Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mark spends his evening not looking at Helena Eagan. He’s slouched in a hard, wooden chair, crammed into the back of a ballet studio, absolutely not paying attention to her. He doesn’t notice the way her hair is twisted out of her face, or the lean curve of her arms, or the vast expanse of bare back above the cut of her leotard. He certainly doesn’t stare at her chest, rising and falling, while she catches her breath. 

It’s been seven months, and Mark’s still getting used to being around such beautiful things all the time. Ribbon, tulle, sweeping lines and jilting piano. He’d never imagined ballet to be in his career trajectory, swapping pushing papers for spending time in studios and theaters. But when Lumon had called him into a meeting with an offer to transfer as the academic advisor, in a cold, sleepy town upstate, he didn’t say no. It wasn’t an offer, really, coming from Jame Eagan. So he packed up his few meager belongings, sold the house that had been miserably empty since his wife’s passing, and found himself spending days trying to keep the shoddy accreditation of Myrtle Eagan Ballet Academy. 

It turns out it's difficult to convince a team of choreographers to carve out even 4 hours a day for schoolwork, when there’s barre, character, and modern classes to be done instead. If underappreciated, at least it was something different– he didn’t see reminders of Gemma in every grocery aisle and stoplight. So he’ll take the rolled eyes and vacant stares from students. There’s still an intensity here, if not for his classes, but for the dance. Underneath the satiny finish, he sees how they finish rehearsals, hands on their knees dragging in air. Bruised and missing toenails, bloody tights, menthol smeared thickly onto hips and backs. His classroom smells permanently of Tiger Balm. At the end of the day, he can’t help but like people who have things they care about.

On Fridays, they drag him in to watch rehearsals, a dozen chairs pulled up against the mirrors. At first, Mark had tried to turn down the offer; he wouldn’t know the difference between en dedans or en dehours if it hit him across the face. But the faculty insists, so he sits in the back quietly, glasses perched on his nose and notepad blank every week. He hopes no one can smell the sharp whiff of liquor from his water bottle. He’s got a nice buzz going by the end of the evening when he finally spots her. 

Helena’s always striking, even when she doesn’t mean to be. She floats across the floor, a vision. While the other women preferred rolled shorts and baggy sweaters, she’s always in soft pink bullet skirts and gauzy wraps. At least he’s not the only one watching– it’s hard to keep a low profile when she shares a namesake with the school. He’s certainly not watching with the aim of giving feedback on her technique, though.

While his peers are frantically scribbling notes, Mark sits forward, elbows on his knees, transfixed. Fuck , he can’t keep his eyes off her. He inhales through his nose, jaw working, trying to school his face. He may know nothing about dance, but watching her legs arc across the floor, the muscles in her torso, the exact position of her chin– it’s enough to make him a season ticket holder at New York City Ballet. He tears his eyes away with purpose, trying to watch any of the other half dozen on the floor. 

It’s been bad, lately. She’s not in any of his classes, having graduated from her academics before his arrival, thank God . Instead, Helena exists in little, fleeting moments. A brush of their shoulders when they pass through a narrow hall, or a shared smile in the studio mirror when she catches him watching. She’s likely only friendly to him because Mark had turned a blind eye when he’d spotted her smoking outside the back door, cigarette hastily dropped from her fingertips and stamped out. But she’s still technically a student, finishing her training before she lands a contract elsewhere. Mark tries not to think of what that makes him. 

Rehearsal ends, and he knows she’s pissed. He had to watch while they ripped into her, a smile plastered on her face, nodding politely. Her shoulders weren’t dropped, or her timing is off, or she looks too heavy. Mark sees none of it, of course, doesn’t know what they could find wrong. Helena even thanks them, at the end, after she’s been critiqued down to the second. It’s brutal, vicious; she grins and bears it. 

xx

It’s half past eleven at night, and he can’t sleep again. Mark drags himself from bed, sick of tossing between tangled sheets and twisted dreams. He tugs on a pair of sweats and a coat, trudging down the icy stairs outside his apartment, trying not to eat shit in the darkness. It was one of the perks in his relocation package— housing stipend included! Housing turns out to be a run-down apartment building, caddy corner to the auditorium and studios on campus, where the hot water runs out fast and the cabinets squeak. Worse, most staff have mutually agreed not to live there, preferring a quiet home with their families in Kier, twenty minutes down the road. No one thought to tell Mark that; he gets the privilege of cohabitating with the handful of stragglers who are just as lonely as he is. 

The grounds are empty this late. Barren trees and heaps of shoveled snow are his only company. Across the lawn, he can see a dim glow from the studio windows, where someone’s left a light on in Room B. His keycard grants him access after hours, the lobby door unlocking with a click. A muffled orchestra greets him– he can hear the same minute of music, on loop upstairs. 

It’s her. Of course, it’s her. Mark sees her through the interior window before she notices him. Helena’s bundled up in a puffy vest, leg warmers pulled up to her thighs. She has her pointe shoes on, running the variation from earlier. Bangs sweaty on her forehead, she pushes herself across the floor, steps moving at a vicious pace; she must have been at it for a while. When they make eye contact through the mirror’s reflection, she curses and nearly jumps out of her skin.

He cracks the studio door, hand outstretched in apology. “Shoot, I’m sorry, Miss Eagan, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She pauses the music with a shaking hand, plunging them into silence, before wrapping herself up tight in crossed arms. 

“You shouldn’t fucking sneak up on people like that.” Her voice is a sharp, quivering breath. 

Mark gives her a small smile, tries to make his eyes kind. “I wasn’t trying to sneak up, promise. I thought someone left a light on in here.” 

Helena doesn’t answer, just stares at him from across the room. He can see her pulse thrumming under her jaw. 

“Day’s over, you should be in bed,” Mark continues, trying to plant them firmly back in safe territory. “Time to wrap up.”

She raises her eyebrows. God, she can look so arrogant when she wants. 

“Oh yeah, Mr. Scout? Is it past my bedtime?” 

He has to bite his tongue and swallow. Blood rises hot in his cheeks. He lets free a long, exasperated sigh. 

“C’mon. It’s late.”

The look she gives him genuinely spooks him. A nasty, petulant glare. And then, something dawns on her, and her face opens up, sweet and cajoling. 

“Can I have a drink?”

Mark frowns. “What?”

A knowing smile rises. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Scout. I know you always have something. Share with me.”

Shit, is it that obvious?

He shakes his head firmly. “No alcohol allowed on campus, Miss Eagan.”

“No shit. That’s why I need some.”

“That’s not– you’re underage.”

She scoffs. “Jesus, I just want a little bit to relax. I’m twenty, not fifteen.”

Twenty is emphasized when she says it, like it’s the peak of adulthood; he almost laughs. But her pretty eyes are wide open, asking so nicely. He feels for her then— When Mark was twenty, he was lining up shots in a frat basement, not spending ten hours a day in dance studios. It’s probably dead boring, surrounded by teenagers and teachers all the time. It crosses his mind that his 20-years-old was half a lifetime ago. 

One drink can’t hurt, right? 

He rubs a hand over his eyes, lets out a little puff of air, lowering his voice like someone might overhear. “Fine. I can spot you a few beers from my place, okay? Only if you get back to the dorms after, I’m not covering for you if you pass out in a fountain.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Beer?”

Now Mark wants to roll his eyes. “Oh, not to your tastes?”

Her smirk doesn’t waver. “I’ll pick something out when I’m there.” 

xx

It’s only a five minute walk back to his apartment, but the temperature’s dropped and the wind’s picked up, and they’re both pink and chapped across the face when they get inside. Mark’s suddenly hyper aware of the state of the place. Dirty dishes in the sink, stacks of papers on the kitchen table, a pile of laundry in the bedroom. He immediately starts to tidy up, while Helena stands in the doorway, trying to blow warm air between her cupped hands. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t—” 

Wasn’t expecting anyone is what he wants to say. But it feels weighted somehow, acknowledging that he’s invited her in, that she’s here, alone in his home. 

Helena gives a little shiver as she warms up, hanging up her coat on the back of the door like she belongs. 

“God, I thought the dorms were bleak,” she quips, turning to take in the dingy space. 

“Thank your dad for me, won’t you?” Mark calls back from the kitchen. He hears her snort. He digs out a bottle of red he’d been saving for a special occasion, something fancier than he’d typically buy, tucking it under his arm. 

When he rounds the corner, she’s settled in at the dining table, one knee tucked under herself, chin propped up on her hand. He thrusts the bottle at her before he loses his nerve. 

“Here. Just don’t… like, mention where you got it.”

“Obviously,” she hums, smirking up at him. “Our secret.” 

Her voice dips to a whisper when she says it. It's like looking into the sun. She glows, white hot, radiant and dangerous, paling the rest of the world in comparison. Mark’s too close, he knows, he knows, he knows. He can feel the wax in his wings start to melt, clumps of feathers dripping and sliding. He’ll plunge, free-fall back to earth, break apart into pieces.  

“Get us some glasses?” 

Helena pulls him from his reverie. 

“You’re supposed to be going home.”

Her bottom lip juts forward. She’s pouting. And worse– it’s starting to work on him. 

“It’s cold. Just let me warm up for a bit?”

“It’s late,” he tries. It’s mostly to make himself feel better. “One glass. Then you’re going home.”

A blinding smile, straight white teeth. Mark’s reminded of hemlock. Gauzy, delicate things with nasty poison. He uncorks the bottle and pours for two. 

One glass turns into a split bottle. It’s so easy, falling into rhythm with her. She makes him laugh, really laugh. And Mark likes listening to her talk, low and even, about anything at all. She lets him forget about icy roads, and bitter fights, or a mangled twist of metal wrapped around a tree trunk. It’s not just the wine making his head spin– up close like this, she’s even more captivating. Long, dark lashes against milky soft skin, sharp, sweeping cheekbones high up on her face. He’s even obsessed with her nose, the way the tip is barely upturned. Her lips are stained red in the center, matching his own. The wine’s unraveled her slightly. He spots it in the goofy quirk of her smile, the heaviness in her eyelids. Not drunk. But definitely less sober than he’s ever seen her. 

Helena sets down her glass, exhaling and rolling her shoulders. One hand goes to the side of her neck, disappearing under the scoop of her shirt. She rubs along the ridge there, furrowing her eyebrows. 

“Maybe you wouldn’t be in pain all the time if you rested like a normal person,” Mark chides. 

She tilts her head to the left to give herself better access, fingertips massaging below the fabric. 

“I’m not a normal person.”

Mark laughs through his nose. “I guess not. Still, you should take care of your body.”

Her eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “Says the middle-aged man with a drinking problem.”

“Jesus, thirty-nine is not middle-aged– and I don’t have a drinking problem.”

“Mhm,” she hums, sucking her bottom lip to bite back a smile. It drops when her fingers reach a spot high on her upper back, a wrinkle forming between her brows. Helena makes a show of stretching her arm as far as she can. She sighs, eyes meeting Mark’s. “Would you?” 

Bad idea. Really bad idea. 

“Uh, I’m not sure I’m qualified to–”

“Oh come on, I can’t reach. I’ll do you after.”

He can’t fucking say no to her. 

Mark crosses around the table, coming up behind her chair. Before he can register it, she’s pulling off her shirt, leaving her in a leotard from the waist up. It’s wide and plunging, hitting her in the middle of her back. There’s so much skin he almost bolts. 

He can see her profile when she turns over her shoulder, her chin lowered against her collarbone. She brings up one delicate hand to reach around again, fingertips ghosting against the side of her spine. 

“Just here.” 

She says it in an exhale. Her eyes are cast down, not ready to meet his. 

His hand is on her before he can stop himself, shaking slightly. So, so light, just a brush where her fingers were a moment ago. Goosebumps prickle up on her skin. 

“Right here?”

“Mhm.” 

She’s satin soft, smoldering to the touch. Mark presses in deeper, feeling the ridges of muscle below. He can see lean, sculpted lines in her back. When Mark runs a thumb over a bundled knot against her shoulder blade, she hums appreciatively. 

He works his fingers, letting them slide and push against her. Mark’s always liked to do this, before. As he rubs intently with his thumbs, he can see her eyes close. His hands are big against her; they easily cover her sinewy frame. Helena makes little noises, sighs and hums through her nose. It’s indecent how badly they affect him. 

He lets it go on for too long before dragging himself away from the deadly smooth feel of her.  

“Better?”

Helena takes a moment, her eyes fluttering open drowsily. She tilts her head back to look at him. A lazy smile blooms across her face. 

“Mmm, think so. Thank you.” 

Their eyes meet. Don’t…

Fuck, she’s going to kiss him. Her eyes are heavy with it and she wets her lips, and Mark knows she’s going to kiss him. And he’d rather die than stop her. 

Her eyes dart between his eyes and his mouth. And finally, inevitably , she leans in. It’s wrong, for so many reasons. It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever felt. Her fingers wind into his hair, though, and she’s velvet soft against his mouth, and the hesitance dissolves in him.

The kiss is slow, lips locked tight. He has to stoop to meet her where she’s sitting. Mark feels his nose crush into her cheek. It’s a kind of agony, knit together like this without wanting to pry her open. He tries to still, wait for her to catch up. So he cups her chin, needing her close, something precious in his hands. They part in a heave of breaths, their noses brushing. Helena twists frantically, rising up out of the dining chair to pull against his chest, pull back into his mouth. 

It’s sudden and hot then. They’re opening, mouths parted wide to drink the other down. Their lips are wet, tongues sliding against teeth. She tastes wine drunk. He can feel her melt under him, pliant and sticky. She yields so quick, small sounds caught up in the back of her throat and hands grasping. It makes him swell hot and proud, something fiery in his chest to have her so wanton. 

Mark's got his hand cupped along her slender waist, only the thin cotton of her leotard between them. His other hand is still curled around her cheek, holding her firm when she starts to move involuntarily. Her strap falls from her shoulder— he takes the opportunity to break from her lips and nuzzle her pulse point. It's faint, but he can still smell her lingering perfume, warm, sweet, and woody, mixed up with the salty smell of her. Her body tenses when he sucks at the hollow of her collarbone. 

His mouth burns against her, down the center of her sternum, through the fabric of her clothes. He peppers kisses along her ribs, and lower, across the flat plane of her stomach. His knees hit the floor and he’s eye level with her navel, both hands cupped around the back of her thighs. It’s reverent, desperate for her benediction. Quivering above him, wine stained and debauched, she doesn’t know that she’s got him, in any way she wants. Or maybe she does know— Mark doesn’t care either way. 

He rests his chin just above her public bone, nose buried against the faintest swell of her belly. She stutters, eyes all hazy, splotchy blush from her chest to her cheeks. 

“Please tell me you want this Helena.”

She nods quickly, jerking up and down. “Yes, fuck. Yes .”

He runs his fingers under the waistband of her nylon pants. 

“Can I take these off?”

She pulls them down without hesitating, leaving her in a cut off pair of tights and a leotard. Mark groans, hooking his fingers into the baby pink waistband.  

“So many fucking layers.” 

He coaxes the shorts down her hips, revealing the thin skin below. She’s so pale, he can see the water-colored lines of her veins. Her legs stretch out lean and long, all defined muscle. He wants to run his tongue down them. Gently, he maneuvers her so she’s back in his chair, thighs parted wide where Mark kneels. When his mouth lands on her, she squeaks. 

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Can I just make you feel good?”

Helena’s breath hitches when she nods. She’s worrying her bottom lip, chewing it between her teeth like it’s the only thing holding her together. He plants another kiss, featherlight on the inside of her knee. She’s tilting her hips towards him, sinking down into the chair. Her strap has slipped further off her shoulder— her leotard’s fallen so far that the neckline barely covers her nipples. Nearly naked, shuddering and waiting for him so patiently. 

His mouth leads, then his hands, steady and warm against her. Mark pauses when he reaches the seam of fabric at the crease of her hip, running a fingertip just under the edge. Her hips twitch, helpless, seeking. He gives in, nudging aside fabric with two fingers until she’s bared to him. 

She’s pink and swollen, shining wet already under the lamplight. First, a neat, chaste kiss, weightless against her clit. Then he dips his head, just a taste, smearing his tongue along her entrance and up. Helena sounds wounded, a ragged noise that echoes in the quiet. She bites down on the heel of her hand to stifle it. Mark pulls back an inch, just enough to part her with his thumbs. There’s a small mess collecting under her hips. 

“Fucking perfect.”

Another flat long lick makes her stutter again. He eases her in, a rhythm of flicks and presses, careful to keep away from the spot she wants most. When she’s murmuring under her breath, hips bucking against his face, he closes his lips around her clit and sucks. Her spine goes taught as a bowstring— she has to choke back a whimper. 

He’s so hungry. It’s been years since he’s wanted anyone like this, and it feels so good to want. Mark’s desperate to bury his face into her, the smell and taste of her all around him. And she wants him, too, the way she cries out and writhes, meeting his touch. He guides those lithe legs to hook over his shoulders, canting her hips further into him, mouth latched on. Mark doesn’t let up, circling the sensitive apex of her with his lips sucked tight. One finger traces her entrance where she weeps. He presses in deep, up to the knuckle, and feels her thighs clamp down on his ears in response. 

She’s going to stain the wood chair below her. Will it still be damp with her, tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? Evidence of how he made her shatter above him; He hopes. 

Mark would like to stay on his knees forever, but she’s past a question, hurtling towards her release fast and hard. He slides a second finger alongside the first, and it’s a tight fit. Hands contract in his hair, tugging hard at the roots. God, Helena clutches him with everything, stifling and delicate and so wet there. He curls his fingertips to brush up against her front walls in time with his tongue– her moans turn to sharp, catching inhales. Everything in her draws taut, stalling, teetering precariously on the edge. Above him, her head falls back on the hard edge of the seat. Helena’s overwhelmed with it, her face scrunched up tight, chin quivering. Mark’s jaw aches, but he can hardly feel it. His thick knuckles open her up with every drag of him, that spot inside of her brushed every time. It takes a final hard trust of his tongue along her clit, and she breaks, careening helplessly forward into waves of pleasure. Her abs contract hard, bowing her forward and forcing a raw sound from her. Mark continues to tease it out of her, prolonging the agony with the firm pressure of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers, until Helena claws him away, trembling all over. 

Shakes wrack her, the aftershocks forcing broken hums against her palm. Mark breathes in deep, resting his head against her tender inner thigh, his cheeks and nose soaked. Helena goes slack, eyes closed, chest heaving. She’s so beautiful, dissolute and messy, thoroughly exhausted. Mark rises and shakes blood back into his legs, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple and smooth her bangs back. 

Her eyes are sweet and sleepy when they meet his. She smiles shyly up at him, and he wants to do it all over, make her come against his mouth or his fingers or his cock until she can’t take another. One of her hands comes up to cover her eyes when she giggles, coy, like he didn’t have his nose buried in her clit seconds ago. 

Mark pulls her up, lifting her until she wraps her legs around his hips, still laughing into his neck. He carries her into the bedroom, settles them on the edge of his mattress. Her thighs are parted, straddling him on his lap. He kisses her, teasing pecks along her eyelids and the corners of her smiling lips, until they’re both breathless, giddy from each other. Mark’s going to kiss her again when she fails to stifle a yawn. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, sheepish. 

Mark’s still smiling when he replies. “Don’t be, it’s okay.” He kisses the tip of her nose instead. “Tired you out, huh?”

She huffs, burying her face into his neck to hide her creeping blush. 

A hand runs over the back of her head, tucking her in tight. 

“You should just sleep here, if you want.” 

Helena pulls back to meet his eyes. 

“Can I?” 

“Of course,” Mark nods. 

Then he’s treated to another smirk, and a bob of her chin, just once. It’s decided. 

He’s still throbbing in his pants and his body is desperate for more of her, but she’s spent and tipsy and fighting a bone-tired exhaustion he can see in her eyes. He’ll still want her in the morning, and the next night, and the endless stretch of days after that; feeling her sleep, tucked tight in his arms, will only exist for a few more hours before the sun comes up. 

Helena stands on wobbly legs, and he helps guide down the crumpled leotard that’s barely covering her anymore. Silhouetted in the dimness of his bedroom, he can still tell she’s perfect underneath it. His hands don’t leave her while she steps out of the legs, kicking it off and crawling into his tangle of sheets.

In minutes, she’s settled in. She’s stark-naked against him, face to face on the pillows. They’re both quiet, afraid to startle the easy, gentle world they’ve built. They let their hands roam, discovering the soft bends of each other. It’s not frantic and eager, but a cautious mapping, re-learning the pieces of their bodies and the sounds of their breaths. It’s a pocket of time that’s made-up and hallowed, buffeted from the twisted complexities that will inevitably surface in the daylight. But for now, Mark just strokes her hair until she falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Weak, winter sunlight filters in through the cracks in his blinds. When he stirs, Mark first notices the heat. Then, a pool of red, flames poured out over his pillows. Helena’s stretched out on her belly, arms tucked under her face, still asleep. The covers are pulled up high, giving him just a glimpse of bare shoulders beneath. Her ankle is still looped over his at the foot of the bed. 

It would be so easy to give in to the warmth of her. He’d like to pull her back in against him, memorize where every freckle and scar dots her skin. But if he lets himself, he’ll never forget. Guilt curdles sour in his stomach. 

So stupid. He’d gotten her drunk, stripped her naked, coaxed her to stay over. If someone dusted her skin, the evidence of Mark would show up head to toe. He pushes the pad of his fingers against his eyes, rubbing until his vision goes staticky. 

Helena stirs barely, huffing and burrowing her face deeper into his pillow. Then, she turns, curling up onto her side with her eyes still shut tight. 

He can let her sleep— he knows she needs it. 

Mark tries to slide out of the bed without disturbing her, pulling on a hoodie and tip-toeing out of the bedroom. She doesn’t move again, breath coming deep and even where she’s snuggled under his blankets.

It’s a dizzying mix. Mark knows it’s a bad idea, wildly inappropriate at best. But when he’s got her tucked away in his bed, fast asleep, he can’t help but want to keep her close, protected and cherished. Hopefully, she’ll wake up and never want to speak with him again; It’s easier to live with if she hates him. Selfishly, he hopes he can at least convince her into breakfast before she slips out of his life. 

It becomes clear that breakfast is in short supply in Mark’s apartment. He manages a large pot of instant coffee, a loaf of bread in the freezer, and a jar of jelly from the back of the fridge, which expired last August. What an offer. He debates running out to the market to pick up something proper, but the thought of coming back to see Helena gone stops him. 

Thirty minutes into a stack of grading at his kitchen table, he hears soft footsteps from his bedroom; Helena rounds the corner. Her eyes are still puffy with sleep, hair pulled up in a bun at the crown of her head. She shuffles in, yawning and stretching before sitting down across from him. Even bleary-eyed and tousled, she’s gorgeous. 

“Hey.”

“Morning,” she replies. Her voice is still gravelly, but she gives him a lazy smile.

“Is that my—?” 

Helena looks down at the sweatshirt she’s got on. His sweatshirt she’s got on. She’s swimming in it, slipping off her bare shoulders.   

“Oh. Mhm.” 

Mark scoffs. “Find anything else worthwhile in my closet?”

Her brows raise, and she gives him a conspiratorial grin. “Why, should I have?” 

He laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus, it’s 9 in the morning.”

“I thought the same when I had to discover your massive porn collection on the top shelf. Sick stuff, Mr. Scout,” she deadpans. 

He almost spits out his coffee, hearing the words “porn” and “Mr. Scout” leave her mouth in the same sentence. He tries to recover from a spluttering cough. 

“Oh, uh huh, that’s right. Forgot I had that in there. Serves you right for pawing through someone else’s stuff.” 

She rolls her eyes and tugs the front of the sweatshirt.  “It was on top of the dresser, for the record.” 

Oh. 

Mark waves it away. “It’s fine, what’s mine is yours.”  

He can’t tell her just how true that really is. 

He clears his throat to break the sudden intimacy of the moment.  “Hungry? I don’t have much, but I can probably throw something together.” 

Helena shakes her head. “Just coffee, please.” 

Probably for the best. Mark nods, standing to bring her a fresh cup from the kitchen. “Cream and sugar?”

“Splash of coconut milk, if you’ve got it.”

He most certainly does not have coconut milk. She catches the look in his face and decides on black. 

So she doesn’t hate him, at least. The opposite— it seems like she’s digging in, anchoring down into Mark’s morning like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he can’t help but let her; they can pretend for a few more minutes. He’ll draw a line when she’s not sitting at his kitchen table in nothing but his pilfered pajamas and a pair of socks. 

xx

The week slides by in a dreary, wet sludge. Snow piles up in all the window frames and salt tracks stain every building entry. Mark nearly has his head chewed off when he forgets to remove his boots on the studio marley, wiping up puddles on his hands and knees. For better or worse, he doesn’t see much of Helena. She’s too busy between rehearsals and classes to linger around his office or make his heart jump from across the lawn. On Wednesday, he thinks of her when he sees a bar of chocolate at the store; 100% cacao with raspberries. Bitter. Decadent. Sweet. He slips it into her bag the next day when the studio’s empty. 

Saturday arrives with heavier snow and nasty winds. Mark has to dig out the moth-eaten corduroy sports coat from the back of his closet. Every few months, the academy rounds up the students, packing into a small fleet of vans and shared cars to see the latest offering a town or two over. Mostly ballet, but the odd play, or movies on occasion when it’s particularly slow. 

Tonight, it’s another ballet, some semi-professional production where the tickets are too pricey and the program too long. He’s seen enough renditions of Coppélia to make his head ache. 

Mark picks a seat in the back row, shirking his chaperone duties once everyone’s settled in closer to the front. It’s pretty no doubt, swelling classical and tragic romances. But nothing in him feels moved, not like watching her . He finds his mind wandering to images of cherry hair and lean legs, pointe shoes tapping quietly against the floor. He knows she’d be captivating on stage, light as air, beauty and strength in equal measure. 

Stop it. 

The first act almost puts him to sleep, between the velvet theater seats and droning strings. He forces himself to buy a cold bottle of water during intermission, squeezing the sweating plastic in his palm to feel something. Just as the theater lights start to dim again, someone slides into the empty seat next to him, a blur of black skirts and red hair. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. 

Their eyes meet in the semi-darkness, and Helena has something live and crackling in hers. Mark whips his head back to stare forward, heart racing at the closeness of her, surrounded by so many people. He sits up ramrod straight, hyper-aware of her just inches away. Fuck , he can smell her perfume. 

From the corner of his eye, he watches her nudge a stilettoed foot closer to his. He’s scared to look at her fully, gaze fixed forward, though he’s no longer seeing anything onstage. Against his pant leg, her legs are bare and luminescent. Some rare and alien creature, glowing like a beacon to snatch prey up between it’s jaws. She’s wearing pointed, patent heels that emphasize the slim curves of her ankles and high arches. Next to hers, his own dress shoes look beat-up and tired; an apt representation of the two of them. Her calf makes contact with his, and he all but starts out of his seat. 

Helena, for her part, looks bored, slouched down in her chair, the picture of indifference. Meanwhile, he’s sweating next to her, nerves shot and hands trembling; Mark prays no one can see clearly enough in the dark to notice his grip tighten on his armrests while she presses into him. He almost jerks his leg away when he feels her hand brush his outer thigh through his trousers. Almost. 

She’s relentless, finding the places between them and filling them, her bare knee against his, or her searching fingers crawling towards his lap. Every bit of them that touches feel hot and electric. It’s reckless, stupid— he’s half hard already in his pants. It’s miserably pathetic, how little it takes him when she’s involved, like she’s designed to push the buttons he didn’t know he had. 

Only when the music swells for the grand finale does she pull her hands away, crossing her knees politely and settling back in her seat. Mark’s reeling. All the places where they touched feel cold with the loss of her skin. He wipes his palms across his pants, hands shaking in his lap. 

When the curtain closes and the applause has ended, Helena’s up and walking away without a second glance towards him, melting into the stream of people leaving the theater. Her hips sway as she struts, the slinky dress spilling over the firm swell of her ass like a dream. Mark has to fold his jacket over his lap when he stands.

Christ, she’s a hellion. 

She’s nowhere to be seen when he meets up with the group, hoping his pounding heart doesn’t betray him during polite conversation. Outside in the parking lot, Mark helps usher chatty trickles of students into vans, clouds of breath hanging in the night air. He wishes the biting cold would leech into his blood, ice him from the inside out. He’s ready to get home and collapse into his couch with a drink. Maybe a cold shower. The lot’s all but cleared out when he spots her again, striding from the theater as if she hasn’t been missing for thirty minutes. Her heels click against the shovelled pavement. He’s caught in her crosshairs as she plots a path straight towards him across the lot, cutting through the whirling snow that’s coming down heavy. 

“Mr. Scout! Can I ride with you?”

She’s going to be the death of him, calling him Mr. Scout like it doesn’t make his pants tight.  

“Vans are that way, Miss Eagan,” he calls back, gesturing feebly.  

She’s breathless and flushed when she reaches him, wrapped up in an ankle length peacoat. Snowflakes are caught in her lashes. The smile she gives him is all mischief. 

“I get too carsick. It’s better if I can sit up front.” 

Likely. 

Mark drops his voice to a hiss, even though they're the only ones around. “Helena…”

She just smiles wider and wets her lips, tilting her head. “It’s a quick drive. You’ll live.”

He’s not so sure. 

“Come on , do you want me to freeze out here?” 

He unlocks the car a second later. So much for lines drawn. 

She slides in easy, like she’s right at home in his passenger seat. It’s dissonant, the image of her in dark silk and pointed heels against the cracked leather and peeling interiors. With a sickening jolt, he realizes she’s only a few years older than the car itself. Alarm bells should be sounding in his head: wrong, wrong, wrong. Instead, they sound like Helena, Helena, Helena. 

“We can’t do this,” Mark groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Do what?”

“This, Helena. Do you know how fucked we are if someone finds out?” 

“Then we don’t get caught.”

Mark curses. Runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus Helena, it’s not, it’s not just– ” he sighs, then tries again, exhaling long and slow. “It’s not right. This isn’t right.”

“So tell me to stop.” 

Stop . Yes, he should say stop, it should end and he’ll drive her back to campus and make polite conversation about her rehearsals and PT exercises and the shitty weather this winter. She’ll get out of his car and let him go home to nurse a bottle of whiskey in front of the TV until he falls asleep on the couch. He’ll wash her out of his sheets and forget the taste of her and what she sounds like when she comes. It’ll be a fleeting mistake, a bloodstain he can blot out with enough cold water and bleach. 

He can’t bring himself to say it. 

One of her hands reaches across the gear shift, her fingertips brushing high up on his thigh again. 

 
“Do you want me to stop, Mr. Scout?”

Fuck no, he doesn’t. She can damn them both.

He snatches her arm, lifting her hand to his face to press his lips against the thin skin of her inner wrist. 

“You’re impossible.” He says between kisses, a hot trail up her forearm. “Driving me insane, acting like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Helena’s gone quiet, her lips parted and eyes dark. He can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest under her coat. 

“Such a fucking tease, Helena.” 

Mark kisses her first this time, tugging her towards him by the wrist until their mouths meet. She makes a pained sound, like she’s just as wound up as he is, desperate to get tangled up into each other again. It’s a homecoming, warm and plush between their lips. This time, he’s not as patient, pushing his tongue against the seam of her lips until she gives in and opens up for him, deepening the kiss. He still cups her face the same, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones and pushing back her hair. It’s a kiss full of heat and need, both of their energies consecrated into the space where their tongues meet. Her hands find the front of his coat, holding herself up with an iron grip. 

Thank god for the general disrepair of Kier– it’s dark with most streetlamps burnt out, a storm of flurries making visibility even worse. For two people trying not to get caught, making out in the parking lot is a poor first choice. Neither of them can separate from each other long enough to care. 

Mark runs out of air before her, pulling off her swollen mouth to pant, noses still pressed together. Helena takes the opportunity to dip her head under his jaw, nipping the rough places on his throat where his stubble is growing in. She’s twisted over the console, arching into him and dragging him forward by the lapels. Alternating a lave of her tongue with a press of her teeth, she’s soft and sharp all together. Her nose is still cold when it brushes his skin, but her burning mouth hints at the fiery hot inside of her.

Mark groans when she finds his belt buckle, fingers clumsy when they try to wrench it open. He doesn’t help her. When she manages to work it open enough to slide a hand into his trousers, he twitches into her touch, his body concealing nothing. She’s rough, shoving down layers of fabric until his cock springs out, thudding heavy against his abdomen. 

Helena closes a small hand around him, fingers not quite able to meet in a circle, and they both suck in a sharp breath. He’s been half hard since she sat down next to him in the dark theater– her grip around him is enough to have him leaking. She’s abandoned her pursuit on his neck to stare at the place she’s got him wrapped up, transfixed and intent. 

It’s too firm, then too loose while she tries to get her bearings, sliding carefully up and down. Thank god – if she knew exactly how to jerk him off, Mark would’ve been done in thirty seconds. Gently, she runs her thumb across his tip, smearing the pearl of fluid around his throbbing head experimentally. A groan escapes Mark before he can help it. 

He watches with rapt attention when Helena brings her finger to her mouth and sucks it between her lips, tasting him. Slick with spit, she brings her thumb back to his dick, wetting the head in broad swipes. He’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, his cock angry red and throbbing. 

Helena meets his eyes and gives a wicked smile, and drops her head towards his lap. 

When her lips close around him, the world fractures. It gives him vertigo, spinning wildly out of focus, before zeroing into a microscopic point, ceasing to exist aside from her hot mouth on his cock. It’s heaven, soft and sweet, how he knows she’d feel on the inside. She takes less than half his length, and it’s still the best thing he’s ever felt. 

“Jesus, Helena,” he hisses, cracked and broken. 

Hollowing her cheeks, she sucks hard, suctioning around him. Mark can’t help his hands from closing around the back of her head. Not pushing her, but cupping her adoringly, petting her hair back and stroking her cheeks. Her ponytail is silk between his fingers, held out of her face while she bobs and sucks. She’s searing heat, liquid and slick all around him. 

He has to grit his teeth when Helena takes him further, hitting the back of her throat. It makes her gag a bit, pulling off him with a wet pop. 

“Hey, careful, you don’t have to—”

Her mouth is back on him before he can finish. Wet, sloppy sounds fill the car— she has to work to make him fit and keep her lips tight around his length. Mark’s in agony, his eyes sliding closed and flicking back open again, desperate to see her auburn hair against the front of his trousers, struggling to keep his head from tipping back. Her brows are scrunched up and she’s making little noise around him, snuffles and moans, trying to take him deeper. 

Oh god. 

He’s not going to last. It’s beyond fucked, a woman half his age drooling around his cock in a parking lot, swallowing him down while he shakes above her. It’s so good he’s past caring, hurtling towards his finish more quickly than he has in years. 

“Helena, baby , Hel— I’m close, you have to stop if you don’t want me to…” 

She doesn’t let up, bobbing her head quicker, using a free hand to wrap around the part of his cock she can’t fit in her mouth. 

He won’t survive her. 

His stomach is tightening, coiling low and hot. If he was going to try to pull out, not cum down her throat, it’s too late. It takes a final bob of her head, with a deft swirl of her tongue around him to send him over the edge. He comes in her mouth with a groan, spilling hot and sticky across her tongue. Helena doesn’t flinch, swallowing around him as best she can manage, wringing him out for everything he’s worth. 

Mark jerks when it starts to border on painful, his cock aching and hyper sensitive now. She finally relents and pulls her mouth off him, looking up to meet his eyes. 

A slick mix of cum and spit strings between them, breaking and sliding down her chin. Her makeup’s gone runny under her eyes, and her ponytail is loose and tousled. But she looks so pleased with herself, beaming at him earnestly and wiping her swollen mouth with the pad of finger. A vision. 

Mark leans in to kiss her, cupping both hands around her face. There’s not quite enough air when he tries to catch his breath— he gives up trying when she kisses him back, slotting her lips between his and winding her fingers into his hair until he can taste himself on her tongue. 

“Come here,” he whispers. His voice is gritty and spent. He has to clear his throat. 

Mark pulls back to make space in his lap, tucking his softening dick back into his trousers. She giggles, shucking her coat, tossing it to crumple in the footwell. Helena, all nimble grace from 18 years of ballet, crawls atop him easily, spreading her thighs wide to straddle him. Her dark dress pools up around her hips, revealing creamy white skin underneath. She weighs next to nothing on top of him, but the warmth and sway of it all sinks down over him anyways. 

His refractory period is unbelievably short, when it comes to her. Her spit is still drying on his cock when he’s swelling in his pants again, just from having her warm thighs pressing into him. Helena grinds her hips down, trying to get friction between her legs, catching his cold belt buckle against her center and sighing. 

When she’s astride him like this, Mark’s eye level with her neck and collarbones. He loves this part of her— the straight set of her shoulder and defined muscles in her arms. He can see her throat work when she swallows, still rocking against him. With his mouth latched onto her pulse point, he lets one hand trace up her thigh, slipping under silk. 

Suddenly, her dress slips off her shoulders— Helena’s tugged the straps off to give his mouth better access. There’s no bra underneath, bare in front of him. In the cold air, her nipples are pulled taught, small, rosy points that begged to be touched. Mark drops his head to suck one into his mouth, and she arches forward to chase the heat. God , she’s so small here, he can almost fit her whole breast in his mouth. 

She whimpers when he circles his tongue around her nipple and sucks. When he lets his teeth graze the soft underside, it turns into a strangled yelp. Against her thigh, Mark’s hand moves higher still, disappearing between them under the warm tent of her dress. She’s wet through her panties already when he reaches her apex, soaking the thin fabric. 

Velvety, delicate skin waits for him when he pulls the gusset of her underwear aside. It sticks to her skin when he drags it down. With his mouth still on her nipple, Mark slides his fingers through her drenched sex, smearing the wetness from her entrance to circle her clit. Helena’s forehead drops down to his shoulder with a whimper. 

There’s little resistance when he eases in his blunt middle finger, sinking inside of her up to the palm of his hand. She inhales sharply, holding her breath until he starts to move. It’s released in a moan, muffled into his shirt collar. When she’s panting and whining in earnest, a second finger joins the first, stretching her open. She tries to lift her hips up and down in his lap, fucking herself on his fingers. His free hand steadies her waist, holding her still enough to let him find a rhythm inside of her. 

The angle’s wrong, but he manages to crook his thumb to circle her clit, tight patterns that make her pulse and stutter. She’s dripping all over his hand, leaving a stain on the front of his trousers. Carried away at the feel of her, Mark tries to slide a third finger inside of her entrance, wanting to feel more of her. She sucks in a breath, wincing. 

He pulls it back immediately.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I forget how fucking tight you are,” Mark pants, stilling his hand and brushing her hair back. “You okay?”

Helena lifts her face from his shoulder, nodding. Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks rosy. “Please, please don’t stop.”

Her voice is low and rasping, ragged. 

Anything she wants. 

He starts to move again, two fingers pumping, and pulls her into a kiss. Her body grips him all the way around, even pressure from his knuckle to his fingertips. The fine material of her dress is nothing compared to this, how soft and plush and silken her cunt is. He slides in and out of her, fingertips to his last knuckle on every pass. So fast, Helena’s starting to lose her rhythm, her lips weak and unfocused against his mouth. He feels everything in her draw up– her hands grip his shoulders so hard they’ll be bruises. And then she breaks, waves of pleasure clenching around his hand, cresting through her with a choked cry as she comes. Her eyes are shut tight, lips pressed together and chin quivering. Then the tension releases her, and she goes slack, her forehead falling heavy against his neck again. 

Mark stills his fingers, but doesn’t pull out of her, keeping them crooked inside while she flutters. He plants a kiss against her hair, stroking the back of her head instinctually. Helena’s breath is fast and damp against his neck. 

He lets her come down a bit before flexing his fingers barely. Helena gasps. So sensitive still. Mark starts slow, gentle, coaxing the build back into her with his fingers inside of her. She keeps her face buried in his collar. 

Whispered into her ear: “Can I make you come again? You can give me one more, sweetheart.” 

He’s being greedy, he knows. But his fingers just find more wetness, and she’s so sweet propped up in his lap, and he wants to see her fucking break. She’s all control, poised perfection in every other part of her life. Mark wants the messy, ugly bits of her, the parts of her that emerge when he lifts up the sun-warmed facade, exposing the writhing creatures underneath. She won’t give it over easy– he has to draw it out of her. 

Her answer is so quiet, he almost misses it. 

“Yes.”

He grins and kisses her bare shoulder. 

Helena begins to rock in time with his fingers, slowly easing back into the feeling of being filled up. He’s lighter on her clit, now, fine strokes that are enough to have her bucking in his lap. Mark kisses away the beads of sweat from the curve of her swan neck. She’s fully tipped forwards onto him, melting against his chest, drawing closer under her tits are crushed against the front of his button down. Her hands are grappling for purchase, clutching at the door handle, or the headrest, or his lapels, anything to steady her.

It takes barely anything to get her there again. She’s over-sensitive, cunt puffy and slippery under her skirt. Sounds fall against his skin; gasps, moans, a ragged cry when his fingers angle just right. The muscles in her legs and back are flexed hard, shaking in exertion from trying to lift and drop her hips. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Mark promises. “You’re so close.” 

She keens, pulling her head up to look at him. Her eyes are black wells, brimming over with feeling. She’s desperate, debauched and so on edge. “Mark– please I–” 

She can ask so nicely when she wants something. 

“I know. That’s it, baby.”

He gives her the final bit of pressure she needs, thumb raking over her swollen clit. It’s just enough– her whole body goes rigid, spine bowing forward. A shake builds from the core of her, forcing her lungs empty. And then she’s coming hard with a shuddering gasp. Her cunt cinches, a hot vice around his fingers. Her nails are dug into his skin. They anchor her down, feeding the agonizing bliss into Mark until it’s something shared. Mark wrings it out of her, milking the final waves with consistent pressure against her clit until she jerks her hips away, collapsing. 

She goes limp against the front of him, half-naked and trembling. Mark holds her in tight, opening up his jacket to tuck her under the fabric, closer into his warmth. She can’t speak, overwhelmed and spent against him, reacting only in little hums through her nose. 

They sit together, jammed up in the too-small space of his car, hearing the tandem pounding of their hearts. Mark thinks it might leak out of his ears, so much blood pulsing between them. Everything about her is alive, thrumming with youth and promise. And she still lets him hold her like this, holds on even tighter to him. 

He slips his fingers from her as gently as he can, but she still sighs at the loss. 

“You okay?” he asks. His hands trace warm patterns over the ridges and edges of her back. 

She grumbles something into his shoulder. Mark chuckles, skating his fingertips along her ribs. They stay until she shivers, cold seeping back in now that the heat has burnt out of them.  Mark helps her pull her dress back over her shoulders. With a grunt, he manages to snatch up her jacket with her still astride him, bundling her up in the thick fabric. Helena eventually climbs back into her seat on shaky legs– Mark has to yank one of her discarded heels from where it’s wedged between the seat gaps. She giggles when he pulls a slender ankle back into his lap and slips the shoe back on for her.  

“Is it gonna be a problem that I kept you out late?” he asks, gnawing worry flaring up when he remembers the reality of their situation. 

She sighs, sinking down into the seat and flipping open the sun visor to study her reflection in the tiny mirror. Her fingertips wipe away smudges of lipstick when she replies. 

“Mmm, no. We should be fine. It’s easier, when my father’s away.”

There’s something off in the way she says it. Helena doesn’t let him ponder it further. 

“Jesus, I can hear you worrying. They say stress ages you quicker than anything,” she goads, quirking a smile. “You should enjoy the few good years left in you, Mr. Scout.”

He snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“You’re going to get yourself into trouble.”

Her smile is cough syrup; sugary, slow, and intoxicating. 

“So I’ve heard.”

Chapter Text

Helena’s father arrives on a Sunday, punctuated by an obscenely sunny day. It’s the type of day that’s almost colder with the sun; thin, clear air that makes the snow crusts sparkle and sounds echo. It’s too frigid for anything to melt. Instead, the light brings it all into stark relief. Bare branches and dried grass, exposed and sharp. Helena would rather a blizzard. 

They stay together, when her father visits, in the ancient Victorian home on a far end of the grounds, reserved for the Eagan family. She trades privacy for private cars, practices not flinching when he enters a room. He’ll stay only six days this month. 

In some ways, Helena is like her father. Observant. Simmering. Inscrutable. Half his from the time she was born. Jame has had far more years of practice to hone his skill, though, cutting through her like a knife with his quiet authority. He watches her slice into breakfast each morning, a boiled egg bisected until it’s invisible. He watches her roll out a mat and set a timer, hamstrings and hips stretched open until it burns. He watches her wipe her sweat in classes, willing herself to stay upright at the barre when her shoulders beg to collapse in.  

Ah, not too much Helena. Don’t spoil yourself.

Sit up, Helena. It’s unbecoming to slouch. 

Look, Helena, wouldn’t this be nicer? You’ll wear this one instead. 

While her father is here, her bedroom is a child’s— floral wallpaper, iron-wrought bed frame, dolls propped up along the dresser. She sleeps in pointelle nightgowns and braids her hair down her back. The whole house is claustral, rotten to the foundation, dressed in colonial antiques and crown molding that keeps the cesspool from spilling over. 

Six days of this before she can breathe again. 

Helena refuses to look up when she passes Mark in the hallway, or sees him peering through the studio window. The thought of her father being near something so wholly Helena’s is horrifying. He’d taint it, like he does everything she cares for. Mark shakes her father’s hand, when he arrives, and it’s enough to make her stomach ache. Fingers that have been inside of her, wrapped into a firm handshake. She draws her burning eyes away before anyone notices her looking. 

But god, she still thinks of him. In her single bed, staring at the peeling ceiling, arms folded across her belly, he’s there. His soft eyes, his trembling hands, the names he calls her like she belongs to him. She’s never been good at wanting for herself. It's unbearable.

Helena has been desired often, for her name, or her body, or her talent. She’s not a stranger to being coveted. And a few times, she’s given in— letting men pull her open, press her down, prod into the soft places they can reach when the yoke of her father wanes thin with distance. But never because she wanted them in turn. Maybe because saying no wasn’t something she was allowed much. What she wants is secondary to how she should be; ego is to be trodden down and leeched out. Instead she’ll be smaller, softer. Easier. 

When a stranger has their hands on her waist or their fingers in her mouth it’s easier to exist, familiar to let them take and take and not think of herself. Maybe this time they’ll fill up the hungry, hollow places in her that gnaw and growl, begging to be fed. Maybe for a moment. She was born to be molded, endless years of endless hands gripping her flesh and arranging her as they please. Helena can’t recall the last time she was wholly her own; whittled down, carved out, chipping off from her skull as she lost her milk teeth. 

Until Mark. In a way that no one’s told her to, from a part of her that’s painfully raw and unguarded, she wants him. It’s disgusting, how her heart can beat outside her chest, red and bloody, demanding to be felt. She wishes she could shove it back inside, kept safe behind the fragile cage of her ribs. It’s unearned, what she wants from him. Closeness and softness that’s saved for real people, people who have been given love freely their whole lives. 

Not Helena. 

Six days go by. She bites her tongue and swallows her spit. She lets her blisters bleed and crack open. She sits under the shower until her back is stained red. 

It’s snowing again when her father leaves. 

xx

“I missed you,” Helena hums, sucking her lip into her mouth like she knows he can’t stand. 

Mark’s at his desk, underlining essays in red pen. She’d slipped in when the halls were empty, most students in rehearsals at this hour on a Saturday. The door is locked behind her. 

It’s more of a closet than a proper office. There’s a tiny window, high up on the far wall. Mark’s untidy desk, strew with coffee cups and threadbare textbooks. In the corner, a ficus withers in its pot, a pile of brown leaves atop the soil. Two people inside is enough to make it feel restricted. 

“You cut loose again?” he asks. 

Helena smirks, dropping her bag by the door and shifting to sit on the corner of his desk. He peers at her over the top of his reading glasses, eyeing her quizzically. 

“My father’s gone, if that’s what you mean.” Her voice is low and smooth. She says it again, in case he didn’t catch it. “I missed you.” 

It’s true . 

But she says it in a honey-slick voice, something she can play off as lust and temptation instead of an admission. 

Mark pulls off his glasses to take her in. She’s still in her clothes from barre– knit shorts rolled low on her hips, legs stretched out in front of her in baby pink tights. Her cardigan slips off her shoulder, and she makes no move to pull it back on. 

“Missed me, huh?” he murmurs. 

She nods, making her eyes round and pleading. It’s a little game– seeing how far she can push him until he gives in to her. Mark tries to be noble, virtuous at his core. But she knows how to goad him just right, draw out the nasty bits of him that beg to be sifted to the surface. Her father tells her she’s always been good at bringing out the worst in people. 

“You didn’t miss me too, Mr. Scout?” 

Tiny, invisible threads wound round both of them pull tighter. Something in their matter, drawing together intrinsically.

His eyes go dark, and she knows she’s won. 

Mark stands to face her, planting one hand next to her hip against the desk’s edge. Heat radiates off of him through his clothes, felt through her own thin layers. Up close like this, he smells faintly of alcohol, likely sweating out of him. Aftershave, and deodorant. Something hot and sharp. She hates that she loves it. 

“I did miss you,” he whispers. “I know I shouldn’t. But I did. Can’t help it” 

She smiles at that, tilting her chin up just so, until her face is inches from his. 

“Prove it.”

Mark shakes his head incredulously. But he’s still leaning in, shifting into her space. Warmer. Closer.

“You’re such a bad idea, Helena.” 

He doesn’t know just how right he is. 

In the miniscule place between them, they breathe each other in, so close they’re sharing the same air.

Helena’s never been patient. 

She kisses him hard, a forceful collision of tongue and teeth. He’s not expecting it, but her wet mouth on his draws it out of him in an instant. Mark meets her, sucking her tongue into his mouth and clutching her waist with his hand not propped up on the desk. Her jaw opens up, letting him swipe the inside of her mouth with his own tongue, pulling her open. Hands find his shirt front, fisting into the fabric, tugging so hard the buttons could come loose. Mark groans into her waiting mouth when she rakes her nails across his shoulders. 

Her legs part, granting Mark access to slot a thigh between them. Through the thinness of her shorts and tights, his trousers make contact with her center. It coils up tight in her belly, hot and frantic, a craving for more. She grinds into him, chasing away the aching pressure that’s building up between her legs. Her hips buck of their own accord, pressing forward into his. She needs it so badly. That dark, hungry place in her that longs to be sated. 

Helena’s hands turn greedy, clawing at his hair and clothes, pulling and clutching like a wild thing. Mark’s grip on her waist slides higher, dipping under her cardigan, skating up her side where she’s in only a leotard. Under his touch, she feels scorched. Permanently altered by his hands, charcoal dark imprints of every place he’s been. His hand finds her breast, thumbing her nipple through the fabric until it’s hard for him. Thumb and forefinger together, Mark pinches gently, rolling her between his fingers. A whine gets caught in her throat. It sends aching throbs between her legs, where she’s still trying to grind herself into Mark’s thigh. 

Mark pulls his mouth off her own, moving beneath her jaw and down her neck. Helena tugs him off with a hand in his hair. 

“We don’t have time,” she pants, turning so both her hands are pressed into the desk. Her ass hits his groin– Helena can feel the hard line of his erection through his pants already. “Have to be quick.”

Her shorts and tights are shoved down roughly over her hips, catching in a bundle around her ankles. She bends forward, arching her back to give him a view, just the thin fabric of her leotard separating them. Planting her weight into one arm, Helena reaches back, tugging aside cloth until she’s bared to him, bent over on his desk and pressing against his cock. 

It’s what she wanted when she first came to find him. Rough, fast. She needs him to split her open, fuck her into his desk until she can’t think so hard, until the ache between her legs drowns out the ache in her chest. She can’t stand how soft he is, how much he wants to make her feel good. Bent over his desk, she doesn’t have to look it in the face, the overwhelming feeling that threatens to well up, spill out of her without her consent. 

Helena almost wishes he’d hurt her. 

Above her, Mark seems punch-drunk, gaze fixed between her legs. He has both hands on her hips, thumbs slotting into the space where her waist gives way to the curve of her ass. Too gently, he reaches down to pull her apart. In the quiet of his office, her arousal sounds wet and sticky when her cunt opens up. 

“God, you’re going to ruin me,” he murmurs, hoarse and low. 

There’s a quiet clinking of his belt while he works it open, followed by an unzipping of his fly. Helena sucks in a breath when she feels the solid weight of him drag through her sex. It’s heavy and stiff against her, nudging her clit and sending a warm shock down to her toes. 

She can’t look back, refuses to see him line himself up. If she does, she knows what she’ll see. Mark’s eyes on her, full of awe and reverence, disbelief still. It’s already too much with his warm hands on her hips, or dipping between her legs to make sure she’s ready. Eyes squeezed shut, Helena braces herself, needing the burn, craving something mean, punishing. It’s what she deserves. 

The weight disappears from her center, his cock no longer dragging over her swollen skin. Mark’s hand at her spine eases up. She hears him take a step back. 

“What?” She gasps, turning to look over her shoulder. It comes out breathless. 

Mark looks angry, brows furrowed low and jaw clenching. No— not angry. Worried. 

“You okay?” 

Fuck. Something in her gave it away. Maybe she was too quick. Or, maybe it was all too obvious, cornering him in his office and spurring him into fucking her on top of his desk. Stupid. 

Mark runs a hand down her back, not to press her forward, but comforting. Slow, broad strokes. 

It’s not too late— Helena can still turn it around, convince him there’s nothing wrong. 

“I’m fine,” she emphasizes with another shift of her hips towards his. “C’mon, you’re taking too long.”

Scowl lines deepen in his face. 

“Helena...” His hand stills her, rubbing circles into her lower back. 

She purses her lips when her chin quivers. 

Without stopping his pattern against her skin, Mark stoops to tug up her clothes from around her ankles, sliding them up over her hips again. Her waist band is smoothed out with slow, deliberate fingers. 

A choking tightness crawls up her throat, along with a sudden pressure behind her sinuses. Fuck she’s not going to cry. She won’t. Teeth bite down hard into her cheek, trying to stop her eyes from welling up. Her vision goes blurry with unshed tears, clinging to her lashes like dew drops, just barely stopped from sliding down her cheeks. 

No. 

Helena tries to hide her face, staring at a dried ring of coffee on Mark’s desk instead. She focuses on its shape, imagining the tacky texture if she ran her finger over it. Anything to stop the onslaught. Tempers must be tamed . 

Mark’s hand finds her shoulder. He pulls, gentle, trying to turn her round to face him. 

“Helena,” he tries again, so softly. 

“Fuck off, Mark,” she spits. Her shoulder yanks out of his grip. 

“Woah, hey, okay,” he murmurs, pulling his hands off her. The loss of him makes her want to cry more. 

“Don’t pretend like you give a shit.” 

Hissed, tense words. They taste bitter in her mouth. Helena still won’t meet his eyes. 

“Helena, please, of course I care—”

She cuts him off before he can finish, before his words can do something even more irreparable to her stubborn, aching heart. A hot tear slides down her cheek. 

“Stop pretending. You were gonna do it anyways, fuck me over your desk. Is it too real, if I cry? Does it finally make you feel bad that I’m half your age and you’d do it anyways?”

Mark’s face goes white. His throat works, trying to swallow the words she’s flung like stones. They land how she wanted them to— stinging his skin, aimed for maximum damage. It’s compulsive, how she continues. 

“So fuck me or don’t. But don’t pretend like this is anything it’s not.”

Because then she will have to stop pretending. 

Mark’s quiet for a while. He doesn’t run his hands through his hair or pinch the bridge of his nose like she expects. He just studies her, face full of hurt and questioning, opening and closing his mouth like he can’t find the words. Her own chest is heaving, blood pulsing in her ears. 

“Helena, I’m worried about you,” he murmurs. 

It doesn’t match the venom in her tone. Instead, it’s earnest, quietly prying open the gaps in her armor. She’s too soft, there, under it all, too easily bruised. She can’t, can’t—

It’s too much. It crumples inside Helena like a house of cards, tumbling inward, precariously out of control. She can’t stop it when she starts to cry, hot tears rolling over her cheeks. Her breath hitches and comes in choked sobs, ugly sounds she should be embarrassed of. A fountainhead of salt, enough to crust her face and drip down her chin. 

Mark releases a breath and pulls her into him. It’s just a hug— his arms wrapped around her. It’s everything. 

Her hands cover her face, pressing into the warmth of Mark’s chest, blocking out anything that’s not his steady breath and thrum of his blood. He holds her so tightly, resting his chin on top of her head, cradling her body with his own. He’s murmuring into her hair, balmy, pacific words that she can’t make out. With the tears, it seeps out of her. Being trapped, for too many days. Terror, at how close she is to something real. Grievous, unending tenderness in Mark’s arms. She’ll die from it. 

He holds her until her sobs quiet. It feels like an eternity that could never be enough. Exhaustion settles over her, a thick blanket that smothers out the rest for the time being. He strokes her back, pets her hair. Together they rock, swaying on their feet. Two ships, weathering the same storm, letting the crashing waves and howling winds batter them. Him and her. Helena squeezes her eyes shut. 

xx

It took her white-knuckling the sides of his desk for him to notice. Mark wants to kick himself for taking so long, for being too wrapped up in the fire in her eyes and the curves of her hips. He was nearly inside of her— her whole body had gone taught, tensed like she was steeling herself. 

And then he really saw it. She was too pale, almost grey. There were smudges under her eyes like she hadn’t been sleeping. Her thinness was exaggerated, ribs visible through her back. Wilted under him, wan and colorless. 

It spilled out of her, angry and broken. Tear-streaked, he could only pull her into him, try to stave off the metallic panic that coated the room. 

Mark’s stomach had turned at her words. She was right, in a way. What gave him any right to worry over her, when he was twenty years her senior, running his hands over her body and laying claim. He should be ashamed of it, guilty for taking everything she gave him without a second thought. 

But he does care. Not in the shallow way she thinks he does. Not lust or blinding heat. It breaks him, feeling her fragile in his arms, sobbing into his chest until it soaks his skin. He’d dive in after her if he could. Plunge into icy depths, drown himself just to be there with her. 

Holding her is all he can do. It’s terrifying. A wounded bird, wings bent all wrong, struggling on the ground, flapping madly to stay aloft. 

Let me help you. He wants to say. I’m scared too. 

Mark doesn’t know how. 

xx

Mark pleaded with her to come for dinner. Nothing fancy, but a warm meal— she hadn’t answered him when he’d asked her when she’d eaten last. If she’s in his apartment, he at least knows she is not wasting away somewhere, holed up by herself. He prays under his breath that she actually shows up. Letting her slip out of his office by herself was agony, wishing he could hold her hand, walk with her to the studio and help dry her face. Instead, she’d scrubbed her sweater over her cheeks roughly and sipped down half her water bottle, gritting her teeth until she was presentable enough to get to class. 

A pot of minestrone simmers on his stove. It’s something he and Devon learned, growing up. An easy meal, thrown together with whatever’s left in the pantry. He hasn’t cooked much since Gemma, but it’s familiar to slip back into the routine. She’d always told him she could taste love in cooking, refusing to eat something that he’d made when they were short with each other. She’d wrinkle her nose up and shake her head. I’m not eating your resentment pasta. Mark tries to stir in care now, hoping Helena can recognize the flavor. 

She shows up after dark, two faint knocks on his door. She must’ve come straight from the studio, still bundled up in hundreds of layers. A paper shell. 

“Hi,” she whispers, shifting her weight uncomfortably. Her fingers fidget with the strap of her bag. 

Mark ushers her inside, taking her jacket and mittens, and pulling out a seat for her at the kitchen table. Helena sits stiffly, crossing her legs tight. Her expression is fixed and intent, but her eyes are glassy. Pellucid lake water, instead of the rich flecked gold he’s used too. 

“I’m really glad you came. I’m just finishing up, okay?” 

She nods vaguely. Mark swallows hard. 

He watches her out of the corner of his eye while he minds the stove, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman he remembers. Dread hangs heavy, lead weight over both of them. A lifetime ago, he was on his knees at that same table, tongue buried inside of her until she shook. It couldn’t feel further away from how she sits there now. 

Two steaming bowls are brought to the table, complete with a large chunk of sourdough each. Mark debates pouring them both a drink, but decides against it. Helena swirls her spoon mechanically, watching chunks of vegetables bob out of the broth like icebergs. 

“It’s not bad, I promise,” he smiles, trying to ease the tension. “It’s one of three recipes I can’t fuck up.”

She quirks a smile at that, just a faint twitch from the corner of her mouth. Blowing off steam, she brings a spoonful to her mouth and swallows. 

“It is good,” she concedes, taking another bite. “Thank you.”

They eat together, the quiet clink of spoons on porcelain filling the silence. She manages half her bowl before she slows down, leaning back into the seat and resting her hands in her lap. She folds up one leg on her chair, her foot against the seat’s edge. Her chin drops to the top of her knee, pushing up her bottom lip slightly. 

“Are you doing okay?” Mark asks, trying to keep his voice light. Helena nods, barely. 

“I’m sorry. For earlier,” she murmurs. 

Mark shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. If this… if this is not what you want, anymore, we’ll stop.” 

It feels cold on his teeth when it leaves his mouth. But if it’s what she wants, of course he’d let her go. He’d have to. 

Her eyes are wild when they meet his– vivid, certain. In a way they haven’t been all day. 

“That’s what scares me.” 

Mark doesn’t answer. He counts back from five, in his head, before trying to fill the silence. He reaches two when she speaks again. 

“I don’t want to stop.” 

“Me either,” he hums. “But I won’t do whatever that was today.” 

Helena flushes pink, dropping her eyes. Her head bobs once in acknowledgment. Another beat of silence goes by, but this time she doesn’t answer. 

“What happened?” he asks solemnly. Across the table, he sees her lips tremble, her nostrils flare. She’s biting back tears again. He wants to reach out for her.

“Hey, it’s ok. We don’t have to– you don’t have to talk about it. Just… we can, if you want to.” 

Helena takes a long inhale, letting it fill her, stomach to chest. Tightness leaves her shoulders in her exhale. She looks so much more human, suddenly. Real, and whole across from him, imperfect and beautiful. 

Let me see , he thinks. I want to see you. 

A smile ghosts across her face, not quite reaching her eyes yet. 

“Thank you.” 

Mark waves it away with his hand. There’s nothing she could thank him for. 

Together, they clear away dinner, settling into Mark’s living room while dishes dry on tea towels. Pink ribbons are strewn across the coffee table, pretty curls on water-ringed wood. Helena has her back to the couch between his shins, tucked up the floor. She’s sewing her pointe shoes, attaching elastic and ribbons she’s cut to size. Fine winds of string in and out of canvas. Methodical, quick stitches. It seems meditative.  

“You really have to sew those on every time?” Mark asks, thumbing along the back of her neck, rubbing delicate circles into her skin. 

“Every time,” she repeats without looking up from her lap. 

“You guys don’t have someone to do it for you?”

Helena scoffs. “Are you offering?”

“Mm— definitely not. Unless you want me to end up looking like Chucky.”

Helena furrows her brows. 

“Oh come on. Chucky? Infamous doll killer?”

Her face is blank. 

“Jesus, Helena, it’s a classic!” 

She shakes her head, laughing in an exhale. Mark groans, rubbing his hand over his eyes. 

“You do it to yourself,” Helena chuckles. He’ll let her call him old all she wants if it means she smiles again. 

They continue like that, Helena’s quiet litany of sewing, Mark tracing absentminded mosaics with his fingers. A jumble of dialogue plays on the TV– a rerun of Dr. Strangelove that’s already 45 minutes in. Neither really play attention. It’s bizarre how quickly they fall into comfort, like they’ve done it for years. Recognizing each other, meeting over and over, for the first time and the last. Like they’d been walking in the dark, until they’re caught in the other’s searching flashlight. 

When her eyes get heavy and her shoulders sag, they climb into Mark’s bed without either questioning it. Though he never got the old one back, Mark still offers her another sweatshirt. Under the duvet, tucked up to her nose, Helena draws in towards him. She slots into the negative spaces of his body, knees curled up against his ribs, head on his shoulder. They share one pillow. 

A pale hand reaches out from under the blanket, glowing in the darkness. Cool fingers on his cheek, brushing over the stubble on his jaw, running over the shape of his nose. Mark turns into it so they’re face to face. Shining eyes, breath ghosting over his neck. She moves so slowly, eroding the inches between them, re-carving the shape of the space. 

Her lips are soft when they press against his. Plush and inviting. She tastes like his toothpaste. Their kiss stays gentle, their mouths just barely open to fit themselves together. His hand curls around her hip bone, holding her against him. It’s not meant to build heat– just to share something beyond words. 

Mark lets her pull away first. He plants a kiss on her forehead when she tucks her chin back against his throat. She whispers into his skin. 

“Goodnight Mark.”

Chapter Text

Helena’s curled into Mark’s body when he wakes up. They’ve shifted in the night, both of them on their sides, her back nestled against his front. The boxers she’d stolen from his drawer are twisted and hiked up around her hips, bunched in the creases of her thighs— their legs are warm where his bare skin meets hers. 

Mark tightens the arm looped over her waist, nuzzling into the tangle of hair splayed across his pillow. She smells faintly floral, fading shampoo and hairspray that’s been brushed through. He thinks he recognizes it from his dreams last night. 

In his arms, Helena sleeps like the dead, barely stirring more than a twitch every so often. Her arms curl up under her chin, her nose creasing where it’s buried into the pillow. For the first time in days, her face is slack; sleep seems like a rare opportunity for the weight on her shoulders to ease. 

It makes him want to keep her here forever. A small safehaven of flannel sheets and tangled pajamas, hot skin and hushed breath. His, for a greedy, stolen moment. 

Mark sleeps better with her in his bed too, realizing it’s half past nine in the morning, when he’s usually up before six. 

He lets his fingertips skate over the valley of her waist, the gap between the bottom of her ribcage and her hipbone. Mapping over the shape of her, committing to memory each dip and jut; Committing to memory the feeling in the pit of his stomach when they’re together. Gentle, so as not to wake her, he continues like this, tracing over skin, hoping she’ll remember the afterimage of his touch. 

Whatever he’d told himself, whatever deluded, guilt-ridden story he tried to believe about wanting her– it crumbles when he has her, like this. There’s no world in which he doesn’t want to be near her. And not just near her, but with her. Parts of himself that were long shuttered, boarded up and abandoned… they’re beginning to bloom again. Thawing in his chest, unburying themselves from the snow, curling upwards towards her light. Equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. It feels like what he was made for. 

When Helena finally stirs, she turns her face deeper into the pillow and grumbles. The minutes have slid by meaninglessly, lost to watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. He presses a peck against her shoulder when she stretches, little groans sounding from her throat. It arches her into him, deepening the contact of their hips. He tries not to thrust his half-hard length against her in response. 

“Morning,” Mark whispers into her hair, giving her a gentle squeeze around her waist.  

Helena rubs the heel of her palm across her eyes. “Too early.”

“I think it’s almost ten,” he chuckles. 

She takes a slow, deep breath, exhaling out of her nose with another kitten stretch. 

“I can let you sleep.”

“Mmm… no… M’almost up.” Her voice is still rough, deeper than usual, eyes closed when she says it. Mark kisses her shoulder again through the thick fabric of the pullover she’s got on. 

“Want me to bring you a coffee?” 

“No– stay.” 

She emphasizes it by settling back in against his chest, closing the gap so they’re snug. Mark tightens his hold. When he tries to keep himself from pressing into her ass, Helena only pushes in closer. Firm muscle against his pelvis, curving into him perfectly. 

She starts to shift, achingly slow, barely moving. But he can tell– not just an innocent bump into him, but a deliberate tease, little circles and arches right into his groin. It doesn’t take much for his dick to start aching in his boxers, hardening fast with her movements. 

“Good morning,” she purrs. It’s still half-sleepy, her voice raspy. 

Mark laughs through his nose into her hair. “Yeah? It’s a good morning now?”

He can hear her smile when she hums in response. 

Where the covers have tangled at their waists, Mark watches where their hips meet– his boxers on him and her. Her spine flexes and bows, arching into him in offering. He nudges forward, giving her pressure against the curve of her ass, letting her feel where he’s thick and hard. Thighs squeezed together, Helena rocks in front of him, biting her lip between her teeth. 

Watching her squirm against him in a pair of his borrowed boxers makes heat coil up tight in his belly. Sleepy, sweet, head to toe in Mark’s own clothes. There’s a damp spot on his own briefs where his cock starts to leak from the tip. 

Long, smooth thighs part for Mark, granting him access. His leg presses up, notching between her thighs until it meets her cunt through fabric. Helena sighs. Against her creamy skin, Mark’s leg hair looks coarse and dark. Tension winds taught around both of them, shifting from a sleepy rock into something more desperate, more deliberate. Firm, heavy pressure, a build of heat. 

He watches her grind into his thigh– sliding, undulating her hips so her clit catches on each movement. Mark helps position her, pinning his hand at her waist to help press her down further, deepen the friction between them. They move in unison, guided by instinct. 

After a few minutes, Helena begins to pant, riding Mark’s leg as best she can from her side. From behind her shoulder, he can see her brows furrowed low in concentration. Hands fisting sheets, her lean muscles clenching around his quad, she drags her pussy across him. He feels when she starts to get more frantic. No longer just a sensual slide, but chasing an edge, a need for relief. The space between them is warm and dense, humid with their body heat and the start of sweat. At his thigh, her public bone presses in so hard he might bruise. 

“Mark— fuck, please—”

It leaves her in a whine, tight and pleading. 

Mark steadies her with a hand on her hip, helping guide each movement against him. 

“Can you come like this sweetheart?” 

A groan escapes, somewhere between bliss and agony. 

“I don’t, I don’t know, I need more, please— fuck—”

He can feel how frustrated she is, bordering on pleasure that’s not quite enough. With her back arched and hips stuttering, she whines again, a breathy sound from her throat. 

In the middle of his thigh, he can feel where she’s wet through fabric. Shorts from his closet, bunched up on her hips, soaked through with her. He flushes hot with urges to dig his fingers into her waist and keep her writhing in his bed. He’ll never be able to look at the damned things again without thinking of her pretty, drenched pussy. 

“Mark—”

Helena’s pleading drags him back to the present. 

“Okay baby. I’ve got you.”

One of his hands slips under the hem of her sweatshirt, finding the taught muscles in her stomach below. He slides up, catching briefly on the flare of her ribs, until he meets the soft swell of her breast. Kneading, he cups a handful, thumbing over her nipple and squeezing lightly. She makes a little gasp of approval, eyes fluttering closed. 

Simultaneously, he leans in to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses against her neck. He buries his face into her. That long, delicate curve of her shoulder he loves so much, arching to him in offering, swan-like. Tongue, lips, a graze of teeth— he’s careful not to leave any marks that could be visible. 

It doesn’t stop Mark from imagining, though. He’d like to leave a smattering along her throat, a mottled map of where he’s been. Purples and reds blooming under skin. They’d stand out when she wore her leotards, dark on a pale canvas, his signature etched in. He’d find each freckle and suck a bruise atop it. She’d be covered in them, love marks all over her neck and little tits, across her collarbones like fine jewelry. It’s torture that he can’t let himself. 

Instead, Mark settles on tugging her earlobe between his teeth, sucking and nibbling the tender skin there. Helena shudders, goosebumps cropping up, hardening her nipples with them. He lets his breath fall hot into her neck. She’s so sensitive here, every suck or nip drawing out a whimper. 

Under her top, he’s still alternating his hand between her breasts. Pinching gently and tugging the hard points of her nipples, then skating a flat palm over them. Palmfuls of softness, a rare bit of her that’s not angled and firm. She’s arching into his touch. Against her ear, his mouth works insistently, tongue flicking, sucking, teasing it out. 

Helena starts to buck out of rhythm against him. Breaths get caught between her teeth, pretty hitching sounds. He’s rewarded with a moan when he bites down at her pulse point and tweaks her nipple hard between his fingers. It might be just enough to get her there, the combined pressure between her legs, with his teeth on her ear and the tips of her breasts between his fingers. 

Frantic and wobbly, she starts to unravel. 

Mark continues steady, letting her lead the relentless rub of his thigh between hers, just pressing up into her to give her the leverage she needs. He can feel when she tightens up, her stomach catching and curling inwards. She holds her breath, so, so close. 

Finally, she comes with a warm sigh. It’s gentler, just tipped over the edge instead of careening. A teeming well, filling with water until it laps over the sides, spilling out of her. 

Helena still shudders in his arms, whimpering softly as she rocks through it, riding out the fading peak. Mark quiets his hands on her breast, cupping her warmly and giving her a careful squeeze. On the side of her throat, he kisses away the lingering teeth marks, soothing over them with pecks. 

She catches her breath, chest heaving against his own. A giggle bubbles up from her. It’s a light, fluttery, sound, one that makes his heart clench. Helena cranes her neck to face him, grinning lazily. 

Mark beams back. She’s so, so beautiful like this, with her hair askew, cheeks flushed, features slack. Unguarded, for a moment, opened up for him. 

Speaking only in laughs and smiles, Helena twists in his grasp, leaning in to meet him in a kiss—Mark meets her halfway, wrapping both arms around her shoulders and pulling her in. It’s slow and languid, relishing in the feel of each other’s mouths. Drunk on each other, they lap lazily, tongues sliding. Helena tips her head back, letting him suck her tongue into his mouth. She groans into him when his teeth tug her pink bottom lip. 

When her body starts to catch up, Helena deepens their kiss into something hot and wet, almost vicious. Their noses brush before being crushed into each other’s cheeks, both trying to get closer to the other, suddenly no longer content with the remaining space between them. Mouths open up, gasping, swallowing, a chase of slick heat. She’s getting vocal, moaning into the place they’re connected. Mark holds her steady under the jaw. His thumbs find the hollow of her cheekbone, swiping across the familiar ridge. Tangling into his hair, Helena tugs at the nape of his neck until he shivers. 

When they finally run out of air, they break in a gasp. Foreheads pressed, still so close his nose nudges hers. Reluctantly, Helena pulls back enough to sit up, trying to work herself free of the sweatshirt she’s got on. Mark helps her tug it from her arms above her head. It’s discarded in a crumple off the side of the mattress. 

In the slats of mid-morning light, dusky with the blinds closed, she’s something ethereal. 

Seven years of university and two degrees isn’t enough to supply the words for what she is; beautiful feels paltry. She belongs in a fresco, all pinks and creams and ochres. Years of hard work are carved into the planes of her stomach and lines of her arms. Willowy, strong. Small, high breasts, with rosy nipples. He’s been thinking of her tits in his mouth for weeks. 

It’s not the first time he’s gotten to see her like this, but it’s different from having her clothes bunched up at her waist or tugged off her shoulders, or curled up underneath a pile of blankets. Having her back in his bed, stretched out across the sheets, her wetness still drying on his thigh. It’ll be worse now– the first time she stayed over, he’d buried his face into the pillow she slept in almost nightly. Worked a fist around his length until hot cum spilled over his knuckles at the fading smell of her. 

His cock throbs. Mark exhales, long and low, steadying himself, taking her in. 

Helena’s not shy, at least not in her nakedness, smirking up at him. She arches forward, finding his mouth again, coaxing him into cupping his hand back against her chest. It’s an insistent kiss, demanding more. Moans swallowed up by eager throats, hungry for each other. They move feverishly. 

Her hands fist into his tee-shirt, trying to wrench it over his head without breaking their kiss. Mark chuckles when he pulls it off, tossing it to join her own discarded pile. She shifts herself beneath him, tucking below the warm hollow his body leaves her, pulling him by the shoulders until their chests meet. 

Mark smiles down at her, smoothing her hair back from her forehead where she sweats. 

“You’re so impatient.” 

Helena exhales out her nose. Pushes out her bottom lip; Mark runs his thumb over it. 

“You know what that does to me,” he hums, shaking his head. Helena tries not to show it, but the corner of her mouth twitches up. 

He grips the base of his cock through fabric, hoping to stave off the feeling. His throat swallows around nothing. 

The look in her eyes—

More than a coquettish tease, or playful smirk. Her gaze has turned full and heavy, weighted between them. Trust. 

He kisses her, slowly this time. Holds her face in his hands, curls his fingers into her hair. Tries to tell her what he’d like to in the way he cradles her. 

Underneath him, her hips start to lift toward his. When Helena reaches down and starts to pull off her shorts, Mark stills her with a hand on her wrist. 

“Let me,” he whispers. Lips parted, she nods. 

They slide off of her languidly, Mark’s thumbs dragging across every bit of skin emerging below. Devout, like there’s nothing in the world that exists aside from her hips revealing themselves under his touch, peeling fabric down until he can see her properly. The boxers stick against her center where she’s soaked through them. A thatch of cherry red curls when her thighs fall open. 

He sucks in a breath and it tastes like her. 

Sliding a hand from below her knee, his palm skates up towards where she wants him. Warm. Shaking. Carefully, two fingers dip into slick heat, a testing slide against her center. They come away shiny, wet up to his knuckle from the first touch. 

A groan– both of them at once. 

He’d like to wait, wants to run his hands along the velvet feel of her inner thighs and kiss the gentle rise below her belly button until she’s incoherent, writhing below him. It’s over when she asks, so sweetly: 

“Fuck me– please .”

There’s not enough blood left in his brain anymore. Instead, his cock is leaking, a pull behind his navel searing and tight. She’s draped across his bed naked, legs parted wide, asking him so nicely to fuck her. And earnest, this time– she’s loose-limbed and smiling, without the dark, corrosive glimpse he’d seen the day before. 

He forces himself to pause. 

“You sure?” 

Helena nods. Wide and and pupils blown, she looks at him, sucking on her bottom lip. Repeats it, in a whine this time. 

“Please.” 

Fuck if he can ever refuse her. 

He shoves down his boxers without fuss, his cock falling heavy against her thigh. Helena’s eyes are fixed between her legs, where his precum is smearing into her skin. Her hips are still bucking up towards his, chasing touch between them. 

Gripping the base of his length, Mark nudges forward, until his flushed head bumps her clit. She’s enraptured, unable to tear her eyes away, her legs spasming open and closed against him. He drags himself up and down, spreading the wetness, entrance to apex, reveling in the unbelievable feel of her. Selfishly, he lets the weight of his cock slap heavy against her clit a few times, sticky with the sound of her arousal.  

When he lines himself up, they both hold their breath. 

Slowly, so slowly it hurts, he dips forward, feeling her entrance stretch to take him. She’s so fucking tight he has to grit his teeth at the feel, clenching until his molars ache. Helena’s mouth falls open when his tip fits inside of her. 

For a minute he just stays, trying to adjust to the burning intensity of her, letting her do the same. He cups the nape of her neck, thumbs along her cheekbone again. Her brows are furrowed, jaw dropped open, dragging in air like it’s not enough. It takes every bit of his strength to keep his hips still, stop the mindless want to drive home into her. He presses a chaste kiss to her temple where her hair is starting to curl with sweat. 

She moves first, arching up just barely towards him to take him deeper, gasping when he sinks in more. Mark hisses at the feeling. Her cunt is so hot, sucking him in where she’s dripping, so tight it’s torture. 

His hips start to move, almost of their own accord. Helena plants her heels to gain leverage, opening up until he can push forward to the hilt, fully enveloped in plush, unimaginable warmth. Nearly too much for him, all silken soft inside of her, gripping every bit he offers. 

“ Jesus, Helena .”

She clenches at that, even tighter than he thought possible. He drops his head to suck into the tender skin below her jaw, drawing himself back to make room to plunge forward again, having to work to fit inside of her. Her hands are all over, nails digging into his shoulder or raking across his chest, trying to find purchase. Mark catches a leg in one arm, hitching her knee high between them.  

Supple in his hands, she bends easy, her leg threading over his shoulder. Her mouth lolls open– every thrust is met with a thick oh . Next to her hip, Mark finds those slender fingers of hers, lacing their hands together until they’re palm to palm, pressing them into the pillow above her head. She clutches him back hard. 

His forehead dips to meet hers, her leg still stretched up between them– flexible, folding up easily towards her face when he presses closer. Against his back, he can feel her heel bumping his scapula. Mark’s jaw works on every thrust, steeling himself, trying to hold out another minute, another second if it means existing inside of her. Her tits bounce in time with his hips. 

“I am so fucking sorry,” Mark groans, breaking a hand free to cup her cheek, “If I ever called you a problem.” 

Helena whimpers when her clit makes contact with his pelvis. Her eyes are dark and wide when they meet his. 

“You, Helena, are a privilege.” 

A low, broken sound spills out of her, half-trapped between swollen lips. 

Each stroke makes their skin stick. Tacky from the both of them, Helena’s dripping onto his thighs. The bedroom echoes with it, a chorus of wet, thick sounds and both their heavy breathes. She’s starting to tense again, clamping down on his cock inside of her. Mark feels it in turn, every pulse of her slick heat bringing him dangerously close. 

It hits him when he’s buried inside of her, folding her in two. 

“ Fuck , should I— I’ll pull out,” he grits. It hurts to say. 

Helena shakes her head frantically, jaw still slack. There’s a blush staining her cheeks, blooming down across the front of her chest. The tops of her breasts glow pink. 

“No, don’t, don’t have to—” she gasps. Her leg hooks him tighter in emphasis. 

He should ask if she’s sure, ask any single follow up question to be certain. 

A blurry vision of pastel leotards and a rounded belly flits through his mind— her balancing at the barre with a sweet bump above a chiffon skirt, her center of gravity pitched forward. She’d be so pretty with his baby in—

He bites down on his cheek to stop himself from cumming. 

Jesus Christ she’s 20. 

It should sober him, convince him not to cum pressed up against her cervix. But she starts to whine. Pretty words, begging him inside , please, Mark, don’t leave, inside, need it—

“Ok—okay sweetheart,” he manages. It comes out strangled and hoarse. “You always get what you want, don’t you?”

He has seconds, maybe a minute more left in him. Desperately Mark presses his pointer finger against the corner of her swollen lips. She opens up for him eagerly, closing around his finger and sucking without question. He can feel her teeth scrape his knuckle when she moans around him. 

Shiny with her spit, he pulls it from her mouth, threading his hand between their bodies to rub the pad of a thick finger over her clit. She’s so wet already— he slips on puffy skin, fingertips nudging lower to where they’re connected. 

Helena’s shaking hand finds his own between her legs, frantic and searching. Guiding her wrist, he lets her feel it— the place where his cock disappears inside of her again and again. Her little fingers fumble, parting around his shaft, brushing blindly, a tactile study. She just wants to feel him inside of her, know where their bodies blur and merge and melt into each other. 

It’s a tight fit with both their hands between Helena’s thighs. Messy, irreverent touches. Their free hands are still interlaced above her head. Mark thinks her palm lines might leave a mark on his own. She’s so close, velvet walls start to tense around him on every drag in and out. Tight, quick circles on her clit, the best he can manage with so many fingers between them. 

Helena’s breath starts to catch. He can recognize it in the way she quiets before she comes, only able to suck in air, held so tightly on the precipice. Her face is scrunched up, brows arched high on her face, bottom lip worried between teeth. A beautiful wreck, slick and flushed and desperate. 

It’s not gentle this time when it hits her. Helena comes and it knocks the air from her lungs, surging forward, a feral noise breaking loose. Fierce, decisive and final. Mark’s vision goes when her cunt cinches him. There’s nothing aside from auburn hair and freckled skin, burning him inside out, her smell, her feel– 

He finds his own finish flush with her pelvis, so deep inside of her he can feel her knees draw up. Their open mouths find each other's, reddened lips brushing, sharing sound and breath. Helena’s shaking around him, every muscle flexed hard, until it finally releases her and she collapses under him, leg slipping from his shoulder and sinking into the sheets. 

Neither of them can move yet, aside from panting against tender throats and running clumsy hands over skin. He’s still hard inside of her, barely softening even after coming so hard he’s dizzy. 

He expects her eyes to be closed when he looks up to meet her. 

Instead, she’s studying him. Raking over his face, he can almost feel the weight of her gaze. She’s staring at his lips, his nose, his forehead, even the place between their bodies where he’s still inside of her. Drinking the moment in, incredulous. It almost makes him nervous, how attentive she is. Her fingers catch in his smile lines when she traces his face. Eyes like sea glass, flecked irises of greens and golds and colors he doesn’t have the words for.

He wraps her in tight, pressing a kiss to her brow. 

Otherwise, he’ll say something that’s too much too soon. 

When his cock finally slips out of her, Mark brings Helena’s hand back against her entrance. He’s gentle on her where she’s red and swollen. Guiding her hand, he lets her feel where his cum starts to leak out of her, dripping onto both their fingertips until she’s sticky with it. He crooks one of her fingers just barely inside, making her push his cum back up into herself. 

She gasps into his mouth. 

They stay tangled up in his bed until it’s nearly noon. He makes her cum again on his fingers, then on his mouth, unable to resist the flutter of her lashes and her soft sighs. They finally extricate themselves when his sheets are thoroughly wrecked and her legs tremor even without Mark’s hands on her. 

Under a weak shower spray, she lets him comb suds from her hair with his fingers, though not without heavy complaints of his disgusting affliction for 3-in-1 wash. She quiets when he kisses her again, both their faces soaked and tasting of minerals and soap. 

Later at his kitchen table, he hands her a steaming cup of coffee before making his own. Helena takes a grateful sip– he sees when it registers. 

“Coconut milk?” she asks. Surprise on her face in a goofy, toothy grin. 

He’d bought a quart of it without thinking the day after she’d stayed over the first time. 

xx

Something inside of Helena feels lighter, after they’re together. It carries with her into the week, an ember in her chest that she cups and fans.  

Not lighter because of emptiness. That felt different– an aching wound, a gaping maw. 

This lightness felt something like freedom. 

Helena watches the blood rush back into her toes when she pulls them free of her pointe shoes. The release of pressure is so good it hurts, sensation flooding back into the places she’s gone numb. She flexes and points, curling her toes under herself to stretch out the cramp in her arch. Next to her is a small pile of carnage– sweaty tape and cyan squares of 2nd Skin, bunched up lambs wool and flattened toe pads. Little casualties of a three hour rehearsal. 

Though none of them say it outright, ballet is supposed to hurt. Helena likes the reminders– discomfort means she’s doing something right. If her hip pinches the next day it means her développés were higher. If her lats are sore, it means her shoulders were pressed away from her ears. Discipline and rigor are something she craves. Whether that was created in her or something innate, she didn’t know. 

It’s another way to push herself, test her body, see how far she can bend before someone notices the strain. Here it’s encouraged, through. Applauded. She can always be better, be thinner, more graceful. They expect it . She knows it will never be enough. A fruitless pursuit of perfection, breaking themselves to get one inch closer. 

A lifetime of this. 

Until now–  there’s an absence. Not a loss, but a shedding, loosening her grip on something that burns her fingers and bites her hand. 

Not everything. 

But a piece. 

The immensity of her desire for Mark still scares her, still makes her stomach ache. She might taint it, bleed into the one thing that’s starting to become hers and leave a nasty stain. 

Since Helena was little, she’s known the words. Spoonfed at first, until their roots crawled deep and cracked her foundation. 

Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on.

Mark would grimace at the ugly sound of them, shake his head and work his jaw. Maybe he’d tell her they’re not true. 

He lets her be selfish. He lets her be vulnerable. He lets her be a bit more her own.  

It takes every bit of her willpower not to stamp it out. 

xx 

During the weeks, they can only catch each other in fleeting moments. 

Mark will sit up straighter when he watches rehearsals, no longer sipping vodka out of a water bottle to pass the time. She’ll find him peering through the window during barre, smiling when she marks the tendu combination with her hands, tapping and gesturing in eights. 

She sneaks into his office when the halls empty out, mussing up his hair in a kiss. He groans when she leaves lip gloss on his collar. 

Mark brings her little things that he says make him think of her. A passage from a book he’s reading, hand-scrawled on a post it note. A bar of chocolate that’s too expensive. A plucked stem of grape hyacinth, the first sprouts starting to emerge from the melting snow. Small treasures more priceless than any of the finery in her jewelry box. 

Once, during partnering class, she’d watched him go red in the face and flex his fists outside the studio. It’s silly, jealousy over a respectful hand on her waist or a clinical grip of her thigh. She has to bite back a grin at the heated possession that floods his expression. That weekend, he’d begged for her to say it, over and over while he fucked her: Yours, yours, yours. Helena would’ve promised it without him asking. 

Another night, she lets him catch her smoking a cigarette, where she knows his path home will intercept her. She rolls her eyes and blows smoke into his face, calls him Mr. Scout just to make him blush. Endures a lecture on heart health before tugging him into a breathless kiss in a shadowy corner. 

Afterwards, she sneaks him up to her boarding hall, giggling like a pair of teenagers– she’s just a few years off; Mark has no excuse. He fucks her propped up on his lap in her single bed, bedsprings groaning, the slap of their hips echoing off linoleum. Mark has to slide two fingers inside her mouth to keep her quiet, hushing her to little murmurs until she’s drooling down her chin. He swats her ass when she jokes about needing another smoke. 

It’s the happiest she’s ever been, existing in a blur of time, a whispered secret between the two of them. Giddy from each other, stolen glances and hidden love marks, furtive weekends spent in bed, limbs draped across each other. 

She knows that the longer they’re together, the worse it’ll sting. Quietly, she tries to prepare herself for the inevitable fallout, tries to fortify the walls of her heart with the indifference she was raised on. Mark doesn’t see it, not yet. But Helena knows. In the noxious atmosphere that surrounds her life, something this precious won’t survive. A splinter in tender flesh— she feels it in every step. 

Chapter Text

“Am I embarrassing you,” Helena smirks, tucking closer into Mark’s side as they walk. 

Mark has driven them four towns over for dinner on a Wednesday night, far enough that Helena won’t be spotted immediately out of context. 

Three months of sneaking around has made them both a bit complacent, worrying less the longer they get away with it. It’s easier to ignore hypothetical consequences when there’s breathless afternoons to be spent in bed, or handprints to be left on the fogged-up windows of his Volvo. It still makes Mark nervous, though, strolling hand and hand with a woman half his age, who’s laughably out of his league.  

Mark’s cheeks go pink. He smiles sheepishly, exposing his crooked canines; Helena loves how they feel pressed into her inner thighs. 

“Oh yeah, absolutely mortified to be caught with a beautiful woman hanging off my arm,” he laughs dryly. “I’m more worried they’ll think I’m holding you at gunpoint for a date.”

Helena lips twitch, the little closed-lip smile she does when she’s pleased, but doesn’t want to show it. 

“I guess I’ll have to put on a convincing act,” she purrs, reaching up to wind a stray lock of Mark’s hair around her finger. Her nails scratch gently at the nape of his neck. It makes his cock twitch in response. 

“Jesus, you’re insatiable,” he laughs. “Coming twice before dinner still not enough for my nympho girlfriend?”

Girlfriend. The word slips out before Mark realizes what he’s saying. His stomach flips over in a nervous jolt.

“Fuck, sorry– I know we haven’t really talked about what this is–” 

Helena cuts him off before he can finish. “So you’ll spend two hours fucking me in the parking lot, but calling me your girlfriend is too much?” Her head’s cocked to the side, one brow raised.

Mark gives her a wry smile, shaking his head slightly. “So… if I were to call you my nympho girlfriend, you’d be okay with that?” 

She smacks him in the shoulder hard enough to sting. “You’re an idiot.” But she’s smirking, eyes lit up. “Yes. And no. And don’t pretend like you’re not getting off on it.”

Helena jumps when Mark squeezes her ass through her dress. He’s treated to a laugh, light and breathless. 

“I’m gonna start screaming for help if you can’t keep your hands to yourself,” she huffs, failing to bite back another smile.

“Oh yeah? Touching privileges revoked, huh?” Mark grins. “Guess we’ll have to scrap the weekend plans I made.”

Helena leans up to kiss him, nipping his bottom lip and pressing nails into his bicep until they’re both laughing. 

It feels like they spend countless evenings like this one. Tender spring has finally clawed out of winter, winding forward clocks and bursting buds on tree limbs. The two of them have stolen little moments of sunshine together, escaping for weekend walks and remote picnics, hole-in-the-wall diners on the fringes of towns. Three months of a shared secret that makes them giddy. 

Helena has a talent for making Mark feel fifteen years younger when they’re together. She’s playful, humorous when he least expects it. Jaded as he is, Mark can’t stop his heart from kicking up when she stops dead in their tracks on a walk to point out a cat in a window. He loves the way she brushes her teeth. He loves the way she patiently captures a spider and hurries it out to the stoop. He loves watching her lose a dozen bobby pins into her bun. 

Mark thinks he might love her . 

Half-guiltily, he thinks Gemma might’ve loved her too, had they met. 

It’s too much to put onto Helena so soon, he knows. She has her whole life unfolding before her, dozens of gilded paths that don’t involve a washed up school teacher in a frostbitten corner of the country.  

So Mark cooks her dinners. Works his thumbs into the knots in her calves. Kisses her neck until she’s ticklish. Loves her in little, quiet ways instead of the big ones. 

Helena still tries to hide herself some days, drawing back into the darkness like it hurts to leave. She doesn’t speak of her father, but shrivels in his presence. They steer clear of conversations about her plans— Mark asks and she deflects, quick to crawl onto his lap or nibble under his jaw instead. 

It works for now. Him, falling in love with her. Her, learning what it is to be loved. Gentle, and quiet. The type of love that blossoms in springtime, when the end of a school year makes one both precious and reckless with their affection. Hazy, unmolded futures, the only certain being moving towards something new. 

When they’re not together, Helena’s doing ballet. Mark’s learned better than to question her when she’s spending late hours in the studio, drilling variations until she’s exhausted. She rarely lets him join– when she does, he watches in quiet awe. 

Helena dances, and the world holds its breath. It’s like watching sunlight catch on a cresting wave, or finding a stone that matches the color of a lover’s iris. Beyond words, or music. Stories unfold in the curve of her elbows and the release of her neck. Her body becomes a notebook, thoughts and memory recorded in every movement until the page is filled to the margins. It’s Mark’s favorite book he’s ever read. 

It’s one of the rare nights he’s begrudgingly invited to join her while she practices. The building is empty aside from the two of them, the light in the studio kept dim. It’s one of the smaller rooms upstairs. Arched windows high up on the walls expose the inky darkness of night through the glass. The space feels almost underwater like this, the only light in and endless sea of blackness beyond. 

Mark is absentmindedly thumbing through a stack of essays, giving up when he loses track for the third time that evening— he’s distracted by the rhythmic tapping of pointe shoes on marley. 

Helena has her headphones on, giving herself a barre warmup at 10pm. Inconspicuous pieces of Mark’s wardrobe have found their way into her outfits, tying shirts three sizes too big around her waist. He teases that she wears clothing in every possible way aside from their intended use, always rolling up pant legs and cutting off necklines, butchering his closet. 

Tonight she’s in one of his sweatshirts, bunched up below a down vest. She’s skipped tights, opting instead for a pair of tiny, fluttery shorts with striped leg warmers pulled up to her thighs. Her ribbons are knotted neatly around her ankles, tucked in flush against her skin. 

Ballet fashion still escapes Mark.  

He pretends not to watch her for the next thirty minutes, peering at her over the frame of his reading glasses. 

Helena’s intense tonight. Teeming with a buzzing energy, eyes fixed forward. Every movement’s meant to punish, push her body until it gives out. 

When she loses her balance again in her arabesque, he can almost hear her teeth grind together. Mark starts to recognize her tells, the barely there flare of her nostrils or flex of her neck when she’s frustrated. Her hand clutches her opposite bicep— Mark knows she’s digging in her nails. 

His chair groans when he stands, approaching Helena at the bar along the front mirror. 

“It’s late,” he murmurs, pulling off an ear of her headphones. He ghosts his fingers over the angry crescents in her bicep that her fingernails left behind, nudging her hand away from the spot. 

Helena doesn’t like when he asks about the marks— bruises and scratches that last too long, raw and open days more than they should be. Like she digs her fingers in, presses down on the tender flesh so they last longer. It’s fewer now than when he first met her, at least. 

Mark’s chin drops to Helena’s shoulder from behind. His arms wind a lazy circle around her waist 

Helena hums through her nose. 

“It’s not enough.”

“I think you’re more than enough,” Mark whispers. He kisses the clammy side of her neck where perspiration beads. 

“I’m not— I don’t have it yet,” she continues. Her words are clipped and terse. 

“Helena, give yourself a bit of rest. You’ve been staying late every night this week.”

She shakes her head. “And I still can’t get anything right.”

Mark squeezes her delicate wrists and leaves another kiss below her ear. 

“I’m told perfect’s impossible, but I think you’re pretty damn close.”

Helena sucks her lower lip into her mouth before exhaling heavily. Mark feels her settle in against him, releasing a bit of tension. 

Her words come out less firm this time. “I need to be better.” 

“Listen to me,” he says, hushing her. “You’re incredible, Hel.”

She meets his eyes through the mirror. Brows furrowed, Helena looks like she doesn’t believe him, but can’t help but hope. It breaks his heart a bit every time. 

He kisses her on the cheek, pulling her in tighter to his front. 

“Incredible.” His lips find her ear. 

“Talented.” A kiss to the side of her neck. 

“Gorgeous.” Her shoulder this time. 

Helena shudders and arches, the curve of her ass bumping against Mark’s groin. 

“Mark—” her voice comes out lower, caught between telling him off and drawing him closer. 

“Can I show you?” he murmurs against her ear. 

Helena’s breath hitches. She twists blindly to face him, pupils blown wide. And nods. 

A finger presses under Helena’s chin, tilting her face up an inch. Her eyes flutter shut when she leans in, mouth parted in offering. 

He doesn’t kiss her yet; Mark starts at her jaw bone instead. His lips trace the line of freckles towards her ear, skin flushed and ruddy under his mouth. Trailing along her face like this, he can feel the fullness in her cheeks, the subtle reminder of how young she still is, where she hasn't quite lost all the baby fat. 

“Mark–” Helena whispers again, her voice sticking around the catch in her throat. 

Their lips meet, and Mark thinks he could kiss her forever. Always so soft, so warm when they join. He’s addicted to her, the feel of her tongue tracing the inside of his mouth, the uncontrolled sounds that spill from the back of her throat. Helena’s hand fist into his shirt like they always do; a desperate yielding and a fervent grasp. Mark’s hands always find her cheekbones, palms big enough to span into her silky hair. 

Helena grows impatient first. Her jaw drops, her kisses turn needy. She sucks Mark’s bottom lip into her mouth, letting her teeth catch. Mark finds the nape of her neck to close the gap. It turns slick and messy, neither willing to break away first. 

Mark only parts when his lungs start to burn. Both their lips are shiny and swollen, breathing heavy into each other's mouths. He draws back just far enough to nudge below Helena’s jaw, finding the sweet skin underneath. They’ve agreed not to leave marks here– instead, she’ll ask him to suck bruises on the soft underside of her breasts, or the delicate skin inside her hip bone. He’s certain there’s yellowing marks dotted across her tits now. 

Open-mouthed, Mark leaves a stripe of hot kisses down the side of Helena’s long neck. Her fingers fist into his hair, tugging from the roots until he can feel his cock jump. 

Together, their hands work to pull off layers of her clothing, unzipping her vest and shedding a sweatshirt. Helena’s left in a thin camisole that reveals the taught points of her nipples. 

Mark charts a path down her body, aimed towards the aching heat between her thighs. Helena had told him one night he was the first to kiss her there– he now makes a point to fuck her with his tongue any time she’ll let him. 

It echoes in the empty studio when Mark’s knees hit the floor. He half expects Helena to quip about the creak in his joints– he’ll likely be sore for days. When he looks up, he realizes how far gone she is; eyes dark, lips wet and parted, chest heaving. 

Fuck she needs this. 

Mark hones in on the gap of skin where her tank rides up above her shorts, burying his face into her softness. Helena’s breath turns into a whine when his tongue traces below her belly-button, leaving a wet trail of spit under her waistband. Her hips start stuttering towards his face, trying to drag him closer to where she needs him. 

Mark grins up at her from his knees. “I’ll get there, honey.” 

“Mark– please.” It’s a breathy, pitchy request.

He only smiles back, both hands settling on her hips to steady her when her knees wobble.

She tries to slide her shorts over her ass, but Mark stills her, pinning both her wrists at the small of her back with a firm hand. 

“I think you need to stop thinking so hard,” he says. “And let me take care of you.” 

Helena bites back a response, furrowing her brows and chewing on her bottom lip instead. Mark can almost feel how tightly she’s wound, practically vibrating with it. 

“Is that okay, Helena?”

She looks like she considers for a moment, close to desperate above him, squirming and pressing her thighs together. Trying so hard to be patient, be good. 

“Fuck, okay– yes, please,” she breathes. 

He smiles again, squeezing her wrists in emphasis before releasing her. 

“You’re so fucking sweet for me, so good.” 

Mark’s head drops until he’s between her thighs, shuffling her feet apart with a knee. Through the cotton of her shorts, his mouth presses against her pubic bone, and Helena jumps. He loves how sensitive she is, still frantic under the lightest touch, always wet before he even gets her panties off. 

He kisses lower, until he’s flush with her burning center, radiating heat even from below fabric. The sound she makes is something between a yelp and a gasp. Lower, still, until his nose presses into her clit, and he can almost taste her through cotton. 

By the time he finally gets her bottoms pooled around her ankles, Helena’s a mess. Sticky down her thighs, skin shiny with her wetness. Between her legs, Mark can tell she’s flushed pink. He runs his tongue up her inner thigh and hums at the taste of her. 

“God, you’re so pretty like this, all wet for me.” 

Helena moans, trying to stifle the sound with the meat of her palm. Mark helps her kick off her shorts to ease a leg up over his shoulder. Her heel digs in next to his spine, trying to draw him into her cunt. Glistening in her arousal, begging to be touched. 

Mark finally kisses her swollen clit, and worries Helena’s legs might give out. She whimpers when he licks up the seam of her, spreading her slick from where it’s pooling at her entrance. He can't help himself from dipping his tongue inside of her, where the taste of her is most concentrated. She’s so tight, he can feel her grip him all the way around. 

His nose gets crushed against her clit while Mark fucks her with his tongue, plunging in and out in a wet slide. Helena’s hands tangle back in his hair, pressing her pelvis against his face. Her spine bows, frantic and desperate.  

He gives in to the vice grip on his hair, letting her pull him up towards her clit. When his tongue circles the hard bud, she cries out. Trading gentle kisses for firm patterns, Mark laves over her. He hums and suckles, the vibrations making Helena’s thighs come down around his head. 

He can feel her cunt clench around nothing. Mark knows she can still come like this, just her clit sucked between his lips, without even a finger inside of her.  Alternating between her weeping entrance and her apex, he buries his face deeper into her. Mark’s fingers dig into the firm muscle of her ass to pull her even tighter when her hips buck out of rhythm.

It makes him hungry, how much he affects her. That she lets herself be spread open by him, makes wanton, aching sounds when he touches her. That she’ll beg for it. The disbelief is always there, between the two of them. Mark can feel his cock against stomach, throbbing from the first taste of her. 

Helena’s so wet, his chin’s soaked in it, seconds from dripping onto the studio floor with the slick mess they’ve made. Mark has to use both hands to keep her legs apart, his mouth on her clit making thick, wet sounds in the empty space. 

Above him, Helena’s head is tipped back, her mouth open. Ragged, broken sounds fall from her before she can quiet them, half-formed whines of his name and other things beyond language. Her brows pinch in tight like it hurts, how badly she needs this. Fuck , he aches for her too. Wants to let her flame consume him just as much.  

Mark’s tongue turns precise. He draws punishing circles on her clit, designed to force her over the edge she’s been riding. Nose crushed against her pelvis, face drenched in her, Mark is unrelenting. In the next hard spiral of his tongue against her, Helena’s body draws tight.

Impossibly tense. A held breath. A silent prayer. 

And then Helena breaks. 

A shaking, brutal climax, one that punches the air from her lungs, makes her muscles spasm. Mark’s ears ring with the force in which her thighs clamp down on his head, the leg hitched over his shoulder bruising into his spine. He can still hear the sound she makes, though. Almost wounded, a raw noise that’s not fully human. Mark keeps lapping at her cunt until she pulls away, overwrought with sensation and trembling all over. 

When she finally goes slack, Mark helps her find her footing, adjusting her limbs for her on his knees. The ballet barre behind her digs in below her ribs, propping up her spent body. Mark doesn’t let his hands leave her as he rises. His grip nearly spans her entire waist when he helps hold her up, bringing her in towards his face to kiss across her cheeks. 

“That’s it, easy,” Mark hums against her temple. “I’ve got you.” 

Helena’s head drops to his shoulder. Finds the curve where his collar gives way to skin, and nestles in, inhaling deeply. One of Mark’s hands rises to cup the back of her head. Her breath takes its time to even again, gasping finally turning to quiet shudders. 

Her chin lifts, and her eyes are full. Wide open and trusting, laced with a darker want that dilates her pupils. 

“I need you,” Helena whispers. It’s lush, and low. “I need you inside of me.” 

Her hands wind into the front of his shirt, afraid to part even an inch. 

“Yeah sweetheart?” Mark asks. 

“Please,” she nods. 

He cups her cheeks, kissing her slow and sweet. His tongue finds her lazily, and she moans into his waiting mouth. 

“Turn around for me.” 

Helena’s still trying to catch up, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Mark helps spin her so her back curves into his front, her bare ass snug with the line of his erection. Gently, he presses her forward until she’s bent at the hip. Helena’s hands fumble for purchase before closing around the wooden barre, holding herself up on shaking arms. 

Mark has moved them so they’re facing the mirror– it reflects back their debauched scene. He’s caged over Helena, one hand settling at her waist, the other steadying her back. She looks so small like this, bent over in front of his broad frame. Half-undressed from the waist down, she pushes back, grinding against Mark’s cock through his pants. Both their bodies pull together instinctively, seeking out the other’s, yearning for more contact. 

He makes quick work of his trousers and briefs, letting them hang around his knees. Mark’s cock hits his stomach when it’s freed. Thick and throbbing, fluid already pearling at the tip. Helena watches from over her shoulder, her eyes dark and heavy. Shaking, Mark spreads her open, thumbs catching on her soaked folds when he parts them. 

“ Fuck ,” he groans, eyes fixed on her cunt. 

Slapping heavy against her skin, Mark grips his cock from the base. He wets his tip through her center, sliding up and down until Helena whines and pushes back. 

“Impatient little thing,” Mark hums, though he’s already lining himself up, unwilling to exist outside of her for a second longer. 

The swollen head of his cock pushes into Helena’s entrance, and Mark thinks he could die like this. Helena groans, her head dropping heavy to her chest, her shoulder blades flaring into wings. Mark might’ve made a sound too, his head spinning out of control at the feel of her, zeroing in on the space between her legs and the way her body lets him in. 

“You feel–” Mark grunts when she sinks back another inch onto his length. “Fucking unbelievable.” 

Helena takes him like she was made for this. Still such a snug fit, no matter how many times they’ve done this. Mark’s learned she likes the stretch, pleasure just on the side of too much. She has to hold tight to the barre, knuckles white from the effort of trying to keep up when he starts to stroke into her fully. The air gets forced from her lungs every time their hips meet. 

“Helena, honey,” Mark chokes. “Look for me.” 

He wants her to see it, the two of them moving together, every thrust reflected in front of them. How perfect she is, how well she takes him, the beautiful mess he’s turned her into. 

Helena‘s mouth falls open, though her eyes stayed squeezed shut. “I don’t– I don’t know–” she stutters between inhales. 

“Come on baby, I’m here. Need you to see it.” 

When her eyes finally meet his through the mirror, she cries out. Her blush crawls up her cheeks into her hairline, her bangs strewn across her forehead. Loose tendrils of hair have slipped free from her bun, slicked down with sweat. Every plunge of Mark inside of her makes her little tits bounce beneath her shirt. 

It feels almost indecent for the two of them to watch their undoing. Sacred and sinful, bearing witness to the way they ruin each other so wholly. Every movement inside of her mirrored back and visualized, hiding nothing. 

“Look at you, Helena,” Mark coaxes. She nods her head shakily, jaw slack and open. “Look how pretty you look taking it, how fucking perfect you are.” 

Helena moans, fighting to keep her eyes on his. She’s almost past words, barely able to hold on through each press of his cock inside of her, reaching so deep behind her belly button it throbs. 

“Everything about you, baby.” 

He’s fucking her hard enough to rattle the mirror. Their hips slap on every pass, sticking where she’s soaked them both. Mark feels her pussy trying to swallow him whole, pulling him deeper into burning velvet heat. Helena loves it like this, when he fucks her enough for it to ache days later. Needs it, the physical reminders of his devotion, proof of them together.  

“You see it, don’t you sweetheart? Why I’m falling–” Mark stops himself, so fucking close to telling her something he can’t, the image of the two of them making his heart split open in ways it shouldn’t. “- why I adore you.” 

Helena’s too far gone to notice, thank god . Unravelling below him, a tremor builds from her stomach, shaking out down her willowy limbs. Mark closes a hand over hers where she’s still clutching the wooden railing, winding their fingers together. 

“Say it, Hel. Tell me how perfect you are for me,” Mark groans. 

“I’m yours, p-promise,” she tries, every word pitched and breathy. 

“Tell me how perfect you are.” 

“ Fuck – perfect for you, Mark– p-please,” Helena whines. 

Moments from coming inside of her, Mark grins, curving over to leave a messy kiss against her neck in reward. 

One of Helena’s hands scrambles free, breaking their grip to guide Mark to cup her exposed throat. He’s careful when he closes a hand around her neck, not hard enough to restrict air. Instead, it’s possessive, holding her firm and steady below her jaw. Trust, in the bruising, aching way Helena needs it. Her spine makes a dramatic arc, lifting her body until her head falls back on his collarbone. 

“My good girl,” Mark hisses between thrusts, running his thumb over her carotid. 

They’re both seconds away from a hard finish. Together, they stare transfixed in the mirror; mouths hanging open, brows furrowed low, fingers dug into flesh. Filthy, reverent sex, bodies taking over when they’re past coherence. Him, and her, belonging more to each other than themselves, pouring into the hollow spaces between them. 

Their climax hits them together. Helena clamps down in a vice around Mark’s cock, and he spills buried in her to the hilt. Voices ragged, Helena’s wail drowns Mark’s desperate groan. A wave of bliss, agonizing, real, and raw. Time stretches out, both endless and far too quick, pushed onwards only by the rhythmic pulse of Helena’s cunt around him and the deafening thrum of his heart. 

Neither can move at first. They stay, panting into each other's skin, shaking in each other’s arms. 

When Mark can finally feel his extremities again, he slips free of Helena. A hot drip of cum follows down her thighs, painting a slick line over her skin. They both hiss at the loss. Body bowing forward, knees still wobbling, she struggles to stay upright. Mark tugs her down to the floor with him, resting his back against the mirror. He adjusts Helena to sprawl in his lap, her back to his chest, a tangle of half-clothed limbs between them. He holds fast, rubbing circles into the creamy skin of her belly, her thighs. 

When his lips brush her cheek, Mark tastes salt. 

It had terrified Mark the first time it had happened. He’d sprang up, running his hands over her, checking desperately to see where she hurt, what made her eyes well up. Helena had only shook her head, smiling weakly when Mark thumbed away tears. Though she still didn’t have the words to tell him everything, she’d sworn up and down that she was okay, that nothing was wrong. 

Helena needs him close, though, when she comes hard enough to cry. Curls into his chest and makes herself smaller, rubs her cheek over his stubble like a kitten. Mark’s so careful when she’s like this, cradling her like a precious, tender thing. He combs through her hair and cups her head against him, cleans up gently between her sticky thighs. Helps put back the pieces that have knocked loose, spilling out of her the only way she knows how. 

Mark still asks her though, each time:

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Helena nods against his chest, her voice weak and sniffly. “Yeah, promise.” 

He traces a finger over her forehead, brushing sweat-soaked bangs from her skin. “That was okay?”

She hums and nods, her eyelids heavy. 

Mark has to coax it out of her everytime– the knowledge of what she likes, what she doesn’t. What she wants, instead of what she thinks he wants. Learning bits of Helena feels like finding a vein of precious stone. He’s desperate to follow it to the source, find the cracks and fissures it’s filled inside of her. Mark wants to know how they formed, what pressures, what temperatures, how long they took to define the shape of her. 

Brushing her tears away from her quivering chin feels like knowing a piece of her, at least. 

They stay like that, tucked into each other’s warmth, long after both their hearts and breaths have slowed. It’s silence that’s comfortable, now familiar. 

Mark breaks the stillness with a low murmur. “You know I mean all of it, don’t you?” 

Helena lifts her head enough to meet his gaze. Those round, hazel does eyes, beneath a fan of wet lashes. 

“I care about you Helena. So much.” 

Her bottom lip trembles. Helena opens like she’ll answer, then closes her jaw again. He can see the muscles twitch under her skin. Finally, she dips her chin, just once. 

Acceptance. 

Terrified and disbelieving. But acceptance. 

Mark feels it too, the weight of unspoken words that hang between them. He pulls her back into his chest, crushing her into an embrace.

When they finally right themselves, their fingers keep finding each other. Her palm against his chest when he stoops to tug her shorts up, or his thumb on her ankle while she unlaces her ribbons. A quiet compromise not to let the other go quite yet. 

Mark tempts her into coming over with the promise of a warm bath and cold leftovers. Helena turns breathless and giggly when he pulls her up over a shoulder, spinning her until she shrieks to be let down. 

Hand in hand, they’re making for the exit when it all comes to a halting stop. 

Helena’s pulled her phone from her pocket for the first time that evening, thumbing through notifications with vague disinterest. Her arm's looped through Mark’s when she gasps. 

Her cell falls from her hand, the clatter reverberating on the hollow studio floor. Helena jerks free of him, hands shaking, face drained of color.

Mark freezes, body inclined to her in case she might falter. “Jesus, what’s wrong? What happened Hel?” 

Helena’s expression flits rapidly. Shock, into terror, before she tries to compose herself, wrestling against her pounding heart to keep her face still. Mark watches her pinch her outer thigh– a sharp bite of pain to distract from the suffocating panic. 

Her voice still quakes when she speaks. 

“My father’s just arrived.” 

Chapter Text

From the churning pool of panicked thoughts, Helena’s first coherent one is that she should’ve painted her nails. 

Father would be disappointed, seeing the places she’s chewed away the pale pink polish polish. He likes her neat, presentable. She should be wearing a proper skirt too, something light and girlish like he likes, not shorts and a tee shirt and—

Mark says something she can’t hear. She thinks he says it twice before it registers. 

“Hey– Helena, hey.” Mark says. He’s facing her, one hand on her bicep. “It’ll be okay, I’ll walk you back to your room and get you cleaned up —”

The sound of the front door opening a story below makes them both freeze. Mark quickly pulls Helena behind himself, as if his body in front of hers can soften the blow. Her heart’s racing, fast enough that it makes her nauseous. She pinches her thigh again through her clothing, desperate to tamp down the panic flooding her system. It doesn’t work. 

Neither move for a beat, their chests heaving. Waiting. 

“I’ll go first,” Mark murmurs under his breath. “It’ll be okay, I’ll talk to whoever it is and then you can—”

“No, I should. Just wait a few minutes after we leave, okay?” She hopes he can’t hear her voice tremble. 

“Helena, let me, alright?”

She shakes her head furiously, holding out a hand to still him. “Mark, it’s fine. If they see you here, it’ll only be worse. I’ll call you when I can, okay?”

His brows are furrowed low, eyes filled with concern. “I can go with you.”

She shakes her head again, already moving past him to start down stairs. Helena looks back only when she knows she’s holding firmly enough to the railing that her hands won’t visibly shake. “Don’t worry, okay? It’ll be fine.”

She doesn’t wait for his answer before turning back down the stairs. Her footsteps echo off the cavernous ceilings, a solemn beat towards the inevitable. Helena exhales, shrugging her shoulders and forcibly making her body look at ease— a small smile, loose hands, even breaths. Something she’s practiced since she was small, when clenched fists or sour expressions meant consequences. 

Just inside the front doors, there’s a hulking outline; Mr. Drummond waits like he’s always been expecting her, hands clasped primly at his navel. 

“Miss Eagan,” he nods, in that deep, smooth voice.  

A lifetime ago, he was someone Helena trusted. His father’s man since she was small, he’d always been kind, in quiet, steady ways. A secret smile, or a subtle agreement. Looking out for Helena when no one else would. There were whispers that he might be more than just a member of the Eagan’s inner circle— One of Jame’s, as much as Helena was. She’d never known for certain. She wasn’t sure whether he himself knew.

Father had quickly ensured she’d have no more allies in their household— she hadn’t been privy to the details, but she’d imagined they’d involved a formal notice, a veiled threat to his well-being, extensive monitoring— the Eagan way. Now, Helena wouldn’t chance a second look at him during a meeting, let alone confessed doubt. Drummond being here was only a confirmation of what she already knew— Helena’s world was about to contract around her like a vice. 

“Miss Eagan, your presence is requested.” 

She forces her mouth to curve upwards in the corners. “I wasn’t expecting Father this week.” She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “I’ve been rehearsing. Let me clean up and get dressed properly, and I’ll have the car take—”

He cuts in before she can finish. “You’re to go straight to the Receiving Room, Miss Eagan.” 

“Really, I think it’s best if I can—”

“It’s quite unnecessary for Mr. Scout to wait in the stairwell. He is free to leave,” he says. 

Fuck . 

There’s a moment where no one moves. Helena’s pulse hammers in her ears, so hot her skin must be pink. 

Then tentative footsteps from the staircase. Mark rounds the corner, looking flushed  and determined. She wants to tell him it’s alright, that she was on borrowed time already. 

Drummond doesn’t react more than the dip of his chin in acknowledgment. 

“You are dismissed, Mr. Scout.”

Mark’s brows furrow. “Right, thanks, but I’m not going.” He moves to stand near her, not close enough to touch, but enough to keep her in arms reach. “If there’s— I mean, if this is something about Helena and I, then I’ll talk to you. Leave her out of this.”

“Only Helena is required. As I’ve said, you’re free to leave, Mr. Scout. Should any further discussion be needed, a representative will reach out.” Drummond says, his tone inviting no further questions. 

Mark scoffs.“Yeah, no, sorry. Can you let Jame know I’d like to speak with him?”

Drummond doesn’t budge. “That won’t be possible. I will escort Miss Eagan.”

Helena stills Mark before he tries to be valiant again, knowing there’s nothing to be done but bear the consequences. It’ll be better if he’s not there– the least she can do is spare him from her father’s poison. She musters all her strength when she speaks, praying her voice comes out even. 

“It’s fine. I’ll go,” Helena says. 

She holds Mark’s eyes for a second long enough to see the worry. Looks away before he can see hers too. 

“We’ll leave. I’ll speak with Father.”

Drummond nods. He crosses to the front door, holding it open for Helena. Mark’s mouth opens and closes, failing to make the shape of words, still staring between the two of them.  

Helena forces herself to turn away, pretend like there isn’t a fist tightening around her throat. Outside, the car is still running, billowing hot smoke into the evening. She climbs into the backseat and keeps her eyes trained out the windshield, tucking her hands under her thighs to keep from digging her nails in.

She can’t look back, won’t watch the fear eat him alive, where she could find it wide and reflective in his eyes. It’s unearned care, something someone like Helena shouldn’t get. She’s ashamed of how desperate it makes her, how much she’s softened herself and let it get familiar. Mark offers so much tenderness, she can gorge herself on it, lapping it from his palms and trying to find it behind his teeth. An endless presence. Gentle and generous enough to ruin her. She’s had enough now that the loss will burn. She knew it all and wanted it anyway. 

The car sets out towards the Eagan home. 

xxx

It’s Natalie who greets her in the foyer, beaming and brilliant despite the obscene hour of night. The sight of her makes Helena’s stomach lurch. Natalie’s presence means Lumon’s presence— the Board’s presence. 

“Helena, we’re so pleased you could join us.” Natalie smiles. Then she presses her lips together and dips her chin, like she’s about to watch her open a heartfelt gift and can’t contain her elation. “We have quite exciting news, though I understand you may be overwhelmed.”

Helena can feel the haphazard wall start to brace inside of her. It’s too weak, won’t last under a well-aimed blow. She’d like to bolt, dart free from this rotting home and never let Natalie finish her sentence. It feels like being on the precipice of something huge and terrible. 

 “Your Father will be moving onwards, soon. His revolving is imminent,” Natalie says, grinning again. 

Her jaw drops an inch before she can clamp it shut. Behind her ribs, her heartbeat seems to pause, cleaving time into two parts– before this moment and after. 

Natalie continues. “He’d like a word, before he returns to the estate. You’ll wish him well, on his passing.”

She gestures towards the Receiving Room, a modified study where Helena’s waited for Jame a hundred times. She forces her legs to lift, to move forward, numb and slow. Natalie squeezes her shoulder when she passes, dropping her voice to a whisper. 

“I’m so happy for you, Helena. This is a momentous occasion!”

Helena sits stiffly, picking a bloody bit of hangnail in her lap. This room makes her feel eight years old again, sick with anticipation. It's barely furnished, containing only a cream wool rug and collection of stained glass lamps. There used to be two chairs across from one another— Father’s large armchair is missing. It had sat with its back to the fireplace, a vaguely Edwardian velvet seat, commanding and designed for his ease. Now, there’s only the spindly, wooden chair that creaks with age– Helena’s seat. It looks even starker without its counterpart, cold with no give. She’s grateful for the way it makes her back ache, a mindless distraction.   

The walls are covered in a half a dozen painted Degas— one or two may even be originals, but Father would never be so garish as to disclose forthrightly. Graceful ballerinas in tulle and chiffon, heads bent demurely and arms crossed behind their backs. Helena had loved them when she was young, her pastel companions. Now, the sordid truth of the paintings made her skin crawl. Children on display, always under the thick gaze of the men on the fringes of the canvas. Lingering looks, hungry fingers, the patrons always within arms reach of their petits rats . Sometimes she thinks it’s the worst fate in the world, to be born a little girl. 

She swallows again around nothing, throat still wet with acidic panic. The door to the study finally clicks open; Helena has to fight to prevent her head from turning on instinct towards the sound. Instead, she studies the indents in the plush rug where her chair digs in. 

“My Helly.” He speaks in that strange, reedy voice she hears in dreams. Her childhood pet name, one that always belonged to Jame. 

Wheels creak behind her. A thin pale hand, mottled with age spots, smooths across her cheek as her father nears. He’s in a wheelchair, pushed forward by a pair of Lumon caretakers in pale green scrubs. There’s a waft of something powdery and antiseptic, under laced with something almost feculent. The smell of a body failing, sustained with a heavy mix of miracle drugs. 

“Father,” she nods.

He’s pivoted to face her, settled in by attendants that are quickly waved off to wait in shadowy corners. Jame sighs, slow and deliberate, like they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do, when they’re together– years and minutes and moments all fold in on each other until Helena’s 20 and 14 and 6 all at once. He laces together his fingers in his lap. Helena notices how frail he looks, then. Skin stretched taught over bones, missing the bulk of muscle and fat that should be there.  

“Tangled up again, little mouse?”

She doesn’t answer. There’s a danger to both options— staying silent or trying to respond. Helena wonders which mood he’ll be in tonight. 

“Man’s character is so often unbalanced by so much frolic. Hedonism. Indolence. It will make you sick, Helena,” he murmurs. 

She wets her lips to speak, but he holds up a hand. “I have not come here to discuss Mark Scout, though it breaks my heart to think of the ways you’ve let another one soil you. I find cold comfort knowing this tryst will be your last.” 

Helena bites her cheek before she can tell him she was soiled from the moment she was born half his– the rest pales in comparison. 

Jame continues. “I’ve given you so much, my child. Perhaps too much. Weaned on Kier’s teachings and still such a stubborn thing. Always difficult to break properly. Though, I suppose that’s his spirit in you still.” His voice is tight, releasing in a wheeze. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to terrify her.

“Father, I’m sorry–” 

“My revolving will be here soon, they tell me,” he says, brushing past her words. Up close, his eyes are milky. Unfocused, like he already has one foot out of this world. It washes over her, how real it is; how little time he must have left. “I have no choice but to move onward trusting that you’ll let Kier guide your hand. You’ll sit with me, of course, when the time comes.”

There’s words missing between them. 

I’m dying. 

That’s what he’s saying, really. 

He’s dying, and she’ll still be his. A crushing, immovable weight she’s known forever. She still hates him, hates him and his hands and his mouth and his eyes that match hers. And there’s terror too, that belongs to a little girl who already misses the world that has her father in it. 

“So I must hope that you won’t disappoint me. Let not my temporary cessation from the body pull you from the path; you’ve already strayed so far, little lamb.”

“I’m still alive for you,” Helena chokes. Because it’s true. It’s all she has to show for herself after everything, that she’s stubborn enough not to die before he does. Not that she loves him, or that she’ll miss him. The simple fact that her life still belongs to him, even in death. 

He lets the silence stretch between them. Then takes a shuddering breath. She can hear it rattle, wet and humid in his lungs. 

Jame smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You were never easy to love.”

He lifts his fingertips just barely, signaling the end of their conversation. Hi caretakers rush in, sets of hands instantly fussing around him to unlock the wheels of his chair.

“And I shall whisper to you dutiful through the ages. In your noblest thoughts and epiphanies shall be my voice. You are my mouth, and through ye, I will whisper on when I am 10 centuries demised,” her father wheezes, reaching to rest a cold hand on her knee when his chair’s close enough. She has to fight the urge to twist out of his grip. 

Then he’s leaving, wheeled across the pristine carpet towards the door. Helena watches him go, caught in place like a frightened animal, her rabbit’s heart fluttering and fragile. Before crossing the study threshold, Jame turns, and says the worst thing he could. 

“My daughter is so like me.”

Her father dies that Sunday. 

xxx

She doesn’t return for two weeks. There’s gift baskets and peace lilies and polite condolences to receive, hands to shake and smiles to force. Someone curls her hair for the memorial, pinches her cheeks to try to flood color back into her face. Helena sits still. She lets people dress her, a paper doll, pinned and prodded into the shape of a grieving daughter. Affected by loss, but well enough to keep Lumon stocks from tanking. She is to be mourning, but not broken. Eager, but not hungry. 

Helena doesn’t cry. She sleeps in her single bed and wears the nightgowns he’d liked because she doesn’t know what else to do. And waits, for someone to tell her what’s next. 

Dreams come. 

Some nights it’s her father. All bruised knees and pits in her stomach, disappointment deep enough to ache. There’s moments before it changes though, when she’s sitting on his lap marveling at a blinking chip, giggling at the pretty lights. 

Yours one day Helly. 

The softness doesn’t last though, before she’s back in his study, or locked in her closet, tongue tired and knuckles bloody from saying the words over until she gets them right. 

The guilt is so thick she wakes up sweating. 

One, or maybe two nights, Mark visits her instead. That makes her sick too, dreaming of him in such a tainted place. She’s afraid if she remembers his voice too well, or his kisses, it’ll all end up infected. Festering in the rotten corners of her mind, tenderness so sweet it won’t survive. 

She wakes up guilty after those too. 

There’s a small army of people keeping Lumon running in his absence. Helena is mostly an afterthought, offered sliced eggs and stacks of briefings, sitting quietly in meetings that ring hollow. People keep telling her she’ll understand when it’s time . She’s still not sure what or when– just knows she’ll be forced to wait politely and wear whichever mask they craft for her. Decisions are to be made by people wiser and more powerful than her; all Helena has ever had to offer is a name she was born into. 

Drummond tells her returning to the academy won’t be necessary; her items will be packaged and shipped appropriately. Helena’s stomach twists at the thought of Lumon combing through her bedroom, discovering the small treasures and keepsakes tucked into her drawers. Scraps of paper with his handwriting: Reminded me of you , or, Forgot what you said re Balanchine– something about hands? A creased photo strip from when they crammed into a passport photo booth, or her collection of his sweatshirts. The rest she hardly cares for. The leotards and pointe shoes were always destined to grow dusty in a forgotten box. 

They finally allow her a single night to return. She’s dropped off late in the evening, when the sky’s already shifting into a cool twilight, two empty suitcases in hand to gather her belongings. Helena abandons her residence hall and heads straight across campus, still knowing his schedule well enough to know when he’ll be home.  

Her stomach aches while she waits on his stoop. 

The door swings inward, and Mark’s eyes flare wide– he doesn’t hesitate to pull her across the threshold into his arms. He buries his face into the loose sheet of hair at her shoulder, inhaling long and deep, muscle memory. Helena doesn’t squeeze back at first. Doesn’t let herself.  

“Jesus,” he mutters into her hair, still holding on. “I’ve been so fucking worried about you.”

Mark pulls back to take her in properly, dark eyes raking across her face. “God, I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry— how are you? Have you been alright?”

The urge to cry lodges in the back of her throat, making her eyes prickle. 

Fuck she wasn’t supposed to make this harder. She tries to swallow around the growing catch and blink away the wetness. 

“I’m… I’m okay.”

Mark unconvinced, running his hands down her arms, squeezing her wrists and studying her. 

“Sorry– fuck, come in. Do you need something? Tea, maybe, or something to eat? I can make that sandwich you like, or anything that sounds good.”

Helena shakes her head, letting him settle her in at his kitchen table, drawing up her knees to her chin. “I’m alright. Not hungry, really.” 

He frowns. “Tea, at least?”

Helena nods, mostly so he’ll have something to do aside from worry over her. She studies an opaque water ring on the table top, tracing her finger around the shape of it. Remembers months ago when she first kissed him here. Clumsy heat, mouth stained with red wine. When all she wanted was someone to notice her. She’s always muddying things up. 

Mark returns with two steaming mugs of peppermint tea, sitting in the chair next to her before taking her hand in his. 

“I saw on the news– they didn’t say much. I know he’s been sick, but I didn’t think it would be so soon, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling,” Mark says, stroking his thumb across her knuckles, shaking his head. “Losing your father, Helena… I’m so sorry.” 

Helena blinks, still staring at the stained bit of wood between them. “I didn’t like my father.” 

His hand stills on hers.

A humorless laugh bubbles up. “Hated him, actually.”

Mark waits, all patience and concern. 

“I don’t think I miss him. He wasn’t–” Helena chokes, getting stuck on an ugly truth that feels impossible to say out loud.  “It’s complicated, I guess. I know I sound awful.” 

Mark’s face falls, crumbling into an expression so sincere it cracks her chest open. 

“You’re not awful, Helena. I’m sorry I assumed.” 

She shakes her head, smiling sadly. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. It’s a relief, mostly. I just… I think I might miss the idea of him, more than who he really was.” 

She doesn’t say that it’s her fault, really. That she was supposed to grow out of it by now, that her father had never promised to love her forever. 

Mark nods, resuming his meditative stroke across her knuckles. 

“The hope?” He asks gently. Peeling back the curtains, seeing the messy bits of her behind the gauzy drapery. 

“Maybe, yeah. He never loved me, not really… And I guess now that he’s gone, that’s it. He died not loving me.” She says, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to cry.” 

Mark shakes his head, lips parted. “You deserved better.” He says. He tugs her palm to his mouth to kiss. “Grief isn’t always neat.” 

Helena can only bob her chin, squeezing the hand that holds hers. Her exhale is slow and shaky, fluttering the loose hair around her face. The next part, the part where she tells him what it all means, bites insistently in her chest. Helena puts it off one more minute, letting herself indulge a final time in the feel of her hand in his. 

If she looks at him, she won’t be able to finish what she came here to do. 

“I have to leave, Mark,” she says finally. 

He takes a deep breath and nods. “I remember all the paperwork from Gemma. Someone dies and there’s still fucking beauracracy to take care of. Do you have someone helping? I can do my best but I'm sure your dad had someone in mind.” 

“No– I’m not going to be able to come back.”

His brows stitch together. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, this is it. I’m supposed to inherit everything,” she says, chewing her lip. “I’m an Eagan, Mark. I’m taking over the company.”

It almost sounds cliche said out loud, without the sharp focus of years of grief and guilt and bruises. Almost funny, if the responsibility wasn’t heavy enough to fracture her bones. 

He frowns again, laughing through his nose. “Helena, you’re twenty.”

She shrugs weakly. “It doesn’t matter– This has always been it for me.”

“So they’re just pulling you out halfway through the year? What about rehearsals?” He asks, voice incredulous. “They can’t just expect you to drop everything you’ve been working for.”

“They own the fucking school, Mark. They can do whatever they want,” she mutters. “The rest doesn’t matter.”

Mark’s still caught in disbelief. Helena sucks in a breath and holds it, trying to steel her nerves.

“It’s alright. I’ve always known…” her voice hitches when she speaks again, cracking on the way out. “I just wish we had more time.”

“But you don’t want to do this.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

He runs a hand over his jaw. “That’s not what I asked. What about ballet? Weren’t there contracts, or apprenticeships, or– ”

“There was never anything after this. I thought I’d have maybe until I was twenty two, twenty three if I was lucky. It’s just a bit earlier than I’d planned.”

Mark’s face drains of color, before it rushes back in a red flush. He stands and the chair legs screech across the tile. “Why are you okay with this?”

Helena flinches, drawing back an inch. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I don’t have a choice, Mark— I came to say goodbye, not fight with you over something that’s been decided before I was born,” she says. 

“Fuck I’m sorry, I’m not trying to argue with you, I just— I can’t watch you resign yourself to being miserable the rest of your life.” Mark’s voice softens. He pinches his eyes shut and scrubs a hand across his face. She has to resist the urge to reach out for him. 

Helena presses her lips together. “I have to do this.”

When he looks at her again, his eyes shine with something wet and determined. “You can walk away.”

Her laugh is hollow. 

“I’m serious. You can leave, Helena.”

“I don’t have anything else.” 

“Helena, there's everywhere. Anywhere that’s not here.” 

She shakes her head. More tears, hot and insistent, itching to be freed from the back of her throat.

“I can’t just leave.”

Mark draws towards her, kneeling to place both palms on her shins. A quiet, gentle plea. 

“You can Hel. Just– don’t say no yet–  think for a second before you say no again. Please.”

Helena takes a breath, unclenching her jaw. It's almost too painful to let herself imagine, blooming red and raw at the bottom of her ribs. She tries though, for him. 

“There’s… I have an offer in Boston. Hardly anything, not corps even,” she finally confesses. 

Mark’s face lights up. “Helena, that’s incredible. Boston– do you think that’s far enough?”

“I … There might be something in San Francisco, too. It’s obviously not guaranteed but usually the year-round programs have a better shot.”

He breaks into a grin, giving her knees a squeeze. “Fuck, of course you do. You have to go.”

She wipes the back of her hand across her cheek, where it comes away wet. “I don’t think I can,” she mumbles. 

“Of course you can, Helena. Do this for yourself.” Mark brings his hands up to cup her face, rubbing his thumbs over her cheekbones. “Your life belongs to you.”

Silence hangs heavy with the weight of what she wants to say. Maybe if she waits long enough, he’ll offer before she has to say it outloud. 

“You’ll come with me?” Her voice comes out small when she finally asks. 

Mark smiles, but it’s sad. Apologetic. 

“I can’t do that.”

She tries not to let it ruin her. Her mind dead ends in a swath of darkness. She’d been stupid. Naive. Of course he wouldn’t pack up and leave for her. He doesn’t want her, not in that way. It’s not fair to even ask—

“Not because I don’t want to– I do. More than anything,” Mark says quickly, already recognizing the shuttered heartbreak behind her eyes. “But you shouldn’t make that choice right now. Not about us.”

Tears come freely now, sliding her cheeks, the slope of her nose, getting caught on her lips. 

He continues, so earnestly it aches. “You’ve spent your whole life living for someone else Helena. You can’t choose something because of me. This has to be for you.” 

Chin wobbling, Helena shakes her head. “I want you. I want to be with you.” She lays out her hand, face-up on the table. It sounds different to say it outloud, exposed and raw. 

“I want that too… but not like this. Not before you have a chance to do something for yourself.” 

Helena wishes he didn’t care. Wishes he’d tell her what to do, how to think, where to go. She’s never got it right on her own. 

“I don’t know how,” she whispers. 

“You’ll figure it out. I know you can.” 

She’s never given herself permission to want to intensely. It tastes bittersweet, something between fear and hope. 

“So what, I just leave?”

He nods emphatically. “You just have to start, and I guess the rest will come.” 

“You make it sound easy,” she laughs flatly. 

Mark tilts his head. His smile is crooked and melancholy. “It’s not. It probably won’t be. But fuck, staying’s not right either.” 

Something desperate tugs at her chest. Helena wants to believe him– really does. The shape of her future changes, suddenly. There’s only vast, blank space when she looks forward. Too much space, enough to make her knees tremble and stomach tighten. With it, a sense of momentum, a bending of the light. There’s a web of shimmering threads surrounding her– she just needs to pick which one to tug. 

“I’d miss you too much,” she breathes. 

Mark’s throat bobs before he rises to tuck his arms under hers. Tentative at first, until she softens. They stay wrapped up together while Helena slides down to meet him on the floor, two sets of knees knocking on the tile. It’s a messy sprawl, wet with tears and fists tangled into each other's shirts. When Helena finally lifts her head, Mark’s eyes are shining too. 

“It’ll get easier,” he murmurs. 

She shakes her head.

Mark wets his lips, turning his head to wipe his cheek off on his shoulder. “It will. It won’t be hard forever.” 

He smoothes a hand over the back of her head. “And I’ll wait for you, if that’s what you still want. If it’s in a year, or five, or never. I just want you to be happy.” 

Her face crumples, in tandem with her heart. “Of course I’ll want you.” 

“You don’t have to promise anything right now,” he hums. “Only that you’ll do something for yourself.” 

She tips her head down to his shoulder, closing her eyes into the familiar warmth. If she’s still enough, she can almost feel his heart behind his own ribs. 

“You’d wait for me?” 

“I’ll always wait for you Helena.” 

It fills her– true and terrible and freeing. Too big to say out loud yet. Silence that aches with questions neither of them have the answers to. 

“I’ll go,” she whispers finally. 

Mark beams, tears still wet across his cheeks. “And I’ll stay.” He kisses her temple, murmuring against her hairline. “We’ll be okay.”

Chapter Text

May

Mark feels her absence in the quiet in-betweens, mostly. 

Longer days usher in the end of the year, and he lets himself disappear into mundanity. Papers pile up on purpose, so he’s always a few days behind. Coffees are sipped with terse smiles and polite conversation in the kitchenette. Miller moths leave dusty wing prints on his window sills, fluttering desperately until they collapse. 

Mark stays on campus when he can— Helena’s not lingering there quite as much. He only sees her when he lifts up a textbook and finds a bobby pin, or a balled up gum wrapper left in his drawer. Those he can manage. 

When his stalling and dawdling finally reach their limits, Mark dreads going back home. Everything’s worse there, when he’s left alone to sit in the loss. He finds Helena perched on the edge of the countertop, long legs kicked out in front of her while she steals a spoonful of pesto. Tangled up under his duvet, stretched out on her belly and treating him to little glimpses of sleep-warmed skin. Mark had waited three weeks to change the sheets after she left. 

He considers using her toothbrush, once. Pressing the bristles to his lips because it’s the last bit of her he allows himself; the coconut milk has already spoiled in the back of the fridge. Mark catches himself before he does it, flush with shame at his own desperation. They both end up in the trash— the half-empty carton, the toothbrush. 

He’s sick all over when he sees the pink bit of plastic at the bottom of the bin four days later. 

June

Summer comes, warm and humid, and it’s a downhill slide. Students trickle in and out, away for intensives or visiting home on break. It’s not empty, but it’s too quiet. Respite, if Mark wasn’t heartsick and lonely and desperate not to be. 

He imagines Helena bustling through some city street like it’s a movie-set. Red hair pulled back into a knot, shiny in the early morning sun. Mouth set tight like she does when she’s focused, headphones pulled over her ears and flickering eyes fixed ahead. Or, maybe it would still be wet and drizzly this time of year, streets slick with rain and reflecting each streetlight as she stepped gingerly around puddles. He thinks about her cheeks. If she’d have new freckles from sitting on park benches too long, dusted across the bridge of her nose. He wonders if she’d let him count them, press kisses into the new and the old until he memorized them all over. 

When he imagines her, she’s happy. 

Devon calls often. He lets it go to voicemail one too many times until he’s run out of excuses and picks up the phone and answers with enough feigned enthusiasm to assuage her till next week. He’s practiced from Gemma’s passing to know just how to pitch his voice. Light and casual when she just wants to chat. Grief-stricken and tired when he needs a reason not to drive down for the weekend. 

Mark doesn’t tell her that the real reason for his distance isn’t the dead wife, but the girlfriend half his age whose plane ticket he bought across the country. 

I’m fine , he says, over and over. Just tired. 

Mark’s life is just a series of obligations, living one endless chore. Wake up, dress himself. Brush his teeth, rinse with mouthwash. Feed himself something. Don’t die. 

The drinking starts again. Mark doesn’t mean to, but it happens anyway. A slow slip, from two beers in the evening to midday flasks in his car. Just drinks down and down and down until he’s staring into the bottom of a glass and watching his features splinter in the cut-crystal. Brown eyes drift away from a terse mouth, eyebrows swimming below that. Dissolving would be peaceful, a subtle erosion until there’s nothing left. 

Whiskey helps for a bit, if he can time it right. Too much too quickly just makes him tired, which is fine, most nights. He’s content to pass out with his shoes still on and wake up with his mouth dry, crick in his back from the way his shoulder folded up under himself on the couch. 

If he’s had enough to eat, he has to work to get properly drunk. There’s a slow build, where everything dulls out and quiets down; that’s his favorite. He can float for a moment in a numb in-between. He always finds Helena behind his eyes. Between his fingers. Smelling like she always does, mixed up with the scent of his soap and tasting syrupy and decadent with wine. 

Then at some point, all the good spills over, and it turns into one too many, and he’s choosing between pressing his face into the pillowcase that’s been washed clear of her or choking on tears under the shower head.

July

He tries to call her on the third month, against all better judgement. 

Mark paces his kitchen with his phone pressed up to his ear. The heat of the summer has seeped into the apartment, stifling and oppressive. It makes the fruit turn sour in days on his countertops, air thick with the smell of overripe bananas that have gone spotty brown. A fat fly buzzes lazily just out of reach, evading Mark for the better part of his week just to hum too fucking close to his ear when he’s finishing a six-pack on the couch.

The phone rings long enough that his heartbeat crawls up his throat. Then there’s a long beep of the dial tone that’s drawn out. A robotic voice finally answers after a click. 

We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service… Good bye. 

The call ends on its own with three final beeps. 

Adjacent to the drop in his stomach, pride surges. Of course she’d have it changed, knowing the flurry of messages she’d be receiving from Lumon after walking away. Helena was too fucking smart to make her quiet escape anything less than perfect. 

Mark knows he shouldn't have called her in the first place. He’d offered a clean break. No strings to keep them tethered, no caveats for her to worry over. A neat, resolute severance. Her future was far bigger than Mark. 

It doesn’t stop the raw wound from tugging when he can’t hear her voice. If he lifted up his shirt, Mark could almost swear there’d be a rough line of stitches down the center of his belly from where she’d split him open and he tried his best to staunch the bleeding.

His body aches from the distance. He misses the feel of her teeth in his shoulder when they rolled around in early mornings, or the sleepy, mumbled way she’d complain when he cracked the blinds. He worries about how much she’s eating, or sleeping, or training. Selfishly, he hopes for a moment that she’s even a bit as miserable and sick as he is. Then, hates himself for wanting that. 

August 

Sometimes he wonders if he’s wrong for how much he misses her. Missing her and not missing Gemma, or missing Gemma and still wanting Helena. Love hadn’t asked the grief for permission before it made room inside of him. 

Their absences create different shapes, but they tug similarly. The small part of him that had wanted to untether himself from the world after Gemma’s death gets bigger. Not actively looking to die, but a want to give in to the exhaustion. Treading water for so long makes his limbs too heavy. Like a lone house at the end of the cul de sac who wants to shut the lights off. It would be quiet. No fuss. 

Gemma had made sense, at least. Right and true and always so good. Kind up until the last day they were together, even when they’d been bitter and cracked, love turned into routine. She’d made him better— he worries he made her worse. Gemma, with so much love around her that Mark’s grief had been reflected in a hundred other faces, carrying the weight together. 

Then Helena, who made no sense. A secret kept between the two of them, tender and scared. Who was living and breathing and free— just not here. Not with him. 

In the darkest pits he finds at the bottom of a bottle, Mark sometimes wishes she wasn’t. It’s a different kind of longing, to want someone who’s just out of arm's reach. Someone who might be forgetting him. More tangible, when he can turn over in the night and remember the feeling in his chest when she curled into his side. 

It should be enough, knowing she’s happy. He’s selfish, so fucking wrong and selfish and he knows it and can’t help it. 

It doesn’t feel like enough. 

September

Mark remembers what it feels like to live without. An abyss so yawning half of him wants to slip below the surface and let his lungs collapse until he drowns in it. 

He misses her. Needs her. Wants her. 

Thinks about her hair and her mouth and her fucking eyes. The low, even pitch of her voice. The razor sharp wit and demanding exactness. 

He’s forgetting things about her and it makes him sick. He can’t remember exactly how his hands fit into her hips. Or, he can remember how her breath would hitch before she moaned his name, but can’t remember exactly how it sounded. He misses now more than he remembers. 

It’s cruel. How the details can slip from focus, but the aching echo rings in his body ceaselessly. 

He says her name, outloud. Only once, or twice, so he doesn’t forget how it feels. Like he can put more of her into the world that way. 

Mark lives without her. 

October

He misses her. 

Lives without her. 

Thinks about dying. 

Promises not to. 

Misses her. 

November

Mark is in the grocery store when he sees the call. 

An unknown number sits at the top of his inbox, red text informing Mark he’d failed to pick up. A California area code. His stomach soars wildly before he catches himself, refusing to coax that ember too early. 

He’s considering calling back when another call flashes on the screen. The same number. His hand shakes when he fumbles to pick up. 

“Hello?”

“Hi Mark,” she breathes. It’s a sound of relief, letting go of held air. 

And it’s her. Real, live, whole. On the other end of the line. Saying his name. 

His chest cracks open. 

“Helena,” he manages. His voice sounds wrecked. 

“Hi,” she says again. 

There’s a long pause where he can’t speak, swallowed up by the enormity and impossibility of hearing her voice again. Then a spike of panic. 

“Are you— is everything okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine. Everything’s okay, I didn’t mean to—”

He laughs softly and tries not to drop his basket of groceries. “Fuck, it’s really good to hear from you.”

She laughs too. Breathless and light. A giddy, anxious sound. “I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”

“I’m glad I did. You’re okay?”

“I’m good,” she murmurs. There’s another pause. “Well, I mean, I’ve missed you. A lot.”

“I’ve missed you too sweetheart. So much.”

“I don’t know— I know it’s been a long time but— could I see you?” 

“Fuck, of course. Of course I want to see you, Hel.” 

He can hear her swallow. “I know it’s not much notice, but I have a show next weekend, and you don’t have to come, but, I just thought… if you wanted to—” 

He’s so happy he thinks he might float straight out of his shoes until his head skims the ceiling tiles. It’s dizzying. “I’d love to,” he answers, entirely too quickly. 

“Yeah?” she asks quietly. “I know it’s silly, but I already had a ticket set aside in case you wanted it.”

“Helena, I’ll be there. Of course, I’ll be there.”

He can almost hear the smile in her voice now. Mark realizes he’s grinning too. 

“Okay,” she breathes. 

“Helena—” Mark starts, then tapers off. There’s no way to capture the intensity of how deeply he aches for her. How much he misses her all over again when he can hear her breathe on the other end of the line. 

“I know.” 

Silence hangs between them, punctuated only by the sound of each other’s quiet inhales and exhales. 

“I miss you,” he says finally. It’s not enough. It’s all he can manage. 

“Me too. You’ll really come?”

“I promise.” 

When they finally hang up the phone, it feels like cutting the cord on a parachute— a sickening plunge in his stomach that this might be it. He tells himself it won’t be. He promised. So did she. 

Mark only realizes he’s been frozen in place when an older woman politely lets him know he’s blocking the canned peas, shuffling awkwardly over his shoulder. 

An email shows up the following day with a linked e-ticket, informing him of the date and time of the show. 

So he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing up. 

He keeps staring at the number from the day before, like he can still feel her there behind the glowing screen. He’s not sure whether he can call her again. Not sure if her calling means what he hopes it means. 

So he doesn’t. Helena doesn’t either. 

He’ll still get to see her. Even if it’s for a weekend or a day or an evening, he gets to see her. And Mark tells himself that will be enough. If she’s happy, that would be enough. 

Plane tickets are entirely too much and a long weekend in a hotel room costs a small fortune, but he enters his payment happily. His time off is plentiful enough that the academy can’t complain at the short notice. Mark tries to tell himself he wouldn’t have just quit anyways had they tried to deny it. 

His apartment feels too lonely again. Just a suggestion of Helena is enough to make him long and ache all over, like it’s the first day and the fifth and now. Hands pressed to the bathroom sink, Mark flicks on the buzzing bulb over the mirror and lifts his eyes.

It’s then he realizes just how much he’s let slip. His hair’s too long, a shaggy mop that hangs over his brows. He looks gaunt and hollow, too pale. Like he hasn’t been outside in weeks. Like he’s been eaten from the inside out. Faint purple bruises under his eyes make him look older, the shadows and lines on his face more prominent.

A deep sense of shame tugs in his gut when he imagines her seeing him like this. Pallid and wan. Too old, too rough. Not worthy of someone like her. He should've done better.

And he wishes, suddenly, that she had met him when he was still kind. 

Before the world had worn him down into a guilty, broken, pieced-together thing. All made up of nasty habits and unkept promises. When he still smiled without it snagging uncomfortably, laughed because it was too hard not too. 

He feels a bit like that when he can warm his face in her radiance, feel her light on his cheeks. 

So he cups cold water in his palms and tries to flood color back into himself. A razor is dragged over his neck, catching on the overgrown stubble. He even considers cutting his hair, then thinks better of it. 

Before going to bed, Mark eyes the half empty bottle of whiskey left on the kitchen counter. Then pours it down the sink before he can refill the tumbler sitting at the ready. 

Better, better, better. 

He can be that for her. If only for a night. 

xxx

San Francisco is a wet and dreary mess this time of year. It’s before anything’s been lit up for the holidays, the whole city grey and weepy. The type of cold that sinks right through his shitty puffer until he’s chilled all day, trudging through puddles like a wet dog. 

The theater is a warm beacon, though. Tall columns frame the grand staircase up to the entrance, where a healthy crowd waits to enter. It’s a sea of black umbrellas, velvet, and furs, heads bowed and hems lifted to stay out of the drizzle. Opulence, wealth, and a faint note of social competition. The kind of people who have things like season tickets and second homes. 

Mark hopes she doesn’t notice the scuffed toes of his dress shoes. 

He tries not to fidget in his seat for the tenth time, a glossy program fisted in his sweating palms. A fragrant bouquet rests in the crook of his arm— the kind wrapped in thick paper, not the shitty plasticky kind, with flowers whose names he can’t pronounce. He’d agonized over the fit of his shirt, the right color of his socks, until he’d realized he was running so late he’d had to settle on the one passable combination he’d been wearing for years. 

Inside the auditorium, a massive crystalline chandelier glows overhead, illuminating the mosaic ceiling. Helena had gotten him a proper ticket, naturally, an orchestra seat near enough for him to make out the stitching on the rich red curtains concealing the stage. 

He wonders where she is right now. Pinning a final curl into place, or likely rolling through her pointe shoes, tapping off the excess rosin. Just behind the curtain, through the wings. Hands on her waist, head bowed in concentration. A shy smile, shaky fingers, heart fluttering in her throat. 

She’d always gotten so soft-belly vulnerable before she dances, the nerves softening her into his Helena for a moment, before she steps on stage and becomes something celestial.

The lights finally dim, the curtains part, and Mark feels his stomach turn over. The stage is engulfed in a silvery blue glow, swirling in white fog that starts to spill over the edge into the pit below. There’s a rise of strings, a shimmering harp, and—

As if pulled by an invisible thread, dancers emerge from the billowing fog. Mist and moonlight turned into form, they rise together. A symphony of tendon and bone and muscle, until their limbs blur into rippling wings. It’s ethereal, mesmerizing. His breath hitches. 

When they move, Mark searches for her. They’re so perfectly synchronized it’s hard to make out where one body ends and the next begins, lost in a mass of sweeping lines and curving necks. A halo of white feathered creatures outfitted in tulle and satin. 

But he’d know Helena anywhere. Something in the way she moves always draws him in; calls him home. 

He finds her and hears his pulse drown out everything else.

Helena dances like the ground’s forgotten to hold her. Close enough that he could take five strides and meet her. Wrap his arms around her shoulders and tug her into him. 

But before there was him, maybe before there was even her, she’s been meant to do this. Her body moves not like it’s rehearsed, but remembered. Plucked from someplace unearthly and given shape and breath. Painfully beautiful, so much so that he can’t imagine why she’d ever let him call her his. 

Mark can’t tear his eyes away. He catches everything— the beads of sweat on her temples, her ribcage contracting, even the pale pink ribbon tucked tightly against her ankle. Such human things for someone who doesn’t belong to this world. 

He only realizes he’s been holding his breath when the act ends and Helena disappears into the wings. Mark feels unmade. And almost, briefly, unburdened. Like nothing else has ever mattered but getting to see her like this, and pretend for a moment that he’s a man deserving of such a thing. 

Around him, the audience seethes and froths together in a whirling sea of emotion. Mark’s swimming against the tide, unwilling to let go of her for even a moment. Around him, they laugh when they should, shower applause when appropriate. Gasp softly, tilt their heads, swipe an errant tear. 

Not Mark. 

He watches and watches, like it’s the last time. And it still could be. So he’ll get his fill, remember this until his vision goes and he’s left with nothing but Helena. She’s caught him thoroughly in her snare, and he’s never been quite so happy to let himself go. 

It’s been no time at all when the orchestra finally swells and the final curtain closes. His heart aches immediately at the loss. When Helena leaves his sight, there’s that unbearable absence all over. A myriad of reasons tell him he shouldn’t push through the curtain and drag her up against him, but he still has to fight to stay seated. 

His feet drag him numbly out of the theater to wait in the lobby. A small lifetime ago, he remembers following Helena in a swish of silk-clad hips and mischievous smiles. How she’d looked at him back then, a bad-idea embodied. Every touch thick with tension, endless sinful daydreams of plush lips and red hair and the soft sounds she’d make. 

Now he’d give anything just to see her smile, run his thumb across her knuckles. Ask her how she’s been.

Most patrons have filtered out for the evening when she finally appears, rounding the corner in a blur of green and auburn. Helena’s face is still flushed from performing, her hair brushed out in soft waves behind her shoulders. The emerald dress shimmers around her, clinging on the gentle curves and angles of her body, rippling around her ankles like a tide.  

 He feels so much longing in that moment he’s afraid he’s been living incomplete until now. 

Helena’s eyes dart nervously through the room before finally catching on his. Bright and golden, something from a time before. Her face breaks into a grin that makes his chest ache. She mouths his name.  

Everything else dissipates when he finally has her in his arms again. She’s here and now and above and below and every best part of him. Her thin arms wind around his waist to pull herself tighter. His grip is equally as desperate, hugging her so tight she lifts off her heels. The flowers end up crunched against her back. 

When he knows she isn’t going to dissolve in his hands, Mark pulls away to hold her at arm’s length. 

Time has been so kind to her. 

Her hair’s grown out, hitting past her breasts in a sheet of shiny auburn, though she’s cut her bangs shorter. Below her cheekbones, her face has filled out slightly, like she’s gained a bit of healthy weight. And she seems lighter, somehow. Happier. 

“Hi,” she whispers, sliding her hands free to curl into his. 

“Hi,” he echoes, feeling a giddy smile plastered across his face. 

“You look nice,” she hums. 

He chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s okay— you don’t have to.”

She quirks her head with a wry smile. It makes her eyes catch the light. “I mean it. I’ve missed you—”.

“You’re so beautiful Helena.” He can’t stop himself from saying it when she looks at him like that. It draws him back to lazy mornings spent in bed, her chin propped on her hand while she studied him. 

“Haircut,” she says dryly, gesturing at the blunt new fringe. 

“Not, it’s… it’s just you. I missed you so much Helena,” he breathes, “I’m so proud of you.” 

She ducks her chin and he swears he catches her eyes mist over. And if she cries, he knows he will too. 

He’s about to hand her the crumpled bouquet when he catches an older man making his way towards them, beelining towards Helena. He walks with his hands clasped behind his back and shoulders stooped forward, smiling softly as he nears. 

“Please, excuse me,” the man says politely, dropping his head towards Mark. “I just came to congratulate Helena, I won’t bother you long.” His voice is like an old-timey radio host. Smooth, sophisticated, matching his handsomely combed hair and greying mustache. 

“Irving,” Helena grins. She leans up to kiss him on each cheek. He’s so tall he has to stoop, even with her on heels, but it’s with a sort of grace, elegant and controlled. 

“You were marvelous, my darling. Always a joy to witness,” Irving beams. “She’s a wonder, isn’t she?”

Mark nods, glancing towards Helena. “She’s amazing.”

Helena rests a gentle hand on his bicep, fidgeting slightly under the praise. “Irving, this is Mark.” 

His eyes twinkle in recognition, giving Helena a knowing smile. “Ah, Mark, pleasure to finally meet you. Helena’s told me much about you. All good things, of course,” he says with a wink. 

“Oh, uh, thanks. Great to meet you too.” 

“Take good care of this one, won’t you?” Irving smiles. “She’s something special.” 

Helena huffs a laugh, shaking her head faintly. Mark smiles, meeting her eyes when he answers. “I will. I know she is.” He sees her blush hotter, and it suddenly feels far too intimate to be looking at her like this in polite company. 

Irving claps his hands together, and the tension breaks. “Helena, dear, congratulations.” He swipes a thumb across her cheek with a quick pinch of affection. “Enjoy the evening, you two. Well deserved” He gives Helena a final wink goodbye before rejoining a white-haired man waiting on the edge of the crowd. 

Helena smiles sheepishly when he’s out of earshot. “So, you’ve met Irving.”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “He seems kind.”

“Yeah, he is. Irving’s…. he’s really good to me. Used to choreograph for the company, but he’s retired now. I think he realized I was sort of on my own, so he checks in on me now and then. Just, keeps an eye out for me, I guess.” 

Mark feels a strong surge of gratitude towards the man then, watching him disappear out the doors arm in arm with his partner. 

“You told him about us?” 

Helena chews her lip, smiling up at him from beneath her lashes, still dark with stage makeup. “Maybe a bit.”

“Uh, these are for you, by the way,” Mark says, handing over the paper wrapped flowers. “He’s right. You really were incredible.” 

“Thank you for coming,” she answers shyly, tucking the flowers into the crook of her arm. The flush creeps higher into the apples of her cheeks. “Really. It means a lot.” 

“I’d always come if you called,” he says plainly. It comes out so earnest though, painfully raw when he hadn’t meant it to be.

Helena sucks in an inhale. “I’m sorry I didn’t, you know….call earlier.”

He waves it away with a hand. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m just happy that you’re here. Doing this.”

“I just wasn’t sure I could do it… it was like if I heard from you I might remember how badly I missed you, you know?” She says quietly, eyes fixed at his collar. “I don’t know— I’m sorry.”

Mark shakes his head again. “Helena, you don’t have to be. Really.” 

Her fingers tighten into his. 

“I thought about you,” she says. Her voice catches in her throat, thick with emotion. “All the time.”

“Me too, Hel. Always.” He lets it hang there a moment, tender and honest. He has to swallow away the immense desire to kiss her, letting his lungs fill up before exhaling. “Are you hungry? Can I take you out for something?”

Helena seems grateful for the change in tone, lifting her eyes and nodding. “Let me just get my things. Can I meet you around the side of the theater?”

xxx

She emerges from an unmarked side door 15 minutes later, weighed down by an armful of belongings and bundled in an ankle length coat. Her face has been scrubbed clean, and her hair’s pinned up at the nape of her neck. Mark quickly takes the bags off her hands, hauling them over his shoulder and holding out his umbrella to keep her out of the rain. She hums gratefully, tucking in close to his side to keep them both under their black nylon shelter. 

He listens with rapt attention while she details the rehearsals, her apartment, the neighbor’s stubborn dog that wakes her up too early. Bits and pieces of a life built without him. It’s equally heart wrenching and comforting as they wind through rain-slick streets, fingertips brushing but not quite closing around one another. 

They finally duck into a late-night diner, cramming in next to one another on the same side of a booth. They’re both overdressed, her in green silk and him in a tie. When the heaping plates of breakfast fare arrive, Mark has to remind himself to pick up his fork. Chew. Swallow. It’s so easy to get caught up in her gravity, just watching her talk and smile and exist. 

On instinct, his hand closes over her knee, before he tugs it back into his own lap. “Sorry, I didn't know if—”

“It’s okay. You can touch me, Mark,” Helena hums. 

“Yeah?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure if…” Not sure if this all means what he thinks it means. What he hopes it does. “I mean, I get it. If this isn’t what you want. Or if there’s someone else—”

“There’s no one else, Mark. Just you.” 

He exhales heavily and settles his hand back on her thigh, giving her a gentle squeeze. Want coils up tight in his belly. He’d like nothing more than to show her exactly how much he’s missed her, then. 

But he’s waited this long. He can wait another lifetime if she asks him to. 

His thumb makes slow circles through the fabric of her dress while she finishes, stealing bites of syrupy pancake from his plate until they’re both full and lazy. He swats her hand away when she tries to put down her card. Her head falls against his shoulder while he handles the receipt, tipping too much and scribbling a messy signature if it means getting out of here a moment sooner. 

“Mark,” she whispers into the shell of his ear. Her breath fans out warm against his cheek, making goosebumps prickle on his skin. “Take me home.” 

He’s never hailed a cab quicker, drenching his dress shoes in puddles to catch it. In the backseat, thighs pressed together, Helena’s fingers trace patterns high up on his slacks. He has to clench his teeth to keep from laying her out in the backseat and pulling her legs over his shoulders. 

“Helena,” he murmurs when her hand crawls dangerously close to his growing hard-on. It’s part warning and part plea. 

“Hmm?” she answers innocently, brushing her fingers over his fly, finding the edge of impropriety.  

“How close are we?”

“Close,” she giggles. “Almost there.” 

Her apartment building isn’t what Mark expects, but he cares far less about the historic brick-facade and lofty windows than he does getting Helena alone. 

They barely make it inside the threshold of her front door before they’re on each other. Helena’s lips find his, hot and hard. Hands in clothing, tangled in hair. They’re a tide getting dragged back into the shore. Never ending and inevitable— they’ll find each other until the moon drops out of the sky and into the sea.

Impossibly, she’s always so much better than he remembers. Desperate and eager, arching into his hands and trying to pull herself closer into his chest. One hand settles on the small of her back, the other threading through her hair to tug her closer. 

Their kiss is one making up for lost time. They part for one another, swiping the inside of each other's mouths and grazing swollen lips. She tastes so good, sucking his tongue and mewling around it. His cock aches in sympathy at the sound. 

Mark has to hold her up when her knees start to give out. He can’t help himself from sliding down the hand in her hair to cup her jaw, the delicate skin of her throat. It’s possessive, the need to palm the tender spots that make her breath hitch and her legs tremble. 

Helena pulls off his mouth. “Mark—” she breathes, forehead still pressed to his. 

“Fuck I missed this— missed you,” he says, emphasizing each word with a kiss against the corner of her mouth. He works her sagging coat off of her shoulder to crumple around her stilettos. 

“Me too,” she whines. Her hands tighten into fists in his lapel. “Please, I need it.”

God, he’d rather die than forget how sweetly she asks for him. He wonders if she’s been as eager to feel their skin together as he is, remember how right it feels when he’s inside her. 

“Need you too baby,” he hums, sliding his hands down to cup her ass and bump their hips together. She giggles, light as air, and he questions why he ever fucking drank when there’s her instead— he’s wasted on her and hasn’t even got his hands on her properly. 

Her swollen bottom lip disappears between her teeth. Mark finds that sweet bit of flesh below her ear that makes goosebumps spread out across her skin. Runs his teeth across her. Gets treated to a breathy sigh. 

She whines his name again. 

A desperate urge to taste her flushes through him, so hot it makes him dizzy. 

Mark had plans to take his time. Coax out every sound until she’s begging, trace circles on her hips with his tongue until Helena’s wet down her thighs. 

Next time. 

He finds her lips again and she sounds wounded. Mark backs them up carefully until her shoulders thump into the front door, head cradled by his hand to keep her from knocking the wood. 

Mark squeezes her hip and pulls, turning her until she has to break the kiss. She spins, chest pressing forward and back flush with Mark’s front. Her palms splay wide against the wood, back arched to try and keep contact between them. She cranes to look back at him, causing a copper cascade of hair to tumble down her shoulder when her pin clatters loose. 

Hazel eyes stay on him while he gathers up a handful of silky skirts. He pulls it up and up and up, until the rich fabric gives way to the moon of her thighs. Helena’s focus is want embodied, burning hot and desperate. Pleading. 

He groans when he finds the pale pink lace underneath, a scrap of fabric so tiny it barely counts as panties. It hugs her ass like a dream, treating him to plenty of the supple skin there. 

“ Jesus , Helena.”

“I hoped— oh— hoped you’d like those,” she says, getting caught halfway through when he cups her core through the lace. 

“Wore ‘em for me, huh?” he asks, pressing between her shoulder blades to keep her from squirming. Her chest hits the door between her palms, pitching her forward just enough to reveal the tiny triangle covering her pussy when her ass parts. 

Helena nods, but her forehead hits wood with a heavy thunk when he presses a thumb between her thighs. 

Mark crouches, keeping her skirts pooled over her hips, eye level with the swell of her ass. Gently, he nudges her feet another inch apart, until he has space to settle between them. She shivers when he presses his mouth into the divot at the base of her spine. 

“Please, I don’t wanna wait,” Helena breathes raggedly. 

He kisses down the firm muscle of her ass, then drops to leave a hot trail up the back of her thighs. “Not gonna make you wait, sweetheart.”

She groans. 

With shaking fingers, Mark hooks the waistband of her underwear. They peel down slowly, getting stuck on the sticky apex of her thighs. 

“You’re so pink here. So beautiful, Hel.”

Her hum turns into a choked moan when he kisses her just to the side of where she wants him. 

She’s flushed and slick, auburn curls glossy with her arousal already. 

Mark plants another open-mouthed kiss to her entrance. Then her clit. Soft, without pressure yet, just enough to make her legs quiver. Her hips cant further back towards his face. 

He can’t wait; knows she can’t either. 

With a final kiss to her center, Mark pulls her open with his thumbs and plunges his tongue inside of her.

Helena sobs, clenching around his tongue with white hot heat. Burying his face between her legs, Mark fucks his tongue into her. As deep as he can, until his nose is pressed into her skin.  

She tastes sacred. Sweet and sinful, his to claim, offered up to him so willingly. They’re a mess, between his spit and her wetness, coating his chin while he laps her. Helena’s hand searches blindly behind her, until she can wind her fingers into his hair and pull, trying to grind herself further down against his mouth. 

When her legs threaten to give out, Mark dips to find her sensitive clit, sucking it between his lips and replacing his tongue with a thick finger inside of her. Helena’s so slick he can press in easily, disappearing into her heat up to the last knuckle. From behind like this, he can push in deeper, satisfied by how she takes it so eagerly.

He releases his mouth to watch his finger curl inside of her. Carefully, he withdraws until just his fingertip rests inside of her, tracing her weeping entrance with firm pressure. Then, he pushes back in with a second finger. 

Helena keens, releasing his hair to desperately catch herself on the door. 

“You’re okay. Let me make you feel good, sweet girl.”

She only whines in response, arching further into a dramatic curve, nodding jerkily when he sucks her into his mouth again. 

Mark laves over her clit, tight circles designed to drag her towards a hard finish. Every gasp and moan makes his blood quicken, singing with desire. The need to see her break, watch her come with his head buried below her ass. 

He’d give her anything, everything. At least he can give her this.

Helena’s muscles start to tense, tightening under her skin, closing down around his knuckles. There’s wetness coating his palm, glistening in the soft glow of her home. Her body starts to give her away, sucking his fingers in deeper and tightening like a vice around them. Breaths come in desperate, frantic pants, like she can’t quite get enough air. 

“Mark– I’m– I’m going to–”

His free hand skates down her spine, soothing the sharp desperation she feels on the precipice. Tongue flicking circles over her swollen clit, he angles his fingers towards her belly, catching on the soft spot inside of her that makes her knees buckle. 

“That’s it, let me see, baby.”

Helena’s orgasm almost pushes him out with the force, bowing her forward into the hard wood. Mark licks her through it, coaxing out every shiver and cry until she’s squirming away, body flush with too much pleasure. His fingers stay inside of her. Easing up on his rhythm until it’s slow and gentle. Just an easy fullness to keep her sated. Keep her close. 

When her muscles finally go slack, he slips from her carefully. Existing outside of her feels too cold, slick running down his hand. He sucks his fingers into his mouth eagerly, then rises to lap up the streaks of wetness on her inner thighs. Her lungs catch when he licks lightly against her puffy cunt. 

“Mark–” she huffs, still trying to writhe free. 

“I know. I’ll be gentle.” 

He only rises when she’s cleaned up enough for his liking— though her pussy still drips, making her sticky all over again. Smoothing down her skirt, Mark presses a kiss to the back of her head. Helena tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, jaw pointed skyward. He kisses there too, where her pulse hammers. 

She laughs shakily, palms flat against the front door. Mark brings his right hand to curl around hers, lacing their fingers together and drawing her in by the waist. 

There’s a scatter of belongings on the floor– her purse, a set of keys, a heel kicked off haphazardly. Pink lace panties strewn beside that. Mark’s still in his coat, and Helena’s dress threatens to slip right off her shoulder. Evidence of a frantic tumble into each other. 

He cups her jaw, turning her tenderly until her back’s against the door again, helping to hold up her spent weight. A warm flush has bloomed in her cheeks, making her look dewy and vibrant. She smiles when he kisses her, until both their mouths taste like wet heat and disbelief. 

Helena pulls away with another giggle. She gestures at the door and presses a finger to her lips. 

“Do you think the neighbors heard that?”

Mark grins smugly, unable to stop the sparkling joy that catches around her. “Mm, not sure if you were loud enough. Maybe we’d better try again. Make sure they did.” 

Helena groans, covering her eyes with a forearm. 

He kisses her until she’s breathless and her giggles give way to sighs. When he smiles against her mouth, she looks at him like he is the sun and she is the moon and for a moment he thinks they might be, hung up in the sky together and brushing fingertips when they pass. 

“What do you want, my love?” Mark asks. He smoothes back the copper fringe from her eyebrows. “Tell me, Helena.”

“I want you ,” she says, gazing up at him from below her lash line. Her voice is impossibly soft. “Only you.”

You, you, you , his heart beats in reply. Yes, that’s what it’s always been, hasn’t it? 

Though his knees ache and his back’s a mess, he hoists Helena up easily. She tightens her legs around his hips, holding on tight around his neck. He braces her with one hand cupping her ass and the other around her waist. 

He’s lucky it’s a studio— Mark doesn’t have to search long to find her bed. Her other shoe drops off halfway there, hitting the hard wood in a clatter that makes them both laugh. 

At the edge of the mattress, he tries to set her down carefully, but Helena’s not eager to let go. She scrambles backwards and tugs him by the tie to follow, until he’s catching himself with his hands caged around her head to keep from crushing her. Helena squirms underneath him when she tries to slip out of her dress.  

“Be patient, baby,” he chides, though he says it with a kiss to her temple and a press of his knee between her thighs. 

“No,” she sighs. “Don’t wanna.”

“Already made you come and you need it again, sweetheart?” 

She furrows her brows and pushes out her bottom lip. That still works like a charm. Lifting her head from the pillows, Helena catches his mouth in another searing kiss. She tangles her fingers into his hair when she does it, pulling from the root in a fistful. His tie is her next victim, yanked loose by her eager hands. 

“You look handsome like this,” she says, wrapping it about her knuckles to pull him in tighter. 

He scoffs. “I look old.” 

She hums, like she’s considering. “Maybe. I like it.”

He groans when she laughs, right up against his lips. It tips over into a moan when he kisses her again. Her hands tighten around his shoulders and she sucks his tongue into her mouth. 

“Mark?” She asks, pulling away with a sigh. Her voice is sweet, syrupy. “Aren’t you going to fuck me?”

“No. I’d like to make love to you.”

“ Make love ,” she teases, quirking a brow. 

“Yes, Helena. Will you stop talking and let me?”

Whatever smart remark she had next gets lost in a gasp when he pinches a nipple through her dress. He rolls it between his fingers until it’s hard for him, making Helena’s hip buck against this thigh. 

Rocking back on his heels, Mark peels up her dress slowly, so slowly . He revels in the way her skin reveals itself to him underneath, finding each freckle he’s remembered and the ones he’d forgotten. Her panties are still lost somewhere near the door, and the bralette she’s left in is hardly more than a suggestion of material, barely concealing the dusky buds below. Her heart’s beating so fast he can see it jump in her stomach. 

“It was— s-supposed to be a matching set.”

Mark hums, kissing the slight swell of her belly, then the flare of her ribs. The little mark just below the band of her bra. “It’s pretty. But I’m much more interested in you.”

“Such a romantic tonight.”

“Quiet, Hel. Let me.”

He closes his mouth around her peaked nipple right through the lace. It makes her hips lift off the mattress. The fabric is soaked through when he releases her to pull her other breast into his mouth, tugging down the flimsy bra beforehand. Helena’s panting, grinding down shamelessly against his thigh where she's bare and slick. 

“Mark—” she chokes. “I need you inside, please.”

As much as he’d like to pretend he can deny her any longer, his cock is aching in his pants, rutting helplessly back against her hip. Mark slips out of his tie and makes quick work of his shirt and trousers. They end up in a careless heap off the side of her bed, his mediocre ironing job be damned. 

Helena parts her thighs, and it lets him see exactly how badly she wants him. All pink and glistening and gorgeous. He can’t help himself from pressing a quick line of kisses along her inner thigh, drinking in the warm smell of her.

When he’s settled between her legs again, sliding his leaking tip through her heat, they both sigh. 

Before pressing into her, in that unending, sacred, yearning moment on the precipice, Mark pauses. And really sees her. How beautiful and unkempt she’s become. He looks at her like she deserves to be wanted: heady, tender, and wholly deserving of love. 

Then he pushes forward and knows that loving her has been his greatest privilege. 

Helena inhales and clutches his biceps at the initial feel of him inside of her. He groans into her hairline. She’s so warm, so wet, so fucking tight, that he worries for a moment it might be over before they’ve even started. His hand curls around her hip to still her when her cunt contracts. 

“Mark,” she gasps, rolling her hips below him. “Please.”

“I know, sweetheart” he groans back. Like he isn’t hanging on by a thread. 

Steeling himself, Mark withdraws enough to catch his flared tip at her entrance. Then pushes in all over, carving out space inside of her. It’s slow to start. Deep, rocking movements that have both their breath hitching.

“You feel like heaven, Helena. So fucking good.”

She moans while he works her open, deepening on each pass as her body lets him in. She takes it all so well.

“It’s— ah— feels so good.”

Once she’s finally eased up slightly, Mark’s hips quicken. The pace increases until their skin slaps; wet, sticky sounds in the small space. His hand finds her cheek, her jaw, cradling any bit of her he can reach. Every press makes pleasure well up at the base of his spine, blooming beautifully from his belly to his toes. She’s so wet it’s smeared across his thighs and hers.

“ Fuck baby,” he says. “You’re so pretty like this.” 

She’s tossing her head from side to side on the pillows, a sweeping fan of fire spilled out over the pale sheets, making a mess of her hair. The hand not curled around the back of his neck is digging into this forearm, certainly leaving purple crescents from her nails. And god she’s tight, a hot crush around every inch of his cock. 

“M-Mark— Mark—” she starts to whine. All pretty and incoherent, desperate sounds that are high with need. 

“Right here, baby. All yours.” 

And then her pleas of Mark starts to sound like mine and he knows he’s not going to last much longer. 

“Never letting you go, Hel. My girl, all mine.”

Maybe she says yes, but she’s too far gone to really get the words out now. Her eyes are glassy and wet when they meet his, a flush lighting the tops of her breasts aglow. A messy, feral thing, coming undone beautifully underneath him on every drive of his cock into her burning core. 

He needs to see her come, watch her face when she does it. Feel the pulse of her cunt when she tips over the edge. 

“Please, m’close, I—”

Mark finds her bruised lips, coaxing her mouth open and licking behind her teeth before she gives up on trying to kiss him back. 

“A little longer. I know you can, sweet girl, show me how good you are.” 

His hips snap to thrust into her harder, right up behind her belly button in the way he knows will make her cry out. Her abs catch and her spine flexes with the effort to keep from coming. 

Mark thinks he needs her more in this moment than he’s ever needed anything in his life. 

His fingers catch her clit, where he can feel her pulse throb. It’ll be just enough to send her over, tight, slick circles where she’s already so sensitive. Helena’s making warbled, wild sounds, all breath and abandon. Mark wants to tell her she’s perfect. Perfect and beautiful and so many other things he can’t find the words for, but all that comes out is a strangled “My baby.”

When she’s so tense he can hardly push himself inside of her again, he feels her come apart. Her orgasm is strong enough to push him out an inch— he has to flex his thighs hard to seat himself fully inside of her again. Her face screws up, jaw dropping open. Her nails break skin. Then the velvet pulse of her cunt drags him over with her, until Mark’s spilling inside of her with a choked cry. 

There’s a moment where it stops feeling like him inside of her. Mark swears that the vastness between the heavens and the earth contracts, until the two of them are merged into one, catching them both in the middle. He cups her face, kisses her teary lashes, promises mine and yours until she swallows the words and fills up on them.

He holds her until her quivering aftershocks subside, and he gets sensation back into his extremities. Carefully, Mark eases them so Helena can collapse onto his chest. He says a quiet prayer when his cock stays inside of her, unwilling to be separate even now. Her breath comes hot and fast against his collarbone, lashes fluttering on her cheeks. He smooths a hand down the back of her head to tuck her in tighter. 

They both catch their breath, feeling the other’s pulse through the open doors of their ribs. 

“Helena,” Mark murmurs finally. “Helena, honey” 

She stirs sleepily, mumbling “Hmm?”

“I love you.” 

He’s been saying it, really, all along. Just in other languages, words and gestures that sound like love, look like love. It feels like the easiest thing in the world to say it out loud this time. 

“I just needed to tell you. I love you.”

xxx

He tells her again when her eyes flare wide and her face turns pink. 

Then, later, when he props her up in his lap, back against the headboard, her thighs flexing around his hips. 

Again in the shower, washing her hair and kissing her breasts. 

Another time up against the side of her neck when her back makes a pretty arch, curled into him on their sides. 

Now that he’s said it, it feels too good not to keep saying it. 

And he’s said it before, meant it before. With other people, in lifetimes before this one. 

But never quite like this. 

It was not this. 

They fall asleep in a navy knot of inseparable bodies, legs and fingers and chests all knit together. It feels right to let his heart ruin itself so thoroughly for her. 

xxx

She asks him to stay in the morning. Then apologizes for asking. 

Mark tells her he hasn’t signed the contract for the next semester, hoping against all odds it would somehow lead him back to her. 

And yes, he’ll have to break the lease and find a job, figure out how to tell his sister and move cross-country; all the messy bits that come with starting over. But it wouldn't be starting over, really. Not with Helena. 

Sitting at her kitchen table (which is also the desk, as well as the coffee station) he watches Helena rifle through the top drawer of her dresser. Her hair’s a wild tangle of curls, gleaming like gold-tipped waves at sunset. She gives him a shy smile when she pads back to him, settling on one of his thighs delicately. 

Helena hands over a packet of bundled papers, a mixed pile of torn out pages, note cards, and post-its in three different colors. Some are filled with text, others just one or two lines. 

“I wrote to you,” she admits quietly. “I didn’t send them, but… I meant for you to get them one day.” 

Mark pauses, taking the precious stack in quivering hands.

“You wrote?”

She nods. “I wasn’t sure what to do with all of it. So… there’s this.”

He starts with a neat letter on top. 

Mark,

I told Irving more about you today. It feels better to talk about it out loud, makes it feel more real. Like we actually existed. 

He says you sound ‘bookish’. I told him yes, you are. And a bit pedantic. Also, I may have told him you’d be more than happy to read through Burt’s manuscript. I apologize in advance. 

I missed you more, afterwards.  

I hope you’re well. 

All my love,

Helena

He turns to the next. 

Mark,

School must be starting for you soon. It’s strange not to be there. I hope your classes are going well. 

It’s worse at night. I miss you most then, I think. I hate that the sun rises so much later here than it does for you. But I’m less lonely in those hours when I know you’re waking up, at least. 

Have you been sleeping poorly too? I hope not. 

With love,

Helena

His thumb traces over the crumpled edge, carefully revealing half of the page underneath. 

Sometimes I think I knew you before we even met. It feels that way, somehow. I think I’ve known you many lifetimes. 

The next. 

and I know that, but without you holding me I’m not sure if I’m real. 

And

in the dream. I was looking for you everywhere. In the corners of the room and on each block. I kept looking, but I couldn't find you. And then, I realized you were already here, blurring into me over and over. 

I wasn’t as sad when I woke up.

Yours,

Helena

He’ll read them all one day. Every word she’s written for him. 

In that moment, he can see it. Time stretching out in a shimmering, unending spiral around them. 

Tucked into the middle of the stack, on a nondescript bit of lined paper stained with a coffee ring, he finds his favorite:

Mark, 

I will never not choose you, and that terrifies me a bit. 

I thought for a long time I might be able to bury it. Let it dampen down. It hasn’t worked. 

I am so full of wanting when it comes to you. I’m not sure what to do with it all. I want to kiss you. Hear about your first love. Talk about our shit fathers. Grow old (but you before me please). Live softly and read books. Maybe have children (do you want that? how many?). Let it all come, time is nothing. I don’t want to do it apart. 

I love you. 

I think you know it, but in case you don’t, 

I love you. 

Summer’s ending soon, but I don’t mind much. Maybe this time next year we can watch the seabirds fly in and nest for the evening. I think you’d like that. 

Yours, always,  

Helena