You go back home after a long day.

The Bolt hums on your way back home. Austin’s night traffic thinning as you pull into the driveway.

Inside, Mariana is curled on the couch, blanket pooled around her legs, popcorn forgotten in her lap. Fatty is on the armrest beside her, asleep and snoring like a tiny buzzsaw. The TV throws blue light across her face, catching on her eyes when she looks up at you.

She does not move away when you sit. Does not make space. Your thigh presses into hers and stays there.

“Fatty likes me now,” she says softly, fingers brushing the cat’s whiskers. The touch is careful, slow, like she’s testing how much pressure is allowed.

“Likes you?”

She nods. “He sit here. No run away.”

You glance at the cat. “High praise. He doesn’t tolerate most people.”

She looks proud. “I give treats. Many.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That would absolutely work on Fatty.”

You let the moment stretch. Her warmth presses into your side. She smells faintly of soap and something warmer beneath it. You notice it without meaning to.

“Are you going to ask me how the date went?” you ask.

She shifts closer instead, tucking herself into the crook of your arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“No need,” she says softly. “You look happy. And…”

Her eyes dip, quick but precise, to your lap.

“…healthy.”

You exhale through your nose and silently curse your uncooperative member for giving you away.

“Yeah. It went well. She was receptive. Didn’t seem bothered by the idea of sharing. If anything, she was into it.”

You feel Mariana still as she processes that. Then she looks up.

“She like?”

“I think so.” You pause. “And she was curious.”

“About you?”

“About us.”

That gets her attention fully. Her head tilts, eyes sharp now.

“What you say?”

You don’t answer right away. You draw her closer, inch by inch, until her shoulder presses into your chest and your breath brushes the shell of her ear.

“I told her the truth.”

Mariana’s breath catches. You feel it against your arm.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She laughs, thin and breathy, and starts talking too fast after that. About the house. About gardens. She lists off all the things she wants to fix around the place. How she wants to expand the garden beds, how she wants to trim the trees in the back, turn the dead flowerbed by the fence into another vegetable patch.

But she doesn’t move away. She stays tucked into you, grounding herself with contact even as she fills the silence.

You listen, half‑grinning. “You’ve been here two days and you’re already project‑managing my house.”

“Your house is…” she hesitates, searching for the word. “Lazy.”

You snort. “Lazy?”

She gestures toward the window. “So much… space. Do nothing.”

“Alright,” you say, chuckling. “We’ll get it sorted. I’ll help you set it all up.”

Her smile softens at that, and it makes you feel warm inside.

You shift back into the couch, eyes drifting to the TV. It takes you a second to realize she’s squinting at the screen, leaning forward just slightly.

“Mariana,” you say.

She hums in response.

“You need glasses?”

She hesitates, then nods. “I had. Lost them.”

“When?”

“A while.” She shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Hard to… replace.”

You frown. “That’s not gonna work. You can’t go half‑blind in my house.”

She tilts her head. “It’s fine.”

“No,” you say, already pulling up the catalog on your PocketWatch. “You need to see. I’ll order you some contacts.”

She blinks at you, surprised. “Contacts?”

“They’re universal now. Adjust to your vision. Easy.” You glance up. “How bad is it?”

Her lips press together before she admits, “Day is… okay. Night? Like… bat. Blind.”

You shake your head, already confirming the order. “Then we’ll fix it.”

She watches you work the screen, silent for a beat, then murmurs, “Thank you.”

It’s soft. Like she doesn’t quite know what to do with someone fixing things without asking for something back.

You lean back into the couch, watching her more than the TV. “You’ll owe me one.”

That earns you another laugh. A little quieter this time, but warmer.

Fatty stirs, stretches, and plops into her lap like he’s known her forever. She looks down at him, stroking his fur like she’s testing if this new luck will last.

You glance at her, smirking faintly. “I just realized... you don’t even know what I look like.”

Mariana tilts her head, studying you through that too‑calm way she has. “I see enough.”

“Enough to what?”

Her lips press together, like she’s debating the words. “…Enough to know.”

You lean in, closing the gap. “Then tell me. What do I look like?”

Her eyes don’t leave yours. “Trouble,” she murmurs.

“That’s not very descriptive.”

“Is enough.”

You dip closer until you can feel her breath on your lips. “You sure you’ve got me figured out?”

Her answer is a whisper: “No.”

But she doesn’t move away.

You kiss her.

It’s slow at first. Soft, an experiment she doesn’t reject.

The second kiss lingers, and your hand brushing her jaw, thumb grazing against her cheek. She leans into it.

The third one is different. It's hungrier, like she’s forgetting herself, until suddenly she tenses. Pushes lightly at your chest.

“Mariana...”

“No,” she says quickly, breath unsteady. “Not… not now.”

And then she’s gone. Practically flees down the hall, bare feet silent on the floor. Leaving you staring after her, pulse hammering in your ears.

You close your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. Your head throbs in time with your heartbeat.

Figures. Headache.

One that you're familiar with. Regular migraines are something you've just learned to live with, and it always seems to hit at the most inopportune times. This one snuck up on you. You didn't even notice the aura until it was too late.

You grab ibuprofen from the counter, swallow two dry, and drag yourself to the shower. The water’s lukewarm, but it takes the edge off. enough to breathe again.

When you step out, toweling your hair, she’s there.

Perched on the couch like she’s been waiting, hands clasped in her lap, gaze fixed on the floor.

“You’re still up?” you ask carefully.

She nods once. “You look… tense.”

“Headache,” you admit. “Think I’m just turning in early.”

“Stress,” she says softly, still not looking at you. “You want… massage?”

You blink. “You give massages now?”

Her mouth twitches. “Yes.”

You hesitate, then nod. “Make it a scalp massage? Might help the headache.”

She pats the cushion next to her. “Sit.”

You do. Her fingers slide into your hair, tentative at first, then firmer, working slow, careful circles against your scalp.

You let out a sound. A half sigh, half groan, and feel her pause before continuing.

“Feels good,” you murmur.

She doesn’t reply. Just keeps working, quiet and deliberate.

You lean back into her touch until your head rests in her lap. She shifts slightly, adjusting, letting you stay there.

Her fingers move rhythmically, dragging heat down your neck, and it hits you all at once. How close she is. How warm.

Your body, already primed from a night of teasing, reacts before your brain can stop it.

She notices immediately. You can feel it in the way her hands falter for a heartbeat before starting again, slower this time.

“Might be,” she says softly, almost to herself, “I make more tense, not less.”

You huff out a breath, eyes still closed. “Not complaining.”

Her hands linger at your temples, her touch feather‑light now, like she’s afraid of the moment she’s created but can’t quite step out of it.

Neither of you moves to break it.

The pain in your skull dulls, replaced by something else.

You shift slightly, deeper into her lap, and feel her shift beneath you.

“You okay?” you murmur without opening your eyes.

“...Yes.” Her voice is soft, thin as thread.

Her fingers slip lower, brushing your temple, the side of your jaw—lingering there a little too long before they retreat like they shouldn’t have been there at all.

“Mariana,” you say, low.

She doesn’t answer.

You tilt your head back to look at her. She’s staring at her own hands like they don’t belong to her. Like she can’t believe what they’re doing.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want.” It comes out too fast, almost sharp. Then quieter, like it costs her: “I want.”

That’s all the permission you need.

You catch her wrist gently, guiding her hand back to your jaw.

Her breathing hitches.

You shift, turning until you’re facing her, your knees brushing hers. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off her, to smell the faint soap still clinging to her skin.

“You sure?” you murmur, though you already know the answer.

She nods, tiny, almost imperceptible.

You kiss her.

It’s different than before. Not testing. Not soft.

She exhales hard against your mouth, like she’s been holding her breath for days.

You cup the back of her neck and pull her closer. Her hands clutch your shoulders lightly, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

"Mariana," you breathe.

Her lips part, dark eyes flicking between yours and the obvious shape pressing against your shorts. When she finally exhales, it’s shaky, like a surrender.

You guide her hand down, pressing her palm against the heat of you through the thin fabric. Her breath stutters. She doesn’t pull away.

Her hand flattens instinctively, testing your weight, and a small, unguarded sound escapes her throat.

"You want?" you murmur, keeping your grip loose, letting her choose.

".... want."

Her breath stumbles again, but this time she doesn’t stop.

Her fingers flex, timidly tracing along your length through the fabric, like she’s trying to learn you by touch alone. It’s clumsy, almost reverent.

You close your eyes for a second, steadying yourself. Keeping the shadows buried deep, where they can’t ruin this. Where you can’t ruin this.

“Mariana,” you say, softer now.

She swallows, and for a moment you think she’s going to pull away.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she shakes her head, almost imperceptible. “I want,” she whispers again. It's quieter, but firmer this time, like she’s convincing herself as much as you.

You inhale sharply. “Okay,” you murmur. “Then… slow.”

She nods, once.

Her hand trembles as she pushes at the waistband of your shorts, freeing you with a hesitation that feels heavier than anything you’ve ever experienced. You help her. Carefully, slowly. Because if you move too fast, you’ll break this spell.

She hesitates, staring down at you, her breath coming quick and shallow. You can see the flicker in her eyes: want, fear, both tangled up so tightly they’re indistinguishable.

“Mariana,” you say again, and your voice almost cracks with it. “If this is too much...”

Her only answer is to lean down.

The first brush of her lips makes you flinch. Not from shock, but from how painfully careful she is. She lingers there, barely moving, like she’s trying to map out what it means to give herself over like this.

You exhale through your nose, hand finding her hair, not to push, just to anchor yourself.

“Easy,” you whisper.

And then she takes you into her mouth.

It’s shallow at first, tentative. Testing. Her inexperience is obvious, but it doesn’t matter. Not when every tiny movement feels like a declaration, like she’s still choosing this, still choosing you.

Your head tips back against the couch. You try to focus on breathing, on keeping your darker urges from spilling out and ruining this moment.

Don’t ruin it. Don’t scare her.

Her pace picks up, only slightly, her hand joining where her mouth can’t. You grip the edge of the sofa with one hand, the other still buried in her hair, gentle but there.

“God, Mariana…”

She hums around you at the sound of her name, a soft hum vibrates against you as she explores, learning your shape, the way you twitch when her tongue flicks just under the ridge. Her shyness melts with every inch she takes deeper, her movements growing bolder, needier.

You tangle your fingers in her hair, your grip tightening as the sensation intensifies. "So good, Mariana."

She moans around you, the sound sending a jolt straight to your hips.

Her lips stretch around you as you thrust deeper, her throat fluttering in surprise, but she doesn’t pull back. Instead, her fingers dig into your thighs, holding on, her dark eyes lifting to yours with a hunger that erases any lingering shyness.

"You want more?" you grit out, already rolling your hips, testing her limits.

She nods desperately, her breath ragged around your cock. "S-sim… want."

You tighten your grip in her hair and push in harder, setting a slow, deep rhythm. She chokes slightly but opens wider, her tongue pressing up to meet you with every stroke. Saliva drips down your shaft, her lips glossy and swollen as she takes you to the root, her throat working around the intrusion.

The wet sounds fill the room, mixing with her whimpers, her nails scoring your skin. Every time you pull back, she leans forward, chasing, her mouth hot and relentless.

"Fuck, just like that," you growl, snapping your hips harder. She gasps but doesn’t falter. Her eyes roll back as she lets you use her, her body trembling with the effort. You can feel her swallowing around you, greedy, eager, her submission as intoxicating as her touch.

Your cock stays buried hilt deep as she swallows around you, throat muscles fluttering in tight, rhythmic pulses that drag out every last drop. The sounds are obscene. Wet gulps, choked whimpers, the slick slide of her tongue against your shaft as she works to take it all. Her eyes are glazed but wide, the whites showing just slightly, a mix of raw hunger and the faintest flicker of fear. Tears streak her flushed cheeks, her lashes clumped with them, but her lips stay sealed, her throat working desperately to obey.

A quiet, broken moan escapes her when you finally pull back, spit and cum stringing between her lips and your cock. She gasps, chest heaving, but doesn’t dare move. She just stares up at you with parted lips, her breath coming in shaky little hitches. The swell of her lower lip trembles, her tongue darting out instinctively to catch the mess, but she stops herself, waiting.

You tighten your grip in her hair, forcing her to hold your gaze. Her pupils are dark with lust, but there’s a fragility there too. The way her throat bobs when you trace your thumb over her spit-slick chin, the faintest shiver that runs through her when your fingers brush the tender skin beneath her jaw.

"Good girl," you murmur, and her breath catches, a soft, needy sound escaping as she leans into your touch. Her lips part further, offering, her tongue pressing against your thumb when you drag it across her mouth.

The air between you is thick with the scent of sex, her quiet panting the only sound besides the wet click of her swallowing again. She’s wrecked, pliant, but there’s no mistaking the way her thighs press together. The ****, aching want still coiled tight in her body.

You drag her forward again, your cock sliding back between those swollen lips before she can catch her breath. Her moan is muffled, her throat still tender from before, but she opens her mouth again submissively. Her tongue pressing flat beneath your shaft as you push in deep once more.

"I love this," you growl, your voice rough with possession. Your fingers twist in her hair, angling her head just right to sink even deeper, feeling the way her body fights and yields at once. "Love how you take it."

Her hands clutch at your hips now, nails biting into skin, but she doesn’t resist. She just trembles, her throat fluttering around you in tight, involuntary swallows. Tears spill fresh, her lashes wet and clinging, but she keeps her eyes locked on yours.

You fuck her mouth slower this time, savoring the wet heat, the way her tongue curls to milk you. Every thrust pulls a choked sound from her, every retreat leaves her lips straining to follow. Your hips roll harder, faster, her spit slicking the way as you lose yourself in the rhythm.

You can’t help the words when they come. Raw, unplanned, pulled out of you in the moment you can’t hold yourself together any longer.

"I think I love you," you snarl, and her body jerks at the words, a broken whimper slipping past your cock. Her fingers dig harder into your skin, her throat clamping down as if to keep you there forever.

The orgasm crashes into you like a fist, your release pumping deep, her lips sealed around you, swallowing greedily. She doesn’t stop. Even as her body shudders, even as your grip on her hair turns punishing. She desperately swallows around you until you’re spent, **** quietly around your cock as you use her mouth for your pleasure.

When you finally pull back, her lips are red, her chest rising and falling in ragged little gasps. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. A war behind her eyes, like she’s unsure if she should feel ashamed, or proud, or something else entirely.

You sit up, still breathless, and cup her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her lips. “Mariana.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“I meant it,” you say, voice quiet but steady.

Her lips part, like she wants to answer. But she doesn’t. Not yet.

She just nods once. Tiny, like everything with her.

You don’t push her.

Because you know if you do, she’ll run. And you can’t stand the thought of losing this. Of losing her, before you even know what this is.