Upgraded from Hostage to Houseguest
Lola
He gave her a meaningful look, then jerked his chin toward his tied hands. “I have to pee.”
“Oh.”
The tension in the air popped like a balloon.
She blinked. “Right. Yeah. That’s… fair.”
“I mean, unless you want me to piss in your bed.”
She grimaced. “Why are you like this?”
“Because I’ve been tied to a bed for the better part of a day by a woman who kidnapped me at Burning Man and feeds me key lime yogurt. I’m allowed a little flair.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “But if I untie you, you have to pinky swear not to kill me.”
His brow knit. “I’m sorry… what?”
“You heard me. Pinky swear. It’s legally binding where I’m from.”
“You’re deranged.”
And you’re the one tied to a bed by someone deranged. So… deal with it.”
With a long-suffering groan, he extended his pinky as best he could from the restraints. Lola wrapped hers around it and gave a firm shake.
“There. Official.”
“You’re certifiable,” he muttered.
“I’ve been called worse.”
Lola started on the knots, which took a few minutes with how intricate they’d be woven and him yanking on them had only made them tighter.
I’m impressed with myself. These woven handcuffs were super effective and worked like Chinese finger cuff. I’ll probably never be able to recreate this masterpiece. What a shame.
Once his hands were free, he flexed his wrists, rolled his shoulders with a wince, and slowly sat up. Holy hell, he was tall. Now that he wasn’t crumpled like a sad croissant, he was all long limbs, tanned skin, and muscles that had no business looking that sculpted.
It should be illegal for this man to have clothes on. Holy hell. That V-line leading down into his shorts…I want to lick it.
She cleared her throat and very intentionally tried not stare.
“Bathroom’s this way,” she muttered.
He followed her down the hall, moving like someone still regaining full mobility. Or a predator who knew exactly what he was doing.
At the door, he paused. “Privacy?”
She snorted. “You want privacy now?”
He looked her dead in the eye. “I haven’t killed you yet. That earns me a closed door.”
“Touché.” She gave a little bow and walked off, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge to keep her hands busy.
When she returned, the door was cracked open, steam spilling from the small gap. She paused just outside, meaning to knock or call out—
Then he spoke. “Still there?”
Lola jumped. “Y-yeah?”
“I need shampoo.”
“You’re already in the shower?”
“You untied me. The least I can do is not smell like I crawled out of a desert orgy.”
She snorted and pushed the door open just enough to slide the bottle across the counter.
He was a silhouette behind the curtain—tall, broad, the kind of outline that made her knees go soft. Water ran in rivulets down the sheer liner, highlighting every curve of his torso and the movement of his arms as he slicked back his hair.
“You’re staring.”
“I am not.”
“Uh-huh, I can feel it through your shower curtain.”
Lola opened her mouth to fire back—
“Thought you didn’t trust me,” he called over the spray. “But you untied me and now you’re watching me shower. That a good sign?”
“I also listened to you pee like a baby deer learning to walk, so let’s not read too much into it.”
He laughed. Deep, rich, warm. “You’re weird.”
“Says the guy who took a shower in his captor’s bathroom without permission.”
“You offered me yogurt and unsupervised plumbing. That’s practically a honeymoon.”
Lola rolled her eyes, leaning against the sink. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I could say the same about you watching me.”
“I wasn’t watching—”
“Want me to step out so you can get a better look?”
She choked on her own spit.
“I’m kidding,” he said, but there was a smile in his voice, “mostly.”
She turned to leave, cheeks on fire.
Just as she reached the door, he added, “Lola.”
She paused.
“I mean it. Thanks… for not panicking. And for the pillow. And the yogurt.”
“Don’t get mushy on me now.”
“Too late.”
And she smiled, despite herself.
“Also, I’m going to need something to wear. I can’t put those sweat crushed shorts back on and I’d ask for my hoodie back but I’m sure that probably smells worse.”
Hoodie….back? Oh, that must have been his that I woke up in. Well he doesn’t seem as boring as his festival wardrobe would imply.
Fresh from the shower, radiating heat, trailing citrus and clean soap and smug male energy like a damn cologne ad. And he wasn’t giving her space. No, he stood right at her back—close enough that the small hairs on her neck started practicing their high-kick routine. She crouched in front of the closet, silently cursing herself for not thinking ahead. Or moving faster. Or being immune to the very alive man behind her.
“You’re really hovering,” she muttered, rifling through a plastic bin tucked into the corner.
“Making sure I get pants that won’t cut off circulation,” Enzo said. His voice was lazy. Curious. Dangerous.
She yanked out a folded pair of joggers and stood, dusting them off. They looked…fine. Worn. Soft. Not her style. Definitely not his style.
Enzo reached past her and took the pants from her hands—his fingers brushing her knuckles as he did.
Then his voice, quiet but deliberate: “These your ex’s?”
Lola froze. Her throat went tight.
“Yeah,” she said finally. “One of his many lasting contributions to my life: sweatpants and commitment issues.”
Enzo held them up to his waist. “They’re going to be tight.”
“Better than you walking around here with towel, confidence and nothing else.”
His mouth quirked. “You’re welcome to admit you like the towel.”
“I’m one more comment away from giving you a crop top too.”
That earned her a soft, warm laugh that somehow echoed in her chest. She turned to walk away—because staring would become a problem—but Enzo didn’t move. Not until she brushed past him, her shoulder accidentally grazing his chest. It felt like leaning into static.
The knock came just as Enzo finished tugging her oversized sleep shirt over his head. One of her favorites—soft, faded, and printed with a cartoon raccoon laying on the floor with a tall boy next to him with the words ‘Feral’ printed underneath. On her, it worked as a cozy dress. On him, it barely grazed the waistband of the joggers she’d yanked from her donations box. And those joggers? Very much her ex’s. Very much too tight.
I want to bite those quads. No, keep your mouth to yourself. You don’t know this man and you just had him imprisoned in your home for the last half day. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t call the cops.
She moved to intercept the door, but Enzo was already sauntering ahead, barefoot and smug like he owned the damn place now. The air around him had changed now that he wasn’t tied up and crusty from night at the festival.
The door swung open.
Baba Yaga stood there, holding a container of stew and giving Enzo one long, judging look.
“Well, well,” she said, completely unfazed. “I probably wouldn’t have untied you. You’re to good looking to be walking around freely.”
Lola groaned. “Baba…”
“I’m just saying,” she continued, breezing inside like she hadn’t walked in on a hostage situation this morning. “One minute you’re hogtied and glaring, the next you’re half-dressed in her favorite shirt like this is a honeymoon suite.”
Enzo didn’t miss a beat. “Upgraded from hostage to houseguest.”
“I can see that.” She set the stew on the counter. “And wearing her shirt, too? You move fast.” There was a hint of mischief on her face that Lola was trying not to notice.
“I didn’t exactly have options,” he said, tugging at the waistband. “She gave me these from an ex’s box.”
Baba raised a brow and looked at Lola. “You gave him ex-boyfriend pants?”
“They were the only ones that sort of fit!” Lola snapped.
“Do they?” Baba gave Enzo another once-over. “Because that shirt is one stretch away from becoming a crop top.”
Enzo laughed, unbothered. “I make it work.”
Baba handed the stew to Lola. “Low-sodium. Because I care about your tiny heart, even if you make questionable romantic decisions.”
“This is not a ‘romantic decision’ but thanks, Baba,” she muttered, cheeks pink.
Baba patted her face fondly. “He’s hot. Don’t fuck it up.”
And then she was gone—glittery sandals clacking down the hallway, hoodie billowing behind her like a cape. Lola turned, just in time to catch Enzo helping himself to the stew. She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even know which drawer the spoons are in.”
He smirked. “Didn’t stop me. You heard her—I’m hot.”
Lola curled her legs up beneath her on the couch, a bowl of half-eaten stew in hand. Enzo sat beside her—technically not too close, but he took up so much damn space it felt like she was one blink away from touching thigh-to-thigh. The joggers clung to him in a way that made her want to confess sins she hadn’t even committed. And her oversized t-shirt—which usually hit her mid-thigh—barely skimmed his waistband.
She couldn’t stop noticing it.
Or the way he lounged like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t spent most of the day tied to her bed. Like he hadn’t nearly melted her into a puddle with that almost-kiss tension while she was looking for something for him to wear. She spooned the last bit of stew into her mouth and licked the back of the spoon, then caught Enzo watching her.
“What?” she said, suspiciously.
He just shrugged, lazy and amused. “Nothing. Just thinking about how you kidnapped me and now you’re feeding me soup and giving me clothes. Bit of a glow-up and the weirdest hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. They lapsed into a comfortable-ish silence, save for the occasional clink of their spoons. Lola kept stealing sideways glances—at the way his arm stretched across the back of the couch, the scruff lining his jaw, the faint bruises on his wrists where the rope had bitten in from him trying to escape. Finally, Enzo broke the silence.
“So…” he said, slow and casual. “That ex-fiancé Baba mentioned…”
Lola stiffened. Here it is. The messy part. The why I went to Burning Man with a walkingLoquacious gremlin like Gino in the first place. She leaned forward, setting her bowl on the coffee table with a soft clink.
“Not much to say,” she said carefully. “He was charming. Felt safe, for a time. Said all the right things, and then slowly, over time, started peeling away everything about me he didn’t like.”
Enzo didn’t say anything, but his attention sharpened. She could feel it.
“Made me feel crazy for being passionate. Told me my job was a phase even though I had been doing it for a decade at this point. Made jokes about my friends until I didn’t have any left and the ones I did have didn’t believe me when we broke up and sided with him.” She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers. “Eventually, I realized I didn’t recognize myself anymore. So he was escorted out of my life a couple of months ago.”
A long pause.
Then, softly: “Good.”
Her eyes flicked up.
“Good that you left,” Enzo said, his voice lower now. “He sounds like a weak man who couldn’t handle a strong woman. That’s not on you.”
Lola blinked. That… was not what she expected. “You don’t even know me,” she muttered.
He gave her a look that was too intense, too honest. “You’ve tied me up, fed me Key lime yogurt, and dressed me in clothes so tight I’m one thigh twitch away from a felony. I know enough.”
She snorted. “Felony, huh?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t been staring.”
She hid her smirk behind her hand. “You’re lucky I didn’t draw a Sharpie mustache on your face while you slept.”
“I dare you,” he said, deadpan.
Their eyes locked again, and this time it lingered. That slow-building charge flickered back between them—heavier now, buzzed from tension, stew, and something unspoken.