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Their first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife arrives without fanfare.
Not first together.
Not first in love.
First as Moores.
No dramatic plans. No elaborate surprises.
Just a party downtown. Live music. Friends. Something to mark the day without making it performative.
Annie stands at the bedroom mirror fastening her earrings when she feels his eyes on her.
She doesn’t turn right away.
She knows that look.
Smoke stands in the doorway adjusting his cufflink, jacket already on, tie straight. His wedding band catches the lamplight when he flexes his hand unconsciously.
He’s not staring because she’s dressed up.
He’s staring because she’s his wife.
The word still does something to him.
She finally meets his eyes in the mirror. “You gonna say it or just stand there lookin’?”
His mouth twitches faintly.
He steps forward instead of answering.
Her dress strap has twisted slightly. He fixes it without a word. Smooths his palm along her shoulder, thumb brushing just beneath her collarbone.
The touch lingers a second longer than necessary.
“You good?” she asks softly.
He nods once.
“Yeah, you?”
She smiles. “Always.”
It isn’t a dramatic exchange.
There are no grand speeches.
Just steadiness.
They’ve survived enough that quiet feels earned.
He reaches for her hand when they leave the bedroom. Not possessive. Just instinct.
When they step into the night air, his hand settles low against her back.
Ring visible.
Claim clear.
They arrive late.
Not dramatically late. Just enough that the room is already warm with bodies and brass and low laughter when they step inside.
The Valentine’s party is held in an old brick jazz hall—amber lighting dripping from sconces, a live band tucked into the corner, trumpet crying soft and slow. Couples sway close. Glasses clink. Perfume and bourbon mix thick in the air.
Smoke pauses just inside the doorway.
Habit.
His hand rests low on Annie’s back, secure and protective. His gaze moves—doors, windows, exits, faces. The rhythm is automatic. His shoulders set into that quiet alertness that never quite leaves him in public.
Annie feels it.
She always does.
She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t tease. Just smooths her palm over his chest once, grounding.
“I’m gonna get us a drink,” she murmurs.
He nods but doesn’t release her fully. Walks her to the bar. Positions himself so she’s inside his frame, his body between her and the crowd.
She watches him from the corner of her eye.
The way he’s here but never fully here. The way even joy sits beside awareness.
The band changes songs. Slower now. Something thick and velvet.
Annie turns toward him instead of the bartender.
“Dance with me.”
His brow lifts slightly. “You just got here.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a challenge in her tone. A softness too.
He studies her for a second. Then sets the glasses aside untouched.
He leads her toward the center of the floor.
Not flashy or showy. Just quiet.
His hands settle at her waist. Hers curl around his neck.
They sway.
At first, his eyes stay open. Over her shoulder. Scanning. Measuring.
She rises onto her toes just slightly.
And then—
She presses her nose softly against his cheek.
Not dramatic. Not playful.
Just there.
A brush. A slow inhale.
Her lips hover near his ear. She doesn’t really whisper words. Just breath. Warm. Close.
His body reacts before his mind does.
The tension eases from his shoulders.
His thumb presses deeper into her hip.
And then—
His eyes close.
Not for a blink.
Not in distraction.
Closed.
Fully.
His exhale is slow. Deep.
And then that smile.
Small. Unchecked. Private.
Annie stills.
Because this man does not close his eyes in public.
She studies him like she’s memorizing something sacred.
“You tired?” she murmurs.
His head shakes faintly against hers. “Nah.”
His eyes stay closed.
“You safe?” she asks softer.
That’s what does it.
His smile widens just a fraction.
“You got me.”
Three words. Low. Certain.
Her heart does something reckless in her chest.
He opens his eyes eventually, but they’re different now. Less sharp. Less guarded. Like something has settled inside him.
They keep dancing.
His forehead rests against hers now. The crowd disappears. The music turns thick and intimate.
Her fingers trace slowly along the back of his neck. She feels the pulse there. Strong. Even.
“You closed your eyes,” she says again, quieter this time.
He hums. “Mhm.”
“You don’t do that.”
His hands tighten on her waist.
“Don’t need to,” he replies.
He paused then—
“Unless I’m with you.”
The words land between them heavy and warm.
The air shifts.
Not loud.
Not fast.
But it deepens.
Her fingers slide lower, along his collar, down the front of his shirt. Slow. Curious.
He inhales sharply this time.
“Annie.”
“What?”
That innocent tone almost makes him laugh.
She presses her nose against his cheek again.
He closes his eyes again.
And this time his grip isn’t just protective.
It’s possessive.
The song ends but they don’t separate immediately.
People brush around them. Someone whistles teasingly.
Smoke doesn’t care.
He leans down so his mouth is right at her ear.
“You playin’ a dangerous game.”
Her smile curves slow. “You started it.”
He studies her.
Then takes her hand.
Not toward the exit.
Toward the hallway off the side of the hall.
It’s dimmer there. Quieter. Laughter from the party muffled behind brick and velvet curtains. A stretch of shadow near the coat racks and old framed photographs.
He backs her gently against the wall.
Not rough.
Not rushed.
Intentional.
“You know I don’t close my eyes around nobody,” he says, voice low.
Her hands rest on his chest.
“I know.”
His thumb drags slowly along her jaw. He looks at her like he’s deciding something.
Then she does it again.
That soft nose brush.
That quiet breath against his cheek.
And his eyes close.
Right there.
In the dark.
Her hands slide to his waist.
His mouth finds hers.
Slow.
Measured.
But deeper than the dance floor version.
The kiss isn’t frantic. It’s weighted. Like he’s letting himself lean fully into it. His hands move from her waist to her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space left.
Her back arches slightly into him.
He exhales against her mouth.
“You tryna make me forget where we at,” he murmurs.
“Maybe.”
His forehead drops to hers.
For a moment, they just breathe together. The hum of the party distant now. The warmth between them close and undeniable.
His hands roam lower—but stop. Controlled. Firm.
He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth instead. Then her cheek. Then right beneath her ear.
Her breath catches.
“Smoke…”
He pauses immediately.
Checks her face.
Always checks her face.
She smiles. Soft. Certain.
“I like when you feel safe.”
That undoes him more than anything.
His eyes close again.
And this time, he doesn’t smile for the crowd.
He smiles because she sees him.
He kisses her slower. Deeper. A promise in it.
Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.
“We goin’ back out there,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“But you stay close.”
“I always do.”
He adjusts her dress slightly. Smooths his hands down her sides. Grounds himself.
But neither of them moves toward the light yet.
Annie’s fingers find his belt first. The metal buckle clinks softly in the shadowed stretch of hallway—coat racks heavy with forgotten jackets, old black-and-white photos of horn players and singers staring down like silent witnesses. She works the leather free with quick, sure tugs, pops the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down fully.
Her hand slips inside.
He’s already hardening, growing thicker in her palm. She wraps her fingers around him, strokes once—slow, deliberate—then again, firmer, feeling him twitch against her touch.
Smoke’s breath hisses out. He shoves his jeans lower with a quick jerk of his hips, giving her full access, giving himself room to move. His head tips back as low sound rumbles in his chest, half groan, half curse.
“Fuck, baby…”
She keeps the rhythm steady, thumb circling the head, spreading the slickness already beading there. His hips jerk forward into her grip once, twice—instinct—before he catches himself and stills.
His mouth crashes back to hers. Hungrier now. Teeth graze her bottom lip.
He reaches between them, bunches the fabric of her dress up in one fist until it’s high around her thighs. His other hand hooks into the side of her panties, yanks them roughly to the side. The elastic bites into her skin for a second before giving.
Cool air hits her, then his fingers—two of them sliding along her folds, finding her wet and ready. He circles her clit once, presses, rubs in tight strokes that make her knees buckle.
She moans into his mouth.
He swallows it.
“Quiet,” he breathes against her lips, but there’s no real command in it—only heat, only want.
He lines himself up, notches the head against her entrance. Pauses. Looks at her.
She nods—small, urgent— already lifting one leg to hook around his waist.
His arm bands under her thigh, takes her weight in one smooth pull, pining her higher against the wall.
He pushes in slow at first. One long, controlled slide until he’s buried to the hilt. They both freeze for a beat, breathing hard through it. Her walls flutter around him; he throbs inside her.
Then he starts to move.
At first it’s measured—deep rolls of his hips that drag him out almost all the way before sinking back in. She clings to his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt.
The second stroke is harder. The third deeper.
By the fourth he’s fucking her with real force—snapping forward, pelvis grinding against hers on every thrust. The old wooden floor creaks under their weight. Her back scrapes lightly against the wall.
She tries to stay quiet, but a sharp whimper escapes anyway.
His hand flies up—covers her mouth. Not gentle. Palm firm over her lips, fingers splayed across her cheek.
Her eyes widen, then hood.
She moans into his skin instead, the sound muffled and wet.
He leans in closer, forearm braced beside her head, caging her. The new angle lets him hit deeper—harder. Each thrust punches the air out of her lungs.
Her legs wrap higher around his waist; he hooks one arm under her thigh, holds her open, keeps her pinned exactly where he wants her.
The risk hums between them—the muffled bass from the main room, footsteps passing somewhere down the hall, voices laughing just out of sight. Anyone could turn the corner. Anyone could see.
It only makes him go harder.
Her thighs start to shake.
He feels it—the way she tightens, the way her breath stutters against his palm.
He eases his arm from under her thigh—her legs stay locked tight around him—and lets that hand slide up her body instead. Fingers curl around the front of her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Possessive.
“Fuck—you feel that?” he rasps, voice wrecked. “How tight you get when I do that?”
She can’t answer. Only nods frantically against his hand, eyes glassy, pleading.
He keeps the grip unyielding, keeps driving into her—relentless now, skin slapping skin, the wet sound of their bodies obscene in the quiet hallway.
Her nails rake down his back. Her thighs start to shake.
He feels it—the way she tightens, the way her breath stutters against his palm.
“Come,” he murmurs, mouth at her ear. “Come for me. Right here.”
One more deep grind against her clit and she breaks—body locking, pulsing around him in hard, rhythmic waves. Her muffled cry vibrates against his hand.
He follows seconds later—hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go. He comes with a choked groan against her neck, spilling inside her, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
They stay like that for long seconds—panting, tangled, his hand still loosely around her throat, the other braced on the wall.
Slowly he eases his palm off her mouth. Kisses the corner of it. Soft now.
She smiles against his lips—dazed, glowing.
He pulls out carefully, fixes her panties back into place with gentle fingers, smooths her dress down over her hips.
Then he pulls his pants up, tucking himself away, zips up, buckles the belt.
He adjusts her one more time—like he’s putting her back together.
Like she’s precious—because she is.
“We goin’ back out there,” he says again, quieter this time. Voice still rough.
“Yeah.”
“But you stay close.”
“I always do.”
He takes her hand.
Threads their fingers.
And only then do they step out of the shadows—toward the light, toward the music, still carrying the heat of each other under their skin.
When they walk back into the party, his hand is still low on her back.
But this time—
When she brushes her nose against his cheek again on the dance floor—
His eyes close without hesitation.
And he grins like a fool.
Guard down.
Because she’s there.
And that’s enough.