Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Helena’s forced, girlish laugh rings too brightly against the rim of her Chardonnay. It spills from her mouth delicately, one beat behind the man’s anecdote about the intricacies of building shadow into watercolours. That laugh isn’t false entirely— he’s a nice enough guy, and vaguely amusing— but it belongs to a woman more patient than she feels. She balances the stem of her glass between two fingers and tips it toward her lips. 

“Of course, it’s about absence as much as presence. What isn’t painted becomes more potent than what is.”

“Mmhm.”

She nods as though she’s following, but her eyes drift over his shoulder toward the mirror behind the bar. She catches her own reflection. Black dress, halterneck, cinched tight at the waist. Lipstick in a subtle, dusky pink. Hair coiled and pinned to show the length of her neck. She looks like she came here to be seen. 

And Irving hasn’t looked once. 

He rambles, aimlessly, about lowlighting and negative space. His eyes are fixed firmly on hers, as if engaging in polite conversation matters much more than the bare skin of her collarbones. Helena shifts slightly on the stool, crossing her legs so the slit of her dress rides up another inch, just to test him. Nothing. 

The bar she chose is deliberate. Slightly outside of the Ganz campus, far enough that few students make the journey out, but close enough to attract the professors. Friday night, the end of the semester and they’re ready to blow off steam. Maybe drag home an attractive stranger for a round or two of mediocre sex. 

Around her is a low hum of noise. Low laughter. Darts thudding against the board. The clack of glassware rinsed and stacked. Helena wants it louder. Wants a hand sliding up her thigh in the alcove next to the needlessly retro pinball machine. Teeth catching and tugging at her earlobe. She wants the kind of night that her body holds onto for a week and a half after. Instead, she has a kind, oblivious man who averts his eyes as Helena twirls a strand of hair around her finger.

“The thing about watercolour, Helena, is there’s no room for hesitation. Once the pigment bleeds into the paper, that’s it. No going back.”

Helena titters a playful laugh, batting her eyelashes. “That’s so interesting.”

“I’m so glad you think so,” Irving beams. “And surprised. I’m afraid it is not a fashionable medium among the youth.” 

“Youth? You must be trying to flatter me, I’m a little past thirty.”

Thirty seven, but who’s counting?

Irving chuckles. “And I am more than old enough to be your father, my dear.”

He means it genuinely, lets it pass without weight. But fuck, does it spark something low in her body. She has always found comfort in the gravity of an older man. A professor's certainty. Someone with calm, steady hands nudging her knees apart. Her wine tastes sharper for it. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

Irving clears his throat, then excuses himself to the bathroom. Helena sighs through her nose, long and drawn out, then tips back the last of her wine. She sets the empty glass down with a sharper clink than she intends. 

“Fuck,” she hisses beneath her breath. This is taking too long. She should’ve been flat on her back in a stranger's apartment by now. 

The stool beside her scrapes.

“Buy me a drink and I’ll give you some advice.”

Helena turns toward the voice. The man, if she can call him that, is barely legal. Twenty three at most. Long, black hair falls across his brow. He sweeps it back while flashing her a boyish grin. His jeans are scuffed at the knees, leather letterman jacket slung over the bar beside him. His big brown eyes shine with a shameless kind of charm.

“Tell me, um…?” She flicks two fingers toward him. 

“Mark.”

“Tell me, Mark. Why would I do that?”

“Because…“ he lifts a brow.

“Helena.”

His tongue flicks across the tip of his pointed canine as he smirks.

“Because you need it, Helena.” He leans against the bar. The scent of his cheap cologne scratches the back of her throat. “And you look like you can afford the top shelf stuff.”

Helena’s lip quirks. She should laugh him off. Tell him to run along back to his friends. But something about the nerve of him sparks her interest. A small strike of flint against the hollow. 

She gestures to the bartender. “Two glasses of Yamazaki twelve. Neat.”

True to his word, Mark holds his tongue until the glasses land between them on the bar. He lifts it, amused, and takes a long sip before speaking. She doesn’t miss the way he tries to disguise a cough as it burns the back of his throat. 

“Alright, advice. You’re wasting your time with Professor Bailiff.”

“Excuse me?”

“Guy’s gay,” he smirks over the rim of his glass. “You could flash him your tits and he’d ask you who designed the bra.”

The sting is sharp and humiliating. A red flush rises to her cheeks before she can swallow it down. She thinks of the last hour spent leaning closer, twirling her hair, trying to angle herself into his gaze. 

She tightens her jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure I do. Had him for Art History last semester and I can promise you he’s not picking up whatever you’re laying down.”

“Mm.” 

She wants to be offended, but lands somewhere closer to amused relief. Breathing a little lighter knowing she isn’t invisible, just mis-aimed. She taps a nail against of the rim of her glass, then stills when she realises she’s fidgeting. 

“And how do you know I’m not out here trying to make a friend?”

He drags his eyes un-subtly to the slit in her dress, then back up to her face. “You’re not.” He grins wider now, all boyish and cocky. 

Before she manages a retort, Irving reappears, drying his hands on a paper towel. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Helena, but I ought to be getting home to my husband.”

She blinks. It’s almost funny, the way the universe decides to rub salt in the wound. 

”Of course. Great to meet you,” Helena nods. 

“And you.” He nods then glances at Mark. “Take care.”

“You too, Professor.”

Irving fastens his coat, smiles at them both, and slips into the crowd. Beside her, Mark smirks into his glass. She blows a soft breath through her nose, shaking her head at his audacity. 

“Smartass,” she mutters. “Okay. What about that guy?” She points across the bar, where a relatively handsome man with graying hair is throwing darts. 

Mark follows the line of her finger.

“Professor Kilmer? No way.”

“Why not?”

“He’s still pining over his ex-wife. He talks about her every lecture. Guaranteed he’ll cry when he comes, if he can get it up in the first place.”

Helena’s laughter escapes in a sharp, sudden bubble. She clamps her fingers over her mouth to muffle the sound, but not before Mark looks thrilled to have earned it. 

“He’s your Professor. You can’t say that,” she chides. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

The game begins. She points out a man in a sports coat nursing a beer. Mark counters that he’s got a ring tan and an unaware wife waiting at home. He nods toward a sleek blond in a suit at the end of the bar. She shakes her head, says he looks like he’s wearing enough hair product to stain her silk sheets. They volley suggestions back and forth, tearing the room into possibilities and knock backs.

“Him in the blue shirt?”

“Double denim,” Mark grimaces. “Pros: he’ll be grateful. Cons: he’ll be grateful.”

Her body hums with the attention. The way his eyes drift back to her after searching the crowd. Subtle, fleeting glances as he looks her up and down. He’s nothing like the man she thought she wanted tonight. Not older, not composed, not the man with a steady hand. He’s youthful and dangerous. Handsome. Charming. Quick with his words, and either brazen or jaw droppingly dumb enough to sit down beside her like he earned it.

She can’t stop looking at the curve of his mouth when he smiles. The flush at the edge of his cheekbone. The way he sits loose and sprawling on the stool, like the bar is his living room. 

“The guy in the hat?”

”Okay now I know you’re messing with me. Who the fuck wears a hat to a bar?”

Helena groans, tipping her head back in frustration. Wine has lowered her inhibitions just enough for the words to slip out before she can catch them. “Why is this so complicated? I just want to come.”

There’s silence for a beat while a delightful blush creep from beneath his collar and surges upward until his ears are tinged pink. He tries to hide it with a deep swallow of whiskey, but his wide eyes betray him. Satisfaction unfurls through Helena as she watches him squirm, learning in real time to stick to sorority girls his own age. 

Then, he edges toward her. Close enough that his breath finds the shell of her ear. His voice drops in volume but not in tone, it’s the same playful energy, like he’s offering her gum under the desk. 

“I bet you fifty bucks I can make you come in under ten minutes.”

It knocks a laugh out of her, she’ll give him that much. She lets the laugh turn into a scoff as she angles her face toward his. “Please. You don’t look like you have fifty dollars to give me when you lose.”

“I’m not going to lose.”

His eyes drop to her mouth, brief as the click of a lighter and every bit as searing. When his eyes return to hers, the air between them tightens. 

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not going to happen.”

His grin flashes. “Give me eight.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Helena croons, and there’s a condescending curl to the end of it she cannot resist. “I could spend eight minutes explaining why the answer is no, and that would be a far better use of both of our time.”

He looks up at her through long, thick lashes, undeterred by her attempt at callousness. “One chance?”

“I’m not letting you take me back to some student rental with a sock over the doorknob.”

“Your place, then? I promise I’m house trained.”

“You’re way too young for me.”

“Aren’t you a grad student?” 

“Now you’re trying too hard.”

Helena should not be charmed by his obvious attempt at flattery. Unfortunately, he tilts his head and smirks and shifts closer as his tongue darts out to wet his lips all at the same time, and Helena is exremely fucking charmed. She hates that her heart is behaving like a teenager’s. Hates that she’s grinning while trying not to. Hates the crystal clear image she has of his enticingly large hands, strong and obedient at her waist. 

Hope is so unbecoming on an older man. Sometimes, the moment she realises a man wants her, it extinguishes her desire. Yet, somehow, feeling the eager desperation radiating from him ignites a hunger in her. She came here to be taken, she did not expect to be begged. 

The word yes is lapping at her ankles, like warm ocean water, beckoning her to edge past the sign that says no swimming.

She lifts her brow. “Under ten minutes?”

“Scout’s honour.”

Her remaining whiskey goes down in a single, clean swallow. “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here.”

“Are you serious?”

“Now, before I change my mind.”

“Yes,” he hisses, pumping his fist in triumph. 

Briefly, Helena suspects that despite his endearing charm and beautiful brown eyes, this kid actually might be a bit of a loser. It warms her to him more than it ought to. 

She doesn’t give him the chance to bask in his celebration. Her hand snaps around his wrist and she yanks him off the stool. Chairs scrape. Glasses clink. She drops enough cash onto the bar to cover their drinks and an overgenerous tip, and Mark’s eyes widen as he gawps. Helena drags him through the crowd until they push through the door and cold snaps at her bare calves.

Mark follows behind her, breath fogged in front of him, zipping his jacket to the neck. She regrets bitterly her decision to forgo a coat this evening. Crosses her arms lamely over herself to stave off the chill. 

”Fuck, it’s cold,” he mutters through gritted teeth, then looks down to where she is shivering beisde him. “Oh, shoot. My bad.”

Before she can speak, he’s already shrugging out of his jacket. A cracked leather, oversized thing that gives his lithe frame the illusion of appearing athletic. There’s something so heartwarmingly awkward in the gesture. A blush rises to his cheeks while he holds it out to her. 

“Mark, you don’t need to give me your jacket.”

“Come on,” he insists with a bashful smile. “My mom would turn in her grave if she saw me forgetting my manners.”

Helena’s mouth twitches. A small grimace pulls at one corner. Dead mom. Of course he has a dead mother and a heart full of unresolved trauma. She can already see the edges of it. The soft, chivalrous boy who trips over himself to bed older women, desperate for the affection he misses. 

“You actually look a little like her, too. With the red hair, and—”

“Okay.” Helena holds up her hand to cut him off. “I can’t do this.”

Her reaction sparks a burst of laughter from him. It tumbles from his lips, loud and uncontained, warm enough to tame her instinct for cruelty. “Kidding!” he chuckles, nudging her side. “My mom’s old, and brunette. And alive. And boring. Like, impossibly normal, as a parent. No mommy issues here. I just wanted to freak you out.” 

Relief floods her as she exhales a disbelieving laugh.

“You’re an asshole.”

He beams, delighted. “I know.”

She lets him drape the jacket over her shoulders. It smells like cheap aftershave that comes in a holiday gift set. The edge brushes her collarbone, and she’s aware, suddenly, of how warm he runs. The jacket holds it like a second skin, the fading heat of his body seeping into hers until her black, glossy town car glides up to the curb.

Mark whistles low. “Whoa. Fancy Uber.”

“It’s a private car.”

“Fuck. That’s so cool.”

She flicks her wrist to the driver, signaling for him not to get out, then opens the door herself. The leather interior is warm and dark. She slides in first, taking the far seat, and watches him from the corner of her eye as he climbs in after her. He flops down and closes the door behind him, eyes darting about the cabin in awe.

“This is like some James Bond shit. Are you a spy?” He twists to look through the blacked out window, then cranes to look into the front seat. “Ooh—there’s climate control back here.” He lunches for the digital panel on the back of the console between the seats.

Helena swats his hand away. “Don’t touch that.”

“Sorry. I think this car might be nicer than my apartment.” 

He slings one arm loosely behind his head, but the verbal stream of consciousness doesn’t slow. 

“So. That thing I said earlier—‘Scout’s honour’—actually kind of funny, right? Because my last name’s Scout. Mark Scout.” He shoots her a look like he expects her to take note, then he barrels on. “What about you? What’s your last name? Or did you wanna do the whole annoymous thing? That’s fine too.”

“Mmhm.”

He glances toward the window, watching the city blur past, before turning back with a flash of teeth. “I’m a history major. Two more years. Not sure what I want to do after. Did you go to college? If I had to guess your major, I’d say law. But maybe that’s just because—“

Helena’s attention, which has drifted to the gloss of his hair in the low cabin light, snaps briefly into place. “Wait. Did you say two more years?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” she says softly. “How old are you?”

His grin crooks. “Twenty-one. Don’t worry. I bombed freshman year and needed a do-over.”

“Thank God.”

She exhales through her nose and looks out the opposite window. He doesn’t ask how old she is, and she doesn’t volunteer the information. A few seconds pass in quiet. The city softens into shapes around them, all glowing storefronts and blurred neon. Mark fidgets again, knee bouncing slightly, thumb tracing the seam of his jeans. 

“So, do you work nearby? I don’t think I asked what you do—”

Helena cuts him off before he can restart the monologue. 

“Mark, why don’t you come sit a little closer to me, hmm?”

He freezes for half a beat, then grins from ear to ear. He slides across the back seat until their thighs are touching, worn rugged denim meets expensive crushed velvet. Helena tilts her head, exposing her neck to him like an offering. She taps two fingers on the column of her throat. 

“It’s sweet, your incessant need to get to know me, but how about you put those lips to better use?”

Mark’s jaw slackens for just a moment before he lunges, then he’s on her. His mouth is warm against her skin, frighteningly eager. He doesn’t peck, there’s no gradual build. He laps at her. Presses. Lets his lips part to nip gently at the skin between kisses. It’s sloppy and enthusiastic, and sends a jolt of arousal straight to her core.

She hisses sharply through her teeth as she feels him sucking hard.

“Ah. Don’t you dare give me a hickey.”

He pulls back, grinning sheepishly. “Not even a little one?”

“Control yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He kisses higher this time. Softer. Nuzzles against the edge of her jaw and then up to her earlobe, which he captures lightly between his teeth. Obedient and eager. Fuck, he’s dangerous. She doesn’t moan. She’s not giving him that yet. But she does let her legs fall slightly apart, just enough for the possibility to hang there, electric in the air between them.

-x-

“Holy shit. This place is awesome.”

Mark’s voice echoes slightly across the polished floor. He stands just inside the threshold, taking in the expanse of the foyer. The lights are low. Automated and sensibly dimmed at night, but they catch the sheen of glass and steel, the hard edges of furniture too elegant to be comforting. 

His enthusiasm is genuine, childlike. Infectious, almost. Which makes it worse, because to her, the place is nothing.

Nothing warm. Nothing soft. Still as cold and lifeless as the day her father designed it. Every chrome fixture and glossy white wall. Six years he’s been dead and she hasn’t changed a single thing. Couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Couldn’t make it hers. The house still belongs to his absence.

She steps out of her heels by the door. The jacket Mark gave her hangs awkwardly over her frame. She peels it off without ceremony and drapes it across the coat rack, watching him drift further into the house like he’s touring a gallery. She follows him, trying to see her world through his eyes. 

Cold. Impersonal. Sterile. Just a few of the adjectives that spring to mind. 

“Wow. This kitchen is so shiny,” he beams, tilting his head with a grin. “Like a spaceship.”

Helena snorts. There’s that too, she supposes. Stainless steel, polished chrome, glass. The island gleams. The bar stools have never been used. The fridge is built into the cabinetry, seamless and cold, like everything else here. But sure, it’s shiny.

“There’s vodka in the freezer if you want a drink.”

Mark opens three cupboards before he finds it. She pulls two tumblers from the shelf above the sink. Square-edged crystal, obnoxiously heavy, impossible to hold properly. The kind of glass someone choses for aesthetic over conveinence. Her father, probably. Or one of his architects. She never liked them. She uses them anyway.

Mark slides the freezer drawer closed and whistles again. “Damn,” he says, lifting the bottle. “You’re like rich-rich.”

He holds the bottle up to the light, inspecting the label with care.

“Should’ve bet you more money,” he adds, winking.

Helena chuckles. “Speaking of,” she says, glancing at her watch. “I believe you’re on the clock.”

Mark goes still.

He sets the bottle down with a soft thunk, then turns to face her fully. For a moment he just looks at her, serious for the first time since stepping inside. Then he steps forward with purpose. Backs her up until her spine meets the edge of the counter. His hands bracket either side of her waist, close enough that she can feel the heat of them. He leans in, breath soft against her cheek, lips so close they nearly touch her jaw.

“Believe me, Helena, you’ll know when the clock starts.”

It’s stupid. It’s a line. But her whole body reacts—an inhale she doesn’t mean to take, a flutter in her belly, a sharp pulse low behind her hipbones. She keeps her face composed, her mouth unsmiling, but it takes effort.

He watches her for a beat longer, then pulls back slightly and flashes her a lopsided girn. “How about that drink?”

She nods. He pours.

He doesn’t settle. Instead, he drifts toward the living room like a cat nosing at a half-open door. Helena watches, bemused by his audacity. Drawers glide open. Cabinet hinges squeak. He’s exploring, talking out loud in a loose, unfiltered stream. Helena barely absorbs any of it, tries to avoid answering questions where she can. He grew up somewhere upstate. Has a sister. Drove a toyota corolla until it broke down and he couldn’t afford to get it fixed.

He lingers by the built-in stereo, crouching in front of the narrow shelf beside it. She hears the clack of cases being thumbed through and smiles faintly to herself when he groans in horror at her sparse collection, promising to bring her some better music next time. 

Helena has a one night stand on the last Friday of every quarter. It’s regular, and predicable, and it’s never like this. Never in her home. Minimal talk, minimal personal details, and certainly no time to browse her fucking music shelf. She’s an Eagan — which, granted, doesn’t mean what it used to now that the name will certainly die with her and a handful of her father’s bastards. But even still, she prefers to remain safely out of reach of anybody who pries.

Yet, here Mark is, nosing through her paltry collection like it’s a window into her soul. Forty-five minutes, and they’re still fully clothed. Forty-five minutes, and he’s barely touched her since they walked in the door. Just a few glances, a soft laugh, a passing flirtation and ceaseless questions about whether she plays an instrument, or if she believes in ghosts.

She’s getting restless — her body tight with want, pulse coiled low in her belly. But there’s something about the way he moves through her home that makes her hesitate to stop him. It’s charming. And so blatantly genuine she almost feels guilty that he hasn’t seemed to realise that whatever is happening right now, it’s for one night only.

“Did you have pets growing up?”

The question is so casual it blindsides her. She sets her glass down. “There was a fox,” she says.

Mark looks up. Waits.

“It lived in the yard when I was young. A vixen, I think. Thin and sharp and fast. I used to sit in the window and watch her. Hours, sometimes. She’d sneak through the shrubs at the edge of the treeline like a flame. I… I loved her more than most people love their dogs.”

He’s still now. She keeps going.

“I used to pocket the egg slices from my breakfast to feed her. I’d leave them at the edge of the lawn and watch from my bedroom window until she ate them. One morning, my father caught me. That was all it took.”

She turns her gaze toward the far window. Floor-to-ceiling glass, black with night.

“A week later, the fox was mounted in his office. He said it was so I could see her properly.”

The silence in the room is absolute. Mark doesn’t try to joke. Doesn’t speak for several seconds. Then he sets the CD down and walks over to her.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly.

And he means it. She can see it in his face, the unfiltered sorrow of someone young enough to still be startled by cruelty. He covers her hand with his own. His fingers are warm. Broad. Her palm turns beneath his without thinking, and they lace their fingers together.

Mark drops his voice to a whisper. “Helena, I want to learn everything about you.”

Her chest tightens. Something burning catches in her ribs. She looks down at their hands, then back up at him.

“Okay,” she says softly. “I think that’s enough foreplay.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She pulls him by the hand down the hallway, past the vapid artwork and toward the bedroom at the back of the house.

-x- 

Helena’s bedroom mirrors the rest of the house. One wall is all glass. The others are stark white. Her bed sits in the center of one wall, low and sprawling, wrapped in crisp white sheets. One nightstand. No art. No photographs. Anything personal— her perfume and her underwear and her books, what little scraps of colour exist in this place— is tucked behind sliding panel doors like contraband. The space shows no signs of being lived in. 

“This some kind of guest room?”

“No, it’s mine.”

“Oh.”

Mark glances at her, like he’s waiting for more. When none comes, he shifts awkwardly and toes off his sneakers. They land askew. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. 

She smirks. “If you need to back out, I can call you a cab.”

His head snaps up and there’s that grin again. Loose and cocky and a little uneven. “Go sit on the bed.”

It’s not a command so much as a dare.

Helena lets him have it. Glides toward the edge of the mattress and sits, carefully, crossing her legs at the knee. She tilts her wrist and checks her watch. Then looks up at him, arching one eyebrow. 

“Tick tock.”

He approaches slowly.

There’s something in the way he moves now. Confident. Sure of himself. He stops in front of her, standing while she remains seated, and for a moment she’s struck by the way he fills the space. He isn’t a tall man, but his shadow hangs over her, boxing her in. 

His hand comes up and slips behind her neck. Fingers brushing skin. She stiffens, just slightly, but he doesn’t rush. He finds the clasp of her hair clip. Unfastens it. Tosses it onto the bed beside her. Her hair tumbles down over her shoulders in a dark, auburn ringlets.

“You’re fucking beautiful.”

She wants to look away.

Before she can, he leans in. His lips brush hers, barely. A ghost of a kiss. Not enough to satisfy, only enough to ignite. When she leans forward instinctively, he pulls back, smirking.

“Lie down.”

She does.

Her body stretches across the bed, muscles loose, dress riding up slightly with the shift. Mark drops to the floor in front of her. 

He starts at her knee.

A kiss, soft and slow, placed just on the inside, where the skin is thinner. His hands slide up her thighs, coaxing her legs apart. Her dress bunches as he moves, fabric gathering in his palms. When he reaches mid-thigh, he stops. Looks up at her.

“You good?” he asks softly.

Helena nods. Her breath comes light.

He kisses higher.

Again, and again. A trail, deliberate and achingly slow. He mouths against her inner thigh. She shifts, adjusts, lets her weight settle back into the mattress. One hand rests against her stomach. The other tangles in the sheets.

“You’re running out of time,” she murmurs, voice lazy and teasing.

Mark chuckles against her skin.

“Do I need to find you something better to do with your mouth?”

She’s still laughing when he hooks both arms under her thighs and yanks her toward him. The laugh cuts off in a sharp inhale. Her back arches as he drags her to the edge of the bed with a strength that surprises her. The dress is up around her waist in seconds. He presses his nose to her panties—thin lace, already damp—and inhales deep.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You smell so fucking good.”

She bucks into him, instinctive, but he holds her down. Strong arms. Hands gripping hard. He kisses her through the lace. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. Hot breath soaking the fabric. He licks her like he’s starved for it, tongue dragging slow and wide over her center.

“God. I knew you’d taste sweet. Knew it.”

Helena shudders.

His tongue circles her clit. Over and over. Then flicks. Then flattens again. His lips close around her through the panties and suck deep and wet, leaving her shaking. Her hand finds his hair. Fingers curl into his thick, dark locks. She pulls.

He groans into her.

“You like that?” 

He nods against her, nose buried in the crease of her thigh.

She tightens her grip. He fists the waistband of her panties and yanks. The sound of tearing fabric is sharp. He tosses the ruined scrap over his shoulder and doesn’t apologize. He just spreads her open and dives in, moaning like she’s something devine. The next minutes stretch, thick and molten. His mouth works her slowly at first, with languid, open-mouthed licks that make her head spin. Then faster. Then deeper. His hands grip her hips like he’s holding on for dear life, tongue insistent, greedy.

It’s pathetic, really, how quickly she feels her orgasm coil. She wants to slow it down. Wants to draw this out. But she’s greedy and desperate and God, it has been years since anybody did this for her.

Her fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face. Her thighs twitch, legs tightening around his shoulders. Her body arches, clenches. Her breath catches— and then she comes. Hard. Shaking. Whimpering as he continues, relentles. He slows only when her body starts to squirm from oversensitivity. 

He kisses her inner thigh gently, then rests his cheek there. She props herself on her elbows, looking down at him, apology on the tip of her tongue. 

“Can I keep going?” 

Helena nods. With a sigh, she sinks back into the sheets, panting and undone. He doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath before he sinks back down. 

It’s slower this time. His breath brushes her inner thigh. When his mouth returns to her, it’s different. Less hungry, more focused. He licks her so unbearbly gently that the edges of her eyes burn. Tongue slow and wide, tracing her with aching patience. He groans softly into her. Just a low hum of satisfaction, then something more primal as his own arousal builds. She feels it reverberate through her hips.

It’s the kind of slow that’s meant to last. A drag of pleasure so thick it curls under her skin and makes her limbs heavy. His fingers trace light shapes along her thighs as he licks and nuzzles and drinks her in. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back. Her breathing slows. Her body starts to float.

When he presses a single finger inside her, she gasps. He curves it slightly, seeking something, learning her. He adds a second finger. Pumps slow. She spreads her legs wider. Her hands drift into his hair, combing through it absently. Encouraging. Grounding. A small tilt of her hips and she’s offering him more.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Just like that.”

With the praise, his pace picks up. Fingers working faster now, the rhythm growing sharp and frantic. He’s enthusitic, she’ll give him that, but he’s jackhammering his fingers into her like something from a cheap porno. 

Helena hisses sharply. “Mark, slow down.”

He pauses. Blinks up at her.

She raises one hand, curls two fingers toward herself in a slow beckoning motion. 

“Try it like that. Okay, baby?”

Mark’s eyes go wide as he nods so eager it almost breaks her. “Got it. Okay.”

When he resumes, he presses in deep, two fingers sliding past resistance, then curling just the way she showed him—hooking and stroking in a reperative motion. 

“Is that better?” 

“Fuck,” she groans. “That’s perfect. You’re doing so good.”

He smiles against her and keeps going. His mouth finds her clit again, tongue moving in lazy, confident circles. He finds a rhythm that fits her body. This time, it builds slowly—more pressure than speed. Her thighs tremble. Her chest lifts with every breath.

“Right there. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He doesn’t. Not for a second. Not even when she twitches. Not when her hands fist in the sheets. Not when her breathing turns ragged and her spine curves off the bed. He’s steady. Focused. Moaning softly into her, like her pleasure is his own.

The feeling starts in her hips. A low clench. Deep. Rumbling. Not like the last one. This is heavier. A pressure behind her pelvis. The kind that only comes when she takes her time with herself. When she pulls out all the stops and uses the expensive triple-pronged vibrator tucked in the drawer beside the bed. 

It’s rare, but fuck, it’s coming.

She shifts, hand in his hair tightening. “Wait—Mark—fuck—I think I’m gonna—just—wait—”

He doesn’t hear her in time to stop before it happens. Her orgasm overtakes her like a tide. She cries out, hips jerking violently in an involuntary spasm. Her legs clamp around his shoulders. She gushes a hot flood of release against his face, soaking his cheeks, his lips, his chin. She comes with a force that leaves her boneless, stunned, mouth open in a silent gasp.

He moans through it like it’s a gift.

When she finally catches her breath, she blinks down at him in horror.

“I didn’t mean—Sorry—I didn’t mean to do that. I tried to warn you.”

Mark pulls back slowly. His face is drenched. His mouth is open. His eyes are wide. He pants, wiping the back of his hand across his chin. 

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. How are you real?”

She stares at him in a daze. The tension in her chest loosens all at once. She starts to laugh, breathlessly, shaking her head as she collapses back onto the mattress. Mark crawls up her body, trailing his mouth over the crumpled line of her dress, over her stomach, her ribs, between the middle of her breasts, to her neckline, to her throat.

He’s trembling. Groaning into her skin. 

“Please,” he whispers, desperate and needy. “Please let me fuck you, Helena. I’m so fucking hard, it hurts.”

She feels his cock pressing through his jeans, straining against her thigh. His breath hitches with with every movement, every plea. He hovers over her, eyes searching hers. Lips swollen, chin dripping with the remnants of her orgasm. His face is open with longing, pupils blown wide.

“Please.”

Helena reaches up. Slides her hand through his hair again, then curls her fingers tight and drags him down to meet her lips. She tastes herself on his tongue and groans into his mouth. They kiss like they’re starved. Open-mouthed and panting. Her breath catches in his throat. His tongue strokes clumsily over hers in a rhythm that gets messier the longer it goes on. 

Mark makes this soft, surprised moan every time she sucks his tongue, like he can’t quite believe it’s still happening. His hands roam greedily, palming her breasts, gripping her waist, sliding up her thighs. He can’t decide what part of her he wants most.

Their clothes vanish in staggered, clumsy bursts of motion. Her dress is wrenched over her head while he’s still trying to unhook her bra. He laughs into her neck when she slaps his hands away and does it herself. Mark’s shirt gets caught under his arms and she helps peel it off, their lips never quite parting. 

The only time they pause is when she reaches for his waistband. He lets out a gasp as she slides her hand into his jeans. Fingers curl around him through his boxers, and then they’re kissing again, deeper, wetter, gasping into each other’s mouths. By the time he’s fully naked, Helena pulls back slightly to look.

Her gaze drops, and her breath catches.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips at the sight of his cock. Thick and flushed, hard enough it pulses against his stomach. Bigger than she expected. A little absurd on someone so sweet-faced. 

Mark catches her expression and his mouth curves smug. “Like what you see?”

She arches an eyebrow and reaches down and wraps her hand around him. Her fingers don’t meet. He groans, hips bucking slightly into her palm, but she pulls back before he gets the friction he needs. 

She clicks her tongue. “Arrogance is very unbecoming of a young man.”

“Helena,” he whines, thrusting toward nothing. 

“Get a condom from the nightstand before I decide to put you back on your knees and teach your some manners.”

“Fuck. Yes. Yes ma’am.”

He’s off the bed instantly, fumbling toward the nightstand. His cock bobs with each movement. Helena watches him. Lithe, lean muscle. Smooth skin, shoulders dusted with freckles, hair messy from her hands. He opens the drawer and pulls out a foil packet triumphantly.

She kneels up on the bed while he returns. Her skin is flushed, hair falling wild around her face, and she knows what she looks like right now. Knows he sees it too.

Mark climbs onto the mattress and tries to kiss her again, but she takes the packet from his hand instead, tears it open and pushes him gently onto his back.

“Jesus,” he breathes, watching as she rolls it down over him with slow strokes. His stomach tenses. “That feels—fuck.”

Before she can move again, he flips her. A sudden shift of balance. His hands firm on her hips, and then her back pressed to the mattress before she knows what’s happening. She laughs, genuinely startled. He grins down at her, boyish and flushed with victory.

“Impatient?” she asks.

“You have no idea.”

He settles between her thighs again, kissing her collar, her breast, her neck, hands sliding beneath her to hook her knees over his arms. She’s practically bent in half beneath him when she feels the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance.

“Yes?”

It melts her heart that he asked. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and nods. 

“Yes.”

He pushes in slowly. Helena groans in pleasure. The stretch is immediate. Delicious. She claws at the sheets, hips twitching, her walls clenching around him as he slides deeper and deeper until he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” Mark hisses. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight.”

She grits her teeth and breathes through it. He’s thick. Not unbearable, but more than she’s used to. There’s something in the way he’s trying so hard to stay still that makes her pulse throb. His forehead is pressed to her shoulder, fingers gripping her thighs.

“Are you ready?”

“Move.”

He starts slow at first. Drawing out until only the head remains inside her, then thrusts back in with a groan. Helena gasps, the impact driving sound out of her lungs. The pace remains measured for as long as he can hold out, but he picks up quickly—young and impatient and fucking her with a kind of abandon that makes her vision blur.

The bed jerks beneath them. Creaks. Groans. Rattles against the wall. Her head knocks gently against the headboard. Her hips rise to meet his, matching the pace on every thrust. Sweat drips from his neck onto her chest, and she can feel the heat radiating from his skin, hear the slap of their bodies meeting again and again and again.

Mark’s mouth is everywhere.

He’s kissing her breasts, her throat, her jaw, saying things between gasps—so good, so fucking perfect, can’t believe I get to fuck you. She wants to laugh, wants to tease him, but she can’t. Not when it feels this good. Not when every word he says hits somewhere she thought was long buried.

She clings to him. Her nails drag down his back, leaving angry red trails. She locks her legs around his waist and pulls him deeper and tighter, but something isn’t clicking. The angle is wrong. The pressure builds but doesn’t crest. It flutters and fades.

She huffs. “I want to go on top.”

He slows, but doesn’t pull out. His gaze drops to hers, expression is nothing short of wicked.

“You want me to let you up so you can take the lead?” He thrusts hard. Helena gasps. “You wanna use me?” Another thrust. “That it?” And another, right to the hilt. “Ride this cock like it belongs to you?”

She cups his jaw. His face is damp with sweat. She traces the pad of her thumb roughly across his lower lip.

“You fucking tease me right now and you’ll regret it.”

Mark’s smirk is pure trouble. “Is that a promise?”

Helena answers with a flex of her thighs. She locks her ankles behind his back, and uses all her strength to roll them. He yelps, half laugh half gasp, and lands on his back with a grunt, eyes wide, panting as she straddles him. Her hands settle on his chest. She can feel his heart pounding through the skin.

He looks up at her like she’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. “Holy shit.”

Helena sinks down slow, breath locked in her chest, thighs trembling. The stretch as she lowers onto him isn’t just good—it’s goddamn divine. She feels her cunt open for him inch by inch. When her hips finally settle flush against his, her eyes water.

Mark’s hips twitch up into her instinctively, a needy little buck, and then again, a little more urgent. His hands reach for her like he can’t help it, ghosting up her sides, finding her hips then her waist then her breasts. She catches both of his wrists before he can get a proper grip, drags his hands down the curve of her body and plants them firmly on her thighs.

“Down, boy,” she murmurs, holding them in place. 

Mark whimpers.

She starts to move. Small, tight circles with her hips, grinding slow enough it aches. Mark groans with every motion, his hands tightening against her skin. 

“Fuck, Helena—Jesus.”

“Shh.” She tilts her hips forward and back, finding her rhythm. “Slowly, baby. Be patient.”

He nods, trying to behave, but his chest heaves under her palms, muscles drawn. “Please,” he gasps. “Please, I—I need more.”

“What was that? Did you say something?”

He groans again. “Helena—come on, please. Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, I know you will.” She grinds down hard, making his hips stutter. “But if you want to come insisde me rather than into your own fist, you’re going to let me finish first.”

“Fuck yes. God, yes, please—please. Ride me. Ride me ‘till you come. Please.”

“Such a good boy for me.”

Helena shifts her hands to his lower stomach, braces herself there, and starts to rise. Her knees dig into the mattress, and her thighs flex as she lifts off him almost entirely, then sinks back down with a sharp smack of skin on skin. Mark cries out, head snapping back against the pillow.

She does it again. Then again. The rhythm builds fast. Hips bucking and lifting and slamming back down onto him. His cock fills her over and over. Every time she drops, it drives the air from her lungs. Mark can’t stay quiet. He’s making the most obscene sounds—moans, curses, broken syllables of her name. Every time she sinks down on him, he lets out this gorgeous, strangled groan.

“That’s it. Let me hear you.”

“Shit,” he gasps. “You ride like a fucking goddess—fuck, you feel so perfect—so tight—so wet—Helena, oh my God—”

She watches him beneath her. His hair damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His chest gleaming, muscles trembling, his hands still planted exactly where she put them on her thighs. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth.

“Don’t you dare come,” she growls, “Not until I say.”

Mark groans, eyes fluttering. “I won’t—I promise—I’m trying—”

She reaches between them with one hand and starts to rub her clit, firm little circles that make her thighs shake harder. Her other hand stays braced on his stomach, anchoring her.

“I’m nearly there, baby,” she pants. “You hold on. Can you do that for me?”

Mark nods frantically, swallowing hard. “Yes—yes, I’ll wait—fuck—please—please—”

She leans forward as her orgasm starts to crest. The pressure curls deep in her belly. She strokes her clit harder and faster, body trembling. She wipes his sweat-slicked hair from Mark’s brow and leans in until their foreheads are pressed together.

They lock eyes.

His are wide, dark, wild with desperation. Hers are glassy and burning.

“Now,” she breathes. “Come for me, beautiful boy.”

He breaks.

With a guttural sound, he wraps one arm around her waist, the other fisting tight in her hair, and starts to fuck up into her with everything he has. His hips slap against hers, his breath comes in ragged gasps, and Helena doesn’t stop rubbing herself, not for a second. They move together, desperate and breathless and soaked. 

Helena comes with a cry, her whole body locking up as pleasure wracks her in waves. She clenches around him, hard, and that’s all it takes. Mark follows with a primal grunt, hips jerking erratically, cock twitching deep inside her. He trembles, moaning her name.

She stays on him, both of them shaking, both of them gasping for breath. Their bodies slick and trembling, joined at every point.

A single tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t even feel it until his thumb brushes it away. Mark cradles her face gently, palm warm against her jaw.

“You okay?” he whispers.

She nods. Eyes still shut.

They breathe like that for a long time. Pressed together in the quiet.

Evenually she rolls off him in a daze and melting into the mattress. Her chest rises and falls in unsteady waves as he breathing steadies. She blinks up at the pale ceiling above, lashes sticky with sweat. It’s like surfacing from some depthless warmth, but underneath the satisfaction, something heavier rises, too.  

Sex has never felt like that before.

Not just the pleasure — though that too, obviously, it was the kind of release that scrapes the edge of her soul raw — but something all of it. The listening. Knowing. Until now, her body had been speaking in a language no one ever bothered to learn, and somehow this young, charming stranger heard every word and answered back in fluent touch.

Her eyes burn. From the sweat, she tells herself. From the effort. Not from the ache in her chest that’s starting to pulse harder now that it’s over.

Mark slips from the bed. She doesn’t look. Hears the rustle of the condom, the faint squish of it rolled off, the sound of the ensuite door creaking open. The tap runs. Then stops. Footsteps pad back into the bedroom.

“Hey. Can I get my fifty bucks now?”

Her heart seizes. She turns her head to look at him slowly, blood roaring in her ears.

“What?”

He grins like it’s nothing. “You know. From the bet.”

Her breath catches. Humiliation scorches through her, burning her cheeks. 

Of course. 

Of course it didn’t mean anything to him. She was a hook up in a bar. A story to tell his friends. She’s the punchline he’ll give when he uses the money to buy a round of beers tomorrow. The older woman with the nice dress and the credit card and the shiny fucking house. 

She sits up too fast. Her stomach twists, then sinks. The shame is nauseating. 

“Yeah—um,” she stammers, steadying herself against the edge of the bed. “Sorry. I think I have some cash in the nightstand.”

“What?” Mark blinks. 

She fumbles with the drawer. “If not, my wallet is in my purse.”

“Jesus, no—I was kidding.” He crosses the room fast, drops onto the edge of the bed beside her and shuts the drawer before she can open it again. “I was joking. I don’t want your money.”

“I told you I’d pay. I don’t mind.”

“Stop.” He pulls her gently toward him. “Fuck, you’re shaking. Helena, come here.”

His arms tighten around her. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her damp temple. “That was a stupid, fucking idiot thing to say. I was just trying to make you laugh. I swear to God, I don’t want your money.”

She exhales into him, and the taut thing inside of her gut loosens. She braced herself so quickly for the familiar choke of misunderstanding a man’s intentions toward her, the relief of realising she was wrong is overwhelming. He kisses her again, lips buried in her hair, and Helena melts into him. Lets herself be held.

“For the record,” she says quietly. “If you did want my money, you’d be worth a lot more than fifty bucks.”

He laughs in delight and the sound knocks the last of the sting from her. He leans back, guiding her with him, until they’re tangled in the center of the bed again. She rests against him. Cheek to chest. His skin is hot, damp, still buzzing with adrenaline. She’s not a cuddler, never has been, but something about the way he holds her makes her want to be. She feels pliant in his touch. Boneless. It’s disarming. 

The terrified part of her — the part stitched together with decades of control and distance — wants to send him home. Wants to reclaim the solitude that protects her. But another part — hungrier, smaller and much more dangerous — wants to stay like this for a little while longer. 

Mark strokes her hair.

“You ever see Jaws?” he asks.

Helena blinks against his chest. “What?”

“When I was a kid, I watched it like twenty times. It scared the shit out of me. Still does, kind of. But I loved it. That music, the way you never saw the shark. Just shadows and water and dread. Anyway… they’re showing it at the theater this weekend for the fiftieth anniversary.” He pauses. Then, a little more tentative, adds, “Maybe we could go?”

She lifts her head slowly.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah.”

“On a date?”

“Uh. Yeah. What else?”

“Do you realise I’m sixteen years older than you?”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “So? I’m not proposing marriage, Helena.”

She snorts, collapsing back against him with a groan. “That’s sweet, but I’m not really a dating kind of person.”

“Well, I’m not a one-night-stand kind of person. So I guess we’ll have to compromise.”

She giggles despite herself. 

“How about you spend the night and we take it from there.”

She doesn’t mean it, not in the way he thinks she does. In the daylight, she figures, everything will recalibrate. He’ll come to his senses, go back to his own life and eventually forget her name, and next quarter she’ll find a new guy to fill the void. She’ll be fine. She’s always fine.

Mark grins against her hair. “Deal.” He spanks her ass with a firm, open palm. “I know what I want for breakfast.”

“Pervert.”

“Actually, come to think of it,” he muses, voice dropping playfully, “I’m not sure I had enough to eat tonight.”

“You cannot possibly be horny already.”

“Oh really?”

His arms tighten around her and she feels it coming just a moment before it happens. She squeals. “No—no—stop—Mark! Don’t! I’m comfy—”

He flips them with an easy roll of his hips, pinning her beneath him. His mouth finds her throat, then her collarbone. Ticklish kisses that pepper her skin everywhere he can reach. 

“Maybe another round will seal the deal on that movie, huh?” he murmurs against her skin, kissing lower. 

She threads her fingers through his hair, breath catching, legs already starting to fall open. As he climbs between her thighs and his mouth closes around her nipple, she finds herself thinking through a giddy, pleasure-drunk haze that if he keeps this up, she might just book out the whole fucking theatre. 

Chapter Text

The last time Helena woke up beside another person, she was in her early twenties. Skin, warm, pressed along one side. Breath rising and falling in sync. The sickening satisfaction of waking up next to a man who would never be hers, but who allowed her to believe he could. The closest thing she ever had to a relationship. He’d let her spend the night when his wife and kids were out of town. One or two times a month, in his grandiose home overlooking the lake. He would fall asleep instantly, snoring with his mouth open. In the morning, she’d slip her panties into the hamper and spritz herself with wife’s perfume. He never kissed her goodbye.

In the years that have passed since then, she’s built her own rituals. Fuck them, then leave. Or on the occasions she books a hotel suite, let them leave first, so she can use what she paid for. Cleaner that way. No hollow intimacy. No risk of watching the erotic buzz dissolve in the morning light. She doesn’t do breakfast. Doesn’t do eye contact while spitting toothpaste. Doesn’t do the domestic theatre of pulling on somebody else’s crumpled shirt and pretending it’s anything other than pathetic. 

So, she isn’t disappointed to wake up alone. 

Mark, she imagines, woke with a jolt. Brown eyes blinking against the light and widening in shock, realising exactly where he was. Recoiling beside a naked woman in her late thirties, and an Eagan, no less. Bedroom the size of his whole crappy student apartment. The scent of sex still cloying in the air. He panicked. Tugged on his jeans and slipped out of the house before she woke up and made it weird. 

It’s fine. Better this way. Cleaner.

Helena’s eyes flutter closed once more, body melting into the high thread count sheets. Her thighs ache in a way that makes her stomach tighten with satisfaction. There’s the ghost of a hickey on her pelvis; a remnant of his enthusiasm. Swimming will strain more than usual today. For all his boyish naivety, he’d fucked her like he had something to prove. Bright and eager. Obeying her instructions with glassy-eyed devotion. 

She stretches, slowly, hand smoothing over the soft skin of her stomach and she hums. Her fingertips dip lower as she recalls the way his jaw slackened when she dug her heel into his lower back. She shifts, thighs parting under the sheets. 

Is this right? Tell me how you like it—fuck. Fuck. Helena. I want to be so good for you.

Heat pools in her lower belly as her touch ghosts over her clit. Just the lightest pressure. A warm up before the main event when she slips into the shower. Her head tips back against the pillow. 

“Fuck. Mark…”

Her lips part around a shallow gasp, cut off in an instant when a violent, shrieking sound rips through the silence. Piercing and relentless as it blares. 

“Jesus.” Helena bolts upright, breath caught in her throat. 

Blankets slide from her as she scrambles to her feet. Something smoky and acrid nips at her nose. Not wasting time, she grabs her robe— luxurious emerald silk, ankle length—from the back of the door and swings it over her shoulders. Bare feet slap the tile as she darts down the hall, still blinking sleep from her eyes.  Blood roars in her ears. It has been years since the anti-Lumon vigilantes targeted her at home. 

In the foyer, Helena grabs the heavy, droplet shaped glass orb from its plinth and heads toward the source of the sound. It’s coming from the kitchen. She rounds the corner, expecting to see the window caved in, but instead… it’s him.

Mark stands barefoot in his boxers, muttering curses beneath his breath and wafting a towel toward the smoke alarm. 

“Shit—shit. Shut up. Turn off. Shut up! Damnit!”

A scorched pan rests on the front burner, billowing smoke in steady grey waves. Whatever was inside has met an undignified end. Blackened and dried against the steel. The whole room reeks of charcoal. 

He glances up at her. Grins, sheepish and lopsided and unreasonably charming. 

“Mornin’, beautiful.”

Relief rolls over her in a wave. Tension drains from her shoulders. She sets down the paperweight on the kitchen island and crosses toward him. With a flick of her wrist, the fan above the stove whirs to life, sucking the smoke through the hood. She plucks the wooden spoon from Mark’s hand and lifts it high, using the tip to jab the reset button on the alarm, bringing merciful silence. 

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Helena smirks through her scowl. “Well, you certainly surprised me.”

He didn’t sneak out. It’s the opposite, in fact. He has made himself quite at home here, bare chested, scrambling eggs like he belongs. There’s no space to linger on what that means, because he’s already talking. Words tumbling over each other, too fast for her still drowsy brain.

“I was gonna make you breakfast but there’s nothing in your fridge except eggs and bottled sparkling water. I thought about DoorDashing something but my phone died, so I figured, alright cool, just make the eggs. But you don’t have any butter. Or oil. And apparently you need that otherwise they, you know, weld themselves to the pan—”

Helena’s palm finds his cheek, cool silk sleeve brushing his bare shoulder. She cups his face, and grazes the peach fuzz along his jaw with her thumb before she drags it over his parted lips. 

“Shhh.”

“S’rry,” he mumbles against the pad of her thumb.

“I thought you’d be too worn out to have this much energy so early.”

A delicate pink blush spreads across his cheeks. “Are you a no-talking-before-coffee kind of person?”

“That’s right.”

“My bad.”

He winks at her. Makes a little mime of turning a key at his lips and tossing it over his shoulder. Then, he presses his mug into her hand— his own, still two-thirds full but rapidly cooling. Helena passes it back, unimpressed. 

“Keep it.”

A button press and the machine blinks to life, grinding and steaming, filling the kitchen with a familiar hiss as her own coffee is poured. She leans back against the counter and savours the few seconds of silence. It doesn’t last.

“So, uh… where are all your groceries?”

Helena shrugs. “I have a chef who comes Saturdays to prep dinners for the week.”

“What about snacks?”

“There’s wine in the basement.”

If Mark has any comment on her dietary habits, he keeps it to himself. He smirks fondly at her as she lifts the ruined pan to the sink. Black crust clings stubbornly to the steel, but she twists the faucet, letting water flow over the damage. 

He comes up behind her without warning, chin settling into the crook of her shoulder, hand resting easy at her hip. Steam curls up from the pan and her pulse quickens. Not from desire, but tension. The closeness. The causal intimacy of it tightens her chest. 

Saturdays are supposed to be hers. Ritualised, solitary. No Lumon, no responsibilities, just order. One hundred lengths in the pool. A hair mask steeped for exactly ninety minutes. Coconut scrub on every inch of her skin. Newspapers in three languages. Classical music while she stretches. Every other month she walks out to leave a carnation on her parents’ grave. If she’s careful, she doesn’t hear another voice all day. No interruptions. Certainly not a twenty one year old student pressing his half hard dick against her ass.

“So, Jaws is showing at the Leonora downtown. I don’t have a car right now, so I can’t pick you up unless Dylan lets me borrow his— but his girlfriend is visiting this weekend, so maybe we could meet outside? Or inside by the concession stand if it’s raining?”

Helena’s shoulders stiffen. She shuts off the tap with unnecessary force, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“I can’t go to the movies with you tonight.”

“Oh. That’s—okay.” He nods optimistically. “Is Sunday better? Or next week? Any night other than Wednesday."

“No, Mark.”

He flashes her a look, just at the cusp of understanding but still desperate enough to try. “I’ll cancel my plans on Wednesday. I’m a shitty tutor anyway. That kid’ll do better in his homework without me.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s not the day. It’s… no.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

He drags his hand awkwardly over the back of his neck, nails scratching at the nape. “Was last night not—” He stops. Swallows. “Was it not good for you? Because I can do better.”

“No,” she blurts. His brow furrows and she stammers to correct herself. “I mean no, it’s not you. It’s…um, me.”

The phase is bitterly cliche. She winces, knowing how it feels to be on the other side of it. Too many times. When she was younger and hungrier. Naive enough to assume men wanted more than just sex, only to be handed the same flimsy reassurance. Eventually, she learned to stop asking. Now here she is, parroting it back.

“Is it the age thing?”

“No.” That, at least, is true. “No, Mark. It’s not that. Last night was—” she exhales, steading herself. “It was great. You were—” fucking unbelievable.  “It was good for me. Really good. But I don’t… Between my job and— I just don’t have space in my life to date anybody. That’s not who I am. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Oh.”

The words hang between them. His face falters. Shoulders tense. A blush of embarrassment rather than coyness creeps over his neck and he won’t meet her eye. For the first time, he seems acutely aware of his near nakedness. He covers himself with one arm over his chest, clutching his opposite shoulder, then nods. 

“Guess I’ll go get dressed.”

Helena smiles as gently as she can manage. “I’ll try to salvage what’s left of my chef’s favourite pan,” she says. A weak attempt at levity.

He doesn’t laugh. 

“Can I, uh, borrow your charger? Phone’s outta juice.”

“Of course. Use the shower too, if you like. My driver can drop you off wherever you want.”

Mark scoffs. “I can call my own cab, thanks.”

He walks back down the hall toward her bedroom, muscles taut, shoulders hunched slightly forward. Helena stays rooted by the sink, guilt pressing heavy in her chest as she grips the edge of the counter until her knuckles pale. She wanted clean and uncomplicated. Now, she just feels cruel. The feeling clings long after her coffee is gone and the wreckage of the pan has been dropped into the trash.

Disappointing him is pragmatic. A hell of a lot better than the alternative. She cannot be the older woman caught in a movie theatre holding hands with a boy who should be writing term papers. It isn’t respectable, it isn’t wise, and as far as publicity is concerned, it isn’t survivable. He was tempted by her body and her wealth, just like they all are. Helena has spent long enough figuring out that nothing lasts once the initial excitement wears off. Better to cut him free now before he figures it out for himself.

She finishes her coffee, pours away his half cold mug and stacks them in the dishwasher. Then, she tiptoes back down the hall. She’ll slip back into the bedroom, grab her phone while he showers and retreat into her own solitude.

The plan falters when she reaches the door, left hanging ajar. Through the gap comes the low murmur of his voice.

“…no, man. It was… yeah. It was awesome,” Mark whispers down the line. “I’ve never met anybody like her before.”

Helena braces for the sting. Waits for her name to turn into fodder. A laugh among friends about his hot older conquest. That’s how these things go. Men cut the tenderness. Polish the memory into something they can brandish. She steels herself for it. 

“She’s just so… interesting. And pretty. Fuck, her eyes are outta this world.” A pause follows, then a defensive laugh. “Shut the hell up. How does complimenting a woman’s eyes make me gay? That’s like… the opposite. And offensive, man.”

She bites back a smirk. 

“Whatever. If you and Gretch’ want the tickets, take ‘em. I bought them online after she went to sleep, but she, uh, can’t make it.”

There’s another pause while he listens to something Helena can’t catch. Mark clears his throat, lets out a short, unconvincing laugh.

 “No, she didn’t use me,” he says quickly, stumbling over the denial. Helena feels a pull in her chest. “She’s just— she’s busy, that’s all. Doesn’t really have time right now. It’s fine.” It lands with a sigh, thick with something heavier. “It’s cool, seriously. I’m just… yeah. It’s no big deal. Yeah. I’ll be back at the apartment soon, just waiting for my Uber.”

The call ends with a soft beep. Mark drags his hand through his hair and perches on the edge of Helena’s bed.

In the hall, Helena doesn’t move. She feels the uncomfortable weight of what she has overheard settle around her. This isn’t some petty sulk over a rejection. Not the sound of a guy who does this often and knows the drill. He’s embarrassed. And trying, desperately to play it off. He’s protecting himself in the same way she used to. Lying to cover the ache. 

She hurt him. 

Footsteps echo across the room. Helena straightens quickly, feigning distance, pretending she hasn’t been listening at the door. 

“You got everything you need?”

“Uh, yeah.” Mark nods awkwardly. “All set. Uber’s here.”

“Sure.”

The walk to the foyer is quiet. She pulls her robe tighter, fastening the silk knot at her waist. He looks sheepish, though polite enough to still manage a smile. In the open doorway, he hesitates. His hand rests briefly on her arm, thumb grazing the smooth fabric. 

“Nice meeting you, Helena. I had a really great time last night.”

He leans in and presses a delicate kiss to her cheek. Helena only nods. Watches him step out into the morning light, shoulders squared like he’s determined not to sag. The door shuts behind him, leaving her alone in the silence.

“So did I,” she whispers. She clears her throat. Repeats the words louder to the empty hallway. “So did I. Fuck— so did I.”

Helena wrenches the front door open before she has chance to talk herself out of it.

“Mark!”

He turns from where his cab idles in the turning circle, hair swishing and catching in the air.

“Uh-huh?”

“What time does the movie start?”

The grin that spreads across his face is as instant as it is enormous. So wide it splits his face, baring his teeth. He leans to say something quick to the driver, then breaks into a dash toward her.

 “Seven thirty,” he beams, eyes alight. 

“I’ll meet you there.”

The grin grows impossibly bigger. It’s infectious. She finds herself smiling mirroring it.

“Can I take you out for dinner first?”

Helena smirks. “Don’t push it.”

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, throwing up his palms in defence. “Just the movie, got it.” His gaze flicks to her mouth. He leans in, then stops himself. “Sorry—can I kiss you?”

Her chest tightens. “Yes.”

It isn’t a chaste, goodbye peck. He takes her permission and runs with it. Takes hold of the robe cord at her waist and tugs, drawing her body flush with his. The kiss is hard and eager, full of sudden heat that steals her breath. He tastes of her toothpaste as his tongue slides past her lips, his free hand cupping the back of her neck. She grips his shoulders, caught off guard, dizzy with his insistence. 

When she pulls back, she’s breathless, mouth tingling. 

“That’s more like it,” he whispers. 

The cab horn blares. Mark lingers a second longer, long enough to cover her lips with a brief, closed mouth kiss. 

“See you tonight. You’re not going to regret it.”

Then, he’s gone, darting back toward the car, leaving her standing in the doorway, heart racing like a girl much younger than she is.

-x- 

Outfit ideas + movie theatre date

First date outfits 

What to wear on on a first date when you’re nearly 40

Is it wrong to date a guy 16 years younger than me?

Two hours of searching, and an afternoon spent dredging her closet for what little she owns that doesn’t scream boardroom, and Helena settles on a choice. Black leather skirt, paired with a thin cream sweater tucked just so. A long coat against the evening chill. Boots that narrow to a point and pinch her toes, but compromise by accentuating her toned calves. 

Now, she sits in the back of her car, second-guessing whether she ought to be here at all. The temptation to tell her driver to turn around flares at every light. Every intersection that narrows the distance between her and the theatre is another opportunity to run. Her father’s voice intrudes at the back of her mind, reminding her that frivolity is unbecoming. Indulgence is dangerous. 

You’re being foolish, my child. End this at once. 

The voice falters when the car rounds the corner and she sees him. 

Mark stands under the glow of the awning, checking his neatly combed hair in the reflection of a poster box. His shirt is flannel, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs. Ironed jeans. Polished boots. A bunch of artificially bright gas station flowers dangle from one hand. The sight of him scatters her nerves clean. 

“Just here is fine,” she tells her driver. 

The driver pulls up to the curb, then rounds the car to open her door. Mark’s jaw clackens as she steps out. His gaze sweeps the line of her coat, skimming the flash of leather and the pale knit clinging at her waist, before landing on her eyes. 

“You look—Jesus—you look amazing.”

Helena tilts her chin in amusement. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

His blush is immediate, blooming high on his cheekbones. The layered scent of three different colognes is an assault on the senses. She could find him blindfolded in a hurricane. It tickles her throat, but makes her smile despite herself. His gaze lingers on her mouth. She leans forward, intent on kissing him, but he stops short, his hand diving into his pocket. 

“Oh, wait—I got you something.”

He tucks the flowers beneath his arm, seemingly now reduced to an afterthought, and pulls loose a pair of novelty socks patterned with foxes and drops them into her hand. 

She smirks, turning the package over in her palm. “Because… they rhyme?”

“No, not—” he grins, shaking his head. “Because of the fox from when you were a kid.”

Helena’s breath catches. The moment stalls as she runs her thumb over the fabric. “I forgot I told you that,” she whispers. 

“Shit. Did I get it wrong? You don’t like them.”

“They’re perfect,” Helena breathes out. “Thank you.”

The slight tremor betrays her embarrassment that a pair of socks can move her in this way. Before Mark can comment, she lifts forward onto her toes and kisses him. It starts sweet. Chaste. His lips are gentle and soft against hers. Until his tongue drags against the seam of her mouth, a daring move that makes her pull back with a laugh. 

“Easy, tiger. We’re in public.”

His smirk is unrepentant. He winks at her. “You’d be surprised what you can get away with in public.”

“That right?”

“Come on.” He gestures toward the glass doors, flowers clutched in one hand, the other reaching toward her. “I got us seats at the back.”

-x- 

True to his word, Mark has claimed the back row, far corner. Seats that come with very little illusion that watching the movie is the main event. The screen glows faint blue, trailers already rolling. A scattering of couples are dotted among the lower rows, but theirs is deserted. The world has been pared down to her and him and the allure of shadows.

He muffles an exaggerated yawn behind his fist. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, stretching his arms high overhead until a stripe of pale skin and the hem of his boxers are revealed above his jeans. “Somebody kept me up all last night. I’m so… tired. I just need to—”

He yawns again for effect. When his arms fall, one drapes casually over her shoulders. She ought to roll her eyes at the move, but the boyish charm works on her. Relaxation creeps in where tension had held her muscles tense. She surprises herself by leaning back into him, fitting beneath the crook of his arm. 

From one pocket he produces a crinkling packet, then another, then another. They cascade into his lap in a bright rustle of colours. 

“Candy?”

Helena lifts a brow. “You smuggled contraband into the theatre?”

“Rebel without a cause.” He tears a pack open with his teeth.

“Dangerous. Don’t tell me you jaywalk, too?”

“You gonna tell on me?”

“Maybe. Unless you’re going to make it worth my while not to?”

Their whispers fold into the dark, small sparks of laughter sparking between them, weaving a rhythm more compelling than anything flickering on the screen. The movie, but Mark seems uninterested. His focus drifts to her—the slow peeling of her coat from her shoulders, sweater clinging to her torso beneath. His fingers find the bare strip of skin where the sweater slips off her shoulder, and he traces idle, feather-light patterns there.

Helena can’t focus. She notices the heat of his gaze more than the actors on the screen. Hears how his breathing shallows. How his face drifts fractionally closer with each passing moment. Barely twenty minutes in, he leans close, lips brushing just beneath her ear. 

“Wanna make out?”

A laugh curls in her throat but never escapes. She turns her head. Finds his face inches from hers. Her narrowed eyes lock onto his bright, eager ones. 

She answers by meeting him half way. Her mouth finds his and the theatre dissolves to the background. He kisses like a man starved. Hot and wet and tasting of sugar. He cups the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, chasing the angle, pressing harder when she opens to him. He thrusts his tongue against hers with enthusiasm. It’s passionate and messy, but there’s a pace to pleasure that he hasn’t learned yet. 

Helena nips his lower lip between her teeth, a gentle halt to his momentum. 

“Slow down,” she whispers against him. “Just feel it.”

“Mmhm.”

Helena’s life has been paced by restriction. Many of her younger years were spent thrashing against a schedule and a town and a lifestyle she never asked for. Running in circles, chafing at the collar. Drunk on wanting what would never be hers. Age, however, taught her something more harder, the worth of slow indulgences. The way satisfaction can be measured, not binged. The way pleasure multiplies when you make yourself wait. 

There’s no rush now. She kisses him deep and languid. Withdraws just far enough that he has to follow, leans back in to meet him, only to retreat again. A tiny frustrated sound escapes him when she denies him the next kiss by a hair. She rewards him with the faintest pressure of her tongue swiping across his bottom lip. The arm around her tightens. He gets it. He’s listening. 

“This is…” He’s breathless against her. “This is so—fuck—this is awesome.”

She hums in amusement.

The hand at her head softens to a cradle, while the other skates lower. His knuckles brush the hem of her skirt. He’s careful not to presume. He traces a lazy pattern of spirals over her bare knee, teasing to the edge of her thigh without climbing. If she had more patience, she might make him suffer for his coyness. Make him ask. Make him wait. She’s not in the mood to be cruel. 

Her palm covers his hand, inching him higher. Leather shifts. Breath catches. Their joined hands creep upward until his fingertips meet lace.

“Fuck,” he breathes against her lips. 

“Keep going.”

Helena draws back her touch to rest on his forearm. He slips the narrow strip of her panties aside. Fingers explore the slick, building heat. He strokes along the inner seam of her thigh, brows pinched in concentration. 

“That the right place?”

“Not quite.”

She guides him with the lightest pressure. A tilt and a shift until two fingertips settle where her pulse throbs. Contact strikes like a match flare.

“There?” he grins as she inhales sharply.

“Mmhm.” Helena nods. “Little circles, okay?”

He obeys immediately. Small, patient orbits of her clit. The pressure is tentative. She lets him feel her reaction and calibrate. He’s almost unbearably attentive. Testing and learning. When her exhale flows, he gives a fraction more. When her breath hitches, he eases. Her hips lift involuntarily toward him and his enthusiasm peaks. He tries to slide one finger between her folds, searching for her entrance, but the angle is bad. The arm rest is in the way and the seat is too narrow for her legs to open wider. 

She shakes her head and leans toward his ear. “Stick with what you’re doing, baby. You’ve got it.”

“Okay.”

His mouth returns to her, this time, beneath her ear. A warm, wet press that deepens just enough to tease without leaving a mark. Before she can stop it, a small, breathy whine escapes her. He hears it. Smiles against her skin. Laps and sucks at her again, chasing her reaction.

“You like that?” he whispers “Feels good?”

She answers with a gentle hum. Her hand slides idly into his hair, fingers threading the soft, fine mess of it. Nails graze his scalp and he lets out a helpless little groan.

“Maybe you could, uh, tell me how good it feels?”

The boy wants her approval. Of course he does. A wicked grin hooks at the corner of her mouth and she turns to press her lips against his ear. 

“You’re doing fine.”

“Fine?” He adds a touch more pressure that robs her of any hope of breathing steady. “How about now?”

“Shhh. I’m watching the movie.”

He huffs in amused frustration. “Helena,” he whines, drawing out the vowels. “Please.”

“If you want my praise, it’s going to take a lot more than fooling around in the dark.”

He grits his jaw in determination. Drops his lips back to the side of her neck and tightens the circles over her clit to a smaller radius. More pressure. Not fast, but beautifully paced. A steady constant that allows pleasure to build. The armrest digs into her ribs and the leather of her skirt squeaks as she shifts, but none of it matters. He leans in and groans her name against her ear.

She will not give the room a show. Her teeth clamp her bottom lip as her orgasm crests and she holds her breath. She closes her grip around his wrist and holds him there tightly as she rocks through it, grinding shamelessly. When it ebbs, slowness returns. His hand stills beneath hers as she melts back into the seat, chest rising and falling.

He waits patiently until her breathing evens. Until he can’t help himself. His nose finds her neck. A soft nuzzle that moves into trailing kisses as he traces his fingers up and down her arm. He nudges her hand gently toward his thigh. The motion reads about as subtle as if he were to rut his stiff cock against her leg.

“Is there something you want?”

He swallows and nods quickly. “Please.”

“Use your words, sweet boy.”

“Please. Please touch me.”

“Mm.” She pretends to consider, because denial breeds appetite and he wears hunger beautifully. “Where?”

The strangled, needy sound is music to her ears. 

“Helena.”

Before she gives him what he needs, his patience gets one more nudge. Her hand drifts slowly along his thigh, smoothing the inseam of the denim. Up to the flat of his belly where his shirt has come untucked, then back down again. Her thumb nail scrapes his zipper. Even through the thick fabric she feels his cock twitch. He clenches his fist, trying to sit still, but fails when she flattens her palm over his length.

“Hard already?”

He scoffs. “Since the previews.”

“Oh, baby,” she coos.

Helena pops the button on his jeans with her thumb. She slips her hand beneath both the denim and his boxers. Knuckles graze cotton as she glides through the coarse hair there. He’s thick in her grip, cock hot and heavy in her delicate fingertips. He curses against her temple, then again when she tightens her hold.

With a cursory glance out at the rest of the theatre, checking they are still unobserved, Helena begins to stroke him base to tip. Slow enough to be mean, thorough enough to be kind. On screen, waves rise and crash as the great white is hunted. The noise is just enough to cover the sound of his hiss as she twists her wrist at the end of each stroke.

“Jesus. Oh, God, Helena—”

Pace is everything. She won’t race him to it. Won’t let him spill into her fist after ninety seconds of heavy petting. She keeps him right there on the edge, teaching him the virtue of patience. Short strokes over the head, longer at the base. A pause to drag her thumb over the weeping tip that makes him choke on her name and grip the armrest. 

He tries to thrust into her fist. Thinks better of it when she tuts in disapproval.

“Please. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be so good. I—oh, fuck. Oh my God— please don’t stop.”

“Shh. I know.”

“Fuck, you’re—” He cant find the words. He gives up and kisses her, needy and open mouthed, then breaks to breath her in. “You’re incredible. You’re so hot. Fuck, Helena.”

Every muscle in his core goes taut and his mouth falls open. She slows deliberately. He gasps, she grins, keeping him there until he’s practically whimpering, then gives him the speed he needs and watches him come undone. 

“Now,” she orders.

He makes a low, guttural sound and obeys. His body seizes, face pressed against her shoulder. Release shudders through him as come streaks her hand, his boxers, his stomach. She strokes him through it, murmuring gentle praise into his hair, equal parts grateful and proud of how quietly he rides it out.  When the last of it passes, she releases him with a final squeeze before tucking him back into his clothes.

“Holy— Jesus. I’m— wow.”

Reality floods back to her in the quiet aftermath. She giggles in disbelief as she grabs a tissue from her purse. “I can’t believe I just did that,” she hisses around a laugh. “We’re in public.”

“Hands down, the best date I’ve had in my life.”

Mark grins conspiratorially at their shared moment of rebellion. The movie score swells as she rests back into her seat and his arm reclaims its place around her shoulders. His free hand finds hers, fingers exploring her knuckles as they let the darkness settle around them. The pad of his thumb drifts over the faint ridge of a scar. A remnant from a compunction statement with a little too much resistance. She wonders whether he’ll ask, but he doesn’t. Just kisses her temple as her eyes drift closed. 

“Go to sleep, if you want. I’ll wake you when the movie ends.”

He squeezes her hand briefly before returning to gentle caresses. Helena allows herself to tip her head against his shoulder and rest her eyes, just for a minute.

-x- 

The foyer’s light is brutal after the comfort of the dark. Overhead bulbs sting against retinas still adjusted to blue. She blinks the sleepy haze from her eyes until the edges stop pulsing. Mark guides with his hand at her lower back, and she clutches the small bunch of flowers between them. At the door, night awaits. It’s a quiet street, with few people and even fewer cars. He nudges the bar with his hip, gentlemanly as he holds it for her to walk through. 

Their eyes meet as they step out onto the sidewalk.

“I know you said just the movie, but there’s a gelato place a few blocks from here? We could get something? Maybe walk along the riverbank?”

“I’m not one for ice cream.”

There’s a tiny sag of his eyes before he corrects it. “Okay. Sure. That’s—”

“But the walk sounds nice.”

Relief blooms across his face. He slips his hand into hers, interlacing their fingers and burying their joined hands in his jacket pocket to stave off the cold. Helena lets herself be led. 

Off main, the town quietens. Street lamps cast shallow pools of amber on the street. Wind lifts the damp river smell around them. The path along the water’s edge is well lit and clean. Sparsely occupied by dog walkers who nod polite greetings and keep moving. The current laps against the embankment and the breeze kicks up around their ankles. 

“So… thoughts on the movie?”

Helena nudges his side playfully. “They were playing a movie in there?”

Mark’s laugh is low and warm. It curls through her. Pools low in her gut. 

As they walk, small questions from him keep time with their footsteps. Favourite concession candy. Whether she watches movies with subtitles. He asked if she ever pretends to like a movie just because everybody else did, then confesses he never understood the ending of Inception. She teases him, and he kisses her softly to settle the debate. Conversation flows from cop-chase dramas to penguin documentaries. Movie villains and gut wrenching tear jerkers. 

Between subjects, silence stretches comfortably.

He does not mention Lumon. Does not touch her last name, or the overbearing shadow it casts. It’s kind of him, this sidestepping, but it’s also infuriating. It hangs between them like an uninvited guest.

Traffic rolls by on the road beside them. A bus grinds to a halt with a tired hiss of breaks. A sun-faded ad is peeling from it’s side, the water drop emblem visible along the top. The banner reads BETTERNESS FOR ALL, over a stock image of a pale blue heart with campaign copy beneath it— better health, better work, better Lumon. Somebody has drawn horns and a tail over the heart in marker. 

Mark glances up, then away. Keeps walking. His shoes scuff the dirt. 

“Okay. Stop.” Helena stops, tugging his hand to still him. “Do you seriously not have anything to say about that?”

He plays dumb badly, his face is too honest for it. “‘Bout what?”

“Me. The Eagans. Lumon. Any of it.”

“Do you… want me to say something about it?”

Helena pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah. Figured it out when we pulled up at your place last night.”

“And you don’t have any thoughts on that?”

He shrugs with disarming honesty. “I don’t have thoughts about lots of things.”

The laugh slips out before she can stop it. Irritation and relief make strange bedfellows. She slips her hand from his and takes a backward step, testing the balance of this thing they’re building on—the one where he refuses to prod at the bruise even when invited. He catches her fingers again quickly, smile falling.

“No, wait. Let’s just—can we sit?”

They cross to a bench beneath a crescent of streetlight, with worn paint and a view of the dark water ahead. They sit close, not touching for a delicate moment, both gazing out at the river. Helena picks at the frayed seam of cellophane on the bouquet in her lap, waiting for him to speak. 

“I was eleven when everything with Lumon,” he waves his hand weakly at the space between them, “uh, went down. After it all heated up, my buddies and I used to ride our bikes past the Eagan place on the way home from school and dare each other to sneak into the grounds.”

“Huh.”

“It was kind of a game, you know. Rumour had it if they caught you they’d…” he winces apologetically before continuing. “Chip your brain. Turn you into a drone, or whatever. It was all made up, and we knew it. But I never tried the gates either.

“Good instincts,” she chuckles. “Does this story have a purpose other than to make me feel old?”

Mark smirks back, inching closer to her side.

“Point is that for a while, everyone knew everything. Or thought they did. But I never knew anything about Lumon that wasn’t just some bullshit story for kids.”

Even now, a pressure gathers under her sternum, a familiar vise closing. 

They had called the procedure a revolution, then a revelation, then an unfortunate mistake, when it all went wrong. The chip that was going to change the world. Save lives. Sharpen minds. Serve up the work life balance on a sliver platter. The marketing was relentless. She remembers standing pride of place beside her father as the the banners unfurled, just as clearly as she remembers the harrowing defeat as it came crashing down. 

Lawsuits arrived daily. Anonymous statements from employees. Grainy recordings of footage from severed floors across the globe. Six people lost their lives in the fight— Helena still thinks of them daily. The company, along with their legacy, bled dry. Jame withered under the weight of disappointing the Grandfather. He never recovered until the day he died, leaving Helena alone to salvage what remained. 

Mark clears his throat. “I didn’t bring it up because I could tell it made you uncomfortable. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If not, I won’t ask.”

Her fingers press flat the crinkling plastic around the flowers. 

“Thank you, Mark,” she whispers, and it takes her by surprise how much she means it. 

He turns to face her. Opens his mouth to speak, but she leans in before he can say something to disrupt the silence. The kiss is gentle. Grateful. His hand cradles her jaw with a tenderness that stings. When he pulls back, he’s beaming. A foolish, infectious grin as his thumb strokes her cheekbone. 

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

She blinks. “What?”

”I just… I don’t know the rules, yet. When to shut up. When to say the thing and when to leave it alone. I really like you, Helena. I want to be good at this. Tell me if I’m getting it wrong.”

Helena’s heart thuds against her ribcage. He’s looking to her for wisdom. As though she might know better. Like she’s holding the map and knows how any of this is supposed to go. Truth is, she’s just as lost. There’s no rulebook for this. No Eagan approved guidance for letting a person close without it curdling around her. She’s toeing cautiously, knowing the ground could give beneath her at any second.

”You’re doing great,” she whispers. To undercut the weight, she leans in, drops her voice to a lower register. “Besides— I don’t have rules, yet. Not unless you’re asking me to make some.”

A blush rises on his cheeks as she winks at him. “I, uh,” he stammers. “That sounds… Yeah. Mmhm.”

They nudge shoulders, teasing, about hypothetical rules neither of them has the courage to list. Eventually the laughter softens and silence returns. They ease back into the bench, close enough for warmth, not quite touching. He watches the ripples. She watches his profile, thinking of the boy on a bicycle who didn’t dare cross the gates. 

Mark tilts his head back and squints upward. 

“That one’s Orion,” he says, raising a hand to the stars. “The belt’s easy. The rest I kind of guess at.”

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s Cassiopeia. Big W.” He points, tracing the zigzag with his finger. 

“You don’t strike me as an outdoorsman,” Helena teases.

“I’m not so much anymore. But before he left, Dad used to take me and Dev out camping. It was awesome.”

Before she can reply, he shifts. Gangly legs swing up onto the bench, boots squeaking faintly against the slats until he’s stretched out. His head drops into her lap. Helena goes stiff, startled by the intimacy of it. He’s still pointing up at constellations. 

“That spoon looking one is Ursa Major. Or Big Dipper, to the layperson.”

“What about that one?” she asks, pointing toward nothing. 

As he speaks, Helena lets her hand drift, tentative at first, to his hair. Her fingers sink into the soft strands, nails grazing gently against his scalp. Mark hums. A low, pleased sound that vibrates against her legs. He smiles with his eyes closed. 

From his pocket comes the faint rattle of candy. He produces the battered box of Milk Duds. “Almost forgot these.” He tips a few into his palm, tosses one into his mouth, then nudges the rest against her knee.

Helena doesn’t touch them. Instead, she watches as he chews lazily, mouth curved in contentment. When he swallows the last, she plucks a piece from the box, holds it above his lips, and slips it between them. He startles, then grins around the chocolate. She feeds him, one by one, teasing and letting him crane up to chase her. 

His teeth nip her index finger.

“Mark!”

His eyes open, sparkling with mischief. “Oops.”

“Never heard the colloquialism? Don’t bite the hand that jerks you off.”

“Not familiar with that one, no.”

“You ought to learn some manners.”

“Maybe you should teach me.”

She arches a brow, and feigns sternness before ruffling his hair. He opens his mouth expectantly and Helena tips the box upside down so the empty cardboard rattles. “They’re gone.”

Mark’s lips pull into a dramatic pout. 

“Next time, I’m buying you food that isn’t all sugar.”

“Next time?” He’s bolt upright before she can stop him, hair mussed from her lap. “There’s going to be a next time?”

Helena feels the heat climb her cheeks. 

“I meant… if,” she corrects, lifting a hand to defend herself. “Presuming you’re okay with— with my life, which is very busy. Running what’s left of Lumon takes almost all my time.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m—” she swallows— “I’m not easy. I’m… particular. I keep odd hours. I’m impossible to please—”

“Okay,” he interrupts again. 

“I can be cruel when I’m tired. I’m rude and cold and inflexible. I—”

“I seem to remember you being very flexible.”

”Mark.”

“Fine.” His grin splits wider. “Still okay.”

“I’m not a woman that most men want to date.”

“I’m not most men.”

Helena huffs a laugh. “If you’re really fine with all of that, then… maybe… if you’re lucky, there can be a next time.”

Mark’s delight is instant and visceral. He catches her face between his hands and kisses her hard, fast, as though she might change her mind if he doesn’t. When he pulls back, his breath hitches on a laugh. He bumps her forehead with his. “So—can we go back to your place? I have some unfinished business from this morning.”

“What’s that?”

“I really want to fuck you in that fancy shower.”

Heat pools in her belly at the bluntness. She pulls out her phone, ready to summon her driver. 

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but shower sex isn’t real outside of porn.”

He bites back a grin. “I bet you fifty bucks you’re wrong.”

Chapter Text

Biweekly executive meetings always stretch long. Two hours blocked, four consumed. The way time warps around her boredom is on par with a lengthy session reading the compunction statement. When Father passed, one was switched out for the other. Some days she questions which is worse. The boardroom is still decorated in line with Lumon’s unique blend of upmarket austerity. Long table, glossed to a mirrored sheen. Floor-to-ceiling windows framing the landscape beyond. No decor, no plants, no colour. Just as Jame left it. 

Around the table, her colleagues in suits lean into their binders. Voices murmur as they volley quarterly reports and budget projections. Natalie sits at Helena’s right hand, immaculate as always, pen poised in the air. Helena lets it flow around her like static. 

Her laptop, propped open and angled away from prying eyes, glows not with the meeting agenda, but with a restaurant menu. She scrolls slowly, weighing the indulgence against her desire to impress. It’s a place two towns over. Far enough that the likelihood of being recognised is low, close enough that they don’t have to stay overnight. Having Mark sleep in her bed is one thing, but booking a hotel is one step removed from a city break. City breaks do not chime of causal dating.

She lingers, thumb brushing the trackpad. Pictures the low light of the dining room. The quiet thrill of leaning back into her chair and telling him to order what he wants. The thought of it nudges her mouth into the beginning of a smile.  

Her cursor flicks to the messages tab. 

Helena: Do you own a suit?

The reply comes almost instantaneously.

Mark: good morning, beautiful! 

Mark: um. my suit from hs graduation is still in the closet at my moms? been a few yrs but it might fit if i hold my breath.. 

Helena: We can do better than that. Text me your measurements.

Mark: about 8 inches :) :) 

Her laugh escapes before she can temper it. The sound is sharp against the drone of the marketing forecast. Heads lift. Natalie angles a glance at her. Helena disguises the noise as best as she can. Clears her throat, arranging her face into cool neutrality. She covers her mouth with her knuckles in silent apology for the disruption, and motions for the speaker to resume. 

Helena: That’s generous. 

Mark: oh sureeeee, helena. if u say so

She bites her thumbnail before tapping out her response. 

Helena: Send me the evidence.

Mark: ask nicely <3

Helena: Teasing me is a dangerous game, baby.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear again. Minutes pass and she wonders how long he’s going to make her wait. Helena angles her laptop lid lower, glancing to check that Natalie’s eyes are fixed firmly ahead before the image arrives.

Ping. 

The evidence appears. Mark’s cock, stiff and flushed in his hand, precum beading at the tip. The waistband of his boxers is tugged low enough to frame the angular edge of his hip. Crumpled, dark sheets set the background, telling her he hasn’t gotten out of bed yet despite it being close to noon. His grip is loose, large hand curling around himself in a lazy fist. Heat spreads low in her stomach. She imagines the weight of him against her tongue. The scent of her soap on his skin. 

She zooms on the image and inhales sharply, then glances back up to keep pace with the meeting.

“Don’t you agree, Ms Eagan?”

“Mmhm. Yes. Certainly.”

The round of approving nods and hums indicates that was the correct response. 

Mark: satisfied?

Helena: Very.

Mark: im so hard for you rn. wishing i was in your bed instead of my own 

Helena: Still in bed? Aren’t you a lazy boy?

Mark: yeah. somebody kept me up all night :) 

Helena: Can you blame me?

It has been six weeks. Six weeks, and somehow, he’s slipped through the first band of defenses she thought were ironclad. He found the loophole quickly. She’s warned him of her lack of time— the impossibility of dinners on weeknights, or spontaneous evenings out— and he’d found the crack in her routine. He wedged himself in with persistence. Long, winding conversations on the phone that start in the early evening after her first glass of wine, and unspool into the deep hours without trying. He talks too much, she listens reluctantly, and yet she finds herself waiting for the next tangent. The next absurd confession. The next question lobbed over the wall, just to see if she’ll answer. Sometimes she does. 

Most nights end with phone sex. Him groaning as she guides him. Narrating exactly what she’s doing, telling him exactly what he should be doing to himself. The nights that worry her are the ones that don’t. The ones that end with him listening to her breathe as she drifts off to sleep. It shouldn’t work, this piecemeal arrangement of calls when she has time and an overnight on the weekends, and yet, it does.

Helena: Tell me, are you planning on taking care of that this morning?

Mark: i am… maybe you should send me something back to help me out

Helena: I’m in a meeting.

Mark: that’s so hot. fuck. nobody knows you’re drooling over pics of my cock, huh?

Helena: Drooling…? 

Mark: bet i could smell how wet you are from across the room if i were there

Helena: What else would you do if you were here?

Mark: send me a pic and i’ll tell you ;)

Helena smirks at his response before closing her laptop screen and forcing her focus back toward the table. She clears her throat. “My apologies,” she says, interrupting the discussion. “Something important has come up and my attention is needed elsewhere. Any non-urgent matters will need to wait until next time.”

The room shifts. Paper shuffling. Murmured responses. Milchick leans forward from halfway down the table with a polite smile but an insistent tone. 

“We haven’t gotten to my agenda item. The latest poster campaign was a disaster. We need to go bigger, in response to an incredibly serious matter that I have recently been made aware of—”

Helena cuts him off with a subtle hand motion before this can take up another hour of her time. 

“Let’s reconvene this afternoon. I look forward to hearing it then.”

He subsides with a tight nod, though the frustration in his eyes suggests she’ll be on the receiving end of a nasty glare the moment her back is turned. Helena rises. She grabs her diary and cellphone from the table and heads toward the door. On her way out, she catches the eye of the intern who designed the so-called disastrous ads. She’s young, younger than Mark, jaw clenched tight with embarrassment. 

Helena smiles at her pointedly. “The campaign was excellent. It’s unfortunate that it didn’t have the intended effect. Keep up the good work.”

The girl’s head jerks up, surprised painted plain across her face. A ripple of it runs further down the table. Eyes narrow on her in confusion. Even Natalie’s composure almost slips into visible astound before she pulls it back to neutral. Praise, here, is rare. To hear it from Helena, rarer still. But today, she is feeling generous. 

-x- 

Helena steps into the tiled silence of her private bathroom and drags the bolt shut behind her. She leans against the door for a beat. Lets her shoulders sag before straightening again and slipping off her jacket. She tosses it over the hook. The mirror above the basin throws back her reflection. She smooths the flyaway strands at her temple, presses her lips into a neat pout and begins working the buttons open. One, two, three. Just enough that the white lace edge of her bra lace appears where her shirt parts. 

She grabs her phone from the counter. A few clicks later and she’s staring at a handful of stills of her chest, her face cut from the frame. She reviews them, thumb swiping with irritation. Too flat. Too posed. She exhales through her nose and adjusts. In this round of photos, she cups her forearm beneath, pushing her breasts upward to hint at a fuller curve. Genetics never did bless her in that way. 

The images line up in sequence on her screen. She scrolls back, forth, then back again. None are perfect, but fuck it, the first one is decent enough. Without letting herself overthink, she taps send. 

No sooner does the message show as read before Mark’s name lights up the screen. 

“Good morning.”

“Holy fuck, Helena. That’s—you’re gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous.”

She chuckles as she leans against the cool marble counter, refastening her blouse.

“You liked it, then?”

“Liked it?” he groans, voice still groggy with sleep. “Jesus Chrst. You have no idea—fuck—do you have any idea what you’re doing to me right now?”

“Tell me. What am I doing to you, sweet boy?”

The pause that follows is broken by a shuffle and the unmistakable creak of bedsprings. “Making me so goddamn hard I can’t think straight.”

Low laughter escapes her.

“I mean it, Helena. I can’t stop staring.”

“Put your hand on your dick for me.”

“Been there all morning, sweetheart,” he confesses without shame. 

“Good. Stroke yourself slowly. Let me hear it.”

Another silence. Muffled noise of fabric shifting, then the hiss of air through clenched teeth. Her pulse quickens at the danger of it, knowing she’s in her office bathroom listening to this obscenity, a building full of unaware corporate drones just beyond. 

“God, Helena. I’m—oh fuck—it feels so good.”

“That’s it. Nice and slow. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

”You.”

”Uh-huh?”

“Are you touching yourself?”

She tuts. “That’s hardly work appropriate behaviour.”

“Fuck—fuck that’s so hot.”

“Now, I believe you had some thoughts to share?”

“I’m thinking about you in that silk shirt, bending over so I can see your bra. You pushing me into your desk chair. Sitting on my lap. Making me keep my hands behind my back while you grind against me. You—fuck— you, straddling me and riding me until—”

“Shh,” she interrupts gently, smiling into the phone. “Slow down. Start from the beginning.”

A shiver runs over her skin as Mark groans, deep and helpless.

“Fuck. I’d unbutton your shirt with my teeth. I’d–Jesus–I’d kiss down your chest. Every inch of skin. Pull that lace down and take those perfect tits in my mouth until you were pulling my hair.”

“Keep going,” she purrs.

“I’d lay you back on your desk and lick you through those little panties you like to wear,” he says, words spilling out faster now. “I’d bury my face in your pussy until you were soaking them, until you couldn’t sit through another one of those boring meetings without thinking about me.” His breath hitches and the rhythm of his hand picks up. “Fuck, Helena. I want to taste you right now so bad. I need you.”

“Don’t you dare finish without me telling you.”

“I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as you want.”

“Good.” She shifts her weight, eyes locked on her reflection in the mirror. “Tell me more. What else do you want to do to me?”

“I want to spread you open. Push everything aside—your laptop, your papers—I don’t care if they fall. I want you bent over the desk, holding yourself up on your elbows, while I take you from behind and make you scream my name so loud the whole floor hears.” He grits the words out. “You’d love it, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe. If you’re good.”

“I’m good,” he insists, desperate, his pace audibly quickening. “I’m so good. I’ll do anything you say. Just—just don’t stop talking to me.”

“Then tell me how it feels.”

“Fuck—it’s so good, Helena. My cock’s so hard, I’m dripping all over my hand.” His breathing turns ragged, catching on each thrust of his fist. “I can picture your hands on me instead. Please—please, Helena. Let me come.”

“You’ll wait until I give you permission. Now tell me what you’d do for me if I let you finish.”

“I’d worship you,” he says, and it comes out cracked, almost breaking. “Get on my knees and clean you with my tongue. I’d hold you down and make you come over and over again until you were shaking. I’d— fuck— Fuck, I’d do anything. Anything you tell me.”

Frantic strokes punctuated with his groans fill the space. He’s getting louder. Needier. Closer. The rhythm builds and his words slip out in disjointed fragments. 

“Fuck, so close, please, Helena, I need it, I need to see you. Tonight. Please. Fuck. I need to see you tonight, I—”

“Now,” she whispers, timing it to the breaking point. “Come for me, baby boy.”

He grunts her name. There’s the wet, frantic slap of his hand and a sharp gasp as orgasm takes him. A groan that stretches as it fades into quiet. He rides it out in long, ragged breaths. Helena listens, eyes tightly closed as she inhales sharply. Her own body is taut with restraint, knowing she won't touch herself here. It is enough, for now, to hear him unravel for her. 

The rustle of fabric and soft rasp of tissue follows. She hears as he pads across his narrow bedroom to the waste basket, then slouches back, and flops down onto the bed. His exhale is long and content, the lazy sound of a man too sated to move. 

“That was awesome.”

“You should get out of bed.” She’s aiming for stern, but it comes out more indulgent than she intends.

“You know, it’s much harder for you to boss me around when I’m not desperate to come.”

Helena chuckles warmly, shaking her head. This happens every time. The narrow window during his refractory period when he’s immune to her demands. A surge of brattish defiance while the endorphins spike and he forgets who’s in charge.

“Is that so?”

“Mmhm. You’ve lost all leverage.”

“Give it twenty minutes and you’ll be putty in my hand.”

He laughs. “Oh, I’d say much less than that.”

They let the silence stretch, companionable, before she breaks it with a reluctant sigh. “Okay, I should go. Lumon isn’t going to run itself into the ground.”

Mark clears his throat. “Helena?” His voice shifts, shy at the edges. “I meant what I said. I’d really like to see you tonight.”

She arches a brow. “You’ve bounced back quicker than usual.”

When he laughs again, the sound thins to something more earnest. 

“Not for sex,” he tells her, then pauses. “I mean, not only for sex. I just want to… see you.”

Helena’s gaze drops to the rim of the basin. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Tuesdays are brutal. Always the longest days, strung out with back to back meetings, signatures, fires to put out that crop up faster than she can tackle them. In an effort to promote transparency, she has an open door policy that keeps her here way past working hours. By the time she makes it home, it will be dark. Her little remaining energy will be spent washing her makeup off, drinking half a bottle of wine and passing out on top of her vibrator. 

The idea of a date tonight feels impossible.

“Mark,” she begins carefully. “Tonight isn’t good for me. I finish late, and I—”

“I know. Tuesdays are your busy days, I thought about that. I could come to Lumon? Wait for you there?”

“No. Don’t do that,” she stammers quickly.

“Sure. Okay. Sorry. Dumb idea,” he laughs, laced with disappointment. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Wait.”

Helena presses the heel of her hand to her forehead. Closes her eyes as the silence hangs between them and she contemplates whether any part of this is sensible. 

Fuck it. 

“If you wanted to go to my place and wait for me there, I could ask the housekeeper to let you in before she leaves.”

She really shouldn’t know him well enough to hear the boyish, awestruck grin on his face without seeing it. He exhales a sigh of relief against the receiver. 

“Really?”

“Sure. I’ll be back late, so don’t expect more than a quick fuck in the shower before bed. And you have to leave when I do in the morning, which means waking up before noon. But, sure. Fine.”

“Sounds perfect,” he beams.

“Good.” Helena smooths her shirt, checking her buttons in the mirror. “Oh— and Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you be a dear and open up a bottle of red to let it air before I’m home?”

“Your wish is my command.”

-x- 

Lipstick reapplied in the mirror, she presses her mouth once against a tissue, then gathers herself. She smooths her jacket back into place, neatens her hair, and pinches her expression into something more composed. When she unlocks the door and steps out, it takes her a moment to realise that she is not alone in her office.

Natalie is standing at the entrance. 

The sight of her startles Helena. A jolt quick enough that she fumbles with her cellphone as she slides it back into her pocket. 

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Just walked in.”

The words are innocuous enough, though suspicion lingers behind the faintest tilt of her head. They hold one another’s eyes a moment, both calculating. 

“May I?” She gestures to the chair opposite the desk. 

“Please, go ahead.”

They sit in unison, both stiff backed and waiting for the other to break first. 

Of the few small rebellions that followed Father’s death, one of the ways she has tried to lay claim to a version of herself that exists beyond his shadow has been an attempt to cultivate friendships. Female friendships, more specifically. Something her life had always been bare of before. Natalie had seemed the only candidate. Close in age. Competent. Self-possessed, with a brittleness that mirrors Helena’s own. 

Lunches together are penciled in once a month, neither one entirely sure whether to let their guards down. There’s too much ingrained Lumon formality between them. Yet, something keeps them persisting anyway. Mutual loneliness, perhaps. Two women trying, awkwardly, to forge a connection in the wake of past resentments. 

“I came to ask what was wrong after you left the meeting so abruptly.”

Helena plasters on a smile. “Nothing is wrong.”

She nods. 

“I’ve noticed an improvement in your mood lately.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

Helena knows what she’s being offered: a chance to confess. Once, long ago, her fellow boarders at the Myrtle Eagan School for Girls would huddle under blankets after lights-out, giggling as they swapped secrets. Who had kissed a boy behind the chapel. Who outgrew their first bra. Whose older sister had smuggled in wine coolers. Those small confidences, swapped between friends.

No one ever got close to Helena, not with gossip or trust. The Eagan name sealed her off, right from the start. Her secrets stayed unspoken, folded hard into herself until they sank.

She leans just slightly across the desk. 

They speak at the same time. 

“Are you going to sell the company—”

“I’ve been seeing somebody—”

“I’m sorry?”

“Excuse me?”

They laugh together, nervous at first, then easing into something real as Natalie settles with relief. “You seemed… lighter,” she tells Helena with a wry smile.  “I thought you’d decided to get shot of this place, but, evidently, I was wrong.”

Helena lowers her gaze, startled by the blush threatening her cheeks. “Seems that way.”

“Who is he?”

The question sparks a girlish thrill in Helena’s chest, almost nauseating in its intensity. She shifts in her chair, resisting the urge to toy with the pen in front of her. It feels new. The space where her pursuit of happiness isn’t immediately chastised as indulgence or frippery. She finds herself savouring the moment. Cards held close, but the pleasure of holding them is undeniable.

She bites her lower lip, keeping her voice quiet. “His name is Mark.”

“A Ganz guy?” Natalie leans forward, curiosity genuine now.

Helena falters, her mouth parting without answer.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t meet him at that bar you go to to hit up professors? What does he teach?”

Not one to turn up a good opportunity, Helena lets the false assumption stand. “History.”

Natalie nods, satisfied. The conversation drifts from there, the questions circling without quite landing. Helena gives away almost nothing—only that it is casual, and that she is happy. It’s the most honest she has been with Natalie in years.

“Are you being careful?”

Helena scoffs dryly. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ve been on birth control since I was fourteen.”

“Not that,” Natalie laughs, shaking her head. “I mean with Lumon. We can’t afford another scandal.”

“I am,” Helena assures, though the guilt lands heavy. 

Because she isn’t being careful. She hasn’t been careful for a moment since she followed Mark out of her home all those weeks ago and made space for this thing to grow. Every kiss. Every dinner. Every night spent rolling around in sweat soaked sheets with a man sixteen years her junior feels like a step further onto a thin sheet of ice, and yet, she keeps walking. 

-x- 

The afternoon slips by, each hour carved into fragments by the knock at her door. One face after another, a carousel of employees who need her— clarification here, signature there, a decision, a reassurance. She sits behind the desk that had once been Father’s. Voice calm, gaze steady, posture perfect.  Advice is dispensed, strategies adjusted, on and on until her mouth turns dry.

It has been years since her heart lived in any of this. She does not care about market trends. Not about the procurement of a new medication patent, or the endless jargon of productivity. She keeps at it because Lumon is what remains. The carcass of a legacy she cannot abandon without also abandoning herself. It is the only tether to anything meaningful she has. So, she smiles when required. Says the things she’s supposed to say. Lets the workers file out of her office, believing she is steady at the helm.

Between visitors, her phone slides into her hand.

Helena: Should be out in a few hours. 

Mark: can’t wait to see you! <3 what do you want for dinner? i can heat it up. 

Helena: Don’t burn my house down before I get back. Also, the real question is what do you want for dinner… 

Her message is met with an over zealous string of emojis, each one more lewd than the last, depicting what she presumes to be eating pussy. 

She chuckles, tucking her phone back into the desk drawer before her next appointment. In her mind, she sees him sprawled on her couch, or rifling through her fridge for neatly labelled containers. The thought helps the hours pass. The daylight outside dulls until the treeline is painted with the hue of sunset. Another knock. Another inconvenience dressed up as a crisis. Another demand on her attention. She answers them all, her mind elsewhere, heavy with the boredom of repetition. 

By the time five thirty rolls around, she is packed up ready to leave. Her thumb hovers above the power button on her computer when Milchick appears in the doorway.

“A minute of your time?”

“Can it wait until the morning?”

He winces softly. “Regretfully, it cannot. We have been asked to prepare a response to an expose article due for publication. I did try to tell you.”

“Fuck.” She exhales sharply, feeling her evening slipping away. “Expose? What else is left to expose?”

“Nothing new. But prudent to coordinate a response, all the same.”

Of course they do. They always do. Lumon bleeds old wounds for headlines, and she’s the one expected to apply fresh gauze. Helena pinches the bridge of her nose, then waves him in. “Fine. Come in. Shut the door.”

She glances at her phone just long enough to type out a message to Mark. 

Helena: It’s going to be a late one, sorry. Raincheck? There’s cash in my nightstand if you need to take a cab home. 

The phone is face down on the desk before Milchick can register her distraction. 

-x- 

Lumon is behind her at last, blurred into the streaks of rain beating against the rear window. In the back of the car, she presses her fingers into the knots at her shoulders, rolling stiff muscles one way, then the other. The ache is stubborn beneath her touch. Her shoes dig painfully at her heels. She longs to kick them off and walk barefoot across the tile. Let the silence around her and collapse into the cold sheets of an empty bed.

They slow as they draw toward the gravel patch outside the front door. She thanks her driver quietly, voice rough with exhaustion, and slips out into the evening air. Keys ready in her hand, she mounts the steps, bracing for an evening of solitude.

Except the door swings open before she can reach it.

Mark stands framed in the glow of the foyer, glass of red balanced in his hand. For a beat, she just stares, disoriented by the apparition of him here, warm and waiting where she had expected emptiness. 

“I don’t know which of you I’m more glad to see,” she murmurs, eyes flicking between the wine and his face.

He laughs softly, stepping back to let her in. She toes off her heels with a sigh of pleasure, the ache in her arches releasing as she pads barefoot across the marble. Mark presses the glass into her hand, then folds both arms around her, pulling her against his chest with a gentleness that threatens to undo her.

“You waited,” she mumbles against his shirt. 

His hand cups the back of her neck, loosening her bun. “Of course I did.”

“You could’ve taken the cab fare and ran.”

Mark kisses her head. “Could’ve, yeah.”

He guides her through the house with a hand at the small of her back. When he pushes open the bedroom door, the faint scent of oils drifts out to meet her. In the ensuite, steam curls from a bath he has drawn, water flecked with petals that bob against the surface.

Relief sweeps through her body so suddenly she sags against him, her head finding the hollow beneath his jaw. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. You deserve it.”

Fingers deft, he begins undoing her shirt, kissing the strip of skin revealed with each slow inch. Her slacks pool at her feet. His mouth grazes her collarbone, then the dip of her sternum as he peels away the long day layer by layer. When she is bare, he guides her into the steaming water. The heat envelops her, scent of rose and citrus blooming up as her muscles begin to unclench.

The glass of wine finds its way back to her hand. Mark crouches beside the tub. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

She catches his shirt before he can rise, leans forward to press her mouth to his in a kiss that is brief but searing. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Heat surrounds until her body feels boneless, the water lapping softly against the porcelain rim. A groan escapes, low in her throat. Baths are not for weeknights. They are indulgences she has always rationed for the rarest of weekends, when she could allow herself the ritual without guilt. Tonight, though, she lets herself sink. Muscles soften, shoulders loosen, the strain of the day rising into the steam.

From the corner of her eye, she sees movement. 

Mark is hovering just inside the bedroom, lingering by the open door. Waiting to be needed. The sight coils heat through her in a different register entirely. He has taken such care of her—wine poured, petals scattered, buttons undone with grace—and all she can think about now is how pent up she grew listening to him panting her name through the phone. How much control she had then, how much more she wants of it now.

“Mark.” 

“Yeah?”

”Come in here, honey.”

She hears him toeing off his sneakers. 

“Ah.” She halts him at the door. “Bring the stool from my dressing table. I want you to sit by me.”

He disappears, then reappears, eager with the stool in his hands. He places it carefully beside the tub before lowering himself down. His knees knock together awkwardly, grin crooked as he leans forward. 

“So. How was your day?”

“Shh.” She cuts him off with a languid flick of her wrist. “Time to sit quietly. Watch and listen.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, and he nods quickly, lips pressing together in obedience. She lets the silence stretch before moving. Her free hand—wine still balanced delicately in the other—slides over the swell of her chest. Fingertips circle lazily around one nipple, teasing until the bud hardens, then drift to the other. 

Mark shifts closer on the stool, body straining toward hers, but she tuts softly. “Ah, ah. Sit still.”

“Okay.”

He freezes, then leans back again, hands gripping his knees. The tension in his jaw betrays how badly he wants to reach out.

Her hand glides lower, disappearing beneath the water. Delicately, her palm smooths over the flat plane of her stomach before drifting down between her thighs. She drags one knee up slowly, languidly, and lets it fall open against the side of the tub. His breath stutters audibly, his gaze locked on her like he’s starving.

“Good boy,” she murmurs, finding her clit and stroking in slow circles. “So patient for me.”

He makes a strangled sound, shifting again on the stool. “Helena…”

“Watch quietly.”

The rhythm builds, her breath growing heavier, water lapping faintly with each movement. She opens her eyes again to find his fixed on her, wide and awestruck, his knuckles white where they grip his thighs to keep from reaching.

“You want to touch, don’t you?” Her voice drips with amusement.

“Yes.”

“You can’t. Not yet. I listened to you this morning, so you’re going to sit there, and watch me take care of myself.”

“Fuck.” 

Pressure sharpens as she grinds her fingertips more firmly against her clit. She hisses sharply, all part of the show. A gift for the trembling boy on the stool, eyes wide and straining to sit still. Every ripple of water, every breathy moan, is choreographed for him. Her thighs tense beneath the surface, muscles quivering as she rocks her hips. She tips her head back and moans deeply. 

“Mark,” she gasps, drawing out his name. “Mark, fuck— harder, please.”

“You’re killing me. Please, Helena, please—”

“Shh.”

She drags two fingers lower, slick with her own arousal, to circle her entrance before sliding back up to her clit. “I’m thinking about you,” she whispers, eyes drifting shut. “How desperate you were today.” Her hand works faster, bringing herself close to the edges as she basks in his whimpers. “Mark, baby, I’m so close.”

Beside her, his breath comes in short, helpless bursts. 

“Helena…”

Climax tears through her suddenly and her body arches up out of the water. It radiates through her in waves as she rocks against her hand until the tremors begin to ebb. Slowly, she comes down, sinking back into the water with a satisfied groan. When she can move again, she lifts her hand out of the bath, dripping, glistening in the low light. 

She crooks her finger at him. 

“Come here.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. He drops to his knees at the edge of the tub, eyes dark, jaw tight with hunger. She offers her hand and he seizes it by the wrist then pulls  it toward his lips. He drags his tongue between her fingers, slow and greedy, before he sucks them into his mouth. The sight of him devouring the taste of her, nearly undoes her a second time.

Mark releases her fingers with a wet pop. Helena leans close until their noses brush, her breath mingling with his. A kiss hangs there, withheld, just out of reach. She tries to make him chase it, bulls back to tease, but his restraint cracks.  His palm cups cheek, rough and tender at once, pulling her in. The kiss lands hard and desperate, his tongue lapping  into her mouth the moment they touch.

“Let me take care of you.” he pleads against her lips.

She nods, surprising herself with how quickly the agreement comes “Okay.”

He rises. Holds out his hand to help her from the tub. She lets him, her body pliant in his arms as he wraps her in a towel. Soft kisses find the damp, pink skin of her temple, then her throat, then her collarbone. By the time he leads her back into the bedroom, she is boneless with warmth. 

“Lay back,” he says gently, guiding her onto the bed.

She obeys, stretching across the mattress, her hair damp against the pillow. Her limbs are loose, eyes lidded heavy with sleep as he stares down at her.

“What?”

“You,” he sighs. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. 

Her thighs fall open without resistance as he parts her legs, one hand on each knee. He rummages briefly in the nightstand before undressing and tossing his clothes to the floor in a heap. The foil tears sharp in the hush of the room, and he rolls the condom on. He drags the head of his cock against her entrance, sliding up and down over her clit before easing back again. 

“Don’t tease.”

“Not teasing,” he murmurs, dragging himself along her again. “Just want you ready for me.”

“Mark.”

He rests his tip against her entrance without pushing inside, then slides both hands from the outside of her hips to the backs of her thighs. He holds her gaze, waiting for her. She nods, tilting her hips, and he bends her legs, folding her until her knees touch her chest. Helena gasps, head tipping back at the stretch, then he pushes forward, inch by inch. 

“Fuck,” he groans, tipping his forehead to hers. “You feel so good.”

“God, Mark.”

Her hand reaches blindly for his. He catches it, threads their fingers tight,  braced above her head. The first thrust is deep and slow. He groans against her temple as he pulls out and slides back in. He keeps the pace slow, savoring, his breath harsh in her ear.

“You don’t have to go slow.”

“I want to. Want to make this last.”

His eyes are locked on her face, studying every twitch of her mouth, every shift of her breath, adjusting his rhythm accordingly. It feels less like being fucked than being worshiped. Her fingers tighten around his, gripping so hard her knuckles ache.

“Mark…” Her voice catches as he hits the angle she needs. 

“I’ve got you. Just let go. I’ll take care of you.”

Her head tips back, throat bared. She yields to him, letting her body be rocked in his rhythm. His pace quickens as his hips snap against hers. Every slide tightens her around him, every thrust makes her ache for the next. He cups her cheek with his free hand, thumb stroking her face. 

“You’re perfect, Helena.”

It’s too much. The tenderness and care. She’s bent in half beneath him, no part of this should be anything but primal. She has to close her eyes. Tip her face away from his. “Fuck me harder,” she pants.

“Harder?” he grunts against her ear. 

“Yeah.”

He slams in deep. “You like it hard?” 

“Oh God—fuck—oh my God.”

“More?”

“Fuck. More—don’t stop.”

She claws at his bicep. Whines at each thrust. Pleasure climbs, a swell that grows heavier with every frantic slap of his hips. Her thighs tremble with the strain where they’re pressed against her. He quickens, grinding and rocking as she cries out. 

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Come for me.”

It shouldn’t, but the praise tips her. She comes with his name on her lips, muffled against his shoulder when she bites down hard. He holds her close, pressed tight, whispering soft encouragement until she collapses, breath breaking into weak little gasps beneath him. Her release follows close behind. He buries himself deep, groaning her name against her throat. 

They don’t release each other’s hands. 

When the wave passes, he drops down on to the mattress beside her. Slick with sweat and heat. He curls into her side. His breath fans her collarbone as he nuzzles her skin. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs. “I’ll never get over you.”

-x- 

“Oh, fuck. Mark that’s—“

“That feel good?”

“God—fuck—right there.” Helena groans, tipping her head against the back of the couch.

She lies across him, tucked into his side, legs draped over his lap. The silk hem of her robe is bunched up to her mid-thigh. Mark’s palms work lotion into her calves, thumbs pressing slow circles to knead out the knots left by hours in heels. Each glide smooths away the day’s weight, coaxing her muscles into relaxation. He grins when he finds a tender spot, triumphant in his success. 

Her glass is lifted for the last swallow of wine. Gone too quickly on an empty stomach. Her vision blurs at the edges as her fingers drift lazily into his hair. Combing through the thick locks at the nape of his neck. 

The words slip out in a low murmur. “Can I keep you?”

His eyes light immediately. “Yeah?”

She blinks, startled by his eagerness, then lets out a nervous laugh.

“I don’t know why I said that.” She stretches away to set her empty glass on the floor. “How many of these have I had?”

His lotion slick hand moves to clutch her knee. “No, don’t take it back,” he insists, holding her in place. “Keep me. I’m very keepable.”

Embarrassment flares hot under her ribs. Vulnerability is exposure, and exposure is a risk. She swallows, caught between retreat and the strange desire to stay exactly where she is. 

“Mark…”

He smirks at her, shifting back into humour. “Though, my mom used to say if I ever got kidnapped, they’d bring me back within the hour because I wouldn’t stop talking.”

Her laugh of relief is a quiet ripple. “Your mom is a smart woman.”

“You’d like her.”

Helena clears her throat before they stray back into dangerous territory. “Pass me my laptop.”

Mark stretches for it, snagging it off the coffee table and handing it over before resettling against her. She props it open on her knees, still draped across his lap. Tabs already wait with the online storefront full of suiting options that flicker past as she scrolls.

“Now, are you going to pick a color, or are you going to distract me with lotion again?”

Mark laughs, leaning back into the couch. “I told you I can’t let you buy me a suit that costs more than a month's rent.”

“And I told you, it’s an investment. If I’m taking you out for dinner, I need you to be appropriately dressed.”

“I should be the one taking you out for dinner,” he insists, boyish pride surfacing in the protest.

“Oh? Why is that? Because I’m the woman and you’re the big strong man I should depend on?”

“Hey, I’m strong.”

“I know.” Her lips find his jaw, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along the line of it, each one softer than the last. Fingers comb through his hair, tugging gently until he sighs under her touch. “Just let me take care of you, baby boy,” she coos against the shell of his ear. “Let me dress you up in pretty clothes, hm?”

His eyes flutter shut as he leans into her.

“Only if you want to.”

“I want to, honey.”

“Okay.”

Helena sets the laptop aside,  and for a while they do nothing but tangle together, tracing idle patterns across skin and fabric. He draws slow spirals on the inside of her arm, she combs the ridge of his knuckles.

“Can I ask you something personal?” 

She exhales slowly. “Go ahead.”

“Why is your house like this?”

 “Like what?”

“It’s beautiful,” he rushes to clarify. “Just a little… cold. Everything’s sharp, perfect, impersonal. When you’re—” he squeezes her knee, “so warm.”

She stills. Not once, in thirty seven years, has Helena Eagan been described as warm. She thinks of her life lived at the periphery. The cold outcast, even in her own home. Heartless. Withdrawn. There was a time during the height of the Lumon protests when she’d woken to find die you evil bitch spray painted across her bedroom window. 

His accidental softness makes her chest tighten. She will not let him see her cry. A discreet clearing of her throat steadies her. 

“My father designed the house. I haven’t changed much since he died.”

Mark studies her in the hush. “You must have been close to him? To keep it this way all this time.”

Her lips part, then close again. The admission is fragile, but she lets it come anyway. “I was terrified of him,” she says quietly. “I still am. Six years and I still can’t change his fucking house.”

“Did you ever think about moving?”

“Where would I go?”

His arms tighten around her. He moves them, shifting her until she is on her back with him nestled between her legs, head resting against her chest. The weight of him there grounds her in a way nothing else has. His breath warms the flesh above her heart.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She strokes his hair. “Thank you for asking.”

They linger like that, time stretching by as they whisper playful little nothings. She hums when he kisses her through the fabric at her sternum. He sighs when her nails graze his scalp. The world shrinks until it’s just this—the creak of cushions, the brush of breath, the shared heartbeat.

“We should go to bed.”

“M’comfy,” he protests, muffled and drowsy. “Your robe is so soft.”

“You like it?”

“Mmhm.”

Her smile curves as she stares up at the ceiling. “I’m going to buy you one in every colour.”

Chapter Text

There’s a girl at the next table, barely old enough to drink the glass of red she’s cradling. Lashes fluttering, body pitched toward the man across from her. Young, beautiful. Squeezed into a dress that clings to her like a second skin. Delicate jewellery, long red nails. Her companion is older. His face is lined and indifferent more absorbed in his cellphone than the woman desperate for attention across from him. Helena knows the shape of their evening. He will bore her with stories of travel and wealth. She will nod and giggle and shine beneath whatever scraps of focus he flicks her way. Later, he’ll take her back to a suite and fuck her with his hand pressed against her throat while they both think of other people, and afterward, he’ll go home to his wife.

Helena has performed in that production enough times to know the ending. She knows the girl’s hunger. The way it bends toward any kind of fathering, no matter how hollow the aftermath.

“Come on,” Mark says, breaking the thread of her thought. He leans in, eyes twinkling beneath the muted light of the room. “Pick one. Would you rather have the power of invisibility or flight?”

The suit looks indecent on him. 

Navy fabric, cut to perfection. Every seam skims the lines of his lithe body as though the wool were spun for him alone. It had taken a week to arrive from Milan, and another two for tailoring. Worth the wait, she thinks, seeing him seated across from her now, unbothered by the exclusivity of the room. The valet line of gleaming cars and membership-only privilege. Priceless menus, bound in leather. An hour in the back of the car as her driver took them out of the city, until Kier’s watchful eyes slipped away. 

He grins at her, hand stretched across the table to toy with the ring on her index finger. Twirling it around the knuckle as though it isn’t heirloom sterling. 

“Invisibility,” she answers with a smirk. “So I could eavesdrop.”

He nods in mock solemnity, thumb brushing her palm. “Okay. Now you ask me one.”

“Would you rather… only be able to wear blue shirts forever, or red?”

He laughs. The sound is startlingly loud in the hush of the room. A few heads turn, but he doesn’t notice or care. “That’s pathetic. Ask me a real one. You’re supposed to be getting to know me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Tell me, what profound knowledge did you manage to take from my answer?”

There’s a faint crease in his brow as he leans back. 

“You said you want to be invisible and listen to people,” he muses slowly. “Tells me that you get self-conscious sometimes about what other people think. That maybe you’re worried they’re talking about you.”

Her smirk falters before she can catch it, mouth turning dry. Unfortunately, he’s right on the money. Vulnerability slices her composure and she slips her hand from his before he can feel the tremor in it. Mark opens his mouth to speak, but the mask slips back into place before he can. She leans forward over the table, lips curving as her voice drops to a low register.

“Maybe I prefer getting to know you… biblically,” she purrs. 

Beneath the table, the tip of her stiletto glides his calf, then higher, tracing the inseam. Up his inner thigh, agonisingly slowly until she feels the muscle tense. His jaw slackens as his eyes grow wide. She presses lightly, just shy of his cock, and savours the way his composure crumbles under the weight of her game. He’s not the only one who can startle. 

The waiter approaches, menu in hand. Helena starts to withdraw her foot, but before she can, his hand shoots out beneath the tablecloth. He grips her ankle firmly, pinning her in place. She shifts in her chair, caught at an awkward angle, glaring at him. He grins, daring her. Very well. Instead of retreating, she presses harder, pointed toe nudging the line of his bulge.

His breath leaves him in a groan disguised too late. Knuckles press hastily against his mouth, as though to cover a cough. 

“Madame?” the waiter prompts. 

“A dozen oysters and a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

He nods. “Le brut ou le demi-sec?”

Helena replies swiftly, accent crisp. “Brut. Le demi-sec est trop doux.”

“Excellent choix. Le 2007 est très équilibré.”

“Parfait. Merci.”

The waiter notes her champagne selection with a bow of his head and departs. Across the table, Mark squeezes her ankle before releasing it. She levels him with an arched brow, inviting him to defend himself. 

“It’s so hot that you speak Spanish,” he beams.

A strange, buoyant feeling floods her chest as she laughs. A feeling she can’t remember ever feeling across a dinner table. It’s light. Giddy, even. A thrill that refuses to be tamped down. This thing between them is still new, nothing more than late-night calls and casual sex at the weekends. Though, Tuesdays have become theirs. His night to stay over, running her bath after her longest day and rubbing her calves until she melts. A routine she has let slip into her life without resistance. 

When the champagne arrives, the waiter presents the bottle. Helena inclines her head, then gestures to Mark for him to try it. “Please.”

His eyes widen. It’s cruel, maybe. Or playful. Or both. A lioness, nudging her prey into open air. The spark of mischief pulses through her. A small measure is poured for him, and his eyes flick to her.

She smirks. He winks.

Instead of fumbling, he doubles down. He swirls it, nose hovering over the rim, then tips the entire sample back in one gulp. The empty glass hits the table like a shooter. 

“Awesome, buddy,” he says to the waiter. “Keep them coming.”

Helena sniggers behind her hand, unable to contain it. Her shoulders shake as the waiter looks down his nose at the performance, lips pursed. The boy is ridiculous and shameless and she has never enjoyed herself more.

Helena tilts her glass idly. “All right. Are you more afraid of suffocating or drowning?”

“Good Lord,” Mark balks. He leans across the table, grin crooked. “Is this your way of figuring out if you can choke me?”

Colour blooms hot across her cheeks. “Mark!”

“Hey, come on. I didn’t say I’m not game.”

“Good to know.”

They dissolve into laughter and his hand finds hers again. Fingers thread together across the linen. The flush doesn’t face as their conversation drifts into teasing little digs, softened by the brush of his thumb over her knuckles. 

The oysters arrive in a silver dish packed with crushed ice. Lemon halves circle them on either side. Mark eyes the display with suspicion, nose wrinkling slightly. “Y’know, there’s a restaurant near me that does loaded potato skins as an appetizer. Could’ve gone there.”

Helena smirks. “You don’t like seafood?”

“I mean… I like cooked seafood.”

She plucks one delicately from the platter. Loosens it with a twist of her fork. She tops it with lemon and a pinch of salt, then tips it back. Her lips ghost the shell’s edge, throat working as she swallows. The sound she makes is a soft, satisfied moan. When she opens her eyes, his pupils are blown wide, gaze locked on her lips. 

“Try one.” She leans closer, voice low. “I dare you.”

He nods, letting her guide him. She shows him how to angle the fork, coaxing the meat from the curve of the shell. The lemon wedge comes next, pinched lightly to release the citrus. The air is weighted and tense between them he raises the oyster to his mouth. 

“That’s it, baby.”

He knocks it back. Chews briefly before his throat works around a swallow. His eyes ignite. 

“Oh, fuck. That was— actually good.”

They eat another, then two more between mouthfuls of champagne. Play builds into their hunger as they dine. As she sets her glass on the table, Mark’s eyes run over her, dragging up and down, before settling on her face.

“Hmm,” he drawls. 

Helena is aware of the heat prickling her chest. “What?”

“I’m thinking of my dare for you now.”

Her brows rise. “No way.”

“Oh, so you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

She flicks her wrist in approval and waits out his scrutiny. Anticipation flutters as he looks around the room, considering his options. Helena watches while he thinks, head tilted, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The suit sharpens him, framing him cleanly. He looks older in it, but not diminished. The contrast is striking. Youth wrapped in elegance. 

At last, he gestures to the saucer of Tabasco resting among the accompaniments. “I dare you to eat a spoonful.”

Helena reaches for an oyster, but he shakes his head.

“No. Raw.”

She smirks. “Oh, you want me to take it raw?”

The way he gulps as he nods is its own reward. She tips a spoonful back. Fire explodes across her tongue, heat shooting straight to her nose. Her eyes water. She splutters, hand flying to cover her mouth. Mark presses the champagne into her palm and she drains half in one pull, coughing around the fizz as her throat fights the burn. Bright, boyish laughter fills the table. She finds herself giggling with him, unable to stop. 

A shadow approaches— the waiter returning to refill their flutes. Helena leans closer. “I dare you to say something that makes him blush. 

He winks, straightening his lapels as though buttoning up for battle. When the waiter arrives, Mark tilts his head innocently. 

“Is it true they say oysters are an aphrodisiac?"

The waiter blinks. “I’m unsure, sir.”

“Sure hope it is,” Mark tells. “We're on our third date, so… fingers crossed, I’m gettin’ lucky.”

He stiffens, eyes darting between them. Pink creeps fast from beneath his collar. Helena bites her lip to keep herself from cackling outright as their glasses are topped off in silence. 

The game winds on. With a devilish grin, Mark dares her to hand over her panties. She leans across the linen, lips brushing his ear, to tell him she isn’t wearing any. His jaw drops, groan caught on the cusp of disbelief and arousal. Next, she dares him to steal her something. He leaves to scour the restaurant and returns triumphant, a rose plucked from the host station clamped between his teeth. 

She is so enthralled by the giddiness of it, the mischief and the thrill, that her old instincts falter. Despite her intentions for the evening, the urge to impress with the weight of her money or her culinary knowledge slips away. When the waiter returns for entrées, she waves her hand lightly. Orders the chef’s special for both of them without much thought. All she wants is for the waiter to leave so their game can continue. Light, teasing dares are swapped between them, back and forth until their duck confit arrives, and continue long after. 

After swallowing a mouthful of potatoes, Mark motions subtly to a table near the window. An old couple sits dressed in their finery, holding hands beside the candle between them. “Dare you to pay for their wine.”

She nods. Beckons the waiter with a delicate motion. 

“What are they drinking?”

“A bottle of the house red, Madame.”

Helena wrinkles her nose. “Send them the Clos de Tart, ‘05. From us.”

“As you wish,” he nods. 

He turns to fulfil the order when she pauses him with a glance. “Actually— charge their whole meal to our table. Don’t tell them until after we leave.”

When he’s gone, Mark shakes his head. Stunned laughter escapes as he bites his lip. He’s staring at her like she has just hung the moon. “You’re not making it easy for me, are you?”

“Making what easy?”

His thumb traces the base of his glass, eyes still locked on hers. “Keeping this causal.”

Helena’s breath shallows, her body’s betrayal written in the rise and fall of her chest. She ought to be careful. Keep her balance before this tips into something that she can’t row back from. Casual is a fragile, rope bridge she has allowed herself to cross for the sake of feeling wanted. But one look at him and she can imagine a version of this that ends with waving goodbye to casual in the rearview mirror, as though this man too young for her is the answer to her prayers. But champagne and the sound of his laughter has loosened her armor at the hinges. She feels the blush climb. 

The night ticks on anyway. They slip back into softer conversation and flirtatious touches beneath the tablecloth. His hand drifts against her thigh in idle circles, hers brushing the back of his wrist, mulling over choices for buying him a watch. Their plates were cleared long ago, but she orders another bottle. A small price to pay for more time. 

Mark plucks the old champagne from the bucket, swirling the last inches idly. “Dare you to drink it straight from the bottle.”

Her eyes flick across the room, scanning for attention, before she gives in. She grabs the bottle from him, tips it toward her lips in a delicate performance. Her tongue traces the foil label around the neck before flattening and dragging up to circle the rim. She brings it to her mouth, then drinks without breaking eye contact. The swallow is languid, her throat working for his benefit. 

He groans, scrubbing his hand over his chin. “Okay. That’s it. That’s my limit.” When the new bottle arrives, he doesn’t let it land. “We’re going to skip dessert and take this to go.”

The cork pops, the check arrives. At the host station, his hand won’t stay still. It’s restless against her back where her dress dips low, fingers splayed over the exposed skin. Staking his claim. She covers the bill, scrawling a tip large enough to cover every antic they’ve subjected the staff to. As they turn arm in arm toward the door, she knows they’ll never set foot in this place again. 

-x- 

They spill into the back of the car in a tangle, alcohol loosening their limbs into gracelessness. The driver shuts the door, cocooning them in darkness. Before the latch has even caught, they’re pressed together, mouths open, tongues sliding together in feverish laps. She tastes wine still on him, the sharp tang softened by the endearing sweetness with which he meets her kisses. 

“Fuck, Helena—fuck.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Only in short gasps do they break, foreheads pressing, breath hot and heavy between them before they lunge back together. Between kisses, the champagne is passed between them. Cold glass pressed into her hand, then tilted to his mouth. She drinks, he drinks. The rim of the bottle is coated with her gloss. It clings to him, rouging his swollen lips. His heavy palm molds over her breast through the silk, squeezing and shaping her to his grip while she drags her fingers through his carefully styled hair. She nips his bottom lip until he whines against her. 

When they part for breath, attempting to control themselves before they start rutting like teenagers on the back seat, Mark leans forward to tap at the partition. He loosens his tie and collar as he slides open the hatch. 

“Hey. Can we stop at Dairy Queen on the way home?”

The driver’s eyes flick to Helena’s in the mirror. “Ma’am?”

“Yes. Get him whatever he wants.”

Illuminated menus glow as the car idles in the drive-through lane. Mark rattles off an order for something over sized, chock full of candy and meant for sharing. She fishes in her clutch for bills, pressing a crisp hundred toward the driver. Mark snorts, batting her hand aside. “You’re ridiculous,” he chuckles, and produces a crumpled ten from his pocket.

Back on the road, his arms wrap snug around her shoulders, tugging her against him. She lets him feed her three small scoops that melt too fast on her tongue, eyes never leaving his face while he watches each swallow. When it’s her turn, she coaxes the rest into his mouth. The spoon scrapes his teeth as he grins around it. By the time the carton is empty and discarded, his lips find her again. This time, the taste of his tongue is intoxicating. Helena has always had a sweet tooth.

-x-

In the foyer of Helena’s home, they’re still laughing at nothing. Still kissing, with her back pressed against the door the moment it closes. His mouth is on hers before she can feign coyness and offer him a drink. Hungry, wet, clashing of tongues in the dark. 

When they part, he drops suddenly down to one knee. She gasps as he lifts her foot onto his thigh, steadying her as she rocks. His fingers work the buckle of her stiletto, face close enough that his breath warms the inside of her calf. He presses his lips to the thin strap in a long, searing line. 

“Fuckin’ teasing me with these all night,” he growls against her ankle. 

The shoe slips fee, set aside with surprising care. He takes her other foot next, repeating the ritual. Lips brush her skin before he slides the second shoe from her. Barefoot now, she shifts her weight, unsteady beneath the intensity of his gaze. His mouth travels upward, kissing a line along the slit of her dress, higher and higher until his lips reach the bare skin at her mid thigh. She cards through his hair, tilting his face upward until he rests his chin on her stomach. 

Helena cups his cheek. “My sweet boy,” she whispers. 

He peers up at her through his lashes, then turns his face so that his mouth finds her palm, kissing it softly. Then he rises, tracing the length of her with his mouth, navel to sternum to chest to throat to jaw until he captures her lips again. The kiss is different now— soft and passionate, the slow pull of lips as he holds her. Helena pushes the jacket from his shoulders. Works the buttons of his shirt. He catches her wrist to halt her, grins, then pulls her down the corridor further into the house. 

“You don’t want to go to bed?”

His voice is rough with want. “Not yet. I want to try something.”

He leads her to the living room. Shadows cut long across the floor from the dimmed sconces. He spins her, walking her backward until she’s pressed against the floor to ceiling window. The night beyond is endless. She hisses softly as her bare skin meets the chill. 

“Right here?” she asks him. 

“Right here.”

His mouth descends, tongue hot against the line of her neck as he laps and nips at her. The top hem of her dress is loosened by his hand, tugged and teased away. He slips the straps from her shoulders, nudging the skil away until her breasts are revealed. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing lightly until she fists his hair. 

He lifts his head, breath at her ear. “Turn around.”

Helena’s pulse kicks as she obeys, twisting to face the glass. Her eyes are drawn to the treeline and the faint, twinkling stars. The zipper at her back slides down carefully until her dress cascades to pool at her feet. The property is remote, nothing for a mile in any direction, but still, beneath the open stretch of sky, body bated against the glass— she feels achingly exposed. The cold surface bites at her hardened nipples, making her shiver. 

He kneels behind her, pressing open mouthed kisses that trail down each vertebra of her spine. Lower and lower until he’s at the small of her back. She gasps as he sinks his teeth into her ass cheek. 

“Mark!”

Another gentle bite. “Your fancy, thousand dollar dinners have nothing on my favourite meal.”

He grips her thighs, parting them and angling her just so to lower his mouth between. He breathes her in first, nose pressing against the heat of her cunt, groaning like a man starved. His tongue is everywhere at once, lapping broad strokes between her folds, circling her clit, plunging inside her entrance before retreating again. Every noise he makes vibrates into her, filthy hums muffled by her flesh. She braces against the glass, eyes fixed helplessly on the reflection of her own body as he devours her. 

“Fuck—Mark,” she moans, forehead pressing into the cool pane. “Yes, baby—just like that—”

He answers with a low, hungry growl, tongue flattening against her clit in relentless circles. His hands spread her wider, thumbs pulling her open so he can bury himself deeper. The obscenity of it—her bare body exposed against the window, his head between her thighs— leaves her dizzy.

Her hips roll of their own accord, pressing back against his mouth. “You need it, don’t you? Need to taste me? Need to fuck me with your tongue?”

He nods frantically then drags his tongue up and down in sloppy strokes. She gasps, grinding back against him. Wetness drips out of her and he gathers every drop on his tongue. Blindly, she reaches out behind herself to grab a fistful of his hair. He draws back, squeezes and kneads at the flesh of her ass cheeks before his thumb swipes slowly over the tight pucker.

“Please— Helena. I want to— Let me taste you here.”

“Do it, baby. Take what you need.”

The first licks are tentative. A shudder curls through Helena’s body at the electrifying sensation. Nobody has ever done this for her before. She cries out as his tongue spins slow circles against her. Two fingers tease the entrance to her pussy before slipping inside, curling deep, just as she taught him. 

Filth spills from her, champagne stripping her restraint. “Good boy. Fuck me. Eat me until I come—make me soak your fucking face.”

The answering whine is broken and desperate, as he clamps her thighs tighter, tongue working faster. The glass fogs where her breath hits. His fingers find the spot inside her that makes her see stars. Orgasm slams into her hard. Her body arches, legs threatening to give out beneath her as she drenches his hand.

“Mark! Oh—fuck, I’m coming— don’t stop.”

He groans into it, moving to lapping hungrily at her cunt as she bucks against his face, drinking her down like he’d die without it. Pleasure rips through her in waves, until she’s wrung out, collapsing forward as she shudders with aftershocks. He cleans every drop of her orgasm with his tongue. When she turns, he’s still on his knees, mouth wet, chin glistening. He rises slowly until he claims her mouth. She gasps at the taste of herself on his tongue.

Then he pulls back, fumbling a hand into his pocket. A smirk tugs at his lips. He leans close, hand hovering near her ear, and pretends to pluck something from behind it. A foil packet gleams between his fingers. 

“Ta-dah,” he beams. “Magic.”

She laughs, breathless. “Take your pants off,” she orders, reaching for the condom.

“Eager, Eagan?” he teases as he drags his belt loose. 

“I’m pragmatic, Scout. That suit cost more than most cars.”

He chuckles as he shrugs out of his shirt and discards the trousers with far less care than they deserve. His hard cock juts, straining in his briefs. She yanks them down, tears the packet and rolls the condom on, feeling him twitch as he does. 

“Fuck.”

“Easy. Don’t you dare finish before this starts.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He grabs her thigh, arm hooking beneath her knee to hoist it high. She presses back against the glass as he positions himself, his other hand braced just above her shoulder, caging her in. The first thrust is brutal. A deep, sudden shock that makes her cry out. He sets the rhythm immediately. Hard, fast, pounding into her with abandon, each stroke slamming her against the window. Behind her, the glass fogs with her silhouette. 

She claws at his back, dragging red lines down his skin. Her hair tumbles loose from its knot, bangs clinging to her damp forehead. The room fills with the slap of skin, the squeak of the window, their shared moans.

“God—Helena— You feel so fucking good.”

“Yes,” she gasps, head tipped back against the glass. “Fuck me harder, baby. Give me everything you’ve got.”

He growls, hips snapping relentlessly. “Love the way you squeeze me. Like you never want me to leave this tight little pussy.”

She moans, clawing harder. “I want you to ruin you, sweet boy. Nobody else will ever feel like this.”

The words tip him over into frenzy. His pace grows brutal, pounding her so hard the window shudders in its frame. A second orgasm rips through her, shaking her body as she screams his name. Her clenches drag him under. He groans into her neck, thrusts erratic, shoving deep as he spills inside the condom. His body trembles. Sweat slicks their skin.

They cling to each other, foreheads touching, pressed against the glass as their heartbeats slow.

“I never want this to end,” he murmurs so softly she doesn’t know if he means to say it.

She pretends not to hear, kissing his shoulder instead, swallowing the ache the words plant in her chest.

-x- 

Steam curls thick in the cavernous shower, the rainfall spray hissing down in sheets wide enough to drench them both. Helena stands close. His body is warm against hers, arms slung lazily around her waist while she works shampoo into his hair. Thick lather builds beneath her nails as she massages his scalp. The gesture could almost be maternal if not for the way his hand drifts idly to cup her ass. 

Her voice is low, nearly lost to the patter of water. “I was thinking.”

“Mmhm.”

“How would you feel about getting tested?”

Mark tips his head, blinking water from his lashes. “What, like in math?”

She swats him lightly on the shoulder. “No, dumbass. At a clinic. So we can fuck without a condom.”

“Just messing with you. I knew what you meant,” he winks, trailing his fingers up her spine.

“Would you like that?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She nudges his head beneath the spray, rinsing the foam from his hair. He obeys, then pulls back with a boyish shake, droplets flying from the long strands, making her giggle again. When he resurfaces, eyes crinkle in amusement.

 “I’ll do whatever you need, but—it might not be, uh, necessary.”

Her hands still, a flicker of thought jolting through her. For one fragile second she wonders if he means he was untouched before her, if she has stolen something she didn’t realize he was offering. Her chest tightens until he goes on.

“I’ve only had one girlfriend,” he says, voice quieter now. “And I was her first, too. So no, um, risk, I guess.”

Helena exhales in relief. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Gemma. We met during orientation week. Dated for two years. Then she went to study abroad at the start of junior year. We tried the distance thing, but we drifted while she was gone. She visited during midterm break, and we were just… different, I guess. So we decided to call it quits so that we could still be friends.”

“Still friends? How… modern,” she teases lightly.

“Kinda. I don’t see her often, but she didn’t do anything wrong so I’m not going to be an asshole about it. And, uh, yeah. There was nobody else until I met you.” 

His fingers trace lazy shapes at her waist, circles, lines, anything to keep busy while he admits it.

It should concern her. That the boy holding her in the steam, with his enormous brown eyes fixed on hers with unguarded devotion, has never known casual sex. For him, maybe it has never been that. Her own, willful blindness to the fact that this only ends in heartbreak should terrify her. But the innocence in his face, the raw openness, melts her in ways she can’t name. She wants to keep that precious light alive, to shield him from the cruelty waiting outside these walls before the look in his eyes hardens into cynicism.

His gaze falters, dropping away. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. You must think I’m weird.”

She shakes her head quickly, combing the wet hair back from his face, making him meet her eyes again. “The only thing I’m thinking…” She pauses, lips quirking. “Is how the fuck are you so good at eating pussy?”

His laugh breaks the tension, bouncing off the tiles. 

“Well?” she pushes.

“She never liked it. Said it made her too self-conscious to come. But I loved it. Thought maybe I just wasn’t good enough, so I kept trying to get better. Reading stuff. Um… watching stuff. But it didn’t help.” He shrugs, a blush rising faint on his cheeks. “Or, not until now, I guess.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You studied for pussy eating?”

He leans in to kiss her jaw. “Did I pass the final? Or do you want me to take a few make-up tests?”

“You really like it that much?”

“Yes. Fuck, Helena. Meeting you that night was like my dream.”

Her heart clenches, closing tightly around something she didn’t want to name. The words rise to her tongue—mine too—but they lodge there, too heavy to fall. She swallows them back, manages a crooked smile instead.

“Come on,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over his temple. “Let’s get out.”

Droplets linger on their skin as they step from the basin to wrap themselves in plush towels. Helena pads into the bedroom and pulls a lacy, baby pink nightgown over her body. Thin straps and silk clings to her damp skin. From another drawer, the one she refuses to label as his, she retrieves the charcoal cashmere pajamas she bought weeks ago, anticipating the frequency of his overnight stays. She tosses them onto the bed for him. 

Back in the bathroom, Mark stays in his towel, perched on the counter, legs dangling. He watches as she works through her nightly ritual in the mirror. Dabbing and smoothing and blending her skincare, one by one. In the corner of her eye, she sees his intent, parted-lip stare. 

“Get over here,” she tells him. 

He slides off the counter immediately. Obedient in the way that makes her pulse flutter. When he stops in front of her, leaning back against the vanity, she nudges his legs open with her knee and moves to stand between them. From the drawer, she plucks a velvet, padded headband and slips it over his forehead to push the damp hair from his face. 

“What are you doing?”

“Shh. Let me work.”

First, she tips a small amount of cleanser into her palm. A balm that turns to liquid silk when it meets skin. She rubs her fingertips together, then begins smoothing it all over his face. She works in tight circles, massaging his jaw, tracing the hollow of his cheeks, sliding up over his brow. His breath hitches, though he stays perfectly still beneath her touch.

“I want your skin to be nice and soft,” she tells him, leaning close enough that her lips brush his jaw. “Because in the morning, you’re going to wake me up with your head between my thighs.”

“Jesus,” he swallows, a grin tugging helplessly even as his cheeks flame beneath her touch. 

“You like the sound of that?”

“Uh-huh.”

She wipes the cleanser away with a muslin cloth soaked in warm water, dragging it slowly across his cheeks, down his nose, and over the line of his throat. Next, she reaches for the toner. Delicate rosewater, soaked into a cotton pad that she sweeps across his skin. His lips part around a sign at the touch, the cool sting drawing another shallow breath from him. 

His eyes drift close. “Tell me what you want.”

“You’re going to lick me. So soft and so gentle, like a little kitty with a saucer of milk, hmm?”

Mark nods. He swallows hard, throat bobbing.

“Draw it out, okay? Make it nice and slow. I want to wake up right at the brink of orgasm, begging you for more. You’ll make me say please, won’t you?”

“I’d give it to you even if you don’t.”

She chuckles warmly. “Good boy.”

Helena drops the pads into the bin and grabs her serum. Amber liquid, pulled into a glass pipette. Hundreds of dollars in every drop. She drips some into her palm, warms it with her fingers, then rubs it slowly against his cheeks. Her thumbs smooth it in, gentle pressure that circles and coaxes, easing the pressure from the hinge of his jaw. The intimacy of it makes her grateful that his eyes are closed. 

“And then?” he prompts, smirking. “What do I get in return?”

“Tsk,” she hisses through her teeth. “Nothing with that attitude.”

He juts out his lower lip in a playful, childlike pout. 

“Then,” she says, taking up a small jar of cream and scooping it with her fingertips to dot along his face. “I’ll let you fuck me before breakfast, wherever and however you choose. Maybe you want to bend me over the kitchen counter while the coffee brews? Or you want me to ride you on the rug in the living room?”

“In the pool?”

“Choice is yours, honey.”

“More than once?”

“Maybe more than twice, if you’re good.”

Before Mark opens his eyes, she swipes a thick layer of moisturising balm onto her own lips, then transfers it to his with a kiss. He startles briefly before grinning against her lips. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“No,” she corrects, pushing the headband from his hair. She combs the damp strands, setting them loose again. “I’m going to take care of you. And you’re going to take care of me. That’s how this works, okay?”

“Okay– I, yeah— I want to take care of you. Always.”

She tips her head toward the bed. He follows, eyes lidded like a man unmade beneath her touch. He lets her guide him beneath the sheets, curling toward her instinctively as they settle. The lamp clicks off, leaving the room lit only by moonlight. Helena lies still on her back, with Mark’s arm heavy across her waist. She strokes idly at the soft hair on his forearm as his warmth anchors her. 

“Mark?”

Sleep clings to him, his reply is slurred. “Mmhm?”

“Can I ask you something about Hannah?”

“Gemma?” he mumbles.

“Sure,” she says, swallowing. “How long had you been broken up before you and I met?”

He hums, thinking. “A while. Little over a month.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t tell him that in real terms, a month isn’t very long at all. Her mind drifts to the night they met. To how eager he had been to get her into bed. How quickly she’d given in to his charm, and how elated he’d been at her willingness. Something skinks low in her gut. She blinks hard against the dark, unsettled by the weight of a feeling she doesn't know how to name. 

Helena chuckles weakly. “Was I your rebound?”

“No way.” His voice sharpens, cutting through the sleep. He reaches out blindly to grope for the lamp, switching it on so quickly that the sudden light makes both of them flinch. He sits up beside her, shoulders squared, the loose warmth he carried to bed now replaced by something taut and edgy.

“I swear to God, Helena, that’s not what this is,” he stammers, with urgency in his tone. “Gemma and I were over long before either of us said it. And you’re…” His face loosens as he smiles. “Different. Amazing. Incredible. I’ve never met anybody like you before. A woman like you could never just be a replacement girlfriend.”

His eyes flare as he tries to correct himself. “Sorry. Fuck. I know you’re not my— this is causal. No labels. I get that. But you’re not a rebound.  I like you— fuck, I mean I like being with you, for you. No other reason.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Helena nods. “Yeah, I— okay, I believe you. And I…” she swallows around the words, wishing she could turn off the lamp before she says them. “Me too. I, um, like…  being with you, too.”

He leans up to catch her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. “You like like me, too?”

“Being with you,” she corrects. 

Mark grins as though she just proclaimed her undying devotion. “I’ll take it.”

He reaches past her to flick off the lamp again, then settles down to lay beside her. Cheek to her chest, one knee hooked over hers, clinging to her from head to toe. It should be suffocating, but it isn’t. She strokes his hair, presses her lips to his crown. 

Eventually, when his breathing evens, she reaches carefully for her phone on the nightstand. Guilt causes her to check twice that he’s still sleeping before the glow lights up her face. She opens the search bar. 

Gemma + student + Ganz College

Her thumb hovers before she presses enter.

Chapter Text

Helena remakes herself every Monday. Whatever glow clings from the weekend with Mark is scraped clean, leaving only the polished, impenetrable version of herself fit for Lumon. The woman behind the sprawling glass desk is sharp, as though the last two days never touched her. That’s the way it has to be. 

Documents left open in front of her go unread. Instead, her cursor hovers, clicks and lingers on a gallery of images she shouldn’t be looking at. The private social media profile of Gemma. Mark’s Gemma.

One photo shows her from last winter, hunched over a workbench at a pottery studio with a paintbrush poised delicately above a thrown pot. The caption chirps of homemade Christmas gifts, and how everyone she knows will receive one. Helena huffs a sharp, humourless laugh and rolls her eyes. 

“Shitty gift,” she scoffs. “I bought him Prada.”

Another photo. And another. Artsy collections of books stacked at odd angles and mugs of tea cooling in the breeze. Each one curates the image of the creative, academic, girl next door. The one that got away. 

She clicks on without stopping. 

The next is at the beach. Sunkissed skin, hair loose around her shoulders. Bikini clinging to her, breasts filling the fabric in a way Helena has never managed. She scowls at the picture, jaw tight, staring until the screen gives up and dims into black. 

Her own reflection stares back at her from the dark glass. She leans closer. Fingers smooth beneath her eyes, tugging at the fine lines there. Her cheeks are drawn upward, pulled taut, younger for a second before the skin slides back into place. She weighs herself against the version of her that once stared back, and is acutely aware, for the first time in her life, that she is not twenty-one anymore. 

The screen stirs back to life beneath touch. She clicks into her messages, though the beach photo still occupies the tab behind. Her thumbnail drags against her lower lip until she tastes the faint tang of polish chipped away.

She types out her message fast.

Helena: Which do you prefer— my tits or my ass?

His response follows almost instantly. 

Mark: interesting conundrum. maybe some pics would help me decide…? ;) <3

Helena: Answer.

Mark: fine if u insist. your ass, 100%

One last glance at the ex and her tight bikini, then Helena drags her tongue slowly over her teeth, narrowing her eyes before tapping out a hasty response. She hits send before rational thought can prevent it. 

Helena: What’s wrong with my tits? 

Mark: what?

Helena: Too small? Not perky enough for you?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. She can practically feel Mark sweating as his pulse climbs. 

Then her screen floods with an incoming video call. Her shoulders square; her spine lengthens. This is Lumon’s Helena. Ms. Eagan. Sanitized and professional, prepared to carve into him if necessary. 

She answers the call, bracing for panic, his stricken face and fumbling apologies. 

Instead, he eyes her with a suspicious grin. “You’re messing with me…right?”

The self destructive part of her, the one that aches for a fight, wants to say no. Wants to watch him falter as she pushes him to defend his choice, for no reason other than fuelling her own irrational rage. But the lopsided smirk he flashes her is so stupidly wide that her shoulders slacken. The tension drains. She exhales through her nose and closes the tab of Gemma’s photos with a flick.

“Got you,” she smirks. 

“Oh my God.” Relief floods his face, almost comically visible. “Don’t do that!” he laughs, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “You really had me going for a second there.”

The sound of his laughter tugs her lips into a curve. “Sorry. I was bored looking at reports. Figured I’d mess with you.”

“Hats off to you. I was like three seconds from calling a cab straight to Lumon before I realised.”

She both softens and recoils in equal measure. Melting at the heartwarming purity of his response, while burning with embarrassment at how close she came to betraying the small, girlish insecurities. Colour rises to her cheeks so suddenly that she leans back from the camera, obscuring the flush, but he’s still staring at her with intent.

She bites her lip. “What?”

“Your tits are perfect, you know.”

It shouldn’t work, the boyish, inelegant complement, but it disarms her. “Whatever.” She flicks her wrist to brush him off. Clears her throat. “You’re still coming over tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I’ll try to get out at a reasonable time. Maybe we’ll make it through a full movie before I fall asleep.”

“Netflix and chill, huh?”

Her brows lift in question. 

Mark’s grin sharpens. “It means letting a crappy documentary run in the background while I go down on you.”

“And they say romance is dead,” she chuckles, shaking her head. 

“Oh you want romance? I can do romance. Just you wait and see.”

The back and forth unspools. Baiting and indulging each other in a light, playful rhythm. When she teases that fooling around on the couch is hardly the basis of erotic poetry, he leans close to the camera, swearing he’ll prove her wrong. She shakes her head, tells him he’s incorrigible. He says he wouldn’t be on her mind while she’s supposed to be working if she didn’t like it. And maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s why she lets herself be pulled away from Lumon’s hard edges. 

The sound of her laughter echoing off the glass walls and reverberating back to her startles Helena. Now is not the time to indulge. 

“I should get back to work.”

“Wait. Show me your office before you go.”

Helena narrows her eyes. “Why?”

“It’ll help with the mental picture when I’m jerking off to the thought of fucking you at your desk.”

“Mark!” Her blush deepens as she clicks down the volume of her speakers. 

“Kidding,” he smirks back at her. “I just wanna see where you spend your day.”

Her eyes flick upward, scanning the corridor beyond the glass. No shadows pass in either direction. Before she can talk herself out of it, she lifts the laptop, sweeping the camera around the room. Much like her home, there’s nothing of note to be seen. Clean lines, minimalist decor. The muted white and blue palette of Lumon’s sterility. Floor to ceiling windows, naturally. Her father’s desk still dominates— a monument to everything she cannot change. 

“Well?”

Mark chuckles. “A plant would brighten the place up.”

“Sure. Another thing for me to fuck up while I’m here.” She intends it to be light, but is betrayed by her tone.

His laughter fades, replaced by something quieter. “What makes you think you’re doing a bad job? Because from where I’m sitting, you do nothing but bust your ass for that place.”

His observation lands heavy. The innocence of assuming that years of endless toil, clawing Lumon out of the depths of scandal, would effect positive change. That fruits of her labour would amount to more than flat projections and stagnant growth. Years spent waiting for the greatness she was promised as a child, only to be the one to drop the torch. 

“Doesn’t matter,” she brushes him off, shifting in her chair. “What are you doing today?”

There’s a moment where it looks as if he might push back. His mouth opens, eyes narrowing. Then he closes it again and shrugs. He sets his phone back, angling the camera toward a textbook with scribbled margins. “Studying.”

“Come on, I showed you mine. You show me yours.”

The view shifts, and suddenly she’s looking at a space that couldn’t be further from her own. A bed left half-made, desk crowded with papers, clothes flung carelessly over the back of a chair. It’s messy and bright and so perfectly Mark. Saturated with the presence of somebody living there. He angles the lens toward the cork board tacked above his desk. 

“Got our tickets from Jaws here, see?”

She ought to feel warmth at the memory, but her gaze catches elsewhere. A ceramic pot. Hand thrown, clumsy and lopsided, stuffed full of pens. She doesn't need to ask where it came from. A pang of jealousy twists sharp in her gut. 

Mark flips the camera back to himself and the image pixelates, blurring with static before settling. 

“Your phone is shit,” she teases, voice lighter than she feels.

He shrugs. “Does the job.”

Movement in the corridor pulls her eyes away. Natalie is approaching, holding a cardboard tray balanced with two takeout coffees. 

“Fuck. Sorry, honey, I really do need to go.”

Before she can end the call, Mark lifts his hand, kisses his fingertips and presses them to the camera. The gesture is guileless enough that heat rises up her neck before she can tamp it down. She glances quickly to check Natalie hasn’t yet reached the office, then lifts her hand to catch the kiss with a flourish. She presses her own fingers against her cheek, delighting in his grin that follows.

A bubbly warmth spreads beneath her skin as she ends the call. When her own reflection stares back, she has to inhale sharply to force a neutral expression. She rolls her shoulders, smooths her blazer, and lets the mask fall back into place as Natalie’s knock lands. 

“It’s open.”

Natalie enters with a curt smile. The coffees are set neatly on the desk, one nudged toward Helena’s side with the same precision she brings to every task.

“Ready to go over the presentation for New York again?”

Helena wraps her fingers around the paper cup, grateful for the heat against her palm. Another performance, another pitch. Their latest desperate attempt to keep the ground steady beneath Lumon’s name. They don’t need the money, but tethering themselves to a venture capital firm means visibility and legitimacy. The kind of endorsement that bolsters trust more than numbers ever could. They need the perception of faith, not the funds.

“Yes.” She opens her laptop, fingers already queuing the deck. “Actually, before I forget—can you get onto IT to arrange a new phone for me?”

Natalie cocks her head. “You just had yours replaced a few months ago.”

“It has water damage.” Helena takes a careful sip of the coffee, watching the corner of Natalie’s mouth tighten.

“I’ll get someone to set it up for you.”

“No need. Just bring it to me still in the box.”

She doesn’t add that she wants it untouched. A pristine object in shrink-wrapped plastic feels more like a gift. Something much more useful than a squat ceramic pot with uneven sides and too much sentiment baked in.

-x- 

Tuesday settles heavy in her bones. The drive home feels endless, her mind caught in loops of boardroom chatter, and projections that never rise and Natalie’s pointed silences. By the time the car eases into the driveway, her shoulders ache from the weight of the day, her temples throbbing faintly from too much coffee and too little sleep. All she wants is to unfasten herself from the rigid scaffolding holding her together.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the tension unspools in an instant. Mark is there, waiting as he always is on Tuesdays, leaning against the end table with a glint in his eye. He steps forward before she can even drop her purse, arms circling her, pulling her flush against his chest. His lips press warm to her temple.

“Long day?”

She nods, the word caught somewhere behind her teeth, too tired to speak it aloud.

He holds her tighter, one hand slipping up to the knot of hair at her nape. His fingers work deftly, unfastening and tugging pins until the coil loosens. Strands spill down around her shoulders, and he combs his fingers gently through them, dragging slowly over her scalp. The tension at her neck eases under his touch, her eyelids dipping closed as she exhales. 

“I got you something,” she mumbles against his shirt.

“I have something for you, too.”

Her lashes lift. “What?”

“Let’s swap over dinner.”

“You made dinner?”

“Technically Zufu made dinner, but I did set the table.”

It makes her laugh.  She tips her head, brushes her mouth along the sharp edge of his jaw. “Thank you, baby.”

His hands slip lower, squeezing her ass before he pauses, murmuring, “Oops, hold on.” He leans back. Both palms rise, cupping her breasts through her blouse. He bends, kisses one and then the other, then pushes them together, burying his face between.

“Mark,” she laughs, swatting his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”

He tilts his head up with a wicked grin. “Making sure you know I enjoy every part of you equally.”

Her smile breaks wide despite the fatigue. She pushes at his chest. “Come on, I’m starving.”

Hunger has never been something Helena allowed herself to feel. To want was dangerous. Father taught her that desire, once acknowledged, becomes unruly. Impossible to cage again. So, she restricts. Starves herself of the appetite for anything rich or decadent, anything beyond what her body strictly needs. Both food and sex alike. She parcels out pleasures into rations— a small bite here, a night of passion there— just to keep her from burning alive. 

Mark, however, does not recoil from her need. He exalts it. She sees his delight when she indulges, and it emboldens her. 

His boundless, boyish energy has loosened her hold on herself. Lowered her guard until she can taste the sharp sweetness of longing without flinching. With him, she is beginning to let her hunger slip its leash and not fear judgement. 

Mark laces their fingers as he leads her from the foyer into the dining room. The sight makes her stop short. 

“Oh, wow.”

On the long, immaculately polished table, he has laid out the families finest china. Plates embossed with fables and folklore, rimmed with gold. Glasses older than her by generations. Candelabras stand at the center, flames flickering. The same candles once reserved for the shrine of Kier himself. And between them— the crown jewel— sits a large paper bag, overflowing with the steam and spices. 

The absurdity of it unmoors her. Eagan tradition that marked centuries of restriction, topped with a pile of cheap, greasy takeout cartons. 

Father would turn in his grave at the sight. 

“I just grabbed the plates from the cabinet. Is that okay?”

“It’s perfect,” she tells him. 

He beams under her praise. Pulls out her chair with a flourish and waits until she sits before nudging her in with a gentle push. He circles and drops into the seat across from her. A bottle of red waits open between them. Airing, just as she taught him. She lifts her glass and he pours. The first sip is slow and languid, punctuated by a low groan in her throat. His jaw slackens at the sound. 

Mark begins unpacking the containers, lids snapping open to release clouds of steam. As he does, Helena reaches into her purse by the chair leg and withdraws a small white box, setting it on the table by the candles. 

“Here.”

He half glances while snapping open chopsticks. “You want me to help you set it up?”

“I’ll choose not to take that as a comment on my age,” she teases, sliding the box closer. “It’s for you.”

His head jerks up. He blinks first at her, then at the box. “You bought me a cellphone? Are you—are you serious?”

“Lumon bought you a phone. Off the record, of course.”

“That’s—” His words stutter, tangling with disbelief. “That’s too much. I can’t—Helena, I can’t take this.” 

“Please.” She brushes him off with a flick of her hand, already reaching for the nearest carton of noodles. “It’s purely self serving. So I don’t have to look at your pixelated screen when we video call.”

His laugh is bashful and pure. “You are something else. Thank you, Helena. Really— thank you. Mine is just about to give out and a new cell plan would be so expensive… Jeez, thank you.” He scrubs the back of his neck with his hand. Drops his gaze to the table. “Kinda makes my thing for you look shitty now.”

“What thing?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Can you see which one of these boxes has pork dumplings? They’re really good with the sauce. And—”

“Mark…” she warns. 

He mumbles something. 

“What was that?”

A sharp exhale, then he repeats himself louder. “I made you a playlist, okay?” His face burns red as he fumbles on. “It started with a few songs I wanted to play for you. Then I added some I thought you might like. Then… songs that reminded me of you. I don’t know. Whatever. It’s dumb.”

“Show me.”

Reluctantly, unlocks his phone and slides it toward her. The screen glows with a playlist stretching page after page. Hundreds of songs. Chosen, ordered and curated just for her. 

Her laugh catches in her throat. “There’s a lot of U2 on here.”

“I told you it was stupid.” He lunges to snatch it back. 

Helena holds the phone out of his reach. “It’s not.”

She looks at the screen and feels the hours behind it. The care and the time. Every song is proof that he thought of her when she wasn’t there. Proof that she occupies space in his head. Suddenly she understands why he kept the clumsy ceramic pot his ex had made— why it matters more than any purchase ever could. You can’t buy the feeling of being cherished in absence. 

Her chest tightens with something almost unbearable. Helena does not have the capacity to give like that, not in the same way. Nobody ever taught her how. She will never measure against the girlfriend who knows how to demonstrate her care.

“I think this might be the most thoughtful thing anybody has ever done for me.”

“Yeah, well. It’s hard not to be thoughtful when I think about you all the time.”

Her eyes blur and she blinks hard against it. Sentiment isn’t a language she knows, but there’s something she knows how to give. She stands abruptly, chair scraping back. Intent sharp in her body, she strides around the table toward him. 

Getting on her knees for a man is something Helena stopped doing in her early twenties. Back then it was the trump card. The one trick she could play when she felt her lover’s attention slipping back toward his wife. It kept him tethered to her, forcing the illusion of need for just a little longer, but it was always something she hated. The surrender of control. The way his hand would tighten in her hair, forcing her to take more. 

But Mark is not that man. Obedient and eager to please, her boy knows his place. She won't lose herself to humiliation, but rather find herself in his worship. 

With a strength that surprises her, she grabs the arm of his chair and drags hard, turning him to face her. 

He grins back at her with excitement. “What are you doing—mph.” She cuts him off, planting both hands on his chest and swinging her leg over to straddle his lap. 

“What about dinner?”

“It’ll re-heat.”

His brow furrows in concern. “You said you were hungry?”

“I’m fucking starving,” she growls, though this is a different kind of hunger altogether. 

Her slacks tighten around her ass as she settles above him. His hands lift instinctively toward her waist, but she catches them. Pushes down, pinning them beneath his thighs. 

“Keep them there.”

His eyes widen as he nods, throat working around a desperate swallow. “Yes ma’am.”

She kisses him hard. Hot, sloppy and open mouthed. Her hips grind in slow, filthy circles until his cock is straining beneath her. The whimper that leaves him only makes her bite harder, dragging his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling it taut while her gaze stays locked on his. His hands twitch where she’s forced them, fingers flexing uselessly against the chair.

Her lips wander downward, tracing the line of his throat with nips and licks and bites. She sucks hard at the pulse point, tasting the tang of sweat and salt beneath her tongue. When her teeth scrape, his head tips back against with a groan so guttural it makes her slick as she rocks against him. 

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps. “This is— Helena, fuck—” Needy hands slip free, grasping at her hips in reflex.

“If you want me to take care of you, you’re going to sit on your hands before I tie them behind your back. Understood?”

“Got it. Yeah— fuck. Sorry. Mmhm,” he stammers. He flattens his palms under his thighs again, muscles tight with restraint. 

His reward comes as a series of searing, wet kisses to his throat. Experimentally, she drags her thumb nail over his nipple though his shirt. The ensuing hiss through his teeth is nothing short of delightful. 

By the time she sinks to her knees, he’s practically trembling. 

“Oh my God— oh my God. Are you going to— fuck. Oh, fuck.”

She chuckles as she pops the buttons of his jeans one by one. He lifts his hips and she drags them down, freeing him. His cock springs up against his stomach, flushed red, glistening with precum before she has even touched him. He looks wrecked, lips parted, breath coming shallow. 

“Desperate already?” The words are whispered low as her nails skim the inside of his thigh. His breath jerks at the contact, his cock twitching. “I haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already so hard for me.”

“Yes. Please, Helena.”

“So needy,” she coos. 

A kiss lands at the tender crease of his thigh, then another on the opposite side. She makes him wait, makes him ache, each kiss close but never close enough, until eventually her tongue flattens against him, dragging slowly from base to tip. The groan that bursts out of him is strangled and raw, and his head falls back.

“Eyes forward. Don’t hide that pretty face from me. You’re going to watch while I make you come.”

His eyes fly open at once, wide and desperate and glassy with want.

“Good.” She licks around the swollen head, savoring the sharp hiss of his breath. “Now—tell me how it feels.”

“Like—like heaven. Warm. Wet. You’re—Jesus—Helena, you’re incredible.”

Helena wraps her fingers around the base of his cock, stroking in rhythm with the slow pull of her lips. Spit slicks her mouth, dripping to her fist, glistening as it strings with each bob of her head. The wet obscenity of the sound makes him groan louder. She pulls off with a wet pop, stroking him slowly enough for him to feel every twist of her wrist. 

“You’re so big, baby,” she says, gaze steady on his face. “I don’t know if you’ll fit all the way down my throat. Do you want me to try?”

“Yes—please. If you want— if that’s okay. Please.” 

“Oh, honey. You’re so polite.”

“Mmhm.”

“You want me choking on you?” 

He whimpers softly. “Fuck.”

“Want to watch me swallow you whole until you can’t think straight?”

“God, yes. Please.”

Helena inhales sharply, holding him exactly where she wants him. “Then tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

“You are.”

“Again.”

“Oh my god, fuck. You are. You’re the best I’ve ever had. Helena, you’re perfect. There’s nobody else like you.”

“That’s my good boy.”

She teases him first, with a swirl of her tongue over the flushed head. His thighs jerk in response, muscles taut, his breath rasping out in a shudder. Instead of giving him what he aches for, she pulls back again, savoring one final moment of desperation before she slides forward.

Her mouth engulfs him in one steady push, lips stretching to take him. The sound is obscene and lewd as her saliva coats him, dripping down the length of his cock. She takes him deeper, throat straining, until her nose nearly presses to the soft hair at his base. The fullness makes her eyes sting, but she holds for as long as she can. 

A ragged groan tears out of him. “Oh—fuck.” 

Her cheeks hollow as she draws back, then sinks forward again, finding a steady rhythm. Spit slicks her fist, gathering at the corners of her mouth only to be smeared across his length as she works him. He can’t contain the sounds anymore. Groans spill out of him in waves, guttural and desperate with each stroke. 

“Helena— oh my God. Fuck. Feels—fuck—feels so good.”

Her eyes lift, locking on his. She swallows him down again and her throat flutters around him as she hums. Faster now. Her lips glide, her fist strokes, her cheeks hollow. Every motion designed to drag him closer to the edge. 

“I’m—fuck, I’m close,” His hips twitch helplessly, the tension winding tight through his whole body. “Helena, I can’t—oh my god. I’m gonna come. I’m gonne come— fuck”

She doesn’t relent. Her eyes stay on his while she swallows him deeper still, throat straining as she takes him as far as she can. His cry is guttural, broken, as his orgasm hits. Hot, thick spurts hit the back of her throat, and she swallows greedily, keeping him deep until the last pulse ebbs. When she pulls back, her lips are wet with a glistening sheen of saliva smeared across her chin.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then stands back to her feet. She combs her fingers through his hair as his chest heaves in uneven bursts, mouth parted in stunned disbelief. Every inch of him radiates awe as he blinks up at the ceiling. 

“You can move your arms now.”

He startles as his head lolls toward her and a sheepish grin pulls at his lips. “Fuck— sorry. Kinda out of it.” His arms snap around her waist, pulling her into him with a sudden, desperate strength. His chin rests against her stomach as he beams up at her.

“That was… Helena, that was the best thing that’s ever—fuck, shoulda shown you that playlsit weeks ago,” he chuckles, still catching his breath.

“You’ve never done that before?”

A deep blush floods his cheeks. “Uh, the first part, yeah, a few times. But not the last. Never… It’s never been like that before.”

An irrational flare of something she can’t name twists hot in her gut at the thought of him watching another woman on her knees. But sweet satisfaction follows just as quickly. Letting him finish in her mouth will always be his first. A piece of him she has claimed, and kept for herself.

The fog in his eyes clears too quickly for her liking, but it is replaced by a sharpness that pins her where she stands. Post-release languor replaced with intent. He rises from the chair, fastening his jeans. They stand nearly eye to eye with her heels narrowing the difference. He lifts his hand to her face, soft palm cupping her cheek, thumb dragging across her lower lip where traces of him still linger.

“Lay on the table.”

She nods. Her pulse skips as he drags his chair backward and she turns, sliding the plates and half-opened cartons to one side. Candlelight spills across porcelain, flickers against embossed rims, steam curling faint from forgotten noodles. The desecration is part of the thrill— passion tarnishing the surface meant for legacy.

Their mouths crash together hard, teeth catching lips. Her slacks loosen under his hands, fabric slinking down her thighs. When her ass hits the edge of the table, she hisses, the cold bite of it slicing through lace. He kneels, tugging the garment down and off her ankles.

The table beneath her spine is merciless, unyielding, and still she arches against it, the discomfort sharpening the edges of her pleasure. Breath comes shallow as his mouth trails up her leg, starting at the knee and inching higher, every kiss a spark. Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer. Her thighs hook over his shoulders, stilettos digging sharp into his back. The first molten sweep of his tongue makes her jolt. The table groans beneath the movement. Candles quiver in their holders, wax spilling at the rim. 

“That’s it, baby. Give me what I need.”

There’s something that happens when she’s with him. Inhibitions slide away until all that remains is her carnal, desperate self. Streams of profanities pour from her lips as she lets the fantasy run free. 

“Next time you fuck me it’s going to be without a condom, you ready for that?” He grunts needily in response. “Ready to come inside this pussy like it’s yours? Feel yourself inside me. You want that?”

“Yes. Helena. Fuck. I want that.”

Her grip in his hair tightens. “No. You don’t get to talk. Don’t you dare stop.” 

The candelabra sways dangerously and for a moment she wills it to tip. To ignite the carpet, to set the entire house alight. Let it all burn, let the walls her father built dissolve into ash. She imagines herself rising from the wreckage, a phoenix with Mark clutched and protected beneath her wing. 

“Mark—fuck. Harder. Harder. I need more.”

He nods ferociously against her. 

“Fuck. Use your fingers, baby. That’s it. Give me everything you’ve got so I can come on that pretty little face.”

The peak gathers in her like a storm. Her thighs tremble around him, the friction of his tongue driving her higher, tighter, until it’s unbearable. She turns her head, vision blurring, and sees a crystal flute perched perilously close to the edge. A relic of a family tradition that never quenched thirst. Her climax tears through her. A cry rips free, and with it, her hand lashes out. 

The glass topples, shatters on the hardwood in a violent spray. She comes undone, body seizing, grinding against his mouth as shards scatter.

-x- 

Dinner is tepid by the time they get to it. They reheat the cartons, plates abandoned in favour of curling up on the couch. Knees bump, shoulders press as they balance containers of noodles in their laps. Chopsticks dangle lazily between Helena’s fingers as she steals the broccoli that she knows he won’t eat. 

Between bites, he talks— about his lectures, about the professor who veers off topic until half the class is about his ex wife, about how he learned something new on Cold War film propaganda. She offers little in return, only the vaguest shape of her own day. The details of Lumon are too dense, too heavy to voice in this space. This is the part of her day that counts. His words soothe, pulling the tension from her bones. With him here, her mind does not circle the edge of insecurity. Or at least, not as much. There’s little room for overthinking when he’s close enough to touch. 

Later, the shower rinses the remnants of her day. By the time they reach the bedroom she feels stripped back, bare in more ways than one. She sits at the dressing table in her robe, comb dragging slowly through damp strands. In the mirror, she catches Mark’s reflection. He’s perched on the end of the bed, new phone in his lap, excitement muted by concentration. Both of them glance up, caught in the act of being distracted by one another. 

From the bed, he lifts the phone and angles it toward her. “Smile.”

She obliges, lips curving into place as the shutter clicks.

“Not like that,” he smirks. 

“What’s wrong with how I’m smiling?”

“Nothing! It’s lovely. Just a little…” He squints, searching for the word. Then he straightens his face to demonstrate. Mouth tight, lip pressed into a thin line, eyes emotionless. “See? That’s your Lumon one.”

A small scoff escapes before she can stop it. 

“And then there’s your real one,” he continues, flashing her his teeth and crinkling his eyes. “Like that. That’s the one I want to see.”

She turns her head, smirks, hesitates. The muscles of her face soften in increments, easing into a smile that feels less deliberate. It draws him in instantly. He snaps the photo, eyes widening as he looks down at it.

“Beautiful…”

Warmth spreads through her chest. She furrows her brow lightly, bracing herself against the rush of it. Her smile softens as she watches him. 

“Wait.” Another click. “There.” 

He flips the screen toward her. Her own face stares back—unguarded, eyes round and wide. She has never seen herself look like this. Never seen herself so at peace.

“This one,” he says, almost shyly, “this is your secret third smile. I don’t think anybody else gets to see that but me.” The words lodge somewhere beneath her ribs as he turns the phone back, snaps another, then announces with a grin, “Okay. This one’s wallpaper material.”

Helena’s blood runs cold.

“What?”

“I’m gonna set it as my phone background.”

She shakes her head as the warmth of just moments ago seeps away. “You can’t do that. What if somebody sees?”

He chuckles, still oblivious, waving her off with ease. “Then they’ll think I’m a Lumon super-fan or whatever.”

“Who has photos of me in a robe? Absolutely not. You can’t use that as your background.”

The laughter dies in his throat. His gaze snaps up, eyes wide and startled. She sees him recognise the severity in her expression as his face pales. He nods quickly. “Okay. Sorry.”

“I mean it,” she snaps. “Delete them.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He taps rapidly at the screen then turns the phone toward her, gallery empty. “They’re gone. Sorry.”

Silence settles heavy between them. Mark’s head dips, shoulders drawn as he shrinks in on himself at the edge of the bed. Helena turns her back. Looks anywhere but at him. Her eyes are fixed ahead on the mirror, where her own stern expression stares back. 

She drags air into her lungs but it does nothing to steady her. Her eyes squeeze tightly shut and behind them she sees the shape of the fallout if this is discovered. Whispers. Headlines. Scrutiny from all angles that peels away their fragile little bubble. There will be no room for softness of intimacy when she’s cast as the cradle snatcher, or he’s dubbed the chancer boy toy, chasing her cash. 

But beneath the fear of exposure, is the crushing weight of feeling her own inadequacy. 

Mark has too much warmth in him. Too much eagerness to give. She imagines him with Gemma. Their cutesy photos and the ease of youth. The pit in Helena’s stomach tightens. She sees with such clarity how this will go. Eventually the sex won’t be enough, not the money, nor the novelty. He’ll leave her to find something real, something she cannot provide. 

And Helena will be alone again. 

Her jaw tightens until it aches. Her heart hammers, heat flooding her eyes. No. He doesn’t get to see her cry.  

She rises quickly, cinching her robe right around her waist, making for the bathroom with an excuse already half formed. The stool scrapes. The mattress shifts. She almost makes it to the door before his voice reaches her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She tries to wave it away. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a photo.”

“I’m sorry I’m not…different.”

Her head turns fast to where he still sits on the edge of the bed. Shoulders hunched, swiping his eyes with the back of his hand, no attempt to hide his tears. The sight stills her.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he sniffs softly.  “Maybe if I were older, or had a lot of money, it wouldn’t be so bad for you if people found out about us.”

The ache in her chest is immediate. She crosses the space and sinks down beside him, reaching for one of his hands. His palm is hot, damp from his tears, and he lets her take it. 

“Mark, do you think the reason this has to stay casual is because of you?”

He shrugs. “Kinda. You’re Helena Eagan and I’m just… some guy. I can’t buy you things or take you places. Your family has centuries of history and legend, and I grew up in some shit town with a dad who took off. How am I supposed to fit into your world?”

“Oh, Mark.” 

She pulls him in, folds his head to her chest, lips brushing the crown of his hair. His arms circle her waist, tight, tucking himself. She rubs his back, slow arcs of her palm, rocking him idly. 

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

His voice muffled against her. “What for?”

“I should’ve been looking out for you. You were scared, and I was so wrapped up in my own stupid insecurities I didn’t see it.”

He draws back then. “What insecurities?”

Her throat works, her gaze dropping. How easy it would be, right here, to tell him the truth. To confess that she has spent weeks measuring herself against a ghost of his past, clicking through photographs of the girl who came before her, a girl with bright eyes and a youthful body and a flair for the creative. To admit that she may look hard, resilient, immovable—but inside, doubts gnaw. 

He has bared himself to her, trembling and vulnerable, trusting her to hold him. And still, she cannot bring herself to be truthful. 

Her mouth opens, then closes again. “Nothing,” she says at last. “Work stuff.”

He nods, accepts it without pressing. She keeps his hand between hers, fingers lacing tight. 

“Listen. My whole life, I’ve been under scrutiny. My father. The board. Lumon. The press. I thought after he died it would ease, and it did a little. At least I didn’t have him breathing down my neck at home. But now—I’m the last legitimate Eagan, and that weight never lets up. Anybody I’m seen to be with would face that same scrutiny. The constant pressure to say the right thing, make the right choice, be the figurehead. It’s exhausting. Crushing. And I can’t bring someone into that. I won’t.”

Her chest swells, heat rising in her throat. “I don’t mean to keep you at arm’s length from my life. I just want to keep Lumon’s claws off the one part of my life I actually fucking enjoy.”

“Me?”

“No, eating Chinese takeout on the couch.” She swats his arm as he chuckles wetly, nudging her side. “Of course you.”

“I’m a part of your life?”

Helena nods. “Yeah. Y’know, I think about you all the time, too.”

It isn’t a commitment. Not an acknowledgement of what this thing taking shape between them is, but it’s enough.

On impulse she takes his phone, flicks it open, and pulls the camera to frame their joined hands. A quick snap. She sets the photograph as his wallpaper before placing the phone back in his lap. Then she lifts his hand and kisses the knuckles. Her other hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing dampness from beneath his eye. She leans in and presses her lips to his, tasting the salt of what remains of his tears.

“You are wonderful,” she whispers against his mouth. “You’re kind, you’re caring. You make me laugh. You make me feel light when I didn’t think I could anymore. Not that I ever really did. You’re the first person I have ever been truly interested in hearing about their day. I like you because you know nothing about my world, not in spite of it. And… if I could have normal with anyone, Mark, I’d want it to be with you.”

His breath shudders, caught between disbelief and the desperate want of someone hearing what he needed most. She draws him toward the bed, slipping beneath the sheets. Damp strands of her hair fan across the pillow, she knows they’ll dry frizzy by morning if she doesn’t deal with them, but tonight she hasn’t the will. She lies on her back, waiting for the familiar weight of him at her side, ready to tuck her in against his chest.

But he doesn’t move as expected.

“Can I hold you instead?”

She turns to see him resting on his side, waiting for her. She nods, shifting onto her side, turning her back to him. He follows, pressing close, his chest warm along her spine. Their bodies slot together perfectly. 

She flicks the lamp, plunging them into the dark.

“Helena?”

“Yes.”

“I, uh—just… If you ever wanted us to be, um, not casual anymore, then I’d want that too.”

“Mark…”

“No, no. It’s okay if you don’t. I like this.” His arm tightens around her for emphasis. “Having part of you is better than not having you at all. I just thought you should know that if you ever want more, you can have it.”

Her throat tightens and her eyes squeeze shut. “I’ll, uh, yeah.” She nods, willing herself not to cry. “I’ll keep it in mind, okay?”

“Okay.”

She threads her fingers back into his where they rest over her stomach, tangling them together. He bends closer, lips brushing the back of her neck, a kiss so soft she might almost have dreamed it if not for the heat it leaves behind.

-x- 

For once, Helena is the first to wake. Her bone deep fatigue means that usually it’s him, nuzzling into her neck and murmuring until she’s awake, but today, it’s her. Lying there, she studies him in the dim light of morning. He looks impossibly young like this. At peace. No crease between his brows, no tension in his jaw. Just smooth skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, lashes fanned against his cheeks. 

Last night he offered her everything she spent her youth starving for. 

The thing she once prayed for in secret, begged the universe for while lying awake in the hollow of her twenties. A real relationship. A person to come home to each night, not once a week in secrecy but always. Someone who could hold her fears without flinching, someone who would let her rest in the shelter of being cherished, and would take joy in her cherishing them back. 

By the time she turned thirty she had made peace with never having those things. Convinced herself they belonged to other people. Softer people. And yet here he is, offering her the very thing she buried. Warmth at her side, adoration visible in every careless act of kindness. Everything she thought was lost.

And still, the colder part of her, the one built to survive, coils tight and whispers not to reach for it. Don’t take what you can’t keep. 

Don’t open yourself to something that will only be taken away.

Her hand moves before her mind catches it. Delicately, her fingertips brush over his forehead, tracing down the slope of his nose. He twitches faintly at the disturbance, nose wrinkling, lips quirking. She melts, can’t help herself, and repeats the gesture more slowly this time, cataloguing the shape of him beneath her touch.

When she traces the outline of his mouth, his lips purse faintly, reflexive even through sleep, pressing a ghost of a kiss to her fingertip.

Helena giggles. 

“M’still sleeping.”

“You need to get up soon, I have to go to work.”

The grin spreads lazily across his face, eyes still shut. “Five more minutes.” 

“Fine.”

He stretches beneath the sheets, muscles pulling taut. The motion shifts his head, exposes the pale column of his neck from beneath the sheet.. That’s when she sees something dark at his throat. Her breath catches. Her touch ghosts forward, brushing over the blemish. Heat floods her face, dread and disbelief colliding in her chest.

“Oh, shit.”

He blinks awake, smiling lazily at her. “What?”

“Think I got a little carried away last night,” she admits sheepishly, skimming the bruised skin at his neck. 

Mark’s hand snaps up, trapping hers, and he jolts, as though he could somehow contort enough to glimpse his own throat without a mirror. When he fails, he laughs incredulously, eyes bright with amusement, now wide awake.

“Did you give me a hickey?”

Helena bites her lip. “Maybe a little one.”

His expression splits open, equal parts scandal and delight. “You broke the rule!”

She covers her grin with her hand. 

“Your own rule and you broke it. I can’t believe you.”

Before she can defend herself, he lunges. Twisting beneath the sheets, suddenly he’s on top of her, boxing her in. His hands dart for her ribs, fingers merciless as they dig in needling, ticklish jabs. Helena yelps, laugher tearing out of her as she writhes in his grip and tries to escape. “Mark—stop!” The protest breaks on a giggle, high and girlish and so unlike any sound she’s made before. 

“Oh no,” he teases as he climbs over her. “You’re not getting away with it.”

He tackles her flat against the mattress, pinning her with the clumsy weight of his limbs over hers. She wriggles beneath him, pajama shirt sliding off one shoulder, her hair tangling against the pillow as she clamps her chin to her chest to block him from her neck. He bends around her, pressing sloppy, exaggerated kisses wherever he can reach. She kicks her legs, shrieking and squealing with every wet slide of his lips. 

“Don’t you dare.”

“I absolutely dare.” He noses along her jaw, desperate for access. “Payback’s a bitch.”

She pushes at his shoulders, but he’s heavier, sprawled across her, refusing to be budged. Their legs tangle, her heel catches against his calf and his thigh slips between hers. She gasps for breath, laughter hiccupping out between words. “Mark—I’m serious—don’t—”

“Not your neck? Fine, have it your way.”

The sound of thread snapping cuts sharp through their play. Buttons pop from the shirt she’s wearing and skitter somewhere beneath the bed.

“Hey! That shirt was expensive.”

“Like you care.”

He leans back just far enough to look at her, then lowers his head to rest his chin against her sternum and stares up at her with round, desperate eyes. He juts out his bottom lip into an exaggerated pout. “Please?”

“Just this once,” she concedes. “Just so we’re even.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth closes around the soft swell of her breast, sucking until the skin warms and blooms red beneath his lips. She gasps, eyes fluttering shut, not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but intimate enough to make her feel weightless. When he’s finished he pulls back and seals it with a final, delicate kiss. 

“Now we match,” he tells her.

Then he collapses against her, laughter spent, curling into her side. She cards her fingers through his hair, soothing herself from the excitement as much as him. Two fingertips rest lightly on the spot he’s left behind. Guarding it close to her heart. 

When their breathing has slowed, Mark ruffles her hair, then swings his legs out of bed. “Coffee. Don’t move.”

The mattress dips, springs, releases, and she lies back for a moment, staring at the ceiling, reluctant to surrender the cocoon of warmth. Eventually duty wins. She drags herself up and shuffles to the bathroom. Silk robe clinging, hair still wild from the pillow, she digs out the white bathing suit folded neatly in the drawer. Weekday mornings are meant for discipline. They both learned quickly that there’s no space to fold him into her morning swim without making her late for work, so their routine has settled into a quick coffee, a kiss, and goodbye.

When she returns, he sets her cup on the nightstand. “Don’t forget to listen to your playlist today.”

“First thing on the agenda. I hope my driver likes nineties R&B.”

He chuckles, pulling his jeans up over his hips. “Here.” From his pocket he fishes a pair of headphones, the plastic bright yellow, wires tangled from overuse.

She blinks at them. “Don’t you need those?”

“Take ‘em,” he shrugs. “I’ve got another pair at home. Besides, maybe I’ll overhear something interesting on the bus.”

His kindness, unbearable in its simplicity. He isn’t posturing, he’s just utterly unbothered by his own discomfort if it means he can ease hers. A kindness so casual it makes her heart clench.

Sweatshirt pulled over his head, he grins at her. “Alright. Have a good day.”

Her gaze slips from the coffee cooling on the nightstand to the headphones in her palm, then back to the bed still warm from his body. She crosses to her phone, picks it up, turns it over in her palm while considering. 

“You know, I’ve worked at Lumon for as long as you’ve been alive.”

“Oh yeah?” He grins, biting his lip. 

“Yes. And in twenty-one years, I have never once taken a sick day… I think I might be a little overdue.”

The grin that spreads across his face is boyish in its delight.

She coughs, a dramatic, breathy rasp, then flicks through her contacts to dial. The prerecorded voice greets her— Natalie Kalen’s office —and she sniffs wetly into the receiver while winking at Mark.

“Nat, it’s Helena. I’m unwell and can’t make it in today, but I trust you can take care of things without me until I return tomorrow. Call me if there’s an emergency.”

She tosses the phone carelessly onto the bed.

Mark shakes his head in stunned disbelief. “Ms. Eagan, playing hooky.”

“You get me for the day.”

“Guess that means I should call in sick too?”

Helena crosses toward him, swaying her hips as she moves. “If it makes you feel better I could teach you a lesson or two? Wouldn’t want you getting behind on your education.”

Laughter bursts from him as lunges for her, gathering her in a quick hug, spinning in place setting her down again. She starts to peel the bathing suit from her shoulder when he catches her wrist. “Wait. Leave it on.”

“Oh? You want to do some lengths?” 

His hips roll forward in a crude thrust. “I’ve got a length you can have.”

Her hand swats his chest. “Idiot. Come on. Last one in the pool is making breakfast.”

“No fair! I'm still dressed,” he protests vehemently, but she’s half way out of the door. 

“Not my problem.”

“Helena!” he calls after her as they break into a run down the corridor, laughter echoing off the walls. 

Today, she is choosing not to be Helena Eagan, CEO of Lumon, bearer of dynasty and scrutiny. Instead, she’s just Helena. Bare feet slapping against the tiles as she bolts down halls. A childhood desire she would once have been reprimanded for. When she reaches the pool, she won’t toe carefully down the ladder, she’ll jump. She will leap off the deep end and Mark will tumble in after her. No caution, no fear, no rules. Today, she is his.

Chapter Text

Over the week that follows their day bunking off, Mark’s gratitude arrives not in one grand gesture, but in a steady, continuous drip. Good morning text message pings. Late afternoon photos. A scatter of voice notes sent while he’s walking between buildings, wind against the mic. His new phone becomes his excuse to pull her, again and again, into the orbit of his life. Keeping tabs on him becomes her excuse to let herself be drawn in. 

Early on Thursday, a photo lights up her screen. Mark beaming at the camera, cheeks pink from the walk across campus, clutching a packet of chips. The caption reads, this counts as a healthy breakfast, right? Helena can practically taste the salt on her lips. His morning begins very differently to hers. She is alone in her mirrored studio, yoga mat splayed at her feet. She raises her phone to her reflection in the glass— an immaculate two piece set framing her toned body— and snaps the barest sliver of a smile back. 

Helena: Tell me you’re joking before I buy you some vitamins.

He ignores her caption entirely.

Mark: asdhdkfjla woof woof 

Helena: And that means what, exactly?

Mark: it means you look smoking hot and you know it 

Their steady stream of messages continues throughout the day, drip feeding his presence until she slips from being pleasantly surprised by the buzz, to eagerly awaiting the next. Afternoon rolls around and he sends a shot of the campus lawn. Students walking over patchy grass, Spring only just beginning to bloom. Wish you were here, he writes, and then, a moment later, okay not literally, you’d hate it, but I’d be your security and make everyone give you a 10-foot perimeter. Her laugh is too bright for the office, but she lets it come anyway. 

Friday night, a photo from a fluorescent-lit grocery aisle. His basket holds ramen, sour patch kids, and the cheapest beer on the shelf. She sends him back a picture of her own dinner— a quinoa salad bowl between stacks of paperwork in her home office— then tells him to put back the noodles and orders him enough takeout to feed a small family. His animated, grateful voice note promising to repay her in kisses a hundred times over arrives shortly after. She intends to claim her debt in full. 

Saturday breaks their new pattern.

Mark is upstate for the weekend for his sister’s seventeenth birthday. Their regularly scheduled date night is cancelled, but he spends the day ensuring it doesn’t feel like absence at all. Photos accumulate as the hours pass. A sheet cake frosted in a wobbly script. His mother’s kitchen in a chaos of bowls. His sister, with matching black hair and a sulking, teenage pout.

Late that night, after Helena’s home has settled into an unwelcome silence, he calls to give her a tour of his childhood bedroom. The camera skitters— bedspread with cartoon sharks, a battered desk, an old trophy so dusty he has to wipe his sleeve over the base to read it. In the same year that Helena was appointed Lumon’s Chief Operating Officer, Mark was crowned Ambrose Elementary’s Best Speller! 

A thought needles. She leaves him briefly to cross toward the closet and pull down a box sealed with tape on two sides. Helena doesn’t hold onto much in the way of momentos. There’s a broach that belonged to her mother. A fridge magnet that her childhood driver bought her after he took his kids on vacation. Newspaper clippings from the day she was born. And beneath it all, a photo of herself at eighteen. High school graduation, to be exact. Mere months before she’d go to college, become infatuated with her married professor, and what little remained of the spark in her eyes would harden for good. 

Helena angles her camera toward the photo before she can decide not to.

“Holy shit,” Mark chuckles. “I would’ve had the stupidest crush on you if I knew you then.”

“That’s sweet, Mark. But I don’t think so. I was kind of an outcast.”

“So was I.” He shrugs, flashing her a smile. “You should tell me about it, some time.”

“About me being a loser in high school?”

“About all of it. I want to know everything.”

The quiet that follows swells and aches in her chest. How different her life would have been if she’d met a boy like him at that age. The softness she might have learned. The vision of that reality unfurls around her, then vanishes on a breath. Helena shakes her head, forcing the thought from her mind. 

“Maybe someday,” she offers lamely. “Anyway. You would’ve been a kid if you met me when I were younger.”

“Bet you would’ve made such a hot babysitter.”

“Don’t expect me to let you stay up past bedtime.”

“Not even if I’m a good boy?”

Their conversation quickly derails. Their voices lower, words narrow to hunger and instructions. He climbs into bed. She settles back on the couch. Months ago, before he came into her life, the idea of phone sex would’ve made her blush. Now, her desire takes shape without apology. She guides, he follows. He asks what she wants and she tells him. Filth pours from her lips as she commands. Stroke your cock. Pinch your nipple. Tell me how badly you want to come. His needy sounds are an undercurrent— a desperate whine when she orders him to slow down, broken thanks when she praises him. 

They finish in unison with the other’s name on their lips. He tells her again that he wishes she were there, cramped into the twin bed with him, and in the post orgasmic haze, she admits that she does too. 

-x- 

Friday morning ought to drag itself across her shoulders, heavy as any other, but today it doesn’t. Helena sits swaying faintly in her chair, Mark’s bright yellow headphones trailing from each ear. Britpop hums rhythmically, his chosen playlist still surprising her— how easily she captures her moods she rarely names for herself. Her fingertips tap the arm rest in time. A small, unguarded movement that would never surface among anybody’s company but his. 

On queue, Mark’s morning greeting arrives. A photo of his coffee, sloshing in a dented travel mug. 

Mark: wont be as nice as whatever your assistant brings you this morning, but it does the job! 

Helena: How do you know I don’t make my own?

She feels the three dots pulsing with his grin and a smirk tugs at her own lips, all pretence of work forgotten now that she has a few minutes of his time. 

Mark: because i know you, your highness. bet you don’t even know where the coffee machine is… 

Her jaw sets. The audacity of him is palpable, even across town. She flicks her eyes toward the door, fairly certain there’s a kitchenette somewhere down the hall. Not once has Helena had reason to venture there, but a childish, playful spark lights in her chest. She slips the yellow headphones snug against her ears, loops the excess wire around her phone, and grabs the empty mug from her desk. 

The corridor is quiet, voices carrying softly from the atrium below and carpet muffling her stride. Today, she is wearing a dress. An impulse decision to swap out her usual pantsuit, due in no small part to Mark salivating over her toned calves earlier this week. Glass lined walls reflect light on her bare shins. Music pulses in her ears in time with the sway of her hips, and her loose curls bob against her shoulders. At the kitchenette, she hesitates, scanning the unfamiliar space like a trespasser. 

A small laugh escapes her as she takes a photo— hand on the coffee pot as though it's second nature. She sends the evidence, proving him wrong. Her grin fades the moment a voice cuts in softly, just behind her shoulder. 

“Let me get that for you, ma’am.”

Helena startles, mug clinking the counter. The warmth in her chest curdles to instinctive caution until she turns. An intern, barely more than a girl, in her pleated skirt and polished flats stands waiting.

“Oh—” she breathes, composing herself. She slips one yellow bud from her ear, letting it dangle against the silk of her blouse. “That’s alright, I’ve got it.”

Helena refills her own coffee, then holds the pot toward the girl until she steadies her own mug for the pour. The faintest nod passes between them, then she crosses toward the fridge and lifts out a bottle of creamer labelled Ms. Huang in marker. She tops up her coffee, then offers the bottle to Helena.

“Would you like some?”

Helena shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

“It’s hazelnut.”

Her instinct is to wave it off, the voice of her father etched behind the compulsion. She has done nothing to earn the indulgence. And yet, she glances toward the open doorway, checking the emptiness of the hall. A smirk tugs as she bites her lip. “Maybe just a little?”

The intern tips the creamer into Helena’s cup. Sweet, nutty fragrance rises. Helena brings the mug to her lips, tasting sugar and warmth that dulls the sharp edge of the coffee. She smiles with both approval and thanks. 

“What’s your name?”

“Eustace.”

Helena nods. “Do you like working for Lumon, Eustace?”

“Yes ma’am,” she answers quickly. “I am very grateful for the opportunity to be here.”

Helena studies the girl’s face. All hunger and eagerness, a bright spark that Lumon knows how to exploit and smother until nothing’s left. “Can I give you some advice?”

Eustace nods.

“You’re bright. You’ll go far here.” She pauses long enough to let the weight of her praise land. “But there is a life outside of Lumon. Don’t forget that. Don’t let this place consume you, okay?”

For a moment, the girl is quiet, cradling her mug and looking back and forth between Helena and the foam. 

Helena clears her throat. “Do you have, uh… hobbies?” she asks, cringing at her own awkwardness.

“I’m in a band.”

Her lips curl with genuine, amused intrigue. “Oh, yeah?”

“We do synth-jazztronika. I play the theremin."

Helena tries not to let her expression betray the fact she does not know what that means. The girlish glint in Eustace’s eyes, slipping beneath her Lumon discipline, makes something in Helena ache. She sees passion still untouched by the gravitational pull of deadlines and quarterly reports. Once, Helena may have looked like that too. 

“Keep practicing,” Helena tells her. “Always make time for it. And if you ever perform, I want you to save me a ticket.” 

A blush creeps from beneath the pressed collar of her white blouse. “Thank you, Ms. Eagan.”

“Just Helena is fine.”

When Eustace leaves, silence folds back in. Helena lingers for a moment by the coffee maker, with the sweet taste of hazelnut still on her tongue. She glances down at her phone to see Mark’s reply— does this mean you’re making our coffees on Sunday? — and an echo of the intern’s brightness glows in her own chest. Once, she would’ve reveled in the thought of being feared— an impenetrable fortress, sharp enough to cut the air around her. She built herself that way on purpose. Cold and unyielding and beyond question. Now, however, she is open to considering that a little warmth never hurt anybody.

She lingers in the moment as she taps out a reply to Mark. Teasing and playful, volleying the ball back into his court as their flirting continues. She’s still smirking as she pockets her phone and turns toward the door. 

Voices reach her before she turns the handle. Low, conspiratorial, pitched in the register men use when they don’t fear being overheard. 

“Don’t go in there,” one man warns. “The wolf’s out of her cave.”

“Fuck. What does she want?”

There’s callous laughter, barely muffled by the wall. 

“Mike says he saw her pouring coffee for an intern. Probably gets her kicks scaring the shit out of them.”

The gruff chuckles crescendo at her expense before another voice joins the mix. “Whatever. You seen her dress today? She may be a bitch, I’d still hit it.”

A low whistle echos. 

“Not me, man. Bet that uptight pussy’s got fangs.”

Helena’s jaw locks. Breath drags sharp into her lungs as she steadies herself. The mug in her hands tilts until her coffee arcs down the drain in a clean, dark line. She leaves it unwashed in the bowl, then swallows, pressing down the lump in her throat. As she crosses to the door, her bottom lip threatens to tremble and she bites it hard enough to draw blood. It is sharp and metallic in her mouth. 

A chorus of overlapping good mornings greet her. The same men who mocked her, now fumbling for her attention. She doesn’t spare them a glance. Eyes fixed forward, stride long, she returns to her office and locks the door behind her.  

-x- 

Helena has known she wasn’t like other girls since the age of eleven. The realisation didn’t come in a single sharp flash, but in a slow accumulation of absences. There was no ease of playground chatter, or cluster of arms around her at recess. Friends didn’t come naturally. At first, it was unintentional— her last name was enough to mark her as untouchable. An Eagan. The one to bear the wreath on Kier Memorial Day, back stiff beneath the weight of history. The one who the teachers praise too loudly, as though grading her a B might constitute treason. The one expected to place first, or not place at all. 

With time, her solitude became intentional. If she was going to be isolated, better to claim it as deliberate. Better to pull back before she is shunted. Distance became a blade, and she sharpened it well.

There had been a crack in the wall, once. 

A scholarship girl who transferred mid-semester from the state school in town. She was paired with Helena in lab, and they made friends before the girl had the chance to learn better. They laughed. Whispered jokes into the hems of their sleeves and spilt cookies beneath the desk. For a time, Helena thought her fate was turning. 

But one friend was not enough for the girl. She grew restless and greedy. She drifted toward the other girls in gym, lingered in the hallways between classes, testing her options. Helena felt the shift in her bones. Saw the inevitability of her abandonment. Better to strike first than be left in the dust. 

A single phone call to her father had put an end to the matter. Helena’s girlish voice, confiding in Jame that the girl tried to coerce her into smoking. She slipped a stale half-pack of cigarettes beneath the girl’s mattress, and by the weekend, her scholarship was revoked. Her presence erased as though she had never set foot in the halls. 

Helena never saw her again. Not until three years ago, around the holidays. A sharp blustery night outside a grocery store, and the same girl— or woman, now— was leaving with her arms full of supplies. Two children tugging at her coat, and a man pushing a buggy behind. They were laughing, singing carols off-key. Helena was sitting in the back seat of her car, breath fogging the glass, waiting while her driver bought her tampons. She realised that night just how much of her life she had already sacrificed to the generational darkness within her.

-x- 

Alone in the evening, Helena’s insecurities begin to rise. The week had softened her, Mark’s near constant presence vibrating her phone with texts and photos and stupid little updates hadn’t left much room for doubt. He’d kept her warm where she hadn’t realised she was freezing. And yet tonight, the chill returns. Creeping back in with a vengeance, until she fears that she imagined the glow of his attention entirely. 

Silence does that. His last string of messages— mid-afternoon pings for help with crossword clues— still sit unread in her phone. Her deliberate cruelty. She’d ignored him out of spite, an experiment in self-sabotage, and now it is poisoning her. 

At first, her doubts remain at the surface. She pushes back her bands to smooth her forehead, studying the creases that refuse to disappear. Next, she tugs her dress taut against her body, turning to examine every angle until her chef’s neatly prepared meal is tossed into the trash in favour of an hour on the Peloton. 

As she cycles, the pedals churn beneath her feet. Thighs burn, lungs scorching, but the ache inside outpaces it. She thinks of Mark, eyes wet and bloodshot, voice cracking when he told her he feared he wasn’t enough. He opened himself to her, offering vulnerabilities and truths, and she’d given him nothing in return. The wheels spin faster as her mind turns inward. Eventually, her silence will curdle. Her emotional vacancy will push him out the door. 

He’ll leave. Of course he will. Forward, so someone new, or worse… backward to familiar ground. 

Her promise to herself not to look again means nothing. She reaches for her phone from her waistband, screen slick with sweat, and opens Gemma’s profile with desperation. She needs a fresh wound to press. A deliberate ache. 

The latest post is a table scattered with beer bottles. The cropped edge of a man’s arm. 

Missed this guy!

Helena’s heart lurches in her chest. Humiliation blooms hot across her cheeks, a flush more searing than the exertion. She opens the messages tab and types to Mark with unsteady fingers.

Helena: Where are you?

Mark: funny u should ask, i’m at the bar where we met! thinking of you. can’t wait to see u tmrrow <3

Helena: Who are you with?

Mark: just catching up with some old friends. can i call you on the walk home? 

Her chest constricts as she shakes her head in disbelief. “Mother fucker,” she spits with venom. 

In her mind’s cruel theatre, she sees him with her. Gemma’s hand on his arm, his grin lit wide, warming her with adoration that should belong to Helena. She hurls her water bottle so hard that the metal chips the drywall. A raw, furious sound breaks loose from her throat. 

She leaves the studio fast, leaving the bike spinning behind her as rage propels her forward. Her dress lays where she’d stripped it hours before, crumpled at the foot of her bed. She pulls it on without care for the creases. Her heels and coat wait by the door. She grabs her keys from the dish. 

Determination eclipses her humiliation. If there’s a fight to be had, she isn’t losing him without stepping into the ring. 

-x- 

The steering wheel is cool beneath her palms, leather smooth from disuse. She almost never drives her own car, but tonight, waiting felt impossible. The engine purrs as she presses the accelerator, guiding down the winding slope from her estate, past the shrouded treeline into the town below. A stop sign flashes red in the corner of her vision and vanishes just as quickly. She doesn’t show. Rage coils inside her, every thought turning on a loop.

His promises. His murmured assurances that he wanted her, offering her more. Words as empty as air, if tonight he is looking elsewhere for the attention she can’t give him. She overtakes a sluggish car ahead, horn blaring as she passes. 

The bar is loud before she enters, the sidewalk alive with the overspill of voices and laughter as she pulls up in the narrow alley. A sign on the brick warns no parking, but she kills the engine anyway. One click of the fob, an echoing chirp, and she’s moving. 

Inside, the sway of bodies press tight. Music thrums and the floor tacks beneath her feet. It’s busier than the night they met. Clusters of students crowd the tables, some leaning to shout over the din, others dancing with abandon. She scans the room quickly, eyes narrowing.  

And there he is. Propped against the bar, leaning across the taps to order. 

Her pulse spikes. Fury gathers the momentum in her stride as she cuts through the crowd, collar yanked high around her face. Students are oblivious in her wake. There’s nothing but static as she beelines for him, her breath shallow. 

She’s at his side now. 

Mark shifts instinctively, moving aside without looking up. He murmurs a reflexive “sorry” to whoever he thinks has brushed him. Then, recognition clicks. His head snaps back, eyes widening. 

“Oh my god—Helena!” 

His grin breaks wide, shock written across his face. He moves to wrap his arms around her but she flinches back.

“You didn’t expect to see me here, did you?” she mutters, voice low.

He blinks. “No— of course not.” His eyes narrow. “Is everything okay?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mark. I know what you’re doing.”

Mark’s gaze darts back and forth across the room, cheeks flushed from bewilderment. People jostle close by, laughter rising, but she’s locked on him, daring him to reveal his guilt. He looks lost, chuckling weakly as though she may be joking. 

“What— what am I doing?”

Helena’s stomach twists. “I’m not doing this here.” She clamps her hand around his forearm before he can protest. “Come with me.”

She drags him from the bar, the crowd parting around them. The night swallows them whole as the door slams shut behind them and she leads him back into the narrow, concrete alley. Damp and cold rises on either side. A sour draft of cigarette smoke drifts with the sound of voices, but behind her car they are alone. 

He tugs gently against her grip. “Helena. What’s happening?”

She lets go abruptly, retreating a step as though burned. Her throat feels tight as blood roars in her ears. “How could you do this to me?”

“Do what? Slow down, please— just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Fuck you.”

His jaw drops, stunned, then his palms spread in disbelief. “Fuck me? You ignore me all afternoon then show up here just to yell at me? What the hell did I do?”

Helena’s eyes burn. The blur disorients, vision warping as her tears climb ready to fall. She barrels forward anyway, voice pointed and sharp. 

“I pay for anything you could ask for and it’s not enough? Because I won’t sit there sobbing, spilling every thought like you do, you think I’m not enough?”

“I never asked you for a cent. I never wanted your money and you know it.”

“Didn’t stop you taking it.”

Mark shakes his head. “Stop it. This isn’t you. You’re being mean.”

“I am mean,” she hisses back. “I’m a bitch. You’re just now realising it?”

“No you’re not. Not the Helena I know.” 

She crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t know me very well.”

“I don’t know you?” His laugh is short and incredulous. “Sure, maybe you won’t tell me a thing about Lumon, or your father, or what this—” his hand lifts, gesturing between them, “-really means to you. But I know you. You hate green olives but steal the black ones off my pizza. You shampoo twice at night, but only once if you wash in the morning because you’re too tired. I know you snore, even though you deny it. I know the sound you make when you come. I know the shape of your sadness, even if you won’t name it.”

He shakes his head, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “So you can pretend you have these walls, Helena, but don’t you dare tell me that I don’t know you.”

Helena’s chest heaves. The air between them is electric. Charged. Humming with energy. Tears sting, threatening to spill, but she won’t let them. Instead, she steps close to him. Fists gather in his t-shirt as she shoves him back against the wall, hard enough that it knocks the breath from both of them. Then, her lips are on his. Crashing, fierce and desperate. Teeth and tongue and fury tangled into the kiss. Her nails rake his shoulders, his hands clutches the back of her neck, and for a moment it feels like they could tear each other open just to get closer.

They pull back for air, panting against the other’s lips. Her chest raises hard against his. 

“I’m not going to share you, Mark. So either I walk away from this, or you tell me you’re mine.”

His pupils are blown, lips wet, breath heavy. “You’re not going anywhere.”

She yanks him back into another kiss. Rougher, wetter, every drag of his tongue against her stoking fire down her spine. His palms splay over her hips, grasping and greedy as he pulls her body flush against his. Her fingers slide into his hair, nails scraping his scalp. Mark moans into her mouth. 

“You’re mine,” she growls against his lips. “Every part of you belongs to me. Nobody else.”

“I swear, Helena—” his words tumble against her mouth, broken by the kiss. “—it’s only you.”

Her kisses find his jaw. “No other woman touches you. No one other woman gets to see you smile or laugh at your jokes.”

“You’re the only woman I want. I won’t even look at another girl.” He pleads, voice desperate against her temple. He groans hard as she presses wet, open mouthed kisses to his throat, nipping at the skin. “I’ll drop every class that isn’t taught by men. If the newsreader’s a woman, I’ll turn off the TV.”

She finds herself smiling against his collar, her fury dissolving into breathless amusement and heat and the thrill of knowing he’ll say anything to make her believe. His mouth finds hers again in a sloppy, bruising kiss while his thigh wedges between her legs. Both of them moan as she grinds down hard.

Helena’s hand fumbles in her pocket and the click of the fob chirps. She seizes his wrist, dragging him away from the wall. 

“Get in.”

He stumbles after her toward the car. Lips swollen, hair mussed, eyes blown wide with desire. He stops short, blinking at it. “Whose car is this?”

“Mine.”

The grin at his lips grows teasing. “I didn’t know you could drive.”

“Shut up,” she smirks. “I can do things.”

“Whatever you say, your highness.”

The tension and fury and jealousy knotted inside her unfurl into something lighter. Even now, met with her ambush and aggression, he finds a way to break through to her. It melts as the laughter bubbles through, and she presses her forehead against his, dizzy with the absurdity of it all. Mark crawls into the back seat and she crawls in after him, coat falling open as her knees brace either side of his thighs. The slam of the door seals them in the dark. 

Leather seats tug beneath her shins, creaking as she settles over his lap. Her mouth crashes back into his in a frantic, needy kiss. Teeth catch his bottom lip. Heat radiates off both of them, the small space thick with their breath. She grinds her hips down hard, slow at first, rolling against the hard line of him in his jeans. The pressure makes her shiver, pleasure sparking and climbing. He cups the back of her neck as he pulls her closer for more. 

Helena pulls back just far enough to meet his gaze, both of them panting, foreheads pressed together. 

“It’s just you and me, okay, baby? You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” he nods frantically. “Have been from the night we met.”

Tears threaten to spill and she barrels forward to halt them. She clutches the hem of his shirt then yanks it up, untucking him. He matches the pace of her movements, stripping her coat from her shoulders as she works. Their mouths never quite separate as clothes are shifted and pulled with desperation. 

Mark’s hands slip beneath her dress, heavy palms hot on her thighs as he pushes the fabric to bunch around her hips. She shivers as two fingers drag along the lace of her panties, then a keening whine follows when he presses the heel of his hand against her clit. Helena is already fumbling with his zipper. She shoves his jeans open, drags his boxers down just enough to curl her hand around his cock. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, tipping his head back against the seat. His throat arches, tendons taut, and he groans when her thumb slides across the head, smearing the bead of wetness there.

“Say it again. Tell me you’re mine. You belong to me.”

“Yours,” he breathes. “Helena, I’m yours.”

He rubs harder between her legs, searching blindly for her clit as she bucks against his hand. He trembles under her, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight. It isn’t enough, she’s desperate for more.  

“Fuck me,” she demands. 

“I don’t have a condom.”

“It’s okay.”

His eyes fly open, meeting hers in the low light. “What about tomorrow?”

They were going to do it properly. What started as teasing formed into their plan. He’d sent her a photo clutching the clinic slip with his clean bill of health, grinning from ear to ear, and she teased that Saturday’s date night would be relocated to the bedroom. They’d celebrate their newfound freedom with petals and candles and round after round of unprotected sex, a first for both of them. 

Helena shakes her head, urgency flaring. “I can’t wait.”

”Are you sure?” He cups her face, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. 

“Do you want to?”

”Yes. Fuck, I want to.”

“Then yes,” she repeats against his lips. “I need you. Now.”

He nods as their mouths meet, swallowing the other’s desperation. He shifts his hand beneath her panties and two fingers smear the wetness there. She groans as he pushes inside her. Curling, preparing her for the stretch. Her eyes flutter shut and her head falls forward to his shoulder.

“I’m ready.”

Mark draws back his hand, digits slick with her, and grasps his cock. She reaches between them to take him in her hand and lines herself up. 

Their eyes lock.

”Yes?”

”Yes.”

His arms circle her back, pulling her close to him as she sinks down slowly. Inch by inch, until he’s buried deep inside, nothing between them but the mingled sound of their breath. Their twin groans fill the car and the newness makes her blink against the sting in her eyes, tears threatening at how perfectly he fills her. 

“Mark…”

“Fuck, Helena. You feel so good. Jesus. You’re everything to me.”

Her hips roll, testing the give of her body around him. “Couldn’t stand the thought of anybody else’s hands on you,” she growls, dragging her teeth along his ear. “You’re mine. Every part of you.”

”Yes,” he grunts, clutching her ass, helping her grind down harder. “Yes. Fuck, I swear. Only you.”

Her rhythm builds, thighs flexing as she rides him. Every thrust rocks her clit against his pelvis. Mark clutches her harder, one arm splayed across her back, the other at her hip to guide. Beneath them the car rocks on its suspension as she bounces in his lap.”

“The only place you’re going to come from now on is inside me, understand?”

”Yes.”

”I mean it. Nowhere. Not in your hand. Not on my tits. Nowhere but inside me. Ever.” 

His groan breaks on a laugh, pleading and giddy all at once. “Might need to see you more than twice a week.”

Her echoing laugher slips out against his lips, tangled with a moan. “Anything you want, sweet boy. I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”

”Fuck. Yes—fuck—please,” he babbles, forehead pressed to hers as she rises him faster.

“My perfect boy.”

“Yours.”

The coil in her belly tightens, every nerve frayed and ignited. He’s groaning her name, over and over into the crook of her neck, begging her to come for him. He needs it. Needs to feel her clenching while he fills her. His hand slips between them, thumb circling her clit until she cries out. Endless streams of praise tumble from her lips and she holds on until she feels him unravel. His thrusts grow frantic as he fucks up into her. 

“Come inside me, baby. Fill me. Don’t you dare stop.”

”Fuck! Helena—fuck, I’m—“

His groan is aching and raw, torn from the center of him as he spills his cum inside her. Her own orgasm crashes hard as she feels every pulse. Every twitch of his cock as she clutches him, her face buried in his neck. They cling like that, trembling in the aftermath as she clenches, her body milking him until the last drops are hers. 

As their breathing evens, he tries to guide her up with hands gentle at her hips, murmuring her name as though coaxing her from a trance. She shakes her head, forehead pressed to his collar. 

“Not yet,” she pleads softly. 

“Okay.” He stops moving at once, then shifts his hand to cup the back of her skull, holding her steady. 

Helena feels the wet slip of tears against her cheeks before she realises she is crying. She turns her face away, trying to hide, but he catches her jaw and coaxes her back, pressing her cheek into the hollow of his throat. His chin rests on her hair as he strokes the nape of her neck with his thumb. 

“Mark, I’m so sorry.”

”It’s okay,” he soothes, nails dragging softly over her scalp. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry.”

”Everything’s alright.”

Her breath hitches against his neck. “You’re mine,” she whispers.

“I know. I’m yours,” he repeats back to her, rocking her in slow, tiny motions. “I’m right here.“

They stay like that, bodies still joined, holding each other as the air cools around them. His hand moves in steady circles at her back until her breathing steadies and the tremor in her limbs fades. Only then does she shift, slipping off him with a flinching hiss at the loss. He helps her down gently, one hand at her waist, the other tugging her dress back over her thighs. She slumps beside him on the seat. 

Mark turns to her, still flushed, hair mused from her fingers, and cups her face in his hand. He drags his thumb beneath her eye, catching the remnants of her tears.

”I’m yours, Helena. And I’m so sorry for whatever I did to make you doubt that.”

Embarrassment settles heavy in her gut as the blur of rage drains away. Clarity stings as she is confronted with her irrational, ugly behaviour. She tips her head back and scrubs her hand over her face, trying to erase the heat climbing beneath her skin. 

Her coat lies crumpled in the footwell beneath. She reaches to fish though her pocket until her fingers close around her phone. Screen bright, thumb swiping fast, she finds it. Gemma’s photo that sent her spiralling. She angles the phone toward Mark, sheepish, unable to meet his eye. 

“I saw this and freaked out. Not that I have any right to. I’m so sorry.”

Every neve braces as Mark takes the phone and she waits for the recoil. The dawning disgust when he realises the extent of her obsession. Her inability to trust, paired with her refusal to admit how she feels souring her image in his eyes. But it doesn’t come. He shakes his head as a relieved laugh breaks on a sigh. He presses the phone against his forehead, eyes closed as the tension drains from his face.

”Helena, this isn’t me.”

Her stomach flips. “What?”

”I don’t know who Gemma’s with, but honestly?” His shoulders sag as he chuckles. “I’m happy for her. She’s clearly moved on. And I don’t have to feel guilty for not thinking about her since the day I met you.”

Helena covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh my god.” She shakes her head at her own foolishness and heat prickles her cheeks. An apology forms, but she barely manages the words before he brushes them away.

“C’mere,” he tells her, tugging her into his chest. 

She folds into him, pressed against his shirt, the cotton damp at the collar from sweat and her tears. “Mark. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t care. I’m just so relieved I didn’t fuck this up.”

It makes her laugh, a quick wet sound, though mortification swells stronger. Shame rises thick. She covers her face with both hands, hiding, muffling a groan.

”Jesus. I was so cruel to you.”

“Come on.” He pries one hand free and squeezes her fingers. “Don’t worry about it. Everybody does dumb things when they’ve got a crush.” He grins, pinching her cheek.

Her head jerks up. “I’m thirty-seven years old. I do not have a crush on you.”

“You so have a crush on me” he teases, leaning in to kiss her jaw, playful as ever. “Don’t worry—I won’t tell anybody.”

She lets him hold her, with one arm tight around her shoulders. With his free hand he finds one of hers, laces their fingers and plays absently with the shape of her knuckles while he smiles. Her heart thuds unevenly in her chest, feeling undeserving of his kindness.

”Mark, I really am sorry.”

“I forgive you,” he shrugs. “Hey,” he says after a beat, “did I ever tell you about my roommate Dylan and his girlfriend?”

She shakes her head, wiping quickly at the corner of her eye.

“So Dylan had this crush on her, right? From day one. He finds out she likes this video game and he downloads it just to have something to talk about. He’s terrible at it, but he keeps playing. Anyway, he meets this other girl online who plays too. And he starts talking to her, and she’s funny, smart, really good at the game. He starts… catching feelings, even though things are going well with Gretchen in real life.”

Helena arches a brow, her lip twitching as she listens to Mark’s animated tale. It’s almost enough to make her forget where they are.

“So he’s stuck,” Mark continues, “because he wants to ask Gretchen out, but she’s holding back a little and something doesn’t feel right, and he thinks maybe this online girl is the reason. So he sets up a meet. He was nervous as hell, we were all teasing him about it. And he gets there, waiting at this bar outside of town—but guess who shows up?”

Helena tilts her head, already smiling at the punchline before it lands. 

“Gretchen! The whole time, he’d been falling for both versions of her. He thought it was two girls, but it was always just her.”

Helena lets out a startled laugh, sniffing wetly. “Like the fucking Pina Colada song?”

“The song about cocktails?” 

“No, the song about a guy cheating on his wife with his wife.”

They both laugh, curling into each other, and the sound loosens the air between them. When it quiets, he reaches to brush his thumb beneath her eye where her makeup has smeared. His hand is steady as he fixes the smudge, then smooths her hair back into place. Once he’s done, he kisses the tip of her nose.

“You ready to leave?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No—you should go back. Enjoy the rest of your night with your friends." She leans forward, reaching into the front seat for her purse. A handful of crisp bills are slid free and held out. “Here.”

He recoils, pressing them back into her palm. “No. Helena—”

“Take it.” She closes his hand around them. “I want you to take a cab home, don’t walk.”

The bills are pressed back into her hand firmly, but he doesn’t let go until she looks at him. His eyes catch hers, steady in the dim light that filters through the windshield. “It’s not going to happen, okay?” He pushes the cash aside, gathers both her hands in his. “If I’m yours, then you’re mine too. And I’m not letting you spend tonight alone.”

She nods, lips pressed tight, unable to form anything more than that small surrender.

The air outside is sharp with cold when they step out of the car, their breaths puffing white as they walk around to the driver’s side. He opens the door for her, guiding with his hand at her back. When she settles into the seat, he leans over to tug the belt across her chest and click it into place. 

Once settled in the passenger seat, his hand finds hers across the console. She squeezes back in silent acknowledgement. It’s there, the conversation waiting between them—the looming question of what this is, how far it goes, if their lives could ever fit together in any real way. But not tonight. Tonight, she wants only the quiet thrum of the radio filling the car as the road stretches out ahead.

The town fades behind them, streetlights giving way to evergreens. He strokes her knuckles absently, and she feels his gaze more than she sees it. Warm and constant, watching her in that way that both unsettles and steadies. Gratitude swells in her throat in a way that is difficult to name. 

“I’m allergic to almonds.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shift, turning in his seat to face her. He nods for her to continue.

“Sometimes my teeth hurt after cold drinks.” Her self deprecating laugh is small as she lets the words flow without thought. “My father bought me a violin for my fifth birthday. He told me he was proud when I learned how to play. I’ve never had a long-term partner before. I prefer cookies to ice cream. I’ve never been camping.” 

Her hands tighten on the wheel before she whisper the next.

“Some guy at work called me a bitch today and I cried in my office.”

Mark’s head snaps up at that. “Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The fuck it doesn’t. Why didn’t you call me?”

“So that you could do what, exactly?"

“Take a cab straight to Lumon and feed the guy his teeth.”

She glances at him, chuckling as she shakes her head. “You’ve never punched anyone before.”

“No,” he admits, sheepish grin flashing. “But I’d do it for you.”

“My hero,” she teases.

“That guy is an asshole, Helena. Anybody who thinks you’re—“He pauses before saying the word, “—that… doesn’t know the first thing about you. You are the most generous person I’ve ever met. You’re funny, and so sweet, and you care so deeply that it scares you. I don’t care who you are with them, because I know who you are with me, okay? And what they see isn’t the real you.”

She nods squeezing his hand. “Thank you for saying that.”

He squeezes back and she exhales, shoulders loosening against the seat.

“Tell me some more.”

“I don’t like the smell of roses. My mother’s hair was red, but I don’t remember the colour of her eyes. I’ve never gotten a parking ticket.”

He listens quietly and the radio’s hum the only sound between her sentences. Her eyes flick between the road and him, his head tipping back against the window. The glass fogs faintly with his breath. Somewhere between her last confession and the next, his eyes fall shut. Within minutes, he’s asleep, mouth parted, soft snores vibrating low in his chest. But his grip on her hand doesn’t slacken. Even in sleep, he’s holding on tight, her fingers cradled against his thigh.

”Mark?”

He doesn’t answer, but Helena presses on.

“I don’t know how to cook. I once stole a lipstick from a pharmacy when I was sixteen. I hate my middle name. I don’t believe in fate. I hate thunderstorms. And I’m fucking terrified—” her throat tightens, tears pricking again, as she glances to check he’s still asleep “—because I think I’m falling for you and I don’t know how to stop it.”

The final confession rests between them, dissolving into the echo of the radio and the steady purr of his breath. Helena keeps eyes locked onto the road ahead, carrying them forward into the dark. 

Chapter Text

Letting Mark into her life feels like the first day of spring following a relentless winter indoors. Thirty seven years spent behind darkened windows, in rooms heavy with stale air, only to throw back the shutters and let the light pour in. The shock of warm, blinding sunlight against her face. So bright she squints against it, unable to hold back her smile. 

In the weeks that follow, small, undeniable changes creep in. She eats more than she has in years. Not the careful, colourless meals meant only for sustenance, but food with weight and richness. Dishes she used to call indulgence, now simply dinner. Warm bread with butter so soft it leaves a sheen across her fingertips. Chocolate, slipped between her lips by her lover’s hand. Rich, tender steaks, not picked at but devoured. She eats and does not punish, and the astonishment never quite leaves her when she realises she’s still hungry for more. 

Nights are no longer broken into jagged shards of restless sleep. Sex with him leaves her slack-limbed and boneless. Weightless for days. A languor that lingers in her muscles. She sleeps deeply, without pills or wine, wrapped in his warmth, waking only to find him already touching her— sleepy kisses pressed to her shoulder, hand sliding over her hip, the murmur of her name against her neck. 

Even her work bends to fit the shape he has carved out of himself. Files and reports and meetings that once consumed the length of her evenings now abandoned the moment the clock strikes six. She does not stay late anymore, not when she could be tangled in his arms. On Fridays, she wears her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pinned tightly at her nape. Styled curls fall soft, a small rebellion that nobody dares remark upon. 

There is, beneath it all, a subject left untouched. 

A quiet tremor that runs beneath their days. Never spoken, but never absent either. The question of what togetherness may look like for them in the long term. Whether there is a version of this where their lives splice together when she is Helena Eagan, as much as when she is not. Whether this thing could stretch beyond their bubble, or if it will always be condemned to secrecy. They do not acknowledge the electrical hum of the oncoming storm. 

For now, it is just them. Their days contained in a cocoon that feels, impossibly, like freedom itself. Helena breathes easier inside their bubble, lighter than she has ever been. And though she knows the shutters may slam shut again one day, she doesn’t brace for it. She lets the sun bathe her face, greedy for every second of his warmth.

“Helena!” Mark calls, his voice carrying through the trees. “Wait up.”

Helena doesn’t slow. The earth gives beneath each stride, springy from last night’s rain. The air is sharp with the bite of early spring. Shafts of sunlight spear the canopy above, flickering across her arms as she runs. Her calves burn, lungs open, body caught between ache and exhilaration. Her ponytail swings loose against the back of her cap, swishing in time with her steps.

“Helena,” he calls again, drawing out the A as playful desperation creeps into the plea. 

She turns to see him at the edge of the trail, bent double, hands braced on his thighs. Helena bursts into laughter, breaking her pace as she jogs back toward him. 

“The stamina of youth doesn’t extend past the bedroom, huh?”

Mark drags the bottle from his running vest— custom fit and identical to hers— and swigs half before tipping the rest over his face. Water streaks his cheeks and jaw, darkening the collar of his shirt. He gasps, eyes squeezed shut.

She giggles at the theatrics. “Dramatic much?” Unzipping her own vest pocket, she pulls out a gel and waves it at him. “Want one before the next stretch?”

He grimaces in disgust. “A gel? How much longer are we running for? Helena, I might actually die.”

“You asked for this.”

“Did not.”

“Did too. You wanted to spend Sunday with me. This is what I do when the weather’s warm.”

Helena’s body bends to a seasonal rhythm. Winter is for indoors. Miles on the spin bike, or lengths in the pool before sunrise. But when spring hits, the woods call her back. Long runs that drench her in sweat and sunlight, all in the privacy of the sprawling Eagan estate. She has never shared it before, this ritual of endurance, but here he is, trailing after her in four hundred dollar sneakers fresh out of the box.

“You tricked me,” he groans, clipping the empty bottle back into its holster.

“How?” 

“I thought you meant I’d get to watch your ass while we jog for a few miles. Not…this.”

Helena bites her lip and plants her hands on both her hips. “Oh, baby. It’s not that bad.”

“Seriously, I think I’m seeing double.” He wipes his brow and puffs out his cheeks. “Either that or I’m remembering a very vivid dream I had last night.”

Her brow arches, curiosity piqued. “Two of me?” She slides closer, fingers curling at his waist. “Hmm.” She leans in to kiss the slick line of his neck, tasting salt and feeling the thrum of his pulse beneath her lips. 

Arms circle her, pulling her sweat soaked body close to his. His own mouth finds her throat. He nips, sighs softly, and keeps talking between kisses. “Yeah. One naughty, one nice.”

“Which one was the real me?”

His chuckle is muffled against her skin as his hands slip down to squeeze firmly at her ass. “How about we cut this run short and go find out?”

Helena cups his face, thumb brushing across his bottom lip. She leans in and he tries to close the distance, eyes locked on her lips before she pulls back abruptly. 

“Nice try.”

“Cruel,” he pouts. 

“Come on. Let's walk for a while.”

The trail evens out as they fall into step beside each other. A ribbon of soft earth winding between trees. The hush of woods presses in around them, broken by the occasional birdcall or the crunch underfoot. Sunlight catches on Mark’s hair as he slips his hand into hers, intertwining their fingers. For a while they just walk, bodies syncing with the sway of branches. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never been camping when this is your backyard.”

“You know, of all the things I missed out on as a kid, camping is not the one that stings.”

He pauses for long enough that she hopes the question doesn’t come. “Which one does?”

Instinct pushes her spine taut, and her reflex is to seal the seam before it widens— before the conversation wanders into childhood and restrictive fathers who saw scraped knees and outdoor play as unbecoming for a girl. Better to redirect him before he can ask. Yet, she remembers the wet shine of his eyes at her irrational jealousy a few weeks back. The way she’d acted with such cruelty, and he’d met her with nothing but understanding and warmth. Guilt still gnaws at her, urging her to soften to his needs. 

“I always wanted a dog,” she tells him, keeping her eyes forward as she speaks. “Every year for my birthday, I’d ask. Never got one, of course. Apparently it wouldn’t give the right impression.” She presses her lips into a thin line at the memory. “Imagine the horror of an Eagan with dog hair on her skirt. Eventually I stopped asking, but it still hurt, you know?”

“I know.” Mark squeezes her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You’d have been the best dog mom.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

The knot in her chest loosens. Letting him in, little by little, may not be as bad as she thought. She clears her throat, glancing at him sidelong as they walk. “Anyway. Camping outside your own house feels redundant, no?”

Mark laughs, shaking his head, already animated. “No way. You don’t get it. It’s not about where you are in the world, it’s… It’s… It’s the glow of the campfire, the stars over your head, the chirp of crickets. That feeling like you’re a million miles from everything in the world, even though you’re just outside of town.”

“What about the bugs?”

“Who cares, when you’ve got molten s’mores cooked over a flame,” he shoots back with a grin. 

“Cold ground?”

“Cozy sleeping bags.”

She narrows her eyes. “What about bears?”

“You’d be fine. You wouldn’t have to outrun a bear, you’d only have to outrun me.”

”Now, that I can do.”

They laugh together, the air around them feeling light and playful once more. She catches him looking at her, a spark in his eye, and absurdly her chest aches with how freely this feeling comes to her now. Joy, in such ordinary things. It would have been unthinkable to spend a Sunday like this before Mark. 

She squeezes his hand. “You used to go with your dad, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Mark nods. The grin fades just enough to show the shadow beneath.

“You miss him?”

His laugh is closer to a scoff. “Probably about as much as you miss yours.”

Helena rubs circles with her thumb, a silent acknowledgement, because she knows that it doesn’t mean no. She is familiar with the paradox. Grieving not the man, but the absence of the father he could have been. Mourning possibility more than reality. It’s a peculiar kind of ache.

“You ever think about reaching out?”

“Fuck no.” He scrubs his free hand through his damp hair. “He burnt that bridge the day he walked out on my mom.”

A protective flare rises in her chest. She wants to take him by the shoulders and pull her close to him, shielding him from every splinter of pain that still needles. To swear that nobody will ever make him feel small again, not while she’s got him. Not while he’s hers. But the words don’t come. 

Mark clears his throat. “So, spring break next week. I’m heading home to see my mom, so if you wanted, we could—”

“No!” She cuts him off before he finishes.

“Wow.”

Heat floods her cheeks. “Fuck.”

“Not even gonna let me finish the question?” he chuckles, nudging her side.

Helena covers her mouth, shaking her head. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s just… moms, friends, families. They don’t fit in the bubble. And I just wanted to—”

“Helena, I get it.” He stops walking and turns to face her, then tips up the brim of her cap to see her eyes. “Baby steps. I’m right there with you.” A grin tugs at his lips. “And, if you would’ve let me finish… I was going to offer to pick up my tent while I’m there, so that I can take you camping.”

Relief pours through her in a rush, leaving her laughing and breathless. She leans up on her toes to kiss him. “Thank you,” she murmurs against his mouth. 

“So is that a yes?”

Her grin widens against his. “Nope.”

“Damn.” Mark clutches his chest in mock offence. “Even if I buy bear spray?”

“Even still,” she teases, then pecks him again. “Sorry, honey. And even if you did manage to convince me to sleep on a tarp covered in bugs, I have that meeting in New York.”

“Ah, the ol’ get out of jail free card.” 

“Speaking of, do you mind if I work on my presentation when we get back? Just for a little while. Make the most of the post-run endorphin peak?”

His arms loop her waist, lips brushing her neck. “Sure. But you know what else raises endorphins?”

“Not sure we’ll have time,” she smirks, tipping her head back to expose more of her throat. “Still a few miles left and at your pace? We’ll be out ‘til dark.”

The gears turn for just a moment before one brow quirks and mischief sparks in his eyes. “Alrighty. Back to it, slacker.” Before she can react, his hand drops to land a sharp, playful smack against her ass. “Pick up the pace. We have plans.”

A bright, startled laugh bursts from her. He’s already darting ahead, glancing back over his shoulder with a lopsided grin. She takes off behind him. The woods blur, her ponytail snaps at the back of her neck as air fills her lungs. Every few strides he glances back at her, a cocky little tilt to his head, daring her to close the gap. She delights at the thrill of the chase.

-x- 

Dusk seeps slow through the glass, blue-grey light softening the edges of Helena’s office. She sits at her desk, folded into herself. One heel perched on the chair, cheek pressed to her knee, her screen’s cold glow over her face. The words blur. Her eyes sting. She pushes her glasses up and rubs the ache beneath, then slides them back down, forcing herself to keep at it.

The presentation is an endless carousel of bullet points and graphs. A performance piece for the venture capitalist firm. If they’re successful, the trust demonstrated by a large investment would act as a cloak, shrouding what is unraveling beneath. She knows the language, has rehearsed it until she could recite it off book, but the nausea still pulls. If this fails, they’re one bad quarter away from closing branches. Cutting jobs. More blood on her hands, more headlines holding her as the villain of someone else’s story. She cannot bear it. 

A soft knock breaks through the static. “You okay in there?”

The handle shifts. Panic flickers. “Just a second!” She yanks the glasses from her face, fumbling to shove them into the drawer as he eases the door open. 

Mark leans against the frame, smirking. “Why’d you look sketchy?”

“I don’t.”

“Uh-huh.” He narrows his eyes. “Were you watching porn?”

She covers her sharp laughter with her fingertips. “Mark!”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” He winks, stepping further into the room. “Just checking if you need anything?”

“Thank you, baby.” Helena shuts the laptop lid with a quiet snap. “That’s alright, I think I’m just about done here.”

He crosses to stand behind her. Warm hands settle on her shoulders. He presses slow circles with his thumbs into the knots at the top of her spine. Helena’s head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, and a gentle moan escapes. 

“That’s nice.”

Mark kisses behind her ear. “Come with me, I have a surprise.”

She arches a brow, suspicious but willing to indulge. He guides her from her chair with his hand at her lower back. The hallway is dim, their shadows stretching across the polished floors. When they pass the bedroom door she glances over at him in question, but he only smirks, leading her deeper into the house. 

At the threshold of the living room, he steps aside with a theatrical flourish. 

“Ta-da. A tent.”

Helena blinks. Before the fireplace, the dining chairs have been assembled into a haphazard shape, covered with blankets and sheets at all angles. They drape high and low, slung across the chair backs, pooling on the floor beneath. Inside, a nest of pillows and bedding awaits them. Firelight from the hearth flickers, painting the tent with a golden glow. 

“Oh, Mark,” she sighs, hand drifting to cover her heart. 

“And I checked— there are no bears.”

The edges of her eyes sting and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth. “How do you do it?” she whispers. 

“Do what?”

“Keep finding ways to surprise me.”

He shrugs. “I just like seeing you smile.”

He guides her by the hand to the foot of the tent, then peels back the makeshift door for her to crawl through. Inside, the air is warm, smelling of her laundry soap from the clean sheets. The fireplace crackles beyond the walls, casting light through the thin fabric. She lowers herself onto the plush layer of bedding and he settles over her, his weight braced on his elbows, eyes searching hers.

For the first time, no words are required. They communicate in slow, unhurried kisses and the steady glide of hands.  

Their clothes are peeled back in lazy movements. He tugs her sweater over her head, she unfastens his shirt. Bare flesh is revealed inch by inch until they’re exposed to each other. Hands trail between languid kisses. The silence is striking. No gasping pleas or breathless teasing. No litany of filth. Only the whisper of fabric shuffling and their hitched breath when skin meets skin. The fire crackles beyond their cocoon. 

Mark’s hand smooths along her side, over the curve of her ribs, until he hooks his arm beneath her back and holds her close to his chest. The fingers of his other hand tangle with hers, pinning her to the bedding as he settles between her thighs. The first thrust inside her makes her gasp, a sharp intake that echoes in the small space. He moves slowly, rocking into her deep. Helena’s legs lock around his waist, her nails scrape his scalp as she tangles in his hair. 

The world shrinks to sensation. The slide of his cock inside her, the burn low in her belly. A cry that slips loose when she arches against him. He presses his forehead to hers, meeting her eyes, staring into her soul with every thrust.

It overwhelms her. Pleasure builds and she hides her face in his shoulder as her orgasm tears through her. Her cheeks are damp, before she understands why. He holds her tightly though it, his chest pressed to hers, rocking gently as she trembles. When he spills inside of her, he gasps her name. 

After the storm has ebbed, they remain entwined. A tangle of sheets and limbs, air heavy with breath and sweat. The fire in the hearth has burned down to embers. Helena curls against his chests, skin damp where it sticks to his. His fingers draw idle patterns against her back. The words come before she can second-guess them. 

“Come with me to New York.”

Heavy lidded eyes meet hers as his lips curl into a sleepy grin. “Forever?”

“No,” she giggles, swatting his bicep. She exhales, steadying herself before continuing. “I’m nervous about the pitch. And thought about different things, you know, like breathing exercises. Ways to steady myself. But the only thing I know for certain will help is, um… you.”

She shuffles back and Mark rolls onto his side, propping himself on his elbow. “What about your staff? What about…” he gestures to the air around them, “...our bubble?”

“I’ll figure something out.” Her teeth catch on her lip. An old anxious habit that she hates, but she doesn’t stop herself. “I might be a little edgy before the meeting, and you’ll have to spend a day alone while I’m out, but after that we could stay a little longer? Make a weekend of it and see the sights? I mean, if you want to, that is.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I want to. I’d go with you anywhere.”

Mark’s boyish grin spreads across his face, disarming in its sincerity. He tucks himself closer and nudges her onto her back. Her throat tightens as she combs her fingers through his hair and presses a kiss to his crown. He sinks against her chest and she lies still, heart thudding as she stares up at the roof of the makeshift tent he built for her, thinking about how deeply, and utterly, he means it.

-x- 

The terminal hums around them with the sound of hundreds of different lives, all at once. Children whining, commuters yelling into their phones, couples trudging in opposite directions after bickering. Helena shifts her weight against her stilettos and adjusts the belt of her trench coat. The leather strap of her purse is digging into her shoulder with the weight of her laptop. She huffs an abrupt exhale.

This isn’t how Helena travels.

Ordinarily, she flies from a private airstrip just outside of town. Champagne on ice. Quiet, efficient staff, trained never to meet her eye. She can be in the air less than forty minutes after leaving her home. Now, as they wait in line for the check in desk, Helena wonders if it would have been worth the scandal. Outing her relationship to the executives, just to bring Mark on the Lumon jet with the rest of the group. At least then she wouldn’t be corralled into a queue like cattle. 

Helena exhales and rolls her eyes behind dark sunglasses. Beside her, Mark smirks. He slouches against the cart piled high with their matching, monogrammed cases bought new for the trip and garment bags draped over the top. Their carry ons are balanced at either side, and nestled among the tower are the travel mugs of coffee he brewed before they left. He looks pleased, as though this chaos is a wonder.

“This is awesome,” Mark beams.

Helena huffs, shifting her purse to the other shoulder. “It’ll be better once we’re out of this line.”

“C’mere.”

She crosses her arms in mock defiance, but when she steps closer he snatches the belt of her coat, tugging her close to his chest. One handed, he steadies the coffees on the luggage, then slips her purse from her shoulder to hook it over his own. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs through her pout.

He flutters his eyelashes. “Gimme a kiss.” Her eyes dart around, scanning the crowd, but he leans in closer. “Nobody’s paying attention.”

She caves to his charm and gives him a soft, lingering peck. His grin broadens as she pulls back. He presses her coffee into her hand and his lip brush her hair as she takes a sip. 

“Okay. I have some questions about flying.”

“Do you now?”

“Yup.” He straightens the cart as the line shuffles forward, pushing with one hand and holding her purse with the other, leaving her holding nothing but her coffee. “First question: is airplane food really as bad as they say it is?”

“Who’s they? Eighties comedians?”

He snorts. She giggles, watching his shoulders heave as he manoeuvres their small mountain of luggage. 

She holds out her hand. “Let me get something.”

“No, come on. That’s what I’m here for.” He waves her off, angling his body to block her from helping. “Stress relief, so you don’t have to worry about a thing before the big day.”

The easy way with which he shoulders every inconvenience she hates tugs deep in her chest. She studies his crooked smile and his hair falling loose over his forehead. Her voice grows serious for a moment. “You know that’s not the only reason, right?”

His smirk fades to something gentler. “I know.”

The line shuffles forward, a tide of bodies jostling around them. They lean into each other anyway, eyes locked for long enough to make her forget where she is. Only the impatient cough from someone behind pulls her back, and she breaks away, cheeks warmed with a blush. 

“Airplane food’s fine,” she tells him, sliding her sunglasses higher up her nose. “But this flight’s only ninety minutes. You’ll have to make do with peanuts and booze until we land.”

“Noted.” He nods solemnly. “Second question.”

“Go ahead.”

By then, they’re handing over their tickets and Mark is loading their luggage onto the belt. Helena steels her expression as the man behind the counter flicks his gaze down to her ID, then up, then down again. The hesitation is almost imperceptible, but enough for her pulse to spike. She lifts her sunglasses from her face as he lingers on the name and for a moment she wants to snap yes, I’m that Eagan, but he says nothing. There’s a recognition, sure, but it’s not like in Kier. Relief eases over her as he waves them through. 

Mark takes his own ID back and tucks it into his wallet. “Okay, back to the second question: how come planes don’t—like—shouldn’t they tip forward? The nose is pointy. What keeps it from just…” 

He gestures with his pointed hand, whistling as he mimics a nosedive into the tile, then imitates a crashing noise. 

She swats his hand. “Mark! You can’t do that in an airport,” she hisses through a giggle. “Anyway, how would I know that?”

“You own one.”

“Lumon leases one,” she corrects. “It’s not an asset worth purchasing.”

He grins, utterly unbothered by her precision.

Their bags slide away on the conveyor, swallowed into the machinery. Helena watches them disappear with a faint distaste at the anonymous handling of her possessions that, in Kier, would be carefully tagged, documented and stowed. She’s still watching when slips his arm around her waist, guiding her past the desk. 

“Third question. The mile-high club. That’s a thing, right?”

Heat prickles her cheeks as she nudges his side. “Sorry, baby. Not when you fly commercial.”

His groan is so exaggerated that she can’t help but laugh. It’s loud and undignified, but it blends into the cacophony of the terminal, and suddenly she doesn’t mind the press of strangers or the blare of announcements quite as much as she did before.

-x- 

As they stray deeper into the terminal, Helena has her sights set on the first-class lounge, mind already drawn to the plush leather chairs and champagne service, but Mark tugs her sideways, caught in the tide of storefronts. 

Duty free swallows them first. He grins at the row of glass bottles and immediately starts spraying colognes. One at his wrist, another at his neck, a few more on the paper strips until the air around them is thick with clashing scents of musk and citrus. She wrinkles her nose with both amusement and disgust. 

“Pick one, I’ll buy it for you,” she tells him, plucking one from his hand before he can douse himself again.

He tries to protest, but Helena insists. Each scent is dragged beneath her nose in turn as he contemplates his decision. She nudges him toward Tom Ford Oud Wood, but he drifts to a sculpted glass vessel shaped like a lightning bolt. “That one. Coolest bottle.”

“Of course,” she smirks.

Since they’re by the cosmetics anyway, Helena drifts toward the lipstick counter. Obediently, Mark holds out his hand for her to swipe shades across the back. Rose, then crimson, then plum. His eyes widen when she swatches a dark rouge. She caps the tester and slips a sealed tube into the basket. 

By the time they make it to the lounge, she’s itching for quiet, but Mark— still vibrating from discovery— angles himself toward the glass wall, transfixed by the planes taxiing along the runway. They settle into leather armchairs, with a tiered tray of chocolate truffles between them and peach bellinis sweating in their hands. He watches the takeoff, while she watches him, sighing softly as the sugar melts on her tongue.

A waitress arrives in a tight blouse, blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. “Would you like another?” she asks, gaze fixed firmly on Mark. 

He doesn’t hear her at first, too busy marvelling at the runway outside. The waitress clears her throat, and a girlish, tittering laugh rises when he startles and apologises.

“Sorry,” he tells her with a sheepish grin. “First time in an airport. This is so cool.”

She bats her eyelashes, angling toward him and away from Helena. “Nervous for the flight?”

“A little.”

“Really? You don’t look like the type to be scared of anything.”

Helena inhales sharply as she redirects her gaze to the window. The planes out there are easier to watch than the syrupy smile directed toward Mark. Jaw tight, she smooths her thumb against the stem of her glass. Silence feels safer than unleashing the sharpness coiled tight in her chest. Ever since her outburst of jealous rage, she has tried hard to keep that side of herself in check. 

But before the waitress has left the table, Mark has already turned back to the window. He reaches for Helena absently, eyes drifting back to the tarmac, oblivious to any tension. Helena manages a steadying breath at that— the simplicity of his focus, and his disinterest in anything but holding her hand.

When they board, the cabin is all polished surfaces and sleek lighting. It’s luxury, sure, but one crafted for awe rather than intimacy— a set stage compared to the quiet gravitas of the Lumon jet. Helena grimaces at the closeness to the other passengers, but lets it taper as she sees the way Mark looks at it, with his mouth parted and his eyes lit with wonder.

In their seats, he runs his hand over every surface, tracing the panel screen and tapping the hidden controls that slide his seat into a recline. He brushes the smooth leather with his palm, grinning at her, melting her own cynicism. To him, this isn’t lesser— it’s magic. 

He listens to the safety demonstration dutifully, brow furrowed as the oxygen mask and life jacket are displayed. At the mention of bracing for a crash, he winces, face crunching slightly. Helena can’t hold back the quiet giggle that escapes. She squeezes the back of his hand, a soft reassurance that they’re safe, and he turns his palm upward to lace their fingers together.

Eventually, when taxiing pulls the craft into motion and the ground shifts beneath their feet, he radiates excitement beside her. His grip on her hand tightens with every rise of speed. Out the window, the city begins to tilt away into threads of light and rivers of movement. Mark gasps softly, and leans closer to the glass. 

“This is incredible. Isn’t this the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Helena doesn’t spare the window a glance. Her gaze stays fixed on him. The high point of his cheek, illuminated by the afternoon sun, and the unguarded wonder that has no place in her world except here, through him.

“Yeah, it is,” she whispers back.

-x- 

Midway through the flight, a light tap at her arm draws Helena’s attention. A stewardess in a neat beret motions to the notepad in her hand. Helena slips one of the yellow buds from her ears, Mark’s playlist hissing though the small tinny speakers, and glances sideways to him. His head is lolled against the window, lashes low, mouth parted in sleep.

“Can I get you anything, ma’am?”

“A dry martini, thank you.” 

The woman nods, heels clicking away. Helena exhales, reaching to slide the bud back into her ear when the man across the aisle mutters something that she doesn’t catch. She lifts her head in his direction. “I’m sorry?”

“I said— a woman after my own heart.”

”Excuse me?”

The man flashes her a wide, toothy grin. “The martini. That’s my order too.”

Helena tips her chin in polite acknowledgement. The man is older than her. Elegant and suave, and enough money to buff the middle age right out of him. Grey is just visible in streaks at his temples, and his loafers are glossy enough to reflect the cabin light. He’s the exact type of man she used to orbit, drawn mothlike to the promise of power and detachment. Now, the very idea of him churns her stomach.

”Business or leisure?”

She smiles stiffly. “Both,” she says, offering nothing further.

He doesn’t take the hint, leaning an elbow against his armrest, angling toward her with a grin just shy of suggestive. “I always envy people who manage both. I find the line hard to blur.”

“Seems that way,” she murmurs, a shade colder. Her thumb grazes the plastic shell of Mark’s headphones, still poised in her hand, itching to slip them back into place. 

“So, Harvard or Yale?”

”What’s that?”

”A sophisticated woman like yourself? Don’t tell me it wasn’t one of those two? I may be old enough to be your father, but I haven’t lost my eye just yet.”

Helens huffs a dry laugh through her nose, offering him no response, but he is undeterred by her lack of interest. He tugs a fountain pen from his breast pocket and scrawls something across the napkin that accompanied his last drink. “Forgive me if this is too forward, but if you find yourself in the city with a free evening…” he offers the napkin across the aisle “…give me a call?”

Beside her, Mark clears his throat. 

His hand drops over the arm rest to firmly clutch her thigh. She startles, breath catching. Mark leans across her, now wide awake despite being asleep just moments ago, and plucks the napkin clean out of the man’s hand. 

“Alright, buddy,” he tells the man firmly. “That’s enough. My girlfriend’s trying to listen to her music, okay?”

The man blinks in surprise and a flush rises to his cheeks as he angles himself away. Mark rolls his eyes at the half-hearted, muttered apology and crumples the napkin in his fist. 

A smirk pulls at Helena’s lips as she turns back to Mark. “Well, that’s a new colour on you.”

“I know. Sorry.”

Helena’s looks up and down the aisle. It’s quiet— most passengers absorbed in their screens, with no stewards in sight. A familiar, reckless flare sparks inside her.

“Count to one hundred, then follow me.”

Mark blinks, mouth parting, but the flush that spreads to his ears tells her he understands. Helena rises, slipping her phone into her pocket as she walks down the narrow aisle. She doesn’t glance back. The click of her heels on the carpet leads her to the bathroom, where the small metal door swings closed behind her. 

Right on cue, Mark sneaks in behind her. Heat from the cabin seeps into the cramped space and his back hits the door when she reaches behind him to lock it. 

“What was that, hmm?”  

His gaze drops instantly to the floor. “That guy was bothering you. I just wanted to—”

“Make sure he knows I’m spoken for?”

He hesitates, then nods. 

Helena cups his jaw, tilting his face up until his eyes meet hers. “Good boy.”

His pupils widen with his smile. 

“That’s right,” she murmurs, stroking the edge of his bottom lip with her thumb. “My sweet boy. Just looking out for what’s yours, aren’t you?”

Mark’s through bobs. “I trust you. Completely. Obviously, I know you wouldn’t—It’s just…hearing him hit on you right in front of me—”

“Made you mad?” she coaxes.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You were just trying to listen to your music. You shouldn’t have to be bothered by some guy.”

Her head tilts as the edge of a smirk forms. “And that’s the only reason?”

“No.” His mouth works, then stills. “It made me mad because… Well, you know. Because—”

“You can say it.”

“Because you’re mine. And I don’t want anybody else to think about you like that.”

A shiver runs down her spine. “That’s right,” she whispers. “I’m all yours.”

His hands rise, framing her face, and then his mouth is on hers, hard and hungry. The kiss is frantic and deep as their teeth clash and tongues slide. She clutches his sweater, pulling him close and cups the back of her head, dragging her into him. They grind against each other, the movement clumsy in the tiny stall, hips bumping, elbows knocking walls. Her giggle breaks between kisses, only to be swallowed again.

“Shhh,” she murmurs, pressing a finger to his lips.

“Fuck. Helena.”

“You want to…?” 

“I thought you said we couldn’t.”

Her smile curves slowly. “We’re already in here, aren’t we?”

Their mouths collide again, tongues lapping between fast, panting breaths. Buttons pop as he fumbles at her shirt and she’s already tugging at his waistband. He tries to kneel, and she laughs softly against his mouth. “Baby, there’s no room for that.”

His pout is endearingly sweet. She chuckles into it. “Here,” she says, spinning them until she’s bent forward, palms braced on the tiny metal sink. It isn’t a position they do often, since Mark prefers to be able to see her face, but they’re working with what they’ve got. “Eyes right here. On me,” She taps the reflection of her face in the mirror. “We’ve got to be fast, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Yes. Helena, yes. Anything you need.”

Pants wriggle down to mid thighs. He spits into his palm, pumping his cock with one hand while the other slides between her legs. He smears two fingers over her entrance then pushes them inside. She rocks back into him with a low sound caught in her throat.

“That’s it. Take what’s yours.”

He angles himself up and groans as he pushes into her. She giggles breathlessly, trying to shush him with a glance in the mirror. His hand covers hers where it rests against the glass, fingers threading tight as their eyes lock in the reflection. The thrusts come quick and hard, a rhythm matched to the racing pulse in her veins.

“You want to fill me with your cum? Want to sit next to me knowing it’s leaking out? That my panties are ruined by you?”

“Yes,” he grunts, forehead between her shoulder blades as his hips thrust against hers. “Fuck—yes— You’re my girl.”

”You want every person on this flight to know I’m yours?”

“Yes.”

“Faster, Mark. Give me everything you’ve got.”

He picks up the pace, moving frantically now. Skin slaps against skin, echoing in the narrow space. She feels herself spiral as the crest climbs sharp. He reaches one arm around her middle and his fingers find her clit. “Please,” he gasps into her neck. “I need you to come, I need to feel it—”

Helena’s hand covers his where he rubs small, tight circles against her clit. She presses her fingers over his own, urging him onward. Harder and faster as the thrusts stretch her cunt around him. Mark clamps his hand over her mouth to stop her from crying out as she comes. It shudders through her and she rocks back into him as his own groan follows, low and gruff against her ear as he spills inside her. 

For a moment they do nothing but breathe, hands laced together on the mirror, his body draped over hers. Their reflections are as flushed and dishevelled as she feels. Neither one of them move until his cock stops pulsing inside her and the warm trickle of cum starts to seep. 

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he murmurs against her hair.

“Me neither.”

They lock eyes in the mirror and dissolve into giggles. He’s still smirking as he slips from her and tucks himself back into his trousers. Mark reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled napkin— the one scrawled with a stranger’s number— then uses it to wipe the mess between her thighs. The absurdity of it makes her laugh against his shoulder. When he’s finished, he fixes her hair, tucks her shirt back into place, and kisses her on the tip of the nose. 

“Okay,” she says, smoothing her pants. “Count to a hundred, then follow me back?”

Mark nods quickly, flashing her a smirk. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Helena walks the length of the cabin back from the first class bathroom at a slow, measured pace. She straightens her shirt and tucks away an escaped strand behind her ear. In the polished sheen of the overhead storage, she catches her reflection. To her satisfaction, not a thing is out of place. Composure restored, mask fixed. 

The man across the aisle has already redirected his charm to a pretty, young air hostess. He glances at Helena, then back to the woman with her hand on his arm. Helena's martini waits where it was placed, condensation beading down the stem. She slides into the seat, uncaps the straw, and takes an indulgent sip. The dryness of the vermouth combined with the tang of brine lingers on her tongue.

Moments later, Mark appears. His hair is deliciously mussed, shirt half untucked, lips kiss-swollen. The picture of barely contained chaos. Satisfaction at undoing him thrums low in her stomach. She doesn’t miss the way his gaze flicks to the man opposite, with a smug, boyish swagger in his grin. 

A single lift of her brow reins him in. 

He smirks anyway, and reaches to cup the back of her head and leans to press a quick kiss to her bangs. Then he slides past and flops into his seat by the window. 

“What’s that?” He nods toward her glass. 

“Martini. Want to try?”

He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a cautious sip. Immediately, his face puckers, nose crunching. “Good lord,” he winces. He makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a retch and a cough. 

Across the row, the man glances over and rolls his eyes. Helena hides a grin behind her glass and angles her body toward Mark, affording them what little privacy she can. 

“That’s awful,” Mark groans as he hands her glass back. 

“You drank neat whiskey the first night we met.”

“Yeah, to impress you. Thought I might throw up after.” He shudders. “And this tastes like battery acid.”

“You want another sip?”

“Uh, no thanks.”

A giggle spills out before she can temper it. The air hostess catches the sound. Helena lifts two fingers to pull her attention. 

“Can we get him a Mai Tai?”

“And a bag of peanut M&M’s,” Mark adds with a smirk. 

The woman nods politely and shoots another flirtatious glance to the man across the aisle. He hands her a cocktail napkin with his number before she disappears. Helena hides her grin behind another sip. “You’re going to run your dinner,” she murmurs. 

His hand drifts to her thigh across the divide. Warm fingers splay against her slacks. “That’s fine. Just worked up an appetite.”

She nudges his side playfully as he winks at her and they dissolve into giggles. He plucks the cocktail stick from her drink, slides the olive off and holds it to her lips. “Open.” 

Helena smirks, rolling her eyes before she obeys. The brine hits her tongue and his gaze lingers as she closes her lips around his fingers. She draws back, releasing his digits with a wet pop. A deep blush rises to his cheeks. 

When the stewardess returns, Helena has composed herself once more. She offers thanks and tips an obscenely generous amount, praying they don’t get arrested for public indecency when they land.

-x- 

The terminal doors part, spilling them into the pulse of New York. The rush of voices in dusk, the bite of exhaust fume and the drizzle of spring rain. There’s an endless movement of people who have somewhere to be. Helena strides with purpose, and Mark tucks close beside her as they step into the chaos. His palm is steady at her lower back as they navigate the crowd. An attendant trails behind, steering their luggage cart.

Helena slides her sunglasses up to rest on her forehead and breathes in the anonymity. Nobody looks twice. No lingering glances. No whispers that start with her name. Just faces, hundreds of them, passing by without recognition. 

Mark veers instinctively toward the taxi rank, but she nudges him away with her elbow. 

He shoots her a puzzled glance. “Are we taking the subway?”

“Not quite.”

She nods toward the line of chauffeurs. Men in black suits and caps, holding signs aloft. 

Eagan & Scout

Mark blinks in disbelief. “No way.”

The attendant wheels their cart to the sleek black limousine waiting at the curb. Mark squeezes her hand, giddy as the driver opens the door. He helps her in first— his version of chivalry still slightly awkward and unbearably sweet— then ducks in after her. 

Inside, the cabin is upholstered in cream leather, washed in dim golden light. The hum of the city fades behind tinted glass as the door is closed behind them. A chilled half-bottle of champagne waits in a silver cradle between two flutes. Mark’s eyes go wide, tracking every inch of the space, taking in every tiny detail of the luxury. 

He turns to her, cups her cheeks with both hands and pulls her into a kiss, then again, peppering quick pecks across her cheeks and forehead. “Thank you,” he murmurs between them. “Thank you. Thank you. This trip is incredible.”

Helena laughs softly. “You haven’t even seen anything yet.”

“I don’t need to. All I care about is being here with you.”

He uncorks the bottle with an exuberant pop, startling himself and grinning bashfully after. He pours a glass and hands it to her, but she shakes her head and gives it back. “You have mine. I need to keep a clear head for the morning.”

He grins, drains both glasses in quick succession, and clasps her hand across the seat. They ride like that, fingers tangled as he vibrates with excitement, pointing out every light and billboard they pass. Every few blocks, his gaze flicks up toward the sunroof. The third time, she catches his intent. 

“Don’t,” she warns, mock sternness in her voice. 

“I’m gonna.” 

He’s already reaching.

“Mark, no!”

He’s laughing as he unclasps the latch and pushes it open with both hands. A gust of evening air rushes in. Before she can protest, he’s standing, pushing his torso out into the city. “This is awesome,” he calls back in. “Come out here!”

“Be careful,“ she calls back. She clutches his calf, steadying him as he lurches with the limo’s movements. 

Helena glances toward the front, ready for the driver to intervene as he slides open the partition. He meets her eyes in the rearview and tips his hat with a chuckle. “You can join him if you want, miss. I’ll drive slow.”

Helena bites her lip, hesitating, pulse skittering with the thrill of it. The absurdity and the freedom and thought of letting herself. 

“Fuck it,” she grins. She slides her hand into Mark’s waiting palm and stands carefully, letting him pull her up through the hatch. The rush of air steals her breath. The city unfolds around them in every direction. Light and noise and motion, all at once. 

Mark whoops beside her and holds his arm firm around her waist. His laughter cuts through the roar of the street. He presses a kiss to her temple and she leans into him, hair whipping loose across her face. It’s too much, and exactly enough. It is not an experience she ever knew she wanted, and yet, there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be.

-x- 

It’s late in the evening, and Mark’s bright, boyish laughter drifts in from the bedroom. Helena exhales through her nose and a smile tugs at her lips despite the dull throb behind her eyes. On the laptop screen in front of her, her presentation glows. Endless columns of figures and buzzwords. Every slide is refined and polished, and yet she scrolls back to the first, scanning again for imperfections. 

Behind her, drawers open and close. Cupboard doors swing, then thud shut again. “This shower is bigger than my kitchen,” Mark calls out with disbelief and delight. “And there’s menu for pillows. Who even knew there was more than one type? We should try them all while we’re here.”

Helena chuckles without turning. The grandiose suite gleams around her— cream walls, dark wood, the city skyline twinkling beyond, but it’s Mark who fills the space. His awe warms what might otherwise have been a lonely, anxious night alone. 

The cursor pulses. So does the ache between her temples. She rubs her eyes until stars bloom behind her lids and she mutters a low sound of frustration. 

Footsteps approach. 

Mark’s hands come to rest on her shoulders. He kneads slow circles into the tight muscles at the base of her neck and she groans, sinking into his touch. 

“Headache?” He whispers, close to her ear, voice soft and drowsy,

“Mhm.”

He kisses her temple then smirks against her skin. “It might help if you put your secret glasses on.”

She tilts her head back against his stomach. “You know about those?”

“Of course. You get little marks right here,” he tells her, brushing the bridge of her nose with his fingertips. 

Helena sighs and reaches for her laptop bag to pull out the slim black case. “You missed your calling as a detective.” She slides the glasses into place and when she looks up, he’s gawping.

”Fuck. You’re so hot.”

A blush rises to her cheeks as she swats his arm. “Mark.”

“Seriously. You as a sexy librarian? That’s easily one of my top five fantasies.”

“Quit it,” she smirks. “Let me work.”

“Want to hear the other four?”

She tosses a pad of hotel notepaper at him, shooing him away. “Go see what’s in the mini bar. And draw me a bath.”

He raises both hands, backing away with exaggerated surrender. “Okay, you’re locking in, I get it. No distractions.”

“Exactly.”

She turns back to her work, though her cheeks remain pink with the heat that creeps up from her neck. A few minutes pass in silence, broken only by the soft clack of keys. Then, from the bedroom, his voice breaks the quiet. 

“Holy shit!”

He appears in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear. “This bath has jacuzzi jets. Did you see this?”

“Mark.”

She slides her glasses down the bridge of her nose and peers at him over the lenses with a deliberate raised brow, then presses a finger to her pursed lips. “Shhh,” she whispers. 

Mark bites his lip with arousal and clutches his heart with thanks at the playful recognition of his fantasy before he backs away into the bedroom once again. 

-x-

Helena clicks the space key and the final slide of her presentation fades to black. There is nothing more to add, no angle she hasn’t dissected, no statistic left unchecked. She could recite the script backward, in French, and still not miss a beat. Yet, the tightness in her chest refuses to ease. Control has both her salvation and her cage. If she prepares enough, she might stave off collapse, but perfection is brittle waiting to crack. 

She exhales through her nose and rolls her chair away from her desk in surrender. The screen goes black, and for the first time in hours, she lets her shoulders sag. A nervous current still hums beneath her skin, but softens beneath fatigue and longing, the ache to be touched. A few hours of warmth before the morning, when battle will commence. 

“Mark?” she calls softly, rising from her chair. “Honey, I’m all done now. Thank you for waiting.”

As she walks toward the bedroom, the knot of tension loosens. Buttons come undone one by one until her shit falls open. As she steps over the threshold, she drops her slacks to let them pool around her ankles. The sight that greets her makes her pause.

Mark lies sprawled sideways on the bed, his head hanging off the foot, upside down, flicking through channels on the TV. Beside him is a litter of shiny wrappers and a cluster of empty mini-bar cans. He blinks up at her in a daze, then his face splits into a wide, toothy grin. 

“There she is! There’s my girl.”

“Hey there, giggles,” she coos, padding slowly across the carpet. She plucks one of the empty cans of pre-mixed strawberry daiquiri from the bed and turns it over in her hand. “How many of these did you have?”

Mark hiccups. “A few.”

Her eyes drift to the dresser. There are more than a few. 

“I ran you a bath,” he adds proudly, gesturing toward the ensuite. 

The sound of running water makes her spin on her heel. “Fuck—”

She hurries into the bathroom to find the tub empty, and the faucet gushing steaming water, directly into the unplugged drain. She flicks off the tap and looks back from the doorway to see him beaming at her with delight. 

Helena shakes her head, laughter cutting through any attempt at reprimand. “You are so drunk.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

He gives her a dopey smile that dissolves whatever mock sternness she has left. “Come on,” she says, crossing back to him and tugging him upright. “Out of bed.”

He slouches into her shoulder, breath warm against her neck. “Or,” he murmurs, “hear me out—you get into bed.”

“Nice try.”

His lips find her jaw anyway and he plants soft, ticklish kisses across her skin. She laughs, pushing him lightly toward the bathroom. He stumbles, steading himself against the vanity and catches her around the waist when she tries to pass him. 

“Oh.” He blinks at the empty tub. “Did you already take your bath?”

“Let’s take a shower instead.”

He nods eagerly and stands pliant while she unbuttons his shirt. As she pushes the material off his shoulders, his hands wander. Up her arms, down her hips, tracing the edge of her panties, all with clumsy affection. His mouth finds her collarbone, then her throat. Each kiss comes with a hiccuped giggle that makes her shake her head, smiling. 

When she unfastens his pants, he sighs contentedly, nuzzling the hollow of her neck. “You smell so good,” he mumbles.

“You smell like a liquor store.”

“How is your skin so soft?”

“Lotion.”

He hums, grinning against her skin. Helena’s own shirt slips to the floor and his eyes darken, intent even through the haze. He traces her bra strap with his fingertips and reaches behind her back to unclasp it with surprising accuracy. Her arms loop around his neck, pulling him close. Their mouths meet in a slow, lingering kiss. Mark rocks against her, his cock stiffening between them, and she feels a pang of want beneath the amusement. 

“Let's save this for when you’re sober,” she murmurs against his lips. 

He pouts, lip jutting in exaggerated protest. “But—”

“No buts.” 

His grin turns mischievous. “You’ve got a cute butt.”

“Mark…” she warns, then swats his ass and guides him to the shower. 

The water roars to life, cascading from the rainfall head. Steam wraps around them as they step inside. The tile is wet beneath their feet, and Helena steadies Mark’s tipsy sway. She reaches for the shampoo, but he’s already kissing her shoulder and her neck and the slope of her back. He grips her hips, hands sliding slick over her skin. 

“Do you want to hear more about my fantasy?” he whispers against her ear. 

“Go on…”

He plants wet kisses along her jaw before continuing. “Okay, so—I’m in the library. You’re the smoking hot librarian with the sexy glasses who’s been driving me insane for months. You always catch me goofing off, moving books, making noise, trying to get your attention.”

“Mmhm,” she purrs as her eyes drift closed as she works a lather into her scalp.

“One night, I’m studying late,” he continues, hands wandering to her stomach, “and it’s just me and you. Everyone else is gone. You’re wearing that leather skirt— you know the brown one? And the shirt? Then you walk over, all business, and you tell me—” He rolls his thumb over her nipple and they both groan in unison. “Fuck. You look at me over your glasses and you tell me that I’ve been a bad boy.”

She chuckles as her back hits the tile. “And how do you make it up to me?”

“You tell me to sit still. You unpin your hair and it all,” he gestures vaguely near her shoulder, “tumbles down. Then you hike your skirt and climb up onto my desk, right on top of my notes…” His words falter for a moment as her hand drifts down his chest to steady him. “…and you grab my hair and pull my face toward you. And you—fuck— you make me eat you out until you come over and over and over again.”

“Then what?”

“Then you let me fuck you against the shelves. And the glasses stay on the whole time, obviously.”

“You don’t think they make me look a little too old for you?”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”

Helena tries to look away, but his hands slide up her arms to pull her toward him. She yelps, giggling and startled, as he spins her to face the fogged glass. Water beads down her skin, carrying the last of the suds away. He wipes a broad circle clear with his palm, revealing their reflection in the mirror above the vanity. A pair of blurred silhouettes in the mist. 

“Look at us,” he murmurs against her throat. “Look how fucking hot we look together.”

Helena meets his gaze in the mirror. Behind her, his slightly taller frame peeks behind her own, his chest pressed to her back, the two of them lithe and toned and glistening. The overhead water cascades like rain. Their skin is flushed. It’s breathtaking. She nods, leaning back as he clutches her. 

“You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” Open-mouthed, wet kisses trail her neck, sucking and lapping at her pulse point. He groans as he sinks his teeth into her shoulder, then licks the marks he’s made. “I’m so obsessed with you,” he whispers against her skin. “I can’t believe you’re real. How the fuck am I here with you.”

Her skin prickles at the raw awe in his tone. She closes her eyes as he rocks his hips, brushing his erection against her in a slow rhythm. The weight of his body presses her forward until her palms flatten against the glass. The grinding quickens. His breath turns ragged at her ear. 

“I think about you all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah."

He grunts as the head of his cock catches on the wet skin at her hip. “Every time I close my eyes I see your face. Whenever I’m not with you, all I’m thinking about is when I get to see you next.”

Helena opens her eyes to watch him in the mirror. Parted lips, furrowed brow, one hand firm at her hip the other snaking over her abdomen. His jaw works as he sucks her throat. “Helena. Fuck. I need you. I lo—fuck, ah—” His words slip away to a series of needy grunts as he thrusts against nothing. 

He comes hard, the release splattering her hip and the fogged glass across in pale streaks that slip away with the water. The rocking continues as he rides out his orgasm in a blissful, drunken haze. 

Helena’s lips curve around a disbelieving laugh as he nuzzles her neck. “Oops. Sorry,” he tells her, though his smile is unrepentant. 

She twists in his grip and loops her arms around his neck, then shakes her head disapprovingly.

“You are so going to pay for this tomorrow.” 

Mark smirks and drops a kiss to her shoulder. “Promise?”

Their laughter mingles over the noise of the shower spray until it’s impossible to tell which belongs to whom. 

-x- 

Morning is different outside of the sprawling nothingness of the Eagan estate. The city churns to life beyond the window, not that it ever really settled to begin with. Horns and voices and sirens, all overlapping into a blur. Helena lies still, caught beneath the weight of Mark’s arm over her waist and his knee hooked over hers. She waists for the beat of quiet that never comes. 

Careful not to wake him, she untangles herself from his embrace. He shifts, burying his face in the sheets and gravitates toward the warmth she left behind. She crossed quietly to the wardrobe without switching on the light. Inside, her trousers, shirt and blazer have been unpacked from the garment bag. There’s a note pierced though the hanger’s hook. Crush it! And a crooked heart scrawled beneath. 

Her lips curl into a smile. Of course he’d done this while she was still at the desk last night, quietly unpacking and steaming her clothes while she worked. Always taking care of her in the smallest of ways. She plucks the note free, folds it, and tucks it into the pocket of her blazer. 

In the bathroom, she blinks hazily against the bright, vanity light. She washes her face, moisturizes, then leans close to apply her makeup. Brow pencil, mascara, lip tint. A touch of concealer to hide the shadows beneath her eyes. The ritual steadies her nerves. Piece by piece, she becomes the version of herself that the world expects to see. By the time she slicks her hair back into its usual tight bun, the transformation is complete. The woman who lay tangled in her sleeping lover's arms, coiling loose strands of his hair and murmuring sweet nothings against his temple, has been closed back into her box.  

She gathers her laptop bag, phone and coat quietly. From her wallet, she slips out her credit card and leaves it on the nightstand next to a glass of water, tylenol, and a folded note. 

Order breakfast & sweat out your hangover. I’ll be back this afternoon. 

Mark stirs as she leans over him. His lashes flutter and he makes a soft, sleepy sound as she brushes back his hair and kisses the center of his forehead.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” she murmurs. 

He nods blearily into the pillow as Helena leaves the room. 

On the street outside the hotel, a black town car is waiting for her at the curb. She watches silently through the tinted window as the city passes by. By the time they reach the Financial District, she’s over an hour early. The firm’s glass tower rises ahead, reflecting the sky. 

Across the street, she finds a coffee shop. No embossed sigils, or portraits of her ancestors glaring down from the walls. Just an ordinary,  crowded space smelling of milk and espresso, on a block that isn’t named after a long-dead Eagan. She orders a triple shot, takes a seat at a high stool by the window, and watches the world move without her. 

The freedom of irrelevance is disorienting. Outside of Kier, Lumon is a corporation like any other, its name just one of many on billboards and pharmacies and building facades. A few people glance twice as they pass but none of them stop. Either they don’t recognise her, or they’ve seen enough billionaires to find the species unremarkable. A grin curls at her lips as she realises she may have harnessed the power of invisibility after all. 

Helena pulls out her phone to text Mark when a presence behind her shoulder stirs the air. “Mind if I join you?”

She inhales quickly through her nose, and exhales with a smile as she sees Natalie. “You startled me,” Helena tells her. 

“Sorry. I got here early too and saw you across the street.”

Helena angles herself toward Natalie as she slides gracefully onto the stool beside her. “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” she says, lifting her tea. “You? Did you get everything taken care of?”

A neat little lie had explained away Helena’s reason for skipping the company jet. A detour to take care of a family estate on her mother’s side, that made travelling together impractical. “Yes. I met with the attorney yesterday. Everything is in order.”

Natalie smirks into the rim of her mug. “The… attorney?”

“Yes?” Helena narrows her eyes. 

“Was he the one who left a bite mark on the back of your neck?”

Helena’s eyes flare as she splutters on her coffee. Her hand flies to her collar, fingers searching for the offending imprint. “What—”

“Here,” Natalie interrupts, laughing softly. She reaches across and adjusts Helena’s collar just so, hiding the mark. “Better.”

“Thanks.”

“You could’ve brought your hot professor boyfriend on the jet, you know. No need to slum it in commercial.”

Helena laughs behind her fingertips, a girlish little giggle at the thrill and absurdity of being caught, while the lie of his identity holds. “He’s not my—” she starts, but falters. “We’re taking it slow.”

“City breaks and hickeys sound pretty serious.”

Heat floods Helena’s face, the kind that no amount of foundation could disguise. “Oh my God,” she groans. “Where is everybody else? Do they all know?”

“They don’t know. Your secret’s safe with me.” There’s a slight pause. “All of them,” Natalie adds pointedly. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?"

Natalie waves her off with a flick of her wrist and takes another sip of tea. “Seth and Eustace are sightseeing.”

Helena blinks. “He brought the intern?”

“Are you kidding? That kid’s his protégé. He jumped at the chance when he heard we had a seat free. And Drummond is out hunting for a vegan bakery?”

“Vegan?” 

“The man contains multitudes."

They both laugh, shoulders curled forward as any lingering tension diffuses. Outside, the morning crowd thickens. Helena takes another grounding sip of her coffee and rests easier knowing that her relationship with Mark is safe, for now, and all she needs to concern herself with is how to punish him for last night’s transgressions.

Conversation drifts and curls, treading water at the clock ticks closer to their appointment time, each minute tugging at her pulse. Eventually, Helena swirls the last of her espresso in her cup and watches the residue fade to nothing. She glances across the street to where the face of the VC headquarters looms. 

Natalie checks her watch and gives a small nod. “Shall we?”

Helena inhales sharply. 

“You’ve got this.”

“I know.”

They cross the street together. Inside, the lobby is alive with footsteps and distant phone calls. A receptionist guides them to an elevator that reflects Helena’s own composure back at her. The boardroom is different to Lumon’s. All stylised furniture and modern artwork. Beyond the windows, there isn’t a pine tree in sight. 

Helena settles on the left side at the top of the table, closest to the screen. Natalie at her right, then Drummond. Seth, and barely visible at the far end is Eustace behind a mountain of folders. An assistant connects Helena’s laptop to the screen as she steadies her breathing. Every angle is accounted for. Every slide rehearsed until her throat was raw. Natalie is prepped to answer any question that rises, and Seth can wax lyrical on every new initiative in their books. Comfortable heels, charged battery, backup charger, two rescue pastilles and Mark’s note tucked into her pocket. 

Nothing left to chance. 

Nothing can catch her off guard. 

Until the door opens. 

Three men enter, laughter spilling ahead of them. Gelled hair and tailored suits. Helena stands, extending her hand automatically, and freezes. A flash of recognition hits like icy water as the last man walks through the door. 

They lock eyes. He’s the man from the plane. The same man who complemented her martini. Who’d written his number on a napkin. Who’d watched her disappear into the bathroom with her twenty-one year old companion. 

Introductions move around her like a tide, but Helena can’t breathe. Names and titles and handshakes pass between the group as her pulse thunders in her throat. Every polished inch of her threatens to crack. 

“James Catlow, Vice President.”

A short huff of laughter escapes her at the all too familiar name. He’s tarred by her father’s brush, because in that instant Helena recognised that men like him are an ecosystem of their own. Charm wrapped in predation. She’s met a hundred of them. Fucked a few. Suffered under one for thirty years of her life and learned to read the flicker of calculation before the pounce. 

Helena waits for the predator’s smile, the small, wry tilt that says I know something about you. 

He shakes her hand. “Ms. Eagan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His thumb presses against the bones of her wrist. Her pulse hammers beneath it. Their eyes meet again for a second too long. She can feel the sweat building beneath her collar despite the chill of the room. She opens her laptop. Forces herself to breathe. 

Defense cannot always be passive, sometimes it must be blunt and visible. 

The room flicks to professional autopilot. One of the other partners, a younger man, remarks that they’re grateful to have Lumon’s presence. It could be a monumental relationship for the firm. “James got back early from a trip with the wife and kids to be here.”

He clears his throat awkwardly and nods. “Flew in yesterday. Wouldn’t have missed this.”

Helena hears the words and chooses first strike. When there is a pause in the perfunctory chatter, she takes it. “I too flew in yesterday.” She smiles thinly. “Excellent flight. I found the cabin crew to be very… accommodating."

Her gaze drop deliberately to the gold band glinting on his ring finger. 

The muscle in his jaw tightens as the message lands. Mutually assured destruction— inelegant, perhaps, but ancient and effective. The balance resets.

When she begins her presentation, her voice is steady and low, pitched to the acoustics of the room. The slides cast a clean, blue glow across her face as she speaks. Each word lands the way it ought to. Lumon’s rebranding. New wellness initiatives and better transparency. Natalie picks up the thread seamlessly when the conversation turns to logistics. Seth speaks about the data gathering push. Helena speaks on the long-term benefits of partnership for both firms. She is acutely aware of James’ pointed gaze across the table.

What feels like hours passes before the follow up questions end. 

James finally speaks, with a crisp, even tone. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure Lumon could modernise its image, but you’ve made a compelling case.”

“Thank you,” Helena nods. 

“It’s clear that the company has… evolved since your father’s tenure.”

“It had to,” she agrees. “Otherwise, it would have died.”

There is a murmur of appreciation from the other men. Then she’s shaking hands again and smiling and the meeting seems to have adjourned. Congratulations are exchanged. Plans made for a second meeting between the shuffle of papers and chair legs. Her cheeks ache from the forced smile. 

McAllen, the partner with coiffed silver hair rises first. “Ms. Eagan, we’d like to invite you and your colleagues for a celebratory dinner tonight. Our treat.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I already have plans.” She smiles, sliding her laptop back into the leather bag. 

There’s a flicker of curiosity. Natalie casts her a sidelong glance that Helena catches. She blushes under the polite murmur of disappointment. James steps forward, smoothing his tie. “Let me walk you to the elevator.”

The others begin to pack up behind them, and Helena allows it. To refuse would draw more attention. She matches his stride as they move down the corridor.

“That was a bold move, Miss Eagan.”

She nods once, neither confirming nor denying.

“I like that in a woman.”

“So does my boyfriend.” A thrill unfurls down her spine- it's the first time she's called him that out loud before. 

They reach the elevator. He presses the call button and the doors open with a chime.

“I would’ve been happy to let the details of our shared flight slide,” he muses. 

Her pulse snags. “What?”

The question is barely out before he reaches for her wrist. His fingers close tightly enough to jolt her still. He leans in, so close she can smell the faint trace of his cologne. “But you made it personal,” he murmurs, low enough that only she can hear. “And you’re going to regret threatening me.”

Then the hand is gone. 

He steps back smoothly and becomes the businessman once more. “Safe travels, Miss Eagan.”

The doors slide shut between them.

Helena stands in the mirrored box, the hum of the elevator loud as a pulse in her ears. Her heart slams against her ribs. The ghost of his touch still burns on her wrist. She inhales, going for steady, but the air tastes thin and metallic. When the doors open again, she darts. Down the lobby, through the revolving glass, into the blur of daylight and traffic. 

Her hand shakes as she raises it to hail a cab.

She mutters the name of their hotel as she climbs in. Inside the cab, she exhales, pressing her wrist against her thigh to quiet its tremor. She forces her breathing to even out. She doesn’t yet know what James will do with his threat—if it’s leverage, a test, or merely cruelty for cruelty’s sake—but she knows one thing: she needs Mark. Needs to anchor herself in the warmth of his body and the simplicity of his gaze.

The cab lurches into motion. Helena closes her eyes and lets the city blur past.

-x- 

The keycard clicks and the heavy door swings open. Helena steps inside, burning with energy as the meeting courses through her veins. A high-voltage current with nowhere to land. Fury without a target, fear she can’t voice. It coils beneath her ribs, demanding release. 

“Mark? Are you here?”

There’s a muffled thump from the bedroom, then the sound of bare feet against the carpet. He appears in the doorway, startled and grinning. “You’re back early,” he tells her with a disarmingly playful smile. “How was the meeting?”

“Fine.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter.” He crosses the space between them to take her waist in both hands and the grin softens to something softer and she drapes her arms over his shoulders. “How was your day?”

“Awesome. I took a walk. Got a pretzel, then came here and hung out.”

“In New York?” she smirks, raising her brows. “That was the most exciting use of your time?”

Mark shrugs. “Didn’t want to do any of the cool stuff without you.”

The small, uncalculated sincerity hits her harder than it should. It’s the same warmth that carried her through the last few weeks. Through the anxious, sleepless nights before the presentation. She feels the ghost of James’ grip at her wrist and fury surges through her at the thought of anybody causing Mark harm. 

He’s hers. The first thing ever, that has been wholly hers. She would burn her company to the ground before she let anybody touch him. 

Before Mark can speak again, she grabs his shoulders and spins him, pressing him back against the wall so hard that the framed art rattles. Her mouth finds his in a hungry, breathless kiss that sears. Mark’s hand comes up to cradle the back of her neck as she deepens it. Moans and breaths pass between them as the energy rises and he responds to her rhythm. 

She clutches his collar, nails scraping lightly over his skin as she stretches the material enough to expose more skin. Her mouth drags along his jaw, down the column of his throat and he tilts his head back against the wall, baring himself to her as she sucks at his pulse. Her hands drift down the front of his shirt, then over his crotch to palm his hard length beneath the jeans. His breath catches as she cups him, feeling him twitch against her palm. 

She reaches for his zipper, but hand covers hers, halting the motion. “Wait, ah—”

“What’s wrong?” 

Colour floods his cheeks. His throat bobs as he swallows. “Nothing, I just, uh, need to go into the other room for a second before we, um, start. Alone,” he adds quickly. “You can’t come with me.”

Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Mark.”

He winces, runs a hand through his hair. “I was just goofing around. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“Goofing around,” she repeats slowly. 

“Yeah.”

“Show me.”

His lips twitch with an apologetic, embarrassed smile. “Okay. I— I borrowed something.” He lifts the hem of his t-shirt, then hooks a thumb in his waistband and tugs down his jeans to reveal a hint of black lace peeking above his waistband. 

Helena inhales sharply. Her pulse spikes with a dizzying mix of possession and desire as she takes in the sight of her panties stretched over his hips. Smooth, toned skin adorned with soft lace. 

“Fuck.”

Mark laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was bored. And they looked so soft. I just wanted to—” His eyes flick up to hers. “I don’t know. Feel close to you.”

Hot, primal desire blooms low in her gut. Seeing him in her clothes wasn’t something she knew would affect her, but it does, profoundly. Her lace on his skin. Her mark on him. The fury and adrenaline and ache of it all fuses into one pang of hunger. Her fingertips graze the edge of his waistband, tracing the delicate pattern. His breath hitches and she looks up at him through her lashes.

“You look beautiful,” she murmurs.

He blinks. “Beautiful.”

“Yes. And you’re all mine.”

She takes his hand and tugs him toward the bedroom, the softness gone from her stride, replaced by intent. The storm that gathered within her after the meeting has found its outlet, and Mark, drunk on her approval, doesn’t yet realise he’s about to be struck by the lightning. 

A hard shove sends him stumbling back onto the mattress. The frame thuds as she climbs after him, shirking her jacket and pulling her shirt over her head with frantic, tugging movements. Heat rolls off her skin as she straddles his hips, slacks tightening with the stretch, and drags him up by the collar to kiss him. There’s a warning graze of her teeth before she catches his bottom lip and bites just shy of pain. He groans into her mouth. Hands fly to her waist, then her back, then everywhere at once. 

Her hands roam. Throat, then sternum, then the flat of his chest beneath soft cotton. She scrapes her thumbnail over his nipple through the t-shirt and his breath hitches. His hips jolt as a startled, helpless sound escapes him. She does it again, watching his eyes go dark and wide. 

“Off,” she commands, and yanks the shirt over his head. 

“Fuck, Helena…”

“No.” Her palm is flat in the centre of his chest, pushing him into the mattress. “You don’t get to talk yet.”

She leans in, mouth at his throat, and licks a hot stripe along his throbbing pulse. Teeth snag. She bites beneath his ear. 

“Last night,” she murmurs, punctuated with kisses, “you got drunk and spilled what belongs to me down the shower drain.” Another kiss beneath his jaw. “You gave me a hickey before a big meeting, and now…” Her hand slides back to his nipple to pinch hard enough to elicit a gasp. “you’re stealing from me?”

His breath is ragged as he nods. 

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

His answer is a soft little laugh. “Have I been bad?”

“Very.” She kisses down his throat to his collarbone. “And bad boys get punished.”

“That right?”

Her nails answer for her. Thin, clawing lines dragged from clavicle to navel, slow and soft enough that he can’t anticipate where the sting ends and the heat begins. He arches beautifully beneath her touch, back lifting from the sheets. She shifts lower, knees braced wide to either side of his thighs so she can work. His belt gives with a soft click, then the buttons follow. Her hands tremble with anticipation as the zipper slides. Denim peels back and he’s straining, the outline of his cock is obscene against black lace. 

The pad of her thumb presses along the ridge through the fabric. His head drops back against the pillow and the tendons in his neck flex. 

“Does that feel nice?” 

His hips answer for him, a helpless buck into her hand.

“Thought so.”

She speeds up. A wicked, measured pressure through the lace. The panties fit him wrong, cutting into his hips, barely containing his swollen cock, but they frame him decadently. A work of art beneath her fingertips. She keeps him there, right at the precipice, until his abdomen tightens and his thighs tense and he’s chasing it—

–then, she stops. Her hands stills. She looks up through her lashes and smiles, gentle as anything. 

“Ah—fuck,” he hisses, eyes blown, clutching the sheets. “Why did you stop?”

Her mouth returns to his chest for a series of slow kisses. She scrapes her teeth over his nipple, and pinches the other between her finger and thumb, relishing in the involuntary sound he makes. 

“Lesson one.”

“Please,” he whimpers.

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

“Helena—”

She flicks her tongue over the reddened peak and gives the tiniest bite. “Say it.”

“I didn’t come inside you,” he grits out. “I couldn’t control myself.”

“Yes.” 

She travels lower, leaving a wet trail over the smattering of hair down to his stomach. Her teeth scrape lightly, just above his navel, followed by a soothing kiss. She hooks her hands into the waistband of his jeans and works them down over his hits. Denim resists, but she wins, and the jeans hit the floor behind them. What remains makes her breath hitch— him in nothing but black, delicate lace. 

“Such a pretty boy,” she coos, stroking him with one hooked finger. 

He furrows his brow, embarrassment flickering across his face. He tries to turn away, but Helena catches his jaw, holding him in place. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. I want to see you like this."

He swallows. Nods. The surrender is everything. 

Agonizingly slowly, she kisses along the top edge of the lace, then widens his legs and nuzzles the inside of his thighs. His cock twitches, chasing the contact he so desperately needs, as each kiss lands close but never on his length. When she flattens her tongue and drags from base to tip, feeling every bump and ridge of lace, he groans deeply. His head falls back against the pillow. Helena gathers saliva in her mouth, then spits onto the tip, dampening the fabric. She licks and swirls the head of his cock until he’s writhing. Bucking upward into her mouth. 

His abdomen clenches, his balls tighten, he thrusts desperately. 

Then, she stops. 

“Lesson two.”

Mark whimpers at the loss. “No.”

“Yes,” she insists.

“Tell me wh—”

“The hickey,” he stammers before she finishes the question. “Fuck. I bit your neck and gave you a hickey. I didn’t mean to. And I stole from you. I wore your panties without asking. Please, no more lessons— fuck, please. I’ll be good, just—”

Helena smirks at his helplessness. “Oh, baby.” 

She climbs from the bed, unbuttoning her slacks with slow, lingering movements as he watches. His hand drifts toward his dick, but a disapproving click of her tongue halts him. The rules to this game are clear enough. When she climbs back on top of him, it’s in nothing but her panties and bra. Lace meets lace as she braces both hands on his stomach, then grinds herself along the hard line of his cock. A slow, undulating movement as she experiments, angling herself until the head of his cock catches her clit. 

“Fuck, Mark,” she whines. 

Small, tight circles of her hips as she ruts against him. Mark groans with every motion, clutching the sheets.

“Helena… please.”

“This is for me, okay, baby boy? You don’t get to come from this.”

His face crumples as he whimpers, but he nods nonetheless, gritting his teeth while she takes what she needs. Sweat beads at her temples as she rocks, back and forth, chasing her peak. Her knees dig into the mattress as the friction over her clit builds. She grinds down hard enough to cry out. 

Her back arches as her orgasm crests. Sudden and gasping as she bucks her hips frantically and her walls clench around nothing. Mark is sweating, chest heaving with the effort of holding back. As Helena climbs off him, she leans down to pepper his face with kisses and coos of how proud she is of her beautiful, patient boy. He keens beneath her touch, nuzzling her palm as she cups his cheek. Their eyes lock, foreheads pressed as her breathing evens. 

“Such a good boy,” she whispers as she slides back down the length of his body. 

As his huge, glassy eyes blink back, a primal need overcomes her. Settled between his thighs, she clutches the top edge of his panties in both hands. She grunts, animalistic, as she fists the lace and rips it clean through. The mangled scrap drops to the floor behind them. 

His thighs fall open as she parts his legs, one hand on each knee, then she slides both hands to the backs of his thighs. “I’m going to try something new, okay?”

He nods, tilting hips. She bends his legs, folding him until his thighs touch his chest. Mark gasps at the stretch, eyes squeezed shut. 

“This okay?”

“Mmhm.”

“You’ll tell me if you need to stop?”

“Please, Helena,” he chokes out desperately. “I can’t wait any more.”

She presses a soft kiss to the inside of his calf, then guides his hand to hold his own leg in place while she lines his cock up with her entrance. She sinks down in one steady motion, eyes locked on his, thighs trembling from the effort and the stretch. Her cunt opens for him inch by inch. When her pelvis finally settles flush against his, her eyes water. 

Mark’s hips buck instinctively, but he has no traction to thrust. At this angle, this depth, this hold— Helena is entirely in control.

The movements start small. A gentle rock, back and forth, sweat-slicked skin sliding as she explores. Beneath her, Mark’s chest heaves as he stares up at her in awe. Her thighs burn with the effort of squatting, but she’s desperate to take him like this. Claiming him, owning him, protecting him. Her sweet boy, so pliant and trusting, giving himself entirely. 

Helena shifts her hands to his lower stomach, braces herself, and starts to bob up and down, rising and falling, sliding almost all the way until just the tip of his cock rests inside before slamming back down again. Every muscle in her body is taut, humming with energy in time with the sharp slap of skin on skin. Mark cries out, head snapping back against the pillow. She keeps going.

The rhythm builds fast as she bucks and lifts and slams back down onto him, fucking into him as his cock hills her. Mark can’t stay quiet. An obscene babble of moans and curses and whimpers slips from him as she rides him. His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. 

He won’t last much longer. It would be terribly cruel to make him. 

“I’m nearly there baby, you’re doing so good.”

Mark nods frantically, swallowing hard. She reaches between them to rub tight circles over her already swollen clit. Her mouth falls open as her second orgasm starts to crest. Pressure blooms deep in her gut. They lock eyes. Helena comes with a violent cry, her whole body locking up as pleasure rolls over her. Wave after wave. She clenches around him, and that’s all it takes. He follows with a grunt, cock twitching deep inside of her as she rides him through it.  

When the bliss subsides, Helena eases off him, leaking his own cum back onto his body and guides his thighs back onto the mattress. He winces from the stretch.

“Shh,” she whispers. “You’re okay.”

Helena lies on her back, shifting his boneless, pliant limbs until he’s nestled into her side, head against her chest. He drops a tender kiss above her heart. 

“That was so fucking good.”

She combs her fingers through his hair. “It wasn’t too much?”

“You could never be too much for me.”

The lay like that for while, nuzzling and whispering and stroking featherlight touches in the glowing aftermath. She loops strands of his damp hair over her fingertips, he exhales a small contented sigh against her neck and the vibrations ripple through her.

“Whatever happens, I’m going to keep you safe. Okay?”

He stirs, lifting his head just enough to look at her. “What’s going to happen?”

She kisses his forehead. “Nothing,” she whispers. “I just mean— it’s a big world out there. I’m going to protect you from all of it.”

He shifts closer again, nodding against her collarbone. “Okay. I’m going to protect you too.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “I’d like that,” she tells him, then resumes the slow, soothing rhythm through his hair. 

-x- 

Two and a half days of freedom, in a city that swallows them whole. When they step out of the hotel, Helena wearing his t-shirt tucked into her belted trousers, the air vibrates at the frequency of her pulse. They navigate it together, slipping between buildings and getting lost in the crowd. Mark’s hand is near constant in hers, thumb stroking absent patterns as they walk. 

The pact they made the week before their trip holds— they take turns choosing, no vetoes, no sulking. 

Her choice comes first. An art gallery with a grand foyer and exhibits sprawling in every direction. Inside, she walks slower than usual. Measures herself against the pace of the room, grounding in its calmness. Helena has always loved art, but never had the time to devote to its study. She cranes close to the brushwork. Finds herself explaining nothing and everything. Mark listens with his whole body. Hand in hers, eyes narrowed in concentration as she speaks. The rest of the visitors pass at a respectful difference, indifferent to the couple wrapped in each other’s arms. When he drags her into a dimly lit alcove to make out, she doesn’t protest. 

-x- 

His turn, later in the evening, is a basketball game. She circumvents the rules and makes it hers anyway, by upgrading their seats to courtside. 

“You did not,” he beams in disbelief as the usher waves them toward two chairs at the front.

“I did.”

“Helena.”

“What?” she shrugs. “I like seeing you be happy.”

He grins from ear to ear. When the players crash past and their soles squeak and the music blares, Mark hoots with the rest of the crowd. Any attempt at trying to explain to her the rules is lost, fragmented with his excitement as he loses his thread. Not that it matters, she watches him more than the game. The way he flinches when the ball skids out of bounds near their feet. The way his eyes light up in awe. His palm, firm over her kneecap throughout. During timeout, he steals a sip of her soda and grimaces at the sweetness. She wipes her thumb and smirks as she sees how it undoes him. 

-x- 

“Dinner,” Mark announces as they exit the arena.

“I’ll call the hotel, see if they can get us reservations for—”

“Or…” 

Mark stands behind her, angles her hips until her body points down the street and her gaze follows. What awaits is a greasy cart, with an illuminated menu and the scent of hot dough. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“What? You’ve had pizza before.”

“Woodfired flatbread,” she corrects. “And I’m not eating food cooked in a kitchen with wheels.”

He’s already nudging her forward, fishing in his pocket for cash. Her protests fall on deaf ears as Mark hands over a few crumpled bills and the vendor hands back two large slices of pepperoni. Grease beads and runs onto the cardboard, and steam curls from the cheese. Mark folds his own, bites, and groans indecently with satisfaction. 

“Try it. Just one bite. And if it sucks, we’ll go somewhere with table cloths.”

She lifts her slice with both hands, awkwardly mimicking the fold. Mark wets his own lips, gaze intent as she raises it to take a bite. It scalds her tongue. Shocks her with salt and grease and an unexpected sweetness. She stops chewing for a moment. 

“Holy shit,” she mutters around a mouthful, then goes back in for more.

Mark grins triumphantly, unable to look away as she devours the slice. He orders two more before the first is gone. They hunker against a street corner, smirking at each other between bites. A sheen of oil coats her lips. 

“Napkin?”

He leans close, but holds the cloth out of reach. “Kiss?”

She pays without protest. 

-x- 

In the morning, it’s her pick again. Central Park rowboats, because she’s trying desperately to lean into the side of herself she suppresses in Kier. The woman who wants freedom and laughter as her boyfriend insists on rowing, then pouts when his arms ache. Ducks bob past and Mark reaches for them before they dart away. Despite her better instincts, Helena’s fingertips skim the surface, flicking a spray of water at him. He laughs deeply, splashing her back. 

“Switch with me,” she tells him when his shoulder start to tense.

“No. I’m strong.”

“I know you are, baby.” He blushes under her stare. “But switch with me otherwise we’ll never make it back.”

They trade places, giggling, knees bumping, limbs tangling. He steadies her by the waist and helps her into position. He watches her, mouth slack as her arms settle into the motion. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts again. It’s a little loose, but her flexed biceps peak beneath the sleeves. 

Mark wets his lips. “You wanna take a detour back to the hotel before lunch?”

-x- 

Coney Island is an assault on the senses— noise and sugar and neon. They buy wristbands that scuffs up against Helena’s watch. He makes her ride the Ferris wheel. She refuses corn dogs, but concedes to cotton candy because she likes the way it melts on her tongue. They lose quarters to a claw machine and win a stuffed pigeon, a fitting homage to the city. They race side by side at the driving game, barreling around a computer generated track. Mark wins the first round, and she insists on a rematch, which she loses also.

Mark celebrates with both arms in the air. “Fuck. That was awesome. I miss driving.”

The screen rolls their scores and Helena tilts her head against the seat, gazing at him, eyes soft. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he smirks. 

“Like what?”

“Like when I get home there’s gonna be a G-Wagon outside my apartment with a bow on it.”

Heat climbs her neck. He isn’t far off what she’d pictured. “Am I that predicable?”

“Yes.” He leans across to kiss her, then rests his forehead against hers. “And anyway, a car is definitely more of an anniversary gift.”

Something sweet and painful lodges behind her ribs. Of course he says it like it’s certain. His unwavering optimism that this is something that lasts, blind to knowledge that her actions at her meeting started a clock. Soon enough, James will strike. There will be nowhere to hid. He doesn’t know that this could be the beginning of the end. 

She nods, blinking back the sting in her eyes. 

-x- 

They spend the rest of their time in the city drifting from place to place. Brooklyn bridge at sunset,  her hair caught in the breeze and his hand at her back. The pier, where gulls shriek and they gaze out along the water. They make the ferry crossing just to come back again. He wraps his arms around her from behind, quoting every line from Titanic that he can remember. His breath warms her skin. She closes her eyes for a moment, memorizing the feeling of being held like this, out in the open. It won’t last forever. 

By the final evening, the spell feels fragile. They ride the Seaglass Carousel. It’s dim inside, glowing with shifting, iridescent lights. An enormous fish swallows them whole as they squeeze together in a space made for one. The floor turns beneath them and the world blurs to a dreamy, oceanic glow. Helena curls into Mark’s side, her head on his shoulder. 

In her gut, she knows this is the moment everything changes. 

Tomorrow, they’ll go back to Kier. To questions and headlines and the jaws of scandal waiting to close around them. Their freedom— this perfect little bubble— will shrink to memory. 

Mark tilts her chin up with his hand. The look in his eyes makes her chest tighten. “Helena,” he says quietly. “I want to tell you—I need you to know that I—”

Her stomach knots. 

Her body goes taut as her heart lurches, terrified and wanting all at once. Nobody has ever said this to her before. If it comes, she isn’t sure if her restraint will let her say it back. She inhales sharply as her jaw trembles. 

Mark nods. His eyes soften with understanding and he smooths the crease in her brow with his thumb. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I just wanted you to know I’ve had a great time. That’s all.”

Relief shivers through her and she nods, blinking against the ache in her chest. He knows. He’s letting her breathe. She presses her forehead to his. They stay like that, rocking together as the carousel pivots, light flickering across their faces. 

“Me too,” she tells him, voice barely over a whisper. “I want you to know that, too.”

Chapter Text

The clock in the corner of Helena’s screen has been blinking the same minute for hours. It feels that way, at least. Lumon is quiet now. Hollow in a way that only a place made of steel and glass can be. At the end of the corridor, a night cleaner drags a cart that squeaks every few rotations. Beyond the windows, the evening is dark and heavy with clouds. A storm is rolling closer, lighting the horizon in slow, silent pulses. 

She sits back in her chair, spine too straight for comfort.

The meeting ended hours ago, yet the voices from the call still cling to her skin. Congratulations lacquered over interrogation as the venture capitalists leave no stone unturned. Endless talk of ‘finalising the package’, as if Lumon were something gift-wrapped and ready to hand over to them to pick clean. 

Vulture capitalists, Natalie had written on the corner of Helena’s notepad. They’d exchanged smirks offscreen. 

Helena had smiled and thanked them. Told them she’ll review the final terms personally, just as she always does. The meeting was successful. and yet. There’s a tremor under her skin that she can’t smooth away. Something restless and electric, waiting to break. James hasn’t made good on his threat. 

She unlocks her phone and dials fast. 

Mark’s contact photo fills the screen. He’s holding a pretzel almost bigger than his head, with the chaos of Times Square behind him. The curve of the dough hides most of his face, but she can still see his boyish, triumphant grin peaking through.

Hey, it’s Mark. You know what to do. 

“Me again,” she says softly. “I know you’re probably busy, but if you want to come over tonight, call me when you get this.”

Once she has finished, she inhales deeply, pressing the cool metal edge of the screen to her forehead. 

Three weeks since New York, and they’ve fallen back into their old routine. Tuesdays and weekends, and a near constant back and forth of texts and calls to keep them satiated in between. But tonight is Thursday, and she  wants more than listening to his voice. She wants to curl up with him on the couch while a nerdy sci-fi movie that he chose plays in the background. She wants to comb her fingers through his hair until the weight of him on top of her steadies the tremor in her hands. 

She doesn’t know how many nights like that they have left. 

The thought constricts behind her ribs. She pushes it away before it can take shape. 

Helena gathers her laptop, drops her phone into her purse, and shrugs her blazer from the back of her chair. As she exits the office, corridor lights wake above her in a staggered line. Motion sensors catch her movement and chase her down the hall. Behind her, they fall back into darkness, one by one. An energy saving measure that seemed logical in the daylight, but is eerie now that she is leaving alone. 

In the elevator, she glances toward the glass that looks down into the atrium. The reflection there is strange. Her silhouette, floating against the concrete slab where Kier’s face once loomed. She blinks, grimaces, then turns to face the doors. 

Reception is closed this far after hours, but in the lobby a cleaner with headphones is emptying the bins. 

Helena lifts a hand. “G’night, Al.”

He startles and pulls one bud free. “Good night, Ms. Eagan.”

“I told you, just Helena is fine.”

”Of course. See you tomorrow, Miss Helena.”

“Close enough,” she chuckles as she pushes open the door. 

Outside, the storm feels closer. The air is thick with static and the wet, dusty scent of fresh rain. Her driver waits beneath the awning, black umbrella already open. Spaced out floodlights illuminate the near-empty parking lot beyond. In one brief flicker of lightning, she thinks she sees movement. A shape at the edge of the lot, half turned to her. When the sky goes dark again, it’s gone.

“Who is that all the way out there?”

The driver squints into the distance. “I don’t see anybody, ma’am.”

“Oh. Must have been a trick of the light.”

He holds the umbrella over her head as they cross the wet asphalt. Raindrops hit the fabric in soft percussion. She slides into the car’s back seat, and watches the building vanish behind tinted glass as they pull away. 

Helena leans her temple against the cool window, tracing the familiar turn of trees as they bow and shake in the wind. The driver keeps a careful speed as the storm presses. Lighting flashes somewhere beyond, white for an instant, then gone. Thunder follows a few beats later, moving nearer. 

When the first streetlamps flicker on and off, Helena doesn’t think much of it. The second time, they stay off for longer, plunging the road ahead into black for a few seconds before blinking back to life. 

She lifts her head. “Why are they doing that?”

“Power outages right across the town, ma’am. The storm’s giving the grid hell tonight.”

Helena hums a small acknowledgement and turns her face back toward the glass. Wind carries lashes of rain sideways, tearing through the branches overhead. The closer they come to the estate, the thinner the lights grow. Wrought iron gates recognise the licence place and swing inward with a low creak. Her house waits at the top of the slope, dark except for the automated sconces on either side of the door. 

She checks her phone as the driver is rounding the car to let her out, expecting to see Mark’s name, but there’s nothing. She tucks the device back into her purse and forces a small smile when the umbrella appears above her head. 

“Thank you.”

“Drive carefully,” she tells him. “The roads will flood before long.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have a good evening.”

Motion sensors rouse the lights inside the foyer, but only half strength. The power outage has hit, but the back up generators have kicked in, leaving the space in a dim, amber wash. She slides out of her heels, holding one in each hand, pulse too quick from the drive. 

The house feels… wrong, somehow. Though she can’t put her finger on why. 

She tries to shake the thought. It’s late. The air is cold. Her unease is probably just her body protesting after the weight of the day. 

She crosses to the thermostat and nudges the heat up. Shower, food, then curl up in bed and wait for Mark’s call. That’s what she assures herself as she pads down the hall to her room. She slips out of her blazer and slacks, hangs them in the wardrobe, and tosses her blouse and underwear into the hamper. On the bed, she lays a pale green silk pajama set across the sheets before turning to the bathroom. 

The shower dial is twisted all the way to the right. Steam climbs almost instantly, clouding the mirror as she waits for the heat to rise. She has always liked it hot— too hot for most. Mark can’t take her preferred water temperature for more than a few minutes before his skin flushes red and he begs her to cool it down. But tonight, she’s alone. She turns it up so high the pipes groan in protest.

The first touch of water burns in a good way. She tilts her head back, lets it soak through her hair and drown out her thoughts. The bathroom glows through the mist as she washes in slow, indulgent movements. She lathers shampoo, humming absently, some half remembered tune that looped through her head all day without words. 

Somewhere beyond the water, a noise cuts through— a soft thud. 

Helena stops mid-motion, foam dripping from her hands. Her breath catches. She stills. Listens to the hiss of the shower and her own pulse in her ears. 

Another sound. A scrape this time.

“Mark?”

There’s a spare key for the side entrance beneath a plant pot, maybe he just arrived and used it to get in. She wipes at the steam on the glass door and peers through the streaky blur.

“Mark, baby, is that you?”

If it were him, he’d already be peeling off his clothes to join her. She waits a few more seconds, then exhales. A nervous laugh catches on its way out. It’s the storm. She shakes her head. Just the storm. 

Helena finishes rinsing her hair, quick now, skin prickling despite the heat. When she shuts off the faucet, silence rushes in. She steps out, towels off, then pulls on her robe from the hook. The mirror gives back only a smudged outline of her face. Back in the bedroom, the air feels colder. The robe clings to her damp skin as she crosses to the bed. 

She stops short. 

Her pajamas are gone.

The duvet is smooth. Undisturbed, as though they’d never been there at all. 

Helena stares until her heart begins to hammer. “Mark?” she calls again, louder now. “If that’s you, this isn’t funny.”

Silence. 

Thunder cracks through the sky, illuminating the room through the floor to ceiling window. A frenzy of wind and rain lashes at the glass. 

Then, without warning, the house is plunged into darkness.

The soft glow of the bathroom vanity snuffs out, the bedside lamp dies, and the hallway sconces follow suit, leaving only the storm’s erratic pulses to light the space. Her eyes strain against the sudden absence, pupils dilating in the dark as she adjusts. 

Helena’s throat constricts as her pulse hammers in her ears. She reaches out blindly, fumbling against the polished edge of the nightstand for her phone. It slips twice before her nails catch the cool plastic case. She thumbs the screen to life to see no bars, and no wi-fi. 

“Fuck,” she mutters into the dark. 

The beam of her flashlight slices through. Barefoot, robe tight around her shoulders, she creeps into the hall. 

A scuff— faint, like a boot on tile— echoes from ahead. Her breath hitches.

“Hello? Is someone there?” she calls to no answer. 

The torch light casts elongated shadows in her periphery as she presses on. 

The kitchen emerges in fragments. First the gleam of marble floor. The outline of stools tucked away neatly. Everything where it ought to be. Relief flickers briefly as she swings her torch, but her eyes catch something that doesn’t fit. A streak of darkness along the countertop. Wet, glistening in the light. 

It’s blood.

Red and thick and viscous. 

Helena gasps, clamping her hand over her mouth as she staggers back from the mess. Her heart slams against her ribs, vision blurring at the edges with unshed tears. “What— how—“

Lightning splits the night in a fork that illuminates the room in stark white. 

By the laundry room door, there is a figure. Hooded, motionless, facing toward her. 

You’re going to regret threatening me. 

For three weeks, she’s waited for it. The article. The photograph. The reporter or the gossip rag or however the scandal is outed, breaking her open. She thought he would go for the company. Wait until after the investment and needle her where it hurts. Or worse, that he’d go for Mark. That somehow he’d identify him and publicly torment the person she holds most dear until he can’t take it. She’s been careful, treading lightly, on edge every minute of the day. 

She never expected this. 

Her phone clatters to the floor as thunder rolls in the flash’s wake. The torch spins wildly as it skids. Helena screams, raw with terror. She bolts. Her robe tangles at her ankles as she darts back out into the hall. Her feet pound on the tile. She slips, then rights herself and keeps running. 

Primal, white hot fear floods her as every sense hones to the goal of the intercom by the front door. If she reaches it, private security will be here within minutes. 

Behind her, she hears footsteps. Boots on tile, heavier and faster than her. 

She makes it to the entrance, jabs her finger against the button, but slips and misses. She lunges a second time as arms clamp around her waist, wrenching her backward.

”Help! Mark!” she cries out in desperation. Nothing but instinct.

She kicks and thrashes but the hold on her is solid, locked tight across her ribs. Warm breath ghosts the back of her neck. “Get off me,” she gasps. “Let me go!”

The voice behind her breaks into laughter. 

“I vant to drink your blood,” he croons in a ridiculous, faux accent, before his lips latch softly to her skin. 

Helena wrenches around, every nerve ending still screaming, and sees Mark’s face by her shoulder. There’s half a second where her mind refuses to catch up. She inhales sharply, a breath that shudders all the way through her, and lets out a sound from the back of her throat. Part sob, part laugh, collapsing into both. 

“It’s you,” she gasps. “You asshole! I thought—”

The sound keeps coming. A hitched, trembling spill of not-quite laughter that she can’t stop. 

“Woah.” He pauses, steadying her with a light grip on both biceps. “Are you laughing or crying?”

She shakes her head. Both. Neither. Her hands cover her mouth as her shoulders rise and fall with it. Her body doesn’t know how to stop moving. The adrenaline burns itself out in trembling waves. Relief hits so hard it hurts. It’s Mark. It’s only Mark.

She’s safe, he’s here. 

His expression softens, searching her face, brows furrowed. “Breathe. You’re okay. It’s just me.”

”It’s just you.”

Helena drags her hands down her face. Her eyes find him properly for the first time— and stop. 

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

The sight borders on surreal. She chuckles around a wet sob as she takes in the sight. A long black cape is clasped at his throat, hood draped over his shoulders. Its red satin inner lining opens around a ruffled white shirt. His hair is slicked back from his face, with one stubborn lock already curling forward again. A smear of fake blood dries in a jagged line from the corner of his mouth. 

“It’s my Dracula costume for Dylan’s birthday tonight. When the power outages started and the phone lines went down, I left the party to come out here to check on you.”

Helena sniffs wetly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “And scare the shit out of me while you were at it?”

“Oh, Helena, I’m so sorry. I was just messing around.”

The concern in his eyes makes her feel exposed. She feels foolish at the thought of being scared to tears over her boyfriend in a goofy costume. Fuck, she was going to call security. Explaining herself to them would have been mortifying. 

“I thought somebody had broken in,” she admits quietly. 

Mark’s face falls. “Oh my God.” He looks heartbroken, his mouth parting around a breath that catches in his throat. 

Tears spring hot and fast to her eyes again. He cups her face immediately, thumbs brushing the droplets from her cheeks as they fall. “No, no, no— Don’t cry,” he pleads, shaking his head. “Please don’t cry. I can’t make you cry. I’m so sorry.”

“I heard noises. And when I came out of the shower my pajamas were gone. You didn’t answer when I called. I—I thought—” She breaks of with a small, unsteady laugh. “I was terrified.”

“Oh, sweetheart." Mark murmurs, his own eyes now shining. “I took your pajamas to put them in the dryer so they’d be all toasty and warm after your shower. And with the thunder—I never heard you call, I swear.”

“Oh.” She blinks up at him. “What about the blood?”

”What blood?”

“In the kitchen? There’s a huge mess on the counter.”

He exhales in relief. “I was pouring a glass of wine for you and spilled it when the power went out. Jesus, Helena, I didn’t even think you’d see it.”

The words sink in slowly, replacing terror with heat. 

Helena’s cheeks burn as the realisation lands. The sounds. The missing clothes. The blood. All explained in a heartbeat. The tension that had wound her right unravels quickly, leaving her raw and mortified. She groans softly, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her face with her hands.

“Fuck,” she mutters. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed."

“Don’t apologise," Mark tells her instantly, his voice rough with guilt. “I should be the one apologising. That was so stupid of me. I just wanted to jump out and surprise you with the costume, make you laugh. I thought you knew it was me.”

She chuckles weakly behind her hands. “It’s okay, baby. You didn’t mean to. I’ve just been… strung out lately, and I let it get to me. That’s all.”

She moves forward until she’s pressed flush to his body. 

His arms wrap around her, holding her strong. He rocks her gently in place as the lingering tremors subside. Helena exhales against him, melting into the safety of his warmth. It soothes like a balm. She clings back, looping her arm around his waist, pressing her cheek to the ruffled polyester at his chest. Her eyes slip closed. She lets herself rest there. Lets his steady heartbeat overwrite her own. 

“Do you want to talk about what else was bothering you?”

Helena shakes her head quickly. The last thing she wants is to bring the real fear into this moment. 

“No. It’s nothing— work stuff. I’m just glad you’re here.” Her lips curl into smirk as she adds, “but if you ever tell anyone that I almost called security over you in a Dracula costume, you’ll live to regret it.”

“It’s okay,” Mark teases, sliding his hand in soothing motions up and down her back. “Vampires are scary.”

“So scary,” she chuckles in agreement. 

He starts peppering her face with quick, exaggerated, noisy kisses. Her forehead, the corners of her eyes, the tip of her nose, her jaw. She tries to hide from it, pressing her chin to her chest and wriggling in his grip, but he doesn’t relent. When he reaches her neck he laughs deep and cartoonishly evil before sinking his teeth into her flesh. 

“Mark! Stop it,” she yelps. “That tickles.”

“Vat tasty blood you have, sveet girl.” The terrible accent has returned. He bites and sucks, devouring her skin as she giggles through it.

He catches her laughter mid breath, hands still cupping her face. He leans in with such heat in his expression that the joke dies on her lips. His mouth slopes over hers in a gentle, unhurried kiss. Helena melts into it. Her fingers hook in the lapels of his cape as he threads his fingers through the damp hair at the nape of her neck. The kiss is so tender it steals the air from her lungs.

When he draws back, her lips tingle. Their foreheads touch and the world feels a little steadier for it.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“You called out for me.” His thumb traces the line of her jaw. 

She leans into his hand, brow furrowed. “What?”

“You didn’t even know I was here. But you were scared, and you yelled for my help.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

The vulnerability of it hits her. The realisation that, in fear, her body reached for him before her mind could catch up. It isn’t something she knows how to process right now— needing somebody this badly that they become your first instinct. 

“You have no idea how much that means to me, Helena.” He kisses the tip of her nose, then rocks her gently in place with his hands on her hips. “Can I make you dinner?”

”You might struggle with the power out.”

”That’s never stopped me before,” he winks, then tugs her by the hand to lead her back down the hall.

He keeps her close as they walk toward the kitchen. His hand never quite leaves her body. He drifts from the small of her back, thumb tracing circle through her robe, around to her waist, her hip, then back to her hand. 

She still feels the faint tremor in her limbs, and knows he can feel it too. His movements are a constant reassurance. An overcorrection for her fear, written into touch. 

When she startles as the thunder claps, he kisses the back of her hand. 

The kitchen is lit only by the diffuse glow of moonlight by the clothes and the occasional flare of lightning that turns every surface briefly silver. Mark moves ahead, tugging drawers open until he finds what he’s looking for. Wood slides, metal clinks. He returns with a bundle of candles and a small box of matches. 

“Here,” he says, pressing them into her hands. “Start lighting some of these?”

She hops up onto the counter, strikes a match, and starts to light the candles one by one. Each flame adds another layer to the glow. Wax beads onto her fingertips as she works. 

Mark, meanwhile, has migrated to the fridge. He shirks the costume cape and rolls up his sleeves as he inspects the dark shelves. When he emerges, it’s with two glass containers of her chef’s homemade roast vegetable soup. She watches as he roots through the cupboards and pulls out a heavy saucepan, setting it down on the countertop with a satisfying clang. 

“I think we’ll need a hell of a lot of candles to heat soup.”

Mark chuckles, waving her off as he takes a match from her. He turns the gas knob until the faint hiss fills the quiet, then instead of hitting the spark, he lowers the match flame until the burner catches. 

Helena blinks down at it. “Oh. I didn’t know you could do that.”

He shoots her a grin over his shoulder. “You’d be surprised what you can do when you have to.”

The scent of spices fills the air as the soup begins to warm. Helena swings her legs against the counter, folding her arms loosely, watching him move. She doesn’t offer to help— he’d just wave her off anyway with his gentle insistence that him taking care of her is non-negotiable.

There’s something so unbearably tender in it. He isn’t performing, or angling for praise. It’s simply who he is. 

If he weren’t here, she realises, she would have gone straight to bed without eating. She wouldn’t know how to coax life out of the powerless stove, or where to begin with checking the generator. She would’ve gone to bed, alone, in the dark, and waited until help arrived in the morning. For all her money and control, she’s startlingly helpless when the lights go out. 

The thought leaves an uneasy feeling of shame settling in her stomach.

“Mark?”

He looks up as he stirs. “Yeah?”

”What did you mean earlier— when you said that’s never stopped you before?”

A blush climbs his neck, visible even in the low light. He keeps stirring, moving in slow circles. 

“After my dad left, there were times when my mom couldn’t cover everything. Sometimes the power would get shut off for a few days.” He shrugs lightly, not looking at her. “We learned to work around it. Candles, camping stove, flashlights. Whatever we had.”

Helena’s chest tightens as an ache blooms there. 

Mark rests the spoon against the side of the pot. “She got a good job at the school not long after that. It was only a rough few months. We made it through.”

“Oh, baby. I didn’t know.”

”It’s okay. Really. It’s not a big deal.”

But it is to her. 

The image won’t leave her— Mark as a boy, lighting matches in the kitchen while his mother tries to stretch what little they have. Her stomach turns with guilt at how flippant she’s been about money, how easily she spends what others measure in months of stability.  

He squeezes her knee without acknowledging the way her eyes have softened. Ribbons of steam curl through the candle light and he flicks the burner to a simmer before pulling out paper towels to clear up the wine spill. 

She leans back where she perches on the counter watching him work. “Your mom was lucky to have you help her through it.”

“Not at first.”

“What do you mean?”

He tosses the crumpled towels into the trash and cleans the residue with a foaming spray from beneath the sink that Helena never knew she had. 

“Well, I’m not proud of it, but after my dad left, I was a real asshole. Thirteen, hormonal, angry at everything. Gave my mom hell for months.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

He levels her with a wry, self-deprecating smile. “Then you clearly you haven’t been around a teenage boy while he deals with the pressures of becoming the man of the house.” He winks at her before continuing. “Did you have to take an industry elective at the private school?”

She grimaces at the memory. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Only in Kier does the school system so perfectly train children to slot into the town’s workforce. It’s something she has been begging the educational trust to phase out for years. 

“What’d you pick?”

“Computer skills.” She narrows her eyes, waiting for the inevitable ribbing about how she regularly can’t work the TV remote, but it never comes. “What about you? And what does this have to do with anything?”

He scoops a small amount of the soup from the pot, cups his hand beneath to catch any drips, and raises it to her mouth. “Taste.”

Helena hums in appreciation around the warming sip. 

“Do you think it needs pepper?”

She shrugs. “Maybe a little.”

Mark grabs the grinder from beside the stove before continuing. 

“I picked woodshop, because it sounded manly and strong. I figured I’d build furniture, fix things around the house, track in sawdust— y’know, all the things a newly single mother needs? First day of class I get home and demand my mom buys me a toolbox.”

Helena giggles at the thought as he pauses to stir the soup. His movements are domestic and delicate, the opposite of the restless boy he’s describing. 

“A toolbox.”

He grins back at her. “What can I say, a man needs his tools, Helena.” He grabs her knee teasingly. “Anyway, she said no, we couldn’t afford it. We got into a huge screaming fight, back and forth for hours. And you know what she did after?”

Helena leans forward, hung on his every word. “What?”

“When I went to bed, she stayed up. She did the cleaning, packed Devon’s hockey kit, ironed the clothes, prepped dinner for the next day. All of it. By the time she finally got to bed, she must’ve been dead on her feet.” He leans against the counter now, towel draped over one shoulder. “And that’s when it hit me. She didn’t need me to bring home a crappy coffee table with a nail poking out of it— she needed help with everything else.”

“I switched electives the next day,” he tells her with a bashful smile. He doesn’t look bitter, just fond in hindsight. “Home economics. Only guy in the class. Everyone thought I was there for the girls, but honestly— and, I’ve never told anybody this before— I just wanted to learn how to cook and clean. How to make my mom’s life easier.”

“That’s…” Helena starts, then stops. She doesn’t know what word fits. Kind? Thoughtful? Beautiful? Nothing seems big enough. 

He blushes, trailing patterns over her thigh with his fingertips. “The more I helped out, the more I saw her come back to life. It was like this weight lifted, a little at a time. She’d sing again in the mornings. She stopped looking like she’d been crying. It was like my deadbeat dad had never hurt her. And I told myself that when I got older. When I fell in—“

The tips of his ears tinge pink as he cuts himself off, eyes wide. He glances nervously at Helena before fumbling for a safer path. 

“—into, uh, a relationship,” he chuckles, trying for nonchalance. “When I got a girlfriend. I’d treat her the way my dad should’ve treated my mom.”

Helena’s chest aches.“Oh, Mark…” she whispers, one hand pressing lightly over her heart. 

She wants to tell him everything that sits behind those two words— the way her heart feels bruised and bright at all once. She wishes she could tell him the thing he’s reaching for. That she’s falling too, that she’s right there with him. 

The thought burns.

Because love, once spoken, becomes a thing the world can touch. Tenderness can become a weapon. One headline, one flash of a camera lens, one investor making good on his threat, and this fragile, impossible thing they have built will be ripped from her. To love him openly would be to hand him to the wolves. 

So she keeps the words where they’re safe, tucked behind her ribs. 

Mark’s hands find her waist. His thumbs stroke small, soothing patterns as he waits for her to speak.

Her pulse thrums in her throat. She wants to tell him— wants to believe that what they have will survive in the light— but the words don’t come.

“Come here,” she says suddenly, breaking the tension before it can break her. 

“What?”

It’s the coward's way out, but she takes it anyway. “We’re going to make out until dinner’s ready.” 

He looks at her for a beat, and she knows he knows. He always knows. He doesn’t call her on it. Doesn’t look disappointed or hurt, he just flashes her a grin and steps closer until he’s standing between her parted knees. 

The warmth of his palms makes her shiver. He pulls her closer until their bodies meet, her legs braced around his hips, their breath warming the other’s face. His mouth finds hers in a slow press. She feels the curve of his smile against her lips as she loops her arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer. 

-x- 

The storm outside has eased into a gentle murmur against the window, the thunder long replaced with steady rain. Candlelight bathes the living room from every surface— the coffee table between empty soup bowls, the mantlepiece, the unlit hearth— all of them casting a dancing golden glow. Helena reclines on the couch with Mark beside her, his body aligned close, one arm propping himself up, the other resting at her waist he toys with the knot on her robe. 

Their lips meet in lazy, meandering glides. Tongues brush in thick sweeps and each kiss is drawn out until the moment they’re forced to part for breath. It's teasing without demand. A gradual, building warmth that pools like the soup in their stomachs. She glides her hand up his forearm, feeling gooseflesh rise, before slipping back down. He shifts closer and hooks his knee over hers. Helena parts her legs just enough to welcome the press.

“This is nice,” Mark hums against her lips as he parts her robe enough to reveal her collar. 

Her eyes drift closed as he grazes her breast through the fabric, coaxing her nipple into a stiff peak. “I could do this for hours.”

She arches into his touch as he tilts his head and slopes his lips back over hers. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

His hand ventures to tease her parted thighs, ascending in teasing increments, but he pauses short of more, letting the anticipation simmer. Her own hands roam now, one across his chest between the ruffles of his shirt and the other in his hair, drawing him closer. They move in slow undulations, parting just to come back together again 

Mark eases from her lips to trace kisses along her jaw, nipping with his teeth as he descends to her neck. Helena giggles as she tilts her head back against the arm of the couch, barring her throat. 

“Hey, I have a question,” she whispers as his kisses drift between her breasts through the parted silk.

“M’busy,” he murmurs against her skin. 

“Why’d you dress up as a vampire for a party in May?”

He raises his head just enough to see her face. His lips are glistening and kiss swollen as he grins. “It’s a D-party.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not that kind,” he chuckles. “Everybody had to dress up as something that starts with the letter D, for Dylan. So I’m Dracula.”

She exhales a breathy laugh. Their lips find each other again and the kiss resumes in long, savouring pulls. She shifts her thigh against the growing bulge in his pants and he moans into her mouth. 

His breath is uneven as he nuzzles her collarbone. 

“I thought about what you could go as, if I could take you as my date.”

Her hand slides down to rest at his hip, tugging him closer against her thigh. “You did?” 

“Uh-huh.” He peels back her robe across her shoulder and follows the path with his tongue. “Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz.”

“Not a doctor? Or a detective?”

“Sure, if doctors have short skirts, red heels, and wear their hair in bunches.” 

She giggles and swats his arm playfully. “Perv.”

“Guilty.”

Their shared laughter lingers and Mark drops down to settle against her shoulder. Helena’s fingers tangle in his hair, while his arm drapes across her waist, cradling each other close. They lie there in the quiet between kisses, breaths syncing as they watch the storm’s remnants weave trails down the window panes. Rivulets chase one another in intricate patterns. 

The sight holds them captive, a mesmerizing veil between their sanctuary and the chaos beyond. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Helena whispers, lips pressed to his crown. 

Mark nods in soft agreement, tracing patterns over her stomach with his fingertips. “Scary things don’t seem so bad when you share them with someone, huh?”

A startled laugh escapes her before she can temper it. She brings her hand to her mouth to cover the sound. 

Mark props himself up on one elbow, mock offended. “What?”

“Sorry, baby,” she grins against her palm. “That’s just such a line.”

He juts his lip out in mock pout, but a flush creeps over his cheeks. “Worth a shot.” He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks again. "You know you can talk to me about what was bothering you today, don't you?" 

"I do.”

His hand finds hers where it rests over her stomach. 

For a while, neither of them speak. Helena’s gaze drifts back to the window. The storm’s beauty lingers, but the unease that had shadowed her creeps back in. She exhales a long steadying breath and decides to bridge the gap, showing him the vulnerability that he’d so easily given to her. 

“I’ve been thinking about moving out of this house,” she tells him. 

The truth, but not the whole truth. 

He shifts, turning toward her. “Yeah?”

”It never really felt like mine, y’know.”

”Maybe it’s time to make it yours?”

”I don’t know,” she shrugs, combing her fingers through his hair. “Plus there’s Lumon. After New York, it’s just…” She hesitates, choosing her words with care. “It’s different now. Everything’s shifting. I don’t know if I trust the investors. Projects are being pulled apart and restructured, and I just—” She drops her voice low. “Lately I feel like I’m waiting for the ground to give way under my feet.”

He listens, eyes steady on her until she’s finished. “That sounds exhausting.”

Helena nods. His faith in her is like a razor pressed to her throat, gentle until it isn’t. He believes her partial truth— that her anxieties lie with Lumon. He doesn’t know that the real fault line is much closer. That the thing she’s waiting to crumble is them. 

The moment the world finds out about them, this is over. There’s nothing it won't touch. Her reputation, her career. His privacy. Their bubble. She’s seen what the Eagan name does to people. What it devours. 

She owes it to him to warn him, but she can’t get the words out. 

“I don’t know what comes next,” she whispers. 

Mark shifts closer, brushing her bangs from her forehead. “Hey. You don’t have to know right now.” He shrugs like it’s simple. “And I don’t have the answers, but I can tell you this.”

”What?”

”Whatever happens with your house or your job of Lumon— I’m not going anywhere. So that’s one thing you can count on.”

She swallows hard, throat tight. Not yet, she thinks. Don’t tell him tonight. 

“I know.” She presses her forehead against his. “Come here.”

He nods as he’s leaning, meeting her lips half way. 

This time, the kiss deepens quickly. There’s no room for teasing as he slips his tongue between her lips and clutches the nape of her neck. He draws her closer with a gentle tug. Her fingers curl into his shirt, her robe parts around her thighs. Mark breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against her mouth. 

“Let me take care of you, Helena. Just let go.”

She nods, yielding to him, as she relaxes into the cushions and trusts him to guide. 

He shifts to prop himself on one elbow as he works the tie of her robe loose. The silk falls open, exposing her breast, her stomach, her navel. His gaze lingers as he traces the edge of the fabric before pushing it aside completely. “My beautiful girl,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the hollow of her throat. 

He dips lower still, lips brushing the swell of her breast. Helena aches, chasing the warmth of his tongue. Her hands slide up his arms and she feels the flex of muscle beneath his shirt. 

Helena tugs at the fabric. “Off.”

He shrugs out of the shirt quickly and tosses it to the floor. Her fingers fumble with his belt buckle, but he covers her hands with his own, steadying her tremor. He shifts on the couch to shed his pants and boxers. When his cock springs free, it bobs against his stomach, pulsing with need, but he doesn’t rush. Instead, he kneels between her legs and pulls the blanket from the back of the couch to cocoon them as he eases her out of her robe. 

She shakes her head as he starts to kiss down her body. “Not tonight, baby.”

“Are you sure?”

“I just want you.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Whatever you need.”

His weight is a comforting press as he lowers himself over her. He captures her mouth again, deeper this time, tongue stroking hers with thrusts that mimic what he craves. One hand cups her breast and he rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Helena moans into it. Her legs part to cradle his hips and his erection grinds against her inner thigh. 

She drags her fingers along his shoulder blades as he positions himself. The tip of his cock drags against her entrance, spreading her arousal. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching her with a burn that ignites every nerve ending. They moan in unison, her legs locked behind his back, his face in her neck.

He moves in slow, rolling thrusts, hips moving in a grind that hits deep. His pubic bone rubs her clit with each pass. He lifts his head to watch her face. Vulnerability surges them— a wave that crashes amid the building heat. Tears prick her eyes. She squeezes them shut and tilts her face away, but he notices, slowing his pace to shallow rocks. 

He kisses her eyelids, one, then the other. “I’m right here. Not letting go.”

After long, dragging minutes of this intimate grind, sweat begins beading on their skin. Mark shifts above her. “Come here,” he coaxes. He hooks his arms beneath her shoulders and lifts her, his cock still buried deep inside. 

He settles her straddling his lap. She clings to him, arms around his neck, face pressed to his skin. Mark’s hands settle on her ass to support her weight as he rocks her in place.

Their bodies cling. Chest to stomach to navel. Skin drags against skin with each movement. Helena circles her hips, grinding her clit against his base. The friction makes her whimper. She lifts her head to find his lips in a messy, wet kiss. The tension builds to a slow crescendo of gasps and moans into the other’s mouths. 

Their movements grow more urgent. 

Helena’s thighs tremble. She clenches around him. A single tear slips down her cheek as she hides her face in his neck. 

“Mark?”

He holds her, one arm splayed over the length of her back and the other tangled in her hair. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to go back to being alone.”

He thrusts up sharply. “Never,” he promises, voice gruff against her ear. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

“Mine.”

“No more nights alone. You call me, and I’m here.”

“You promise?”

He moves faster now, chasing the peak. “I promise. I promise.”

She rocks her hips, meeting every thrust. Their foreheads press. He clutches her face. “Come for me, Helena. Let it all out— I’m right here.”

Her orgasm crests in a white-hot wave that has her crying out. She shudders in his lap as waves of pleasure ripple through her, toes curling, body arching before she slumps against his chest. Mark groans deeply and thrusts upward, her body is limp, boneless as he spills inside her. Hot spurts of cum flood her with each jerk of his cock. She feels every throb. Warmth spreads as the aftershocks settle over them. 

He tries to ease her gently off him, but Helena whimpers, shaking her head.

“Stay inside me. Please.”

“Okay,” he shushes. He eases them down onto the couch, still joined. 

She clings to him as he drags the blanket to cocoon them both. His cock softens slowly within her and wetness trickles out, but rocks softly, keeping himself inside. He strokes her back in soothing strokes and presses his lips to her damp forehead. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers again.

-x- 

Helena wakes on the couch to the weight of an arm draped across her waist and Mark’s breath against her shoulder. Golden morning light drifts in, all remnants of the storm long since passed. She blinks against the heaviness lidding her eyes. His face is turned toward her, lips parted, slack with sleep. She brushes her thumb against the curve of his cheekbone, tracing the impossibly soft skin, then leans forward to kiss his forehead. 

A small sound of protest escapes him as she shifts away. 

“Shh,” she whispers, smiling. 

He nods, barely conscious as she tucks the blanket up over his shoulder and smooths it into place. She rolls her shoulders, stiff from the cramped space, and stretches her back with a groan. Her robe is crumpled on the floor. She pulls it on and ties it loosely as she pads toward the hall. 

Last night’s storm has rinsed the world clean. The power is back, and with it, Helena can breathe. She moves through her morning like a woman reborn. Swimming laps, drying her hair in the mirror, applying her makeup, all while watching herself reappear with a smile tugging at her lips that won’t leave. 

Helena is not naive— she knows fear, how it hides in corners waiting to startle you again— but this morning it seems like a distant memory. An image that won't take shape. James’ lingering threat has gone silent. If he was going to do something, he would have by now. He’s all talk. 

The world feels bright in the way it does after rain, when everything is damp and shining, as if the storm only passed through to clear a path for the light. 

She’s still smiling as she fastens her watch and slips on her shoes. In the hall, she grabs the spare key from the dish by the door and takes it through to where Mark is still curled on the couch. His mouth is slack once more, hair sticking up in unruly tufts. 

Helena crouches beside him and places her hand on his arm. 

“Hey.” 

He blinks himself awake, eyes glazed with sleep. “Time to go?”

“Not for you.” She presses the key into his palm and curls his fingers around it. “Go sleep in my bed for as long as you want. Let yourself out when you’re ready.”

Mark yawns as his mouth quirks into a smile. “Thank you.” His hand tightens around the key. “I’ll put it back in the plant pot when I leave.”

She strokes a strand of hair from his forehead, lingering a moment longer than she means to. Then, before she can overthink it, she says softly, “Or… not?”

“What?”

“You could keep it.”

He stares at her for a heartbeat, fully awake now, the haze gone from his expression. “You want me to keep your key?”

Helena gives a small, teasing smile. “Only if you promise to announce yourself very loudly when you come in.”

“Promise.”

She leans in to meet him for a soft, easy kiss. They start giggling with excitement partway through, lips brushing between the laughter. Their goodbye stretches. Small kisses, murmured words, chuckles that slip through. Eventually, her phone buzzes from her purse, dragging her back to the day waiting. 

“Okay,” she sighs. “I have to go.”

Mark catches her hand before she can pull away, presses a kiss to her wrist. “Have a good day at work.”

“You know, I think I will.”

-x- 

The drive to Lumon feels lighter than it has in weeks. When they pull up beneath the awning, she steps out still smiling. She greets people as she passes, nodding to security, offering a bright good morning to a cluster of analysts and chats to an accountant about his kids. When she steps into the elevator, she catches herself tapping her foot to the tinny, instrumental tune. 

By the time she reaches her floor, the morning rush has taken hold. Helena moves through it, untouchable. The night has left her grounded in a space where keeping Mark feels possible again. 

She nudges open her office door with a grin. 

Natalie is waiting for her, perched on the edge of her desk. 

“Nat. Good morning.”

She doesn’t return the smile. Her expression is unreadable except for the tension in her jaw.

Helena blinks. 

”You had a delivery last night. After hours.” She reaches behind her to pluck a brown envelope from the desk. 

“What is it?”

Natalie doesn’t elaborate. She tilts the envelope until an unmarked flash drive and a note fall free, then drops them into Helena’s open hand. Helena unfolds the note carefully, pulse thrumming in her throat before she reads the words. 

You have one week to make available 51% of Lumon Industries shares. If not, the contents of the drive will be leaked to the press — J.C. 

She crumples the note in her fist. “Mother fucker,” she spits. 

Natalie offers her a sympathetic smile. “Looks like the honeymoon is over.”