Golden morning light spills across the kitchen tiles, turning ordinary surfaces warm and almost forgiving. I'm standing at the stove, sliding the last fluffy mound of scrambled eggs onto Lana's plate and adding an extra strip of crispy bacon—shoot days always demand more fuel.
Lana is tucked into the small breakfast corner, legs crossed under the table, phone in one hand while the other absently brushes strands of hair behind her ear. She's already in her travel clothes: soft black leggings, an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame. The real transformation—makeup, wardrobe, persona—will happen later at the studio. Her little leather makeup case waits by the front door like a soldier ready for deployment.
"Breakfast of champions," I announce, setting the plate down with a gentle clink. "Extra protein for my favorite star."
She glances up, offering a smile that feels thinner than usual. "Thanks, love."
I linger, watching her fork hover, then take tiny, distracted bites. The microwave clock ticks down: fifteen minutes until she has to leave, and she's barely made a dent.
"Rough morning?" I ask, already knowing the shape of the answer.
She exhales slowly and sets the fork aside. "I hate this part. Leaving you on days like today."
I pull out the chair opposite her and sit. "Shoot days, you mean."
She nods, eyes dropping to the plate. "Yeah."
I reach across and cover her hand with mine. Her fingers are surprisingly cool despite the steaming coffee mug she's been cradling. "Lana, we've talked about this. You're not hiding anything. You're not betraying me. You're working. That's all."
It's our pre-shoot liturgy—words we repeat like a protective chant.
"Still," she murmurs, searching my expression, "it bothers you. I can see it even when you try to hide it."
I let the silence sit for a second, weighing honesty against comfort.
Of course it bothers me. In a few hours she'll be undressed under bright lights, performing intimacy with someone she may have met only that morning. The mental images arrive uninvited, vivid and relentless.
But I've learned the script.
"I trust you," I tell her, squeezing once. "That hasn't changed. I'll probably head to Starbucks later, get some writing done. Keep my brain busy."
Her shoulders ease a fraction. She rises, circles the table, and drapes herself over my back, arms looping around my shoulders, chin settling on my collarbone. Her breath brushes my ear, warm and familiar.
"You get so focused when you're writing your stories," she teases softly. "It's kind of sexy."
My ears heat immediately. "Don't start."
"I'm serious." She nuzzles closer. "I love being your first reader for those twisted little Pokémon tales. Dominant trainers, helpless boys… perverted in the sweetest way."
I groan, rubbing a hand over my burning face. Sharing my private fanfiction habit with her—especially the yandere-flavored reverse-world stuff—still feels equal parts thrilling and mortifying. She's merciless with line edits, though, and weirdly encouraging.
"You're just humoring me," I mutter.
She swivels my chair until I'm facing her, then straddles my lap in one smooth motion. "I'm not." Her fingertips trace the edge of my jaw. "The way you write possession, obsession… it's intense. Makes me curious what else lives inside that head of yours."
I manage a crooked smile, still half-convinced she's teasing. "Maybe I'll finish the Whitney chapter today."
She frames my face with both hands and kisses me—slow, deep, tasting faintly of coffee and mint. When she draws back, her eyes are tender but playful.
"Home by six," she promises, thumb grazing my lower lip. "Don't burn dinner."
"I won't. I'll have something ready."
She slides off, collects her bag and makeup case, then pauses at the doorway. The confident mask slips for a heartbeat, revealing something raw underneath.
"I love you, Adam," she says quietly, as though the words still feel like a miracle.
"I love you too," I answer, and the door clicks shut behind her.
The house instantly feels larger, colder. Silence rushes in to fill the space she left behind.
I stare at the abandoned half-eaten plate, her vanilla scent still drifting. The familiar weight presses against my ribs—loneliness laced with something sharper I refuse to examine too closely.
"Better move before I spiral," I tell the empty kitchen, stacking dishes with unnecessary force.
I know what happens if I stay home on a shoot day: the laptop opens, her stage name gets typed into the search bar, and I spend hours consuming scenes I've already seen a dozen times, hating the way my body responds even as my stomach twists.
Forty minutes later I'm showered, in clean jeans and a hoodie, laptop bag slung over my shoulder, stepping into the familiar buzz of the neighborhood Starbucks.
Mia, the barista who knows my order by heart on Tuesdays and Thursdays, grins as I approach the counter.
"Venti caramel macchiato, extra shot?"
"You're a mind reader."
She slides the cup over with a wink. "Corner table's free. Go create."
I settle at my preferred high-top near the window—good natural light, elevated feeling, fewer distractions. I open the document: Chapter 52 of Trainer's Pet. Max is walking into Whitney's gym, unaware he's about to lose far more than a badge.
I start typing, sinking gratefully into the escape:
Whitney turned the key in the lock with a deliberate click. Her eyes glittered, all hunger and certainty. "You really thought you could walk in here, challenge me, and leave untouched?"
The chair beside mine drags across the floor.
I glance up, irritated at the interruption in an almost-empty café.
A woman settles in right next to me—close enough that our elbows could brush if either of us leans. Auburn hair falls in loose waves, features sharp and composed, perfume expensive and unmistakable. Something about her tugs at recognition, but the connection won't snap into place.
"Sorry," she says, voice low and slightly husky. "Best Wi-Fi signal is right here."
I give a tight nod and shift an inch away. "It's fine."
She opens a thin MacBook, angling it so the screens are almost side by side. I try to refocus, but her presence is like static—impossible to ignore.
After a minute she glances over. "You're writing?"
I minimize the window instantly. No stranger needs to see gym-leader femdom in progress.
"Just messing around," I mumble into my cup.
She smiles—small, knowing. "You look very serious. Intense."
I return a polite grimace and pray she'll drop it.
She doesn't.
Instead she leans a fraction closer, her knee grazing mine for half a second under the table. "These tables are tiny, aren't they?"
I mutter agreement and stare harder at my screen.
Then I notice what's on hers.
My pulse stutters.
She's on the web-novel platform. Trainer's Pet—the exact chapter I uploaded last night—is open on her screen. The scene where Max faces the ice-type gym leader's colder brand of victory.
"You read Trainer's Pet?" The question escapes before I can catch it.
She looks up, surprise flickering before melting into a pleased curve of lips. "You know the story?"
"I've… come across it." My brain scrambles for neutral territory. "Pretty niche."
"Very." She scrolls slowly, my own paragraphs sliding beneath her fingertips. "But addictive. The reversal of power, the psychological edge… it's done so well."
Heat creeps up my neck—pride warring with embarrassment. "What drew you to it? Not exactly blockbuster material."
"A friend mentioned it," she says after the briefest pause. "Word spreads in certain circles."
"What kind of circles?" Curiosity gets the better of me.
She waves a hand. "Creative ones. I dabble in a few things." Her gaze flicks to me. "What about you? What keeps you busy?"
"Between gigs at the moment," I say automatically. "My girlfriend's career is… solid. Gives me room to figure things out."
"Lucky woman," she replies, smile polite but edged. "Supporting a creative guy like you."
The compliment lands awkwardly. I point at her screen to shift focus. "Next part's pretty intense. One of my favorite sequences."
She arches a brow. "So you're a fan of the heavier stuff?"
My face ignites. "It's… targeted. Written for a specific audience."
She laughs—warm, disarming. "I'm Morgan, by the way."
"Adam."
"Adam." She leans in slightly. "I've read every chapter twice. That Sabrina scene?" She fans herself theatrically. "Still recovering."
I nearly inhale coffee. "You can't just say that out loud."
"Why not?" She gestures at the empty tables around us. "We're practically alone. And honestly, the way the author handles obsession and control… it's impressive. Layered."
"You really think the psychology holds up?" I ask, unable to hide the hope in my voice.
"Completely. I've always loved gym-leader characters. The games planted the seed; stories like this… took it somewhere darker." Her eyes gleam. "Submission fantasies are surprisingly common when the power flips."
I swallow. "Yeah. The idea of being wanted that badly—enough to break rules—it's compelling. In fiction, anyway."
"Exactly." Her voice softens. "In real life it would be terrifying. In a story… intoxicating."
Silence stretches, charged.
She tilts her head. "What does your girlfriend think of your reading habits?"
The question lands like cold water. My mind flashes to Lana—on set, surrounded by lights and bodies.
"She's in digital marketing," I lie smoothly. "Social media management. Small startup."
Morgan's brow lifts just enough to notice. "Sounds… niche."
Before I can deflect, she continues. "Have you checked out Smolbluntsmoker69's other stuff? The private Zelda WIP is incredible. Gerudo dominance arc is brutal in the best way."
My mouth goes dry.
That story hasn't left my private Discord. Ever.
"How did you even find that one?" My voice comes out thinner than intended.
She hesitates—only a heartbeat. "I… follow a few private circles."
My pulse kicks harder. "You're in the Discord?"
"Discord?" She blinks, innocent. "No idea what you mean."
But the micro-pause, the steady way she holds my gaze—it feels rehearsed.
I open my mouth to press, maybe even admit I'm the author, when her phone vibrates sharply.
She checks the screen, expression tightening. "Damn. Work emergency." She snaps the laptop shut. "I have to go."
Disappointment flickers across her face—real, or practiced? I can't tell.
"Nice talking to you, Adam." She scribbles on a napkin and slides it over. "In case you ever want to geek out over literature again."
Her heels click away, measured and confident.
I stare at the napkin, then crumple it into my empty cup.
Super-fan coincidences are one thing. Knowing unpublished work is another.
I shake my head, trying to laugh it off.
The universe has a weird sense of humor lately.
—
Morgan's POV
I step into the studio, heels striking tile with purpose. The familiar mix of hairspray, sweat, and sex rolls over me like an old perfume—comforting in its predictability.
Today felt flawless.
I enter the makeup room. Lana is already there, slumped in the chair, skin glowing with exertion, blonde strands clinging damply to her neck. Her hands tremble faintly as she scrolls her phone. Exhausted. Vulnerable.
Perfect.
"Hey, you," I say, dropping into the seat beside her.
She glances up, tired eyes lighting with recognition. "Morgan! You're practically glowing. Good news?"
I let a real smile break through—just enough. "I met someone… special today."
Her whole face brightens. "That's wonderful! Tell me everything."
I lean back as the makeup artist begins blending foundation, watching Lana's reflection instead of meeting her gaze directly.
"Soon," I say lightly. "Very soon."
She beams, oblivious.
"How much longer on your contract?" she asks. "You've been ready to walk for ages."
I laugh softly. "Faster than the company wants."
What I don't mention: my accounts are already restructured, my savings secured, my timeline locked. Everything is ready.
All that remains is claiming what I've already chosen.
And Lana—sweet, generous Lana—practically handed him to me on a silver platter.