Archive of Our Own

You’ve always been “a lot,” according to just about everyone you know. 

You’ve never been sure if it was a compliment or not—from parents, teachers, friends, boyfriends. Opinionated, loud, bossy, “passionate,” a veritable adjective soup that burns your tongue.

So maybe when you go to concerts, you’re cheering the loudest. And maybe, when you go to a Bo Burnham show, you feel the most—tears at the moments of vulnerability, scowls at the jokes clearly meant to appease the less...invested members of the audience, and voracious laughter when warranted. You’ve never been able to help yourself, and this situation is even worse, because maybe you have a giant crush on him.

It’s stupid, you know. We never really know celebrities, and you’re more than likely crushing on a version of a person that doesn’t exist. But you rationalize that it’s harmless—no one needs to know. So you sit in your front row seat and you watch with rapt attention and then—

Fuck.

He’s looking at you.

Are you imagining it?

No. No, you’re not. He’s looking right at you, and you cut your cheer short because fuck why is he looking at you?

“Such passion from the front row this evening! This one’s been screaming herself hoarse all night.”

He points at you.

“It’s cute, it’s cute. Be nice guys, she’s just yelling ‘cuz her neck hurts from observing a giraffe in his unnatural habitat.” He gestures at his own body, self-deprecating as ever.

He called you cute (well, kind of). But he also directed the attention of an entire theaters’ worth of people toward you. And you also can’t help but be sad that, in a moment of what seems like improv, his first instinct is to make fun of himself along with the audience.

Your smile drops, just a little. Embarrassment colors your cheeks, and the smallest amount of pity furrows your brow. Doesn’t he see how awe-inspiring he is?

“Aww, she’s upset now! Settle down guys, settle down,” he faux-begs with a wave of his hands. And then he looks back at you, expression almost serious through the haze of stage lights. “Come backstage later, honey, we’ll turn that frown upside-down. Check ‘ride a giraffe’ off of your bucket list!”

The crowd goes wild around you, and he merges seamlessly into the next scripted bit of the show.

You think you might be imagining it every time his eyes flicker in your direction—is he watching you, now? You feel like you’re being catalogued, on edge with every reaction. Is he mad at you for not laughing along with everyone at some of the jokes? For frowning instead when he’s pouring his heart out?

The rest of the music and bits pass in an almost-haze. You feel...seen. Exposed.

Raw.

When the lights go down on stage and up in the house, you have to take a moment before standing. You feel nearly outside of yourself, wondering what the fuck just happened. Should you just brush it off as a strange parasocial adlib and move on with your life?

Probably. 

But damn, is he hard to shake.

Sitting in the front row has its advantages during the show, but it also means you’re going to be one of the last to leave. So you wait until the crowd has thinned a bit before making your way to the aisle, ready to board the train home and go back to the real world.

You are ready, right?

You make it about halfway to the door before you feel a hand on your arm.

“You need to come with me, ma’am.”

“SECURITY” is emblazoned on the man’s tight black polo shirt. He stares you in the eyes before gently (actually, not so gently, ow— ) pulling you back down the way you came. Your feet move of their own accord, just trying to stay upright with an instinctual sense of self preservation. 

You get past the stage before you find your voice, and it comes out terrified.

“I—am I in trouble?”

The guard says nothing, just continues to usher you past one door, then another, then guides you down a long hallway. Several other people dressed in all black cross your path, some with electrical equipment, others with lights, still others with clipboards and walkie-talkies. None of them look at you.

You hear some soft static that you realize is coming from the guard’s earpiece, and then he speaks into his own walkie-talkie. 

“She tried to leave, but I got her. Not to worry.”

Panic overtakes you, and panic means rambling.

“I’m sorry I cheered so loud. Or—or that I got upset. Really, I’m sorry. I thought everyone was going to cheer as hard as I did, and then I didn’t know what to do when he called me out, please don’t arrest me, I really don’t think I did anything wrong, I didn’t mean to—” 

He shoves you through one more door, and as you turn around to further plead your case, he shuts it in your face, leaving you gaping like a fish.

You slowly become aware of your surroundings—the room smells like sweat and makeup and stage lights.

And then you turn around—and let out a very undignified yelp.

He’s just...there.

Bo.

Literally standing feet away, apologetic expression on his face, standing in what some small part of your brain realizes must be his dressing room.

His hand is out in a universal calming gesture, and then he opens his mouth.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

What the fuck.

What the fuck?

No words come out of your open mouth as you watch him put his hand down and straighten his back.

Fuck, he’s tall.

You knew he was tall. You knew this. But knowing it and experiencing it, standing in the same room, in his shadow, well. That’s—different.

"Heard you tried to leave. I thought I told you to come see me?"

You’re still shocked, but recover just enough to speak, your mouth moving without permission or filter from your brain.

“You can’t blame me for thinking you were kidding. You know, comedy show and all.”

And then—he chuckles. It sounds...real. Almost melodic. “I didn’t see you laughing much.”

Is it wishful thinking, then, to wonder if he noticed the fact that you weren’t amused at the easy jokes, the ones he throws in to appease the ones who fall for the bullshit, the very people he’s most often admonishing? 

You were actually watching him. You were listening.

And he noticed.

But you can’t help but wonder—

“Why am I here?”

And he pauses in his movements, face turning contemplative before he runs a hand through his hair, then down his face as he seems to collect his thoughts.

“I feel like a fucking idiot saying this, but,” and he takes a large breath, chest expanding and collapsing completely before looking back at you, “I just—you seemed like—like you got it.”

Like you got me, his eyes say.

Something unnameable floods your veins, to know you aren’t projecting. Not really.

He steps closer, dwarfing you, and he looks at you, devastatingly intrigued. And he asks, “Do you want to be here? With me?”

He’s so earnest, and yet he sounds unsure, as if he thinks your answer might be a “no.” Your body feels electrified in a way it never has before. Is this really happening? You nod your head just barely, looking in his eyes, and you let out a breathless yes.

And then he puts a hand on your cheek, so big that his fingers cover part of your neck, too. And he says, “I’d really like to know more about you. But I also really fucking want to kiss you.”

Your breath stutters at the stark display of honesty, and you have to look away just to compose yourself. But he leans closer and whispers in your ear, “Don’t be shy. Please.”

And then his thumb traces a path on your jaw and even softer— “Tell me your name. And then tell me I can kiss you. Please.”

And you whisper your name, and he tells you it’s pretty, and he uses it when he asks again if he can please, please kiss you?

And at his plea, you breathe out your own please, and then his lips are on yours, soft and insistent all at once, his hand anchoring you against him, craning your neck up to meet him.

You’re honestly shocked that this is what he started with—just a kiss. You catch yourself wondering how often he does this, how often he brings someone to his dressing room and fucks them into the couch. But—he’s kissing you like just a kiss would be enough.

And you realize maybe him fucking you into the couch wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

The tip of his tongue presses at your lips, and you don’t hesitate before letting him in—and oh, he apparently likes that, if the small hum he makes in his throat is any indication. But the angle is getting to be a bit much as his excited hands tilt your neck even further. The little moan you let out is half arousal and half distress, and he notices.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your mouth. “Sorry,” he nips at your lower lip, “let me—” another short kiss, and then his hands are on your hips, easily picking you up to set you on the counter in front of the mirror. You barely have time to marvel at his strength before his mouth is back on yours, tongue delving deeper now that you’re (slightly) closer to his height.

Your legs fall open out of instinct more than anything, wanting him closer, closer, so much closer. With his hands still on your cheeks and your neck, your hands are left free to grip his hips, just at the right height to coax him to stand between your spread thighs. And fuck does that awaken something in him, because then he’s gripping your hip, yanking so you’re balanced on the very edge of the counter. 

Your head falls back with a small thunk against the mirror when your center collides with his, thin fabric of your panties doing little to protect you from the sensation. You belatedly realize that your dress has been hiked up so far that the lace is in danger of peeking out from beneath.

He breaks away suddenly with a hoarse “fuck,” cradling your head in his palm and looking into your eyes. 

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I got carried away,” and he breaks eye contact to peer down at where your thighs are on display, your heated cunt pressed against the zipper of his jeans. And he whispers, again. 

“Fuck.”

His hips twitch. You moan. And then you try to turn away.

He seems to remember your head is in his hand, and he stops you. “No. Look at me. Please. Is this—are you okay? Is this okay? Tell me. We can stop. I promise. I just—fuck.” His hips twitch again, and this time you bite your lip to prevent another embarrassing sound. “Fuck, you feel good.” He says so like he’s talking to himself, but then he looks at you again. “We can stop.”

He sounds about seventy percent sure. 

You put him out of his misery. 

“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Please—”

And then his lips are on yours again, and he doesn’t try to stop himself from grinding against you.

This is—it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt: the instant connection, the desperation, the less-than-smart decision making. It all coalesces into a haze of arousal and need and has you approaching a peak almost embarrassingly fast, just like this, grinding against his clothed, hardening cock in his tiny dressing room, cradled in his arms.

“Bo— oh,” you moan when he shifts just a bit. Your cunt is now perfectly aligned with his length, and you can practically feel the head of his cock against your covered entrance, positively dripping in your underwear.

You tilt your head back again at the sensation, seeking your peak with a single-minded focus.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Fuck, honey. Look at you. Can you come like this?”

You nod, simultaneously shocked and confident that yes, you can indeed come like this. You’re going to come like this, very soon, if the tightening in your lower abdomen is to be believed.

You follow your instincts, moving your hands to grip the edge of the makeup table, giving you the extra leverage you need to double your efforts, grinding and whining and moaning. Your mouth chants a repeated plea that he swallows down with his own, traded neediness between you.

And then he gently lets your head rest against the mirror again, both of his hands at your hips, aiding you in your quest toward completion.

“That’s it, honey,” he rasps in your ear. “So fucking cute, gonna come in your panties just from this, aren’t you?”

You turn into a bobblehead of yes yes yes.

“Do it, then.”

Permission might have been just what you were waiting for—you careen over the edge, vice grip on the table as you press your cunt in little circles against him, unwilling to stop for a moment as euphoria floods your very being. You vaguely register his lips pressed into your neck, whispered words of filth and praise like so good and desperate little thing and wish I could feel that on my cock, fuck, bet you’d feel so fucking good. All it does is prolong the bliss until you don’t have an ounce of strength left, hips stilling, grip relaxing, head lolling back against the mirror.

For a moment, you’re sure this is a dream. You’ve nearly convinced yourself of that fact.

But then you open your eyes, and there he stands—breathing heavily, hair disheveled, with a look on his face that you’ve never had directed toward you in your entire life.

“You are so fucking gorgeous when you come,” he says, like he’s explaining that the sky is blue or that world peace is a pipe dream—it’s just the truth.

“Th—thank you,” you murmur, unsure if that’s the right response—but then he captures your lips again and you decide that yes, it was.

Your drenched underwear are still pressed against him, a fact you become aware of when you feel his still-hard length buck against your still-sensitive clit.

“Oh, fuck,” you squeal—have you ever squealed in your life? What is he bringing out in you? “I—I’m sorry, you didn’t—”

“Can I touch you?” He interrupts.

You have a moment of confusion—you just came, right? And he didn’t, yet? And he—wants to touch you?

He trails a hand up your inner thigh. “Wanna feel how wet you are. Please.”

You liked his mouth well enough when all it spoke was jokes, but this? This might be better. All you can do is nod in wonder, and then his thumb slips under the soaked gusset of your underwear, immediately circling your clit.

It should be too much too soon, but a part of you relishes being so thoroughly overwhelmed.

You turn his name into a moan as he places his other hand on your lower back, guiding your chest to press against his while he kisses you so thoroughly you could almost forget the agonizing patterns he’s tracing on your clit.

Almost.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck that’s—” you choke on your words as the pad of his pointer finger just barely breaches your entrance. A question.

A nonverbal one. He just rests there, half a centimeter in, and waits.

Almost like he wants you to beg him for more.

You’re nearly beyond shame.

“Just—just do it.”

“Do what?” He sounds teasing, mock-confusion dripping from his lips before he presses them to the base of your throat.

“Anything. Please just—something, anything, please—”

“Anything?”

Oh.

“Yes. Anything. More,” you pant before crushing your mouth against his again, if for no other reason than to save yourself from further embarrassment.

And when he presses his finger all the way in, still stimulating your clit with his thumb, you feel nearly complete.

He adds a second one, and you’re even nearer.

“Oh God,” you groan.

“It’s just me,” he whispers with a conspiratorial chuckle, and you can’t help it—you laugh too, even though it’s just a moment before it turns into another moan as those fingers start to thrust.

“Fuck, Bo-ohhh fuck me—”

“What’s that?” 

You bite your lip again, undulating your hips in the hopes that he will keep going and choose not to mention your words uttered in the throes of passion.

Your hope is futile, you discover, as he stops the movement of his hand.

You whine, petulant and uncaring. “Why’d you stop?”

His hand on your lower back comes back to your neck, his gaze piercing. “What did you say? Tell me.”

You recall your fleeting thought, that getting fucked into the couch wouldn’t be so bad.

Screw it.

“I said ‘fuck me.’”

“And did you mean it?” 

You look down at where he’s straining against his zipper—you’re pretty sure he’s fucking huge. And you want to feel him. All of him.

“Yes. Yes, I want it,” you admit, floodgates open. “Please fuck me—oh!” You exclaim as the thrusting motion of his fingers resumes.

“I will,” he promises, movement speeding up, delicious pressure on your clit. “As soon as you come for me one more time, honey.”

He pulls you closer so your head is buried in his chest, his shirt muffling your moans as your approach you second peak, chasing the sensations of his fingers in your cunt, against your clit, the textured fabric against your cheek, the dig of wet lace into your thigh, all coming together in a swirl of intensity as you crash again, clenching down on his digits, surely soaking his hand with your arousal as you come and come and come, nearly never ending.

Eventually, instinct takes over, and you weakly reach for his wrist to make him stop, and he does—after just one more thrust, one more circle of the pad of his thumb on your clit. You melt and awaken all at once.

You both whisper a quiet fuck, then. 

And then, you’re scrambling for his zipper, a new kind of desperation overtaking you. You want him in you, now, right fucking now, and the groan he lets out when you manage to push down his jeans and underwear all in one go is a sound you never want to forget.

You were right.

He's huge.

You look up at him with wide-eyed wonder.

“I’m starting to see the merits of that second orgasm, Sir!” You’re half joking, but his eyes go dark for some reason, a fleeting moment before color returns. Huh. Weird.

Perhaps something to contemplate another time, a time when he’s not dragging your own underwear down your legs to shove them in his jeans pocket, when he’s not loosely fisting the biggest cock you’ve ever seen in real life (proportional, your brain helpfully supplies), when he’s not looking at you like something he wants to devour. 

You reach for him yourself, the weight in your hand sheer perfection, a bead of precum at the tip making your mouth water (but no, not now, not when you need him stretching out your cunt past the point of his two already large fingers). And then, a flash of reality sets in.

“Condom?”

He freezes.

“Fuck.” Not a fun exclamation, this time. You let go of his cock.

You’re admittedly surprised. “You don’t have condoms? Don’t you do this all the time?”

He looks—hurt? Offended? And you have no idea why that would be, until—

“No. I don’t.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I mean, I’m not a virgin,” he clarifies, “but...no. This,” he gestures between you, then out toward the vague direction of the stage he graced tonight, ''I don't do often. Or like, ever.”

You try (and fail) not to let your heart fill at the admission; it doesn’t mean that this encounter will go past tonight.

But knowing you’re the exception, well. Maybe it’s worth a little risk.

“I haven’t been with anyone since I last got tested,” you whisper. “And I’m on birth control.”

For a moment, he looks confused. Then, you see the moment where it clicks in his mind.

“Oh. Fuck. Um. Me neither. I mean, me too. Yes. Not—well, I’m not on birth control, obviously, but yeah. Good to go. If, um, if you are.” The veneer of confidence and bravado is well and truly gone in this moment, and you relish the peek into his most vulnerable state. You thought the version on stage was the closest you’d ever get.

“Well then,” you declare with a confidence you’re mostly faking, gripping his cock again, finally spreading that bead of wetness over the shaft just to hear him groan, “I think you should fuck me.”

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes, right before attacking your mouth again. You thought he was passionate before, but this? This is something else entirely, and as he rubs the head of his cock through your drenched folds, taking extra care to get a few presses to your clit, you’re melting against him, under him, around him as he presses in that first careful inch, then another, then one that leaves you gasping at the fullness and the stretch and fuck you’re pretty sure he’s not even halfway. He switches to kissing your neck and your cheeks and your forehead between murmured words of debauched praise as he presses in deeper and deeper until finally, blessedly, he’s fully inside of you, holding your thighs, letting your body go completely limp to accept him.

When he shifts his hips just a bit, you clench on instinct. 

“Fuck! Careful, honey. Wanna make this last.” His words have you clenching again—you can’t help it. He groans, low and deep.

“Think you can come on my cock, hmm?”

You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life, and he smiles at your furious nod.

“Someone’s eager.”

You much prefer his teasing in private than in public.

“Please,” you whimper, and that’s all it takes before he’s well and truly fucking you. He starts slow and deep, but once it’s clear you’re entirely on the right side of pleasure, he picks up speed, watching himself disappear into your body on every thrust. Eventually, you bury your head back against his chest, incapable of staying upright without the warm expanse of him to keep you semi-vertical.

“Jeeesus Christ, you feel so fucking good,” he says, voice more strained than you’ve heard all night. And again, you’re struck with a wave of disbelief that this is actually happening.

Your thighs dig into the edge of your perch, and while it was comfortable enough before, it’s starting to sting with the force of his thrusts.

You inhale through your teeth at one particularly hard thrust—he feels so fucking good inside you, but—

“Shit, that can’t be comfy, honey. C’mere.”

And he lifts you yet again, this time while his cock is nestled inside you. You hold on with all your might, but soon realize it doesn’t matter.

He’s got you.

He settles down on the couch in the corner with you in his lap and presses a soft kiss to your lips, now perfectly level with his.

“That’s better,” he whispers, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Okay?”

You nod, biting your lip before gyrating in his lap, watching his eyes go wide at the sensation. You can see every microexpression like this, every twitch of his lip as you lift your hips and drop them back down, every panting breath as you press your hands against his chest for leverage. 

But when you reach down to toy with your clit, he smacks your hand away.

“Mine,” he growls, almost to himself, before guiding his own hand between you.

You wonder if he felt the flood of wetness from your cunt at that simple word.

His thumb pressing perfect circles plus the way he takes over thrusting from underneath you has you seeing stars. He could’ve used you and kicked you to the curb, but here you are, rapidly approaching orgasm number three of the night as his cock remains patient and hard inside you.

He leans you forward again, but this time, the angle has your head pressed securely into his neck. Safe. Warm. Connected.

You begin to suck on the tender flesh there, just to have something to do with your mouth that isn’t moaning his name.

(Not that he seems to mind)

He picks up the pace a bit and whispers, “That’s it, honey. Come for me. Just for me,” and you’re gone. Your vision goes white, your legs turn to jelly, your brain explodes in a hot burst of almost-too-much serenity. You think you might be babbling nonsense into his collarbone as you clench and writhe and twist uncontrollably, only anchored by his arm wrapped securely around your back keeping you tethered to this plane of existence. 

You come back down slowly, awareness foggy, vaguely registering something that sounds like your own voice saying, “Bo, oh my god, fuck, Bo, so good,” before you fall limp against him.

And then you realize he’s still hard.

And the question is out before your brain can catch up.

“Where you wanna come?” You mumble into his neck. The word “do” is too much effort. Minimal words good. You’re still reeling, slowly returning back to yourself. 

“What’s that?” His voice sounds strained, still with a tinge of amusement, like the question you’ve posed is more adorable than anything.

And you sigh, regaining your faculties just enough to sit up, to grip his cheeks in your own hands this time, and to look him in the eyes.

“I said,” you announce with manufactured bravado, “where do you want to come?”

And then it’s as if asking has made you realize what you want. 

“You wanna come in my mouth, Bo?”

He looks nearly tortured when you ask, and you’d almost feel bad, except he immediately groans out a low, “fuck, yes, holy fuck,” and grips your waist so he can help lift you off of his cock.

It’s a slow, delicious drag, him exiting your cunt. And you realize with a twinge of melancholy that you may never feel it again.

But you want to feel everything, know everything, even if you’re left empty.

So you’re going to find out what he tastes like, if tonight is all you get.

You settle comfortably on your knees, belatedly realizing he hasn’t even seen your tits. You push down the straps of your dress, the cups of your bra, until your nipples are peaked over the fabric, easy enough for him to get a good look as he starts to jack off with your wetness aiding the path of his hand.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whispers, eyes darting between your face and chest where you’ve begun to play with your nipples, just for his amusement. Your cunt gives a mournful clench, but you know you won’t be coming again. It’s his turn.

“You made me feel so good,” you confess, watching his pupils dilate, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth. “Let me make you feel good, too. Please?”

“What do you—holy fuck!” He exclaims as you lean forward, capturing the tip of his cock between your lips and laving at the head with your tongue. His hand continues moving until you bat it away to take over. You pull back a moment later, eyes wide.

“Is this good?”

“So good, fuck, fuck,” he yells, sounding almost angry, perhaps at the prospect of this being over soon. And that’s what he tells you, says he’s not gonna last, not like this, not after all this time.

And you tell him that’s just fine before you wrap your lips around him to taste yourself on his cock again.

It’s only a few twists of your wrist and sucks to the tip of him that he comes in your mouth, heat and salt coating the back of your throat as you work him through it. From this angle, you can watch him fall apart, feel every twitch of his hips as he throws his head back, then forward, then opens his eyes and stares into yours as he shudders out the last of his release over your tongue.

You maintain eye contact as you swallow it down, the combined taste of you and him. 

You’ll never forget it.

He shudders before grabbing you by the neck to pull you up into a searing kiss.

Perhaps he wants a taste, too.

It’s all tongue and passion until it isn’t, until it turns slow and sweet and exploratory, what feels like an ending and a beginning all at once.

And despite the uncertainty, you can’t help but smile against his mouth.

“What?” He murmurs, not quite detaching himself from your lips. You force yourself to pull away, to look at him as you deliver your anecdote.

“I can’t believe you went bare-assed on a dressing room couch for me,” you admit with a chuckle. “Probably the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done in the history of the world.”

He laughs. It almost sounds a little sad.

But surely you’re just imagining things.

“That was,” he blows a breath out through his lips, runs a hand through his hair—it reminds you of him on stage, what seems like a compulsion every so often. A joke, a hand through his hair, a song, and repeat.

The gesture looks more nervous up close.

“Good,” you offer with a small smile. “Very good. For me, at least.”

“Me too,” he hurries to say. “Fuck, me too.” That’s a quiet murmur, one you’re not sure you were meant to hear.

You pull your bra and dress back up as he tucks himself back into his jeans. You’re still balanced in his lap, cunt bare and legs spread beneath your dress which is providing some semblance of modesty (not that it matters, now).

And then, silence. Heavy. Weighted.

“You know,” he offers casually (but fuck, it feels anything but casual), “I have another show here tomorrow night, since tonight’s sold out.”

You nod, unsure.

“What I mean is—well, maybe we could see each other again? Tomorrow? I have the day free, maybe we could—”

“Yes,” you blurt, incapable of waiting one more second. “Yes, I’d like that. A lot,” you add, just to be clear. You have a feeling he likes eager, anyway.

The grin that breaks out across his face is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Good. Great. Let me just—” and then you’re giggling because he picks you up again, crosses the room and sets you back on the makeup table before rummaging through a backpack you hadn’t noticed. He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and hands it to you silently.

You blush, realizing this somehow feels more dangerous and intimate than when he was balls deep inside you not minutes ago.

Somehow, you already trust each other. Maybe that’s idiotic, but you can’t find it in you to care. Clearly, the trust goes both ways.

You program in your name and number, and text yourself. Your bag chimes from the floor where you must’ve dropped it when he kissed you that first time. Huh. How odd that you didn’t notice, already captivated.

“So,” you start, unsure of where you’re going with the rest of that sentence. He saves you from yourself, bending down to press one more soft, eager kiss to your lips as he takes his phone.

“If you’re about to ask for your panties back, I’m afraid I’m going to have to say ‘no.’”

You quirk a brow—it’s not what you were expecting.

He’s not what you were expecting (not that you knew to expect anything at all).

But despite it all, you crack one more genuine smile for him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir.”

Aha. So last time wasn’t a trick of the light, either.

You pocket that little nugget of knowledge away for later.

Maybe for tomorrow.

For now, you smile, hopping down from your perch, still trying to remember that this is real.

“Well, I should go, seeing as I keep my bucket list at home.”

And he gives you one more smile.

“Bet you never thought you’d actually get to check that one off, huh?”

He remembers. Of course he does.

You both chance a glance at the couch with a shared grin, and he opens the door for you, taking the opportunity to swoop down for one final kiss.

“See you tomorrow, honey,” he whispers, and you melt just a little bit more.

“See you then, Bo.”

And you stride out toward an illuminated exit sign.

Tomorrow.

And after that, who knows?