The sound came before the pain.
A hard, ugly crunch—metal folding into metal—followed by the sharp shudder that snapped Leviticus forward in his seat. His chest hit the belt. The steering wheel jolted under his palms. Somewhere behind him, a horn screamed like an accusation.
The video on his phone froze mid-motion.
"Fuck—"
He killed the engine and sat there for a second, breath shallow, heart banging like it wanted out. The smell hit next—burnt rubber, overheated metal, something electrical and bitter.
This one was on him. No mental gymnastics could save him.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the street.
The other car had already pulled over, hazard lights blinking furiously. The driver's door flew open.
She came out hot.
Hannah didn't hesitate. She slammed the door shut behind her and took three sharp steps toward the damage, hands already on her hips. Curvy, grounded, solid—built like someone who didn't scare easy and didn't get pushed around. Tight athleisure hugged her frame, deep red against warm skin, thick thighs planted wide.
She stared at the crushed bumper, then turned on him.
"What the hell was that?"
Leviticus lifted his hands immediately. "My fault."
She laughed—short, incredulous, edged with fury. "You don't say."
"I wasn't paying attention," he added, calm but not dismissive. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't unbend metal," she snapped. Her voice carried—low, sharp, full-bodied. "You could've seriously hurt someone."
"I know."
She looked him over then, eyes dragging from his face to his hands, back to his eyes. Assessing. Measuring whether he was worth yelling at more.
"You on your phone?" she asked.
He didn't lie. "Yeah."
Her jaw tightened. "Unbelievable."
She turned away from him and paced once, fingers threading briefly into her short curls before dropping back to her sides. When she faced him again, the anger hadn't cooled—just sharpened.
"You always drive like an idiot, or was today special?"
He held her gaze. "Today was special."
That earned him a scoff. "Lucky me."
He glanced at her car again. The damage was worse than his.
"You hurt?" he asked.
"No," Hannah said flatly. "And don't ask like you're hoping for bonus points."
"Wasn't."
She paused, eyes narrowing slightly, as if recalibrating him. "At least you're not pretending this was mutual."
"That'd be insulting."
She huffed, folding her arms under her chest. The motion pushed her posture forward.
They exchanged details. Insurance. Registration. He typed her information into his phone carefully this time, screen angled toward her so she could see he wasn't messing around.
"Let me get your number too," he said. "In case they drag this out."
She arched a brow. "You already have it."
"Backup," he replied. "I'm learning my lesson tonight."
That pulled a reluctant smirk from her—quick, wicked. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"Figures," she said, then dictated her number again anyway.
As he saved the contact, she leaned in just enough to lower her voice. "You're lucky I don't feel like making this a whole thing."
"I appreciate the mercy."
"Don't," she said. "Just do better."
He met her eyes. "Bet."
She studied him one last time, then shook her head. "Unbelievable."
Hannah turned and walked back to her car, hips rolling with irritation more than grace. Before getting in, she paused and looked over her shoulder.
"Next time," she said, "try driving without your phone glued to your hand."
"I got you."
She held his gaze a beat longer, then slid into her seat and pulled off hard, tires hissing against the pavement.
Leviticus got back into his car and shut the door.
Only then did he pick up his phone.
Bathsheba's name filled the screen.
He called her back.
"You almost killed me," he said as soon as she answered.
Her laugh spilled through the speaker. "Please. You're dramatic."
"Car accident dramatic."
A pause. "What?"
"I'll explain later," he said, easing back into traffic. "You're dangerous enough without adding guilt."
She hummed, pleased. "You still coming?""I'm already on my way."
The line went quiet for half a second—
Then cut.
The studio was empty when Root locked the door behind her.
Good.
She crossed the floor without rushing, bag set down near the wall, shoes slipped off and pushed aside with her foot. The music came on low—something slow, steady, meant to be felt more than followed.
She rolled her shoulders once. Then again.
Her body was already warm, but she liked easing into it anyway. Ankles flexed. Knees bent. Hips loosened as she shifted her weight, testing balance, testing range. The mirror caught her from the side—bare legs, fitted top clinging where sweat had already started to form.
This wasn't class.
This was rehearsal for herself.
She started with control. Small movements at first. A measured lift of the leg. A turn that asked for precision instead of speed. Her arms followed, deliberate, framing her body instead of decorating it.
As the music settled, so did she.
Her movements softened—not weaker, just less restrained. The line between ballet and something more indulgent blurred the way it always did when she practiced alone. Her hips rolled through the sequence, slow enough to feel every shift of muscle, every pull of balance.
She turned again, letting momentum carry her this time. The floor was cool beneath her feet. Her breath deepened. Sweat traced down her back, collecting at the curve of her waist.
Root caught her reflection mid-turn.
Focused. Flushed. Fully present.
She liked this version of herself—the one that didn't perform for approval, didn't explain. The one that moved because it felt good to do so.
She finished the sequence with a controlled stop, chest rising as she steadied herself. One hand came to her thigh, grounding. The other lifted instinctively, fingers flexing as if reaching for something just out of frame.
She let the music play out.
When it ended, the silence felt heavier than before.
Root reached for her phone, thumb hovering for a moment before finding his name. No overthinking. No hesitation.
She raised it to her ear as it rang.
Once.
Twice.
The bed moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm at first.
Leviticus set the pace with his body, with his hands—one firm at Bathsheba's waist, the other guiding, controlling. The air in the room was heavy and close, curtains half-drawn, carrying every sound too clearly: breath breaking, fabric shifting, the dull knock of the headboard marking time.
Bathsheba laughed once, breathless, unsteady. It faded into something rougher when his grip tightened and he pulled her back into him.
"Stay," he said, low.
She did.
His hand came down once—crisp, clean. The sound landed before the sensation did, snapping through the room. Her breath caught. Then she melted back into him, looser now, less guarded, movement meeting movement instead of resisting it.
The phone buzzed on the mattress.
Once.
He felt it against his thigh and ignored it. The second vibration followed almost immediately, insistent enough to register.
He glanced down.
Babe.
For a fraction of a second, he hesitated. Then he reached out, caught the phone, and flipped it face-down farther across the bed, pinning it into silence without breaking his rhythm.
Bathsheba made a sound—open, unfiltered—and the bed answered with a sharper creak as his pace changed. Faster. Heavier. The room filled with it: breath, movement, the slick hush of skin meeting skin, the low, animal cadence of him driving the moment forward.
The call rang out unanswered.
Root stared at the screen longer than she meant to. She typed a message, erased it, typed again.
*Where are you?*
She sent it.
Nothing.
A minute passed. Then another. Her jaw tightened. She exhaled, picked the phone back up, and called again.
The phone buzzed.
This time it rattled against the sheets near the edge of the bed.
Bathsheba was on her back now, legs lifted, her head tipped back between them as Leviticus loomed over her. Both his hands were locked behind her knees, pinning her in place, holding her open to him as he came down with speed and intent.The bed rocked hard. Wet sounds filled the space between breath and movement, sharp and unmistakable, underscored by her voice breaking apart beneath him.
The phone kept vibrating.
He didn't look at it this time.
One hand released her knee long enough to slide up her body, fingers closing around her chest, squeezing just enough to draw another sound out of her before returning to its grip. He leaned in close, breath hot, control absolute.
The phone rang itself into silence.
The call cut again.
Root stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering. Then she muttered under her breath, almost in wonder, the words carrying a quiet edge of frustration.
"Why isn't he picking up?"
Her thumb pressed the screen again, calling him for the third time.
The phone buzzed against the edge of the bed.
Bathsheba was still on her back, legs lifted, head tipped back as Leviticus loomed over her. Both his hands had been locked behind her knees, holding her in place—but now, with a deliberate shift, he released her knees and slid his hands under her cheeks, lifting her mid-air. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck—her wedding ring catching the faint light—and curled her legs around his waist, holding on tight.
He remained on the mattress, legs braced, hands firm beneath her, and began to move with relentless, pounding precision. She hung in his grip, weight supported only by him, and the room filled with wet, rhythmic sounds: skin slapping, breath breaking, each movement punctuated by the bed creaking under their combined motion.
"Like that?" he murmured, low and commanding.
She responded with sharp, broken cries, her voice rising, cracking, then breaking into screams. Each strike, each thrust, each lift sent heat and friction surging through her, her body arching, clinging, meeting his every motion with her own tight, urgent grip.
Nothing existed outside this: just the pounding, the clapping, the wetness, the sound of her voice tearing through the space, and him above her, controlling the tempo with steady, unrelenting precision.