The next day, the tabloids exploded.
I was curled up on the couch in my new apartment, flipping between Sunday football and—let's be honest—doom-scrolling every headline I could find. Not because I cared what the media thought. I just needed to make sure my name wasn't splashed across some scandal-laced headline in bold font.
Three days. That's how long it had been since I'd last spoken to Aaron. He said I needed space. And honestly? He wasn't wrong. But the silence? It was loud. Deafening.
Was he thinking about me?
Did he regret this?
Us?
I sighed and let my phone slide from my fingers, landing with a soft thud on the floor. The apartment around me was still half-unpacked—boxes stacked like forgotten promises, tape curling off their corners. I hated the quiet.
Then, the door creaked open.
There he was.
Aaron stood in the doorway holding flowers and a steaming to-go cup. His coat was dusted with the lightest touch of rain, and his smile—soft, apologetic—nearly broke me.
"I brought hot chocolate," he said, stepping in. "And flowers. And... I missed you. A lot."
He looked around, taking in the mess of boxes and newspapers and me, sitting there like the main character of a very bad rom-com.
"You okay, love?"
I gave a tired smile and reached for the cup. "Yeah. Just... unpacking."
His eyes flicked to the coffee table where several newspapers lay open—none of them flipped to the comics. I quickly swiped them into a pile and shoved them behind a box.
"I looking at the comics," I said weakly.
He raised an eyebrow, amused, but said nothing. Instead, he shrugged out of his coat, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed next to me on the couch, his thigh brushing mine.
"I was thinking we should do something fun today," he said, casual.
"Fun?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He leaned back, draping an arm across the couch behind me. "Yeah. Fun. You remember that?"
I snorted. "Define fun."
"We could go out," he offered. "Or we could stay in... and be busy."
The glint in his eyes said exactly what kind of busy he meant.
I gave him a look. "So much for subtlety."
Aaron's hand slid onto my knee, warm and deliberate. I jumped up.
"Oh no. I know that look," I said, backing away. "I haven't even showered yet."
He smirked, rising slowly to his feet and following me around the coffee table.
"I don't care," he murmured, voice dropping. "Just let me touch you. Let me have you."
I swallowed, heart racing. "Weren't we supposed to go outside? See the world?"
He stopped, expression flickering. "I thought you were... busy. With all this." He gestured at the boxes, the half-lived-in apartment.
I folded my arms. "You know damn well I wasn't."
He tilted his head, his tone dipping into something more dangerous. "What are you afraid of, Laina?"
Then, with a slow grin: "I don't bite... unless you ask me to."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because the truth was, I didn't know what scared me more—how much I wanted him, or how much I had him.
Aaron sighed and began buttoning his shirt back up with mock formality. "Well," he said with a wink, "if you won't let me please you, I suppose we could go see a movie. In Italy."
I blinked. "Are you serious?"
"You're my assistant," he said smoothly. "I could say it's a business trip."
"If anyone found out, I'd have to quit Mr. Simmons."
Aaron took a step forward, then another. "Did you just call me Mr. Simmons?"
He caught me around the waist and pulled me flush against him.
"Because if you did," he murmured, "I might have to remind you who you're talking to."
He tangled a hand gently in my hair and tipped my head back until our eyes locked.
"You heard me," I whispered. ""
That was all it took.
He carried me into the bedroom, the air thick with anticipation. My heart pounded against his chest, and I could feel his breath against my neck—hot, steady, controlled.
He set me down gently on the edge of the bed, his gaze sweeping over me like he was memorizing every inch. "Lie back," he whispered, voice low and commanding.
I obeyed.
Aaron peeled off his shirt slowly, every movement deliberate. The soft overhead light cast golden shadows over his toned chest, the hard lines of his abdomen tightening with each breath. He unbuttoned my blouse next—painfully slow—his fingers brushing against my bare skin with reverence, not haste.
"You drive me insane," he murmured, kissing the curve of my shoulder. "Every time you pull away… every time you doubt what we are… I want to remind you like this."
His lips moved down my collarbone, each kiss searing and slow, until he reached the swell of my breast. He paused, his eyes locking on mine, giving me one last chance to stop him.
I didn't.
His mouth closed around my nipple, and I arched into him with a soft gasp, his tongue flicking gently before sucking just hard enough to make my toes curl. I ran my fingers through his hair, holding him close, trembling as he lavished attention on both breasts, his hands stroking down the length of my body.
He unbuttoned my jeans next, pulling them down along with my panties in one smooth motion. "Look at you," he whispered. "You're already trembling, and I haven't even tasted you yet."
"Aaron—"
He slid two fingers between my thighs, groaning at the slick heat he found. "So wet for me," he murmured. "I haven't even earned it yet."
But he would.
He dropped to his knees, spreading my thighs with a gentle insistence. Then his mouth was on me—soft, slow, teasing. His tongue traced lazy circles, then dove deeper with expert rhythm. He licked, sucked, explored me like he had all the time in the world.
I cried out, fingers twisting in the sheets, hips lifting toward his mouth. But he held me down, strong arms pinning me in place as he brought me right to the edge, then backed off just to hear me beg.
"Aaron—please—" I gasped, barely able to breathe. "Please don't stop—"
He looked up at me, his mouth glistening. "That's more like it."
Then he rose, stripping out of his slacks and boxers, his erection hard and ready. He knelt between my legs and leaned down, kissing me deeply—letting me taste myself on his tongue.
He slid inside me in one slow, deep thrust, filling me completely. My back arched as we both groaned—this wasn't rushed or frenzied. This was intentional. Controlled. Deep.
He moved slowly, rolling his hips, watching every expression flicker across my face. "I need you to know," he whispered between thrusts. "This—us—this isn't just a fling, Alaina. I'm not letting you go."
Our bodies moved together, hips meeting, sweat-slick skin colliding again and again until my legs were shaking and I was begging his name.
He cupped my cheek, kissed me hard, then thrust deeper—hitting that perfect spot until I shattered beneath him, crying out his name like a prayer.
Only then did he let go, groaning into my neck as he emptied inside me, holding me like he never wanted to let go.
When it was over, he stayed inside me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting and clinging like the world might fall apart the second we let go.
"You feel like home," he murmured.
And for the first time in days, I finally believed him.