The playlist had been through four hostile takeovers by the time Mella finally found a corner of the kitchen that wasn't occupied by somebody arguing about whether SZA counted as party music. She had a red cup of punch she wasn't drinking, a bonnet she'd stopped being embarrassed about an hour ago, and her eyes on the doorway.
Linc walked through it like he'd been summoned.
He was in his gray sweats and that oversized graphic tee she'd stolen from him twice, glasses slightly fogged from the heat of the kitchen, locs pulled back loose. He wasn't looking for her. That was the thing about him—he never scanned a room for her the way other guys did. He just walked in and eventually his eyes landed on her like gravity, like she was the fixed point and everything else was negotiable.
"You not drinking that," he said, coming to lean against the counter beside her. Not a question.
"It's punch, Linc."
"It's punch with a whole bottle of Everclear in it. Dre made it. You want to be conscious tonight or nah?"
She rolled her eyes, but she set the cup down on the counter behind her anyway. "Happy?"
"Very." He was quiet for a second, watching the card game happening at the kitchen table—six people yelling about spades rules that changed every hand. Then, lower, just for her: "You look comfortable."
Mella tugged at her fitted tee self-consciously. "I'm in pajama pants at a frat function. Comfortable is a strong word."
"Nah." His eyes did that slow thing, unhurried, cataloging. "Comfortable fits. You look like you. That's my favorite version."
God. He did that—dropped something soft and sincere in the middle of a loud room and then just looked away like he hadn't rearranged her whole chest. She'd been talking to him for months now, exclusively, secretly, and he still caught her off guard with it every time.
"You can't just say stuff like that where people can hear," she muttered.
"Nobody's listening to us, mama. Everybody's listening to Dre cheat at spades."
The pet name slipped out easy, the way it always did, and she felt her neck warm. She glanced around anyway. Nobody was looking. Nobody ever was—that was the whole point of them. Months of sneaking between Campbell dorms and his apartment, of FaceTimes that ran until her raspy sleepy voice finally gave out, of him telling her over and over that he loved that voice until she believed it. Nobody knew. It was getting harder to keep it that way, but tonight the secret felt like a live wire between them.
"You good?" she asked, studying him. "You been off all day."
Linc blinked. She knew him too well—that was the problem with spending four months falling for somebody. He'd been in his own head since practice that morning, quiet in the group chat, quiet at the house, quiet in a way that Linc—who was already the quiet one—never was.
"I'm good," he said. Then he looked at her, really looked, dark almond eyes steady behind his glasses, and something in his expression made her thighs press together without her permission. "Just been thinking all day."
"'Bout what?"
"You."
"Linc—"
"All day, Mella." His voice dropped so low she had to lean in to catch it. "Been at practice, in class, in the car with the brothers, and all I could think about was you. Sitting your pretty self somewhere you shouldn't be, with my face between your legs." He said it flat, casual, like commenting on the weather, and it hit her like a truck. "Couldn't focus on a single route. Coach asked me twice if I was sick."
Her face went hot from her collarbone to her ears. "You cannot—there are people—"
"There's forty people in this house and not one of them is paying attention to us." He tilted his head, that smirk barely tugging at the corner of his full lips. "Why you think I found you back here?"
"Because you wanted punch?"
"Because I wanted to tell you what I've been thinking about since eleven this morning, and I wanted to watch your face when I said it." He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's the face."
She smacked his arm, and he laughed—low and warm, catching her hand and holding it against his chest for one second too long before letting go, because they were still in public, still a secret.
"You're the worst," she said, without meaning a word of it.
"I'm obsessed. It's different."
The night stretched on. They migrated to the living room where the air mattresses covered every inch of floor, LED strips washing everything purple and blue, a movie nobody was watching playing on the TV. Somebody had built a genuine pillow fort out of couch cushions and blankets in the far corner near the hallway, and it had sat empty for hours because it was too small for the group and too far from the snacks.
Mella claimed a spot on an air mattress near the fort, tucking her legs under her, and Linc settled onto the floor beside her with his back against the mattress edge, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers every time he moved. Close enough that she could smell him—warm, clean, the faint sweetness of his loc products.
The party thinned in slow motion. People paired off into claimed sleeping spots, arguments about the music dissolved into someone's playlist on low, the kitchen went dark. By two in the morning there were maybe a dozen bodies scattered around the living room, all hooded, all unconscious or close to it.
And Linc's hand was on her thigh.
Not moving. Just resting there, warm and heavy over her pajama pants, his thumb tracing a slow absent line while he watched the movie screen with that nonchalant expression that fooled everybody but her. She'd stopped watching the movie twenty minutes ago. Her whole attention had narrowed down to six square inches of fabric under his palm.
"You're not watching the movie," she whispered.
"Neither are you."
"I'm watching you not watch it."
"Okay, that's just watching me." His thumb drew another slow circle, higher. "You fidgeting for a reason, mama girl?"
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You moved three times in the last minute." He leaned in, his mouth near her ear, breath warm. "You know what I told you I been thinking about all day. You been thinking about it too?"
She had. She'd been thinking about it since the kitchen, since he'd said it in that flat voice with his eyes on her, since she'd spent the last two hours hyper-aware of every place their bodies almost touched. The memory of the motel balcony, of his kitchen counter, of his bed in Campbell—her body had been keeping a running list all night.
"Linc, people are right there."
"Dre is snoring. Nia is asleep with her hood over her face. And you—" his hand slid up, slow, "—you got a blanket over your lap."
She hadn't put the blanket there for this. She'd put it there because she was cold. But now his hand was under it, and his fingertips were drawing lazy shapes on the inside of her thigh, and every nerve in her body had relocated to that one point of contact.
"Look at me," he murmured.
She did. That was her mistake, always. His eyes behind the glasses were dark and patient and absolutely certain of what he was going to do to her, and her stubbornness—the part of her that liked to push back, to make him work for it—melted straight through the floor.
"The fort," he said quietly.
"What?"
"The pillow fort. Nobody's in it. It's got a whole blanket situation, it's in the corner, it's got a wall between it and everybody sleeping." He stood in one easy motion, stretching, loud enough to look casual. "I'm gonna go crash in the fort. You coming or you sleeping out here with Dre's snoring?"
She hesitated one second for the sake of her pride. Then she grabbed her blanket and followed him.
The fort was bigger than it looked from the outside—couch cushions formed actual walls, a heavy quilt stretched across the top as a ceiling, and inside there was a nest of blankets and two forgotten pillows. The LED glow filtered through the weave of the quilt in soft purple, and the noise of the sleeping living room went muffled the moment they ducked inside.
Linc zipped nothing, closed nothing—there was no door—but the moment she was inside with him, the world shrunk down to purple light and his body folding down over hers, the fort suddenly the size of a confession.
"Hi," she breathed.
"Hi, pretty girl." He eased her back onto the blankets, settling over her, his weight balanced on his forearms so he wasn't crushing her, but close. So close. His locs fell forward around his face. "We don't gotta do nothing. We can just sleep."
"Linc."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
He grinned—actually grinned—and kissed her.
The kiss started soft, the way he always started, patient and slow, like he had all night and intended to use all of it. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly like the punch he'd actually drunk, and his hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek. She melted into it, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and sliding underneath, palms flat against the warm skin of his stomach, the hard lean muscle there. He exhaled against her mouth when she touched him.
"Keep that up and I'ma lose my patience," he warned against her lips.
"You have patience?"
"For you? Unlimited." He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the spot below her ear that made her sigh. "Been wanting you all day, though. So maybe don't test it."
His mouth traveled down her neck, slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, and she tipped her head back into the pillows and let him. His hands pushed her fitted tee up gradually, uncovering her stomach inch by inch, and he pulled back to look at her.
"You're so—" He stopped. Shook his head slightly. "You don't even know what you do to me, mama. Sitting in class, I'm thinking about you. At practice, thinking about you. Trying to take pictures, and my camera keeps pointing at shit that reminds me of you. I'm obsessed, for real. It's actually a problem."
"Sounds like a you problem," she said, breathless.
"It's a you problem." He tugged her shirt up further, and she lifted so he could pull it off over her head, leaving her in her bralette underneath the purple light. "You did this. You and your pretty self and your voice and the way you laugh at my worst jokes. I wasn't like this before you."
She reached for the hem of his shirt in answer, and he sat back on his heels and let her pull it off him, and even now—even after months—her eyes still did a slow lap over his abs, the lean lines of his torso, the way the light caught his brown skin.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're stared at."
He laughed, and then he leaned down and pressed her flat again, and his hands went to the waistband of her pajama pants, and the slow careful way he eased them down her hips made her heart hammer. He left her panties on. He always left her panties on first. It was a thing with him, a ritual—like he needed the anticipation as much as she did.
He sat back and just looked at her, sprawled in the blanket nest, half-naked in purple light.
"Say it," he murmured, rubbing her thigh. "Tell me what you want. I been thinking about it all day, but I wanna hear you say it."
Her face burned. She hated saying it. Loved saying it. Both.
"You," she managed. "Your mouth. Linc, please."
"There she is," he whispered, reverent. "Good girl."
He positioned himself between her legs, pressing slow kisses up the inside of her thigh—knee, the soft spot above it, higher, maddeningly unhurried, until she was lifting her hips in silent demand and he just chuckled against her skin.
"Impatient, mama?"
"You said you been thinking about this since eleven a.m. So why are you slow?"
"'Cause I been thinking about it since eleven a.m. and I plan on taking my time." He hooked his fingers in her panties and drew them down her legs, and then he pressed one warm, soft kiss right against her pussy, and her whole body jolted. "Mm. There it is."
His tongue slid through her slow, unhurried, and Mella's hand flew to his locs, gripping. He groaned against her at the pull, the vibration going straight through her, and he settled in like a man with nowhere else in the world to be. He licked her slow and thorough, his nose brushing her clit on every pass, and when he finally sealed his lips around that sensitive spot and sucked, she had to bite her own knuckle to keep quiet.
"Uh-uh." He pulled off long enough to speak, fingers replacing his mouth, sliding two thick fingers into her and curling them. "Don't hide from me. I wanna hear you. Quiet as it is in here, baby, nobody's waking up. Let me hear you."
"They're—they're right there—"
"They sleeping." His fingers worked her, finding that spot inside her, pressing it with a patience that was destroying her. "And even if they wasn't—I want them to know I take care of you. I don't care who hears how good you feel."
"Mm—Linc—"
"That's it." He dipped his head again, tongue flicking her clit in rhythm with his fingers, and her hips started moving on their own, chasing it. "That's my girl. You taste so good, you know that? Been thinking about this all day. Couldn't tell nobody why I was smiling in the locker room." He pumped his fingers deeper, slower. "You close, mama? I can feel you squeezing me. Go on. Give it to me."
The pressure crested and broke, and she came with a strangled moan she couldn't have held back if she'd tried, thighs clamping around his head, his fingers working her through it while his mouth kept moving, softer now, gentling her down.
He pressed a kiss to her hip and sat up, and his mouth and chin were shining, and he looked obscenely proud of himself.
"One more," he said.
"Linc."
"I know, I know. One more. I promised myself all day, mama—two, minimum. Contractual." He was already easing her further down into the blankets, already sliding her legs over his shoulders, and his dick was straining hard against his sweats, and she reached for him.
"You first," she said, tugging at his waistband. "Let me—"
"Nah." He caught her hand, kissed her palm. "Tonight's about you. I been thinking about you all day. This is me thinking out loud."
"You're killing me."
"I'm loving you. There's a difference." He said it easily, casually, and then froze slightly, like he heard himself.
She froze too. He'd never said it quite like that. Neither of them had.
"Linc—"
"Later," he said softly, eyes on hers. "I'll say it proper later. Right now I still owe you one more."
He went down on her again, slower this time, lazy and indulgent, working her up from nothing with his mouth and fingers until she was trembling and begging in whispers, and when she came the second time he talked her all the way through it, murmuring against her—"that's it, pretty girl, so good for me, my good girl"—until she was a boneless, breathing mess in the blanket nest.
Then, finally, he let her reach for him. He kicked his sweats off, and she got her hand around him—thick and heavy and much more than her small grip could manage, which had always made something flare in his eyes—and he groaned and dropped his forehead to her shoulder.
"You do that and I'm done in thirty seconds," he warned.
"Big talk."
"All day, mama. All day." He guided her hand away, settled between her thighs, and pressed in slow, slow, slow, his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker as she stretched around him. "Breathe. That's it. Breathe for me. Fuck—you feel—" He shuddered, sinking deeper. "You feel like everything. Tell me if it's too much."
"It's—" she gasped, "—it's not enough."
He laughed, low and wrecked, and obliged.
He moved slow. That was Linc—even now, even after months of this—he moved like he was memorizing her, long unhurried strokes that dragged against every inch of her, his mouth finding hers between thrusts so she could taste herself on his tongue. He whispered against her lips, a running stream of praise: how good she felt, how pretty she was, how he'd been thinking about her all day, how he was never thinking about anything else. She was drowning in it, in him, her nails scoring his back, her ankles locked behind his hips.
"Say my name," he breathed.
"Linc—"
"No, the—" He slowed, almost stopping, and his lips brushed her ear. "The other one."
Her whole body clenched around him. "Bear," she whispered.
He shuddered. "Yeah. Say it again."
"Bear. Please."
He picked up the pace, and she met him, and the fort's purple light swam above them, and the whole sleeping house full of his brothers faded to nothing outside the quilt walls. She felt it building a third time, and he felt it too—he slipped a hand between them, found her clit, and rubbed in tight circles while he fucked her deep and steady.
"Come on, mama girl," he panted against her mouth. "One more for me. I know you got one more. You been so good for me all night—so good—"
She came apart with a sob muffled in his shoulder, and he followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and groaning her name into her neck, and she felt the warmth of him flooding her, and she held him through every shudder until he collapsed, careful, half onto the blankets beside her.
For a while there was only their breathing and Dre's snoring through the fort wall.
"So," Linc said finally, hoarse. "That's what I was thinking about all day."
"You could've just texted me that."
"I tried. I wrote it nine times. It looked insane every time."
She laughed, the loose giggly kind, and he pulled her into his chest, dragging the blanket over them both.
"Hey. Mella."
"Mm."
"I love you. Proper. Like I said I would."
She smiled into his skin. "I know, bear. I love you too. Obsessed boy."
"Obsessed man," he corrected. "And you love it."
Outside the fort, dawn was a rumor. Inside it, she was already asleep against his chest, and Linc—photographer, quietly affectionate, absolutely gone for her—took a mental picture he'd never need a camera for.