Chapter 1
It’s 2 a.m., and the guest room in the sprawling house of Taylor’s Rhode Island mansion is dimly lit by the soft glow of your old MacBook screen. The laptop, plastered with glittery kitty stickers you’ve collected since high school, hums quietly as you adjust the angle of the webcam.
You’re perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, the sheer tulle nightie you’re wearing fluttering slightly every time you shift. It’s pale pink, delicate, and completely see-through. Something you picked specifically for tonight’s stream because it’s a fan favorite. Underneath, you’re bare, the cool air of the room brushing against your skin.
You’re doing your best to play into the doe-y, innocent vibe they like. Whispering flirty responses to the chat scrolling across the screen, your voice low and playful to avoid waking Taylor down the hall.
You’ve been staying here for two weeks now, ever since the construction crew tore up your kitchen and bathroom, leaving your place a dusty mess while they do some renovations. Taylor’s been nothing but sweet about it, insisting you crash in her spare room, cooking you breakfast in her oversized kitchen, calling you “baby” in that casual, affectionate way that makes your stomach flip every time.
The 15-year age gap between you two was something you often poked fun at, calling her old when she insisted you teach her certain slang terms or her scrambling to hide the awkward way she held her phone whenever you were around.
But it was also something that turned you on. You genuinely found her so dorky and adorable.
You’ve caught the way her eyes linger on you sometimes. You always wondered if she feels the same spark you do, that secret little thrill of her being older, and more experienced. But she’s Taylor. Poised, untouchable. Too cool to make it weird.
Tonight, the stream’s going well. Tips are rolling in, and you’re giggling at some cheesy pickup line in the chat when you hear it. a soft creak in the hallway. Your heart lurches, but you brush it off. Old houses make noise, right? You tilt your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder, and keep going, oblivious to the shadow creeping closer to the cracked-open door.
Taylor’s awake. She’d gone to bed hours ago, her curly hair tied up in a messy bun, no makeup softening her sharp features, just a baggy white t-shirt and grey sweatpants hanging loose on her hips. She’d been restless, though. Tossing and turning, thinking about you in the next room, the way you’d looked earlier that day in one of her borrowed hoodies, drowning in the fabric but somehow pulling it off. She’d always had a thing for you, ever since you met years ago through mutual friends, but she never acted upon it; scared she would scare you off. You were young, bright, a little wild. She didn’t want to cross that line.
Still, the “baby” nickname slipped out sometimes, and she couldn’t help how it felt right.
Now, padding down the hall for a glass of water, she notices the faint light spilling from your room. She frowns. why are you up? She steps closer, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and freezes when she hears your voice. It’s hushed, teasing, not the way you talk to her. Curiosity pulls her forward, and she nudges the door just enough to peek inside.
Her breath catches. There you are, bathed in the blue glow of the screen, that flimsy nightie doing nothing to hide you. She can see everything. The curve of your waist, the way you’re sitting so casually, like this is normal. Her eyes widen as she processes the laptop, the chat flying by, the way you’re leaning into the camera with a smirk.
Her brain short-circuits, torn between shock and something hotter, something she’s not ready to name. She should turn around, leave, pretend this never happened. But she can’t move. Her gaze sticks to you, the nightie shimmering faintly as you shift, and she feels her face flush.
Then you see her. Your head snaps up mid-sentence, eyes locking with hers through the doorway. The chat’s still buzzing, but your mouth drops open, a quiet “oh shit” escaping before you can stop it. You slam the laptop shut so fast the bed shakes. The room goes dark except for the moonlight filtering through the curtains, and you’re scrambling to pull the comforter over yourself, though it’s way too late for that.
“Taylor...fuck, I-I didn’t...um” you stammer, your voice high and panicked. Your face is burning, and you’re clutching the blanket like it’s armor, the tulle nightie bunched awkwardly beneath it.
She’s still standing there, one hand on the doorframe, her lips parted like she’s trying to figure out what to say. Her curls are a mess, spilling over her shoulders, and without makeup, she looks softer, more human. Her eyes flick down to the nightie again. she can’t help it. and then back to your face. “um,” she starts, her voice low and rough from sleep, “what… what was that?”
You want to disappear. You’ve never felt smaller next to her, all 5’0 of you shrinking under her stare. “It’s um. it’s nothing,” you lie, badly. “Just… messing around. On my laptop. You know, late-night stuff.”
She steps into the room, and your stomach flips. “That didn’t look like nothing,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Her t-shirt shifts, and you catch a glimpse of her collarbone, which shouldn’t be distracting right now but somehow is. “Were you… filming something?”
You swallow hard, debating whether to keep lying or just own it. She’s looking at you like she already knows, and the weight of it. The power she has standing there, towering over you, makes your pulse race. “Okay, fine,” you mutter, barely audible. “I… I do streams. Online. For, uh, people. It’s a side thing. Please don’t freak out.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t say anything for a second. The silence is unbearable. Then she tilts her head, studying you. “How long?”
“Like… a year?” You wince, bracing for judgment. “It’s just extra money. My place being renovated isn’t cheap, and-”
“Baby,” she cuts you off, and there it is again. that word, slipping out so easily, making your thighs clench under the blanket. She takes another step closer, and now she’s looming over the bed. “You don’t have to explain. I’m not mad.”
Very confused that you didn’t come to her about the money, sure. But not mad. Never mad at you.
You blink up at her, confused. “You’re… not?”
“No.” She sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can feel the dip, smell the faint lavender of her shampoo. Her eyes are on you again, tracing the outline of the nightie where it peeks out from the blanket. “I’m just… surprised. You’re full of secrets, huh?”
Your laugh comes out shaky. “I guess. I didn’t want you to know. It’s weird, right? You’re letting me stay here, and I’m-” You gesture vaguely at yourself, the laptop, the whole mess.
“It’s not weird,” she says, too quick, like she’s been thinking it over. Her voice drops a little. “It’s… kind of hot, actually.”
Your brain stops. “What?”
She smirks, just a flicker, but it’s there. “Come on. You, in that-” She nods at the nightie, and you feel exposed all over again. “Doing your thing. It’s bold. I didn’t think you had that in you.”
You’re not sure if she’s teasing or flirting or both, but it’s doing something to you. The way she’s looking at you, all sleepy and unguarded, her height making you feel tiny even sitting down. it’s intoxicating. “You’re not creeped out?” you ask, testing the waters.
“Nope.” She leans back on her hands, casual, but her eyes don’t leave you. “I mean, I probably shouldn’t have watched. But I couldn’t exactly look away.”
Your face heats up again, and you pull the blanket tighter, even though part of you doesn’t want to. “I thought you’d think I was some… I don’t know, perv or something.”
She laughs, soft and throaty. “Baby, if you’re a perv, what does that make me for staring?” Her gaze lingers, and you realize she’s not joking.
There’s something in her expression. curiosity, maybe hunger. that you’ve never seen before. Or maybe you have, and you just didn’t let yourself believe it.
The air shifts, heavy with unspoken things. You bite your lip, the nightie suddenly feeling like nothing at all between you and her. “I… I didn’t think you’d be into this,” you say, voice small but daring.
She tilts her head, curls falling over one shoulder. “Into what? You? Or the whole… age thing?” Her lips twitch, like she knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about her.
Your breath hitches. “Both?”
For a moment, she doesn’t answer. Just looks at you then leans in, close enough that you can feel her warmth, and whispers, “Maybe I am.”
The room feels smaller now, the space between you and Taylor shrinking with every breath. She’s so close. Her knee brushing the edge of the blanket and your heart’s hammering.
You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way her grey sweatpants hang low on her hips, the faint outline of her legs underneath, the messy halo of curls framing her face.
You shift, the blanket slipping just enough to show the edge of the nightie again, and her eyes flick down instantly. She doesn’t even try to hide it this time.
“God, that thing,” she mutters, almost to herself, shaking her head. “You’re killing me here.”
Your breath catches. “What?”
She meets your eyes, and there’s no filter now. Just raw, unpolished Taylor, the version you’ve only glimpsed in quiet moments over coffee or late-night talks. “You,” she says, simple and direct. “In that. Sitting there like it’s no big deal. Do you have any idea what you do to people?”
You blink, thrown. “I mean… it’s just for the stream. It’s not—”
“Not what?” she cuts in, leaning closer. Her hand’s still hovering near your leg, and you can feel the heat of it through the blanket. “Not real? Because it looks pretty damn real to me.”
Your face burns, and you duck your head, letting your hair fall over your eyes. “I didn’t think you’d care,” you mumble. “You’re… you. And I’m just—”
“Just what?” Her voice sharpens, not angry but insistent. She reaches out then, her fingers brushing your chin, tilting your face up so you have to look at her. Her touch is light but firm, and it sends a jolt straight through you. “Don’t do that. Just because I have a couple of Grammys doesn’t make me any more important than you.”
You swallow hard, trapped in her gaze. She’s so tall, even sitting down, her presence filling the room, and you feel so small next to her but not in a bad way. Not anymore. “I’ve always kind of… liked that you’re older,” you blurt out, the words tumbling free before you can stop them. “And taller. And… I don’t know, in charge. But I didn’t think you’d—”
“Like it?” she finishes for you, her thumb grazing your jaw before she drops her hand. Her lips twitch into a half-smile, and there’s something new in her eyes. something hungry. “Baby, I’ve been trying not to like it since you moved in.”
Your stomach flips so hard you almost forget how to breathe. “Really?”
She nods, slow, deliberate. “You think I don’t notice you? Walking around here in my hoodies, all cute, driving me up the wall?” She pauses, her voice dropping lower. “And then I walk in on this? You’re lucky I didn’t drop dead right there.”
You laugh, shaky and nervous, but it breaks the tension a little. “I thought you’d kick me out.”
“Kick you out?” She snorts, leaning back on her hands again, but her eyes never leave you. “I’d have to be insane. I’ve been dying to-” She stops herself, biting her lip like she’s said too much.
“Dying to what?” you press, bolder now, the blanket slipping a little more as you shift toward her. The nightie’s fully visible again, and her breath hitches visibly this time.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she sits up straighter, her knees brushing yours under the blanket, and reaches out to tug the edge of the tulle between her fingers. “This thing’s ridiculous,” she says, but her voice is thick, her fingers lingering. “You wear this all the time for them?”
“Them?” It takes you a second to catch up. “Oh-the stream? Sometimes. It’s… popular.”
“I bet it is.” Her hand doesn’t move, just holds the fabric, her knuckles grazing your thigh through it. “And here I am, stuck in sweatpants, looking like I just rolled out of bed.”
“You look good,” you say, too fast, and her eyebrows lift.
“Yeah?” She’s teasing now, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s testing you.
You nod, and it’s not a lie. “Way better.”
She grins, a slow, dangerous thing, and lets go of the nightie, her hand resting on the bed between you instead. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Me?” You fake innocence, tilting your head. “You’re the one sneaking around at night.”
“Sneaking?” She laughs again, louder this time. “I live here. You’re the one putting on a show in my house.”
Your face flames, but you can’t help grinning back. “Fair.”
For a moment, you just sit there, the air buzzing between you, thick with all the things neither of you’s saying. Then she shifts, leaning in until her face is inches from yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “So,” she murmurs, “what happens now?”
You don’t know if she means the stream, the nightie, or the fact that she’s basically admitting she’s into you but you don’t care. Your pulse is racing, and she’s so close you can see the flecks of dark blue in her eyes, the faint freckles on her nose. “I don’t know,” you whisper back, honest. “What do you want to happen?”
Her gaze drops to your lips, then back up, and she doesn’t pull away. “I think you know,” she says, so soft it’s almost a challenge.
You hold her stare, your whole body buzzing, and then slowly, deliberately you let the blanket fall completely, the nightie shimmering in the dim light. Her eyes darken, and she doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just watches you like she’s memorizing every inch.
“Baby,” she says finally, voice rough, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”
And before you can respond, her hand’s on your cheek, pulling you in, and her lips crash into yours