Archive of Our Own ^beta

The drive up to the manor had been enough to make you doubt your GPS, the road narrowing to a hedge-flanked lane that seemed to stretch forever before the house finally revealed itself. You’d half expected the car to sprout antlers or hooves before you got there, the place felt that far removed from the rest of the world.

The manor itself rose from the countryside like a relic, weathered stone soft with moss, gables pitched against the sky, windows tucked deep in their sockets like watchful eyes. It wasn’t a fairytale sort of beauty but a living, breathing kind, grown into the land rather than planted on top of it. The kind of house that looked like it might sigh when the wind rattled through it.

Your suite was tucked at the far end of the building, a modest in-law apartment with its own door and a view of the gardens. The floorboards had a charming tilt, and the bathroom was probably last updated sometime around Thatcher, but you didn’t mind. The bed was wide and soft, the kettle worked, and there was a writing desk with a view of the orchard. You’d booked the retreat with visions of solitude. To finally hammer out that draft, no distractions, no city noise, no excuses.

It was everything you wanted for your writing retreat. Mostly.

Because then there was the groundskeeper.

The housemaid had mentioned him in passing, rattling off housekeeping notes as she showed you in: “The grounds are tended by Mr. Oliver Mellors. Keeps to himself. Best let him be.” You’d nodded, already half-distracted by the carved banister and the way the sunlight fell in long cathedral stripes across the hall.

You didn’t expect Oliver Mellors to be someone you’d notice. But you did.

On your first morning, you spotted him bent over a wheelbarrow near the orchard, dark hair damp with sweat, sleeves shoved to the elbow. He moved with the kind of economy that only comes from repetition, muscles tightening and releasing in quiet rhythm as he heaved soil into place. Even from across the grass, there was a gravity about him. The sense that his silence was deliberate, weighted. You’d paused far too long on the path, watching, until the kettle in your hand went cold.

He hadn’t spared you more than a glance.

Which, obviously, you took as a challenge.

The second day, you contrived to walk past him “on your way to stretch your legs,” though in truth you had no idea where the path led. He was repairing a stone wall by the kitchen garden, tools laid out neat beside him. You’d greeted him brightly, your voice bouncing off the stone like you were auditioning for “Friendly Neighbor #3.” He’d acknowledged you with the barest tilt of his chin, then gone back to work.

You should’ve left it there. A sensible person would have. But solitude, you were learning, had a way of amplifying your impulses. And there was something about his quiet that was so firm and certain, it made you want to poke at it, like pressing a bruise just to feel it answer back.

By the third day, you accidentally called him Ollie.

You hadn’t planned it. The nickname just slipped out, a natural shortening of Oliver, rounded and soft in your mouth. Morning, Ollie, you’d said, breezy as though you’d been saying it for years.

And something happened. He didn’t smile, didn’t turn his head. But you saw it, the faintest flicker across his face, like a muscle had tensed in surprise before he ironed it flat again. He hadn’t told you to sod off, though. That, you decided, was permission enough.

So you carried on.

You told yourself you weren’t being annoying. Or, okay, you were, but only in a harmless, vaguely endearing way. You filled the air with chatter because otherwise the silence pressed too heavy, and he was such an easy audience. He never interrupted, never cut you off, never steered the conversation back to himself. It was like talking into a well, only every now and then the well answered back with something startlingly relevant, proof that he’d been listening all along.

You wondered sometimes what he thought of you. Whether he found you childish, or irritating, or just background noise. But he never told you to go away, and that felt like something.

If you were smart, you’d keep your distance. But instead you found yourself cataloguing the way his shirt clung to his shoulders when he bent, the scent of earth and woodsmoke that clung to him even when the wind was against you. And those eyes, grey-green and sharp as flint when they lifted to meet yours. Not soft eyes. Not welcoming. But eyes that measured, weighed, and decided.

You told yourself it was curiosity. Writer’s instinct. People-watching fuel for your retreat.

But when you lay in bed at night, staring at the low ceiling beams, you could still see it: Ollie. The name on your tongue, the twitch of his jaw when you’d said it. The way silence had stretched taut between you afterward, like a rope pulled tight, waiting to snap.

By the fourth morning you’d stopped pretending it was coincidence. Your writing desk had a perfectly good view of the orchard, but somehow you always ended up outside, wandering whatever direction the sound of tools or a mower carried on the wind.

That morning it was the wall again. Ollie was braced low, one knee in the grass, levering a stone into place with slow precision. You perched yourself right above him, swinging your legs like a schoolgirl, and cracked open your paperback.

“Okay,” you began, licking your finger to turn the page. “So in this one she falls in love with a fairy king who’s broody as hell, and I can’t decide if it’s romantic or just deeply concerning.”

He didn’t answer. He rarely did. The only sounds were the scrape of stone against stone, the muted grunt of effort as he settled a block into its bed of mortar. His shirt was rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing with the work, and you could see a streak of lime dust across the back of his hand.

You kept talking anyway, weaving your way through a summary of the first three books, complete with dramatic voices for each character. “She’s like, ‘you’re my mate,’ and he’s like, ‘yes, destiny,’ and I’m over here thinking—girl, can you get a grip?”

It wasn’t until you were halfway through a rant about the word mate being overused that he finally said, without looking up, “Sounds like poor writing.”

The words landed like a dropped stone. You froze, then grinned. “Oh my God, you have been listening. Don’t even lie.”

He hummed low in his throat, tamping down mortar with his trowel, offering no further elaboration.

You leaned back on your hands, smug. “Knew it. You pretend you’re ignoring me, but you’re filing it all away. Secret book critic.”

He didn’t look at you. He never looked at you when he spoke. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile, almost.

By the next afternoon, you’d upgraded from books to snacks. He was mending a fence by the orchard this time, the old wood splintered from years of rain. You showed up with a tin of shortbread from the kitchen and plopped yourself onto the grass, cross-legged, rattling the tin at him like an offering to a surly woodland spirit.

“You want one?”

“No.”

“You’ll change your mind when you smell them.” You cracked the lid, the scent of butter rising into the air, and took one for yourself. Crumbs dusted your skirt as you spoke around a mouthful. “You know, you could say thank you when someone offers you food.”

“I didn’t take any.”

“You might.”

He drove a nail into the post, the thud ringing sharp. “Don’t plan to.”

You rolled your eyes skyward. “God, you’re impossible.”

But half an hour later, when you’d gone inside for tea, the tin was lighter by one biscuit.

That became the rhythm of your days. Write a little, walk a lot, talk too much. You found him trimming hedges, raking leaves, stacking logs, his movements steady and unhurried. You found excuses to linger. A forgotten water bottle, a sketchbook in hand, a casual “just getting fresh air.” You babbled about whatever filled your head: the strange dreams you’d had, a memory from school, an idea for a character that refused to behave.

He rarely gave more than a grunt or a clipped phrase, but the silences grew less empty. You began to sense them as answers of their own: the way he paused his work when you asked a question, the slight tilt of his head when you made a joke, the way his shoulders sometimes shook in what could almost be laughter though no sound came.

Once, when you spilled into a tangent about your favorite films, he surprised you.

“You said you’re a writer.”

You blinked, mid-ramble. “Yeah?”

“Thought you’d read better ones than those.” He gestured faintly toward the paperback in your hand.

Your jaw dropped. “That’s…are you insulting my taste?”

“Just saying.” He set his shears aside, straightening to his full height. “You could do better.”

And then he’d walked away, leaving you buzzing with indignation and something hotter, sharper, that had you grinning into your tea later.

The smallest things began to feel like victories. The way he shifted his work schedule so he always seemed to be in sight when you came out, not that he’d admit it. The way his responses came a beat quicker, less like an afterthought and more like he’d been waiting to say them.

One afternoon, you sat on the edge of the fountain while he cleared fallen leaves from the path. The sun was sharp, glittering through the water spray.

“Do you ever get bored?” you asked suddenly.

“Of what?”

“Of…this. The same walls, the same trees, the same…me nattering on every day.”

He didn’t stop sweeping, bristles rasping over stone. “I’ve heard worse.”

Your heart gave a ridiculous little jump. “Wow. Don’t get sentimental on me, Ollie.”

That earned you a glance. A real one, brief but direct, mossy eyes pinning you like a nail. You nearly forgot how to breathe before he looked away again.

You noticed other shifts too. The way he sometimes slowed his work, as if stretching it to last until you finished your story. The way he adjusted his cap when the sun angled your way, shading your spot more than his own. Once you caught him leaning on his spade, still as stone, listening so intently you almost lost your train of thought.

“You do that on purpose,” you accused, laughing.

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re not listening when you absolutely are. It’s unnerving.”

His mouth twitched again, a ghost of humor. “Then stop talking.”

“Never.”

And you didn’t.

By the end of the week, your walks had become less of an accident and more of an appointment you never named aloud. 

But sometimes, when the evening fell and you lay in your little crooked suite listening to the wind in the orchard, you thought you could still hear the gravel of his voice, low and rough, tucked into the silence like a secret.

The storm rolled in without warning. One moment the afternoon was all dappled sunlight and bees over the lavender; the next, clouds stacked heavy over the hills, swallowing the horizon in slate and bruise. You’d been too absorbed in your notebook to notice until the first drops splattered across the page, blotting your words into ink stains.

You swore, snapped the cover shut, and shoved the pen behind your ear. The manor was a good ten-minute walk back across the grounds, but you were already damp, hair sticking at your temples. A sensible person would have cut straight for the door.

Instead, you went the long way past the orchard, toward the copse of trees that marked the property’s edge. Curiosity had gotten the better of you; you’d been eyeing the path for days but never taken it. Now, with thunder cracking in the distance, you told yourself you might as well.

The ground turned slick fast. Moss that had been pleasant underfoot in dry weather became treacherous. You slipped once, caught yourself on a low branch, then pressed on. The trees thickened, the light dimming. Rain hammered the leaves overhead, dripped cold down your collar.

It wasn’t until your boot caught in a tangle of brambles that you realized your mistake. You lurched forward, yelped, and went down hard on one knee, mud splattering up your leg. Your notebook tumbled from your grip, skidding into the undergrowth. You tried to scramble up, but the brambles bit deeper, snagging your sleeve, your skirt, pulling you down like greedy hands.

You were still cursing under your breath when a shadow fell over you.

“Bloody hell,” came the voice, rough and unmistakable. “You’ll tear yourself to pieces.”

You twisted, hair plastered to your cheek, rain streaming down your face. He was already kneeling, broad shoulders hunched against the downpour, one hand steadying the brambles as the other freed your arm. His touch was careful despite the strength in it, fingers calloused, warm even through the chill.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

“You’re stuck.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but his grip lingered at your elbow as he untangled your sleeve. When you shifted, his hand slid down to your wrist, anchoring you.

The last vine snapped free with a jerk. He let go only long enough to retrieve your notebook, brushing the mud from its cover with his thumb. Then he offered it back, his gaze cutting to yours.

For the first time, he didn’t look away.

His eyes were sharper up close than you’d realized,like stormlight on water. They didn’t soften when they landed on you, but they didn’t dismiss you either. They saw you muddy, dripping, ridiculous and held you there.

You cleared your throat, tried for bravado. “You know, you could’ve just let me wrestle it out. Builds character.”

“Or breaks bones.” His tone made it clear which he thought more likely.

You blinked at him, stunned at the length of the sentence, at the way his words carried over the rain. “Wow. Full sentences. I’m honored.”

That earned you something close to a smirk, quick, gone almost before you caught it. He reached again, brushing a streak of mud from your sleeve with the side of his hand. His fingers lingered a fraction too long at your arm, steadying you as you rose to your feet.

“Clumsy,” he muttered.

“Adventurous,” you corrected, brushing at your skirt.

“Reckless.”

“Alive.” You smiled, too wide, too bright for the moment, but you couldn’t help it. The warmth of his hand still burned against your skin.

He shook his head, rain dripping from his hair. “You’ve no sense for the land. It’s not forgiving.”

“Good thing you’re here then,” you said lightly, tucking the notebook against your chest. “My very own grumpy forest guide.”

His eyes flickered at that, unreadable, before he turned back toward the manor. “Come on. Before it gets worse.”

You followed, boots squelching in the mud, your breath catching every time his shoulder brushed yours in the narrow path.

“You’ll end up hurt if you keep wandering where you shouldn’t.”

“And miss out on rescues like that?” You tilted your head, teasing. “Not a chance, Ollie.”

That almost-smile tugged at his mouth again, a battle between reluctance and something else.

The rain slowed to a spit, mist curling between the trees, but you were already soaked through. Mud streaked your legs, your sleeve still clung damp to your arm where his hand had been. Ollie walked a pace ahead, tools clinking softly at his belt, boots sure over the uneven ground. You told yourself to keep your eyes on the path, but you couldn’t stop cataloguing the details of him.

The way his shirt clung damp to the hard planes of his back, fabric plastered to muscle earned from long hours of work instead of gyms or vanity. The dark hair at the nape of his neck curling under the weight of rain. The sharp line of his jaw roughened with stubble, water dripping from the edge of his chin. His trousers were stained and scuffed, the knees worn pale, the fabric clinging at his thighs. He smelled faintly of earth and woodsmoke even through the wet. Like the storm itself had bent to carry his scent.

He glanced back once, and his eyes caught yours. Grey-green, ringed darker in the low light, alive with something more than irritation. You stumbled a little, heart slamming, and he caught your elbow again, fingers steady and firm.

“You’ll fall again,” he said, voice rougher than before, accent dragging over each word.

“Maybe I want to,” you shot back, too breathless, too bold.

That earned you the kind of look that stripped the words right out of you. His eyes narrowing, jaw ticking, rain dripping slow from his lashes. He didn’t let go of your arm.

The silence stretched, thunder grumbling far off. You could feel the heat of him even through the storm chill, his thumb pressed into the inside of your elbow like an anchor. His face was closer now than it had ever been, every line and angle laid bare: the straight bridge of his nose, the stubborn cut of his mouth, the stubble dark against his skin. His breath was steady but heavy, like he was holding something back.

You broke the quiet first, your voice too light for how your chest ached. “Careful, Ollie. That almost looks like concern.”

Something flickered behind his eyes at the name. He exhaled slow, rough. Then, before you could process it, he closed the distance.

It wasn’t gentle. His mouth crashed against yours like the storm breaking all over again, rain and heat and teeth. One hand still braced your arm, the other coming up to the back of your neck, calloused palm hot against your skin. You gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound, tilting his head to take more, deeper, until you forgot the mud, the rain, the reason you were even out here.

He tasted of rain and salt and something darker, something that was just him. His stubble scraped your chin, his body pressing you back against the rough bark of a tree. You felt the weight of him, lean but solid, the hard ridge of his shoulder, the taut line of his thigh bracketing yours.

When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. His eyes burned into yours, close enough you could see the storm-grey flecks within the green.

“You talk too bloody much,” he muttered again, but the words were softer this time, almost hoarse.

Your laugh trembled against his mouth. “And you don’t talk enough.”

That got you the ghost of a smile, twisted and reluctant, but real. His thumb brushed the side of your jaw, smearing damp hair from your cheek. He looked at you like you were dangerous, like you were something he should push away but couldn’t.

His second kiss dragged you deeper, slower, like he meant to carve it into you. Rain slicked both your faces, his stubble scratching your mouth raw, his breath rough in your lungs. The tree bark pressed into your back, damp through your clothes, and all you could feel was him. Lean muscle caging you in, the heat of his hand sliding from your neck down to your waist.

You gasped when he hauled you closer, hips slamming into yours. He wasn’t careful now. He kissed like a man starved, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue pushing past your gasp, devouring. One thigh shoved between yours, pressing hard, making you grind down without thought.

Your fingers fumbled at his shirt, soaked cotton clinging to the hard ridges of his chest. You pushed it up and found his skin warm even through the chill, muscles shifting under your palms. He groaned into your mouth when your nails scraped lightly across his stomach, the sound vibrating all the way down your spine.

“Ollie—” you breathed against him.

He froze for half a heartbeat at the name. Then he growled, low and guttural, pressing harder into you, lips dragging down your throat, biting, sucking, his stubble abrading every inch he touched.

“Say it again,” he rasped against your skin, voice rough as gravel. His hand slid lower, slipping under your shirt to spread hot across your ribs, thumb brushing the side of your breast. “Say it again.”

You moaned, half from his touch and half from the command. “Ollie.”

His response was a sound you’d never heard from him before, something between a curse and a groan, guttural and raw. His hand shoved lower, into your waistband, fingers hot and sure, dragging you open.

“Fuckin’ soaked for me already,” he muttered, voice rough against your ear. “Knew you’d be, wanderin’ round here with that mouth on you.”

You cried out, clinging to his shoulders as he worked you with blunt, filthy precision, every stroke pulling more wet heat from you than the rain already had.

“Take it,” he growled, thumb circling cruelly, his breath hot at your temple. “So greedy—clutchin’ me like you’ve been waitin’ all bloody week.”

He kissed you hard as he said it, swallowing every gasp, every broken moan, until you shattered against him, buckling, legs shaking.

But he didn’t stop. His fingers worked you mercilessly, dragging it out, chasing another crest even as you whimpered into his mouth. His forehead pressed to your temple, his voice thunder low in your ear.

“Say it again,” he demanded, rough, almost begging.

“Ollie,” you gasped, helpless, wrecked.

“Christ—look at you,” he groaned, pulling his hand free only to fumble at his belt. “Comin’ apart on my fingers, an’ you’re still beggin’.”

You grabbed for it too, both of you clumsy with urgency, until the buckle gave and the sound of his zipper cut sharp through the rain.

For a heartbeat, the two of you stilled, faces inches apart, breath mingling, eyes locked. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his jaw tight, his pupils blown wide in those storm-bright eyes.

Then his hands were at your waist, tugging rough and impatient. He shoved your skirt higher, dragged your damp knickers down your thighs in one sharp pull. The fabric barely hit your knees before he was crowding you back against the tree, hitching your leg over his hip with a growl.

You gasped, scrambling to hold onto him, nails digging into his shoulders as he lined up and thrust home, hard and thick, filling you in one breathless stroke. The stretch burned, the heat seared but he groaned like it was salvation, like he’d been waiting forever just to get buried inside you.

“Fuck— So tight—” he hissed, voice cracking, the sound caught somewhere between awe and desperation. “Christ, been thinkin’ about this—”

He fucked you rough, each thrust driving you up the bark, scraping your spine, dragging a cry from your throat he swallowed with his mouth. His hips slammed into yours, relentless, the slap of wet skin drowned by the patter of rain. Every time he bottomed out he made a noise, deep and guttural, the kind you felt in your bones.

“Ollie—” you sobbed again, breaking against him.

He moaned ragged into your mouth, the sound guttural and shameless, before dropping his forehead to yours, sweat and rain dripping from his brow. “Say it again,” he growled, hips stuttering, the words half-command, half-plea. His breath came in broken gasps, curses slipping between them. “Say my fuckin’ name.”

“Ollie. Ollie—”

The name unraveled him. “Fuck—fuck—” His pace faltered, thrusts messy now, desperate. His groans turned into wrecked growls, muffled against your neck, each one vibrating through you as his release hit. He came deep, spilling heat into you in heavy pulses, shuddering hard as though every drop tore him apart, his grip bruising at your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

You clung to him, gasping, lips pressed to the rough line of his jaw. His noises still rattled out of him. Low moans, shaky curses, a broken whimper that cracked your chest open. The storm eased around you, leaving only the drip of water through the trees and the harsh echo of his ragged breaths, each one wrecked like he’d given you more than just his body.

He stayed braced against you for a long moment, chest heaving, hand cupping your jaw as though he couldn’t quite let go. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, shockingly gentle for the man who’d just fucked you against a tree. His eyes, when they found yours again, were softer, still storm-bright, but cracked open, vulnerable in a way his silence never was.

“You’ll ruin me,” he muttered, rough, hoarse.

You smiled, lips swollen, voice a whisper against his. “Already have.”

Two days passed without a glimpse of him.

The manor’s grounds felt emptier without his steady presence. No scrape of stone, no low grumble of tools, no broad-shouldered figure bent over the earth. You told yourself you were relieved, that maybe you’d pushed too far that night under the storm, that his silence now was proof you’d crossed a line.

But by the third morning, you couldn’t stand it anymore. You packed a peace offering. An old tin of shortbread, wrapped clumsily in a tea towel. You followed the path through the orchard and into the woods, heart pounding the further you went.

The cottage sat squat and solid at the far edge of the estate, stone walls weathered, chimney dark. Smoke curled faintly into the air. You hesitated at the door, lifted your hand to knock only for it to swing open before your knuckles met wood.

Ollie filled the doorway, sleeves rolled, hair damp from a recent wash, jaw rough with stubble. His eyes cut over you once, sharp, unreadable, before landing on the bundle in your hands.

“I—” you started, suddenly flustered. “I came to—um. Peace offering. And maybe an apology. For—”

Whatever excuse you were about to make died when he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and tugged you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, your back thudding against it, shortbread tin tumbling uselessly to the floor.

“Don’t need biscuits,” he muttered, already pulling you to the narrow bed against the far wall.

“Wait, Ollie—” you gasped, but then you were on your back, the thin quilt bunched beneath you, his weight braced above. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and wet, hands dragging your clothes up and off with rough impatience.

Before you could catch your breath, he was between your knees, pressing them apart, shoving your skirt up to your hips with both hands. The fabric bunched high, exposing more skin than you’d ever meant him to see in daylight, and he froze for a heartbeat when he realized.

No panties.

A low, guttural sound tore from him, half moan, half curse, and his head dropped against your thigh like the sight had winded him. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word thick in his accent, voice wrecked with disbelief and hunger. His stubble scraped your skin as he mouthed along the inside of your leg, teeth catching just enough to sting.

“You came all the way out here like this?” His voice was rough, accusing, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship you for it or punish you.

You gasped, fingers twisting in his damp hair. “I—didn’t plan—”

“Don’t lie.” His breath was hot against you, his mouth so close you could feel every word. “Knew exactly what you were doing.”

Then his mouth was on you, hot and filthy, tongue sliding through you like he meant to drown himself in it. you cried out, clutching at his hair, hips arching helplessly. He held you down with both hands, broad palms pressing into your thighs to keep you spread, devouring you like he hadn’t eaten in days. Every lap of his tongue, every suck around your clit, every sound of approval against your slick had you unraveling, begging, chanting his name.

“Ollie—oh God, Ollie—”

He groaned into you at the sound, the vibration shooting through you until you broke, shuddering, coming apart against his mouth. He didn’t stop, licking you through it, drinking every tremor until you were shaking too hard to breathe.

Then he was on you again, crawling up, kissing you sloppy and raw so you could taste yourself on his lips. His trousers were already shoved down, his cock hot and hard against your thigh. He didn’t bother with finesse this time, just hauled your hips up, braced your knees wide, and drove into you with one long, brutal thrust.

You cried out, nails dragging red down his back, the quilt slipping uselessly to the floor with the force of his thrusts. He fucked you hard, steady, every push bottoming out so deep you swore you could feel him in your lungs, every drag pulling a helpless whimper from your throat. The bedframe groaned in rhythm, an old protest against the violence of his body driving into yours.

His forehead pressed to yours, hot and damp, his breath ragged, eyes blown wide and wild. The sounds spilling from him weren’t neat, weren’t controlled. Broken groans, harsh grunts every time your cunt clenched tight around him, curses muttered under his breath like he couldn’t stop them.

“Say it,” he panted, hips slamming into you, voice torn like it hurt to ask.

“Ollie—” you gasped, over and over, the name spilling shamelessly from your mouth like a prayer, each repetition dragging another feral noise from his chest.

His pace turned frantic, messy, desperate. He buried his face in your neck, stubble scraping, teeth grazing hard enough to leave heat blooming in your skin. His words came out ruined, half-swallowed curses against your throat: “Fuck—tight, so tight—Christ—”

Then his rhythm faltered. His hips stuttered, a broken sound ripping from him as he drove deep one final time. You felt the hot ropes of him spilling inside, thick and heavy, his whole body shuddering with it. He groaned your name low and guttural, like it was being dragged out of the pit of him, like he’d been holding it back for years and finally let it break free.

You clung to him, every tremor echoing through you, the wet heat of him coating your insides until you could feel it seeping, dripping, obscene. His sounds lingered in your ear; harsh breaths, strangled moans, the kind of noises you knew you’d hear in your head later when you were alone.

For a long moment, the only rhythm was the creak of the bed beneath your tangled bodies, the rasp of his chest against yours. His hand slid up your side, big and rough but trembling now, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing gentle as though grounding himself in the wreckage he’d made of you.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes were still storm-bright, hair plastered to his forehead, lips swollen, chest heaving. Softer, but not safe. Cracked open in a way that made your chest ache.

“Peace offering accepted,” he rasped, breath uneven, and then—shockingly—his lips hitched into a crooked, boyish smile that made him look nothing like the man who’d just ruined you.

You laughed, breathless and wrecked, tugging him back down to kiss you again, greedy for every last ragged sound you could steal out of him.

When sleep finally pulled at your limbs, you thought the silence might feel heavy again, the way it had your first nights here. But it didn’t. Not with his breath rough in your ear, his weight solid beside you, his quiet pressed tight against your bones.

For once, Ollie didn’t have to say a word.