a/n: WONDERFUL PEOPLE. THIRSTY PEOPLE. i love you all.

you want to wreck the foxgloves / emily o'neill, your boy came by

Time isn't relative or relevant or both; in that moment, it fails to exist, and she fades into whatever state her senses tell her too. She'd like nothing else.

The movement of his hips surprises her the most, pleases her the best. He's slow and rhythmic, unhurried. She knows that he knows what he's doing. After all, everything that he does is calculated and measured.

The bed doesn't even protest.

His touch is gentle, but the kisses to her naked skin are sweeter, and the temperature of her body steadily rises with the thrum of her heart from the steady sway - feeling him over and over and over again. In the curl of her toes, she can feel her peak. She feels it in coil tightly in her abdomen, when she scratches the skin of his back, or tugs the hair on the back his head. It's beyond just the noises she makes, but she's bewildered how effortlessly he brings forth an intricate sequence of emotions, sensations, and all the biological components in between, all on her behalf. Riza wraps her arms around his neck to cling on to this moment, tucking it away in someplace safe in her heart. His hands are strategically placed underneath her as if his goals include eliminating any space he finds unnecessary between them.

She doesn't remember how she entangled herself with him this time. Riza doesn't think she cares. It's usually so fervent and sprung, but this tryst felt different, feels different with her legs parted and curled over his hips so she can relish in that leisurely pace.

Roy lifts his head from the crook of her neck and his eyes are as soft as the thumb brushing over her lower lip. He kisses her then. There's something he wants to say; she tastes it on his lips; in the hesitation in his fingertips, like he's scared to touch her more than he already is. She knows it because its flavor is familiar on hers too, heavy with implication.

A sudden nightmare takes hold, rolling in like a quick and ominous fog, poisoning her thoughts and tensing her under him. He notices and she curses when his lips leave her.

"Everything will be okay," he whispers so light and breathless that Riza doesn't know where the weight and the power behind them comes from, but that comfort, she welcomes it.

She looks at his eyes, so boringly brown at first glance, but she'd be remiss to ignore how dark they truly are, almost black if that were possible. She pushes the strands of hair from his face and searches for something to tip her off, to give her reason to run. She aggravatingly finds none. Or she doesn't want to while she's here, with him, in this impossibly endless bed of his - an expansive alternative she prefers to her own bed where her problems can reach her quicker, grab her by the ankles and demand that she face them.

"How can you be sure?" Riza asks and her voice doesn't feel like hers.

Roy shifts and his hands slip from underneath to cradle her fingers and he kisses the knuckles gently before setting them near her head. She's unsure what he's thinking when she hardly knows what she's thinking herself, but her eyes flutter to a close when he lowers to her again with that tender smile gracing his lips, even as they are still physically melded together. He brushes back the hair that has clung to her forehead and kisses the skin there too; she feels it reverberate down to her toes.

It baffles her how her own defenses betray her, with the effortless way they go down for him; the unpleasant, tightly wound knot in her stomach unravels, bringing her guard down like he does. It's even worse now because she is painfully aware of it.

Like it's the simplest and most obvious thing in the world, Roy says, "Because I want to be with you."

It wreaks a silent chaos within her. A myriad of alarm bells goes off in her head, each one more insistent and shrill than the last. Riza tries discerning if they're warning her or if they're victory bells, but she'd be better off guessing lottery numbers. She blinks in the wake of his forthrightness, unexpected from a man whose academic career revolves around the logical presentation of an evidence-proven epistemology. This declaration is all the more frightening for it. It's nonsensical, ridiculous. They have nothing, know nothing.

Without any rational supporting data, can they really call themselves scientists when they both feel this way?

Roy lowers in again, after what has felt like years ruminating, and he angles for a proper kiss this time. He reads her mind and asks: "Don't you want to be with me?"

Riza wakes up with an uncomfortable warmth, sweat dampening in the crooks of her elbows and knees. To her utter disappointment, the heavenly endless bed and everything with it has disappeared; instead, she's curled in the cramped, limited space of her value brand mattress. Her eyes feel like trouble, inflamed and swollen and probably will be worse than what she's already seeing in her mind's eye. Exhaustion plagues her, despite resting, and she can add mental fogginess to the list. She groans, stuffing her face into the thing she's got her arms wrapped around.

It's a quality fabric of medium thickness: his sweater, warm from absorbing and trapping her body heat, She's clutched close to her chest like some sad excuse for a stuffed animal.

Riza anchors the content of her dream at some far off place in her mind, blocking them even as they come rushing back like a tsunami to the forefront of her mind. She avoids her phone, lost anyway in a jumble of sheets and pillows. She steps into the shower with to clear her mind and reduce some swelling, and only manages to accomplish one.

Under the hot water, she winces recalling the lashes from Olivier's reproach, wondering if she's been kidding herself or purposely sweeping it under the rug. There's an unmistakable tug between her heart that feels and her mind that thinks. A part of Riza knows which she usually gives bias to.

It feels wrong. She is doubting and second guessing when she's usually so grounded, confident in her own choices. The years after her emancipation had left her with no other choice but to trust her gut for better or for worse. It's kept her alive so far. But Olivier has a point, this isn't different. She's tangling herself into something that would not just affect her own integrity, but his as well, her roommates - maybe even the university, if hers wasn't an isolated incident.

By something cruel, she's reminded of the warming, butterfly wings she feels fluttering across her insides, the jolt of excitement prickling her skin when she sees him - what are those emotions, really? Could she confidently assume she has feelings... and that he does too? Something in her mind reminisces the way he held her and spoke to her, as equals far from their roles in the university, but that's just mature human decency.

She supposes it boils down to what they are; they never gave it a name she realises, something that was done somewhat deliberately. Anything and all he did could've been for an ulterior motive. From the coffee to the job to the stay at his place. Riza frowns, unhappy at the weight of her roommate's words; it's shaken the foundation and she can't make heads or tails through the dust anymore.

In front of her mirror, she sees the evidence of their lust as clear as day - places where his mouth marked her skin. There were times before that she'd feel the soreness in her hips and the pressure of his hands on her body, that's evidence too; even if it's not visible in the same way that these bruises are, scattered over her chest and décollage like petals.

If they are just fuck buddies, then a few days apart to sort herself out won't kill them. Riza thinks this as she reaches for her phone. A strange, little disappointment lingers when her notification bar shows nothing beyond generic Facebook updates and an email from the university.

He messages her that same day, later on when the sun is barely peeking over the craggy tops of the Cremil Ranges, but she doesn't reply. Well, she does, but it's not a response that allowed much room for a continuing conversation. Whether he has the clairvoyance to give her space or he's taking this opportunity not to involve himself, Riza leaves it be. She throws herself in her preparation for other classes, realizing the end of the break is almost upon her and sitting around doing nothing in the beginning of the week was unwise for the amount of work she was supposed to be doing. Playing housewife essentially, she thinks.

For the most part, she avoids Olivier and Olivier avoids her. They still see each other; after all, their rooms are only a living room area apart, barely saying a word when they do. At one point, Riza was working on the kitchen table when Olivier came back home. She doesn't ask questions where from. Riza thinks she looks mad, but then again, that's always her face whereas Riza remains expressionless and uninterested. Unworried.

On the last day, the anxiety she's been able to drown in work resurfaces. It's been four days without any resolution. Riza can't say where she expected it from or why she needs it, but the morning of that Sunday, she is overcome with an annoying need to know where she stands.

Riza sighs with a shuddering breath. She stares at the calendar with today's date circled in marker: her father's visit is the perfect topping of cherries with sprinkles she needs to add onto the mess she's made. The overcast clouds worsen her dread. A little bit of sunshine might've helped with the gloom, but instead she follows the sheet of gray clouds through the window of her bus seat. There's so much she's dreading from so many different pulls when she's at the brink of unravelling like wool. There's parts of her that are loose, rattled from the explosive row with Olivier and frayed from overthinking herself - trying to sort herself. She hates feeling this vulnerable and susceptible to the whims of others - certainly not when she's about to enter a place where she already feels powerless. She takes so many deep breaths to level herself that someone asks if she's okay. It's been days since she's used her voice that it croaks embarrassingly, but that's the least of her concerns.

When they first brought him here, a younger Riza had expected an ominous building, dilapidated from the years of sheltering people like her father who talked to themselves, yelled at the walls, and ignored what still had life. They have several names for it now, but back when she heard the word "asylum", she couldn't help the expectation developing on its own. She couldn't say what brought her back or what keeps bringing her back after the accident. Even when kids - teenagers, but really young adults - caught wind and finished what her father started by teaching her the meaning of "undue cruelty", she'd settle on a Saturday or Sunday before or after work of her second or third minimum wage job. At first, it was the yearning for some normalcy from her only living relative, hoping for a miracle. Here, her problems would seem as black-and-white as they could possibly be; a chance to gain some perspective. Some days, she'd lie to herself and say her life is easy compared to the kinds lived in these walls.

Now, at the very least, the psychiatric facility gives Riza some measure of clarity that she couldn't find in the house when she arrives with meager expectations, if at all. University has spaced her visits to ever two to three months. But it may have been longer.

At the reception desk, the pen scratches on paper with her name as Riza nods distractedly to the safety procedures and rules of conduct she's heard time and time again. There's always a pause when she goes to write her name on the tag. Riza Hawkeye. Her claim to the name was...lacking at best, and the only person who could possibly give her insight into the choices that went into those four letters was sadly beyond that kind of inane explanation today.

"Any sharp objects on your person today?"

Riza holds up a stack of papers. "Do potential paper cuts count?"

The nurse appreciates the small joke and shakes her head. "No staples?"

She flashes a weary smile at the nurse, nodding. "No staples," she promises, handing over her bag to the receptionist.

"He hasn't had the best week," the woman tells her as they make their way down towards the Jane Thickey Ward. "Very uncooperative. Perhaps your visit will change his mood."

Her heart sinks and she chews on the corner of her lip. "Historically speaking, I can't say I expect much."

The mousy woman snorts as they turn down another corridor, stopping at the first metal detector. "It's no wonder you're related with that attitude. But I'm sure he'll appreciate the literature you've brought all the same. He treats it all with such care."

Is it really that surprising? Riza wants to say, but she swallows her resentment as they walk through the final metal detector. She spies him in the corner by the fireplace and here's no indication that he's heard her arrival - not even as she mutters a quiet thanks to the nurse and slowly makes her way over to the spot that he's claimed as his own. The other residents shamble around in threadbare slippers like ghosts, but Berthold Hawkeye sticks out like a sore thumb in his suit, faded from the years but still hinting at what once was a man in his prime.

The current reality is a lot more sobering, in a place where even staples are considered a hazard.

"Hello Father," Riza says gently, politely - in the refined manner he's shown her how. She arranges herself carefully in the chair angled towards him, gripping the papers tightly. "I'm sorry I haven't been to visit - university has been very busy."

Berthold inclines his head towards her slightly, the only indication she's used to getting that he's paying any sliver of attention to her. Riza takes a moment to remember to breathe, and that she doesn't need to worry about mulling over her words here. It will not matter whether she takes a moment or a millennium to say her piece - her father will still be sitting there, still, unmoving, unresponsive as he ever was. He is still frightfully pale even in the light flickering from the fireplace, the lines of his face drawn and dug deep. Ten years ago she might have found some similarities between them, at least physically, but the man before her now is as much a stranger as his reasoning would ever be.

"I've been accepted into the third-year program. This year is a lot more theory than practical experiments - but that's probably for the best, you did always tell me I liked to play with fire." The laughter that bubbles out of her is more hysterical than self-deprecating, and she can feel the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. The reality of this whole situation was truly beginning to dawn on her, Olivier's words drumming into her skull over and over again.

As soon as he finds out about your dad you know he will run.

She didn't want to admit it in the heat of the moment - didn't want to hear any shred of truth, if she was being perfectly honest, but there was a very real possibility that Olivier was correct. Girls with daddy issues was par for the course for any relationship, really, but this was...far beyond what anybody would expect.

Oh, you want to meet my parents? Well, my mother died during childbirth so I never met her, and my father is living in a mental health hospice in a catatonic depressive state after his failed experiment that blew up half our house and half my back. We'd love to have you over for Sunday brunch - just remember to wear clothing that can't also double as a strangulation device in case a resident gets any ideas.

How could she explain it? How could anyone understand? Rebecca barely did, and she was at her bedside throughout all of her convalescence, and subsequent physical therapy.

A man who was simply fucking her because she allowed him to do so was going to head for the fucking hills if she tried to bring him here. It would all be talk - he'd say that of course he would want to meet her father, he was a good and honest man -

She wipes at her face roughly, not wanting to show any sign of weakness here. It's a matter of principle, rather than any real worry that her father will judge her - but Riza feels like she has been crying for days, too emotional and off-kilter and losing her sense of self as another wave of self-pity washes over her. It's not like her to act like this.

"I'm sorry," she manages, when she actually isn't. There isn't a reason for her to apologize but a old habit from the way he raised her. The literature crumpling in her hands as she clutches it tighter, trying to keep her breathing steady even as the tears drip onto the blanched skin of her knuckles. "I've been so stupid and I don't know how I'm going to-"

She pulls back, sits up straighter, and blinks furiously as a nurse passes by, desperately trying to salvage any sense of calm that she can. Berthold sits there, focused on something down at his feet and Riza feels her heart sink low into her gut. Checking her watch, she decides that now is as good a time to leave - dinner was served earlier here and she doesn't want to watch them feed him. It would be too much for her.

Riza tries her best to smooth out the creases in the journal she brought, leaving it next to her father on the sidetable between them. "This one had a lot of bad arguments," she tells him softly as she stands, making sure her face is free of tears. "I'm sure you'll poke holes in all of them." She hesitates here, before leaning down and kissing the crown of his head very delicately.

Riza haphazardly gathers her belongings back from the front desk and she avoids questions for her wellbeing out of simple courtesy. Her phone is blinking and when the rest of the screen lights up her gut fucking plummets.

Rebecca has sent her multiple messages with the last one reading: "We need to talk." in perfect capitalization and punctuation. She thanks the fresh air, otherwise she'd feel herself suffocating at that point.

She's not ready. She's simply not ready. A terrible reality kicks in when she really doesn't have anywhere else to go.

Riza nearly drops her phone when it lights up again and she somehow dares to look at the caller.

Spanish Inquisition.

She pauses, contemplating whether to let it ring out or just straight-up send him to voicemail right then and there. But a part of her knows that she needs to talk to him, at the very least, and another - extremely small - part of her just wants to hear him and be reassured that not everything has gone tits up.

Riza chews on her lip before sliding her thumb over her screen, and raises the phone to her head. "Hello?" she answers.

There's a beat before he replies. "You're a hard woman to get in contact with. Are you okay?" It's an innocuous line of questioning, but she knows that he means more than what he's letting on with this deceptively casual front. One could almost think he's asking about the weather, not how did it go with your flatmate, how dead do I need to be. It would be funny if the consequences weren't so alarmingly apparent.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she retorts, then winces. Her mood coming out of the hospice was not one to be thrown on him, that was entirely her own fault.

"Uh-" He never stammers, but he's taken aback. "I just tried for your phone a couple of times. For my own sake, let's say the first one was a buttdial."

"Sorry," she says, shifting her weight to her other leg and hoping he won't take offense with how curt she's acting. "It's been a rough day."

Roy hums down the line in thought, and she thinks that he's smiling. "Well, I was thinking of asking you to come over to make that pasta dish you did last week because unfortunately I am shit at cooking white people food-"

"If you buy the ingredients, I can cook." she interjects. "I need asylum from my own place to work on some assignments. Fair trade?" She bites her tongue for the slip.

He's quiet and Riza isn't sure whether to judge his silence as the good or bad kind. "Fair enough to me," he says plainly. "Do you need a lift?"

"No." Riza says quickly and supplies with, "I was already leaving for the library and I'm getting on the bus. Besides, that wouldn't be the best idea right now."

"Oh… right." There's that uneasy pause again, the kind where Riza can feel that there are words he's holding back, that he's not giving her the full picture. "I'll make a quick trip to the store then, you get here when you get here. You know where the spare is."

A kind of fatigue overtakes her as she walks up the small pathway to his apartment. Not just a mental one, but an emotional one too, born from the stress and chaos of the last few days - and Riza feels it keenly today as she crosses the threshold into a living room that is a lot messier than how she left it: there are journals and papers flung every which way and coffee mugs covering every available surface. She lets her book bag fall onto his couch with a heavy thud, and sinks into the cool leather, cracking an eye open to watch as he stirs yet another cup of coffee in the kitchen.

"Did you leave any coffee for the rest of the country?" she asks as he nears her. He smiles before it's covered up by the cup in his hands. It reaches his eyes and they crinkle.

"Possibly not. Academia isn't all what it's cracked up to be, but I suspect you might've already guessed that." He nods to her bag.

"You came prepared." There might be a sarcastic lilt to his tone, but she's mentally pushing it away as she empties out the contents of her bag onto his coffee table without a response, pushing the used mugs to the side as best she can with her forearm and elbow; the ceramic clinks dangerously. "Is everything okay?" The couch gives into his weight when he takes a seat next to her, and she's momentarily overwhelmed with the strong smell of coffee and lingering cigarette smoke. A warm hand rests on her knee and he asks with a soft squeeze. "Are you okay?"

She looks at his hand, looks at the thumb that is rubbing reassuring circles on her covered thigh, and then works her way up to him, frowning. "I'm fine. There's a lot happening and I'm trying to find the headspace to sort it out," Riza says automatically, robotically.

"Is there anything I can do?"

She shakes her head and leans forward for her laptop as the perfect excuse to shake off his hand. "Just tell me when you want me to start cooking, I'm gonna be working on the assignment due tomorrow for your class."

He tuts softly. "Leaving it until the last minute, Miss Hawkeye? I expected better from you."

She tries not to grimace, the feeling of shame settling in her gut uncomfortably. "I was a bit preoccupied in the beginning of the week. My boss had me playing housekeeper for most of it."

"And now a personal chef too; what a slave driver." An arm slides around her waist and his breath is unpleasantly hot on her neck as he murmurs, "But isn't the benefit of sleeping with your professor reaping the rewards when it comes to due dates and assignments?"

"What?" She mumbles this a little, feeling an awful weight drop nauseatingly.

"You know." He kisses the edge of her shoulder and they don't feel like the kisses from the dream anymore. "Between you and me."

Her lungs empty and she thinks she must've heard him wrong. But there was no mistaking him at this range. She bows her head and her jaw flexes. Riza grips the edge of her laptop before she shuts it with a bit more force than she intended. Somehow, the lump in her throat dissipates before she manages, "Is that what you think I'm here for?"

Roy makes a confused noise when she nudges him off her, watching with bewilderment as re-stuffs her bag. "Riza," he cajoles, but she ignores it. "Riza," he calls out again, with a stern edge to it this time. He grabs a hold of her forearm when she stands up abruptly and Riza snatches it back

Haphazardly, she throws her bag over her shoulder and tilts slightly from the weight. "I'm sorry you've misconstrued this entire… whatever this is."

"I'm not - No. I didn't-" he scrambles to interrupt. He even looks blindsided, tripping over his words. Riza moves around the otherside of the coffee table to leave.

Standing in front of her now, he holds his hands up to give her pause. "Listen, there's no misconstruing anything. It was a joke. You're upset. So why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

She's momentarily taken aback by how quickly he saw through her in her fit. Her brow flattens when she recovers. "Nothing, but next time you're calling me for a fuck, how about you be more upfront about it?" She tries to pass through but he's reactively shifts in her path.

"Wait, we don't have to do that. I'm more than okay with that, but please think for a moment. I wasn't trying to upset you."

Think? Think? That's the last thing she wants to do. "Move."

"If you want to talk about this-" he gestures between her and him "-then fine. Perfect. But we have to talk."

Riza doesn't want to hear it; she prematurely shuts down all logic and reason. She shuts her eyes trying to quell the quake in her chest. "Step aside or so help me, I will - scream."

Something shifts then, in his face. It's no longer confused, or imploring, but scornful and Riza watches him stonily.

"You know what? Fine. I'm not gonna waste my breath on someone who is just gonna throw a tantrum instead of trying to make an honest effort here to-" he laughs darkly, roughly running a hand through his hair. "I don't have time for this bullshit. You know where the door is."

"Fuck you-"

"No, fuck you - I said I was joking; I'm sorry that offended you but do you really think I went after you because you're my student? Christ Riza, you're meant to have more brains than this-"

The book bag slides from her shoulder as she steps into his personal space, jabbing at his chest with her index finger. "So are you! You're the fucking professor-"

"What, do you have some daddy issues you want to talk about? Air it out."

She balls her fists and her eyes narrow, seething. Nails are digging deep into the flesh of her palm and she can see the muscles of his jaw flex as they stare heatedly at each other. All this pent up anger, these bottled emotions, she's tired of them, tired of keeping them in.

They need to be let out.

"Do you even want to talk about this like an adult, or would you rather have a hissy fit and have me feel -"

She shuts him up. With a strength she wasn't aware she had, she shoves him back into the couch. He opens his mouth, but she kills the words at his throat by kissing him roughly, straddling him after he falls to a sit. She is not kind here; her teeth clack against his own and her fingers are quick to tangle in his hair - partly to keep him steady against her, partly to assert herself here. Riza's never been one for forceful touch; he's the one who taught her of what a little bit of pressure can amount to. So when she tugs his head back by the tufts of his hair in between her fingers to kiss him deeper, she can see the appeal, understands exactly why Roy enjoys having her like so.

He groans underneath her, hips shifting against her own and she tugs his lower lip between her teeth, deliberately adding more pressure. The effect it has on him is emboldening, to say the least: his fingers skitter over her hips distractedly as his whole body shudders beneath her, eyes closed tightly. He's quick on the uptake when she tugs at his shirt, and in a matter of seconds she finds herself face to face with a topless, panting and flushed Roy Mustang; the sight of which tingles straight to her groin. The adrenaline from the anger, the heightened emotions, they are catalysts that ignite violently when sparked by this rushed desire; she can already feel herself growing wet with need, craving the sensation of him against her, in her.

"Pants," she tells him shortly and he gapes at her a little inelegantly before his fingers fumble to undo his belt. Riza nearly yanks down his underwear in her impatience to touch him; he's not as hard as she would like him to be. She needs him to plunge deeper, go further, make her forget her name or vice versa. So, Riza ducks her head down and takes him into her mouth with ease, enjoying immeasurably how throaty his moans have become, and the way his fingers rest on the nape of her neck, nails scratching pleasurably as she takes him even deeper.

She likes the control, surprisingly.

"Riza-" he manages and she lifts her head to watch him, the way his chest rises and falls in quick succession. There's already a thin layer of sweat on him, and she draws back, shimmying off her pants and underwear. In the middle of repositioning herself on him, he has the daring idea to slide himself in between her lips and the audacity to smirk when he does.

She cups his jaw in her hands once more, her kisses becoming more demanding as they begin to move, before her hand drops to guide him into her. Riza moans into his mouth as she sinks onto him, every nerve ending sparking as her breath catches and holds. He is so good that she breaks the kiss that numbed her lips. She's past that point of feeling any kind of remorse. Just the feeling of him filling her slowly, inch by inch, is enough to momentarily erase all previous transgressions and to pause every other problem at the moment.

For better control, she hooks her feet in the creases of the couch behind him, arching her back slightly at the hastened pace of her thrusts. His arms curl, almost automatically, around her waist and he draws her close to him, head thrown back against the couch. The exposed skin of his neck is too tempting for her to resist. She bites and sucks and nips, smirking as Roy's moaning rises in pitch every time her teeth scrape against his skin.

They find a steady pace as skin slaps against skin and somehow, the wet noises are louder than their own groans. She makes an effort with her hips to help him venture deeper. She grabs at the skin of his shoulders now, grasping as the pleasure compounds inside her steadily. It feels like the precipice is being continually pushed just out of reach, sometimes just in reach, and she feels fit to burst, shivering as his hands run down her torso and over her thighs. The touch is featherlight, just erring on the pleasurable side of ticklish, but it's when a hand slips over her thigh to stroke her clit firmly that Riza knows her orgasm is upon her. She shifts only her hips now as her grip on his shoulder turns into clawing at his flesh. She doesn't stop, and he's not one to give in either, but it builds, swells in a terrible, wonderful, overwhelming way. Her hips buck and they buck. Her eyes are closed and she squeaks silently until it rushes over her without abandon. Her knuckles go to her mouth to stop herself from filling his living room with yelled expletives as her body tries to find balance. His hands coaxing her hips to continue even as she shudders above him, but even with her orgasm, she doesn't relent.

"Fuck, Riza," Roy grunts. "I can't-"

"Come," she orders, and seeing his face as he does just that, at the behest of her words, is a thousand times better than anything her mind could conjure on its own. She watches hungrily as his lips part and his eyes drift close, hips moving with only personal pleasure in mind. She savours the burn as his thrusts begin to slow, and carefully smooths his hair back from his forehead. Riza feels warm, sated and full - and a little embarrassed as he comes to, eyes dark and watching her intently. He licks his lips slowly, his gaze steady.

"What the hell," he says slowly, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Shut up." Riza laughs breathlessly, and tucks her hair in the damp crook behind her ear. "It's a long story."

His eyes soften like they did in the dream. "I have time."