Archive of Our Own

Mark had forgotten how loud his family could be when they all crammed into one place.

The rental lodge was picturesque, wood beams, a sloping roof, a view of the lake that everyone had declared “so Kier” the second they saw it, but once filled with Scouts, it felt less like a retreat and more like an echo chamber.

Children shrieked down the hallways in a running pack. His cousins argued over who was in charge of the grill. Someone had unearthed a guitar, and now half the living room was committed to an off-key singalong.

He lasted forty minutes before sneaking out the side door.

The cool air hit him like a reprieve. Hunched against the cold, he walked, no real destination in mind. Away from the din of voices, the expectant looks from relatives who still whispered Gemma’s name with too much sympathy. Away from Ricken holding court in the kitchen with a reading of his latest essay.

Family reunions were supposed to make you feel less alone.

He felt exposed.

On Main Street he spotted two cafés, a souvenir shop, and not much else. He slowed, let his shoulders drop. Maybe he could get coffee. Breathe before heading back.

He pulled out his phone. Devon had already texted twice. Where’d you vanish? followed by Pretty sure Aunt Margaret’s already trying to hunt you down.

Sighing, he typed back: In town. Coffee. Don’t worry.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately: Fine. But don’t bail on dinner. You promised.

Before she could add more, he stuffed the phone back into his pocket. The sidewalk was narrow here, forcing him close to the storefronts when someone passed. He angled toward the coffee shop’s door, head down, not watching, and collided full-body into someone coming out.

The collision jolted them both, ice rattling in the plastic cup in her hand. The lid popped halfway off, cold coffee splashing across her fingers and down the front of her shirt in a dark streak.

“Shit, sorry,” Mark blurted, stepping back. “I wasn’t—sorry.”

Cursing, she shook her hand. Her sunglasses slipped a little down her nose as she tried to swipe at the spill with a flimsy napkin. It only smeared the stain wider across the linen.

Mark winced. “Let me get you another one. Seriously. My fault.”

Her mouth pulled into a straight line, but she didn’t argue. The damage was obvious.

He cleared his throat. “I’m, uh, Mark. Mark Scout.”

That stopped her, eyes flickering to his face. The name landed, familiar, but out of context.

“Helena,” she said finally, clipped but polite.

“Yeah,” Mark said quietly. “I know who you are.”

That drew the faintest crease between her brows. “Do you?”

“I work for Lumon,” he admitted.

Recognition flashed in her eyes. Her shoulders squared, chin lifting. Still, curiosity lingered, flickering in her gaze before she masked it.

Mark felt the question itch at the back of his mind. She knew his name, that much was obvious. But why she would have reason to know it, he couldn’t begin to guess.

“Let me get you another one,” Mark said again, nodding toward the door.

Helena glanced down at the dark streak across her shirt. The linen was already ruined for the day. With a short sigh, she pushed her sunglasses back up onto her head. “Fine.”

They stepped back into the café together, the bell over the door giving a cheerful jingle that clashed with the tightness in Mark’s chest.

Helena ordered first before excusing herself toward the restroom.

Mark stayed behind at the counter, ordered his own drink, and slid a bill across before she could come back to stop him. The barista gave him a quick smile, already scrawling names on cups.

The bathroom door creaked open a moment later. Helena reappeared, dabbing at the damp blotch with a wad of brown paper towel. The stain was lighter but still obvious.

She caught him watching. “What?”

Mark shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Coffee’ll be up in a second.”

The barista called a soy frap for “Dandy.” A confused woman grabbed it with a baffled, “Sandy?”

Helena leaned against the counter, still dabbing her shirt with the edge of a paper towel. It only smeared the stain deeper into the fabric.

“I can… uh, replace that. The shirt, I mean.”

Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable behind the wisp of red hair that had fallen across her face. She folded the paper towel, pressing it once more against the linen. “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

The dismissive tone said all it needed to. That shirt probably cost more than he’d make in a month. “Right. Yeah. Figured I should offer.”

They stood in silence, the clatter of espresso machines filling the space.

Then she surprised him. “So, you came all the way out here to… get coffee?”

“Family reunion. Scout clan in full force. I snuck out before they could rope me into karaoke.”

Her mouth twitched. “Smart escape.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “You?”

“A few days away,” she said simply. Her tone didn’t invite follow-up, but there was a softness there.

Their drinks landed on the counter. Mark grabbed both before she could reach for hers, setting the fresh iced coffee in her hand. His fingers slid against hers, cool plastic against warm skin.

And there it was, not just attraction, though fuck, he was attracted. Something quieter. A recognition of weariness. Of wanting out, if only for a little while.

They pushed through the door together, the bell jangling overhead, cool air slipping back around them. Mark adjusted his grip on his cup, searching for something else to say. She was still beside him, not rushing off, which felt like its own small miracle.

“Mark!” The voice rang down the sidewalk. His stomach sank.

His Aunt Margaret, her silver hair swept back in a tidy twist, scarf knotted with brisk efficiency, came striding toward them with the determination of a woman who had once run church bake sales like military campaigns.

“There you are,” she said triumphantly. “I thought you’d vanished. I’ve been combing the shops, young man.” Then her gaze landed on Helena, and her whole face lit up.

“Oh.” Then brighter. “Oh!”

Mark braced.

But she was already reaching for Helena’s free hand, sandwiching it between her own. “And who is this lovely creature? You didn’t tell us, Mark. You’ve been holding out.” Her grip was strong, her eyes too knowing. “We’ve all worried about him so. After Gemma—”

“She’s not—” He cut in.

Helena tried to speak too, but Margaret cut right over her, her voice all sugar with an iron edge underneath. “Youmustcome to dinner tonight. Seven sharp. Everyone will be there. It’ll mean the world to us, and to him.”

The look dared him to argue.

To his horror, Helena nodded. “Oh. Um, sure.”

“Wonderful,” Margaret declared, already digging in her bag for her phone, no doubt to spread the news before Mark could stop her. She bustled off humming, scarf fluttering behind her.

Mark stood frozen a moment, staring after her. Then he turned to Helena. She looked faintly stunned.

“You don’t have to,” Mark blurted. “She steamrolls. It’s her thing. You can back out, no one will—”

Helena lifted her cup, eyes on him over the lid. “I did agree,” she said slowly with a small shrug. “And it’s not like I had anything else planned. Might as well.”

“You don’t have to martyr yourself.”

“Phone,” she cut in, holding out her hand.

“What?”

“Your phone.”

He fumbled it out of his pocket, more out of reflex than anything, and placed it in her palm. She tapped quickly, then he heard the faint buzz from her bag. A moment later she gave it back.

“There,” she said. “Now you can send me the logistics.”

Mark stared down at his screen, a new text thread, her number glowing there.

“Right.” He pocketed it again before he could say something stupider.

Helena took another sip of her coffee, gaze still fixed on him with a strange mix of bafflement and amusement.

For the first time all weekend, Mark didn’t dread going back to the lodge.

**

By the time evening rolled around, the dining room looked like a fire code violation. The long table had been extended with every spare card table, mismatched folding chairs crammed shoulder-to-shoulder. Kids darted underfoot, adults shouted over each other, and in the back his Cousin Cal was trying to balance three beers in one hand like a parlor trick.

Mark sat halfway down the table, doing his best to answer three different conversations at once while also pretending he didn’t see Ricken holding forth at the far end about “the shared consciousness of communal meals.”

Margaret, of course, was two seats down, beaming at him whenever their eyes met like she’d pulled off some masterstroke.

“You didn’t offer to pick her up?” she demanded suddenly, voice cutting across the din. “Mark, really. She’s coming into a family gathering, and you couldn’t be bothered to fetch her?”

Mark froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Wait, what?”

That earned them the attention of his Cousin Rob, who turned in his chair. “Pick who up?”

Devon, balancing Eleanor on her hip, whipped her head around. “What are you talking about?”

“Mark’s girlfriend, of course.”

Mark choked. “She’s not—”

But Devon mouthed ‘girlfriend’, and Rob let out a low whistle. Eleanor, oblivious, clapped enthusiastically.

Before Mark could recover, his phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a new message:

Outside. Which door’s least dangerous?

His stomach lurched.

Margaret leaned in, triumphant. “Well? Don’t just sit there. Go get her.”

All around him, the hum of conversation shifted. Thirty-five pairs of Scout eyes were now primed for spectacle.

The air outside was cooler now, sun hidden by the line of trees. Mark spotted her at the bottom of the steps, phone tucked away, a light sundress catching in the breeze. The fluttery sleeves moved when she did. He forgot how to start a sentence.

“Hey.” She looked up at him expectantly.

“You can still back out,” he said quickly. “No one would blame you.”

Her brows arched. “What, and deprive your aunt of her victory? I don’t think so.”

Grimacing, he made his way down to her. “She doesn’t need the encouragement.”

Helena laughed, the sound catching him off guard. “Relax, Mark. I’ll manage a family dinner if it keeps an old woman happy.”

“That old woman is a deviant,” he muttered. “Just… remember you brought this on yourself.”

She shot him an amused look. Without thinking, his hand settled at the small of her back as he guided her up the steps.

She glanced at the touch, then at him, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth as she stepped past him into the rising swell of voices inside.

Before Mark could marshal a defense, Margaret was there, moving faster than anyone her age had the right to.

“There you are, darling.” She slid neatly between them and took Helena’s arm as though she’d been waiting all evening. “Come, meet the family. Since Mark seems to have misplaced his manners somewhere along the line.”

Mark blinked. “Uh.”

“And really,” she added, voice pitched for the table, “making a woman drive herself to her own date? Honestly, Mark.”

The room rippled with laughter, forks tapping against plates. Mark wanted the floorboards to open up and swallow him whole.

Helena’s surprised gaze flicked to him, but he could only shrug helplessly, the ‘told you so’ in the tilt of his shoulders.

Margaret drew her toward the head of the table, leaning in as if she were the guest of honor. The small grin she threw over her shoulder told him she wasn’t hating the spectacle.

And then she was swept off into the throng, Margaret’s hand firm on her arm, half the family already leaning in to pepper her with questions.

Mark had enough time to exhale before Devon slid in beside him.

“Helena Eagan?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Devon.”

“You’re dating Helena Eagan?”

“I’m not—”

Devon’s eyes cut back to where Helena sat with Margaret, laughing at something, shoulders loose despite the noise. Mark followed her gaze to see the way Helena’s eyes flicked toward him again, quick but unmistakably charged.

Devon didn’t let him finish. “Yeah. Try telling me that with a straight face.”

He made an obscene little jerk-off motion.

By the time Mark managed to squeeze back into a seat beside her, Helena was holding court with surprising ease, Margaret still glowing at her side. Someone down the table called out, “So, how’d you two meet?”

Helena didn’t glance at him. “At work,” she said simply.

That earned a few nods, the kind of vague satisfaction that came with a reasonable explanation. But then, from the far end, Ricken raised his glass. “So you’re severed as well?”

The table stilled. The chatter dropped to a hush. Forks paused midair.

Mark’s heart lurched.

Helena didn’t flinch. “Yes,” she said, calm as anything.

The silence stretched. Thirty-five relatives stared, uncertain, some curious, some unsettled. Before anyone could press further, Mark shoved back his chair.

“Let’s get drinks,” he said too loudly, already on his feet. He caught her elbow lightly, guiding her out of range before the questions could start.

They stepped into the relative quiet of the kitchen, the hum of the dining room muffled by the door. Mark rounded on her, voice low. “Why would you say that?”

“Say what?” Her brow furrowed.

“That you’re severed.”

Her brow furrowed, puzzled. “I am.”

His stomach turned. “What do you mean, you are?”

“I mean someone drilled a hole into my head and put a chip in my brain.”

“Why would you do that?” The question came out harsher than he intended.

Her eyes cooled, her mouth settling into a hard line. “Why did you?” she shot back.

His mouth tightened to a straight line. Gemma.

Mark swallowed, pulse loud in his ears. He hadn’t meant to push her so hard, hadn’t expected her to push back.

“Drinks,” he said, gesturing toward the counter where coolers and pitchers were lined up. “Water, soda, beer, actual liquor if you want it. What’ll it be?”

She studied him, then she shrugged, the movement a little too loose, a little shaken.

“Okay,” he muttered, reaching for a bottle. He cracked it open, foam fizzing at the lip, and took a sip to buy himself time.

When he lowered it, she was watching him. Then she reached out and plucked the bottle from his hand.

“Hey.”

Helena tipped it back and took a long swallow. She lowered it with a glint in her eye.

Mark reached for it, his fingers brushing hers. “That’s mine.”

“Not anymore.” She leaned away, but not fast enough.

He followed, catching her wrist. She twisted, laughing. The bottle caught between them. For one ridiculous moment they were tangled, her hair brushing his jaw.

The neckline of her dress gaped with the movement, and before he could stop himself, he caught a quick flash of skin, lace.

“Give it,” he said, voice low.

She tilted the bottle up instead, taking another deliberate sip while keeping her eyes on his. When she lowered it, her mouth was parted. Daring him.

Mark moved in again, trying to pry the bottle free, and they ended up flush together. His cock gave an involuntary twitch against her hip. She let out an amused hum.

“Yeah, laugh it up.” His mouth twisted. “I know you’re just as worked up.”

Her brows arched. “Are you trying to see how wet I am?”

Mark choked. “No! Jesus. I mean—” He stopped, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you?”

Her grin widened, her free hand splayed against his chest, like she was considering whether to shove him back or pull him closer.

“Ew!”

Both of them froze. At the kitchen doorway stood his cousin’s son, maybe ten, wide-eyed with scandalized delight.

“They’re fooling around!” he bellowed.

Helena nearly choked, lowering the bottle fast. “We weren’t—” she sputtered, color rising in her cheeks.

Mark’s ears went hot. “Not fooling around fooling around.”

Half the room turned their heads, laughter breaking out. A few of the teens whistled; someone shouted, “Get a room!”

“Jesus Christ.” She lifted the bottle again, took a calmer sip this time, and set it down carefully.

Mark sighed, already dreading Aunt Margaret’s expression.

“Come on.” He laid a hand on Helena’s elbow. “Before they start making bets.”

She cocked her head, but let him guide her toward the side door.

The screen door banged softly behind them, cutting off the noise. Out here, the night was softer, the trees stood like black cutouts against the sky, air cool enough to raise goosebumps.

Beside him, Helena rubbed at her bare arms, her short-sleeved dress no match for the chill.

Without thinking, he slid an arm around her shoulders. She went still, then leaned into it with surprising ease.

 “Cold,” he said quickly.

“Right.” She paused. “Cold.”

They walked, closer than they had any excuse to be.

After a while, she nodded toward the lodge. “Your family— they’re wild. Huge. But they’re nice.”

“Nice?” Mark huffed. “They’re overly involved. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been since the last reunion, they dive right back in like they never left.”

She gave a small laugh. “Still nice.”

There was something wistful in her tone. He glanced down, tempted to ask, but her eyes were fixed straight ahead, unreadable in the blue-dark.

“You know they’re never going to let this go now. Margaret’s probably already picking out china patterns.”

“Please. I’ll be gone in a few days. They’ll forget me.”

“You clearly don’t know the Scouts,” Mark said dryly. “You’ve been permanently added to the family group chat.”

A grin tugged at her mouth. “You have a family group chat?”

“Multiple,” he admitted. “One for birthdays, one for recipes, one for arguing about who actually owns Grandma’s punch bowl.”

Helena laughed, surprised, and leaned a little heavier against his side. The sound of it sticking with him more than he wanted to admit.

By the time they looped back toward the lodge, the windows glowed brighter, voices carrying out into the night. On the steps she slowed, looking up at him. He stepped in, hand playing with the fabric of her dress.

“Dinner’s ready!”

Devon’s voice snapped the air between them. She stood in the doorway, Eleanor grabbing at her hair, looking at them suspiciously.

Mark stepped back a fraction too quickly. Helena straightened, her expression slipping back into composure, though mischief lingered in her eyes.

As he passed Devon, she mumbled, “Not dating her, my ass.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, mostly succeeding in stifling a smile.

Inside, the dining room had transformed into organized chaos. A buffet line stretched across the counters, trays of casseroles, crockpots plugged in along the wall, plates stacked at the end. People jostled with good-natured shoves, calling dibs on desserts, kids piling rolls onto their plates.

Helena slipped into line beside him. She moved with the same calm, collected poise that had carried her through introductions.

She reached for a spoonful of green bean casserole as Mark’s hand shot out to stop her.

“Wait. Don’t,” he said suddenly.

She froze, surprised, spoon hovering over her plate. “Why not?”

“It’s got almonds in it.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “I’m allergic to almonds.”

Mark hesitated, caught off guard. “Yeah. I know.”

A beat of silence. She set the spoon down slowly. “How do you know that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I—” His mouth went dry. “I don’t. I mean, I must’ve heard it somewhere?”

She studied him, curious now, her expression flickering between suspicion and something softer.

“I don’t usually advertise it,” she said at last, voice quiet. “Not unless I have to.”

Mark shifted, uneasy. “Then maybe someone mentioned it once. I don’t know. Just, don’t eat that.”

Her gaze lingered on him for another long second. Then she gave the faintest nod and moved on down the line.

Mark followed, plate still empty. He didn’t know how he’d known.

Dinner blurred into the usual chaos: kids shouting for pie before they’d touched their vegetables, uncles arguing over the best way to fix a leaky roof, Margaret flitting up and down the line.

Helena sat beside him with perfect composure. Most of the family had decided without question that she was his girlfriend, and she wasn’t correcting them.

In fact, she leaned into it.

When Aunt Jo asked if Mark treated her right, Helena patted his arm, “Most of the time.”

When Cousin Kathy asked about their first date, Helena had smiled and replied, “Coffee. He tried to get me out of my shirt.”

Mark felt the burn crawl up his neck as the laughs rumbled around the room.

Under the table, he brushed her knee, meant at first as a warning. But when she kept at it, he squeezed, a silent plea to stop making it worse.

She didn’t.

At one point she leaned close to answer one of the cousins, her hair brushing his cheek, her laugh too knowing. Mark bent to her ear, voice low.

“If you keep this up,” he muttered, “we’re going to give them a show.”

She turned just enough for him to catch the spark in her eyes, then said something sweet and harmless to the table while her fingers grazed over his on her knee.

A glass clinked. Margaret’s gaze pinned him. He lasted maybe two minutes more before he caved.

Mark leaned in and kissed her. Quick, clean, appropriate for the table.

Except for his hand.

His thumb skimmed her temple, the rest of his palm curving behind her neck. It wasn’t just the kiss, it was the way he held her.

The jolt of it landed hard. The taste of her lingered, shocking him with how much he wanted it to last longer.

When he pulled back, Helena’s composure faltered for the first time all evening.

The table roared with approval, laughter and applause breaking around them. A few whistles cut through the noise. Margaret beamed, triumphant.

He told himself it was for show.

The storm of dinner eventually softened. Kids who’d been running wild earlier were now collapsing in heaps on couches or on top of parents’ laps. Someone started a card game at one end of the table. At the other, Ricken held forth about “the sacred bond of shared sugar.”

Mark leaned back in his chair, worn out by the noise, the food. By the way Helena had played his family like a fiddle and made him pay for it with every brush of her knee.

She hadn’t moved her leg away.

Now, with the din lower, her head leaned toward his shoulder. His pulse thrummed at the contact.

Devon caught his eye from across the table. She looked at him, then at Helena, then at their joined silhouettes, and shook her head with equal parts disbelief and amusement. Mark flipped her off.

Helena leaned closer. “So,” she murmured, voice meant for him alone, “still think I should’ve backed out?”

He tilted his head toward her. “Yes.”

She smirked, stealing a sip from his beer before setting the bottle back in front of him. Her fingers lingered a second too long on his, a teasing drag across his knuckles. “Funny, because your family seems to love me. I think Margaret’s already planning the seating chart for our wedding.”

“Perfect. Maybe she’ll let me know where I’m sitting.”

“Far end of the table,” Helena said without missing a beat. She nudged his foot with hers under the table. “Can’t have you scaring the guests.”

He turned, giving her a look that should have warned her off. Instead, she let her hand drift lightly to his wrist, her thumb brushing once against his pulse before pulling away.

“Don’t worry,” she added, lowering her voice, “I’ll save you a dance. Maybe even the first one. If you behave.”

“Behave?” He sputtered, indignant. “You’ve been sabotaging me all night.”

Her knee pressed into his again, firmer this time. “Sabotaging?” she echoed, voice soft with amusement. “Pretty sure your family thinks I’m rescuing you.”

His fingers tightened on her knee in warning, but his voice came out low. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

She bumped her shoulder deliberately against his, close enough that he caught a trace of her perfume. “Maybe. Or maybe I like watching you squirm.”

His thumb traced along her thigh, leaning in. “We’ve got that in common,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “I’m very good at making people squirm.”

Helena sucked in a soft breath. She tipped her beer toward her lips to hide it, but her eyes stayed locked on his. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

When Aunt Margaret called for coffee cake, Helena’s fingers tangled with his.

Coffee was poured, slices of cake passed down on mismatched plates, someone cracking open a fresh bottle of wine like the night wasn’t anywhere near done. The noise had shifted into a softer din, conversations breaking into smaller pockets, bursts of laughter punctuating the low hum.

Helena stayed beside him, her posture easy, polite when someone leaned in to ask a question. She nodded, laughed at the right moments, but every now and then her knuckles would drift, a light brush against his wrist. When she passed him the sugar, her knee pressing a little harder into his under the table.

Mark tried to keep up with what Cousin Rob was saying about a fishing trip, but every nerve in his body was tuned to her instead.

When she leaned in to murmur something about the cake being more sugar than flour, her lips brushed his ear. He stayed there, a little stunned.

Devon caught the move and raised her brows, hiding a smile against Eleanor’s hair. Mark scowled at her across the table.

Helena noticed. And inched closer. Mouth finding his in a kiss so feather-light it could almost pass for nothing.

Almost.

Because at the last second, the barest flick of her tongue against his lower lip.

Mark jolted. It hit him how badly he wanted more of her. She pulled back, expression composed, her mouth curved like she hadn’t just set him on fire.

Devon’s smile widened, merciless.

Mark’s thumb ran under the hem of her dress in a warning he hoped no one else could see. “You’re chaos incarnate.”

She snorted, something wicked flashing in her eyes. “Your family’s not so bad.”

“They’re a nightmare.”

She smirked and took another slow sip of his beer.

Mark’s pulse thudded. He leaned closer, his breath stirring the hair near her temple. “Keep pushing me,” he said, low, “and see what happens.”

She hummed low in her throat, the sound vibrating against his shoulder. With maddening calm, she slid her hand high onto his leg under the table.

Mark ground his teeth, grabbed his fork, and forced himself to look at his plate instead of her. The table erupted in laughter at some joke he hadn’t heard.

Helena just ate her cake like nothing had happened.

The din rolled on, but Mark could barely hear it. Helena’s hand still rested on his thigh, light and steady. Every squeeze of his fork, every swallow of beer, felt like a flimsy cover for how close he was to losing it.

He shoved his chair back, scraping against the wood floor. “I—” His throat caught. “Drinks. You want one?”

“Sure,” she said, setting her fork down delicately, like she hadn’t been driving him insane for the last half hour. “Whatever you’re having.”

“Right.” He could feel Devon’s eyes burning into him, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth. Aunt Margaret, mercifully, was busy arguing about card rules at the far end of the table.

Helena rose beside him, lips quirking.

Mark swallowed hard, flush working its way up his neck. He didn’t wait for the questions or the teasing. Helena’s footsteps soft behind him.

The kitchen was quieter, lit by a single lamp over the sink. The counters were crowded with half-empty trays and sticky serving spoons, but at least the roar of the dining room was muffled.

Mark yanked open the fridge, more for something to do than out of actual thirst. “Beer, soda, water,” he listed labels like he was reading a grocery list instead of trying to keep his pulse in check.

“Beer,” Helena said, amused.

He grabbed two bottles, fumbling with the opener. When he turned, she was leaning against the counter, arms folded, watching him with that small, knowing curve of her mouth.

He passed her one. Their fingers tangled.

She didn’t move right away. Instead, she set the bottle down untouched and stepped in closer, her chest brushing his, the faint patchouli of her perfume clinging to her.

Mark’s hand found her hip, thumb tracing along the fabric of her dress.

He huffed a laugh, trying to steady himself. “You know, you’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”

“Oh? And what exactly did you think?”

He smirked, tugged her closer. “Stuck up. Rich. Tightly wound. The kind of woman who’d correct my posture at a board meeting.”

Lifting her chin, Helena squared her shoulders. Her voice dropped into something crisp and polished. “Mr. Scout,” she intoned, every syllable precise, “while we at Lumon value your contributions, I must insist you sit upright and project confidence in the presence of our stakeholders.”

Mark barked out a laugh. “Holy shit. You’ve perfected that, haven’t you?”

Her lips twitched, still in character. “Some of us were raised to be presentable.” She adjusted the collar of his shirt with a delicate, scolding touch. “You could use work.”

He grabbed her wrist before she could pull away, thumb brushing her pulse. “And here I thought you were all polish and no spark.”

“Maybe I’m both.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping, eyes glinting. “Maybe you like that.”

His breath stalled. “Now I think you’re trying to kill me.”

“Just keeping you on your toes.”

Before he could answer, her fingers caught his belt loops as she drew him in.

They stood there. Too close. Her eyes landed on his mouth, back to his eyes.

The pad of Mark’s thumb grazed the curve of her ear as he toyed with the tiny hoop there. A low hum escaped her throat.

His heartbeat roared in his ears. He bent, lips skimming hers. “You don’t fight fair.”

She tilted her chin the slightest fraction. Invitation or dare, he couldn’t tell.

Either way, he took it.

Kissed her.

She made a startled sound when he lifted her onto the counter, the quiet clink of bottles behind them. Her legs opened, hooking around him. The kitchen light hummed. Beyond the door, the family’s noise was a far-off blur.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress, tracing the inside of her thigh.

Neither heard the door hinges squeal.

“Mark!”

They froze.

Ricken stood in the doorway beaming with purpose until his brain caught up with his eyes.

“Mark! There you are. I wanted to discuss—” He faltered. “Oh. Oh my.”

Helena snorted, catching her tongue between her teeth.

“I see you’re—” Ricken gestured vaguely, eyes darting anywhere but them, “embodying the very essence of my latest essay.”

“Ricken.” Mark’s voice was strained. “Leave.”

Ricken nodded too many times. “Yes, yes, of course. Personal space, boundaries. But, you should know that human sexuality is nothing to be ashamed of, in fact I’d argue—”

“Ricken.”

“—that the primal connection between partners represents a vital act of—”

“RICKEN.”

“Right! Leaving.” He shuffled backward, nearly colliding with the doorframe, still talking as he retreated. “But later, perhaps, we might unpack how intimacy itself is a dialogue between—”

The door finally clicked shut.

Mark exhaled. “I’m going to kill him.”

Helena was already adjusting her dress, cheeks flushed, mouth twitching as she fought a smile. “He seems nice?”

Mark turned to her. “You’re laughing?”

She bit her lip, losing the battle. “Not at you.” A tiny laugh escaped anyway. “Okay, a little at you.”

He pressed his palms to his eyes. “Come on. Before someone else decides to analyze us.”

Helena hopped off the counter and slid her hand into his, lacing their fingers together with easy certainty.

They snuck out the back door whispering conspiratorially.

The night air was cooler now, the dark trees crowding in against the edge of the property. Helena didn’t let go, her grip steady as she tugged him down the steps.

They crossed the yard, past a cluster of cousins smoking near the fire pit, then veered toward the shadows where the glow from the lodge windows thinned out. Gravel crunched underfoot, the noise of the family slipping to a dull hum behind them.

Helena finally stopped near the edge of the trees, where a stack of old split logs leaned against a shed.

Mark’s chest brushed hers before he caught himself, stopping short.

“Private enough?” she murmured, her eyes catching what little light there was.

Mark swallowed hard. “Yeah.” His voice came out gruff.

He didn’t move his hand from where it rested against her hip. Couldn’t.

With no audience to hold him back he kissed her, harder than before. She met him just as fiercely, her fingers sliding up his chest to fist in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left.

There was nothing but her mouth, the heat of her body against his. He braced himself against the logs at her back. She arched into him, her lips parting under his, a sound rising in her throat that shot straight through him.

Mark broke away, his forehead resting on hers. “Helena.”

Her smile was wicked in the dark. “Told you I’d manage a family dinner.”

“You did,” he murmured.

She laughed and kissed him again, deeper this time.

He registered that the logs must’ve been biting into her back, but the thought flickered, and vanished as her mouth found his. His fingertips pressed into warm skin where her dress had ridden up.

Grunting, he tightened his grip as her teeth grazed over his lower lip.

She tugged at his shirt, holding him there like she couldn’t let him go.

He pulled away. “We can’t—” but she cut him off with another kiss, her palm hot against his skin.

“Car,” she breathed against his mouth. “Now.”

They broke apart only to move, fast and clumsy, hands still tangled as they hurried across the gravel lot. Her SUV loomed ahead.

They barely made it to the SUV before her back hit the cool metal. His mouth crashed onto hers. She dragged him closer until he was flush against her.

Mark nudged her back against the car.

Pushed her dress high.

Every scrape of teeth, every muffled sound from her throat wound him tighter.

He groped for the handle. The door swung open without a sound.

Panting, he pulled back. “Really? You left it unlocked?”

She nipped at his throat, then pulled back to meet his eyes.

“It’s just a car, Mark. I have others.” She stood on her toes to reach his mouth.

“You have others.” He pinched her hip, delighting in her squeal. “Sure, why not.”

She pulled his face down to hers. Scraped her teeth along his jaw. “Are you going to fuck me?” She bit, a little too hard. “Or should I take care of myself?”

They tumbled together into the dark interior, mouths never breaking.

Before he could find his balance, she swung a leg over and straddled him. Pinned him back into the seat. Her dress hitched high over his thighs, the thin fabric no match for the heat of her body.

The door thunked shut behind them, sealing them off from the world. The dome light clicked off; a seatbelt buckle dug into his hip.

Impatient to see her, he hooked his fingers into the neckline and tugged. Dress and bra pulled down together, exposing her. Her nipples tightened in the cool air.

“Jesus, Mark. I could’ve—” she broke off on a whine when he found a freckle just to the side of her nipple. Traced it with his tongue.

Her hands fisted in his shirt and tugged, sent one of the buttons pinging into the window. “Too many clothes.”

“Hey, that was a good shirt.”

Nipping at his ear, she murmured, “Was it?”

He caught her by the hair, tugging her head back. “Such a brat.” He kissed her hard, a quick smack.

She rolled her eyes, but her hands were on him instantly, palms skimming over his chest, nails scraping lightly down his stomach. His laugh ended on a moan. Brat.

Fabric bunched at her waist as he pushed her dress up and took a moment to look at her. The mottled flush across her chest. The way her breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath. The way she straddled him.

“Helena.” he groaned, fumbling with his belt.

She swatted his hands aside, working the zipper down herself. “Up.”

“What?”

“Lift up.”

“Shit, yeah. Sorry.” He lifted his hips. A little too aggressively. It knocked her off balance, elbow rapping against the door. “What the fuck?” she muttered, baffled.

“Not used to backseat sex.” He tried for a boyish grin.

She wrapped her hand around him, stroking slow enough to make him swear. “You’ve never had sex in a car?”

He could barely hear her over the rushing in his ears. “No?” He slipped his hand under her panties, thumb circling. “You?”

In response she ran her tongue along the tendon in his neck, thumb dragging over the head of his cock.

“Jesus.” He trailed off as her thumb moved just right.

“Mark,” she panted, rocking harder onto his fingers. “I need—I need—” Her head tipped back, hitting the headrest with a soft thud.

He planted his feet, hips thrusting up. “Now.”

Mark pulled his hand from between her thighs, fingers wet with her. She whined as he wrapped those same fingers around himself, spreading her wetness over his length. God, the feel of it.

Helena’s eyes locked on the motion.

Steadying her hips, he hooked her panties aside, nudged the head of his cock against her. “Helena,” he whispered, a plea.

She held his gaze as she sank down onto him, knees skidding over the leather seat.

Mark groaned, fighting the urge to close his eyes. He watched her mouth part, breath catching as she stretched around him.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she rocked experimentally. Then she was moving.

“Fuck. Helena.” He squeezed her hips tighter. “Slow down.”

“Can’t.” It came in a burst of air.

The SUV rocked with them. The seat springs squeaked. The windows fogged.

She was gorgeous, eyes wild, hair tumbling over her shoulders as she moved over him. One hand gripped her ass. The other slid up, across her breast, rolling her nipple.

Every time she clenched around him, his vision blurred with the effort of holding on. “You’re, fuck, you’re unreal.” He bit lightly at her throat.

Outside the SUV, a burst of laughter carried through the trees, close enough to jolt him.

Mark froze, pulse hammering. “Shh,” he hissed. “Quiet.”

She bit down on her lip, hard. The muscles in her thighs quivered. But when he thrust again, a sob escaped her throat.

Eyes wide, he clapped a hand gently over her mouth. “Helena.”

She went still for half a second, then dragged her tongue over his palm.

He jerked, startled. “The hell?” He choked out a laugh. “That’s disgusting.”

She lifted the hem of her dress, eyes dropping to where they were joined. The corner of her mouth curved against his palm, amused.

Biting back the laugh, he wiped his damp hand on the fabric of her dress. “That better?”

“Not even close,” she muttered. His hand drifted higher as she moved against him again. “Closer.”

He grabbed her hips, pulling her down to him. The wet slap of their bodies echoed in the cramped space. She cried out, nails dragging down his back.

“You,” He bit her neck, made her shiver. “close?” His thumb found her clit, circling fast.

“Yeah.” It was high, breathy.

She broke with a high-pitched cry, her body fluttering around him.

Mark swore harshly. Thrust hard into her as his orgasm slammed through him. He spilled inside her, hips jerking, as the world narrowed to the feel of her.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their uneven breathing and the creak of the car rocking to stillness.

Helena collapsed against him, damp hair sticking to her flushed skin. Mark’s arms locked around her, holding her close.

He laid a shaky kiss to her shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

Her laugh was muffled against his neck.

“Well,” she panted, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth, “I guess this makes up for the ruined shirt.”

Mark huffed out a laugh, shaky but real, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yours or mine?”