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HOW TO ACCIDENTALLY GET A HUSBAND - PART TWO: The Bet and the Blur

 

Delaney’s convinced this is all one big mistake—until Nate starts filling in the blanks. One bet. Two too many shots. And a dare that ended with “I do.” He remembers every second. She remembers… glitter and a plastic bouquet. Now he’s offering her a deal: give their accidental marriage a shot—for thirty days.

She should say no.

Instead? She says yes… again.

Part Two: The Bet and the Blur

When a dare turns into a vow… and she can’t remember making it.

I’m pacing.

Again.

Back and forth across the hotel suite floor like a malfunctioning Roomba, muttering to myself as I try not to throw up from the combination of nerves and leftover tequila in my bloodstream.

Nate, my husband, apparently, is sitting calmly on the couch, sipping coffee like this is the most normal morning of his life.

He has the nerve to cross one ankle over his knee, like we’re a couple who brunch together every Sunday and not total strangers who accidentally tied the knot in Sin City twelve hours ago.

I spin around to face him. “How did this happen?”

He sets his mug down, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, killer. You made a bet, I called it, and next thing I know, we’re in a chapel.”

I gape. “That’s not an answer!”

He smiles like this is the most fun he’s had all morning. “You even gave me your name. Delaney, right?”

I pause. “…Yeah.”

“I’m Nate.” He offers a lazy salute. “Your husband. For now.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter, dragging my hands down my face. “I married a stranger named Nate.”

“Stranger?” he echoes, mock-offended. “That hurts, Mrs. Carter.”

My voice comes out sharp, almost shrill. “This can’t be happening.”

“Pretty sure it did. Chapel, vows, rings, and if memory serves, one too many shots of fireball beforehand…”

“Nate.”

“Delaney.”

I glare. “This is serious.”

“I’m aware.” He gestures toward me with his mug. “You’re still wearing my shirt, by the way. Not that I’m complaining.”

The oversized button-down hangs off one shoulder, smelling faintly of cologne and not that I’ll admit it, amazing. It’s soft, warm, and unfortunately comforting.

I look down and tug the hem instinctively, cheeks burning. “That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is—” he says, setting his cup down, “—you made a bet.”

I blink. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“I don’t bet. I’m not the betting type.”

He grins. “You were last night.”

“Right after your third shot, you announced you were ‘a spicy risk-taker now’ and challenged three strangers to a dance-off.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper, clutching my head. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Wish I could.”

He leans back against the couch cushions like he has all the time in the world, then tilts his head, eyes skating over me in a way that makes it really hard to remember I’m supposed to be angry. “You want the full rundown?”

“No. Yes. I—ugh. Just… tell me what happened.”

“Okay, if you insist. The bar was too loud, music thumping, lights pulsing, people laughing like they hadn’t had a bad day in years. You were perched on a velvet barstool, kicking your heels against the bottom rung and laughing so hard I couldn’t stop watching you. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair a little wild, and you looked like you owned the damn city. Like Vegas had given you permission to be reckless, and you weren’t wasting it.

I was standing beside you, one hand on the bar, the other hovering dangerously close to the small of your back. You turned to me, glass in hand, and said, ‘So you’re telling me you’ve never done karaoke?’

I told you no, and you looked personally offended. Then I clarified, said I’d never lost a bet that resulted in karaoke. You called that boring. I called you dramatic. You narrowed your eyes and told me I was calling you entertaining.

You weren’t wrong.

We did a shot. Then two more. Someone at the next table started a round of truth or dare, and your face lit up. I asked if you were in. You rolled your eyes and said you weren’t twelve, but then gave in—‘Fine. One round.’ Like you were doing me a favor.

By the end of two turns, you’d belted out a line from a Spice Girls song and danced with a stranger in a cowboy hat. And I… Well, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.

Then it was my turn. I looked at you, all flushed and full of fire, and asked, ‘Truth or dare?”’

You didn’t even hesitate. ‘Dare.’

I smirked, thinking I’d come up with something ridiculous, but before I could open my mouth, you pointed a finger at me, nearly falling off your stool, and slurred, ‘I dare you to marry me.’

I laughed. I thought you were joking. Hell, I hoped you were joking. But then you stood up, wobbling a little, chin raised like you’d just thrown down a royal flush.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing my hand. ‘Let’s go.’

I asked if you were serious.

You grinned and said, ‘I’m always serious.

Next thing I knew, we were stumbling down the Strip, hand in hand, while a woman in a feather boa screamed congratulations and an Elvis impersonator held open the chapel doors.

You grabbed the nearest set of plastic rings from a vending machine by the door, slid one onto your finger, and slurred, ‘Let’s do this before you chicken out.’

I laughed, half in shock, half in awe, and you said, ‘I do,’ just before the lights blurred and Elvis pronounced us legally insane.

And me? I said ‘I do,’ too.”

I press my hands to my cheeks.

“Oh my god. I proposed.”

He nods, smug. “You did. Right after grabbing my ass in front of a very confused minister.”

I groan and sink onto the armrest of the couch, my entire body folding in on itself. “This is a disaster.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Or it’s the best story you’ll ever tell.”

I shoot him a look. “No. The best story would’ve been narrowly avoiding a bad decision in Vegas and going home with a killer hangover.”

“But then you wouldn’t have met me,” he says, mock-offended.

“I met you yesterday.”

“And married me last night. Really leaning into the fast lane, huh?”

“I don’t even know your middle name!”

“It’s Carter.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter. “Nate Carter Carter.”

He laughs. “Nathaniel Carter Wells, actually.”

I blink. “Wells. Wait. That sounds familiar.”

“You might’ve Googled me last night.”

“Did I?”

He pulls out his phone, scrolling for a second before flashing the screen.

It’s a selfie. Of the two of us. Outside the chapel. I’m holding my heels in one hand and flashing a ring with the other. He’s beaming like he won the damn lottery.

I stare. “I look… happy.”

“You were.”

“And drunk.”

He grins. “Also true.”

Silence stretches between us for a moment before I say, “We need an annulment.”

He leans back. “You’re not even curious?”

“About what?”

“About what it’d be like… if we didn’t rush into ending this?”

I gape at him. “Are you saying you don’t want an annulment?”

He shrugs. “I’m saying you’re funny and hot and smart, and maybe I’d like to know what it’s like being your husband when we’re both sober.”

I blink.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, standing. “Give me one day. Be my wife for one day. Let me prove this isn’t just tequila and bad decisions.”

“Or better yet… give me a month. Be my wife for thirty days. If you still want out after that, I’ll sign whatever papers you want.”

“And if I say no?”

He smiles. “Then I’ll call the lawyer myself.”

I hesitate, torn between reason and the fact that I’m still wearing his shirt and secretly kind of like it.

“This is insane,” I mutter.

Nate grabs the hotel phone. “Room service? Yes, hi. We’ll have pancakes, bacon, coffee… and extra syrup.”

I stare. “Seriously?”

He winks. “Not yet.”

To be continued…  Come back tomorrow for Part Three.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

How to Accidentally get a Husband - Part One: The Hangover & the Husband

What happens in Vegas… doesn’t always stay in Vegas.

Delaney Quinn wakes up in a luxury suite with a pounding headache, no memory of last night—and a ring on her finger. Even worse? The absurdly hot, infuriatingly calm man making coffee in her kitchen claims to be her husband.

Apparently, she proposed.

And apparently… he said yes.

Now she has one day to figure out what the hell happened, survive the world’s most confusing (and kind of perfect?) newlywed breakfast, and decide if this accidental husband is her worst mistake—or her best impulsive decision yet.

Part One: The Hangover & the Husband

The Morning After – Vegas Suite

I wake up with a mouth like cotton and a headache loud enough to file a noise complaint.

The sheets aren’t mine.

Neither is the bed. Or the floor-to-ceiling windows where a soft golden sunlight is filtering through. Or the suspiciously expensive-looking chandelier hanging above me like a fancy middle finger.

I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes, only to realize I’m wearing… a robe?

Not my robe.

I peek down. White. Plush. Hotel embroidery on the lapel. And underneath it?

Nothing.

No bra. No panties. Not even a sock.

What in the holy hangover?

I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. My head pounds like a nightclub bass line, and behind my eyes, blurry flashes of last night start trickling in.

Bright lights. Loud music. A man’s hand on my waist. A dare?

I rub my temple, trying to blink the room into focus. It’s not just a hotel room. It’s a suite. A giant one. Vaulted ceilings, mirrored bar, marble floors, and a wraparound view of the Las Vegas strip. There’s even a grand piano in the corner like this is a romcom and not my personal crisis.

That’s when I hear it.

Whistling.

Cheerful, unbothered, someone-is-too-awake whistling.

There’s a man in the suite.

Whoever’s whistling sounds way too comfortable to be a stranger.

I ease off the bed, clutching the robe tighter, and tiptoe toward the sound, past an open suitcase on the floor, a discarded bowtie on a chair, and a very crumpled tux jacket hanging off a lamp. Definitely not mine.

“Good morning, Mrs. Carter.”

I yelp.

The voice comes from the kitchenette, and when I round the corner, I nearly choke on my own breath.

The man is tall. Shirtless. And absurdly hot.

Dark, mussed hair. Strong jaw. Muscular arms that flex as he pours two cups of coffee like this is the most normal morning ever. His abs could have their own social media following. And he’s wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that do absolutely nothing to hide the fact that this man is… substantial.

I blink at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, what did you just call me?”

He turns with a grin and holds out a mug. “Mrs. Carter. Want cream or sugar, or are you a straight-up caffeine kind of girl?”

“I.. who…I don’t even know who you are!”

His brow furrows. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?!”

He pauses. “Last night.”

I stare at him, jaw falling open. “Oh my God. Did we…?”

He sets both mugs on the counter and tilts his head, considering. “Have sex? No. You passed out halfway through telling me how much you love miniature horses and guacamole.”

I blink. “I… wait, what?”

He chuckles. “You’re really cute when you’re drunk, by the way. But also very insistent. You refused to get married in anything other than your heels. And you kept calling the officiant ‘Your Honor.’ Which I’m pretty sure isn’t right.”

My blood goes cold. “Excuse me?”

He walks over and gently lifts my left hand. There, nestled against my very hungover knuckle, is a diamond ring.

Not huge. Not tiny. Just… there.

I stare at it. “This is a prank.”

“Nope.”

“Is this some kind of con?”

He lifts a brow. “I mean, if I was scamming you, I probably wouldn’t have booked the penthouse and ordered six hundred dollars’ worth of celebratory sushi.”

I look at him like he’s sprouted horns. “You’re saying we got married last night?”

“I’m saying you asked me. Loudly. And repeatedly. And then told me if I didn’t say yes, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.” He shrugs, way too amused. “So I said yes.”

I stumble backward and grab the counter for support. “This is not happening.”

“Oh, it definitely happened.”

He grabs his phone from the table and taps a few times, then turns it to show me.

There we are.

Blurry, disheveled, lit by neon hearts and chapel fairy lights. I’m in a ridiculous white feathered minidress and heels. He’s in the tux I passed in the hallway. We’re grinning like lunatics, kissing like we’ve been in love for years.

The caption reads: Mr. & Mrs. Carter, hitched at midnight.

I grab the phone from him, scanning the other photos, cake smeared across my cheek, my leg hooked around his hip, us dancing in the aisle while the officiant watches with a champagne flute in hand.

“This isn’t possible,” I whisper.

He sips his coffee. “Sure it is. This is Vegas, baby.”

I set the phone down, hand trembling. “I need to go. I need to call someone. I need a lawyer. Or a priest. Or a memory scrubber.”

He walks back over, sets a plate of room service pancakes in front of me, and smiles like he’s done this before. “Eat first. You’ll feel better.”

“I’m not hungry!”

“Liar. Your stomach’s been growling since you walked in.”

I glare at him. “How are you so calm?”

He shrugs. “Because I remember everything, and I’m not freaking out.”

“Well, I am.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest, and that stupid smirk on his face.

“You don’t strike me as the one-night-stand type,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “So what gives? Why are you so chill about being accidentally married to a complete stranger?”

His smile softens, almost… fond. “Because you’re not a stranger.”

I blink. “What?”

“You don’t remember meeting me before the bar last night, do you?”

I shake my head slowly.

He looks almost bashful for the first time. “I saw you three nights ago. You were at that hotel lounge with your friend, wearing a green dress and laughing at something on your phone. I’ve been trying to talk to you ever since.”

He shrugs. “Guess I finally worked up the nerve.”

My mouth is dry. My brain’s short-circuiting. And yet, beneath all the panic… there’s a flicker of something else.

Curiosity.

Maybe even attraction.

“Let me make a deal with you,” he says, stepping closer.

I back up half a step, pulse thudding.

“One day,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking. Spend one day as my wife. If you still want an annulment after that, I won’t stop you. But give me a chance to change your mind.”

I stare at him, caught somewhere between speechless and infuriated.

“You’re insane,” I mutter.

“Possibly,” he agrees, reaching for the room service menu. “But you’re hungover, still in my robe, and wearing my ring. So at least give me until brunch.”

To be continued…  Come back tomorrow for Part Two.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Just This Once (Again) - Part Five: The Line We Cross (and What Comes After)

 

Some lines once crossed, can’t be uncrossed.

Cassidy and Dean have spent every moment fighting what they feel, wrapped in grief and guilt and the weight of everything they lost. But now—after one night that changed everything—they’re finally forced to face the truth they’ve been avoiding.

One of them wants to walk away.
The other lays it all on the line.
Because love doesn’t wait until you’re ready.
Sometimes, it just asks if you’re willing.

Would you keep reading?

Is this the kind of messy, emotional, forbidden love story you’d want more of?

Let me know in the comments — because your answer might just decide what happens next.

Just This Once (Again)

Part Two: 

The Next Morning

I wake up to sunlight cutting through the blinds and the soft, even rhythm of Dean’s breathing beside me.

His arm is still wrapped around my waist, warm and heavy. One leg tangled with mine, like even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go.

For a second, I let myself pretend.

That we’re not hiding. That nothing about this is wrong. That I don’t feel the crushing weight of reality pressing against the edges of the morning light.

But I blink, and it’s there.

Guilt. Grief. And something that feels dangerously close to love.

Dean stirs, his grip tightening. He presses a kiss to my bare shoulder, voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”

I nod before I even think. “Yeah.”

He shifts, propping himself on one elbow. “You sure?”

No. But I lie again. “Yeah.”

I slip out from under the covers a few minutes later, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on.

The house is still quiet. Morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, but it doesn’t soothe the ache in my chest.

I’m almost to the kitchen when I hear a knock.

I freeze.

It’s light at first, then firmer. And then Claire’s voice, “Cass? You home?”

My blood runs cold.

I spin back toward the bedroom. Dean’s standing in the doorway now, shirtless, hair a mess, pants half-zipped.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“Stay in the bedroom,” I whisper, pointing.

He vanishes back inside just as a knock sounds at the front door again.

My stomach drops. I hurry to answer it, yanking it open and forcing a smile.

“Hey,” I say, breathless. “What’s up?”

Claire stands on the porch holding up a coffee. “You left the party fast. I figured you’d need this.”

I take it with a grateful smile, trying not to glance over my shoulder. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She leans in, lowering her voice. “You okay?”

I nod quickly, a little too quickly. “Just tired. Long night.”

Claire studies me for a second, her eyes narrowing slightly  like she might push, but then her phone buzzes. She glances at it, sighs, and says, Claire winces at her phone. “My boss needs me to jump on a call. Because clearly, weekends are a myth.”

“Good luck,” I say with a half-laugh and I hug her..

She gives me a look, then walks off toward her car.

I shut the door and exhale, my whole body sagging.

Behind me, the bedroom door creaks open. Dean steps out slowly, barefoot and rumpled, pants slung low on his hips, chest bare, because I’m still wearing his shirt.

 His eyes land on me like he’s trying to read every thought I didn’t say.

He turns to look at me, expression unreadable. “Do you regret it?”

I should lie. Say yes. Pretend this was just grief again. A slip.

But I can’t.

“No,” I say softly. “Do you?”

His answer is too slow.

And that’s all it takes for the panic to set in.

I cross my arms, suddenly cold. “Maybe we should stop.”

Dean flinches like I hit him. “Cassidy…”

“This isn’t sustainable,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We almost got caught. And it’s not fair to anyone, especially Ben’s family—”

He closes the space between us in two long strides. “It’s not about them. It’s about us.”

“No,” I snap, louder than I mean to. “It’s about everything. It’s about the fact that I’m still wearing my dead husband’s ring, and you’re his best friend. That we’re sneaking around like we’re doing something dirty when I—”

“When you what?” he asks, voice rough.

I don’t answer.

“Cass,” he says again, softer now. “Look at me.”

I do. And I hate what I see, because it’s not guilt in his eyes. It’s not lust or confusion.

It’s something so real it makes my chest ache.

“I tried to stay away,” he says. “I told myself it was the right thing. That walking away from you meant I was honoring him.”

“And now?”

He exhales. “Now I think walking away from you might’ve been the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

My breath catches.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” he says, his voice raw. “Do you think I don’t lie awake at night thinking about Ben? About how fucked this is?”

“Then why are we doing it?” I whisper.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The room tilts.

“I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was before Ben died. Maybe I ignored it for too long. But I know it now. I feel it every time I look at you.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back.

“He was your husband,” he says, stepping closer.

His words hang in the air, soft but irrevocable.

Dean's voice cracks, low and ragged. “I’m in love with you.”

The words land between us like a tremor, shifting the ground beneath my feet. My breath stutters.

He swallows hard, gaze locked on mine. “He was your husband,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper, thick with guilt and truth and everything he’s tried not to feel.

I step toward him, my own voice shaking. “And you’re the one I need.”

I expect relief. Maybe even peace. But all I feel is raw.

Like the truth just stripped me bare. Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for me. He just watches, like he knows it has to be me this time.

That if we take another step forward, it has to be mine.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to love you without feeling like I’m betraying him.”

“You’re not,” he says quietly. “You’re grieving him. And maybe I am too. But that doesn’t make what’s between us wrong.”

I shake my head. “But it feels like—”

“Feels like we’re still alive?” he interrupts. “Like we’re not just ghosts orbiting a memory?”

My chest aches. “It feels like I’m standing in two worlds. One where I’m still Ben’s wife. And one where I’m… yours.”

Dean finally steps forward, reaching up to brush his fingers over my cheek. “You don’t have to choose today. You don’t have to choose at all. Just… don’t run.”

I look at him, really look at him. At the man who held my hand at Ben’s funeral. Who left because he thought it was the right thing. Who came back because he couldn’t stay away. The man I’ve loved longer than I married.

“You make it sound so simple,” I say, tears burning now.

“It’s not. It’s going to be messy and hard and probably painful as hell. But it’s real.”

I exhale slowly. “And if we hurt people?”

“We’ll deal with it. Together.”

That word, together, lodges in my throat like something sacred.

I nod, not because I have the answers, but because I know one thing, I don’t want to lose him too.

Dean pulls me into his arms, his forehead pressed to mine. We stand like that for a long time, the only sound is our uneven breaths.

And when I finally speak again, it’s not a promise or a plan.

It’s just the truth.

“I don’t know where this goes.” I whisper.

He kisses my temple, lingering there. “Then let’s find out. One day at a time.”

The End…  Let me know if you want more of Dean and Cassidy. I’m happy to write more of them!

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Just This Once (Again) - Part Four: What If We’re Caught?

Some lines, once crossed, can’t be uncrossed.

In this chapter, Cassidy and Dean give in to everything they’ve been denying—again. But this time, it’s not just about heat or heartbreak. It’s about honesty. About finally saying what they were too afraid to before.

Secrets. Regret. A stolen night behind the house that changes everything.

And one impossible question:

What if we get caught?

Just This Once (Again)

Part Two: 

What If We’re Caught?

I feel the exact moment he gives in, his restraint snapping like a thread pulled too tight. He drives into me again, deeper this time, each thrust rougher, more urgent, like he’s been holding back for far too long. I gasp into his mouth, my back arching off the wall as my body tightens around him, hot and slick and aching.

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound ragged and low against my throat.

His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for him as he rocks into me again. And again. The rough rhythm sends shockwaves through me, each thrust hitting deep, dragging pleasure through every nerve ending like sparks catching fire.

I dig my nails into his shoulders, helpless to do anything but cling to him. The pressure builds fast, too fast. Every stroke feels like it’s meant to punish and worship all at once. Like he’s trying to erase the space between us and brand himself into my bones.

“You feel…” He can’t finish the sentence, just presses his forehead to mine, his breath hot and ragged. “So goddamn tight. So good.”

My hips move without thinking, chasing the friction, the stretch, the unbearable fullness. He groans again when I squeeze around him, his hand slipping between us to find my clit.

“Dean—” It leaves me on a gasp, half a plea, half a warning.

“Shhh,” he mutters, voice thick and wrecked. “I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

He circles me with practiced precision, and I do, my whole body tensing, then breaking apart around him. My climax rips through me, sharp and hot and blinding, stealing the breath from my lungs. I cry out, biting his shoulder to stay quiet, and he swears again as I pulse around him.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Fuck, Cassidy. You’re gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t slow down. He’s relentless now, thrusting harder, chasing his own climax like he’s seconds from falling. I watch his face as he unravels, jaw clenched, eyes dark and wild. And when he finally spills inside me, it’s with a broken groan and a shudder that runs all the way through his body into mine.

He keeps moving through it, grounding us both, until we’re nothing but tangled bodies and shaking breaths in the dark.

We don’t speak when it’s fully over.

Just breathing and skin and the silence of everything we didn’t mean to do, again.

Dean’s neck is slick with sweat beneath my hands. His heartbeat thunders under my fingertips, and mine tries to match it, uneven and frantic. My dress is bunched at my waist. His pants are open. My legs are still wrapped around him like I don’t know how to let go.

Maybe I don’t.

His forehead rests against mine, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the echo of what we just did.

He’s the first to move.

One arm stays locked under my thigh, holding me up like he never wants to let go. The other drifts to the small of my back, then up into my hair, fingers trembling like he doesn’t trust himself to speak. But he does anyway.

“I should take you home.” He mutters, still breathless.

“Take me home,” but what does that mean anymore?

Does he mean just for tonight? Or does he mean always?

I want to ask. I want to believe this meant more than a relapse.

But I don’t. Because the second he lets go, I already feel it slipping away.

The words are hoarse. Rough. Like they scrape his throat on the way out.

I nod.

But neither of us moves.

He finally lowers me to the ground, slow and careful, like he thinks I might break apart if he lets go too fast.

Maybe I will.

We fix our clothes in silence. He pulls his pants up and buckles his belt. I smooth my hands down my dress. But we don’t look at each other, until we’re walking toward his truck.

The ride is quiet at first.

The heater hums low, soft static behind the thump of my heart. I stare out the window, watching the houses blur past. He drives, with one hand on the wheel, the other fisted in his lap like it’s the only way to keep himself in check.

Halfway home, he pulls over.

I glance at him, surprised. “What are you—?”

“I can’t drop you off like this,” he says, jaw tight. “Like what we just did never happened.”

My throat goes dry.

He turns off the ignition and shifts to face me. “I know what this looks like. What it is. But I need you to know something.”

I brace for it, for him to say it was a mistake. That it can’t happen again.

He grips the steering wheel like he’s bracing for impact.

“I didn’t leave because I felt guilty,” he says, voice tight, eyes fixed on the road.

“I left because I wanted more.”

My breath catches.

He’s still staring at me. Still holding back. “That night… I thought it was grief. Or loneliness. I told myself we were both just broken and needed something familiar. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. About how it felt like more than a mistake. And that scared the hell out of me.”

I blink, trying to swallow past the knot in my throat.

“I didn’t reach out because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stay away.” He pauses. “And I didn’t want just a moment. I wanted all of you.”

I should say something. Anything. But all I can do is stare.

He sighs. “And I knew I couldn’t have that. So I disappeared. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did.”

His hand scrubs down his face, like the admission costs him something. And maybe it does.

My voice is soft. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you either.”

Not once.

Every time I shut my eyes, it’s not Ben I see.

“You looked at me like you were about to break… and kissed me like it would fix us both,” I say quietly. “Then you made that sound when I touched you. And your hands were shaking like… like you thought you’d never get another chance.”

He stills, every breath caught between us.

“Every night,” I whisper. “Every time I closed my eyes, it wasn’t Ben I saw. It was you. Your hands. Your mouth. The way you looked at me like I wasn’t supposed to be yours, but you wanted me anyway.”

Dean doesn’t breathe for a second.

“Cass—”

“We’re terrible people,” I say before he can finish. “This is wrong. It’s messy and complicated and if anyone knew—”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I think about it every time I look at Matt. Or Claire. Every time I see Ben’s mom.”

My heart twists.

“But I also know,” he adds, “that what’s between us isn’t just grief. Or lust. Or loneliness. It’s something I can’t stop feeling… no matter how hard I try.”

I look down at my hands, twisting in my lap. “So what do we do?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“We keep pretending?” I ask. “We sneak around? Until one of us cracks under the guilt and the other gets left behind again?”

His jaw clenches. “I don’t want to pretend.”

“Then what?”

He reaches for my hand. Covers it with his like it’s instinct.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I can’t lose you too.”

I look at our hands. The same hands that held each other at a funeral. That trembled the night everything changed.

Then I look up at him. “Then don’t let go.”

He doesn’t.

He keeps holding on.

Until our breathing slows. Until the night settles again around us. Until the truck is the only thing tethering us to reality.

But the silence isn’t calm.

It’s loud and heavy and full of every word we’re too scared to say.

I stare out the window, counting breaths, wondering which one will be the last before I ruin this.

Before I ask what happens next.

Before he tells me it meant nothing.

To be continued…  Come back tomorrow for Part Three.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Just This Once (Again) - Part Three: The New Secret

Some promises were never meant to last.

A kiss can break them.

A touch can undo everything.

But when the person you shouldn’t want is the only one who makes you feel alive again…

What choice do you really have?

Just This Once (Again)

Part Three: 

The New Secret

Dean’s eyes are still on me.

Even as people laugh and pass drinks and someone proposes a toast in the kitchen, I can feel the weight of his stare like a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.

I try not to look at him again.

But I fail.

He’s still standing beside Matt. Wearing a damn button-up that fits too well. Still wearing that expression I can’t quite read. It’s tight and unreadable, but unmistakably him.

Claire squeezes my arm. “You okay?”

I nod without meaning it. “Fine.”

“You sure? Because you’re looking a little—”

“Claire.” I warn.

She holds up both hands. “Okay. Got it.”

I try to blend into the noise. Sip a glass of something pink and sparkling. Smile when someone asks how I’ve been. I even laugh once, though it sounds a little wrong coming out of my mouth.

But I feel his presence again.

I don’t even have to look this time. I know when he’s near.

When I finally cave and glance over, he’s talking to one of the groomsmen. But he’s not laughing. Not even pretending. His eyes find mine in the middle of a crowded room like he’s been waiting for it.

I look away first.

It’s always been me.

And it’s not until I step outside for air that I realize he’s followed me.

The porch is quiet, dark except for the strings of lights that I’m sure Claire insisted on. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I’d brought a coat. Wishing for a lot of things.

“You shouldn’t have come out here alone.”

I flinch at his voice. “Why? You worried someone else might kiss me?”

Dean breathes out his exasperation, muttering, “Jesus.” Then quieter, “Cassidy.”

I turn around. He’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to touch anything. Including me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My brother’s getting married.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s been holding in too much.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

Dean’s mouth twists. “Bullshit.”

“I didn’t,” I snap. “Claire never said anyone’s name.”

He takes a step closer, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “You really think Claire didn’t know what she was doing?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, jaw tight, like he hates saying it but knows he’s right. For a second, he almost looks sorry that he believes it or maybe for what happened.

“You didn’t call,” I say, quieter now. “You didn’t check on me.”

Dean looks away. “I couldn’t.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I know.”

The silence stretches. It’s not like the quiet from before, this one is thick with everything we didn’t say.

I shake my head. “You disappeared. After everything. After we—”

“I didn’t disappear,” he says, stepping closer. “You told me to go.”

“I told you it couldn’t happen. That’s not the same as vanishing.”

“I thought it was what you wanted.” His hand runs through his hair again.

“What I wanted?” I laugh, but it’s bitter and dry. “You think I wanted to lose my husband and kiss his best friend in a matter of days?”

He closes his eyes for half a second like the words hit him in the chest.

“Cass.”

“No. Don’t ‘Cass’ me like you still get to say my name like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” I whisper. “Because I don’t know if I am.”

He looks up.

I take a shaky breath. “I’m tired of pretending that night in the past didn’t happen. I’m tired of lying to myself like it never mattered.”

Dean’s breathing changes. So does the space between us.

“That night…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t have to. We both remember every second. 

Every breath.

He steps closer, and I should step back. I don’t.

“You ruined everything,” I say, voice cracking.

“I know.” His voice is low. Raw.

“I hate you for it.”

Dean exhales. “I hate me too.”

We’re too close now. I feel the heat of him in the cold night air. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

I don’t move.

“You think about it?” I ask.

“Every goddam day.”

His voice is low. Rough.

“I replay it over and over,” I admit. “Your hands. The way you looked at me like I was something you weren’t supposed to want but did.”

“You were,” he says. “You still are.”

My throat tightens. “Don’t.”

“I can’t stop.”

And then it’s happening. We’re kissing.

His hand is gripping the back of my neck. My fingers tighten in his shirt. Our mouths are crashing together like we’re trying to erase every moment since the last time.

It’s too much and not enough. Too fast and far too late.

But I kiss him back like it’s the only thing I’ve been sure of in weeks.

When we finally pull apart, breathing hard, eyes wild, everything in me wants to lean back in.

But I don’t.

I step away, slow, and it physically hurts to do it.

Dean watches me with that same broken expression he wore the last time.

“We said we wouldn’t,” I whisper.

“I know.”

“One kiss. That’s all it takes to break every promise we made.” I pause, heart hammering. “But I still want more.”

His eyes flash. For a second, he doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. Then something in him snaps.

Then he’s on me before I can blink.

No hesitation. No apology. Just hands in my hair and a groan in the back of his throat like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

Maybe he has.

I gasp into his mouth, but I don’t pull away. I should. I want to. But my fingers curl in his shirt instead, dragging him closer like it’s instinct. Like my body doesn’t remember we’re not supposed to want this.

Dean kisses me like he’s drowning. Like this is the only air he gets. One hand fists the fabric at my lower back, the other slips under the hem of my dress, fingers skimming the bare skin of my thigh.

“Cass,” he breathes against my lips. “You don’t want this…”

But he doesn’t stop.

I don’t either.

My head tilts, giving him more access. I taste regret and longing and every unsaid thing between us. His mouth moves over mine like a prayer and a punishment.

“I do,” I whisper, even though I know it’s not the truth. Or maybe it is, and that’s the worst part.

He walks me backward, blindly, until my back hits the wall of the house. Somewhere behind us, the party carries on, laughter and music muffled through windows and secrets.

I slide my hands under his shirt, finding heat and muscle and a heartbeat that pounds in time with mine. His breath hitches when my nails scrape lightly down his spine.

“I’m not good for you,” he mutters, voice wrecked as his lips drag across my jaw. “I never was.”

“Doesn’t feel like that right now.”

He huffs a broken laugh, mouth returning to mine with a hunger that borders on desperate. His thigh slots between mine, and I move without thinking, grinding onto him like I need the friction to stay grounded.

He curses softly, hips pressing forward.

“We should stop,” I say, but my hands are already pulling at his belt.

“We should,” he replies, and the truth of it hurts.

He lifts me with one hand braced under my thigh, backing us into the shadows. Some dark corner behind the house, half-shielded by trees and the hum of distant music. I don’t care who sees. I don’t care if they do.

The second my back hits the wall, we’re colliding again, mouths, hands, heat.

He hikes my dress up with rough fingers, the fabric gathering at my hips. The buckle clinks as he shoves his pants down, urgency in every movement.

And then he’s inside me, all heat and need and too late to stop.

One thrust and I shatter, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding me together.

Dean presses his forehead to mine, his breathing ragged. “Tell me you hate me,” he whispers. “Tell me this doesn’t mean anything.”

I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer.

“I can’t.”

His mouth crashes to mine again, and this time, we don’t stop.

To be continued…  Come back tomorrow for Part Four.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Just This Once (Again) - Part Two: Aftermath and Avoidance

They lost the same man. But only one of them walked away.

One week after the funeral, Cassidy shows up at a party she never wanted to attend—only to come face-to-face with the one person who hasn’t said a word since the day everything shattered.

Just This Once (Again)

Part Two: 

Aftermath and Avoidance

It’s been a week.

Seven days of answering messages I don’t remember reading. Of casseroles wrapped in tinfoil stacked in the freezer. Of people saying they’re sorry, too loud, too long, and too often.

But not him.

Dean hasn’t called. He hasn’t even texted.

Not even a hey, or a how are you holding up.

I kept checking my phone the first few days. Turning the ringer up. Leaving it face-up on the table like I was waiting on something I knew wasn’t coming.

It’s almost funny, the silence from him is louder than all the condolences combined.

He just disappeared.

No note. No call. Just nothing.

I thought maybe he’d check in. Not because of what happened between us, but because of Ben. Because he was his best friend. Because we lost him together.

But maybe that’s why he stayed away. Maybe he can’t face me without seeing the man we both lost.

Or maybe I’m the one he regrets.

And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe it was mercy.

Because every time I close my eyes, I don’t see the casket. I see his hands on my hips. Feel his mouth on my neck. The way his breath shook when he kissed me like he wasn’t supposed to like it.

And I see myself kissing him back.

That night ended the way it had to, with a slammed door and silence thick enough to choke on.

I’d pulled away first.

Said “This can’t happen” with my back pressed to the wall and my heart threatening to beat through my ribs.

Dean didn’t argue let alone speak. He just stood there.

Like a man who’d already lost something he knew he shouldn’t have wanted in the first place.

And then he left.

…………

I still haven’t washed the sheets on our bed, well… my bed I guess.

But I moved back into the bedroom. That’s something, I suppose.

Grief is a strange kind of storm.

Some days it floods everything. Others, it just leaves you cold and soggy in the middle of a room you don’t remember walking into.

Today is one of those days.

I’m staring at the kitchen sink when my sister calls.

“Cass,” she says, immediately suspicious. “You sound terrible.”

I blink. “Thanks.”

“I mean… you need to get out of that house,” she says, exasperated but trying to sound gentle. “You haven’t done anything in a week. Come to the party. It’s just a small engagement thing. Nothing fancy. Maybe it’ll be good for you.”

I close my eyes. “I don’t want to see people.”

“You don’t have to talk to anyone. Just show up. Hug me. Eat a cookie. I don’t know, fake a smile and judge my in-laws.”

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You won’t ever be if you don’t try.”

Then, softer: “It’s not about him, Cass. It’s about you. You need to breathe.”

She’s not wrong.

I’ve been holding my breath since the day they lowered the casket into the ground.

…………

I get dressed slowly. Nothing fancy, just a simple black dress that’s been sitting in the back of my closet, still tagged. Ben bought it for me last year. I told him I’d wear it the next time we had a reason to go out.

He brought it home in a box with tissue paper and a stupid little bow. Said he saw it on the mannequin and thought of me.

“Next time we go out,” he said.

We never did.

I tug it on like armor and pair it with low heels I haven’t worn in years.

I stare at myself in the mirror for entirely too long. I’m too pale and look… tired. There are faint shadows under my eyes that no amount of concealer can fix.

My lipstick looks too bright. Like it belongs to someone who feels better than I do.

I swipe it off and put it back on twice before I give up and leave it smudged at the edges.

Ben would’ve told me I looked beautiful.

I tell myself I’m doing this for Claire. Not for me.

Dean… I don’t even know what he’d say anymore.

And maybe seeing people will help.

I also don’t think Dean will be there.

He wouldn’t be. Would he?

…………

The house is already packed when I pull up. Warm light spills through the windows. Laughter trickles out the front door. I clutch the steering wheel for three whole minutes before finally stepping out into the night.

I rehearse a smile on the walk up.

Tuck my hair behind my ear and try to remember how to be normal. If there is such a thing.

I make it to the door. Someone’s cousin lets me in. I’m hit with the scent of wine and sugar cookies and candles trying too hard to smell like a forest.

“Cassidy!”

My sister, Claire’s voice breaks through the noise as she weaves toward me in a blue dress and heels she can’t walk in. She throws her arms around me like it hasn’t only been a few days.

“I’m so glad you came,” she whispers, squeezing too hard.

I nod into her shoulder. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” She pulls back, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

I start to breathe a little easier.

For a second, it almost feels okay. Like maybe I can survive this.

The music hums low, someone laughs from the kitchen, and I think—just briefly—maybe Claire was right.

Maybe I needed this.

Until I look past her. And see… Dean.

Standing in the corner. Wearing a dark button-up with the sleeves rolled and his jaw clenched tight.

He hasn’t seen me yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s just not moving. Like if he stands still long enough, he can turn invisible.

But he can’t.

Not from me.

And not when he’s standing beside the groom.

I blink once.

Twice.

My stomach sinks as the pieces start to click.

Because I recognize the groom. And now I know why Dean’s here.

It’s Matt, Dean’s younger brother.

The groom Claire’s been fussing over for weeks—helping his fiancée plan this party. Of course she’s a bridesmaid.

I just never asked who the groom was.

I should’ve known.

She mentioned the dress. The cake. The playlist.

I just didn’t ask the right questions.

Maybe I didn’t want to know.

Well, I know now.

And when our eyes almost meet, my heart stops. The breath leaves my body, and everything comes rushing back, breaking something open in me all over again.

To be continued…  Come back tomorrow for Part Three.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Just This Once (Again) – Part One: The Funeral and the Fire

Before You Read: Let’s Talk About Grief, Guilt… and Crossing Lines

Grief doesn’t come with a rulebook.

It’s messy. Quiet. Loud. Lonely. Desperate. Sometimes it makes people reach for the wrong things—just to feel something.

This story explores what happens when two people cross a line they never meant to.
Not because they’re reckless. But because they’re human.
And hurting.

If you love a story that blends forbidden tension, emotional ache, and that one choice you can’t undo… you’re in the right place.

Please enjoy!

Just This Once (Again)

Part One: 

The Funeral and the Fire

The casserole is cold by the time I open the door. He doesn’t flinch when he sees me, just stands there, holding the foil-covered dish like it’s some kind of peace offering. Like lasagna can make up for the silence between us. The silence after that night.

My hands are shaking. Not from him. Not entirely. I’ve barely eaten. Barely slept. Tomorrow I’ll bury the man I married at twenty-two, and tonight the only person I don’t want to see is the one person who came.

“Hey,” he says, quiet. Rough.

I step aside without a word.

He walks in, toeing his boots off by the door, like this is just another visit. Like I’m not in the same clothes I wore yesterday, hair a mess, emotions unraveling by the second.

“Kitchen?” he asks, nodding toward it.

I nod. He disappears into the other room like he knows the layout by heart. He does.

He’s here a lot.

Before the accident. Before the funeral planning. Before the first tear ever fell.

Before I forgot how to breathe.

When I finally follow him into the kitchen, he’s already preheating the oven, rinsing his hands in the sink.

“You didn’t have to come,” I say.

He shrugs, glancing over his shoulder. “Didn’t feel right not to.”

My throat tightens.

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches and presses down on my chest. I break it first.

“I can’t eat.”

He nods again, slower this time, like he understands. And he probably does. He always has.

“Drink?” he offers, already reaching for a glass.

I sit at the table, hands in my lap, and watch him move through my kitchen like he’s trying not to make a sound. He slides the glass of water in front of me. I don’t touch it.

His eyes lift. “You’ve got people coming tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” I nod, voice hoarse. “A lot.”

He leans against the counter. He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He knows I’m not.

“What about after?” he asks.

I meet his eyes for the first time. “After?”

“When everyone leaves. When they stop calling. When it’s just… quiet.”

I blink. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

His jaw clenches. “You will.”

He doesn’t say I’ll be here. He doesn’t say you’re not alone. He doesn’t say anything like that.

That’s the thing with him. He was never the soft one. My husband, his best friend, was. Light and easy. Affectionate. Always knew what to say.

But this man?

He’s silence and shadows. Stillness and stares. He doesn’t offer comfort, he becomes it.

And maybe that’s why I break.

“I haven’t been able to sleep in that bed,” I whisper. “Not since the night they called.”

He looks away like it hurts to hear it.

I keep going anyway.

“I sleep on the couch. I haven’t washed the sheets. I don’t want to, but I know I need to. And the smell is fading.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t think that would hurt so bad.”

Something shifts in him, in me, in the air.

Then he moves. Quiet and slow, like I’m a deer about to bolt. He crouches beside me, his hand resting on the edge of the table, close but not touching.

“I’ll wash them for you,” he says, low. “Tomorrow. When this is over.”

My eyes burn. “Why are you doing this?”

His gaze lifts to mine. “Because he would’ve.”

It’s the right answer.

It’s the worst answer.

Because he’s right. And because I hate him for being here. And because I want him to stay.

“Don’t you hate me?” I ask, barely a whisper.

For needing this. For needing him.

His stare doesn’t waver. “No.”

“You should.”

“I know.”

We sit in the stillness. The only sound is the low hum of the oven warming behind him. The smell of cheese and garlic lingers, but it doesn’t quite reach me.

He reaches for my hand instead.

And I let him.

Maybe it’s the grief. Maybe it’s the months of everything unsaid. Or maybe it’s just the memory of that one night three years ago, the one we never talk about.

The one we both remembered when I said I do to someone else.

He moves. Quiet and slow, like I’m a deer about to bolt. He moves beside me, his hand resting on the edge of the table, close but not touching. Then, without a word, he lowers into the chair next to mine, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

I don’t stop him when he looks up at me like I’m breaking him just by existing.

I touch his face. He flinches like it burns.

“You should go,” I say.

He doesn’t move.

“You should go,” I whisper again, but I’m already leaning in.

He moves. Quiet and slow, like I’m a deer about to bolt. He stands beside me, his hand resting on the edge of the table, close but not touching. Then, without a word, he lowers into the chair next to mine, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

I don’t stop myself when I stand and step between his knees.

He looks up, slow, hesitant, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see in my face. Or maybe he already knows.

I touch his cheek. His stubble scrapes my palm, rough and real and grounding. His jaw tightens beneath my hand.

“You should go,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move.

“You should go,” I say again, even softer, but my thumb is already brushing over the edge of his lips.

He catches my arm. His fingers curl around my wrist, gentle, but firm. Like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away.

But I don’t.

And when he stands, he’s all muscle and restraint, his body crowding mine, heat pulsing between us like a second heartbeat. One of his hands finds my waist. The other slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair.

I exhale a shaky breath, just once, before his mouth is on mine.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s a collapse.

My hands fist in his shirt. He groans low against my lips, like he’s been holding this in for years, and maybe he has. His grip tightens at my hip, pulling me closer until we’re chest to chest, breath to breath, memory to memory.

He kisses me like he’s angry.

Like he’s starving.

Like he already regrets it but he’ll be damned if he stops.

And I kiss him back like I don’t care if this ruins us both.

We don’t speak. We don’t look at each other.

But when he kisses me, it’s like we’ve been doing it in secret for years.

To be continued tomorro2

To be continued…  Come back tomorrow for Part Two.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

A New Kind of Story - Just This Once – Intro

This week, I'm doing something a little different.

Monday through Friday, a new installment of a never-before-seen story will drop here on the blog. Five parts. One intense, emotional, forbidden connection.

It’s messy.

It’s quiet.

It’s raw.

And it starts with a cold lasagna…

And the man who was never supposed to kiss her.

💔 What is - Just This Once (Again)  about?

A 5-part forbidden short story unfolding this week on the blog.

Cassidy didn’t expect to fall apart the night before the funeral.

But grief does strange things. So does guilt.

Especially when the only person who shows up… is him.

Dean was her husband’s best friend.

Quiet. Steady. Off-limits.

They’ve barely spoken in years, not since that night they never talk about.

The night that changed everything.

Now her house is too quiet.

Her bed too cold.

And Dean is still here. Still trying to be the good guy.

Even as the line between comfort and want becomes harder to keep.

One kiss turns into a second.

One mistake becomes something much harder to undo.

They swore it was only once.

But some secrets don’t stay buried.

And this time, walking away might ruin them both.

If you like your romance stories forbidden, angsty, and dripping with tension, come back tomorrow.

Part One goes live Monday morning.

🖤 I’ll meet you there.

The Soft Side of Inked Heroes

The tattoos say “bad boy.” The heart says, “hold my coffee while I make you breakfast.” That’s the magic of the tattooed cinnamon roll hero—he’s not afraid to look like trouble while being the kind of man you can depend on without question.

This week’s blog is diving deep into this deliciously sweet-and-edgy trope. We’re breaking down why it works so well, why readers can’t get enough, and which books do it best. If you’re ready to meet your next favorite fictional man, you’re in the right place.

Who makes your list? Let’s build the ultimate recommendation guide in the comments.

The Perfect Mix

Tattoo sleeves. Soft smiles. The way he treats the heroine like she’s the center of his world. Put them all together, and you have my ultimate kryptonite.

The tattooed cinnamon roll hero gives us the thrill of the bad-boy aesthetic with the comfort of a man who will put your happiness above everything else. He’s not about playing games—he’s about showing up, staying, and loving you in ways that rewrite what you thought love could look like.

Are you as hooked on this trope as I am? Or do you lean more toward the classic grumpy alpha? Let’s compare notes.