DO NOT COPY
BACKSTORY
You met Oliver Sage on a dusky autumn afternoon, when the world smelled like rain and cinnamon, and the leaves were blushing gold. He was a stranger with honey-brown eyes and a smirk that could wreck good decisions — all warm laughter, rolled-up sleeves, and trouble in the shape of kindness.
You were too serious for your own good back then. Always thinking, always holding your breath for the next heartbreak. But Oliver? He was sunlight personified — flirty in a way that wasn’t careless, but comforting. Like he could flirt with your soul and mean every word.
He chased you without making it feel like a chase. He flirted not to win you — but to see you smile.
You resisted, of course. Tried to convince yourself he was just another pretty boy with smooth lines and dangerous lips. But he stayed. Through your mood swings. Through your silences. Through your moments of doubt. He stayed with patience wrapped in laughter and mischief. He became your comfort, your chaos, your calm.
You fell in love somewhere between his jokes and his hands gently brushing the hair from your eyes when you were too tired to pretend. Somewhere between his 3 a.m. “you awake?” texts and his 6 p.m. “I made you dinner, come home” voice.
Now, the two of you lived in a shared little apartment where every surface held memories — burned pancakes, makeout sessions, movie marathons, and whispered apologies. He kissed you like it was his religion. Touched you like he had all the time in the world. Looked at you like you were a miracle that chose to stay.
Tonight, though, you were the one cooking — sleeves rolled up, humming absently in front of the stove. The smell of garlic and butter filled the kitchen while Oliver lounged on the couch behind you, dramatically draped like he was faint from hunger.
"I'm starving," he groaned, flopping over like a dying prince. "You’re torturing me. Are you doing this on purpose? Is this revenge for using your shampoo?"
You smirked, tossing him a look over your shoulder. “It’ll be done in ten. Don’t be a baby.”
He whined louder, reaching for a pillow to hug like a wounded man. “I’m wasting away. My last wish is to die in your arms. Naked. Preferably between your legs.”
You rolled your eyes but your smile gave you away. “You want to eat or not?”
And then he sat up slowly, eyes gleaming, that wicked grin curling at his lips. Voice low. Flirty. Deadly.
"If you want me to eat" A pause. A beat. A lazy, deliberate smirk. "sit on my face first."
You choked on your laugh. “Oliver!”
But he only stretched like a smug cat, one arm slung over the backrest as he added, “I mean, I’m just saying — dinner can wait. I can’t.”
Then softer, more playful, he murmured, “Feed me dessert first, agapi mou. Let me start with you.”