roof that it had always been this.
Her chest ached in that warm, terrifying way she refused to name.
She sat there for a long moment, thumb hovering, before deciding to slowly leak them to Enzo over the next few days of him being gone.
One at a time.
No captions.
No explanations.
Just proof.
Enzo
Enzo’s days blurred into a rotation of rebuilding, reinforcing, and reminding people who held the reins now. Marco and his girl were already settling in, making the port their own while he moved through meetings with foremen, suppliers, and the kind of men who didn’t respect paper until it was backed with muscle.
It was tedious work, but it was necessary. Every handshake was another brick in the wall Lola had helped him envision. Every deal closed was another lock on the gates.
On the first morning, his phone buzzed between meetings. A photo.
Not just any photo–one of those photos.
Her, sprawled out in his bed, the angle making it look like his mouth was between her thighs. The kind of image that made his pulse spike instantly.
Jesus Christ, baby…
He didn’t respond right away. Not because he didn’t have a reaction–he had about twelve of them–but because he wanted to drag out the suspense. Let her wonder. She deserved to know what it felt like to be wound up and left hanging.
The next day, another photo.
This time she was in nothing but that ridiculous Cinnamon the Stripper outfit, smirking like she’d been caught doing something she absolutely meant to be caught doing.
She’s going to kill me one of these days.
Day three brought something entirely different–a selfie from Burning Man. Her hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes so full of life it almost hurt to look at.
By day four, the game changed,
She sent a short video–grainy, shaky, but unmistakable. Her voice in the background, narrating some nonsense about the “effects of space–time and why gravity was pulling her in a certain way,” and then a glimpse of him–looking at her like there wasn’t a single other thing in the world worth noticing. Then the feed cut,
What the fuck… She has footage from that night?
A month.
It had been almost a month since Burning Man. And she was only now seeing these? Only now sending them?
1/3
Part of him wanted to demand she send it all, every second, every shot. Another part wanted her to keep playing this slow torture, dragging him along like he’d done to her a dozen times before.
When I get back, I’m going to make her pay for this. Inch by inch, hour by hour, until she’s begging to confess every secret she’s ever kept from me.
On the fifth day, she sent the one that stopped him cold–a blurry, chaotic clip of them in front of some neon–lit altar, a raver in a glittering horned mask holding a plastic champagne flute like a chalice.
He pressed play.
Music, laughter, his own voice–slurred but certain. Her hand in his. The officiant in antlers and glowsticks calling them “cosmically bound, forever and ever, no take–backs.”
He didn’t have the answer. Maybe he didn’t even want it.
All I know is she’s mine–and that’s the only truth I need.
Enzo: “So… we’ve been married this entire time.”
Lola: “Oh no. Did I forget to pack my wifely duties in your suitcase?
Enzo: “Don’t start. I’m already thinking about dragging you down here just to remind you what they are.”
Lola: “Mm. Tempting. But I’ve got an expo tomorrow. You’ll have to suffer without me.”
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