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He stood first, and she watched him gather his backpack, the same shy hunch in his shoulders that made her chest ache. The bell had been silent for ten minutes already. They were the only two left in the room.

"Lunch?" she asked, stretching her arms above her head, letting her crop top ride up.

His eyes flickered to her midriff and away, a flush climbing his neck. "Yeah. I mean, if you want to—"

"I want to." She stood, shouldered her own bag, and let her fingers brush his as they walked out. The contact was deliberate. Everything with him was deliberate now.

The hallway was mostly empty, late bell stragglers disappearing into classrooms. Their footsteps echoed off the lockers. She matched his pace, walking close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm with every step.

"You okay?" she asked.

He glanced at her, quick, then away. "Yeah. Just— still processing, I think."

"Processing what?"

His hand came up, rubbed the back of his neck. "That any of this is real."

She stopped walking. He stopped too, turning to face her. The hallway was empty. She stepped into his space, close enough to smell the detergent on his hoodie, the faint warmth of his skin.

"Look at me," she said.

He did. Hazel eyes behind those wireframe glasses, nervous and open and so fucking beautiful she could drown in them.

"I'm real," she said. "This is real. I'm not going to wake up tomorrow and decide you're a joke. Okay?"

He swallowed. Nodded.

"Say it."

"Okay." His voice cracked on the word. "Okay."

She smiled, soft, and let her hand find his. His fingers curled around hers, tentative at first, then tighter. She pulled him forward, and they walked the rest of the way to the cafeteria with their hands locked together.

The cafeteria was loud. The usual chaos—trays clattering, voices overlapping, the scrape of chairs on linoleum. Fluorescent light bounced off the walls, flat and unforgiving. She felt eyes land on them the second they walked through the doors.

Marcus was at the jock table, mid-laugh, and the laugh died when he saw them. His jaw tightened. Chloe, two tables over, went still, her green eyes tracking the joined hands with something that looked like hunger and hatred mixed together.

Bella ignored them. All of them. She kept her eyes on Liam.

"Let me get us food," he said, already pulling away. "You want the usual?"

She blinked. "You know my usual?"

His ears went red. "I— I notice things. You always get the chicken wrap and a bottle of water."

Heat pooled low in her belly, sudden and sharp. He noticed. He'd been watching her too. The knowledge made her feel drunk with it.

"Yeah," she said, her voice coming out softer than she meant. "That's perfect."

He nodded, headed for the line, and she watched him go. Watched the way he moved, that slouched self-deprecating walk, the hoodie hanging off his lean frame. Her cunt ached. It hadn't stopped aching since his palm was on her in that classroom.

His backpack was still on the seat next to her. He'd left it. Trusted her with it.

She looked at it for a long moment. Then she looked at him, standing in the food line, oblivious, shuffling forward with his tray.

Her hand moved before she fully decided.

The zipper was loud in her ears, but the cafeteria noise swallowed it. She slid his phone out of the front pocket. Unlocked—he hadn't locked it, or maybe he'd forgotten. Either way, the home screen opened to her.

She found his contacts. Found her name— Isabella Torres? —with a question mark, like he wasn't sure she'd actually given him her real number.

She smiled. Then she stood, slid the phone into her back pocket, and walked toward the bathroom.

The bathroom was empty. Fluorescent buzz, the faint smell of bleach and lavender. She locked herself in the last stall and leaned against the wall.

Her heart was pounding. Not from fear—from the thrill of it. From doing something for him, something only he would see.

She pulled her crop top over her head. Unclasped her bra, let it fall, and stood there topless in the harsh bathroom light, her heavy breasts bare, her nipples tightening in the cool air.

She looked at herself in the phone screen—her reflection, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her full curves on display. She positioned her fingers over her nipples, just enough to cover, and smiled. A bold smile. A hungry one. The smile of a girl who knew exactly what she was offering.

She took the photo.

Then she set it as her contact photo, saved it, and closed the app without lingering on it. If she looked too long, she'd second-guess. And she wasn't going to second-guess. Not with him.

She dressed, unlocked the stall, and walked back out into the cafeteria like nothing had happened.

He was already at the table, two trays set down, his hands empty. He looked up when she sat, relief flickering across his face.

"Thought you bailed," he said, quiet.

"Never." She slid into the seat next to him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his under the table. "Just needed the bathroom."

He nodded, accepting it, and pushed her tray toward her. Chicken wrap. Bottle of water. Exactly what she always got.

She picked up the wrap, took a bite, and watched him eat his own lunch—some kind of sandwich, eaten in small, methodical bites. He was nervous. She could see it in the way his jaw moved, the way he didn't quite meet her eyes.

Under the table, she found his hand. His fingers were cold. She laced hers through them, and he went still for a second, then relaxed.

"You're quiet," she said.

"I'm always quiet."

"Quieter than usual."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, low and quick, like he was forcing the words out before he could stop them: "My birthday party is Friday. You should come."

Her fingers tightened on his. Hard. A reflex she couldn't control.

He felt it. Looked at her. "You don't have to. I just— I thought I'd ask. Derek's throwing it at his place, nothing big, just some people. But I wanted you there."

She was still holding his hand too tight. She loosened her grip, forced herself to breathe.

"I'll be there," she said.

He blinked. "Really?"

"Really." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "You think I'd miss your birthday?"

His ears went red again. He ducked his head, a smile tugging at his mouth, and she wanted to bite that smile. Wanted to taste it.

"It's Friday," he said. "Seven. Derek's place. I'll text you the address."

"You better."

He laughed, quiet and surprised, and that sound was better than any compliment anyone had ever given her.

They ate in silence for a while, their hands still locked under the table, her thumb tracing circles on his knuckles. She could feel the stares. Chloe, two tables over, hadn't stopped looking at them. Marcus was pretending to talk to his teammates, but his eyes kept drifting back.

Let them look. Let them burn.

"Your phone," she said, casual. "I borrowed it. While you were in line."

His head snapped up. "What?"

"Relax. I just updated my contact photo. The one you had was the default." She smiled, slow and wicked. "I fixed it."

He stared at her. Then he reached for his phone, pulled it out of his pocket, and opened it.

She watched his face as he saw the photo. The way his eyes went wide. The way his breath caught. The way his hand trembled, just slightly, as he stared at the image of her topless on his screen, her fingers covering her nipples, her smile daring him to look away.

He didn't look away.

"Bella," he said, his voice rough.

"That's my name." She took a bite of her wrap, chewed, swallowed. "Don't wear it out."

He locked the phone. Set it face-down on the table. She could see the pulse hammering in his throat.

Under the table, his hand tightened on hers.

"You're going to kill me," he said, barely audible.

She leaned in, her mouth close to his ear, her breath warm against his skin. "Not yet. But Friday's coming."

A shudder ran through him. She felt it travel from his hand to hers, felt it in the way his breath stuttered.

She pulled back, picked up her water, and took a long drink, watching him over the rim of the bottle.

He was staring at her like she was something he couldn't quite understand. Something he wanted to understand. Something he was afraid to touch.

Good. She wanted him afraid. She wanted him trembling. She wanted him so far out of his depth that the only thing he could hold onto was her.

The bell rang. The cafeteria erupted into motion.

She stood, shouldered her bag, and held out her hand. He took it without hesitation.

"Walk me to class?" she asked.

He nodded. Swallowed. "Yeah."

They walked out together, her hand in his, her hip brushing his, the world narrowing to the space between their bodies. Behind them, she heard a chair scrape too hard, a voice she recognized as Marcus's, cut off mid-sentence.

She didn't look back.

She didn't need to.

She already had what she wanted.

Friday arrived like a held breath.

She'd spent two days riding the high of his hand in hers, his voice cracking on her name, the way his eyes had gone dark when he saw her photo. Two days of brushed shoulders in hallways, of notes passed during class, of watching him grow a little bolder each time—his hand finding her lower back, his gaze lingering a beat longer before glancing away.

And now she stood outside Derek's front door, the bass of music vibrating through the wood, laughter and voices spilling out into the warm night.

She'd texted him three minutes ago: I'm here.

Her crop top was new—white, clinging, leaving a strip of bare skin from just under her ribs to the waistband of her shorts. The shorts were denim, cut high, showing the full curve of her thighs. Her hair fell loose and dark over her shoulders. She'd put on lip gloss and a gold chain that spelled his name, resting just above her cleavage.

The door swung open.

Liam stood there, and for a second he just stared at her, his mouth half-open, his hazel eyes wide behind those wireframe glasses. He was wearing a plain t-shirt and swim trunks, his hair damp like he'd already been in the water, and he looked so fucking good she forgot to breathe.

"Bella." Her name came out rough, almost reverent.

She smiled. "Hey."

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug that lifted her off her feet. She laughed, surprised, and buried her face in his neck, breathing him in—chlorine and soap and the warm scent of his skin.

"You came," he said, his voice muffled against her hair.

"I told you I would."

He set her down but didn't let go. His hands stayed on her waist, his thumbs pressing into the bare skin above her shorts. She felt the heat of his palms like a brand.

She leaned back, just enough to look at him. "I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?"

"For your birthday." She bit her lip, watching his eyes drop to her mouth, then snap back up. "You'll see."

He swallowed. Nodded. Then he took her hand and led her inside.

Derek's living room had been cleared out—furniture pushed against the walls, a cooler in the corner, fairy lights strung across the ceiling. A handful of people milled around, cups in hand, music playing from a speaker on the mantel. Through the sliding glass door at the back, she could see the pool, lit from within, the water glowing blue in the dusk.

Derek was the first to notice them. He was slouched against the kitchen counter, cup in hand, talking to a guy she didn't recognize. His eyes landed on her, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Holy shit," he said, loud enough to cut through the music.

A few heads turned. Conversations stuttered.

Derek set down his cup and walked over, a grin spreading across his face. He looked her up and down, slow and appreciative, then turned to Liam. "Bro. You didn't say she was coming."

"I didn't know until Wednesday," Liam said, his ears red.

"And you didn't warn me?" Derek's grin widened. He extended a hand to her. "Derek. Liam's designated best friend and moral compass."

She shook it. "Bella."

"I know who you are." His voice dropped, amused. "Everyone knows who you are."

She felt the stares. A girl in a bikini top and shorts, sitting on the couch, was watching her with undisguised jealousy. A guy in board shorts, beer in hand, had stopped mid-conversation to stare at her chest. Another girl whispered something to her friend, and the friend's eyes went wide.

She didn't care. She only cared about the boy whose hand was still locked around hers.

"You want a drink?" Derek asked. "We've got soda, beer, some weird punch that Marcus brought—"

"I'm good," she said. Her eyes found the pool again. Blue water, heat rising from it in the cooling air. "But I want to get in the water."

She turned to Liam. Let her voice go soft. Pleading. "Come with me?"

He blinked. "I— I was just in. It's cold."

"Please?" She stepped closer, her body brushing his, her hand still in his. "I want to swim with you."

She watched him break. Watched the hesitation crumble under the weight of her voice, her body, the way she said his name like a prayer.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay. Yeah."

She pulled him toward the sliding door, past the jealous stares, past Derek's knowing grin, past the girl who whispered too loud and the guy who didn't bother to look away. The night air hit her skin, cool and damp, and she kicked off her sandals at the edge of the pool.

The water glowed. Steam rose from its surface, curling into the dark.

"You coming in like that?" Liam asked, his voice tentative.

She turned to face him. The fairy lights from the house caught his face, softened it, made him look younger and more vulnerable and more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen.

"Not exactly."

She reached for the hem of her crop top. Pulled it over her head in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the concrete.

His breath caught.

Underneath, she was wearing a micro thong—a scrap of white fabric that barely covered her, held in place by thin strings at her hips. Her breasts were bare, full and heavy, her nipples already tight in the cool air. The gold chain with his name rested between them, catching the light.

She watched his face. Watched the way his eyes traveled down her body, slow, disbelieving. Watched his throat move as he swallowed.

"This is your surprise," she said, her voice low. "Happy birthday."

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at her like she was a dream he was afraid to wake from.

She stepped to the edge of the pool, turned, and dove in.

The water was cold—shockingly, achingly cold—and it stole her breath as she surfaced, gasping, laughing, her hair slicked back, water streaming down her bare skin. She treaded water, looking up at him.

He was still standing at the edge, frozen, his eyes fixed on her.

"Liam." She let her voice go soft again, coaxing. "Come in."

He shook his head, a small, helpless motion. "Bella, I—"

"Please." She swam closer, until she was directly below him, looking up. The water lapped at her chin. Her bare breasts floated just beneath the surface, visible through the ripples. "I want you in here with me."

He broke.

He pulled his shirt over his head in one quick motion, and she saw his body for the first time—lean, defined, the subtle shape of muscle beneath pale skin. His swim trunks hung low on his hips. He looked nervous and gorgeous and hers, all hers.

He dove in.

The water splashed around her, and when he surfaced, he was close. Close enough that she could see the water droplets on his eyelashes, the way his chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

"See?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not so bad."

He looked at her. Just looked. Then his hand found her waist under the water, tentative, light, like he was testing whether she was real.

She was real. And she was his.

She moved closer, her body brushing his, her legs tangling with his under the surface. The cold water made everything more intense—the contrast between the chill and the heat of his palm on her skin, the way her nipples tightened, the way her breath came faster.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm not cold."

His hand slid from her waist to her hip, fingers tracing the string of her thong. His touch was featherlight, reverent, and she felt it everywhere—in the ache between her thighs, in the flutter of her pulse, in the way her mouth went dry.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer, until her body was pressed against his under the water. She could feel him through his trunks—the shape of him, the heat of him, the evidence of what she did to him—and the knowledge made her dizzy with want.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on the word, and she wanted to cry.

She kissed him instead.

Her mouth found his, soft at first, then hungrier. Her hands came up to cup his face, water streaming down his jaw, and she kissed him like she'd been waiting her whole life to do it. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him, and she felt his tongue brush her lower lip, tentative, asking.

She opened for him.

The kiss deepened, and the world fell away—the music from the house, the voices, the jealous stares. There was only his mouth on hers, his hands on her bare skin, the water moving around them like it was holding them both.

She broke the kiss, breathless, and pressed her forehead to his.

"Happy birthday," she whispered.

He laughed, a broken, wondering sound. "Best birthday I've ever had."

She smiled, and her hand drifted down his chest under the water, slow and deliberate, until her fingers reached the waistband of his trunks.

He went still.

"Bella—"

"Shh." She pressed a kiss to his jaw, his neck, the spot where his pulse beat fast and wild. "I told you. I have a surprise for you."

Her fingers hooked into the waistband, and she felt him shudder, felt his grip on her waist tighten.

Around them, the party continued—laughter, music, the occasional splash from someone else diving in. But they were in their own world now, a world of blue water and dark sky and the space between their bodies.

Her hand slid lower.

Her hand slid lower.

Her fingers brushed the waistband of his trunks, the elastic stretched taut over his hips. She felt him tense beneath her touch, felt the way his breath caught and held. The water lapped around them, cool against her heated skin, and she let her fingers trace the line of his waistband, teasing, promising.

"Bella—" His voice cracked.

Before she could go further, the sliding door slammed open, and Derek's voice cut through the night air like a blade. "Yo! You two planning to share that pool or just drown in each other?"

She felt Liam go rigid against her. Her hand stopped where it was, frozen at the edge of his trunks.

Footsteps on concrete. Voices. Laughter.

She turned her head, and there they were—Derek, barefoot and grinning, a beer in one hand. Behind him, two guys she recognized from the party, both already shirtless. One was tall, lanky, with a mess of curly hair. The other was stockier, with a tattoo of a dragon curling up his arm. They were all looking at her.

All of them.

The fairy lights caught the water on her skin, caught the full curve of her bare breasts, the tight peaks of her nipples, the white scrap of her thong doing nothing to cover her. She felt their gazes like a physical weight—hot, hungry, disbelieving.

Derek let out a low whistle. "Holy shit, Liam. You didn't say she was coming like that."

The curly-haired guy—she couldn't remember his name—was staring openly at her chest. "That's Bella Torres. The Bella Torres."

"The one and only," Derek said, his grin widening. "And she's wearing Liam's name. Look."

He pointed, and all three of them followed his finger to the gold chain between her breasts. Liam, spelled out in delicate script, catching the light with every small movement.

"Damn," the stocky guy breathed. "Liam, how the hell did you—"

Liam moved.

One arm wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her against him so hard and fast that the breath left her lungs in a gasp. Her bare chest pressed against his, her nipples scraping across his skin, the contact sending a jolt of electricity straight to her cunt. Water sloshed around them. His hand splayed across her lower back, pressing her so close she could feel every line of his body, every ridge of muscle, the hard length of him against her hip through his trunks.

His jaw was tight. His eyes, when she looked up, were fixed on Derek with an intensity she'd never seen in him before.

"She's mine," he said. Quiet. Fierce. A statement, not a negotiation.

The guys on the deck exchanged glances. Derek's grin softened into something almost respectful.

"We know, bro. We see." He raised his beer in a mock toast. "Just didn't know you had it in you."

Liam's arm tightened around her. His chest was warm against hers, his heart hammering where she could feel it through his ribs. She pressed closer, let her hand rest on his shoulder, let her body melt into his. The water moved around them, and she felt his possessiveness like a current running through her—hot, electric, claiming.

She loved it.

She loved the way his arm locked around her. Loved the way his body shielded hers from their stares, even though every inch of her was already on display. Loved the way his voice had dropped, gone hard, gone hers.

Derek stepped to the edge of the pool and sat, dangling his legs in the water. The other two followed, settling on the concrete lip, their eyes still drifting to her despite Liam's obvious territorial stance.

"So," Derek said, taking a long pull of his beer. "Bella. How long have you been into our boy here?"

She felt Liam tense, waiting for her answer. She let her fingers trail up his chest, idly tracing the line of his collarbone.

"A while," she said, her voice light. Polite. "He's hard to miss."

"Hard to miss?" The curly-haired guy laughed. "He's the quietest person in every room."

"That's why I noticed him." She tilted her head, looking up at Liam through her lashes. "Everyone else is so loud. He was the only one worth paying attention to."

Liam's breath caught. His hand pressed harder against her lower back, pulling her impossibly closer. She felt the water shift between them, felt his cock hard against her hip, and a fresh pulse of heat bloomed between her thighs.

"Damn," the stocky guy said, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were just another pretty face."

She smiled, warm and open. "I get that a lot."

"So what do you see in him?" Derek asked, and there was no malice in it—just genuine curiosity. He gestured with his beer toward Liam. "No offense, bro, but you're not exactly the type she usually goes for."

Liam's jaw tightened. She felt it in the muscle that jumped beneath his skin.

She turned in his arms, just enough to face Derek fully, but she didn't pull away. Didn't break the contact. Her hand stayed on Liam's chest, her body still pressed against his, her bare breasts still grazing his skin with every small movement.

"He's kind," she said simply. "He's real. He looks at me like I'm something worth looking at, not something worth using." She paused, her voice dropping. "And he makes me feel things I didn't know I could feel."

The words hung in the air, honest and raw and completely her own.

Derek was quiet for a long moment. Then he raised his beer again. "Fair enough."

Liam's arm loosened, just slightly. He looked down at her, and there was something new in his eyes—something softer, something wondering.

She smiled up at him, small and private, meant only for him.

"You two want to actually swim," the curly-haired guy said, breaking the moment, "or are you just going to stand there being disgustingly cute?"

Derek laughed. "Let them be. It's Liam's birthday. He gets to be disgustingly cute if he wants."

Liam's hand slid up her back, slow, deliberate, until his fingers tangled in her wet hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't pull. Just held. Claimed.

She shivered.

"You cold?" he asked, his voice low, meant only for her.

"No." She pressed closer. "I'm perfect."

A smile tugged at his mouth, small and shy and real. He ducked his head, pressing his forehead to hers, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the two of them, the water, the warm night air.

Then Derek splashed them.

Water hit her square in the back, cold and unexpected, and she yelped, spinning out of Liam's arms to face the offender. Derek was cackling, already backing away from the edge.

"That's for being too cute," he said. "Fight me."

The curly-haired guy was already in the water, surfacing with a splash. The stocky guy followed, cannonballing in so hard that a wave of water washed over her face.

She came up laughing, sputtering, her hair plastered to her face. And then she was in the middle of it—a splash war, bodies moving in the blue-lit water, laughter echoing off the house. Someone grabbed her ankle, pulled her under, and she surfaced to find Derek grinning at her.

"Sorry about that," he said. "But you were making him too happy. Gotta keep the balance."

She laughed, genuine and surprised. "You're an asshole."

"Liam's best friend. It's in the job description."

She felt hands on her waist, and then Liam was there, pulling her away from Derek, positioning himself between them again. His chest was heaving, his hair dripping, his glasses fogged and askew.

"My turn," he said, and tackled Derek under the water.

The night stretched on. More people came outside, drawn by the noise. Someone turned up the music, propping a speaker in the open sliding door. The pool filled with bodies—girls in bikinis, guys in trunks, the water glowing blue and warm under the dark sky.

Bella stayed close to Liam. Not glued to him—she wasn't that kind of girl—but close enough that his hand found her easily, her waist, her hip, the small of her back. Every touch was a brand. Every brush of his fingers said mine.

She caught Chloe watching from the edge of the pool, arms crossed, her green eyes dark and unreadable. Chloe had changed into a bikini, her toned body on display, but she hadn't gotten in the water. She was just standing there, watching Bella laugh with Liam's friends, watching Liam's hand slide possessively over her bare skin.

Bella met her eyes. Held them for a long moment. Then she turned back to Liam and pressed a kiss to his jaw, deliberate, claiming.

Let her watch. Let her burn.

At one point, Marcus appeared at the sliding door, a red cup in his hand, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He scanned the crowd, found her instantly, and his jaw tightened. He didn't come outside. Just stood there, watching, his grip on the cup going white-knuckled.

Liam's hand found her lower back, pulling her against him as he talked to Derek about something—video games, maybe, or a movie. She leaned into the touch, let her body rest against his, let Marcus see exactly where she belonged.

Marcus turned and disappeared back into the house.

Good.

By midnight, the party had thinned. A few people were scattered on the couches inside, nursing half-empty cups. The music had softened to something low and ambient. The pool was mostly empty—just her and Liam, floating side by side, their fingers tangled between them.

She was tired. A good kind of tired, the kind that came from laughing and swimming and being wanted. Her skin felt warm, her muscles loose, her mind quiet.

She turned her head to look at him. He was on his back, staring up at the stars, his face soft and peaceful in the dim light.

"Hey," she said.

He tilted his head. "Hey."

"Happy birthday."

He smiled, slow and real and hers. "You already said that."

"I meant it both times."

He laughed, quiet, and squeezed her hand. "Thank you. For coming. For all of this." He paused, his voice dropping. "For being exactly who you are."

Her chest ached, full and warm. She pulled his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said.

He looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable in his hazel eyes. Then he let go of her hand, pushed himself upright, and moved through the water until he was standing in front of her.

Water streamed down his chest. His hair was a mess, dark and wet, falling over his forehead. He looked at her—just looked—and then his hands found her waist, pulled her against him, and his mouth found hers.

It was different from the kiss earlier. Slower. Deeper. Less desperate and more deliberate, like he was learning the shape of her, memorizing the way she tasted.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, her body melting into his, the water holding them both.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested on hers, and his voice was barely a whisper.

"I think I'm falling for you."

Her heart stopped. Started again. Raced.

She looked at him—at his nervous eyes, his flushed cheeks, his mouth still wet from hers—and she felt something crack open in her chest, something she didn't have a name for.

"Good," she said, her voice thick. "Because I already fell."

He kissed her again, and the world fell away.

She came back to herself slowly, the way you surface from deep water—in stages, each one more real than the last. His mouth was still on hers, soft now, almost tender, and she realized her hands were fisted in his hair, that her legs had wrapped around his waist under the water, that she was pressed against him so completely there was no space left between them.

She pulled back, just enough to breathe. His eyes opened, hazy and dark, and he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"I think," he said, his voice rough, "I should take you on a proper date."

Her heart stuttered. "What?"

"A date." He swallowed, his confidence wavering, but he pushed through. "Like— I pick you up. I bring you flowers. I take you somewhere nice. Not a party. Not school. Just us."

She stared at him. The water lapped at her chin. His hands were warm on her waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on her skin, and he was looking at her like he was afraid she'd say no.

"Liam." Her voice came out soft, almost wondering. "You don't have to ask twice."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

The smile that broke across his face was worth every second of every day she'd spent wanting him. It was wide and unguarded and young, and she felt it in her chest like a physical thing.

"Tomorrow?" he asked. "Seven o'clock?"

"Tomorrow. Seven o'clock." She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'll be ready."

They stayed in the water for a while longer, floating in the quiet, their fingers tangled, the stars wheeling overhead. The house had gone mostly dark, the music reduced to a low hum. Derek had stumbled to bed an hour ago, shouting a slurred goodnight. The other guests had drifted away in twos and threes.

Finally, she felt the cold creeping in, seeping past the warmth of his body. She shivered, and he noticed immediately.

"You're cold."

"A little."

He guided her to the ladder, his hand never leaving her skin. She climbed out, water streaming down her body, the night air hitting her bare skin and raising goosebumps everywhere. His name, on the gold chain between her breasts, caught the last of the fairy lights.

He climbed out after her, and she watched him shake the water from his hair like a dog, watched his glasses fog and clear, watched the way his eyes found her and stayed.

He grabbed a towel from a stack near the door and wrapped it around her shoulders. The gesture was so simple, so automatic, that it made her chest ache.

"Thank you," she said.

"You don't have to thank me for a towel, Bella."

"I'm not. I'm thanking you for being you."

His ears went red, and she loved that she could still do that to him.

They dried off as best they could in the cool night air. She pulled her crop top back on over her wet skin, the fabric clinging and damp. Her shorts went on next, the denim stiff and cold against her thighs. He pulled his shirt over his head, and she mourned the loss of his bare chest for exactly half a second before he took her hand again.

"I'll walk you to your car," he said.

They moved through the house together, past the sleeping figures on couches, past the empty cups and the dying music, past Derek sprawled in a recliner with his mouth open. The front door opened onto a quiet street, the night air warmer now that she was dry, the stars bright overhead.

Her car was parked at the curb, a modest Honda that felt smaller and more ordinary than it had this morning. She stopped at the driver's door and turned to face him.

"Seven tomorrow," she said.

"Seven." He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist. "I'll text you the address."

"You already have my number."

"I do." He leaned in, and she thought he was going to kiss her, but he stopped just short of her mouth, his lips brushing the corner of her lips instead. "Goodnight, Bella."

"Goodnight, Liam."

She got in the car, started the engine, and watched him in the rearview mirror as she pulled away. He stood on the curb, his hands in his pockets, his hair still damp and messy, watching her go.

She drove home with a smile that wouldn't leave her face.

She woke up the next morning with his name already on her lips.

Saturday. No school. No distractions. Just the long stretch of daylight and the promise of seven o'clock.

She spent the day in a haze of preparation—shower, shave, moisturize, perfume. Her hair took forty-five minutes to dry and style, and she stood in front of her closet for an hour, rejecting dress after dress, until her hand landed on the one she'd been saving.

It was black. Strapless. So short that it barely covered her ass. The neckline plunged to her navel, held together by a single thin strap at the back. It was the kind of dress that made people stop and stare, the kind that said I know exactly what I'm doing.

She pulled it on, and the fabric hugged every curve like a second skin. The hem sat high on her thighs. The neckline showed the inner curves of her breasts, the gold chain with his name resting between them. She turned sideways in the mirror and watched the dress follow the shape of her body, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Her nipples were covered. Just barely. Her pussy was covered. Just barely. It was the most revealing thing she owned, and she'd bought it months ago, waiting for the right occasion.

She smiled at her reflection—dark hair falling in waves, dark eyes lined with kohl, lips glossed and red. She looked like trouble. She looked like exactly what she was.

She slipped into strappy black heels that made her legs look endless, added a thin gold anklet, and stepped back to admire the full effect.

He was going to lose his mind.

At ten to seven, her phone buzzed.

I'm outside.

She grabbed her clutch, checked her reflection one last time, and walked out the door.

He was standing by his car—an old sedan, clean and cared for—and when he saw her, he went completely still.

She walked toward him, the heels clicking on the pavement, the dress shifting with every step. She watched his face cycle through shock, disbelief, awe, and something darker, something that made her stomach tighten with want.

"Bella," he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. "You—"

"I what?" She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell his cologne, clean and subtle, not overpowering.

He shook his head, a small, helpless motion. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She felt the words settle in her chest like a warm weight. "Thank you."

He blinked, as if remembering something, and reached back into his car. When he turned around, he was holding a bouquet—deep red roses, wrapped in brown paper, tied with a simple black ribbon. Twelve of them. Perfect. Fresh.

"These are for you," he said, and his hand trembled slightly as he held them out.

She took them, brought them to her face, and inhaled. The scent was rich and sweet, and she felt something crack open in her chest, something that had been sealed shut for years.

"They're beautiful." Her voice came out thinner than she meant. "Thank you."

He smiled, shy and real. "You mentioned roses once. In English, when we were reading that poem. You said they were your favorite."

She stared at him. He remembered. A throwaway line from a classroom conversation, and he'd tucked it away, saved it, brought it out for this moment.

She stepped forward and kissed him, soft and quick, before she could overthink it. "I love them. I love—" She stopped herself, the word catching in her throat.

His eyes met hers, hopeful and nervous.

"I love them," she repeated, and she let the almost-slip hang between them like a promise.

He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in, the roses cradled in her lap, the dress riding up her thighs as she settled into the seat. He closed the door gently, and she watched him walk around the front of the car, watched the way his shoulders sat a little straighter, the way he couldn't stop smiling.

He got in, started the engine, and glanced at her. "Ready?"

"Ready."

The restaurant was called Celeste, and it was the kind of place she'd only ever seen from the outside—white tablecloths, candlelight, a chandelier that looked like it cost more than her car. He'd made a reservation. He'd dressed up, she realized now—a button-down shirt, dark jeans, clean sneakers. He looked nervous and handsome and completely out of his depth, and the fact that he'd done all this for her made her want to cry.

The hostess led them to a corner table, tucked away, intimate. A candle flickered between them. A window beside them looked out onto the city lights, scattered and bright.

He pulled out her chair. She sat, and he pushed it in, his hand brushing her bare shoulder.

"You didn't have to do all this," she said, as he sat across from her.

"I wanted to." He picked up the menu, then set it down again, his eyes finding hers. "You deserve something nice. Something real."

She reached across the table and took his hand. His fingers curled around hers, warm and steady.

"I'm really glad you asked me out," she said.

His thumb traced a circle on her knuckles. "I'm really glad you said yes."

The waiter came, and they ordered. He fumbled over the wine list, and she helped him pick, her hand still in his. They talked about nothing and everything—his favorite movies, her worst classes, the time Derek got locked out of his own house in his underwear. She laughed until her stomach hurt, and he watched her like she was the punchline to a joke he couldn't believe was real.

The food came, and it was incredible. She ate and talked and held his hand under the table, and somewhere between the main course and dessert, she realized that this was the happiest she'd been in years.

Not because of the restaurant. Not because of the dress or the roses or the candlelight.

Because of him.

Because he looked at her like she mattered. Because he remembered that she liked roses. Because he'd been nervous all night, and he'd done it anyway.

She watched him laugh at something she'd said, watched the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, and she felt the word she'd almost said earlier rise up in her throat again, stronger this time.

She didn't say it. Not yet. But she felt it.

And she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that she would tell him soon.

Dessert arrived—tiramisu, two forks, a dusting of cocoa powder over cream. She picked up her fork, dipped it into the layered cake, and held it across the table toward him. He blinked, then leaned forward and let her feed him, his lips closing around the tines, his eyes staying on hers the whole time.

The gesture felt more intimate than any kiss they'd shared. The way he accepted it without question, without hesitation, trusting her completely.

She set down her fork and reached for his hand again, lacing her fingers through his. The candlelight caught the gold of her necklace, the chain that spelled his name, and she watched his eyes follow it, watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

"Liam," she said, and her voice came out quiet, serious enough to make him go still.

"Yeah?"

She looked at him across the table—his nervous hazel eyes, his messy hair that she wanted to rake her fingers through, the shy half-smile that made her chest ache. And she knew. She knew she wanted to say it. But the words caught, too big for her throat, too heavy to release into the space between them.

"I want to ask you something," she said instead.

He nodded, his thumb tracing circles on her knuckles. "Anything."

She took a breath. "Will you be my boyfriend?"

The words hung in the candlelit air, simple and honest and completely bare. She watched his face cycle through surprise, disbelief, and then something that looked almost like relief—a tension releasing from his shoulders, a softness settling into his features.

"Yes," he said, and his voice cracked, and he laughed at himself, a short breathless sound. "Yes. Obviously yes. I thought— I mean, I hoped— but I didn't want to assume—"

She leaned across the table and kissed him, cutting off his stammering. The kiss was brief, soft, her lips brushing his before she pulled back, her hand still in his.

"Good," she said. "Because I have rules."

He blinked, still dazed from the kiss, the word slow to register. "Rules?"

"Rules." She released his hand, sat back in her chair, and picked up her wine glass. The movement was deliberate, a shift in the temperature of the conversation. She took a sip, watching him over the rim of the glass, and when she set it down, her expression had changed—still warm, but edged with something harder, something serious.

She leaned forward, both elbows on the table, her voice dropping so only he could hear over the ambient murmur of the restaurant.

"I've been wanting you for a long time, Liam. Longer than you know. And now that I have you, I'm not going to lose you to some misunderstanding or some insecurity you won't tell me about."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't look away. "Okay," he said slowly. "What kind of rules?"

"First rule." She held up one finger. "You touch me. Constantly. Whenever you want, wherever we are."

He stared at her. "What?"

"I mean it." Her voice was firm, but her pulse was already quickening, the words coming from a place she'd buried deep. "I need to feel your hands on me. Your hand on my thigh under the table. Your fingers on my neck when we're standing in line. Your palm on my lower back when we walk through a doorway. I need to know, every single second, that you want to touch me."

His mouth opened. Closed. His ears were reddening, the flush climbing up his neck, but his eyes hadn't left hers. "Bella, that's—"

"I'm not finished." She held up a second finger. "Free access. Anywhere. Anytime."

The silence stretched. A busboy passed their table, oblivious. A fork clinked against a plate somewhere behind them.

"What does that mean?" Liam asked, his voice rougher than it had been a moment ago.

"It means," she said, leaning closer, "that if you want to put your hand up my skirt in the middle of a movie, you do it. If you want to slide your fingers into my panties while we're studying, you do it. If you want to bend me over the hood of your car and fuck me until I can't walk straight, you do it."

His breath caught. She watched his chest rise and fall under his button-down, watched his hands grip the edge of the table like he needed something to hold onto.

"I want you to own me," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Completely. Every inch of my body belongs to you. And I want you to take what's yours."

He was quiet for so long she started to worry. His face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on hers, his jaw tight. Then he spoke, and his voice was hoarse, barely controlled.

"You're serious."

"Dead serious."

He shook his head slowly, a short disbelieving motion. "Bella, I— I'm not— I've never done anything like that. I don't know what I'm doing. I'll fuck it up."

"No, you won't." She reached across the table and took his hand, squeezing it hard. "Because I'll tell you. Every time. If I want more, I'll say it. If I want you to stop, I'll say that too. But I won't have you hesitating. I won't have you second-guessing whether you're allowed to touch me. You are. Always."

He looked down at her hand, at her fingers wrapped around his. His thumb moved, tracing the line of her knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the texture of her skin.

"And if I want to?" His voice was low, testing the words. "Touch you. Right now."

Heat flooded through her, pooling low and heavy in her belly. "Then you do it."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he released her hand, reached under the tablecloth, and placed his palm flat on her bare thigh.

Her breath hitched.

His hand was warm, heavy, his fingers spread wide across the skin above the hem of her dress. He didn't move it at first—just held it there, claiming the contact, his eyes fixed on hers.

"Like this?" he asked.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His hand slid higher, his knuckles brushing the edge of her underwear. The dress had ridden up when she leaned forward, leaving her thighs exposed to the tablecloth's cover. He traced a slow line up her inner thigh, featherlight, teasing, and she felt it everywhere—in the clench of her stomach, the throb between her legs, the way her breath shortened.

"And if I wanted to go further?" he asked, his voice rough. "Right here. In the middle of this restaurant."

She swallowed. "Then you'd ask me if I wanted you to."

His hand stilled. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes." The word came out before she could stop it, raw and honest. "God, yes."

His fingers found the edge of her panties, the thin fabric already damp. He traced the line of them, a slow, deliberate path from her hip to the center, and she had to press her thighs together to keep from squirming in her seat.

"Not yet," he said, and the calm in his voice surprised her. "I want to hear the rest of your rules first."

She stared at him. His hand was still on her thigh, his fingers resting against the soaked fabric of her underwear, and he was holding himself back. For her. For the conversation she'd started.

She took a breath. Let it out slow. "Third rule." Her voice was steadier than she felt. "No cheating."

His hand stilled completely.

"If you ever," she said, her voice dropping, "ever touch another girl the way you touch me—if you kiss her, if you fuck her, if you even look at her like you've looked at me tonight—I will hurt her."

He went very still, his hazel eyes fixed on hers. The candlelight flickered between them.

"I'll make it so she can never forget that she touched what's mine." She held his gaze, letting him see the steel beneath her softness. "I'm not proud of it. But I need you to know how serious I am. You're mine, Liam. Completely. And I don't share."

His hand on her thigh tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin hard enough to leave marks. And when he spoke, his voice was different—lower, steadier, like something in him had locked into place.

"I won't cheat on you."

"I know you won't. But I needed to say it."

He nodded slowly. His hand stayed on her thigh, his thumb tracing idle circles on her skin, but his eyes were searching hers now, reading her.

"What about you?" he asked. "Same rules apply?"

"Yes. I'm yours." She said it without hesitation. "You touch me however you want. You have access to any part of me, any time, anywhere. And I will never cheat on you."

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then his fingers moved, sliding under the edge of her panties, and she felt his touch against her directly—his fingertips brushing her slick heat, the contact so sudden and intimate that a small sound escaped her throat.

"You're wet," he said, his voice low, almost wondering.

"I know." Her voice was thready. "I've been wet since you put your hand on me in class."

His breath caught. His fingers traced through her folds, a slow deliberate exploration, and she had to grip the edge of the table to keep still. His touch was gentle, curious, learning the shape of her, and the fact that he was doing it in the middle of a candlelit restaurant, with other diners a few tables away, made it ten times hotter.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Yes." She breathed the word. "Don't stop."

He didn't. His fingers moved in slow circles, finding her clit, pressing gently, and she felt her hips shift in her seat, pressing into his hand, chasing the pressure. His eyes were on her face, watching every micro-expression, every flicker of pleasure that crossed her features.

"You like this," he said. Not a question.

"I love it." Her voice came out breathless. "I love that you're touching me. I love that we're in public and you don't care. I love—"

She stopped herself. The word was right there, on the tip of her tongue, ready to fall.

His fingers stilled. "You love what?"

She looked at him. The candlelight caught his glasses, the shadows softening his face. His hand was between her thighs, his fingers buried in her wetness, and he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

"I love that you're mine," she said instead.

Something flickered in his eyes. Disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. He didn't push.

He moved his hand again, two fingers sliding inside her, slow and deliberate, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning out loud. The stretch was perfect, the angle hitting exactly where she needed it, and she rocked into his hand, letting him feel what he did to her.

"Tell me more," he said, his voice rough. "About the rules."

She laughed, a short breathless sound. "You're interrogating me while you finger me under the table?"

"You started it." But he was smiling, a small crooked smile that made her heart stutter. "I want to understand. All of it."

She took a shaky breath, forcing her mind to form words through the haze of pleasure. "The touch rule. It's not just about sex."

"What else?"

She swallowed. His fingers were moving inside her, slow and steady, and it was taking everything she had to form coherent sentences. "I need... casual touch. Your hand on my knee when we're watching TV. Your arm around me when we walk. Your fingers in my hair when I'm stressed. I need to feel claimed, even when we're not doing anything."

His fingers curled inside her, finding a spot that made her breath catch, and he held there, pressing gently. "Like this?"

"Liam." His name came out half a moan. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to walk out of here."

He smiled, and there was something new in it—confidence, maybe, or the first flicker of ownership. "Then I'll carry you."

The words hit her like a shot of heat, spreading through her chest, her belly, her cunt tightening around his fingers. She pressed into his hand, her hips rocking, and she felt herself climbing toward something, the pleasure building in slow waves.

"I'm close," she whispered.

"I know." His voice was calm, controlled. "I can feel it."

"Liam—"

"Come for me."

The words broke her. She came in a silent, shuddering wave, her hand gripping the tablecloth, her jaw locked to keep from crying out. His fingers stayed inside her, working her through it, slowing only when her body stopped trembling and she slumped back in her chair, gasping quietly.

He withdrew his hand, slow and deliberate, and brought his fingers to his mouth.

She watched him taste her. Watched his eyes close briefly, his tongue sweeping across his knuckles. When he opened his eyes, there was something dark and hungry in them that she'd never seen before.

"You taste incredible," he said.

She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. She just stared at him, at this shy quiet boy who had just made her come in the middle of a restaurant and tasted her off his own fingers.

He reached under the table again, but this time he just took her hand, lacing their fingers together on the surface of the tablecloth.

"Any other rules?" he asked, his voice almost casual.

She laughed, a broken, wondering sound. "I think that covers the main ones for now."

He nodded, the small smile still playing at his lips. "Good. Because I have a rule too."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You have to promise me something." His voice softened, the confidence in it giving way to something more vulnerable. "If I mess up—if I do something wrong, or I don't touch you enough, or I hesitate when I shouldn't—you tell me. You don't just pull away. You don't decide I'm not worth it. You tell me, and I'll fix it."

The sincerity in his voice hit her like a blow to the chest. She squeezed his hand, hard.

"I promise," she said. "I won't give up on you, Liam. Not ever."

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his lips warm against her skin. "Then I think we're going to be just fine."

The waiter appeared, clearing their plates, asking if they wanted coffee. She said yes without thinking, and the moment broke, the world flooding back in—the soft music, the murmur of other tables, the flicker of candlelight.

But under the table, her thighs were still slick with his touch. And across from her, he was looking at her with a new heat in his eyes, a new certainty in the way he held her hand.

She had rules. She had demands. She had a desperate, possessive hunger that she'd only just begun to show him.

And he had accepted all of it.

The coffee came, and she drank it black, watching him over the rim of the cup, her body still humming from his touch. She thought about Friday night, about the way he'd held her in the pool, the way his arm had locked around her when Derek and his friends came outside. She thought about the photo on his phone, the sight of her bare chest on his screen, the way he'd looked at her when he saw it.

She thought about all the ways she was going to claim him. All the ways she was going to make sure every single person in that school knew exactly who he belonged to.

The bill came. He paid before she could reach for her clutch, sliding his card into the leather folder with a firmness that brooked no argument.

"My treat," he said. "You can get the next one."

The assumption that there would be a next one—the quiet confidence in it—sent a fresh wave of warmth through her chest.

They walked out together, his arm around her waist, his hand resting on the bare curve of her hip. The night air hit her skin, cool after the warmth of the restaurant, and she leaned into him, letting his body shield her from the breeze.

His car was parked a block away. They walked slowly, unhurried, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light on the pavement. Her heels clicked against the ground. His thumb traced small circles on her hip through the thin fabric of her dress.

When they reached his car, he didn't open her door. Instead, he turned her, pressing her back against the driver's side door, his body caging her in. His hands found her waist, then her hips, then slid down to her thighs, lifting her onto the hood of the car before she could react.

She gasped, her hands bracing on his shoulders. "Liam—"

"You said I can touch you anywhere," he said, his voice low. "Anytime."

She swallowed. "I did."

He stepped between her legs, his body pressing against hers, and kissed her—deep and claiming, his tongue sliding into her mouth, his hands gripping her thighs. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers fisting in his shirt, and she felt his length hard against her through his jeans, felt the evidence of everything he'd held back during dinner.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers.

"I want to take you home," he said. "But I'm not going to. Not tonight."

She blinked. "Why not?"

"Because I want to do this right." His hand came up, cupping her jaw, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "I want to take you on more dates. I want to hold your hand in the hallway. I want to make sure you know—every single day—that you're not a conquest or a fantasy. You're my girlfriend."

The word hit her square in the chest. Girlfriend. His. She felt tears prick at her eyes, sudden and unwelcome, and she blinked them back.

"I'm your girlfriend," she repeated, tasting the words.

"Yeah." He smiled, soft and real. "You are."

He kissed her again, slower this time, a promise pressed into her lips. Then he helped her off the hood, opened her door, and watched her slide into the passenger seat.

The drive home was quiet, his hand in hers on the center console, the streetlights sliding past. She watched his profile in the dim light—his jaw, his glasses, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck—and she felt full to bursting with everything she hadn't said yet.

When he pulled up in front of her house, she didn't want to let go of his hand.

"I'll text you tonight," he said.

"You better."

He leaned over and kissed her, soft and lingering, and she felt it all the way down to her toes.

"Goodnight, girlfriend."

Her heart flipped. "Goodnight, boyfriend."

She got out of the car, walked to her front door, and turned to watch him drive away. His taillights disappeared around the corner, and she stood there in the cool night air, still tasting him on her lips, still feeling his fingers inside her, still wearing his name around her neck.

She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and pressed her forehead against the wood, breathing in the dark.

She was going to marry him someday.

She knew it with a certainty that settled into her bones like gravity, like the gold chain against her sternum, like the ghost of his hand between her thighs.

But first, she had a party to throw him. And a school to teach that he was taken by her. And a set of rules she intended to enforce with her whole body, her whole heart, her whole fierce and obsessive love.

She woke to sunlight slanting through her curtains and the ghost of his fingers still between her thighs.

Her phone was on the nightstand. She grabbed it, found his name—Liam ♡—and typed before she could second-guess: Come over. Now.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then: On my way.

She smiled, tossed the phone aside, and stretched in her bed like a cat. The sheets were cool against her bare legs. She was still wearing the black dress from last night—too tired to take it off, too drunk on him to care. She sat up, ran her fingers through her tangled hair, and decided she didn't need to change. Not for this.

She wanted him to see her like this. Rumpled. Sleep-soft. Claimed.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

She opened the door, and there he was—Liam, in the same clothes from last night, his hair a disaster, his glasses slightly askew. He looked like he'd run the whole way. Behind him, a bird was singing, and the morning air smelled like cut grass and possibility.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

He stared at her. His eyes traveled down the length of her body—the wrinkled dress, the bare feet, the gold chain still resting between her breasts—and when they came back up, they were dark.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was hoarse.

She stepped back, letting him in. He crossed the threshold, and she closed the door behind him, the click of the lock loud in the quiet house. Her parents were at work. She was alone. They were alone.

She took his hand and led him to her room.

Her bed was unmade. Clothes draped over a chair. A half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. It was her space, messy and real, and she watched him take it in with those quiet hazel eyes.

He turned to face her. "You said you needed to talk about something."

She nodded. Her heart was already racing, but she kept her voice steady. "I need to amend the first rule."

He blinked. "The touching rule?"

"Yes." She stepped closer, close enough that her chest almost brushed his. "It's not enough."

His breath caught, but he didn't step back. "Not enough how?"

She reached up and took his hands, placed them on her waist. His palms were warm through the thin fabric of her dress. "Your hands. They need to be on me all the time. But specifically—" She guided one hand higher, until his palm was cupping her breast through the dress. "Here."

His fingers twitched against her, instinctive. She felt her nipple tighten under his touch.

She moved his other hand behind her, pressing it flat against her ass, the curve of her cheek filling his palm. "And here. Constantly. Every moment we're together, I need to feel your hands on my tits and my ass. No exceptions. No hesitations."

He stared at her, his mouth slightly open. His hands stayed where she'd put them, but they weren't moving—just holding, as if he was afraid to break the spell.

"Bella," he said, his voice rough, "you want me to grope you every time I see you?"

"I want you to grope me every second we're together." She held his gaze, letting him see the hunger there, the desperation she'd been carrying for months. "In public. In private. In the hallway at school. In your car. In my kitchen while I'm making coffee. I don't care who's watching. I need your hands on me like I need air."

He swallowed. His hands tightened on her, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass, his thumb brushing over her nipple through the dress. She felt a jolt of heat shoot straight to her cunt.

"Like this?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes." Her voice came out breathy, not quite steady. "Exactly like that."

He squeezed her breast, a firm deliberate pressure, and she gasped. His other hand gripped her ass, pulling her against him, and she felt his cock hardening through his jeans, pressing into her hip.

"And you want me to do this all the time?" he asked, his mouth near her ear now. "Even when other people are watching?"

"Especially when other people are watching." She tilted her head, baring her throat, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I want them to see your hands on me. I want them to know exactly who I belong to."

He made a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a growl—and then his mouth was on her neck, hot and urgent, his hands moving over her body like he was learning a new language. One hand stayed on her breast, kneading, squeezing, while the other roamed down the curve of her ass, gripping and releasing, pulling her flush against him with every motion.

She moaned, her head falling back, her fingers fisting in his shirt. "Yes. Like that. Don't stop."

He didn't. His mouth traced down her throat, across her collarbone, until he reached the neckline of her dress. The black fabric was stretched tight over her chest, the curve of her breasts visible in the plunging V. He pressed his face into the cleft between them, inhaling deeply, and she felt his breath hot on her skin through the fabric.

"I need to taste them," he said, his voice muffled against her chest.

Her hands moved to the hem of her dress, pulling it up and over her head in one swift motion. The fabric fell to the floor, and she stood before him in nothing but the gold chain, the necklace spelling his name resting between her bare breasts.

He looked at her like she was something holy.

His hands came up, cupping both breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. They were already tight, pebbled, aching for his mouth. He squeezed gently, watching her face, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice thick. "Every time I see you, I think it can't be real. And then you take your clothes off, and I realize I was wrong."

She felt tears prick at her eyes again, but she blinked them back. "Shut up and touch me."

He laughed, a short breathless sound, and then his mouth was on her, hot and wet, his tongue circling her nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. She gasped, her hands flying to his hair, holding him there as he sucked and laved and worshipped her like she was the only thing in the world worth tasting.

His hand found her other breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between his fingers, never letting either one go untouched. She arched into him, her body pleading for more, and he responded by switching sides, giving the same attention to the other breast until she was trembling, her knees weak.

"Liam," she breathed. "Please—"

"Please what?" He pulled back just enough to look at her, his lips wet, his eyes dark. "Tell me what you need."

"I need your hands." She grabbed his wrist, pulled his hand down her stomach, pressed it against the damp fabric of her panties. "I need you to feel how wet you make me."

His fingers found the wet spot, pressing against her through the thin cotton. She was soaked—had been since he walked through the door, since she woke up thinking about him. He groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.

"Fuck, Bella. You're dripping."

"I know." She rocked into his hand, chasing the pressure. "I told you. I need you all the time."

He slid his hand under the waistband of her panties, his fingers finding her slick folds, and she cried out, her hips bucking. He didn't enter her—not yet. He just held her, his palm pressed against her cunt, his fingers spread through her wetness, claiming her with his touch.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice rough. "When you texted me this morning?"

"Yes." She was barely able to speak. "I woke up needing you. Needing your hands on me."

His other hand came up, cupping her breast again, squeezing in rhythm with the pressure below. He was touching her everywhere—her tits, her ass, her cunt—and she felt like she was drowning in sensation, every nerve ending on fire.

"Then from now on," he said, his mouth brushing her ear, "the second I see you, my hands go on you. Before I even say hello."

She moaned, nodding frantically. "Yes. Please."

"And if we're in public, and someone's watching, I don't stop."

"No. Don't stop."

"And if you try to pull away, I won't let you."

"I won't try." She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. "I never want to pull away from you."

He kissed her then—hard, demanding, his tongue sliding into her mouth as his fingers finally pushed inside her. She whimpered against his lips, her body clenching around him, and he worked her slowly, deliberately, his thumb pressing against her clit with every stroke.

She came apart in his arms, her cry swallowed by his mouth, her body shaking as he held her through it. He didn't stop until she went limp, her forehead pressed to his chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

He withdrew his hand, slow and careful, and wrapped both arms around her, pulling her close. She felt his heart hammering against her cheek, felt the hard length of him pressing into her hip, and she smiled against his chest.

"I think that rule amendment works," she said, her voice muffled.

He laughed, a low rumbling sound she felt through his ribs. "Yeah. I think it does."

She pulled back, just enough to look at him. His glasses were fogged, his hair a disaster, his lips red and swollen from kissing her. He was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

"You're going to be late for school," he said, glancing at the clock on her nightstand.

She followed his gaze. 8:15. First period started in fifteen minutes.

"I don't care." She reached for his belt buckle. "I'm not done with you yet."

His hands caught her wrists, firm but gentle. "Bella."

She stopped, looking up at him.

He held her gaze. "We have time. We have all the time in the world." He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "But I'm not going to rush this. And I'm not going to let you rush it either."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to drop to her knees and take him in her mouth and show him exactly how much she didn't care about being late. But the look in his eyes—patient, wanting, full of something that looked like love—stopped her cold.

"Promise me," she said quietly, "that tonight you'll come back. And you'll finish what we started."

"I promise." He kissed her forehead, soft and reverent. "Now get dressed. I'll drive you to school."

She pulled on a fresh crop top and jeans, grabbed her bag, and let him lead her out the door. His hand found her ass the second they stepped onto the front porch, a firm possessive squeeze that made her stumble.

She looked at him, surprised.

He shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. "New rule, remember?"

She laughed, giddy and full, and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together.

She was going to marry him.

And until then, she was going to enjoy every single second of having his hands all over her.

His hand stayed on her ass the entire drive.

She felt it through the denim of her jeans, his palm curved over her cheek, fingers pressing and releasing in a lazy rhythm as he drove one-handed. Every red light, every stop sign, his grip tightened. Claimed. Reminded her that the new rule wasn't just words—it was already instinct.

She watched his profile from the passenger seat. The morning sun caught his glasses, turned them into mirrors. His jaw was relaxed. His mouth kept threatening a smile.

"You're enjoying this," she said.

He glanced at her, quick, then back at the road. His hand squeezed her ass, firm and deliberate. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to touch you like this."

"How long?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Since the first time you sat next to me in English. You were wearing that pink top. The one with the low neckline. I couldn't stop looking at you."

Her chest went tight. "You never said anything."

"I didn't think I had a right to." He pulled into the school parking lot, the building rising in front of them, already crowded with cars. "But you gave me that right. So I'm going to use it."

He parked, killed the engine, and before she could reach for her door, his hand was on her breast. Palm flat, fingers curving over the swell through her crop top, squeezing like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She sucked in a breath.

"New rule," he said, his voice low. "I get to touch you for a full minute before we get out. Every time. To remind myself you're real."

She turned in her seat, arching into his hand. "Take as long as you need."

His thumb found her nipple through the thin fabric, circled it slowly, and she felt it tighten under his touch. His other hand came up, cupping her other breast, and he held her like that—both hands full of her, his eyes dark and focused—while students walked past the car, oblivious.

"Liam," she breathed. "We're going to be late."

"I don't care." But he let his hands drop, a small smile playing at his lips. "Later. Tonight. I'm not done."

"Neither am I."

They got out of the car together. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of damp grass and exhaust. Students milled toward the entrance, backpacks slung over shoulders, conversations overlapping in the early light.

His hand found her ass before they'd taken three steps.

She felt the weight of it through her jeans, the possessive curve of his palm. She glanced at him, and he met her eyes with a quiet confidence that made her knees weak.

They walked toward the entrance together, his hand gripping her ass like it belonged there. Heads turned. A guy in a letterman jacket did a double-take, his mouth falling open. A group of girls whispered behind their hands, eyes wide.

Bella didn't look at any of them. She looked at Liam. Let them see who owned her.

They passed through the front doors, into the fluorescent-lit chaos of the hallway. Lockers slammed. Voices echoed off the tile. The smell of floor wax and stale coffee hit her nose.

And Liam's hand stayed on her ass.

He didn't remove it when a teacher walked past. Didn't remove it when a group of freshmen stopped and stared. Didn't remove it when Derek appeared from the crowd, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.

"Well," Derek said, falling into step beside them. "Good morning to you too."

Liam's hand squeezed. "Morning."

"I see the rule book got an update."

Bella smiled, easy and bright. "It did."

Derek shook his head, a low whistle escaping his lips. "Liam, my man. I don't know what you did to deserve this, but I'm proud of you."

Liam's ears went red, but he didn't drop his hand. "I just got lucky."

"You got lucky," Derek repeated, laughing. "Sure. That's what we'll call it."

They reached Bella's locker, and she spun the combination, Liam's palm still warm against her ass as she worked the dial. She could feel eyes on them—the weight of collective attention, the whispers spreading through the hallway like ripples in a pond.

She pulled out her phone instead of a textbook. Unlocked it. Pulled up her Instagram.

"I have something to show you," she said, turning to face him.

His hand slid from her ass to her hip, a seamless transition that still kept her anchored to him. "What is it?"

She held up the phone.

The post was from last night. She'd scheduled it before falling asleep, the time stamp reading 2:17 AM. The photo: her bathroom mirror, steam curling at the edges, her naked body reflected in the glass. She was bent at the waist, her heavy breasts hanging full and soft, her back arched, her ass high. Her face was partially hidden, her dark hair falling forward, the gold chain with his name catching the light between her breasts. Between her thighs, a single tiny emoji—a red heart—covered the apex of her cunt. Nothing else. Just skin and curves and that one small heart.

The caption: happy birthday to the only one who gets to see all of me. @liam.foster is mine. 🖤

The likes were already in the hundreds. Comments scrolling beneath—holy shit, lucky guy, Liam who, i hate him, damn Bella—a cascade of jealousy and awe.

Liam stared at the screen. His hand on her hip tightened until his knuckles went white.

"Bella." His voice was rough, barely audible. "Everyone's going to see this."

"I know." She smiled, slow and wicked. "That's the point."

He looked from the phone to her face, his hazel eyes dark behind his glasses. "You tagged me."

"I tagged you." She stepped closer, her body brushing his. "I want everyone to know exactly who I belong to. Including you."

His breath caught. His hand slid from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. She felt his cock against her hip, already half-hard, and the knowledge sent a pulse of heat straight to her cunt.

"You're going to get me in trouble," he said, his voice strained.

"Good trouble."

He kissed her then. Not a peck, not a quick brush of lips—a real kiss, deep and claiming, his tongue sliding into her mouth as his hand gripped her waist. She melted into him, her fingers fisting in his hoodie, the phone forgotten in her hand.

The hallway erupted.

Whistles. Whoops. A few groans of disgust. Someone yelled "get a room!" and someone else yelled "Liam, you absolute legend!"

He broke the kiss slowly, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her lips.

"I saw the photo," he said, his voice low. "Before you tagged me. I woke up at three and checked my phone and it was the first thing I saw."

She blinked. "You did?"

"I couldn't go back to sleep." His hand came up, cupping her jaw, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I just lay there and looked at it. At you. At the way you bent over for me. The way your tits hung. The way you covered yourself with that tiny heart like you were saving yourself for me."

Her breath caught.

"And I thought," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "how did I get this lucky? How did the most beautiful girl in the world decide I was the one she wanted?"

"Liam—"

"I don't know." He shook his head, a small wondering motion. "But I'm going to spend every day making sure you never regret it."

She kissed him again, softer this time, a promise pressed into his lips. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet.

"I won't," she said. "I never will."

The warning bell rang, shrill and insistent. Around them, the hallway began to thin, students peeling off toward their first-period classes.

Liam's hand found her ass again, a firm possessive squeeze. "Walk me to class?"

She laughed, the sound bright and full. "I thought I was supposed to say that."

"Rules go both ways." He started walking, his hand guiding her beside him. "You get to claim me too."

They walked through the thinning hallways, his hand never leaving her body. Past the math wing, past the science labs, past Marcus standing at his locker, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

Bella met Marcus's eyes as they passed. Held them. Didn't look away.

Liam's hand squeezed her ass, a deliberate reminder, and she turned her head and smiled at him—a real smile, full of warmth and possession—and Marcus's face went blank with something that looked like defeat.

They reached Liam's classroom. He stopped at the door, his hand sliding from her ass to her waist, pulling her close for one last kiss.

"I'll see you at lunch," he said against her mouth.

"You will." She nipped at his lower lip. "And you better keep your hands on me the whole time."

"Count on it."

He released her, and she walked away, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She knew he was watching.

She floated through the morning in a haze of want. Every class was a countdown. Every minute a small eternity.

Her phone buzzed during second period. A notification: @liam.foster liked your post.

She smiled down at her desk, the teacher's voice fading to static.

A few seconds later, a DM notification. She opened it.

@liam.foster: I can't stop looking at it. I'm going to be useless all day.

She typed back: good. i want you useless. i want you thinking about me.

The three dots appeared immediately. Then: I am. I haven't been able to think about anything else since I met you.

Her heart stuttered. She saved the message.

By third period, she was aching. Not just the low throb of arousal that had become her constant companion—a sharper need, a hunger that had teeth. She wanted him. Wanted his hands on her, his mouth on her, his body covering hers.

She checked the time. Two more hours until lunch.

She made it to lunch.

The cafeteria was chaos, as always—trays clattering, voices overlapping, the fluorescent buzz vibrating overhead. She scanned the room and found him at their usual table, already sitting, two trays in front of him.

He looked up when she walked in. His eyes found her instantly.

And then he was standing, crossing the cafeteria toward her, weaving through tables and chairs, his eyes never leaving hers.

He reached her and his hands found her—one on her ass, one on her breast, claiming both in full view of the entire cafeteria. The room went quiet for a beat. Heads turned. Forks paused mid-air.

"Hi," he said, his voice rough.

She laughed, breathless. "Hi."

He kissed her, quick and hard, and then his hand slid from her ass to her wrist, pulling her toward their table. She followed, letting him guide her, feeling the weight of every stare.

Just before she sat, he leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear. "I checked the photo again during fourth period. I had to hide my boner behind my backpack."

She bit her lip, a shudder running through her. "Did it work?"

"Barely." He pulled out her chair, and she sat, her thigh pressing against his under the table. "You're going to kill me, Bella."

"Not yet." She picked up her fork, spearing a piece of her chicken wrap. "I have plans for you first."

His hand landed on her thigh under the table, warm and heavy. "Tell me."

She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. Then she leaned closer, her voice dropping so only he could hear. "Tonight, after school, you're coming to my house. My parents won't be home until midnight."

His hand tightened on her thigh. "And?"

"And I'm going to worship every inch of you." She held his gaze, letting him see the hunger there. "I'm going to kiss every part of your body. I'm going to taste every part of your body. And then I'm going to let you do the same to me."

His breath caught. His hand slid higher, his knuckles brushing the damp heat between her thighs through her jeans.

"You're wet," he said, his voice strained.

"I've been wet since your hand found my ass this morning."

He made a sound low in his throat, and she felt it vibrate through her where his hand pressed against her. Around them, the cafeteria continued its noise—laughter, conversation, the scrape of chairs—but they were in their own world, a bubble of heat and want.

Derek slid into the seat across from them, a tray in his hands. "You two are disgusting." But he was grinning. "I love it."

Liam's hand stayed on her thigh. "Jealous?"

"Always." Derek took a bite of his burger, chewing noisily. "But seriously. The whole school is talking about that post. Marcus looked like he wanted to fight a wall. Chloe's been staring at you all lunch with a face like she's calculating something."

Bella glanced across the cafeteria. Chloe was indeed staring—green eyes fixed on her, her expression unreadable. When their eyes met, Chloe didn't look away. Didn't smile. Just held her gaze for a long moment before turning back to her friends.

"She'll get over it," Bella said, turning back to her food.

"Will she?" Derek asked, his voice lighter than the question. "Because she looked at me earlier and asked where Liam usually sits."

Liam's hand stilled. "What did you tell her?"

"Told her to mind her own business." Derek shrugged. "But you might want to keep an eye on her. She's got that look."

"What look?" Bella asked.

"The look of someone who's used to getting what she wants." Derek's eyes met hers, serious for a rare moment. "And right now, she wants what you have."

Bella felt a flicker of something cold in her chest. Possessiveness. Protectiveness. A warning bell that had nothing to do with the schedule.

"She can want," Bella said, her voice steady. "But she's not getting it. He's mine."

Liam's hand squeezed her thigh, firm and reassuring. "I'm yours."

She looked at him—his hazel eyes, his crooked smile, the way he said it like it was the simplest truth in the world—and the cold thing in her chest melted into warmth.

"I know," she said. "And I'm not letting you go."

Under the table, his fingers found the button of her jeans. Unfastened it, slow and deliberate, one eyelet at a time.

She went still.

"Liam—"

"Shh." His fingers slid inside, past the waistband of her panties, finding her slick and ready. "I'm just claiming what's mine."

His fingers slid through her folds, slow and deliberate, and she had to grip the edge of the table to keep from moaning out loud. Derek was still talking—something about a test, a teacher—but she couldn't hear him. Could only feel Liam's fingers moving inside her, exploring her, owning her in plain sight.

"Look at me," Liam said, his voice low.

She did. His eyes were dark, focused, his face calm. His hand moved under the table, hidden by the tablecloth, and she felt his fingers press inside her, one at a time, filling her while the whole cafeteria chattered around them.

"This is what you wanted, right?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "To be claimed in front of everyone?"

She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Then let them watch." He curled his fingers inside her, finding that spot that made her vision blur. "Let them all see how happy you are. How satisfied. How completely mine."

She came apart on his fingers, silent and shaking, her hand gripping his wrist under the table as the wave crashed through her. He worked her through it, slow and steady, until her body went limp against the back of her chair.

He withdrew his hand, brought it to his mouth, and licked her off his fingers with deliberate slowness.

Derek was staring at them, his burger frozen halfway to his mouth. "Did you just—"

"Finish your lunch, Derek," Liam said, his voice calm.

Derek blinked. Then he laughed, a loud surprised sound. "Holy shit. Liam Foster. You absolute madman."

Bella was still trying to catch her breath. She looked at Liam—her shy, quiet boyfriend, who had just made her come in the middle of the cafeteria—and felt a wave of love so strong it almost hurt.

"I'm yours," she said, her voice rough.

He smiled, soft and real, and squeezed her hand under the table. "Yeah. You are."