IGNITE HEARTS ♥️✨
Author: Ahyda
🌩️🌧️🛣️ LONELY STREET – NIGHT
The air is thick. A storm’s teasing the horizon.
A luxury car rolls to a limp halt under a flickering streetlight.
The driver’s door opens — Aira steps out, frustration in heels.
Engine dead. Phone dead. Surroundings-Sketchy.
Heavy rainfall.Her car’s done for
Then… the boys show up. Five
Cigarettes, bikes, and leering grins.
> BOY 1 (grinning):
“Well, well. You look like you need help.”
> BOY 2:
“Nice car. Nicer owner.”
> BOY 3:
“Want us to check under your hood too?”
They move closer. She stiffens. Mind racing. Fight or flight?
She chooses… poorly.
She runs.
Yep. Leaves the car unlocked, engine popped, door wide open.
Bolts like a horror movie extra — straight down a side alley.
She stumbles onto a closed industrial gate, almost face-first.
Aira, Managing Director by title, but practically zero survival instincts outside her glossy empire, ends up banging on the tin door of a dim-lit garage in the middle of nowhere.
A rusty nameplate reads:
🏍️🚙 IGNITE WORK GARAGE
Lights on inside. Tools clanging.
She barges in.
INSIDE
The garage smells of grease, fire, and burnt metal.
Arik cleaning the car for final touches.
Black T-shirt, oil-stained jeans, jaw sharp enough to cut wires, hair messy wet , silver chain sticking to his neck, a faded tattoo peeking from his collarbone to back. Face unreadable.
He hears the commotion. Rolls out.
Sees her.
Her legs are dirty .. her soaked dress clings to her like shame. Her hands shake.
> Arik
"You cryin’ or your mascara’s just melting?" he asks flatly, eyes scanning her soaked figure — not with lust, but that cold practicality of a man used to fixing messes.
No answers
"You lost your umbrella... or your brain?"
She tries to act offended — fails. She’s freezing.
He tosses a baggy sweatshirt toward her like he’s doing charity.
> ARIK:(again)
“Um… You lost?”
> AIRA (panting):
“There were… guys. They were… I had to run.”
> ARIK (standing):
“Okay—calm down.
>Aira
"My car"
>Arik
Where’s your car?”
> AIRA:
“I left it.”
> ARIK:
“You what?”
> AIRA:
“I just… ran.”
> ARIK (deadpan):
“Wow. Amazing instincts. So instead of driving off, you abandoned your car in the middle of nowhere… during a catcall?”
She glares.
> AIRA:
“They weren’t just catcalling."
He grabs his wrench.
> “Let’s go get her back before they sell her for parts.”
> AIRA (hesitant):
“Wait, you're going out there?”
> ARIK (mocking):
“No no, I thought we’d light a candle and pray she returns. Get in the truck.”
BACK TO ROADSIDE
They arrive in Arik’s battered old Jeep. The boys are still lingering.
Arik steps out like it’s his turf now.
They start to speak, but—
> ARIK (calm):
“Touch that car again, and you’ll need a dentist. Or a priest.”
The boys don’t wait for follow-up threats. They scatter.
Arik turns back to Aira, who’s just… stunned.
> AIRA (quiet):
“I panicked.”
> ARIK:
“No kidding.”
> AIRA:
“I don’t usually act like that.”
> ARIK:
“Cool. Still doesn’t change the fact you abandoned a car worth more than some people’s houses.”
> AIRA:
“How do you even know what it’s worth?”
> ARIK (smirking):
“I saw the rims. The leather. The attitude. Luxury cars have personality. Hers was screaming expensive neglect.”
> AIRA:
“You talk about cars like they’re people.”
> ARIK:
“That’s because they don’t pretend. Unlike people.”
He starts the car with ease.
Inside, she sits on a old sofa. Tin chai cups clink. She’s never held anything this unsmooth before. Her fingers twitch instinctively like they miss the porcelain.
>Arik
"Nice car you are babygirl. Shame she ended up with someone who doesn’t check water levels" he smirks, running a hand along the curve of the hood like it’s flesh.
"She deserves better hands."
She knows he means the car. Mostly.
> ARIK (to the car):
“There you go, sweetheart. Sorry your owner sucks.”
Later at garage
He pops the hood. Stares at it with something like betrayal.
> ARIK:
“Overheating. Battery barely alive. Coolant bone dry. Have you ever maintained her?”
Her eyes flicker to his hands, the grease, the veins. Then higher — his throat, his sharp jaw, the slow glide of a water droplet down his neck to his collarbone. That damn tattoo again.
She tries to cover her gaze by asking dumb car questions.
He chuckles.
> "You know nothing about what you drive, huh? That’s kinda sexy. Dumb rich girl in a luxury beast."
> AIRA:
“I had a driver.”
> ARIK:
“Of course you did.”
He glances at her.
> ARIK:
“You alright now?”
> AIRA:
“I feel… dumb.”
> ARIK:
“Good. That’s the first step to not being dumb again.”
> AIRA:
“You’re not very comforting.”
> ARIK:
“I’m not a therapist. I fix broken machines.”
He flicks the switch on the garage music system.
Old rock crackles on.
> ARIK:
“You hungry?”
She blinks.
> AIRA:
“What?”
> ARIK:
“You look like someone who forgot dinner and ran through a thunderstorm. There’s instant noodles in the back.”
She stares.
> AIRA:
“Is this your idea of hospitality?”
> ARIK (grinning):
“No. This is my idea of not letting you faint in my garage. I charge for bloodstains.”
After some minutes
Her driver finally shows up — pale, frantic, apologetic. She gets up quickly, but her feet hesitate. Her head turns, just for a second.
Arik doesn’t wave. Just leans on the wall, arms folded.
> ❝Don’t crash her again, princess. Next time, I charge double for attitude.❞
She gets into the car.
Looks back one last time.
📦 Next Morning...
Arik opens a package wrapped in gold-embossed paper. Money — and a sealed envelope.
A voucher to a luxury bathhouse, rare access — the kind only top-tier members can enter.
And another CD — not for music. A tech disc with schematics for internal motors used in high-end foreign cars, models that never even hit inside markets. Stuff local mechanics aren’t supposed to have.
No name.
Just a sticky note:
> “For the man who knew my car better than i do"
–A
Arik stares at the disc. Then, slowly… smirks.
> ❝Well, damn. She's rich and weird.❞
But her face — soaked, nervous, proudly clueless — won’t leave his head.
One Month Later | Arik’s Garage | Afternoon
He’s working on a junked-up motorbike — sleeves rolled, bandana tied, sweat shining under the collarbone ink.
Phone buzzes.
> CALLER ID: Unknown
He wipes his hands with a dirty rag, lets it ring twice. Picks up coolly.
> Arik (dry): “If this is another scheme to sell me insurance, I swear I’m about to throw hands.”
> Aira (overly casual): “Hi. Um. You fixed my car a while ago. Silver one. Got stranded... there was rain… tea… and you threw a sweater at my face?”
He chuckles without smiling.
> Arik: “Oh. Babygirl. Yeah, she was a handful.
But how did you get my number.. ohh rich girl ...
Anyways.. babygirl does she miss me?”
> Aira: “She’s... fine. I mean, the car. I just thought she could use a check-up. A tune-up. Or whatever-up you do in there.”
Silence.
> Arik (smirking): “So you remembered the garage, but forgot to name her. Tsk. Not a true car mom, huh?”
She rolls her eyes on the other end, flustered.
> Aira: “I’m not here to be mocked. Just… thought I’d ask if the CD helped?”
> Arik: “Big time. Those schematics were sweeter than cakes in brrthday. How’d you get your hands on that, by the way?”
> Aira (awkward): “I know people. Useful ones.”
> Arik: “Right. The ‘man under you’ types?”
(She freezes for a beat)
“Relax. Not judging. Just... picturing the boardroom. Fancy heels. A line of scared interns.”
> Aira (nervous laugh): “I’m not scary... outside meetings. I’m normal.”
> Arik: “Define normal. You're calling the guy who roasted your engine for fun, after a month, acting like it’s routine maintenance.”
He hears her quiet sigh, and… something in him softens.
> Arik: “Look. Bring the car in. I’ll check her. No charge this time.”
> Aira: “Really? Why no charge?”
> Arik: “Because clearly you’re still confused if I flirted with you or your ride. I feel responsible.”
She laughs — a real one this time — unguarded and genuine.
> Aira: “It was the car, wasn’t it?”
> Arik (grinning): “Princess, your car’s sleek, sexy, and doesn’t interrupt me when I’m talking. She wins.”
The Deal Is Sealed
He doesn’t tell her, but the second the call ends, he actually dusts the shop. Wipes the bench. Tells his boy, “Move the junk out. The luxury client’s coming. And no fart jokes this time.”
She, on the other hand, spends ten minutes debating which perfume doesn’t scream desperate but intrigued.
Arik’s Garage | Late Noon
Cue soft engine hum.
She pulls up, window rolls down just enough. There’s a flicker of mischief in her eyes, masked under an attempt at fake business mode.
> Aira (trying to sound formal):
“Monthly servicing. I figured Babygirl deserves a man who knows her sounds.”
He walks up, slow, drying his hands with a rag.
> Arik (half-laughing):
“So now I’m a royal mechanic on retainer? For your highness and her chariot?”
> Aira:
“Don't flatter yourself. I just… trust your hands.”
(Realizes what she just said, goes pink, looks away quickly*)
“I mean– for the car. Your mechanical expertise.”
He smirks.
> Arik (cocky):
“Uh-huh. Been a while since anyone complimented my ‘mechanical expertise’. Flattered, Princess.”
She pretends to ignore that.
Steps out. They walk toward the car. Their fingers accidentally brush while passing the keys.
A pause.
He glances at her. She pretends not to notice, suddenly busy adjusting her sleeves.
Rainwater drips lightly off the garage roof.
> Arik (low voice):
“So... you gonna keep showing up every month pretending it’s about the engine? Or should I start charging a royalty tax?”
> Aira (pretending to think):
“Well, I can pay. In cash. Regular client. Monthly. Routine. That’s not weird, right?”
> Arik (raising brow):
“Totally normal. Happens all the time. Princesses swing by to get their engines checked by broke tattooed mechanics...”
> Aira (teasing):
“You’re not broke--- you got this princess as your regular customer ....and my babygirl knows you.
He laughs — short, real.
She laughs too — softer. They’re both trying not to look at each other for too long now.
He opens the hood.
> Arik (to the car):
“Miss me, Babygirl?”
> Aira:
“She’s been moody. Whines a lot.”
> Arik:
“Just like her owner.”
> Aira (flustered):
“Wow. That was—um—mean. But... fair. I guess.”
They both chuckle, but then go quiet. His hand brushes against hers again as they reach for the same toolkit.
Eye lock.
A little too long.
Heartbeat.
Then both pull away fast like it didn't happen.
> Arik (quickly):
“Anyway, I’ll check her fluids. Give you the royal treatment.”
> Aira (fake-shocked):
“Was that... another double meaning?”
> Arik (shrugs):
“If the crown fits, Princess.”
It started raining. Power flickers once.
She’s inside. Uninvited but welcomed anyway. Aira steps in cautiously, heels clicking softly on concrete. The room smells like engine oil, old wood, and something warm.
She trails her fingers along a cluttered desk:
Worn leather sketchbook, a wooden shelf with tiny toy cars, a half-sketched new car blueprint. Aerodynamic. Bold. Wild. Signed: "A"
> Aira (softly):
“You designed this?”
Arik glances over from where he’s boiling water in a dented electric kettle.
> Arik (grins):
“Yeah. She’s got curves that’ll make even your Babygirl jealous.”
> Aira (smiling, touching the edge of the sketch):
“She’s beautiful... There’s detail even in the headlights.”
He watches her. Most people glance. She’s studying. Tracing lines like they mean something.
He starts to speak, then stops. Instead, he rips open a pack of instant noodles like it’s sacred.
> Arik:
“Hungry? I only have this... gourmet delicacy.”
She turns, confused.
> Aira (hesitant):
“Instant...noodles? Like… the college-student-who’s-broke food?”
> Arik (laughs):
“Exactly. Chef Arik’s specialty. Michelin-starred sodium.”
She walks over, still smiling.
> Aira (quietly):
“I’ve never had it.”
He blinks.
> Arik:
“Wait what?”
Yes she was shocked last time she denied.
> Aira (awkward laugh):
“I’ve always had a nutritionist. My meals are... planned. Balanced. Measured. I wasn’t even allowed street food.”
> Arik:
“That’s borderline criminal.”
> Aira (shrugs):
“I once ate roadside snack as a kid. Got so sick... food poisoning, hospital... Mom banned it all. I just... obeyed.”
He doesn’t laugh at that. Not this part.
> Arik (softly):
“So this is rebellion, huh? Noodles in a garage with a guy you don’t know.”
> Aira :
“I know your tattoo. Your sketch. Your terrible fridge. That’s a start.”
He chuckles.
They sit on an old toolbox. Share one bowl. Two forks. Steam rising like a peace offering between worlds.
> Arik (mock serious):
“So First taste of rebellion?”
She takes a bite — exaggerated drama.
> Aira (eyes wide):
“Why does this taste better than quinoa kale bowls?!”
> Arik (smug):
“Because it has soul, Princess."
They laugh.
He doesn’t stop her from reaching for another sketch. Doesn’t stop her from smiling like that.
She sits cross-legged now, curled slightly toward him, still holding the paper.
He watches her — this overly-sheltered, soft-spoken, stunning mess — and he still doesn’t get why he let her in. But she’s here. And the rain’s still falling.
Aira had settled in.
Laughs exchanged, noodles half eaten, sketches admired.
But then — her phone buzzed.
Her expression changed in a blink. Voice sharp. Posture straighter.
Like someone flicked a switch and turned “Garage Aira” into “CEO Aira.”
> Aira (on call):
“No, that shipment was supposed to be cleared by noon. Don’t give me excuses.
I want that signed, sealed, and parked in the showroom by 4. Or don’t show up tomorrow.”
Her voice had steel.
She wasn’t just someone’s spoiled daughter. She had that visible strong aura inside her work.
Arik leaned back against his counter, arms crossed. Amused.
Smirking like a cat watching a swan suddenly turn into a hawk.
She hung up and caught him staring.
> Arik (mocking, playful):
“Whoa. What happened to the Princess who was giggling over noodles and gasping at spoilers?”
> Aira (defensive, flustered):
“That was... different. That’s work.”
> Arik:
“Ahh. So it’s two-for-one today. Noodle girl and lady boss. Impressive.”
She looked down, cheeks slightly pink.
> Aira:
“Shut up.”
> Arik (still grinning):
“Whatever you say, Boss Lady.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, even as she gathered her stuff quickly.
> Aira:
“Is Babygirl ready? I need to leave now.”
He walked her to the entrance, pretending to inspect her car’s hood one last time.
> Arik (nodding):
“She’s fine. Bit pampered. Bit too clean. Like her owner.”
> Aira (arching a brow):
“You saying I’m high-maintenance?”
> Arik:
“I’m saying... you talk to cars sweeter than you talk to people.”
> Aira (smirking):
“Not everyone’s earned it.”
They stood still for a moment. Words drying up. Rain still tapping against the tin.
There it was — that strange tightness in the chest.
Not love. Not longing. Just... not wanting to leave yet.
But duty called.
> Aira (softly):
“Thank you. For... letting me explore your sketches....For the noodles.”
> Arik (half-smile):
“You explored.. more than my things, Princess.”
She turned away in embarrassment — his words still ringing in her head.
Climbed into her car, doors clicking shut.
She pulled away.
But then — like fate scripted it — she looked back through the rearview.
And there he was.
Leaning casually against the frame, arms still folded.
That same cocky smile on his face.
But his eyes... they weren’t teasing anymore.
They held something soft.
Unspoken. Maybe even sad.
She drove away with a strange weight in her chest.
The next morning
Aira’s morning was chaos.
Boardroom yelling, a delivery delay, some idiotic social media scandal about one of their models — the usual.
She tossed her silk floral blazer over the chair, reached for her phone —
1 New Message
> Unknown Contact
“Left your jacket here, Boss Lady. Smells like luxury.
Should I keep it hostage till your next tantrum?”
She rolled her eyes so hard her assistant nearly ducked.
But then she stared at the screen again.
That same dumb grin crept onto her face like a sunbeam slipping through office blinds.
She saved the contact. Just a name: “Garage Ignite ”
Instead of replying instantly — she got busy again.
But the moment she sat down for lunch, her fingers typed back before she could overthink:
> Aira:
“Was busy. Thanks for keeping it safe.
I’ll be at Café Honey and Hush around 4, if you can drop it.
I’ll buy you coffee. Or a real meal — assuming you eat more than instant noodles.”
Café –Honey and Hush
Old Wooden Furniture, Soft Jazz
Aira entered first.
Not her usual heels and suits.
No. Today was a pastel blue dress, cinched at the waist, tiny floral prints
Hair in a loose braid, lips cherry pink.
She didn’t know why she picked this dress. She just… did.
When Arik walked in — it was like the jazz changed tune.
Grease-stained black T-shirt, olive cargo pants, sunglasses pushed over his head.
Carrying her jacket — folded like a parcel, not hung like a luxury piece. Of course.
> Arik:
“Princess got a table already? Or should I dine in the servant section?”
> Aira (mock glare):
“If there’s one thing this café doesn’t have, it’s your nonsense.”
> Arik (sitting across):
“That’s why I brought some.”
She tried to act casual. But when he placed her jacket down — her fingers brushed his.
There it was again. That static shock. That annoying breathlessness.
They ordered coffee.
She stole glances while he looked around the place like he was examining a new engine.
> Arik:
“Everything’s wooden. Prices are stupid. Coffee’s burnt.
But I guess people like being emotionally overcharged these days.”
> Aira (snorting):
“You seriously hate everything I like, don’t you?”
> Arik:
“Not everything. I kinda like that dress.”
She blinked.
That was the first genuine, compliment.
Before she could respond — he sipped his coffee, totally unfazed.
> Aira:
“You don’t seem surprised I texted.”
> Arik:
“I’m not.”
> Aira (curious):
“Why?”
> Arik (leaning closer, cocky half-smile... confident)):
“’Cause Princess doesn’t like losing her things.
And I knew you’d miss me. I mean… the jacket.”
Her cheeks heated instantly.
“I don’t usually care about stuff like that,” she mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground... inaudible
____
They both usefully kept in eachother contact.
____
Aira had just finished a draining brand meeting. Her body wanted rest; her mind didn’t.
She texted him — jacket excuse long gone — more like, just a reason to see him again.
> Aira:
“Hey. Got time?”
> Arik (after a pause):
“Was about to go collect some tips.
Unless your Highness wants to donate in advance?”
He said it mockingly. Not the usual playful. There was… a flicker of resentment.
Aira frowned. That tone.
> Aira:
“You sound cranky. If you’re busy, I can—”
> Arik (coldly):
“I’m always busy. Doesn’t mean I can’t be bought.”
She went silent. That hurt a little. She didn't expect him to pull the “you’re rich, I’m not” card.
But then — he showed up.
In bartender blacks. Rolled sleeves. Chain peeking out. Hands veiny.
Still with that same cocky posture. But there was tiredness behind his eyes.
She reached out. Just lightly, instinctively — fingers brushed his wrist.
Something in him softened. Just a flicker. Just for her.
> Arik:
“Careful, Princess. You’ll ruin your manicure touching peasants.”
> Aira (quietly):
“Don’t do that. Don’t push me away like I don’t get it.”
They stood outside the bar — neon lights flickering over their faces.
> Aira:
“You’re a bartender?”
> Arik (nods):
“Among other things. Car fixer by day. Booze server by night.
Few modeling gigs, part-time mechanic at the track, sometimes deliver furniture…”
> Aira (shocked):
“Do you even breathe?”
> Arik (shrugs):
“I don’t need vacations. I need an engine I can call mine.”
🍸Inside the bar:
He moved behind the counter. Instantly transformed.
Cool. Confident. Commanding.
Mixing cocktails like an artist, smirking when tips poured in — mostly from women trying too hard.
Aira sat at the corner table. Sipping her drink. Watching him.
She was stunned — how the world came to him when he didn't even care for it.
Every 10 minutes, his eyes scanned back to her.
He didn’t miss the way men stared at her either.
Then it happened.
Some cocky investment bro swaggered to her table, tried cheesy lines laced with double meaning — she didn’t even get them, but she was polite.
> Random Guy:
“You here alone, sweetheart?
Or is your boyfriend pretending to be busy… like that guy who keeps watching you?”
Arik’s knuckles clenched around a shaker.
He wanted to punch that smirk off his face.
But no. He stepped in smooth. Controlled rage.
> Arik (placing drink in front of the guy):
“On the house.
Now drink that and walk away before I forget this is a legal establishment.”
The guy chuckled awkwardly, backed off.
Aira blinked. That possessiveness — it wasn’t subtle.
Later that night:
The music picked up. She had too many cocktails.
Hair down. Laugh loose. Arms in the air. She danced like freedom.
And he… couldn’t look away.
Her joy was blinding. Pure. Wild. A princess unchained.
Then she turned. Walked straight to him behind the bar.
Grabbed his hand. Dragged him into the crowd.
> Aira (tipsy):
“You owe me a dance. You scared my fanclub off.”
> Arik (laughing but stunned):
“I don’t dance.”
> Aira (smiling):
“Too bad.”
She spun around — his hands landed on her waist.
Her hips swayed against him. Music loud. Eyes locked.
Every second screamed: They shouldn’t. But they already are.
He held her tighter, grounding her. She leaned back into him — safe, bold, teasing.
Later that Night – His Garage attached room
They had left the bar in a rush, her still giggling, heels in hand, clinging to him like a little drunk fairy that somehow slipped into his life. She refused to tell her address properly, and honestly..He didn’t mind. Not then. Not when she leaned into him with that kind of trust.
So she ended up in his space.
> A messy, oil-smudged garage loft with a rusted fan, neon lights, and the hum of old indie music playing in the background. Worn sofa, open toolboxes, motorcycle parts. His chaos, his peace.
He tried not to look at her too much. But she.. She explored it all like a child in a forbidden forest.
Her (twirling slowly):
"You live here? This is... actually kind of poetic. Grimy. But poetic."
She wobbled, nearly tripping on a toolbox. He reached out to steady her by her waist. His fingers lingered longer than needed.
> She didn’t push him away. In fact, she held his hand there, grounding herself—not from falling, but from feeling too much.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy but deep.
Her (softly, slurring a bit):
"You're always frowning. Like you're carrying some invisible weight... but I like that. It makes you look real."
That line cut through his chest.
Arik (muttering, dryly):
"And you're drunk, princess. You like everything right now."
But she just laughed. And when he went to change the track of the music... she pulled him back by his shirt.
> The music turned to something slower, bass-heavy.
Their bodies moved—closer, slower, heat building.
Her hands in his hair, his hand steadying her lower back.
Her chest brushing against him.
His breath shallow.
Her lips near his ear.
He hated it.
He loved it.
And worst
He couldn’t stop.
Just when he thought she might kiss him—might actually let go fully—they were interrupted.
> The garage door opened with a loud clang.
Her female shadow bodyguard, in black boots and a no-nonsense face, stormed in.
Guard (coldly):
"Miss, we need to leave. Now."
Arik (stepping forward):
"She’s fine. She’s with me."
Guard:
"Exactly why we’re here. She’s not yours. Don’t make me call HQ."
He looked at her. She was holding his shirt again. Still leaning on him.
> She didn’t want to go. Not yet.
But she couldn’t stop the world she belonged to from dragging her back.
Her (quietly, almost apologetic):
"I'm sorry, Arik. I didn’t tell them where I was… They always find me."
Arik (biting back emotion):
"Yeah, guess you don’t belong in garages with guys like me anyway."
She flinched. That tone—mocking, distant, bruised. The same one she hated.
> He hated it too. Because it wasn’t anger. It was self-defense.
Arik’s POV – Late Night After She’s Gone
Back to square one. Alone.
Jacket still on the couch.
Alcohol bottles untouched.
Music still playing—but meaningless.
Arik (to himself):
"She’s way too rich, too clean, too protected. And yet here I am, craving a girl who called me handsome in a slur, and made my broken garage feel like a goddamn castle for five minutes."
A Week Later –
She had called.
Once.
Twice.
Every day.
Every night.
No reply.
His number was dead. Switched off. Blocked...Maybe.
Her messages unread, her jacket untouched.
She told herself she’d let it go. That she had standards. That no guy, especially not one with grease under his nails and demons in his veins, could make her chase.
> But here she was.
In front of his garage.
Again.
The door was cracked open. The place was worse than before—messier, angrier. Broken glass. Scattered tools. Alcohol bottles half-empty. Lights dim.
> She stepped in without knocking. Something about silence made her brave.
She moved past the bike. Past the dusty shelf.
His room door was ajar.
And then she saw him—lying shirtless on the mattress, bruised, blood crusted on his cheek, knuckles purple. Breathing uneven. Like a man in a war he didn’t sign up for.
She froze.
A sound escaped her throat.
Small. Choked. Unintended.
A whimper.
He stirred.
Arik (half-asleep, muttering):
"This again? Can’t even dream of her now without feeling like hell..."
Then he opened his eyes. And saw her.
> She didn’t look angry. Or composed.
Holding back tears that had already betrayed her cheeks.
Arik (sitting up, stunned):
"You’re real...?"
Her (snapping, voice trembling):
"What the hell happened to you?"
She rushed forward. He instinctively pulled back.
Arik (cold):
"You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your world."
Her (ignoring, searching shelves):
"Where’s your first aid box?"
He didn’t stop her.
Couldn’t.
She found it. Sat beside him. And started cleaning the cuts like he was some stupid little boy who got into a playground fight. Her hands trembled more than his wounds did.
> Every time she applied antiseptic, she winced harder than he did.
And he… he almost laughed.
Arik (dryly):
"Do You always cry like this when a guy ghosts you for a week and treating them?"
She paused. Glared.
Her (furious, voice rising):
"Don’t flatter yourself! You think I call anyone this much? You think I cry like this for random guys I’ve known for few months?!"
> She was shaking. Face flushed, tears back.
The palace girl was finally unraveling.
Her (continued, angry and raw):
"Why the hell are you doing this? Avoiding me like a virus? Ignoring every call? You think it doesn’t hurt?"
Arik (quiet, eyes lowered):
"It’s not your mess."
Her (shouting now):
"Let me decide that!"
Silence.
He looked away.
Arik (finally):
"Debt collectors. Couple of them came looking for blood instead of cash. Some for my dad’s mess. Some for mine. I bought this land with borrowed money."
Her (whispering):
"You got beaten up… for that?"
He shrugged.
> And then—she hugged him. Tight. Wordless. Immediate. No permission asked.
He froze.
His hands were bruised.
His pride was fractured.
But her warmth broke through in a way no crowbar ever could.
> A few tears slipped down. Quiet. Cowardly.
He wiped them away before she noticed.
She didn’t pull back. And he didn’t push her off.
Her (softly, still holding him):
"You're so stupid… You push me away like it’ll fix anything. Like I’ll care less if you’re hurting."
> He didn’t reply. But he didn’t move either.
And maybe that was his reply.
She stands there, just a few feet away from him, still holding the blood-stained cloth she had used to dab his wound. Her eyes glisten, not from tears now—but from the heat of her own truth.
Her voice is low. Steady. Vulnerable yet bold.
Aira:
“I like you, Arik. There—I said it. I like you.”
(a pause swing him pushing her away)
“If you don’t feel the same, I’ll walk out right now and never bring this up again. But if you do... if even one small part of you does—don’t you dare lie to me.”
Arik doesn’t speak. His eyes lower. Shoulders tense. He’s fought street fights and bruised his knuckles on metal and bone—but this... This is his hardest fight yet.
She steps closer, gently gripping his jaw, tilting his face toward her. Her thumb brushes against his stubble-rough cheek.
FL (softly but intensely):
“Look at me. Don’t you dare look away. You really think I haven’t noticed? The way you freeze when I touch you... the way your voice drops when I tease you... The way you stare like you're memorising every blink of my lashes...”
Her lips are just inches away. Her breath dances on his skin.
FL:
“Arik... answer me. You think I wouldn’t know?”
His eyes finally meet hers. The façade cracks.
His hand lifts—hesitant at first—then cups the back of her neck.
ARIK (hoarse, raw):
“I don’t know what you’ve done to me...”
(his voice drops lower)
“You walk in here like a damn hurricane, smiling at my sketches, eating my noodles like it’s gold... and now you’re in my head, my breath, my every sleepless night.”
He leans in, forehead resting against hers. His voice is barely a whisper now.
ARIK:
“I didn’t want to feel this... I couldn’t afford to feel this. But you—damn it—you make me weak in ways I never knew I could be.”
A moment of silence.
The kind where the air is so heavy, even the walls seem to listen.
And then, he pulls her in—slowly, completely—his lips brushing her forehead. It’s not just romantic. It’s reverent. Almost like a surrender.
Their foreheads are still pressed. His breath is hot, her heartbeat is louder than the rain outside. The silence is thick with unspoken words—but none of them matter now.
She whispers, barely audible:
FL (soft):
“Say something... or do something, Arik.”
And he does.
Without warning---no overthinking—he closes the gap. His lips crash into hers in a way that’s both messy and urgent, like a man drowning finally finding air.
Their noses bump. His hand tangles into her hair with more desperation than grace. Her fingers gripping his shoulder holding onto him like she’s anchoring herself.
It’s perfect.
She gasps slightly into the kiss—surprised by how much he’s holding back. So she deepens it, pulling him closer, letting her floral perfume mix with the scent of grease and rain.
He groans, low and rough, like he’s been starving for this. Like he’s angry at himself for wanting it this much.
When they finally pull back—just barely—their lips are still hovering, breathless and dazed.
ARIK (whispers):
“Was that... your idea of a bribe?”
FL (smiling against his lips):
“If it was, you folded way too easily.”
He chuckles under his breath, forehead resting against hers again.
ARIK:
“Don’t get used to it, princess.”
FL:
“Oh, too late. Way too late.”
They’re both smiling like fools—her cheeks flushed, his lips bitten—and just when it seems like the moment will settle...
She kisses him again.
Quick. Soft. Just because she can.
And now
There’s no turning back.
THE TASTE OF LOVE
Lovely dates
He takes her to a night market, street vendors shouting, smoke swirling in neon light. She’s in heels, looking like a misplaced queen.
FL (confused):
“This isn’t... hygienic.”
ARIK (grinning):
“It’s authentic. Eat.”
She hesitates... but when he feeds her a hot golgappa, her eyes widen. A spicy tear slides down her cheek.
FL:
“Oh God. I’m crying. This is illegal.”
ARIK:
“Only in the palace, Your Highness.”
She laughs like she hasn't in years.
The Internet Café
They sneak into a dusty internet café. She's in oversized hoodie—his. He logs them into a co-op zombie shooter. She sucks at it.
FL:
“Where's the aim button?”
ARIK:
“You're shooting the wall, princess.”
FL:
“I am aiming. At the wall.”
They end up ignoring the game entirely, whisper-laughing and doodling on notepads, hands brushing, hearts loud.
Amusement Park
He takes her to a faded amusement park. The paint’s chipped, the music old, the rides janky.
But she’s glowing. Candyfloss in hand, sparkly eyes, throwing her arms out on the carousel like she's flying.
ARIK (watching her):
“You never got to do this?”
She just shakes her head, too giddy to care. That night, he wins her a tacky teddy bear from a rigged game.
She sleeps with it now.
Long drive
Windows down. Music loud. Her hair flying. She sits with her feet up, talking about dreams she never said aloud.
FL:
“I wanted to become a florist once. Thought it was stupid.”
ARIK:
“You’d have made flowers jealous.”
She throws a packet of chips at him.
Her Flashy Date Plan
When it’s her turn to plan...
He shows up at a rooftop booked entirely for two, fairy lights everywhere, violinist playing soft music. He’s shocked.
ARIK:
“This... costs more than my garage.”
FL (shrugging):
“I didn’t know how to plan normal. I only know... big.”
He smiles, taking her hand.
ARIK:
“Next time, just bring me coffee in bed. That’s rich enough.”
.
.
.
While he sleeps, she makes a few calls. Her eyes ice cold. Her voice—firm.
Those debt collectors.. Gone. Garage..Secure.
He doesn’t know yet. She won’t tell. That was her gift, her way of saying:
“You gave me wings. Let me build your sky.”
Love is in the air ..they kiss—sometimes slow, sometimes ravenous. On the hood of his car, behind the garage curtains, even once mid-argument.
She adores the sweaty, sun-drenched scent of him. He smells like burnt metal and bad choices—but on him, it’s addictive.
She wears his shirt and uses his shampoo, turning his tiny room into a sanctuary. To him, her presence feels like belonging. Like warmth under cold tiles.
When her eyes say I want, he doesn’t ask. He’s learned the language of her glances. When she bites her lip, he moves closer. When she’s silent too long, he cups her face. He’s learned how to read her—because she won’t say it.
She’s possessive, but never obvious. Her fingers linger longer on his nape when someone pretty talks to him. Her tone shifts ever so slightly.
And he loves it.
He never thought love could feel like this.
.
.
Arik finds out.
He’s working late, grease on his hands, sweat dripping—when one of his old garage boys drops the news.
“Bro, did you know? That debt collector from Sector 9… he’s gone quiet lately. Heard some big-shot lady threatened him off your case.”
Arik freezes.
His tools clatter to the floor.
“What lady?”
He already knows. His fists are already clenched.
Scene cuts to him barging into her luxury apartment—door flung open, not knocking.
She’s lounging like a goddess, sipping chilled rose milk. Bare feet, oversized shirt—his shirt. The picture of comfort.
He’s furious.
ARIK (storming in):
“You paid off my debt?”
She doesn't flinch.
FL :
“Yes. You're welcome.”
ARIK (voice rising):
“You think I wanted that? You think I needed you to handle my mess like I’m some—some damn project?!”
FL (still calm, tilting her head):
“You were my project. Still are.”
Boom.
He walks over, slams his palm against the wall beside her head. Not hurting her—but holding her right there. Inches away.
His voice drops. Heavy. Controlled rage.
ARIK:
“I fought every damn day to build my name from nothing. And you—what, you wave a credit card and fix it behind my back like I’m—”
FL (cutting in, fire rising):
“Like you’re mine. I didn’t do it to fix you. I did it to protect what’s mine. And I’ll do it again.”
Silence. Just their breathing.
She doesn’t back down. Not one inch.
FL:
“You gave me freedom, Arik. Let me ride bikes, eat whatever I like.. scream at roller coasters. You made me live. And I just—gave you peace in return. That was my way of loving.”
ARIK (quietly):
“By crushing my pride?”
FL (softening):
“By reminding you you don’t have to bleed alone anymore.”
His chest rises. Falls. He turns away—
—But she walks behind him. Touches his back. Then his jaw. Turns his face.
FL (whispers):
“If this is about control, take it.
If this is about trust, then break me.
But don’t walk out and pretend you didn’t feel every time I held you like home.”
She’s looking into his eyes now. And he...
He's unraveling. Again. Like always.
He grabs her wrist. Pulls her against him. But this time—it’s rougher. Messier.
Their kiss... Desperate.
Her hands yank his hair. His nails drag down her back. It’s not pretty.
It’s real
Their lips are bruised from the angry kiss earlier.
Arik’s chest is still rising fast, shirt halfway torn, buttons scattered across the floor.
She’s standing there, face flushed, eyes glinting—wild and soft at once.
And he looks at her like she’s the only anchor in his sea of chaos.
There’s a long pause.
FL (whispers, like a vow):
“You can run, curse, break things…
But don’t push me away when all I want is to hold you where you bleed.”
That’s it. That’s the last string snapping inside him.
He moves.
Not to kiss this time. He lifts her, pins her to the wall—like she’s air and he forgot how to breathe without her.
She gasps—arms around his neck, pulling him closer, legs around his waist.
Their kiss now.. Slower. Lingering. No anger...Just awe.
His hands explore her waist like they’re mapping poetry, not skin.
And she—she's trembling slightly, not from fear but from the weight of what’s about to happen.
They move to her room... everything so polished.
She pushes him gently onto the bed.
Sits on top of him, looks down.
FL (smiling, voice teasing but shy):
“So this is your palace?”
ARIK (soft laugh, voice low):
“It is when you’re in it.”
Her fingers slide under his shirt, dragging it off.
Then hers.
Each layer is peeled with reverence. With silence.
Their eyes never leave each other
They make love like it’s discovery.
Clumsy at first—his fingers fumble with the strap, her knee knocks a lamp off the bedside.
Awkward laughs between hurried kisses.
Breaths tangled, skin warm, nerves stretched.
But then—they slow down. Find rhythm. Let the heat build.
His lips trace her collarbone.
Her nails drag across his back.
They whisper each other's names like prayers.
When he finally enters her—it’s gentle.
He holds her like she might break. But she doesn’t. She pulls him in deeper.
Their bodies move, sync, collide. Moans stifled against lips.
The room fills with sweat and whispers and the sound of surrender.
Just two heartbeats crashing in sync.
Morning After
She’s tangled in his arms, her head on his chest.
His fingers are in her hair. The blanket slips off her shoulder.
He looks at her—like he just found religion.
ARIK (barely audible):
“Didn’t know I could ever be this full… from something that broke me open.”
She smiles sleepily, presses a kiss over his heart.
FL:
“That’s not breaking.
That’s what it feels like… to be kept.”
“The Anniversary Plan”
The Plan — 3 Weeks Before Their First Anniversary
Arik had never been the soft, flowery type.
But for her--Damn, he’d become a walking Pinterest board if it meant seeing that smile.
He’d been saving for months. Not for a ring — not yet. But for something more real right now.
> A proper apartment.
Not a rented hole in the wall.
Something she could walk into without her clothes snagging on rusty nails.
Something that had their name on the mailbox.
He wanted to hand her the keys on their anniversary...her Birthday were just days apart he wanted to take her out in night as she he knows she might be in high class party arranged for her.
But money was tight.
The shop had done well, yes. But high society clients came with delayed payments and sweet excuses.
So when his old hotel called him, asking if he could take up a one-night side gig — waitering for a private party of some filthy-rich family —
He said yes. Just one night. Just enough to close the payment.
How was he supposed to know it was birthday party of Aira Kings... The only daughter of Rowan kings the owner of one of the biggest entertainment company "HOUSE OF KINGS MEDIA"
He knew her name but never focused on the family he knew she was rich but that didn't stopped him but the evening was shocking one..
The Party — Her Birthday Night
The hotel was glowing.
It was the kind of place that had too much marble, too many waiters, and too little soul.
Arik walked in, his uniform crisp, hair slicked back, trying not to look like he was dying inside.
He hated being back here. Hated pretending he belonged to serve people like this.
But right now ...money doesn’t care about ego.
He walked into the grand ballroom.
And that’s when he saw her.
In a long silver dress, stunned like a deer caught in headlights.
Arik froze.
Glass tray wobbling in his hand.
Her eyes widened when they met his.
But before she could move —
Her father took the mic.
> “And now, on this very special day — my daughter’s birthday — I’m proud to announce her engagement… to Mr. Riky Graves.”
The applause was thunder.
His world went silent.
She looked like she was choking on her own breath.
Then the “fiancé” stepped forward.
Put his arm around her.
Gripped her waist like she was his prize.
The boy in black gloves watched her flinch.
He saw it.
So did no one else.
The man whispered something into her ear — she shook her head.
He still took her hand, dragged her into a dance.
She barely moved.
He pressed his hand lower, his grip firm on her ribs.
She winced.
He couldn’t breathe.
Crowd claps. Cameras flash.
But her face — her face crumbled.
He saw her try to speak, try to step back.
But that man--
Hands on her back.
Fingers grazing her bare shoulder.
She flinched.
Arik’s blood boiled.
He wanted to break that man’s fingers.
Wanted to drag her away.
Scream at her father.
But…
> “This night was supposed to be hers.”
He dropped the tray and left.
If he stayed a second longer, he’d do something he couldn’t take back.
He couldn’t ruin it — even if it was already ruined.
He left. Quiet. Controlled.
But his heart.. Raging. Bleeding. Burning.
.
.
.
Her Rebellion
She couldn’t do it anymore.
Every smile felt fake. Every flash made her skin crawl.
She tried to pull her hand away again, and this time — he didn’t let go.
Enough.
SLAP.
The sound cracked louder than the music.
Gasps echoed.
She stepped forward, voice shaking but loud:
> “This is MY birthday. Not an auction. I’m not some business deal you’re closing behind my back.
Atleast I deserve to know what you’re turning my life into!”
Her father’s face turned red. The fiancé stared, stunned.
She didn’t care.
She turned and ran.
He wasn’t in the hall.
She sprinted through the lobby, tore off her heels, heart hammering.
.
.
.
Outside his garage room
The door slammed behind her — she came straight from war.
Hair undone. Chest heaving. Heart still on fire from the party.
She didn’t knock. Didn’t ask. Just entered —
And he…
He stood there — half-drunk, shirt off, fists clenched at his sides.
Eyes dark. Jaw locked.
The way he looked at her — like she was a flame and he was gasoline.
She burst in, heels in her hand, eyes wet and furious and afraid.
> “I didn’t know, I swear—”
“I ran. I hit him. I yelled. I left it all for you.”
He looked up slowly.
> “You looked like you belonged there,” he muttered.
“I thought I lost you.”
> “Never,” she choked. “I just— I was scared you wouldn’t believe me. Scared I’d lose you forever.”
She walked toward him, but he stood.
Towered over her.
His eyes were red — not from drink, but from everything he’d held back.
She said his name like a broken prayer:
“Arik… please, listen—”
But he moved.
Fast.
Rough.
Possessive.
He grabbed her wrist, yanked her forward until her back hit the door —
His palm pressing to the wood beside her head, caging her in.
His voice was low. Dangerous.
“You let him touch you?”
A growl. Not a question.
Her breath hitched —
“you saw—?”
He didn’t let her finish.
His hand grabbed her jaw, fingers digging in just enough to sting.
“For a second I forgot what’s mine,” he said, “but I won’t again.”
Then his mouth crashed into hers —
No sweetness. Just teeth, tongue, and fire.
He kissed her like he wanted to erase that man’s hands from her memory.
Like he wanted to bruise her lips so she’d taste only him for days.
She whimpered — not in pain, in need.
And when her nails dug into his back, he chuckled darkly.
“Hurts, baby?”
Then kissed her harder.
She gasped, and that was enough —
He grabbed her throat, gently at first, then tighter.
Watching her eyes flutter closed.
Watching her fall apart.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“Say whose you are.”
Her voice barely came out.
“Yours…”
"Say it loud" arik while pressing his body on her.
I'm yours,” she moaned, her voice cracking.
“Say it again like you mean it.”
“I’m yours. I’ll scream it if I have to—”
“You will,” he cut her off, lifting her effortlessly. “You will. Loud.”
he growled, pushing her legs apart with his knee.
“My pretty little rebel…
Mine to punish.
Mine to protect.
Mine to ruin if I want.”
His mouth crashed against hers.
Pulling apart whispering something filthy in her ear--
“strip princess. Right here. On your birthday.
For me.”
She undressed, hands shaking.
He took a piece of black velvet from the workbench.
Wrapped it around her eyes.
>You’re mine. And I’m going to remind you exactly what that means.”
The next hour was a blur of possession.
He spanked her — once, twice — soft but sharp.
Bit her inner thigh.
Marked her where no one else would see.
Held her throat while he whispered filth into her ear.
“I’m going to ruin you so thoroughly, no man will ever get to imagine you again.”
He kissed her hard — messy, open-mouthed, biting the corner of her lip until she gasped.
Then his mouth dropped to her neck, marking her. Slow. Brutal. Intentional.
“These,” he whispered against her throat, planting hickies like warnings,
“They’re mine .....And you’ll keep them hidden like treasure — until I strip you down and take my time with every single one.”
Her head dropped back with a moan.
He gripped her hips, lifted her onto the worktable with a thud, and slid into her with one hard, unforgiving thrust that made her gasp out his name.
“Say it again,” he growled, thrusting into her like he was carving the memory of him into her spine.
“Yours,” she choked.
“Only you—”
He kissed her hard enough to silence the rest, one hand on her throat again, holding her steady as he thrust deep, fast.
“You let me in like this,” he hissed against her jaw, “and I don’t share.”
A sharp spank made her gasp.
“You hear me?”
Another thrust — deeper, meaner.
“No one touches what’s mine.”
He thrusted into her while she was blindfolded, tied, gasping his name like it was holy.
Her orgasm ripped through her like fire.
And then he said it — low, growling, pure filth:
“Happy f**king birthday,” he growled, backing her against the wall as he dragged his mouth down her neck.
She gasped — knees weak, nails digging into his back —
“Say it again,” she whispered.
“Happy birthday, baby,” he hissed, voice cracking with emotion and lust. “Now shut up and take your present.”
And she did.
Again.
And again.
He slid into her with a desperate thrust that made them both gasp.
.
.
Until she was arching, fingers in his hair, his name a mantra on her tongue.
He didn't move like a man —
He moved like a beast
Her legs wrapped around him, drawing him deeper, holding him there like she could keep the world away with just her body.
He spun her around again and lifted her onto the table, slamming into her so hard she almost screamed..
.
.
The room echoed with the sound of breathing gone ragged — of skin finding skin in the dark.
He lifted her, laid her bare, pinned her down with a weight.
Thighs wrapping around his waist, back slamming onto the bed.
And there, under him —
She pulled him in with that same fierce emotion.
Breathless, messy, desperate.
His hand pinning her down by the throat — but always reading her eyes.
Consent wasn't spoken — it was carved into every gasp, every moan, every look.
She bit his lip — he groaned.
He grabbed her wrist above her head — she arched.
And as he sank into her —
He whispered into her ear, voice wrecked and possessive:
"You’re mine — and I’ll prove it until you forget your damn name.”
She didn’t reply — she didn’t need to.
Because the way her body rose to meet him...
It said everything.
.
.
She moaned, weakly now — her body had long given up its rhythm.
It was all his now — the pace, the power, the control.
And God, she didn’t want it any other way.
Her back arched — he pressed deeper.
His name left her lips like a chant, a surrender, a cry for more.
“Arik… Arik…”
“You feel it?” he groaned into her neck, his thrusts getting rougher, harder — more like punishment.
“Yes,” she choked. “I feel you everywhere.”
Sweat-slick skin. Bruised lips.
His hands found her wrists and pinned them above her head.
“You were promised to someone else,” he growled, thrusting up into her with a need so sharp it made her cry out.
“But this—” another thrust, “—this is what you’ll remember.”
“Only this.”
She nodded, breathless, wrecked, her back arched so hard it looked like she might snap from the pleasure.
“Take me,” she begged. “Take all of me "
His lips crushed hers.
The sounds of their skin meeting echoed in the garage like thunder.
When she whimpered, he slowed — just enough to drive her mad.
When she cried out, he thrust deeper, grounding her, claiming her, marking her in ways no ring ever could.
Time blurred.
And when he finally spilled inside her, shaking, his breath ragged —
He held her like the world was ending.
"You're mine," he whispered, voice hoarse and holy.
"You’ve always been mine."
Her fingers slid into his damp hair as she pulled him down to kiss her again —
soft this time, trembling.
"Happy birthday to me," she whispered.
He laughed — just once.
Then he took her again.
But now it was gentle. Deep. Intense.
> “I’m not done,” he whispered.
“ I want all of you. Eyes open. While I love you.”
He pushed her down.
Climbed on top.
And made love to her like he was memorizing her soul.
Every thrust was deep, connected, emotional.
Hands tangled in her hair.
Eyes never breaking contact.
Sweat dripping.
Bodies slapping in perfect rhythm.
She was gone.
Eyes rolled back, fingers clenched into his shoulders.
She wanted to speak — to ask, to beg, to tell him she’d never need anyone else
But all she could do was feel.
By the time he collapsed beside her, chest rising like a beast after war,
She had already passed out —
Lips swollen, hair messy, hips sore,
But face peaceful.
Safe.
Loved.
.
.
Arik pov
She was asleep.
Completely out.
Laid across the bed of his garage like a painting torn out of place — lips swollen, neck marked, legs curled into herself, and his scent all over her skin.
He should’ve slept too.
His body was exhausted.
But his mind was chaos.
He stared at her like a man witnessing a miracle he didn’t deserve to touch.
---
“I broke,” he whispered into her hair.
“The second I saw him touch you. I broke.”
He clenched his jaw.
He could still see it — that slick bastard gripping her by the waist, whispering in her ear like he owned her.
Everyone watching.
No one seeing her eyes.
But Arik had seen.
And now… his body felt like it had committed a crime it would never be punished for.
> “You weren’t supposed to be mine,” he murmured.
“But you came running anyway. And now I’ll burn every man who thinks he can touch you.”
.
.
He rose up from bed
Still speaking his ❤️
> “You really let me do that to you…” he whispered, kneeling beside her.
“You let me — the garage boy with scraped knuckles — see you come apart like that.”
He ran a thumb across the curve of her hip, brushing over the faint marks.
His bite.
His grip.
His brand.
> “You're supposed to be made of silk and perfume and people who own luxury…” he breathed.
“Not letting someone like me make you scream into a dirty mattress."
But she had.
Willingly.
Not just given her body — given him her trust.
Her moans.
Her obedience.
Her defiance of everything her last name stood for.
He stood slowly.
Scooped her into his arms again — delicate, limp, perfectly ruined.
The bathwater ran warm.
He sat her on his lap inside it, holding her like something precious, even though the raw parts of him still itched to pin her down and take her again.
Not now.
Right now, she was an angel — bruised wings and flushed cheeks and his name still drying on her lips.
He washed her thighs gently.
Cupped warm water to her shoulders.
Soaped between her legs with careful reverence.
> “I didn’t know you’d take it,” he murmured.
“Thought I’d scare you off the second you saw how twisted my love gets.”
> “But you let me in…”
“You let me own you in ways I didn't think you'd ever allow.”
She didn’t stir — just leaned against his chest, breath soft and steady.
And he kept going.
Kept whispering like a man falling apart in slow motion.
> “I hate it, y’know. When men look at you.”
“They see red lips, long legs, power. I see you.”
“I see that little shy way you touch your earring when you're nervous.
The way you fake being a snob but cry at sad cartoons…”
He chuckled — half-pained.
> “You don’t even know how much you’ve ruined me. And now I don’t care if the world thinks you’re too good for me.”
---
When she was clean, he lifted her again.
Wrapped her in a thick towel.
Dried her hair gently.
Then — his old shirt.
Faded black. Too big on her.
He kissed her bare shoulder.
> “You deserve better than this mattress and cold walls,” he murmured.
So he drove.
Half-dressed. She in his shirt, passed out in the passenger seat, curled like a kitten.
His hand on her thigh at every red light. Protective. Possessive. Tender.
The apartment was small, but new.
Fresh sheets. Clean air. A window with a skyline.
> “I wanted to give you something that didn’t smell like motor oil,” he whispered as he laid her down.
He tucked her under the covers.
Slid in beside her.
Pulled her into his chest like he was the bed, the wall, the shield.
Her body curled into his like it always knew the shape of him.
And when he kissed her forehead…
>“You’re mine now, little missy. I’ll deal with the rest of them later.”
By the time his eyes closed, it was 6AM.
The city outside was silent.
But inside — a man slept wrapped around the only girl who ever made him feel like he didn’t have to earn the right to love like this.
🌞 Morning
Early sunlight spilled in through the sheer curtains, painting gold across the sheets tangled around her bare legs.
Arik sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, jaw tight, eyes on the girl still asleep beside him.
Even now — completely knocked out.. she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting.
His shirt draped over her shoulder, one thigh peeking out from under the blanket, cheek resting on the pillow.
He didn't move for a long while.
Just watched.
Like he still didn’t believe she was real.
__
But then she stirred.
A little moan. A twitch of her legs. A wince.
The ache was setting in.
He knew it.
She’d feel everything he did to her in every inch of her body.
> “God, I was rough…”
“She said she liked it — begged for more — but still…”
He leaned down, kissed her shoulder softly.
Then slipped out of bed, grabbed his sweatpants, and left the room.
An hour later.
He came back from the market — hair messy, groceries in one arm, wild energy in the other.
He dropped the bags on the kitchen counter, started chopping fresh veggies, cooking oats, blending fruit with almond milk.
She deserved something nourishing.
Not just the wild love he gave — but care.
__
Back in the bedroom…
She stirred again.
The strong scent of cinnamon oats and sautéed spinach hit her first.
Eyes fluttered.
Sheets rustled.
And then — panic.
She didn’t recognize the room.
Didn’t see him.
Her breath caught.
A soft, whispered — “Arik?”
---
And then the door opened.
He stepped in — holding a tray.
No shirt.
Sleep still in his eyes.
Hair wild. A small cut on his bottom lip all the marks made by her giving the proof from last night’s chaos.
> “Morning, princess,” he said with a sleepy smile.
She blinked.
Blanket pulled up.
Voice barely there.
> “Where are we…?”
He set the tray down.
He walked over with the tray — set it beside her, leaned in close,
kissed her forehead first.
Then her nose.
Then her lips — soft now, worshipping the very same mouth he’d ravaged.
“Apartment I got. For nights like this. Or maybe forever. You tell me.”
She softened immediately.
Still aching, still dazed.
> “You cooked…?”
> “Healthy,” he said. “Didn’t want your highness fainting on me.”
He helped her sit up — she winced again,groaning.
He noticed immediately — dropping to his knees beside the bed like a knight before his queen.
“Hurts?” he asked softly.
She nodded, cheeks pink.
He kissed her knee gently.
“I’ll take care of you. All day. No moving unless it’s into my arms, got it?”
She teased, voice still raspy:
“What are you, my slave now?”
His grin was sinful.
> I’ll be your personal servant-slave-boyfriend-whatever-the-f*ck you want.”
Bath time
He carried her to the bathroom.
Set her down on the bath stool.
Steam curled around her as he tested the water — lavender drops in, rose salt added.
> “You deserve the good stuff.” he muttered.
He undressed her slowly.
Every button, every inch of skin like a ceremony.
Then helped her in.
Sponge in hand, he washed her thighs, running water gently over bruises he left — his face a mix of guilt and awe.
> “I don’t regret a single thing,” he whispered.
“But I swear… I’ll spend my whole life making sure rough doesn’t mean careless.”
She leaned back.
Closed her eyes.
Let him pour water over her like a vow.
She touched his cheek, brushing the side where her nails had left a faint red line.
And he leaned into her palm like a man finding religion —
Because in that moment, she was it.
His goddess. His sinner. His salvation.
__
He helped her out.
Dried her off like silk.
Dabbed ointment where she winced.
Brushed her hair.
Put his clean shirt on her again — one he’d warmed on the radiator.
Then he lifted her back into bed, tucked her in, and finally — fed her by hand.
She ate from his fingers.
Between giggles and winces and stolen kisses.
And when she was full, he held her again.
Tight.
Close.
> “You're not going anywhere today,” he said. “Not until your body forgets who you belong to.”
She smirked.
> “As long as you keep acting like a slave-boyfriend.”
Afternoon
Aira pov
She was thinking about him.
Arik stood at the kitchen counter, still shirtless, his back to her, pouring juice into a glass like this was the most normal morning in the world.
But it wasn’t normal.
Because Aira couldn’t stop staring.
All those faint red lines, scratch marks she'd left digging her nails in when he drove into her like he’d split her soul in two.
There were bite marks on his shoulder.
Faint purple bruises near his collarbone.
And just below that…
Her eyes landed on the tattoo.
A snake coiled in roses, its fangs curving toward his heart.
She’d seen it before.
But this morning
It looked different.
Like it had meaning now.
> “He looks like chaos,” she thought.
She smiled.
Soft.
Her thighs throbbed as she shifted a little.
And she liked it.
She’d never been touched that way before.
Never let anyone take her with that kind of madness.
But with Arik..
She’d let him ruin her every day if it meant she could wake up like this.
Full. Loved. Sore. Worshipped.
.
.
.
She was curled up in the blanket — sore, satisfied, completely disoriented — when he walked back in with a shy look on his face.
Arik. Holding something behind his back.
“Don’t sit up too fast,” he said gently. “You’ll feel it.”
She glared playfully.
He chuckled. Then paused. Got serious.
“I didn’t forget.”
She blinked.
“…Forget what?”
He slowly brought out the small velvet box.
Just a silver key.
Her eyes widened.
Her fingers shook as she touched it.
Arik swallowed, voice low.
“I… I was gonna give this to you on our anniversary.
And for your birthday I planned a midnight surprise.
Then a drive to the cliff.
Watch the sunrise like idiots.
But last night…”
He looked away, shame flashing in his eyes.
“I couldn’t protect you. I saw that man touching you and— I should’ve punched him. I wanted to.
But it was your day, and I didn’t want blood on it.”
She moved closer, barely registering the ache in her body.
Her voice soft:
“You still gave me everything.”
He looked back at her.
The woman he'd fight for. Made love to. Slept beside like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.
“This key,” he said, holding her hand around it, “is not just for the apartment.
It’s for us.
Your place. Our place.
No one can make you feel trapped again.
Somewhere no one gets to touch you or decide for you or tell you you’re too delicate to choose a someone like me.
If you ever want to run—run here. I’ll be waiting.”
She teared up.
she felt seen. Really seen.
She hugged him, burying her face in his bare shoulder.
Whispered, “You’re all I ever wanted.”
He kissed the top of her head.
“Happy birthday, baby.
And next time, we’ll still watch that sunrise. I promise.”
Days That Felt Like Forever
The next few days blurred like soft watercolor, bleeding into each other with warmth and slow laughter.
She took time off.
He turned off his phone.
They became a world made for two — no rules, no interruptions, no names at the door.
Some mornings started with lazy kisses that turned into tangled sheets and muffled moans. Others began in silence — legs wrapped, hands trailing, coffee left cold on the nightstand because they’d fallen asleep again in each other’s arms.
He cooked her breakfast every day.
She laughed through every bite, kissing the corner of his mouth when he pouted about his failed pancake flips.
They watched movies with her feet in his lap, and he massaged them absentmindedly while pretending not to cry during emotional scenes.
.
.
But the real surprise was the mirror in the bedroom.
Along the corner, he’d etched:
> “For the girl who made me want to be seen.”
She traced it in silence. Then hugged him so hard he forgot how to breathe.
> “I’m not used to this,” she said once, fingers brushing his jaw.
> “To what?” he asked, eyes half-lidded with sleep.
> “Being loved in all the ways I never thought I deserved.”
He pulled her close and kissed her forehead.
> “Then let me ruin every standard you’ve ever had.”
And he did.
In every word.
Every meal.
Every touch.
Every time she found herself tracing her key while he cooked shirtless in the kitchen, humming off-key and barefoot.
This wasn’t just a safe house.
It was hers.
And so was he.
.
.
.
The bell rang
Arik was coming out just from shower.
He thought it was the grocery delivery.
So, of course, he answered it shirtless — trousers low, towel over one shoulder, bite marks and post-ahem scars still faintly visible on his chest and neck.
The door swung open.
And there they were.
Her parents.
Both.
---
Her father’s eyes went straight to Arik’s neck.
Then his chest.
Then his very visible "touched by daughter" battle scars.
There was a pause.
The kind where even the wind outside was like: "Oh sht."*
> “Sir—” Arik started.
> “Put on a damn shirt!” her father snapped, already stepping inside.
“My wife is here!”
---
Aira’s mom looked away, flushed but clearly doing the ‘I told you he’s probably a gang leader’ mental math.
Arik stepped back quickly, grabbed the hoodie draped on the couch and pulled it on, muttering:
> “Didn’t know there’d be royalty at the door this early.”
---
They stepped in. Stood awkwardly in the living room.
> “Where’s Aira?” her mom asked, arms crossed tightly.
> “Sleeping. Long night.”
Bad choice of words.
Her dad's jaw flexed. Arik immediately realized how that sounded.
> “Not like that. I meant—she was working on a design late. Sketching. She’s been tired.”
> “Mm,” her mom said, not believing a single syllable of that deflection.
___
They sat.
Or rather, her mom perched lightly on the edge of the sofa, as if worried she might catch something off the cushions.
Her dad didn’t sit.
He stood. Loomed.
Eyes narrowed at Arik like he was a phase that needed correcting.
---
> “Listen,” he said, tone calm but loaded, “we’re here because we love our daughter. We’re also here because we’ve clearly failed at stopping her from falling for—”
> “Someone you think doesn’t belong in her world,” Arik finished softly, hands in pockets.
“Yeah. I figured.”
---
The mother’s lips pursed.
> " You look like gangster....and then again..You don’t have a stable income. You opened the door shirtless and unbothered. What exactly do you expect us to think?”
> “That I love her,” Arik said. Voice steady.
“That I’ve never taken a single thing from her she didn’t give me willingly.”
“That I’d rather sleep on concrete than see her cry.”
---
Her father scoffed.
> “Love isn’t enough, boy.”
“She’s used to security. To structure. You’re still figuring yourself out—”
> “And I will figure it out,” Arik cut in. “Because she chose me. And I’m not going to let her carry the weight of that choice alone.”
---
There was a flicker of something in her mother’s eyes.
Maybe the first sign of belief.
Maybe just curiosity.
Then, the father dropped his next line:
> “You can have feelings. But you don’t get my blessing unless you become the kind of man who’s not just passionate, but prepared.”
> “You look like her phase.”
> “Then I’ll become her forever,” Arik said. Not angrily. But like truth.
“Give me the chance. Or don’t. I’ll earn it either way.”
---
A long silence followed.
Then… Aira finally walked in.
Dressed in his hoodie.. and shorts underneath.
Hair wild.
A look of “Oh God who opened the door” across her face.
She paused.
> “...mom... Dad ???
.
.
Her mom looked at her, visibly relaxing just a little at the glow on her face.
Her dad, meanwhile, sighed like a man who knew the war was already lost — but wouldn’t retreat quietly.
He turned to Arik again.
> “You’re not what I pictured for her.”
Arik nodded.
> “She wasn’t what I pictured for me either. She’s better.”
They left half an hour later.
Roasted him over everything from his coffee brand to the chipped corner on the kitchen shelf.
Her mom side-eyed the mattress.
Her dad grumbled about “not even a bookshelf in sight.”
But before he stepped out, her father paused.
> “You said you’d become her forever.”
Arik looked him straight in the eyes.
> “I meant it.”
The father stared.
Then reached into his coat.
Pulled out a business card.
> “Call me when you own your building. Not just rent it.”
> “I’ll answer when I do,” Arik said.
“And I’ll have her on my arm when I show up.”
.
.
.
Few year later
From garage grease to global acclaim —
Aira sat cross-legged on the counter of their new kitchen, watching Arik toss vegetables into the pan like a distracted chef who just got crowned Internet’s Most Searched Designer Zaddy.
He was shirtless again.
Of course.
Except now… the tattoos were trademarked, his name was whispered in boardrooms, and every time a photo of his face hit social media, Aira’s blood pressure spiked.
> “You know,” she muttered, chewing on the end of a spoon, “I saw sixteen Twitter girls calling you ‘Sir Arik’ yesterday.”
Arik raised a brow.
> “I mean. They’re not wrong, technically.”
She threw a napkin at his smug head.
> “Don’t flirt. You’re a public figure now. I might need to start body-checking women at parties.”
> “You already do.”
> “Well. They don’t know I was here before the engine oil dried on your first busted design.”
She hopped off the counter and walked over — arms crossing, stare challenging.
> “Tell me again who taught you how to email a damn investor without sounding like a street rouge".
> “You did.”
> “Who made you throw out that one hoodie you kept wearing to board meetings?”
> “Also you.”
> “And who kissed you stupid in your garage the night before the launch because you forgot how to breathe from stress?”
He dropped the spatula. Wrapped his arms around her waist.
> “You. My chaos. My cure.”
____
The car model had been a hit.
A family-first, speed-second marvel of a machine.
Inspired by long drives with her hand in his lap and his eyes darting between the road and her flushed cheeks.
It was sleek, protective, playful — everything he wanted to give the world because she gave it to him first.
The launch blew up.
AutoExclusiv named him “The Underdog King.”
People said he’d redefined masculine luxury.
He didn’t care.
He only remembered her hug backstage.
Tight. Silent.
The kind of hug that screamed: We made it.
---
They moved out of that old apartment.
Into a home with warm wooden floors, long hallways, giant windows, and a secret balcony only they knew about.
Still woke up tangled.
Still cooked like children unsupervised.
Still argued about socks and sauce and bedhead.
But nights
Nights were still fire.
__
And then came the parties.
Where he walked in with his all-black suits, slightly uncomfortable, and a gaze that still locked on her like the world hadn’t moved since they first kissed in his garage.
But she saw them.
The influencers.
The “he's soooo hot” marketing girls.
The fake laughs, fluttered lashes.
One even brushed his shoulder and called him “Arik, baby.”
Aira didn’t flinch.
She walked up to him, grabbed the back of his neck like it belonged to her (it did), and kissed him like the cameras were her personal security team.
> “Smile for the press, b*tches,” she whispered against his lips.
“He's mine."
Arik just smirked and whispered back:
> “Territorial much?”
> “Every inch of you,” she said. “Especially the ones that make headlines.”
---
Aira’s mom visits the new house often now.
She bakes. Sometimes gossips. Always double-checks the pantry like she’s expecting her daughter to forget she needs to eat.
She slowly accepted them.
Once, she caught them mid-makeout near the staircase.
Aira giggled.
Arik leting her dominate him.
Her mother muttered, “God help me. They’re still like rabbits.
Their bond now
Stronger than ever.
She’s working at a creative agency now, her dream space.
They argue about business, kiss like teenagers, sleep wrapped in a blanket tangle only soulmates can manage.
> “You built everything,” she once told him. “From bolts and bruises to blueprints and billion-dollar engines.”
He kissed her palm.
> “No,” he said. “We did. And I’ll build it all again if I ever forget who made me want to rise in the first place.”
By their 4th anniversary, the world knew them.
They were “that couple.”
The ones who got caught in spicy street kisses by paparazzi.
The ones whose private laughs were dissected by tabloids.
The ones whose wedding was highly anticipated... but never announced.
Because they didn’t play by anyone’s timeline.
They loved loud.
But when it came to forever—
Aira wanted him to come to her first.
Not with a big banner.
Just him. His heart.
And he knew.
So on a Monday morning, sun sliding through the kitchen window, with flour on her cheek and his hoodie down to her knees—he knelt.
No ring box.
Just a velvet string and a car key fob with both their names engraved inside.
> “I didn’t get you a diamond first,” he said.
“I got you my madness. My chaos. You made it home."
> “So now I want to get you forever. In paper. In ink. In vows. In bedsheets. In old age.”
She blinked at him.
Then laughed.
Tearful, messy, overjoyed.
> “Took you long enough, grease prince.”
> “You still saying yes?”
> “It’s always been yes. I was just waiting for you to ask.”
.
.
.
👰🤵♂️✨The Wedding
It wasn’t grand.
It was theirs.
He wore black.
Tie slightly crooked.
Looking like someone who’d burn the altar down if anyone dared object.
Aira was a dream in silk gown and high heels.
Minimal makeup. Just lip gloss and her eyes sharp like always.
From Arik’s side:
His garage crew.
Rai the mechanic who cried when he saw Arik in a suit.
Mimi Aunty from the tea stall who kept feeding him sweet.
Even the grumpy supplier uncle who used to yell about late payments showed up with a gift box and happy eyes.
From Aira’s side:
Her parents.
Her little cousins dressed like mini judges.
That one aunt who kept whispering “she could’ve married a CEO” and got side-eyed into silence.
Some of them still looked at Arik like he stole a crown jewel.
And honestly
He kinda did.
---
They said their vows in front of 71 people and one cat that refused to leave the aisle.
> “I won’t promise perfection,” Arik said.
“But I’ll promise devotion. To your laughter. To your anger. To every shade of your storm.”
> “I’ll fight with you, for you, and if needed — for us.”
> “And if this world ever turns cold, I’ll hold you like a bonfire no one can dim.”
.
.
She whispered hers with trembling hands wrapped around his.
> “You are exactly what I needed.”
“And I’ll love you with the same fire you gave me when no one else believed I could hold it.”
> “You are home. And I am yours.”
They kissed like the world was finally still.
Like this wasn’t the end of a journey — but the part where forever begins.
____
The reception was chaos.
Arik was basically being sidelined by Aira’s relatives, most of whom still looked at him like he’d snatched the family’s diamond and dipped it in motor oil.
He didn’t mind.
He was too busy watching his wife throw a fistful of confetti at his head, whispering:
> “You look good in fear. They’re terrified I might love you more than they taught me to love status.”
> “Do you?"
> “Every second.”
That night, they didn’t throw a wild party.
They came home.
Alone.
No photographers. No pressure.
Just Mr. & Mrs.
He took off her jewelry with trembling hands.
She unbuttoned his shirt like she’d done a thousand times—but this time, she smiled.
> “You’re mine. On paper. In heart. In every lifetime.”
---
They made love like it was the first and last time all over again.
--
> “Some things are for the world,” Aira said.
“Some are just for the garage where it all began.”
~End 👰🤵♂️♥️
