June POV:
He didn’t say anything at first.
Just slid closer—his fingers slipping under the hem of my sweatpants, palms warm and steady. I stiffened for a second, because Justin, with his unpredictable moods and hands that could both soothe and destroy, was now massaging my thighs like it was the most normal thing in the world.
God help , it felt divine.
His thumbs pressed deep into the muscles, working over every knot, every tensioned inch of , like he could smooth away the anxiety lodged inside my bones.
"You’re tense," he murmured, eyes on my legs like he was studying sothing holy. "Let take care of it."
I scoffed, but it ca out breathy. "Did real dating always involve thigh massages?"
He gave a crooked grin. "If it doesn’t, we’re doing it wrong."
His hands moved slower now, more deliberate, kneading like he had nowhere else to be—like this, touching , was the only thing that mattered. I tried to keep my breathing normal, tried not to shift under his touch like so starved creature aching for more.
And then, like the traitor I am, I moaned.
It slipped out—a soft, almost silent sound, but it was real and raw and oh-so-damning.
He looked up, eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and possession.
"Don’t stop," I muttered, biting my lower lip.
"Wasn’t planning to," he said, voice low, amused.
I let my head fall back against the couch. I hadn’t ant to relax this much, but his touch was turning my brain to mush, the fatigue from everything—the club, the argunts, the fake labels, the damn hickeys—finally catching up with .
His hands slowed.
The warmth spread.
I blinked... once, then again.
Then darkness.
I was out.
Not because I didn’t want to enjoy it—but because, for the first ti in weeks, my body let go.
And the last thing I heard before sleep claid was Justin’s voice, soft and hoarse:
"Girlfriend."
Like he was tasting the word for the first ti.
And sohow, in his mouth, it sounded less like a label... and more like a promise.
I blinked awake slowly, still swimming in that hazy, half-dreaming space where everything felt soft and weightless. My body was warm, cocooned in safety and sothing that slled like musk and faint cologne.
It took a second to realize where I was.
Then I looked down—Justin.
He was curled up at the end of the couch, my legs resting across his lap like they belonged there. One arm draped lazily over my knees, like even in sleep he refused to let go of .
His head had tilted forward, dark lashes brushing against his cheek. No lines of tension. No clenched jaw. Just... peace. Real peace. The kind that didn’t look rehearsed or defensive. It made him look younger sohow, softer—like the boy he could’ve been if life hadn’t decided to play goddamn Jumanji with his brain.
I just... stared.
Because it was rare. So rare to see him like this. Unmasked.
I hated the idea of waking him, honestly. But—
"Shit," I muttered under my breath. My bladder had other plans. The kind that scread get up or risk humiliation.
I tried to move my leg gently, thinking I could just slide out without disturbing him.
Wrong.
The mont I shifted, his eyes snapped open like a trap being sprung. No confusion. Just sharp, alert intensity, the kind that said I sleep with demons under my pillow.
He looked at , then at my legs, then back up. His grip tightened for a second like he thought I was trying to sneak away again.
"I need to pee," I whispered.
His brows knit together like he didn’t quite compute that for a second. Then he blinked, and just like that, the tightness in his shoulders eased.
He leaned back slightly, his voice rough and sleep-heavy. "You always gotta run from in the weirdest ways."
I gave him a look. "Trust , this isn’t the kind of running that involves emotional trauma. This is biological warfare."
He chuckled—raspy, tired, amused—and finally let go of my legs.
"Go," he murmured, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Before I start thinking you’re just trying to crawl away from your boyfriend."
My face went hot. He was joking. Probably.
Maybe.
But I wasn’t about to test that theory with a full bladder.
So I bolted.
*****
Three minutes. That’s all I was gone. Just enough ti to empty my bladder, splash so cold water on my face, and try to remind myself that this wasn’t a fever dream. That I’d actually agreed to date Justin. The guy with voices, control issues, and a body count (emotional and otherwise) longer than my shopping list. But also the guy who made my body light up like a damn Christmas tree just by looking at .
I padded back into the living room, the floor cool under my bare feet, and stopped in my tracks.
"What the hell..."
Justin was bent over in front of my fridge, rummaging through it like a man on a mission. My cabinets were open. Two of my ceramic mixing bowls were already out on the counter, along with a half-used packet of pasta, olive oil, garlic, and—was that my last wedge of Parsan?
"What are you doing?" I asked, blinking.
He didn’t even flinch. Still buried in my fridge like he owned the place.
"Making dinner for my girlfriend," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His voice was calm, focused. He finally straightened, shutting the fridge with his foot and tossing a bell pepper onto the counter like a weapon of war.
"Wait—your what?"
He glanced at , cocky smirk forming. "You said yes, didn’t you?"
"Yeah, but I didn’t know it ca with a full-course al."
"It does," he said, rolling up the sleeves of his black hoodie with a flourish. "It cos with homade dinner, aggressive kissing, unsolicited thigh massages, and occasional ntal breakdowns. No returns."
My jaw dropped. "You’re making this up as you go."
"Damn right," he said, opening a drawer with far too much confidence for soone who didn’t live here. "Now where’s your peeler? That bell pepper’s looking at wrong."
I stared. I stared. Because this—this dostic scene—wasn’t supposed to be real. Justin, the guy who literally kidnapped my dignity by carrying out of class like so barbarian, was now in my kitchen trying to play MasterChef: Psychotic Boyfriend Edition.
And sohow... it was working?
"You can cook and not just breakfast?" I asked skeptically, walking over to the counter.
He looked insulted. "Sweetheart, I didn’t survive by just torturing people. I can make a an pasta. My Alfredo makes people cry."
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Is it the taste or the food poisoning?"
Justin just chuckled, slicing into the pepper like a man with a vendetta. "Keep talking, and you’ll be the one crying. From how good it is."
God. What the hell had I signed up for?
***********
"I can help, you know," I said, stepping beside him and reaching for the cutting board like I hadn’t spent the last three minutes staring at him in disbelief.
Justin moved the knife just out of my reach, one brow cocked in amusent. "Nope. You sit. Look pretty. Maybe play DJ if you want."
"You’re not serious."
He turned, put both hands on my shoulders, and spun gently away from the counter. "Dead serious. I’ve got a whole plan in my head. You, in the kitchen? Disaster waiting to happen."
I narrowed my eyes. "I know how to cook!"
"Burning water doesn’t count."
I slapped his arm, earning a grin that made my stomach flip. "At least let do sothing," I insisted.
He thought for a second, then his expression lit up with a mischievous glint that imdiately had suspicious. "Alright. You can put an apron on ."
"That’s it?"
"Only if you behave."
I rolled my eyes but pulled the apron from its hook. "Fine, chef. Arms up."
He did, and I stepped close, looping the strings around his neck and tying them behind his back, my fingers brushing against the broad muscles of his shoulders. God help . The man could’ve made tying an apron X-rated. I moved to adjust the waist ties, and that’s when it happened.
His hand caught mine.
We froze.
I looked up.
He was already looking down at .
His eyes darkened, the usual storm behind them suddenly brewing into sothing deeper, sothing that made my breath catch in my throat.
"You have no idea what you do to ," he whispered.
And then his lips were on mine.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t slow.
It was a claim.
One second I was standing, and the next, I was on the counter, his hands gripping my thighs as he stepped between them. My fingers tangled in his hoodie, dragging him impossibly closer. His mouth moved like it was trying to morize mine, like he needed to know that this wasn’t just another kiss. This was a ltdown. A detonation.
My sweatpants slipped slightly on the counter as I pulled him closer, moaning softly into his mouth when his hand found the small of my back and pressed into him. It was ssy, hot, devouring. My legs instinctively wrapped around him.
His tongue brushed against mine, and I swear I forgot what breathing was. Ti didn’t exist anymore. Only lips. Only tongues. Only him.
And just as fast, he pulled back.
I blinked, dazed and breathless, mouth swollen and brain liquified.
"Stop distracting ," he said, voice low, strained, wrecked.
I gaped at him. "?"
He smirked like the devil, then gently guided back to sit properly on the counter.
"Sit here. Look hot. Be good." He leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose. "If you’re lucky, I’ll give you dessert after dinner."
Then he turned around, walked to the sink, washed his hands like nothing had happened, and started slicing vegetables.
What. The. Actual. Hell.
My brain was short-circuited. My lips were still tingling. And the man was casually humming while sautéing garlic.
I was in hell.
Sexy, frustrating, delicious-slling hell.
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