you want to see where I actually sleep instead of where I pretend to be productive.”

She waited—still, open—letting the choice be his, the way she always did when something mattered.

Ben followed her in slow.

There was no rush to his steps, no wide-eyed tourist awe, but she caught the way his gaze moved through the space—quiet, observant, tuned in the way only someone who really paid attention could be. He wasn’t scanning it like a stranger looking for context. He was reading it. Like he already understood that this wasn’t a space meant to impress, only to be known.

And he wanted to know it.

The canvases, the paint smudges, the coffee table half-swallowed by sketchbooks and books with cracked spines—it all felt like her. Not a version of her softened for guests. Her, unfiltered. A place she could breathe and sprawl and disappear when the world asked too much.

Ben didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t compliment the art. Didn’t joke about the state of the floor or ask about the books. He just let his eyes settle on it all for a beat longer than most people would, then looked back at her like that was the part he actually gave a shit about.

When she handed him the water, his fingers closed around hers for a beat too long. Not demanding—reassuring. A subtle, steady squeeze, like a yeah, I’m here. Then he followed her into the living room, sitting down beside her with the kind of closeness that wasn’t performative. It was like he didn’t even think about it.

Their shoulders touched.

And something in him settled.

The space felt good. Lived in. Honest. No staging. No cameras. No pressure to say something clever or lean into charm. Just warm light, late-night stillness, and her next to him.

When she said this is usually when my brain starts trying to narrate everything, a quiet, knowing grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking. Just fond. Of course she did. Of course her mind didn’t let the moment just be—not until she fought it into stillness with the same hands that painted chaos onto canvas.

He wanted to say something. Something small. Gentle. Maybe even funny. But the moment didn’t need his voice.

So he stayed quiet too.

Their knuckles brushed. She didn’t move hers. Neither did he.

When she finally moved, rising from the couch and offering him a hand—not pulling, just inviting—his heart did that stupid thing it always did around her. That internal shift where everything stopped feeling temporary.

She didn’t ask for anything.

She just offered.

And so he took her hand.

Not dramatically. Not like it was the first time. Just a quiet gesture that said: I’m still here.

As she led him through the apartment, Ben kept his gaze soft, his grip steady. He listened to her narration, the way she talked about each room without dressing it up. Her words were light, but the meaning underneath was weighty, and he felt it. Felt her easing into him in increments, giving him pieces of her space the way she gave pieces of her heart—when she chose to, not when someone asked.

When she reached the hallway, he hesitated—not because he didn’t want to go, but because he knew what this meant. Knew she wasn’t dangling a possibility in front of him. She was inviting him into her life again. Not forever. Not defined. But present. Real.

She said my room’s down the hall, and something in his chest pulled tight and full all at once.

He looked at her then. Really looked.

Barefoot. Paint-smudged apartment. Unapologetically herself. And more his than any place he'd ever stayed longer than a tour stop.

His hand squeezed hers once. Then again.

And then, soft—no smirk, no sarcasm—just him:

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to see it.”

Not just her bedroom.
Her.

Where she slept.
Where she unraveled.
Where she didn’t have to explain the difference between being alone and being herself.

He stepped forward with her, still holding her hand, and followed her down the hallway like someone who knew exactly what he was walking into.

Not a hookup.
Not a fix.
Not a solution.

Just her.

And tonight, that was everything.

Cleo led him into her room with that same quiet certainty she carried everywhere else, but the moment the door opened, something in her shifted.

This space felt different.

More exposed.

Her bed sat slightly unmade, the quilt rumpled in a way that meant she actually slept there, not the polite kind of mess you could explain away. Morning light paintings leaned against the wall. Half-dried brushes in a jar on the dresser. And—too late—right there on the bed, the thick portfolio she’d meant to move before he ever saw it.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh—shit,” she muttered, crossing the room too fast to look casual.

She scooped for it, arms clumsy, trying to gather the whole thing at once like she could will it into cooperation. But the strap slipped. The folder bent. And pages slid free, fanning out across the bed and onto the floor like they’d been waiting for air.

Loose sketches.
Studies.
Half-finished ideas.
Old charcoal.
New paint tests.

And some of them—

Her.

Him.

Not staged. Not idealized. Just moments. A shoulder. A profile. Hands she knew by muscle memory.

Her breath caught.

“God—sorry—” she said quickly, already dropping to her knees, heat rushing up her neck as she reached for the pages. “I didn’t mean—this thing is—”

She stopped talking because her words weren’t finding each other anymore.

Her brain felt like it had flipped sideways.

She gathered the nearest sheet, fingers trembling just enough to give her away, then another. She didn’t look up right away. Couldn’t. She could feel him close though—could feel the shift of him lowering down too, quiet and instinctive, helping without comment.

That somehow made it worse.

And better.

Her throat tightened as she reached for one page in particular, cheeks burning. She swallowed hard, pressing it back into the stack like that might undo the fact that it existed at all.

“I—” She tried again, then huffed a breath, shaking her head. “Sorry. My brain just… completely left the room.”

She risked a glance up then, just briefly. Not to explain. Not to justify. Just to check that he was still there.

He was.

Kneeling on her bedroom floor.
Holding one of her drawings like it wasn’t fragile, but like it mattered.

That nearly undid her.

She collected the last of the pages, tucking them back into the portfolio with more care now, slower, like she was acknowledging what she’d accidentally revealed instead of trying to erase it.

Her hands stilled.

She exhaled, long and shaky, sitting back on her heels.

Ben didn’t say anything at first.

Not because he didn’t have words—he always had words. But because this wasn’t a moment for them. This was a moment for seeing.

And he saw her.

Not just the blush on her cheeks or the tremble in her fingers. Not just the panic in her voice or the way she tried to fold the moment back into something manageable. He saw the why beneath it. The part of her that had quietly, painstakingly made space for him in the margins of her world—without ever intending to show it.

He looked down at the drawing still in his hand. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t meant to be. It was better. It was real.

His shoulder. Her memory of it. The way the lines bent not for symmetry, but for truth.

And something in his chest cracked a little.

Because this wasn’t fan art.
This was muscle memory.
This was care.

Still kneeling, he glanced over at her—really looked. She was sitting back on her heels, trying to collect herself in the quiet aftermath of exposure, and there was a vulnerability in her posture that made his throat tighten. Not because she looked breakable, but because she looked brave.

So he shifted closer, slow and unhurried, until his knee bumped gently against hers.

And when he spoke, his voice was low—not reverent, but honest.

“Cleo.”

Just her name. Steady. Sure.

He held out the drawing he still hadn’t put down—not to return it like something borrowed, but to offer it back like it was part of something shared.

His eyes didn’t waver.

“This isn’t something you have to apologize for.”

A beat.

“It’s something you get to feel proud of.”

Another beat. Softer now, but unwavering:

“And I’m honored as hell to be in it.”

He wasn’t smiling, exactly. But there was something in his expression—open, unguarded, full—that made it clear he didn’t see this as a misstep. He saw it as her. Another room she hadn’t meant to open, but had.

And now he was standing in it.
Still choosing to stay.

He let the drawing rest between them, the page crinkled just slightly from where her hands had gripped it.

Then, quieter:

“I don’t care if it’s unfinished. I don’t care if I look like I haven’t slept in a week. I love that you saw something in me worth remembering.”

His voice caught slightly, just enough to make it real.

“I always see it in you.”

And this time, when he reached for her hand—ink-smudged fingers and all—it wasn’t to anchor her.

It was just to be there.

No fixing. No performance. Just presence.

Cleo’s breath stuttered when he said her name.

Not sharply. Not like a break. Just enough to give her away.

She let his words land without interrupting them, the way she always did when something mattered—letting them move through her instead of bouncing off. Proud of. Honored. Those weren’t words she’d ever expected to hear attached to something she’d done quietly, almost privately, like a habit she’d never meant to explain.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the drawing when he held it out, but instead of taking just that page, she pulled the whole portfolio back toward her. Not abruptly. Just decisively. The folder slid between them, settling into both their laps because of how close he was sitting now—knee to knee, shoulder nearly touching. There was no room for distance anymore, and she didn’t try to create any.

She rested her palms on the cover for a second, grounding herself in its weight.

“I don’t usually mean to keep them,” she said finally, voice quiet but steady. “The drawings, I mean. Sometimes they’re just… a way through something.”

She swallowed, eyes dropping to the worn corner of the portfolio before lifting back to him.

“There are days when the memories get loud,” she went on, more honest than careful now. “Not in a sad way. Just—persistent. Like my brain doesn’t know where to put them, so they keep circling.”

Her thumb traced an absent line along the edge of the folder, muscle memory more than thought.

“And sketching slows it down,” she said. “It gives my hands something to do while my head catches up.”

She didn’t look away this time.

“You’re… always there,” she admitted, softer. “Not front and center. Just—background noise that never really fades out.”

A small, rueful breath escaped her.

“I draw you because my brain won’t let me forget you,” she said simply. Not dramatic. Not apologetic. Just true. “And sometimes that’s the only way I can make it quiet enough to breathe.”

She shifted closer without realizing it, the portfolio tilting slightly as their legs pressed together. The intimacy of it hit her a second later, but she didn’t pull back.

“I’m not trying to hold onto a version of you that doesn’t exist,” she added, almost like she needed him to know that part. “I’m just… letting the memories go somewhere safe.”

Her gaze softened then, something open and unguarded in it.

“And if that means you end up on paper sometimes,” she finished, “it’s because you were real to me. You still are.”

She rested her hand lightly over his on the portfolio, ink-smudged fingers brushing his skin.

Cleo’s hand stayed where it was—light over his, the contact steadying her more than she expected. She didn’t rush the next part. She never did when it mattered this much. She let the quiet stretch just long enough to make sure she wasn’t saying it out of reflex, or nostalgia, or fear of losing the moment.

Then she looked at him. Really looked. Not searching his face for reassurance—just meeting him there.

“If you ever doubted it,” she said quietly, voice firm in a way that surprised even her, “if you ever wondered whether I thought about you—about us—”

She paused, breath catching, then pushed through it.

“That year we spent together meant more to me than I could ever put into words.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop.

“It wasn’t just time,” she continued. “It wasn’t just memories or places or versions of ourselves we don’t get back. It changed how I move through the world. How I love. How I know when something is real.”

She glanced down at the portfolio between them, then back up.

“I measure things against it without meaning to,” she admitted. “Not because I’m stuck there. But because it showed me what connection can feel like when it’s honest. When it’s gentle. When it doesn’t ask you to disappear to survive it.”

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

“I’ve had other moments since,” she said. “Good ones. Real ones. But that year?” A small, shaky breath. “It set the bar. For how deeply I’m willing to feel. For what I won’t pretend is enough.”

She leaned in just a fraction, voice lowering.

“So no,” she finished softly. “You were never just someone I used to know. And that time was never just something I remember.”

Her eyes held his, clear and unwavering now.

“It’s part of me. It always will be.”

She didn’t say it to bind him to anything.
She didn’t say it to reopen wounds.

She said it because it was true—and because she trusted him enough to hear it without needing to fix it.

And then she went quiet again, staying close, letting the weight of what she’d finally said exist between them without taking anything back.

Ben hadn’t moved.
Not when the portfolio shifted. Not when her knee bumped his. Not even when the weight of what she’d just said landed like something sacred between them.

He stayed exactly where he was—shoulder nearly touching hers, hands still open, eyes fixed on her face like he didn’t want to miss a single flicker of what passed through her.

And it wasn’t just the words.
It was the way she said them.

Like truth was something alive between her ribs, finally brave enough to step into the light.

He could feel the echo of it in his chest. That year. That version of them. Not perfect, not clean. But real. The kind of real that builds foundations under your skin before you even know you’re building anything.

And now—here—on her bedroom floor, with charcoal dust between their palms and the space between them gone, he realized he hadn’t let it go either. Not really.

He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing—not in confusion, but in quiet reverence. His voice, when it came, was low and a little hoarse, the way it always got when he meant something down to the bone.

“I used to think I imagined it.”

His eyes didn’t drop.
Didn’t shy.

“I’d replay certain nights—dumb ones, random ones—and think, there’s no way it felt that big to her too. Not like it did to me.”

He gave a quiet, almost self-deprecating breath of a laugh, glancing down at the edge of the portfolio between them, thumb brushing against hers like a tether.

“I thought maybe I just built it up in my head. Like I made it mean more than it did.”

He looked back up, gaze catching hers again.

“But I didn’t.”

A beat. His voice gentled further.

“You just said it better than I ever could.”

He reached up then—not rushed, not dramatic, just intentional—and tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, the back of his fingers brushing her cheek like a grounding wire.

“You were it for me,” he said simply. “And not in a pedestal way. Not in a fairytale way. Just… in the way where, for the first time in my life, I felt known.”

A pause. His throat moved with the weight of it.

“And I’ve met other people. Good ones. Honest ones. But it’s like you said—” He exhaled, shaking his head a little. “That year? It set the bar. For everything.”

He smiled then—not bright or cocky, but soft and steady and Ben. Like he wasn’t afraid of how much this moment meant.

“I still measure by you, Cleo.”

Her name sat warm in his mouth, familiar and full of years that hadn’t dulled its weight.

He didn’t lean in yet. He didn’t crowd her.

He just held her hand a little tighter. Stayed right where he was.

And then, quieter:

“You let me live in your pages.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, more felt than shown.
“Well… you’ve lived in mine too.”

He reached for his phone, pulling it from his pocket—not to break the moment, but to hand it to her.

The screen was already open.

Photos.
Folders.

And one at the top labeled simply: Cleo.

Inside—
Pictures he’d taken without ever planning to show them.
A blurry sidewalk photo of her boots mid-step.
The light catching her wrist when she reached for something in a café.
Her name half-written in a notebook next to a lyric idea he never finished.
A voice memo from the night they stayed up until 3 a.m. talking about nothing and everything, the background quiet but unmistakably her.

He let her look.
Didn’t narrate.
Didn’t explain.

Just let the truth breathe.

“You were never just a season,” he said, softer now. “You were a blueprint.”

And finally, finally, he leaned in.
Not to claim anything.
Just to let his forehead rest against hers the way it used to when the words felt too big.

He stayed there, still and sure, eyes closed.

“Whatever this is now,” he whispered, “whatever it becomes… I don’t want to hold it like I’m scared to break it.”

He pulled back enough to look at her again—really look.

“I want to hold it like it’s real.”

And then, without pressure or presumption, his hand stayed over hers, steady and warm, letting her decide what came next.

Because she’d let him into the truth.

And now he was letting her lead the way forward.

Cleo didn’t rush to fill the space after he finished.

She stayed where she was, forehead still near his, fingers curled loosely under his hand like she was grounding herself in the simplest truth available: he was here, and he was real, and nothing about what he’d just shown her felt imagined.

Seeing her name on his phone did something quiet and devastating to her. Not in a breaking way—more like a deep exhale she hadn’t known she was holding. Proof, not of obsession or longing, but of continuity. Of care that hadn’t needed an audience.

She swallowed once, steadying herself, then lifted her eyes to his.

“I know,” she said softly. Not defensive. Not embarrassed. Just honest. “I know what that year was.”

Her voice didn’t shake, but it carried weight—the kind that came from having held something precious with both hands and learned exactly how heavy it was.

“And if this was just about us,” she went on, fingers tightening just slightly in his, “if it was just you and me and the way we fit when everything else goes quiet… I would do anything to be with you again.”

She let that land. Didn’t soften it. Didn’t dress it up.

“But your world scares me,” she admitted, and there it was—the truth she’d circled for years without naming. “Not you. Never you.”

Her free hand lifted, resting briefly against his chest, right over his heart, like she needed him to understand the distinction.

“It’s everything around you,” she said. “The noise. The access. The way people think loving your work means they get a piece of you.”

A pause. Her brows knit, not in anger, but in something closer to grief.

“And when I was with you… some of them thought that meant they had access to me too. Like proximity was permission.”

She looked down for a moment, gathering herself, then back up—eyes clear, unwavering.

“Not everyone,” she said quickly, fairly. “Most people were kind. Normal. Human.” A breath. “But enough weren’t. Enough felt entitled. To my time. My body. My reactions. My silence.”

Her thumb brushed once over his knuckles, grounding herself again.

“I don’t want to live braced all the time,” she said. “I don’t want to measure every room for exits or wonder if being seen next to you means being swallowed whole.”

She met his gaze fully now, vulnerability open but not fragile.

“I love you,” she said plainly. “I don’t think that ever stopped being true. And part of loving you is knowing that your life is louder than mine, and asking myself—honestly—if I can live inside that without disappearing.”

She leaned in just slightly, enough that their foreheads touched again, breath warm and shared.

“I’m not saying no,” she murmured. “I never was.”

A small, sad smile touched her mouth.

“I’m saying I’m scared. And I don’t want to pretend I’m braver than I am just to prove something.”

She stayed there, close, present, hand still in his.

“I needed you to know that wanting you has never been the problem,” she finished quietly. “It’s figuring out your world while not having a panic attack.”

She didn’t pull away.

She let the truth sit between them—tender, complicated, and real—trusting that if anyone could hold it without breaking, it was him.

Ben didn’t move right away.

Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t fill the quiet with apologies or promises he knew he couldn’t keep.

He just let the weight of what she said settle. Let it sit there between them, real and heavy and earned.

Their foreheads still touched, breath shared. But something inside him shifted—something that wasn’t about fixing her fear, or undoing the past, or trying to make the noise of his life smaller than it was.

It was about understanding.
Respect.
Love that wasn’t performative or possessive.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful.

“I don’t want you to be brave for me.”

His hand turned under hers, fingers lacing through like muscle memory.

“I don’t want you breaking just to stay close.”

He drew in a breath, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist as if to remind himself she was really there.

“You were never a condition of my life,” he said quietly. “You were the constant. You still are. But my world…” He exhaled. “It is loud. And messy. And selfish in ways I can’t always control.”

He pulled back just far enough to see her face, eyes dark with something tender and sure.

“And I love it,” he admitted, voice steady but soft. “I love what I do. The chaos of it. The work. The parts that keep me up at night and make me feel like I’m chasing something that matters. I can’t pretend I want to give that up, even for something as good—as right—as you.”

It hurt to say.
But not as much as it would’ve hurt to lie.

His jaw flexed for a second, not with tension, but with restraint.

“But I hate that it hurt you,” he said, finally letting it crack. “That being next to me made you feel small, or hunted, or used. I hate that the worst parts of what I love ever touched you.”

His fingers tightened slightly in hers.

“I would never ask you to come back into that noise if it means disappearing. Not ever.”

A beat.

“But if what we had—have—only gets to exist once in a while…”

He swallowed, eyes searching hers like they held more years than he could ever say aloud.

“I’ll still take it.”

No bitterness.
No guilt.

Just truth.

“If all I get are moments,” he continued, “quiet ones, hidden ones, ones where you let me in just long enough to breathe again—then I’ll show up every time. No conditions. No expectations.”

He glanced down at the portfolio still balanced between them, then back at her.

“And if the only place I get to live in your life is in the lines you draw when the memories get too loud…” A small smile ghosted across his face, tender and wrecked. “Then damn, Cleo. That’s still more than most people get.”

His free hand rose to her face, brushing gently along her cheek, reverent.

“I love you,” he said. Quietly. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

“I don’t need a spotlight on it. I don’t need to post it, prove it, or parade it.”

His thumb rested at the edge of her jaw.

“I just need this. You. Here. Letting me love you however you’ll let me.”

And then, with all the softness he could give, he pressed his forehead to hers again, holding her there—not to anchor her, but to be anchored by her.

No demands.
No pressure.

Just him.
Still hers.
Even now.

Cleo felt the words land one by one, not like blows, but like stones set carefully into place. A foundation. Something solid enough to stand on without asking her to contort herself to fit it.

Her head dipped again when he said he loved the chaos, the work, the life he’d chosen. She nodded—not because she was conceding, but because this was the truth she’d always carried with her. The one she’d learned how to hold without trying to change its shape.

“I know,” she said softly. “I always knew.”

Her voice didn’t break, but it thinned—like she was walking a careful line between honesty and self-preservation.

“I never wanted to be the reason you dimmed anything,” she continued. “Not your work. Not the noise. Not the parts of you that feel alive.” A breath, slow and steady. “I just needed to know I wasn’t imagining how hard it was to stand next to it sometimes.”

She leaned into his touch when his hand brushed her cheek, eyes closing briefly—not to escape, but to let herself feel the steadiness of it. Him. The way he loved without asking her to perform or prove or stay louder than she was built to be.

“I don’t feel small with you,” she said quietly. “I felt small with everything else that came with it. And I didn’t know how to say that without it sounding like I was asking you to choose.”

Her fingers tightened around his, grounding herself in the present—ink smudges, paper, the quiet hum of her apartment.

“And I won’t disappear,” she added. “Not for you. Not for anyone. But I can stay… like this.” She gestured subtly between them, the space that was somehow both narrow and infinite. “Honest. Intentional. Real.”

She opened her eyes then, meeting his gaze fully.

“I love you too,” she said, without hesitation, without ceremony. “And I don’t need it to be loud or visible or understood by anyone else.”

A small, tender smile surfaced—sad and hopeful at once.

“If this is what it looks like,” she continued, “moments we choose, quiet ones we protect, a love that knows when to step back so it doesn’t break us…”

She nodded, once, certain.

“Then I can do that. I want to do that.”

She rested her forehead against his again, breath syncing, the world narrowing to the space they shared.

“Just don’t ever think you’re a burden to me,” she whispered. “Or that loving you was a mistake.”

She stayed there with him, not asking for more than he was offering—but not shrinking what she felt either.

Cleo didn’t give herself time to think it through.

Thinking had always been the thing that slowed her down, the thing that built walls where there didn’t need to be any. Right now, all she felt was the steadiness of him in front of her—the way his presence filled the quiet without overwhelming it, the way his honesty had made room instead of closing doors.

So she moved.

Not abruptly. Not desperately. Just with intention.

She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his eye first, the kind of touch that felt more like care than want. Then another to the bridge of his nose, lingering there for a beat, breathing him in like she needed the reminder that this was real and not something she’d imagined herself back into.

Her hands lifted then, slow, sliding around his neck. Her fingers threaded into his hair without urgency, just familiarity—muscle memory taking over where fear usually lived.

When she kissed his mouth, it was gentle at first. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that carried everything they hadn’t said without trying to consume it. She stayed there, close, foreheads brushing again when she pulled back just enough to breathe.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke, half-murmured against his lips, the words almost a smile.

“Well,” she said softly, thumb brushing at the nape of his neck, “you’re here.”

A small exhale, warm and honest.

“We might as well not waste it.”

And she kissed him again—not to escape the truth, not to pretend the world outside didn’t exist, but because this moment did. Because they did.

And for now, that was enough to choose.

Ben didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

He let her kiss him like a confession—soft at his temple, gentle at the bridge of his nose—each one a slow unraveling of everything he’d tried to keep stitched tight.

But when her mouth met his…

Something broke.

Something gave.

She kissed him like she meant it. Like they hadn’t wasted all that time pretending they could survive without this. Without them.

And the second she murmured you’re here like it was reason enough to set the world on fire—

That was it.

His restraint snapped without fanfare.

His hand slid under the back of her shirt in one smooth movement, all palm and heat and possession, like he was reclaiming space he’d never stopped craving. His touch was steady, but the pressure was unmistakable—stay right here.

The other hand found her hip, fingers flexing hard enough to leave the idea of a bruise, if not the mark itself. He didn’t push, didn’t drag—but held. Anchored. Claimed.

And when she said we might as well not waste it, her mouth brushing his?

He didn’t even hesitate.

He kissed her like she was oxygen. Like he’d been starved of it since the last time he had her pressed to him like this, all heat and memory and need.

It was messier now. Rougher. His mouth opened over hers, deep and slow and filthy with want—like he was trying to memorize the shape of her from the inside.

His thumb brushed her jaw, tilting her chin just enough to take more. Tongue sliding against hers in a kiss that didn’t ask permission because he already knew she wanted it.

A low sound broke from his throat when her body leaned in, her thighs brushing his knees, and his grip tightened in response—like if he didn’t hold her right now, she might disappear again.

When he finally pulled back, it was barely an inch, both of them breathless, his lips wet and parted like he was already thinking about going back for more.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

Hair tousled from his hands. Lips flushed and kiss-drunk. Eyes wide with that slow, beautiful unraveling he remembered better than sleep.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“Come here.”

Not loud.

Not forceful.

Just low.

Ragged.

Certain.

And when she moved—when she climbed into his lap like she’d never really left it—he didn’t waste a second.

His mouth was on her again before her knees had even settled. His hands—under her shirt now, completely—swept up her back, greedy for every inch of skin, every sound she made, every shiver she didn’t try to hide.

And if this was all he got?

A stolen hour in a quiet apartment, her thighs on either side of him, her breath caught on his name?

He’d ruin himself for it again.
Every time.

No cameras.
No noise.
No promises.

Just this.

Her.
Him.
The fire in between.

Cleo didn’t stop him.

She couldn’t have if she tried.

Her hands slid into his hair, fingers curling tight at the roots, gripping the way she’d wanted to all night—the way she’d been holding herself back from for years. Not delicate. Not careful. Just there, anchoring herself to him the same way he was anchoring her.

She moved closer, instinctively, knees settling on either side of him, bodies fitting together with that familiar inevitability that made her chest ache. It wasn’t choreography. It was memory. Muscle memory. Two people who had learned each other once and never fully unlearned.

Her breath hitched when she felt how solid he was beneath her, how real this was—his hands, his heat, the quiet urgency in the way he held her like he was afraid she might vanish again if he loosened his grip. She rocked forward without thinking, drawn by need and relief and the sheer disbelief of finally being back here, back with him.

Messy. Unguarded. Honest.

Her mouth found his again, open and insistent now, kissing him like she was making up for lost time. Like she was pouring every unsent text, every almost-call, every night she’d lain awake missing him into the space between their lips.

She broke the kiss just long enough to press her forehead to his, breath uneven, hands still tangled in his hair.

A laugh slipped out of her—soft, wrecked, almost disbelieving.

“This is… us,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Like saying it out loud might finally make it real. “It always was.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper—not rushing, not holding back either. Just two people finally letting themselves collide after years of being careful, afraid, convinced that wanting each other didn’t mean they were allowed to have it.

Her hands stayed in his hair. His stayed at her waist.

And in that moment—no noise, no world pressing in—Cleo let herself feel it fully.

She pulled back, her chest heaving, the sudden lack of his mouth leaving her cold and aching for more.

The cotton of her shirt felt suffocating. It felt like static. Like one last barrier she didn’t have the patience for anymore.

Her hands dropped from his hair, finding the hem of her top. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t make it slow or seductive or careful.

She just wanted it gone.

She crossed her arms, gripped the fabric, and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid, desperate motion, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

The cool air of the apartment hit her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms, but she didn’t cover herself. She didn't shrink away. She just sat there, straddling him, chest rising and falling rapidly, completely exposed.

She looked him right in the eye, baring it all—the scars, the skin, the truth.

"I’m done waiting," she whispered, her voice trembling just a little. "I want you to see me. All of me."

The air left the room. Or maybe it just left his lungs.

He sat there, hands gripping the denim of his own jeans to keep from reaching for her too fast, and just looked.

For months, his life had been a blur of strobe lights, scream-singing into microphones until his throat tasted like copper, and faces—thousands of them—that blurred into a singular, demanding mass. Everything out there was loud. Everything was fast. Everything was for consumption.
But this? This was quiet. This was sacred.

Cleo sat straddling his lap, her chest rising and falling with that jagged, beautiful breath, and Ben felt like he was finally seeing color again after living in grayscale.

The shirt lay in a heap on the floor. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t angling her body for a camera or sucking in her stomach the way people in his world did instinctively. She was just there. The soft curve of her waist, the pale stretch of her throat, the small, faint paint splatter on her collarbone that she probably hadn't noticed.

And the scars. The map of her history. The things that made her Cleo.
"I want you to see me," she’d whispered.

God, if she only knew. He hadn’t looked at anyone else in years. Not really.

He let out a shaky breath, the sound rough in the silent room. He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. Words felt cheap right now, flimsy things that would just clutter the air.

Slowly, treating the moment like it might shatter if he moved too sharply, he lifted his hands from his lap.
His palms found the bare skin of her waist.

He felt a tremor run through her, and it nearly undid him. His thumbs brushed over her ribs, feeling the heat of her skin, the frantic beat of her heart beneath the surface. It was a rhythm he wanted to memorize.
He leaned forward, his dark hair falling into his eyes, but he didn’t brush it away. He kept his gaze locked on hers, intense and dark, letting her see exactly how hungry he was. Not just for her body—though he was definitely that—but for the peace she radiated. For the reality of her.

"I see you, Cleo," he murmured, his voice a low grit, deeper than usual. "I see every part of you."
He didn’t kiss her lips. Not yet.

Instead, he lowered his head, pressing his mouth to the hollow of her throat. He felt her pulse jump against his lips. He kissed the spot, open-mouthed and reverent, breathing her in—paint thinner, vanilla, and skin.

He moved lower, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer, eliminating the last few inches of space between them. He kissed the slope of her breast, then the small scar on her ribcage, lingering there. He worshiped it with the tip of his tongue, a silent promise that he accepted the damage, the fear, the past.
He felt her hands tighten in his hair again, heard the sharp intake of her breath, and it fueled him.

He looked up at her then, his eyes blown wide, his hands spanning her ribcage as if he were holding something priceless.

"You are the only real thing in my entire life," he said, the admission raw, torn out of him. "Do you understand that? The rest of it is just noise. This... this is the music."

He didn’t wait for an answer. He slid his hands up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and pulled her down to him, crashing his mouth against hers with a possessive, desperate heat that promised he wasn't going anywhere.

The kiss was a collision. It wasn't gentle, and thank God for that. She didn't want gentle right now. She wanted the desperation she felt vibrating in her own bones matched by his.

His words were still ringing in her ears, louder than the blood rushing in her head. The only real thing. It made her chest ache, a good, sharp ache that cracked open the last of the protective armor she’d wrapped around herself for months. If she was real to him, then he had to be real to her. All of him.

She needed more. The barrier of his t-shirt against her bare skin was suddenly unbearable; it was too much cotton between their heartbeats.

She broke the kiss, gasping, needing air, but mostly just needing access. Before he could question the break in contact, her hands bunched the fabric at his waist. With a surge of adrenaline and pure impatience, she yanked it upward, over his head in one swift, decisive motion.

It landed somewhere in the shadows near her own discarded heap. She didn't care where. Her hands immediately sought the reality of him beneath.

Her palms flattened against his chest, the heat radiating through her fingertips like a furnace. God, she had missed this landscape. She dragged her nails lightly—just lightly enough to graze—through the dusting of hair there, feeling the hard plane of muscle beneath and the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heart matching her own frenzied rhythm.

She missed the texture of him. She missed the scent of road-weary cedar and just Ben that clung to his skin. She missed the rough grit of his voice saying her name like it was a secret prayer, something only meant for this tiny, dim room.

Being on his lap wasn't enough anymore. She needed to be grounded, and she needed the weight of him to keep her there.

"Ben," she breathed, the word half a demand, half a sigh.
She shifted, sliding off his legs and onto the woven rug beneath them. Her sudden movement scattered the papers surrounding them like dry leaves in wind—charcoal sketches of his jawline in shadow, half-finished studies of their hands clasped, memories she had tried to capture on paper fluttered away.

She didn't bother trying to save them. A few drawings remained trapped beneath her shoulders as she laid back against the hard floor, the rug scratchy against her bare skin, but she barely registered the discomfort. She only saw him.

She reached up, gripping his shoulders, her eyes locking with his dark, blown-out gaze. She pulled him down, urging him to cover her, wanting to be crushed under the beautiful, heavy reality of the man who saw her scars and called them music.

He went where she pulled him. He would have followed her off the edge of the earth, so the floor was an easy concession.

He caught his weight on his forearms just before he crushed her, his body hovering over hers, caging her in. The sound of paper crinkling beneath them was sharp in the quiet room—sketches of his own face, the curve of his guitar, his hands—now being pressed into the woven rug by the weight of her shoulders.

It was heady. Knowing she’d spent hours alone in this room, translating him onto paper, obsessing over him the same way he’d obsessed over her in hotel rooms across the Atlantic.

"Ben," she’d breathed, and it sounded like permission. It sounded like a dare.

He crashed his mouth down on hers, swallowing her moan. He kissed her deep and wet, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a heavy, rhythmic pulse. He let his hips grind down, just once, hard against her pelvis, letting her feel exactly how hard he was through the denim of his jeans.

He didn’t stay at her lips. He needed to taste everything.

He dragged his mouth down her jawline, feeling her pulse hammering against his lips. He moved lower, over the arch of her throat, leaving a trail of heat until he reached the swell of her breast. She arched up into him, a silent plea, and he answered it.

He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, swirling his tongue against the sensitive peak until she cried out, her fingers digging bruising crescents into his shoulders. He worked her with the same focus he gave a melody, teasing, biting lightly, then soothing it with his tongue, savoring the way she writhed beneath him.

"You’re beautiful," he groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice humming through her chest. "Fuck, Cleo."

He pulled back, breathless, his hair falling messily over his forehead. He sat back on his heels, his chest heaving, looking down at her. She was half-naked, flushed, her lips swollen and her eyes dazed.
But it wasn’t enough.

"Lift up," he commanded. His voice was rough, leaving no room for argument.

She obeyed instantly, lifting her hips off the rug. His hands went to the button of her jeans. He didn't fumble. He was efficient, driven by a singular need. He unbuttoned the denim, dragged the zipper down, and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pants and her panties at the same time.
He pulled them down, sliding the fabric over her hips, down her thighs, off her ankles, tossing them aside to join the pile of discarded clothes.

Then, he paused.

He stayed back on his heels, just looking at her.

The image hit him like a physical blow. Cleo, completely bare, sprawled out on the rug. Her skin was pale and luminous in the dim light, a stark contrast to the charcoal smudges on the papers fanned out around her like a halo. She was lying on top of a hundred versions of him, but she was the masterpiece. She was the only thing in the room that mattered.

"Look at you," he whispered, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth—confident, possessive. "Surrounded by all this art... and you put it all to shame."

She tried to cover herself with a hand, a reflex of shyness, but he reached out and caught her wrist, gently pinning it to the floor above her head.

"Don't hide," he said, his eyes darkening. "I told you. I want to see all of you."

He moved then, shifting his body between her legs. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, spreading her wide, opening her completely to him. The scent of her hit him—musk and arousal—and his mouth watered.

He didn't wait. He lowered his head and pressed his face right against her heat, inhaling deeply, letting his breath ghost over her wetness. She shuddered, her thighs trembling against his ears.

He smirked against her skin. Then he licked her.

One long, broad stroke from bottom to top.

She bucked, a strangled noise leaving her throat, but he held her hips firm with his large hands, anchoring her. He dove in, his tongue flat and relentless, tasting her sweetness, lapping at her with a steady, maddening rhythm. He felt her unraveling against his mouth, her taste coating his tongue, and he groaned, the sound vibrating against her clitoris as he increased the pressure, determined to wreck her just as thoroughly as she had wrecked him.

The sensation shattered her. It wasn't just the physical shock of his mouth—though that alone was enough to make her vision blur—it was the sheer, unadulterated reverence in his actions.

She had spent weeks pouring her longing into graphite and charcoal, capturing the sharp line of his jaw and the brooding depth of his eyes, never imagining that the real thing would be here, between her legs, worshiping her with a devotion that made her art look pale in comparison.

Her head fell back against the rug, the paper crinkling loudly under her shifting weight. She could feel the charcoal smudging against the bare skin of her back, the sketches of his face blurring into her sweat, but she didn’t care. She would ruin every single drawing for five more seconds of this.

"Ben," she gasped, the name tearing out of her throat as a ragged plea.

He didn't stop. If anything, her voice seemed to spur him on. His grip on her hips tightened, his thumbs pressing into her soft flesh as he anchored her down, refusing to let her escape the pleasure he was forcing on her. He was relentless, a master of rhythm, playing her body with the same intuitive, devastating skill he used on his guitar.

Her hands flailed blindly, needing to touch him, needing a lifeline. Her fingers found the thick waves of his hair, tangling tight, gripping him. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to pull him closer or push him away because it was too much—it was too sharp, too sweet, too intense.

Every stroke of his tongue felt like he was stripping her bare, peeling back layers of shyness and hesitation until only raw nerve endings remained. The friction of his stubble against her inner thighs was a rough, maddening counterpoint to the softness of his mouth, and she arched her back, her hips snapping upward in an involuntary rhythm.

"Please," she sobbed, the word losing all meaning, becoming just a sound of desperate need. "I can’t—Ben, I can’t—"

She was falling. The room, the sketches, the floor—it all dissolved. There was only the heat of his breath, the wet slick of his tongue, and the terrifying, beautiful realization that he was right. She wasn't hiding anymore. He had found her, completely.

The ache wasn't just between her legs; it was a fever in her blood that demanded to be touched everywhere. The memory of his mouth on her breast was still a phantom burn, and the emptiness there now was unbearable. She needed to bridge the gap; she needed to feel more.

Her fingers slipped from the thick tangles of his hair, her arms feeling heavy and languid as they drifted down.

With a broken whimper, she cupped her own breasts, the heels of her hands pressing firmly into the soft flesh. They felt swollen, heavy with heat. She squeezed them, her fingers digging in, trying to replicate the bruising pressure he’d used earlier. It felt decadent, almost forbidden, to touch herself while he was down there completely unraveling her, but she couldn't stop.

She grazed her thumbs over her nipples, finding them hard and incredibly sensitive. She pinched them, twisting sharply, and the jolt of sensation shot straight down her spine, connecting with the wet, hot rhythm of his tongue.
"God," she choked out, her head thrashing against the floor.

The combined stimulation—her own hands working her nipples, his mouth relentless against her clitoris—was a sensory overload that made her toes curl. She arched her chest up, offering herself to her own touch, creating a friction that fed the fire he was stoking below. She was caught in a loop of pure sensation, her body a live wire, and she knew she wasn't going to last much longer.

He felt the shift in her before he heard it. The way her hips stuttered against his hold, the frantic, shallow gasps that sounded like she was drowning. She was close. She was right there on the precipice, trembling like a struck chord.

Then he looked up, just a fraction, and the sight nearly ended him.

Her hands were clutching her own breasts, fingers digging into the pale flesh, squeezing, desperate. The visual was visceral—artistic and pornographic all at once. Cleo, his quiet, grounded Cleo, completely unraveling in his hands, touching herself because he had driven her out of her mind.

A surge of possessiveness roared through him, darker and heavier than before.

He wanted her to come. God, he wanted to drink it down. But not yet. Not this fast. He had waited years for this; he wasn't going to let it be over in minutes. He wanted to live in this space—this chaotic, messy, high-frequency space where she was completely at his mercy—for as long as possible.
With a sheer force of will, he pulled back.

He felt her buck against him, a silent protest of the loss of friction, but he didn’t stop. He pressed a firm, damp kiss to the very top of her thigh, right near the crease, ignoring the way she tried to chase his mouth.

"Not yet," he murmured against her skin, the vibration of his voice buzzing against her sensitive nerves. "I'm not done with you."

He began a slow, torturous ascent.

He didn’t rush. He treated her body like a landscape he had to memorize in the dark. He pressed open-mouthed, wet kisses to her hip bone, tasting the salt on her skin. He moved inward, burying his face in the soft dip of her stomach, exhaling hot air against her navel, feeling the way her abdominal muscles violently contracted beneath his lips.

Every inch he covered was a claim. Mine. Mine. Mine.

He moved higher, over the ladder of her ribs. He saw the smudge of charcoal on her side—a fingerprint of her work—and he kissed right over it, blending the art with the reality of her skin.

When he reached her chest, her hands were still there, gripping her breasts as if holding herself together.
Ben didn't pull them away forcefully. He was gentler now. He kissed her wrists, first one, then the other, feeling the erratic, hummingbird flutter of her pulse beneath the thin skin. He nudged her hands aside with his nose, the stubble on his chin grazing her knuckles, silently demanding she yield the territory to him.
As her hands fell away, limp and heavy to the floor, he took their place.

He kissed the slope of her breast, laving the skin with slow, broad strokes, cooling the heat he had ignited. He wasn't teasing her toward a peak anymore; he was bringing her down, grounding her back into her body, forcing her to feel the weight of his attention everywhere, not just between her legs.

He rested his chin on her sternum, looking up at her face. She was wrecked—eyes glazed, mouth slack, chest heaving.

He smirked, a dangerous, satisfied thing.

"Breathe, Cleo," he whispered, leaning in to brush his lips softly against the hollow of her throat. "We've got all night."

Her chest rose and fell in jagged, broken rhythms, her body still humming with the ghost of the friction he’d just taken away. It was a torture of the sweetest kind—to be brought to the very edge of the cliff and then held there, suspended in the dizzying height of it.

She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he moved up her body. The dim light caught the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the messy fall of his dark hair, the focused intensity in his gaze.

He was here.

For so long, he had been a memory she couldn’t shake, a face she tried to exorcise by drawing it over and over again until her fingers were stained black and the floor was covered in paper. But paper couldn’t breathe. Paper didn’t have heat. Paper didn't look at her with that devastating mix of hunger and adoration.

Her hands lifted, trembling slightly, and slid back into his hair.

This time, she wasn't gripping for leverage; she was touching him just to prove she could. Her fingers threaded through the thick, dark waves, feeling the warmth of his scalp, the solid reality of him. It was a texture she hadn’t been able to capture with charcoal—the softness, the life.

"Ben," she whispered, the name vibrating in her throat.

When he replaced her hands with his own, brushing his lips against the swell of her breast, a high, helpless whimper escaped her lips. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive, every nerve ending exposed and raw. The sensation of his stubble grazing her tender skin sent a fresh shockwave through her, making her toes curl into the rug.

She looked up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs where his chin rested, and the truth of it spilled out of her, raw and unguarded.

"I never want this to end," she admitted, her voice cracking on the final word. "Please... don't let it end."

Her other hand drifted up, moving with a dreamlike slowness, until her palm found the side of his face.

Her fingers curled under the sharp ridge of his cheekbone—that precise angle she’d spent hours trying to get right with charcoal, shading the hollows to capture exactly how the shadows hit him. She had memorized the geometry of his face in his absence, obsessing over the lines, but the paper had always been cold. Flat.

This was warm.

His skin burned against her palm, solid and undeniable. She traced the line of the bone with her thumb, feeling the slight resistance of his stubble, the way a muscle in his jaw ticked under her touch as he watched her. It was a tactile map she was finally allowed to explore, no longer limited to memory or imagination.

She let her hand cup his jaw, holding him there, anchoring his gaze to hers. She needed to feel the weight of his head in her hand to believe he wasn't going to vanish like smoke the moment she blinked.

"You're real," she breathed, the words barely audible, more for herself than for him. Her thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth, catching the edge of that smirk. "You're actually here."

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a brief second as her palm cupped his jaw.

He could smell the faint, metallic scent of graphite on her skin, mixed with the vanilla she always wore. It was the scent of her world, and having it pressed against his face felt like an induction. Like he was finally being allowed inside the studio of her mind.

He turned his head, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of her palm, tasting the salt and the charcoal, worshiping the hand that had spent years drawing him from memory.

"I’m here," he rasped against her skin. "And I’m not going anywhere. I’m not a sketch, Cleo. You can’t erase me."

He opened his eyes, the dark irises blown wide with intent.

He didn't just want her to see him. He needed her to feel him. Everywhere.

He took her hand—the one that had been tracing his cheekbone—and slowly, deliberately, dragged it down. He pulled her hand over the corded muscle of his neck, down the hard plane of his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, until he reached the waistband of nothing.

He wrapped her fingers around him.

A guttural groan tore out of his chest, vibrating through his entire frame as her cool fingers closed over his hardness. She felt velvety and small in his grip, and the contrast of her delicate artist’s hand against his rigid desire nearly ended him right there.

"Feel that?" he gritted out, his hips bucking involuntarily into her hold. "That’s real. That’s for you. Only you."
He let go of her hand, surrendering control, letting her take the weight of him.

She squeezed, tentatively at first, testing the drag of her skin against his. But then she pulled back, her hand lifting away from him for a split second.

He watched, his breath caught in his throat, as she brought her hand to her mouth.

She didn't break eye contact. Her gaze was dark, heavy with intent, as she opened her mouth and licked into the cup of her palm—a long, wet stroke of her tongue, gathering moisture. It was a raw, instinctive move, messy and practical and completely devastating.

She reached back down, and when she wrapped her fingers around him this time, the sensation nearly buckled his knees.

The cool slickness of her saliva mixed with the heat of her palm created a glide that was almost too good. She stroked him, learning the texture of him just like she’d learned the lines of his face, sliding from the base to the tip in a slow, wet rhythm.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word punching out of him.

He watched her hand moving on him, the charcoal smudges on her knuckles stark against his skin, the faint glistening of her spit catching the dim light. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. She wasn’t just touching him; she was memorizing him.

She tightened her grip, finding a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of his heart, her thumb dragging over the sensitive head of his cock, slick and relentless.

His hips snapped forward, chasing her hand, unable to help himself. The pleasure was sharp, blinding, and immediate. He was starved for her, and having her hand on him, owning him like this, was pushing him dangerously close to the edge.

He endured it for as long as he could, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs, sweat beading on his forehead. Every wet stroke chipped away at his restraint until the need to be inside her, to be surrounded by her completely, eclipsed everything else.

"Cleo, stop," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "Stop, or I’m going to finish right now."

He reached down, his hand trembling as he covered hers, halting her movement. He held her there for a second, just pulsating in her grip, letting the sensation burn into his brain, before he gently pulled her hand away and pinned it to the floor beside her head.

He moved, shifting his weight until he was settled between her spread thighs again. The friction of his skin against hers was electric—heat on heat.

​He braced one hand on the floor next to her head, the other reaching down to guide himself. He paused at her entrance, the tip of him brushing against her slick, swollen heat, teasing the opening that was already damp and ready for him.

​She let out a shaky breath, her hips lifting instinctively, trying to bridge the gap, but he held back.

​The impulse to just shove forward, to bury himself in the familiar heat he’d been craving for weeks, was a roar in his ears. But he stopped. He forced his eyes to focus on hers, his chest heaving as he hovered there, agonizingly close.

​"Wait," he breathed, the word barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. He swallowed hard, needing to know, needing to be sure. "Do you want me to grab a condom?"

She had been lost in the texture of him. The reality of having him in her hand had been overwhelming—he was heavier, harder, and hotter than any memory she had tried to preserve. She had been fascinated by the visual of it, too; the dark smudges of charcoal on her fingers stark against his skin, the glisten of her own saliva making her movements slick and fluid. She had wanted to map the vein that ran the length of him, to feel the exact pressure required to make his hips snap forward, revelling in the power of wrecking him just as he had wrecked her.

When he stopped her, gripping her hand to halt the motion, she felt the tremor vibrating through his fingers. It was a testament to how close he was, and the knowledge sent a fresh spike of heat through her belly.

As he pinned her hand to the floor and shifted his weight, she didn't lay still. Her body was magnetic to his; she couldn't help but follow his movements.

As he settled between her spread thighs, hovering just at the entrance, her free hand—the one not pinned above her head—reached out instinctively. She couldn't touch him there anymore, so she needed to touch him everywhere else.

Her fingers curled around his bicep, nails digging into the flexed muscle as he held his weight up. She traced the tension there, feeling the rock-hard solidity of his arm, the way it trembled with the sheer effort of holding back. She dragged her fingertips down to his forearm, tracing the roadmap of veins that stood out against his skin, feeling the dampness of his sweat. She wanted to pull him down. She wanted to wrap her legs around him and force the issue, to eliminate the agonizing inch of space between them.

The tip of him brushed against her wetness, a tease that made her entire body arch off the floor, a broken sound tearing from her throat. She was ready. She was aching for it.

Then he spoke.

The question cut through the haze of lust like a sharp intake of breath.

Condom.

For a split second, her brain refused to process it. The biological drive to just feel him, to have him fill the empty ache inside her, was so loud it drowned out everything else. She stared up at him, her eyes wide and dazed, her chest heaving against his. The responsible part of her brain kicked in a second later, warring with the desperate, reckless need.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against her collarbone.

She gave a jerky, breathless nod, her head rubbing against the texture of the rug.

"Yeah," she whispered, the word trembling as it left her lips. She tightened her grip on his forearm, terrified that if he moved away, the spell would break. "Yeah. Do you... do you have one?"

The air felt suddenly cold where his body left hers, a sharp, physical loss that made her breath hitch. She watched him shift, his weight lifting off the floor as he twisted toward the chaotic pile of laundry they’d created—her shorts, his shirt, the mess of papers.

His hand dove into the back pocket of his discarded jeans, the denim crumpled on top of a charcoal sketch of his profile. The mundane sound of him wrestling the wallet out of the tight pocket seemed deafening in the quiet room.

She lay there, her chest rising and falling rapidly, feeling exposed and achingly empty, her eyes tracing the line of his spine, the tension in his shoulders. There was a frantic quality to his movements now—he wasn't being smooth; he was hurrying. He flipped the worn leather open, his fingers digging into a hidden slot, and for a terrifying second, she thought maybe he was empty, maybe they’d have to stop.

But then she saw the glint of silver foil.

Relief crashed through her, hot and dizzying. He had one.

He tossed the wallet aside—it landed with a soft thud on the rug—and turned back to her. He didn’t waste time with his hands; he brought the packet to his mouth, tearing the foil open with his teeth. The sound was sharp, feral, and incredibly loud.

It did something to her, seeing him like that—shoving the wrapper aside, rolling the protection on with quick, trembling hands. It was the final barrier coming down. The confirmation that this was happening, right now, on her floor.

She reached for him before he was even fully settled, her hands grabbing at his forearms, desperate to pull his weight back down onto her.

"Hurry," she whispered, the word barely more than a gasp. “Benjamin, please."

When his weight settled back over her, it felt like the roof of the world coming down—heavy, grounding, and absolutely necessary. The air rushed out of her lungs in a relieved whoosh as his heat engulfed her again, chasing away the brief, biting cold of the room.

Her hands didn't wait. They flew to his shoulders, her palms slapping against the damp skin, her fingers digging in to pull him down, down, down. She needed to close the distance until there wasn't a single molecule of air left between them.

He nudged her knees wider, his hips settling into the cradle of hers, and the sensation of his tip pressing against her opening again made her entire body string tight.

Then, he pushed.

It wasn’t a gentle slide. It was a reclaiming.

Her head fell back against the rug, a jagged, broken sound tearing from her throat as he filled her. It was a stark, invading pressure—thick and stretching and overwhelming—and it felt like coming home. Every inch he took was a memory slotting back into place. The emptiness that had been gnawing at her for months, the hollow space she’d tried to fill with work and noise and sketching, vanished in a single, devastating stroke.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer, crushing relief of it. He was deep. He was here. He was buried inside her, anchored to her, a solid, heavy knot in the center of her universe.

She locked her ankles around the small of his back instantly, trapping him there, terrified he might pull away even an inch. She looked up at him, her vision swimming, seeing the strain in his neck, the blown-out darkness of his eyes.

The rhythm he set wasn’t gentle. It was a collision.

He pulled back almost completely, leaving her aching and empty for a split second, before slamming back into her with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. The impact of his hips against hers was a dull, heavy thud that reverberated through her entire skeleton, a shockwave traveling straight up her spine.

She felt completely boneless, rag-dolled by the sheer power of him. With every hard, driving thrust, her body was jarred upward, and she felt the heavy sway of her breasts moving in time with his violence. They trembled with the force of it, shaking and quivering against the cool air, a stark visual of just how hard he was taking her.

It felt primitive and exposing. She could feel the weight of them shifting, the soft flesh moving uncontrollably as he wrecked her from the inside out. There was no hiding this, no way to be poised or pretty. She was just raw reaction, her body echoing the brutal, desperate cadence he was pounding into her.

"Baby," she gasped, the word punched out of her as he bottomed out again, the force making her chest heave.

She looked down at herself—at the pale curve of her breasts swaying with the rhythm, the flush spreading across her chest—and then up at him. He was watching it too. His eyes were dark, tracking the movement of her body, the way she shook with every stroke, and seeing the hunger in his gaze made her core clench tight around him, milking him, begging for it to be even harder.

The sound she made when he bottomed out—that broken, breathless gasp—was the best sound he had heard in years. Better than a crowd screaming, better than a perfect chord progression. It was the sound of Cleo coming undone, and he was the one unspooling her.

He felt her ankles lock behind his back, her heels digging into his kidneys, trapping him inside. Good. He didn't want to leave.

The friction was different with the latex, slicker and less raw, but the pressure? The pressure was insane. Every time he slammed into her, he felt her tight, wet heat clamping around him, milking him through the barrier, dragging a groan out of his own throat that sounded dangerously close to a roar.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw working as he tried to keep his pace steady, but the sight of her was destroying his control.

He looked down, sweat stinging his eyes.

She was right. There was no hiding this.

With every heavy, punishing thrust he drove into her, her body jolted upward. He watched, mesmerizing, as her breasts swayed with the violence of his rhythm—soft, pale flesh trembling, moving in a chaotic, beautiful counterpoint to the rigid line of his hips. The flush spreading across her chest was like watercolor bleeding onto canvas, deepening with every second.

It was hypnotic. It was raw. It was the most honest thing he’d ever seen.
He couldn't just watch. He needed to own the movement.

"Fuck, look at you," he growled, the words vibrating against her ear as he leaned down.

He released his hold on the floor and grabbed her. His large hands engulfed her breasts, his fingers digging into the soft yielding flesh, holding the weight of her. He squeezed hard, matching the brutality of his hips, kneading her as he fucked her.

He loved the way she filled his hands. He loved the way her nipples hardened against his palms, sensitive and peaked.

"You’re so responsive," he murmured, biting at the sensitive cord of her neck. "You feel everything I do to you, don’t you?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled back slightly, just enough to get leverage, and then snapped his hips forward again, harder this time.

He saw her eyes roll back, saw her mouth fall open in a silent scream, and it fueled him.
He felt the papers shifting beneath them—the sketches of his face, the memories she’d tried to capture—tearing under the friction of her back sliding against the rug. He didn't care. Let them tear. Let the past get ruined.

He was rewriting it right now.

He moved his hands from her breasts to her waist, gripping her hips to anchor her, to keep her from sliding away from the force of him. He drove into her with a rhythmic, pounding cadence—thud, thud, thud—a bass line that vibrated through the floorboards.

"I’m not a drawing, Cleo," he panted, the words harsh and low. He wanted to drive the point home. He wanted to be the only thing in her head. "I’m right here. Feel me? I’m right fucking here."

He adjusted his angle, grinding down as he thrust, hitting that deep, sweet spot inside her that he knew by heart. He felt her inner muscles spasm around him, felt the way her breath hitched into a high, keening whine.

She was close again. He could feel the tension ratcheting up in her body, the way she was straining against him, seeking the release.

And this time, he wasn't going to stop her.

"Come on," he demanded, his voice dropping to a dark, guttural command. He sped up, his hips a blur of motion, sweating and desperate and completely focused on her. "Fall apart for me, baby. Do it."

The roughness was exactly what she needed. She didn't want gentle; gentle was for memories, for the careful shading of a pencil. She wanted this—the bruising grip of his hands on her hips, anchoring her to the floor, the relentless, punishing rhythm that was jarring her teeth and stealing her breath.

She was crying out, a continuous, broken litany of his name mixed with shapeless, high-pitched whimpers. Her head thrashed against the rug, her hair fanning out over the torn sketches, the sound of the paper ripping beneath her lost under the wet, heavy slap of his skin against hers.

"I feel you," she sobbed, her hands scrambling over his sweat-slicked shoulders. Her nails dug in, dragging down the muscles of his back, needing to mark him, needing to make sure he felt this as intensely as she did. She clawed at him, desperate and feral. "Ben—Ben—"

He was hitting that spot deep inside her, over and over, winding the tension in her belly so tight it felt like a physical pain. She was right on the edge, teetering, her whole body trembling like a fever.

Then he said it.

Baby.

That single word, rasped in that dark, possessive growl, shattered the last of her defenses. It was a claim she hadn't heard in so long, a word that belonged to a past she thought she’d lost. Hearing it now, while he was buried to the hilt inside her, broke her.

"Oh my God!"

The scream tore from her throat as she let go completely.

Her hips arched violently upward, seeking him, grinding hard against his pelvis as the orgasm crashed through her. It was blinding, a white-hot explosion that started in her core and radiated out to her fingertips.

Her hands flew blindly from his shoulders to his head, fingers tangling deep into his hair, gripping the dark strands like a lifeline. She pulled him down to her, holding on for dear life as the waves of pleasure convulsed through her, milking him, her inner muscles clamping down on him in wildly fluttering spasms. She was sobbing through it, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the feeling, her body bowing off the floor as she unraveled beneath him.

The aftershocks were still rolling through her, little tremors that made her thighs quake against his hips. She felt boneless, utterly drained in the best possible way, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs that she was sure he could feel.

She didn't let go of his hair. She couldn't. It was the only thing keeping her tethered to the floor as the room slowly stopped spinning.

She felt him pause for a second, riding out her climax with her, and the sensation of him staying deep inside her while she pulsed around him was almost too intimate to bear. But then he moved again—a short, sharp thrust that reminded her he wasn't done.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and wet. She pulled his head down, seeking his mouth blindly.

"Ben," she whispered, her voice wrecked, a jagged exhale against his lips. She kissed him—messy, grateful, tasting her own salt on his skin. She shifted her hips, tilting up to take him deeper, wanting to give back everything he’d just given her. "You... please... don't stop. I want you with me."

She dragged her nails down the back of his neck, her legs squeezing tight around his waist, locking him against her. She ground her pelvis upward, using the lingering sensitivity to push him over the edge.

"Finish," she breathed into his mouth, desperate to feel him break the way she just had.

Her release was the trigger, but her voice was the bullet.

Finish.

The word, breathless and wrecked against his mouth, snapped the final thread of his control.

He had been holding on by sheer will, gritting his teeth through the pleasure of feeling her clamp down on him, waiting until he was sure she had taken everything she needed. But now, feeling her nails dragging down his neck, feeling her hips snapping up to meet him with that frantic, greedy rhythm, he was done.
"I’m with you," he groaned, the sound tearing out of his chest like a growl. "I’m right there, Cleo."
He abandoned all finesse. He stopped trying to pace himself.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and the salt on her skin, and he drove into her. Hard. Fast. Desperate.

He wasn't fucking her anymore; he was pouring himself into her.

His hands gripped her waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises, holding her in place as he hammered into her, chasing the friction. Every thrust was a plea, a promise, a way to silence the noise in his head that had been deafening him for months. Here, inside her, there was no noise. There was only this—the wet slide of latex, the heat of her body, the sound of her breath hitching with every impact.

He felt the pressure building at the base of his spine, a tight, coiling heat that demanded release.
"Cleo," he choked out, his hips blurring with speed.

She squeezed him again—one last, involuntary spasm of her aftershocks—and his vision white-out.
He stiffened, his head flinging back, the cords of his neck straining as he bottomed out one final time and held it there.

A ragged shout left his throat, muffled against the damp hair at her temple. He emptied himself, shuddering violently, every muscle in his body seizing as the orgasm ripped through him. It went on and on, a complete and total evacuation of stress and longing and fear, leaving him light-headed and trembling.

He stayed there for a long moment, pinned deep inside her, his chest heaving against hers, trying to remember how to breathe.

Slowly, gravity took over.

His arms gave out. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows at the last second to keep from crushing her, but laying his heavy frame over hers like a blanket. His forehead dropped to the rug next to her ear, the rough weave scratching his skin.

The room was silent, save for the harsh, synchronized sound of their breathing.

He cracked one eye open. Beneath his hand, crushed against the floor, was a charcoal sketch of his own hand holding a microphone. It was smeared now, ruined by the sweat on his palm and the violence of their movement.

He didn't care.

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the damp hair sticking to Cleo’s cheek.

"Real," he whispered, the word exhausted and slurred, echoing what she’d said earlier.

He closed his eyes, his heart rate finally slowing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest beneath his. For the first time in years, the world stopped spinning. He was just Ben. And he was home.

She lay there for a long minute, just feeling the rise and fall of his breathing against her own, absorbing the heavy, wonderful weight of him. Her hands drifted over his back, tracing the damp dip of his spine, the hard muscles of his shoulders that were finally, finally relaxing.

She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his temple, tasting the salt of his sweat. With a gentle hand, she brushed the dark, matted hair off his forehead, just needing to see his face—unobscured, peaceful, and hers.

"I’ve got you," she whispered into the quiet room. "I’ve got you."

Reluctantly, she nudged his shoulder, signaling she needed to move. He groaned a low, protesting sound but shifted just enough to let her slide out from under him. The air felt cool against her skin instantly, and she reached for the nearest source of warmth.
His shirt.

She grabbed the fabric from the floor, shaking off a few flecks of eraser shavings, and slipped it on. It swallowed her whole, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her hands. It smelled like him—cedar, sweat, and the faint, stale scent of tour bus air conditioning. It was perfect.

She crawled across the rug to the side of her bed, reaching underneath the frame. Her fingers brushed against canvas stretchers and old sketchbooks before finding the smooth surface of the small wooden box. She slid it out, popping the latch.

Inside was her sanctuary kit: a baggie of pre-ground herb that smelled like lemon and pine, a fresh package of blunt wraps, and her lighter.

She moved back to him. Ben hadn’t moved an inch. He was still lying on his stomach, face turned toward her, resting on his crossed arms like a pillow. His eyes were heavy, half-lidded, watching her with a lazy, satisfied affection that made her chest ache.

She sat cross-legged near his head, the box in her lap. She cracked the blunt wrap open with practiced thumbnails, splitting the leaf down the middle. She went to dump the tobacco guts, but realized the rug was already a disaster zone.

She reached out and grabbed the nearest piece of paper from the floor.

It was a sketch of his eyes—brooding, shadowed, intense. She didn't hesitate. She set the paper on her knee and dumped the cheap tobacco right onto the charcoal drawing of his face. It felt poetic, somehow. The idol was gone; the man was here. She didn't need the drawing anymore.

Working quickly, she sprinkled the green into the leaf, her fingers nimble and sure. She rolled it, tucked it, and ran her tongue along the edge to seal it, all while feeling the weight of his gaze on her.

She flicked the lighter. The flame flared, illuminating the dark space between them. She brought the blunt to her lips, inhaling deeply, getting it cherry-red. The thick, sweet smoke filled her lungs, instantly softening the edges of the adrenaline that was still humming in her blood. She exhaled a long, thin stream toward the ceiling.

Then, she leaned down. "Open," she murmured softy.

She held the blunt to his lips so he didn't even have to lift his head. He parted his lips, and she steadied it for him, letting him take a long, slow drag.

As he inhaled, she brought her other hand to his head. She scratched her nails gently against his scalp, massaging the tension there, then trailed her hand down to the nape of his neck, rubbing the spot where his hair met his skin.

"Good?" she asked softly, watching the smoke drift from his lips, her hand moving to stroke down his back in long, soothing sweeps. This was it. The quiet after the storm. The best part.

He felt like he’d been dismantled. Taken apart, piece by piece, and put back together in an arrangement that finally made sense.

He lay heavy on the rug, his limbs feeling like they were filled with lead, but his mind was floaty. Light. For the first time in months, the static in his head—that constant, low-level buzz of tour dates, interviews, and the crushing expectation of strangers—was gone. Silence. Finally.

He watched her through half-lidded eyes as she pulled his shirt on. It swamped her, the hem hitting her thighs, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. Seeing her in his clothes did something to his chest that the sex hadn't even touched. It was a claim. A flag planted. It said she belonged to him just as much as he belonged to her.

He watched her deft fingers working over the wooden box, splitting the leaf.

He’d been celibate for months, and not for lack of options. God, the options were there. Girls backstage with laminate passes and wide, hungry eyes; women at after-parties who looked at him like he was a meal ticket or a trophy. He’d been tempted, sure—he was a guy, and the loneliness on the road was a physical weight—but every time he got close, the nausea would hit.

It was the realization that he could fuck them, but they wouldn't see him. They wanted the poster. They wanted the guy on the album cover.

Cleo just dumped gut tobacco onto a sketch of his face without blinking.

A lazy, tired smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched her. She didn't give a damn about the icon. She just wanted the man on her floor. That was the difference. That was why no one else had stood a chance.

He smelled the strike of the lighter, the sharp tang of sulfur followed immediately by the sweet, piney scent of the weed.

When she leaned down, murmuring for him to open, he felt a rush of affection so strong it almost hurt. This. This was what he’d been starving for. Not just the friction of sex, but the care. The way she anticipated his need to just... not be in charge for five minutes.

He parted his lips, letting her bring the blunt to him. He took a drag, his eyes fluttering shut as the smoke filled his lungs, coating his throat. He held it, letting the THC soak into his bloodstream, softening the last of his edges.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift up to mingle with her hair.

Then he felt her nails on his scalp.

A low, vibrating groan rumbled in his chest. He leaned into her hand instinctively, like a cat, the sensation of her scratching gently at the roots of his hair sending shivers down his spine that rivaled the orgasm he’d just had.

"Good?" she asked.

"Better than good," he rasped, his voice fried. "You’re ruining me, Cleo. I’m never gonna be able to leave this room."

He reached out, his hand heavy and slow, and wrapped his fingers around her ankle where she sat crossed-legged next to his head. He squeezed gently, grounding himself.

"Pass it here again," he murmured, his eyes tracking the cherry of the blunt. "Get me right."

He took another hit from her hand, his gaze locking onto hers, dark and promising. The exhaustion was there, heavy and sweet, but beneath it, the battery was recharging.

"Give me twenty minutes," he whispered, smoke curling from his lips as he smirked at her. "Maybe thirty. Just let me catch my breath."

He brushed his thumb over the bone of her ankle, his grin widening, boyish and wicked.

"Then I’m coming for you again. And I promise... next time, I’m gonna last a hell of a lot longer."

Cleo huffed out a soft laugh, the sound warm and unguarded, and shifted a little closer to him. She kept one hand in his hair, slow and deliberate, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp the way she knew grounded him. The other hand stayed easy on his ankle, thumb tracing absent-minded circles like she had nowhere else to be.

She looked down at him when he said twenty minutes, one brow lifting immediately—pure instinct, pure her.

“Twenty minutes?” she echoed, teasing, disbelief threaded through the smile tugging at her mouth. “Twice in one night?”

She tilted her head, studying him with mock seriousness, eyes bright despite the softness settling over her.

“Wow,” she added, dragging the word out just a little. “I must be super special, huh?”

The grin that followed was gentle, not challenging. Fond. Like she was amused but also… touched. Like the joke carried something quieter underneath it.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his hairline, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, breathing him in.

“Take your time,” she murmured again, softer now. “I like you like this. All slowed down. No armor.”

Her thumb brushed once over his ankle in reassurance, then she shifted so she could sit more comfortably beside him, still close, still clearly not going anywhere.

“I’ll keep you right,” she added lightly, the humor back in her voice. “You just… stay put and let me.”

And with that, she settled in—content to take care of him, to let the moment stretch instead of rushing it, smiling to herself like this was exactly where she wanted to be.

Cleo let the moment stretch first.

She stroked his hair a few more times—slow, unhurried passes, fingertips gliding from his crown to the nape of his neck until his breathing evened out again. She liked the weight of him like this. Grounded. Quiet. Still enough that she could feel every small shift of his body under her hand.

Only when she felt him fully settle did she start to move.

Carefully, she slipped her hand free and leaned forward, gathering the papers scattered across the floor. She didn’t rush. Each page felt like something fragile, something earned. Charcoal smudges marked the edges, fingerprints darkened where she’d held them too tightly, and more than a few were wrinkled or creased from being dropped in a hurry.

She stacked them slowly, pausing every so often when a drawing caught her breath.

His profile, half-finished but unmistakable.
His hands—always his hands—sketched over and over, from different angles, veins and knuckles memorized.
A quick study of his shoulders from behind.
Another of his face, softer this time, eyes tired but gentle.

She swallowed and kept going.

Every version of him she’d ever carried showed up somewhere in those pages. Some careful. Some rushed. Some barely more than lines chasing a feeling before it disappeared. She didn’t judge any of them. She never did. Drawing him had never been about perfection—it was about getting the ache out of her chest when it threatened to crowd everything else.

She slid the papers into a neater pile beside the bed, smoothing the top page with her palm like she was tucking something in.

Then she gathered the rest—random sketches, smudged studies, loose sheets she’d used when the memories came on too fast. Arms. Jawlines. The curve of a neck she knew by heart. If there was space on a page, she’d filled it. If there wasn’t, she’d found another.

When she was done, she sat back beside him again, folding one leg under herself, careful not to disturb him. Her hand found his hair once more, gentler now, thumb brushing just above his temple.

“You’re everywhere,” she murmured quietly—not to accuse, not to explain. Just stating a fact she’d long since made peace with.

She leaned down and kissed his temple, then rested her cheek lightly against his head, eyes drifting closed for a second.

Ben didn’t move at first.

Didn’t open his eyes, didn’t shift his weight, didn’t try to fill the silence.

He just breathed.

Slow and steady, cheek pressed to the floor, the scent of paper and charcoal and her skin wrapping around him like gravity. Her words—you’re everywhere—settled in his chest like the last note of a song he hadn’t realized he was still holding. Something in him unknotted.

A slow, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, visible only in profile.

Then, without lifting his head, voice low and hoarse from the night they'd just had:

“Should I be insulted,” he murmured, “or flattered that I’m not naked in a single one?”

His hand shifted from her ankle to the floor, fingers splaying out like he was grounding himself against the moment—or maybe just trying to keep from rolling over and pulling her on top of him again.

“You know,” he went on, a little raspier now, a little more mischievous, “if you need a model for future reference…”

He finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye—her, cross-legged in his shirt, swimming in it, sleeves too long, collar loose enough to slip off one shoulder. She looked unfairly soft for someone who’d just wrecked him.

“…I am already lying here like one of your French girls.”

He lifted an eyebrow with a crooked sort of boyish charm that had absolutely no right to be as effective as it was. But there was something else in it too. Beneath the teasing. Beneath the heat still lingering in the space between them.

Something reverent.

Like she’d undone him, and he was grateful.

Not just for the sex—though damn—but for the way she saw him.

Still.

Even now.

Maybe especially now.

He shifted, rolling onto his side finally, propping himself up on one elbow with the lazy sprawl of a man who had no shame left to give and no intention of hiding from her. His free hand reached for the edge of her shirt—his shirt—tugging lightly at the hem like he couldn’t help himself.

“Not gonna lie,” he said, eyes skimming her legs, then flicking back up to her face, slower this time. “I’ve fantasized about you in this shirt for… too long to admit out loud.”

He paused, his thumb brushing against the inside of her knee before settling on her thigh.

“But I never imagined this part.”

He gestured vaguely toward the scattered drawings, now stacked neatly, the echo of her touch still clinging to the pages. His gaze lingered there for a second, something quieter overtaking his expression.

Then he looked back at her.

Softer now.

“Didn’t know you were carrying all that,” he said, voice dipping into something rougher. “All those versions of me.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together without asking. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was grateful. Anchoring. Like she’d given him back pieces of himself he hadn’t realized had gone missing.

“You ever wanna disappear again,” he said, brushing the back of her hand with his thumb, “you don’t have to go far.”

His smile softened at the edges.

“You can do it right here. I’ll keep the noise out.”

A beat.

Then—

“You might have to draw me more, though,” he added, grinning again. “For science. For balance. Definitely for posterity.”

He leaned forward then, slow and unhurried, pressing a kiss to her shoulder where the collar had slipped down. Not rushed. Not trying to start anything.

Just because he could.

Just because he meant it.

Then, still close, voice half against her skin—

“You’re everywhere in me too, Cleo.”

And somehow, it didn’t sound like a burden.

It sounded like home.

Cleo let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-shudder as his lips moved against her skin. It was unfair, really, how easily he could toggle between making her laugh and making her melt.

She reached out, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, scratching lightly.

“You have a very high opinion of your aesthetic appeal, don’t you?” she teased, though the softness in her eyes betrayed her. She glanced down at the papers scattered around them—some crinkled, some pushed haphazardly aside in their earlier urgency.

“For the record,” she said, her voice dry but fond, “you were never supposed to find those. Not a single one. And we sure as hell were never supposed to…” She waved a hand vaguely at the floor, then at their entangled limbs. “…make love on top of them. I’m pretty sure that counts as defacing fine art, Benjamin.”

She poked him in the ribs, just hard enough to make him twitch, before her expression turned a little more contemplative. She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb.

“And if you really want… I suppose I could draw you like one of my French girls. Though I suspect you’d wiggle too much.” She offered him a small, crooked smile, but then she shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But these… they weren't sexual. Not really. They weren’t fantasies.”

She looked past him for a second, at a charcoal sketch of his hands holding a microphone.

“They were just… triage,” she admitted honestly. “It was just my brain trying to process the ache. Trying to get the ghost of you onto paper so I didn't have to carry the weight of missing you in my chest every single second. It wasn't about wanting you here—well, it was—but mostly, it was just trying to survive the silence.”

The mention of the silence made her smile falter. His promise—I’ll keep the noise out—hung in the air, sweet and heavy.

She shifted, pulling his shirt tighter around her frame, suddenly feeling the need for the extra layer.

“That’s the part that scares me, though,” she confessed, her eyes finding his again, wide and open. “Not this. Not us. But… when the bubble pops. When the bus engine starts up and you have to go back on the road.”

She hurried to clarify, seeing the look on his face. “And no, don’t give me that look. I trust you. I trust us. It’s not about wondering where you are or who you’re talking to. I know you.” She pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. “It’s just… the physical act of being apart. The drop. Going from having you everywhere, to having you nowhere but on a screen.”

She bit her lip, hesitating, then pushed the thought forward before she could lose her nerve.

“The cabin,” she said suddenly. “You said you had days off coming up. A gap in the schedule.”

She looked at him, a hopeful, slightly shy question in her gaze.

“Take me with you? We go up there. We turn off the phones.” She traced the line of his collarbone. “You can bring your guitar, lock yourself in a room, and wrestle with melodies until your fingers bleed if you have to. And I…” She smiled, a genuine, warm thing. “I’ll just be outside. On the porch. Painting the trees instead of you for once. Just… existing in the same space. What do you think?”

"I know, I know," she murmured quickly, catching herself before he could even answer. She dropped her gaze to their joined hands, her thumb tracing the knuckles she’d memorized a thousand times over. "I shouldn't get my hopes up. I shouldn't be mentally packing a bag and planning road trip playlists five minutes after..."

She gestured helplessly to the messy floor, a faint, self-deprecating flush rising on her cheeks.

"...after that."

She took a breath, the humor fading into something more fragile. She looked up at him, her expression open, stripped of the defenses she’d spent so long building up.

"But... what if?" she asked, her voice quiet. "What if we were to try again? Properly? Only this time..."

She paused, chewing on her lip, searching for the way to articulate the compromise she’d been terrified to voice before.

"This time, I just don’t come around the scary parts."

She squeezed his hand, an earnest, almost desperate emphasis.

"The machine. The noise. The parts that chewed me up last time." She offered a small, tentative shrug. "You go be the rockstar. You do the interviews and the red carpets and the arenas where the bass shakes your teeth. I won't ask you to shrink that for me. But I won't try to stand in the middle of the fire with you, either."

She moved her hand up to cup his cheek, her touch feather-light.

"I’ll just be the quiet. I’ll be the place where the noise stops. I'll stay on the porch painting the trees while you work. I'll be the exhale." Her eyes searched his, terrified and hopeful all at once. "Is that... would that be enough?"

Ben didn’t answer right away.

He couldn’t.

There was something about the way she said it—the exhale—that landed in his chest like a chord so perfect it hurt. It didn’t just echo, it resonated. Like her voice had threaded itself through his ribcage and was holding him together from the inside out.

His fingers curled reflexively around hers, grounding himself in the contact as his breath caught. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because he felt too much of it all at once.

And hell, wasn’t that always the problem with her? With them?

Every version of her knocked him sideways in a different way. The fierce one. The funny one. The girl in the oversized t-shirt sitting cross-legged on the floor like a living ache. The one who used to haunt his dreams and now haunted his artwork. The one who could hand him silence and make it feel like a gift.

He turned into her touch, eyes closed for half a second, like her palm could anchor the mess inside his head.

Then he opened them again. And smiled.

“Babe,” he said, voice low and warm, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, “I would follow you to a cabin in the woods right now if you said the word. Pants optional. Guitar definitely included.”

He saw her trying not to smile at that—caught the way her lips twitched—and leaned in to nuzzle lightly at her jaw, letting the scrape of his stubble prove he was still here. Still real. Still hers.

“I like the idea of you painting trees,” he murmured, softer now. “But I’m warning you—if you wear this shirt on the porch, I’m gonna get zero songwriting done. I’ll be out there every ten minutes pretending I need ‘creative inspiration’ just to stare at you.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking up toward hers with boyish mischief.

“And if I do end up posing nude on a bearskin rug by the fireplace… just know that’s on you.”

But the teasing melted just as fast as it came.

Because then he really looked at her again.

At the fear she hadn’t masked, at the hope she was holding out like a lit match in the wind.

And damn, if he didn’t feel it too.

The drop.

The ache.

The weight of trying to make something sacred stay solid when the world around them was made of spotlights and static.

He reached up, catching her hand where it rested on his cheek, and pressed a kiss into her palm—slow and deliberate.

“You know something?” he said, voice quieter now. “I never wanted you in the fire. I just didn’t know how to keep you out of it back then. I didn’t know how to split myself in two.”

He traced her fingers with his lips, one by one.

“But this?” he nodded toward the mess of drawings and limbs and truths spilled between them. “This is you being the exhale. This is you letting me come home.”

A breath.

“I want the cabin,” he said. “I want the porch. I want you painting something that isn’t my stupid jawline for once.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, affectionate and reverent.

“I want a life where I get to be loud out there and quiet in here,” he added, tapping gently at the space between them. “With you. Always with you.”

He leaned in and kissed her—not urgent, not possessive. Just tender and full of knowing. A thank-you. A promise. A yes.

Then he pulled back slightly, eyes still on hers, mischief curling at the corners of his mouth again.

“Also, for the record,” he added, voice dropping to a whisper, “if defacing fine art feels like that… I’m gonna need to do it more often.”

He grinned, kissed her again, and let the floor hold them.

Not just for now.

But maybe for what if.

Maybe for always.

Cleo stayed close, forehead still brushing his, letting the quiet stretch. His words sank in slowly, not like a rush, but like something warm settling under her ribs. Cabin. Porch. Guitar. Quiet. It all sounded impossibly simple in a way that almost hurt.

She smiled, small and soft, when he teased about following her anywhere. Not because it was funny—though it was—but because she believed him. He’d always been like that with her. All-in. Big feelings. Big promises. Even when the world around him got loud and glittering and crowded with strangers who thought they knew him.

She remembered the first time she’d watched him on stage after they were together. The way the lights swallowed him, the way thousands of people screamed his name like it belonged to them. She’d stood in the back, half-proud, half-terrified. Because she loved that version of him—the one who came alive with a guitar in his hands—but she also knew how easily the world tried to claim him. How fans blurred lines. How people felt entitled to him. And somehow… to her, too.

Being with a rockstar hadn’t been glamorous. It was long nights alone. It was scrolling past photos of him on stage while she sat in sweatpants with paint under her nails. It was loving someone who belonged to everyone and trying not to disappear inside that.

So when he talked about keeping her out of the fire, she understood. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He just hadn’t known how to protect her from a world that didn’t respect soft things.

Cleo shifted, brushing her thumb across his jaw, grounding herself in the very real man in front of her—not the poster, not the stage version. Just Ben. Warm. Breathing. Human.

She thought about that year they’d spent together. How it hadn’t been perfect. How it had been messy and beautiful and full of moments that still lived inside her bones. Late-night drives. Takeout on the floor. Him writing lyrics while she sketched his hands. Loving him hadn’t been quiet. But it had been real.

And now… this felt like a compromise between their worlds.

She didn’t need to be on his arm at every event. Didn’t need to stand in the wings while fans screamed. She didn’t want to fight the noise anymore.

What she wanted was this.

A place where he could be loud out there—chasing the thing that made his soul burn bright—and quiet in here, where he didn’t have to perform. Where she didn’t have to be brave. Where they could exist without explanation.

Cleo swallowed, emotion pressing up into her throat.

She rested her forehead against his again, eyes closed, breathing him in.

“I don’t need the spotlight,” she murmured. “I just need you like this.”

Her smile turned wistful.

“You go be everything out there,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here. Painting. Waiting. Loving you from a distance that doesn’t hurt.”

It wasn’t resignation. It was choice.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, then his temple—slow, deliberate. Not urgent. Just affection.

Because this was the deal they were making without saying it out loud:

They could love each other
without losing themselves.
They could meet in the quiet.
They could stay real.

And somehow, that felt stronger than standing beside him under the lights ever had.

Cleo stayed there with him, hands warm in his hair, heart steady.

This wasn’t less.

It was just… theirs.

The silence that followed was heavy, but good. It was the kind of silence that usually came after a storm broke, leaving the air clear and sharp.

Her eyes drifted down to his hand, resting loosely near his knee. The blunt she’d lit earlier—or maybe a lifetime ago—had burned itself out completely. A long, curved finger of gray ash was hanging precariously off the end, cold and forgotten between his knuckles.

It was almost funny. It was proof of how completely the world had narrowed down to just the two of them. They hadn’t even smoked it. The conversation, the confession, the sheer relief of being honest had been enough to eclipse everything else.

With a small, affectionate shake of her head, Cleo reached out and plucked the dead roach from his fingers.

He didn’t protest, his hand just flexing empty in the air for a second as she leaned over to drop the remnants into the glass ashtray on the low table. She dusted a speck of gray ash from her fingertips, the motion finalizing the moment. The heavy, emotional part was done. They had their plan. They had their compromise.

But as she shifted her weight, she felt the bite of the hardwood floor against her knees and the faint sting of friction on her skin. The floor had been urgent, necessary, and exactly what they’d needed in the heat of the moment—but she wasn’t interested in more rug burn.

She stood up, the oversized hem of his t-shirt slipping down her thighs, covering and uncovering her as she moved. She didn't say a word, just turned and walked the few steps to the bed. It was a tangle of unmade sheets.

She crawled onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under her weight, a stark contrast to the unforgiving floor. She didn’t pull the covers up. She didn't try to hide. She just lay back against the pillows, sinking into the softness, and watched him from across the room.

Slowly, deliberately, she bent her knees, letting her legs fall open. The shirt rode up, leaving her exposed, a silent, undeniable invitation that cut right through the sentimental atmosphere.

A playful, challenging light sparked in her eyes. She tilted her head, checking the invisible watch on her wrist before letting her gaze drop back to him, heavy and wanting.

"By my count," she said, her voice a low, smoky tease, "it’s been about twenty minutes."

She arched a brow, her lips curving into a wicked little smile.

"Clock’s ticking, rockstar. And this mattress is a hell of a lot softer than the floor."

She was a liar. A beautiful, wicked liar.

It hadn’t been twenty minutes. It had been fifteen, maybe twelve. His heart rate had barely returned to double digits, and his body was still humming with the aftershocks of wrecking her on the floor.

But looking at her now—sprawled out on the messy sheets, wearing nothing but his tour shirt, her legs falling open with that casual, devastating confidence—he wasn't about to check a watch.

He sat up, the movement slow and deliberate. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the damp curls off his forehead, and let his gaze travel over her. The distance between the floor and the bed felt like a magnetic field he had to cross.

He was still semi-soft, his body needing a minute to catch up to the sudden spike in his blood pressure, but the visual of her was working fast. She looked like the morning after a rock show. She looked like trouble.

"You’re impatient," he murmured, the words rough with a lingering exhaustion that was rapidly turning into something else.

He stood up. He didn’t cover himself. He didn’t rush. He walked toward the bed with a lazy, predatory stride, letting her look at him, letting her see exactly what she was waking up.

When he reached the mattress, he didn’t climb over her. He moved to the foot of the bed.
He gripped her ankles, his large hands circling the delicate bones, and gave a gentle tug, pulling her down the mattress until her feet were dangling off the edge, right where he stood.

"Keep them open," he commanded softly.

He stepped in between her knees.

The view was obscene. The hem of his black t-shirt was bunched up around her waist, providing a stark frame for her pale skin and the flushed, damp center of her. She was still slick from him. The sight of his own fluids on her, the evidence of what they’d just done, sent a jolt of possessive heat straight to his groin.

He wasn't ready to be inside her yet—not deep, not the way she needed—but he knew exactly how to get there.

He dropped to his knees.

The mattress dipped under his weight. He rested his hands on her thighs, thumbs brushing against the soft inner skin, feeling the muscles twitch under his touch.

"Soft mattress," he agreed, his voice a low rumble against her skin. "Means I can keep you here for hours."
He leaned forward, but he didn’t kiss her center. Not yet.

He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee. Then another, higher up. He moved with agonizing slowness, treating her thighs like a pilgrimage. He licked a stripe up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, savoring the shudder that ran through her frame.

He could smell her—musk, vanilla, and the sharp, metallic tang of sex. It was intoxicating. It was the only air he wanted to breathe.

He reached up, his hands sliding under the t-shirt to grip her waist, thumbs digging in to hold her steady. He buried his face in the soft juncture where her thigh met her hip, inhaling deeply, letting his breath ghost over her wetness without touching it.

He felt her hips buck slightly, an instinctive demand for contact.

He smirked against her skin.

"Clock’s stopped, Cleo," he whispered, the vibration humming through her pelvis.

He finally moved inward. He didn't use his tongue yet. He just used his lips, soft and maddeningly gentle, brushing against her swollen folds. He kissed her there, a chaste, reverence-filled kiss that was completely at odds with the dirty, spread-eagle position she was in.

Then, he blew on her.

The cool air hitting her sensitized, wet skin made her gasp, her thighs clamping vaguely against his ears.
He chuckled darkly, the sound muffled by her body. He felt himself thickening, the blood rushing south, fueled by the power of having her completely at his mercy. He pulled back just an inch, looking up the length of her body, locking eyes with her over the landscape of her own desire.

"I’m gonna take my time," he promised, his eyes dark and heavy. "I’m gonna taste every single second of this until you’re begging."

He lowered his head again, and this time, he extended his tongue—flat, broad, and slow—and dragged it from the very bottom to the very top, tasting his own claim on her.

The shock of his tongue—broad, wet, and relentlessly slow—tore a gasp from her throat that sounded too much like a sob. Her hips lifted off the mattress instinctively, seeking more friction, but his hands on her waist were iron, pinning her down, forcing her to endure the slow-burn torture he was inflicting.

She threw her head back into the pillows, her eyes rolling back as the sensation arced through her nervous system like a live wire. He was right; she was impatient. She was greedy. The first round on the floor had only sharpened her appetite, stripping away the nerves and leaving only this raw, exposed nerve ending that only he knew how to soothe.

Her hands found his hair again. It was automatic. She needed to anchor herself, and he was the only solid thing in a spinning room. She curled her fingers into the thick, dark strands, tugging just enough to let him know she was with him, that she felt every inch of what he was doing.

But when his words filtered through the haze—Clock’s stopped, Cleo—something in her spiked. It wasn’t anger, but a fierce, possessive need to blur the lines even further.

"Benjamin," she breathed, the name falling from her lips like a prayer and a claim all at once.

She didn't use the name the marquee lights used. To the thousands of screaming girls in stadiums, to the interviewers, to the world that wanted to consume him, he was Ben Wilder. He was the rockstar. He was the icon. But here, on his knees, serving her with a devotion that bordered on worship? He wasn't Ben. He was Benjamin. Her Benjamin. The boy who wrote songs in notebooks and held her like she was made of glass.

Using his full name was her way of stripping the stage persona away, reminding him that he wasn't performing right now. He was just a man. Her man.

She tightened her grip in his hair, tugging his head back slightly—not to stop him, never to stop him—but to make him look at her, or at least to break his rhythm for a heartbeat so she could speak.

"And don't call me Cleo," she managed to get out, her voice trembling but laced with a delicious, heavy authority. She looked down at him through lowered lashes, her chest heaving. "

She guided his head back down, her thumbs pressing into his scalp, urging him closer, deeper.

"Babe," she corrected him, the word a ragged whisper. "Or baby. That's it. Especially when your head is between my thighs. You know the rules, Benjamin."

She let her legs fall wider, surrendering to the "soft mattress" he had promised, her body softening, opening, demanding.

"Now stop talking," she whined, a desperate, needy sound. "And finish what you started."

Benjamin.

The name hit him like a physical blow, stripping the air from his lungs. It wasn't the name on the tickets. It wasn't the name screamed by the crowd. It was the name his mother used. The name she used when they were lying in the dark at 3 AM, talking about fears that had nothing to do with record sales.

Hearing her claim it now—claiming him—while her fingers tightened in his hair made his vision blur.

"You know the rules," she’d said.

Fuck.

He didn't answer. She told him to stop talking, so he obeyed.

He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh so hard he knew he was leaving marks, and buried his face in her.

He didn't tease her this time. He wasn't gentle. He ate her like a man who hadn't seen food in a decade.

He clamped his mouth over her clitoris, sucking hard, using the strong suction to pull a cry from her throat. He loved the taste of her—salt and sweet and heavy musk. He loved the way she tasted like him. He lapped at her with a frantic, messy rhythm, his tongue broad and flat, slapping against her wetness.
He wanted to be covered in her. He wanted to drown in this.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them immediately, pumping into her with a rough, insistent rhythm that matched the assault of his tongue. She was so tight, so wet, clamping down on his fingers in little spasms that nearly drove him insane.

He worked her, slurping loudly, not caring about the noise. In fact, the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth feasting on her only made him harder. He spread her wider with his thumbs, opening her up so he could get deeper, pressing his nose right into her entrance, inhaling the scent of her arousal until it coated his lungs.

He felt her bucking against his face, her thighs trembling violently against his ears. She was close. He could tell. She was unraveling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her fingers tightening painfully in his hair.

He pulled back, just for a second, gasping for air. His face was wet, his chin slick with her juices. He looked up at her, his eyes wild and blown out, seeing the way she was writhing on the bed, ruined and beautiful.

He needed to be inside her. God, he needed to shove his cock into that wet heat and pound into her until neither of them could move.

He started to rise, his hips snapping forward, his cock throbbing painfully against his stomach.
Then he remembered.

The wallet. The foil wrapper on the floor. The empty slot.

He froze.

"Fuck," he hissed, the realization landing like a bucket of ice water.

He looked up at her, his chest heaving, his voice rough and guttural.

"Don't kill me, baby," he rasped, seeing her eyes flutter open, confused by the pause. "But I only brought one."

He saw the realization hit her face—the disappointment warring with the need.

"I’m out," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, apologetic growl. "I can't fuck you. Not safe. Not yet."
He saw her hips jerk, a silent protest, a body craving to be filled.

"I know," he groaned, running his thumb over her wet, swollen pearl, making her hiss. "I know. I want inside you so bad I can barely see straight."

He leaned back in, his eyes dark with a new, filthy resolve. If he couldn't use his cock, he was going to use everything else. He was going to destroy her with his mouth until she forgot his name, her name, and the damn cabin.

"Spread your legs wider," he commanded, his voice thick. "I’m gonna make you come on my face. I’m gonna drink every drop of you."

He didn't wait for her to comply. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, locking her open, exposing her completely. He dove back in, his tongue swirling, stabbing, devouring her with a punishing intensity, determined to make up for his lack of preparation by giving her the hardest orgasm of her life.

The disappointment of the missing condom was a sharp, fleeting pang, barely registering before it was obliterated by the sheer, unyielding force of his mouth.

He wasn’t asking anymore. He wasn’t teasing. He was devouring her, and the sudden shift from the heavy weight of his body to the wet, hot suction between her legs made her gasp, her back arching off the mattress as if pulled by a wire.

"Baby," she choked out, the name tasting like a prayer on her lips.

He had hooked her legs over his shoulders, spreading her so wide she felt completely exposed, vulnerable in the most delicious way possible. But there was no shame, only heat. The friction of his stubble against her inner thighs was a rough contrast to the slick, relentless work of his tongue. He was drinking her in, humming against her sensitive skin, the vibration traveling straight to her spine.

It was too much, and it wasn’t enough.

Her hands found his hair again, fingers tangling in the dark strands, but instead of pulling him up, she shoved him down. She needed more pressure. She needed to feel him everywhere. She pushed his face harder against her, a silent, desperate demand for him not to leave a single inch of her untouched.

"Yes," she hissed, her head tossing back against the pillows, her vision swimming with bursts of light. "Right there. God, right there."

He groaned in response, a guttural sound that vibrated against her clit, and the sensation sent a jolt of electricity through her veins that nearly shattered her. The coil in her belly tightened, winding tighter and tighter until the tension was unbearable.

She was close. She was falling.

"Benjamin—please—"

He didn't let up. If anything, he sped up, his tongue flat and punishing, sucking the climax right out of her.

When it hit, it wasn’t a wave; it was a crash.

Her hips bucked violently, grinding against his face as the pleasure ripped through her. She cried out, a broken, high-pitched sound that was swallowed by the room as she came apart, her release soaking his chin, her body convulsing in delicious, terrifying spasms. Her toes curled so hard they cramped, her thighs trembling as she rode out the aftershocks, totally and completely at his mercy.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was her ragged breathing and the wet, slick sounds of him licking up the last of her release.

Slowly, the world stopped spinning. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs, but the frantic urgency began to bleed away, replaced by a heavy, liquid warmth.

She felt the mattress shift as Ben finally pulled back, crawling up the length of her body. He hovered over her for a second, his face wet and glistening, his lips swollen, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He looked like a man who had just won a war.

She didn't care about the condom. She didn't care about the sex they didn't have. She just wanted this.

She reached up, her hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the wetness on his chin.

"Come here," she whispered, tugging him down.

He collapsed beside her, heavy and warm, instantly wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her backward until her back was pressed flush against his chest. It was the only place in the world that made sense.

She felt him bury his face in the crook of her neck, his breathing slowly syncing with hers. The darkness of the room felt protective now, a cocoon woven just for them. She entangled her legs with his, seeking his warmth, seeking the solid, grounding weight of him.

She wasn't ready to sleep. She didn't want to close her eyes and lose this feeling, this reality where he was just Benjamin and she was just Cleo. She just wanted to lay there, awake and alive in the quiet, listening to his heart beat against her back, safe in the knowledge that he wasn't going anywhere.

He tasted like her.

He licked his lips, catching the lingering salt and sweetness of her release, and the flavor went straight to his head faster than the weed or the whiskey ever had.

He stayed between her legs for a long moment, just breathing against the damp skin of her inner thigh, feeling the tremors slowly fading from her muscles. His jaw ached—a dull, thrumming tension from how hard he’d worked her, from how wide he’d opened his mouth to consume her—and he loved it. It was a trophy. A physical reminder that he had taken her apart.

When her hand tugged at him, he moved.

He crawled up the mattress, his limbs heavy and loose, feeling like he was moving through water. He didn't bother wiping his face. He wanted the scent of her on him. He wanted to wake up smelling like her.
He collapsed beside her, the mattress groaning under his weight, and immediately hauled her back against him.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand splaying flat over her stomach, pulling her flush against his chest. She fit. She always had. Like a puzzle piece he’d been carrying around in his pocket for years, finally snapping back into place.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling sharply. Her skin was hot, damp with sweat, and smelled like vanilla and the raw, earthy scent of sex.

Benjamin.

The name echoed in his head, louder than the ringing in his ears after a show. She hadn't called him that in a long time. It felt like she’d reached into his chest and grabbed his heart with her bare hands. It stripped away the leather jacket, the sunglasses, the persona he wore like armor.

Here, in the dark, he wasn't the guy on the billboard. He was just the guy who knew exactly how she liked to be touched.

He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, his lips brushing the fine hairs there.

He was still hard—a dull, throbbing ache pressed against her lower back—but he didn't push it. He didn't grind against her. The disappointment of the missing condom had faded into a satisfied hum. Watching her come undone on his face, hearing that broken, high-pitched cry... that was enough.
For now.

He thought about the cabin. Two weeks. No service. No cameras.

He pictured it: waking up next to her without an alarm. drinking coffee on the porch while she painted. Pulling her into the bedroom whenever he wanted, with a bedside drawer full of condoms so he wouldn't have to stop.

He tightened his arm around her, possessive and grounding.

He let his eyes drift shut, the darkness of the room feeling less like a void and more like a blanket. The silence wasn't lonely anymore. It was heavy with her. It was full.

He breathed in, his chest expanding against her back, and for the first time in months, he truly exhaled.
"Hey," he whispered into the dark, his voice rough with sleep and vibrating against her spine.
He felt her hum a soft, sleepy response against the pillow.

"Keep calling me that," he murmured, pressing his mouth to the shell of her ear. "Benjamin. I missed hearing it. I missed him."

He squeezed her waist, anchoring her to him.

"And the cabin?" he added, his tone dipping lower, heavy with a promise. "I'm holding you to it. Two weeks. Just us."

The vibration of his voice against her spine sent a fresh wave of warmth through her, a different kind of heat than the one that had just consumed her. It was softer, deeper—it settled in her bones.

Benjamin.

Hearing him admit how much he missed the name, how much he missed the man he was underneath the fame, cracked her chest wide open. She didn't want the rock star right now either. She wanted this. The man who needed to be held just as much as he needed to possess.

Slowly, fighting the heaviness in her own limbs, Cleo shifted. She turned in the circle of his arms, the friction of skin on skin electric and grounding, until she was lying flat on her back. She didn't let him pull away; instead, she guided him with her. She tugged at his shoulders, urging him up and over until his heavy head found a resting place on her chest, right over the steady, calming beat of her heart.

She wrapped her arms around him immediately, locking him against her. She held him with a fierce, protective tenderness, cradling him like he was something rare and precious—something that the rest of the world tried to consume, but only she got to keep.

"Benjamin," she whispered into the darkness, the name tasting like a secret and a vow all at once. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere."

Her fingers drifted into his hair, nails lightly scratching against his scalp in a slow, soothing rhythm, combing through the messy strands. She could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his shoulders, his breathing syncing with hers.

"And the cabin..." she murmured, her voice thick with sleep but absolute in its certainty. "Two weeks. Just us. I'm already packing in my head."

A shiver of cool air brushed against her skin, a reminder that the heat of the moment was settling into the cool quiet of the night. Reluctantly, she released him with one hand just long enough to reach down and grab the tangled edge of the duvet. She pulled it up over them, tucking the fabric around his shoulders and hers, sealing them into their own private, warm cocoon.

"Go to sleep, Benjamin," she breathed, her hand returning to his hair. "I'm right here."

He went willingly.

He was used to being the one in control—the one driving the rhythm, the one holding the weight, the one steering the ship through the chaos. But when she pulled at his shoulders, guiding him up and over her body, he folded.

He let his full weight drop, trusting her to hold him.

His head landed on her chest, his cheek pressing against the soft, yielding warmth of her breast. It was the perfect pillow. He let out a long, ragged exhale, the last of the tension leaving his body as he felt her arms lock around him.

Benjamin.

She whispered it into the dark, and he felt the vibration of it rumble through her chest, straight into his ear. It settled there, soothing the constant, low-level static that had been buzzing in his brain for months.

He closed his eyes, listening.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

Her heart was beating right against his ear. It was steady. Unwavering. It was the best rhythm section he’d ever heard. It was a metronome counting time in a world that usually moved too fast for him to catch.

He felt her fingers scratching lightly at his scalp, and he melted. He felt heavy, anchored, and completely safe.

"Two weeks," he mumbled against her skin, his voice barely a slur of sound. "Pack the paint. I’ll carry the bags."

He felt the duvet settle over his shoulders, a physical barrier sealing them in. The warmth was instant, enveloping them in a cocoon that smelled like her vanilla and his sweat.

For a second, his mind flickered to the outside world—the tour dates, the managers, the noise waiting for him when he turned his phone back on. But it felt distant now. Muted. Like a TV playing in another room.

Here, under the blanket, with the weight of her arms holding him down and the sound of her heart in his ear, none of that mattered.

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into her warmth, his arm draping heavily across her waist to keep her there.

"Right here," he echoed her whisper, his consciousness finally slipping.

He wasn't the rockstar. He wasn't the icon. He was just a man sleeping on the only shore that had ever felt like home.

And for the first time in a long time, Ben Wilder fell asleep without a single dream, because he was already holding the only thing he wanted.

Cleo had told herself she was not going to do this today.

That had been the plan when she woke up with the same low, fluttering sensation in her stomach she had spent the last three mornings trying to explain away.

Jet lag, at first.

Then nerves.

Then too much coffee and not enough breakfast.

Except the jet lag from Australia had long since faded. Their suitcases were unpacked. Ben’s guitars were leaned carefully against the exposed brick wall beside her drafting table. His duffel bag no longer sat half-open near the radiator. The apartment had settled around them again after weeks of movement and airports and hotel rooms and soundchecks and family visits and all the fragile, hopeful trying they had done since Iceland.

And she was late.

Not dramatically late.

But enough.

Enough that the unopened box in the bathroom cabinet had started to feel less like a practical purchase and more like a living thing waiting for her.

So now she stood barefoot on the cool hex-tile floor of the tiny bathroom attached to her studio apartment, the door shut, her oversized cream T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair piled into a loose knot that was already slipping apart.

Morning light filtered through the narrow frosted window above the clawfoot tub, turning the room pale and quiet.

Beyond the door was the apartment she had built into a life.

Her unmade bed tucked into the sleeping alcove by the tall warehouse windows.

Shelves crowded with sketchbooks, ceramics, and jars of paintbrushes.

Her drafting table scattered with charcoal pencils and unfinished ideas.

The compact kitchen with yesterday’s coffee mugs still in the sink.

Ben’s acoustic guitar resting on a stand beside the record player as if it had always belonged there.

The entire apartment was only a few hundred square feet, but over the past three weeks of being home together, it had somehow stretched to hold both of them.

On the counter beside the sink sat two tests.

One digital.

One traditional.

Because if she was going to do this, she needed certainty.

She needed the bluntness of a word.

She needed lines she could stare at with her own eyes.

Her hands trembled as she set both tests down on a folded hand towel and forced herself to step away.

Three minutes.

It sounded so small.

Three minutes after months of hope and disappointment and carefully timed calendars and laughing at ovulation strips and trying not to turn intimacy into obligation.

Three minutes after Iceland.

Her throat tightened.

Iceland had changed everything.

Not in one grand cinematic moment, but in the accumulated quiet of being together with nowhere else to be. Snow against the windows. The mineral warmth of the Blue Lagoon. Ben’s arms around her in the middle of a cold so vast it made the world feel clean. Talking about the future in the dark after making love, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over her bare back while they lay tangled beneath thick duvets.

He had said he wanted a child with her in the same steady tone he used when he said things he meant completely.

Not as an abstract someday.

Not as a vague possibility.

As a real desire.

As a life he wanted to build.

After that, they stopped pretending they were “not not trying.”

They started trying.

Really trying.

Then had come the weeks that followed.

Flying home.

Then Australia.

A short leg of Ben’s tour.

Sydney sunsets from hotel balconies.

Melbourne mornings wrapped in his T-shirt while he rehearsed lyrics under his breath.

Brisbane, where they had slipped away to the beach for two precious hours and he had carried her sandals while they walked barefoot at the edge of the water.

Trying in borrowed hotel rooms.

Trying when they were exhausted.

Trying when they were hopeful.

Trying when they were afraid to hope too much.

Then home again.

Three uninterrupted weeks of waking up together in her apartment.

Three weeks of domestic life that felt so achingly ordinary it bordered on sacred.

Coffee brewed in the tiny kitchen while she sat cross-legged on the counter.

Ben tuning a guitar at the foot of her bed.

Takeout containers balanced on their knees while they watched old movies.

His hand resting absentmindedly on her stomach as they slept in the narrow bed that somehow fit them both.

And now—

Now.

The timer on her phone buzzed.

The sound was so abrupt she flinched.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she stepped toward the counter.

For one suspended moment, she couldn’t make herself look.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the sink.

Her breathing came shallow and fast.

Then she forced her eyes downward.

The first test.

Two pink lines.

Clear.

Undeniable.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“No,” she whispered, though the word held no denial, only stunned disbelief.

Tears blurred her vision instantly.

Her gaze jerked to the digital test.

The screen was bright and impossible.

Pregnant.

The word hit her like a physical force.

The tiny bathroom tilted.

A sharp, strangled sound escaped her, half laugh and half sob.

Her knees nearly gave out, and she caught herself against the sink.

“Oh my God.”

The words broke apart as tears spilled over.

This was what she wanted.

This was what they wanted.

What they had whispered to each other in Iceland under heavy blankets and northern skies.

What they had carried across continents.

What they had kept reaching for even when every negative test had quietly hollowed out the rest of the day.

She pressed both hands over her mouth as sobs overtook her.

Joy came first.

Pure and bright and overwhelming.

Then fear rushed in just as quickly.

Fear of how much she already loved something she could not yet see.

Fear of the enormity of it.

Fear of the fact that everything was about to change.

Her body shook with the force of it.

A baby.

Ben’s baby.

Their baby.

The thought cracked her open completely.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror—tear-streaked, wild-eyed, trembling—and saw a woman standing at the edge of the life she had secretly wanted for years.

The intensity of it was too much to contain alone.

Her chest tightened until it hurt.

And before she could think about how to tell him, before she could compose herself or plan anything sweet or cinematic, his full name tore out of her like a prayer.

“BENJAMIN!”

The scream echoed through the small apartment, carrying past the bathroom door, over the exposed wood floors, into the single room that held their whole world.

Her voice broke on the second syllable.

She was crying too hard to stop.

Laughing and sobbing all at once, one hand pressed to her flat stomach, the other clutching the digital test as if it might vanish if she loosened her grip.

“BENJAMIN!”

This time the word came out shakier, soaked in wonder and terror and a happiness so large it felt impossible to survive.

And standing there in the morning light, tears falling unchecked, Cleo knew only one thing with absolute certainty.

No matter how frightened she was.

No matter how much the future suddenly dwarfed everything she thought she understood.

She had never wanted anything more.

Ben heard his name and lost all sense of scale.

One second he had been standing near the kitchenette in yesterday’s sweatpants, barefoot on the old wood floor, trying to convince the coffee maker to cooperate while a melody circled uselessly in his head. The apartment had felt morning-soft around him—mugs in the sink, one of Cleo’s charcoal pencils under the table leg, his guitar waiting by the record player like it had learned to be patient.

Then her voice cut through all of it.

Not irritated. Not playful. Not the particular tone she used when she found one of his socks somewhere offensive.

This was different.

His body reacted before his mind had time to translate it. The spoon clattered into the sink. Coffee splashed against the counter. His bare feet were already moving.

“Cleo?”

It came out rough, too sharp, his heart slamming so hard it seemed to take the rest of the apartment with it. He crossed the room in seconds, knocking his hip against the corner of the table and not feeling it until later, one hand catching the bathroom doorframe as he reached her.

For one terrifying instant, he saw only fragments.

Pale morning light.

Her face wet with tears.

The hard tremor in her shoulders.

Her hand at her middle.

Something white gripped in her fingers.

The world narrowed so violently he almost missed the rest.

“Hey—hey, what happened?” His voice was careful because panic wanted to make it loud. He swallowed it down with effort, stepping inside the tiny bathroom like the floor might fall out beneath them. “Are you hurt?”

His eyes moved over her, fast and frantic, searching for blood, broken glass, anything that made sense of the sound she’d made. Then his gaze dropped to the counter.

Two tests.

One with lines.

One with a word.

Everything stopped.

Not dramatically. Not like music cutting out.

More like the universe pulled in one long breath and forgot to let it go.

Ben stared.

His mouth parted slightly, but nothing came out. All the noise in his head—the unfinished melody, the coffee, the tour dates waiting somewhere in the distance, the thousand small worries that usually jostled for space—went suddenly, impossibly quiet.

He read it once.

Then again.

His hand, still braced against the doorframe, tightened until his knuckles blanched.

“Oh,” he said.

That was it.

One useless little sound.

Then his face changed.

The panic didn’t vanish so much as transform, breaking apart into something too big for him to hold in a normal expression. His brows drew together. His eyes went wet before he could do anything about it. A laugh caught in his throat and came out broken, disbelieving, almost silent.

“Oh my God.”

He looked at her then—not at the test, not at the counter, not at any proof outside of her.

Her.

Standing in the bathroom in that oversized cream shirt, hair half-falling out of its knot, tears running freely down her face, looking like the whole future had just arrived and handed itself to her without instructions.

He took one step closer.

Then another.

Slowly now, because this moment felt delicate enough to bruise if he rushed it. His hands lifted and then hovered for half a second, torn between wanting to hold her everywhere at once and being afraid of overwhelming her when she already looked full of lightning.

“Baby,” he breathed, the word shaking loose before he could stop it.

It was for her.

It was for the impossible little truth between them.

It was for both.

He reached for her face first, because that was where he always found her fastest. His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes, catching tears he had no hope of keeping up with. He laughed again, softer this time, utterly wrecked.

“Okay,” he whispered, nodding like someone had asked him a question, like if he kept nodding he might convince his body to stay standing. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

Brilliant. Historic. His finest lyrical work.

He would have made fun of himself if he had enough brain left.

Instead, he looked back at the counter, just to make sure he hadn’t invented it out of wanting too badly. The tests were still there. The word still there. The lines still there.

A sound escaped him then, low and stunned, almost a laugh and almost something else entirely.

“We did it.”

He said it like he didn’t trust it yet. Like the sentence was made of glass.

Then it hit again, harder.

They had done it.

All those careful calendars. All those jokes to keep the disappointment from getting teeth. All those mornings where they had pretended to be casual about hope because hope, handled too tightly, could cut. Iceland. Australia. Home. Her body under his hand in the dark. The way she had gone quiet after each negative, even when she tried not to let him see the exact place it hurt.

And now she was here.

They were here.

He sank to his knees before he realized he was doing it.

Not gracefully. Not with any plan. One second he was standing in front of her, and the next he was on the cool tile, arms wrapping around her middle with a reverence that made his chest ache. He pressed his forehead carefully against her shirt, just below where her hand had been, and closed his eyes.

He didn’t know what to say to something that small.

Something that wasn’t even visible yet and had already rearranged every room inside him.

So he started with the truth.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice wrecked and warm against the fabric. “Hi, tiny thing.”

A breath shook through him. Then another.

He tipped his face up toward Cleo, his chin still near her stomach, eyes bright and helpless and so full of wonder it almost hurt to look at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and a laugh broke through the tears in his voice. “That was probably not the cool first impression. I’m your dad, apparently. I panic in bathrooms and I make extremely good pancakes sometimes.”

His smile trembled.

“Not every time. We should be honest early.”

The attempt at humor barely held together, but it steadied him enough to rise again. He stood slowly and took her in his arms, all of her this time, pulling her close with the kind of care that was almost clumsy because his hands couldn’t decide where they were needed most. Her back. Her hair. Her waist. Her face.

He kissed her forehead first.

Then her temple.

Then the wet curve of her cheek, tasting salt and morning and something like a miracle.

“You’re pregnant,” he murmured, like saying it softly might help him survive it. His hands framed her face again. “You’re pregnant.”

His eyes searched hers, not for doubt, not for permission to be happy, but for her. The woman inside the enormity. The one whose fear would arrive right alongside joy because she was alive and paying attention and understood the size of things.

His thumb moved along her cheek.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now, steadier because she needed him steady and because he wanted to be. “Look at me. We’re okay.”

His own breath hitched immediately after, undercutting the confidence a little. He let out a watery laugh.

“I mean, I’m obviously not okay. I’m about three seconds away from calling your sister and saying something completely incoherent, so we should maybe take my phone away.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing with her in the pale bathroom light.

“But we’re okay,” he said again. This time it landed stronger. “You and me. And…”

He couldn’t finish for a second.

The word was too much.

He looked down between them, his hand sliding slowly—carefully—to rest over her shirt, not pressing, just there. His palm covered the place where nothing had changed and everything had.

“And this,” he whispered.

His eyes closed.

For once in his life, Ben didn’t want a stage. Didn’t want the perfect line. Didn’t want a chorus big enough to hold the feeling.

He wanted this tiny bathroom.

This woman.

This impossible morning.

His coffee going cold on the counter.

The whole world reduced to a hand towel, two tests, and Cleo shaking in his arms while his own heart tried to become something worthy of what had just been handed to them.

He kissed her again, soft and lingering, right at the corner of her mouth.

Then he pulled back just enough to see her.

“We’re having a baby,” he said, and the smile finally broke through fully—terrified, radiant, boyish, all his. “Holy shit, Cleo.”

A beat.

His eyes dropped to the tests again, then back to her.

“I’m gonna need, like… a chair. Or a helmet. Or both.”

Another beat, softer.

“But mostly you.”

His arms tightened around her carefully, like he was already learning a new kind of gentleness.

“I need you.”

The first thing Cleo felt was the force of his panic.

It came into the bathroom ahead of him—his voice rough and too sharp, his footsteps hitting the old floorboards hard enough that she could hear the urgency in every stride. For one terrifying second, she saw herself through his eyes: crying, shaking, clutching a plastic stick like it might explain why the world had suddenly become too large to fit inside her body.

Guilt flashed through the joy.

She hated that the sound she made had frightened him.

Then he was there.

Breathless.

Barefoot.

Hair sleep-tousled and eyes wide with a fear so naked it split her open all over again.

The tenderness of it undid her.

Her mouth trembled as he searched her face and shoulders and hands, looking for injury before he understood the real reason she had called for him. That instinctive need to make sure she was safe landed with such devastating clarity that fresh tears spilled over.

“I’m okay,” she tried to say, but the words caught on a laugh and came out broken.

His attention shifted.

She watched the exact instant comprehension overtook alarm.

The silence that followed felt enormous.

Not empty.

Sacred.

His small, stunned sound moved through her like a bell.

When his expression changed—when disbelief gave way to something bright and fragile and unbearably human—Cleo’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.

There he was.

The man she had fallen in love with in fragments and layers and impossible, ordinary moments.

The man who had held her in Iceland and spoken about children with a kind of quiet certainty that made her believe in futures she had been afraid to name.

The man who had crossed oceans and stages and hotel rooms with her and never once treated this hope like something inconvenient.

The father of her child.

The thought struck with fresh force, and her fingers curled tighter around the digital test.

When he stepped toward her more slowly, as though the moment itself required careful handling, she felt her breathing hitch. His hands hovering in the air before finally settling against her face made her heart turn over inside her chest.

His thumbs brushed away tears she hadn’t even noticed falling.

The shaking in his voice unraveled what little composure she had managed to gather.

A soft, watery laugh escaped her as he struggled for words.

The imperfectness of them made everything feel more real.

More theirs.

Then he looked at the tests again.

And spoke the truth.

Her eyes closed.

The sentence landed somewhere deep and permanent.

“We did,” she whispered, the words barely audible, but saturated with awe.

When he dropped to his knees, Cleo gasped.

Not because she expected grand gestures.

Because she knew he wasn’t performing.

There was nothing calculated in the movement. No attempt to make the moment bigger than it already was.

Just instinct.

Just reverence.

The feel of his arms circling her middle sent a shudder through her body. She brought one trembling hand to his hair, threading her fingers through the soft dark strands while his forehead rested against her shirt.

The pressure was so gentle.

So careful.

When he spoke to the tiny life inside her, Cleo’s breath fractured.

A sob broke loose before she could stop it, but it was softer now, threaded with wonder instead of fear.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her fingers tightening in his hair.

The ridiculousness of his introduction, the nervous honesty, the mention of pancakes—all of it cracked something warm and helpless open inside her. She laughed through tears, the sound shaky and wet and full of love.

“Our baby is going to know exactly what they’re getting into.”

Her voice wobbled on the word baby.

She still could not quite believe she was saying it.

When he rose and gathered her fully into his arms, Cleo folded into him with no resistance at all.

Her body seemed to know where to go before her mind caught up.

Against his chest.

Into the familiar warmth of him.

His kisses to her forehead, temple, and cheek steadied her more effectively than anything else could have.

Each touch said the same thing in a different language.

I’m here.

I’m not going anywhere.

When he repeated the reality aloud, she felt the truth settle more firmly beneath her skin.

She was pregnant.

His searching gaze found her, and she understood immediately what he was asking without saying it.

Not whether the test was accurate.

Not whether he was happy.

Whether she was all right.

Whether the fear still pressing against her ribs was swallowing the joy.

Cleo drew in a shaky breath.

His attempt at composure, undercut by his own tears and humor, made her smile despite the tears still slipping down her face.

The moment his forehead touched hers, the frantic energy in her chest began to slow.

Not disappear.

But organize itself into something she could carry.

When his hand rested over her abdomen, her own hand slid over his.

The warmth of his palm against the place where their child already existed sent another wave of emotion through her—less chaotic this time, deeper and more rooted.

His words settled over her like a promise.

Then came the sentence that finally broke her open in an entirely different way.

I need you.

The rawness of it stole her breath.

Cleo lifted her face just enough to meet his eyes.

What she saw there—terror, devotion, joy, and complete vulnerability—left no room for doubt.

He was as overwhelmed as she was.

As scared.

As changed.

And he was still reaching for her.

Her fingers slid to his jaw, brushing over the faint roughness there. She studied his face as if committing this exact version of him to memory: barefoot in her bathroom, eyes wet, smile trembling, the whole future visible in the way he looked at her.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, the confession quiet but steady.

Her thumb moved along his cheek.

“But I have never wanted anything more than this.”

The truth settled between them, clear and unadorned.

A tear slipped free, but this one felt lighter.

Her lips curved.

“And I need you too.”

Cleo drew him closer until there was no space left between them at all. She kissed him slowly, with all the gratitude and wonder and trembling certainty she did not yet have language for.

When she pulled back, her forehead remained against his.

Her hand stayed over his where it rested on her stomach.

“Our baby,” she whispered, and this time the words no longer felt impossible.

They felt real.

Her smile widened, still damp with tears, but unmistakably radiant.

“You’re going to be such a good dad, Benjamin.”

The words settled between them and changed shape.

Our baby.

You’re going to be such a good dad.

Even after she said them, Cleo felt as though she were listening from a slight distance, as if the bathroom had become too small to contain what was happening inside it. Ben’s face—wet-eyed, astonished, utterly unguarded—seemed to glow in the pale morning light. His hand remained over hers against her stomach, and the steady warmth of it anchored her long enough for a practical thought to break through the emotion.

They had to tell them.

Not the world.

Not his fans.

Not managers or labels or publicists or anyone who would turn this into a headline before they had time to breathe.

Their people.

Her family.

His family.

The realization brought a fresh burst of happiness so sharp it made her laugh.

“Oh my God,” she said, the words tumbling out on another breathless smile. “We have to tell them.”

Her fingers squeezed his hand once before she reluctantly stepped away, still touching him as long as possible. The loss of contact lasted only seconds, but she felt it immediately, like moving away from a heat source in winter.

She snatched the digital test from the sink and carefully picked up the traditional one with her other hand. The plastic felt absurdly ordinary in her hands, two tiny objects that had somehow redrawn the entire map of her life.

Ben followed her out of the bathroom, and the apartment looked different now.

Not physically.

The same unmade bed.

The same paint-splattered drafting table.

The same coffee half-made in the kitchen, forgotten in his panic.

But everything held a new significance, as though every familiar object had shifted a fraction of an inch to make room for someone else.

Their child.

The thought still hit her with dizzying force.

At the small wooden dining table by the windows, Cleo set both tests down side by side. Morning light spilled across the surface, illuminating the word Pregnant and the two pink lines with such blunt certainty that she let out another disbelieving laugh.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone.

She crouched slightly, framing the image with care. The tabletop still held faint charcoal smudges from her work, and the sunlight fell over the tests in a way that made the whole scene look almost too perfect to be real.

She snapped one photo.

Looked at it.

Burst into tears again.

It was the simplest picture imaginable.

And the most important she had ever taken.

Her thumb moved to the family group chat.

A thread that had existed for years.

Her sister.

The people who had known her before she knew herself.

Ben.

Jax.

Because neither of them had ever stood outside the family circle, not even during the years when she and Ben were apart and pretending history could be erased by distance. They had remained woven into the fabric of her life so thoroughly that this moment did not feel surprising.

It felt inevitable.

As though everyone in that chat had, in some quiet way, been waiting for this right alongside them.

Her throat tightened.

Without adding a single word, she sent the photo.

The message whooshed away.

Then she looked up at Ben, another wave of emotion rising.

“Your family,” she said, voice catching. “They have to know too.”

She crossed to him in two quick steps and held out her hand.

He handed over his phone without hesitation, his expression still dazed and luminous.

Cleo unlocked it and opened the family thread with his parents and siblings. Her vision blurred with tears as she attached the same photo. For a second she hovered over the send button, struck by the enormity of what this meant—not just for the two of them, but for everyone who loved him.

Then she pressed send.

The image disappeared into the conversation.

A fresh laugh escaped her.

“Okay,” she breathed, shaking her head in disbelief.

She set both phones on the kitchen counter and toggled each one to Do Not Disturb, silencing the flood she knew was already beginning—texts, calls, screaming voice memos, his mother crying, her sister absolutely losing her mind.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Just the hum of the refrigerator.

The faint hiss of the forgotten coffee maker.

Ben’s breathing.

Her breathing.

Their future waiting in the stillness.

Cleo turned.

He stood a few feet away, barefoot on the old wood floors, hair unruly, eyes shining, his whole expression transformed by wonder.

For half a heartbeat she simply looked at him.

This man.

This impossible, beautiful man.

The father of her baby.

Joy surged through her so suddenly that she could not contain it.

A high, delighted squeal burst out of her as she launched herself toward him.

Her arms flew around his neck, and she collided with him hard enough to force a startled laugh from her chest. She clung to him, half laughing, half crying, practically vibrating with happiness.

“We sent it,” she gasped against his cheek, words tumbling over breathless laughter. “They know. Your mom knows. My sister knows. Everyone knows and we’re having a baby.”

The sentence still felt impossible.

And yet there she was, wrapped around him in the middle of her sunlit apartment, grinning so hard her face hurt.

Cleo pulled back only enough to look at him, her hands framing his face, her eyes bright and overflowing.

“We’re really doing this,” she whispered, wonder softening the edges of her voice.

Then her smile widened until it became pure, incandescent joy.

“Benjamin,” she breathed, another squeal escaping before she could stop it. “We made a person.”