Chapter Text
The Fourth of July at the mansion ain’t really about patriotism. Not for them. It’s about burgers, booze, and a rare day without mission briefs or Sentinel sirens. Somebody brought sparklers. Jubilee’s already threatening to set something on fire. There’s smoke rising from the grill where Scott’s arguing with Morph about veggie burgers. Someone’s playing music—something old and easy.
And Remy?
He’s on a lawn chair, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned, shades on. Talking to Logan about—hell, he doesn’t even know anymore. Something about cigar brands or mutant politics or the latest training logs. Doesn’t matter.
Not when she’s in the corner of his eye.
Laid out on a towel like sin in slow motion.
Hair all wild and curled from chlorine and sun, falling down her back like a postcard. A baggy little T-shirt—cut short, cut wide, slipping off one shoulder like it’s got somewhere better to be. Her bikini straps tied behind her neck, dark against her skin. Bottoms tied loose at her hips, those soft little bows begging to be undone.
And God.
Those hips.
That waist.
The way she’s sitting pinches the skin there, rolls of soft flesh folding like a gift you wanna unwrap slow.
Thighs thick and strong and spread just enough to make a man lose his religion.
Remy looks away. Back to Logan. Nods like he’s still listening.
He’s not.
Because she’s new—newish, anyway. Still got that innocence, like the world hasn’t beaten her down all the way yet. Something open in her. Wide-eyed. Honest. But sharp, too. Quick with her mouth. Laugh like a shot of tequila. She drinks more than she should and carries it better than anyone he’s met.
Not a baby.
Not soft.
But still…
Something about her makes him feel every year between them.
Makes him shift in his seat. Makes his chest tighten.
Because yeah—he’s Gambit. He’s seen a thousand women in a thousand lights.
But something about her, in this one?
Wrapped in cotton and skin.
Not looking at him once.
God help him.
Eventually his eyes trail back—and she’s gone.
Just for a second.
Then she’s coming up behind him, barefoot in the grass, balancing three slices of cake like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Probably Jean roped her into it—sweet little team-building favor, like helping out made her part of the family.
“Boys want some?” she asks, voice just a little high, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. Like handing out cake and swimming in the pool and watching fireworks is the dream.
And maybe for her—it is.
That innocence she’s got, that warmth—it’s not fake. Not put on. It lives in her voice, in the way she holds the plates, in the shine of her eyes. The kind that sticks in Remy’s chest. The kind he can’t shake. Can’t forget.
Logan takes a slice, nods his thanks.
Remy doesn’t want cake. Not really.
But if she’s the one handing it to him?
Yeah.
He takes it.
Their fingers brush and she doesn’t notice—not really. Just flashes a grin and turns, already watching the sky.
And right then?
First firework goes off.
A sharp white crack, high above the tree line. Loud enough to make someone shout—probably Jubilee. Then another. Red this time. Blue. Then gold. The sky lighting up like a promise they can’t keep.
She stays right where she is.
Stands beside him, barefoot in the grass, smiling up at the sky with cake in hand and curls falling down her back like soft waves.
Even Logan tips his head up to watch.
But Remy doesn’t.
He’s watching her.
The way the light flares against her skin, flashing over her cheekbones, catching in her lashes. Her eyes don’t leave the sky, and her mouth is soft around the edges—no smile now, not really. Just still.
Like she’s somewhere else for a second.
Like maybe she’s trying to believe this—this moment, this safety, this stupid spark in the sky—is real.
And Remy?
He’s trying to believe it too.
Because she’s standing there, cake untouched, mouth parted, eyes wide.
And he’s looking at her like he’s gonna forget how to look away.
Eventually the little show ends—last firework fizzles gold across the sky, slow and falling like ash.
And she looks over.
Catches him staring.
Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease.
Just meets his eyes, soft and steady.
His cheeks go a little pink, barely there under the warm buzz of summer, but it’s enough. Enough to make him shift in his seat like she didn’t just catch him mid-thought, half-dreaming.
She doesn’t say anything.
Sweet thing she is.
Just lets it slide, turns her eyes back to the sky like she didn’t notice the way he was watching her like she was the goddamn finale.
Then Logan cuts in—gruff and amused—dragging her into some casual breakdown of the firework show. The timing, the layout, the cheap brands they used. She nods, still holding that plate of cake like it means something, her bare foot tapping the ground with soft, restless energy.
Like she’s ready to run. Or dance. Or swim again. Like standing still takes more work than moving ever could.
But she’s polite.
Listens. Smiles. Engages.
Still got that soft-spoken way about her. Even with all that fire under her skin.
Remy watches her toe nudge at the grass. Then glances at the plate in her hand.
Still untouched.
He joins the conversation like he’s just now tuning in. Smirks a little, tipping his head toward her cake.
“You plannin’ on eatin’ that, chère, or just admirin’ it ‘til it melts?”
She laughs—soft and real.
“Don’t even like cake,” she says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Jean made me take one.”
And yeah.
Of course she did.
And of course she’s too sweet to say no.
Remy hums. Sips his drink.
Figures maybe he’ll eat it for her.
Or maybe just keep sitting close enough to smell the sunscreen on her skin.
As fate would have it, someone calls Logan away—Jubilee maybe, shouting something about a lighter and a bad idea—and he grunts, pushes up from his chair with a sigh and a crack of his back.
She follows behind him.
Like that’s all she needed.
An excuse.
One she didn’t have to invent or explain.
She moves easy, graceful in that way she gets when she’s walking toward something she wants. Toward somewhere she can burn off all that quiet energy still humming beneath her skin.
But just before she disappears, she turns.
Just a glance, a flicker—makes Remy think, for half a second, maybe she’ll sit down. Stay. Talk. Let that soft little smile mean something more.
Instead?
She leaves her cake.
Right there on the table next to him.
Like she’s leaving her daddy to clean up her mess. Like she’s leaving it with him because she knows he’ll take care of it.
Like he always does.
Remy rolls his eyes, half-hearted. More fond than annoyed. Watches her walk away again, all legs and soft curves and wet hair still curling at the tips.
Straight for the pool.
And yeah.
Of course she does.
Because she never really sits still.
Not for long.
After poking at the cake long enough to justify ignoring it, Remy downs the last of his drink and rises from the chair. Tosses the paper plate—hers—into the nearest bin on the way, like it’s his job now. Her little mess, cleaned up by him without question. Figures.
The grass is cool underfoot. Sky still smoky and hazed. He’s not buzzed enough for this crowd, but he’s not sober enough to feel strange about wandering toward the pool either.
And there she is.
Laughter ringing sharp and easy over the water, splashing around with Jubilee and Roberto like she’s the damn sun itself. T-shirt’s gone now—tossed aside somewhere—and her bikini’s on full display. Black, tied at the neck and hips, water slicking down her skin like it belongs there. And that body?
Yeah.
Remy forgets how to blink.
Hips just as soft as they looked on the towel. Thighs strong, stomach bare and gleaming, that little dip at her waist drawing his eyes like a magnet. Chest bouncing with every splash, every laugh. All of it—real, unbothered, fucking radiant.
Scott and Jean are up near the patio, gathering dishes with all the grace of two people who don’t want to argue in public. The rest of the team’s scattered—Storm lounging, Morph mid-sentence, Forge face down on a pool chair like he might never get up.
Remy steps through the gate, its scrape just loud enough to draw attention.
And sure enough—
She looks up.
Eyes find him immediately. Not startled. Not surprised.
Just soft.
Like maybe she was waiting.
She swims halfway to the edge, water curling around her shoulders, then pushes up and crosses toward him—slow and casual, but sure. Drops of water trail down her chest. Her hips sway with every barefoot step.
They meet halfway. Concrete hot beneath them. Her hair dripping over her collarbone. Eyes wide and cheeks flushed.
And then, sheepish—so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it over the buzz of the pool and the fireworks warming back up overhead,
“Can you get me one?”
That’s all she says.
Doesn’t have to clarify.
Of course she means a drink.
But Remy?
Damn near turns on his heel before she even finishes the sentence.
Like she reached into his chest and tugged.
He tips his head, lips curling into something low and fond.
“Yeah, chérie,” he says, voice dipping soft. “What’ll it be?”
When he comes back it's with the drink she asked for—some strong-ass thing in a can with a flavor that sounds like a dare. Cold and sweating in his hand.
And there she is again.
Back in the water, looking up.
Fireworks are going off here and there now—sporadic, leftover bursts lighting up the sky in short, shaky color.
She doesn’t notice him at first.
Or maybe she does and just doesn’t let on.
Remy slips off his sandals, then eases down onto the edge of the pool. Legs dip into the water, slow and easy, shoulders still warm from the sun. The whole world smells like charcoal and chlorine and burned sugar.
She turns just slightly.
Eyes catch his.
And then—gentle, like it costs nothing—her hand reaches up.
“Thanks,” she says, quiet. Polite.
Not coy.
Not flirty.
Just real.
He hands her the drink. Their fingers brush.
She cracks it open, takes a sip, winces just barely at the strength, then lets out the softest hum. Her head tips back. Hair drips down her spine. Eyes trail back up to the sky.
Another firework pops. Blue this time.
And Remy?
He’s not really watching the sky.
He should have more shame. But he doesn't. Not for her.
Eventually, the noise starts to fade.
Laughter quiets. Chairs scrape. Footsteps shift back toward the house in twos and threes. One by one, they disappear—Jubilee and Roberto still dripping, Morph making some joke loud enough to echo. Scott and Jean already inside, probably tidying things that don’t need tidying.
No more fireworks come.
Just smoke in the air and quiet in their wake.
She’s still near him in the pool. Not talking. Not swimming either. Just... there. Sipping slow from that can. Hair wet. Chest rising and falling with something that finally isn’t adrenaline.
Remy’s still perched at the edge, legs in the water, arms slack on his knees. Watching her in that sideways, not-watching way he does.
"You goin’ in?" he asks eventually—low, casual.
She shakes her head no without even looking over.
Not stubborn. Not shy.
Just settled.
Like she’s decided this—right here, right now—is enough.
Like calm was all she was waiting for.
Logan’s the last one out. Towel slung over his shoulder, cigar stubbed between his fingers. He gives them a nod as he passes. Says nothing.
Remy nods back.
Then quiet again.
No more voices. No more music.
Just her.
Just him.
And yeah, maybe it’s nothing.
But Remy doesn’t move.
Doesn’t offer up a joke or a line or some soft excuse to slip back inside.
Because he's not even gonna try and act like he wasn’t praying the night would end up here.
And now that it has?
He’s not going anywhere.
Then—
“Remy.”
Soft. Startling, the way it cuts through the quiet. Like a single note in an empty room.
His name, from her mouth.
Gentle. Pretty. Almost hesitant.
He closes his eyes for a second. Takes a breath like he needed it.
Then cracks a slow glance her way. “Yeah, chère?”
She’s looking up at him now, hair clinging to her shoulders. Moonlight dances across her skin like it wants to stay.
“You don’t like to swim?” she asks, easy. Not teasing. Just… curious.
He shrugs, lets his legs sway a little in the water. “Didn’t say that.”
A beat.
“Why? You want me to?”
She shrugs, mimicking him. “Don’t matter.”
But it does.
Something in her eyes says so. Not in a way that begs. Just something quiet and true.
So Remy doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think too hard on it.
Just slips off the open shirt clinging to his shoulders, tosses it onto the concrete behind him, and slides into the water like it’s no big deal.
Because maybe it’s not.
Maybe she just wanted company.
And maybe that’s reason enough.
She giggles then.
Soft. Quiet. Barely there—but he hears it.
And damn if it doesn’t make something curl in his chest. That kind of laugh. Light and sweet and so damn easy.
He smiles back without meaning to. Small. Honest.
She tips the last of her drink back—gone now—and crumples the can with a soft squish before placing it on the edge of the pool like it’s nothing.
Then her eyes drift.
Down to his hand.
His glass. Watered-down whiskey, still half-full.
She doesn’t ask.
Just looks.
So he offers it, wordless.
She takes it the same way—both hands wrapping around it, fingers brushing his for a second before lifting it to her lips.
He watches her sip, and it slips out without thinking—
“How can a little thing like you drink so much and still be standin’ on your feet?”
That gets a real laugh.
A louder one this time, bubbling up out of her chest, cheeks warm, eyes glinting as she looks up at him from where they both stand in the water.
“Oh, I’m drunk,” she says, grin stretching wide, “I’m just good at hiding it.”
He huffs a laugh at that. Low. Genuine. Shakes his head a little.
“Dangerous skill to have, chère.”
And yeah.
She is.
Then—
She tilts her head, eyes playful, mouth curling just so.
“And you, non?” she mimics, soft and lilting. And God—so cute. Too fucking cute.
Remy feels the blush before he can stop it—just a little, low in his cheeks. He looks away for half a beat, then shrugs like it ain’t nothin’.
“I drink too much to really ever be drunk,” he says, voice easy.
She hums, low and thoughtful. Nods like that makes perfect sense. Like he just said out loud something she didn’t know she was feeling too.
Her eyes drift up.
Sky’s starting to come back now. Smoke’s fading. Fireworks are done. All that’s left is the hush. The stars.
They twinkle faint and distant overhead.
And she watches them like they might tell her something.
Quiet. Calm. Content.
She sighs softly, eyes still on the stars, the corner of her mouth lifting just a little.
Then, almost offhand—almost like a prayer,
“Laissez les bons temps rouler.”
Let the good times roll.
And it hits. Like a goddamn arrow to the chest.
The French rolls off her tongue smoother than he expects—too smooth. Not perfect, but close enough to knock the wind right out of him. That soft little accent coming out of nowhere, delicate and warm and intentional.
Remy stares.
Doesn’t speak. Can’t.
She doesn’t even look at him—just nods slow, like she’s toasting the stars, the night, whatever this is between them.
A little nod to his world.
A little piece of her soul.
And damn if that didn’t feel like the gentlest way to be shot in the heart.
Remy’s still watching her.
But something loosens in his chest.
Then he says it.
Soft, low, meant just for her—
“Toujours les bons temps avec toi, petite.”
It’s always the good times with you, little one.
She turns toward him slowly, eyes flicking—first to his, then away, then back again.
There’s a blush rising, high and warm across her cheeks.
Like she’s working it out in real time.
What he said. What it meant.
Her teeth catch her bottom lip, and her gaze dips for a second—soft, searching, almost shy.
And then—
Like the meaning finally lands, clicks into place somewhere behind her eyes—
She huffs a little breath of laughter, quiet and sheepish.
“J’aime pas parler français… surtout avec toi.”
I don’t like speaking French… especially with you.
It’s soft.
Barely above the water.
But her voice wraps around the words like they mean something more.
Like she’s letting him in without even realizing it.
And Remy?
He smiles slow.
Eyes still on her like she’s the only damn thing worth looking at.
Because she is.
Remy watches her, the blush still warm on her cheeks, that little breath of French still hanging between them like it meant more than she realized.
He tips his head slightly, voice low, amused.
“T’te débrouilles pas mal, hein.”
You’re handling yourself pretty well, huh.
She blinks. Hesitates. Then scrunches her nose like she wants to get it, really does—but shakes her head once, defeated.
Still blushing. Still biting her lip. “I got nothin’,” she mumbles.
But Remy?
He just smiles. Slow. Easy.
Because yeah—she tried. And that’s more than enough.
But then—
He leans in slightly, breath warm near her ear. Just enough space for the stars to blink back into focus behind her, like they’re part of the setup.
“Pas besoin d’parler français, p’tite. Laisse-moi juste t’montrer c’que ma bouche sait faire…”
No need to speak French, little one. Just let me show you what my mouth knows how to do…
His tone doesn’t change. Still low. Still lazy. But his eyes are watching her close now—like maybe he hopes she didn’t catch it. Or maybe he’s dying for her to.
She freezes. Blinks once. Eyes wide and confused—too innocent, too trusting—and damn if that doesn’t make it worse.
“Remy!” she whines, flustered, swatting gently at his arm like she knows he’s said something he shouldn’t’ve but has no idea what it was. Like she’s this close to catching up—and he knows it.
Too cute. Too easy to mess with.
And maybe he’s had a little too much to drink. Or maybe this is just what happens when you tempt the devil one too many times.
Because before she can pull back, before she can overthink it—
He slings his arm around her shoulders and pulls her in.
Tight.
Close.
Like he’s claiming something. Or pretending he didn’t just lose all his restraint.
She squeaks. Actually squeaks—but she doesn’t pull away.
No spark. No jolt. Just her. Wrapping her arms around him.
Warm and small and soft against his side.
Holding on.
Whether it’s out of politeness or something else, Remy doesn’t know.
But she let him.
And he’s not letting go. Not yet.
She stays there a second too long—tucked under his arm, soft and warm and smelling like coconut and chlorine—and maybe that’s what does it. Maybe that’s why she pulls back.
Just a little.
Just enough to give him a look.
Nose scrunched.
Eyes wide.
Bottom lip caught between her teeth like it’s the only thing keeping her from saying something stupid.
“Remy’s being weird,” she mumbles.
Soft. Accusatory. Adorable.
And she’s blushing—bright across the tops of her cheeks, blooming down her neck. Like she knows he’s thinking something he shouldn’t be. Like maybe she’s thinking something too.
Her thighs shift under the water. Shuffle closer together in a move so innocent she probably doesn’t even notice.
But he notices.
Oh, he notices.
And it fucking kills him.
Something low and mean curls up in his gut—hot and sharp and all too ready to misbehave. He exhales through his nose, eyes dipping down her body once, slow.
Then he has to back up. Literally shifts in the water—shoulders tilting, arm slipping off her—because if he doesn’t, he’s gonna do something he shouldn’t.
Like bend her over the side of the goddamn pool and ruin every good thing about this moment.
Instead, he wets his lips, voice rough when it finally comes out.
“Wouldn’t call it weird, chérie,” he murmurs, dragging a hand back through his hair like that might help. “More like… restrained.”
He shoots her a look. One brow raised. One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Believe me, you’d know if I was bein’ weird.”
And yeah.
That look?
That voice?
That heat simmering just under the surface?
That’s a promise.
She blinks. Once. Twice.
Then her breath catches—just enough to shift the air between them. Her eyes drop to the water, trailing low.
And then they widen.
Like she’s only just realizing something.
Like it never even occurred to her this was a game.
Because she wasn’t playing.
Not really.
Not like he was.
She opens her mouth, maybe to ask, maybe to say something—but it stalls out. Just a soft inhale, cheeks flushing up fast. Her chest lifts with it, slow and shallow.
She closes her mouth again.
Doesn’t speak.
And then she’s turning away—no rush, no flounce. Just quiet motion as she wades toward the edge of the pool. She grabs the half-drunk glass he left sitting there and tips it back all at once, lips parting around the rim like she’s trying to ground herself.
Not to impress.
Not to flirt.
Just… because it’s something to do. Something else.
Then she leans on the ledge beside him, close.
She doesn’t look at him.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stays.
Still pink-cheeked and not running.
And Remy?
He’s the one who has to look away now.
Because damn.
She really wasn’t playing.
And he’s the only one who got dirty.
He watches her for a second longer, then speaks—soft, easy, like he’s testing the current.
“You good, chérie?”
Her fingers lift, absent-minded, to the string tied at her hip. She starts toying with the bow. Not untying it, just brushing over it, twisting the end between her fingers. Something familiar.
And damn if it doesn’t knock the breath right out of him.
Because she doesn’t even realize.
Doesn’t know what that kind of softness does to a man who’s already halfway ruined.
She just shrugs.
Still not looking at him. Still staring ahead like the stars might offer her an answer. “M’fine.”
And maybe she is.
Or maybe she doesn’t know she’s not.
But Remy?
He has to look away again.
Lets out a slow breath, eyes flicking down the length of the pool like that’ll cool him off somehow.
It doesn’t.
Because she’s still next to him, all wet skin and innocence and quiet little tells she doesn’t even know she’s giving.
And he’s enjoying this.
Not in a cruel way. Not to play with her heart.
Just the game of it. The tension. The way she stirs something in him soft and dangerous all at once.
He’s watching the edges. Feeling out her lines. Seeing how close he can get without stepping over.
Because teasing her?
That’s easy.
Too easy.
And the way she sits beside him now—bare skin, bright eyes, bare soul—
It makes him wonder how long he can keep this light.
How long before teasing stops being enough.
Remy glances at her again—slow, sideways, like he’s measuring something invisible.
Then, voice low, almost lazy,
“What are you feelin’ right now, chère?”
She shifts.
Barely.
Just a small inch away. Like she thinks he won't notice. Like her mind just caught up with her body.
But he notices.
Of course he does.
That little tell?
It’s loud to him.
She’s quiet a second longer, eyes still forward—still pretending she’s not flushed, not buzzing, not caught in whatever this is.
Then—
“I—I don’t know, Remy.”
It slips out in a breath, just a little stutter behind it. Her voice soft, unsure.
And God, it makes something sharp curl low in his stomach.
He hums at that. A small sound, amused but not unkind.
“Mm. C’mon,” he coaxes, dipping his head toward her just slightly. “Tell me.”
Then his finger taps gently at her side—just under the rib.
She flinches, just a little. Just enough to make her smile flicker and her breath catch.
But her head shakes.
Not stubborn.
Just soft. Embarrassed. A little unsure.
Like maybe she wants to tell him—but can’t quite find the words. Maybe doesn’t have them yet.
Or maybe she does, and they’re just too heavy to say out loud.
Remy watches her for a moment longer, eyes lingering on the way she fidgets with the string of her bikini. The little knot at her hip twisting slowly between her fingers. Absent. Innocent. Like she doesn’t know what that does to him.
Like she isn’t trying to do anything at all.
Which makes it worse.
His throat’s dry now. His thumb taps against his leg once—restless. Controlled.
He leans in, just a fraction closer. Enough to make her shoulders tense.
Then, soft—teasing, but threaded with something deeper,
“Y’don’t gotta be shy, petite. I’m just askin’ what’s in that pretty head of yours.”
His voice is too close now.
Too warm.
And she knows it. Doesn’t look at him, but her breath shudders out just a little.
“I dunno,” she says again, but quieter this time. More like please don’t make me say it than anything else.
Remy tilts his head, eyes flicking down to where her fingers are still playing with that string.
“Mhm,” he hums, gaze sharp. Knowing.
Then—just to push her, just to test,
“You don’t feel nothin’?”
And it’s not a question really.
More like a dare.
She blinks hard. Licks her lips like she’s about to speak.
But she doesn’t.
And that silence?
That hesitation?
Tells him more than any answer ever could.
Then he’s piecing things together—slow, careful, almost against his will.
Something about the way she fidgets.
The way her voice caught earlier.
The way she looks at him—soft, wide-eyed, open in a way that don’t quite match the way she drinks or talks back or carries herself when the room’s full.
And maybe.
Maybe—just a thought he can’t shake—
Maybe she’s never…
He cuts it off.
Shakes the thought out of his head before it finishes forming. Ain’t his business. Ain’t his place.
Still.
His voice comes quiet, almost too casual.
“How old are you, chère?”
He already knows she’s old enough. Never been a question. But suddenly, it feels like one. Like he missed something.
Her eyes find his then. Brows furrowed, nose scrunching up just slightly, head tilting that soft little way she always does when she’s confused.
That damn cute thing she does.
Then—
“Twenty-four?”
She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s just math. Like she has no idea why he’s asking.
But fuck.
Twenty-four?
His stomach flips. Mind racing faster than he wants to admit.
That’s—what?
Damn near ten years between them.
He thought she was older. Not old, but not this young.
Remy scrubs a hand down his face, leans back against the edge of the pool like it’ll hold him together. Breathes deep.
Whispers something low and filthy and unmistakably a prayer under his breath in French.
She blinks, still watching him, confusion written plain across her face.
And that just makes it worse.
Then—
“Remy?”
His name, soft on her lips. Concern laced through it like thread—gentle, worried, something honest slipping free before she can tuck it away.
She shifts.
Just a little. Like she might reach for him. Hand halfway lifted, unsure.
And that’s when he moves.
Not far. Just a half-step back in the water. Barely noticeable unless you’re watching close.
But she’s watching.
She blinks, startled by it. Mouth parting slightly, confusion rippling across her face.
And Remy?
He sighs. Low. Tight in the chest.
Voice rough when it comes out.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
A beat.
“I’m tryin’ real hard here not to touch you.”
And it’s not a line. Not a tease.
Just the truth, plain and raw. The kind that sits heavy in the air between them.
She’s quiet for a second.
Then, eyes still on him—soft, uncertain, a little too innocent for the way her words land—
“Is that bad?”
And damn.
That hits him harder than it should.
Not flirty. Not coy.
Just... honest.
Like maybe she thinks it’d disgust him.
Like maybe the idea of him wanting her is something shameful.
And that look on her face? That slight scrunch of her brows, the way she ducks her chin just a little like she’s bracing for an answer she won’t like?
Yeah.
That might be worse than anything.
Remy swallows hard.
Shifts.
Hands twitching at his sides before one of them scrubs slow down his face.
“Non,” he says finally. Voice low. Measured. A little rough.
He glances away—then back again. His throat works.
“It ain’t like that, chère.”
He adjusts in place, subtle but not subtle enough, the fabric of his shorts doing less than nothing to help him hide it.
And she?
She leans in.
Not a move.
Not a seduction.
Just soft. Natural. Like her body’s doing the thinking now.
Like gravity’s pulling her toward him slow and steady.
He kinda gives up then.
Closes the space between them.
Their eyes lock, and his hand rises slow—fingertips curling under her jaw, thumb brushing just barely at her cheek. He leans in, lets himself feel it for half a second, then presses a kiss to her lips.
Soft. Chaste. Gentle like a prayer.
Her eyes flutter closed.
She leans in like it’s instinct.
And God—she’s just there, willing and open and waiting, and it knocks something loose in him.
He pulls back. Eyes searching hers.
Looking for a way out.
A reason to stop.
Doesn’t find one.
So he mutters it under his breath—fuck it—and kisses her again.
Deeper this time.
His mouth parts hers easily, tongue sliding in before she even has the chance to think. She stills for just a second—just enough for him to taste her surprise—and then?
She lets him.
Doesn’t kiss back quite the way he wants. Her mouth stays soft, tongue hesitant. Like she’s never done this. Or not like this. Like no one’s ever kissed her like they meant it. Like they needed it.
And Remy?
Remy needs it bad.
He angles deeper, tilts her chin higher.
Licks into her mouth like he can coax the heat out of her, like he can teach her what this is supposed to feel like.
And yeah—maybe he can.
Because right now?
She’s letting him.
He pulls back just enough to speak, voice low and wrecked against her lips.
“Try harder, baby.”
And then he’s kissing her again.
Deeper. Slower. But with intent.
And this time?
She listens.
Her tongue meets his—tentative at first, then bolder. Her hand slips into his hair, fingers curling at the base of his neck. The other flattens on his chest, holding steady.
It’s a little messy. A little eager.
But better.
So much better.
She’s learning. Fast.
And Remy?
He’s not holding back now.
He licks deeper, hungrier—mouth parting wider, tongue sliding down her throat—and that’s what does it.
She moans.
Soft. Surprised. Right into his mouth.
Then she’s pulling back suddenly, gasping.
Her chest rises hard and fast, eyes wide and lips swollen.
Like she’s trying to figure out what the hell just hit her.
Her cheeks are flushed, glowing red in the low light. And then—
She hides.
Tucks her face against his chest like she’s trying to disappear, like maybe if she presses in close enough, she can breathe again.
Remy’s hand finds the back of her head. Gentle. Steady. Fingers curling into her damp hair like he’s done it a hundred times.
He holds her there, thumb brushing soft at her crown.
Coddling her.
Coaxing her.
“Too much for you, bébé?” he murmurs, voice low, careful.
She shakes her head. Once. Small.
Barely there.
But it’s enough.
A soft smile touches his mouth, and he leans in just slightly, his words almost tangled with her hair.
“You did so good,” he says.
And that?
That’s what breaks her a little more.
She tucks in tighter, burying herself against him like the warmth there might save her.
And Remy?
He just holds her closer.
He laughs, soft and warm against the top of her head.
Then, pulling back just enough to glance down at her—his eyes all heat and mischief, voice lilting with tease—
“That wasn’t your first kiss, right?”
She gasps, scandalized, and her fingers pinch lightly at his side in retaliation. Right at his waist, soft skin where she knows it’ll get him. He twitches, grinning.
“‘Course not,” she huffs, finally speaking again—but her voice drops near the end. Quieter now. Honest.
“…Just never been like that.”
The last word’s softer than the rest. Like it snuck out. Like maybe she didn’t mean to say it at all.
And yeah—Remy hears it.
All of it.
And his grin shifts just slightly.
Less teasing now.
More dangerous.
He doesn’t mean to ask.
It just slips out—quiet, low, like his mouth moved before his brain caught up.
“You ever been touched before, baby?”
And just like that, she stills.
Doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t let go.
Just freezes against his chest, like the question shocked the breath out of her.
Remy feels it. Feels her heartbeat against his ribs. Feels the way his own skips a beat and then comes back burning. That low heat in his gut—tight, sharp—flaring even as he fights it down.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push.
Just lets the silence stretch. Lets it settle between them like heat.
Then—soft, unsure, still pressed close—
“In what way?”
Her voice is small. Not scared. Just honest. Curious. Like maybe no one’s ever asked her that. Not like this. Not from this close, with this much heat between the words.
And Remy?
He breathes out slow, like he’s trying not to set the moment on fire.
“Any way,” he says, gentle now. “Every way.”
She exhales—shaky, uneven—like it costs her something just to breathe. Still doesn’t look up. Her hand curls tighter against his chest, cheek pressed firm into him like if she stays there, maybe the world won’t spin so hard.
“I—I…” she starts, stutters, swallows. “No. I’ve never had sex, if that’s what you’re asking, Remy.”
And goddamn.
His breath catches. Sharp. Like she knocked the wind out of him without even trying.
He blinks once.
Then again.
God.
That wasn’t the answer he expected.
Not with the way she kisses. Not with the way she’s pressed up against him now, small and warm and barely breathing.
It rattles something in him.
Something deep.
Something low and hot and dangerous.
She said it like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she didn’t even realize what it would do to him. And maybe she didn’t. That’s always the worst part. Or the best. He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that now?
This isn’t just a tease anymore.
It’s her.
Real. Honest. Stammering in his arms with her face buried in his chest like maybe she thinks he’ll run.
But Remy?
He ain’t moving.
Just lets it sink in. Lets it simmer. Then lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he’s trying to ground himself before his body gets ahead of his brain.
His hand slips up, fingers curling against her spine—just a touch. Just to remind her he’s still here.
“…That right?” he says, voice low, quiet, more awed than anything.
A beat.
Then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth, not unkind.
“Damn, baby,” he murmurs. “That… that’s somethin’.”
And he means it.
Not judgmental. Not smug.
Just real.
Something about the way she told him—shy but open, soft but unashamed—makes his chest ache in a way he’s not used to.
And now?
Yeah, now he’s gotta be careful.
But God if it doesn’t make her feel even more like his.