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Vik is exceptional at many things—brilliant, methodical, sharp as a blade when it comes to the workings of the mind. A savant of science and mathematics, a rising inventor with patents already pending and notebooks overflowing with concepts that could redefine the future. She is, by all accounts, a woman built for legacy. One whose name she fully intends to leave etched into history as someone who helped .
And yet, somehow, despite all that—despite her calculated mind, her carefully structured routines, and her near-impenetrable emotional armor—she finds herself completely, inexcusably undone by a pretty face.
Well. That’s reductive. Mel Medarda is not just a pretty face. That would be like calling a cathedral a building, or a galaxy a cluster of stars. No, Mel is...radiant. Striking, yes, but more than that—formidable. A razor-sharp tongue tempered by a smile that could win elections, with a wit so quick it feels like verbal sleight of hand. And an intuitive grasp of people—of her —that Vik has never seen before and isn’t entirely sure she trusts.
But the most damning thing? The thing that renders Vik’s efforts to remain distant utterly futile?
Mel is kind .
Not performatively. Not strategically. But genuinely, maddeningly kind. The sort of kindness that looks like helping a mother corral her kids on a crowded bus, or noticing when someone’s gone quiet in a group and gently looping them into the conversation. The sort that remembers your favorite tea after hearing it once, or texts you a photo of something she passed that reminded her of you—because of course it did.
It drives Vik up the wall.
Because how is she supposed to reason her way out of this? How is she supposed to categorize the heat that blooms in her chest when Mel touches her arm mid-laugh, or the ache she feels in her gut when Mel looks at her a second too long?
She is Viktoria Zaun. The mind behind half of Jayce’s flashier projects, the master of breakthroughs. She doesn’t do distractions.
And yet, here she is. Thoroughly distracted. Unraveling by the day.
Vik is no romantic. Not by a long shot. She’s a scientist, first and foremost—a woman of logic, of proofs and patterns. But she is studied. She knows the great confessions that have echoed through time, the declarations of love that launched a thousand ships, the tragedies that ended in deathbeds and rainstorms, the comedies where yearning twists into bliss. She knows the language of longing, its rhythm and ache.
That last one— yearning —she understands now in ways no textbook ever could’ve prepared her for.
And truly, the entire thing feels ridiculous . Because it is . For all the sickeningly sweet lines that blossom unbidden in her mind—sentiments she would sooner choke on than say aloud—for all the stolen glances and heart-spiking silences, Vik never says a word. Never crosses the threshold.
It’s not just cowardice. Not entirely. There’s also the tiny, inconvenient detail that Mel is Jayce’s ex-girlfriend. A fact Vik reminds herself of often, like a mantra. She doesn’t usually concern herself with the endless, unwritten rules of polite society but, even she can admit, perhaps there’s some logic to the one about not kissing your best friend’s ex .
And yet, the excuse is wearing thin. Frayed at the edges. Jayce and Mel are fine—solid, even. Years have passed, hearts have healed, they’ve moved into the easy rhythm of old friends. There’s no lingering tension, no unread messages or sharp glances. No reason, really, for Vik to keep pretending this boundary still exists.
But it’s the only excuse she has left. So she clings to it like a lifeline.
Their dynamic—hers and Mel’s—is a tightrope. Strange. Stressful. Full of unsaid things and sideways looks. But Vik makes it work. She’s meticulous about it: never lets herself look at Mel too long, retreats behind the safety of her bedroom door when conversations veer into dangerous territory, is unfailingly careful to never be left alone with her.
It’s a system. An imperfect one, but effective.
Until, of course, it isn’t.
The knock comes just as Vik’s pen hits the paper. She pauses, frowning slightly. Jayce usually just yells through the door if he forgets his keys. This knock is gentler. Measured. She sighs, setting her notebook aside and reaching for her cane. The walk to the front door is practiced—swift but careful. She smooths her expression into something neutral as she opens it.
Mel stands there. In a sundress.
Vik short-circuits for exactly two seconds.
It’s not just that the outfit is cute—though it is, painfully so, all soft fabric and golden light—but that Mel is holding a picnic basket like she stepped out of a dream Vik is trying very hard not to have.
Vik blinks. “Jayce isn’t home,” she says, defaulting to fact because it’s safer than anything else.
“I know,” Mel replies, smiling easily. “We were supposed to go for a picnic in the park, take advantage of the sun, but he bailed. Work emergency or something.”
Vik’s grip tightens ever so slightly on her cane.
Mel lifts the basket a little. “So I thought… maybe you’d come with me instead?”
There’s a pause. The silence stretches just long enough to become noticeable.
“I tried calling,” Mel continues, unbothered. “But I figured you were working. You usually keep your phone on Do Not Disturb, right?”
Vik’s chest tightens, a quiet clench she tries not to show. Of course Mel remembered that. Of course she did. Little details. Always the little things.
Vik clears her throat. Keeps her voice steady. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“Oh.” Mel’s face falls, but only a little—just enough for her lips to turn down and her eyes to soften. “Right. Sorry, I should’ve known you’d be busy.”
And then she pouts. “I guess a solo picnic isn’t too bad.”
It’s not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just a subtle curve of her mouth, her lower lip pressing forward in a way that is criminally effective. Vik feels herself unraveling like a spool of thread yanked from the inside. All her carefully built distance, her practiced neutrality, her airtight schedule—none of it prepared her for that face.
She exhales slowly through her nose.
“I could…” Vik begins, gaze flicking to the basket, then to the warmth in Mel’s eyes. “I suppose I can take a break.”
Mel’s smile returns, bright and victorious. “Great. I brought strawberries.”
Of course she did.
The park is half-sunlight, half-shade—dappled light playing through the trees, a gentle breeze keeping the air just cool enough to be pleasant. It’s annoyingly picturesque.
They’ve claimed a wooden picnic table tucked away from the main walking paths. Mel’s laid everything out like she’s done this a dozen times before—neatly arranged fruits glistening in the sun, an array of tiny sandwiches wrapped in parchment, little containers of olives and nuts and cheeses. There’s bottled lemonade sweating on the table, condensation pooling like lazy halos.
Vik sits stiffly at first, her cane propped beside her, one hand flat on the weather-worn wood as she watches Mel with wary curiosity.
And then— of course —Mel pulls out a bottle of green tea.
“I grabbed this for you,” she says, offering it over with that effortless grace she always seems to carry. “From the coffee shop down the street. You like this one, right?”
Vik takes it slowly, her fingers brushing Mel’s as she does. “Yeah. I do.”
Mel smiles, like it’s nothing. Like remembering Vik’s drink order is a casual detail and not something that tightens the knot in Vik’s stomach.
“You really went all out,” Vik says, eyeing the spread again, trying to steer her thoughts back into neutral. “You attention to detail is quite impressive.”
Mel laughs softly, a hand brushing over the back of her neck. “It’s not that impressive.”
It is . And Vik almost tells her so. Almost says, It’s thoughtful. And beautiful. And you’re—
She stops herself. Barely.
But Mel looks bashful, the corners of her mouth tilting to fight a smile, her eyes dipping as she fiddles with the edge of a napkin. And Vik? Vik nearly combusts. That look—soft, a little uncertain—is rare on her. She’s usually all confidence and poise and devastating assurance. But this? This is something quieter. Something vulnerable.
And Vik thinks, I want to be the reason she looks like that more often.
Then she immediately chastises herself for it. Ruthlessly.
They settle into the meal, the silence companionable, broken only by the occasional comment or offer to pass something. It feels surprisingly natural— easy —in a way that Vik doesn’t know what to do with.
The conversation turns, as it often does with them, to books.
“I still can’t believe you actually liked Wuthering Heights ,” Mel says, laughing as she plucks a grape from the bunch. “They’re all awful people.”
“They are,” Vik agrees, sipping her tea. “But that’s part of the point. It’s not about likable characters. It’s about obsession. Destruction. How people ruin each other.”
Mel wrinkles her nose. “That’s so depressing.”
“It’s honest.”
“And bleak.”
Vik arches a brow. “Life is bleak.”
“Life is also sweet ,” Mel counters. “Messy. Beautiful. Sometimes kind. I prefer the stories that remember that.”
“Which is why you made me read Persuasion .”
Mel beams. “And you liked it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You annotated it.”
Vik pauses. “...That’s irrelevant.”
They both laugh, and for a moment, everything else slips away—Jayce, the unspoken boundaries, the weight Vik always carries. It’s just them. Fruit and sunlight and the brush of their knees under the table.
Somehow, the world isn’t caving in and Vik allows herself this little moment.
From that day forward, Vik develops the distinct—if faintly terrifying—impression that Mel Medarda is flirting with her.
She can’t be sure, of course. Vik is not exactly known for her social agility, and when it comes to decoding romantic intent, her instincts are...underdeveloped, to put it kindly. But she’s a scientist. When faced with uncertainty, she doesn’t speculate blindly. She tests. She observes. She conducts research.
Step one: data collection.
She starts paying attention. Not in a creepy way—just... systematically. Analytically. She notices how often Mel seeks her out now, goes out of her way to start conversations. How she insists on sitting in the middle of the couch when they all watch TV, which used to be Jayce’s self-declared territory. This sparks a friendly, drawn-out debate that ends in Jayce rolling his eyes and moving to the armchair like a sulking prince, while Mel smiles smugly and inches closer to Vik until their elbows nearly touch.
She notices how Mel has taken to gently protesting when Vik tries to slip away to her room, claiming she’s “not done talking to her yet,” even if their conversation was barely about anything at all. And most damningly, Mel has started showing up even when Jayce isn’t home—claiming she’s “just in the neighborhood,” then casually settling herself next to Vik on the couch, phone in hand, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Vik is never doing anything interesting enough to warrant that kind of attention. But Mel shows up anyway. Sits beside her anyway. Laughs at her dry observations anyway.
Which leads her to step two: peer review.
She needs a second opinion—someone trustworthy, someone perceptive, and most importantly, someone who dates women. Enter Vi: Jayce’s gym buddy, occasional sparring partner, and the coolest lesbian Vik knows.
Vik corners her one day in the kitchen, lays out the situation in the most vaguely neutral terms she can manage. She tries to be subtle, tries to describe the behavior without naming names, but subtlety has never been her strong suit.
Vi listens for about a minute before cutting in, arms crossed, mouth tilted into a knowing smirk.
“You’re talking about Mel, right?”
Vik short-circuits. Her soul detaches from her body. “I—what?”
Vi chuckles, not unkindly. “Relax. I’ve got eyes. And, listen, if you want my professional girl-kissing expertise, I’d say there’s a very good chance Mel wants to kiss you, too.”
Vik rubs her thumbs along the smooth handle of her cane, grounding herself. “What makes you so sure?”
Vi tilts her head toward the living room, one brow raised. “Because she’s looking at you right now like you hung the moon.”
Vik turns—slowly, carefully—and finds Mel leaning against the far doorway, phone in one hand, her gaze unmistakably fixed on Vik. When their eyes meet, Mel smiles softly and gives her a small wave.
Vik, composed in the way a person who is actively disintegrating tries to be, lifts her fingers in return and quickly turns back around.
“And that’s a good sign?” she asks, too casual.
Vi just laughs, clapping her on the shoulder. Before Vik can interrogate her further, she’s swept away by a breathless Jayce telling her that he’s ready to leave.
Finally, there’s the most damning piece of evidence: tactile interaction.
For context, Vik has observed—purely for scientific purposes, of course—that Mel is a casual touch kind of person. She’s seen it often enough: the way Mel gently touches someone’s forearm when she’s emphasizing a point, the playful shove when she finds something funny, the bump of shoulders when she’s trying to cheer someone up. All light, all effortless.
But what Mel does to Vik is different. Sharper. Slower. Intentional.
Her touches linger.
Her hand hovers on Vik’s lower back when introducing her to new people. She sits so close their legs align from ankle to shoulder, her presence warm and steady. She leans in when she laughs, perfume curling in the air between them like a secret only Vik is allowed to keep.
And then there was the hair touching.
Mel reached over—unprompted—and brushed a loose strand of hair behind Vik’s ear. Her fingers ghosted along Vik’s jaw, then her neck, leaving behind an invisible trail of warmth that Vik swore she could still feel hours later.
So, yes. Maybe Mel is flirting with her.
And maybe Vik is freaking out about it.
Vik plans everything down to the minute.
The apartment is clean—suspiciously clean, Jayce even commented on it before heading out for the evening. She’s wearing a black turtleneck because it makes her look composed (and hides how flushed she gets around Mel), and she’s got two mugs of tea already poured and waiting on the coffee table. She’s even practiced her opening lines in the mirror, once, twice, five times.
This is going to be a conversation. A mature, adult discussion between two rational people.
Then Mel knocks and, as Vik opens the door, all rational thought is violently evicted from her skull.
Mel is standing there in a dress the color of late summer—soft amber, cinched at the waist with a delicate tie, the fabric hugging her in a way that makes Vik’s brain short-circuit. The skirt flutters just above the knee, showing off toned legs and a careless sort of elegance, and the neckline dips low. She’s glowing, somehow, curls falling just right, gold earrings catching the hallway light like they have a personal vendetta against Vik’s composure.
“Hi,” Mel says, smiling like she doesn’t know what she’s doing.
Vik, who had a well-rehearsed line about clarity and emotional transparency loaded in the chamber, stares at her for a full second too long before stepping aside. “Come in,” she says, already disgusted with herself. The thoughts that flood her mind in that moment would probably have Mel running for the hills.
Mel enters with the sort of grace that feels like mockery and settles onto the couch, crossing her legs. Her dress shifts and Vik has to avert her eyes, training them instead on the far, safe corner of the room. She closes the door, grabs her cane, and tries to remember what language is.
“I, uh,” she starts, heading toward the couch and sitting down as carefully as if it were a trap. “I wanted to talk. About... something.”
Mel lifts a brow. “You sound serious. More serious than you always do, anyway.”
“I am serious.” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. “Was.”
Mel picks up her tea, takes a sip, and watches her over the rim of the mug. “Alright. What’s on your mind?”
Nothing good. Nothing appropriate. Vik’s fingers curl around her own mug, though she doesn’t dare lift it. The warmth is grounding. She looks down at the steam and thinks, Now. Say it now. Say it clearly. Like an adult.
Instead, she says, abruptly and much too loudly: “Are you in love with me?”
Silence.
Even the refrigerator seems to stop humming in shock.
Mel blinks, mug halfway to her lips. Then, slowly, her lips curl into a grin, and she lets out a breathless little laugh.
“No,” she says, and it feels like being gut-punched by a velvet fist.
Vik wishes for the floor to open and consume her. “Right,” she mutters, already reaching for a retreat route. “Of course, I didn’t mean—obviously, it’s ridiculous, I just thought—forget I said anything—”
“Viktoria,” Mel interrupts, voice still lilting with amusement, “that’s a bit much, don’t you think? We haven’t even been on a proper date.”
Vik blinks. “So…?”
Mel leans forward, setting her mug aside. “So no, I’m not in love with you,” she says, softer now. “But I like you. A lot .”
“Oh.”
There’s a beat where Vik processes this information in silence, mentally rewriting every single response she thought she’d need for this conversation.
Mel, watching her struggle, tilts her head. “Is that a problem?”
Vik’s mouth moves before her brain can intervene. “No. No, not a problem. I like you too. In the, uh. Non-platonic sense.”
Mel grins. “Good.”
Vik nods stiffly. “Yes. Definitely good. Great, one could say.”
Another pause. Vik wants to say something else, something clever or charming or anything , but her mind has shorted out again from too much direct eye contact. So Mel does the kindest thing she can do at the moment: she takes the lead.
She leans in, slowly, giving Vik plenty of time to pull away—but Vik doesn’t. She sits frozen for a moment, and then leans in too, their foreheads almost brushing.
“Is this...?” Vik whispers, uselessly.
“Shut up, Vik,” Mel murmurs, smiling, and kisses her.
It’s soft. Warm. A little tentative at first, then surer when Vik doesn’t immediately combust (though she very nearly does). Her hand comes up to gently rest on Mel’s arm and for a second, nothing else matters—just the two of them, the soft rush of breath, the faint taste of tea and tension finally broken.
When they pull apart, Vik’s eyes are wide. “Well.”
Mel laughs again, delighted. “That was very mature of us, don’t you think?”
“I’m a pillar of emotional intelligence,” Vik deadpans.
Dating Mel, as it turns out, isn’t some grand, sweeping transformation in Vik’s life. There’s no seismic shift, no dramatic montage with spinning camera angles and pop music. It’s quieter than that. More insidious. A soft, glowing change that slips into everything she does. The world doesn’t tilt, exactly—it just becomes a little brighter at the edges, a little softer in the places that used to hurt. It’s borderline disgusting how happy she is.
And now, suddenly, Vik understands why people become unbearable once they start dating. The ones who talk about their partners like they're auditioning for a romantic comedy. She used to find it pathetic. Now? She is it. She wants to be around Mel all the time. She wants to hold her hand and kiss her in every room they enter. She wants to bring her up in unrelated conversations just to say her name. The whole thing feels like a deeply personal humiliation ritual conducted by the universe—and also, somehow, a glimpse of heaven.
But while everything is going suspiciously well between them, a new, rather pressing issue begins to fester. The issue being: Vik wants to fuck her girlfriend. Badly.
It starts out innocently enough—Mel looks particularly good one day, leans in too close while talking, places a hand on Vik’s thigh for no apparent reason, and that’s it. Game over. The seed is planted. And it only gets worse from there. Every time Mel shows up in one of her stupidly pretty dresses or flops across Vik’s bed like she owns the place, every time she sighs in that dreamy way while gazing directly into her eyes or says Vik’s name like it’s her favorite word, Vik’s brain turns into static.
She’s imagined Mel in more positions than she could ever admit. They blur together now—fantasies layered over each other like watercolor smudges. She thinks about the sounds Mel might make, the way her body would move beneath her hands, the taste of her mouth and skin and everything in between. She’s never been especially horny in her life—at least not compared to her peers—but Mel Medarda is rewriting her internal chemistry like a goddamn science experiment. One she is losing control of rapidly.
It gets to the point where Vik finds herself nearly gnawing on the inside of her cheek just to stay grounded when Mel curls up beside her on the couch like it’s nothing. Like her very presence isn’t setting off alarm bells in Vik’s libido.
Of course, the obvious solution is to just ask. Mel is nothing if not communicative. Vik is a grown woman. She could express her interest, gauge Mel’s response, and proceed accordingly. Consent, clarity, communication—it’s all very mature.
But that’s the problem. Because while Vik is many things—brilliant, methodical, arguably neurotic—she is also woefully inexperienced. She’s had hookups, sure, a few half-hearted dalliances, but nothing with the weight or sharpness of what she feels for Mel. And there’s a terrible little voice in her head that whispers Mel will think she’s some kind of insatiable pervert if she admits just how desperately she wants her. That voice wins more often than it should.
And so Vik suffers. Quietly. Elegantly. On the brink of spontaneous combustion every time her girlfriend so much as breathes in her direction.
Eventually a plan forms in her mind. Vik, ever the strategist, decides that the best way to seduce her girlfriend is with a plan . A meticulous, foolproof plan.
It starts with the suit.
Jayce is roped in, of course, because he’s one of the few people she trusts to tell her when she looks like a complete disaster. They spend nearly an hour debating lapel widths and whether a patterned waistcoat is too much or just enough . Eventually, they settle on a charcoal three-piece with subtle pinstripes and a crisp white shirt. The tie is burgundy. The shoes are polished within an inch of their lives. Vik stands before the mirror, feeling oddly like she’s being fitted for battle.
“You look hot,” Jayce says, giving an approving nod and adjusting her collar. “Mel loves a suit. You are so getting laid tonight, Vik. I’m so proud.”
“Thank you for your…insight,” Vik replies, deadpan, even as her ears flush pink.
The next step is reservations. She’s secured a table at Solène, the upscale restaurant Mel had once gushed about in passing, her eyes lighting up as she described the lighting, the wine list, the god-tier lemon tart. Vik had made a note of it immediately—literal note, in her phone, under a locked folder titled Mel Stuff . If she was going to orchestrate the perfect night, she’d need every possible advantage.
Flowers are acquired—orchids, because roses felt too cliché—and cologne is dabbed on with the kind of reverence typically reserved for religious rites. Vik rarely wears it, but tonight calls for every weapon in her admittedly limited romantic arsenal. She even takes the time to style her hair properly, combing it back and setting it with a faint shine that makes her look less like a distracted academic and more like someone who might actually be good at this.
And then comes the awkward part.
Jayce is sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels, when Vik clears her throat.
“If, ah… if Mel and I decide to extend the evening,” she says carefully, smoothing down her vest for the tenth time, “I may not be home tonight.”
Jayce blinks at her. Then grins. “Viktoria, you minx . ”
“Don’t—”
He immediately throws both thumbs up in her direction like someone’s corny dad. “Good luck, champ.”
She wants to roll her eyes. She does roll her eyes. But the absurdity of it is enough to chip away at the wall of nerves barricading her chest. She exhales, shoulders loosening a fraction.
“Thanks,” she mutters, adjusting her cufflinks.
Jayce watches her go, a quiet pride in his eyes that he doesn't bother to say out loud. And Vik, steadying herself with every step, prays that the night goes perfectly.
Vik pulls up to the curb outside Mel’s house, her hands tight on the steering wheel despite the steady rhythm of jazz humming through the speakers. She parks with surgical precision, turns off the engine, and shoots off a quick text: I’m outside.
Then she waits.
Which is far worse than the planning. Far worse than the tailoring, the cologne, the quiet pep talk in the mirror. And then the door opens.
Mel steps out onto the stoop in a floor-length navy dress with a thigh slit that might actually be a war crime. The fabric catches the golden haze of the streetlights as she descends, floating rather than walking, curls perfectly styled, lips glossy, earrings glinting like tiny suns. Vik’s brain rushes to catch up with what it is she’s seeing.
Her mouth goes dry. Her palms suddenly remember they have sweat glands. She barely registers grabbing her cane from the passenger seat and pushing the door open. She rounds the car like a woman possessed, and Mel stops at the bottom of the steps, eyes catching on Vik like she’s seeing her for the first time.
“You,” Mel says, voice warm and thick like honey, “look absolutely gorgeous.”
Vik’s face heats immediately, but she keeps her cool as best she can. She opens the door with a stiff little bow—mock-formal, tongue-in-cheek—and Mel rewards her with a kiss to the cheek that causes heat to crawl up her neck.
Once Mel is seated, Vik leans in, heart hammering, and says softly, “You are absolutely beautiful.”
Then, before she can lose her nerve, she kisses her. Meant to be a quick, affectionate thing—graceful, polite, restrained. It is none of those things.
She sinks into the warmth of Mel’s mouth like it’s a gravity well, one hand braced against the car, the other still tight on her cane. Mel’s lips are soft and eager and everything goes hazy around the edges for a moment too long before Vik remembers how to breathe and tears herself back with visible effort.
Mel blinks up at her, dazed but amused. “We should at least make it to the date first.”
Vik clears her throat, running a hand through her hair and straightening her vest like it’s done something to betray her. “Right. Yes. Of course.”
She rounds the car again, trying to pretend her spine isn’t doing something suspiciously jelly-like.
The restaurant is warm and softly lit, all golden ambience and gentle string music. Vik walks a little taller as she leads Mel through the room, her cane tapping quietly with each step. She feels… confident. A rare, delicious kind of self-assuredness that comes from knowing every detail of the evening has been considered, calculated, made perfect.
She pulls out Mel’s chair like a proper gentleman, and Mel gives her a soft, teasing smile as she sits.
“You’re really laying it on thick tonight,” Mel says, smoothing her dress as Vik takes her seat.
“I prefer the term ‘thorough,’” Vik replies, settling her cane against the side of the table. “Besides, I’m simply returning the favor for every time you’ve made me feel like I’m the only person in a room.”
Mel looks at her with that particular fondness that Vik still doesn’t quite know how to bear.
They fall into their usual rhythm with ease. Vik orders for both of them—Mel’s favorite pasta, her preferred wine—earning an amused arch of her brow that Vik meets with a proud little smirk. There’s banter, laughter, the occasional toe nudge under the table. It’s all so easy. Being around Mel has always made the world feel less jagged, but tonight it feels downright cinematic.
Halfway through the meal, over the remains of their appetizers and half-drained wine glasses, Vik exhales slowly, straightening a little in her seat.
“Mel,” she begins, and Mel looks up from twirling pasta onto her fork, already giving her full attention. “I have something I want to ask you.”
“Alright,” Mel says, voice soft, curious, head tilting slightly to the side in that way that always knocks Vik a little off-balance.
“I want to have sex. With you,” Vik says. Blunt. Honest. Terrifying.
Mel immediately chokes on her sip of wine. She covers her mouth with a napkin and coughs delicately, eyes wide and watering.
“Oh my God,” she gasps once she can breathe again, laughter bubbling just under the surface. “That was…sudden. Did you just come to this conclusion in this moment?”
Vik’s cheeks flush crimson, but she pushes on with determined calm. “I didn’t mean to ambush you. I wanted to ask you in a neutral space so there would be no pressure. As I lack your impressive social graces, I thought I would simply ask. Just—” she clears her throat, “just ask.”
Mel watches her closely, the amusement fading into something softer, deeper. She sets down her wineglass and folds her hands in her lap, as though grounding herself. “You want to know if I also want to…” she says, not a question but an understanding.
Vik nods. “If you’d be so kind.”
For the first time in a long while, Mel looks shy. She glances down at her lap for a moment, then back up with those big doe eyes of hers. It makes something warm bloom in Vik’s chest.
“I do,” she admits. “I really, really do.”
Vik blinks, stunned for a beat too long.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “Good.”
Mel laughs then, full and bright. “God, Vik. You’re adorable when you’re overwhelmed.”
“I’m not overwhelmed,” Vik lies, straightening her vest with trembling hands. “I’m perfectly composed.”
Vik is quick to call for the check and they can’t get out of the restaurant quickly enough. Mel keeps Vik’s hand held in her own the entire drive, her lips pulled into a gentle smile.
Mel’s house is beautiful, of course it is. A sleek, modern thing with clean lines and massive windows that open up to the dark velvet of night. The place glows in warm golden light, and it smells faintly of citrus and oil paint. Her artwork is everywhere—leaning on shelves, hanging on the walls, propped against corners. It feels personal. Intimate.
Vik steps inside carefully, like she’s walking on sacred land.
Mel’s heels click gently against the polished floor as she leads Vik down a hall, her fingers brushing the wall as they pass a series of sun-drenched landscapes. Everything is draped in whites and golds—creamy rugs, soft light curtains, little details that whisper elegance without trying too hard.
When they reach the bedroom, Vik’s breath catches. The bed is the centerpiece of the room, its headboard tufted in cream velvet, the frame low and wide. It looks like something out of a film.
Vik blinks, trying not to stare. “Your bed is incredibly large.”
Mel, halfway through turning on a bedside lamp, gives her a slow smile. “Did you come here to study my furniture or sleep with me?”
Vik turns to find her standing close, too close, and suddenly her mouth is dry again. Her hands lift on instinct, settling against the silk of Mel’s dress at her hips. She feels warm there—steadying and grounding all at once.
“I can multitask,” Vik murmurs, pulling her closer.
Mel’s hands come up to cup Vik’s face, her thumbs brushing gently over cheekbones. They kiss, soft at first, familiar. It’s not their first kiss, but it’s different now, charged with everything unsaid until now.
The gentleness doesn’t last.
Mel’s fingers tangle in Vik’s hair, tugging just enough to make her shudder, and Vik answers with a low sound in her throat, her grip tightening at Mel’s waist. The kiss deepens, heat blooming in Vik’s chest, licking down her spine like wildfire. Mel presses into her, one hand trailing down Vik’s shoulder, tracing the edge of her vest like she’s memorizing the cut of it.
Vik deepens the kiss, the weight of Mel’s body against hers making it hard to think, to breathe, to do anything but want. Her hands trail up the curve of Mel’s back, fingers fumbling for the zipper. It takes a second—maybe longer. Her hands are shaking, and the damn thing won't budge more than halfway.
Frustrated, aroused, and only half-thinking, Vik reaches around and gives a sharp tug at both sides.
There’s a rip. A definite one.
Mel gasps against her mouth, surprised but not upset, and Vik freezes. “Shit—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
But Mel is already laughing, low and breathy. “It’s fine,” she says, shrugging the loosened dress down her shoulders. “I can always buy another.”
The fabric slips to the floor in a pool of navy silk, revealing what Vik can only describe as art . A delicate set of matching lace—soft cream against warm skin, sheer in places that make Vik’s brain go static. The bra hugs Mel’s chest perfectly, thin straps and scalloped trim highlighting every curve, and the panties sit high at her hips in a way that makes Vik's hands twitch with need.
Vik stares, borderline worshiping her. “You’re—” she tries, voice hoarse, but nothing else comes.
Mel cocks her head. “Staring,” she teases softly, cheeks flushed but pleased.
Vik swallows and lifts a hand, letting her fingers trail lightly along the line of lace over Mel’s ribs, then upward, across the cup of her bra. She brushes the pad of her thumb over the peak of Mel’s breast, watching as it hardens beneath the touch.
The sound Mel makes—half gasp, half sigh—goes straight to Vik’s core.
She does it again, slower this time, thumb circling gently over the stiffening nipple as Mel arches into her touch.
“I—fuck,” Vik breathes. “I want you so badly.”
Mel’s hands find Vik’s waist and pull her in, their foreheads nearly touching. “Then don’t wait,” she murmurs, lips brushing hers. “I’m all yours, Vik.”
Vik forces herself to take a steadying breath, grounding in the moment even as her body hums with anticipation. Her hands slip from Mel’s skin, and she gestures vaguely down toward her leg. “Just—give me a second. I need to take off my brace.”
Mel, still standing close between Vik’s knees, tilts her head. “Do you want help?”
It catches Vik off-guard—not the offer, exactly, but the softness behind it. The way Mel is all warm skin and lace and still manages to look so sincerely concerned. Vik hesitates, pride and instinct warring with the want to let herself be known.
Then, quietly: “Yeah. Okay.”
She sits at the edge of the bed, angling her leg and motioning Mel closer. “You’ve gotta undo the straps here, here, and here,” she murmurs, pointing them out. “And go slow—it sticks sometimes.”
Mel nods, kneeling with care. Her fingers are gentle as they unfasten the first strap, then the next. Vik watches her, entranced—this radiant, half-naked woman handling the task like it’s something sacred. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. Just works with quiet focus and the kind of tenderness that makes Vik’s chest ache.
The last strap comes loose, and Mel lifts the brace away, setting it neatly beside the bed.
Vik’s about to thank her when Mel rises, placing her hands on Vik’s shoulders and climbing easily into her lap, one knee on either side. She hovers there for a second, her hands trailing lightly down Vik’s arms.
“You sure this is okay?” she asks, voice soft. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Vik cups her hips, guiding her down with a low exhale. “You won’t. You’re perfect.”
Mel settles with a sigh, her thighs bracketing Vik’s, her chest warm against Vik’s own. Vik slides one hand up the length of Mel’s spine, the other curling around the back of her neck.
She pulls her in, kissing her like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth—slow, deep, devastating. Vik's mouth moves with an aching sort of purpose, like every breath she steals from Mel is one she needs to survive. Her hand slips deftly behind Mel’s back, fingers finding the clasp of her bra with practiced ease (from taking off her own). It earns her a soft, involuntary moan that vibrates against her lips. She grins into the kiss, then breaks away just long enough to tug the bra forward and toss it blindly aside, not caring where it lands.
Vik’s mouth finds the swell of newly exposed skin with a kind of reverence, lips dragging a heated path downward until she envelops a nipple in her mouth. She flicks her tongue over it, slow and deliberate, savoring the delicate gasp it draws from Mel. The sounds—sweet, unguarded, utterly wrecked—spill from her like an offering, and Vik drinks them in like wine.
She doesn’t miss the way Mel shifts in her lap, grinding down, chasing friction with a desperation that makes something primal spark low in her belly. Vik’s free hand drifts with intent, fingers ghosting along the waistband of her panties. She pauses just long enough to hear the whispered, breathy please fall from Mel’s lips—and that’s all it takes. Her fingers slip beneath the fabric, knuckles brushing slick heat.
“You’re soaked,” Vik murmurs against her chest, voice thick, almost amazed. “God, Mel…”
Her fingers slide through the wetness, circling her clit with lazy precision. Mel shudders, her hips twitching, chasing the motion.
“Vik,” she breathes—shaky, ragged, broken open by pleasure. Vik doesn't answer, just continues those maddening circles, her movements languid and deliberate, like she has all the time in the world to undo her.
Mel pulls back slightly, and Vik’s mouth detaches from her breast with a soft, wet pop. When she looks up, her eyes are glassy with need, lips parted and kiss-bitten. Mel giggles, warm and breathless, cradling Vik’s face in both hands as though she’s something precious. “You’re making me feel so good,” she says, her voice laced with a sweetness that makes Vik’s chest tighten. She places a quick kiss to Vik’s spit-soaked lips. “You’re so pretty like this.”
Vik quirks a brow, amused. “Is your flattery in service of something, Mel?”
Mel doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she rolls her hips down, grinding against Vik’s fingers with shameless intent. Her bottom lip slips between her teeth, her eyes dark and full of hunger. “I want more.”
Vik clicks her tongue, drawing her hand back just enough to deny. “You are nothing if not eloquent,” she murmurs, a dark edge creeping into her voice. “Ask me properly.”
Mel’s breath hitches. Her eyes widen slightly at the command, and for a moment, Vik wonders where the sudden authority in her own tone came from. But then she sees the effect it has—the way Mel’s lips part, the stutter of her breath, the way her hips jerk and her eyes flutter closed, as though trying to anchor herself.
Mel leans in, arms draping around Vik’s shoulders, and her breath is warm against her ear when she speaks. “Viktoria, my moon,” she whispers, voice honeyed and pleading. “Would you please be a dear and make me come?”
Vik exhales, a shiver of satisfaction running through her. She cups Mel’s jaw, brushing her thumb across her cheek.
“It would be my honor.”
Vik shifts beneath her, coaxing Mel gently as she leans back onto the bed. Her dark eyes never leave Mel’s face as she settles against the pillows, hair fanned out, mouth slick and shining with want. She looks utterly wrecked and hungry at once.
She crooks a finger, beckoning Mel closer. “Come here.”
Mel raises an eyebrow, a little breathless, her body still humming from the teasing. “Where?”
Vik’s expression is casual, entirely too casual for the words that come out of her mouth. “On my face.”
Mel’s breath catches in her throat, and her eyes widen with a flicker of hesitation. “I—Vik, are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Vik murmurs, voice low and rough with want. Her hands slide up Mel’s thighs, deliberate and coaxing. “I’ve dreamed of this. Of you like this. I want to taste you properly, Mel. I want you to sit on my face and ride me until your legs give out.”
Mel swallows hard, torn between shyness and the pull of pure desire. Her hands fidget at her sides, her lip caught between her teeth. “I’m going to suffocate you. Or, worse, drown you.”
Vik chuckles, rich and indulgent. “Then I’ll drown happy.”
The words punch through Mel’s uncertainty, heat blooming across her cheeks. In a swift motion, her panties are on the floor and Vik’s mouth is literally watering. Mel lets out a shaky breath and climbs up, knees planting on either side of Vik’s shoulders. She hovers uncertainly above her, body trembling with anticipation.
But Vik’s hands grip her thighs, firm and commanding, and she drags her downward with slow insistence. “Sit,” she growls.
Mel whimpers, the sound torn from her throat, and obeys—lowering herself until she’s just barely brushing Vik’s mouth. The moment contact is made, Vik groans like she’s starved and pulls her down the rest of the way. Her mouth is everywhere at once—tongue flattening, circling, delving—her hands gripping Mel’s hips to keep her steady and still.
Mel gasps, her back arching at the first stroke of Vik’s tongue. “Fuck…Vik…”
She tries to brace herself, tries to stay upright, but her thighs are already shaking. Her hands bury themselves in Vik’s hair as she grinds down with a moan.
“Oh my god, you’re so good. So good,” she breathes, voice cracking as the pleasure builds sharp and fast. “I didn’t think it would feel like this. Vik, you’re— fuck —you’re incredible.”
Vik groans at the praise, her response a redoubled effort. Her tongue moving faster, more focused, lips latching around her clit and sucking until Mel cries out, high and helpless.
“You, fuck, baby, you feel wonderful,” Mel babbles, her words tumbling out unchecked. “You’re so fucking good at this—your tongue, your mouth , I—I can’t even—”
Vik hums in approval, the vibration shooting straight through her, and Mel nearly comes on the spot. She tries to lift her hips away, overwhelmed by the pleasure flooding her body. Vik makes an animalistic sound in the back of her throat and something that sounds like ‘no’ before pulling her hips back down. Mel rolls them, chasing every flick and curl of that wicked tongue.
“I like it,” she gasps, head thrown back. “I like when you talk like that—when you make me do things. I like when you’re bossy. Fuck, it makes me so wet.”
That earns her a moan from Vik, and suddenly her grip on Mel’s hips tightens. She locks her in place, tongue unrelenting, and Mel shatters. Her entire body goes taut, then loose all at once, her thighs trembling as pleasure rips through her in waves.
She cries out Vik’s name like it’s a prayer, her body rocking gently through the aftershocks. Her fingers thread through dark, sweat-damp hair, and she strokes soothingly, even as she twitches with every oversensitive lick.
Eventually, she lifts herself just enough to allow Vik to breathe comfortably, resting her forehead against her headboard, her body boneless and glowing. “You,” she pants, “are going to be the death of me.”
Vik, smug and breathless beneath her, grins against her thigh. “And what a beautiful way to go.”
Mel pushes herself off of Vik and leans down to capture her lips in a messy kiss, moans at the taste of herself and smiles into the kiss.She settles beside her, eyes bright with mischief and affection, and strokes her hand down Vik’s still clothed stomach.
“You’ve been very good to me,” she murmurs, voice still husky from the aftermath. “Let me return the favor.”
Vik exhales a slow breath, already nodding, but lifts a hand to catch Mel’s wrist. “Yes, but—” she begins, voice a little strained, a little shy, “remember to be careful of my leg.”
Mel stills instantly, gaze flicking to Vik’s knee with recognition. “Right. Of course.”
There’s no hesitation, no flicker of pity—just thoughtful consideration as Mel’s brow furrows slightly in focus. She looks around the bed for a moment before reaching for one of the many plush pillows scattered along the headboard. She scoots down and lifts Vik’s leg gently, cradling it with both hands like something precious, and tucks the pillow beneath with practiced care.
She adjusts it until it’s nestled just right, then looks up, brushing her fingers along Vik’s calf. “Is that good? Too high?”
Vik shifts experimentally, testing the angle. The pressure eases enough to make her eyes flutter closed for a beat. When she opens them again, it’s with a look so soft it nearly breaks Mel in two.
“It’s perfect,” she says, voice thick with something quieter, heavier. “Thank you.”
Mel smiles, a slow curve of her lips as she leans over and presses a kiss to Vik’s knee. “Of course,” she says. “You take care of me. I’m just doing the same.”
Vik’s chest aches at the simplicity of it. Not because she doubts Mel’s sincerity—never that—but because it’s still a little unfamiliar, being handled like this, with such ease, such natural affection. It lodges somewhere behind her ribs, warm and steady.
Mel trails her fingers up Vik’s side, eyes drifting appreciatively over the rumpled vest still clinging to her frame. “Now, let’s get you out of all this, yeah?”
She starts at the buttons of the vest, slow and methodical. One by one, she pops them open, exposing the crisp white shirt beneath. “You’re wearing too many layers,” she teases, fingers brushing lightly along the newly revealed fabric.
“I wanted to look nice for you,” Vik murmurs, watching her through half-lidded eyes, lips twitching.
Mel arches a brow, unfastening the vest fully and easing it off her shoulders. “You always look nice for me, Vik. Often times a distracting amount but, right now, it’s in the way.”
She makes quick work of the shirt next, her fingers dragging down the line of buttons with teasing deliberation. Each inch of skin she exposes earns a kiss—her lips soft and searing against Vik’s collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her chest.
Once the shirt is open, she doesn’t rush. She peels it back gently, letting it slip from Vik’s arms, baring her fully to the ambient golden light in the room. Her hands trail down Vik’s stomach, pausing at the waistband of her trousers.
“Still okay?” she asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
Vik nods, her breath hitching slightly. “More than okay.”
Mel unbuttons the pants and slides them down carefully, easing them past the knee that’s been propped and cushioned. There’s something deliberate in the way she does it. Careful. It’s the sort of softness that Vik has never really allowed anyone to show her. The kind that would usually make her angry and defensive, fill her with that need to prove that she isn’t fragile.
Vik lays bare beneath her now, her chest rising and falling with anticipation, strands of hair clinging to her damp temples, lips parted. Mel reaches for her underwear last, dragging them down slow, keeping her eyes on Vik’s face the whole time.
When Vik is finally stripped down to nothing, Mel sits back for a moment, taking her in. Her gaze roams openly—no shame, no pretense—just raw appreciation. Vik kind of wants to lap up every crumb of her attention like a cat in the sun and she also kind of wants to disappear into the bed.
“You are,” Mel whispers, “so beautiful.”
Vik’s breath stutters. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” Mel replies, kissing the corner of Vik’s mouth. “And you should hear it every day.”
Mel lowers herself slowly, deliberately, like Vik’s body is a map she intends to explore with her mouth alone. She starts at her collarbone, brushing her lips across the delicate ridge, then dragging her tongue down to the hollow of her throat. Vik’s pulse flutters there, fast and shallow beneath warm skin.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” Mel murmurs between kisses, voice soft as velvet. “You’re always so composed… so in control.”
Vik does not correct her that in fact her composure is regularly compromised by the sheer thought of her. Instead she hums in the back of her throat and allows herself to swept up in the sensation.
She trails down further, teeth grazing the underside of one breast, before taking a nipple into her mouth with slow, sensual intent. Her tongue circles, lingers, and Vik arches with a soft sound—more breath than voice.
“And now I’ve got you like this,” Mel continues, letting her hand glide over Vik’s ribs, down her waist, sweet and teasing all at once. “Spread out beneath me. Needing me. Mine. ”
She switches sides, lavishing the other breast with equal attention, her mouth greedy but careful, never rushing. Vik’s breath hitches again, and Mel hums around her, clearly pleased with the reaction.
“Is this,” she murmurs, pausing to press a kiss between Vik’s breasts, “everything you ever dreamed of?”
Vik lets out a laugh—half-choked, head tipping back against the pillows. “I’m not sure even my dreams were this generous.”
Mel grins and moves lower, dragging her mouth down Vik’s stomach in a lazy, wet trail. Her hands slide beneath Vik’s thighs, pushing them open a little more as she settles comfortably between them, her cheek brushing along the inside of one thigh.
“There’s something you want from me, isn’t there?” she asks, lips barely brushing skin. “Say it.”
Vik doesn’t answer right away, her breath catching as Mel begins kissing the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs—first one, then the other. She takes her time, lips parting just enough to drag her tongue along the curve of muscle, her fingers gripping Vik’s hips to hold her steady.
Vik’s heartbeat is a steady drumbeat now, loud in her ears, her thoughts fogged over by the slow burn of it all. And then she remembers. The way Mel had whispered, I like it when you’re bossy. The way her body had responded—immediate, instinctual. A gift Vik hadn’t realized she had the power to give.
She inhales sharply, and her hand moves—purposeful and slow—threading into Mel’s dark curls. She applies gentle pressure, not forceful, but guiding. Mel looks up at her from between her legs, eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen and parted. The sight alone nearly undoes her.
Vik leans up on one elbow, her voice low, dark, and steady. “Do not toy with me, Mel. Not after you’ve shown me how well you can listen.” She tilts Mel’s head down, positioning her right where she wants her. “Suck.”
Mel lets out a soft, breathless laugh, more arousal than amusement. “Yes, ma’am.”
And then her mouth is on her—hot, soft, unrelenting. She doesn’t tease now, doesn’t delay. Her lips part around Vik’s clit, tongue drawing long, slow strokes before latching on with purpose. Vik groans, her hips twitching against Mel’s mouth.
Mel moans in response, like the taste of her is its own reward, and Vik can feel the vibration deep in her core. Her grip in Mel’s hair tightens just slightly, her other hand fisting in the sheets. She looks down, watches as Mel loses herself in it—devoted and desperate, lips glistening with slick, eyes fluttering shut like this is everything she dreamed of, too.
“Good,” Vik breathes, voice like smoke, low and heady. “Just like that.”
Mel whimpers at the praise, her tongue moving faster, more precise, and Vik knows she's going to unravel under her in no time.
Mel doesn’t let up. Her mouth moves with the kind of practiced confidence that speaks of intention—of knowing exactly what Vik needs and giving it to her without hesitation. Tongue flat, then pointed, then slow, sucking pulls that make Vik’s thighs twitch and her breath stutter out in ragged gasps.
It’s a rare thing, letting go.
But here, now, with Mel between her legs and nothing but heat and softness and adoration pouring from every touch—Vik allows it. She lets herself moan, lets herself rock her hips into Mel’s mouth, chasing every flick of that wicked tongue. Her fingers tighten in her curls, not pulling, just grounding herself as the pleasure builds sharp and dizzying.
And then Mel shifts—one hand releasing Vik’s thigh, sliding between them with a gentleness that belies the hunger in her mouth. Her fingers stroke once, testing, slick and easy, before slipping inside.
Vik gasps. Sharp, unguarded. “Fuck—Mel…”
Mel hums again, and the sound, low and pleased, reverberates through Vik’s entire body. Her fingers move in tandem with her tongue now—slow but firm, coaxing her open with patient devotion. Curling just right. Stroking deep. Her mouth never falters, suction relentless, tongue circling Vik’s clit with maddening precision.
Vik’s eyes slam shut, her breath coming fast and uneven. “You’re—gods, you’re perfect,” she pants. “So good to me. Just like that, Mel—don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
Mel doesn’t.
She keeps going, mouth and fingers working in sync, like she was made for this—made for her . Vik’s hips roll helplessly, chasing each wave of pleasure, and the praise keeps spilling from her lips. They’re ragged, breathless things she rarely gives voice to.
Another curl of those fingers, deeper this time, grazing just the right spot—and Vik’s whole body jolts.
“Mel—!”
She come harder than she’s sure is medically safe.
Pleasure tears through her like lightning, stealing the breath from her lungs and curling her spine from the bed. One of her thighs clamps around Mel’s head, not to push her away but to hold her there, to feel her, to anchor herself in the heat and the wet and the overwhelming sense of being wanted .
She moans, long and broken, hand fisting in the sheets, as her orgasm crashes over her in relentless, pulsing waves. Mel keeps going through it all, slowing only when Vik’s cries fade into gasps and tremors, her body boneless and twitching beneath her.
Eventually, Mel pulls back, her chin glistening, her mouth equally wet and swollen. She presses a soft kiss to the inside of Vik’s thigh, then another, then rests her cheek there for a moment, eyes fluttering closed like she’s the one who’s been undone.
Vik is still panting, her chest rising and falling with effort, strands of damp hair clinging to her temples. She lifts a hand, reaches for Mel wordlessly, and Mel climbs up to her side, immediately curling into her.
Vik pulls her close, burying her face in Mel’s neck, still trying to catch her breath.
“…That,” she says eventually, voice rough and awed, “was insanely good.”
Mel laughs softly, fingers drawing lazy circles on Vik’s hip. “You make the prettiest sounds when you let go.”
Vik doesn’t even blush. She just smiles. It’s loose, lazy, and sated ; she presses a kiss to Mel’s jaw. “I would say you more than earned my pretty sounds . I’m pleased that your silver tongue has other talents.”
Mel laughs, burying her face into Vik’s shoulder. “That was quite the line, my love.”
“Thank you. I learned from the best.”
They spend the rest of the night tangled together in sweat-damp sheets and easy touches, a tangle of limbs and whispered laughter and shared breath. At some point, Mel insists on wiping her down with a warm cloth and coaxing her into fresh water, her hands maddeningly tender, her smile half-soft, half-smug. Vik doesn’t protest—doesn’t want to. She only watches her through heavy-lidded eyes, basking in the surreal sweetness of being cared for so thoroughly, so completely.
They fall asleep curled into each other, the scent of sex still lingering in the air, the weight of satisfaction pressing down like a warm blanket. For the first time in what feels like ages, Vik sleeps deeply, dreamlessly, without pain.
And in the quiet that follows, long after Mel’s breathing has evened out and the city outside begins to dim toward morning, it hits her: she got everything she wanted.
Not just a pretty face, but someone who sees her. The sharp edges and the soft underbelly. Someone who knows where she hurts and cares. Mel wants her with the same relentless ache that Vik has always harbored in secret. She still finds Mel just as blindingly radiant as she did the first time she looked at her—maybe more. It's not just the beauty or the brilliance, though both still disarm her completely. It's the way Mel loves: bold, deliberate, and without hesitation.
Vik had once prided herself on cracking the code that was Mel Medarda. She'd mapped her rhythms, decoded her smiles, and learned her touches. She thought she understood her completely.
But now?
Now, Mel has become a new kind of problem.
Because Vik can’t find a single formula to stop Mel from pulling her out of her lab and dragging her back to bed, murmuring all the filthy things she intends to do to her in that teasing drawl that makes Vik’s knees buckle. She hasn’t yet calculated a proper defense against the sudden and devastating images Mel sends—those long, drawn-out teasing nudes that appear mid-outing, leaving her breathless and scrambling for excuses to abandon Jayce mid-sentence and sprint home like a woman possessed.
She’s created a monster. A breathtaking, terrifying, insatiable monster.
And Vik isn’t sure she wants to find the cure for this one.
Maybe, for once, she’s content to surrender.