Ellery
His apartment felt like him—industrial and unbothered. Bare walls, clean lines, the faint scent of soap and cedar. Warm light from a single lamp spilled across the hardwood, soft enough to blur the edges of everything.
We’d come straight from the gala, still half wrapped in that world of glitter and expectation. My heels clicked against the floor as I stepped inside, echoing louder than I meant them to. Beckett closed the door behind us, and suddenly, the noise of the night—music, laughter, flashbulbs—was gone.
The silence hit different. Not awkward, just aware.
We both knew what it meant to be here.
He shrugged off his jacket, the fabric whispering as it fell over the arm of the couch. Then, without saying anything, he took my clutch from my hand and set it gently on the counter. That small act—casual, careful—knocked the air out of me more than anything else could have.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low enough to barely reach me.
I nodded automatically, but my throat was tight. “Just…” I stopped, swallowing hard. “Tired of pretending I’m not.”
The words hung there, heavier than I intended.
It wasn’t just about the gala. It wasn’t even about Kyle. It was about everything—years of holding it together, smiling through cracks, carrying too much for too long. And maybe he knew that, because he didn’t try to fix it. He just looked at me, steady and quiet, like I’d said something sacred.
Something in the air shifted then—thicker, warmer.
He moved closer, slow enough that I could have stepped back if I wanted to. I didn’t. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his collar, and for a ridiculous second, I wanted to fix it. Just to have something to do with my hands.
Instead, I stood there, realizing how close we were.
The lamplight caught in his eyes, turning them the color of burnt amber. He looked tired too—not from the event, but from carrying the kind of weight no one else saw.
“Ellery,” he said softly, like he was warning me—or maybe himself.
I almost laughed, because what could he possibly warn me about that I hadn’t already walked into willingly?
You knew what this was the second you followed him upstairs.
Still, I whispered, “I know.”
He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face, fingers barely grazing my skin. That single touch was enough to undo me. I could feel my pulse everywhere—in my wrists, in my throat, in the space between us that wasn’t space anymore.
I’d spent so long being careful. But in that moment, under that low light, I didn’t want careful. I wanted real.
So I stepped closer.
Neither of us said another word. We didn’t need to. The quiet said everything: this wasn’t about fixing or saving. It was about finally letting something—someone—feel like home.
“You want something to drink?” He offered it so casually that it almost felt safe.
I hesitated. The words caught somewhere between manners and instinct. “I shouldn’t…”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Because it’s after midnight? Or because you think I only stock bad decisions?”
That almost made me laugh. “Both seem possible.”
He smirked, opening the fridge anyway. “Beer, ginger ale, water—dealer’s choice.”
“Water,” I said finally, because it was the only answer that didn’t feel like crossing another invisible line.
He handed me a glass, condensation already gathering around his fingers, and I followed him to the couch.
The space between us felt deliberate—close enough to talk, far enough to breathe.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the window, the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty but expectant.
We sat there for a minute, pretending to be normal people with normal reasons to share a drink after an event. My gown pooled around my ankles; his tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked almost relaxed—until he broke the stillness.
“We leave tomorrow,” he said, voice quiet but even. “Two-week road trip.”
I glanced at him, trying to ignore the twist in my stomach. “I’ll finally sleep. Maybe.”
He smiled—soft, real. “You’ll work instead.”
I sighed, caught. “Guilty.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, and I couldn’t help smiling back. For a moment, it was easy. Like this—just talking, teasing—was something we’d always done.
Then he looked at me differently, like he was trying to memorize what I looked like sitting there under the lamplight. “I want to keep coming by the foundation when I’m back.”
It wasn’t said as a question.
I blinked, trying to find the right thing to say. “You don’t have to. You’ve done enough.”
He shook his head. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ellery. If I say I’m there, I’m there.”
The words hit deeper than I expected. Simple, steady—no pretense, no performance. Just truth.
I met his eyes, and everything else—time, noise, reason—seemed to narrow around that single moment.
No one’s ever said it like that before. No one’s ever meant it.
For someone who’d spent most of my life building walls out of competence and composure, it was terrifying to realize how much I wanted to believe him.
The air felt heavier again, charged but still. I could hear his breathing, steady and slow. Mine wasn’t.
I took a sip of water just to do something with my hands. “You should get some rest before the trip.”
He smiled faintly. “You too.”
But neither of us moved.
We just sat there, two glasses of water sweating on the coffee table, pretending that goodbye hadn’t already started.
The silence stretched until I could feel it, a living thing between us. The hum of the city outside the window filled in the gaps—car tires against wet pavement, a distant horn, the low rhythm of life moving on while I sat perfectly still beside him.
“Ellery…”
Just that—quiet, rough-edged, like he’d been holding it in too long.
I turned toward him, and suddenly there was nowhere to look but him. His expression had changed—no teasing, no armor. Just truth, open and raw. The air tightened, heartbeat-slow, everything narrowing until it was just that look, that gravity, pulling me in.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving mine. “I want you,” he said. His voice was low but sure. “All of you. I’ve never felt like this before.”
The words hit me so hard I forgot to breathe. For a second, all I could do was stare at him, my mind scrambling for something to hold on to—logic, caution, any excuse not to fall.
“Beckett…” My voice came out small. “You don’t have to—”
He frowned, confused. “Don’t have to what?”
“Say things like that.” I forced a shaky laugh that didn’t sound like me. “People talk. Your reputation—”
He cut me off before I could spiral any further. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. “Screw my reputation.”
I blinked.
He kept going, softer now, but there was something fierce beneath it. “None of that matters. The noise, the headlines, the stupid stories. They don’t see me. You do.”
I wanted to say something back—something careful, measured, the way I usually handled messy things—but the words tangled in my throat.
Because I did see him. Not the athlete on the posters or the man everyone thought they knew. The real version—the one who stayed late at the foundation, who showed up when no one asked, who looked at me like he’d memorized the way I breathed.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It vibrated, full of everything we weren’t saying.
I stared down at my hands, trying to steady them. The pulse in my wrist was too fast. “You can’t just say things like that,” I whispered. “You can’t mean them.”
But even as I said it, I knew he did.
He leaned back a little, giving me space without retreating, his eyes soft but unflinching. “I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he said.
The words hung there, warm and heavy, settling somewhere deep in my chest.
I looked up again, finally meeting his gaze, and the rest of the world just… blurred out.
You should leave. You should run. You should not let yourself feel this.
But I didn’t move.
Instead, I just sat there, heart stuttering, trying to remember how to breathe while every part of me whispered the same dangerous truth—
You want him too.
“Beckett…” His name left my lips before I realized I’d said it.
He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin. My pulse stumbled, wild and unsteady. He searched my eyes like he was waiting for a sign, any sign, that I’d stop him.
“Be mine,” he said softly. “Just… belong to me tonight.”
The words weren’t a demand. They were a plea wrapped in reverence, in something that sounded a lot like hope.
I exhaled a shaky breath, fingers curling against the fabric of my dress. I wanted to speak, to find some sensible answer, but there was nothing sensible about the way my body leaned toward his. The air between us buzzed, heavy and electric.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t rushed—not at first. It was slow, deliberate, a question asked against my lips and answered in the way I rose to meet him. The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the warmth of his hands sliding up my arms, the sound of our breathing tangled together.
Something inside me cracked open. Months of restraint, of pretending and patience, all dissolving in a single heartbeat.
The kiss deepened, fuller, hungrier—still tender but edged with everything we’d been denying.
His hands framed my face like he was afraid I’d disappear if he didn’t hold on.
My fingers found the back of his neck, tracing the line of muscle there, feeling the tremor in his breath when I did.
Every sense sharpened. The faint taste of champagne, the hum of the city below, the rasp of his stubble against my skin—it all blurred together until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.
He whispered my name again between kisses, reverent, like a prayer. I didn’t recognize my own voice when I answered. The sound was too soft, too full of wanting.
He kissed me again—deeper, slower this time—until the only thing left in me was yes.