"I still can't believe you're here."

"I know," August says bashfully, the tips of his ears turning pink. I'm watching him move around the studio as I lean against the soundboard. He looks like a little boy in an antique store, careful not to touch anything, his hands tucked behind his back as he takes it all in.

I don't think I've stopped smiling since I first spotted him on the couch. I thought I'd imagined him at first. We've been working nonstop in the studio, and on top of my mind spinning with thoughts of August since I left him on Monday, I honestly thought maybe I'd finally lost it—actually gone delirious.

Because August has never been to Los Angeles. Not once in the five years since everything changed for me. Five years I spent inviting him. Five years of hearing him tell me, I can't get away from work or Gwen already planned something for that weekend. Five years of swallowing that disappointment, knowing my best friend didn't want to come. I tried my best not to dwell on it—he was in a relationship, after all, and was trying to get promoted.

But now, he's here.

"I wish I didn't have to work," I say, tugging my sleeves over my hands, fidgeting to keep myself from clinging to him like a koala. "There's so much I want to show you, so much I want you to see."

"It's fine." He glances at me with a sheepish smile, giving me a little half-shrug. "I know you're busy. Don't worry about me."

"There are so many places I'd take you, though. That coffee shop in Malibu, the bookstore in Brentwood I know you'd die over. Oh, and the breakfast burrito place I always sent you pictures of—the one by that shitty apartment I used to live in."

He stops in front of one of the keyboards, his fingers tapping twice on one of the keys—the only thing he knows he can touch without worrying he'll break it. I bite the corner of my lip, holding back a grin.

God, he's so cute, it hurts how much I love him.

His warm, chocolate-brown eyes meet mine again. "I just like seeing you here."

"I wish I had the time, though," I admit. I wish I could cram that whole year I lived in LA into the next thirty-six hours—show him everything, let him see the parts I always wanted to share with him.

"Next time." He says it like a promise, and my heart wants to latch onto it. But will there be a next time like this? One where we're caught in this gray area between best friends and... whatever this is.

"Next time?" I ask, quieter now, wanting him to say it again. "You think you'd come back?"

"Yeah." He nods, taking a step toward the couch beneath the wall of hanging guitars. There's a frown pulling at the corner of his lip when he turns toward me. "I feel like, I don't know... I feel like I've missed so much by not being here when you had invited me before."

"You're here now. That's enough." It's more than enough—it's all I ever wanted.

He looks at me like he's not entirely convinced, then drops onto the couch behind him, arms spreading across the back as he watches me from where I stand. I watch him right back, taking him in—black sweatshorts, those toned legs, and an emerald green t-shirt that stretches deliciously across his chest. His tousled hair, messy from his early flight, falling out of place no matter how many times he brushes it back.

"C'mere," he finally says.

"How did you know where to find me, anyway?" I ask, not moving because I'm not ready to stop looking at him. He's gorgeous, and seeing him here—in the place where I've spent so many hours writing and recording—it feels like a missing piece sliding into place, filling a gap I didn't even realize was there.

"I called Andrea."

"You called her?" My eyebrow shoots up. "Are you sure she didn't make you come out here?"

A small smile tugging at his lips. "I called her yesterday after my meetings, and she set it up. I mean, I think I probably could've found you on my own if I really wanted to—you're still sharing your location with me on Find My Friends."

"I am?"

He nods. "Yeah, I helped you set it up a few years ago, one of those times you drove from New Haven to Boston by yourself."

"You did?" He nods again. I vaguely remember being annoyed because he'd gotten mad at me after he kept calling and I wasn't picking up. He'd convinced himself I was dead in a ditch somewhere off the 84 when, in reality, I was singing my heart out to Céline Dion and couldn't be bothered. I had shoved my phone at his chest, telling him to just track me if he was so worried. I didn't know he'd actually set it up. "Oh."

"Come here," he says again.

"So what?" I ask, pushing off the soundboard. "You're just... tracking me now?"

"Will you stop the interrogation and just sit with me," he says, the quiet command pulling me closer.

"Should I be concerned right now?" I ask, slowly making my way over, my heart thundering in my chest. The other day at his house, adrenaline had me riding high after he said he wanted to kiss me, after he admitted he thought about me in ways he shouldn't. But now that things have settled and I've had time to process it all, I'm suddenly nervous. "Wait, are... are you stalking me?"

"Maisie," he chides, amused with me. He tilts his head up when I step in between his knees, eyes slowly trailing over my legs to my sweatshirt before finally meeting my gaze.

"Oh my god," I gasp, overly dramatic. Butterflies go wild as his hands slide behind my knees, gently nudging me forward, guiding me into his lap. I plant my hands on his shoulders, keeping most of my weight on his thighs instead of his hips, because it feels like just a little too much. "Has our whole friendship been a cover so you could secretly stalk me? August Williams, are you my number one fan?"

His brows pull together as he leans forward, pushing off the back of the couch until our noses nearly touch. His chest presses tight against mine and my hips slide a little closer into his as one of his hands rests firmly on the small of my back, fingers spread wide, holding me close.

"No, I'm not stalking you."

"August, are you..." I pause, partly for dramatic effect but mostly because I need a second to catch my breath. "Are you a Rhod—"

He cuts me off, pulling my mouth to his, kissing me. It's meant to shut me up, I think, to stop me from teasing him. It works, clearly. He kisses me deep, his tongue brushing against my lips, and I melt into him, sighing as my lips part and he sweeps his tongue against mine. He groans—a frustrated sound—that has me wanting to dig my fingers into his shoulders and urge him closer.

"I bet you run one of those Instagram fan pages, don't you?" I continue, breathless, when August pulls back just enough to look at me, just enough to drag his thumb across my bottom lip. "That's how obsessed you are with me."

He hums out a laugh, those eyes of his studying me carefully. They trace every inch of my face, down to the oversized sweatshirt I'm wrapped in, before he leans in, hooking a finger under the collar and tugging it down just enough to press a kiss at the base of my neck. My eyes flutter shut.

His lips are so devastatingly gentle my body aches from it, desperate for more—for any sort of friction—because this, with me straddling him, my legs spread wide over him, is going to be nowhere near enough. I want to chase it until the tension inside me swells and swells, until it snaps. Until I'm falling apart. I want it right here on this couch, pressed up against the door, sprawled out over that soundboard. I want it all, and I shouldn't.

I'm not sure that was what we meant when we agreed on a trial period.

"The ones with all the reels from my last tour?" I tease, trying to focus on anything but his lips. My eyes drift to the guitars hanging in front of me; they settle on the Gibson—staring at the delicate floral design on the pickguard. "Must've taken you hours to sift through them all."

"It's just that you were all the way over there, and I needed you right here," he murmurs against my skin, "so I could kiss you."

"That's not how stalking works." My hands slip around the nape of his neck, fingers dragging through his thick, wavy brown hair. August looks between us, his forehead pressing against the center of my chest, watching as his large hands slide up my bare thighs, teasing the hem of my shorts just like he did in his kitchen.

I wanted him to go further that day—to slip his hands under my skirt, to tug my underwear off, to touch me.

He grips me there now, kneading my thighs, and my brain glitches. For a second, I lose track of what we're talking about, my focus shifting to the friction I'm trying so desperately not to give in to. "You—I'm pretty sure you're supposed to come to me."

"Who's supposed to come?" His lips tug into a coy smile, and my entire body flushes hot.

A shallow, ghost of a gasp escapes me, and I do everything I can not to fixate on the way the word come just slipped from his lips.

"Stalkers... um," I manage, my voice high and tight, needing to clarify, "are supposed to find me. Not the other way around."

His mouth moves to the other side of my neck, pressing slow, deep kisses just below my collarbone.

"I am, by the way," he whispers somewhere against my skin like he actually thinks that's what I'm focused on tracking on our conversation right now.

"You're, uh—" I stutter, shaking my head as I try to form a coherent thought. "You are what? A stalker?"

"Your number one fan."

"Oh... that's nice." I squeak out.

There's a low rumble of appreciation that vibrates through his chest as he sucks at the hollow of my throat. My fingers tighten in his hair. He pulls back to inspect the mark he's left there, brushing a thumb over it.

August's attention flicks to mine, his eyes dark, possessively hungry. I've caught glimpses of it before—when he watched me eat the cherry from my Dirty Shirley at the Red Sox game, when he kissed me outside that coffee shop in New York, in the dressing room when I thought he was watching me change—but never like this. Usually, I blink and wonder if it was even there to begin with.

I trace his jawline with the tip of my finger to the little dip below his bottom lip, trying to burn that look into my brain. "Bet you've got a poster of me in your room, don't you?"

"Maisie."

"Right above your bed—the one of me holding the microphone, twirling in a circle, with Rhodie For Life at the bottom. You're a Rhodie for life, aren't you, Gus?"

"Mace." He's impatient with me now.

"Hmm?"

"Shut up."

"Okay," I start to say, but the word melts when his mouth slants over mine.

August catches me in another kiss, his teasing tongue slides against mine while his other hand finds the side of my face, fingers threading into my hair. He kisses me deeper, then pulls back to nip at my lower lip before brushing a soft kiss over the spot.

"I've been thinking about kissing you since you left me a few days ago," August whispers against the edge of my lips.

I don't know if it's the fact that he flew across the country just to spend thirty-six hours with me while I work, or that I'm straddling him in this studio, or maybe it's the way everything feels so easy with him—but I want more of this. This floating, breathless feeling he gives me. Like I'm drifting in a haze, completely untethered.

And I really shouldn't be trusted to make any crucial decisions right now. It's like I'm incapable of having any rational thoughts, and all reasoning has been drained from my bones, leaving only August.

Whatever it is, it has me sinking in closer to him until our hips meet fully, and my mouth hovers just above his. His big body tenses beneath me.

"I've been thinking about kissing you for a lot longer than just a few days, August," I confess in a whisper.

That seems to do something for him. My confession has him desperate, urgent. August kisses me like he knows exactly what he wants. He's rough and demanding, slow and deep, all heat and intensity. His hand moves to my hair, fingers twisting through it, pulling it loose from the bun it's in. I moan a whimper into his mouth when he grips me tight and grazes his teeth on my bottom lip.

He sucks in a sharp breath. "Jesus, Maisie."

"I know." I'm panting now, that ache settling deeper between my thighs. "You're obsessed with my voice."

He mutters a curse under his breath before burying his face in the soft fabric between my breasts, his lips brushing against it like nothing is separating us. Then, his hands slide up my bare thighs, slipping just beneath the soft, loose cotton of my sweatshorts to cup my ass. He squeezes hard, and a choked whimper escapes me, any pretense of teasing gone.

Everything in me pulls taut, heat pooling low and spreading like warm honey everywhere our bodies meet. My hips, moving on their own accord, shift against him. A rough drag that has my body lighting up from that friction it's been so desperately craving.

"Fuck," he garbles out, stopping me as his hands wrap around my hips, finger tightening—so tight I think they might leave bruises. I hope they do.

There's a sharp stillness between us, and for a second, I think maybe he might lift me off him and say it's too much. I'm on the verge of pulling away, ready to apologize, to tell him I didn't mean to push this trial period so far, that maybe we should just forget everything. But instead, his grip pulls me closer, pressing me harder against him, guiding my movements with a low, needy groan.

I can hardly hear the warning siren going off in the back of my mind—the blaring, piercing alarms dulled by my heartbeat loud in my ears, telling me: Wait, slow down. This is not a good idea. This is your best friend. This will change everything.

But it's impossible to think about the consequences when his warm hands grip the soft skin where my hips meet my thighs, right over the lace of my thong. He grinds me in his lap again, and again, as I feel his hard cock pressed against me in a way that makes everything else blur at the edges.

"Tell me to stop," he pants, guiding me over him. I know what he's really asking—if this is too much. He's asking for me to tell him how far he can go.

"Tell me to stop," he says again, softer, his breath hot against my ear. "And I wi—."

"Don't." The word tumbles out before I even realize it, my head spinning in this lavender haze of him.

"Jesus. Fuck. Okay." He presses his lips against mine again, sliding his hand further under my shorts. Brushing the skin just below my belly button, he hesitates as he toys with the edge of the lace.

I nod, probably too eagerly, my hips rocking harder against his, silently telling him, Yes, God, August, please touch me.

Then he does—his thumb slides between my legs, pressing right over the lace of my underwear, right where I have to be almost embarrassingly wet for him.

"August," I choke out. Black spots bloom at the edges of my vision as his thumb strokes my clit just over the material. My knees spread wider, hips rolling into his hand, as a moan hiccups out of me.

"Fuck, Maisie, you're so wet," he rasps between kisses as he starts moving in small, perfect circles. The fabric of my underwear makes it all feel rougher—the scratch of the material mixed with the pressure of his touch. His breath comes out in a hush, a touch of something like wonder. "Is this all because of me? Did I do this to you?"

"Yes. It's, oh—" Is all that comes out.

"God, look at you—so perfect like this. So beautiful." He pulls back just enough to look at me, lips hovering somewhere above mine. I've never been looked at the way he's looking at me, never been touched the way he's touching me— so deliberately, every tiny movement of August's thumb sending me spiraling higher. "I love you like this. Does it feel good? Tell me it does."

"Feels s'good," I manage, my voice breathless.

This is the best it's ever felt with anyone—ever—and he hasn't even bothered to take a stitch of clothing off.

My nails dig into his back, itching to strip him down. I want to peel off this shirt, to feel that hard warmth of his skin, the roughness of his palms against mine. I bury my fingers in his hair instead, tilting his head to capture his mouth.

August's hips move, making tiny, unbearable little waves of thrusts against me like he just can't help himself, like he's so turned on he has to do something. He's so hard, I can feel it in the outline of his cock, and it has to be painful for him now. But he doesn't change the pace—he just keeps that steady, maddening rhythm, rocking me with one hand and stroking me with the other.

"God, August, w—I—" I stammer, garbled words spilling out as my insides flutter, my stomach tightens, and my knees start to shake at his hips. I want to tell him to stop. To wait. To give me just a second. It's all too much, too fast. I'm already teetering on the edge of falling apart, and a few more strokes of his thumb will undo me completely.

"Don't stop, Maisie," he murmurs against the corner of my mouth, his voice low, rough, desperate. Then, softer, almost like a plea, "Please don't stop."

The spot where August's thumb strokes is soaked now, the fabric a twisted mess, just enough that his thumb slips beneath it, pressing his bare skin against mine. I moan into his mouth as a soft, strangled string of curses slips from August like this is unraveling him just as much as it is me.

And then he's pushing me right over that edge.

I come with a gasp, crying out his name into the crook of his neck, muffled by his shirt, as I curl into him. Bright pinpricks of light burst behind my eyelids—stardust— as bliss pulses through me in waves. His hand stays wedged between my thighs, guiding me through every roll of pleasure until it starts to ease, my breath slows, and my nails no longer carving half-moons into his back.

I sit there, my head still tucked into the crook of his neck, as the haze of everything slowly fades and the weight of what just happened settles in. I just came dry-humping my very best friend. And as wrong as it is, this doesn't feel weird. But it wasn't supposed to happen like this. I'm almost certain mind-blowing orgasms weren't on the list of approved activities for our so-called trial period.

We stay like that for what feels like forever, but probably just seconds—me curled over him, too panicked to move. I'm worried he's freaking out, that he regrets this, that he thinks it was all a mistake. I'm about to blurt out an apology, ready to convince myself it was a mistake, when he finally breaks the silence.

"Well," he murmurs, his voice thick with husk. I hear him swallow hard. "I think it's safe to say I'm obsessed with that version of your voice."

A laugh bursts out of me, and I pull back to look at him. He's grinning sheepishly, his cheeks, throat, and the tips of his ears deliciously flushed. His lips are swollen, his hair a sweaty mess of waves. I push some of it back, and his eyes slip shut, sighing as I brush a kiss over the spot where my favorite little crease usually is.

"That was nice," he says with a dazed smile.

"Do you, um—" I shift slightly against him, feeling just how hard he still is. I reach to trace two fingers down his stomach to the waistband of his shorts. "I-I can touch you, too, if you want?"

He catches my wrist, his eyes squeezing shut as the blush on his ears deepens. With a strained grunt, he rasps, "I'm okay."

"Oh." Heat floods my face, embarrassment prickling beneath my skin. I glance past him, focusing on the guitars on the wall. "Okay. That's... Okay."

"No, Maisie." August sighs, my name soft on his lips. "It's just that—" His eyes drop pointedly to his lap, where a small patch of his gray sweat shorts grows dark—wet.

"Oh. You already—"

"I finished," he mutters, his face tightening with embarrassment. "Jesus, Maisie, I'm sorry. That's not..." He drags a hand roughly over his face, avoiding my eyes. I press my lips together, trying to keep from smiling. My whole body feels flushed—he just admitted he came, and I didn't even touch him. It, quite honestly, might be the hottest thing that's ever happened to me. "It's not exactly my finest moment. That's never happened before, I swear. Not even in high school... Well, okay, maybe once in high school, but it's not like... a thing that happens regularly. But touching you, being this close to you, it just—well, I guess it was enough. I promise if there's a next time—"

I lean in and kiss him, silencing the stream of words. My lips trail from his chin to the sharp line of his jaw before I nuzzle into his chest, wrapping my arms around his middle.

"August," I murmur, "that's the last thing you should be embarrassed about. If anything, you should be more embarrassed that you admitted to being my number one Rhodie."

——————

I'm not sure I have the words to describe how I feel about posting this chapter. Honestly, I don't know whether to be embarrassed or impressed with myself on this one. It might be my favorite smut scene I've written.

I don't know. You guys let me know.

tysm for reading, commenting, and voting ❤️