The decision crystallised sowhere between their third lazy kiss and the mutual realisation that moving sounded like a hate cri against their own bodies.
"I’m not going to school," Sierra declared, still draped over his chest on the bathroom’s heated marble floor, both of them wrapped in towels that probably cost more than most people’s rent.
"Neither am I."
"Good." She pressed a smug kiss to his collarbone. "Because I am physically incapable. You’ve absolutely wrecked . Again."
Phei threaded fingers through her damp hair. "You’re welco."
"I didn’t say thank you."
"Your entire body language is screaming gratitude. Loudly.Possibly in tongues."
She bit him—sharp enough to sting, gentle enough to promise more—and he rolled them over in one smooth motion, swallowing her laugh with a kiss that erased whatever half-assed protest she’d been forming.
The morning slipped away into sothing dangerously close to dostic bliss.
Phei attempted breakfast in a kitchen that looked like it had been designed by soone who’d never actually eaten food. Caviar in the fridge next to seventeen kinds of truffle oil—ingredients.
He produced sothing edible while Sierra perched on the counter in one of his shirts, legs swinging, watching him like he was a particularly fascinating nature docuntary.
"You cook," she said, as if he’d just announced he could breathe underwater.
"I cook."
"I did not have ’dostic goddess’ on my Phei bingo card."
"There’s a lot you don’t know about ."
"I’m rectifying that." She took the plate he offered—fluffy eggs, slightly crooked toast, fruit arranged with all the artistic flair of a man who’d once lived on instant noodles—and forked up a bite. Her eyes widened. "This is... actually decent."
"Try not to faint from shock."
"I’m very shockable today. You’re hot, you fuck like a minor deity, you own a penthouse, and now you cook? Where’s the flaw, Phei? Missing kidney? Secret wife in the basent? Collect the ears of your enemies in a jar?"
The flaw is I’m running so eldritch dragon system that’s turning into a walking aphrodisiac with a built-in harem chanic. Already claid my aunt. Planning to hoard the rest of you like shiny, complicated treasure.
"No flaw," he said aloud. "Just unfairly gifted."
"Unfairly gifted Phei Bingo Card, it is then."
****
They migrated to the sprawling sectional in the living room, Sierra tucked against his side like she’d been custom-moulded to fit there. Controllers in hand, so racing ga blaring across the wall-sized screen while she proceeded to lap him repeatedly with vicious, gleeful precision.
"How are you this good?" Phei demanded as her car smoked his for the fifth ti.
"Natural superiority."
"You’ve played this before."
"I’ve played everything before." She queued the next track without rcy. "Parents perpetually absent, friends fake as acrylic nails, boys too terrified of my reputation to step foot in the house. Leaves a girl with a lot of free ti and a grudge against pixelated n."
The way she said it—light, throwaway, like loneliness was just static she’d learned to ignore—twisted sothing sharp low in his gut.
"Their loss," he said quietly.
She glanced sideways, sothing soft and startled flickering across her face before she buried it again.
"Rematch. I’ll even try not to humiliate you completely this ti."
"You will not."
"No," she admitted, grinning like a shark. "I absolutely won’t."
She destroyed him six more tis before he finally scraped a win, and her indignant screech of "Bullshit cheating!" was the sweetest victory he’d ever tasted.
Hours blurred—gaming, snacks, conversations that drifted from childhood war stories to favourite foods to the sacred debate over pineapple on pizza (it was an abomination, Sierra was wrong, he would die on this carb-crusted hill).
Sowhere in the tangle of limbs and laughter and her head on his chest while his fingers traced idle patterns on her back, it hit him with quiet, terrifying certainty.
She loved him.
Not the breathless, sex-drunk confession from last night that could be blad on endorphins and virginity loss.
This was deeper. Realer. Scarier.
The way she watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking—like he was a miracle she hadn’t earned. The constant, casual touches: fingers brushing his arm, leg thrown over his, hand finding his even when they were just sitting. The way she actually listened when he spoke, laughed at his idiot jokes, made him feel like the centre of her universe.
Sierra Montgory—Hell Bitch Queen, untouchable ice princess—was completely, hopelessly in love with Phei.
And he had no idea when the tables had turned so thoroughly.
Maybe in the music room sessions in those days, when he’d peeled away her armour one careful layer at a ti. Maybe earlier, in stolen glances she’d hidden behind contempt. Maybe sex and their encounters and sessions had simply accelerated what was already inevitable.
Didn’t matter.
She was his.
Not just conquered. Not just another notch on so cosmic bedpost.
His.
And the realisation settled warm and possessive in his bones: he wanted to keep her.
Mark her. Make it permanent. Brand her as mine in a way no one else ever could.
But how exactly did one slide that into pillow talk?
"Hey, Sierra, got a magical dragon tattoo that’ll bind you to body and soul. Fancy a permanent souvenir?"
Yeah. Smooth. The strangest pillow talk.
He’d find the mont. Later.
For now, he just pulled her closer and let himself sink into the dangerous comfort of playing house.
His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then rang.
Maya.
Sothing uncomfortably close to guilt coiled in his stomach—ridiculous, because he owed her nothing. She wasn’t his girlfriend. Wasn’t even officially whatever Sierra had just beco.
Still, he answered.
"Hey."
"Phei!" Maya’s voice was bright, edged with worry. "You weren’t in first period. Or second. Or third—I was starting to imagine you’d been kidnapped or hit by a bus or— are you okay maybe—?"
"Maya."
"Right. Sorry. I do that when I’m nervous."
"I know." He smiled despite himself. "I’m fine. Just taking a personal day."
"Oh. Good! That you’re fine, I an. Skipping is... morally ambiguous, but self-care is valid. My therapist says—"
"You’re doing it again."
"Sorry."
"Don’t be."
Quiet. Then, softer: "I missed you today. School felt... weird without you."
That twist again. Guilt? Affection? The dawning horror of realising he was collecting hearts like trophies?
"I’ll be back Monday," he said.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Okay." A pause. "Are you alone? I could co over. We could watch terrible movies and judge people—"
"I’m not alone."
Longer silence.
"Oh."
"But lunch tomorrow? You can bring actual food this ti. No more weaponised cookies."
"The cookies were a cri against humanity, Phei. We both know this."
He laughed—actually laughed—and Sierra’s head lifted from his shoulder, one perfect eyebrow arched in question.
"Tomorrow," he told Maya. "See you then."
"Tomorrow. Bye, Phei."
"Bye."
He hung up.
Sierra was staring at him with the unreadable expression of a woman deciding whether to commit murder or rely maim.
"Who’s Maya?"
"A friend."
"A friend." Flat. Dangerous. "You laugh like that with all your friends?"
"Are you jealous?"
"I am Sierra fucking Montgory. I don’t get jealous." She sat up, straddling his lap in one fluid motion. "I get territorial."
"There’s a difference?"
"Shut up."
She kissed him—hard, claiming, pouring every ounce of possession into it—and Phei let her.
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